Closed Circle

by Robert Goddard

  ‘This may be a waste of effort,’ I protested in vain. ‘Miss Charnwood may be impervious to our charms.’

  ‘Then you can toss your copy over the side. And I’ll do the same with mine – assuming I ever lay hands on it.’ Our eyes met. ‘What’s holding you up?’

  ‘Nothing.’ And, so saying, I began to write.

  Max and I dined at separate tables that evening, thus doubling our chances of striking up other promising acquaintances among our well-heeled fellow-passengers. Those whose company I was obliged to endure through so many gourmet courses that I lost count included a Newfoundland wood-pulp millionaire and his mountainous wife, an actress of the unrestrained school and her lugubrious husband, a Polish countess of enigmatic mien, the ship’s surgeon, who nearly had to spring into action when milady wood-pulp suffered a choking fit, and the reticent but watchful Mr Faraday.

  Faraday worried me more in retrospect than at the time, when, lulled by good wine and egregious service, I failed to notice that he was playing much the same game as me: listening to the revealing babble of others while disclosing virtually nothing of himself. He was about fifty years of age, short and slightly built, with close-cropped black hair and moustache, a mobile mouth that seemed to be savouring some delicacy even when it was empty, the faintest of quivers to his head as he concentrated on what was being said and, most disturbing of all, an unblinking gaze of moist and feline intensity. His manners were impeccable, his remarks unobjectionable and yet I did not like Mr Faraday. More precisely, I did not understand him. Worse still, I had the disquieting impression that he might understand me all too well. I resolved to avoid him for the rest of the voyage.

  Of Miss Charnwood, aunt or niece, I saw no sign. They either dined later than us or in their suite. Perhaps the diamond-hearted Diana had decided to make her social début when she could be assured of being the centre of attention. Or perhaps she did not care for the seating lottery of the restaurant, a prejudice I was inclined to share even though I could not afford to indulge it.

  Yet my hopes of seeing her before the party and so taking the measure of our task were not to be dashed. All next day, the Empress of Britain cruised serenely out across the Gulf of St Lawrence, white-hulled and resplendent beneath a cloudless sky. And out into the air came its passengers, to sit beneath plaid rugs and play at quoits, to walk off breakfast and squint at the horizon, or, in some cases, to observe without being observed.

  For this purpose, Max and I spent much of the day wandering the ship, steamer-capped and mufflered, apparently idle but actually intent upon our particular occupation. It was while nearing the stern end of the sports deck promenade shortly before noon that I noticed below us on the lounge deck, waddling out to sniff the ozone, none other than Miss Vita Charnwood, unmistakable in brogues and tweed. But, on this occasion, she was not alone. Beside her, walking with considerably more grace, was a slim young woman in fur-trimmed coat and cloche hat.

  ‘The Charnwoods,’ I whispered to Max. We stopped in the shadow of a lifeboat and peered down at them. ‘Do you recognize her?’

  ‘From a few old magazine photographs?’ exclaimed Max. ‘Not at this range. Why don’t I step down and take a closer look while you stay here? It’s the only chance I’ll have of a dekko before we meet them tonight. And you’ve already met the aunt.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  So Max headed for the nearest companion-way while I remained where I was. The Charnwoods were halfway round a circuit of the stern rail when he appeared below me. By following the same route in the opposite direction, he was able to engineer a good view of them, especially since they paused at one point to speak to somebody. At length, they passed out of my sight back into the lounges, leaving Max leaning against the rail. Waiting only to be sure I would not encounter them on my way, I went down to join him.

  He had lit a cigarette by the time I reached him and seemed to be lost in thought, eyes fixed on the blue ensign fluttering above us in the breeze. ‘Well?’ I demanded, when it became obvious that he was about to volunteer nothing.

  ‘Sorry,’ he murmured, smiling faintly and looking at me like a man waking from a dream. ‘It’s her all right. The photographs don’t do her justice.’

  ‘Quite a looker, then?’

  ‘You could say so, yes.’

  ‘But what would you say? All I could see was the brim of her hat.’

  ‘Yes. I suppose it was.’ His gaze drifted past me once more. ‘As a matter of fact, old man, I’d say she was probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.’

