by Karen Harper
“Da, madame.”
Was da how to say yes in Polish as well as Russian? Well, all she wanted was a good night’s sleep, and she was grateful to her Russian contact for this carriage.
But she was disturbed, then appalled, at how fast the vehicle went. They plunged into a dim neighborhood through nearly deserted streets. Surely they could not be heading toward the center of Warsaw to a hotel.
Despite the blast of icy air, she opened the window and shouted to the driver, “The Hotel l’Europe! Here in Warsaw!”
Her stomach cramped when he said nothing and the carriage plunged on. Her creative mind snagged on one plot possibility: She was being abducted. But by whom and to where?
“Don’t cry, lass,” Cosmo said and pulled her into his arms when they read the post that their bid for the Paris shop had been rejected. “And don’t take it out on me. I said I would support you on a Paris opening of Lady Duff-Gordon when the time is right and ripe, but this indicates it isn’t. We must concentrate on the London and New York stores and save Paris for another day.”
“Another year, you mean.” Standing in their London parlor, she leaned into his strength, yet she couldn’t help but think he was secretly pleased. Her husband might be a cosmopolitan Cosmo, as she had often teased him—when it came to London, at least—but he was at heart a Scottish Highlander. And Scots, as generous and well-off as Cosmo was, were known to watch their money and stay home in the Highlands. He’d looked at the prices to lease or buy other shops in Paris, even in a suburban arrondissement instead of the city itself, and said the other places except for this one were too risky a financial venture for now.
“But both my shops are making money like hay at haying time,” she protested now, trying not to whine or scold. Their big St. Bernard, Porthos, pressed against her, nearly toppling them while their Peke, Mr. Futze, cavorted, yapping as if scolding her for protesting.
“But you’ve been spending money hand over fist on the new craze of fashion photography and buying promotions in the papers. So,” Cosmo said, “when there is enough to secure both the London and New York stores in case times change—”
“Times change? You mean the king being so ill? Surely no war is on the horizon, certainly not in France.”
“Germany is unstable. But that aside, again, I promise we shall lease or buy a Paris shop and house when it is time. Lass, I know you are used to having things your way—”
“I am not. Don’t you recall how long you made me wait for my first shop?”
“And how long I made you wait to entice me into marriage?”
“I did not!” she insisted, but then realized he was trying to cajole her. “Indeed, though,” she added, swiping at her tears, “good things are worth waiting for.”
“My beautiful lass—with a good brain,” he said, lifting her chin and quickly kissing her. “Just to make it up to you, I’ll go with you to your dear New York City, and you can show me the shop and the sites. You talked about wanting a motorcar and a small place on Big Island, so—”
“It’s Long Island. And yes, I long for both.”
“Righto. Your sister will be back soon from her daft jaunt to Russia, and the Titanic’s maiden voyage is to be quite some time after her return, so I will be sure we get first-class tickets. You can go back on your own once before that, but I promise you a braw, bonnie time with a devoted husband after that.”
“Then your very-much-in-love wife promises you that the two of us together will have an exciting time on the Titanic.”
CHAPTER Twenty-Three
Elinor was completely panic-stricken. These men must indeed be abducting her. But why? Had she made enemies in Russia, done something wrong? Should she risk throwing herself from this careening, fast carriage on this dark, rural road?
Again, she put her head out the window, shrieking and screaming for help. Nothing from the men. No lights in sight, no buildings, only blackest, cold night with stars stabbing the sky.
Eyes wide open, she gripped her gloved hands together and began to pray. She should have prayed more, clung to the God of her youth, not gone off on new thought tangents. In her jumbled thoughts, images of Margot and Juliet flashed through her mind. She’d been a terrible mother. She was an adulteress, however many times Clayton had betrayed her. She and Lucile had argued so much lately.
