Crossing on the Paris (28 page)

“A doctor of the mind,” the aviator, a serious man, corrected him. “Like the Austrian, Dr. Sigmund Freud. I've read one of his books. A very interesting man.”

“Actually, I've met Dr. Freud,” Constance said modestly, enjoying the looks of surprise around the table before she continued. “The president of Clark, an eccentric fellow named Stanley Hall, invited him to Worcester to give a lecture series. Luckily, he and his protégé, Dr. Jung, lectured in German, and so they weren't able to scandalize the community
too
much.”

“Did you go to the lectures, Miss Stone?” asked Lieutenant Jacquet.

“No, I was quite young at the time. But, my father had them round for tea one Sunday afternoon and I can boast that I lost a game of chess to Dr. Jung. Dr. Freud wasn't feeling too well, I'm
afraid. He said American food didn't agree with him. He complained that our customs of drinking ice water and eating heavy meals were wreaking havoc on his digestive system. Though I can't imagine American cooking being any richer than German.”

“Here, here!” said Mr. Pickens, raising his glass.

“You know,” Constance continued, “my sister and I were too little to really understand the adults' conversation that day, but I was so intrigued by those foreign scholars, with their strong accents and odd ideas. My sister couldn't be bothered to ‘waste the day with those old men in the parlor.' She spent the whole afternoon up in a tree reading
Treasure Island
!”

“She must not have your curiosity, your sense of adventure!” replied Serge. “Do you know, she didn't want to join her sister on this crossing either?”

“No? That
is
a shame. But, you must agree”—the captain smiled—“the girl has a fine taste in books!”

The conversation turned to Lieutenant Jacquet's war adventures, exciting tales of aerial victories. He'd even flown the Belgian king Albert I—the first head of state bold enough to take to the air—over the front lines! But Constance was only half-listening. She was still savoring her triumph over Faith. Although she had always been the pretty sister, until tonight, no one had ever considered her the interesting one, the adventurer. Thinking back on Faith's intellectual and artistic friends in Paris, she was sure they had to be great admirers of the psychoanalysts. They too would have been impressed by her acquaintance with them, as fleeting as it was.

Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Mrs. Pickens, speaking to her in low tones from across the table as the men continued to talk of flying machines.

“Dear, what a beautiful ring you're wearing!” she said with interest. “Wherever did you get it?”

Constance extended her hand to the older woman so she could better view the large, unusual piece.

“Thank you. It is colorful, isn't it? I got it in Paris. It's made of enamel,” she paused, then added, “and handcrafted, of course.”

“What a lucky find!”

“Yes, wasn't it?” She smiled at Mrs. Pickens, then turned back to the men. She would not let her sister win this hand.

She looked over at Serge. Would he also have been attracted to Faith? Her exuberance, her reckless charm? Although she was not nearly as good-looking as her older sister (and was really rather plain), Faith had had her share of steadfast admirers. In fact, it seemed she always had some man staring at her in fascination, choosing her to play lawn tennis or to be his partner at bridge. If Serge Chabron had met Faith instead, would she now be sitting at the captain's table?

The doctor caught Constance's eye and gave her a covert wink. His smile, slightly seductive, showed unmasked appreciation for the woman before him. As she held his gaze across the table, her heart racing, all the other people in the dining room faded away.

“I say, Dr. Chabron,” repeated the lieutenant.

“Sorry,” he asked with a slight jump, “wh-what was that?”

She smiled at his startled stumbling, confident that Faith, though fashionably thin and never lacking in amusing anecdotes, would not have interested him. Not in the least.

They all enjoyed a delicious, utterly French dinner. Serge had guessed her tastes exactly (would George have been able to do that?) and ordered her magnificent dishes that were neither daunting nor mysterious. After finishing the waiters' final offerings—sherry and port accompanied by bonbons and petit fours—the table broke up for the evening. The captain and the aviator made their way to the smoking room, reminiscing about the war and speaking French with great gestures, while the Pickenses, still early risers even after a full year residing in New York City, retired to their
rooms. Serge and Constance were left alone. He moved to the chair next to hers, then under the table reached for her hand. She gasped lightly as his fingers interlocked with hers.

“Thank you so much for accompanying me tonight,” he said. “Life on board a ship can be quite lonely. What a treat it has been to have your company.”

Constance blushed deeply but gave his hidden hand a light caress. “It's been my pleasure,” she murmured.

“Would you like to dance?” he asked.

“Of course,” she answered. It would be a shame not to take full advantage of her special evening in first class. He rose and took her hand, leading her to the stairway.

“Usually, one can dance on the terrace under the stars, but tonight, with this fog, you couldn't even see the moon! We shall have to make do with the ballroom.” He gave her a sidelong glance.

“I'd love to see it!” Constance followed him up the stairs, glowing with excitement.

On their way out of the dining area, Constance peeked over at the hatcheck counter to see whether the birthmarked girl was still there. Four or five men were crowded around her, all in a hurry, all wanting immediate attention. She looked harried and exhausted. Honestly, who could be in such a rush on a luxury liner? What pressing engagements could one possibly have?

After a quick stop in the powder room (her waves were holding beautifully!), the couple went up to the ballroom. A lit fountain gurgled on one side of the room and a twenty-piece orchestra played a waltz at the other. There were a few couples decorating the dance floor, but it wasn't crowded yet. Serge bowed at the waist, took her hand, then led her out. She leaned gracefully back as she'd been taught to do, her blue silk swirling around his legs as they swept around the room.

“Tell me, then.” He smiled, holding her a bit closer. “How have you been enjoying the crossing so far?”

“Nothing can compare to tonight's dinner,” she exclaimed. “The beautiful rooms, the incredible food . . . and the captain and the others were so interesting and friendly.”

