The early-morning air was chilly, but Vera was glad to be in the sun. She was cocooned in her deck chair, snug inside the red steamer rug with Bibi curled up on her feet. Most first-class passengers preferred the nights on board the ship: playing long hands of bezique or euchre, roosting in wingback chairs sharing secrets with strangers, dancing the tango with one while exchanging glances with another . . . But Vera—too impatient, too tired, too old for such things—now opted for mornings.

In fact, even dressing for dinner and sitting to table with five or six unknown companions held no intrigue for her anymore. And she, who had always had a great taste for fine French wines and haute cuisine, could not work up much of an appetite, even for the sumptuous meals served in a French ocean liner’s first-class dining room: velvety lobster bisque with just a hint of cognac, prime sirloin cooked rare, peach melba topped with fresh raspberry sauce and vanilla ice cream . . . The infinite courses and choices were now more of a chore than a pleasure. Last night Vera had picked at her food, barely aware of the conversation of her dining companions, which faded into the distant buzzing of the engines. She’d realized, quite suddenly, how ancient and dull she must have appeared to them and, after dessert, quickly excused herself to lie down.

However, just as she could no longer truly enjoy eating, the delights of sleep now escaped her as well. In the past, Vera had frequently lingered in bed, lolling in quilts and eiderdown until almost lunchtime. But these days, her slumber was as light and as brief as her appetite. In the last few years she had lost all her Epicurean skills, forced into the austerity of a nun.

She picked up her carpetbag from next to the deck chair and pulled out her most recent journal, one of those written numerically. She nestled it on top of the warm blanket, then took out her fountain pen, toying with the idea of adding a new entry. After watching the Isle of Wight drift by yesterday evening, she’d been mulling over all the different transatlantic voyages she’d made in her life: from the first time she’d crossed, on a rickety paddleboat at the age of fifteen, off on her grand tour of Europe, to her honeymoon with Warren, to her permanent move to France, right on up to this last, uneventful voyage on the Paris. Today, she was contemplating adding the number 10 to her memoirs: Ten Crossings.

She posed her pen on a fresh page and wrote “X Crossings,” opting for the Roman numeral. Delighted with the boldness of the X, she began to elaborate on it, transforming the title into a treasure map. She drew a small schooner on the side from which a looping trail led, dot by dot, to the dramatic X in the center. “Crossings,” she mused, was an evocative word in itself.

The title completed, she stared at the page, shaking her head in frustration. She could no longer control her hand; it was now so unsteady that straight lines had been rendered impossible. This looked, indeed, like the work of an unschooled, half-drunk pirate. How very authentic, then. Aging was such a loathsome business.

She let out a large sigh, then put down her pen. No, she would not write anything today. In fact, she’d been unable to add anything new to her journals for the last couple of years. Whenever she picked up one of the leather-bound books—which was more and more often—she found herself rereading the old entries instead. At times, she saw herself as a character of fiction, a heroine whose harrowing plights could move her to tears or whose youthful antics could make her laugh; at others, she felt like a time traveler, nostalgically reliving her experiences. Occasionally, she could even cajole herself into being surprised by their endings. She had ceased to be the writer of these memoirs, and instead had become their most avid reader.

Vera began thumbing through the journal, trying to decide which entry to read, when she suddenly remembered the gift Charles had given her. She put the journal aside and fished out the book of poems from the carpetbag. Upon opening it, she saw a dedication, written in his firm, architectonic hand: “To my love of this life. Until we meet on the other side. Yours, Charles.” She stared down at those words, tears welling in her eyes. He was obviously not referring to oceans here. So, Charles had finally been able to acknowledge the fact she was dying. Somehow, that made it even more real. Vera wiped her eyes with her dry hands, pondering a new life without him.

With a deep breath, she shut her eyes, imagining a typical day in Paris, her life before boarding the Paris. She imagined waking in her high-ceilinged apartment, then taking Bibi on a morning stroll through the Jardin du Luxembourg. They would pass the Guignol puppet theater, where a group of children were laughing at the French Punch, up to his old tricks. On the way to meet Charles at an outdoor café, she would buy a baguette, bite off the tip, then send the crumbs flying toward a flock of fat pigeons. He would be waiting for her, impatient as always, and quickly stand as she approached, nearly upsetting the off-balance table. She could see every detail. She could almost smell the bread.

Vera closed the book sadly, incapable of reading poetry. Reaching down to pet Bibi’s side, to stroke her ears, she again deemed this voyage rash, ill planned. To forget the present, she chose to immerse herself in better times; she gathered up the journal again, leafing through the pages to get off this ship. Vera would be arm in arm with Charles once more.

TURNING 50

A week before I was to turn fifty, one late breakfast, whilst spreading a thick layer of butter on a thin slice of bread, I suddenly decided what to do to mark the occasion: I would treat myself to one of Paul Poiret’s marvelous gowns. Charles would want to accompany me of course. He always enjoyed an outing to the design houses of the Faubourg Saint-Honoré, elegant palaces of haute couture where fashionable women were fitted and draped (and, on occasion, seduced by young dandies as well). But I also thought it wise to invite my friend Mme. Pauline Ravignan, who was known for her exquisite taste. Charles, I knew, could have very well convinced me to buy harem pantaloons or a hobble skirt.

On the day, we three took a cab to the shop, where M. Poiret, donned in striped trousers and a canary yellow jacket, paid us the honor of greeting us at the door. This Man of the Cloth welcomed us graciously, leading us past statues and flower arrangements to an all-white sitting room where we would be shown various models.

Here, women came out in a brilliant array of colors (no lilac or pink chez Poiret!) in his day-wear collection of svelte tunics and kimono coats, in evening gowns inspired by the Arabian Nights, and in long robes with loose folds, like the Greek statues in the Louvre. We were the captivated audience of a fabulous parade, a walking ballet, the Beaux Arts Ball! So sensual and exciting it was.

With Pauline’s help, I chose an extraordinary red gown covered in black and silver beadwork. As we were making plans to come back for alterations, I mentioned to Paul Poiret that his ball gown was my birthday present to myself. He was delighted to hear that it was my birthday and, clapping his hands like a boy, exclaimed that I should celebrate by having my fortune told.

“Oh, please, monsieur!” I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you keep a palm reader here on staff?”

“Not here, but yes, I know a man who is a true visionary. I ask his advice on all things!” He stroked his pointed beard with a ringed hand, looking like a magician himself. “Would you like to take a trip up to Montmartre and meet him? I think you will find it amusing even if you don’t believe what he tells you.”

Charles stepped in with a sly grin to accept this invitation, affirming that, indeed, we would not miss it!

After Poiret had swaddled my and Pauline’s heads in linen scarves and put on driving gloves and goggles, the four of us climbed into his open automobile, a bright red Cottereau Phaeton with gold accessories, and took off toward the Butte. As we drove under the affable May sun, he told us more about the man we were about to meet.

“He’s a poet by the name of Max Jacob,” he said, shouting over the roar of the engine. “Lives in dastardly conditions up on the hill with all of his artist friends, but he’s a mystic all right. What insight the man has given me over the years!”

Montmartre never seemed like part of Paris to me, but rather a quaint village in the country. We breezed past the windmills and wooden houses, bumped along the unpaved streets dotted with gas lamps, till M. Poiret finally stopped the shiny crimson automobile. Truly, Captain Nemo’s submarine would have been no more conspicuous on that lane! He led us through a courtyard to a small Shed, squeezed betwixt two buildings of a more reputable size. The rich designer was pleased with our open-mouthed surprise as he dramatically whispered that—voilà!—we had arrived to the home of the mystic.

He tapped on the door with his walking stick. A pale man, wearing a monocle and a well-tailored, though rather tattered, frock coat, ushered us into his home with an elaborate sweep of his top hat, exposing a bald head. Refraining from looking us in the eye, he politely requested we wait in the corner a few minutes as he was currently occupied with another client.

We certainly needed this time to adjust our eyes and noses to this novel ambience, this dizzying gloom. In marked contrast to the delightful spring morning outdoors, the air inside was heavy with a swirling combination of tobacco, incense, ether, and oil. The oil was from the lamp, the only light in the one-room shed. I looked around his poorly lit chamber and saw it was only fitted with the most basic furniture: a mattress, a table, two chairs, and a trunk. On the largest wall, pictures were drawn in chalk; I could make out the signs of the zodiac, a religious icon, and various verses, poem scraps. This hovel reminded me of the set for Puccini’s La Bohème, though perhaps the lowly garret onstage at the Opéra de Paris was more sumptuous.

The occupant of these lodgings was at the table, talking to an old woman in low tones while carefully inspecting the bottom of her morning coffee cup. Finally, she nodded somberly, pulled a small sack of potatoes out of her bag as payment, and walked out the door, her Destiny foretold. He then bowed lowly to M. Poiret, inquiring what services we needed of him that day.

“Madame Vera Sinclair, please meet the poet Max Jacob, my spiritual adviser.” When we had shaken hands, M. Poiret continued, “It’s her birthday, Max! An excellent time to review life, to ponder fate, don’t you think?”

“Please sit down, madame,” he said. “Your birthday, is it? Then, you are Taurus, a feminine sign, ruled by Venus. As the bull, you are a strong, willful creature.”

“You might even say stubborn!” Charles joked, but catching Poiret’s reproachful look, he held his tongue after that.

“Would you like me to read your palm?” he asked. Since I had not brought my breakfast china with me, I thought this would be the easiest course of action. I nodded. Somehow the atmosphere there—the oil lamp and incense, the chalked Christ figure—did not encourage spoken words.

“Give me your dominant hand,” he said. I put my right hand on the table. Very gently, he stroked it, studying the fingers, knuckles, thumb. “An air hand,” he mumbled. Then, as if he were examining a rare map, he began twisting it, turning it, peering at the mounts, lagoons, points, and lines: life, heart, head, and fate.

“I see great intellect, great vitality.” Mr. Jacob pulled the oil lamp closer to my palm. “Yes, the heart and head lines join. This could mean you are practical, sensible in questions of love.”

I glanced at Charles, who was smiling down at me. Was Our love sensible? No clairvoyant worth his salt could possibly be referring to my husband—a mere escape vehicle—or the Gaggle of silly lovers from my past.

He evidently found something interesting at that point, and needed to confirm it with my other hand. He gently took hold of my left, explaining that this hand showed my inheritance, what I had brought with me into this world. Mr. Jacob sat a moment in silence, studying both hands, comparing the two.

“I see you are in the process of acquiring the character of one of your ancestors. It’s not a matter of possession, of course,” he added, with a fleeting smile, “nor any type of Eastern rebirth. But, I clearly see, with age, you are becoming your own Grandmother.”

Pauline Ravignan burst out laughing, merrily crying out “Oh, she’s not that old!” as Paul Poiret patted Max Jacob on the back in amusement, thinking it quite a good (though naughty) birthday joke for a woman of a Certain Age. As for me, I felt myself going pale and quickly curled up my cold, exposed hand, sheltering my palm from any more scrutiny.

“Thank you, Monsieur Jacob. This has been an illumination,” I choked out, as I rose to leave. Charles gave him a few francs, taking my arm as we walked out the door. Surely Pauline and M. Poiret thought I had been offended by this reference to aging, but I think the poet understood. I knew he was not having fun at my expense, but making an accurate, terrifying prediction: indeed, I was slowly turning into the woman who raised me.

