by Juliana Gray
“That is not true.” He kept his hand on her arm. “I care deeply.”
“You don’t show it.”
“No. You are quite right. I have learned, in the course of a long and varied life, peppered with grave disappointments and unforeseen tragedy, that one must exert the most careful and delicate protection over what one loves most, the most exquisite possible care, or else it will be lost.”
Like a little boy with a blister on his foot: a blister that went unnoticed until it was too late.
She gazed at him silently, while the angry lines flattened from her face. As if she were somehow reading that last thought, which had gone unsaid.
“I see,” she whispered.
He said, as gently as he could, as steadily as he could, though his voice wanted very much to shake, “And do you understand, my dear, why I wish you to take the greatest possible care in your dealings with Miss Harris?”
She removed her arm from his grasp, but she didn’t step away. He could still smell the orange-blossom scent of her skin, the hint of wine on her breath. She was still so close to him.
“I understand what I have understood from the beginning of this voyage, sir. What I’ve understood since the moment my late husband’s will was read before me, leaving me with nothing. I have no one to trust but myself, no one to rely on except myself and God. My personal inclinations”—her voice wavered, her gaze slipped for an instant to his lips—“my personal inclinations, least of all.”
She turned to leave.
“Mrs. Schuyler,” he said. “Penelope.”
“Yes, sir?” She faced the door, hand on the knob.
“No one will harm you aboard this ship. I promise you that.”
She opened the door and stepped into the corridor.
“How kind, Your Grace,” she said, and shut the door behind her.
Day Four
SS Majestic
At sea
Penelope was not surprised when, five minutes after she tucked herself underneath a woolen blanket on the lee side of the promenade deck, another deck chair appeared at her side in a clatter that brooked no objections.
She sighed and picked up her book. “Good morning, Mr. Penhallow.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Schuyler.” The Duke of Olympia sank into the deck chair and arranged a blanket over his long legs. “You were waiting for me, I see. Has the sun risen? I can hardly tell, behind all that cloud.”
“I was not waiting for you,” she said, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she caught the familiar scent of him, the sweetness of his shaving soap and the spice of his cigar, and she realized, heart tingling, that she had been.
Waiting for him, on the lonely promenade deck at dawn.
“I’ve brought champagne,” he said.
Day Five
SS Majestic
At sea
“Admit it,” said the duke. “You take almost as much enjoyment from these clandestine meetings as I do.”
“Oh, is that what you call them? Clandestine meetings? I regard them as unfortunate encounters I can’t politely avoid.”
They were making their way up the promenade deck at the end of the evening, bundled up beyond recognition. The duke was wearing his brown whiskers, but they weren’t really necessary: nobody else was so hardy (or so foolish) as to brave the wind and the chill, which weren’t quite so fierce as they had been the night of the gale, but still enough to deter the pampered denizens of the first-class cabin.
Except her. Except Penelope and Olympia. Her arm lay in his, but only for safety. She would draw it away, as she always did, when they reached the door to the deckhouse.
“Nonsense,” he said. “Nobody could possibly lure you into a meeting you didn’t desire. I’m easily avoided.”
“Easily avoided? You turn up everywhere I go. I might as easily avoid breathing.”
He shrugged. “I did promise, after all.”
“Promise what?”
“To keep you from harm. In any case, if you wish to avoid my company, you have only to stay in your cabin.”
“I won’t allow you to change my habits.”
They had reached the end of the deck and turned around to stagger back down. As always, the duke took the seaward side, protecting her from the spray and the worst of the draft, like a giant silver-haired bulwark.
“Besides,” he said, “you like my company.”
“I endure your company.”
“You haven’t had so much rational and sympathetic conversation in years, with a person someone so near you in intellect and character.”
“Character! I should hope not.”
They walked on a few more steps before he answered her. “The great crime is what has been wasted in you. You should have been traveling the world, feeding your exceptional mind, instead of putting yourself at the beck and call of a Mrs. Morrison.”
“That sort of thing requires both money and daring, neither of which I possess.”
“Oh, I think you have plenty of daring, Mrs. Schuyler. You have so much potential, it alarms me nearly as much as it excites me.”
She didn’t reply to that. How could she? Such an improper thing to say.
But she thought about it. She returned early to her cabin—Ruby hadn’t yet returned from her evening visit to her parents’ stateroom—and lay fully dressed on her back in her brass-framed bed and thought about what the Duke of Olympia had said.
You have plenty of daring.
You have so much potential.
The great crime is what has been wasted in you.
A knock sounded on the door.
Penelope swung her feet to the floor and padded across the carpet. “Who is it?” she asked, through the door.
“Mrs. Morrison, dear.”
She opened the door. “Is something the matter? Where’s Ruby?”
“Oh, she’s back in the stateroom, having a nice cozy with her father. I just wanted to steal out for a moment and thank you, dear Mrs. Schuyler.”
Penelope regarded the matronly figure before her, a comfortable cushion of a woman, still draped in her evening silks. She stood near the dresser and waved away the invitation of a chair. Her round face shone with smug pleasure.