“Ah, do I get lumped together with these ‘others,' then?” he asked, with a quizzical expression bordering on comical. “Those friendly, interesting sorts. I suppose I shouldn't aspire to more.”

Constance began stuttering a weak protest (“What? No. That is . . .”) when Serge twirled her quickly around. Back in his arms, she laughed.

“Serge, you couldn't be lumped in with anyone.” She shook her head. “You are absolutely one of a kind.”

He pulled her even nearer, relaxing his arms and slowing the pace. Constance became sensitive to their closeness: the warmth of his hand, the texture of his jacket, the smell of tobacco. It was intoxicating.

A young crew member suddenly signaled for the doctor's attention and the spell was broken.

“Excuse me, sir,” he stammered. “I hate to intrude, but there's been an accident in the galley and a saucier has been badly burned. His hand mostly, and his arm as well. Could you come down and see to him?”

“Of course. I'll join you in a few minutes.” The doctor looked annoyed. “First, allow me to escort my guest back to her cabin. In the meantime, have them apply some ice to the burn.”

He held out his arm to Constance.

“I'm terribly sorry,” he said with a frustrated sigh. “Duty calls. Again.”

“I understand,” she said. “You're in high demand on this ship.”

She was about to add something about not expecting to have him
all
to herself, but stopped. Although she was disappointed that their evening—so extraordinary, exquisite, romantic—had been cut short, perhaps it was for the best. Where could it go from here?

In no apparent hurry, they began the descent back to second
class, strolling down corridors whose carpets and decorations became plainer as they passed through.

“I'm glad you enjoyed the dinner tonight, Constance,” he said, “and I wish we could do the same thing again tomorrow, but the captain will be dining with a different set of guests. It's his duty to entertain all the dignitaries on board, you know,” Serge explained as they walked along, arm in arm. “I believe he dined with Miss Pickford and Mr. Fairbanks—that charming couple from the pictures—their first day on the ship.”

“Did he?” she asked, marveling that, on the
Paris,
she and Mary Pickford had dined with the same man at the same table.

“I must admit, it makes me feel guilty,” he said, pursing his lips. “After spoiling you with an evening in first class, I hate to think of you spending your last night on board with those bullheaded tablemates of yours.”

“Oh, please don't apologize for showing me a wonderful time!” she said with a smile. “Really, tomorrow's dinner isn't important. In fact, I may just have dinner in my room.”

“What?” Serge cried. “You won't want to do that! It's the farewell gala!”

Constance shrugged, remembering the mildly pleasant gala of her eastern crossing. With Gladys Pelham and her friends, she had donned a mask and danced a few rounds. The highlight of the evening was an amateur talent show; lively passengers got on a makeshift stage and put on skits, told funny stories, and sang—all with varying degrees of success. She shuddered, imagining spending an evening like that with the Thomases.

Now at her door, he turned to face her, taking her hand.

“I thought, if you wanted, tomorrow you and I could dine privately in my quarters. Surely my company would be preferable to dining alone in your cabin or with your regular table companions.”

Constance looked down. Even she understood where a tête-à-tête dinner could lead.

“The last night on board is very special, Constance,” he continued persuasively. “After supper we could go to the first-class gala in the Grand Salon. I shouldn't doubt that the Hollywood couple will be there as well. Who knows, perhaps they'll even be inspired to perform!”

Constance hesitated, looking down at her hands, holding his. With a sigh, she reasoned that, as the gala followed the dinner, they would only be alone for an hour or so. It was not then so compromising, so terribly risqué. After all, he was a gentleman. And they were merely friends.

“That sounds delightful, Serge.” She smiled.

“Capital!” he exclaimed in a low whisper, gazing into her eyes.

He leaned into her, his hands drifting up to her shoulders. As his lips slowly grazed her cheek, Constance closed her eyes. She was beginning to purr when she caught the smell of port in his mustache and stiffened with a jolt. Suddenly, she remembered all the smells she'd detected in George's whiskers over the years: gravy, soup, bourbon, cigars. She took a step back and began fumbling with her key.

“Serge,” she stuttered, “you've forgotten the poor saucier!” Then, smiling at him, she added, “He needs you, even more than I.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” He gave her hand a parting squeeze.

She went into her room and sat on the bed. She could still feel Serge's hand on her waist as they danced around the ballroom, his warm lips traveling toward her own, the exploration he'd made of her torso in the infirmary. With him, her whole body felt alive. George had never made her feel this way.

With a small moan, Constance took off her shoes. Softly stroking her silk-stockinged feet, she wondered what it would be like to be married to Serge. Would those times in bed, when she put up with George's grappling and grunting, would those moments be more pleasant, more exciting? Would she enjoy it?

She took off the corsage and admired the orchids. They were so unusual: thick and fleshy, but delicate too. She brought them to her nose and breathed in, hoping for a smell that could define the evening. Disappointed, she found they hardly had any scent at all.

The kitchens had long been closed when Julie finally turned out the light in the hatcheck closet. A few tired waiters passed her (“
Bonne nuit!
”), their mustaches twitching as they drifted out of the dining room. She looked up and down the hallway, wondering where Nikolai could be; she'd assumed he'd be waiting. She ducked into the powder room, thankful to have a moment to freshen up.

After relieving herself (she hadn't had a single break all night), she examined her face in the mirror. Her usual pallor had taken on a grayish tint; dark circles sprawled under her eyes. She took the frilly lace off her head, stuffed it into her pocket, and splashed her face. Once dry, she frowned at her reflection, pinching her cheeks, then smoothing her hair. Julie looked at her watch. Half-past one. No wonder she looked like this.