* * * *
As the days passed, with little to do but walk about the decks conversing with other passengers, or, if the weather were inclement, to read from the limited repertoire of the ship’s library or play cards with other passengers, Rufus began to realise the life he had led in London – gaming, drinking, riding, attending horse races and boxing matches, balls, soirees and the theatre – had spoiled him for the simple pursuits from which the other passengers seemed to derive pleasure. At twenty-three, it seemed he was already jaded. It was a mortifying thought.
One evening at dinner, after a run of bad weather lasting for the best part of a week, Doctor Wells announced that, to cheer everyone up, there would be a concert the following night, to be held in the room where the dance had taken place. A piano and other instruments would be available, and any passengers wishing to offer entertainment were requested to present themselves to him. Rufus felt his spirits lift, and realised just how much he had missed the emotional and creative outlet of his music since leaving London. He wasted no time in introducing himself to Doctor Wells, arranging not only to play at the concert, but also to be allowed to play the piano at other times for his own pleasure.
“But of course, my boy,” said the surgeon, beaming at Rufus as though he were his favourite nephew. “I’m only too happy for passengers to use it.”
So the days at sea took on a new dimension for Rufus. Most afternoons would find him at the piano, frequently playing to an audience, which he would oblige for a time with a selection of popular tunes. But as soon as he was alone, he would pour out his heart and his loneliness through his favourite classical composers.
Late one afternoon, having just finished Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata, he decided to try out some Schumann lieder. He had brought the sheet music with him, hoping for the chance to learn them once he reached his destination – assuming his uncle possessed anything as sophisticated as a piano. Upon no evidence whatsoever, Rufus had formed the habit of picturing his uncle living in something like the meagre cottages that housed the workers on his father’s estate, but surrounded by jungle instead of fields. A short way through the second song, he was surprised to hear a low, sweet, unmistakably feminine voice join in, singing the lyrics in what sounded to his ears like perfect German. Rufus barely managed to contain his curiosity until the song was ended, then turned quickly to the owner of the lovely voice.
Just inside the doorway stood the most remarkable-looking young woman he had ever seen. Her raven-black hair was drawn severely back into a bun at the nape of her neck, like a governess or a lady’s companion, though no respectable governess would have dared to wear her elegant gown of garnet-coloured moiré silk. Her skin, as pale and translucent as alabaster, stretched like an artist’s canvas over high, prominent cheekbones and a straight, rather pointed nose. Against the pallor of her skin, her wide lips were like the blood-red stroke of a painter’s brush. Yet it was her eyes that dominated her singular face. Huge and dark under black brows, they seemed to invite Rufus into some sombre, secret world, which, he realised with a sense of shock, he had longed all his life to enter. Utterly unlike the girls he usually favoured, this tall, slender woman was by no means pretty, nor even feminine in the soft, pink-and-gold style that usually attracted him, yet she drew him as a flame would draw a moth. And, like a moth, he felt he would willingly risk being burnt to bask for an instant in her pale radiance.
Rufus became aware that he must have been gaping like a love-struck schoolboy. With an effort, he shook himself free of her spell, rose to his feet, and bowed with what grace he could muster.
The young woman smiled, showing white, even teeth with something odd about them that he could not quite identify.
“That was beautiful!” she said, the hint of an accent in her rich voice. “I’m sure even Herr Schumann himself would agree with me.”
She spoke as though she had known the composer personally, though of course this was impossible. She was far too young, certainly no more than twenty.
“Th-thank you,” he said, cursing himself inwardly for the stammering that still afflicted him when he was nervous.
Having grown up with a sister and a horde of female cousins, Rufus was not normally shy in female company, but something about this young lady had managed to disconcert him thoroughly. Or rather, it was the way she made him feel that disturbed him. Feelings whose existence he had never so much as suspected before flooded through him, making him feel alien to his own body.