When Charles and I got home, he held me while I cried, remembering Her. If not having to raise one’s children is the privilege of the upper classes, my parents were like English aristocrats in that sense, leaving me to nannies, servants, and the watchful eye of my Grandmother Sinclair.

Perhaps this is unfair. I suppose I was orphaned by politics, my father’s three terms in the Senate encompassing my entire childhood. My parents spent most of that time in Washington—especially during the War Between the States, when the support of Republican Senators was necessary—but they also took leisurely holidays from the tedium of government, always enjoying their season in Newport. Truly, I was solely under my grandmother’s care.

She was a widow from youth, and it was hard to imagine her ever having a mate, being in love. Though stylish and attractive, she was lacking in all human warmth. Incapable of Affection, she had long since adopted Truthfulness as her creed, all notions of tact or sensitivity abandoned. It was she who had insisted on my name, Vera, veritas: truth.

Camilla Wright Sinclair. When I came to Paris, I reclaimed my nom de jeune fille, Sinclair. Having had no children, no reason to keep an extraneous surname (I was no Harris!), I had taken back the name of my senatorial father, my formidable grandmother, My name. And now, at fifty, the age she was when I was small, it seemed I was taking on her characteristics. Like my Sinclair Elder, I too was becoming tactless, condescending, bitter, contrary.

I looked up at Charles through tears and dared whisper, “Is it true?”

He looked into my face with exaggerated vexation. “Now, Vera, are you seriously suggesting that my kindred spirit, my accomplice in this life, is a shrew? A wicked old hag?” He looked at me sternly before adding, “What, then, does that say about Me?”

I snorted a great, weepy laugh, soiling his jacket in the process, and wrapped him up in my arms. He pulled away, brought out his handkerchief, and, while wiping himself off, said, “All right, then! By my watch, it’s still your birthday. And it’s still oyster season! Get your coat, love!”

Vera’s eyes were moist with tears. Fingering the pages, lined with quick fashion sketches, esoteric doodles, and a fast though remarkably accurate portrait of her grandmother, she thought back on that day. She was convinced that it was Charles who had prevented the poet’s prediction from coming true; he had saved her from the fate of becoming an embittered old woman. After thirty years together, what did it matter that he had not been able to watch her die? Truly, it was meaningless. She put down the book with a sigh.

Well, she thought, at least her end would not be like her grandmother’s. Camilla Sinclair had had such vinegary blood that it kept her body alive longer than it did her soul. She was left, in her final years, without memory or knowledge. Vera would be spared such a fate. Death does have its silver linings.

Vera’s attention was suddenly drawn back to the present by the deck steward, smiling down on her, carrying the midmorning ritual of bouillon and saltine crackers.

“Are you ready for a bite, ma’am?” he asked cheerfully.

“Yes, of course,” she answered. “You wouldn’t happen to have any raw oysters on that tray, would you?”

“No, madame,” he said, unsurprised. “However, I’m sure that I could get you some, if you’d like.” He added a servile bow.

“No, that’s all right.” She smiled. “Bouillon will be fine.”

About that time, a young woman sporting a fashionable bob haircut sank down into the next deck chair.

“What a cute little dog!” she exclaimed, reaching over to pet the old Scotty with a manicured hand.

“Good morning,” Vera said, somewhat taken aback by the woman’s forwardness. “I’m Mrs. Sinclair and this is Bibi.”

“What a pleasure to meet you! Both of you! I’m Miss Cornelia Rice. Of the Buffalo Rices.” The woman turned her attention back to the dog. “You’re a precious little thing, now aren’t you?”

“Yes, a pleasure,” Vera said, raising her eyebrows a fraction as she looked back out to sea. She brought the cup of bouillon to her lips, blowing it gently.

Cornelia, she thought, was the name of her childhood maid. She had come up north on the Underground Railroad and Vera’s grandmother, who admired bravery wherever she could find it, had taken her on. Vera had written a lengthy account in her journal about Miss Cornelia, a remarkable woman, strong, dark, and silent with pain. This pale, young Cornelia could not compare.

When one is old, thought Vera, finishing her soup, everything reminds one of something already heard, said, or done. King Solomon must have been around her age when he declared there was no new thing under the sun. Yes, her age—about five hundred. Cornelia, Rice, Buffalo. A few years back, she would have stored those words and pulled them out again when needed. Now they just fell to the floor, forgotten; her memory had no use for such things.

Vera looked down at Bibi, shifting slightly in a dream state, and then dozed off herself.

Constance awoke with a start. It was almost twelve and she was still in bed. Those sleeping powders were certainly potent, she thought with a stretch. There was an insistent knock at the door—Was this the second one? Had the first one woken her?—which made her jump out of bed.

“Yes, yes, I’ll be right there!”

She put on her robe and, after checking herself in the mirror, Constance opened the door to find a bellhop, who looked no more than twelve, peeking out through the top of a fruit basket.

“Miss Constance Stone?” he asked. “This is for you.”

He handed over the heavy gift with a sigh of relief and quickly made his exit.

She looked through the apples, bananas, and oranges until she found a card: “To your health!” it said. “Serge Chabron.” A smile spread across her face; was he this attentive with all of his patients? Indeed, she had found the ship’s surgeon charming: both his kind, professional manner at the infirmary as well as his playful banter as he escorted her back to her cabin.

He was very European, but polite, gentle even; so unlike Faith’s quirky acquaintances in Paris with their dirty hands and coarse manners. And a world apart from her George! She frowned, remembering her husband, who was always the one to talk, never to listen. She picked an apple out of the basket and gave it a large bite. She should stop by the infirmary later to thank him. Perhaps she could even confide in him—this foreign physician so far removed from her hometown—about the nervous condition that ran on her mother’s side of the family. Maybe he’d have some sound advice on the matter.

As she ate the apple, Constance turned her gaze toward the photograph of her daughters, which was propped on the dresser next to her powders. “Good morning, little ones,” she murmured to them. “Elizabeth, Mary, Susan,” she greeted each of them in turn.

Constance had deliberately chosen simple, pretty names for her girls. Names that had no meanings, no destinies to fulfill. She imagined them on this lovely June day, playing in the garden and mussing their pinafores with wildflower fingers. They would be so very engaged—exploring under a stone, stalking ladybirds, their pace determined despite short legs. She smiled at her girls, then reached out for the photograph of George. She changed her mind, however, and left it on the dresser top, prone. Every time she thought about going back to Worcester she began feeling empty again. Empty, and a bit sick. Not knowing what words to use, she hadn’t even wired yet to tell them she was coming home.

When she finished the apple, she felt a sudden impatience to be outside, to take advantage of the beautiful day, to see who might be on deck. She nonetheless chose her clothes carefully and applied a touch of carmine to her lips. After packing a small tote with a book, one of the doctor’s bananas, and a mousseline scarf in case of wind, she donned a broad-brimmed hat to shade her face from the sun. At the door she hesitated, then went back to her trunk and shuffled through the jewelry in the top drawer until she found the ring Faith had given her.

One of her own creations, it was a large rectangle made of colorful enamel squares, an inch-long stained glass window. It was meant as a peace offering; Faith had presented it to her sister on her last day in Paris, while reiterating that she would not be returning to Massachusetts. At the time, Constance had thought she would never wear it; so big and gaudy, it wasn’t her taste at all. But today, she felt like being someone new. She tried it on several fingers before leaving it on her ring finger, obscuring the thin gold wedding band. She held her hand out and admired it, then picked up her tote bag and left.

Once outside, Constance found her lounge chair and made herself comfortable. With a rug carelessly thrown over crossed legs, she opened her book: a new novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. It was the first detective story she’d ever read that was written by a woman. Thinking back on her brief conversation with Dr. Chabron, she wondered what he might make of that.

Although she was fascinated by the crimes themselves—the sordid underbelly of life—mystery novels really appealed to her because she found them comforting. No matter how confusing or chaotic the story was, everything was ultimately explained, tied into a neat bow. All of the tiny, seemingly unimportant details were found to have great significance and, like she’d told the doctor, it all came together at the end. Another one of the reasons she’d loved mysteries since childhood—and this she failed to mention to him—was because her maiden name was Watson. This had given her a great affinity for Sherlock Holmes’s kind doctor friend.

After reading the first few paragraphs of the very British adventures of the curious little detective, Hercule Poirot, she became distracted, lost in her own thoughts. Had she not been on a quest to bring back an errant sister, had she been traveling for her own sake, she would have gone to England instead of France. Constance had always been attracted to English culture, from Wilkie Collins’s moonstone, to Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, to Pip’s sudden fortune in Great Expectations. It all seemed so proper, so civilized, so much more her “cup of tea.” It peeved her to think that she had crossed the ocean to no purpose—and had not even visited London!

Almost wishing she’d gotten off the night before in Southampton, she looked out toward the water, their constant progress toward America, toward home. When they’d made the stopover in England, she found herself wondering yet again what had become of her first beau, Nigel Williams.

A young Englishman from the unlikely sounding village of Leighton Buzzard, Nigel had come to Clark University to study psychology. Her father, Dr. Gerald Watson, became his major professor, helping him with his research on mood disorders. Constance found Nigel, who was altogether too thin, nonetheless appealing; she was immediately captivated by his charming accent and manners, his soulful gray eyes, his spruce appearance. He was a frequent visitor to the Watson home, at first to borrow books from his professor, then to join the family for meals, and finally, as Constance’s official suitor.

They would sit on the porch for hours, in all kinds of weather, holding hands and whispering earnestly. Now she could scarcely remember what they talked about, but she could never forget how she felt: the surprising newness every time he said her name, the cozy daydreams of a common future, the warm tingling when he kissed her on the lips. The wonders of first love.

He had courted her for seven months and, had he stayed in America, Constance felt sure her parents would have deemed him a suitable match. But due to a family emergency he had been obliged to return to England. Although she was quite sure that her father would never have allowed her to live abroad, Nigel had not even asked. There were no harebrained schemes about meeting in London, no desperate entreaties to elope. When she went to the station to see him off, she already felt jilted; despite his kisses and tears, she knew they would never see each other again. That night, heart-broken, she sobbed her face into distortion—hideously red and swollen—then finally fell asleep.

Shortly after Nigel’s departure, her father, with the intention of cheering his daughter up, had asked Constance to serve punch at an afternoon gathering for new professors. There, she met George Stone, a geography professor thirteen years her senior. When he came round the following day to pay a call, Faith delivered the news: “There’s a fossil in the parlor to see you.” A month later she found herself, with surprising swiftness and far too much formality, engaged to marry him. They had now been together eight years.

“Dorothy! Eli! Oscar! Winifred!”

The shrill sound of a woman’s voice stirred Constance from her thoughts. She turned her head toward the names being called and saw a stampede of towheaded children, their heavy shoes pounding down the teak deck, their bedraggled parents straggling behind. They stopped suddenly and swarmed over the deck chairs right next to her. The youngest was about the age of her oldest and the other three wavered around ten.

“Good morning.” Constance nodded to the mother.

“Hello, there!” she answered as her husband fell into a chair. “We’re the Andersons.”

Constance felt the pang of this group introduction, keenly aware of her singularity next to them, “the Andersons,” a veritable clan. Should she introduce herself then by saying, “I am the Stone”?

“Pleased to meet you all,” she said simply.

