Crossings (11 page)

She wondered then what Nick Burnham was like. He seemed a pleasant man, but he offered very little of himself. He was polite, well-bred, he seemed to take in the entire scene with quiet eyes, but one knew him no better when dessert was served than one had known him when he had first sat down. She wondered if perhaps he adopted such a bland facade to counteract his more than startling wife. Liane had a feeling that she was out to shock. It was not that her dress was inappropriate, but it was designed obviously to catch the eye and keep it there. One thing was certain, Hillary Burnham was not shy.

Nicholas was observing his wife through new eyes tonight. He had watched her from the moment they introduced her as his wife, to see how she would react, following her confessions to him that afternoon in the bar. Insanely he hoped that something in her would soften, but she was no different than before. The moment the captain said the fateful words “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” she was out to prove something to them all. It almost made Nick sorry for her to see her chafe at the bonds she so ardently resented. But there was nothing he could do to help her. Even a kindly look from him annoyed her and she rapidly turned her attention to Armand, with a come-hither look in her eyes. But the ambassador appeared not to notice.

“This isn't Boston or New York, Hil,” Nick whispered later as the entire group headed toward the Grand Salon. “If you give yourself a bad name here, it'll stick with you for the next five days.” He was referring to her unsuccessful attempt at flirtation with Armand, the captain, and two of the other diners.

“Who gives a damn? They're a bunch of old bores.”

“Are they? I rather thought you liked the ambassador.” It was his first truly cutting remark of the trip, but he was tired suddenly of her games. Even when he tried to understand her, inevitably she angered him or hurt him. And she was also straining obviously at the bit, and it worried him. He was never quite sure what she would do or say. “Do yourself a big favor while you're on board.”

“What's that?”

“Behave yourself.”

She turned to face him then, stopping dead in her tracks with a wicked smile. “But why? Because I'm your wife?”

“Don't start that crap again. As it so happens, that's exactly who you are. There are almost a thousand important, influential people on this ship, and if you don't watch your ass, my dear, every one of them is going to know just what you are.” His anger was full-blown now. He could do nothing to stop it and no longer cared to.

“And what's that?” She was almost laughing at him now, totally oblivious of his concern. And he had been about to answer her with two simple words: “A whore,” but the captain was at their sides again in the magnificent room, and Hillary turned to him with a charming smile. “Will there be dancing tonight?”

“Of course, my dear.” The captain, like the other officers aboard the ship, had seen droves of Hillarys over the years, some older than she, some not. Lovely, spoiled, bored with their lives ashore, tired of marriages and husbands who had faded from their lives long years before, but they had seen few quite as beautiful as this. She stood beside their table in the Grand Salon now, and even in the splendor of the room, she was aware of every pair of male eyes on her. There were glowing crystal fountains filled with light, windows twenty-two feet high, and murals etched in glass, covered with ships, and an orchestra had already begun to play, but Hillary was the finest attraction of all. She had wilted not one bit from the feast in the dining room. If anything, she seemed more effervescent than the endless flow of French champagne. “In fact”—the captain smiled at Nick—“may I have your permission, sir, to ask Madame for the first dance?”

“Of course.” Nick smiled pleasantly his assent and watched them as they walked away. The orchestra was playing a low French waltz, and Hillary's body moved with extraordinary grace as the captain guided her expertly around the floor, and other couples joined them, among them Armand and Liane.

“Well, my love, have you fallen head over heels for the siren from New York?” Liane smiled at him as they danced.

“I have not. I am far more impressed by the beauty from the West Coast. Do you suppose I have a chance with her?” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, keeping his eyes on hers. “Are you having fun,
chérie?”

“I am.” She smiled happily as she looked around the room. She was never happier than when she was in Armand's arms. “She's quite something, though, isn't she?” She was still intrigued with Hillary, and Armand looked over his wife's head with a peaceful glance.

“The
Normandie?
Ah, yes, she is.”

“Now, stop it.” Liane laughed. “I know you hate to gossip, but I can't resist. You know exactly who I mean. I mean the Burnham woman. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“Indeed.” He nodded, a smiling sage. “Beauty and the Beast are rolled into one. I don't envy him. But I think he knows exactly what he's got on his hands. He watches her every move.”

“And she knows it, and she doesn't give a damn.”

“I wouldn't say that.” Armand shook his head. “I think she does it to annoy him. One could murder a woman like that.”

“Maybe he's madly in love with her.” Liane enjoyed the thought of a passionate romance.

“I think not. If one looks deep into his eyes, he's not a happy man. Do you know who he is, Liane?”

“More or less. I've heard his name. He's in steel, isn't he?”

Armand laughed. “He isn't ‘in’ steel. He
is
steel. A few years ago he was the youngest, most important industrialist in the States. His father died when he was quite young, and left him not only a fortune that almost defies the imagination, but an empire to run as well. He has proven himself admirably. I believe he's crossing over now because he has some very important steel contracts with France. And today, he is truly the master of his industry.”

“At least he's on our side.”

“Not all the time.” Liane's eyes raised to Armand's. “He has contracts with the Germans too. And that, my love, is how an empire is run. Without a heart at times, but always with a firm hand and quick mind. It's too bad he can't exercise the same power over his wife.”