The woman moved towards him with the grace of a swan on the water, and held out a long, pale hand. With a stab of unexpected joy, Rufus noticed she wore no wedding or engagement ring, although the sobering reflection that neither had Charlotte Winter counselled caution.
“May I introduce myself? I’m Serafina Radzinskaya.”
“R-Rufus de Hunte, a-at your service, Miss Radzinskaya.” Even his voice sounded like that of a stranger.
He took her hand. It felt smooth and cool – almost too cool, he thought, for a brief moment wondering why. But the second his fingers touched hers, a sensation like an electric shock ran through him so that he had, for the sake of politeness, to stifle an involuntary gasp.
If Miss Radzinskaya noticed, she gave no sign. “Are you a professional pianist?” she asked.
“Oh no! A mere amateur.”
“A very gifted amateur, I think.” She pronounced it ‘sink’, and it sounded delicious.
“You’re very kind to say so.”
“Are you familiar with the works of Mr Rachmaninov?”
“A few, yes.”
“Oh, I do so like his Prelude in C Sharp Minor! It’s one of my favourites. Such sweet melancholy. Do you know it?”
It was a new piece, and Rufus had only recently learned it, yet he not only played it perfectly, but found in it a depth of feeling that took him by surprise. He looked up to see an expression of ineffable sadness on Serafina Radzinskaya’s face, her dark eyes brimming with tears. Disconcerted once more, he leapt to his feet and hurried to her side.
“Oh, please—I’m so sorry! I didn’t—I wouldn’t—not for the world...” He pulled out his handkerchief – mercifully clean – and offered it to her.
She took it and dabbed at her eyes. “Please, it is nothing.” Her speech had an old-fashioned, somewhat formal quality, as though she had learned her English in the classroom rather than by speaking it often. Rufus found it enchanting. “It was just—so touching. You see, it speaks to me of my—my homeland, and I...” She broke off, a wistful expression on her face. Then, seeming for a moment to be listening to something only she could hear, gave a little gasp. “I must go,” she said abruptly, thrusting the handkerchief at Rufus. It fluttered to the floor between them. Instinctively, he stooped to pick it up.
When he stood up again, she had gone.
He ran to the door, but could see no sign of her in the dining salon, nor in the passageway beyond. Like a phantasm, she had simply vanished. An unaccountable sense of loss swept over him. He lifted the handkerchief and pressed it to his face. It smelled faintly of some exotic, spicy perfume. He smiled. This was no phantasm. This was a real woman, and although he hadn’t seen her before during the voyage, he must, surely, meet her again soon in such cramped quarters as the ship offered. Perhaps, like himself, she’d been ill and confined to her cabin – her pallor certainly suggested the possibility of recent illness. But such an unusual woman could scarcely avoid notice for long, and he had every intention of watching out for her.
His spirits thus restored, Rufus swept up his music scores from the piano and strode back to his cabin.
* * * *
The days went by, however, and Rufus did not see Serafina Radzinskaya. A vague sense of dejection swept over him, as though she had somehow let him down, and for a couple of days he kept morosely to his cabin, emerging only to eat. However, it was not in his nature to mope for long. By the following Saturday evening, when a ball was scheduled after dinner, he had come to the conclusion that
he was not cut out for a recluse. So, completing as painstaking a toilette as his cabin’s limited facilities would permit, he donned his evening dress and his most elegant waistcoat and sallied forth in search of amusement.
In the dining salon, several young ladies greeted him with gratifying delight, their mamas also favouring him with ingratiating smiles. This could not fail to improve his spirits. He promised to dance with several of the young ladies at the ball, including Miss Fox, who was looking particularly fetching in a gown of gold silk, with a spray of matching silk roses adorning her dark curls.
The meal ended, and the steward had just collected the last of the dinner dishes when Rufus felt his eyes drawn to the doorway.
There stood Serafina Radzinskaya.
