‘Thank you,’ she beamed at the steward who pulled open a heavy door leading out onto the deck. Stella had instinctively anticipated a gust of cold wind. Instead the balmy evening of the Mediterranean was breathless, instantly wrapping her in its slightly moist warmth. She was glad she’d pinned her hair up now; apart from its elegance, she would avoid the inevitable frizziness that humid conditions provoked. The nausea had subsided too. She felt cheered as a result and capable of facing Beatrice’s questions when they came, as she was sure they would. There would be no scene in a public situation so maybe she would even have the opportunity to explain the truth of today.
‘It’s so calm. Are we berthed?’
‘No, Miss Myles.’ She was amazed at how all the staff she met seemed to know her name. ‘We’ve dropped anchor for a couple of hours to take on some supplies and to ensure we have an easy dinner serve tonight.’
‘Oh, so we sail on?’ She didn’t mean to sound disappointed but feeling hungry and well again was uplifting.
He nodded. ‘We dock at Rabat by ten tonight.’
She smiled fresh thanks and climbed the outside deck stairs, carefully holding her gown clear of her heels but revelling in the stillness of the evening. Stella arrived at the first-class main entrance and had to work hard to keep her jaw from opening in awe. The glass dome in the ceiling would allow in glorious light by day, but now it glistened and sparkled with the aid of a huge chandelier, whose crystal teardrops gave her a series of sparkling winks as if encouraging her despite the flips and dips her belly had suddenly decided upon. She’d given a lot of thought to today’s outburst with Georgina and realised there were no explanations for it; the facts were plain – the adult Ainsworths’ indiscretion had led to their youngest child overhearing something about her sister. They were to blame, not the children and certainly not herself. She had not fanned the fire but tried to extinguish it. It all sounded straightforward in her mind and yet despite her bright mood on the deck below she now felt nervous at what awaited, especially why anyone might still be inviting her to join the family for dinner after what had occurred. Why not a private interrogation?
Her footfall was soundless on the thick, richly coloured carpet of the lounge she had to cross. Save ship staff, it was deserted, which only added to its beauty which she could now see for herself was reminiscent of the work of Sir Christopher Wren. Her being alone increased the tension of her arrival, as clearly with cocktails consumed everyone had drifted into the dining room. She had one more room to cross – the magnificent drawing room, resplendent with open fires, mahogany bookcases and another jaw-dropping domed atrium that was even more impressive than the last.
Doors swung back as if cued to move on her arrival.
‘Good evening,’ the steward said, nodding politely. The steward opposite bowed his head slightly too.
Stella’s lips opened now helplessly at the opulence before her. Grace had breathlessly explained at some stage that the first-class dining room stretched for one third of an acre but only now did Stella believe her. ‘Er . . . Good evening, thank you.’
‘Miss Myles?’ said another voice, his tone as rich as the wealthy patrons who were seating themselves across that third of an acre of sumptuous décor. ‘Welcome to the dining room,’ an older senior man greeted. ‘I hope you approve of its Louis XVI styling?’ he wondered and she knew he was clueing her. He would be aware that she was coming up from second class and needed all the help she might be gifted.
‘It’s mesmerising,’ she rewarded him.
The maître d’, tucked into a black tailed suit, did a tiny click with his highly polished shoes. ‘I’m pleased you like it.’
She paused to glance at the deep pinks and rose-coloured painted ceiling of cherubs and garlands that were a foil for the rich mahogany panels of the room and dove-grey painted walls. She took in the arrangement of pilasters and columns, the sea-blue carpet and matching chairs upholstered with that identical colour and inset panels to echo the pink garlands on the ceiling. Glittering lamps added yet more ornamentation and she sighed, turning to smile at him.
‘The ceiling is marvellous.’
‘The decoration represents the Triumph of Flora,’ he explained. ‘Of course Neptune is never far away,’ he jested and she glanced at the large monogram of the ship represented in the dome – two anchors crossed on a trident that symbolised the god of the seas.
‘Makes me feel insignificant,’ she breathed. ‘The colours so vivid.’
‘Oh, I doubt that you could ever feel insignificant. You look beautiful, Miss Myles,’ he assured, reading her thought that perhaps black was too sombre to be worn amidst all this gaiety. ‘May we show you to the table? The Ainsworths are seated.’
‘I do hope I haven’t kept everyone waiting.’
‘Not at all.’ He offered a waiter’s arm. ‘Please. Daniel, if you would show Miss Myles to the Ainsworth table.’
