“Nancy thinks I’m an anarchist.”
“Anarchists are of consequence only in Spain. If you were an anarchist, you’d be in Spain.”
He took her hand. Many in the room were watching them.
“Why aren’t you in Spain, brave Lieutenant? Why aren’t you in Abyssinia? Why are you on this ship?”
“If you’re a socialist, your ladyship, why are you so rich?”
“That’s an impertinent question.”
“Yes, but an obvious one.”
“I’m rich, if you wish to be so vulgar as to discuss that matter, because I was born that way. It has nothing to do with how I think.”
“What does have to do with how you think, your ladyship?”
“The things I’ve seen. The suffering. I’ve traveled every bit as much as you have. Probably more. I was in New Guinea this spring, in New York all this summer. By New York I mean Harlem, where I have friends. I’ve seen the kind of suffering you’ve told me about in China and Africa. I’ve seen it not only in primitive backlands but at the center of civilization. And it appalls me. The only good thing I can say about that otherwise worthless Prince of Wales up there is that it appalls him, too, and he’s the only member of the royal family who’s gotten off his noble ass to do something about it!”
“What has the Prince of Wales to do with this?”
“Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
She pulled her hand away. She disliked intensely the mood he had put her in, and debated whether or not to swiftly end this liaison. She could not decide.
Edwina adopted a neutral tone. “Would you prefer that I conduct myself like Nancy? Screaming at the newspapers all the time? Getting her picture taken with black men? Sponsoring obscene films to get attention? She’s injured every cause she’s sought to bless. I have my innings, don’t you worry. I’ll bring this pack of cards atumble, in my fashion.”
“Your husband sits atop this house of cards.”
“Don’t discuss my husband, Lieutenant Spencer.” It was a decree. Edwina Mountbatten, imperiatrix mundi. Empress of the world. He assented to it by looking away.
She took back his hand. “Let’s not have a row. Let’s go somewhere and dance. I’m suddenly mad to dance. Please.”
“We’ll go to the second-class lounge. There’s a band there. And tonight we should have it to ourselves.”
He was wrong. They danced a fox trot to “It Had To Be You”—performed it, really; she was a marvelous dancer and obviously fond of being admired for it. When they returned to their table, they saw Nancy and Henry Crowder at the bar. Worse, Nancy saw them. She rose regally and, head high, approached them with exaggerated slowness, swinging her arms and bracelets in great arcs.
“Oh, dear God,” said Edwina.
Nancy put both hands down on their table, hunching over them, imprisoning them with her wild eyes.
“So, duckies,” she said, shrilly and loudly. “What have we been about this long, long day? Fucking? Have we been fucking, Edwina dear? Have we had our screws? Why not? What is there to life but fucking? We fuck and die, fuck and die, but before we kick, we give birth to little wretches, so that they may grow up to fuck and die.”
She needed to stand as she did, leaning on the table for balance. Without it she might have toppled.
Edwina rose, commanding Spencer with a gesture to do the same. She looked hard at Nancy, who was grinning with some unexplained triumph.
“Nancy. You are drunk.” Edwina might have said just as usefully, “Quasimodo. Your clothes do not fit you properly.” Nancy Cunard replied with her ice-shattering laugh.
Edwina took Spencer’s arm and they left the lounge, hurrying down the passageway. But Edwina took a wrong turning and, ultimately, through forbidden doors.
“Lady Mountbatten, this is first class. I can’t go here.”
“You can now. It’s the surprise I’ve arranged for you.” Slowing, she searched through her purse and handed him a cabin key. “It’s number fifteen. Just down the corridor from mine.”
He took the key but did not pocket it. “I don’t understand.”
“Don’t be so bloody obtuse, Lieutenant Spencer. I’ve had your things moved to first class, where you belong. They said they’d have it ready by eight-thirty, and it’s almost that now. They’re having some mass inspection of the ship, and everything’s been delayed, but your stateroom should be ready.”
“When did you arrange this?”
A ship’s officer passed, smiling deferentially.
“While you were asleep. It’s all settled. Don’t worry about it.” She gave him a quick glance. “You shouldn’t let your secretary inconvenience you that way again.”
