Hearts That Survive by Yvonne Lehman Read Free Book Online

reading at the Library in London."
    "You were there?"
    "No, sorry. I was deep into research at the time. But I've read of you in the Art sections of newspapers. I confess, although I admire a poet's ability to capture so succinctly what takes me an entire book to say, I was never good at getting a clear grasp of poems without some instruction."
    John appreciated his honesty and smiled. "Such sentiments are not uncommon."
    "But I'd love to hear how a poet's mind works. You must already have numerous possible themes about something on this ship."
    "To be sure." John thought of the poem he was writing to Lydia. "And thank you for the invitation. I would like to join you in the reception room."
    "Bring Miss Beaumont, of course." As he turned to walk away, he said, "By the way, I'm known informally as S. J." He paused. "Ah, there's a steward. Perhaps he can assist you in locating the captain."
    That was handy. Within a short while John's emotions had gone from the extreme elation of becoming an engaged man to the distress of having to abide Craven's disapproval and finally to an easy camaraderie with S. J. He'd not thought through how to reach the captain.
    The man in charge of this floating city wouldn't be sitting around awaiting his presence. "A moment, please." He lifted a finger.
    The steward stopped. "How may I assist you, sir?"
    He asked how he might speak with the captain. "There's no problem," John hastened to say. "Just a request to speak with him about a personal matter."
    "You might write a note," the steward said. "Then it will be passed along to the master-at-arms who will ensure it gets to the captain."
    "Yes. Of course."
    "Anything else, sir?"
    "No. That's quite all. Thank you."
    Embarrassment wafted through John. The steward would know he wasn't accustomed to the protocol of first-class.
    Then he felt discomfiture for having such a thought. He was of no more worth than the steward or anyone else. How easily one might fall into the trap of illusion. In the sight of God, all men are equal.
    He knew that, of course. But as he'd reveled in the opulence and luxury surrounding him, and the reported worth of first-class passengers on this ship described in newspapers as The Millionaire's Special, the words of the poet, Alfred Lord Tennyson, came to mind.
     
    Equal-born? O yes, if yonder hill be level with the flat.
    Charm us, Orator, till the Lion look no larger than the Cat.

 
8
     
     
     
     
    M arcella opened Lydia's sitting room door after John's knock, and he stepped into the lion's den. Craven and Lydia stood facing each other, he with a heated face and she with a determined one.
    The air became thick with silence, and Marcella's eyes doubled in size with her obvious concern.
    Lydia stepped toward John. "Have you spoken with the captain?"
    "I've sent a note by the steward, requesting a conversation with the captain." Since a quick glance revealed that Craven neither sneered nor balked, that had been the proper procedure. However, the man's expression reminded John again that he likely wished it had been John he had flipped over the ship railing rather than his cigarette.
    But John felt it time that Craven stepped away from his role of Lydia's guardian, protector, advisor, and wishful fiancé. All these roles were John's responsibility, and he intended to fill them.
    Strange, what had happened as a result of his weakness was giving him newfound courage. He was no longer oppressed by whether Craven, Cyril Beaumont, or anyone else thought him worthy. His thoughts were on Lydia and their child.
    With God in their hearts and lives, they need not cower before anyone's disapproval. Their love would see them through. To deny that would be an ultimate transgression.
    John felt confident as his thought blocked any negative ones from Craven. "I bumped into the novelist, Henry Stanton-Jones. He has invited us—" he made a quick motion with his finger at Lydia and back to himself, despite pointing being considered