She was dressed in a gown of black velvet. Cut low across her shoulders, it afforded him a glimpse of snowy bosom adorned with a dramatic pendant of silver and jet. Matching jet earrings hung from her ears, her simple, upswept hairstyle setting them off to perfection against her white neck. In one gloved hand she carried an ebony fan trimmed with silver lace. Rufus felt his breath catch in his throat. The other ladies in their colourful gowns seemed suddenly insipid by comparison.
Rufus looked up to find her deep gaze upon him, a faint smile hovering about her wide, red mouth. As though obeying an unspoken summons, he rose and hurried to her side.
“Miss Radzinskaya, how do you do? How delightful to see you again!”
“Why, thank you, Mr. de Hunte. How do you do?” she replied in her slightly stilted English.
She held out her hand, and Rufus took it in both of his. Once again, he felt the shock of her touch, though fainter, as though she were somehow controlling it. Or perhaps her kid gloves had the effect of diminishing it.
“I’m very well, thank you,” he replied. He felt almost desperate to tell her just how well her presence made him feel, but he didn’t dare, not on such brief acquaintance, and certainly not in so public a place. Besides, he had no wish to make a fool of himself as he had with Charlotte Winter. “Will you do me the honour of joining me?” he asked, releasing her hand with reluctance.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, I—I’m not sure. I’m waiting for my...”
She looked around at the doorway, just as a middle-aged gentleman entered the room. He was as tall for a man as Miss Radzinskaya was for a woman, with the same white, translucent skin stretched over the bones of his face, but his hair was as fair as hers was dark.
“I see you have met my—daughter,” the man said with a smile that did not quite reach his pale golden eyes, which were, in their own way, quite as intense and as deep as Miss Radzinskaya’s.
Rufus found himself thinking of the hawks he’d seen hunting at Ravenswood. And why that hint of hesitation when he announced Miss Radzinskaya as his daughter? With a feeling of disappointment, Rufus concluded she was probably his mistress. She certainly wouldn’t be the first young lady to go about under such a guise. With the debacle of Charlotte Winter still vivid in his mind, he determined to do his utmost to tread cautiously, despite his strong attraction to Miss Radzinskaya.
She seemed to confirm his suspicion by saying, “Anton, Mr de Hunte has very kindly asked me to join him.”
The man smiled, showing white teeth with the same indefinable peculiarity that Rufus had noticed in Miss Radzinskaya’s. Rufus found himself wondering if he dared hope this shared characteristic might mean they were related after all. “If he doesn’t object to my company as well, perhaps we can both join him.”
Rufus forced himself to smile politely. “But of course, I should be honoured, Mr...?”
“Ah, how remiss of me,” the man said. “Do, please, excuse my lack of manners.” He gave a slight, formal bow. “Anton Springer, at your service.”
Rufus introduced himself, then, with somewhat mixed feelings, led the way to where he had been sitting. Once his guests were comfortably seated, he asked, “Would you care for some coffee or tea? I’m afraid they don’t serve wine.”
“Thank you, no,” Springer replied, apparently for both of them. “Serafina and I desire nothing more than your company.”
Rufus felt somehow less flattered than Springer’s words suggested he should. He hid this, however, merely enquiring, “May I ask where you’re bound?”
“Certainly,” said Springer, with that smile that somehow wasn’t. “We’re travelling to the town of Auckland, in New Zealand.”
“So am I!” exclaimed Rufus. “Have you business there, or are you seeking a new life?”
“Why, both, I believe,” Springer replied, a gleam of something akin to amusement lighting his pale eyes.
“May I ask, Mr de Hunte,” Miss Radzinskaya said softly, looking at him from under long, black lashes, “why you travel so far from your home?”
Rufus felt a sudden panic. Her eyes seemed to pierce through him until he could have sworn she had read his guilty secret. He found himself stammering, “I-I’m travelling to stay with—with my uncle.”
“Indeed,” she replied, with a teasing smile. “You must be very fond of your uncle to venture so far to see him.”