“I shall repay you.”
She laughed. “No. Don’t bother. It’s nothing to me.”
He held the key up before his eyes, as if the number on it bore some message. “Just down the corridor from you—and Lord Mountbatten.”
“Don’t give it a thought. Have you never spent an English country weekend? This is how it’s done.”
This is how it would be done if he remained with Whitney. Just down the corridor. Just down the street. Send the bills on to the lady.
Edwina took the key from him at the cabin door, fumbled with it in the lock, then entered quickly and snapped on the light. She had tipped them all heavily and they’d more than done their work. It was an enormous stateroom with an anteroom and a huge bed. There were flowers, and a bucket containing a bottle of champagne.
Without further hesitation, she began taking off her clothes. “Get undressed, Lieutenant, and pour us drinks.”
When both were naked, she came to him and took his arms, but held him away. Her dark eyes were very intent.
“Are you poor, Lieutenant Spencer?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are the rich and the poor. Are you poor?”
“I was my father’s sole heir.”
“And was he poor, when he died?”
“He was in reduced circumstances.”
“How do you support yourself in Paris?”
“With debts.” He paused. “And writing.”
“Do you still have a connection with your father’s newspapers?”
“There was just one newspaper, and the answer is yes.” He realized where she was heading with her remarks. “Nancy said the Prince of Wales was aboard. I thought it was just more of her madness, but I wonder now if it isn’t true. Your husband is his cousin, isn’t he, and one of his best friends?”
“You’re a reporter.”
“The more dignified term is foreign correspondent.”
Her eyes questioned him even more deeply. “You’re not going to get us in trouble, are you? Not me, not Dickie, not any of us?”
“I would do nothing to make you unhappy. Nothing.”
She came into his arms then. “Then we’ll each keep our secrets.”
He kissed her, but with some distraction. It might, after all, not matter whether. Charles Lindbergh was aboard this ship—or whether Lindbergh ever existed. The Prince of Wales was likely just down the passageway.
The dinner for four in Emerald Cunard’s stateroom was intimate, elegant, and, in terms of the task before the von Kresses, a success—mostly because of Dagne, who was indeed as charming as Martin could remember her ever being. The count himself sat stiffly, in social as well as physical discomfort, as he found himself disliking these British people, but his inherent courtesy passed for graciousness and the evening proceeded without awkward pause.
“I can’t think of a better place to dine on captain’s night,” said Chips Channon, as one of the two hovering stewards poured after-dinner brandies.
“It’s so nice to be away from all those boors,” Emerald said.
Chips did not know whether she meant “boors” or “Boers,” a reference to the Dutch at the captain’s table. Then, realizing she meant both and had made a joke, he looked amused.
“Certainly this is the most exclusi
ve table aboard ship,” he said to the Germans. “Emerald and I are about all there really is to London society, after the Prince of Wales.”
“We must hope then that the ship doesn’t sink,” said Dagne. “I should hate to think of London without any society.”
“Oh, it would be a horrible blow,” said Channon. “But Berlin I daresay would suffer an equal loss. You two are quite the most civilized Germans I’ve yet met—except of course for Emerald’s dear friend von Ribbentrop.” The latter reference was a lie, but one he knew Emerald insisted on believing.
“It’s plain, simple Ribbentrop,” von Kresse corrected gently. “There is no ‘von,’ though he now claims one. It was gratuitously bestowed upon him by an adoptive aunt.” The count could not resist adding for Dagne’s sake: “He was a champagne salesman, you know, before the recent success of his political party.”
Lady Cunard seemed unhappy with these remarks, as did Dagne.
“I rather like what your Reich is doing, you know,” Channon said. “But there are so many brutes about. I appreciate what Mr. Hitler has to say, of course, and he’s the most amazing man, but the way he says it! Such beer hall polemics, and such awful German. Still, I don’t know where we’d be without him. Communism at Calais, as I say. At all events, it’s reassuring to know there are people like you in the National Socialist Party. On our side of course we have Tom Mosley and the Mitfords, eminent lineage all round. They’ve made English fascism quite respectable.”