Watching these children, she realized how much she missed her own. How delightful it would be to share this ocean voyage with her three young girls! She envisioned them there by her side, with little Susan toddling along the deck and the older two girls climbing up on the rails, scanning the seas for whales. And George? What would he be doing? She could imagine him engaged in endless conversations with her tedious dining companions, Mr. Thomas and Captain Fielding, discussing those topics that bored her so much: motorcars, hunting and fishing, their unequivocal admiration of Theodore Roosevelt . . . She thought their serious, masculine talk would suit him just fine.

“I want to play deck tennis!” cried one towheaded Anderson.

“No! Shuffleboard!” whined another.

“You goose! Ping-Pong is much more fun!” insisted a third, rounding out his argument by sticking out his tongue.

Their mother skillfully hushed them, then proposed a logical order of deck games. Before letting them fly off, she inquired whether they were hungry or thirsty, or needed the bathroom.

“And Dorothy! Don’t take off your sweater!” she called.

Constance looked at the little girl and smiled to find she was wearing gray patent leather shoes, Mary Jane silver slippers. When she was little she’d read the Oz books, desperately wishing for a cyclone to take her to a new world, to a new family with grown-ups who wanted nothing more than to take her by the hand and go off on an adventure. Adults who, although filled with straw or made of tin, were never dark and despondent, but fun-loving and kind. As a child, she had written stories about happy families: a pretty girl with adoring parents and loads of big brothers, living together on a beautiful farm. As an adult, she had tried her best to be a good mother, to shower her daughters with love, equally, all three.

“Dorothy!” the mother cried again, pulling herself up and giving Constance an apologetic look before disappearing into the game area.

Constance smiled to herself at the thought of how alike all mothers were: the same worries, complaints, challenges. Then, again, remembered her own.

Tossing her head—a firm refusal to think of her mother—she pulled the banana out of her bag and, as she began to peel it, noticed the ship photographer and his assistant making their way down the deck. They were taking portraits of families and traveling companions, as well as those fast friends met on board. Taking small bites off her banana, she watched the groups posing at the rail. The assistant handed each assortment of people a ring-shaped life buoy with PARIS written on it and they made a formation around it, smiling.

She watched a young couple (honeymooners, obviously) pose for the camera, his arms close around her, their smiles glowing and natural. She’d seen them earlier, snuggling in the same deck chair, furrowing their brows over that new craze, the crossword puzzle, and chewing on the same pencil. Their kisses still tingled, Constance thought, their daydreams were still cozy.

A large family got up for their picture next. The assistant handed the life buoy to the youngest child, who peeked through it with a grin. Constance watched in amusement as the mother sang out, “Say cheese!” and, instantly, the children’s spontaneous smiles became pained and artificial: a tortured grimace, a wide-eyed snarl.

The photographers then came to her chair.

“A souvenir for the folks back home, ma’am?” asked the photographer, taking off his straw hat, his smile half-hidden by a large mustache.

“No, thank you.” She shook her head. It seemed a sad sight to pose for the camera all by herself, banana in hand.

“Oh, come on, ma’am! You’re already as pretty as a picture!” he said with a wink, as his assistant stood next to him, waving the life buoy enticingly. “Are you sure?”

“Quite,” she said, picking up her book and staring into it until they moved on.

Peeking up to watch them take their next photo—a couple of Texans, judging from their hats and boots—Constance wondered, if she were with Faith, would they have had their photograph made? She couldn’t imagine her sister smiling at her side on the Paris deck. If she were there, heading home, she would have looked like the grim victim, the condemned man. She then pictured her own family photo at the rails, the sea twinkling in the background. She would be next to George, holding little Susan, while Mary and Elizabeth stood in front, holding the buoy together. She snapped the shutter with her eyelids, seeing their familiar smiles. Would George be smiling too? She tried to envision him, but could only dredge up the image of the stern, formal photograph lying on the dresser in her cabin.

With a glance down at her detective story, she imagined her husband going missing, and the gentlemen from Scotland Yard asking for his “distinguishing characteristics.” Try as she may, she could think of none. In fact, she feared, if George changed his coat and shaved his beard, she might not recognize him on the street!

The photographers now gone, Constance stretched out her legs. With her book still in her hand, a finger marking her place, she walked up to the rail to the sound of shuffleboard pucks swishing along the teak floorboards—clack!—the odd shout, eruptions of laughter. It was a fine day and it seemed every person on board was outside, enjoying the sunshine.

Absently looking down at the decks below, she suddenly noticed Dr. Chabron—without his white robe, but neat in a uniform—talking with a couple of crewmen. She was pleasantly surprised to find him there, away from the infirmary, and contemplated going down and thanking him for the fruit basket. Debating whether that would be considered too forward, she reached up to fix her hat and found she was still holding her detective story.

Watching him chatting in the sun, gesturing with a cigarette, Constance thought perhaps he would make a good character for a mystery novel: a dashing French doctor traveling the world on an elegant ocean liner. But what would be the intrigue behind his story? Would his wife suddenly vanish? No, not a wife. Would he be wrongly accused of an accidental poisoning? Or perhaps be a victim of blackmail? As Constance was working out a good story line, Dr. Chabron turned, tipped his hat to a group of young women, and walked out of view. Smiling, she entitled her nonexistent story “The Singular Affair of the Ship Surgeon.”

Lingering at the rails, Constance considered going to see him at the infirmary, but after a few minutes’ deliberation, she decided to wait. Although she would enjoy his company, he was probably too busy to chat and she was, she had to admit, feeling fine.

She sat back down and opened her book again, but after reading a page or two, she discovered that the dialogue of Hercule Poirot—peppered with bits of French—was clearly being spoken with the doctor’s voice. In her mind, she could hear his slight accent, its musical tone. She was laughing at herself when Mrs. Anderson, back from the game area and trying to relax, called to her.

“Excuse me? Miss?”

Constance looked over to find her holding out the ocean liner’s daily newspaper, L’Atlantique. It was opened to a page of photographs under the headline “The Paris Launch!”

“I believe this is you!” She smiled.

Mrs. Anderson handed the paper to Constance. When she found her photograph there, she grimaced. It was a highly unflattering shot. Her face showed serious surprise—her eyes wide, her mouth in a straight line—and her hat, George’s “puff of smoke,” looked far too big. After scrutinizing her own image with an inaudible groan, her eyes finally wandered to the other two women in the picture.

Next to her, she found the young crew member she’d seen at the doctor’s office. At the infirmary, her hair had been covered in a cap, but the birthmark (which looked here like a blotch of printer’s ink) was undeniably hers. The perspective was thrown by the difference in their sizes; although the girl had been several feet in front of her, in the photo it looked as if they were walking in stride, nearly hand in hand. She studied the girl’s face; it looked nervous but determined. Constance thought her brave to be going off to sea at such a young age.

The other side of the picture was underdeveloped, the woman there fading into white. Was it the elderly woman, stooped and sickly, who had also been at the doctor’s? It was too faint to say for sure, but the clothes were similar; she thought she recognized her purple coat, here a charcoal gray. That, and the skinny frame. Her eyes focused again on her own image, then she quickly folded the paper and handed it back to Mrs. Anderson.

“Thank you for pointing that out,” she said pleasantly, then closed her eyes, facing the sun.

She hoped Dr. Chabron would not have the time to bother with the newspaper today.

Serving stew to third-class diners, Julie noticed how, in the twenty-four hours the passengers had been on board, they had already become members of stable groups, strangers drawn together by common languages and cultures. She handed out bowls to clusters of English speakers, Russians and Slavs, and those passengers from southern Europe who made themselves understood in a pan-Latin patois. The Germans and Austrians were joined not only by language but by the fact that, together, they had lost the Great War. Although three years had passed since the Armistice, they kept to themselves, feeling ostracized and avoiding conflict with the Allied diners.

Julie went down each table, carefully ladling generous portions out of a tureen, timing her movements to the roll of the ship. (“How slow you are!” bristled Mme. Tremblay. “The others are hungry too!”) As she served bowls down one long table, she listened to a group of Mediterranean passengers bickering. As they eagerly reached out for their lunches, they debated whose national dishes were the best. Spaniards raised voices about their rices, Italians about their pastas, the Portuguese their codfish recipes. The French passengers sat back, looking on in amusement, confident in the knowledge that the greatest European cuisine was clearly their own.

Though they were quieted by the full bowls in front of them, Julie was saddened by these bursts of national pride. She knew these passengers were abandoning their homelands, forced to look beyond their borders for better circumstances. Julie realized that the ship was a No Man’s Land, a gap between two worlds: their former lives and the next. What, then, did that mean for the people who worked on board? Were they forever in limbo, without country or home, tied to thankless tasks on a never-stopping ship?

Julie made her way up the aisles, now refilling glasses, and remembered how she and her friends had envisioned these ships from land. The transatlantic liners had always seemed the very image of beauty, luxury, wealth, and power. But here under the waterline, it was nothing of the sort. Far from glamorous and exciting, it was drudgery; Julie, who had always shunned the idea of working in domestic service, was doing the exact same chores. Here, she was a maid, but one who worked in an enormous tumbling machine that rendered her breathing shallow and her bowels functionless. And instead of serving stew to a bourgeois family, she was serving it up to eight hundred people!

Julie sighed and, looking up, was surprised to see Nikolai grinning at her from the corridor just outside the dining room. Her mouth fell open, then managed to grin back. She tried not to blush (impossible!) and quickly looked around to see whether anyone had noticed. She could hardly believe that they were all still chewing calmly, unaware that a man had come looking for her. She looked over at Mme. Tremblay’s thin frame standing guard near the kitchen doors, then at Simone, smiling with her mouth closed at a passenger’s pleasantry. Wheeling back around, she was relieved to find him still there. With the exaggerated face of a question mark, Nikolai pointed at her, then at his watch. Looking at her own, she saw she should be finished in an hour. After she’d made the sign for one, he pointed toward the door with a quizzical shrug, trying to make plans to meet.

Julie was nodding with a smile, when suddenly she felt Mme. Tremblay beside her. She quickly snapped her attention back to her work, forcing herself to look serious.

“Please don’t stop, Julie,” she said loudly. “The passengers to your right have empty glasses as well.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she uttered, moving on to the next passenger.

Lunch dragged after that with passengers fiddling with fruit peels and asking for second cups of coffee. Finally the last table was cleared and the dining room cleaned in preparation for the next meal. Before venturing out into the corridor, Julie took off her cap and ran her fingers through her silky hair. With a peek into the mirror over the riveted sideboard, she smiled at herself—trying to imagine what he saw—then groaned slightly. What did he see?

Cautiously, she peered out into the hallway. He was there, leaning against the metal wall and whistling softly.

“Hi there, Juliette!” he called, interrupting his tune. “Are you on break now?”

“Finally,” she said, joining him at the wall and catching a faint petrol odor coming from his jacket. “But, we serve so many shifts, that once the last passengers are finished with lunch, the first ones are ready to start dinner.”

“Well, do you have time for a little walk?”

“Of course!” she said quickly, letting him take her hand. “I’d love it!” she breathed. “Let’s go outside. It’d be nice to get some fresh air.”

“How are you feeling, then?” he asked, leading her out the door to the mooring deck.

“Better, I guess.” She shrugged. Although she hadn’t thrown up since the day before, she still had bouts of dizziness and breathlessness that made her wary of food.

“I’ve brought you the tea, Julie,” he said, producing a paper bag. “I hope it helps.”