The handsome young man in a white jacket and black waistcoat and trousers beamed her a bright smile and she allowed him to loosely link arms to escort her. Stella forced herself to breathe slowly, felt the sharp glances of older women cutting up from their conversations to fall upon her like splinters of glass, each a tiny slash of envy. Her youth, the slim figure that allowed the velvet gown to drape effortlessly from it, the suggestion of longing within dark beauty that drifted past them, gave no indication of her rising excitement of seeing him again. She had cast her features in calm, a soft smile just hinting, and her gaze fixed beyond anyone in particular so that she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes to make her falter until her companion began to slow.
‘Here we are, Miss Myles,’ he warned, moving off the carpet to thread their way around two tables to a slightly smaller one that could seat up to six, where she saw a bespectacled Rafe leaning in to talk to his wife. She couldn’t prevent her breath catching in jealousy, had not been prepared for such pain of envy now that he secretly belonged to her. Rafe was right; he was dangerous for her. She had never felt so possessive.
He looked up at her approach, took off his glasses and immediately stood to greet her. His complexion, freshly bronzed, looked healthy against the starched white of his shirt, the sleek fit of his white waistcoat that she suspected followed the latest fashion of being backless together with a contrasting blacker-than-black dinner suit that included a sharply cut tail coat. There was no doubt that together with Beatrice, in a midnight-blue gown with a daringly wide neckline, they were the most trendsetting and stylish couple in that vast room. Stella would not have been surprised to hear that every pair of eyes had turned towards them at this moment; her own included could not tear themselves from Rafe, ridiculously handsome and shooting her a smile that was all the whiter for the tan it beamed out from.
‘Good evening, Stella.’ The voice she loved smoothed over her as he dipped his head politely. ‘I’m glad you could join us.’ His gaze looked hungrily across her and she silently drank in his attention like a butterfly lapping at nectar.
‘Oh, hello there,’ Beatrice said, uncharacteristically informally. Her voice sounded vaguely slurred to Stella.
‘Thank you for inviting me, Mrs Ainsworth,’ she said, smiling a quick thank you to Daniel who pushed her chair in. He stole away as Beatrice waved newly manicured nails of scarlet in Stella’s direction in a gesture that didn’t feel welcoming.
‘Not I, Stella,’ Beatrice confirmed, putting a hand on her husband’s arm in a proprietorial way. She noticed Rafe did not look at his wife; his gaze was riveted sombrely on her instead. Instantly dark and angry, he removed his arm from Beatrice’s touch. A thin lock of Beatrice’s bright hair slipped free from its usually precise updo and dangled like a strand of golden toffee. ‘As ever, it is Dougie who likes you to stick close,’ she said, her gaze wandering as she absently tucked the wayward hair behind her ear. ‘Champagne, waiter!’ she called.
Stella glanced again at the simmering Rafe. ‘They’ll bring it all too soon, my dear,’ he ground out.
‘Er . . . it’s a privilege to be on this level,’ Stella tried.
‘I’m sure it is for you,’ Beatrice drawled, pulling her red lips into a familiar slash.
Stella breathed slowly. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘They’re taking dinner in their room tonight. It’s just us,’ Beatrice answered, cat eyes flashing at her and Stella saw the threat in them.
‘Champagne, for everyone?’ a waiter suddenly arriving asked, his mood as bubbly as the bottles being opened with loud pops and accompanying laughter around the large dining room.
‘Stella?’ Rafe offered.
‘Er, yes, thank you.’
Flutes were poured and with their effervescence fizzing far more happily than the atmosphere at their table suggested they should, three glasses were glumly raised.
‘Shall we drink to an enjoyable voyage?’ Rafe proposed and Stella heard the ironic note in his toast.
Beatrice was onto him. ‘No, Doug, I doubt that can happen. I think instead we should drink to keeping promises, shall we?’
He sighed. ‘Bee . . .’
Stella swallowed a sip of the French champagne, tasting its tart dryness, wishing she could enjoy the rest but knowing it would taste acidic if she continued without facing Beatrice’s wrath. ‘I kept my promise, Mrs Ainsworth.’
‘Did you, Stella?’ Beatrice took a long draught of champagne, nearly emptying her glass. A bead of it remained on the waxy red coating of her lips as she now focused her fury at its target. ‘So how come I have a near hysterical teenage daughter, weeping in her cabin, refusing to come out?’
Stella glanced at Rafe. He stared back coldly.
‘I can’t say we aren’t disappointed, Stella,’ he offered.
She blinked, confused and annoyed. ‘Then why did you ask me to join you for dinner?’ she shot back, looking appalled at him.
‘Doug had already sent the invitation before the drama erupted,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘He refused to go back on it.’
‘Maybe he should have,’ Stella suggested.
‘Smoked salmon, for everyone?’ Their head waiter was back, his tone full of delight.
‘Thank you,’ Rafe said as plates with silver cloches were laid down.
The ladies said nothing.
Stella sat back and her waiter placed a gloved hand on the lid of hers. Another waiter reached between Rafe and Beatrice and with a nod to each other the two men lifted the lids with a synchronised flourish.
