Crossings (10 page)

“Why? Do they want you to buy the boat? I hear this tub is called France's floating debt.”

“If she is, she's a beauty and well worth it.” He had learned long since not to respond directly to her questions when she was in that kind of mood, it only made her more angry. “The invitation is for nine o'clock. Do you want to have something to eat now?” It was only four-thirty. “We could have something here or go into the Grand Salon for tea.”

“I'm not hungry.” He watched her eye the waiter for another drink, but he shook his head and the waiter disappeared.

“Don't treat me like a child, Nick.” She almost hissed the words at him. All her life people had done that, her mother, her father, her governess, Nick. The only people who didn't were people like Ryan Halloway and Philip Markham. They treated her like a woman. “I'm all grown up now, and if I want another drink, I'll have one.”

“If you drink too much, it'll make you seasick.”

For once she didn't argue with him, but took out her gold Cartier compact with the diamond clasp as he signed the check for their drinks, and put on a bright red slash of lipstick. She was one of those women who, with very little effort, could turn the heads of an entire room, and she came damn close to it as they walked outside to the promenade for some air. New York was already long gone now. The
Normandie
was going thirty knots, and scarcely leaving any wake behind her.

They stood there side by side at the rail, in silence for a time, and he thought over what he had learned about his wife during the past hour of conversation. He had never before realized how much she resented being his wife, or at least not for those reasons. She wanted to be her own woman, and not belong to any man. Maybe she was right, he wondered, maybe she shouldn't be married. But it was too late for those thoughts now. He would never let her go. He would never give up Johnny. He glanced down at her where they stood and for an instant wanted to put an arm around her, but he sensed instinctively that it wouldn't be the right thing to do, and instead he sighed softly in the wind as other couples strolled past them. He longed for that kind of friendship and ease with his wife, but they had never had that between them. They had had sex and passion and magic and teasing, in the beginning anyway, but they had never had the quiet that grows between two people who are comfortable with each other. In a way, he questioned if they had ever really shared love, or only their bodies.

“What are you thinking about, Nick?” It was an odd question from her, and he turned to look down at her with a slow smile.

“Us. What we have, what we don't.” Dangerous words, but he was feeling a little daring. The wind was whipping his face, and he felt oddly free here. It was the kind of magic they talked about on ships, feeling as though one were in a separate world. The rules of one's normal life, so carefully adhered to, no longer seemed to apply here.

“What do we have, Nick?”

“Sometimes I'm not sure anymore.” He sighed and leaned down against the rail. “I know what we had at the beginning.”

“The beginning wasn't real.”

“The beginning never is. But ours was as real as most. I loved you very much, Hil.”

“And now?” Her eyes dug deep into his.

“I still love you.” Why? he asked himself. Why? Maybe it was because of Johnny.

“In spite of all I've done to you?” She was honest about her sins, some of the time at least. And like him, she felt especially free now, especially after the two Scotches.

“Yes.”

“You're a brave man.” The words were open and honest, but she didn't tell him that she loved him. To do so would have been to strip herself bare, to admit that she belonged to him, and she would no longer do that. She tossed her hair in the wind then and looked out to sea as he watched her. Without looking at him, she spoke. It was as though she didn't want him to see into her soul, or maybe she didn't want to hurt him any more than she already had. “What am I supposed to wear to this dinner tonight?”

“Whatever you want.” He sounded suddenly tired and sad. The moment had passed, but he had wanted to ask her if she loved him. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. Maybe she was right. They were married. She was his. He owned her. But he knew that in her case, thinking that he owned her was a delusion. “The men wear white tie. I guess you should wear something pretty formal.”

She knew that in that case the raspberry and black satin outfit wouldn't do, and as they wandered back to their cabin on the sun deck, she mentally meandered over what she had brought in her trunks and settled on a delicate mauve satin gown.

When they reached the Deauville suite, Nick glanced into their son's room, but he still hadn't returned from his tour around the ship with his nurse, and Nick was suddenly sorry that he hadn't taken him himself. But as he returned from Johnny's room, he saw Hillary looking at him. She had taken off the white crepe de chine dress and was standing there in a white satin slip and stocking feet, looking more beautiful than ever. She was the kind of woman one wanted to ravage until she screamed. He hadn't thought of her that way when she was eighteen. But he thought of her that way now. Often.

“Good God, you should see the look on your face!” Hillary began to laugh her deep, throaty laugh as Nick approached her. “You look positively wicked, Nick Burnham!” But she didn't seem to mind it. She stood there, the strap of her slip falling off her shoulder, and he saw that she wore no bra, and every inch of her seemed to taunt him.

“Then don't stand around looking like that, Hil, unless you want to get into serious trouble.”