Again, she grappled with the reason for this outrage. If she could fathom that, perhaps she would know how to argue. Had someone followed her to a foreign place to make her pay for writing an immoral story no one understood? Were Clayton’s creditors going to hold her for ransom or make her pay with her life? Anyone who knew them must realize he did not have sixpence to pay a ransom.
Oh, dear Lord, help. Help me!
Her worst childhood fear of a horse running away with her wagon screamed at her. She was a terrified little girl again, frozen in fear, hurtling toward destruction and death.
Yet, as if her plea had been instantly answered, the carriage came to a hard halt. She slammed into the opposite seats and hit her head on the interior wall. Grabbing her purse, she intended to jump out, hold up her skirts, and run, but—but she heard other voices and peered out to see two men on horseback alongside the front of this carriage. Oh, the men on horseback were in uniform and held some sort of guns, blessedly pointed at the men on the box and not at her.
“Stay inside, madame,” came a voice in heavily accented English. Polish? French? Definitely not British.
“The Hotel l’Europe in Warsaw!” she called out, her voice breaking.
“Shortly, madame. These men have made a dreadful mistake.”
It would do her no good to run. Had she been saved and from what and by whom? George had been right to warn her not to come to Russia nearly unescorted, and then she’d sent poor Williams home with a bad stomach ailment. Could someone have slipped her maid something to make her ill?
Thank God, the carriage turned round, and, with the two men on horseback riding alongside, she was taken at a more normal pace back to Warsaw to the hotel. It was late, but how late? In the glow of gaslights outside the entrance, she unbuttoned her coat and tried to read the timepiece pinned to her gown. The train she had hoped to catch to Berlin was leaving in four hours, hardly time to get a good night’s sleep. Not that she could rest, especially after both her abductors and rescuers had disappeared the moment she alit from the carriage before she could so much as speak to them.
Planning to just wash up and nap, then be certain she made the Berlin train, she went up to the reception desk to explain that she was here late for her reservation her Russian contact had made for her. She realized she knew only his first name. She wasn’t certain she could trace him to tell him what had happened, to see if he could discern who might have caused this nightmare. Or was he the villain behind all this, working for whoever was her enemy?
“I am sorry, Madame Glyn,” the man at the desk said, squinting at her, “but there is no reservation for you here last evening, or this one. Regretfully, we have no rooms, and . . .”
Exhausted, frightened but grateful she was here among people and not lying dead in some ditch, she nodded and walked away, even more shaken. Someone had carefully planned that she not arrive here, so why make a reservation? Would she be pursued farther? For once, she longed to be home. Dearest George had been right that the Russian empire could be a dark place, however kind some of the nobles here had been to her.
At least, if she could not get a thrilling mystery plot for a novel out of this trip, she was not worth her salt.
In May of 1910, King Edward VII died, and Britain, like Russia, was plunged into mourning. Lucile’s shop produced black gowns, and Elinor wrote books, short stories, and articles as fast as she could to pay off debts. Hack writing, some accused, and, she had to admit, they weren’t her best efforts. But then when had the critics liked her?
Sheering Hall, sadly, was sold, and she and Clayton lived with her mother in her little house on the grounds. Clayton still drank
and traveled as if he were king of the world, though Elinor felt it was worth the cost to have him gone, until she heard via the grapevine that he was stupid and selfish enough to be gambling in Monte Carlo.
That was nearly the last straw, like a straw smoked down just the way Lucile did on those cigarettes of hers—until Elinor learned there was something worse when George let slip that Clayton had asked him for money, and he had given it to him!
“What?” Elinor cried and sat up in bed. They were in Carlsbad, a spa town in Czechoslovakia in the off-season, just for a few stolen days. “When? He told me nothing of that, but you should have! It makes it sound as if you are paying him for the use of my—my favors!”
They were naked in satin sheets she had brought along, but, for the first time, she nearly assaulted him. She swung the pillow at him, wishing he were Clayton to hit. George seized the pillow, then seized her and sat up beside her, grimacing at the ever-present pain in his back. For once, she did not care.