“If terribly unamusing,” said Emerald, “Tom’s deadly serious about everything and the Mitfords are all quite mad.”
“Tom’s unscrupulous,” Chips said, “but not an unattractive fellow. Too much of a lust for power, though. His first wife, Lady Cynthia Mosley, was one of Lord Curzon’s daughters, don’t you know? The sister of Major Metcalfe’s wife, Alexandra. You’ve heard of Major Metcalfe, one of the prince’s intimates? Cynthia was one of God’s gentlest and loveliest creatures. Pity she’s gone. The Curzon name would give British fascism quite a boost, I should think. Major Metcalfe, by the by, is on the ship, part of our party. He’s not much for fascism, though. Cynthia’s mother Mary was an American from Chicago. Died of the Indian climate. Her husband was viceroy in Delhi, you know. He—”
Von Kresse spoke very slowly and evenly. “I am not a member of the National Socialist party. I am simply an officer in the German army.”
Dagne’s hand quickly fluttered to his arm. “With his military duties and running our estate in East Prussia, my brother hasn’t much time for political activities.”
“Or inclination,” he added.
“More’s the pity,” said Chips. “You’re certainly needed. In Britain, people like Tom Mosley would be put in jail if all the Jews and communists had their way, and sometimes I fear they might. We’ve Jews serving in the British Cabinet, don’t you know? Leslie Hore-Belisha is minister of transport. He is an oily man, half a Jew, an opportunist, with the Semitic flare for publicity. Sir Philip Sassoon, however, the undersecretary for air, is quite something else. Married into the Rothschilds. Wonderfully grand house in Park Lane. Philip and I mistrust each other; we know too much about each other, and I can peer into his Oriental mind with all its vanities. But I admit he is one of the most exciting, tantalizing personalities of the age. Though Jewish himself, he hates Jews. I’m really quite fond of him. A bit pushy, though. Lately he’s been after Emerald to secure him Hore-Belisha’s job.”
“After Edward becomes king,” said Lady Cunard, “which is taking entirely too long. The old king is really being a boor about lingering on so.”
Von Kresse rose with some difficulty. “I’m sorry, but I must return to my cabin. My sister will explain.”
“Martin was badly injured in the war,” Dagne said quickly. “There is still pain, and sometimes it gets the better of him.”
“Please excuse me,” the count said, reaching the door. “You needn’t come with me, Dagne. You should stay. Her ladyship and Mr. Channon are such wonderful company for you.”
He actually felt quite well, once out on deck, refreshed by the still-warm sea breeze and the immense relief he felt at having removed himself from the dinner party. If Chips Channon was typical of British Conservatives, there was no danger at all of Britain going to war with the Reich. An alliance was more likely.
Limping on to his stateroom, the count was surprised to see an envelope sticking out from the door. He thought it must be for his sister, assuming she was sending messages to Germany, but it was addressed to him. Written in English, the note it contained was brief and profoundly puzzling:
If you are the aviator Martin von Bourke und Kresse who flew with the Richthofen Jagdgeschwader No. 1 in the war, please arrange to be on the Sports Deck at midnight. We are of equal rank and like mind.
It was unsigned.
Company director van Hoorn had a plump, pleasant Dutch wife who spoke approximately six words of English. It was left to the director and Chasey Parker to maintain what remained an uninteresting conversation about shipping as van Hoorn’s wife nodded amiably and Chasey’s already tipsy husband Christopher stared longingly at the captain’s table across the room. Half the chairs there were empty. Only Lord Mountbatten and the Coopers were present from the British party. They’d been joined by Cardinal Bloch and the actress Nora Gwynne, whom Chris had yet to meet. A play of hers was coming to Philadelphia for a tryout in the next few weeks, and his friends would be impressed if he could claim her friendship. He’d been trying to waylay her on the deck, without success.
