Fitzhugh, the notorious bachelor.
Fitzhugh, the famous adventurer.
In all Vida’s late nights, it suddenly occurred to her, she had never met a young man to match her own high spirit. She took a last glance at her city and wondered if she finally had.
Two
A flurry of pastel streamers arced through the thin blue atmosphere as the Princess drew away from the pier. Champagne bottles popped as she moved showily along the city’s shore. Cheers erupted, on land and on deck, as she traveled at last through the mouth of the San Francisco Bay—which some poet had bestowed with the moniker the “Golden Gate”—and was finally out to sea.
Vida saw none of it.
She was ensconced in her carpeted and chandeliered cabin, and only emerged onto her private little deck to blow a kiss to the receding jut of rocky green land, before hurrying back inside to resume a rather busy schedule of glamorizing. That was when she encountered the gaze of Nora, her lady’s maid; a mixture of disapproval and knowing amusement. She had come back into the cabin with the welcome gift of a champagne bottle and two coupes on a golden platter. Not for the first time, Vida marveled at Nora’s loveliness, which was somehow or other only enhanced by the plainness of her black dress. Her hair was a titian cloud above her heart-shaped face, with its dark lashes and pink bow of a mouth. Nora was three years older than Vida, and had taught her everything there was to know about how to be a woman of style and grace.
“Afraid they’ll forget you?” Nora asked as she crossed the carpet, put the platter down on a mahogany sideboard, and began to adjust Vida’s evening gown, a fitted cascade of pale red ruffles, beading, and lace, with a square neckline and a petite train that followed the fanning of the mermaid-like skirt. “That’s just the dress for tonight,” she remarked.
“Thank you.” Vida did a twirl, though she didn’t really need confirmation that the dress was made to flatter her form in particular and that it struck an alluring balance somewhere between attention-getting and high-class, which was precisely what she needed for the game she would be playing this evening.
It was after all a game and not a pleasure cruise. Though she wasn’t sure if she would do as her parents wished and return engaged, she knew that she was being talked of, and would not have it said that she, Vida Hazzard, had gone off chasing a boy and been ignored.
“But you missed it all,” Nora was saying, with her usual chiding affection. “The fanfare and all that, of course. This ship, it’s a maze—I got lost twice. But—oh! You should have seen how big the ocean is when you leave the bay and are truly out to sea.”
“Yes, that does sound nice. But you know we can’t all be you.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Nora replied so that Vida’s insides sloshed a little in regret. For all Nora’s confidence in matters of dress and manners, she was a tender being, easily embarrassed, and when anyone drew attention to her remarkable beauty, she felt uncomfortable and went looking for a closet to hide in.
“Oh, Nora, my darlingest, don’t be like that! Don’t make me say it. We can’t all be so effortlessly beautiful as you. Most of us have to try a little bit to get noticed, you know.”
“Well, to me you are the most beautiful girl on the Princess of the Pacific.”
“I am grateful you think so, but I don’t have time for your flattery—my hair is a disaster, and we are running out of time.”
“But cocktails aren’t for another hour, silly. It’s only four. We have plenty of time.”
Vida gasped in anguish. “Is it that late?” And though she knew that widows, and gullible children, and the sweet-hearted and capable, and all those who do good in the world rather than seeking after their own pleasures, deserve the patience of everybody else, she couldn’t help but feel a little irritated at Nora, whose hair went up quite easily into a bright, hazy pouf, for not understanding what a trial it was to have hair that waved and frizzed and could not at all be trusted with a change in the weather.
“Here,” said Nora. She poured a glass of champagne for Vida and assumed the place behind her at the vanity to see what needed to be done. The area was already overpopulated by divers hair tonics and perfumes, lash blackeners, lip tints, rouges, jewel boxes and hairpins, arrayed over a detailed map of all the levels and rooms, public and private, of the Princess, as well as an embossed card listing the evening entertainments for the first-class passengers.
