By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

"I can't imagine why not," said Geoff. "Divorce is so common nowadays. The beautiful white slave gets to dump the man but keep the title—which is all she wanted in the first place—while the young Count skulks back to the Black Forest with nothing but the clothes on his back. I call it bloody unfair to the fortune hunters," he added ruefully.

  Matt laughed. After a comfortable silence he said, "Must your prospect be well-born?"

  Geoff shrugged. "I don't care. My mother might."

  "Oh, indeed. Otherwise, I'd have a prospect for you. The little 'cottage' I pointed out that's just been sold?"

  "The one with a dozen bedrooms overlooking the sea? What about it?"

  "'Beau Rêve' went—for a song I might add—to a very shrewd and very single businesswoman. She hasn't moved in, yet, of course. But the Avenue is agog over the transaction."

  "Because?"

  "Yup, there's a story, all right. As it happens, she worked in the very same mansion when she landed here as a girl from Ireland. As a laundry maid or a lady's maid, the versions vary. Worked her way up from there—with the help of a lover, of course. He shot himself, no one quite knows why, but he left her well provided for. The rest, as they say, is history. She's done well for herself, apparently, making a bundle in textiles; she owns a string of mills in Fall River. Anyway, we do know that she's never married. How old are you?"

  "Must you ask?" Geoff said, reminded anew that he was thirty-one and what a mess. "Just past the three-decade mark."

  "Hmm. No, it wouldn't really work. She must be—doing the math—in her mid-forties. And then, of course, you do have your mother's wishes to answer to."

  "Or ignore."

  "Oh, yeah. Just the way I do." Matt smiled at his friend and tossed him a cigar. "So. Want me to line you up with some of Newport's finest?"

  "Actually, I wish you would. All I've been able to come up with so far is a hopelessly ill-bred ruffian whose money is so new it sizzles."

  "Really! I don't suppose I know her?"

  "Not a chance. The father's humming along building ships for the Navy, but that's a hell of a volatile industry; I have to wonder whether he won't fall on his face sooner or later. The girl's a sculptor, and her brother works—when he works—in the brokerage end of the company."

  "Any extenuating circumstances for pursuing the girl—extraordinary beauty, brilliant wit, loose morals?"

  "No, no, and maybe. Really, she's not worth mentioning. My encounter with her left me with an odd … afterburn, that's all."

  The following evening Mrs. Matthew Stevenson was having an at-home. Geoff had his first real chance to look over Newport's white slave market. On the whole, he found the offerings reasonably presentable: pretty, bubbly, mostly blond, not a Bolshevik among them. They were irreverent and high- spirited—"frisky" and "coltish" came to mind. One or two played a decent hand of bridge. Geoff decided to stay in Newport at least another week.

  The next day he strolled down to Thames Street into a stationer's and bought a small index file with alphabetical dividers. Under the name of each new debutante he met during the next week, he sketched a brief physical description and a profile of genealogy, expectations, education, likes, dislikes, spoken and written languages, and favorite sports and foods. He cross-referenced family connections, business associations, and club memberships. It began as a game, a way to while away his quiet hours and a basis for amusing his mother when he got back home, but it ended as a scientific pursuit.

  Gloria, for example. On an index card Gloria looked impressive: good education (Concord Academy, Pembroke); good skills (watercolorist, floral themes—Newport Art Association); good athlete (equestrienne, Polo Club); good voice (choir, Trinity Church); good family holdings (real estate, Florida, New York, Rhode Island); good family memberships (Bailey's Beach, Reading Room, Newport Country Club); good languages (French, smattering of Italian); good personality (likes children, pets, Debussy, Elizabeth B. Browning); good disposition (dislikes nothing, but allergic to shellfish). And her stock was good for grafting: she was tallish, with straight teeth, clear skin, slender hands, and narrow feet. A son's mother's dream.

  All he had to do was to stand in line, which he had no intention of doing.

  After a week he bid Gloria a more pensive farewell than he felt, held her look a little longer than was strictly necessary, and high-tailed it back to New York. He'd been up to his ears in American gentility; he needed a breather. Besides, he had promised Sir Tom he'd be aboard the Victoria with him, cheering his beloved Shamrock.