“Oh, thank you for remembering, Nikolai,” she said, taking the package and glancing up at his face as they surfaced out into the sun. “You’re so sweet. Are you sure you won’t need it? We may have rough seas yet.”

“Ah, don’t worry about this old sea dog,” he growled playfully, escorting her to an empty spot at the rails.

“All right, then,” Julie said, leaning on the rail next to him, their arms already touching. “I’ll give it a try. There’s just something about the air down there . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “How is it in the engine room?”

“Better than it used to be. You know, when I started working on steamers, they all had coal engines. There’d be a whole army of us—black-faced and sweating rivers—stoking those engines day and night. We called ourselves the Devil’s Crew. It was like working in the pits of Hell.” Nikolai smiled nostalgically.

“Aren’t we running on coal?” Julie asked. “With those funnels blowing smoke up there, I just took it for granted.”

She remembered her brothers, who all worked at the port, talking excitedly about ship engines. Perhaps Nikolai was also fascinated by such things? Standing next to him, listening to his magnetic voice and feeling his body heat, she was relieved to be producing words of any kind.

“Oh no.” He shook his head. “Not on the Paris. This ship has a brand-new oil-fired turbine engine. No coal, no boilers pumping steam. The engine room is filled with huge cylinders and complicated little devices.”

“Well, even in steerage we can hear it,” Julie said. “It must be really loud down there.”

“You can’t hear anything! You can barely hear yourself think! But this!” he said, gesturing with his arm toward the blue water, then bringing it back to hang around her shoulder. “This is worth coming to sea!” He squeezed her closer with a smile. “A beautiful day with a beautiful girl! Say, shall I buy you some pastries to go with the tea?”

“No, thanks,” she said with a pause. She didn’t want to admit that she had been living off saltines and soda water since she’d boarded. And now, with Nikolai’s arm around her, she couldn’t even imagine eating crackers. “I had a late lunch.”

“Then, shall we take a walk around the deck?”

She looked up at his face, from his pleasant smile on up to his eyes. She was taken aback to see how cold they looked. Narrow and hard. Maybe it was the glare of the sun?

“Actually, I think I should be getting back to steerage. None of my fellow workers are out here,” she said, looking around, suddenly nervous. “It makes me wonder if there’s something I ought to be doing. I still haven’t gotten the hang of this job.” She looked a bit sheepish, then added shyly, “And you? If you’re going back down to the engine room, maybe you could walk me to the women’s dormitory?”

“I’d love to. Really, it’s the only thing I can imagine that could tempt me back into that hole,” he said with a laugh.

He put his arm around her waist, making her stiffen. It seemed such an intimate place, there in the very middle of her body. Was this proper? The only time a boy had ever touched her there—years ago and oh, so lightly!—they’d been dancing. After a few steps, however, the difference in their sizes made it impossible for him to keep his hand in place and he moved it up to her shoulder. This too she found awkward; she wasn’t used to walking in tandem. They began an ungainly descent to the ship’s depths.

As they were reaching Julie’s floor, he jumped to the landing, leaving her three steps above, now at his eye level. With a hand on each rail, as if to bar her way, he leaned over until their foreheads were almost touching.

“Will you meet me on deck again tonight, little Julie?” he cooed softly. “Perhaps you’d allow me a dance? We could waltz outside the ballroom.”

She suddenly felt dizzy again; this time, she knew, it had nothing to do with stale air. With his face so close to hers, she could see his pupils enlarge, feel the warmth of his breath, but could only stammer out a few unintelligible syllables.

“Until tonight, then,” he whispered.

He touched her brow with his own, then drew back an inch to look at her. He scanned her face, moaning in approval—mmmmmm—then planted a kiss, forceful but brief, on her mouth. She gasped, staring at him with wide eyes, but did not move.

He pulled away with a smile. He began sauntering back down to the engine room, then called back up to her: “Enjoy your tea!”

She looked at the paper bag hanging limply in her hand; she’d completely forgotten about it.

“Thanks,” she called down to his head top, dreamily waving good-bye with the bag.

She darted into the empty dormitory and threw herself on the bed, more aware than before of the dull vibration coming from the machines below. With a shiver, she licked her lips, wondering whether Nikolai had left a trace there. Lifting her hand to examine her birthmark, to determine whether it had somehow grown smaller, she discovered, again, the paper bag. Smiling uncontrollably, she opened it.

Inside she found a small bag of ginger tea and a note. With trembling hands and a deep breath, she unfolded the paper. Although the spelling was faulty, the handwriting was surprisingly lavish, with flowery strokes and elaborate capitals; a profusion of nonsensical accent marks decorated the words, sprinkled on like dried herbs.

Dearest Julie,

I want you to have this bag of tea, with hopes that it will prove to be a miracle for you, as you have for me. When you caught my hat that day, it was a sign. There is a connection between us and I know you feel it too.

Yours,

Nikolai

A love letter? Julie blinked a time or two. She could barely believe this was happening to her. A man—a big, strong, good-looking man—was attracted to her! For the first time in her life, she had an admirer.

Her hands warm and clammy, she opened the bag of tea and breathed in its aroma. The smell was intoxicating. The spices recalled the heat that radiated from Nikolai—his hands, his voice, his lips. This engineman was his own furnace, she giggled to herself. Her insides felt liquid; she sniffed the tea again with her eyes closed.

The dormitory door wrenched open and two washerwomen came in, complaining loudly about claret stains and ready for a nap. Julie curled the tea bag shut, then took her old book out of the locker: a worn copy of Jules Verne’s Michael Strogoff, which had long served as a stronghold for her brothers’ letters. Almost light-headed, she reread the lines again before carefully stowing this new letter between its pages. Then she headed toward the kitchen, eager to try Nikolai’s miracle.

Julie had taken to Pascal, the head cook in steerage, when they’d first met the day before. He was a portly man, three times her age, with a big nose and just a ring of hair from ear to ear (“It keeps the chef’s hat on!”). He was one of those rough old sailors who liked to think himself foul tempered, when in fact he was a warmhearted softie. Maybe Jean-François or Didier would have grown up to be a man such as this?

He took a moment out from roasting beef bones for stock to make Julie a cup of tea.

“Ginger, eh?” he said, sniffing the tea. “Not feeling well, are we? And with the seas like glass. Pauvre petite.”

He handed her the cup, giving her head a light pat, then went back to his preparations for the evening meal.

Julie went into the women’s dining hall, juggling the hot cup, the bag, and the book. She had thought to read a few passages of the old novel while drinking her tea, but she couldn’t concentrate. She pulled out Nikolai’s note and reread it again and again. Tracing its loops and curls with her thumb, she focused on the words: “miracle,” “connection,” “Yours.” With a long sigh, she glanced at the other women in the room, mending hosiery or playing cards, to make sure they weren’t stealing glances at her, curious about the letter in her hand. No, they were completely oblivious to the small girl holding a common piece of paper. She took a sip of tea—his tea—safe in the knowledge that she was neither floating nor aglow.

Suddenly, Simone plopped down next to her on the bench, her eyes shining with excitement. “You’ll never guess what’s happened!”

“What?” Julie asked with a jolt, nearly spilling her tea. For a split second, she thought Simone might give her some news about her Russian admirer.

“Mary Pickford and Douglas Fairbanks boarded the Paris in Southampton!” Simone squealed. “They’re right here! In first class!”

Julie, although amused by Simone’s botched logic that first class was “right here,” was impressed nonetheless.

“No kidding!” Julie said with a whistle. “Wait, don’t tell me you’ve seen them!”

“No, but Louise did. She picked up their washing a few minutes ago.” Simone sighed happily. “Hey, wouldn’t that be wonderful if we got to meet them? Let’s go up to first class tonight and peek into the dining room!” Simone clapped her hands. “Or maybe they’ll be on deck, dancing in the moonlight—just like in the pictures!”

“That would be fun,” Julie admitted. “I was already thinking about going up on deck tonight.”

Julie thought for a moment, then, with no one else to confide in, decided to show Simone Nikolai’s note. She pulled it out of her book, then hesitated, holding it in her hand.

“Simone, can you keep a secret?” she asked.

“Sure!” she said, staring at the folded paper. “What is it?”

Julie handed it to her, then, to hide her blush, stuck her nose into the cup and breathed in the last remnants of ginger. She watched Simone’s eyes slowly read the note.

“Wow!” she said, looking at Julie in wonder. “Who is he?”

“He’s a Russian engineman. I met him as we left port yesterday,” Julie explained. “We’ve seen each other out on deck once or twice. He asked me to meet him up there tonight.”

“You lucky dog!” she exclaimed. “You made a catch on our very first day out!”

“A catch?” Julie stammered.

“Yeah! During the training course I heard that for every hundred men working on board, there are just two women. I thought that, for the first time in my life, the odds would be in my favor!” Her smile stretched so widely across her face, she looked a bit like a frog. “And these sailors are strong and able-bodied!” she continued. “Not like the men who came back to Harfleur after the war, missing this or that.”

Julie stiffened. She took the note back and tucked it away into her book.

“Very romantic, Julie,” Simone said with the air of an expert. “Say, I wonder if he has a friend?”

“A friend?” Julie repeated, regretting having mentioned Nikolai to her at all.

“Well, we can ask him when we go up on deck tonight,” Simone said, the evening plan already clear in her mind.

“About tonight,” Julie stumbled slowly. She didn’t want Simone up there, embarrassing her by saying the wrong things. “I’m worried about Madame Tremblay. I don’t think she’d be too happy if she found us missing.”

“You don’t think we’d lose our jobs if we got caught?” Simone whispered, looking from side to side.

“I don’t know,” Julie said. “Let’s think about it, all right?”

“Sure.” Simone nodded. “But I would really love to catch a glimpse of Douglas Fairbanks! And meet your new boyfriend!”

Julie turned red and looked away. She noticed that other women in the lounge were gathering their things—decks of cards, knitting needles, sewing kits—and looked up at the clock. Though it was only half-past four, it was time for them to return to work; the mouths in steerage were fed earlier than those above decks. Julie picked up her well-worn book.

“We’d better get going,” she mumbled.

“What’ve you got there?” Simone asked.

“It’s a book by Jules Verne,” Julie said, grateful for the change in subject. “I’ve read almost all his books, but this one here is more of a souvenir.” Julie looked at the faded cover fondly. “My brothers loved his stories. In fact, that’s why they named me Julie. When my mother was expecting me, my three older brothers each read this book. They decided, since our family name is Vernet, that they wanted a little brother named Jules. Well, they got me instead.”

“Lucky you! I only have sisters . . . five sisters!” Simone replied, rolling her eyes.

“Yes,” Julie said softly, holding the novel against her chest. Peeking back down at the cover, she smiled; the hero, brave Michael Strogoff, was also Russian.

Vera woke up on the deck chair, wrapped tightly inside a nest of warm blankets. She opened her eyes briefly, surprised to see it was already twilight. She noticed Bibi was gone, and her journal was back inside the carpetbag. Amandine had, no doubt, decided to tidy up and take the dog for a stroll without rousing her. Since her sleep had become so precious and rare, Vera was generally cross when it was interrupted. Or perhaps, Vera mused, Amandine had thought she’d passed away and did not relish touching a corpse?