“Lord, Nora, please don’t let me drink alone,” Vida said, and before Nora could begin her work, she had poured her maid a glass, and clinked it with her own.
“What are you up to, I wonder,” Nora mused, as she pinned and looped Vida’s hair—of a middling brown color, nothing special, and prone to unruliness without the taking of extreme civilizing measures—into a high, romantic pile.
“Oh, you’ll see,” Vida replied, and handed Nora the golden, pearl-dotted strand to pin into her coiffure.
Nora smiled vaguely and let it be. Then her skillful fingers went to work on the final touches.
There, Vida thought with satisfaction as she gazed at the girl in the vanity mirror—her eyes were bright, and the high line of her cheekbones were accented with shimmering powder so no one would notice her lack of a chin, or the wideness of her nose, or her total lack of a bust. It didn’t matter if she wasn’t the most beautiful—she had done it again, with a little makeup and some sparkly things, and the ray of confidence that shone through her when it was a big, important night, with crowds and parties and people to impress. Miss Vida Hazzard, the most remarkable girl onboard the Princess, beamed back at her. Then she remembered Nora, and took her hand. “I’m glad you came with me,” she whispered. She knew that Nora had wanted her to stay in San Francisco and marry Whit, for she had been pining after one of the footmen employed by his family. Vida knew this, but disapproved. The footman was almost thirty, and never smiled. He was not in the least good enough for her Nora.
“Well, now, how else would I see the world if you did not drag me along with you?” Nora asked with a little shimmer of melancholy in her eyes.
“Maybe you were meant to come on this journey,” Vida gushed. “Maybe you will meet your true love tonight!”
“Oh, come now.” Nora smoothed her hands over her skirt. “Do you need anything? What can I do?”
Nora’s nervous palaver was cut short by a rapping of knuckles on the door, and the sight of Vida’s father’s big head inclining inward from the hall. A little panic sped Vida’s pulse. She had a plan, and the plan was quite time-specific, and his interruption might scuttle the whole business. But, luckily, he was wearing exactly what he’d worn when he arrived on the pier. She saw an opportunity.
“Oh Papa, you aren’t dressed for an evening at all!”
“I thought this was some sort of adventure,” he replied good-naturedly. “And you mean to tell me that I have to be as dandified as ever?”
“Daddy,” she said in the exaggerated and girlish tone that he could never refuse, “have you read the first-class passenger list? It’s all kinds of fancy gentlemen and ladies who travel everywhere, from castle to villa to first-class cabin on their way to safari or grand tour or what have you; they are always on the move and always dressed correctly, and they don’t know who you are, or that they ought to be impressed.”
Her father grinned and mimed a knife entering his heart.
“I mean they don’t know yet, of course. I thought you wanted me to get myself a husband, and look at you—you’re no help at all.”
“If you insist, my dearest, I will go put on something to please these fancy types you want to be friends with. I just wanted to see how you were getting on. Come to our suite in half an hour? Your mother and I will be having cocktails before cocktails, and if you promise to be good, you can have a tipple of champagne.”
A little late, Nora moved so as to obscure the bottle of champagne on the golden tray.
“Oh Daddy, no. I have much too much to do.”
“As you wis
h, but promise me you won’t be dancing with these East Coast bores every dance. Save one for your old dad,” he said with a sigh, and kissed her forehead, and gave Nora a pat on her shoulder. “Tell our girl to be demure this evening,” he said in a stage whisper. “Her mother is too nervous to even leave her cabin just now. . . . She’s taking smelling salts, and wringing her hands over Vida ending up an old maid.”
“Yes, sir,” Nora replied with a very grave face, and showed him to the door.
“Oh thank God,” Vida said, and held her breath until the retreat of his footfalls confirmed he had disappeared into his own realm. “Make sure he’s gone?” she asked Nora.
While Nora leaned out of the cracked door, Vida checked her reflection once more, to assure herself that every lash and strand and bead was in place. Satisfied that she had the high gloss of a painted doll, she folded her deck plan into the invisible pocket of her gown, grabbed the bottle of champagne that Nora had procured, and moved on to the door.