For her part, Nora had not even noticed the young Parkers. She was much too preoccupied trying to hold her own in table conversation that included Mountbatten’s and Captain van der Heyden’s recollections of naval battles in the Great War as well as the Coopers’ confectionary chatter. There was also the matter of Duff Cooper’s leg. Seated on her right, he kept pressing his knee against hers. With Captain van der Heyden on her left, she had no room for retreat. Perplexed, she endured, wondering what would come next.
Mountbatten’s interminable account of action he saw aboard the H.M.S. Lion with Admiral Beatty toward the end of the war proved too much for Diana. For all his tediously detailed description of the functions of a flagship, it was clear that as a seventeen-year-old naval cadet, he hadn’t much to do with the action at all.
“Do be a dear, Dickie,” Diana said finally, “and let Duff have a turn telling us about what it was like in the trenches. I think it was probably rather less exciting in the trenches than it was afloat, but I fear Duffie’s becoming bored, and it’s bad for his digestion.”
Her casualness about the war was deceptive. Duff was the only one of her many youthful suitors who had survived the fighting. Most of them had died horribly.
Mountbatten gazed at Duff coldly. Cooper had recently served as First Lord of the Admiralty, but it was as a young infantry officer in the Great War that he had won the D.S.O.
“Tell us, Duff, about the trenches,” he said.
Cooper took a sip of champagne. “Bloody awful.”
“That’s all? Bloody awful?”
“All right. It was truly bloody awful.”
Diana had accomplished her purpose. “It certainly was. Now let us hear about something more pleasant. Miss Gwynne, tell us about your next film.”
“My next project, actually, is a play.”
“A play,” said Diana. “Oh, how marvelous. I was in a play once.”
“You weren’t in a play once,” said Duff, his leg still tight against Nora’s. “You were in it forever.”
Nora had remembered who Diana was. As Lady Diana Manners, her maiden name, she had toured the United States in the 1920s in The Miracle, a production that was more tableau than play. Her role was that of a silent madonna, who stood stock still in profile for most of the performance. The acting required was minimal, but it must have made her a lot of money. It had played the United States off and on for years.
“I saw you,” Nora said. “The Mirac
le. At the Civic Hall in Cleveland. It was in 1924. I was a very young girl.” She blushed at that last blurting. She had been told Diana Manners had been given the part because she had once been reputed to be the most beautiful woman in the world, though to some she looked like a blond, blue-eyed sheep. Age had made her a lot more sheeplike, though she certainly seemed attractive to men.
“Cleveland,” Diana said with some surprise. “I wasn’t so happy in Cleveland. There were these dreadful Siamese twins in the audience one night. I’m sure they were dear boys, the twins, but there they were, weren’t they, sitting back to back, watching me sideways. I did rather like Cincinnati, and I adored Toledo, though I can’t recall whether we played there or were passing through.”
“I’m from Toledo.”
“From Toledo? How marvelous. I hated Chicago. I had Noel with me in Chicago. Noel Coward. I’m sure you’ve met. But even with him about, it was rather awful. Dreadfully cold and brutish. Noel scrawled something like ‘Noel Coward died here’ on my dressing room wall and the theater’s manager left it there as some sort of icon. I received a note about it from Clifton Webb—surely you know Clifton?—two years later, when he was using the dressing room in a play. Noel and I went to some awful déclassé house while we were in Chicago, an architect’s mansion, actually. Terribly famous, though I’ve forgotten his name. It was one endless boudoir. Noel and I decided he’d invited us there in hopes of a romp with the both of us. But that was still better than Boston. In Boston I had this dreary lesbian lady following me about wherever I went. But I love America. Truly I do. Now, Miss Gwynne, tell us about this lovely little play of yours.”
“It’s called Lemonade,” Nora said. “It’s a comedy, by Archibald McCutcheon.”
Duff put his hand on her knee.
Confined to his suite, the prince had remained shirtless and in shorts and sandals the entire day, and had dressed for evening simply by adding a shirt. Wallis was dressed in an evening gown, embellished with a heavy gold chain and other jewelry. They made an absurdly disparate couple, but this time she did not chide him. It was her habit and method to make him miserable with harshness and meanness, and then recapture his devotion with a sudden outpouring of affection and tender attention. She did this often, and it was working once again.
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 22