She was looking up into the evening sky with its sprinkling of early-rising stars, taking pleasure in not moving, when a shooting star fleeted past. She shivered in delight; seldom, at this stage, did Vera still feel life’s little moments of magic. She thought back to April 1910 when, for nearly a week, Halley’s Comet had hung over Paris like a gas lamp. To get a better look, she and Charles had taken off their shoes and climbed out on the roof. It was chilly on their bare feet, but how nimble she’d been out there, holding her skirts, without ever imagining she could fall. Was that only eleven years ago? Aging did not take place gradually, she sighed, but in sudden leaps, horrible jerks.

Halley’s Comet . . . Vera was reminded of that quote by Mark Twain, who was born as the comet passed and rightfully predicted that he would die when it returned. “The Almighty has said, no doubt, ‘Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.’ ” Twain was one of the few great Americans in her opinion, only rivaled in humor and ingenuity by Benjamin Franklin.

Near her own end, she pondered his. It was well known that Twain’s last years were ripe with cynicism and disappointment; but, how had he felt when he knew his life was coming to a close? Did he fear the comet’s approach? Or long for its passing? Did he feel remorse at leaving this beautiful world so full of imperfection, or was he glad to let go, to leave humanity to rot? She thought of herself these last few months, reading and rereading her memoirs, reliving her past. Did Mark Twain also find himself studying the stories of his youth, eagerly perusing his Life on the Mississippi, his Innocents Abroad?

Mark Twain. She sat thinking of his mischievous eyes and white tousled hair, his intense gaze and Wild West mustache. Yes, she thought, even as an older man, he was attractive. And, judging by his quick, cantankerous wit, he was undoubtedly an excellent lover as well. Her lips curled into a slow grin, the first visible movement she’d made since waking (if nearby, Amandine would fear rigor mortis was twisting her face into a hideous death mask), then, Vera finally began to shift her limbs, rolling her shoulders and stretching her legs. Now that was a sure sign of old age, she decided, when you can see the allure of your contemporaries, those the young would view as sexless grandfathers with loose skin and looser teeth; when you look for Mark Twain’s portrait in your mind and find a desirable bed partner.

Chuckling to herself, wondering whether she too were an “unaccountable freak,” Vera reached into her carpetbag and pulled out her alphabet book. She opened it in the middle, then let the pages settle themselves. She smiled upon a large letter H. A brief, lighthearted entry, it fit the moment perfectly. There was just enough light left to read a short piece such as this; though, truth be told, she knew most of the words by heart.

Handsome

One day, in my eleventh year, when at an Awkward stage of growth, my lips and nose both occupying more than their rightful share of my face, I was sitting in the window seat, my embroidery forgotten, watching the horses and buggies on the street. Was it the light from the window that drew her toward me? All of a sudden, Grandmother took my chin in her hard, cold hand (Less Human than marble, it was more like metal; nay, Lady Liberty’s hands must be warmer) and peered at my face, moving it from side to side.

“You will never be pretty, my dear,” she declared, shaking her head. “With luck—and I say, With Luck—you will be rather handsome.”

She gave me a serious look, then recovered her chair, put her pince-nez in place, and went back to her book.

Tears filled my eyes. I was devastated by this prophecy (what was a woman worth but her appearance?) made by one of the great beauties of her generation, my grandmother, Camilla Wright Sinclair. I sat in the afternoon light, wondering what it could possibly mean.

I learned in the years that followed, as I quickly developed into one, what exactly a Handsome Woman was. They are not ugly, of course, nor plain, nor excessively manly. But unlike their soft, rounded sisters, with pouty lips and precious eyes, these women tend to have a fine jaw, a noble brow, and eyes that, rather than beautiful, are oft described as Intelligent. These facial characteristics are usually accompanied by a straight back and a long, swift stride. Therefore, unlike Beauties, decorative objects whose task it is to adorn a room, to provide visual delight to others, the Handsome Woman, unable to evoke approval and appreciation by her appearance alone, is free to contribute and develop in other ways.

Many women claim to admire these looks and a few odd men, mainly those referred to as Men of Character, are irresistibly drawn to them, spellbound. Such men have the sensation of being a Discoverer, the first to spot beauty in a wasteland. And thus, he feels the explorer’s pride in there planting his flag. Intrepid, he cares not that few others would envy that particular territory.

I myself have met my share of this rare breed of man. The first time, I was fourteen. Standing with friends at the Autumn Ball, a tall, slender boy approached me. After a few minutes of artless small talk, he stopped, gape-mouthed, and earnestly stammered out the clumsiest compliment I have ever received:

“Hang it! I don’t care that my friends don’t think you’re pretty. I think you’re Beautiful!”

Indeed, this is the fate of these Men of Character, to want a prize that so few value. In one’s youth, that is. But then, one finds that the handsome woman ages so much better than her pretty sisters. Compare the loveliness of dried leaves to the pathetic unsightliness of the dead flower, bloated and ill smelling.

Perhaps Grandmother’s prophecy, so damning, so malignant, was truly an unintentional blessing. A Fairy Godmother’s Gift.

Handsome indeed, she thought with a smile. In her prime she had certainly had her successes with the opposite sex. In fact, she had written a journal entry a few years back entitled “Thirteen Lovers,” detailing her exploits with all the men—an archaeologist, a wealthy banker, a photographer, a handful of writers, and so on—she’d been with after giving up on marriage. Who knows? Perhaps she would have even been able to captivate Mark Twain.

The sky was considerably darker now, high time to retire from the decks. She looked around and saw that the deck steward had already stored away all the other rugs and deck chairs. He was leaning against the rail, smoking a cigarette, undoubtedly waiting for her to return to her cabin so he could finish his evening task.

She reached for her cane, tucked away under her chair, and pulled herself up. Vera stretched again, picked up her bag, then walked to the rails. Looking out on the ocean, a lovely shade of dark green at this time of the evening, she noticed that, on the deck below, people in second class were already dressed and filing into their dining room in twos and fours. Odd, she thought. I’m still not hungry.

Constance decided to wear her nicest outfit for dinner, the new gown she had bought in Paris: a pink sleeveless silk with a champagne-colored sash. Uncomfortable exposing her bare arms, she pulled out the lace shawl—pleased to find an occasion to wear it—to put around her shoulders. She was satisfied with the effect. Faith’s ring did not exactly go with this outfit, but she left it on anyway; it made her feel younger, more chic.

Not wanting to make a grand entrance on her own, she skirted around the edge of the dining room, past mirrors and potted palms, alongside the bar and the wine steward’s station. Passing other second-class diners, she glanced around, idly wondering where the doctor ate—with the crew, with first class, alone in the infirmary, in his rooms?

“Good evening, everyone,” she greeted her fellow diners when she finally arrived.

Already engaged in conversation, the men at her table only granted Constance brief nods and slight smiles as she sat down.

“Good evening, Mrs. Stone,” Mrs. Thomas whispered, not wanting to interrupt them.

The waiter soon appeared, in a short white jacket and bow tie, managing to look extremely busy yet unruffled. He gave them three or four choices for their first course, none of which Constance understood, then poised his pencil on his pad and waited with an air of faux patience while the guests made up their minds.

“I’ll have the crème vichyssoise,” Captain Fielding said so decisively that the other, less traveled guests opted for the same. The waiter made a careful note before taking off in great haste.

The wine steward then sidled up to the table, offering them a chilled bottle of white wine. After everyone had been served, Mr. Thomas raised his glass to give a toast.

“Here’s to the end of Prohibition!” he cried, tossing the wine back in one gulp.

Constance’s hand was on the stem of her glass, expecting a conventional toast regarding health, good cheer, or friendship. Taken aback, she felt uncomfortable lifting her glass; wouldn’t that imply she was rather too fond of drinking? Unlike many women she knew—those who had heartily campaigned for the Eighteenth Amendment—she was not a teetotaler. George had always liked brandy with his cigars and, before the ban on alcohol passed the year before, she had occasionally joined him with a dash of sherry. She peeked over at Mrs. Thomas, who was smiling quietly but not joining in on the toast, and followed suit. However, the European men at the table were delighted and lifted their glasses high.

“I don’t understand this Prohibition,” said one of the Dutchmen with a lick of his lips. “The idea that drink could be illegal is preposterous, unthinkable!”

“Certainly!” seconded the other. “If this notion came up in our parliament, we would defend our port and pints of stout to the last!”

“Here, here!” cried the men.

“You know”—Mr. Thomas grinned, wiping his mouth with his napkin—“I saw Carrie Nation once, in a bar in Kansas City. First she greeted the bartender: ‘Good morning, Destroyer of Men’s Souls.’ ” He said this in a high, mimicking voice. “And then she brought out her hatchet and went to work, breaking all the whiskey bottles in the place!”

“What? Who is this?” asked one of the Dutchmen.

“She was a crazy woman,” he said. “Called herself ‘Jesus’s bulldog’! She claimed liquor was the root of all evil, that it made people do all sorts of sinful things. She’d go into saloons and smash up all the bottles she could, then she’d take a break to play hymns on the piano. It was Carrie Nation who waged the war against alcohol. And she won, the old cow.”

While they were discussing Prohibition, another bottle of wine was ordered and their soup course served. Constance took a spoonful of the creamy vichyssoise and was vexed to find it cold. Before complaining, she waited for Captain Fielding’s reaction. She was disappointed to find he liked it.

“Carrie Nation,” repeated one of the Dutchmen with disdain. “I am surprised to hear that a woman could be so powerful. I don’t just mean her barging into a man’s place of business and threatening his livelihood, but you say she actually changed a national law!”

“Well, I suppose that’s what happens when women get the right to vote.” Captain Fielding shook his head sadly.

“I don’t know why they call it women’s suffrage”—Mr. Thomas winked—“when it’s us men who suffer!”

The four men at the table all chuckled and raised their glasses. Although Constance was used to George dominating conversations at home, she found this group of men far more vulgar and even less inclusive. These gentlemen did not seem to even remember there were ladies at the table! Annoyed with them all, Constance was looking away from her fellow diners with a huff when she noticed the doctor making his way toward their table. Although she was glad to see him—his pleasant nature would be a welcome change from this lot—she felt her cheeks turning red. As he approached the table, his eyes flitted to hers, gleaming, before coming to land on those of the Englishman.

“Captain Fielding!” he said, greeting the officer with a warm handshake. “I saw your name on the passenger list and I wanted to come round and give you my best!”

“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the captain, “I’d like to introduce Dr. Chabron. Thanks to him, I’m still alive.”

“Oh, you would have lived”—the doctor smiled—“though you may not have been so good-looking!”

“Are you part of the Paris crew, sir?” asked Mr. Thomas.

“Yes, I’m the physician here on board.” As he shook hands around the table, Constance felt her heart pounding. When he took her hand, his smile widened. “And I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Miss Stone.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Mrs. Thomas’s thick eyebrows collide; “Miss?” the matron murmured in a long hiss. Constance was relieved that this went unnoticed by everyone else, as the men were all insisting that Dr. Chabron join them at the table.

“I hate to interrupt . . .” he began, to the general dissension of the party.

“We were just discussing the political ec-cen-tricities of recent years,” said Mr. Thomas, emphasizing that word with a comical grimace.

“Yes, Prohibition in America and the spreading plague of women’s suffrage,” Captain Fielding said, rolling his eyes. “Do women have the vote in France?”

“Not yet.” The doctor smiled.

