| |
That evening’s dinner added to Isabella’s questions.
She arrived second to the table. The elderly Miss Swandon was first, a shawl over her bronze gown. The maître d’ placed Isabella on the same side as the older woman, an empty chair between them. With the intervening man not yet present, conversation would be easy.
Isabella smiled and introduced the weather. When the sunny day and light breeze exhausted that topic, she asked about the woman’s current project. “I saw you on deck earlier, working away. Your hook looked rather long. Aren’t most crochet hooks about five inches or so?” There, she’d contributed the breadth of her knowledge about handwork.
“My current project requires that long hook. It’s worked in Tunisian crochet, sometimes called the Princess Frederick William stitch or the Princess Royal stitch. I’ve even heard it as Ecossais tricoter. Tricoter is French for knitting. This mantle,” she touched the ombre beige shawl, “is in Tunisian crochet.” A faint stain marred the side of her left finger.
“The fabric you create looks very much like knitting. How did you learn it?”
“A neighbor taught me, while my office was stationed in France, early in the war. I prefer this type of crochet to other stitches, for the work is never turned. We have a forward pass, leaving all stitches on the hook, then we pass back, casting off as we work each stitch.”
“I’ve never heard of Tunisian crochet. Granted, I know very little about crochet or knitting.”
Miss Swandon sniffed. “You are devoted to your art, dear.” Her tone gave art capital letters, “and very good you are with it. Who is that youngish woman I’ve seen occasionally accompany you on deck, Mrs. Tarrant?”
“I believe you mean Miss Nedda Cortland. She and I share a cabin with two other young ladies.”
The woman shuddered. “My, the trials of third class. Have I seen her with the elder Mr. Ingram?”
“Nedda is his personal secretary.”
Miss Swandon nodded. “Well do I know the life of a personal secretary.”
“That was your former position?”
“Indeed. For many years I was secretary to an unassuming man who made grave decisions every hour of every day. He paid me handsomely. I didn’t quite know what to do with myself when I had to retire from that position after the war. I booked this trip at his suggestion. We are early to dinner, aren’t we? I expected you to come in on Col. Werthy’s arm. You are so often together.”
Isabella’s gaze sharpened. Did Miss Swandon write that letter? Yet she saw nothing new in the elderly woman’s façade. She was the spinster incarnate: wispy silver hair escaping a tight bun, watery blue eyes, the wrinkles of age, a pince-nez on a ribbon about her neck but never used, her clothes well made but far behind fashion. The shawl enveloped her thin shoulders, swaddling her even though the room wasn’t chilled.
“Col. Werthy and I have common interest in history and world events, which was my father’s speciality.”
“He’s not quite the man with whom you should associate.” Before Isabella could decode that statement, Miss Swandon said with delight, “Here are the Ingrams.”
Hyatt Ingram greeted them as he took his usual host’s position. Following him was a couple new to the table. Mr. and Mrs. Nevil Fremont looked like middle-aged gentry long settled into complacency. Their daughter Savina Fremont, a golden-curled beauty with bright red lipstick and slanted brown eyes, came on Sheridan Ingram’s arm.
Ingram younger placed himself to the hostess right, with Miss Fremont at his side. His quiet remarks had her giggling and casting coquettish glances while the Ingram elder focused on Mrs. Fremont, a dowdy woman eclipsed by the double strand of pearls across her ample bosom.
Escorting Lady Peverell was Padgett Michaels, a non-descript man who had little to say. He took the chair between Isabella and Miss Swandon. The spinster quickly engaged him in conversation about the bazaar she’d explored when they docked in Rhodes, leaving Isabella with nothing to do but listen to the various conversations.
Last to come, missing the cocktail but sliding into his seat as the steward served a cream soup, was Col. Werthy. He gave his apologies to the table at large then preceded to charm Miss Fremont’s attentions away from Sheridan Ingram.
“They toured Valetta together,” Mr. Michaels muttered in Isabella’s ear.
“I beg your pardon?”
He nodded to indicate the lively conversation across the table. “When we were docked at Malta. The Fremonts wanted an escort to tour the Old Town, and Lady Peverell recommended the colonel.”
“And did you tour Valetta?”
“I had business in the Old Town, part of my reason for this trip. I did see you and your friend, though.”
“Nedda Cortland. Mr. Ingram had no need of a secretary that day.”
“I never see her here, at dinner.”
“Nedda guards her free time, Mr. Michaels.”
“Whilst you are care-free.”
“I set my own working hours. And you, Mr. Michaels? What is your business?”
