“Yes indeed, C.F.,” Flash answered. “I’d say it’s every bit as good as one of your stage shows.”
“Well, I wish I could circulate more freely and enjoy it. But my better half here is a harsh mistress.” Frohman spoke with a rueful smile, tapping his stick on the polished hardwood floor.
Matt said, “Our kind host was just telling me about a problem he has. He’s short a singer.”
“Oh my, you didn’t volunteer our Alma here, did you?” Winnie blurted out with an air of mischievous and slightly tipsy innocence. “She won’t like that one bit…being so talented, but shy.” She covered her mouth as if realizing she’d spoken out of turn. “Sorry,” she murmured aside to Alma’s urgent look. “Too much bubbly, I think.”
“I didn’t suggest anything,” Matt said to Alma, obviously anxious to cover himself. “Anyway,” he added, “it shouldn’t be hard to find talent in this Broadway bunch.”
“Actually,” Frohman said, “it’s a little touchy dealing with these stars. When they’re together socially, they’d rather stand back and kibitz somebody else. Are you saying this lovely lady of yours can sing? Do you read music, my dear?”
“I’m not saying it,” Matt hastily said as Alma felt herself blushing. She was suddenly light-headed, too, from this sudden attention. Or was it the drink?
“Well, I can tell she has a voice, even from the very little she’s said tonight.” Frohman turned back to Alma. “I’m sorry, my dear, it shouldn’t have been a problem to begin with. My friend Jerry Kern–you know, the young Broadway songwriter–is supposed to be here with us. He was going to sing and perform at the piano for this party, so I brought the set of sheet music to his latest hit and gave it to the band.” He reached into the chair beside him and drew out a music folio.
“But Jerry didn’t make it…he sent me a radio telegram apologizing. It said he’d overslept and missed the boat, after staying out all night at a party singing and playing. So far, I haven’t been able to line up a replacement.”
“Coming from you, C.F.,” Flash said, “it ought to be a command performance for any of these actors.”
“Well, yes…but the stars,” Frohman lamented, “the temperamental stars…”
Alma spoke up in desperation, looking around the room. “What about Josephine Brandell, the opera singer? If they’re afraid of being compared to anyone, it’s her.”
“I tried.” Frohman shook his head sadly. “She’s saving her voice, she said. She may be too worried about the war, or a bit seasick. She’s gone back to her cabin.” He pressed Alma. “If I could just prevail on you to look at this…?” He held out the printed song sheet.
“I’m not really that good, and my voice isn’t in condition,” Alma protested, sipping champagne to moisten her throat.
“Methinks the lady protest-eth too much,” Flash mischievously said. “I’ve heard her belt one out when she thought nobody was around. She’s dynamite.”
“You can practice in the spare bedroom if you like,” Frohman urged her. “It’s Jerry’s best tune so far, really something special. They Didn’t Believe Me, it’s called.” He thrust the folio into Alma’s hand. “I put him to work polishing up some of my British import musicals, and he’s transformed them. This song’s more free-form and dramatic than the usual show stuff. A male part, written as a duet, so you’ll have to tinker with the lyrics.”
“I’ve heard it performed. It’s lovely.” Alma’s reluctance as she looked over the music was shot through by a sudden yearning, fueled too by that last sip of champagne. “I do feel that I owe you something for showing us all such a wonderful time. If you really think…”
And so it was arranged. Winnie hurried Alma off to the bedroom to practice, the two of them clasping hands in excitement.
* * *
Matt carried Frohman’s copies of sheet music over to the bandleader and the piano player. He felt a thrill of stage fright himself for Alma, worrying less for fear of exposure than for how the experience might affect her after her recent distemper. But then, you had to take chances in this life. He hoped the alcohol might smooth over the risks and expectations, both for Alma and her cosmopolitan audience.
He rejoined Flash to watch and wait. Around them flowed the chatter and glitter of the social scene—a last, carefree remnant of the peacetime world they were so rapidly leaving behind. Or so it seemed to his reporter’s eye, only slightly sentimental after two drinks.
