Hearts That Survive Part 27

Armand had met Craven Dowd several years ago. The Beaumont Railroad Company and the Bettencourt s.h.i.+pping Lines had business dealings, and Armand's father had hosted a dinner for executives at his country estate. Armand joined them for dinner and on his dad's yacht, but wasn't in on business discussions. He was acquainted with Dowd and found him to be a congenial, interesting person.

His dad called Dowd the youngest but brightest executive he'd ever come across. Said he was a no-nonsense kind of fellow, but fair. Armand hadn't thought much about him one way or another, still being in law school at the time, and still having Ami in his life.

Having seen the article about Dowd being a t.i.tanic hero, Armand called and asked how he and others in his area could help. Armand was reminded of his father saying Craven Dowd never forgot a thing when Dowd asked if he were pleased with how his law practice had developed.

Armand got the impression Dowd already knew, maybe because he had investigated whether he could ever use him if a need arose in Halifax. They rang off on good terms. A few days later Dowd called and asked if Armand would handle Mrs. Chadwick's finances while she was in Halifax.

"Can you tell me a little about her so I have an idea what to expect?"

He should have known Dowd wouldn't say anything as simple as someone being a brown-eyed brunette, short, tall, or middle-aged. He could visualize her as he described her.

"She's not the kind you'd notice in a crowd," he said. "But she grows on you. So don't expect her to stand out." He said she had a habit, when she was frustrated. Instead of raising her voice she gestured with her right hand as if making it speak for her.

"When you get to know her, you'll notice her eyes are a mystery, bluish, brownish, and when she's extremely happy there's a green cast to them."

Armand couldn't hold back his laughter on that. Dowd, joking?

He said, "She's pretty," in an offhand manner as if she wasn't extremely so. "But the main thing is she looks soft."

"Soft?"

"Yes. She has a soft way about her that makes you comfortable. Her voice is soft, which might be the reason she talks with her hand."

"Her age?"

"Mid-twenties."

He dared not ask any more and wondered how in the world that was supposed to help him recognize Mrs. Chadwick. Maybe Dowd's brilliant brain was too much for Armand's small one.

When pa.s.sengers alighted from the train, everybody had a distinguis.h.i.+ng look about them like short, tall, brunette, outlandish hat, no hat, and whoa!

Everything Dowd had said stood right there, wearing a dark gray suit with the edge of the skirt flirting with her ankles, and a pert little gray hat on her head, with her light brown hair rolled beneath it. She stood perfectly still, talking to another woman. He could not hear her voice but as her mouth moved, she gestured with her graceful right hand.

That meant she was frustrated.

He couldn't see her eyes but sincerely doubted there was a speck of green in them. And she looked soft.

He learned quickly that soft didn't mean acquiescent. She was trying very hard.

She and Bess had been in his apartment several days now, and he related well with them. Today was different.

He'd called and told Bess that Caroline might come and identify her husband.

As much as he had dreaded this day, he wanted-needed -to be of a.s.sistance. Telling someone you know how they feel is a caring thing to do, and perhaps you do know, but it doesn't take away the pain. So he didn't say it. He just kept driving the McKay Roadster until they arrived at the curling rink.

He supposed the news articles and reports about the terrible tragedy would never stop. They even reported how victims were identified, and some descriptions could make one ill. Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of bodies floating on the ocean, while just one body, or two, could make you lose your reason for living. They became numbers and items in little bags. Rosary beads identified a person. Shoes, clothing labels, lapel pins, fountain pens, waiter's uniforms. On and on it went.

He accompanied the women into the room, where William Chadwick's identification was presented to Caroline. The cuff links had been a gift from her, and she named the store where they were purchased. The number on the key was the number of their stateroom. Yes, he had a scar on his right forearm that he'd received as a child, after a fall.

Yes, she needed to see him.

Armand remained outside while Caroline and Bess entered the back room. They returned looking like walking statues. They weren't speaking. They weren't touching. He understood that too. Sometimes you know that if you're touched, you'll break.

She still looked soft, and you wished you could hold her and take away the suffering. The two women looked brave, and when they stepped outside the building each took a deep breath as though the fresh air would make a difference. But he knew about tears being frozen inside, unable to fall, and a heart that could turn to stone.

What could one say? Caroline looked toward the sky. "It's a lovely day. I'll walk back."

"May I walk with you?"

"Do you want Bess to drive your-"

"Blimey!" Bess squealed. "The only way I'll drive a contraption like that is if you hook a horse up to it."

