Crossing on the Paris Page 29

  “What happened last night?” he asked, scanning her face for information. “I hope I didn’t offend you. It certainly wasn’t my intention . . .”

  “Oh, Serge, I couldn’t stay.” Constance saw no use in stalling and lifted up her left hand in a limp display of her wedding band. “I’m married, you see.”

  She tried to read his expression; was it relief, annoyance, confusion? Could he sympathize? Was he disappointed? At any rate, it was irrelevant.

  “I should have told you when we first met,” she continued, “but afterward, I kept telling myself that it wasn’t important, that you and I were just friends. But the more I saw you, the more I realized . . .” She stopped, biting her lip.

  “What?” he asked, moving in closer to her. “That we are perfect together?”

  “Something like that,” she agreed, smiling at him as she took a step back. He still made her tingle. “But it doesn’t change anything, does it? This afternoon, I’ll be going back home—to my husband and my children—and you will be raising anchor and moving on.”

  “Yes,” he said quietly, “that’s what I do.”

  “I want to thank you, though, for keeping me company on the Paris,” she said. “I really enjoyed our time together.”

  “As did I, Constance,” he sighed, patting her hand. “Your husband is a very lucky man.”

  She looked him in the eyes. Was he being ironic? Or had he already forgotten their kisses of the night before? Had George seen her in Serge’s quarters last night—swooning in his arms, half-drunk on champagne, her wedding band well hidden—she doubted he would have considered himself very fortunate.

  “I don’t know about that, but I suppose I myself am rather lucky,” she said, believing it. “And again, thank you for being so . . . attentive.”

  She stood on her toes and kissed him in the French fashion, with brisk pecks on the cheeks.

  “Take care to be happy,” Serge said with a wistful smile.

  “And you,” she said.

  “Oh!” he cried suddenly. “I have an engineman down below with a broken leg!”

  “Go to him.” She smiled. “Au revoir, Doctor.”

  “Au revoir, Constance Stone!” the doctor called, hurrying toward the stairwell.

  Her eyes closed, she stood facing the sun for a few minutes, then with a deep breath let go of the rails. For the first time, she felt in complete control of her life; she could make her own decisions. She was no longer a boring matron, a Constant Stone married to a Fossil. Perhaps when she was drenched with icy water up on deck last night, her dullness and insecurity had washed away. Now she was ready to wire home, to tell her father and George that she would be home on tomorrow’s train.

  When she arrived to the telegraph office, she found it empty. Most people, at this point in the journey, would have already sent their news.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Constance called in the little window, to the small, bald man sitting at the desk. Wearing a headset, he was concentrating on an incoming message. She waited until he’d finished writing. “Sir? I’d like to send a telegram to Worcester, Massachusetts. My name is Mrs. Constance Stone.”

  “Mrs. Stone?” he chuckled. “Well, that’s funny. I’ve just received a message for you!”

  She took the telegram back out to the deck, to the sun. Gazing down at the clunky capitals, she felt its urgency.

  FAITH WIRED SAID YOU WERE ON THE PARIS THANK GOD STOP HOW WE MISS YOU STOP GIRLS AND I WILL MEET YOU IN NY STOP STAYING AT CHELSEA STOP YOURS GEORGE

  She smiled down at the paper, moved. He had brought the children to New York; they would be waiting for her on the docks! Predictable George had managed to surprise her. Constance stared down at the word “yours.” Yes, he was hers.

  Her eyes flitted back to the top to reread the telegram, but were snagged by the first word: Faith. Her little sister had actually bothered to get in touch with George, to let him know she was on her way home. What else might she have added to that wire? Had Faith expressed concern for their parents? Sent hugs and kisses to her nieces? Or, perhaps, even apologized for not coming? She thought of Faith’s life in Paris—the deep satisfaction she got from it all—and admitted that, indeed, she had found her niche. And now that Constance felt more comfortable with her own, much of that routine bitterness, that time-honored rivalry with her sister, was gone. Let her have her happiness! Let them both be happy.