“I knew, of course, that your family was in dire financial straits,” he explained, holding her wrists in his hands, while her hair streamed loose between them. “It was a loan, not a gift, so calm down. I thought nothing of the sort about buying your favors, though I do have plans for a famous artist to paint a portrait of you for me. I’m going to commission a full-length painting of you by Philip de László, a society portrait painter. You can wear some fabulous gown your sister designed and the sapphire earrings I gave you. Your red hair, white skin, and green eyes will dazzle—”
“Don’t try to smooth-talk, change the subject, or bribe your way out of this, sir politician!” she demanded. “I will pay you back for the loan as soon as we return home! I won’t have it! Besides, that means he knows about us.”
“That surprises you? And he is going to do what to you, the breadwinner of the family he has deserted? And he might do what to me? I was happy to help.”
She could not hold back but burst into tears. She’d felt helpless and ashamed since the night she was nearly abducted and still did not know why. George had said he’d told her that she should have heeded his warning about not going to Russia. He would not have set that up, surely not to teach her a lesson, she’d told herself. But here he was with a financial hold over her, through her wretched husband.
“If I loose you, will you attack me, tigress?” he asked.
She shook her head. He scooted back to put himself against the headboard to prop up his back and pulled her to him, holding her tight. She tried to stem her sobs, tried to be stoic, controlled, the image she had strived to project to this man she adored. At first, she held herself stiff in his embrace, then just clung to him.
“You see,” he said when she quieted, “I believe in you. Even if I had not loaned him a small sum—”
“I’ll bet it wasn’t small.”
“A small sum to me. Even then I did it to help you, Elinor, yes, I suppose to bind you to me, to make you grateful. For, whatever comes our way, I don’t want to lose you.”
She put her arms around his neck and pressed her mouth to the side of his throat where his pulse beat hard.
“I’ll pay it back,” she said, her voice muffled against his skin. “With money, I mean.”
“Of course you will. But you work too hard, when someone should be taking care of you.”
“As much as I love knighthood and chivalry, it’s new times, my dear lord, the Right Honorable George Nathaniel Curzon. Lucile has her designs and I have my writing, and that’s the way of it. Now let me dry my tears, then tell me all about how it happened and how much you loaned him so that he could gamble it away in Monte Carlo—or was that part of your plan?”
“In a perfect world, I would have you all to myself, just like this—and, of course, still enjoy our intellectual talks and arguments, too,” he said and slid them down to lie flat on the sheets again.
And when he pulled her to him, despite anything he might have done amiss, she knew any sacrifice was worth any price she paid to love this man.
CHAPTER Twenty-Four
Who needs the Ritz or the Waldorf Astoria when we have the Titanic?” Lucile asked Cosmo as they swayed together on the dance floor. The ship was swaying too, so they didn’t move much, unlike those who insisted on a swirling waltz. Although the eight-member string orchestra was playing Strauss and others were sweeping past them, they stayed off to the side in their own world.
“An amazing little city unto itself,” Cosmo said. His mustache tickled her earlobe as he spoke over the music. “My time in the gymnasium and the Turkish bath today really woke me up. Shipboard living agrees with me.”
“I haven’t waked up yet from this dream. Such a glorious setting. Why, I’d love to have my goddesses float down that grand main staircase. I wouldn’t mind having Maestro Hartley and his violin play for my next parade, too,” she added with a nod at the exuberant leader of the musicians.
“Always business in mind with my sweetheart,” he teased. “So how did you assess the ladies’ shops you were in today?”
“Mm, spent more time in the beauty salon, but I would have redone several of the layouts in the shops.”
“With Lucile, Lady Duff-Gordon, creations on display out front, of course.”
“Now who’s talking business?” She moved closer to press her breasts to his chest and her hips to his. He held her tighter. She lifted her head to gaze into his face. For a moment they forgot to sway, let alone waltz, though the orchestra swept into the opening chords of “The Blue Danube.”
