Crossing on the Paris (42 page)

Constance stacked her shoes in the bottom drawer, hats in the hatbox, moving up to the top tray to organize jewelry and gloves. On the table next to Faith's ring, she found her new fountain pen, the gift from Mrs. Sinclair. She wanted to put it to good use, but had no idea what to write. Journals, poems, children's tales, fiction? Faith's friends would make good characters . . . Heavens—she smiled to herself—they already
were
characters.

Before stowing it away, she unscrewed the lid. She picked up the menu she'd been planning to save from her dinner at the captain's table and wrote her full name: Mrs. Constance Eunice Stone. She made swooshes and swirls, relishing the feel of this pen in her hand. Indeed, it did not scratch, but silently flowed along the paper. She covered the menu entirely and, as she was tossing it into the bin, Constance thought that, perhaps, Mrs. Sinclair was right. She should bid the doctor good-bye.

When her trunk was packed and locked, Constance made her way out of her cabin, in the direction of the infirmary. Once on deck, she found she was going against the current. It was Sunday morning and most people seemed to be heading to the services in the chapel.

She passed a variety of familiar second-class faces—the Anderson family, the newlyweds, the Stetson-wearing Texans—and nodded politely to them all. Watching them go by, it occurred to her that every person on the
Paris
—its passengers and crew—had lived these five days differently. From the feted Douglas Fairbanks to the towheaded Anderson children, from Julie and Vera to Constance herself, they had each had their own private crossing. Three thousand
floating stories, like so many pages of a castaway journal. Perhaps
this
was material for writing?

Constance then caught sight of her former dining companions. Walking briskly, Mr. Thomas and Captain Fielding were so engaged in talk that they did not see her. Mrs. Thomas, wedged in between, gave her a nod, prim and smug. Constance nodded back at the ill-mannered trio with a smile, pleased she would never be trapped at a table with them again. Her last meal on board would be shared with her new friends, interesting women who were neither spiteful nor jealous.

As she turned toward the stern, she nearly collided with Serge Chabron, who was walking quickly, his black bag in hand.

“Constance!” he cried, stopping at once, his hurry forgotten. He reached for her hand and led her to the rails.

“Serge,” she whispered, swallowing hard. “I was just coming to see you.”

“What happened last night?” he asked, scanning her face for information. “I hope I didn't offend you. It certainly wasn't my intention . . .”

“Oh, Serge, I couldn't stay.” Constance saw no use in stalling and lifted up her left hand in a limp display of her wedding band. “I'm married, you see.”

She tried to read his expression; was it relief, annoyance, confusion? Could he sympathize? Was he disappointed? At any rate, it was irrelevant.

“I should have told you when we first met,” she continued, “but afterward, I kept telling myself that it wasn't important, that you and I were just friends. But the more I saw you, the more I realized . . .” She stopped, biting her lip.

“What?” he asked, moving in closer to her. “That we are perfect together?”

“Something like that,” she agreed, smiling at him as she took a step back. He still made her tingle. “But it doesn't change anything,
does it? This afternoon, I'll be going back home—to my husband and my children—and you will be raising anchor and moving on.”

“Yes,” he said quietly, “that's what I do.”

“I want to thank you, though, for keeping me company on the
Paris,
” she said. “I really enjoyed our time together.”

“As did I, Constance,” he sighed, patting her hand. “Your husband is a very lucky man.”

She looked him in the eyes. Was he being ironic? Or had he already forgotten their kisses of the night before? Had George seen her in Serge's quarters last night—swooning in his arms, half-drunk on champagne, her wedding band well hidden—she doubted he would have considered himself very fortunate.

“I don't know about that, but I suppose I myself am rather lucky,” she said, believing it. “And again, thank you for being so . . . attentive.”

She stood on her toes and kissed him in the French fashion, with brisk pecks on the cheeks.

“Take care to be happy,” Serge said with a wistful smile.

“And you,” she said.

“Oh!” he cried suddenly. “I have an engineman down below with a broken leg!”

“Go to him.” She smiled. “
Au revoir,
Doctor.”

“
Au revoir,
Constance Stone!” the doctor called, hurrying toward the stairwell.

Her eyes closed, she stood facing the sun for a few minutes, then with a deep breath let go of the rails. For the first time, she felt in complete control of her life; she could make her own decisions. She was no longer a boring matron, a Constant Stone married to a Fossil. Perhaps when she was drenched with icy water up on deck last night, her dullness and insecurity had washed away. Now she was ready to wire home, to tell her father and George that she would be home on tomorrow's train.

When she arrived to the telegraph office, she found it empty.
Most people, at this point in the journey, would have already sent their news.

“Excuse me, sir,” Constance called in the little window, to the small, bald man sitting at the desk. Wearing a headset, he was concentrating on an incoming message. She waited until he'd finished writing. “Sir? I'd like to send a telegram to Worcester, Massachusetts. My name is Mrs. Constance Stone.”

“Mrs. Stone?” he chuckled. “Well, that's funny. I've just received a message for you!”

She took the telegram back out to the deck, to the sun. Gazing down at the clunky capitals, she felt its urgency.

FAITH WIRED SAID YOU WERE ON THE PARIS THANK GOD STOP HOW WE MISS YOU STOP GIRLS AND I WILL MEET YOU IN NY STOP STAYING AT CHELSEA STOP YOURS GEORGE

She smiled down at the paper, moved. He had brought the children to New York; they would be waiting for her on the docks! Predictable George had managed to surprise her. Constance stared down at the word “yours.” Yes, he was hers.

