Crossing on the Paris Read online

  “Good evening, everyone,” she greeted her fellow diners when she finally arrived.

  Already engaged in conversation, the men at her table only granted Constance brief nods and slight smiles as she sat down.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Stone,” Mrs. Thomas whispered, not wanting to interrupt them.

  The waiter soon appeared, in a short white jacket and bow tie, managing to look extremely busy yet unruffled. He gave them three or four choices for their first course, none of which Constance understood, then poised his pencil on his pad and waited with an air of faux patience while the guests made up their minds.

  “I’ll have the crème vichyssoise,” Captain Fielding said so decisively that the other, less traveled guests opted for the same. The waiter made a careful note before taking off in great haste.

  The wine steward then sidled up to the table, offering them a chilled bottle of white wine. After everyone had been served, Mr. Thomas raised his glass to give a toast.

  “Here’s to the end of Prohibition!” he cried, tossing the wine back in one gulp.

  Constance’s hand was on the stem of her glass, expecting a conventional toast regarding health, good cheer, or friendship. Taken aback, she felt uncomfortable lifting her glass; wouldn’t that imply she was rather too fond of drinking? Unlike many women she knew—those who had heartily campaigned for the Eighteenth Amendment—she was not a teetotaler. George had always liked brandy with his cigars and, before the ban on alcohol passed the year before, she had occasionally joined him with a dash of sherry. She peeked over at Mrs. Thomas, who was smiling quietly but not joining in on the toast, and followed suit. However, the European men at the table were delighted and lifted their glasses high.

  “I don’t understand this Prohibition,” said one of the Dutchmen with a lick of his lips. “The idea that drink could be illegal is preposterous, unthinkable!”

  “Certainly!” seconded the other. “If this notion came up in our parliament, we would defend our port and pints of stout to the last!”

  “Here, here!” cried the men.

  “You know”—Mr. Thomas grinned, wiping his mouth with his napkin—“I saw Carrie Nation once, in a bar in Kansas City. First she greeted the bartender: ‘Good morning, Destroyer of Men’s Souls.’ ” He said this in a high, mimicking voice. “And then she brought out her hatchet and went to work, breaking all the whiskey bottles in the place!”

  “What? Who is this?” asked one of the Dutchmen.

  “She was a crazy woman,” he said. “Called herself ‘Jesus’s bulldog’! She claimed liquor was the root of all evil, that it made people do all sorts of sinful things. She’d go into saloons and smash up all the bottles she could, then she’d take a break to play hymns on the piano. It was Carrie Nation who waged the war against alcohol. And she won, the old cow.”

  While they were discussing Prohibition, another bottle of wine was ordered and their soup course served. Constance took a spoonful of the creamy vichyssoise and was vexed to find it cold. Before complaining, she waited for Captain Fielding’s reaction. She was disappointed to find he liked it.

  “Carrie Nation,” repeated one of the Dutchmen with disdain. “I am surprised to hear that a woman could be so powerful. I don’t just mean her barging into a man’s place of business and threatening his livelihood, but you say she actually changed a national law!”

  “Well, I suppose that’s what happens when women get the right to vote.” Captain Fielding shook his head sadly.

  “I don’t know why they call it women’s suffrage”—Mr. Thomas winked—“when it’s us men who suffer!”

  The four men at the table all chuckled and raised their glasses. Although Constance was used to George dominating conversations at home, she found this group of men far more vulgar and even less inclusive. These gentlemen did not seem to even remember there were ladies at the table! Annoyed with them all, Constance was looking away from her fellow diners with a huff when she noticed the doctor making his way toward their table. Although she was glad to see him—his pleasant nature would be a welcome change from this lot—she felt her cheeks turning red. As he approached the table, his eyes flitted to hers, gleaming, before coming to land on those of the Englishman.

  “Captain Fielding!” he said, greeting the officer with a warm handshake. “I saw your name on the passenger list and I wanted to come round and give you my best!”