When it came time and the giddy, slightly tipsy girls returned, Charles Frohman stood up. He tapped his cane sharply against the underside of a table, waiting for the local hubbub to subside. Alma stood by, flushed and alert.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the impresario said, “May I introduce to all of you an unknown but talented performer, Miss Alma Brady. Tonight she’s consented to sing for us one of Jerome Kern’s latest hits from Broadway. He sends deep regrets that he can’t be here to accompany her, but I hope you’ll be kind to our guest and show her your appreciation.” Amid the polite round of clapping, he signaled to the orchestra.
The band struck up a gentle introduction, and Alma stepped to the front with the poise of a trained singer.
“Don’t know how it happened, quite. Must have been the summer night…”
She sang simply and beautifully with almost no hesitation, holding the sheet music before her. The partygoers remained silent, and only faint chatter came in from the other rooms. The atmosphere was one of subdued appraisal of this brash newcomer.
“Your lips, your eyes, your curly hair, are in class beyond compare…”
“Your girl’s a natural,” Flash murmured in Matt’s ear. The youth kept his arm snug around Winnie, who beamed with pride.
About the room, murmured remarks and conversation resumed, signaling acceptance and perhaps relief. But when the song’s already familiar refrain swelled forth, with Alma’s voice following, it brought a newly attentive hush.
“And when I told them how wonderful you are…”
The small band’s music rose heroically, and the singer’s voice soared above it like a bird caught in a sudden tempest, arching over wind-driven trees to find a perch.
“They wouldn’t believe me, they’ll never believe me, that from this great big world you’ve chosen me.”
She sang through the first verse and the second with growing confidence. As she finished, the applause from the cultivated crowd was genuine and spontaneous.
A success, no denying it! Alma looked radiant, her wide-eyed gaze roving the room and lingering on Matt—or so it seemed to him as he vigorously applauded.
Then someone shouted for an encore. Instead, the singer fled the limelight into the arms of Charles Frohman, who gave her a congratulatory hug and a peck on the cheek.
“What a joy to catch them on the brink of success,” he remarked to Matt as he handed her over. “Before they become great stars.”
Matt was all congratulation, bolstering her as well-wishers came by. But after her triumph, Alma couldn’t stay long at the party. There were too many interested stares, too many questions. At her earnest entreaty, Matt found their coats and swept her away. He told Flash and Winnie to stay at Frohman’s as long as they liked–advice that the younger couple received with a mutual wink, as the other two headed out on a moonlight walk.
As they went, Alma clung close. It gave Matt reason to believe that the Atlantic’s restless tides had shifted once again, this time in his favor. Well apart from the rest, he took Alma into his arms and experienced something he hadn’t known from her as yet—earnest, eager passion in her kiss.
The two lingered in the deepest shadows of the promenade. Drawn together in a tight embrace, they said very little before returning to their stateroom.
The most penetrating stare that followed them was from one of the ship’s stewards standing party-watch to starboard—a compact, sandy-haired man who nodded
in quiet satisfaction.
* * *
Black satin gleamed and diamonds glittered. Seen against Alma’s soft, pale skin, her red lips and raven locks overwhelmed Matt’s senses. As their faces brushed, her warm nearness was a medley of pleasure and fascination. The drawing room’s single dim lamp set off the beauty of her upturned face.
Those black-gloved hands fumbled at her tight diamond choker and flung it aside, offering up her smooth neck for him to kiss. Still the satin evening gown was in the way. She arched her back against the lounge and let him reach behind. Loosening the clasp, he peeled the garment down her ivory shoulders.
Her chest against his face was creamy silk. He grazed across it gently, hoping his few hours of stubble wouldn’t prickle too harshly. He heard her breath sighing and could feel her heart race.
Writhing with his help, she drew her elbows clear of the tight dress to force it down from her pale, pink-tipped breasts. Watching them quiver free, Matt felt a velvet hand on the back of his neck. Alma’s other gloved hand clutched one breast in an erotic confection of white, pink and velvety black which she crammed up against his lips. He tasted one sweet bud, then the other in its turn.
