Hearts That Survive Part 1

Hearts That Survive.

A Novel of the t.i.tanic.

Yvonne Lehman.

To my dear friend Peggy Darty, a novelist who, several years ago, presented to me the idea of writing a story about the t.i.tanic, enlightening me on Nova Scotia's importance and involvement in the aftermath of the great s.h.i.+p's sinking. She encouraged my present efforts, although it seemed The t.i.tanic had already been written.

But . . . my story had not been . . . until now.

To my readers, who may want to compare my story with the book and award-winning movie, as I did when beginning this project. There is no comparison, however. That is their story. This is mine, and it is my desire, hope, and prayer that my readers enjoy this book, find it entertaining and filled with events and characters that come alive in their hearts and minds, and know what it means for a heart to survive.

Acknowledgments.

First and foremost, I must mention Dr. Donn Taylor, who wrote the poem that my character John Ancell writes in the book. Donn, accompanied by his lovely wife, Mildred, partic.i.p.ated in my writers conferences as the poetry faculty member. You simply haven't lived until you've heard him read a poem. He is poetry personified. I am deeply grateful to him.

While my story was being developed, before I had a publisher for it, I contacted Donn and gave him a brief description of my character and what I had in mind. The following are his suggestions, which helped considerably in the development of John and gave me a lesson on poetry.

This is the English adaptation of the Italian sonnet form: an eight-line octave, rhyming ABBAABBA, followed by a six-line sestet. The pure Italian form usually rhymed CDECDE or a similar pattern. The English varied the sestet by ending with a couplet that either summarized or climaxed what went before.

I'd suggest that John start out to write a simple love poem, choosing quatrains (four-line stanzas) as his form because he can develop as many of those as his developing idea requires. So he gets one quatrain, the first four lines of the poem as a simple love poem. Then maybe you should take the story somewhere else for a while. Then he finds out that Lydia is pregnant and writes the next quatrain to attest the genuineness of his love. Again, take the story somewhere else.

After the s.h.i.+p hits the iceberg, he converts the poem into an Italian sonnet by das.h.i.+ng off the last six lines.

To be completely honest, it isn't a very good poem outside the context of your novel. Just competent, at best.

Personally, I think it's wonderful. Donn even gave this bit of instruction: "For a poem written in the early twentieth century, the poet would capitalize the first letter of each line. The change to normal sentence punctuation doesn't arrive until the final decades of the century."

In serious moments of contemplation influenced by my husband's suffering with cancer, my son-in-law, Steve Wilson, wrote a poem t.i.tled "Life as a Boat." Steve doesn't claim to be a poet. The poem fits in perfectly with my character, Beau, who doesn't claim to be a poet. Nor does Steve claim to be a singer or a guitarist or a photographer, but he does all those things well. He is a graphic designer holding the position of Advertising Director at the company where he works. His greatest accomplishment (according to me) is being a wonderful husband to my lovely fun daughter Cindy (who is also my friend and reads every word I write and likes my books) and being father to Simon, who is learning to be a tennis pro.

To my wonderful editor at Abingdon, Ramona Richards, who said after reading my book proposal, "I like it." I am deeply grateful to Abingdon for being receptive to the late inquiry and working with me on this and having confidence in my ability to write a T-I-T-A-N-I-C novel.

Thanks to agent Steve Laube for his invaluable advice. He's the one who handles the business side of writing, freeing me for the creative side. He also found the answer to my question of whether a corked champagne bottle could be in the ocean for many years, decades in fact, and still be intact.

Among several accounts that Steve found, this is a "sweet" one. In 1914, British World War I soldier Private Thomas Hughes tossed a green ginger beer bottle containing a letter to his wife into the English Channel. He was killed two days later fighting in France. In 1999, fisherman Steve Gowan dredged up the bottle in the River Thames. Although the intended recipient of the letter had died in 1979, it was delivered in 1999 to Private Hughes's eighty-six-year-old daughter living in New Zealand.