Cosmo cleared his throat and said in a husky voice, “I’d like to skip dinner but not from the captain’s table. It was good of Captain Smith to include us tonight.”
“I heard he’s a stickler for being on time, though it’s said he’s pushing for the ship to be ahead of time in New York. Best we go join them then.”
They made their way into the elegant first-class dining room and joined the people gathering at the captain’s table set for eight with crystal goblets, sparkling china, and an array of silver. They were introduced to an American named Margaret Brown, who declared, “But call me Molly.”
Lucile was excited to see, according to the lettered place-name cards, that she’d be seated next to the co-owner of Macy’s Department store, the bearded Isidor Straus, while Cosmo was next to Mrs. Straus. They chatted with the couple briefly and with Captain Smith. Lucile wasn’t sure whether Straus himself or his wife would be best for this, but she intended to pitch her clothing to one or the other of them.
Even the hand-lettered menus they were given looked grand, just as did this entire floating universe of the Titanic. Caviar and a choice of wines began the meal; she ordered quail and Cosmo chose lobster—although they could have had both. Amazingly, in this chilly mid-April at sea on the Atlantic, fresh peaches were part of the table decorations, intermixed with pink roses and large white daisies.
Even as the bearded captain stood to propose a toast, the violinist-maestro Lucile had admired stopped by their table to play a Puccini aria she couldn’t name, but no doubt, Elinor could have. Puccini loved his heroines and gave them soaring songs, so Lucile never could understand why so many of them had to die tragic deaths.
She smiled at Cosmo over the top of her champagne glass. Heading for New York in luxury with the man she loved . . . conquering New York as she had London . . . hoping yet for great success in Paris . . .
Life had never been so lovely.
“I’m not sure I’ve ever been happier,” Lucile told Cosmo the next night as she sat back down by him at their lounge table on the A deck of the Titanic. “You were so right to counsel me to wait for the right price for the Paris shop on the rue de Penthièvre, and now we have it not only staffed and stocked, but ready to go. I’m excited that, after this quick trip to New York to see to things there, we’re off to Paris to attract and build our clientele! And in New York, I just know you’ll love my little suite at the Ritz and the motorcar. Not as fancy as ours in London and Scotland, but
, after all, American made. Oh, just a minute. I see someone I must greet.”
He reached across their little table and snagged her wrist to pull her gently back down. “Lucile, do you need to keep popping up to have people sign that Confessions book of yours?” he groused as she flipped it open again. He seemed tired and snappish to her today, but then they’d been up to all hours making love last night after dancing and dining.
“Getting a signature is one thing,” he went on, “but personal questions under headings such as ‘likes, abominations, and madnesses’? I think it’s all a bit mad.”
“Now don’t fuss. You know it’s all the rage.”
“Sleep is all the rage for me tonight, lass.”
“I use my Confessions book not for rubbing shoulders with the elite and famous but for connecting with people, getting to know them better, just as I need personal contact with my clients. You are too much of a stay-at-home, my dearest. See here?” she asked, leaning across their table to slide the little leather book toward him. “John Jacob Astor and his bride filled in their likes and pet peeves and favorite things. Ben Guggenheim wrote in it too. This little book will bring us important New York contacts and business.”
“Always the self-advertiser. It’s in your blood. And you are in mine. But speaking of that, I have a bloody headache and need to turn in.”
“Sorry, love. Too much champagne for your head, do you think? I’m afraid that though it’s after midnight, I’m wide awake. Maybe it’s that chill wind outside I can hear keeping me up. If you feel bad and want to sleep, I can spend tonight in my own cabin for once and have Miss Francatelli come keep me company.” She reached up to push a stray lock of his hair back from his forehead.
“I imagine I’ve had too many late nights staying awake making love to you,” he whispered. “And, yes, I’d best stick to my Scottish whisky instead of all this fancy Paris bubbly stuff.”