Decline in Prophets (15 page)

J.C. Henry caught up to them.

“You’re off then, Sinclair.” He dropped the flashbulb he held into his pocket and shook Rowland’s hand. “Bon voyage, pal.” Rummaging inside his jacket, he
produced a card. “Let me know if you want copies of those pictures. They say Leach could be big some day.”

Rowland smiled. He doubted it. “Good luck J.C. Look me up if you’re ever in Sydney.”

“I’ll do that, Sinclair. You keep living the dream.”

Brass bands were in full swing now, a colourful paper rain of streamers fell around them; the atmosphere was festive.

“Living the what?” Clyde asked once Henry had disappeared into the crowd.

“The dream apparently,” Rowland replied.

Milton shook his head. “Americans,” he snorted.

12

R
owland and Clyde inspected the Gainsborough Suite which had been set up as a studio. Most of the furniture had been removed, save a couple of
armchairs and a chaise lounge. Daniel Cartwright had done an admirable job in seeing it was well-stocked, and in anticipating those painting supplies that were not contained in the trunks brought
up from the
Aquitania’s
hold. He’d even had one of his signature self-portraits hung in the main room for their viewing pleasure.

Clyde smiled as he studied the painting. “He’s a good bloke, your Danny,” he said eventually.

“Outstanding,” Rowland agreed. “Once you get used to him.”

Having established that the rooms had been adequately equipped they returned to the Reynolds Suite to dress for dinner.

“I’ll be glad when we’re home and not expected to change clothes three times a day.” Clyde sighed, struggling with his bow tie.

“It gives the upper classes something to do,” Milton replied, looking every inch the gentleman himself. “Otherwise they’d be wandering the streets in search of a
purpose.”

“We have a purpose,” Rowland murmured, looking up briefly from his book. “We just like to serve it in dinner suits.”

“Drink, Rowly?” Milton poured himself a glass of scotch.

“No, I’m fine.” Rowland glanced at Clyde who was swearing at the strip of material with which he had been wrestling. “For pity’s sake, help Clyde out before he
hangs himself.”

Shortly thereafter they set out for the restaurant, picking Edna up on the way out. As the sculptress was not yet ready they waited in the narrow hallway. A few minutes later Bishop Hanrahan and
his party approached from the other direction. The bishop forced his squat form through them with a grunt. Father Murphy followed, in a mumbled exchange of “excuse me” and “I beg
your pardon”. Isobel squeezed past next. She paused as she brushed against Rowland and smiled. Since the bishop’s niece had been in tears through most of their acquaintance, he was
surprised by how lovely the smile made her face.

“Miss Hanrahan,” he said cordially, and for some reason she blushed and looked away.

Finally, Father Bryan sidled through behind Isobel. He greeted them affably as was his fashion. He asked hopefully after Edna and promised to catch up with them all later.

Milton knocked loudly on Edna’s door as they watched the bishop’s party descend the stairs.

“Hurry up, Ed!”

Eventually she emerged resplendent in a gown that plunged daringly at the back. Her sunset hair was caught loosely into a knot at the nape of her neck.

“What took so flaming long?” Milton complained.

“You look pretty, Ed,” Rowland said quietly.

She put her arm through his, and once again he was the beneficiary of an enchanting smile. “Really? My back’s a bit cold.”

He looked behind her carefully. “Yes, I can see how that would be an issue.”

They were seated that night with the Theosophists who were continuing to Sydney. Among them were the Watermans, Colonel and Mrs. Benson and Hubert Van Hook.

The numbers were evened by Mrs. Amelia Sommerville and her daughters, Alice and Margaret. Australians, they had just completed a tour of Europe and were returning home, having absorbed a great
deal of culture and purchased several excellent hats. Amelia Sommerville was keen to get back to Sydney society, which she assured them, would have sorely missed her daughters.

“Sinclair?” she said when Rowland found a pause in her conversation long enough to introduce himself. “You must be one of the Woollahra Sinclairs?”

“Actually, I believe I’m the only Woollahra Sinclair these days”, Rowland replied, a little uncomfortable with the elation of the society matron’s voice.

“Why of course!” she gushed. “Girls, this gentleman is the son of Mrs. Henry Sinclair. Young man, your mother and I were great friends when she lived in Sydney. Indeed, my late
husband and I dined often at
Woodlands House
. How is your dear mother—I haven’t had word from her for some years now.”

“I have every reason to believe she is well, Mrs. Sommerville,” Rowland said politely.

“Oh dear,” Amelia Sommerville lamented. “The war spoiled everything. If not for the war, I daresay your mother would not have left Sydney and you young people would have
already been well-acquainted.” She gestured expansively towards her daughters. Margaret smiled primly and Alice giggled. They were not unbecoming—coiffed, aging debutantes.

Rowland wasn’t quite sure how to respond. His mother had left Sydney after Aubrey was killed serving in France. She had taken the loss of her middle son very hard—in fact, she still
did. It was a little disturbing to have it reduced to a social inconvenience.

He decided to introduce his travelling companions. Amelia Sommerville’s enthusiasm seemed to wane a little. Rowland had no doubt she was now remembering the scandalous rumours which
surrounded
Woodlands House
in the last few years: stories of vice and immorality, Bolshevism and nakedness, hedonistic disrespect for propriety. Exaggerated, of course, but not altogether
unfounded.

Nevertheless, Amelia Sommerville seemed delighted to find him seated between her daughters.