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” said the captain, “I’d like to introduce Dr. Chabron. Thanks to him, I’m still alive.”

  “Oh, you would have lived”—the doctor smiled—“though you may not have been so good-looking!”

  “Are you part of the Paris crew, sir?” asked Mr. Thomas.

  “Yes, I’m the physician here on board.” As he shook hands around the table, Constance felt her heart pounding. When he took her hand, his smile widened. “And I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Miss Stone.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Thomas’s thick eyebrows collide; “Miss?” the matron murmured in a long hiss. Constance was relieved that this went unnoticed by everyone else, as the men were all insisting that Dr. Chabron join them at the table.

  “I hate to interrupt . . .” he began, to the general dissension of the party.

  “We were just discussing the political ec-cen-tricities of recent years,” said Mr. Thomas, emphasizing that word with a comical grimace.

  “Yes, Prohibition in America and the spreading plague of women’s suffrage,” Captain Fielding said, rolling his eyes. “Do women have the vote in France?”

  “Not yet.” The doctor smiled.

  “The French have always been an enlightened bunch!” the Englishman sighed. “Women got the vote in Britain a couple of years back, although, I’m glad to say, not without restrictions. Our lady voters must be over thirty and either householders or university graduates. I mean, you can’t expect charwomen and milkmaids to choose your prime ministers, can you?”

  “Good thinking!” Mr. Thomas said with a shake of his head. “In the States, they’ve given the vote to them all!”

  “We have two American women here at the table,” said Dr. Chabron, nodding at Constance and Mrs. Thomas. “Pray, ladies, what do you think of all this?”

  All eyes fell on the startled women; they had not expected to be included in the discussion and were not prepared to voice their opinions. Indeed, it had been so long since Constance had uttered a word, she thought her jaw would need oiling before she spoke again. She took a breath.

  “Well . . .” She and Mrs. Thomas began at the same time. Constance blushed, then deferred to her elder. “After you,” she said courteously.

  “I agree with my husband,” Mrs. Thomas said, smiling at her mate. “We women shouldn’t bother ourselves with politics! Our job is to make a comfortable home for our families, not to take to the streets, campaigning, protesting, or picketing.”

  “Well said, my dear!” Mr. Thomas beamed. “And you, young lady. I daresay you’re of the same mind?”

  Constance looked into the expectant faces of the people at the table, her fellow diners and the doctor, and imagined the presence of her father and George there as well. She had heard arguments similar to Mrs. Thomas’s for years: “a woman’s place” and all that. But that wasn’t really the question.

  “It would be difficult for you gentlemen to imagine,” she began slowly, “what it’s like to go through life making almost none of the decisions that affect you most intimately. Men wonder at the helplessness of women—our dependence, our inabilities—when, actually, this situation is imposed upon us.”

  She took a breath and looked at their muddled faces.

  “Silly girl,” said Mr. Thomas, “that is no invention of man! It is the feminine condition!”

  “Sir, it is not our condition to be left out when decisions are taken, when choices are made,” Constance said defiantly. “We women can think for ourselves, you know. We don’t need fathers and husbands always telling us what we can and
cannot do, be it schooling or marriage, work or travel . . . I think it’s fabulous that women have finally earned the right to vote,” she said, suddenly adopting a firm position on the matter. “In fact, I plan on registering as soon as I get home!”

  She quickly stood up from the table. “Now if you will excuse me . . .”

  Flushed, Constance stormed away from the table. Her heart was pounding; unused to confrontation, she was embarrassed and invigorated at the same time. She went out on deck and held the rails tightly. Thinking of Mr. Thomas’s wide-eyed surprise (his toupee had nearly popped off!), she couldn’t help but laugh. She was startled when Dr. Chabron’s laughter suddenly joined hers.

  “You were brilliant in there, Miss Stone,” he said, now beside her at the rails. “Your Professor Moriarty was soundly defeated.”

  “I don’t know what came over me!” Constance laughed. “Moriarty, you say? Well, I don’t know if I’d call that man my archenemy. Though, I must say, he is rather smug.”

