Hearts That Survive Part 26

Before John, she'd been courted and wooed by Craven. He never tried to force his attentions on her. He had expected to marry her and did nothing to upset her or her father. She knew he was a pa.s.sionate man. She had enjoyed his kisses, his caresses, and even the game of teasing him, knowing he would not philander with Cyril Beaumont's daughter.

She wasn't an experienced woman by any means. On their wedding night, she needed to convince an experienced man she was an innocent girl and knew nothing about moments of uncontrolled pa.s.sion. She had to move from loving John to marrying Craven. And now they were at Long Island, on their honeymoon.

She became more distraught by the moment. Craven seemed the same as usual, knowing what to do. "You enjoyed the ride before. Shall we?"

"Yes."

Afterward she bathed, washed her hair and did not pin it back because he liked it curly, and dressed for dinner. They walked along the lake at dusk in the cool of the evening. She tried to think of this as being like old times. Except she did not tease. They did not kiss. He did not even hold her hand.

Later, he touched his fingers to his lips and then touched hers. He whispered, "You don't need to be concerned about anything. You can tell me to go away. Any time."

And so they kissed.

A lot.

Like . . . before . . .

Only . . . more.

For a long time.

And she forgot to pretend.

And then there was . . . after . . .

And not just because a preacher said so, she became Mrs. Craven Dowd.

He held her gently while she softly cried.

In the night he touched her curls, her cheek, her lips, her shoulder, and pulled the coverlet up and tucked it in, in case she was cold. When she opened her eyes in the morning, she met his gaze and felt as if he'd watched her all night long.

He looked pleased.

After a moment, he reached over and pulled the cord by the bedpost. That meant breakfast would soon be brought to them.

And so it went for three days.

But he had to go. Business would wait no longer. She asked if he were afraid to sail, and he said he had already had the scare of his life and he could handle it.

She had George and Ethel and Regina and Conners to take care of her, so she did as Craven said: Rest and enjoy the secluded estate on Long Island.

She was a married woman now, the honeymoon had been all a woman could want, and just when she thought she could endure this new beginning, she knew her marriage had ended.

She needed to think seriously about what she would do when Craven found out she was carrying John's child. He would return after a few weeks. She would be showing then.

He would hate her. And divorce her.

Nastily or quietly, she didn't know.

She remembered that ridiculous remark Craven had made, saying indirectly he had saved her and the company during that terrible tragedy. She had scoffed. But now, although he didn't know it yet, he had saved her and the company by marrying her.

Could she, as she had considered doing with John's baby, turn her back on him? What kind of friends would he have after this became known? What would his influence be in the world, with the board, with any company? Wouldn't she be exposing him to the scandal and ridicule he had saved her from?

She didn't know what to do.

A sound of irony escaped her throat. Every time she'd said to Craven, I don't know what to do, he had replied, I do.

They'd both said I do at the marriage ceremony.

But she wasn't doing very well. Never had, in fact.

She sat on one of the benches in the garden, sipping tea and telling herself she only needed to consider what she would do. Craven would decide what he would do.

He wired that he would stay a week longer in Europe than planned because of business matters. That meant he would be able to stay in America longer after his return. Now she had about two more weeks before her world caved in again. But this time it was better for her baby, for her reputation.

She had done all this, married John, married Craven, for the baby.

Now she must see a doctor, for the baby.

47.

In the few days she had been in Nova Scotia, Caroline had developed a better opinion of Armand Bettencourt and a lesser one of herself. She wasn't sure what a cozy little home should be, but this so-called apartment gave her a much better impression than her initial concept of something over first- floor law offices. Any stuffy old hotel, or even an elegant new one, could not match the comfort and privacy of this dwelling. And it had its own inside or outside entry.

Nicely furnished, the decor was still definitely masculine, especially with that swordfish hanging over the fireplace. The colors were dark too, like the coloring of its owner, who gave her the impression of an outdoorsman instead of a man behind a desk, which was where he seemed to be whenever she and Bess decided to take a stroll or have a bite to eat in that little cafe.

