by Conrad Allen
“We speak the same language,” said Blanche.
“Do we?”
“Oh yes. You’re one of us. I could tell.”
“Thank you.”
Genevieve was grateful to have been accepted at face value and to have befriended someone so quickly. Blanche was going to New York to visit her brother, who had taken up a post in a bank there. She was filled with an almost girlish excitement.
“Dickon assures me that it’s the most amazing city in the world.”
“Dickon?”
“My brother. Is it true?”
“In some ways, I suppose that it is.”
“What sorts of ways? No,” said Blanche, dismissing her own question with a wave of her gloved hand, “tell me everything later when we can sit down in comfort. Oh, we’re going to have such a wonderful time, talking to each other! I know it. And are you really traveling alone?”
“Yes, Miss Charlbury.”
“Do call me Blanche — please. Formalities always irritate me.”
“Then you must call me Genevieve.”
“Brave Genevieve.”
“There’s nothing very brave about crossing the Atlantic.”
“There is if you go unaccompanied. I like to think of myself as having plenty of confidence but I wouldn’t have considered this trip if Mark hadn’t volunteered to come with me.”
“Mark?”
“My fiancé.”
“Oh,” said Genevieve with mild surprise. “I didn’t see him earlier.”
“Mark is joining the ship at Cherbourg. He’s been in Paris.”
“That must have been nice for him.”
“Not really,” said Blanche. “He was working there. Mark is in the diplomatic service.” She suppressed a giggle. “Which makes it all the more astonishing that he chose me — for I’m the most undiplomatic creature in the universe.”
“I’m sure that’s not true.”
“Mark calls it an attraction of opposites.”
“He’s very fortunate to have someone like you, Blanche, and I’ll make a point of telling him that.”
“Thank you. A man needs to be reminded of such things regularly.”
“When are you going to get married?”
“This summer.”
“How lovely!”
“I can’t wait, Genevieve. It’s been such a long engagement.”
“Why was that?”
“Mark kept getting sent here, there, and everywhere so we had to delay things. But he assures me that he won’t postpone it again and I intend to hold him to that.”
“How did you meet him in the first place?”
“Dickon was up at Oxford with him. They were in the same dining club. I was introduced to Mark during Eights Week and that was how it all started. We’ve known each other for seven years now.”
“Long enough to get well acquainted.”
“Yes,” said Blanche, happily. “I know all his virtues and Mark has discovered all my vices. But they don’t seem to have frightened him off. In fact, he says he loves me for my fallibility.”
“He might have phrased that in a more romantic way.”
“He’s a diplomat, Genevieve. They don’t believe in romance.”
“But you do, surely?”
“Having a doting husband is all the romance that I need. I long for the moment when he slips on the ring and I become Mrs. Bossingham.”
“Is that his name — Mark Bossingham?”
“Mark Lindsay Reynolds Bossingham.”
“I look forward to meeting him.”
Genevieve was about to add a comment when she became aware that she was being watched. People had started to drift off to their cabins and spaces appeared on deck. Ten yards away, leaning nonchalantly against a bulkhead, was a tall, slim, angular figure. When Genevieve turned to look at him, she saw a well-dressed man in his thirties with striking good looks and a faint air of decadence. He gave her a dazzling smile and lifted his top hat to her before sauntering off.
Genevieve was annoyed. “That man was staring at us.”
“No,” said Blanche with a sigh, “he was staring at you. Johnny knows full well that I’m spoken for and, in any case, you’re much more beautiful than I. Johnny picked you out at once but that’s typical of him. He’s a ladies’ man in every sense.”
“You know him?”
“Very well. Everyone in my set knows the Honorable Jonathan Killick — though there’s nothing particularly honorable about Johnny, I’m afraid. He’s a complete rake but a very charming one at that. Watch out.”
“Why?”
“You’ve obviously caught his eye and that means only one thing.”
“Does it?”
“Yes, Genevieve. Like it or not, you’re going to see a lot more of Johnny during this voyage so you may well need me as a bodyguard.”
“I can take care of myself, thank you,” said Genevieve politely.
“Lots of women believe that until they meet Johnny Killick. I was one of them but he almost got through my defenses. He can be so amusing when he chooses to be. You’ll soon find that out.”
“I’ll just have to keep out of his way.”
“That’s easier said than done. He’s like a shadow. Once he’s chosen his target, he’ll follow you wherever you go.”
Genevieve was alarmed. She could see trouble ahead.
TWO
Well,” he asked, sitting back in his chair, “what do you think of her?”
“She’s a fine ship,” replied Dillman. “No question of that.”
“The Oceanic was the pride of the fleet in her day.”
“Her day is not over yet, by a long chalk.”
“I’m glad that you approve.”
“I do, Lester. I’ve been on bigger, faster, and sleeker vessels but none that felt so wonderfully stable. She glides over the waves.”
“Reserve your judgment until we reach the North Atlantic,” advised Hembrow, “then you’ll see her at her best.”