On the other side of the table, Edna tried valiantly to engage Mrs. Waterman in conversation but the Theosophist remained cold and curt. Despite the competing chatter of the Sommervilles,
Rowland could hear the cutting responses to Edna’s friendly enquiries. He could see the hurt and embarrassment on her face and he bristled. He was not the only one to notice. Hubert Van Hook
intervened to engage Edna whilst Clyde spoke to Mrs. Waterman, who seemed less hostile with him. Rowland relaxed and returned some of his attention to his own conversation.

The Watermans retired first and the mood at the table improved markedly with their absence. It was Edna who noticed the wrap that Mrs. Waterman had left behind.

Rowland stood. “Shall I take it back up to her now?” he volunteered, glad to have some reason to escape the zealous attention of the Sommerville women. He winked at Edna and added
quietly, “Wouldn’t want the old crone to come back looking for it.”

Clyde tossed him the wrap.

“Good show—most thoughtful of you, son,” Colonel Benson approved. “I believe their stateroom is number thirty-nine… the first class deck, of course.”

Rowland thanked him. The Bensons were a little stuffy but much easier company than the Watermans. He left the dining room and walked out onto the deck as he headed towards the first class
accommodations.

It was a mild night, the moon full and immense above the dark Atlantic. He stopped at the rail, taking in the black velvet sea beneath the encompassing sky. Glorious, but unpaintable. There were
some things that could not, should not, be captured in oil and canvas.

“Mr. Sinclair. It is a grand night, is it not?”

Rowland turned, startled by the unexpected voice. Isobel Hanrahan stood close behind him.

“Miss Hanrahan.” He glanced about them, half expecting a clergyman to emerge from the shadows. “Are you alone?”

“I am. I saw you leave, Mr. Sinclair. My uncle thinks I am visiting the powder room.” She laughed softly. “He won’t be following me there at least.”

“But you’re not there.”

She gazed at him plainly. She was certainly beautiful. Even in the colourless cast of the moon, her skin seemed warm.

“I came after you.” She stepped closer.

“Really? Why?”

Isobel smiled, conspiratorially, seductively.

“I was hoping you might like to kiss me, Mr. Sinclair.”

Rowland was startled. He was perfectly accustomed to women who had come of age in the heady liberated twenties. Indeed, he found it entirely agreeable—but Isobel Hanrahan was a
bishop’s niece. It was hard to reconcile that she intended to be so forward.

“I would never presume…”

She leant into him. “I wish you would presume.”

Common sense told Rowland that such a course of action was ill-advised, and yet he had no desire to offend the lady. Surely it would be discourteous to refuse such a forthright invitation.
Isobel Hanrahan put her hand gently on his arm. In the end, civility prevailed over sanity and he bent down and let his lips find hers.

Again, he was surprised by the intensity of her kiss… there was little about it that was shy or chaste. It was ardent and lingering, and most definitely, pleasant.

Finally, she allowed him to pull away.

“I had better be getting back, Mr. Sinclair,” the bishop’s niece said a tad breathlessly. “It’s been grand—I shall look for you again.”

Rowland studied her, somewhat bemused by Isobel Hanrahan’s unexpected favour. “I think you had better call me Rowly,” he said.

She kissed him again, briefly this time, and walked back towards the dining hall. For a moment Rowland couldn’t remember what he was doing standing out on the deck and then he glanced down
at the wrap in his hand. Oh yes. Mrs. Waterman—stateroom thirty-nine.

It was in this slightly preoccupied frame of mind that he approached the door of the Watermans’ stateroom. The corridors were empty as most passengers were still at dinner. The door was
ajar. Raised voices from within made Rowland hesitate.

“It’s bad enough to have you simpering after Krishnamurti but must you be so abominably rude to everybody else?” The surgeon’s voice was furious.

His wife’s strident American twang was quick and sarcastic in response. “Gallantly to the aid of the pretty young thing, Richard,” she spat. “I can’t make small
talk with these insufferable people when there is so much to be done.”

“For the last time, Frannie, we are
not
following Krishnamurti to India!”

“But don’t you see Richard, Annie is eighty-five. When she’s gone, Jiddu will need a confidante—someone to help him with his work. This is my calling.”

“Krishnamurti seems to prefer the pretty young things himself,” Richard Waterman said cruelly. “Anyway he has resigned from the movement.” The surgeon’s voice was
tightly controlled. “For Chrissake woman, you have all but ruined us with your obsession with that man. I wish to God we had never got entangled with Theosophy. What use will your brotherly
love be when we are bankrupted?”

“Let us be bankrupted then!” Francesca Waterman screamed in reply. There was a crash as something was flung against the wall. “I will go to India, Richard. You cannot stop
me!”

There was silence in the wake of her declaration. Rowland saw his chance and knocked.

Richard Waterman answered the door, his face still red from the heated exchange that Rowland had overheard.

“Sinclair! What are you doing here?”

Rowland held out the wrap. “Mrs. Waterman left this behind.”

The surgeon took the garment, clearly flustered. “I say, that’s frightfully good of you. Frannie would forget her head…”

“No trouble at all,” Rowland assured him. There was a brief moment of awkward silence.

“I might say goodnight, then.” Rowland checked his watch. “I should return before I’m missed.”

“Yes, of course,” Waterman babbled. “I wouldn’t be leaving that Miss Higgins alone for too long either.” He grinned clumsily.

Mrs. Waterman’s sniff was audible. She said nothing else but once more something was thrown against the wall. It sounded like glass.

The surgeon had Rowland’s sympathy. The poor man appeared to have married a shrew.

“Well good night, Sinclair,” Waterman murmured, blanching as his wife proceeded to hurl items about the stateroom.

Rowland’s eyes were compassionate. “Good luck, sir,” he replied.

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