Hearts That Survive

by Yvonne Lehman

  She didn't know about the legalities. She remembered John saying his family was proud of him.

  "Another thing," he said, interrupting her thoughts, which made no sense anyway. "As his wife you would be rightful owner of Ancell Toy Trains."

  Her jaw dropped. That had never occurred to her.

  "But, I expect he had a will making family members his beneficiaries."

  She got up from the table and paced. She didn't want to think of all that. She wanted to think of John, her husband, their lovely short life together, their wedding. She put her hands over her ears.

  She heard him anyway. "Even if he had a will, leaving everything to his family, you as his legal wife would be entitled. It will involve the courts, and attorneys they probably can't afford."

  She sneered. "I have no need or desire to take anything from his family. As you've said many times, they make toy trains. I have real ones."

  "It's out of your hands, Lydia. It's business. Your father will not have the privilege of favorable publicity about that pseudo-wedding now that the Titanic has sunk. Quite the contrary. It will be a shame and a disgrace."

  She stopped pacing and opened her mouth to deliver a reprimand, but he spoke quickly. "If you had received the publicity, and the Titanic hadn't sunk, he might have accepted John because John's toy company would have become a part of his own business, and John would be your husband. But," he said pointedly, "the Titanic did sink."

  She walked faster about the room as if she were going somewhere. She knew the Titanic sank. But she didn't want to think about it. She wanted to say she was married to John and to go off somewhere and find some kind of peace.

  "What might have been, has changed now." He glanced at her and then at the floor as if she might wear a hole in it. She wished it would swallow her up. "If your father thinks you married John Ancell, the only way he can save face, in his opinion, will be to demand you take control of Ancell Trains." He shrugged. "I mean, how else can we incorporate John's designs?"

  "No." She sat on the couch. "I will relinquish any control over Ancell Trains. His family can have the business and Beaumont cannot."

  "This kind of business does not work like that. Your father owns Beaumont. Beaumont has a board. They can make decisions that don't necessarily go along with your father." He shook his head. "We might talk Cyril out of any legal action, but the Board in London wants John's designs. The board in America will want them. How can they get them?"

  Lydia was getting the point. Likely, not from his family. Beaumont would take legal action.

  "And it only takes one Ancell or one member of his company to put a bug in the ear of an attorney about John having been married to a Beaumont." He shrugged as if it were a hopeless situation. "There's a court case. The Ancells want a piece of Beaumont."

  She scoffed, "They would know that's a losing battle."

  "Right," he agreed. "But the attorneys would know Beaumont would settle rather than go through a scandal of whether or not a marriage occurred, and who is entitled to what."

  She shook her head and walked over to the table. She took a bite of roll and said confidently. "There's the other side of it. The Ancell family might not want a scandal either."

  "Lydia." He looked at her as if she were a foolish child. "For the Ancells, his marrying a Beaumont would not be a scandal. It would be like winning the lottery."

  "Did John's company have a board?"

  "He had business dealings with other companies. But John was owner and president. His company had the usual things an ordinary business has." His shrug meant they were inconsequential. "Assistant. Secretary. Financial Advisor. John had vision," he acknowledged. "Not big-business sense."

  She looked down at him. "Really?" He met her gaze for a moment, then simply turned to his glass for another sip of wine. She didn't have to say the obvious.

  John had enough sense to cause Beaumont Railroad Company to pursue him, have the board consult with him, have him inspect their designs for the possibility of incorporating his, and pay his passage to America to talk with the board in New York. "Maybe I should sue Beaumont for—for—"

  He gave a small laugh. "You can't sue Beaumont. You own it."

  She returned to the table and sat across from him. "Even if I said there was no wedding, there were over three hundred people who witnessed it."

  His glance meant were, just as she thought it.

  The sound of his voice was quiet and might even be mistaken for reverent. But the words were tearing down all her lovely memories. "There are no pictures, no stories about the wedding to prove it ever took place. The publicity is all about the tragedy. When women lose their husbands, I think they will be mourning instead of talking about another woman's wedding."

  Mourning? Didn't he know that's what she was doing?

  He handed her the glass, and she sipped.

  "Besides," he said, "they didn't know John. Yes, there were a few introductions and his name was said at the end of the ceremony, but at times like this, who is going to remember him? Did anyone connect John with his trains? And his trains aren't that widely known outside London. It wasn't his train success that brought him to our attention, but his designs."

  She wasn't sure she had even mentioned the trains to Caroline. It was mentioned one night at dinner. But as Craven said, at a time like this, who will remember? A three-year-old thinking about a Christmas present?

  "But if just one person remembers and tries to make a story of it, then comes the scandal and the courts. An official annulment will put it all behind us before it can begin. Let's hope nobody mentions it."

  She dropped her hand to her lap. "Like you said, who knows?"

  He shrugged. "I have no idea who might have wired someone between the time of your engagement and your wedding. I wired your father every day, sometimes more than once. John could have wired someone."

  Yes, he might have. But she didn't think Craven had had time to wire her father after the wedding. "Did you mention anything to father about the wedding?"