  Looking at her watch, she saw there was a full forty minutes before her luncheon with the others. Constance decided to go down to steerage, to try to find Julie. She’d spent nearly all the crossing in second class, with brief forays into first, and now she was curious to see where the bulk of the passengers traveled. Although people with inferior tickets were only allowed on the upper decks with permission, anyone interested could descend into third.

  As she climbed down the stairs, the illusion of the ship as a sumptuous palace slowly deteriorated; carpet and paneling gave way to the rivets and steel of raw machinery, to the noise and heat of an overexcited engine. She crinkled her nose; there was an unappealing, ill-defined odor down below, like mold or mop water. She could see how disagreeable the voyage would be in steerage. There was no view, no chandeliers, no sea air, just bare bulbs swinging with the rock of the ship. This cramped, industrial space seemed the opposite extreme of the sweeping staircases and glass ceilings above. Everyone on board, she told herself again, has had a completely different voyage.

  At the end of the bow, Constance found the dining hall where the workingwomen relaxed off duty. She peeked in the door and saw a miscellaneous group of women in black uniforms, covering all the extremes of size, age, and attractiveness. They were chatting loudly in French, smoking, clipping their nails, rubbing tired feet. Feeling awkward—this was clearly their territory, their private quarters—Constance quickly scanned the room for Julie, but left when she saw she wasn’t there.

  Constance then looked in the common room door; it was a lively scene, almost rambunctious. On one side, a trio—fiddle, banjo, and penny whistle—was playing a reel as passengers clapped, leapt, and twirled down the room; on the other, a group of gruff blond fellows (Swedes?) were arguing loudly over dice in an incomprehensible language. One man, drunkenly weaving from one side to the next, kept shouting, “Land ho!”

  Most of the crowd, unpolished but elated, had put on their Sunday best for the arrival, but there was still a lingering odor of stale bodies in the air. What a different scene from the lounges above, with the well-dressed, perfumed patrons engaged in quiet parlor games and polite conversation!

  In a trot, a group of boys skirted past her, heading toward the mooring deck. “Pardon, marm!” the last one cried in a broad, Highlands accent, saluting her over his shoulder. After searching the room, Constance was ready to head back up; down here, she felt self-conscious. As she was backing into the corridor, however, she glimpsed Julie in a doorway, hugging a big man in a chef’s hat. Constance waited until she turned toward her, then waved. The smaller girl came running up to meet her, wearing a blue dress and carrying a bag.

  “Good morning, Constance!” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you down here!”

  “I thought I’d come to get you.” She smiled. “To go to Mrs. Sinclair’s rooms together. But, Julie, why aren’t you wearing your uniform?”

  “Because I’ve quit my job,” Julie said, pleased with herself. “This morning, I told the head housekeeper I was leaving and this afternoon, I’ll be getting off in New York! I’m going to start over. Hopefully, now I’m a little bit wiser, like you said.”

  “My goodness!” Constance said, taken aback by the girl’s daring. “What are your plans?”

  Part of her wanted to bring Julie home and take care of her, make sure she had a place to stay and enough to eat. She smiled to herself imagining George’s expression if, indeed, along with the gifts and souvenirs, Constance brought home a genuine French girl.

  “I’ve been talking with people all morning about that.” Julie grinned.
“And everyone has a different suggestion! I’ve written down a dozen addresses and even more names. I’m sure something will work out.”

  “How exciting!” Constance said, giving Julie a hug. “Best of luck!”

  She herself, however, was happy to be returning to the comfort and safety of home.

  They headed for the stairs. “Good-bye, steerage!” Julie called playfully as she closed the door behind her.

  Constance and Julie began making their way up to first class, pattering excitedly about their arrival in New York.

  “My family will be waiting at the dock.” Constance beamed. “I got word from my husband this morning. I’d like for you to meet them, Julie. Especially the girls—they’re such darlings!”

  “That would be lovely,” she agreed. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be detained at Ellis Island.”

  “Oh,” Constance said, disappointed, “I forgot you had to stop there.”

