Hearts That Survive Part 18

"Oh, the children and Caroline have become so close. I know she would take very good care of them."

"Not if the relatives want the children," Craven said. "The Stanton-Jones attorney is on this. Someone will control the Stanton-Jones's a.s.sets, and the children's trust."

Lydia hurt for her friend. "Caroline will be devastated."

"Blood and money speak louder than love."

Later that day, Craven said that suites were reserved for them at the Waldorf Astoria.

The closer they came to New York, the more Craven stuck to her like glue, reporting everything from another survivor marked off the list to Caroline's finances being wired to New York to when and what to eat. Perhaps that was his way of making her face reality. But she had all the reality she wanted. She wanted John. She cradled their child deep under the blanket at night to keep it warm. But her heart remained cold.

He said they'd soon be in New York, so she stood at the railing, wanting to see that first sight of land. She vowed never to set foot off land again.

"We'll be bombarded with photographers and reporters, asking questions."

She flashed him her best exasperated glance. "I won't answer any questions. Out there on the Virginian, or in a lifeboat, is my husband," she ground out.

"You mean your fairy tale."

She stared. Oh, she could kill him. For the first time since the nightmare began, it wasn't herself she wanted to drown. It was Craven. She had an idea. With an energy that surprised her, she headed down the deck. She would get her face and hair made up for the pictures. The brown dress would be suitable for what she had in mind.

She would tell the reporters-the world-about her marriage. Just because Craven thought he knew everything didn't make it so. John would be there waiting. He would confirm their marriage. Yes, she was a married woman.

Later that afternoon she saw the Statue of Liberty and something else. A boat was coming their way. They were being met. By loved ones?

Then she saw it was a press boat. Reporters and photographers yelling, asking questions, offering money to any who would jump off the s.h.i.+p and swim to them.

They wanted a story.

Revulsion welled up inside. She thought she couldn't stand it. Like others, they moved from the railing, but not before she saw thousands upon thousands of people gathered as if the pa.s.sengers, the so-called survivors, were pigeons in a park and the spectators were luring them with crumbs.

She was not . . . hungry.

The waiting seemed interminable. She just wanted to put her feet on solid ground.

Finally, the Carpathia arrived at Pier 54. Announcements were made that a.s.sistance awaited them. The Council of Jewish Women, the Traveler's Aid Society, Women's Relief Organization, churches. There was clothing and transportation to shelters.

Lydia knew all this didn't apply to her. She had Craven.

He held her arm and s.h.i.+elded her from reporters and photographers screaming for pictures and a story. In all that throng, John did not appear.

Several cars and a few limousines lined the road. The drivers stood with signs. "Beaumont vehicles will be a.s.sisting some pa.s.sengers," Craven said. He and a driver outside a limousine recognized each other.

She and Craven climbed into a limousine. Caroline, Bess, and the children into another. The drivers chauffeured them to the Waldorf Astoria, where they were expected, and they were escorted to their rooms.

"You and Bess have adjoining rooms," he said to Caroline when the elevator reached her floor. Lydia and Craven rode up to another floor where they shared a two-bedroom suite.

She removed her fur and tossed it over a chair in the living room while he called room service. Chefs would prepare meals as long as the new arrivals wanted them. Craven asked what she wanted.

Shrugging, she said, "A sandwich."

He ordered chicken sandwiches and wine. "Be back in a moment." He walked from the living room, through her bedroom, and into the adjoining room. She thought it a good time to find her own bathroom.

He was in the living room looking out the window when she returned. She sat on the couch and looked around. It didn't matter that the room would normally seem perfectly wonderful and elegant, as had the bedroom and bathroom.

Her gaze fell upon her hands, which clapsed each other on her lap. She untwined them and pinched a fold of the brown dress.

"I have nothing but the fur, the Bible, and my evening bag, and-"

He turned. "Stop it, Lydia." He walked over to her. "All you lost can be replaced."

She refused to honor that statement with even a glance.

"Get a good night's sleep and go shopping in the morning."

"Shopping?" she squeaked. "I have no money. I don't even have a decent dress to wear. This one needs to be cleaned."

Clearly exasperated, he said, "Don't you even know who you are?"

Fortunately, the tap on the door halted the scream she felt rise in her throat. She used to know who she was. But now, feeling faint, she raised her hand to her forehead.

"Open the wine," Craven ordered, and the employee complied. He poured a little for Craven to taste. "I'm sure it's fine. More."

The waiter poured more, and Craven handed it to Lydia.

She sipped. Yes. She needed . . . something.

The next thing she knew, the waiter was gone, and a small table with the sandwich was in front of her. "Eat," Craven said. "You're pale. Sometimes it takes a while to adjust after being on the water for a while."

She began to feel better after eating and drinking a little. He settled across from her and ate. After a moment he said, "In the morning I'll have cash for you and a Beaumont card. Caroline's finances will take a little longer, but she may use the charge card. If anyone balks, they may call the Beaumont offices and the person calling will be fired."

Lydia managed a small laugh, even though she knew this could easily happen. "I doubt Caroline will leave the children."

"Whatever you two want to do. The wives of Beaumont board members and friends are eager to be of a.s.sistance. They can provide anything. From homes to children watching."

For an instant she felt grateful for all Craven was doing. But she shook away the thought. She wasn't completely helpless. Beaumont executives would have contacted her and personally offered their a.s.sistance. But he should be doing this. He worked for her father. Someday, if he was lucky, he might work for her. "Thank you," she said.