“Oh—oh no.” Rufus was uncomfortably aware, now, of Springer’s sharp gaze on him. “I scarcely know him. That is—I—I...” He struggled to a halt.
“Perhaps Mr de Hunte is also in search of a new life,” Springer said, not unkindly.
Rufus turned to him gratefully. “That’s it, sir. That’s it, exactly.”
He drank a mouthful of coffee, which helped ease his embarrassment, and they continued to converse along less problematic lines until Rufus had finished his coffee.
“Well,” said Springer, taking charge, “shall we go to the ball?”
Rufus nodded, rising to help Miss Radzinskaya from her chair. She laid her gloved hand on his arm as he led her to the ballroom. He caught a hint of her musky perfume and felt his heart quicken.
“Miss Radzinskaya,” he said with a catch in his breath, “I do hope you’ll do me the honour of dancing with me this evening.”
She smiled at him. “I should have been severely disappointed had you failed to ask me,” she replied before adding wistfully, “It seems so long since last I danced.”
His heart leaping in anticipation, Rufus busied himself finding her a comfortable seat in the ballroom. Springer calmly surveyed the scene, apparently quite happy for Rufus to dance attendance on her. He began to feel hopeful that she was, after all, Springer’s daughter, and not his mistress. The fact that they didn’t share a surname was worrying, but they both had the same unusually pale skin, suggesting the likelihood of a blood relationship, and with that he must be content for now.
Once the dancing was underway, Rufus made sure he did his duty by the other young ladies, but he lived for the moments spent with Miss Radzinskaya in his arms. The touch of her soft skin was cool, yet electric, her perfume as intoxicating as the finest French brandy. Dancing with her was like being carried away on a tide of exquisite sensation. Never before had he felt so deliciously, intensely alive. He must, he concluded with excited trepidation, be falling in love. He had fancied himself in love a number of times before, most recently – and disastrously – with Charlotte Winter. But it had never felt like this. For the first time since boarding the Orion, Rufus was grateful for the length of the journey. It would give him time to court Miss Radzinskaya, and—please, God!—to win her heart.
All too soon, the ball drew to a close. As Doctor Wells announced the last dance, Rufus sought Serafina in the hot, crowded room. He planned to try to persuade her to accompany him onto the poop deck afterwards, to walk in the cool moonlight. But he could see neither her nor Springer anywhere. Disappointment gnawing at his heart, Rufus strode from the ballroom. Reaching his cabin, he flung himself onto his bed, wondering at the strength of feeling engendered in him by a minor disappointment over a woman he had only just met. At length, he fell into a sleep haunted by dark shapes that seemed both to tantalise and taunt him.
FOUR
While inclined to be sceptical of these wild theories, Rufus was nevertheless intrigued. The next time he saw Doctor Wells, with whom he had struck up a somewhat avuncular friendship – the surgeon being several decades his senior – he asked for clarification.
“The fact is,” Doctor Wells told him, rubbing his whiskers with a meaty hand, “we don’t quite know what it is. Several passengers have been found in a state of exhaustion for which I can find no obvious explanation. There’s no sign of fever, which would indicate an infection, or of any injury. One lady, though, did have two welts on her neck. They looked a little like insect bites, but that’s not possible out here in the middle of the ocean. And besides,” the doctor gave a faint, ironic smile, “they’d have had to be damned big insects.”
“But surely the victims themselves must have some idea what happened to them?”
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But they’ve all been perfectly well one day, and the next in a state of near-coma. So far, thank God, they’ve all recovered with no apparent lasting ill effects. It’s all very mystifying. Though if you ask me,” the surgeon added, leaning towards Rufus with a conspiratorial air, “it’s most likely nothing more than hysteria. Doctor Sigmund Freud is most interesting on the subject – you’ll have heard of him, I dare say. In this case, I expect it’s been brought on by living in such a confined quarters with strangers.”
A Different Hunger Page 3
