Hearts That Survive Part 3

But he'd lingered too long. What more could he say? He might quote Oth.e.l.lo from Shakespeare's tragedy. When . . . you shall . . . speak of me . . . speak of one that lov'd not wisely but too well.

Pus.h.i.+ng his plate away from him, he reminded himself he must not quote others. He should adhere to the advice in Longfellow's poem "The Courts.h.i.+p 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 appet.i.te 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 Deeman 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 antic.i.p.ation of spending her lifetime with the man who touched her heart.

He took her fingers, brought them to his lips, and kissed them.

"May I?" He glanced at her stomach.

She nodded. Wet emotion spilled from her eyes and she could not suppress a small laugh of happiness as he gently touched where his child grew. He looked so wonderful kneeling before her and even reached out to the table and steadied himself.

She laughed. "John, you might want to get up now."

The color in his face deepened. "Oh." He rose from his kneeling position and pulled his chair over in front of her. "Of course, you will want to plan the wedding. Whatever you want, wherever you want. New York. England. France." John grinned. "But I have a thought."

"Uh-oh." She lifted her gaze to the ornate ceiling and back to him again. She would love to look at him forever.

"I know. I'm the dreamer."

"I love that about you."

"Well, what do you think about our getting married right here on the t.i.tanic? Not wait any longer?"

"Would that be legal?"

"I'm sure it would be. I'll ask. I know captains and chaplains can perform ceremonies. So the captain should have legal papers on board. All licenses have to be signed and filed, but once a man and woman are p.r.o.nounced husband and wife, the preacher says they're married." He stared at her with hopeful eyes.

When she didn't answer immediately, John began to rea.s.sure her. "We can later be married in a church and invite our friends. Your father can walk you down the aisle."

He shook his head and spoke apologetically. "I've never put great value on money, but since I've achieved some success, I know the possibilities that lie before me, and I have to admit I am impressed with what wealth can do. Seeing this s.h.i.+p in particular, I understand how one might get caught up in it, be dazzled by it."

This seemed so foreign to how John usually spoke. But his next words thrilled her. "I would love to see you, the most beautiful girl in the world, at the top of that grand staircase while becoming my wife."

"Oh, my." She saw it in her mind. If anyone overheard John's words, they might think he had become caught up in the opulence around him. She knew better. When they'd explored the impressive s.h.i.+p, many had spoken of, "What money can do."

John said, "It also shows what the creative mind can conceive and do, with G.o.d's permission." She'd never really thought of G.o.d as being so personal. He'd perhaps brought John to her for a reason.

For now, however, she put her hand on her chest to still her drumming heart.

Her breath came fast. "Married on the most glamorous s.h.i.+p in the world." She laughed lightly. "Now who's a dreamer?"

"No," he said. "I'm sure that can happen. I want you to have the best."

He returned her smile. "I'll talk to the captain and see what can be done. We'll invite-" He waved his hands to encompa.s.s the earth. "Everyone."

"Everyone," she repeated. He must know everyone meant those in first cla.s.s.

"Ohhhh," she moaned. "I don't have a wedding dress."

"You're wearing a lovely white one right now."

"It's a morning dress."

He shrugged. "Morning. Night."

She sighed. "Men." She waved her hand and wiggled her ring finger. "Go, John. Find out what we can do."

He stood. He wanted to grab her and hold her and kiss those sweet lips. Soon they would be husband and wife. The thought was overwhelming.

The look in her eyes reflected the longing he felt. He lifted her hand, gave it a proper gentleman's kiss.

"I love you, Lydia."

"I love you, John." She raised her hands to his face and pressed her lips against his, and they shared a deep, meaningful kiss. In his mind, in the mind of G.o.d, the sin was no more. Theirs was now a new love, a pure love.

He moved away, and she clasped her hands on her lap.

"We will soon be a family," he said.

She nodded. Her eyes were moist. Or was he seeing her through the mist he felt in his own? With overwhelming love in his heart, he hastened from the room.

7.

Sat.u.r.day mid-morning, April 13, 1912 John thought he should tell Craven first. He'd get the negative out of the way so he could concentrate on the positive. He found him on the promenade deck sitting in a chair next to a gentleman Lydia had pointed out in Southampton. He was a steel tyc.o.o.n with whom both the Beaumont Railroad and the White Star Line had done business.