Rafe and Stella forced out appropriate noises of pleasure. Beatrice flouted good manners to lean on her elbow and stare into her plate.
‘Bon appétit,’ one of the men said, sounding awkward, and they moved away.
Stella regarded the bright orange of the salmon twisted into soft rose-like shapes around a mound of floppy cream cheese flecked with herbs. Delicate, translucent rings of onion encircled each other while the muddy green of capers studded the plate. Strategically placed, gleaming drops of citrus gel complemented the quarters of lemon, sliced so finely they were malleable enough to be twisted artistically on the plate. ‘How beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘Seems a pity to disturb it.’
‘That’s how I feel about our daughter, Stella.’
‘Mrs Ainsworth, what exactly did Georgina say to you?’
‘That you all but confirmed that Douglas is not her real father. She said it was plain in the sneer on your face.’
Stella, who had been reaching for her fish knife and fork, now placed her hands firmly in her lap. ‘I did no such thing,’ she said quietly and flicked her gaze to Rafe. ‘How could you think something so heinous of me?’
‘You could have denied it,’ Beatrice snarled, her voice lifting.
‘Bee, please . . .’ Rafe cautioned, looking around at the other diners.
‘Mrs Ainsworth, firstly, while I think Georgina should know the truth it is not my place to tell you how to raise your child, so against my own nature, I fibbed and covered Grace’s information . . . but I did it for Georgina’s sake.’
‘You won’t blatantly lie for me, is that what you’re saying, Stella?’
‘Yes. I won’t lie to protect you,’ she felt obliged to qualify, trying not to emphasise the last word, given that she did fib to protect Beatrice’s daughters.
‘But you would lie to protect my husband, perhaps?’
Stella blushed at the truth but she pressed on, ignoring the well-laid trap and refusing to topple into it. ‘I can remember most precisely how this afternoon’s conversation with Georgina transpired. It was Grace who spilled your long-held secret and I did everything any adult could do to defuse the situation. I also had stern words with Grace. Georgina is unaccountably cruel-mouthed to her sister and even in the short time I’ve been in her company I notice that Grace is aptly named for how she responds to the constant barbs. This was an occasion where Georgina’s harsh tongue hurt sufficiently for Grace to reply uncharacteristically viciously. I was as shocked as Georgina at the outburst, I have to admit, and I’m as concerned as you. No one should learn such traumatising news in this manner.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ Beatrice continued as if Stella had not spoken so earnestly. ‘Why didn’t Grace even mention to me that she’d overheard us talking? You’d think that would be the first thing she’d do, don’t you?’
Stella shook her head. ‘I promise she didn’t mention it to me either, Mrs Ainsworth, or I can assure you I would have taken immediate steps to prevent it being shared. It came out of nowhere but you have to know that Georgina provoked Grace into it.’
‘The truth is I don’t believe for a moment that Grace was awake or even conscious enough to make sense of anything being spoken above her that evening,’ Beatrice said.
‘Are you suggesting I shared with Grace what I unhappily had to listen to and then gave you my word I would never repeat?’
‘Oh, let’s not run around in circles, Stella. That’s precisely what I’m suggesting.’
Stella pushed her chair back. ‘Then you’d be wrong, Mrs Ainsworth. Please excuse me.’
‘Is that it, Stella?’ Beatrice sneered. ‘Do you think that’s the end of this?’
‘It’s best I leave now. I do not want to upset you further.’ She glanced at Rafe for help but it was as though he sat between them as an interested observer. She wanted to shout at him to offer some support.
‘Stella, I do think you should leave but not just the first-class dining room. I think you should leave the ship.’ Beatrice sat back, eyes glittering with righteousness.
‘Pardon me?’
‘You heard. I have already made the arrangements.’
‘Bee, what are you talking about?’ Rafe was finally surprised into action. ‘You’ve had too much to drink and y-you’re emotional,’ he said, making sure to stammer his pompous words. ‘I think we should wait —’
‘No, it’s sudden, I agree, but you can’t talk me out of it, Dougie. Stella will leave the ship tonight in Rabat. As we speak I’m having her clothes packed. Stella, you can gather up the rest of your private belongings and the purser will see you off the gangplank. By all means enjoy Morocco for an evening but Aquitania is making arrangements for you to be flown home to London tomorrow.’
‘What?’ Rafe growled. ‘You can’t do that, Bee.’
Stella felt her internal alarm beginning to sound like a distant siren, gaining in intensity and dragging the familiar sense of nausea from this morning with it, even though the ship was barely shifting at anchor.
