Delia shook her head. “I want to help Mathilde because I admire her. I’m not brave enough to have done the sort of things she accomplished, but I want to help nonetheless.”
It seemed God made some people to be warriors, while otherswere destined to work quietly behind the front lines. Both roles had their purpose, she supposed, and there was honor in each one.
“What are you hoping Benedict can do?” Inga asked, looking confused.
“He knows all sorts of government ministers and military people. He knows the right things to say and how to cut through red tape. I can do research and planning, but the Germans would never negotiate with a woman. I need a man like Benedict to carry the torch.”
Inga’s face softened as she delivered the bad news. “He won’t do it. Benedict becomes very focused while on a mission, and he agrees with Bertie about this. Trying to save one person will muddy the waters when the primary goal is to persuade the Germans to reopen the port to the CRB—something that will help millions of people.”
Delia nodded, shifting her attention to the skyline of New York as the ship carried them farther away. Before they reached Europe, she needed to succeed in winning over Benedict, convincing him to negotiate Mathilde’s release from prison. How odd that Finn’s quest had now become hers as well. She shivered as another gust of wind snaked beneath her coat and sent a chill straight through her. Had Finn made it safely to France? If all went well, he should be there by now. She prayed he hadn’t done something quixotic like stealing an airplane to launch an improbable rescue mission.
If nothing else, she needed to persuade Benedict to lend his help in stopping Finn from getting himself killed.
Delia spent the first three days of the voyage locked inside her cabin, studying the Hague Conventions. The windowless cabin was sparsely furnished with a bunk bed, a washbasin, and no room for anything else aside from her luggage. A small electric bulb, its fixture bolted to the wall, was the only source of light, and ablinding headache set in each day after a few hours of squinting at the endless columns of small text while the ship gently swayed.
Every time she was tempted to join the others for afternoon tea or games in the cardroom, she thought of Mathilde suffering far worse in a prison cell. Delia would rise to her feet, say a prayer for Mathilde, stretch her shoulders, then settle back on her bunk to keep reading. The only time she left her cabin was for meals or to pester Benedict.
She had appealed to him twice about lending his assistance with Mathilde, and both times he’d firmly rejected her. Just as Inga predicted, he refused to entertain anything that deviated from securing port access for the CRB.
A banging on her cabin door startled her. She went and opened it to see Inga’s shining face.
“You’re coming with me to celebrate Halfway Night in the smoking lounge,” she announced.
The Halfway Night party seemed a pointless waste of time when there was work to be done. The fact that it was taking place in the smoking lounge made it even less tempting. Why did men need to torture people with those awful cigars?
“I already told you. That sort of party isn’t—”
“No excuses!” Inga said. “What’s so bad about spending a few hours of companionship with fellow members of the human race? Honestly, you sound as dreary as Benedict. I had to twist his arm to get him to come as well.”
If Benedict was going to attend the party, Delia suddenly had a good reason for being there. Perhaps a third try would be the charm. Ten minutes later, she had changed into a pretty mauve dress and accompanied Inga to the smoking lounge. It was a spacious wood-paneled room belowdecks, lit with brass lanterns that sent a warm amber glow over the space.
An oversized chart of the Atlantic Ocean hung on the far wall. The position of their ship was marked with a glittery ribbon. Benedict sat at a table with Bertie and a few of the ship’s officers, whereBenedict nursed a glass of water while the others all smoked. Tall, lanky, and darkly handsome, Benedict had perfected the imposing look of a starchy diplomat.
“Throwing a party for being halfway through a voyage is like celebrating the midpoint of a tooth extraction,” Benedict said. “Everything is still painful, and the worst may be yet to come.”
Inga laughed as she approached the men’s table. “Hello, dear. Cheerful as ever, I see.”
A glint of humor flashed but quickly disappeared from Benedict’s stern face. “Technically, we’re not halfway into the voyage. That won’t happen until six o-clock tomorrow morning. Celebrating at this point is mere wishful thinking.”
Bertie stood and gestured for her and Inga to join them at the table. Delia slipped in front of Inga to snatch the empty chair beside Benedict. It wouldn’t do to start nagging him about helping Mathilde right away, but she could at least start looking for his elusive good side.
“I imagine you must have made this crossing dozens of times,” she began.
“You imagine correctly.” Benedict rotated his glass of water, and Delia waited for him to add something more, but he wasn’t the talkative type.
“That’s very impressive,” she added. “You worked in the American Embassy in Berlin, correct?”
“Yes.”
Once again, a perfect opening for him to engage in conversation like a normal human being but getting this man to loosen up was like trying to squeeze water from a stone.
The awkward discussion was interrupted when the ship’s captain arrived. Captain Alverez was surprisingly young, although his face was already showing the deeply weathered look of a man who lived at sea. He carried a card in his hand.
“We have just received a message wired to the ship for Mr. Hoover,” the captain said.
Personal messages delivered at sea were rare, and Bertie rose in concern.
“Relax,” the captain hurried to say. “This message is cause for celebration. It is from the king of England himself, and it reads: ‘Congratulations on three years of heroic work for the people of Belgium, and good luck in Rotterdam. Sir, the civilized world stands behind you.’”
