Part 9 (2/2)

”So, they tell me, sir,” he replied, helping me on with my vest.

Unlike modern evening clothes, which stressed function over form and tended more to the ”false front,” this vest was a full vest with a pique front, satin back, and real mother of pearl b.u.t.tons. The jacket, with its peaked satin-faced lapels, fit perfectly, and even though the lapels were wider than the current fas.h.i.+on, they looked sharp, as did the functioning b.u.t.tons on the sleeves. I examined myself in the full-length mirror attached to the back of the bathroom door, secretly glad I'd stayed trim. Edwardian styles were extremely unforgiving to the portly frame.

Slipping into the shoes, I turned to Henry, who gave an approving nod. ”Quite the fas.h.i.+on plate, sir.”

”Thank you, Henry. Now, if I can keep from spilling the soup on it, I will consider it a successful evening.”

”I should think that would be easy for you, sir,” he said, with a tiny grin. ”Shall I turn down your bed?”

I nodded, making ready to leave the room. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was now half past seven. Time for a quick stop at the First Cla.s.s Lounge.

Whoever had designed the original t.i.tanic had not spared anything when it came to the public rooms for first-cla.s.s pa.s.sengers. This was especially true of the lounge. Decorated in a modified Louis Quinze Versailles style that dazzled the eyes with its rococo details, it boasted enough floor s.p.a.ce to accommodate nearly the entire first cla.s.s population.

When I entered it around 7:35, it held a smattering of perhaps fifty individuals a.s.sembled in groups of various sizes. I scanned the men, trying to see if Harlan was among them. I didn't find him, so I grabbed a whiskey at the bar, savoring its dark peaty flavor while watching a group of men playing poker.

Some of the women also watched, and I was impressed by their attention to their period costumes: beaded gowns predominated, as did ones sporting volumes of lace. And judging from their stiff, regal bearing, they'd also elected to wear authentic corsets, which must have been excruciating. For the first time since parting from her at the elevators, I thought of Maddy, trying to conjure a mental picture of how she would look.

At 7:55, I retraced my steps to the Grand Staircase and followed the crowd down to D-deck and the Dining Saloon.

Once touted as the largest dining room afloat, the Saloon was nearly as wide as the entire s.h.i.+p and stretched a hundred feet in length, resplendent in its faux Jacobean paneling and detailed plaster work.

Every table glowed with the bright chatter of its inhabitants, as well as the dazzling array of silver flatware, lead crystal and hand-painted china.

I found Harlan seated at a table for six, holding court as he always did, his rapt audience spellbound by an inexhaustible supply of anecdotes. Every chair was filled save for two directly to his right. I was threading my way through the sea of tables when he looked up and smiled, spotting me.

”Trev!” he said, grinning. ”You look great! You could-”

I held up a hand. ”Almost pa.s.s for a gentleman, I know.”

We laughed and embraced. ”You've got to stop doing this, Harlan. A valet, for Christ's sake? You're going to spoil me.”

He held me at arm's length.

”Hey, if I don't spoil you, who will?”

He laughed again, and the rest of the table joined him. I felt my face redden. Good-natured or not, I was never comfortable being the b.u.t.t of a joke.

Harlan slapped me on the back. ”Everybody, this is my friend, Trevor Hughes.”

One by one, he introduced me to my fellow diners. There was Hoyt Asbury, a stout mustachioed retiree from Brighton, who sat sipping a vodka tonic with a sour look on his face. He barely acknowledged me.

Next to him was, Gavin Reynolds, an ascetic young man, whose pale translucent skin and white-blonde hair made him look like an albino. He wasn't, of course, as his deep liquid brown eyes attested. He gave me a friendly nod and raised his gla.s.s of white wine.

Lastly, there was Hermione Bates, a lively widow from Kent, who appeared ill at ease trussed up in her corseted gown. She smiled when she heard my name, her narrow face lighting up. ”I absolutely love your mysteries, Mr. Hughes. When are we going to see another? I do so love Conrad Holm. So devil-may-care.”

”I've just finished the ma.n.u.script for the latest one. But it won't be out for about six months, I'm afraid.”

”Oh, dear, what a shame. I would have loved reading it. Mr. Astor tells me that you're writing one about this voyage. And that you're interviewing the pa.s.sengers?”

”That's right.”

”How nice,” she said, her eyes flicking to Harlan, then back to me.

”I hope you'll be kind.”

I found that an odd thing to say, but let it pa.s.s.

”Perhaps you'd allow me to interview you later?” I said.

The woman shook her head. ”Oh, I'd be such a bore, really.”

”Nonsense. I'm sure you'd have a lot to tell.”

”Now, now, Trev,” Harlan said. ”Let's not bother Mrs. Bates with any more business. I say we enjoy the evening.”

”Yes, let's,” Asbury said, stifling a belch.

Picking up my napkin, I noticed the still-empty chair to my right. I turned to Harlan, indicating it with a nod of my head. ”Are we still expecting someone?”

”Well, you never know who might turn up,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial wink.

My rejoinder died on my lips when Maddy swept through the double doors at the far end of the room. She wore a tight-fitting shortsleeved floor-length gown of bottle-green silk, set off with abalone beading. The neckline, a deep scoop with an iridescent gold fringe, stayed well above her decolletage. And she'd piled her luxurious auburn hair atop her head in a Psyche knot, reminding me of the Gibson Girl. With her glowing milk-white skin, the entire effect was one of elegance blended with eroticism.

An eon seemed to pa.s.s while all of this tumbled through my mind, and then I snapped back to reality when I saw her eyes searching the room, an air of expectancy about her. A part of me silently prayed that I had something to do with that.

”Excuse me a minute, Harlan,” I said, standing up. Conscious only of Maddy, I crossed the room, dodging white-jacketed stewards bearing heavy silver trays piled high with epicurean delights. When I was twenty feet away from her, she turned to me and smiled. My feet felt as if I'd walked off the edge of a cliff and the din of dishes and human chatter faded, replaced by the pounding of my pulse.

”Oh, Trevor, you look so nice, so debonair,” she said.

Coming from anyone else that line would have sounded commonplace and trite. From her, it sounded as heartfelt and sincere as I knew it to be. I found my voice, though to me it sounded hoa.r.s.e and rough as sandpaper. ”My G.o.d, Maddy, you-you look...absolutely stunning....”

Her smile brightened and she moved closer to me, her eyes s.h.i.+ning.

”You really are a Galahad. You always know just what to say.”

”And for you I mean every word.”

She nodded. ”I know....”

I held out my arm. ”Shall we repair to our table and dazzle them with our presence, my dear?” I asked, putting on a fake English accent.

Maddy laughed, and we started back to the table. All during that short walk, I was conscious of more than a few male eyes following our progress. On the one hand, I was flattered to be seen in the company of such a beautiful woman. And the fact it was Maddy, made it all the finer. On the other hand, I had to admit to a sense of quiet panic, that someone else might vie for her affections.

While I held out her chair and watched her seat herself with such unaffected grace, it all hit with the force of a hammer blow: I wanted her to want me. In the worst way.

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