  Constance chuckled again, looking out on the sea and savoring the moment. It was a warm evening for the Atlantic and the light from a three-quarter moon played on the waves. She then realized that she had barely had anything for dinner—just a few spoonfuls of cold soup (!)—and gladly remembered the fruit in her cabin.

  “Oh, Dr. Chabron,” she began, then wondered whether she was being too formal. Should she have called him Serge, like he’d signed on the little card? Or was that presumptuous? She coughed slightly. “I wanted to thank you for the fruit basket. It was so thoughtful of you.”

  “It must have made you feel better,” the doctor replied. “I noticed you didn’t need to come by sick bay today.”

  “I’m sorry. I should have come by to tell you how much I appreciated it,” she said with a pretty, apologetic wrinkle. “But, the truth is, after taking the sleeping powders last night, I slept till noon! I woke up this morning feeling wonderful, then spent the whole afternoon lounging on a deck chair and reading a mystery novel. It’s just come out—and guess what! It was penned by a woman!”

  “You don’t say!” He smiled back at her.

  They were standing side by side, so close that she could smell his scent: hints of tobacco, peppermint, and cologne. She breathed it in with a tingly shiver. Were they being too intimate?

  “You must be chilly,” he said, edging a bit closer to her.

  “Yes, I should be returning to my cabin,” she said reluctantly.

  “Please, allow me to walk you back, Miss Stone,” he said, threading her arm through his.

  They slowly walked down the deck, toward the second-class cabins, passing groups of friends laughing over highballs. There were also several couples out—Constance recognized the crossword honeymooners kissing next to a lifeboat—which made her wonder whether she and the doctor also looked like a romantic couple on a moonlit stroll.

  “So,” he said, smiling, “will you really register to vote when you get back home?”

  “You know,” she said, “I think I will.”

  “I have every belief in a woman’s capabilities,” he said. “We couldn’t have gotten through the war without our nurses. They were fast, clever, just invaluable!”

  “Yes, during the war there were many women back home who took on men’s jobs,” Constance began, trying to think of a moment in her life when she herself had been invaluable. “I had my own victory garden. And did some volunteering,” she added feebly, then blushed. How paltry it sounded next to war nurses!

  “The war wasn’t won by soldiers alone,” he said earnestly.

  “What a generous thought, Dr. Chabron,” she said, pausing to give him a smile.

  “Please, call me Serge,” he said, gently pressing her arm. “And may I call you Constance?”

  “Yes, of course.” She liked the way he pronounced it; with a French accent, it didn’t sound frumpy or serious. She was disappointed to find they’d already arrived at her door.

  “Constance,” he said, “I’d like for you to dine with me tomorrow night. You see, I am to join the captain’s table in first class. I think you’ll find the company there more to your satisfaction than your usual dining companions.”

  “That would be lovely!” she said.

  What a delight it would be to dine with Serge, who seemed genuinely curious about her ideas and opinions. Such a stark contrast to those rude men at her table who had been ignoring her for the past two days. In fact, he seemed more interested in her thoughts than George ever had.

  “If you have time, why don’t you pop round to the infirmary in the morning and show me that new detective novel?” he said. “I am curious to see a woman’s take on crime.”

  “Of course,” she replied, flattered that he’d found her earlier remark of interest.

  “Oh, and the earlier the better. As the day goes by, passengers discover the most ingenious ways of injuring themselves.”

  She laughed, shaking his hand lightly as she went inside her cabin.

  “Good night,” she called, then, turning around for a parting glance, added, “Bonne nuit!”

  She went into her room and rummaged through the fruit bowl, but found she wasn’t hungry anymore. As she undressed, the evening’s events replayed in her mind. With a little laugh, she tried to remember her exact retort about women and decision making. “We don’t need fathers and husbands telling us what we can and cannot do,” she’d declared. If George had been there, he’d have been every bit as surprised as Mr. Thomas.