  Geoff headed back two days before the first race, driving Matt Stevenson's superb new Brewster town car, which he agreed to take back to his Manhattan townhouse for him. The Brewster was everything that Amanda's flashy Daniels Speedster was not: quietly elegant, comfortable, meticulously appointed, a pleasure to drive. If Geoff had the money, he'd consider one for himself.

  He decided to take the long way back, just to draw out the driving experience. Up along the bay and eventually through Fall River he cruised, past dozens and dozens of mighty mills—America at its most industrious. He'd not seen anything like it. Huge buildings with many hundreds of windows to let in passive light, virtually all of them built of granite, enough of them to rival anything in the mill towns in the north of England, were crammed cheek by jowl. Knitting mills, cotton mills, hat mills, leather mills; mills that produced fabric for curtains and drapes and clothing for both sexes and their children in every class of society: it was an incredible concentration of manpower and economic muscle.

  One, newer than all the rest, caught his eye because its signage was more prominent than most: Moran Mills. He drove past at least three other large mills boldly blazoned with the name "Moran" and a fourth older and smaller one, whose more modest sign said simply "Moran Millinery". Wouldn't it be ironic if the mills were owned by Matt's Irish laundress? Geoff resolved to get her name the next time he saw his friend. In any event, whoever this Moran was, the person was clearly raking it in.

  But then, this is America. It's what they do.

  Geoff drove on, impressed anew by the sheer pulsing can-do spirit of the country and oddly dissatisfied with the slower, more traditional pace of his own. When he came to an open stretch of smooth road, he even found himself wishing he were behind the wheel of Amanda's souped-up, eight-cylinder Submarine Speedster instead of the more sedate but reassuring four-cylinder vehicle he had agreed to deliver for Matt.

  My God, what's happening to me? I'm turning into a thrill-seeker.

  As if he hadn't had thrills enough during the war.

  He pushed viciously against thoughts of the war the way he'd taught himself to do. Sometimes that worked; sometimes it didn't. This time it did, partly because he was distracted by a road sign for New London in Connecticut. On a whim, he detoured off Route 1 at the New London exit and got directions to the Fain Ironworks.

  It would never have occurred to Geoff to open up an index card on Amanda Fain, but he was curious about the "family holdings" nonetheless: the lure of a shipyard for some men was strong.

  He arrived at the gate and found himself face to face with a scruffy band of sign-carrying protesters. There were a dozen of them—not enough to make an impact, just enough to make a nuisance. The pacifists among them carried placards saying, "The War Is Over—No More Ships" and "Stop the Killing—Stop the Navy." The more practical ones bore signs saying, "More Wages for More Work" and "Shipyard Workers Unite." Something about them set his nerves humming. When the tallest one turned around and marched toward his car, he knew why: it was Lajos, from the Café Budapest. In broad daylight he looked less threatening, more surly, as if he'd been dragged back home by his mother from a softball game to practice the violin.

  Geoff had no idea what proper protocol was in such a case but was spared the awkwardness of making small talk through the car window when Lajos turned abruptly on his heel and marched north with his placard. In a moment Geoff was cleared for a visit to Jim Fain and shortly after was having a box of Cuban ci
gars nudged into his ribs by Amanda's harried, angry father.

  "Have a smoke. Good to see you, by God. I don't suppose you know anything about mob control?" he demanded, obviously alluding to the protesters.

  "You could always try firing over their heads," answered Geoff with a droll smile.

  "Ha. In a shipyard doing government work? But I'll tell you what: I'd like to pack all those little Bolshies into a leaky freighter and send 'em back where they came from. By God." He bit off the tip of a cigar and torpedoed it through his teeth into a metal waste can. "But never mind. The Courier hasn't paid them no mind for the last three weeks; I don't see why we should. Sooner or later they'll find a bigger fish to picket."

  "You don't do much for the military here, then?" asked Geoff.

  "A few destroyers is all. The Bethlehem and Bath yards between them will have built fifty destroyers by the end of the year, and twenty-three subs—never mind the contract they've got for a battle cruiser. But who gets picketed? The yard that's closest to the Bolshies' New York den, that's who. It makes absolutely no difference that most of our contracts are for building merchant ships. It's a matter of geography. But never mind. What can I do for you?"