“The French have always been an enlightened bunch!” the Englishman sighed. “Women got the vote in Britain a couple of years back, although, I’m glad to say, not without restrictions. Our lady voters must be over thirty and either householders or university graduates. I mean, you can’t expect charwomen and milkmaids to choose your prime ministers, can you?”

“Good thinking!” Mr. Thomas said with a shake of his head. “In the States, they’ve given the vote to them all!”

“We have two American women here at the table,” said Dr. Chabron, nodding at Constance and Mrs. Thomas. “Pray, ladies, what do you think of all this?”

All eyes fell on the startled women; they had not expected to be included in the discussion and were not prepared to voice their opinions. Indeed, it had been so long since Constance had uttered a word, she thought her jaw would need oiling before she spoke again. She took a breath.

“Well . . .” She and Mrs. Thomas began at the same time. Constance blushed, then deferred to her elder. “After you,” she said courteously.

“I agree with my husband,” Mrs. Thomas said, smiling at her mate. “We women shouldn’t bother ourselves with politics! Our job is to make a comfortable home for our families, not to take to the streets, campaigning, protesting, or picketing.”

“Well said, my dear!” Mr. Thomas beamed. “And you, young lady. I daresay you’re of the same mind?”

Constance looked into the expectant faces of the people at the table, her fellow diners and the doctor, and imagined the presence of her father and George there as well. She had heard arguments similar to Mrs. Thomas’s for years: “a woman’s place” and all that. But that wasn’t really the question.

“It would be difficult for you gentlemen to imagine,” she began slowly, “what it’s like to go through life making almost none of the decisions that affect you most intimately. Men wonder at the helplessness of women—our dependence, our inabilities—when, actually, this situation is imposed upon us.”

She took a breath and looked at their muddled faces.

“Silly girl,” said Mr. Thomas, “that is no invention of man! It is the feminine condition!”

“Sir, it is not our condition to be left out when decisions are taken, when choices are made,” Constance said defiantly. “We women can think for ourselves, you know. We don’t need fathers and husbands always telling us what we can and cannot do, be it schooling or marriage, work or travel . . . I think it’s fabulous that women have finally earned the right to vote,” she said, suddenly adopting a firm position on the matter. “In fact, I plan on registering as soon as I get home!”

She quickly stood up from the table. “Now if you will excuse me . . .”

Flushed, Constance stormed away from the table. Her heart was pounding; unused to confrontation, she was embarrassed and invigorated at the same time. She went out on deck and held the rails tightly. Thinking of Mr. Thomas’s wide-eyed surprise (his toupee had nearly popped off!), she couldn’t help but laugh. She was startled when Dr. Chabron’s laughter suddenly joined hers.

“You were brilliant in there, Miss Stone,” he said, now beside her at the rails. “Your Professor Moriarty was soundly defeated.”

“I don’t know what came over me!” Constance laughed. “Moriarty, you say? Well, I don’t know if I’d call that man my archenemy. Though, I must say, he is rather smug.”

Constance chuckled again, looking out on the sea and savoring the moment. It was a warm evening for the Atlantic and the light from a three-quarter moon played on the waves. She then realized that she had barely had anything for dinner—just a few spoonfuls of cold soup (!)—and gladly remembered the fruit in her cabin.

“Oh, Dr. Chabron,” she began, then wondered whether she was being too formal. Should she have called him Serge, like he’d signed on the little card? Or was that presumptuous? She coughed slightly. “I wanted to thank you for the fruit basket. It was so thoughtful of you.”

“It must have made you feel better,” the doctor replied. “I noticed you didn’t need to come by sick bay today.”

“I’m sorry. I should have come by to tell you how much I appreciated it,” she said with a pretty, apologetic wrinkle. “But, the truth is, after taking the sleeping powders last night, I slept till noon! I woke up this morning feeling wonderful, then spent the whole afternoon lounging on a deck chair and reading a mystery novel. It’s just come out—and guess what! It was penned by a woman!”

“You don’t say!” He smiled back at her.

They were standing side by side, so close that she could smell his scent: hints of tobacco, peppermint, and cologne. She breathed it in with a tingly shiver. Were they being too intimate?

“You must be chilly,” he said, edging a bit closer to her.

“Yes, I should be returning to my cabin,” she said reluctantly.

“Please, allow me to walk you back, Miss Stone,” he said, threading her arm through his.

They slowly walked down the deck, toward the second-class cabins, passing groups of friends laughing over highballs. There were also several couples out—Constance recognized the crossword honeymooners kissing next to a lifeboat—which made her wonder whether she and the doctor also looked like a romantic couple on a moonlit stroll.

“So,” he said, smiling, “will you really register to vote when you get back home?”

“You know,” she said, “I think I will.”

“I have every belief in a woman’s capabilities,” he said. “We couldn’t have gotten through the war without our nurses. They were fast, clever, just invaluable!”

“Yes, during the war there were many women back home who took on men’s jobs,” Constance began, trying to think of a moment in her life when she herself had been invaluable. “I had my own victory garden. And did some volunteering,” she added feebly, then blushed. How paltry it sounded next to war nurses!

“The war wasn’t won by soldiers alone,” he said earnestly.

“What a generous thought, Dr. Chabron,” she said, pausing to give him a smile.

“Please, call me Serge,” he said, gently pressing her arm. “And may I call you Constance?”

“Yes, of course.” She liked the way he pronounced it; with a French accent, it didn’t sound frumpy or serious. She was disappointed to find they’d already arrived at her door.

“Constance,” he said, “I’d like for you to dine with me tomorrow night. You see, I am to join the captain’s table in first class. I think you’ll find the company there more to your satisfaction than your usual dining companions.”

“That would be lovely!” she said.

What a delight it would be to dine with Serge, who seemed genuinely curious about her ideas and opinions. Such a stark contrast to those rude men at her table who had been ignoring her for the past two days. In fact, he seemed more interested in her thoughts than George ever had.

“If you have time, why don’t you pop round to the infirmary in the morning and show me that new detective novel?” he said. “I am curious to see a woman’s take on crime.”

“Of course,” she replied, flattered that he’d found her earlier remark of interest.

“Oh, and the earlier the better. As the day goes by, passengers discover the most ingenious ways of injuring themselves.”

She laughed, shaking his hand lightly as she went inside her cabin.

“Good night,” she called, then, turning around for a parting glance, added, “Bonne nuit!”

She went into her room and rummaged through the fruit bowl, but found she wasn’t hungry anymore. As she undressed, the evening’s events replayed in her mind. With a little laugh, she tried to remember her exact retort about women and decision making. “We don’t need fathers and husbands telling us what we can and cannot do,” she’d declared. If George had been there, he’d have been every bit as surprised as Mr. Thomas.

Reaching into her trunk for her dressing gown, she thought about what to wear to dine with the ship’s captain. Her lavender satin, the pink silk . . . nothing seemed elegant enough. The first-class dining room was reported to be majestic, and the meals there far more exquisite than the ones served in second class. How thoughtful Serge had been to invite her!

How very glad she was to have made such an affable friend on this voyage, a man who not only was attractive and polite, but with whom she shared common interests. She thought of his accent, his charming manners, his smile, and for some reason was reminded of Nigel, her first love. She breathed out a long sigh, filled with regret and disappointment. Nearing thirty, a wife and mother, her chances for romance were long past.

Constance tucked her little girls’ photograph in for the night, then got into bed. She picked up her detective novel and read a few pages, wondering if, indeed, Serge would like it too.

“Julie!” Simone called from the kitchens as the help was filing out of the dining room. The long dinner shift was over in steerage and the workers were going back to their dormitories.

“Hey, Julie!” Simone caught up to her, panting slightly. “I was just talking to Roger, you know, the sous chef. He said that Pascal and the other cooks are playing cards this evening.” Simone lowered her voice, nearly skipping with excitement. “And guess what? Old Tremblay always joins them!” She shot Julie a mischievous smile. “So, there’s nothing to keep us from going to the top decks! What do you say?”

“Well . . . .” Julie strung this word out while she was thinking. Simone’s grin was so enthusiastic, it was on the verge of bursting open. Julie nodded with a sigh. It seemed she had no choice but to take her on her rendezvous with Nikolai. “If you’re sure that Madame Tremblay will be busy, I guess so.”

“Great!” Simone said. “Let’s get ready!”

Back in the dormitory, they decided to leave their uniforms on; in case someone asked, they could say they were out delivering a message. They took off their caps, however, and let their hair down. They brushed it out (“Ah, Julie, what I’d do to have hair like yours!”), then Simone pulled a small, worn makeup bag out of her kit.

“My sister Marguerite gave me her old powders,” she said.

Simone took out a compact, some rouge, and a sticky nub of rose-colored lipstick. She looked into the compact’s small mirror, then vigorously rubbed the remnants of pressed powder with the puff. She dabbed it on the patches of spots on her forehead, cheeks, then her nose. She then applied the rouge and the lipstick.

“How do I look?” She smiled.

“Just fine!” Julie smiled back. Really, with makeup, Simone merely looked more colorful.

“And now you!” She approached Julie with a studious expression. “With that pale skin, you really need some rouge. This one is called ‘fresh peach.’ ”

Her brow knotted in concentration as she dusted Julie’s cheeks with a few masterly strokes. Simone picked up the lipstick, then paused over the large birthmark above Julie’s lip.

“Uh . . . I think your lips are fine as they are,” she said diplomatically.

“This is silly,” Julie said, touching her birthmark lightly with her finger. “In the moonlight up on deck, you can’t really make out colors anyway. Everything is gray.”

Looking back in the compact’s small mirror, Simone brushed some more rouge on her own cheeks.

“You never know!” she said.

Julie took a quick look around the dormitory. Two or three women were already putting on nightgowns, slippers, and hairnets, others were chatting and relaxing on their bunks. Louise, the washerwoman who slept in the next row, was leafing through the ship’s newspaper. She suddenly called out to Julie.

“Hey, you! You got your picture in the paper!”

Simone was hunched over the paper, squealing, before Julie even approached the bed.

“Look, Julie! It is you!” she said with a grin.

Julie picked up the paper and looked at it suspiciously. Very few pictures of her existed and none that she liked. When she was twelve, her parents took her to a portrait studio and the photographer insisted on her posing in profile. The photograph was quite flattering—her elegant brow, straight nose, her hair nestled into a bun at the nape of her neck—but it was not her. Without her birthmark, that face was a lie. Here, not only was her blemish plain (and so dark!) but her face looked cross, and what on earth was that on her hand? The streamer, she sighed. It was her—for better or for worse.

She then glanced at the other women in the photo: one was wearing a serious expression and a big hat, and the other was ghostly white and overly thin. Inspecting the photo more closely, she was surprised to find the two women who had been in the doctor’s office the day before. The sickly old lady with her rings, dog, and maid, and the woman awaiting the doctor who, despite being beautiful, seemed so self-conscious.

“Look at this,” Julie said, passing the paper back to Simone. “I’ve met these two ladies. We were all at the infirmary yesterday at the same time. How strange that, just a few hours before, we’d all been walking together on the dock!”

“Right.” Simone nodded sarcastically. “You three . . . and about five thousand other people! Come on! Let’s go!”

Simone tried to hand L’Atlantique back to the laundress, but she was now engaged in the rather pointless task of painting her nails.

“No, you keep it, honey,” she said.