His dinner jacket slid to the floor as they strove together. She clutched at him, groping with soft black fingertips to tug away his bowtie, cummerbund and shirtfront. He took charge, lifting her waist and undoing the last clasps of her gown. But the costly garment clung to the fullness of her hips. Not to tear it, she twisted artfully. Lifting her arms, she let him draw it up over her head, and in an instant wriggled free.
The silk chemise that remained was as nothing. He brushed it aside, only to pause at the wealth of beauty, nature and art before him—her slender limbs, shapely body, the lush curvature of hips and soft blonde nest of her lap. All were framed by the wicked black of dyed hair, elbow-length gloves, knee-high stockings and patent leather pumps. Before this delirious vision he reeled against a heady surging of alcohol, fevered blood, and the sea tides shifting underfoot.
* * *
Alma’s head swam, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She wasn’t weak but energized—eager and impatient for more of these delicious sensations, the pleasant shocks of closeness and intimacy. She wanted these moments not to end but go on, more intensely and urgently.
The warmth of Matt’s enfolding and the breathless crush of his embrace thrilled her. The tickle of his lips on her ear and the gentle rasp of his breathing wiped out all other sensations. She clutched to feel his reality, kissed to goad him into more passion, and squirmed to make their bodies touch everywhere possible. Each limb, each cell, each hair of her was alive and found a mate in him. This energy—this love—she’d never known it before and didn’t want it to end.
He had paused to come up for air. She gazed at him, feeling breathless with excitement, and even more with wonder at her own abandon. All the fear, frustration and doubt of recent years seemed to find a marvelous, sensuous release in Matt. Standing before her only half-clothed, he was more of a man than she’d yet seen. His hungry gaze, tousled head and strong, eager hands didn’t frighten or repel her. He seemed ready at any moment to topple onto her—and that bulge in his trousers must soon become painful. She was ready. And yet, fighting through the mists of intoxication and lust, she knew what she had to do.
He’d stopped. Had she been too forward, too brazen? In his present state it obviously didn’t matter. She must take the chance.
“Matt, darling, I have to get up.” Kicking off her shoes she arose, thrillingly aware of her nakedness and how the chemise barely slid to mask it. Matt swayed into her, his hands questing; but she slipped past him with a quick embrace and a kiss to his neck. He remained gentle, his body firm, his breath no more scented with alcohol than her own. He deserved her. Hadn’t he earned her?
Passing through the bedroom into the washroom, she found her metal case with the diaphragm. It was new. Her old one she’d thrown away, never intending to need it again. But Hildegard had said she must have one, like all of the girls, as part of a nurse’s readiness.
After relieving herself, she inserted it—trying not to think of past encounters with Jim, the whiskey breath and tobacco stink of his rutting bulk, in the pitch darkness that she’d always insisted on. And those vile attempts by the others, awful!
Here tonight already was more pleasure, more promise, more heaven with Matt. At what lay ahead, what could yet happen, a hot shiver of excitement coursed through her, sweeping away the past.
One more thing from her bag, a secret weapon she’d never meant to use, but saved: a filmy chiffon robe, all but transparent, ruffled at neck, wrists and knee. She laid aside the long black gloves, stockings and chemise. Having brought her to this promise of love, they’d served their purpose.
Still she must take care, or even be ready to resist. Passion and intoxication must not rule over good sense. Could it be true, as she’d read, that six in ten American wives suffered from a vile disease, gonorrhea? And countless more hapless mothers and babes, syphilis?
She had to be sure. Being a nurse should count for something.
When a woman sheds her clothes, she sheds her shame. Where had she heard that? As Alma moved to the lavatory door, the ship’s mild rolling caused soft chiffon to brush against her thighs, nipples and intimate parts, making her nudity more thrilling.
Matt sat on the bed in his briefs. At first she thought he was playing a musical instrument. But then she realized he was inflating something—a condom! Alma had learned that even the new rubber sheaths had defects. He was testing it to be sure it would protect him, and her, too, not just against disease but pregnancy.