‘That’s just it, Dougie. I can, and I have,’ she slurred and laughed before turning serious again. ‘Stella has created nothing but problems in our family since the day she arrived. Frankly Georgina detests her and I can understand why for all sorts of reasons that perhaps a man can’t. She’s sacked; that’s the end of it.’ She waved a careless hand again at Stella. ‘I’ll have some wages sent to you via the agency. Good evening, Stella.’
Rafe placed his napkin on the table in a deliberate move and stood slowly. He took off his glasses and instantly the man she knew and loved was present. He tucked his fake spectacles into his inside pocket. Beatrice followed his actions with an unsteady gaze. ‘And where are you off to, darling?’
‘If Stella has to leave the ship, I am not going to permit her to be dumped alone in Africa, of all places.’ The stammer had disap-peared.
‘Do you plan to escort her yourself, then, darling?’ Her voice was bitter, ringed with malice. She gripped his arm and as Stella watched Beatrice’s knuckles whiten, she heard only threat in the question.
‘I certainly plan to escort her off the ship, ensure that she is properly catered for, and I shall myself put her on that flight back to Britain.’
‘I see. What if I don’t agree?’
‘Then don’t agree. It won’t change anything.’
‘Doug, I insist —’
‘Don’t, Bee. Whatever you want to do, do it. I’m past caring about your threats.’
‘Doug!’ The shock had battled through the liquor it seemed. ‘Please . . .’
He unwrapped her fingers from his arm. ‘I’ll re-board in Tangier. We can talk then. I’ll kiss the girls before I leave.’
‘Mr Ainsworth,’ Stella began but was cut off by his glare. She was aware of diners beginning to notice the disturbance.
‘Still here, Stella?’ Beatrice said, her tone openly vicious. She reached for Rafe once again.
‘I’m leaving, Mrs Ainsworth. I don’t wish any further unhappiness.’ Beatrice rolled her eyes as if finding her tedious. ‘I shall leave a note for Grace.’
‘Please, don’t bother. I shan’t see that she gets it,’ Beatrice warned with an artful grin.
‘I suggest you go and sleep off the gin and then the champagne, Bee,’ Rafe said, this time firmly unfurling himself from his wife’s clasp.
‘Doug, don’t get off the ship . . . or . . .’
‘Or what, Bee?’
When she didn’t answer he surprised Stella by leaning down and kissing his wife’s cheek tenderly. ‘Goodbye, Bee.’
To Stella the words sounded like farewell. She didn’t wait to hear his wife’s response; didn’t want to dare believe the flutter of hope in her chest that Rafe was leaving his wife for good tonight, but wished deeply she hadn’t been part of the scene. Instead she fled, keeping her gaze on the carpet as she hurried across the length of that interminably long room, taking the maître d’ by surprise as she arrived at the doors again.
‘Oh, Miss Myles . . . ?’
As a steward opened the door for her the man’s words were lost to the polite clangour of the diners’ silver cutlery against china as the sound of waves welcomed her back onto the deck. She kept moving until she was as far as she could go. Stella leaned over the rail and allowed tears to fall in a mix of anger and regret until they were silent sobs and then finally, gratefully, no more than sniffs. She was back in control and of the opinion that Beatrice had done her a favour. Home, she thought, with a rush of old yearning. She would be back with Rory and Carys within a day or two and she could get her life into a new order.
‘Stella?’ She swung around, uncaring that her face may be tear-stained but knowing she had to get through this final confrontation. ‘I’ve been looking for you.’
‘I’m not sure that was wise, Rafe,’ she said, hearing her own weariness and looking away from the impeccably attired body she felt a powerful urge to cling to in that moment.
‘I’m afraid it’s too late for regrets,’ he replied. ‘Beatrice wasn’t lying. You are leaving the ship tonight.’
‘Good,’ she admitted. ‘I want to.’
‘But so am I.’
‘I don’t need your help.’
‘Stella, go and supervise the collection of your belongings. I shall see you at the gangplank in fifteen minutes.’
‘Rafe —’
‘Do it!’ There was that tone again; the one he’d used with Basil when she’d eavesdropped on their conversation. ‘I’m sorry,’ he quickly followed. ‘I have no business ordering you.’
‘Given that you no longer employ me, no, you don’t,’ she murmured.
‘Please . . . just do as I ask.’
She nodded, not wishing to prolong the scene. Stella moved but he caught her arm. ‘You made every woman pale by comparison tonight, Stella. I wanted to tell you that the moment you arrived. Frankly, I wanted to take you in my arms and kiss you deeply in front of them all.’
His tone, his choice of words, always managed to undermine her best intentions. Instead of walking away as she’d imagined she would, she covered his hand with hers. ‘Now, that really would have given Beatrice a reason to get herself blotto.’
He gave her a sad smile. ‘Fifteen minutes.’
Stella parted from him and as she lifted her gown to move downstairs she stole a glance back at Rafe to see a man with an expression so haunted she had to look away.