He finished his sandwich. After a sip of wine he said, "One more important thing. Do not talk to anyone. I will do the talking to reporters for you."

She set down her gla.s.s, shaking her head. "What are they wanting?"

"Every little morsel available."

She chewed the last morsel of her sandwich.

"This is the biggest story ever. They're not going to let it go even if they have to make things up. No," he said pointedly. "Not a word." He took a sip of wine, set his gla.s.s down, and waited until she looked at him. "Your name is already out there. Among the 675 survivors. And in New York, Beaumont is right up there close to Astor."

He had to say the word, of course. The word "survivor" brings to mind the opposite.

Victim.

"I'm all right now. You can leave."

"You have a little color now." He looked closely at her face. "If you need anything-"

"I'm fine."

He stood and reached for the bottle.

"Get your own," she said.

He looked down at her with that faint turn of his lips as if he were thinking of a grin. "Maybe a little wine will help you sleep. Good night."

She didn't need him to explain that. She watched him walk through her bedroom, heard a door open, then close. She called the front desk and asked about cleaning service. Almost immediately, a woman came to get her dress.

She went to the bedroom and changed into the nightdress and then returned to the door and handed over the brown dress.

The woman's lips trembled. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," Lydia said quickly, and the woman turned just as quickly.

She closed the door, and forgoing the gla.s.s, took the bottle into the bedroom.

After she got into bed, she sat for a while. His words Don't you even know who you are came to mind. To him she was Cyril Beaumont's daughter, heir to a fortune.

But that's who she used to be. Now she was a married woman. She would claim it. Shout it. Her life and John's child were something to live for, not to be ashamed of. And so what if her father disowned her.

She could not keep her father alive by obeying his every wish or preventing a scandal.

She was more than his daughter.

She was John's wife.

With that resolve, she reached for the bottle and lifted it to her mouth. Empty.

The light switch was her next ch.o.r.e.

That done, darkness enveloped her, as if it hadn't already. Her hand moved over the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Only her eyes were full.

Her heart was empty.

35.

Caroline was glad Craven had called and said he would wait until morning to let her know what was transpiring concerning her finances and the children. A difference in time zones meant some people were at work while others attempted to sleep. She felt, however, the entire world was probably existing on adrenaline.

Exhausted, she slept most of the night and was amazed that the children also slept soundly. She knew Bess checked on them all during the night. They awoke early and were getting ready for breakfast when Craven called.

"You might like to breakfast with Lydia in the living room," he said. "You shouldn't go to the dining room. Even the children would be hounded by reporters." He asked of her what she had no intention of doing. "Don't speak to anyone about the t.i.tanic. We're working on having affairs settled and questions answered in an orderly manner."

"Do you know any more-?"

Obviously knowing she was thinking about the children, he said, "I will let you know."

How anyone could be organized in such chaos, Caroline didn't know. But Craven was taking care of legal matters with wires and telephone calls and the myriad a.s.sistants he knew in New York.

On second thought, when one managed a worldwide railroad company, he could certainly handle the affairs of a few people. Just as William had, on a lesser scale, in the auto industry.

She needed Craven handling the legal aspects and Bess the personal. But she so wanted to learn how to take care of at least one person. Herself.

Maybe that's why she wasn't allowed children. No, she mustn't start taking blame for something that had a reason, apparently a physical one.

By the time they had the children dressed and decisions made about breakfast, the morning was speeding by. Fortunately, they had the children to focus on. Phoebe was pleased to see Lydia and wanted to sit by her at the breakfast table. She seemed tickled that Lydia was still in her nightdress because the brown one hadn't yet been returned.

However, before they finished the meal, a maid delivered Lydia's brown dress, and she went to the bedroom as soon as she finished breakfast.

While Bess sopped up orange juice that had spilled onto the table, she told Henry about the time she dropped an entire cake on the floor. The children liked that.

Henry held out his Meccano set and wanted Bess to make a dragon, with biiiiiig eyes. "Oh, I am not good with dragons. But Miss Caroline makes wonderful dragons." Bess smiled. "With biiiiiig eyes."

Just as Caroline settled on the couch with a hopeful little boy and a box between them, a knock sounded on the door.

The fear of certainty stabbed Caroline's heart when Bess opened the door and she saw Craven standing there with that horrible look of purpose in his gray eyes.

She knew. Of course she'd known all along.

Bess knew. "Here," she said, reaching for the Meccano box and touching Henry on the shoulder. "Let's go back into our rooms while Mr. Dowd talks with the ladies. I can make a dog."

He shook his head. "I want a dragon."

"Well, I'll bet Miss Phoebe and I can make a dragon with the biggest eyes in the whole world."

He looked doubtful, but of course he'd been taught to obey those in charge of him. "I can make a dragon," Phoebe said. Following Bess and Henry, she exited the room. What would happen with these children?

Craven would know. That's why he stood there, reminding her of a dragon with eyes of steel, able to spit fire from his nostrils. She sat on the couch, feeling hot, knowing what was coming.

He was there as a businessman bearing official information, so she said, "Morning, Craven," without it being preceded by "good."

He presented the good news first, if it could be called that. Perhaps "necessary" was the word. He held out an envelope. "Here is cash. You may charge anything to the Beaumont account until your financial situation is settled. There's no problem, but right now everything is slow and temporary."