Back in her cabin, Louisa sat down on the edge of her bed and stared at the envelope that did not belong to her. It had been opened, of course, so there was no need for steaming, if that was even something that worked. It wasn’t something she’d been tempted to do in the past. Louisa thought about Nanny Blor’s exhortation to the children whenever they were caught hiding around corners or behind doors, trying to eavesdrop on their parents or the servants: ‘Listeners ne’er hear good of themselves.’ It was unlikely there would be anything about her in this letter, but she nevertheless had the foreboding that no good would come of reading it. Before she could think about it any more, Louisa took it out.
The letter was short, only two sides, written from Sir Oswald’s country house, the address embossed at the top, and dated only two days before they had left London. His writing was skittish, hard to read at first, with slanting letters and oversized dashes. She had to adjust her eyes almost, until she could be sure of making out the words correctly. The first few lines were of loving reassurance, and Louisa read these quickly, deliberately not taking in the detail so she could pretend she was not seeing anything too intimate and irrelevant to her commission. There were only three sentences she noted, buried in the middle of his flowery lover’s words.
Louisa copied these sentences down in her notebook:
I shall shortly be taking a trip on the Continent, not alone, and forgive me, my darling, for not giving you the exact details, but for reasons that will become clear, it is safest if I don’t. Believe me, though you may think it to my advantage, it is absolutely to ours and our vision for a great future, one which enables not only our happiness but that of our country’s. I shall write again soon, to your first Poste Restante, and explain further.
‘The Continent’ could mean France, Italy or Germany. To say that it could lead to Britain’s happiness could only mean a political motive. Whether it would turn out to be of interest to Iain, the next letter presumably would tell.
At half-past ten Louisa was still in her cabin reading, half-waiting for a summons from Lady Redesdale, when the telephone rang. It was Diana, asking her to come up: she’d decided to throw a small party and she needed Louisa to help hand around the drinks.
Her body had started to warm and relax as she’d lain on her bunk; with some effort she swung her legs off and stretched, splashed a little water on her face and made her way up the flights of stairs to Diana’s suite. Even as she walked the long corridor, she could hear the hubbub coming from B-13, and when she went through the door, the cigarette smoke and music took her instantly back to the sensation of walking into the Forty club in Soho. Diana knew how to throw a good party.
There must have been about thirty men and women crammed into the drawing room, all talking loudly and, it seemed, impatiently brandishing empty glasses at a tanned young cabin steward. Diana acknowledged Louisa’s arrival with a finger pointed at the drinks cabinet and carried on talking to a man who looked like the captain of the ship. If Unity had hoped for a romantic fantasy with Captain Schmitt, she must have been disappointed: he was about sixty years old with a paunch that his smart white uniform could not disguise.
Louisa slid through the crowd to the steward. ‘I’m here to help you,’ she said.
‘Thank you, miss.’ He didn’t even manage to catch her eye but remained focused on his task, pouring out martinis into glasses that were held by women with fingers that could barely be seen beneath their clustered rings, thick with diamonds and emeralds.
There was an open bottle of champagne on the side. Louisa picked it up and started to fill the coupes of those closest to her, then found another bottle and pushed herself back into the party, looking for empty glasses that needed refilling. It was hard to move as she was barely acknowledged by the guests, and often she would stand there, mutely, for some half a minute or so, her bottle tipped at an enquiring angle, while the man before her carried on with his interminable anecdote. It occurred to Louisa that she should use her notebook to write down some observations in it. Any one of these people might turn out to be useful further down the line when it came to reporting back to Iain. The guests were a motley assortment of ages and chic: some wore their riches and style with the lightest of touches – as Diana did – while others may as well have written out their bank balance and pinned it onto their backs. Lady Redesdale was sitting on a sofa, looking tired but gamely keeping up conversation with an elderly gentleman wearing a jacket that appeared to have been doing him service since King Edward VII was on the throne.
A gramophone player was crackling out a Fats Waller record and Louisa could see some of the bodies swaying a little unsteadily as they moved their hips to the jaunty beat. It felt late and Louisa thought longingly of her bed, but there was a heightened, celebratory atmosphere, as if everyone had determined to set the mood of the voyage as they meant to go on.
It was then that Louisa saw Mrs Fowler in her cream dress, looking less sharp around the edges than she had a few hours earlier. She was standing close to the gramophone’s speaker horn and was holding a cocktail in one hand while the other cupped the ear of the steward as she whispered something to him. He had his head bent slightly as if in concentration, but his eyes were looking around. Whatever the exchange was, it was brief, and Mrs Fowler straightened herself up and took a sip of her drink when the steward walked off. She caught Louisa’s eye and there was the merest suggestion of a shared secret in her half-raised eyebrow. Before Louisa could begin to wonder what Mrs Fowler was hinting, an older man, thin-lipped and pallid, with grey hairs in his full moustache, came and held her by the elbow. He started talking to her and there was something urgent and private in the way he did this. Louisa looked away. She felt she had seen something, but she couldn’t say for certain what it was.