Don’t do anything ridiculous, Nora’s face said as Vida crossed into the hall.
You know I will, Vida’s impish smile replied.
Then she was off through corridors and up and down little stairways, past uniformed crewmembers of every kind, and at last into a particularly masculine hallway—all dark wood from floor to ceiling and oil paintings of seascapes with brave captains and that sort of thing. At an imposing, carved door with a little brass decal above to label it The Map Room she came to a halt and blew an errant strand of hair out of her eyes.
A sudden nervousness prickled Vida’s skin. She glanced around. She was ever a creature of instinct, and this operation required the kind of flair that she’d possessed even as a child. But she had the uncharacteristic sense that she was about to do something that she could not take back. She felt so cold and so hot at once, and rather weighed down by the ponderousness of it all. And, oddly, she was afraid that she might not be able to go through with what she’d planned to do. . . .
Which was more or less to rap on Fitzhugh’s door, and hold aloft the champagne bottle, and say something rakish like “Fancy a little hair of the dog?” or maybe just “Remember me?” Both of those sounded foolish to her now, though, and she could not for the life of her summon something clever.
Was she, Vida Hazzard, nervous? Through the hurly-burly of the morning and afternoon she had told herself that she had only been going along with her parents to get Fitzhugh Farrar to be interested in her and thus dispel the rumor that she was the sort of girl who had wild nights with one boy after another. But she was taken aback by these sudden flutters at the prospect of seeing him again.
Oh damn it, just go on, before he finds you standing out here like an idiot, she told herself. Just put on a coy smile and don’t say anything—that always seems clever.
Yes, she went on to herself. Right. Go on now.
An inner light suffused her face. She stepped boldly forward, fist raised. And just then, as she was about to knock, her new high-heeled slippers lost their traction on the polished wood floor, and momentum—and then gravity—had her, and she went sailing through the air. She heard her own voice sing out in surprise, and felt the planks hit her hard on her left side as she landed. The floor was wet. There had been a puddle on the floor, and she had slipped on it, and now that puddle of wetness was seeping through her skirt. And meanwhile her champagne bottle rolled away from her, and the door under the brass map room sign swung open, and Vida could see there was nothing to stop Fitzhugh Farrar, with whom she had been so arch and charming the night before, from seeing her in this abject position.
She did her utmost to effect a smile.
But the smile did not hold.
The young man who filled the frame was not Fitzhugh. He was nobody.
Vida propped herself on her elbow, wincing at the pain spreading over her left flank, while the nobody in the doorframe did not move to help her up.
“Hello,” she said hotly when it became obvious that he was not going to say anything at all.
But he did not reply in kind. “Comfortable down there?” he asked in a tone that did not seem exactly curious about her well-being. He leaned the long whip of his body against the frame and crossed his arms, neither moving to help her nor closing the door, so the humiliation that had already begun to rise in Vida’s throat began to heat, and swirl, and become anger. Unlike nearly every other man on the boat, who, rich or poor, had chosen either their best for the occasion or a starched uniform, this man was wearing a threadbare shirt that was neither white nor brown but somewhere in between, and rolled trousers, and a wool cap. His arms, where they were not covered by his old shirt, were sun-dark, and his eyes were so black that she could not read them. He had long eyelashes, and a long face in which his big features were somewhat askew.
“What is it?” called a voice within. The same commanding and precise voice that had told her many tales last night and then shut up to hang on her every word.
“Same puddle, different girl with a twisted ankle,” the nobody called over his shoulder. Several seconds passed and she did not hear the commanding voice again. “Want to see her? I don’t think it’s anything you need trouble yourself with.”
