Crossing on the Paris (8 page)

Julie Vernet had rushed up to fetch the doctor on Mme. Tremblay's direct orders. When she opened the infirmary door, ready to deliver her message, she saw the doctor busily escorting an elderly woman out of the office. He was handing her over to her maid, while a younger woman stood hesitantly to the side.

Julie was intrigued by the older woman, who carried an air of wealth and grandeur. Although her bony fingers, covered in rings, clasped her cane as if holding a scepter, she was gaunt, bent, and clearly unwell. Julie could see that had this woman been a third-class passenger, she wouldn't have passed the health inspection. She'd seen the exams given at the port hotel, doctors and nurses checking for lice, scabies, and contagious diseases, weeding out those ticket holders too weak or too ill to travel. It was plain, even to her, that had this frail, old woman been poor, she would not have been allowed to board the
Paris.

The other woman, on the contrary, was young and healthy, beautiful even, with shell-pink skin and loads of thick hair half-hidden under a huge hat. Tall, buxom, without a flaw. Life must be easier for women like that, thought Julie.

As the elderly trio slowly made their way out of the office, the ringed woman paused, leaning on her cane; she browsed Julie's face, then nodded pleasantly. Julie bowed slightly, surprised. Unless they were needed—arms for doing chores, legs for running errands—the servant class was usually invisible to the rich. When the door had closed behind them, Julie turned to the younger woman, who was clearly waiting to see the doctor.

“Only a moment, madame,” she said, her hand raised in apology.
She then addressed the doctor, speaking quickly in French.

“Sir, Madame Tremblay sent me up here to tell you that dozens of passengers in steerage are suffering from
mal de mer.
It's stuffy down there and the ship's roll is so unpleasant. . . . They're nauseous, just miserable! If you could come down when you have time, we'd really appreciate it.”

Julie did not mention that she felt terrible herself, a condition that had not been improved by mopping up vomit.

“Usually I have a nurse or two on board to see to such things, but it seems on this crossing I'm on my own. I hope this will all be worked out in New York. I don't know what the deuce has happened here!” He shook his head and sighed. “Of course I'll come. I'll just see to this lady here, then I'll be down there directly.”

“
Merci, monsieur,
” Julie said to the doctor, who gave her a fatherly nod, then bobbed a quick curtsy at the pretty woman. “And thank
you,
madame.”

She left the infirmary and quickly went back to steerage, afraid Mme. Tremblay would think she was dawdling.

Alone in the office, Dr. Chabron reached out for Constance's elbow and escorted her into the inner chamber.

“Now then, come into my office. Tell me what's troubling you.”

Constance, pleased to finally have the doctor's full attention, was grateful to hear his fluent English and was charmed by his slight accent. In Paris, she couldn't communicate with most of Faith's friends and, not wanting to appear dour or disapproving (which oftentimes she was), she'd sat there smiling. She felt like a simpleton, smiling without understanding, and knew that, on occasion, they were talking about her, mocking her. She was relieved to find she would not be reduced to pantomime with this man.

“Hello, Doctor,” Constance began shyly, then suddenly felt silly.
“Well, you see, sometimes, I get terrible headaches. When I was on deck earlier, I felt one coming on. And I don't have any powders with me. I was just afraid—” She stopped short, surprised by the fact she was on the verge of tears. “Heavens! I don't know what's wrong with me!”

“There, there,” he said, his voice comforting and warm. “These long voyages tend to make people nervous, though I think you'll find it quite pleasurable once you get used to it.” He handed her a clean handkerchief with a smile. “Now, tell me, what's your name?”

She paused, dabbing her eyes. She had the sudden impulse to give him her maiden name, but after a moment's hesitation replied dully, “Constance Stone,” omitting the “Mrs.” and feeling foolish. “And you, sir, what's your name?”

“I am the ship's doctor, Serge Chabron,” he replied, then shook his head as she tried to return his handkerchief. “No, please keep it. The voyage isn't over yet!” He smiled again, then got to his feet and began rattling around in a metal drawer. “Headaches, you say?”

Constance watched him flick through a row of small white boxes, embarrassed at the realization the pain was now completely gone.

“Here,” he said, and handed her two thin boxes. “Some aspirin for the headaches, as well as some sleeping powders. If you can't relax tonight, take one envelope with water before going to bed. Now, please allow me to walk you back to your cabin. I'm afraid I need to see to some passengers down in steerage.”

Dr. Chabron locked the door to the infirmary, offered Constance his arm, then set a leisurely pace down to the second-class cabins.

“Tell me, then, are you from New York?” he inquired.

“No, I live in Massachusetts. I went to Paris to escort my sister home. She's been living there a year now.”

“Ah, your sister lives in Paris? A beautiful place, don't you agree?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, though there was a lack of enthusiasm in her voice. Having felt so out of place there, she had been nearly immune to its charms. “Are you from Paris as well?”

“No, I'm from Rennes. But, to tell you the truth, after fifteen years working aboard ships, I feel more at home when I'm at sea. I even spent the war on an ocean liner, when the
France
was turned into a hospital ship. An odd sight it was,” he recalled, creasing his brow, “men covered in bandages—some terribly burnt or missing limbs—sitting on elegant settees, surrounded by luxury.” As Constance murmured in commiseration, he quickly turned back to her, as if suddenly remembering to be charming. “Perhaps,” he said, resuming his jovial tone, “my land is simply the sea.”

