The guests milling around the Reception Hall of the À la Carte Restaurant glance up at the Merry Widow’s purposeful descent down the aft tidal-wave staircase.
Captain Smith chats with a handsome couple in a discreet corner, looking anything but discreet with his ruler-straight posture and combed uniform. His striking white beard seems to glow against his sunburned complexion. The man to whom he’s speaking stands several inches taller—he’s at least six feet—but the captain’s proud bearing seems to put him at the same elevation.
Nearby, the nobs drink and socialize on the carmine-red sofas. I pause, recognizing April Hart, who, despite her reed-like figure, seems to take up an entire couch. From under herflat beret, a cigarette wags like a teasing finger between her painted lips. She nods at me, no doubt having planted herself here for Mrs. Sloane’s “big moment.”
“I’ve no interest in the Blue Riband, and I don’t know where the rumor started,” the captain’s voice carries across the room. “We are built for pleasure and luxury, not speed. People would riot if we pushed our guests out of the castle early.” His audience murmurs in approval.
Soon the man’s blue eyes wash over me. I draw closer and try not to breathe so loudly under my veil. At my approach, the tall man—a haughty-looking fellow whose dark hair is split into two stingy shares—peers down at me. He nudges his wife, and she raises her cultured eyebrows.
“My stars,” she purrs. The triple loop of pearls in her auburn chignon bounce like a butterfly wing. A dress in the popular but boring color of taupe drapes her form, topped by a fox stole with its still-attached legs hanging as limp as four tiny gloves. I’m not sure why anyone would want to carry around a dead fox like that, except maybe to scare away birds or small children. She angles herself for a look under my coat.
Captain Smith presses his hands to his thighs. “Mrs. Sloane, I presume?”
“Yes. How do you do, Captain Smith?” I say in the stately voice Mrs. Sloane used to greet men of her same station.
Captain Smith snaps his heels together. “Sir Cosmo Duff-Gordon and Lady Lucy Duff-Gordon, may I present to you Mrs. Amberly Sloane?”
The woman doles out a smile as thin as a Communion wafer. “Please call me Lucy.”
I suck in a breath. This is the famous dressmaker of the Lucile brand. I glance at April sitting thirty feet away, and she pulls her fists across her chest, miming taking off a coat. She even shimmies her shoulders. No doubt she already knows who this couple is.
Lucy extends a hand as limp as a leg of her fox stole, and I press it with my own.
Her husband lifts his wineglass and bends as if to get a closer look at me, but I shrink back. “Pleasure to meet you.” His longhorn mustache flaps when he speaks, and a Scottish accent rounds his words.
“The pleasure is all mine.” As casually as possible, I slide off my coat and roll back my shoulders. My kimono comes alive. Its tiny beads catch the light from the bowl chandeliers, spinning shadows onto the ombre silk. I shift my weight, and the fabric ripples like water during low tide.
Lucy clutches at her husband, nearly spilling his wine, her eyes taking huge bites of my dress. I hope April is enjoying this.
The captain’s white eyebrows bend toward each other, like two hands praying. “Madam, I wanted to apologize personally for the mix-up with your room. I assure you, someone will answer for this grave, er”—the captain’s skin blooms—“I mean, serious error.”
My stomach does a backflip, knowing that someone might very well be me.
He gestures with broad sweeps of his arms, used toconducting crew and passengers alike. “If there’s anything we can do to help put this oversight behind us, please let us know.”
Here’s my chance. It isn’t going to get better than this. I remove a handkerchief from my coat pocket and sniff daintily into it. “I thank you for your kindness, Captain Smith, but I only require time and space to heal.”
“Understandable. Lucy was just telling us about her latest—”
“Of course, Percival and I had hoped to enjoy our cruise together, much like”—I cast my mournful eyes toward Sir Duff-Gordon—“you and your lovely wife.”
Sir Duff-Gordon pats his wife’s hand, which is tucked into his arm, and she bats her lashes at him.
Captain Smith clears his throat. “Why, of course you did.”
“We’d hoped to enjoy all the wonderful amenities the ship has to offer—the dining, the dancing, the Turkish baths, the squash courts...”
The captain opens his magnanimous hands. “If you’d like, we can arrange for you—”
“I would never dream of doing any of those things without him,” I snap. “It would be an insult to his memory.”
The captain’s face deepens in color, and his smile disappears. He’s a man unused to being interrupted, but I must have a bite if I’m to leave a mark.
Sir Duff-Gordon nods at me. Probably he’s the sort who expects his wife to refrain from enjoyment when he goes off to his reward. Lucy frowns, she likely the sort who will continue doing whatever the bloody hell she likes.
The captain runs a finger around the inside of his collar. “Of course.”
“If only there were some... spectacle that might comfort me.”