  The curse of a classical education is that mythological parallels occur unbidden to the mind when dealing with everyday realities. As soon as Max had praised Diana Charnwood’s beauty, the fate of Actaeon when he spied on another Diana insinuated itself into my thoughts. Yet the goddess, I reminded myself, had been bathing, the heiress merely promenading. And Max had always understood that the pursuit of wealth is more rewarding than the pursuit of beauty. I felt sure I could rely upon him not to forget this simple truth.

  There was no denying, however, that his tantalizing glimpse of what lay beneath the cloche hat had made him even more determined to exploit our opportunity. We had agreed to present ourselves at the Charnwood suite a quarter of an hour after the party was due to commence, in order to avert any suspicion of over-eagerness. But when I came to leave my cabin at ten past six, I found a note had been slipped beneath my door. It was from Max.

  Decided to go on ahead. See you there.

  M.

  I could not help smiling at his cunning. The embarrassment of introducing himself was nothing compared with the disadvantage of arriving in my incontestably handsome shadow. But the night was scarcely born. I had no reason to expect I would continue to be outmanoeuvred.

  The Charnwood suite was one of the largest on the ship and I found it already comfortably full, golden shafts of sunlight from the port-side windows lancing through a gabbling press of party-goers. Running a gauntlet of champagne- and canapé-wielding stewards, I came upon the elder Miss Charnwood, looking even vaster in low-cut pink satin than she had in straining tweed.

  ‘Mr Horton!’ she proclaimed. ‘You were able to join us after all, then. I’m so glad.’

  ‘There was never any doubt of it, Miss Charnwood.’

  ‘But your friend, Mr Wingate, implied you might be detained elsewhere.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Perhaps I misunderstood. No matter. Diana will be so pleased to meet you. She’s … oh … on the balcony at present, I think. Let me first introduce you to some of our guests.’ She flapped one hand towards a bearded man of about her own age and some timid creature I took to be his wife. ‘We first encountered Mr and Mrs Preece here at Niagara Falls. Then again at our hotel in Quebec. Mr Preece is something of an expert on Esperanto. He’s just been telling me all about it.’

  I had no intention of allowing Preece to tell me anything, let alone all, about Esperanto and I slipped away from him a matter of seconds after Miss Charnwood had done the same. The balcony was, needless to say, my destination.

  It was there, where sea breezes offered relief from the noise and heat within, that Diana had taken up her station, surrounded by admirers both young and old. There they were, Max among them, shoulders squared to exclude newcomers, tense with the effort of capping each other’s remarks, taut with ill-suppressed rivalry. The scene was not a new one. I had witnessed it before, at parties in New York graced by the presence of a Hollywood starlet. And I knew better than to join the ruck. To be late on such occasions is to be lost. Better to hover hopefully, perhaps even mysteriously. Which is what I endeavoured to do, retreating to the other end of the balcony, where I could sip my champagne and examine the object of so much attention.

  She was beautiful. There was no pretending otherwise. Her dark brown hair was drawn back in a chignon, leaving her face clear and open. Normally, however pleasing a face may be, there is some flaw, some thinness of lip or fullness of jaw, to preclude the
suggestion of perfection. But not in this case. The eyes as they sparkled in the sunlight, the mouth as it opened in an easy smile, the neck as it stretched in languid gesture: all conspired to stray beyond the limits of visual appeal into the realm of immediate fascination.

  She wore an ultramarine dress of quiet elegance, a topaz pendant and a slim gold bracelet on her left wrist. But really these adornments were irrelevant, as her ease with herself suggested she realized. She was polite and amiable, yet also remote, glancing just often enough out to sea to imply that the company, however witty, however flattering, would always fall short of what she deserved. Whether Max was faring better than the others I could not tell, but there was no disputing that he was faring better than me.

  I was just debating whether to make some effort to supplant him when the odious Faraday appeared on the balcony and instantly caught my eye.

  ‘I hadn’t realized you were acquainted with the Charnwoods, Mr Horton,’ he remarked with a smile.

  ‘Nor I you, Mr Faraday.’

  ‘Oh, I rendered the elder Miss Charnwood some small service while she was in Quebec.’

  ‘What manner of service?’