While the captain was in total charge of the ship, the person to whom George Dillman and Genevieve Masefield were directly answerable was the purser. They could not have found a more helpful and affable colleague than Lester Hembrow, a solid man of middle height with the unmistakable look of a seafarer. The son of a Canadian fisherman, Hembrow had learned to sail a boat from an early age but he had higher ambitions than simply taking over from his father. He traded life as a deep-sea fisherman for the more secure and structured existence offered by the major shipping companies. Like Dillman, he had started with the Cunard Line but, while still in his thirties, had earned his appointment as a purser with the White Star Line. Hembrow was inordinately proud of the Oceanic.
“I just love her,” he admitted. “She’s a beauty!”
“Genevieve and I were certainly impressed when we had our first tour of her yesterday. Harland and Wolff did their usual excellent job. She’s well built and full of character.”
“Just like my wife.”
“I’ll have to take your word for that, Lester.”
“See for yourself,” said Hembow, cheerfully indicating a photograph on the wall. “Kitty is right there.”
They were in the purser’s office, a room to which an endless stream of passengers would come and go throughout the voyage. Hembrow sat behind a desk that had been cleared for action. Occupying a chair opposite him, Dillman looked up at the photograph. It was a picture of Hembrow’s wife and baby son. Kitty Hembrow looked blissfully happy as she beamed at the camera.
“Are you married, George?” asked the purser.
“No, I prefer to stay single.”
“A roving bachelor, then. Keeping your options open.”
“Not exactly,” said Dillman, careful to conceal his true relationship with Genevieve. “I just think it would be unfair for someone in my situation to get married when I’d spend so much time apart from my wife.”
“That was the attraction for Kitty. She has all the benefits of being Mrs. Hembrow wi
thout having me under her feet seven days a week. Besides, absence really does make the heart grow fonder. I always have the warmest of welcomes when we dock in New York. Still,” said Hembrow, opening a drawer to extract some sheets of paper, “you didn’t come to hear me talking about my family. This is what you want — the list of passengers.”
“Thank you.” Dillman took the papers from him. “Is it complete?”
“No, we’ll be taking more people on board in Cherbourg.”
“Including the illustrious J. P. Morgan, I hear.”
“He’s been on one of his buying expeditions to Paris.”
“I’m surprised he doesn’t just buy the whole city and have done with it,” said Dillman with a wry smile. “He can afford it.” He glanced at the list. “We’ll take a close look at this.”
“There’ll be further names to add when we reach Queenstown. Most, of course, will be Irish emigrants, hoping to start a new life in America. Steerage will be filled with O’Rourkes, O’Rileys, and O’Rooneys.”
“They’ll liven things up down there.”
“That’s my worry.”
There was a sharp knock on the door and it opened two inches.
“Fifteen minutes, sir!” said a man’s voice.
“Thank you.” As the door closed again, Lester Hembrow got to his feet. “We’ve made good time. Cherbourg already.”
“Do we know how many passengers will board here?”
“Over two hundred and fifty.”
“A sizable number. By the law of averages, there’s bound to be at least one villain among them.”
Hembrow grinned. “I hope that you’re nor referring to J. P. Morgan.”
“He’s been called a lot worse than that in his time.”
“Yes — and I can understand why.”
“You’ve met him?” asked Dillman.
“Face-to-face. He sailed to Europe on the Oceanic and he wasn’t entirely happy about his stateroom. I was sent in to placate him.”
“And did you?”
“Not really,” said Hembrow with a shrug. “When he turned those blazing eyes on me, I felt like a rabbit caught in a snare. Don’t you dare upset him, George, or you’ll get that famous look of his as well.”
“I’ve heard about that from my father.”
“Have you?”
“He once had some dealings with Mr. Morgan and they did not end altogether happily. My father was given that angry stare,” recalled Dillman. “He said it was quite terrifying — like looking at the lights of an express train coming toward you.”
“While you’re tied to the railway line.”
“Yes, he does tend to ride straight over people.”
“I still have the wheel marks on my chest.”
“Mr. Morgan is an interesting man.”
“Very interesting.”
“I hope that I get to meet him.”
“You may live to regret saying that,” warned Hembrow.
Cherbourg was a busy port at the tip of the Normandy peninsula and it had profited from the White Star Line’s decision to operate from Southampton. It was not simply a point of departure for European emigrants, it attracted people from the Middle East as well. Among the passengers who huddled in the tenders that brought them out to the Oceanic were Egyptians, Syrians, and Libyans. The sea was fairly calm but it still needed ten members of the crew to stop the gangplank from swaying too much as people clambered aboard. It was early evening, dry but crisp, and the new passengers were wrapped up warmly against the stiff breeze. Up on the promenade deck, in addition to her long winter coat, Genevieve Masefield wore scarf, gloves, and hat. Also in a long coat and fur hat, Blanche Charlbury was at her elbow.
Genevieve was hoping for a first glimpse of J. P. Morgan but her companion had eyes for only one person. Blanche eventually saw him in one of the tenders and she waved energetically.
“There he is!” she cried, pointing a finger. “There’s Mark. There’s my fiancé. Wave to him, Genevieve.”
