"Faith without works is dead."
Words too, without works, were dead.
A burden swept through him. He needed to bring this work of poetry to life. He must not only tell Lydia about the depth of his love.
He must not only avow his love, he must show it.
With a start, he rose from the chair. His mind formed a plan as clear as sunlight. He hastened from the room, praying it wasn't too late.
4
Saturday morning, April 13, 1912
Lydia was dressed long before the ship's bugler passed along the deck announcing meal call. She'd had Marcella ask the steward to bring breakfast for two to her private deck.
John had told the steward to have Lydia order for him. Not knowing what he liked for breakfast, she smiled, thinking of all the things she would learn about him. Looking at the menu gave her a ravenous appetite. She ordered baked apples, grilled sausage, tomato omelets, Vienna rolls, buckwheat cakes, and Narbonne honey. "Oh," she said, "get the grilled ham too. He may not like sausage."
Feeling a chill, she considered turning on the heater in the sitting room and opening the door. But that would be much too cozy. She longed to return to the carefree days when she and John sneaked away to enjoy each other's company. Everything was light and gay and they laughed at the most minute happening.
They'd only meant to talk more seriously the night she had pulled the fur-trimmed hood close around her face lest she be seen. She'd reveled in being so naughty as to visit a man's apartment. Since then, she had been a person divided. Now she was a person responsible for another life, and she trembled at the thought.
Marcella had not been able to keep a sly little smile from her lips ever since Lydia mentioned breakfast for two on the deck. Now, while her maid set the table and the steward placed the food on the sideboard, Lydia looked out the windows and faced another beautiful day.
"The air is cooler this morning than last, miss, but quite pleasant." The steward's weather report mimicked yesterday's.
"Marcella," Lydia said, "I need the Bible brought in from the bedroom."
"Yes, miss." She headed for the bedroom.
Lydia glanced at George. Was she trying too hard to make others think everything was fine and she was simply going to have a Bible study with someone? My goodness, would she ever be able to think properly again? Marcella and George were the hired help.
But already John had an influence on her. John was the dearest, smartest, most creative, kindest person she'd ever known. Money and background had not made him so. And what had money and background done for her? She'd begun to see even the hired help as people. Of course, she'd known that, but now she knew it in a different way.
"Anything else I can do for you, miss?" George said.
"No, that will be all. Thank you."
He nodded, put his hands on the handle of the food cart, and rolled it from the room. Marcella brought the Bible, and Lydia placed it on the corner of the breakfast table. When the light tap sounded, Marcella opened the door and John walked in.
Last night she'd been anxious over what John's reaction might be, so confused by learning that love was not only simple and beautiful but could also be filled with problems. Now all she wanted to do was throw herself into his arms and tell him never to let her go, and to make her believe everything was fine and they would live like the ending of a fairy tale, happily ever after.
Ach! If she were such a vixen, she would not be so troubled by it all. And John had not shown much of a reaction last night. In fact, he'd been speechless. Now, he looked at her with loving eyes, then walked over to the sideboard. He lifted a couple of silver covers. "My, this is quite a spread."
Lydia joined him, deciding she could serve herself. "It all looks so good."
They filled their plates and took them to the table. John sat opposite her. Marcella poured their coffee.
Lydia glanced up at her. "You may leave, Marcella. Take as long as you like."
"Thank you, miss." Her glance moved from Lydia to John, and pink tinged her cheeks. She turned, placed the coffeepot on the sidebar, and hastily left, closing the door softly behind her.
"I hope Craven doesn't pop in," Lydia said.
John shook his head. "I already informed him we wouldn't be joining him this morning. He said he intended to take a turn in the gym."
Lydia sat with her back to the windows and the ocean view, but she could see the soft blue of the sky in John's eyes.
He offered a brief prayer of thanks for the food and asked that it give them health.
After the "amen" Lydia buttered a Vienna roll, wondering if the uneasiness she felt was a touch of seasickness, or the dreaded morning sickness she'd heard about, or her concern over how John would express what was on his mind. The aroma of the breakfast however, became overwhelmingly appetizing. She had eaten little dinner last night, had no snack later, felt tired after reading Psalm 51, and fell asleep contemplating its meaning. Now she felt quite ravenous. She must try the buckwheat cake with a tad of honey.
John took a couple gulps of coffee and returned the cup to its saucer. He told her about his past and the events of the Prodigal Son sermon that had caused him to confront his sins of having yielded to a less than exemplary kind of life during his college years. He'd asked the Lord's forgiveness and had learned of God's great love. "Something like that is what I thought you might find in Psalm 51."
She nodded, now trying the tomato omelet. Surely she had heard the psalm read before. She supposed it hadn't concerned her, because she had never before felt she had sinned or gone against her upbringing or dishonored her father or herself.
"We need to get this behind us, Lydia. Get rid of the negative and focus on the positive."
Get rid? Oh, what did he mean? They could not change what was. Or is. Closing her eyes, she shook her head and swallowed her bite of food.