“And what kind of trouble is that?” He stood directly in front of her, and could feel the warmth from her tantalizing body. But this time he didn't play with words with her, he crushed his lips down on hers, never wondering if she would reject him. You never knew with Hil, it depended on the importance of her lover at the current moment. But there was no lover now. She was on a ship, miles from shore, lost between two worlds, and she stretched her arms up to her husband, and without further ado he swept her up in his arms, walked into their bedroom, and slammed the door with one foot before depositing her on the bed and tearing the white satin slip from her body. What it revealed was a white satin of a different kind, and his mouth drank in the cream of her flesh, like a man dying of hunger. She gave herself with a passion dimly remembered from the past, spiced now with the knowledge of years she had acquired since he met her. But he asked no questions now, he thought of nothing but his rampant desire for her, which seemed to know no bounds as their bodies plunged on the peaceful ship and his body covered hers and at last they lay spent. He watched her afterward as she slept, and knew the truth of her words of an hour before. She was his wife. There was no doubt about that. But he would never own her. No man would. Hillary owned herself, always had, always would. She was always just out of reach, and as he watched her lying peacefully in his arms, he knew with a bittersweet sorrow that he had always wanted the impossible. She was like a rare jungle beast one longed to tame. And the truth was, she was right, secretly he did want to own her.

o a woman, the ladies who entered the Grande Salle à Manger that night, sauntering slowly down the stairs as people watched, would have made any man proud. Their hair and makeup were done to perfection, they were impeccably turned out by the maids they had brought along, and most of their gowns had been designed in Paris. The jewels competed only with the brilliant lights in the room, equal to the brilliance of one hundred and thirty-five thousand candles and reflected in the endless walls of hammered glass sixty feet longer than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The room, three decks high, seemed filled to the rafters with ruby taffetas and sapphire velvets and emerald satins, and here and there a gown of gold. Liane herself looked exquisite in a black strapless taffeta dress she had bought at Balenciaga. It cascaded behind her in a sea of ruffles. But it was when Hillary Burnham came down the stairs that everyone seemed to stare at her clinging Grecian gown of the palest mauve satin. It molded to her exquisite form in a way that made everyone hold their breath, including the captain. Around her neck she was wearing pearls the size of very large marbles. But it wasn't the rope of pearls that caught the eye, but the raven-black hair, the creamy skin, the brilliant black eyes, and her body as it swayed slowly down the stairs to the captain's table.

The captain's table was just in front of the enormous bronze statue representing peace, which stood tall among the diners, her head held high, though not as high as Hillary's as she reached the table, with Nick just behind her, impeccable in white tie and tails, with mother-of-pearl studs in his starched shirtfront, diamonds circling them and at their center. But it was the diamonds at Hillary's ears, peeking from behind the shaft of black satin hair, which set off the dancing lights in her eyes.

“Good evening, Captain.” Her voice was deep and husky, and in spite of their best efforts, everyone lost the thread of their conversations at the table. Captain Thoreux stood up, bowed in well-executed, almost military fashion, and bent to kiss her hand.

“Madame … bonsoir.”
He stood to face her again and introduced her to the group. “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” and then he introduced Nick. The group at the captain's table was considerably older than were they, except for Liane. But most were of the captain and Armand's generation. Their wives were elegant and well dressed but slightly overstuffed, and heavily bejeweled, as though if they counterbalanced their portly shapes with an equal quantity of jewels, one might not notice their excess weight. But no one looked at them once Hillary arrived. The men's eyes were riveted to Hillary and her gown, which seemed to flow over her like water, straight across her shoulders in the front, and then down to a point just below her waist in back, revealing the delicious flesh every man who saw her longed to touch.

“Good evening, everyone.” She made no effort to remember their names, and awarded a second glance only to Armand, looking extremely handsome tonight, wearing his decorations with his white tie. She made no effort to talk to Liane, although they sat across the table from each other, but Nick seemed to make a special effort to make up for her, chatting pleasantly with two older women on either side, and an elderly man who turned out to be an English lord. Liane noticed that Nick glanced frequently at his wife, not so much as an affectionate sign, as Armand had done two or three times since the dinner began, but rather as though he were checking up on her. She saw him appearing not to strain to hear what Hillary said, but she had the feeling that Nick Burnham did not trust his wife, and between the
plateau de fromages
and the soufflé Grand Marnier, she began to suspect why. Hillary was speaking to the elderly Italian prince on her left, and had just told him that she always found Rome extremely dull. But as though to keep him intrigued, she smiled pleasantly as she made the slight, and then looked past him again to cast an eye at Armand. “I understand you're an ambassador.” She glanced then at Liane, and it was obvious that she was wondering if Liane was his daughter or his wife. “You're traveling with your family?”

“I am. My wife and daughters. Your husband tells me that you have a son on board. Perhaps we can get the children together sometime to play.” Hillary nodded, but she seemed annoyed. It looked somehow as though children's games were not precisely what she had in mind. There was a predatory quality about her tonight, a woman looking for easy prey, and with a face and body like that, Liane thought to herself, it couldn't be very hard to find. She was amused at Armand's polite rebuff. She never worried about him, the only one she ever lost him to was Jacques Perrier. As it turned out, they had worked all afternoon, and he had come back to the Trouville suite just in time to bathe and get dressed, a circumstance Liane was accustomed to, although she had hoped to see more of him on the ship.

“Perhaps,” she had threatened him as she ran his bath and handed him a kir, “I shall have to throw Jacques overboard.” Armand had laughed, grateful for an understanding wife. But he had not seen her earlier on their private deck, staring out to sea, with a look of sorrow on her face. She longed for the days of long ago, when he was a less important man, and there hadn't been a constant flow of memos and cables and reports to occupy his mind, and he had had more time for her. He so seldom did now.