  “It’s not a problem.” Julie shrugged. “I’ve met some Irish boys who have family here. They say it’s just a few hours. I could meet you and your family afterward. Perhaps we could all have dinner together?”

  “That sounds perfect,” Constance said. “We’ll be at the Chelsea Hotel. Let’s ask Mrs. Sinclair to join us as well.”

  As the two women passed the shops, Constance eyed the Paris model ships in a window.

  “Would you mind stopping for just a moment?” she asked Julie. “I think I finally know what gift to bring my husband.”

  Five minutes later Constance came out of the souvenir shop holding up a foot-long, wooden ocean liner, painted black, white, and funnel red.

  “How pretty it is!” Julie exclaimed. “You know, that’s about how big it looked the first time I saw this ship. I saw it coming into port from my kitchen windows.”

  “The man in there told me that, on this model, the bollards and winches are made of metal,” Constance said, “though I don’t even know if those are real English words!”

  “I’m sure your husband will like it.” Julie smiled.

  “Yes, and it will certainly go with the other curios in his study: the old abacus and the secondhand hookah.” Constance chuckled to herself. “But the real reason I bought it is because it was here, on the Paris, that—when faced with the decision—I chose him, George Stone, and the life we’ve made together. Not that he will ever know that.”

  With a sigh, Constance wrapped the gift up in tissue paper and packed it away in the bag.

  “Now, shall we go on up?”

  As they approached Vera’s cabin, they were surprised to see the door ajar. They exchanged a glance, and Constance gave it a knock, opening it yet farther. Trunks were scattered on the floor and the bed was heaped with clothes: an array of dresses, blouses and skirts, sashes and scarves. On top of the pile lay a pair of marionettes and a framed drawing. Amandine stood in the middle of it all, the plum-colored coat in her hands, a confused expression on her face. Bibi, the dog, was inspecting the trunks, sniffing around as if she’d lost something. They’d obviously caught the maid in the throes of packing Vera’s things and she looked completely frazzled.

  “Good morning,” Constance said, “we’re here to meet Mrs. Sinclair. We’re having lunch together at eleven.”

  As Amandine turned to them, her brow creased.

  “Oh, and I’ve brought the clothes from last night,” Julie said, as she pulled them out of her bag and added them to the pile on the bed. “Thanks again.”

  For a moment, the two women stood near the door smiling, waiting for the maid to say something, but Amandine just stood frozen, staring back at them. The doors in the suite were open, exposing empty spaces; Vera was obviously not there. Finally, Constance broke the silence; she spoke slowly and used plain English, thinking, perhaps, Amandine had not understood.

  “We’re sorry to bother you,” she said, taking a step toward the maid, who then retreated. “We can see you’re very busy. But, could you please tell us where we can find Mrs. Sinclair?”

  Amandine fell down onto the bed, on top of the puppet’s legs, the coat still clasped in her hands.

  “Miss Vera isn’t here,” she mumbled in perfect English, then paused. She clenched her eyes, her mouth twisted. Finally, she blurted out the words: “She died this morning.”

  “What?” gasped the two women at the door, bursting into Vera’s room, completely stunned. Julie wedged in next to Amandine on the messy bed, took the servant’s hand, worn smooth, and held it closely in her own.

  “I’m sorry,” Julie said, her eyes welling with tears. “So, so sorry.”

  “My God,” Constance uttered, pacing in front of them and shaking her head. She understood why the maid seemed so addled; she couldn’t believe it herself. “What happened?”

  “When I came in this morning, I found her,” Amandine said quietly, looking at the floor. “There was a little smile on her face, but I knew something was wrong. When I touched her she was cold.” She looked up at the other women. “I fetched the doctor, but there was nothing he could do. She was gone. Miss Vera had been very ill for a year now.”

  Amandine paused and her lips disappeared, tucked away, trying not to sob. Julie and Constance stared at each other in disbelief.

  “The doctor,” Amandine added with a deep breath, “he said it wasn’t a painful death. He said she just stopped. That was his word. ‘Stopped.’ ”

  “She didn’t suffer, then,” affirmed Julie, wiping her eyes with her hand. “I suppose it was what they call a good death.”