They actually laughed. All three of them.

As if they dared not look back at the curling rink, they ducked into a small cafe for coffee.

Armand watched Caroline remove her gloves as if they were soiled, although he didn't think she would have touched anything back there. But it had touched her, whether or not she let it show. She lowered her hands to her lap and ordered coffee with cream.

After a long moment she said, "They said I need to make arrangements." Her hand came up. "I hadn't thought of that."

He knew this had to be discussed and that the financial part of the arrangements would involve him. "Some are having their loved ones returned to their home. Others are being buried here. A place has been set aside for the t.i.tanic victims, and later on there will be a memorial service."

"I suppose that's what I should do." She glanced at Bess, who nodded and said, "Since you don't want to return to London, it might be best to bury him here."

"Are there," Caroline began tentatively, "a lot to be buried here?"

"Yes. Plans for three cemeteries are already being made."

"So many," she mused.

"Yes, not only here, but in New York and Southampton." He stopped speaking. He should not say more than necessary.

The waitress came with the coffee. Caroline stirred in cream. "I thought seeing him would make it seem real." She gestured. "It didn't. I know it, but I didn't see only William just now. I could still see those hundreds on the ocean. All those who were not saved."

"What is worse," he said, "is if their souls were not saved."

She gasped. Her hand moved to the small, round gray b.u.t.tons at the front of her jacket.

"I'm sorry. I didn't say that well."

She and Bess stared at the cups.

Armand could kick himself. Caroline had been through an unthinkable ordeal and had just identified her husband as a victim. Now he had made her think about the possibility of her husband being in a worse place than the morgue.

But another thought came. No, he should shoot himself if he made no mention of one's soul. And he knew, how well he knew, that in times of death one thinks more deeply about eternal matters. The number of church attendees had doubled since that tragedy. Special services were held, and not just on Sunday. When people realize they are not in ultimate control of their own lives, they seek someone who is.

After they had sipped their coffee in silence for a while, Armand thinking it best he not speak, Caroline said, "I've almost finished what I came here for. Now I need to start thinking about what to do, where to go."

Craven Dowd had been right in saying she grows on you. Sort of like an unexpected little lavender violet in a decayed bed of yesterday's flowers.

He picked up his cup and looked over the rim at her speckled eyes. He had an idea. He'd like to do it, but wasn't sure he could.

But he had a very strong feeling the time was now or never.

49.

She was in a quandary again. No way could Mrs. Lydia Beaumont Dowd walk out that door alone and see a doctor. She couldn't ride the grounds without a groom or another servant keeping a respectable distance. If she said she needed to see a doctor for some other condition, Craven would be there the moment he returned home, wanting details. To let her go off alone, these servants would have to answer not only to Craven but also to the owners of this house. She liked them and they liked her, but they would not engage in some little game the way they might if she'd been a young girl going out with several friends, as she'd done with John.

She didn't know the area. Didn't know the doctors. And she couldn't just pop in somewhere and wait to be examined and told what she already knew.

And, too, it could be dangerous. She wasn't as well known in America, but her picture had been in all the papers twice already. She could be kidnapped.

Thinking it over, Lydia thought her only chance of any kind of obscurity in seeking medical attention would be to take a train to another city or state and use an a.s.sumed name. But that wouldn't work. She knew about security measures, which could be taken so that you didn't see your protector.

She couldn't contact any of the wives because she was supposed to be in seclusion recovering from her ordeal. Craven Dowd and she would announce when they'd appear in public or at a private party.

She considered contacting the New York clergyman's wife and asking about a doctor. But she might consider it her Christian duty to contact Mr. Dowd because Mrs. Dowd had lost her mind since she could even have a house call from any doctor of her choosing.

She was in a lovely prison. By the time she thought of going to Nova Scotia, confiding in Caroline, and getting her help, the time had come for Craven to return.

By the time Conners picked Craven up and brought him to the house that afternoon, Lydia felt literally sick and later lost the dinner Ethel had prepared.

Since Craven had eaten the same as she, they couldn't attribute it to the food. "You're so pale," Craven said, concerned. As if a replay of a former time, except that the faces and the setting were different, she sat herself on the bed. Regina patted her face with a cold cloth. As if he were a doctor, Craven questioned, "Have you been having problems?"

She shrugged and replied as if her answer might be inconsequential. "I'm late."

"You mean?"

She nodded. "It happened once before when I had the flu. Maybe I've caught something."

"She has seemed a little pale." Ethel said. "If it's something she's eating, I'll never forgive myself."