Julie looked at the women in the photograph again, wondering how their voyage had been so far, traveling in luxury on the upper decks. She carefully tore it out and put it inside her Jules Verne book of keepsakes. They left the room quietly, throwing the rest of the newspaper away on their way out, then began the trek up the stairs. Finally, on the last steps, they felt cool air on their faces and saw a patch of evening sky; Julie began breathing properly again, despite the climb.

Just as Simone and Julie were about to surface on the top deck, they heard a couple talking right outside the stairwell. The man’s voice was a long slur, the woman’s laughter a cackle. The couple was dancing around, obviously in their cups, giggling and falling onto the rails. The girls could detect bits of English.

“Americans,” Simone mouthed to Julie, with a little snort.

They waited a moment below the deck for the couple to move on. With a sigh, Julie tried to remember the last time she’d danced, celebrated, or laughed long and hard. Was it the Fête Nationale in 1914? It seemed another life, and she another girl. Perhaps tonight she would be that girl again.

“Well,” said Simone, when they were alone again, “I think it’s safe to say that wasn’t Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford!”

They came out onto the decks and looked around. Couples were tucked into small spaces: between lifeboats, at the rails, on the benches riveted into corners, around the deck-chair storage bins. No one even glanced at the two young women from steerage.

“What do you want to do first? Should we go peek into the ballroom?” Simone asked.

“Oh, Simone, do you really think we’ll be able to mix in with the first-class passengers? Like this?” She curtsied, holding out the hems of the unflattering black uniform.

“I guess you’re right,” Simone said. “But look! The moon’s out. Let’s go to the rails and listen to the music. Maybe they’ll come to us.”

The sound of a string quartet floated out of the dining room. After a few minutes, Julie felt a tap on her shoulder.

“May I have this dance, mademoiselle?” Nikolai asked with a smile.

Vera walked into the dining room and was led to her table by the maître d’hôtel. She was glad for his assistance, as she would have never found it on her own. She sat down and saw that, although everyone was there, two additional places were set at their ample table.

A waiter in a black tie and a thin mustache came by to take their orders. Without looking at the menu, Vera said, “Oui, un croûte au pot pour moi, s’il vous plaît,” then greeted the others at table.

“Good evening, everyone. I trust you’ve all enjoyed a pleasant day.” Vera placed her napkin into her lap, feeling she had already made her contribution to the conversation for that meal.

Her dining companions returned to the discussion they’d been having before her arrival. Americans returning home after traveling in the Old World, they were all agreeing on the superiority of their own country.

“Europe . . . quaint, I’d call it. But so dilapidated! Their capitals are nothing but peeling paint and broken plaster!”

“Well, there was the war!” conceded one.

“Even so! Compare, if you will, the Brooklyn Bridge and New York’s skyscrapers to the dusty—”

Vera sighed at the predictable dullness of their reflections and let her eyes wander around the room.

She noticed that the captain’s table was receiving an uncommon amount of attention. Vera looked to the center of the room and saw that famous Hollywood couple (who were they again?) seated regally at the captain’s side. Amused, she watched as pompous poseurs around the dining room strained themselves to watch them through their monocles and behind their fans. Indeed, Vera mused, this celebrated couple was the embodiment of American culture (in all its superlative glory!): melodramatic film stars who acted without their voices.

Suddenly, a young couple was standing behind the two empty seats at the table.

“Excuse our tardiness,” said the man, bowing slightly before seating his wife, and then himself. “We boarded last night in Southampton and we’ve spent a tiring day tracking down a lost trunk.” He smiled around the table. “Now, allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Josef Richter and this is my wife, Emma.”

Vera nodded at the couple. There was something familiar about this young man: his high forehead and Roman nose, his straight bearing and graceful gestures. Pity she hadn’t caught his surname. She tried to be attentive as the others at her table introduced themselves to this handsome pair; she’d long since forgotten who they were. Finally, the circle came around to her.

“And I am Mrs. Vera Sinclair,” she said politely.

The young man dropped his napkin and stared at her.

“And, where are you from, Mrs. Sinclair?” he asked pointedly, his voice strained.

“I’m originally from New York, but I lived in Paris for ages,” she said, surprised at his curiosity as well as his tone. She would have continued, adding something lighthearted or witty—about homelands or aging—but his expression did not encourage it.

“I believe you knew my father, Mr. Laszlo Richter, from Budapest?” he asked, eyebrows arched.

Ah, thought Vera, this is why I thought I’d seen him before! He looks so like his father! Of course she remembered Laszlo. One of her “Thirteen Lovers” from times past, he had left a mark. In fact, after him, it was a long time before she had another.

They’d met the summer of ’99 at the Grand Hotel Bad Ragaz in Switzerland. Vera and her friend Mathilde had gone there to spend a rejuvenating month taking baths in the thermal waters; Laszlo, she understood later, was being treated for melancholia. With thick, dark hair and a perfect profile, he was an extremely attractive forty-odd—even more so than his son was now—and she enjoyed the challenge of making him smile. Vera and Laszlo began spending their days together: taking long strolls through the beautiful Alpine grounds, dining, dancing; the following week, they began sharing a bed.

One morning, toward the end of the month, she woke up in Laszlo’s arms to find him crying. “Oh, Vera,” he sobbed, “I don’t want to let you go.” After confessing to being married, he began making promises to leave his family—a wife and son—and come to Paris to be with her. Although during their brief time together, she had reveled in his company (and had even admitted to herself that, for once, one of her affairs seemed to have true potential), she wouldn’t allow it—not with a child involved. As a young girl, Vera had suffered her own parents’ absence; as a new wife, she’d discovered her inability to bear children. No, she would not destroy a family, one boy’s childhood. She asked Laszlo to give her time to think, then began packing her bags.

Without saying good-bye, Vera left Bad Ragaz, entrusting Mathilde to deliver a farewell note. On the train home, she stared blindly out the window, angry with him for keeping the truth to himself but, even more, grieving for their stillborn relationship. For months afterward, at least once a week, she received thick letters from Budapest and dutifully sent them all back, unopened. She was relieved when, the following spring, they’d abruptly stopped coming. She never heard from him again.

“Yes, I remember him!” Vera smiled at the coincidence, wondering whether she was looking now at the same boy his father had mentioned over two decades before, in her bed at a posh Swiss spa. “Such an elegant man. A banker, I believe. How is he now?” she asked pleasantly.

“My father has been dead many years, madame. Didn’t you know?”

The young Richter’s voice remained steady and sober, but Vera could tell he was on the verge of losing his temper. His wife, Emma, was staring at her in wonder, her mouth ajar, but her eyes riveted.

“When I was a boy, he killed himself.” He paused, clearing his throat but keeping a sharp eye on Vera. “After he was gone, my mother went through his papers and read his letters. There were hundreds of pages addressed to one Madame Vera Sinclair, rue Danton, Paris.” He nearly spit out the name and address; he’d been carrying them in his mouth for years. “She told me my father died of a broken heart.”

“Darling!” his wife whispered, dragging her eyes away from Vera, grasping his arm. “Please! Now’s not the time . . .”

With tenderness, she tried to get her husband’s attention, but his gaze remained fixed on Vera. Their fellow diners stared at Vera and Josef Richter in silence, their eyes darting from one face to the other. An older gentleman took a quick gulp of wine, considered intervening, then closed his mouth, dumbfounded. Although their conversation had not been loud or even ill-mannered, a visible change in the table’s countenance had taken place; this attracted the attention of people at neighboring tables, who began murmuring unanswered questions.

Vera’s fallen face paled as she tried to take in Richter’s words. Laszlo had killed himself? She clasped her eyes shut with a groan. What had those letters contained? Aching to flee, to be alone, she made herself return his gaze; she looked into the eyes of Laszlo’s son.

“I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Mr. Richter,” she said, her voice reedy and odd from the strain of not crying. What could she say to this miserable young man that would ease his pain? She considered a few kind words about his father, but thought that would be in bad taste. Instead, she tried atoning. “I’ve made many mistakes over the years,” she continued, sliding her long strand of pearls through her hand. “Done reckless things that have undoubtedly hurt other people. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me.”

She rose from the table.

“Again, you have my greatest sympathies,” Vera added, her voice now flat and tired. He finally looked away, suddenly impatient for her to be gone.

She excused herself from the others at the table and left, trying to hold herself straight, to right her posture. In all Vera’s years, despite her many antics and exploits, she had never been cast out in society and intended to carry it off with dignity. She felt the heat from the silent stares at the table behind her, and as she made her way through the room, she met questioning gazes from all the diners she passed.

No matter, she thought, as she smiled politely into those curious faces. Surely they would think a withering old woman incapable of causing scandal. It had all happened so quickly—the first course had not yet arrived—that anyone would assume that the poor dear was merely going to retrieve her dentures, her ear trumpet, or some other necessary apparatus lying forgotten in the cabin. She made it to the corridor before her face cracked.

Her eyes filling with tears, she leaned heavily on her cane and began the slow procession back to her quarters. Vera thought back on her long conversations with Laszlo. She remembered her shock when he told her about his own father, who had corrected his behavior with a horsewhip; her commiseration that last day when he told her about his wretched marriage, forced upon him by family ambitions. Though he was an unhappy man long before she met him, she supposed she was to blame for his suicide. Vera was guilty of exposing him to joy.

She passed through the arcade leading back to the first-class cabins. There, she caught a glimpse of a young couple dancing on the deck. Their sizes were so dramatically different that they looked like an illustration from a children’s book, an amusing exaggeration depicting Big and Small. As the waltzing couple swung near, she recognized the girl. She was the member of the service crew she’d seen in the infirmary, the one with the face of a dirtied egg. Their eyes met for a moment and, despite her own sorrow, Vera couldn’t help but smile at her. She looked so happy.

“Young lovers,” she sighed to herself, then shivered.

Did love ever end well? She had the sudden urge to warn the girl, to try to protect her from the clutches of a man’s affection. As she passed the couple, Vera glanced back and shook her head. What advice could she presume to offer?

She was exhausted when she arrived at her cabin; from the physical exertion of walking down corridors, from not having eaten, but mostly from trying to keep composed. Vera sank down on the bed, letting her cane fall to the floor, and threw her face into her hands. She was still trying to absorb what she’d heard. All these years she’d assumed that Laszlo’s letters had stopped coming because he’d finally come to terms with the idea that they couldn’t be together. Now, she realized he never had.

After a few minutes, Amandine knocked softly and entered.

“You’re already back?” she asked, concerned. “Are you unwell?”

“I don’t know,” Vera answered truthfully.

“Would you like me to brush your hair?” When faced with the unknown, Amandine offered practical solutions. “Do you need help with your bedclothes?”

“You go on to bed,” Vera said. “Don’t worry about me.”

Amandine silently hung Vera’s cloak and poured her a glass of water. Before going back to her quarters, she filched the copy of L’Atlantique from the table. Earlier that evening, she’d noticed Miss Vera on the fringe of a poor-quality photograph. Skinny and white, she looked like a skeleton. It was the last thing she needed to see at the moment.

Once alone, Vera scanned the room for something to make her feel better. She looked at her journals on the table next to her bed but couldn’t open them. Not tonight. She felt ashamed of the entry detailing her conquests, her Thirteen (unlucky!) Lovers. She then spied the telephone on the writing table. Upon its discovery after the launch, she’d found it ridiculous. Now it seemed a miracle.

She crossed the room and picked it up. After a few seconds’ delay, she gave the number to the operator. The cranky mechanical ring sounded again and again; she was about to hang up when she heard him.