  "To be honest, I'm heading back to New York and you're right on the way," Geoff answered, aware that he was thinking not unlike a Bolshevik. "My uncle has a boatyard in the Isle of Wight; I used to work there during summer recess. No matter what country I visit, I seem to end up on its coast and in its yards."

  "Ever thought of getting a job in one?"

  "As I said, I used to work summers—"

  "I don't mean that dilettante stuff. I mean eight-thirty to five, six days a week."

  "I don't think my uncle—"

  "I don't mean your uncle. Come with me."

  Over Geoff's protests that he was taking up Fain's time, Jim Fain hauled him from building to building on a whirlwind tour of the shipyard's facilities.

  Over the clang of steel and the hiss of the welder's rod, Fain gave Geoff the lowdown on U.S. shipbuilding. "Two years ago American flag-vessels carried only about a fifth of our foreign trade," he shouted over the din. "This year the figure ought to be closer to fifty percent. It's about time. We're the richest country in the world, and we need a merchant fleet worthy of its name. But then, I don't have to tell you that. You're a Brit, and 'Britannia rules the waves.' Ain't that how the song goes?"

  Geoff smiled modestly, awed by the furious activity around them. Britannia wouldn't be ruling those waves for long.

  "Well, I'll say this, by God," warned Fain. "Before long the U.S. will be the world's greatest shipbuilder, and I mean to be there when we reach the top. Merchant ships or naval ships, it's all the same to me; I'll take whatever the U.S. Shipping Board throws my way."

  "You look capable of hitting any pitch," agreed Geoff. What an astonishing amount of enthusiasm the man had, and yet he was sixty if he was a day.

  "'Course, we can't turn out a destroyer in a month and a half like that damned Squantum yard used to; but then again, we're not at war. Anyway, it's all a matter of getting organized. When I took over the yard from my ex-partner, it wasn't much more than a junkyard: scrap everywhere, rotting bulkheads, silted over railways. We've dredged and rebuilt and expanded, and I don't mind admitting I didn't know the first thing about shipbuilding. But with a little bit of working capital, and a little bit of expert help—well, you see the possibilities. I've just bought a chunk of shoreline west of here, for a second yard. And I suppose you know how high International Mercantile Marine stock is flying nowadays. Yes indeed; the future looks bright."

  Jim Fain was bursting with pride, the unmistakable sign of a self-made man. He behaved totally unlike those whose fortunes have been handed to them, who tended to react in either of two ways: either they were comfortable with the notion, like Matt Stevenson, or they went into agonies of conscience over it. Amanda Fain, for instance, probably agonized.

  They were in shed number four, looking over a small wood freighter that had seen better days and was now being overhauled and refurbished, when they ran into David Fain. He was looking a little harried himself and seemed to be bullying the shed foreman about something. When he saw his father and Geoff, he ended the conversation abruptly and came over to them.

  "Problem?" asked Jim Fain.

  "Frank says the garboard's rotten and has to be replaced. I say it's not and doesn't. He'd like to take the summer and bring the ship back to new condition. The fool doesn't understand that we'd have to charter it for the next hundred years to get our money back." David brought out a handkerchief and mopped his wet brow. He was visibly upset by the run-in.

  "My son has made a great leap forward this week on the road to success," said his father, beaming. "He's hit on the idea of buying neglected but salvageable ships, fixing them up, and putting them into service for us."

  "You haven't seen Amanda, have you?" David asked them, ignoring the compliments his father was heaping on his head. "She was supposed to meet me here at noon."

  Fain's mood sharpened abruptly. "I've told her not to set foot in the yard or I'll have her arrested. She can stay outside on the picket line with the rest of her pals."

  "She never told me that," said David, surprised.

  "She probably didn't tell you the name of her latest project in bronze, either: she plans to call it 'Ship.' I suppose she's going to show some destroyer fallen off the ways onto its side and squashing some yardhand underneath. Or maybe mowing down a mother and her babes rowing a skiff at sea. Well, she's not going to draw her inspiration from Fain's Ironworks if I have anything to say about it!"

  "Don't take her so seriously, Dad. No one else does. She's a sculptress, for crissake!"

  "Yeah, well she's also a damned rabble-rouser. All I need is a strike, and I promise you I'll throttle your sister with my own bare hands."