  They fell into a moment’s quiet. Their eyes trailed around the room, alighting on Vera’s belongings, the things she’d left behind. Her presence was everywhere: the tartan robe still hanging on the bathroom door, her dirty teacup next to the chair, her glasses, folded neatly on top of a slim book. Constance could almost hear her voice. Just the night before, the three of them had been here together, sharing secrets, and she had envisioned spending much more time with her. She’d relished the idea of having an older woman in her life to confide in, to learn from. She perched on the edge of the armchair and picked up the teacup. Wrapping her fingers around the cold porcelain, she stared down at the dark brown ring at the bottom of the cup; her vision began to blur. Their relationship had ended far too soon.

  Julie bent over to pet Bibi, who stared back up at her with black, mournful eyes. That morning, while consulting with the others about her possibilities in New York, she had decided to ask Mrs. Sinclair whether she could pay her the occasional call. Julie imagined entrusting the elderly lady with her future successes in America and making her proud, as if she were family. She had hoped to become close with her makeshift fairy godmother.

  “Frankly, I never imagined Miss Vera would die,” Amandine said suddenly. “I’ve been with her since 1890, back when we were both rather young. I’ve seen royalty come through her door and traveled with her to faraway places . . .” Amandine’s voice grew fainter; it was as if she were talking to herself. “How could she just ‘stop’? I still don’t understand it.”

  “She was a remarkable woman,” Constance said. “That was clear to anyone who spent time with her, no matter how little.”

  “Yes, remarkable.” Julie nodded, turning to Amandine.

  Hunched over the lumpy coat on her lap, the elderly maid looked like a disheartened old wanderer who had lost her compass.

  “Do you know what you’ll be doing next?” Julie asked, slightly worried. She wondered whether Amandine might try to emigrate as well, whether she could presume to help.

  “I am returning to France on the next ship,” Amandine replied. “There is nothing in New York for me. I called my mistress’s longtime companion, Mr. Charles, to let him know about . . . what happened. Despite his own grief, he was kind enough to remember me. He will engage my services. He said he’s been wanting to steal me away for years.”

  Amandine’s smile immediately crumpled into a teary grimace.

  “I’m glad you’ll be taken care of, espec
ially by a close friend of Mrs. Sinclair,” Julie said gently.

  Julie looked up at Constance; both thought it time to leave Amandine to her suffering. She looked overly ready to grieve and they were merely strangers.

  “Before we go, would you like any help packing her things?” Julie asked.

  “No, thank you. It’s painful to go through it all, but it fills me with her spirit.” She sighed, sliding her hand through a stack of silk scarves. “Although, I know if it were left up to her, she’d have me throw it all in the sea!”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that.” Constance smiled. “When we met her, she was busy tossing her journals overboard.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t find them!” Amandine said with a little snort, almost amused. “Always full of surprises!”

  They stood to go.

  “Good-bye, Amandine,” Constance said, giving her a slight embrace. “And bon voyage.”

  “All the best to you,” Julie said, kissing the old woman on the cheek. She then bent over to pat Bibi’s head. “To both of you.”

  Constance and Julie went outside under the clear skies. No longer hungry for lunch, they would stand outside, watching for the islands. Julie looked down: on the deck below, legs were sticking out from deck chairs and small groups were walking purposefully around. Today, the fickle sea was blue and cheerful.

  “She was so weak and thin”—Constance frowned—“you could tell she was ill. Though, last night”—she paused, thinking of the woman’s bright eyes, decisive manner, her knowing smile—“she seemed so very alive, didn’t she?”

  “She must have lived a very full life,” Julie said, “judging by those big, heavy journals she threw into the sea. And I thought it was a baby!”

  Shaking her head, she rolled her eyes at her mistake as they filled with tears again.

  Constance sighed. “I’m sure they were fascinating. I should have loved to have read them.”

  “Yes,” Julie answered softly, thinking that perhaps the most interesting events in one’s life are not necessarily the best ones.