Liane slowly digested this as the dance came to an end. She was more than a little shocked to realize that Burnham was selling steel to Hitler as well as to France. To her that seemed a betrayal of all that she believed in, and she was surprised at Armand's easy acceptance that business was business, but he was more familiar than she with the world of international politics, and dealings and compromises were the norm for him.

“Does that shock you about Burnham, Liane?” He looked down at her pensive expression and she nodded.

“It does.”

“Those are the ways of the world, my love.”

“That's not how you do business, Armand.” She was so idealistic that it touched him. She had so much faith in him and his integrity, and that meant a great deal to him.

“I don't sell steel, my little love. I deal in the honor and well-being of France on foreign shores. That is by no means the same thing.”

“The principles should be the same. What's right is right.”

“It's not always as simple as that. And according to what they say, he's a very decent man.” It was the impression Liane had of him, but now she was not as sure. For a moment she wondered if that was the problem with his wife, perhaps she didn't respect him. But she realized almost as soon as the thought came that that had nothing to do with the way Hillary behaved. She was selfish and unpleasant and spoiled, and she probably always had been. There was a sharp edge to her that nothing veiled, and her beauty was outweighed by the evil that lurked within her. “I wouldn't, however, say that his wife is a decent girl.”

“Hardly that.” Liane smiled.

“There are very few men as lucky as I.” He bent to whisper in her ear and then escorted her off the floor. She danced with the captain then, the Italian prince, and her husband again, and then they excused themselves and returned to the Trouville suite, and she was happy to be alone with Armand at last. She yawned as she took off the lovely black dress. Armand was in his dressing room, and when he returned, he found her already in bed and waiting for him, and his own words echoed in his own head again. There were few men in the world as lucky as he, and when he came to bed, Liane proved it to him again, and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

It was a very different scene from the one in the Deauville suite, where Hillary was, as usual, making trouble. Nick had forced her to come back to the suite. She had found someone more interesting to dance with at last, from another group, and Nick had accused her of being rude. And in the end, after watching her cavort for too long, he thanked the captain for a lovely time and excused himself with his wife, to return to their suite.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The person you hate most, my dear. Your husband, the man who holds the end of the gilded chain you wear.” He had smiled at her to quell the fury he felt, but she had gone into their room and slammed the door, and tonight it was Nick who sought refuge’ in the bottle of Scotch. And as he drank he found himself thinking of Armand and Liane. He thought they made a handsome pair, and he admired the grace and poise with which Liane moved and behaved. She was an impressive woman in her quiet way, and her subtle glow hadn't gone unnoticed, even in the shadow of Hillary's far more gaudy light. He was tired of her games, he decided with his fourth glass of straight Scotch. More tired than she knew. More tired than he himself was willing to admit most of the time. If he would have allowed himself to feel the pain, it would have been too much to bear. In the end he put the bottle away, and at three o'clock that morning he went to bed, grateful that Hillary had taken a sleeping pill and was already asleep.

he sea air was having the effect that it always did. The next day on the ship, everyone seemed to wake earlier than they were used to, having slept better than they had in years, and with appetites that brought the stewards to their rooms with heavily laden trays. And Armand sat in their private dining room with the girls and Mademoiselle, while Liane bathed. The girls were already anxious to get out and move about the ship.

“And what are you going to do today?” He smiled at the girls over a breakfast of kippered herring and shad roe, and Marie-Ange made a face as she watched him eat. “Would you like a taste?” he teased, and she vehemently shook her head.

“No, thank you, Papa. We're going swimming with Mademoiselle. Will you come?”

“I'm going to do a little work with M. Perrier this morning, but perhaps your mother will.”

“What will your mother do?” Liane appeared in their dining room, wearing a white cashmere dress, her long blond hair pulled back in a neat bun, and white suede shoes. She looked as fresh as an English rose, and Armand admired her again, wishing suddenly that he had lingered in bed long enough for them to make love. “Good morning, girls.” She kissed them both, greeted Mademoiselle, and then stopped to kiss Armand on the top of his head.

“You look lovely, my dear.” It was obvious that he was sincere, and she smiled at him.

“At this hour of the day?” She looked surprised and pleased. He always noticed what she wore and how she looked and she could see in his eyes when he was especially taken with her. As he had a moment before, she wished now that Armand had stayed awhile in their room. But he had been quick to hurry out of bed. He had a great deal of work to do, and he had promised her that he would finish before lunch. “Anyway, what was it that you were volunteering my services for?”

“A swim with the girls. How does that sound to you?”

“Like a fine idea.” She smiled at Marie-Ange and Elisabeth. “I'd like a little time to shop, and maybe walk a bit. But we'll still have plenty of time to swim.” She smiled at the girls and poured herself a cup of tea, glancing at Armand. “You know, if I don't walk off some of this food, I'm going to weigh two hundred pounds when we reach Le Havre.” She looked at his enormous meal and helped herself to a piece of toast.

“I don't think there's any real danger of that.” He accepted a final cup of tea from his wife and looked at his watch. And almost as though the signal had been prearranged, they heard their doorbell ring and it was Jacques Perrier, with the eternal briefcase in his hand. Mademoiselle had let him in, and he greeted Liane solemnly and then Armand.