"Lydia." His voice was soft. "Give me your hands."
She opened her eyes and looked at the outstretched palms of his hands on the table. "Let's ask God's forgiveness."
"Let me take a sip of coffee first."
He sighed. "Maybe my idea of combining breakfast and talk wasn't a good idea."
"Oh, yes," she said. "Otherwise, I would faint from starvation."
His gaze turned thoughtful but patient while she took a couple sips of coffee. "I'm ready now. I really am." She set down her cup and placed her hands in his.
His gentle pressure was like a sweet caress. "Forgive me, Lydia, for disrespecting you."
"You didn't disrespect me, John. There was no coercion."
He appeared to accept that. "But I did disrespect God's law." He bowed his head. "Almighty God, who sees our hearts, who knows our every thought, our every breath. We have brought a blight upon our love. Forgive us." He paused.
"Thank you that you forgive us the moment we ask. You really forgave us when Jesus died on the cross. We only need to repent and ask. We are starting over now, with you as our guide, and we ask Thy blessing upon our lives. Amen."
"Amen," Lydia said tentatively and barely managed not to grab her fork and behave like some hungry little urchin who'd never had a speck of learning.
"Look out there," he said. "The ocean and sky have met and the horizon reaches into infinity. That's where our sin is now."
She turned, squinted, and put her hands over her eyes as if she couldn't see that far.
"That's right. We'll never be able to see it again. God said he would cast our sins into the deepest sea and remember them no more. We're clean, Lydia. We start anew now."
She nodded. She wanted to believe that. If she did not have every indication a child was growing in her, if she hadn't missed her monthly time, if she didn't have that churning in her stomach even before shipping out to sea, then guilt likely would not have lain upon her so heavily. "I don't want you to think we have to get married."
They were talking about this so calmly. And how could she be eating at a time like this? But the aroma beckoned a
nd that's what breakfast was for, even if John hadn't touched his.
As if reading her mind, he laid his napkin on his lap, lifted his fork and took a bite of eggs. Oh, the aroma wafted right to her. If he didn't hurry and eat his wonderfully seasoned sausage, she would.
He swallowed and shook his head. That loving look came into his eyes, bluer than the ocean, bluer than the sky. "I don't want you to think I'd marry you because I have to." He glanced toward the deck beyond the private one. "I'm well aware there's a man out there who wants you as his wife. He's made that clear to you, me, your father, and possibly anyone with whom he comes in contact."
A terrible dread settled over her. "Are you saying—?"
"Oh, my, no," he almost shouted. His eyes and voice held distress. "Maybe this will speak for me." He reached into his pocket and brought out the poem. "I need to read it myself because—"
"Quit explaining and read it, John."
She let her teeth toy with her lower lip to keep from smiling—maybe laughing. In showing his trains, he became an excited child and confident man. When showing his poetry, which was his heart, he became self-conscious. She loved that about him.
He took a deep breath. "You remember the first lines?"
She'd been so concerned about how to tell him she hadn't really absorbed the poem but thought it was something about her hair being like sunshine.
"Of course you don't." Color rose to his face.
"Read it all, John."
He read:
As sunflowers turn to contemplate the sun,
I turned to view your golden loveliness
And loved, desired to care for, not possess:
To cherish 'til our earthly days are done.
He glanced at her and she nodded for him to continue. "It isn't finished, but these are the new lines."
But then desire for pleasure we should shun
Crept in: Brief bliss brought shame with each caress.
Though we have sinned, I love you none the less,
But more, yet more, 'til life's last thread is spun.
She could only whisper through her closed throat, "Again."
With shaky breath he read it again.
Finally she found her voice. "I've never heard anything so beautiful. I don't know of anything you could ever give me that would mean more."
"Except . . ." He held up a finger, and his lips turned into a grin.
She did not feel the guilt—she felt the joy. She nodded and placed her hand on her stomach. "Yes, except."
5
Now I have two of you to love," John said, grateful they could focus less on the sin and more on the miracle of life. They could sit and eat breakfast together and have a conversation about the most important things in life. She took a forkful of baked apples and, while chewing, began buttering her second roll.
He washed down his sausage with a gulp of coffee. "I'm glad you like the poem." Realizing he was pointing the fork at her, he lowered it and focused on the Bible. "But I certainly cannot hold a candle to King David. He's the greatest poet that ever put pen to paper."
"Greater than Shakespeare?" She bit into the roll.
"Shakespeare's pen was indeed mightier than the sword, as the saying goes, but not greater than the pen of David, whose writings have God at the center."
Chewing, she gave him a tolerant glance and laid the roll on the bread plate. "John, I'm not completely ignorant of the scriptures. I believe in forgiveness and in God's love." She looked down, then up again. "But there are also consequences. David and Bathsheba's child— Oh, John. You know what happened to it."
For a moment, John could not draw in a breath. The child had died because of their sin. Such a thought was horrifying. He and Lydia wished the events hadn't happened as they had. Now he thought she felt as he did. Both wanted this child of theirs.