  His face was beet-red angry. Geoff found himself hoping fervently that Amanda was nowhere on the premises; he wanted to believe his days of witnessing bloodshed were behind him. He wandered away a step or two from the conversation, wondering how it was that the Fain family managed with such alacrity to make him feel like one of the servants, as if he wasn't there. In a minute David took his leave, nodding brusquely to Geoff on his way out, and Fain began at last to return his attention to his guest.

  "Never have children," he warned Geoff. "Breed cockatoos, collect stamps, but never, ever allow the little time bombs to come ticking into your life. They will blow up in your face when you least expect it."

  "It's something to think about, certainly," answered Geoff.

  "Aah, I don't really mean that. After all, you've got to pass it all on to someone, otherwise what's the point?" He sighed heavily, sounding more like a sixty-year-old man than he had half an hour before. "Anyway, the little buggers tend to turn around when you least expect it. Look at David. A month ago I thought there was no hope for him. Always getting into scrapes, showing up at the brokerage office when he felt like it. Then suddenly here he is with a plan to make some dough, a plan I never even thought of. Kids. You just never know."

  They were outside the shed now, and two or three men in the yard lined up immediately with questions for Fain. Geoff took his leave, and Fain, distracted, said, "Uh, yeah—anytime." Geoff hadn't got too far when he called him back.

  "Hey, Geoff—come to dinner tonight! We never got to talk."

  Geoff, not all that fond of driving in circles, began to demur, but Fain cut him off. "Eight o'clock. Be there."

  In Geoff's set one did not press. "It's very kind, but—"

  "You can stay the night and go in to the City tomorrow. But today have a swim, relax, whatever. I'll be home by six or seven. Just tell Martha who you are." He waved a brisk goodbye and stalked off with one of the yardmen.

  Chapter 5

  Geoff was left to stare bemused at the back of the powerfully built man. Fear God. Honor the King, he reminded himself, and shrugged. Besides, he had nothing better to do. Why not a swim
?

  Four hours later Geoff was pulling into the cobblestone drive of Jim Fain's estate and wondering why he was letting himself be dragged around like a friendly puppy by different members of the Fain family. Since the war he'd lost his ability to exert himself, he knew, but lately he was beginning to feel as if part of his brain had been blown away along with part of his right side. Absolutely nothing stimulated him anymore. He found no thrill in sports, in poetry, in music—in the few things which gave him an occasional spark of pleasure after his injury. There was the very sexy interlude aboard the liner with Lotsy; for a day or two his juices flowed and he began to have hope. But by now he'd forgotten what all the fuss was about. There were no Lotsy's in Newport. He stood at the beautifully polished oak door waiting to be admitted, uttering a silent prayer that Jim Fain had called ahead.

  No such luck. Mrs. Fain wasn't even in, which made his position even more awkward. Geoff began immediately to backpedal before the housemaid, but she laughed and said, "Mr. Fain does this all the time. We never know who's corning next. I think a robber could wander in off the street and we'd treat him just the same—stick him in a bedroom and show him all the silver. Do you have a bag in your car? I'll send someone after it."

  Not long after that Geoff had dipped into the kidney-shaped pool that lay adjacent to the house. His temper had cooled along with his body temperature; the prohibited martini tasted as close to the English version—straight vermouth—as he could hope and finished off the job of mellowing his foul mood. Mergate was a dandy place, and the nicest thing about it was that there was no one in it but him. He sighed happily and closed his eyes.

  He must have dozed off, because the water that was sprinkled on him felt joltingly cold on his sun-warmed body. He jumped and his eyes opened.

  "Ah. Miss Fain."

  Who else?

  "Afternoon, Mr. Seton. I looked out my studio window and there you were. Thought I'd come by and be neighborly."

  Amanda was wearing a kind of smock, and he thought she did look rather arty: no makeup, hair pinned back away from her face, dirty fingernails. She had freckles, which surprised him, and her lips were not as full as when they were painted. Her square jaw looked squarer than ever, but it was her gypsy eyes that held his attention most: as dark as the pupils were, that's how white the whites were. He thought of the pale, bloodshot eyes of her brother David and wondered which of the two siblings belonged to the milkman. No one in the Fain family looked like anyone else.