“Thank me?” Penelope asked.
Mrs. Morrison placed a bejeweled hand on the brass bedpost. “I’m so pleased with the way everything’s turning out. The duke is just enthralled by her, don’t you think?”
“So it appears.”
“And I appreciate how you’ve stayed away, letting them get on with it without any distractions. It’s—well, it’s a very kind and generous thing to do, for a woman in your position.” There was something in Mrs. Morrison’s left hand, hidden among the undulations of silk. She revealed it now, holding a paper forth to Penelope: a banker’s draft.
“What’s this?”
“Five hundred dollars. Just a little token of our appreciation. Take it! You can change it in London and buy yourself a few nice things.” Mrs. Morrison smiled widely at her own generosity. Five hundred dollars to a humble companion! What a liberal patron.
Penelope looked down at the check, pinched between Mrs. Morrison’s thumb and her first finger, on which an emerald and diamond ring of several carats wedged into the space between knuckle and joint. The words five hundred dollars wobbled like a ribbon in the slight shake of Mrs. Morrison’s hand. Penelope tasted bile at the back of her mouth.
“How kind,” she said softly, “but I’m afraid I can’t accept this. It’s far too much for a woman in my position, and in any case, I have only ever done what I thought best for Ruby. No reward is possible, other than seeing her happy.”
“Come on.” Mrs. Morrison shook the paper at her. “Take it. That’s a very nice sentiment, but Mr. Morrison and I agreed you should have it. After all, it wouldn’t do for yo
u to appear at all Ruby’s bridal functions in—well.” She stroked a contemptuous gaze along Penelope’s figure.
Penelope folded her hands behind her back. “Thank you so very much, but it is impossible for me to accept such a sum.”
Mrs. Morrison heaved her bosom like a bellows, releasing a withering sigh. She folded the check neatly and placed it on the dresser. “There you are. Take it or leave it. I’m off to bed.”
“Good night, Mrs. Morrison.”
The woman turned and swished to the door, where she paused to tap her finger on the handle.
“Yes, Mrs. Morrison? You had something else to say?”
“Well, it’s nothing, really. But I happened to catch sight of you the other night, coming off the deck with a gentleman companion.”
“Yes. Mr. Penhallow. He’s from Buffalo.”
“It’s none of my business, I guess, since my Ruby wasn’t around. You have a right to your own affairs, in your own time. But I feel obliged to offer you a little warning, Mrs. Schuyler.” She smiled, in the manner of a woman who feels no happiness in her duty. “These little shipboard connections, they’re just convenience, at least on the man’s side. I hope you don’t think this Mr. Penhallow means anything by it.”
“What excellent advice, Mrs. Morrison. I am so grateful for your wisdom in the matter.”
“Yes, well, I think I know a little bit about men. They’re like children, you know. They’ll play with whatever toy’s at hand. But a woman in your position can’t be too careful. Of course you know that.”
“Of course. Good night, Mrs. Morrison.”
“Good night, Mrs. Schuyler. I’ll send Ruby over as soon as I get back.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Morrison swept through, a bit like the Majestic herself. There was a whoosh of air, smelling like rosewater and talcum powder, and when it subsided Penelope went to the dresser and picked up the folded check that lay by Ruby’s ivory-handled hairbrush.
Five hundred dollars. Enough to make her grateful, even awed at the generosity of her benefactors. Enough to give a thirsty woman a little taste of luxury, but not enough to make her independent. Heavens no! Five hundred dollars: the perfect little present to keep Penelope Schuyler in thrall.
She grasped the paper in the center and tore it in two, and then she went on tearing until the check lay in minuscule pieces in her palm, and she emptied every one of them into the wastebasket.
Later, when she and Ruby had undressed for bed and brushed each other’s hair and turned out the lights, Penelope stared at the black ceiling and heard the Duke of Olympia whisper, over and over, against her inner ear:
You have plenty of daring.
You have so much potential.
The great crime is what has been wasted in you.
He only wants you for a mistress, she reminded herself, and probably not even that. Probably he just wants to seduce you into giving him the papers.
Damn them all. Damn every last one of them, the duke included, even Margot de Sauveterre included. None of them saw her as a person in her own right, did they? They saw her only in relation to themselves, as a thing to be used. A woman from whom a certain measure of juice could be extracted, like an orange, and then discarded.
But why should she care if the duke’s intentions were honorable? Why should she care what the world might think, if she accepted his invitation? She found him attractive. She wanted to know what it might be like, to share his bed. She also had a mission to carry out, in which the duke blocked her way like a giant aristocratic boulder. So why shouldn’t she use him as he meant to use her?
A few feet away, Ruby stirred and turned on her side, letting out a few short snores as she settled herself back into slumber. Ruby, who so fearlessly took her future in her own hands, not giving a damn what her parents wanted from her.
Penelope had spent twenty barren years following the strictures Society laid out for a penniless widow. She was past childbearing age. She had no one to answer to, except herself. Nothing to lose, except a small and precarious place in a world that didn’t give a damn for her. A family that didn’t give a damn for her.
