Crossing on the Paris Page 19

  “Miss Camilla,” Vera repeated with a smile. “It’s a flower, you know.”

  When seven o’clock chimed, Dr. Chabron appeared at Constance’s door, dressed for dinner and carrying an orchid corsage.

  “You are stunning, Constance,” he declared as he took in every detail, from her Marcel waves to her blond satin pumps. She found him very handsome as well; he looked every bit as comfortable in his white-tie dinner jacket as he did in his white coat. “Let me help you with these.”

  “They’re lovely, Serge,” she managed, rather timid now that their casual acquaintanceship had moved on to a dinner engagement.

  He bent over to fasten the corsage onto the folds of blue silk at her shoulder. Her whole body tingled as he stood next to her, so close she could feel his breath. When the orchids were in place, he lingered by her side, letting his hand graze the length of her arm. Trembling, she stepped back.

  “I think I’ll need my shawl,” she breathed.

  Wrapped loosely in lace, she took Serge’s arm and they strolled together toward the dining room, their conversation safe and impersonal. From second class, they had to go up two flights in order to make their entrance down the grand stairway.

  “Oh, Serge,” Constance whispered from the top, peeking around at the billowing Art Nouveau designs covering the walls, arches, and dome. “It’s magnificent.”

  “Yes, it is,” he agreed, smiling at her delight.

  Constance relished the descent, one hand twined around Serge’s arm, the other daintily grasping her skirts. She felt like royalty, a fairy-tale princess. She imagined a plump valet in white livery announcing her name to the milling crowd below, causing dozens of admiring faces to turn to her expectantly. But, she thought, her brilliant smile faltering slightly, what name would he call out? Mrs. George Stone? Who exactly was that?

  They continued down the corridor, discussing the magical interiors of first-class Paris. They were passing the elegant smoking room—a manly, conservative space with great wingback chairs—when Constance saw two elderly women heading toward them. It was the feverish American and her teetering maid, the same ones who had interrupted her appointment in the infirmary that morning. It seemed like every time she was with Serge, those two made an appearance. She watched their approach. For the life of her, she couldn’t imagine ever being that old. She was correcting her posture when the doctor stopped in front of them and bowed.

  “Ah, Mrs. Sinclair! You must be feeling better! Are you heading to the dining room? Shall I escort you?”

  Constance looked over at him in surprise and saw him scanning the old woman’s outfit. It was certainly fine for tea, but was far too casual for the first-class dining room.

  “Please, do not add senility to my list of maladies, dear doctor!” Vera chided him playfully, gesturing toward her clothes. “No, I’m too tired for formal dining. I’ve been engaged this last half hour in the most invigorating conversation, and now I’m off to my rooms to order dinner.”

  Constance noticed that the maid was carrying an old curio, a mechanical bank, which made her wonder what mischief those two white-haired ladies had been up to.

  “I’ll come by your cabin tomorrow during my morning rounds, as promised,” the doctor said, with a slight bow. “Bon appétit!”

  “I hope you both enjoy a lovely evening!” Vera smiled, nodding graciously at Constance.

  “Thank you,” she replied softly, suddenly self-conscious, aware of how intimate she and Serge looked, standing arm in arm.

  As the old woman and her maid took their leave, Constance heard Mrs. Sinclair mutter, “We’ve seen that pretty young woman before, haven’t we? It’s like a word you’ve recently learned—afterward, it seems to pop up everywhere! In the crossword, on the editorial page, at tea . . .”

  As the elderly woman’s voice faded away, Constance smiled weakly at the doctor. Did being compared to new vocabulary make her sound dull?

  Before arriving at the dining room, they passed a series of discreet, useful spaces: the powder rooms, telephones, the cloakroom. At this last, she noticed an impatient line; half-past seven was a fashionable hour to dine. As they strolled past, Constance caught a glimpse of the girl behind the counter, a lace ruff pinned to her copper-colored hair. The other woman from the launch photograph! She was constantly crossing paths with those two. At the moment, the small girl was nodding soberly at a man who was shaking his finger in her face, warning her not to lose his wife’s mink. Poor kid! She didn’t seem to be enjoying her evening in first class.

  After a few more steps, Serge ushered Constance through a large archway, past towering palms, and into the dining room. A double staircase led down to the main floor with a lookout landing at the top. They stood together, taking in the view.

  “Ohh,” she sighed, squeezing his arm as she looked around the room.

  It was like an opera house, with an immense glass ceiling and, on each side, porticos and pillars holding a mezzanine. Each table was splendidly set with fine porcelain and fresh flowers; in the corner, airs of Chopin came from the grand piano. Lights and mirrors illuminated the room, which was humming with conversation and muted laughter.

  They swept down the stairs, then made their way to the captain’s table in the center of the room. Constance glimpsed around, hoping to spot the famous actors, but they were nowhere to be seen. No matter, she thought, as she and Serge breezed past tables of well-dressed patrons sipping whiskey sours and brandy alexanders. Even without Hollywood stars, this evening was full of promise.

  When they arrived at their table, the other three guests were already seated: Mr. and Mrs. Pickens, an oil tycoon and his wife recently of Manhattan (formerly of Tulsa), and a famous war aviator, a Belgian ace called Lieutenant Fernand Jacquet. The commodore of the ship, Captain Yves Duval, a uniformed man with graying hair and handsome eyes, was addressing the sommelier when they arrived. After choosing the wines, he stood and greeted them both.

  “Ah, I would like to present the ship’s doctor, the invaluable Dr. Serge Chabron.” Serge nodded to all seated, then the captain continued with a smile, “And this must be the young lady from Massachusetts.”

  “Yes, allow me to introduce Miss Constance Stone,” the doctor said. The men rose and Constance dipped her head at each person at the table, blushing slightly at the erroneous title.

  They took their seats and picked up the colorful menus on the plates: aspic de foie gras, Cullis of grouse, Carmelite velouté, Soufflé Rothschild . . . Constance thought she would let Serge choose for her; he would know the best options. She had never tried any of the dishes before and didn’t relish any more cold soup. The Pickenses deliberated aloud, raising skeptical eyebrows; French cuisine, although highly revered, seemed to be short on beefsteak and fried potatoes.

  “The Pickenses have been telling me about the fascinating world of Oklahoma,” Captain Duval told them. “I should truly like to go there, though it is very far from the sea. Tell me, Miss Stone, about your home. I believe Massachusetts is on the Atlantic seaboard?”

  “Yes, and it certainly has a long coastline,” she began, “but my family is from the interior, a town called Worcester.”

  “And what does one do in the interior?” he asked with a smile.

  Avoiding the subject of George, she chose to talk about her father instead. “Well, sir, my father is a professor of psychology at Clark University.”

  “Psychology!” Serge chuckled. “Don’t tell me he’s a dream doctor!”

  “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 to
o 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, b
ut 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!”