“He doesn’t know me from Adam,” said Genevieve.
“Mark! We’re up here, Mark! Can you see us!”
But her voice was drowned out by the general hubbub. Unable to pick out Mark Bossingham in a crowded tender, Genevieve was rewarded with a sighting of the ship’s most famous — and infamous — passenger. She knew that it must be J. P. Morgan because he was the first person to alight from his craft and the crew treated him with great deference. He was a big man in his early seventies, wearing a frock coat and a top hat. From that angle, Genevieve could see nothing of his face but she could feel that he exuded a sense of authority. J. P. Morgan was a presence.
“Come on, Genevieve,” said Blanche, grabbing her by the hand. “We must go and find him. I’m dying for Mark to meet you.”
“Perhaps this is not the ideal time.”
“Of course, it is.”
“No,” decided Genevieve, gently detaching her hand. “You go and welcome him on your own. It’s only right and proper. I’d feel in the way.”
“But he’ll want to be introduced to you.”
“And so he will be, Blanche. But not now — later on, perhaps.”
“I want to show you off.”
“You’ll have ample opportunity to do that. Your fiancé will not want me there. This is a reunion, after all.”
“So?”
“There’s only room for two people — you and Mark.”
“Oh, there won’t be any hugs and kisses, if that’s what you’re afraid of,” said Blanche blithely. “Mark is rather shy. He hates any public show of affection.”
“I still think he’d rather see you on your own.”
“Very well.”
“In any case,” said Genevieve, “I’ve got to decide what to wear for dinner. I don’t know about you but crossing the Channel has given me a real appetite.” She patted her friend’s arm. “I’ll see you later.”
“Both of us.”
“Yes — both of you.”
Blanche headed for the nearest staircase and Genevieve was able to make her way back to her cabin. Though she was fond of her new friend, she was not quite sure what to make of her. Blanche Charlbury looked and sounded much younger than she was but her adolescent exuberance might simply be a form of defense. Genevieve suspected that she was more intelligent than she appeared to be. One thing was clear. Her parents must have trusted her to let her travel without a chaperone. In some families, the presence of a fiancé on a voyage might be seen as a danger rather than a source of reassurance. Genevieve surmised that Mark Bossingham was a pillar of respectability, immune to temptation, there as Blanche’s protector rather than her future husband and lover.
She remembered her own first voyage. Traveling alone, with every intention of settling in America, Genevieve had been the target for all sorts of unwelcome advances. It was only because she met George Dillman during the crossing that her life was given any direction and she was deeply grateful for that. The irony was that, having at last found the love and protection of a husband, she had to surrender it whenever they worked together on board. To all intents and purposes, she was single and therefore — in the eyes of certain men — available. One such unwanted admirer had already appeared. There would be others.
When she reached her cabin, Genevieve was surprised to see the door slightly ajar. She opened it to find that her stewardess was inside, arranging some flowers in a vase.
“Oh,” said the woman, taking a step backward, “I’m sorry to disturb you, ma’am. I should have done this earlier.”
“Thank you. They brighten up the cabin nicely.”
“I’ll get out of your way, ma’am.”
“No, wait,” said Genevieve, holding up a hand. “I always like to see who’s looking after me. What’s your name?”
“Edith, ma’am.”
“You don’t need to call me that. Edith, is it?”
“Edith Hurst.”
“And where are you from?”
“Southampton.�
��
“A seafaring family?”
“No, ma’am — I mean, no, Miss Masefield. My father runs the Belvedere Arms. I was born and brought up there. A lot of our customers are sailors. I used to love listening to their stories.”
“So you ran away to sea?”
Edith nodded and gave a nervous laugh. She was a plump young woman in her early twenties with a plain, round face that was redeemed by dimpled cheeks and a sweet smile. Her uniform was immaculate, her auburn hair well groomed, her manner polite without being in any way obsequious. Genevieve warmed to her at once.
“You’ll soon get used to my routine,” she said.
“I’ll do my best.”
“Make the bed while I’m having breakfast and turn down the coverlet during dinner.” She looked around. “You obviously know how to keep a cabin neat and tidy.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sure that we’ll get on very well.”
“If there’s anything you need, just give me a call.”
“I shall, Edith.” Genevieve appraised her. The stewardess had a willingness to be of service and a visible desire for approval. “Do you like doing this job?”
“Oh, I do. I love every moment of it.”
“Even though you spend the whole voyage working?”
“I’m used to that.”
“How long have you been on the Oceanic?”
“Six months.”
“Quite an old hand, then. You know the ropes. Am I right in thinking that dinner on the first night is relatively informal?”
“That depends, Miss Masefield.”
“On what?”
“Whether you’re English or American.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Well,” said Edith, “some of the English passengers treat dinner as a formal affair on every occasion.”
“You mean, that they enjoy dressing up.”
“That’s one reason, I suppose.”
“You don’t need to tell me what the others are, Edith. I know only too well. The English do tend to be bound by convention. There are certain men dress up just to put the cat out.”