Well, this Vida could not have. She could not have anyone going around implying that she was like the nitwits who apparently risked life and limb just to have a few moments with Fitzhugh. She had had his attention for most of the previous evening, and was herself the sort of creature that men were often making fools of themselves just to meet. With little grace but much determination she arrived on her feet so that the nobody could see that her ankle was just fine. Her pride ached, but she would not let this nobody see that.
“You’re a real gentleman,” she said aridly.
“I am sorry,” he said, and extended a hand—to what purpose, she had no idea, as she was already on her feet—and, when she did not accept it, his fingers did a graceful little flourish through the air. “Girls are always slipping and falling here, you see—I’ve gotten a little used to it, and sometimes forget the rules. How you’re supposed to act when it happens for real.”
Vida drew herself up at this accusation. “How could girls ‘always’ be slipping and falling here? I thought this ship was brand new.”
If Vida had expected the nobody to crumble at her brilliant logic, she was destined for disappointment. He only grinned at her and maintained his amused silence.
“I am a first-class passenger on the Princess,” Vida went on. Though she let her anger show in her eyes, she brought her voice down to a hoarse whisper so Fitzhugh would not know it was she who was having this stupid spat with a nobody, “And I was merely curious to see its famous map room—there is a puddle here, as you can plainly see, so why don’t you go get a mop and do something about it?”
And with her chin high she grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and walked with as much dignity as she could summon from the site of her failure. She (she!) had failed to suavely run into the man whose interest she had believed herself to already have. She kicked the champagne bottle out of her path, but this too was a mistake. Pain bloomed in her toe and it was all she could do to not cry out before she reached the next corridor.
Three
“Oh dear,” said Miss Rosa de Hastings, one of the girls who Vida had traded dance partners with in the ballrooms of San Francisco, as she arrived at Vida’s side, and together they joined the stream of first-class passengers from the salon into the grand dining room. “If you are looking wistful, then we are all in a grave and terrible danger.”
Vida accepted Rosa’s arm. “I know,” she replied in a little voice. “Wistful is not at all my best color.”
They were surrounded by the throng, by the high shine of black tuxedo jackets and the pastel ruffles of ladies who, much like Vida, appeared to have spent the first hours of their journey attending to their dress and coiffure. A gloom had settled in Vida since her failed encounter with Fitzhugh Farrar, and though she tried to shake it off, she found sh
e could not. She followed instead the well-heeled crowd, hoping their enthusiasm for light fixtures and fine carpets and each other’s silks and jewels was catching.
The ship’s social director, a Mr. Selvedge, greeted Vida and Rosa and made all the usual compliments regarding their loveliness and what an honor it was to have them on the maiden voyage of the Princess, et cetera, et cetera, and asked solicitously after their accommodations, and mentioned—in what he perhaps considered a subtle way, but which rankled Vida’s already wounded pride—the names of bachelors that he could introduce them to. She was not the kind of girl who needed help meeting young men! But apparently her fame in this regard did not extend beyond the borders of San Francisco.
“What a bore,” Vida muttered when at last he departed and they found themselves seated at one of several long tables, immaculately cluttered with crystal, silver, china, and hyacinth. Beyond the rows of tables, beyond curtains of velvet and gilt-encrusted columns, beyond potted palms and silken fainting couches, were windows that framed an unfathomable seascape of deepest midnight blue. “I thought he’d never leave.”
“Me too,” said Rosa, craning her lovely pink neck. Her blond hair fell in sweet ringlets, but her eyes had a steely quality. “As though any of us are interested in meeting anyone but Fitzhugh.”
After the stinging humiliation of that afternoon, this statement didn’t exactly shock Vida. Still, it wasn’t good news that Rosa considered Fitzhugh fair game. Vida regarded Rosa, who was not exactly a friend (though they’d known each other all their lives), and wondered if she could truly have missed the report of Vida’s wild night with the Farrar heir. Maybe Rosa had been too busy dressing for a run-in with him—for some kind of slip in front of the map room—to know that he and Vida had been attached in print. “Well,” Vida replied, not hiding her irritation, “you should have asked Selvedge for an introduction.”
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