  "Of course not. I didn't want to kill him." He paused for a sip of wine. "And I wanted to wait until I felt you could handle this, but—" He paused, then said quickly, "Your father is under constant care right now. He's worried about how you're handling everything."

  She scoffed. "Did you tell him I'm not handling anything?"

  No, Craven was handling everything.

  "You can," he said calmly. "The decisions are yours to make. You have two options. One, you can say you're John Ancell's wife and take possession of his toy train company and have them try getting a part of Beaumont. Or you can have the marriage annulled and protect his family, your father, and keep Beaumont out of any litigation."

  She remembered he had stopped being condescending after he realized she and John would be married despite his misgivings. He'd been . . . best man.

  Best man?

  Even a good man didn't go around destroying someone's dreams.

  "Sometimes, Craven, you can be so cruel."

  "Not cruel," he said blandly. "Realistic."

  38

  Shortly after Craven left the living room, he knocked on the adjoining door. Lydia opened it, and he held out a manila envelope. Her paralyzed hand could not take it. "I'll just leave it here on the dresser." He did, then stepped back into his room and closed the door.

  She could not stay in the room with it, so she returned to the living room and called room service to come for the dishes and the broken glass. She called Caroline, who said she and Bess had had a nice dinner, had read newspaper articles aloud to each other, and were working a crossword puzzle.

  They all were about ready to turn in, but yes, they'd breakfast together in her suite. After the phone call and the mess was cleaned up, Lydia got into the nightdress she'd bought that day and wondered what to do.

  She did not want to read a paper. The headlines were enough to turn her world upside-down, as if it weren't already. She looked at the Bible but didn't want to touch t
hat either. Listening to the radio might be worse. Perhaps she could find some music. She found a program that said "Sweet Dreams Music." That sounded perfect.

  Feeling drained, she thought she might sleep and turned out the light. It was a restless night, but one without nightmares. She awoke to another day without purpose and wondered why she should live it.

  But, of course, to have breakfast with her friends. So she readied herself and was in a little better state of mind when Caroline and Bess entered.

  Fortunately, they had finished eating before Craven came. Surely he would not ask for those papers. He didn't, but held another envelope.

  "I thought you'd be at the hearing," she said.

  "This was delivered." He took a deep breath. "Identifications are coming in from the Mackay-Bennett."

  "Mackay . . . ?"

  "Let's sit on the couch," Caroline said. The three women left the breakfast table and settled on the couch, but Craven remained standing.

  "Not for you, Caroline," he said.

  She nodded and reached for Lydia's hand.

  "We can do this alone if you prefer, Lydia."

  She didn't know what the envelope held but had the feeling she shouldn't be alone. "Identifications? Mackay-Bennett?"

  "The Mackay-Bennett is the ship that left Nova Scotia to find survivors before we even reached New York," he explained, and she nodded.

  "John has been identified."

  She drew in a breath but could not expel it.

  He opened the envelope. "You can read it, or I will. Or I can leave it."

  She'd never known him to be so unforthcoming.

  She motioned at it, and he looked at the paper.

  "The Mackay received a passenger list from White Star. There weren't many first-class passengers his age. His stateroom key was in his pocket."

  He glanced at her, but she said, "I want to hear it all."

  "A small black mole at the jaw below—"

  "The right ear," she finished for him.

  She was nodding when he read the description of the suit and the clothing label. She had helped John pick out his formal clothes. Not as expensive as those Craven wore. But certainly acceptable. John wasn't competing with anyone. John didn't need to. He had his youth, and his nice face, and excited blue eyes, and . . . his woman.

  "Wearing an unusual kind of gold wedding band. Shaped more like a small wheel than the usual bands that lie flat against the finger. There were a couple of almost imperceptible nicks as if it had been cut by a sharp object."

  She looked over at Caroline and gave a self-conscious laugh. Caroline smiled but wouldn't know what that was about. That would be the toy train wheel. It could be checked against other wheels. Lydia knew they would match.

  "There will be additional fingerprinting and—"

  She shook her head and held up her hand.

  He replaced the paper. "Do you want this?"

  "No." She had enough, in that envelope on the dresser.

  "Caroline, there's no word yet on William." He paused and said, "I'm sorry."

  Lydia wasn't looking at him but at her hand in Caroline's. Was he sorry William hadn't been found or that John had? Maybe both.

  She was glad. He wasn't out there on that cold, icy ocean anymore. She looked up. "Where is he?"

  "On the ship."

  That didn't tell her much, but before she could think of anything else to ask, anything that would make a difference, he said he needed to get back to the hearing and left with the envelope.

  The door closed.

  The three of them sat in silence, as though in a boat on a vast sea. It felt cold. Except for Caroline's hand.

  Lydia looked down and noticed the ring. Her hand moved to it.

  "No," Caroline said. "Not now. Do you want to be alone?"

  Her breath was still hung in her throat, so she nodded.

  The two women stood, and Lydia was glad they didn't try to hug her. Caroline seemed to understand. "We will come back later."

  "Oh, one more thing," Lydia said and went into the bedroom. She returned with the paper bag containing Harriett's wedding dress. It didn't mean anything to anyone now. The designer wasn't on the survivor list. All those lovely creations would never be shown. The models would never wear them. It would never be in the newspapers throughout the world. "Do whatever you like with this, will you?"