  Reaching into her trunk for her dressing gown, she thought about what to wear to dine with the ship’s captain. Her lavender satin, the pink silk . . . nothing seemed elegant enough. The first-class dining room was reported to be majestic, and the meals there far more exquisite than the ones served in second class. How thoughtful Serge had been to invite her!

  How very glad she was to have made such an affable friend on this voyage, a man who not only was attractive and polite, but with whom she shared common interests. She thought of his accent, his charming manners, his smile, and for some reason was reminded of Nigel, her first love. She breathed out a long sigh, filled with regret and disappointment. Nearing thirty, a wife and mother, her chances for romance were long past.

  Constance tucked her little girls’ photograph in for the night, then got into bed. She picked up her detective novel and read a few pages, wondering if, indeed, Serge would like it too.

  “Julie!” Simone called from the kitchens as the help was filing out of the dining room. The long dinner shift was over in steerage and the workers were going back to their dormitories.

  “Hey, Julie!” Simone caught up to her, panting slightly. “I was just talking to Roger, you know, the sous chef. He said that Pascal and the other cooks are playing cards this evening.” Simone lowered her voice, nearly skipping with excitement. “And guess what? Old Tremblay always joins them!” She shot Julie a mischievous smile. “So, there’s nothing to keep us from going to the top decks! What do you say?”

  “Well . . . .” Julie strung this word out while she was thinking. Simone’s grin was so enthusiastic, it was on the verge of bursting open. Julie nodded with a sigh. It seemed she had no choice but to take her on her rendezvous with Nikolai. “If you’re sure that Madame Tremblay will be busy, I guess so.”

  “Great!” Simone said. “Let’s get ready!”

  Back in the dormitory, they decided to leave their uniforms on; in case someone asked, they could say they were out delivering a message. They took off their caps, however, and let their hair down. They brushed it out (“Ah, Julie, what I’d do to have hair like yours!”), then Simone pulled a small, worn makeup bag out of her kit.

  “My sister Marguerite gave me her old powders,” she said.

  Simone took out a compact, some rouge, and a sticky nub of rose-colored lipstick. She looked into the compact’s small mirror, then vigorously rubbed the remnants of pressed powder with the puff. She dabbed it on the patches of spots on her forehead, cheeks, then her nose. She
then applied the rouge and the lipstick.

  “How do I look?” She smiled.

  “Just fine!” Julie smiled back. Really, with makeup, Simone merely looked more colorful.

  “And now you!” She approached Julie with a studious expression. “With that pale skin, you really need some rouge. This one is called ‘fresh peach.’ ”

  Her brow knotted in concentration as she dusted Julie’s cheeks with a few masterly strokes. Simone picked up the lipstick, then paused over the large birthmark above Julie’s lip.

  “Uh . . . I think your lips are fine as they are,” she said diplomatically.

  “This is silly,” Julie said, touching her birthmark lightly with her finger. “In the moonlight up on deck, you can’t really make out colors anyway. Everything is gray.”

  Looking back in the compact’s small mirror, Simone brushed some more rouge on her own cheeks.

  “You never know!” she said.

  Julie took a quick look around the dormitory. Two or three women were already putting on nightgowns, slippers, and hairnets, others were chatting and relaxing on their bunks. Louise, the washerwoman who slept in the next row, was leafing through the ship’s newspaper. She suddenly called out to Julie.

  “Hey, you! You got your picture in the paper!”

  Simone was hunched over the paper, squealing, before Julie even approached the bed.

  “Look, Julie! It is you!” she said with a grin.

  Julie picked up the paper and looked at it suspiciously. Very few pictures of her existed and none that she liked. When she was twelve, her parents took her to a portrait studio and the photographer insisted on her posing in profile. The photograph was quite flattering—her elegant brow, straight nose, her hair nestled into a bun at the nape of her neck—but it was not her. Without her birthmark, that face was a lie. Here, not only was her blemish plain (and so dark!) but her face looked cross, and what on earth was that on her hand? The streamer, she sighed. It was her—for better or for worse.