Many thanks to Elma Schemenauer and Janet Sketchley, who led me to Janet Burrill. Janet B and I shared e-mails almost daily due to my questions about Nova Scotia. She found where my character might live and sent pictures. She offered information, answered difficult questions-even the seemingly trite one-word ones, such as my characters' Bedford Basin home-would they live "in, at, on, by, around, or near" Bedford Basin? She told me where my characters should honeymoon, suggested I mention Rappie Pie, and sent the recipe. She said my book would not be authentic without my mentioning the 1917 Halifax Explosion that so devastated the city. Her book, Dark Clouds of the Morning, is set around the Halifax Explosion, which was caused by two s.h.i.+ps colliding in the harbor. One of the s.h.i.+ps carried tons of munitions, setting off the worst man-made explosion prior to the atom bomb. Thousands were killed or injured. She is working on a sequel, Sunrise Over the Harbour, covering the recovery period following the disaster.

Anyone traveling to Halifax might be interested in staying at her daughter's Blue Forest Lane Bed and Breakfast, situated in the country in a beautiful neighborhood tucked into a forested area (www.blueforest.ca.) Janet provided much more material than I have used. I am sorry if I made mistakes about Nova Scotia. If so, it's not Janet's fault but my own.

I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge Dr. Dennis Hensley, writer, teacher, editor, director of the professional writing major at Taylor University, for his friends.h.i.+p and writing expertise and his partic.i.p.ation in my writers conferences for more than twenty-five years. But here, I will confine it to his offering his opinions and suggestions. Thanks to him for putting me in touch with Kate Gutierrez, who graduated from Taylor University Fort Wayne with a B.A. in Professional Writing and a Minor in Christian Education. I appreciate her organizing ability and her outline of the fifty years of Nova Scotia history that corresponds with the time span of my novel.

Eva Marie Everson suggested Ramona Richards as a good editor for my work. Thanks to others for their comments, prayers, advice, listening ears; and thanks particularly to my son, David Lehman, for sharing his invaluable insights. The experience of my character David is based on my David's witnessing to his schoolroom cla.s.s at age six, after having accepted Jesus into his heart. And when I was on a tight deadline, my writer/friend Debbie Presnell brought me a dinner of her homemade lasagna, breadsticks, and an amazing cake, so I could write without having to cook or starve.

Thanks to my writers group and friends for their encouragement and prayers.

Part 1.

Before.

When anyone asks me how I can best describe my experience in nearly forty years at sea, I merely say, uneventful. Of course there have been winter gales, and storms and fog and the like. But in all my experience, I have never been in any accident . . . or any sort worth speaking about. I have seen but one vessel in distress in all my years at sea. I never saw a wreck and never have been wrecked nor was I ever in any predicament that threatened to end in disaster of any sort.

Edward J. Smith, 1907.

Captain, RMS t.i.tanic.

"Isn't that an iceberg on the horizon, Captain?"

"Yes, Madam."

"What if we get in a collision with it?"

"The iceberg, Madam, will move right along as though nothing had happened."

Carl Sandburg, The People, Yes, 1936.

1.

Friday evening, April 12, 1912.

Clothed in her shame, Lydia Beaumont stood on the deck of the t.i.tanic, waiting for John. Each evening since they departed two days ago from Southampton, she and John strolled here after dining. Other first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers found their own special spots, like congregants in a church sanctuary.

Oh, the church a.n.a.logy brought thoughts of condemnation she'd rather not entertain. The grandeur of the greatest s.h.i.+p ever built had pushed aside her personal feelings, any doubts or guilt that had so beset her in previous weeks. She'd tried to forget her fears by planning the trip, convincing her father to allow her to go, and helping her maid pack the trunks.

She thought back to the day before sailing while she was staying at the South Western Hotel. She'd made the acquaintance of several pa.s.sengers, her favorite being Caroline Chadwick, in her mid-twenties. She and her husband, Sir William, had arrived from London and were awaiting the s.h.i.+p's maiden voyage to America.

