by Day Taylor
Dulcie looked like a small flower in full bloom when she entered the room in her softly shaded apple-green gown that emphasized her tiny waist and her flamboyant coloring. Alain was at her side immediately. "Ravissante!" he declared, with the deepest of bows.
He held her at a decorous distance for the waltz, though his eyes plainly told her he wished it otherwise. Dulcie's cheeks were already flushed, and her eyes answered the desire in Alain's with messages she did not know were there. The sparkling crystal chandeliers, ablaze with color, melted into swiftly running rainbows as Alain whirled her through India and China, then into the dimness of the English ballroom.
Her head filled with the glory of being irresistible; she had no chance to resist before Alain's lips were on hers. "Alain . . ." she said, quivering with the feelings he had suddenly aroused.
"Ahh, Dul-see!" he breathed. "I cannot lose such a jewel as you. Why do you not linger here in pleasant Calais?'* He squeezed her to him, heedless of the dancers who might
in passing catch a glimpse of apple-green silk and know it was the American girl whom Alain was compromising. "But I must persuade you, non?"
"Alain! Please, the others, they will see us! Aunt Mad—"
"You will stay here with me. No more Aunt Mad, VoiW."
Dulcie's eyes shone, contradicting the rising panic that warned her she could no longer handle the situation. Alain moved closer. "Ahh, but you are adorable! So modest! So innocent! Mmh! Mmh!" He kissed her twice. She tried to move away from him. Alain smiled knowingly. Between men and women it was all a game, retreat and advance. For one so young she played it well. American ways and her undoubted innocence added just the spice to whet his somewhat jaded appetite. He held out his arm. "Come, Dul-see." They went down dazzlingly white marble stairs into the cool night.
The moon was nearing full. They strolled with studied aimlessness; when they stopped, they were completely hidden by tall surrounding shrubs. "You are mine now," Alain said lightly, and kissed her again. "You are my prisoner in the maze, Dul-see. You cannot get out until you have promised me that you will never leave me."
Dulcie's heart thudded. Could the impossible be happening? Was Alain thinking of marriage—so soon—and with her, of no aristocratic lineage? She tried to speak casually. "I promise not to leave you for five minutes, Alain, then I must go back to the ballroom, or my aunt and uncle will be lookin' for me. Will that be long enough?"
Even in the shadowy maze she could feel his hot gaze on her. "Five lifetimes would not be enough. Mademoiselle." He kissed each fingertip. "Listen to me, Dul-see, for I wish to speak my heart to you. I cannot bear to lose you to your Southland. I have a proposal, ma fleur. I am asking if you will become my mistress."
Dulcie was speechless. She stood staring at Alain while her mind screamed with shock and hurt. "Mistress!" she whispered. "Alain—"
"You are afraid! Ah, but ma petite, what joy I would have in teaching you! You would also, in your own way, enjoy the learning."
"I don't believe—"
He held her closer, while Dulcie stood stiff within his arms. "Dul-see, ma belle, attend to me. My father can
provide us with every material want. He is a man of the world, understanding of these affairs of love. You would have a fine apartment here in the chateau, servants, new gowns, jewels, travel. And in me you would have the perfect lover—handsome, finely clothed, and attentive. Already I speak your language. You, cherie, would speak mine in every way."
"Alain, I could not begin to consider . . . Americans cannot do things like this," she said desperately.
"You are in France, ma douce amour," he murmured softly into her ear. "For us it is entirely proper, and very sensible." He covered her face with kisses, murmuring, "Do not refuse me, Dul-see. Tell me that you will belong to me, and to me only!"
Dulcie felt the warm, confusing surge of passion consuming her, melting away her careful rearing, debasing her chastity.
Alain's seeking mouth found hers. "Oh, Dul-see," he murmured, between kisses, "my desire for you burns red as the harvest moon. Say you will receive me in your boudoir tonight, moments from this moment! Let me fold you in my deepest embrace, let me pluck the blossom from your so dainty flower of love!"
Dulcie gasped. His lips were on her breasts where they mounded creamy above the lace of her low square neckline. "Alain . . ."