Having just finished a cup of tea that Bess said they must have before leaving, she crossed the living room, which had been renovated from two bedrooms. Standing at the long row of windows with heavy burgundy drapes fastened at the sides, she looked down at the tree-lined street.

She preferred not to think about the ch.o.r.e ahead, and instead let her thoughts return to the day she'd been, if not rude, condescending to the kindly Armand Bettencourt.

When they'd left the train station that day, she and Bess rode in the back seat of the car. Mr. Bettencourt rode in front with the driver he introduced as Willard Oak, who seemed to think the road was curved instead of straight.

But his looking into the rearview mirror or turning his head could account for his erratic driving. Mr. Bettencourt kept his face forward, and since this was the only car on the road, he must be watching out for horse and carriage traffic. And the car did travel more slowly than a horse.

Willard Oak's mouth was anything but slow. Within a matter of minutes she knew almost nothing about Armand Bettencourt but a lot about Willard Oak. He was a fisherman by trade, didn't normally drive for people, the main reason being that Armand's was one of the few cars in Halifax. He was good at building and fixing things even if he did say so himself. In fact, he'd helped with Armand's apartment.

Armand?

His driver called him by his first name? She glanced at Armand, but he didn't react to anything. In her circles a driver wore a uniform, was basically ignored, and didn't start conversations. She had been informal much of the time with her servants, but at her instigation.

She found Willard rather entertaining. And if she was going to be an ordinary person, she might be getting her first lesson. She half expected he'd invite her to go fis.h.i.+ng.

Looking over, she saw that Bess had an amused look on her face and seemed to be enjoying Willard's loquaciousness immensely.

"Just to let you know, Mrs. Chadwick." At least he didn't use her first name. She thought Armand hadn't told it to him. "Anywhere you want to go, I'll take you. Any time Armand lets me use his car, that is. He said we could."

"Thank you, Willard."

"Yes, ma'am. We all want to do what we can."

She was accustomed to helping others with their needs. The tables had turned. This seemed strange, being on the receiving end of things.

Quite soon, the car stopped in front of a big, two-story brick building. Willard took one bag and Mr. Bettencourt the other, which indicated to her they a.s.sumed she would stay. She and Bess followed them inside, where a middle-aged woman, Mrs. Jessup, sat behind a desk and a.s.sured them she was there to help in any way.

Caroline and Bess followed the men up the staircase, and Willard set down the bag he carried and reminded them he was available. Armand or Mrs. Jessup knew how to reach him.

She said, "Thank you," and Bess said, "Thank you, Willard. You have been most helpful."

He smiled and sprinted down the steps.

Caroline looked at Bess, wondering what in the world had come over her. There was nothing wrong with her speaking to Willard, but she usually remained quiet as if in what she called "her place." Perhaps she considered herself and Willard in the same place.

On the landing was a table against the wall, where a vase of flowers sat beneath a painting she'd seen as a child in church. Little children gathered around the shepherd and one sat on his knee. She looked away quickly as Mr. Bettencourt pointed out the rooms on the left.

"There are guests in the rooms temporarily," he said and she quickened at the word "temporarily," knowing that meant they were here for the same reason as she, and it was not for independence.

"But this is the apartment where you can have privacy." He unlocked the door, opened it, stood aside, and invited them in. That's when she saw the s.p.a.cious, inviting living room, which included a large table along one wall and a bookshelf along another as well as furniture on a large burgundy-patterned wool rug. She and Bess could even sleep on the couches facing each other. If she didn't look at the swordfish.

He took them across the room to a door. Outside was a small porch with a solid banister and steps leading down to the ground. "Another entrance," he said. "More private than going through the office lobby. If you stay, feel free to use either."

"And back here should be Lola," he said with a trace of a smile on his otherwise somber face. A wife? This would never do. She wanted to make new friends but wasn't quite ready to live with them.

As they entered the kitchen, she detected the scent of something chocolate and breathed more deeply of it, thinking she would prefer it on her tongue. A small table with two chairs sat to one side beneath a window that was next to the porch. At a window opposite them stood a gray-haired woman who turned from the kitchen sink and dried her hands on a towel. She wore a skirt the color of her hair and a white blouse, covered by a black ap.r.o.n.