Why not commit an act of unthinkable daring?
Or, as the saying went, to have her cake and eat it, too.
Day Six
SS Majestic
At sea
When Penelope arrived back in her stateroom at half past seven the next the morning, in an energetic swirl of salt and ozone, she found Ruby already awake, sitting at the dressing table and brushing her hair. Penelope shut the door carefully behind her. Ruby, still gazing into the mirror, cast Penelope a wise glance from the corner of her eye.
“How was your lover this morning?” she asked.
“My lover?”
Ruby swiveled around, brush in hand. Her mouth wore a wide and conspiratorial smile. “A little birdie told me you’ve been gadding about on the sly with a very attractive gentleman.”
Penelope removed her damp coat and hung it on the hook by the door. Her hat followed, pin by pin. “You must mean Mr. Penhallow. He’s a friend, that’s all. A man from Buffalo. We share an interest in geography.”
“And in walking the decks at all hours, in all weather.”
“Yes, in fresh air.” Penelope looked at her sternly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to imply, my dear, but you’re quite wrong. It’s a shipboard friendship, that’s all. We’ll part on the docks in two days, and never think of each other again.”
“You mean a day and a half.” Ruby turned back to the mirror and began to pin up her hair in expert jabs. She wore her chemise and petticoats, her shirt and her skirt. The expensive little jacket lay on the bed, ready to button up around her small waist. “Only a few more hours, Schuyler. You’d better make your move, or you’ll be stuck with us Morrisons forever.”
Penelope picked up the brush and helped Ruby smooth her hair into place. “I can think of worse fates.”
But that was a lie. She heard the words again—stuck with us Morrisons forever—and a drab sepia-toned future appeared before her, filled with overstuffed chairs and overheated rooms and grubby little bank drafts.
Just a few minutes ago, she had parted from Olympia at the door to the promenade deck, and she had said: You see? There’s nobody after my papers except you. And he had cupped a protective hand around her elbow and replied: I assure you, my dear, they’re only waiting for the chance to strike, the instant I let down my guard.
Waiting for the chance to strike. The words should have filled her with alarm, but instead she’d felt a stringy and eager excitement. As if her life were about to begin.
“I’ll miss you, of course,” Ruby went on, turning her young face this way and that. “You have to promise you’ll stand godmother to our children, at least.”
“Whose children?”
“Mine and Robert’s, of course. Who else?” Ruby gave her lips a last rub and rose from the stool, radiant and youthful, ready to take on breakfast in the grand saloon. Her hazel eyes went sharp at the corners, in an expression that might have meant mischief, or else determination. The two were so indistinguishable in the young. “I’ve finally figured out what Mama fears most.”
***
The Duke of Olympia, that impervious monument of the British nation, confidant of queens and prime ministers, uncle of rulers, builder of nations, landlord of thousands, spymaster, father, grandfather, had never been so frustrated by a single human being.
He fastened his watch chain to his pocket and examined his face in the mirror. The cheeks and chin were still rather pink from the adhesive—whiskers did not stay on by themselves—but nobody on board the SS Majestic ever dared to examine him too minutely.
Except for Penelope.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have delegated her protection to someone else and spent his own valuable time and skills on the more stimu
lating task of unmasking the villains who were after the papers she carried. (Naturally, he didn’t count himself among the villainous.) One might say he had developed something of a specialty in this line: matching up a certain splendid woman with a certain ideal champion, inevitably resulting in the kind of saccharine emotional display that the duke tried at all costs to avoid, whenever he could.
In this case, however, he had no agent available to take on the duties of the lady’s bodyguard. What was more, he had no desire to find one. He was, he realized mournfully, quite happy to follow Mrs. Penelope Schuyler about the ship from dawn until midnight, flirting dutifully with her charge while keeping a beady eye set on Penelope’s comings and goings, her breakfast and lunch and tea and dinner, her morning strolls and afternoon parlor games, her smiles and arch looks and concentrated frowns.
Like now, for example.
She was talking with Miss Harris, exactly and expressly against his orders. He knew this because she had just sent him one of those arch looks over Miss Harris’s sturdy shoulder, daring him to break up the tête-à-tête. Aren’t I naughty, that look said, quite plainly, and while Olympia’s mouth continued to trade bland little witticisms with Miss Morrison, he really wanted to march across the length of the deck, snatch Mrs. Schuyler by the hand, and take her inside to Stateroom A to show her what naughtiness really was.
Miss Harris, meanwhile, droned on as if she didn’t notice a thing. He could hear her voice all the way down the deck, above Miss Morrison’s happy chirp: a low, flat monotone rumbling that could only be conveying a subject of irretrievable dullness. He’d become familiar with that voice over the past few days, pleading for butter a few yards down the table at mealtimes, popping up here and there in the various corners of the first-class accommodation. He knew its accent, its intonations, the little squeak at its upper end when the owner forgot herself in a description of the growth cycle of Florida mosquitoes.
It was not, however, Miss Dingleby’s voice.