He burst into French. "My Dulcie, sweeter than the honey from the perfume fields bf Grasse! I will make you sing with joy, my little nightingale—"
"Oh, Alain, is it so wonderful?" she breathed, wanting to believe Alain was the one she had waited for. Was this marvelous passion he spoke of the magical thing all women yearned for? She didn't know—oh, she didn't know.
Alain drew back, his expression sympathetic, understanding. "Ahh, ma pauvre enfant! You worry about the uncle. My father, the marquis, will explain to Monsieur Raymer. All will be well, ma petite."
Dulcie's heart was pounding sickeningly when he took her back to the ballroom. Alain relinquished her graciously to a young man who approached them. As Dulcie was whirled away, she saw Alain and the marquis walking with Uncle Oliver toward the library.
They were still talking when the music stopped. Oliver was laughing and perfectly agreeable. Her heart was in her
mouth as Alain quickly excused himself and led her to a secluded comer.
As the other guests leaped and whirled in Ihe gavotte, Alain told her, "Your uncle has regretfully refused me, ma cherie. Your father would be desolated if you were to remain in France."
Dulcie blinked at him for a moment, then made her face sad. "I am . . . disappointed, Alain. I had hoped—"
His gesture was one of negation. "A miniscule obstacle, Dul-see. There are always ways of avoidance, n*est-ce pas?"
"Oh, but I couldn't defy my uncle—"
"You have not the hair of flame for nothing, Mademoiselle. I will come to your boudoir to be with you this night, cherie. Together we will discover the mysterious delights of Vamour."
Dulcie's face grew hot. She whispered, "I cannot, Alain.'*
He chuckled softly, regretfully. "My little wild flower, you have the sweet shyness, but you have the desire for Vamour. Mais oui! In you is the passion only waiting to be set free." He pressed his lips to her hand. "Perhaps you will change your mind, ma douce.'*
A passion only waiting to be set free, he had said. Did it show, then? Had her shameful need to be loved by a man begun to show so that all could see? She blushed as she thought of the reckless desire that rose in her at the touch of a n^an's lips. Such thoughts she normally kept under tight control. Only to herself, in one small dark comer of her mind, could she admit the constant hunger to be loved, to be taken and used in love. One day it had to be someone, but each time the chance came, it seemed she would reach the point of decision and then run away from it. Again she wondered if she had made a mistake. Was Alain, after all, the man to set her free of all the longing?
Two days later a large party stood on the pier with Dulcie. Behind them were low, bleak houses, huddling along the Calais waterfront. Around them the gulls wheeled endlessly, crying in their strange voices.
It was time to board. Last kisses of the hand, fond gazes from eyes never to be looked into again, courtly bows and adieux from the marquis and the marquise. Alain took ahold of her arms and gave her a ritual kiss on each cheek,
lingering—oh, so briefly!—on her lips, desire and regret
still on his face. "Au revoir, my Dul-see. Bon voyage." "Merci, Alain. I shall think of you fondly." Then they were on the ferry, waving good-bye across
the widening stretch of water, and Dulcie's eyes were wet.
Good-bye to Europe, to Alain forever. She was going home.
Chapter Ten
In London the Raymer party boarded the Tunbridge for New York. Dulcie found an open spot at the rail where she and Claudine could watch the busy scene on the docks. Carriages and drays arrived, disgorging passengers and baggage, wealthy families with the
ir retinue of servants; the not-so-wealthy, who lugged their own baggage and their infants, with toddlers clinging wide-eyed to their mothers' skirts. A bevy of well-dressed young girls, fussily chaperoned, chatted together as they approached the gangplank, followed by five animated and attractive young men, evidently going home from their Grand Tour. Home to what? Dulcie thought idly, then uncomfortably, going home to war.
It did not bear thinking on, and she turned abruptly away to gaze down the long deck. Except for a few like herself, nearly everyone was moving toward the com-panionway that led to the passenger cabins and staterooms. Two little boys chased each other in and out around obstacles, laughing and screaming, until without warning each found his arm held firmly by a big man in a dark blue uniform. Dulcie watched, fascinated, as he quickly squatted down to the boys' level and appeared to be explaining things to them. He pointed, gestured, smiled, and the boys seemed to listen. One evidently asked about his cap, for the big man laughed and put it on the boy's head. Then he rose and sent them on their way, mildly subdued. He continued to stalk the deck, his hands behind him, his restless eyes seeing everything.