Staring out the hotel suite window at the magnificent structure, four city blocks long and ten stories high, had accelerated her heartbeat. However, walking up the gangplank to board the s.h.i.+p and seeing the grand staircase took her breath away. Even Craven Dowd, the president of her father's company and accustomed to the best, commented on the luxury as they were led to their suite rooms.

John Ancell glanced her way, his deep blue eyes s.h.i.+ning with excitement beneath raised eyebrows and lips turning into a mischievous grin. Had Craven not been entering the room between hers and John's, her beloved would likely say aloud what he only mouthed, "This is no toy s.h.i.+p."

Lydia saw Caroline and Sir William entering their stateroom. Caroline halted at her doorway and called, "Are you going on deck to wave goodbye?"

"Ah, we must do that," Craven answered for them as if the matter were settled.

"Yes," Lydia echoed, "I'll be along shortly."

"Just peek in when you're ready," Caroline said. "The door will be open."

Stepping from the private promenade deck to explore the sitting room, and then the bedrooms, Lydia was amazed. Her father, Cyril Beaumont, had endowed their home with the finest furnis.h.i.+ngs, but her personal knowledge and university studies in art and design made her realize she'd stepped into a world of unmatched luxury.

She entered John's and Craven's rooms. The furnis.h.i.+ngs represented various countries. "Reminds me of the Ritz in Paris," she said of Craven's bedroom. He gestured to the furnis.h.i.+ngs around the room. "Chippendale. Adams. French Empire."

She returned to her bedroom, where Marcella was hanging gowns in the wardrobe. Craven walked through the adjoining door that she must remember to keep locked. "The White Star Line has actually outdone their advertising." He glanced around. "Not only were they correct in saying it's one hundred feet longer than the Mauretania and bigger than the Olympic, but the other s.h.i.+ps are like . . . toys."

His pause was so brief one who didn't know him well wouldn't suspect it was deliberate. But she knew, then reprimanded herself for being overly sensitive. Craven's adding, "toys," could mean the word slipped out before he thought about what he was saying. However, Craven always thought before speaking.

But there was a certain amount of truth to it. Further exploration could wait. After peeking in for John, then Caroline, the two women walked ahead of Craven, John, and Sir William.

"I've been to Windsor." Caroline grinned, indicating she wasn't bragging. "But, from what little I've seen already, I feel like the Queen of England without the responsibility."

Even the men chuckled. Lydia knew John couldn't make comparisons, because he hadn't traveled extensively. But Craven and William talked of the s.h.i.+p's design and of its opulence with no expense spared. She felt rather like a princess as she ascended the grand staircase beneath the gla.s.s dome that allowed the noonday sun to anoint them with a golden glow. She glanced back at the staircase as they moved along the deck and to the railing.

Pa.s.sengers waved and people on the dock did the same. They must be feeling sheer envy.

She jumped when a sound like a pistol shot rang out.

Another.

And another.

Happy goodbyes changed to gasps and questioning.

"Nothing to fear," a man called out. "The lines tying the New York are giving way." That sounded rather fearsome to her.

Another said the suction from the t.i.tanic's gigantic propellers were pulling the other s.h.i.+p away from its berth.

The s.h.i.+p headed for the side of the t.i.tanic. However, deckhands stopped the New York's drift and the t.i.tanic steamed out of the harbor.

A man said playfully, "You don't christen a s.h.i.+p like the t.i.tanic with a bottle of champagne, but with another s.h.i.+p." Several pa.s.sengers laughed.

A woman warned, "It's an omen."

Lydia didn't live by omens. But the word made her think of signs. Robins were a sign of spring. Snow was a sign of winter. There were . . . personal signs. She swallowed hard and shook away the thought.

That woman was wrong about the New York's breaking away being a sign. It hadn't rammed into the t.i.tanic.

Maybe she was wrong about her . . . signs.

For two and a half days, she'd allowed herself the privilege of denial and had enjoyed John, her new friends, and the grandeur all around her. She'd explored the s.h.i.+p's grand shops, the restaurants, the women's library, and the Parisian sidewalk cafe.