“Antique jewelry, oddities and collectibles. I’m looking forward to our stay in Egypt. I expect to procure several finds in Cairo,” and he spent the rest of the dinner describing exotics finds he had purchased in bazaars in Egypt and Arabia. He soon had her wishing she had signed up for the side excursions to Cairo, the pyramids at Giza, and Alexandria.
As they exited the dining room, Lady Peverell veered the women into a retiring salon. Isabella welcomed the delay. While the others would dance or play bridge, she would spend the rest of the evening in her cramped berth.
Miss Fremont sidled over to her. “You will not be dancing with us?”
“I prefer not to,” although she would dearly love a late stroll on the decks or an evening playing cards rather than improving her mind with a book. Never invited, she didn’t push herself into that group.
“I love dancing,” the young woman enthused. “With some partners, I feel light as a feather. Do you dance with your husband?”
“We have. He does make me feel light although I will never quite be a featherweight.”
Savina Fremont turned to the mirror and touched her curls. “Do you miss him?”
“More than I dreamed that I would.”
“Where is he now? Where will you meet him?”
“Madras.” When the beauty looked blank, Isabella clarified, “That’s India, on the other side of the subcontinent from Bombay. To where are you and your parents traveling?”
“Sri Lanka. Hong Kong. Then Hawaii and San Francisco and New York. All before we return to London.”
Those places were greatly distant, requiring days upon days of travel, and Savina rattled them off as if they were stops on a train line. “I’m a little envious of your world tour. You will see many exotic places.”
Savina dug into her beaded purse. “I hope they’re more interesting than that ruined marble hall on the hill in Athens.” Out came a gold lipstick case. The lipstick was a bright carnelian, stark against her creamy skin.
Did she mean the Parthenon? Or The Acropolis?
“Pater said it was important to see, and see it we must. We’ll see the pyramids in Egypt, too. I hope they are more interesting.”
Isabella doubted the young woman would find them so. She decided to change the subject. “That’s a lovely frock you’re wearing.”
Without taking her eyes from the mirror, she popped the lipstick closed, dropped it in her purse, then snapped the clasp. She gave a wiggle, and the soft gold moiré shimmered in the low light. Seed pearls adorned the fragile lace draping the bodice while a Rhinestone ornament clasped the front waist, creating shape for the tubular gown. “A Callot Soeur original. A gown to make a man fall in love.”
“A gown to make every woman envious.”
Savina smiled. Miss Swandon appeared, fussing with her crocheted mantle. In the inner room, Mrs. Fremont spoke to the attendant.
“Col. Werthy is exceptionally nice, isn’t he, Mrs. Tarrant?”
Isabella opened her eyes wide. She shot a glance to Miss Swandon and the other ladies waiting in the antechamber, but they hadn’t heard Savina. With that single line of the letter glaring in her memory, she managed, “He has been a boon to this sole traveler.”
Mrs. Fremont emerged, Lady Peverell behind her. “Come along,” the dowager said. “You are needed this evening, Isabella. How are you at bridge?”
“Neither bad nor good,” she said promptly, wanting to avoid her cabin as long as possible.
“You will make our fourth.”
Card play occurred in the salon next to the ballroom. Several people had already started their games. Lady Peverell barely introduced Isabella to the older gentlemen obviously waiting for them. She partnered Mr. Fullerton, a man with old-fashioned mutton chops. They were soundly trounced by Lady Peverell and her partner, a Clive Rexford who shuffled and dealt with neat precision.
Music from the ballroom drifted in, accompaniment to shuffled cards, quiet bids, and occasional cries of triumph for an unexpected trick. By evening’s end, Lady Peverell looked pleased and Mr. Rexford satisfied. Isabella was happy that the game’s play had not depended on money. Mr. Fullerton was the only one displeased, and he left as soon as possible after they tallied points.
“Better than I expected,” Isabella replied to Mr. Rexford’s query about the evening. He smiled, pocketed the notebook in which he’d kept the tally, then bid them “Good evening” before strolling away.
“Your arm,” Lady Peverell commanded, and Isabella complied. The hour seemed very late, and the dowager reminisced about several well-played rubbers. Her pace slowed as they walked the last passageway to her stateroom. “You will not pursue the acquaintance, Isabella.”
Perplexed, she stared at the woman.
“There’s some trouble in her background,” the dowager added. “I cannot divine what. It’s dangerous, whatever it is. They are keeping it very quiet. Here we are,” she announced unnecessarily as the stateroom door opened, revealing the maid Hettie Rufford. “I am tired, Rufford.”
“Too much excitement, my lady.”
“She won all the tricks,” Isabella said.
“Thank you, my dear. I want my tisane, Rufford.”
“I have it ready, my lady,” and the maid shut the door.
Her and they. She could only guess that Lady Peverell meant Savina and her parents.