"Lola Logan." She gave a smile in a pleasant face. "I'm the sometimes housekeeper and try to keep this place clean, but you know how men are." Then she said, "Sorry," and Caroline thought she probably knew she no longer had her man.

"I'm not a cook," Lola Logan said, "but I'm fixing a few things you might like."

Mr. Bettencourt introduced her and Bess, then said to Lola in a warning tone, "I'll be back." He proceeded to show them the bedrooms, which were joined by a bathroom.

These bedrooms didn't have the feminine touch either but appeared so inviting she would like to stretch out across one of the beds. She suddenly felt fatigued. But she had a little apology to make.

"Mr. Bettencourt. This is more than adequate. Much more inviting than a hotel room. Since we'll be staying in your home and working together, perhaps we should be on a firstname basis. I'm Caroline and she's Bess."

His smile replaced the concern on his face, and if she'd known that would happen she might have said her first name sooner.

"Armand," he said. "Please know I'm at your service. Many of us don't know what to do at a time like this." He gave her keys to the inside and outside entry.

"You're doing fine, Armand," she said in her sweetest tone.

His dark eyes seemed to grow a tad larger beneath those rather heavy eyebrows. He turned and walked back into the kitchen.

"Oh, no, you don't. Not without one of these brownies I slaved over all day." Lola held out the plate. He took a bite. "Good as yours?"

"Much better," he said.

"Ladies?" Lola said.

Caroline reached for one, so Bess did too.

"Delicious," she exclaimed, and Bess said, "Mmmm."

"I'll put your bags in the bedrooms," Armand said. She noticed a tiny chocolate crumb at the corner of his mouth and then wondered what in the world her brownie hand was doing in the air like that. She quickly stuck a bite into her mouth.

Armand left, and Lola said she'd be back in a couple days to see if anything needed to be cleaned, and she left.

Caroline looked at Bess. "I guess we're on our own?"

"Looks that way. Nice little apartment."

Caroline reached for another brownie. Looking into the cabinets and refrigerator, she saw an ample supply of basic food, but wouldn't know what to do with it. Bess would.

"You know," she mused, "Sometimes you can just be refreshed by other people's goodness."

"I was thinking that," Bess said, examining the k.n.o.bs on the electric stove. "He would take time off from a job that probably doesn't pay much, just to drive us a few blocks from the station."

Caroline stared at her back. Friend or maid, she might just keep Bess around for the element of surprise.

For a couple of days they enjoyed the privacy of the cozy rooms, became familiar with the people in Armand's firm, and strolled around the area. One day Armand took them to a small restaurant and another time to Patriot's Point and gave them a little history lesson.

They were doing just fine, until the third day. The phone rang, and they both stared at it. Finally, Bess picked up the receiver.

"h.e.l.lo, Miss Hotchkins speaking." She turned from Caroline. "Yes." A few seconds later she nodded as if the caller could see her. "I understand. We'll be there." She didn't say thank you. She must not have liked what the caller had to say.

Caroline braced herself.

Bess replaced the receiver and swallowed before saying, "Armand can take us to the-" she paused and moistened her lips. "To the Mayflower Curling Rink whenever we are ready."

Caroline's hands rose up and rubbed each other. She nodded. Bess said they should have a cup of tea first, turned, and hurried toward the kitchen, but not before Caroline saw the color drain from her face.

Closing her eyes for a moment, Caroline reprimanded herself for being insensitive. Whatever happened to the woman who tried to think of others? Anyone would be affected by that tragedy. But she'd been thinking of her own losses and did not think of Bess having lost anyone.

She went into the kitchen, where Bess was pouring the tea. They both sat at the table. Bess had said the curling rink, and they knew this was the morgue.

She realized that Bess had lost someone too. She'd been in the employ of William Chadwick for five years. People became attached, despite cla.s.s differences. "You don't have to go," Caroline said.

She didn't know if Bess's reply was because she had lost William too, or because she was was Caroline's maid, or because she was her friend. Perhaps all. But she knew Bess meant it when she blinked her eyes and said resolutely, "Yes, I do have to go."

48.