Her eyes flitted back to the top to reread the telegram, but were snagged by the first word: Faith. Her little sister had actually bothered to get in touch with George, to let him know she was on her way home. What else might she have added to that wire? Had Faith expressed concern for their parents? Sent hugs and kisses to her nieces? Or, perhaps, even apologized for not coming? She thought of Faith's life in Paris—the deep satisfaction she got from it all—and admitted that, indeed, she had found her niche. And now that Constance felt more comfortable with her own, much of that routine bitterness, that time-honored rivalry with her sister, was gone. Let her have her happiness! Let them
both
be happy.

Looking at her watch, she saw there was a full forty minutes before
her luncheon with the others. Constance decided to go down to steerage, to try to find Julie. She'd spent nearly all the crossing in second class, with brief forays into first, and now she was curious to see where the bulk of the passengers traveled. Although people with inferior tickets were only allowed on the upper decks with permission, anyone interested could descend into third.

As she climbed down the stairs, the illusion of the ship as a sumptuous palace slowly deteriorated; carpet and paneling gave way to the rivets and steel of raw machinery, to the noise and heat of an overexcited engine. She crinkled her nose; there was an unappealing, ill-defined odor down below, like mold or mop water. She could see how disagreeable the voyage would be in steerage. There was no view, no chandeliers, no sea air, just bare bulbs swinging with the rock of the ship. This cramped, industrial space seemed the opposite extreme of the sweeping staircases and glass ceilings above. Everyone on board, she told herself again, has had a completely different voyage.

At the end of the bow, Constance found the dining hall where the workingwomen relaxed off duty. She peeked in the door and saw a miscellaneous group of women in black uniforms, covering all the extremes of size, age, and attractiveness. They were chatting loudly in French, smoking, clipping their nails, rubbing tired feet. Feeling awkward—this was clearly their territory, their private quarters—Constance quickly scanned the room for Julie, but left when she saw she wasn't there.

Constance then looked in the common room door; it was a lively scene, almost rambunctious. On one side, a trio—fiddle, banjo, and penny whistle—was playing a reel as passengers clapped, leapt, and twirled down the room; on the other, a group of gruff blond fellows (Swedes?) were arguing loudly over dice in an incomprehensible language. One man, drunkenly weaving from one side to the next, kept shouting, “Land ho!”

Most of the crowd, unpolished but elated, had put on their Sunday
best for the arrival, but there was still a lingering odor of stale bodies in the air. What a different scene from the lounges above, with the well-dressed, perfumed patrons engaged in quiet parlor games and polite conversation!

In a trot, a group of boys skirted past her, heading toward the mooring deck. “Pardon, marm!” the last one cried in a broad, Highlands accent, saluting her over his shoulder. After searching the room, Constance was ready to head back up; down here, she felt self-conscious. As she was backing into the corridor, however, she glimpsed Julie in a doorway, hugging a big man in a chef's hat. Constance waited until she turned toward her, then waved. The smaller girl came running up to meet her, wearing a blue dress and carrying a bag.

“Good morning, Constance!” she said. “I wasn't expecting you down here!”

“I thought I'd come to get you.” She smiled. “To go to Mrs. Sinclair's rooms together. But, Julie, why aren't you wearing your uniform?”

“Because I've quit my job,” Julie said, pleased with herself. “This morning, I told the head housekeeper I was leaving and this afternoon, I'll be getting off in New York! I'm going to start over. Hopefully, now I'm a little bit wiser, like you said.”

“My goodness!” Constance said, taken aback by the girl's daring. “What are your plans?”

Part of her wanted to bring Julie home and take care of her, make sure she had a place to stay and enough to eat. She smiled to herself imagining George's expression if, indeed, along with the gifts and souvenirs, Constance brought home a genuine French girl.

“I've been talking with people all morning about that.” Julie grinned. “And everyone has a different suggestion! I've written down a dozen addresses and even more names. I'm sure something will work out.”

“How exciting!” Constance said, giving Julie a hug. “Best of luck!”

She herself, however, was happy to be returning to the comfort and safety of home.

They headed for the stairs. “Good-bye, steerage!” Julie called playfully as she closed the door behind her.

Constance and Julie began making their way up to first class, pattering excitedly about their arrival in New York.

“My family will be waiting at the dock.” Constance beamed. “I got word from my husband this morning. I'd like for you to meet them, Julie. Especially the girls—they're such darlings!”

“That would be lovely,” she agreed. “But I don't know how long I'll be detained at Ellis Island.”

“Oh,” Constance said, disappointed, “I forgot you had to stop there.”

“It's not a problem.” Julie shrugged. “I've met some Irish boys who have family here. They say it's just a few hours. I could meet you and your family afterward. Perhaps we could all have dinner together?”

“That sounds perfect,” Constance said. “We'll be at the Chelsea Hotel. Let's ask Mrs. Sinclair to join us as well.”

As the two women passed the shops, Constance eyed the
Paris
model ships in a window.

“Would you mind stopping for just a moment?” she asked Julie. “I think I finally know what gift to bring my husband.”

Five minutes later Constance came out of the souvenir shop holding up a foot-long, wooden ocean liner, painted black, white, and funnel red.

“How pretty it is!” Julie exclaimed. “You know, that's about how big it looked the first time I saw this ship. I saw it coming into port from my kitchen windows.”

“The man in there told me that, on
this
model, the bollards and
winches are made of metal,” Constance said, “though I don't even know if those are real English words!”

“I'm sure your husband will like it.” Julie smiled.

“Yes, and it will certainly go with the other curios in his study: the old abacus and the secondhand hookah.” Constance chuckled to herself. “But the real reason I bought it is because it was here, on the
Paris,
that—when faced with the decision—I chose him, George Stone, and the life we've made together. Not that he will ever know that.”

With a sigh, Constance wrapped the gift up in tissue paper and packed it away in the bag.

“Now, shall we go on up?”