He took a swallow of coffee to dislodge what was stuck in his throat. "Yes, King David sinned. He was a human being who yielded to temptation."
"And he paid the price."
"But he was forgiven. And good came from it. He penned Psalm 51. If David had not sinned, we would not have the words that have reached the world since they were written and will continue as long as there is life on earth. I daresay his words are sung in heaven."
Sensing her uncertainty, he hastened to add, "Fortunately, I'm not a warrior king whom God has called to be an example to the world. I'm just a poor poet."
"You're not poor, John. But I don't care if you don't have a cent."
"If I hadn't a cent, you'd never have known me. But anyway, I'm poor compared with the other first-class passengers. I only have these accommodations because your father's company made the reservations."
"But you don't care."
He toyed with a spoon for a moment, then clasped his hands on his lap. "I care in the sense that my having had some success with my trains brought me to your father's attention. More importantly, to yours. And I want to be a success. Frankly, I'd rather be a success as a poet than a toy-train maker. My trains and I are considered minor compared with the first-class passengers, and with your father's real trains."
"Considered," she said. "But real trains only take people from one destination to another. Your trains bring joy and happiness and dreams of going to all sorts of places. And my father is impressed with your designs."
"Thank you. That's your opinion because you love me."
"Yes, I do, John. When I am around you, it's like the rest of the world goes away. And that's fine with me."
He leaned toward her. "Someone mentioned that our relationship might well be a passing fancy for you. I'm a different kind of person from what you're accustomed to."
Seeing her sigh, turn her head, and tighten her lips, he knew she thought Craven would have been the one with that bit of wisdom. And she would be right. Craven made no secret of wanting Lydia for himself. In the meantime, he tolerated John, although trying to brainwash him into thinking he was not worthy or not mature enough for Lydia. John often thought so himself.
Lydia was remarkable. She hadn't given in to Craven but had been determined to continue her education. She'd followed her heart about John instead of society's unwritten rule that she choose someone of equal background. Few had the wealth of Cyril Beaumont.
But he'd lingered too long. What more could he say? He might quote Othello from Shakespeare's tragedy. When . . . you shall . . . speak of me . . . speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.
Pushing his plate away from him, he reminded himself he must not quote others. He should adhere to the advice in Longfellow's poem "The Courtship of Miles Standish," that said, "Speak for yourself, John."
First, he couldn't resist saying, "I do believe you are eating for two."
Her mouth opened, her gaze fell upon the third roll she held in her hand. She covered her mouth with the other hand and laughed. Ah, it was good to hear that laughter. At least he was learning how to make her happy. Keep her pregnant and give her food.
"I'm a pig this morning," she said.
Good. The mood was lighter. Now was the time not just for words but for action, to show Lydia his love.
6
Oh."
Lydia laid down her fork and placed her hand against her heart. John pushed away from the table and stood. Her ravenous appetite must have disgusted him. She started to question, but he said the strangest thing.
"Don't move." He knelt on one knee in front of her and took her hands in his.
"Lydia. Love of my life. Will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?"
He reached into the pocket of his morning coat and brought out a small black box, which he opened to expose a diamond ring sparkling in a bed of lush blue velvet. "I love you with all my heart. Will you marry me?"
She stared and finally stuttered. "Where . . . when . . . did you get this?"
"Last night. There's an American jeweler aboard. You know, Mr. Claude Deeman."
Of course she knew. Every woman should have a Deema
n jewel. "I couldn't ask for anything better. But the size? How?" Her gaze darted from the ring to his face, which had paled.
"We have a few mutual friends."
"Elsie?"
His raised eyebrows indicated she'd guessed.
"The night we went to the carnival with her and Edward." She gasped, remembering. John and Edward had insisted they get those cheap little rings and pretend the two couples were engaged. How silly they had been, making Lydia and Elsie swap rings while the men decided which one they should wear.
"You and she wore the same size," he said. "She was in on it, too, and gave me her ring so I would know your size. I've kept it with me, waiting for the right moment."
The carnival night preceded the night they had spent together. "You wanted to marry me way back then?"
"From the moment I met you."
He removed the ring from the blue velvet and held the yellow gold band between his fingers.
A question hung in the air. Not when, or how, or what, or why. But, will you?
She extended her trembling hand. "Yes, John. I'll marry you. I love you."
He slipped the ring on her finger. She stared at the ring, remembering the times she'd looked at her mother's ring, the one her father said would be hers when she married, either to wear or to keep.
But she knew her father would not give it to her if she didn't marry a man of his choice. John was here, and a manifestation of his love was on her finger. If a choice had to be made, she'd rather have John's ring, even if it were the carnival one in her jewelry box. Someday perhaps she could give her mother's ring to her daughter, or to her son for the woman of his choice.
Welling up inside her were contrasting emotions: sadness at not being able to share this with her mother alongside excited anticipation of spending her lifetime with the man who touched her heart.
Hearts That Survive Page 3