  Without asking what it was, Caroline took the bag and left.

  Lydia picked up a pen from the desk in the living room and returned to the bedroom. She opened the envelope, signed on the appropriate line, and wrote the date. She laid the pen down.

  Everything seemed so unreal. The wonderful fairy-tale wedding. Then the disaster. Her gaze moved to her finger. John's engagement ring that would never be paid for. The wedding band that belonged to Caroline Chadwick. Who ever heard of such a thing? She took off the rings and laid them beside the envelope.

  What kind of marriage was that for the heiress to the Beaumont fortune?

  Her signature on that paper meant there was no marriage. John's family would receive the identification about him. They would never know of her nor she of them. It all began with his father whittling on a piece of wood until he had made a little wooden train.

  John said the Titanic probably started with a little wooden boat and a paper sail. That idea became a ship made of steel. Now it lay on the bottom of the ocean.

  Like her dreams.

  She was no longer married to John.

  With one more glance at the envelope, she felt she needed to change that thought.

  The marriage was annulled.

  She was never married to John.

  She began to laugh.

  And laugh.

  And laugh.

  Until she fell across the bed and thought she'd surely drown from the liquid laughter that filled her eyes and spilled onto the pillow she clutched to her heart.

  39

  Lydia awoke late in the afternoon and sat up with a start. The clock on the bedside table indicated she had slept for a couple of hours. Her eyes moved to the dresser. The rings were there. The envelope wasn't. When had he slipped into the room and taken it?

  Had he heard her cry?

  Or laugh?

  He'd done his duty. He had protected her father's heart and Beaumont Railroad Company from threats of a scandal or litigation or making a settlement. That's what he was paid to do.

  And Lydia, don't you know who you are?

  To find out, she pushed the pillow aside, stood, smoothed her dress, and went over and looked in the mirror. You are heiress to the Beaumont fortune, she told the reflection. And should not have those puffy, red eyes or a red blotch on your previously acclaimed, beautiful face or a wrinkled dress or be sobbing into hotel pillows.

  She would hold her head high. And she did, all the way to the telephone. "Shall we put on a new frock and find a place to lunch?" she asked Caroline when she answered her phone.

  "Yes, let's do."

  "Hats and all," Lydia said.

  "Indeed," Caroline said with enthusiasm. "We will hurry. I'm famished."

  We, Lydia was thinking as she hung up and hurried to the closet. How amazing that Caroline treated Bess like a friend. Lydia didn't mind, but she could not imagine having done that with Marcella.

  Determined not to let her mind stay there, she opened the closet door with a little more force than she'd intended. This was a new day. A new beginning. She chose the conservative dove-gray suit she had purchased yesterday. The light pink blouse with the high neckline bordered by fine lace complimented it perfectly. It would match the red blotch on her face, she thought with a hint of flippancy.

  However, after washing her face and applying makeup, the spot had faded. She brushed her hair back from her face, holding the curls down with jeweled clips, and turned it into a roll at the back of her neck and fastened it with pins.

  After donning the clothes, she stepped into rather tight, new, pointed-toe black shoes, and perched the gray hat
on her head, tilted it slightly to one side, and flicked the little black and pink feathers with her fingers.

  Observing herself in the mirror, she nodded. One final touch, fastening the strand of pearls, and she was ready. Pleased with herself for having managed all this by lunchtime, she picked up Caroline's wedding band, and grabbed her black purse and gloves.

  She was not surprised when she stepped into the hallway and the next door opened.

  "Good afternoon," Craven said. "Might I ask where you are going?"

  "Out." She continued on, then realized she hadn't been to Caroline's room, although she thought it was on a lower floor. She stopped and looked over her shoulder. "Where might I find Caroline Chadwick's room?"

  "Take the elevator down to the next floor, get off, and her room is two doors down on the right."

  With her head high, she marched to the elevator, resenting his grin. This was no occasion for a grin.

  Lydia thought both Caroline and Bess looked equally smart, but not so much so that they might attract undo attention. Just three ladies going out. The desk clerk recommended a little restaurant nearby, since they didn't want to eat inside the hotel. It was lunchtime, and everything would be crowded.

  "Especially with the hearings going on," Caroline said. "The reporters will be hounding them and maybe not notice us."

  They walked out onto the sidewalk. Never in her life before had Lydia appreciated the feel of a sidewalk beneath her feet. Had never given it a thought unless it were a negative one, like it had a crack in it or a chunk torn out. "Sunshine," she said appreciatively.

  Caroline smiled and mentioned how caring the people of New York were. "The newspaper and radio are still reporting how survivors might get help. So many are volunteering out of compassion."

  "You always see the good in people, Caroline."

  "Not really. But I try to concentrate on the good. Sometimes we have to look for it, but it's around us."

  Lydia nodded. She must try working on seeing the good.

  "I believe this is it," Bess said.

  They entered the restaurant on the corner, and Lydia asked if they might have a table near a window. The waitress led them to one where they could look out onto the street. She laughed when they sat down. "I've never before thought of myself as a people watcher."