Dulcie nudged Claudine. Claudine smiled dreamily. "A real prime example o' manhood, there, Miss Dulcie. Git
yo' eyes full, 'cause a man like dat, he got him a wife in eve'y poat."
Dulcie fastened her eyes on the opposite side of the deck. He would pass in front of them in a few seconds. Then, as if it were his duty to do so, he deliberately turned his head toward her. In the moment before he lifted his hand to his cap in a courteous salutation, Dulcie saw the brilliant blue eyes widen in recognition.
She got a blurred impression of a clear, warmly tanned complexion; of high cheekbones, a finely sculptured jaw, and a thick, coal-black moustache that curved over his upper lip to stop just below the corners of his handsome unsmiling mouth. She went hot from head to foot, drawing in her breath involuntarily; but he walked on, his smooth long-legged pace unbroken.
For a moment Dulcie stood paralyzed, then her eyes darted after him. He showed no signs of looking back. She found the courage to turn her head and stare frankly at his broad shoulders, moving slightly under the well-fitted dark blue frock coat that tapered down to his slim hips. Dulcie liked the purposeful way he put each shining boot down, like a man in command of himself as well as others, a man with neither braggadocio nor false modesty, whose step had an energetic liveliness that bespoke his long acquaintance with decks in every kind of sea.
He was suddenly swallowed into the companionway. Dulcie realized she had been standing with her breath held, every muscle tensed. She managed to close her mouth. She blinked rapidly. She turned to Claudine, to find her maid gawking much as she must have been.
"Ooh my, Miss Dulcie," Claudine breathed.
They strolled the length of the deck once more, then went down to help Aunt Mad unpack.
"We saw the captain. Uncle Oliver," said Dulcie. "Tramping up and down the deck with the weight of the world on him."
"As he should," replied Oliver. "This is his first voyage in command of the Tunbridge. He has three hundred sixty passengers to worry about, as well as his crew."
"I certainly hope he has a postilion," said Mad placidly, and they all began to laugh.
Dulcie said, "You know the captain, then, Uncle Oliver?"
"We sailed under him last year on the Fairwinds. Surly fellow, bullies his crewmen."
"Oh! He bullies his crewmen? But he's so handsome!"
"Captain Sloan? I shouldn't have described him so. But, then, I don't have your fresh viewpoint."
"But his name isn't—" Dulcie stopped herself. She had given him her word she'd never mention him, his ship, or that he'd helped her.
That night at the second dinner sitting Dulcie saw him again, two tables away. His black curls gleamed in the lamplight as he bent his head to take a forkful of food. He was making perfunctory replies to an attractive girl next to him. "There, Uncle Oliver, how can you not call him good-looking?"
"Oh, that one. That's someone else. Yes, he's got a nice face. A bit too sensitive, but still strong." Oliver smiled. "Shall I find out about him, my dear?"
Dulcie saw him frequently on deck the next few days, staring preoccupied over the ocean for an hour at a time or pacing with that restless impatience of a man with not enough to do. She sometimes glanced at him if they passed each other; but his eyes stayed straight ahead of him across the miles to New York City.
The voyage could be over if she waited for him to approach her. There was not that much time to waste being shy and ladylike. Driven by impulses she only dimly understood, she slipped away from Claudine, slipped away from them all in search of Adam Tremain.
By the time she had climbed the companionway and forced herself to walk sedately the length of the deck, her heart was pounding in something approaching panic. He was there—he usually was—staring out at the water cleaved by the prow, wrestling with private problems she could scarcely have imagined.
She gathered her courage. "Cap-Captain Tremain."
Moving with the alertness of a man who lives always with danger, he had already turned toward her, sweeping his cap off to tuck it under bis left arm. "Yes, ma'am?" he said with a half smile, the intense blue eyes lighting.
He was tall, almost threateningly large, a rock of a man one could break oneself on. Suppressing the urge to shiver, she drew in her breath. "I'm sorry to disturb you. Captain."
"It's all right, Miss Moran." His voice was deep, accented by the South. "How can I be of service to you?"