In a passion of relief and thankfulness, she moved close. Kneeling down, she assisted him. Her nurse training was a help and she handled him with tenderness. His caution and responsibility were the greatest gifts that she could imagine.
Then in a mad surge of affection, she risked everything—and knew in a terrible moment of certainty, she’d lost him forever.
Yet love prevailed. Again he crushed her in his embrace, this time flesh to flesh, tongue to tongue, without barrier or restraint. His kiss ravished her rudely, alarmingly. If Boss Jim had tried this, their mouths would have been full of blood. But she gave in and gave back, trading intimacy for intimacy, invasion for intrusion. Again she felt possessed by the need to possess him, every fiber of her body throbbing in tune with his. Her lips, legs, arms clutched to draw him in, until finally they were joined.
The presence of his maleness inside her was a dynamo, a piston pumping electricity through her core. Her desperation matched his as their hot, moist friction became a searing fusion. She strove fiercely, building to heights of sensation she’d never known.
* * *
Before waiting resignedly outside the lavatory, Matt had gathered up their loose clothing from the drawing room and laid it on the far bed. To it he added his trousers, but retained his briefs. This Saloon Class heating was superb, driving out the sea’s chill.
The champagne had worn off, and there was no more. Just as well; he still might need his wits.
Hopefully their romantic enchantment would resume. She’d surprised him with her extreme ardor in the drawing room. He thought of other women he’d seen, but not known, the hard women of the street, the wild ones and later, broken and wilted ones, fallen to sickness or addiction. She wasn’t one of those, she couldn’t be. He didn’t know what Jim and his crew might have done to her, but there was still a strength here, and joyous innocence.
Was she safe for him? To be certain, he took a condom from his supply and tested it.
The washroom door swung open, its electric light dazzling. Through it came a vision, all of Alma’s charms outlined by the glow and revealed in filmy gauze. Barefoot she stood before him, wearing only her loose translucent robe and a loving smile.
By the bedroom light he saw that she’d renewed her lipst
ick—a softer pink, that she now moistened with dainty pink tongue-tip. Moving close, she bent forward over him on the bed. Her loose breasts swayed in chiffon, and her thighs brushed tantalizingly against his knees.
“I want to see all of you,” she said, undoing the button of his shorts. Deftly but not expertly she tugged them down, a delightful feeling, and whisked them off his legs.
He fumbled with the condom, trying to drag it onto his maleness, which was now almost as slack as the thin rubber.
“Here,” she murmured, “let me help.” Carefully with red-nailed fingertips, she re-rolled the sheath and leaned forward to apply it. By then, under her caressing touch, it slipped on more firmly.
With a sudden impulsive movement she bent down over him, pressed her lips against his cloaked penis, and kissed it.
Shocked, he looked down at her pink lip-prints on the back of the sagging sheath. He’d heard of this, a whore’s trick! That lovely face—how could he ever have guessed her base desires?
Gazing at her, he saw uncertainty, concern and—innocence. On a savage impulse of his own he lunged forward, seized her shoulders and returned her kiss forcefully, with deeply probing tongue.
It was her turn to stiffen in surprise. Still, she surrendered her soft mouth to his invasion. His perverse urge overcame hers, and became mutual as he drew her up, twisted and bore her backward onto the bed. He could feel that his manhood was no longer in retreat.
Lips, tongue, breasts, the magic funnel of her waist and spreading glory of hips, thighs, derrière—every part of her belonged to him. His fingers probed her soft wetness, eliciting gasps of pleasure as her red-nailed fingers plucked at his hardness. Relenting, he eased her backward and placed a firm pillow behind her neck, before pinning her with his entire weight. His swollen shaft soon found its place, to be dragged deeper by her eager clutching fingertips.
* * *
The dizzy lift of the party and its aftermath had faded into sleep, replaced by sensations even more pleasing, comforting and intoxicating. Alma felt no regrets, though she knew she’d done a complete turnabout, throwing aside all her resolutions of the previous day. She’d challenged herself, and won—but what had caused it? Even in the warm haze of contentment, she had to wonder.
Lusitania Lost Page 19