  He tapped the side of his nose and smiled more broadly. ‘You’re enjoying the party?’

  ‘Of course. And you?’

  ‘Why, yes. I find it most … instructive.’

  ‘Mr Horton?’ Suddenly, Diana was standing next to us, smiling straight at me. She had broken free of her retinue, who were straggling the length of the balcony, uncertain at what pace it was seemly to follow.

  ‘Er … yes.’ I shook her hand, noticing the sinuousness of her fingers. ‘Delighted to meet you.’

  ‘I recognized you from my aunt’s description.’ At closer quarters, the remoteness in her bearing seemed to vanish, the warmth of her gaze to become irresistible. ‘And from your friend’s.’ She glanced back at Max, whose grin was for my benefit: a mixture of the sheepish and the superior. ‘You know Mr Faraday?’

  ‘Only very slightly.’

  ‘Then you know him as well as anyone can.’ She glanced at him as she said it, but if the remark was intended to be provocative, it did not succeed. His only response was a faint twitch of the eyebrows. ‘I’m so grateful to you for coming to Aunt Vita’s aid yesterday,’ she added, looking back at me.

  ‘It was nothing, really. Do you share her preference for this route?’

  ‘Yes. But not for the same reason.’ Growing suddenly solemn, she said, ‘Excuse me,’ and moved swiftly away into the cabin.

  Seeing me frown at her abruptness, Faraday sidled closer and said: ‘An ill-chosen question, I’m afraid, Mr Horton.’

  ‘It seemed harmless enough.’

  ‘Her mother died on the Lusitania. Didn’t you know?’

  ‘No,’ I snapped. ‘I did not. Obviously.’ Then, deciding to glean as much as I could, I added more moderately: ‘You seem remarkably well-informed about the family.’

  ‘Not really. Merely better informed than you.’

  Refusing to be riled, I smiled and asked as casually as I could contrive, ‘Was Miss Charnwood rescued from the Lusitania? Or was she not aboard?’

  ‘The latter. Her mother had travelled alone to visit her family in Pittsburgh. She was a McGowan, you know.’ Diana’s connection with the famous Pennsylvania steel dynasty made her an even more desirable catch. I sensed Faraday judging my reaction to this revelation and endeavoured to ensure there was none for him to judge. ‘Well,’ he said after a pause, ‘I really must circulate.’ And, with a condescending little bow, he was gone.

  ‘What do you make of him?’ asked Max, who had remained on the balcony and now stepped across to join me by the rail.

  ‘Even more treacherous than you, I’d say.’

  He smirked. ‘No good blaming me for your poor tactics, old man.’

  ‘A word to the wise. Her mother went down on the Lusitania. And she was a McGowan.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Gossip columns. Remember?’ His smirk began to verge on the intolerable. ‘You’ll be glad to know I’m doing rather well.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think she may have her eye on me.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do. Perhaps I’m the type she’s always been wanting to meet.’ My expression must have made my incredulity obvious. His smirk evaporated. ‘You’ve always thought me a dull dog when it comes to the fairer sex, haven’t you, Guy? Well, maybe you’re about to discover that not all women want their men to look like hand-me-down Valentinos.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ I slapped the rail in irritation. ‘She is beautiful. I agree. Memorably so. Desirable from every point of view. But she’s also very much the mistress of her own destiny. I don’t think you – or I – have the slightest chance of winning her heart.’

  Max’s gaze narrowed. ‘We’ll have to see about that, won’t we?’ And, turning on his heel, he left me to my champagne and dented pride.

  Max turned out to be a good judge of his own success. When the party fizzled out, he was near the centre of the favoured group that accompanied Diana and her aunt to dinner. So, to my horror, was Faraday, although his attentions, in so far as one could tell, seemed to be focused on Vita. Perhaps he knew his limitations even if Max did not know his.

  I had certainly been given a salutary lesson in mine and consoled myself by buttering up the Atkinson-Whites, an innocent Home Counties couple eager for advice on what to do with a recent and substantial inheritance. This struck me as a problem which it would have been churlish of me not to assist them in solving and they seemed grateful to know that I would be in touch soon after we reached England.