Dulcie took herself in hand. She had business with this man, even if she did find him troublesomely attractive.
Surely she could handle the asking of a few questions! "I brought you a number of passengers. You took them North—^to freedom." His expression had changed, closed, become withdrawn if not outright combative. Dulcie stumbled on, "Surely you remember. Captain Tremain! There were ten of them, and you promised one man you'd find his sons for him."
He looked out to sea a moment, and his eyes returned to strike into hers again. From the time they'd first met, this girl had meant trouble. "I don't remember. Miss Moran."
She persisted, filling in details. "Can't you tell me about Fellie? Did he get away safely? And what about his boys?'*
"I can't tell you anything because I haven't got the least recollection of the man you're asking about"
"But you promised!" Dulcie's eyes filled with tears. "It meant so much to Fellie . . . and to me."
Relenting a little, he said gently, "Miss Moran, if I gave my word, I kept it."
The interview was over.
She turned to go. It had been an utter failure. Not only had she found out nothing about Fellie and his family but now Captain Tremain would see her as a pushy, forward female. She had been a fool, a shameless fool.
Adam watched her proud retreat, his eyes troubled. The man Fellie had been a favorite of hers; she had gone to great risk to help him make free. Naturally she wanted to know about him.
Heavy steps on the deck behind him brought his thoughts to a halt. It could only be one person: Captain Sloan. Adam studied the water, tense, braced against Sloan's too boisterous slap on the back. At the last instant he faced him and saluted smartly.
Israel Sloan's brutish expression had changed only for the worse since Adam had served under him as second mate. "Well, Captain*' he said with a joviality that showed his tobacco-stained teeth. "You remember one thing I taught you—respect for your elders and betters. Even if that was a pretty God-damned sloppy salute."
Adam looked him boldly in the eyes, aware that Sloan would take fullest enjoyment in embarrassing him, if indeed he could not find sufficient excuse to clap him into irons or have him flogged before the crew. "Sorry, Captain, guess I've gotten out of practice.'*
"Too busy tryin' to take over my command, that it?"
"No, sir."
Sloan's voice was menacing. "Come on now. Mister, don't go tellin' me no friggin' lies. I got eyes,
and they see real good. I been watchin' you trampin' my decks from stem to stem, nosin' into every little thing, lookin' for somethin' to go crosswise so's you can be Johnny-on-the-spot to set it right. Ain't that so. Mister?"
Adam held Sloan's gaze. "That's not so. Captain. I'm a passenger on your ship, and that's all. I have my master's papers in good order. I suggest you call me Captain Tre-main."
Sloan guffawed. "Just happens I like to call you Mister. Helps keep you in your rightful place. I see you got all the pretty little quiffs marchin' right up to you to make your private arrangements, too." He leered, revoltingly suggestive. "Just let one of my men catch you holed up someplace—anyplace—^with one o' your whores! I'll make you so sorry you'll wish you'd been bom dead, do you understand me. Mister?"
"Perfectly," said Adam. "As a paying passenger, I don't take kindly to being threatened. Do you understand me, Captain?"
His thick fingers smacked Adam's lapel heavily. "I don't like your uniform. Mister. On this ship there's only one captain, and I'm it. Hereafter, you find something else to wear."
"Yes, sir." Adam saluted as Sloan left, and turned back to the sea. God forbid that he'd ever become like Sloan! Rank was such a privilege. "Find something else to wear." Adam's eyes suddenly sparkled.
At dinner that night Dulcie sat with her back toward Adam's table, a maneuver that Adam observed wryly, and devoted her attentions to Goodman Hastings, one of the five Grand Tourists. Skits would be presented in the lounge so that the ladies would have an evening of entertainment before their escorts attended Gentlemen's Night as guests of the captain. Goody invited Dulcie to accompany him to the skits, and with Mad's permission she agreed.
After the entertainment they strolled leisurely around the deck. Goody tucked Dulcie's hand under his arm, quoting humorous incidents of the presentation. Dulcie took an unexpectedly fierce delight in being with some other
gentleman when they happened on Captain Tremain standing in his eternal spot along the rail, smoking a fresh cigar and watching the sea.