Craven introduced them as A. T. Fortone of Fortone Steel and John Ancell of toy trains.

"Ah, yes." Fortone vigorously shook John's hand. "Actually, several of my grandchildren have been entertained for hours with your trains." He chuckled. "I admit I've had my turn at them."

After the brief exchange of polite conversation, John addressed Craven. "I don't mean to intrude or interrupt. But when you have a free moment, I'd like to speak with you."

"Of course," Craven said and rose. "Always business," he said to Fortone, who gave a knowing nod.

Craven walked with John a few feet away, to a secluded spot at the railing and held out a cigarette case. John shook his head. He'd never seen Craven with a cigarette, only a cigar.

"Is Lydia all right?" he asked, the cigarette held between his lips.

John both appreciated and resented Craven's first thought being of Lydia. "This isn't anything negative. Quite the contrary, in fact."

Craven took his lighter from his suit pocket, snapped it open, moved his thumb over the ragged wheel, then peered at John over the flame. He dragged on the cigarette and exhaled the smoke, which mingled with the aroma of fresh air and sea water. His raised eyebrows questioned John with a condescending tone, Well?

John coughed lightly at the smoke in his throat. Or was it inhibition? He might as well come out with it. "Actually, Lydia and I are engaged to be married."

He was not unprepared for the momentary silence during which Craven's nostrils flared minutely, and despite the intensity of those steel-gray eyes, this was one time John didn't avoid the stare.

Craven's heavy drag on the cigarette turned the end into a smoldering red ma.s.s that burned along the white paper covering, leaving a black line and turning the tip to ash. Craven raised his chin and blew a ring of smoke that drifted out over the sea. Likely, he'd named it "John."

John breathed in the fresh sea air. "We want to marry here on the s.h.i.+p."

With a flick of his wrist, Craven tossed the cigarette into the ocean. He faced John squarely, with the stance, the gaze, and the aplomb of a man who accepted only his own opinions.

"That's ridiculous, John. It shows your immaturity," he scoffed. "Do you know what you're saying? A spur-of-the moment wedding? Lydia's wedding should be the social event of the season. With her friends present. And her father."

Arguing would serve no purpose. "Tell me this, Craven. What church aisle or even palace steps are more impressive than the grand staircase?"

Craven's inability to name one spurred John on. "You speak of friends. How could there be a more splendid event than the gathering of these first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers on the greatest s.h.i.+p in the world? Where else would she be more acclaimed? What more could you want for Lydia?"

John knew. Craven's expression and eyes seemed to say myself.

"You've made your point," Craven allowed. "But Lydia sees with you a kind of life that is different from the one to which she is accustomed. And this s.h.i.+p? I daresay even a woman older and more experienced than Lydia would be impressed with romantic thoughts of a wedding on this s.h.i.+p. Do you really think this is the time and place for deciding something that will affect your entire life? You haven't even known each other long."

"Long enough," John said.

"I'm older than you, John. Perhaps I could give you a little advice."

Yes, he could use some advice-where to find the captain.

"Lydia is somewhat sheltered. And she's impressionable."

Circ.u.mstances now ruled out whatever opinion, advice, or lack of blessing that might come from Craven or Lydia's father. But John would like their approval. "We love each other, Craven."

Craven scoffed, "I cannot imagine a man who wouldn't love her."

John understood the implication. Lydia was everything a man could desire. Aside from that, she was heiress to a vast fortune and would likely come into it at a young age, since she was an only child of her parents' middle-aged years.

"You know her father would be highly displeased to hear of your plans. Such a move could affect her entire future."

As much as John didn't like to admit it, he felt inhibited around men like Craven, who gave such a vivid impression that they owned the world that one could almost believe it.

Nevertheless, he said, "I wanted you to be one of the first to know."

"To be sure," Craven said stiffly.

The conversation-or was it a confrontation?-unnerved John. Just as he turned to try to stroll confidently along the deck, he almost tripped over a little boy, who sprinted away from a man shouting after him, "Henry." John caught hold of the railing and forced himself against it rather than fall over and crush the boy.

The man and John said, "Sorry," at the same time. The little boy had stopped and looked up at them as if he had no idea what might be their problem.