The bottle of champagne she was holding was empty and she returned to the bar area to find another. The steward was there too, busying himself with clearing the dirty glasses and rearranging the decanters of vodka and gin. He was no more than nineteen or twenty years old, with a head of thick, honey-coloured hair, and his movements were nervous, as if he’d had an electric shock and hadn’t recovered.
‘Do you need a break?’ asked Louisa. ‘I’m sure I can hold the fort for a while.’
He looked up at her, his face blank, his thoughts a million miles away.
‘Do you?’ Louisa repeated.
His eyes gave the quick darts around she’d seen him do before. ‘I do,’ he said, ‘but I’d better not.’
‘I’m Louisa Sullivan, I’m travelling with Lady Redesdale and her daughters as a lady’s maid.’
He flushed at that. ‘Sorry, miss. You shouldn’t have been handing out the drinks. Blythe North was supposed to come and help, but…’
‘Don’t look so worried. It’s not your fault, and besides, I don’t mind too much. It’s funny, watching them all.’
They both turned around and looked out at the party. A few people had left and there was more space in the room now, but those who remained behind were either dancing in close-knit formation or touching each other as they spoke with exaggerated gestures and laughter.
Louisa turned back to the boy. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Jim.’
‘Have you worked on this ship long?’
He picked up a cocktail shaker, unscrewing the top, preparing to mix another. ‘Three years. I grew up in Southampton, always saw the liners in the docks, fancied giving it a go.’
‘You must have seen a lot.’
‘I have, miss. Been all over. Seen some stuff. Truth be told, you see the boat most of all.’ He was pouring out a measure of vodka now, skilfully not spilling a drop, in spite of an unexpected roll in the boat. ‘On my day off, all I want to do is lie on my bunk and sleep.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Sorry. You don’t want to hear all that.’
Louisa smiled. ‘No, I don’t mind. It’s a bit lonely for me on this boat, in a way. It’s nice to have a conversation.’
Jim looked at her, alarmed. ‘I’ve got a girl.’
Louisa was confused, then she laughed. ‘Oh my goodness, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m married.’ She wondered how he could think it – she had to be at least ten years older than him. Perhaps she should be flattered.
He laughed too. ‘Nice to meet you then, miss.’ He gestured to the crowd. ‘Better get some more drinks out. Hopefully they’ll go to bed soon.’
‘Yes, hope you’re right. I’ll take this then, shall I?’ Louisa picked up the champagne and stepped away, heading for a group of people she could see in the corner, but before she got there, she felt a touch on her arm.
‘Mrs Fowler.’ Louisa addressed the woman she’d met earlier, adopting a formal tone she felt was correct for the situation. ‘Would you like some champagne?’
Mrs Fowler’s red lipstick had smudged slightly on her lower lip and Louisa could see beads of sweat around her hairline. She put her face only inches from Louisa’s. ‘What was he saying to you?’
‘Who?’
‘Jim. Who else could I mean?’ Her words slurred and Louisa tried to lean back. She could smell the gin on Mrs Fowler’s breath.
‘Nothing particularly. We were introducing ourselves.’
Mrs Fowler dropped Louisa’s arm and emptied the last dregs in her glass, holding it out for Louisa to refill. She didn’t seem to mind that she was asking for champagne in a martini glass. ‘Good. I thought he might have been making a pass.’
Louisa was about to say he’d hardly make a pass at someone so much older, but she stopped herself. It wasn’t appropriate for someone in her position to say to a passenger on the Princess Alice. And besides, she had the sensation that Mrs Fowler would not appreciate the comment. Louisa was older than Jim but younger than Mrs Fowler; women did not always want to be reminded of their age. Perhaps Mrs Fowler hoped Jim would make a pass at her. Stranger things had happened.
Thankfully, Louisa saw Diana beckoning her over, so she made her excuses and went over. Diana was standing with a sulky-looking Unity and a tall blond man in a sharply cut suit.
‘It’s time Miss Unity went back to her room. Would you take her, please, Louisa?’
Unity didn’t acknowledge Louisa but instead snapped back at Diana, ‘I can see myself to my cabin perfectly well.’
Diana put her hand on Unity’s shoulder and lowered her voice, though she was – deliberately? – still loud enough for the man to hear. ‘Farve won’t allow you to walk to the end of the road alone. I hardly think I can let you wander around a ship unaccompanied at this time of night.’
‘It’s no more than the length of a corridor,’ Unity replied with a pout, but she knew the argument was lost. ‘Goodbye, Herr von Bohlen,’ she said to the man, holding out her hand for him to shake it.
‘Goodbye, Fräulein Mitford,’ he replied, firmly. ‘I am sure we shall meet again.’
Unity was all smiles. ‘Oh, we shall.’ She turned to Louisa but didn’t say another word, only threw her sister a final, furious glance and stalked out towards the cabin door.
Louisa’s heart sank a little. A furious Unity was a well-worn, tiresome experience, though at least she could get to her own room soon after. Tomorrow they would arrive at their first port and she was eager to taste the air of Italy and send a postcard to Guy, to pretend for a moment that she was on a carefree holiday.