“Allô?” he said through the static.

“Oh, Charles!” she cried. The relief, the joy of hearing his voice made her throat tighten.

“Vera?” he asked in wonder. “But, where are you? Didn’t you board the Paris?”

“My cabin has a telephone, if you can believe that,” she answered.

“What is the world coming to?” Despite the shaky connection, she could hear the smile in his voice. “Tell me, then. How is the voyage so far?”

“Oh, Charles, I feel like hell,” she said, trying not to cry. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

“Well, I see some kind sailor has been giving you elocution lessons,” he began.

“I’m serious!” she cut him off.

The buzz on the line seemed louder as he hesitated.

“It’s not . . . your . . . condition, is it?” he managed.

“No, it’s not my body. That would be easy! I’m afraid it’s my conscience,” she said, her voice dropping.

“It’s about time!” He laughed, obviously relieved not to have to discuss her illness.

“Oh Charles, stop joking.” She had to raise her voice to talk over the static. “Listen, do you remember some twenty years ago, I met a Hungarian man at Bad Ragaz? The one who used to send me all those letters?”

“Yes, in fact I do,” replied Charles, serious now. “You never opened a single one. You just jotted on them ‘Retournez s.v.p.’ and back to the post they went. At the time I thought you suffered from an appalling lack of curiosity.”

“Well, due to an unfortunate twist of fate, his son was sitting next to me at dinner tonight.”

Charles said something in response, but Vera couldn’t make out his words.

“Will you speak up, dear? I can’t hear you over all this crackling,” she was saying when the line went dead. Vera stared into the receiver for a moment, considered calling him back again, then hung up. She kicked off her shoes and lay down on the bed, curling herself into a ball, missing Charles and feeling more alone than she had since childhood. Vera began to cry, hard painful sobs that burned her throat. She wept for Laszlo, yes, but she also wept for herself.

Shivering with cold, Julie sat on the metal bench, nervously watching Nikolai dance with Simone. During their last waltz, he’d said he felt sorry for her, just standing there, looking on. Julie would have found him gallant and thoughtful if they didn’t seem to be having so much fun; ever since the song started, they’d been chatting and laughing like old friends. She was sure that Simone had clever things to say and undoubtedly had not once mentioned ship engines or seasickness. How did she do it? Simone seemed so at home in a man’s arms. In comparison, Julie was anxious, stiff, dull.

When the song finally came to an end, Nikolai and Simone walked back to the bench wearing satisfied smiles.

“Well, I’m going to leave you two lovebirds alone,” Simone called out to Julie’s horror. “Don’t be too late getting back to the dormitory!” She winked, then waved. “Great meeting you, Nikolai! See you around!”

As they watched her sashay back to the stairwell, he shook his head with a grin.

“Your friend’s a real hoot!”

“Yes,” Julie begrudgingly agreed.

Nikolai nested himself on the narrow bench and pulled Julie onto his lap.

“You, on the other hand,” he said, whispering into her hair, “are something much more special.”

He quickly rubbed the warmth back into her arms, then wrapped her in a long embrace. Closing her eyes, she thawed with a little moan. He was interested in her. Perhaps Simone was the kind of girl boys liked being friends with, but nothing more?

Nikolai cupped her face in his massive hands, then reached down to kiss her. His lips played on hers, grazing, pecking, nibbling, until he gently toyed hers open and kissed her passionately. Julie felt her pounding heart fall into her stomach; light-headed and trembling, she was glad she was sitting down. When he pulled back to look at her, she reached her hand up to his face, timidly exploring his chin, his lips, then slid her fingers through his shaggy hair.

He was bending down to kiss her again when a half dozen first-class tourists began filing out on deck. Dinners finished, cigarettes in hand, they had come out to enjoy the moon before going up to the ballroom. Passing alongside the bench, one of the women was startled by the couple in the shadows.

“Oh my!” she said, clutching her breast and raising her lorgnette to see them better, as if this were a comical scene from an operetta where she herself discovers two lusty servants.

Nikolai and Julie jumped up; he grabbed her hand and began to run. Dodging strollers and air vents, they bolted down the deck hand in hand until they reached the bow. Panting, they stood for a moment grinning at each other, trying to catch their breath. Nikolai then grasped her waist and began waltzing around in circles.

“Odin, dva, tri—odin, dva, tri—odin, dva, tri . . .”

He counted in Russian as he spun her faster and faster, until they both fell back onto the rails, laughing. He put his arm around her and, facing the water and the moon, they were hushed by the dark and the silence.

“Oh, Nikolai, you must miss Russia very much,” Julie said softly, suddenly realizing that she too had left her homeland.

“Yes, I do,” he said, nodding slowly. “But I miss a Russia that doesn’t exist now. It’s changed since the revolution, you know. We Russians are emotional, sentimental, spiritual people. That’s why my father took me to get this tattoo.” He showed her the dark intersected lines on his arm. “It’s the orthodox cross. He wanted me to remember the real Russia, not what it is now. Those Bolsheviks are cold, godless machines.” He breathed heavily, squeezing Julie closer. “Now, it seems everything’s changed.”

“I understand what you mean.” Julie nodded. “France has also changed since the war.”

“Eh, the war!” Nikolai spat.

She looked up at his face, wondering what he meant.

“Did you fight?” she asked.

“For about two weeks!” He barked out a bitter laugh. “Then I got out. What idiots those men were, rotting in the trenches!”

“Idiots!” she cried. “Those were brave men who fought and died. And you? What were you? A deserter? A coward?”

“Hey, hey! Calm down!” He grabbed her shoulders and stared into her face. “I am no coward! If I’d been alive when Napoleon invaded Russia, I would have fought—and proudly! But this war was madness! Just nonsense!” Nikolai sneered. “None of those poor dupes in the mud knew why they were down there, just waiting to die.”

“My brothers were those poor dupes!” she shouted, furious now. “And, yes, they died! But they would have never left their comrades in the trenches and deserted. How could you!”

She whisked around and ran. She heard him calling her name, but she quickly darted into the first door she saw. Her feet sank on the deep-pile carpet. Skittering down the corridor, she slid her hand along the mahogany paneling, grazed the damask curtains. Perfume hung in the air. Still shaking with indignation, she slowed down to admire the beautiful place she’d wandered into. With a snort, she realized it was merely a hallway, a lowly passage from one magnificent place to another. How different life was up here!

When she finally found a stairwell, she made a rapid descent down to more familiar quarters: metal walls, rope railings, linoleum floors. Back in steerage, she snuck back into the dormitory as quietly as possible. Julie peered over at Mme. Tremblay’s bunk, searching her narrow bulge in the covers. She wasn’t there. Was that good or bad? She was relieved to see Simone was asleep; she certainly didn’t feel like talking to her about Nikolai. Silently taking off her dress, she smelled him there, a light scent of petrol sweat. Strangely, she did not find it unpleasant.

She got into bed, where, on the pillow, lay her book, a Christmas gift her brothers had received before she was born. When her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, she studied the cover: there was Michael Strogoff, the czar’s courier, on horseback, ducking rebel fire, speeding bravely ahead. That Russian was no deserter. To calm herself down, Julie began flipping through the pages.

Running her fingers over the cheap pulp, wrinkled and soiled from wear, she thought of her brothers. She found dark smudges that looked like fingerprints, grease from their oil-stained hands. On one page she found a long, thin stain, as if someone had once used a blade of grass for a bookmark. Which one of them might have done that? And here, had a gnat been killed between these pages? Leafing through this book, she felt connected to all four of her brothers at once; she felt their presence.

From its splayed pages, she began pulling out letters, dozens of thin letters from Loïc, the rare postcard from Didier and Émile. Idiots. She thought of her brothers, uniformed, mustached, and smiling. Poor dupes. They hadn’t felt that way about the war, had they? Surely they had found meaning in what they were doing, waiting to die? Did they know what they were fighting for? Or had they too thought it nonsense, madness?

Among this precious correspondence, she picked out a yellowed envelope: the last letter Loïc had sent her. She opened it carefully; like all the others, the creases of the thin pages were fragile from all the times she’d folded and unfolded it. From the random spots of ink and the scrawled handwriting, Julie had always imagined Loïc writing this letter on his knees while squatting in the trenches.

31 October 1918

Dear Julie,

As you can see from the date above, tomorrow is All Saints’ Day. Do you remember going to the cemetery when we were children? How serious we were as we lay flowers on our grandparents’ graves? Tomorrow will you go and honor our brothers as well? Here, between the fighting and the Spanish flu, we would need a train to carry the flowers to remember all our dead.

It is cold and rainy in the trenches, but we mole men are used to mud and worms. At the moment, with an army blanket over my shoulders and some bitter coffee to take off the chill, I’m listening to my fellow soldiers talk of going home. You see, there have been rumors of peace here lately. After the fierce attacks of spring and summer, they say the Germans are coming to the end of their resources. But here in my underground home, it’s hard to imagine a normal life. And, sadly, many of the things I used to enjoy somehow seem pointless to me now.

I often think of Jean-François, Émile, and Didier—“les grands ”—and wonder if they too were cold and miserable. Did they dream about Maman’s oyster fritters and tripe like I do? Did they relish each cigarette and look forward to the odd shot of pastis? Did they love their comrades? And their officers? Were they gallant men, worthy of ordering troops to their death? I do hope so.

If all this talk of an armistice is true, then I should be seeing you shortly.

Your big brother who loves you,

Loïc

Julie had already written the response, a lighthearted missive about life in Le Havre, when they got the official letter with the military seal. It was November 11.

“No!” her mother screamed. “Not Loïc! Not my baby!”

The postman had delivered it around nine; the church bells began ringing at noon. The streets overran with people, sporting impromptu tricolor ribbons and breaking out dusty bottles of liqueurs and wine to toast on the streets. Groups erupted into “La Marseillaise” but only a few could sing more than a few lines without crying, tears of pride, joy, and relief streaming down their cheeks. Saint François was celebrating, but Julie and her parents remained at home, indignant at the unfairness of fate. The armistice would not bring Loïc home.

Julie took the last letter she’d written him and carefully folded it into a paper boat. She walked outside to the canal that ran behind their house and placed the boat in the water. She’d watched it float, bobbing up and down, until it got heavy, waterlogged, and sank. Then, finally, she burst into tears. The church bells were clanging merrily, but for her, it was a death toll.

She refolded his last letter, returned it to its frail envelope, and tucked it back inside the book. She closed her eyes and imagined her brother’s face. Unlike their older brothers, all three ruddy and stocky, Loïc had looked more like Julie. They shared the same pallor, copper hair, agate eyes. She imagined them walking along the waterfront, skimming stones on a summer day, the sun gleaming off Loïc’s hair, a mirror of her own. In her mind, she saw her parents smile again, like they used to before the war.

Julie was stowing the letters and cards, one by one, when she came across the letter from Nikolai. She opened the thick, clean paper and reread the words. There is a connection between us . . . Impossible! A man who had left his comrades in the trenches to later insult their memory? How could she have been so excited about such a man? She didn’t even know him. Julie angrily flicked the stiff paper with her finger. She was tempted to rip it to pieces, to wad it into a ball and throw it across the room. Instead, however, she stored it alongside the letters from her loved ones. She then closed the book and tried to sleep, willing herself to dream of Loïc, of all her brothers. To hear their voices and laughter again, to see them move.