Walking down the corridor, with its flowered carpet and teardrop crystal lamps, Constance couldn't picture it filled with wounded soldiers.

When they reached the deck, Dr. Chabron pulled out a cigarette case. He offered one to Constance, which she declined, then lit one for himself. Pausing at the rails, he blew a smoke ring, then turned back to Constance.

“Do you travel often, miss?”

“Not at all! In fact, I've spent almost my whole life in the same town,” Constance said. “And your life here at sea . . . I can't imagine! Never waking up in the same place, always raising the anchor and moving on to a different port.”

“It can be exciting”—Dr. Chabron smiled—“or quite dull. It depends on the weather, the crew, the passengers . . . But I always have several good novels in my cabin, just in case.
They
can always provide me with good company.”

“I have three or four in my bag as well,” she said with a smile. “What kind of books do you like best?”

“I read all kinds of things,” he said, opening the door to the cabins to let her pass through, “but at the moment, I'm reading a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories.”

“Really?” she cried, her smile widening into a grin. “Sherlock Holmes! Oh, I love detective stories!”

“You don't say?” He laughed. “Murder, drugs, beggars, poisons . . . Not the sort of thing all ladies go for.”

“Oh, come now,” she said, joining his laughter. “Who can resist a good mystery? Especially when, at the end, it can all be logically explained.”

“My, my,” he said, shaking his head in mock amazement. “A woman who likes grimy detective tales
and
logic!”

They had arrived at her cabin and she stopped.

“Thank you for escorting me back to my room,” she said, putting out her hand to give his a light shake. “It's been a pleasure.”

“The pleasure has been all mine.” Dr. Chabron took her hand with a slight bow. “I always enjoy meeting fellow admirers of Mr. Holmes. Well, perhaps I will have the occasion of seeing you and your sister later on during the voyage, Miss Stone?”

She opened her mouth to correct his mistake, to inform him that she was, in fact, a missus. But, instead, she decided to let it go. After two weeks as Faith's frightfully dull, older, married sister, she wanted a few days all to herself, to be young again. To not be Mrs. anything.

“Oh,” she replied simply, “my sister didn't care to join me.”

“Well,” he drawled with a keen smile, “it is she who will miss what promises to be an excellent crossing. Now then”—his voice resumed its courteous, professional tone—“perhaps you should get some rest. And, please, if you have any more headaches, or problems of any kind, come back to see me. I'm afraid, Miss Stone, I must now take my leave and see how they're faring down in steerage.
Au revoir!
”

Constance stood outside her door, watching Dr. Chabron make his way down the hall. What a pleasant man! Gazing at his tall frame and quick step, she thought it frustrating—unfair even—that a woman's history could be told in a single word: missus. A man's
honorifics—Doctor, Captain, or even Mister—revealed absolutely nothing about his private life. But really, what did it matter if the ship's doctor called her Miss or Missus? Surely it was just a compliment, a small commentary on her youthful appearance.

She unlocked her room and, back inside, pulled a mystery novel out of her bag with a smile.

On the fringe of a large group of unhappy third-class travelers, Julie listened hopefully to the doctor in the common area. He greeted the roomful of patients with a hearty voice, welcoming them on board.

“I understand you are feeling seasick,” Dr. Chabron continued. “Well, that's normal for a first voyage and I'm sure you will all get your sea legs soon.”

There was a general groan of incredulity, followed by expectant silence.

“Now, my advice to you is to lie on your beds and close your eyes. This will restore your sense of balance and calm your nerves.” He looked around the room at the seasick voyagers, his eyes traveling from face to face. “Alternatively,” he suggested, “you could spend time on deck. Remember, it's the center of the ship where you feel the ship's roll the least. And keep your eyes on the horizon. It has a curative effect that is most beneficial.”

“But, Doctor, sir, is there no medication we can take?” inquired an older man in the front, nearly begging. “Something to put our stomachs to rights?”

“No, I'm afraid not.” Dr. Chabron shook his head with an empathetic frown. “Your body must get used to the motion. But don't fret; I'm sure you'll all feel fine soon.”

Dr. Chabron wished his patients good luck, then quickly left them below to return to the patients on the top decks. With audible sighs, the green-faced passengers dutifully began drifting off to
their cabins, surrendering themselves to their bunks, or climbing the stairs to the mooring deck, in search of fresh air and the horizon line.

Discouraged, Julie remained motionless on the side of the room. The doctor's recommendation of resting or going up on deck was unavailable to her. Like the other women working in the steerage dining room that evening, she was expected to begin serving dinner—in various shifts, to over eight hundred passengers—in an hour.

Julie suddenly heard brisk footsteps coming from the dormitory and Simone Durat, a girl about her age, entered the room. She was from Harfleur, a town about ten kilometers from Le Havre, and they had attended the same training course. Her hair was thin and mousy, her skin blemished, and her smile was drawn tight to hide missing teeth. Accordingly, she had been assigned to work in steerage.

Relieved to see someone she recognized, Julie offered her a shy wave. As plain as Simone was, she was talkative and outgoing and, during the course, she was usually found holding court in the center of a group of girls.