  As to Max, the first opportunity I had of gauging his progress in a more dispassionate light came the following morning, after a game of real tennis. He had won most of our matches over the years at the Tuxedo Club in New York, but the unfamiliarity of a floating court was not the reason why I recorded a rare victory on this occasion. The truth is that jealousy makes a fine coach.

  Max took defeat in his stride, as, in the circumstances, he could afford to. ‘The high seas agree with your game, Guy,’ he remarked in the changing-room afterwards. ‘Or perhaps something disagrees with mine.’

  ‘Smugness, you mean?’ I retorted. ‘I’ve certainly never seen you lose so many points with a smile.’

  ‘I’ve plenty to smile about, as it happens. A chase to beat any you made out there.’

  ‘It goes well, then?’

  ‘Uncommonly well. She likes me. Call it my good fortune or her good taste. Either way—’ He tossed a damp towel at me to silence my guffaw. ‘Either way, old man, why should you complain? You’ll share whatever I earn from this venture.’

  ‘You think we will earn something?’

  ‘It’s too soon to say. But I’m … quietly confident.’

  Confident? Yes, he was. But that was not all. Nor was money what he was necessarily confident of obtaining. Reluctant though I was to believe it, Max was beginning to look and sound happier than he had in years, to look and sound, indeed, like a man falling in love. After our shower, we stopped for a drink in the trellis-and-wicker café adjoining the tennis court. There I had the chance to study him at leisure, staring dreamily through the smoke from his cigarette, failing to finish sentences, losing track of whatever we were discussing. The signs were clear and I did not ignore them. But there was no reason to be alarmed. Infatuation might lend conviction to his performance. I knew him too well to believe it could ever rival the governing motive of our lives.

  Besides, as Max had pointed out, I had no grounds for complaint. While he went off to meet Diana for lunch, I adjourned to the ship’s library and looked up her father’s entry in Who’s Who.

  CHARNWOOD, Fabian Melville, MA; JP, Surrey; Proprietor, Charnwood Investments; b 17 May 1870; o s of Andrew Charnwood; m 1901, Maud (d 1915), d of Zachary McGowan, Pittsburgh, USA; one d. Educ: Christ’s Hospital; Sidney Sussex College
, Cambridge. BA 1892; MA 1897. Entered 1893 his father’s firm, Moss Charnwood Ltd, rifle and small arms manufacturers, London; Director, 1901; Chairman, 1906. Resigned to establish Charnwood Investments, 1907. Address: Amber Court, Dorking, Surrey. T: Bookham 258. Clubs: Ambassador, Gresham, St James’.

  It was, by the standards of the publication, a brief and uninformative biography. But I found this strangely reassuring, for reticence is often the surest symptom of wealth. And wealth was our target as well as our ambition. While Max aspired to the daughter, we could both aim at the father. Fabian Melville Charnwood was in our sights.

  2

  THE VOYAGE PROCEEDED smoothly and so, somewhat against my expectations, did Max’s courtship of Diana Charnwood. They lunched and dined together, usually without even Vita for company, the oceanic phase of the trip having had its predicted effect on her constitution. They waltzed by night and promenaded by day. They displayed on every occasion that exclusive delight in each other which to the cynical observer is an unmistakable sign of the psychiatric disorder commonly called love.

  Like any man of reasonable intelligence, I had long since realized that love amounts to no more than physical desire draped for decency’s sake in some skimpy shreds of philosophy. I had convinced a good many women over the years that they loved me, but I had never for one second believed that I loved them. And the same went for Max. Or so, until now, I had supposed.

  But, as day followed day and my only glimpses of Max were in moonstruck contemplation of the beauteous Diana, I was forced to revise my opinion. Thirty-four was late in life for such foolishness, worryingly so in view of the tendency for childhood ailments to be more serious when contracted by adults. Yet I was not worried. In the unlikely event of them marrying, Max would do well by me. The contract he had signed – and our long association – guaranteed that. In the far more likely event of Diana’s father trying to buy him off, Max could be relied upon to see reason. As for Diana, I hoped this was no mere shipboard romance. All I could do to sustain it was to let it flourish unhindered. Accordingly, I gave the pair a wide berth. And the little I saw of them suggested I was wise to do so.