Now as she stood looking out to sea, visualizing their destination of New York, she had to face reality.

Her long fur coat covered her silk dress. Her kid-gloved hands held onto the steel railing. The bitter-cold air burned her face, and her warm breath created gray wisps, reminiscent of Craven's cigar smoke, when he wasn't making entertaining smoke circles.

Only a moment ago she'd said to John, "Finish your dessert. I don't want any tonight. I need a breath of fresh air." That uneasiness in her stomach had nothing to do with seasickness.

John and Craven slid back their chairs and stood when she pushed away from the table. She felt Craven's gaze but met John's eyes that questioned. Usually after dining, Craven joined other men in the smoking lounge. She and John would walk onto the deck, They would stand shoulder to shoulder. With his arm around her waist, he'd speak of the aesthetic beauty of the ocean and sky. She'd dream of her future life with him.

She s.h.i.+vered now, looking out to where the sun had sunk into the horizon, a.n.a.logous of her having sunk into the depth of yielding to temptation. A mistake seemed much worse when one was . . . caught. Only four weeks had pa.s.sed. But she knew.

She would be an outcast if others knew. The night they'd expressed their love physically, she'd never felt so fulfilled. But with pa.s.sion sated, guilt entered. She felt violated. Not by John, but by her own weakness. A decent woman should say no, keep the relations.h.i.+p pure until marriage.

Oh, she knew they both were at fault. But had she, more deliberately than she wanted to admit, lured him into the physical relations.h.i.+p because she was afraid of losing him? He wanted her father's blessing before marrying her. She doubted he would ever have it.

It was a wondrous thing to be loved, but a fearsome thing to be tainted.

For now, only she and John knew about their tainted love.

She had thought she and John could face anything together.

But anyone?

Craven?

Her father?

Her father said she was all he had after they were both devastated by her mother's death from a deadly lung disease and a stillbirth. However, Lydia had had the best of tutors and nannies. She had been accompanied to the appropriate outings by Lady Grace Frazier, a middle-aged widow. Her father and Lady Grace became close companions, although he vowed he had neither time nor inclination to marry. His heart attack last year so frightened and weakened him, he'd made it clear that although Lydia would inherit the business, he was grooming Craven to run it.

She'd surprised him by expressing a desire to learn more about the business and win the respect of the company's American executives. She suggested that John accompany them on the trip, since he could explain his designs better than Craven. Beaumont Company wanted his designs, and John wanted to be sure that he wanted to divulged those secrets to the company. The matter would be discussed and any agreements drawn up in a legal contract.

"You may have a business head on you after all," her father said at her suggestion about John. He'd meant that as praise, so she smiled and thanked him.

Although he and others often complimented her on having inherited her mother's beauty, Lydia thought her looks paled in comparison with her mother's loveliness and grace. She'd inherited her father's ambition and strong-mindedness rather than her mother's submissive att.i.tudes, but he never acknowledged this. He did, however, occasionally admonish her to behave in a more ladylike fas.h.i.+on.

Her father and Craven cultivated identical goals. One was ensuring that Beaumont Railroad Company continued to be number one in the world. Two was that Lydia become Mrs. Craven Dowd. And in that order.

At one time she'd felt that marriage to Craven was her destiny. Her friends proclaimed it her good fortune. To be honest, however, rather than sitting in the plush coach of a noisy, smelly, smoke-puffing Beaumont train, she preferred flipping a switch, watching a little Ancell toy train huff and puff, its wheels turn, and its engine chug-chug along, as she laughed delightedly with John.

Hearing footsteps, Lydia took a deep breath. The cold air in her throat made her feel as though she'd swallowed too large a bite of the French ice cream served at dinner.

Before feeling his touch on her exposed wrist, she knew this wasn't John, but Craven. Like many women, she liked the aroma of his after-dinner cigars, offset by a slight fragrance of cologne. But she preferred John's light, fresh, faintly musky scent.

"Lydia?"

Turning her head, she glanced at him. "Where's John?"