Regina straightened. "I saw her holding her stomach a little as if it might be bothering her."

She'd held her stomach to try to push it in, is what. She could honestly say, "I have felt a little-," she needed the right word. There it was. "Queasy lately."

"Ike!"

They all looked at Ethel who put her hand over her mouth. Amazing what one little squeal of "ike" could convey. The silence was palpable. Lydia reached for another cloth and held it on her forehead, partly covering her eyes lest she meet anyone's gaze. She peeked through her lashes.

Ethel stood squeezing the front of her ap.r.o.n. Regina held the washcloth as if her hands had become bread for a sandwich. The possibility lit the room as if the sun had entered. But Lydia knew about storms that could obscure the sun. This one would likely have a lot of hail in it too.

Craven commanded, "Get her in bed and take care of her." He paid no mind to the late hour. "I'll call the doctor."

He called Hoyt Graham and mentioned a few symptoms. They rang off, and Craven stood by the phone as if willing it to ring. It did. He lifted the receiver. "Craven Dowd here. Yes, thank you, Doctor." Pause. He gave the symptoms. Throwing up. Nausea. Discomfort in stomach. Another pause, and she guessed what the question was. He turned to Lydia. "How late are you?"

She thought for a couple seconds. She could be honest about that. "Since you've been gone."

Into the phone, Craven said, "Almost a month." His eyebrows rose slightly as if listening to an interesting discourse. After a few more answers about her having more color now, looking better, feeling better, he thanked the doctor and said he'd call if there were any further developments. Yes, that would be satisfactory.

Craven hung up. He explained what the doctor had said. "This could be a case of land sickness, common for some people after being at sea. The symptoms and the treatment are the same as for seasickness. But he wants to see us first thing in the morning."

He didn't want her to be walking around and chance falling or being sick again. "Get a good night's sleep." He would not disturb her and would sleep in another room. The trip had been tiring, and he might be restless besides. Regina and Ethel would watch over her during the night and awaken him at the slightest concern.

She tried to a.s.sure them she was better, and said they should go to their rooms. Craven made no comment when they looked his way for any further directive. He gave none. They would take turns watching her. He touched her lips with his fingers before retiring, and she said, "Thank you."

"You're entirely welcome."

At least she would make the acquaintance of a doctor who could give her baby the best available treatment.

Exhausted from the throwing up and aware she became tired more quickly than she used to, she welcomed the bed and slept or dozed all night. Each time her eyes peeked open, she saw either Ethel or Regina in the rocking chair dozing. A couple of times she felt a large, strong hand gently touch her forehead.

Early the next morning she was pleased to meet the kind, courteous, dignified doctor. However, after being led into the little examination room, she could not imagine he had instructed the nurse to behave in such a manner. Some of Lydia's friends in London had talked about the humiliation of the examination, but she was appalled.

How dare he!

But she was helpless, and had to put her feet in stirrups as if going to ride a horse, but that wasn't at all the intention. Even with her reluctance, she was pried and prodded and coaxed. When she was given no choice by the relentless twosome, she finally yielded and allowed the examination to begin. As he worked, the venerable doctor talked in a blase tone about his grandchild learning to ride a bicycle.

The silly nurse pretended this was an everyday occurrence as he asked for an instrument and she handed it to him as casually as one might pa.s.s the time of day.

She did not scream much, and when he said, we'll just see what we have here, she could have said he already had. They left the room fully dressed while she lay draped in a stiff white sheet, her insides having been totally exposed as surely as if her brain had been examined and every thought revealed. After she dressed, the doctor returned, once again pretending to be a gentleman.

He smiled as if he'd discovered something that made him extremely happy and said that perhaps he should speak of his findings with her and Mr. Dowd together.

She thought not.

With renewed resolve, she decided that nothing she might say to him could be worse than what he did to her.

She smiled like a lady. "I want to hear it first."

"You appear quite healthy. Your symptoms are not unusual when this occurs," he said. "Mrs. Dowd, you are pregnant." He smiled but she felt it might be a tad forced. "I believe your and Mr. Dowd's picture was in the papers recently."

"Yes."

"Congratulations on your marriage." He pulled up a chair and sat at the small writing table, and then looked at his chart. He glanced at her. "Do you have any thoughts on when you might have conceived?"

The good doctor was most astute, and she began to feel considerably better. "Mr. Dowd and I were married a month ago. I might have conceived on my wedding night."

She knew that he knew she knew he knew better.