by Mary Kruger
“Is it always like this?” Matt shouted over the babble as they pushed their way towards the gangplank, his hand holding hers tightly so that they wouldn’t get separated in the crowd.
“Yes,” Brooke called back, hastily reaching up to straighten her hat, which was in danger of coming loose as she was jostled by someone in the crowd. It was a new hat, too, of Leghorn straw with ostrich feathers dyed a pale peach to match her walking suit of peach and amber, and one of her favorites.
“Watch it there!” Matt glared at the man who had jostled her, though he was already several feet away. “Do you have everything?”
“What?”
“Your purse, watch, jewelry. Did he take anything?”
“What?” Brooke glanced down at her purse, held securely by her side. “No one took anything from me.”
“Prime crowd for pickpockets,” he muttered, drawing her arm through his, his narrowed eyes scanning the people around them.
“For heaven’s sake, Matt. There are no pickpockets here.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do. Come, there’s the gangplank at last. Heavens, what a queue!”
“If we’d left when I wanted to, we wouldn’t have to wait,” Matt grumbled as they joined the end of a long, long line.
“It’s just past nine, Matt, and the ship doesn’t sail for another hour. Besides,” she added with serene self-confidence, “it won’t sail without us.”
“Huh,” Matt said, but he subsided, looking again at the ship. From here it rose above him, a solid expanse of black steel pierced at intervals by round portholes. The white-painted superstructure, like a long, low building dropped onto the deck, was surrounded by masts and funnels and davits for lifeboats, and surmounted by those three huge smokestacks. From them smoke already belched, as the ship’s engines heated the steam that would propel them across the Atlantic. It looked solid and steady, and yet Matt didn’t trust it one bit. He’d grown up near the ocean, and he’d heard of too many disasters at sea to be entirely at ease.
They inched their way up the gangplank, while Brooke conversed with the people around them, many of whom she knew. Matt’s uneasiness grew, until at last they were at the top of the gangplank, aboard the ship. A blue-uniformed man took their tickets; another pointed out the general direction of their cabin. With that behind them the pressure of the crowd lessened, and Matt relaxed a little. Once he got settled, knew where he was, he might even enjoy himself.
“Let’s explore a little bit,” he said, as Brooke turned towards a doorway leading inside. “I’d like to know where everything is.”
“We can’t. At least, not now.”
Matt followed her as she turned into the first of a bewildering succession of passages. “Why not?”
“We have guests coming to our suite to see us off, have you forgotten?” They moved up a staircase, and out onto a teak-floored deck. To one side was a railing, and beyond that a warehouse-lined wharf; to the other the deckhouse, dotted here and then by doors and windows and bisected by corridors. The deck itself was wide, and divided into two sections by an awning deck of canvas supported by steel beams near the railing, above which hung lifeboats on davits. Nearer to the deckhouse, some passengers were already sitting in steamer chairs, while the passageway formed by the awning deck was bustling with people preparing for departure. “I don’t want Aunt Winifred to get there before we do.”
“Can’t have that.”
“No, of course not, since she’s paying for it.”
Matt stopped. “I thought that was Henry.” He understood Henry and Winifred Olmstead’s reasons for paying for this trip. He did. But it was a sad day when a man wasn’t even allowed to pay for his own honeymoon.
Brooke turned. “Oh, Matt. I didn’t mean—”
“I know you didn’t,” he said, and though his voice was still clipped he reached for her arm. “Never mind. Is our suite around here?”
“It should be.” Brooke stopped at one of the corridors. Glancing down it, Matt could see doors opening off it, and the other side of the deck. “In fact, it should be here,” Brooke said, and, as if by magic, a white-jacketed steward appeared.
“Mr. and Mrs. Devlin? This way,” he said, opening one of the doors.
“Thank you.” Brooke sailed into the room; Matt, a bit more bemused, followed, stepping into a sitting room furnished with velvet-upholstered sofas and chairs. Beyond was the bedroom, equally luxurious with its big brass bed, and to the side was a private bathroom, with a convex wall to follow the curve of the smokestack. The windows overlooked the promenade deck. God only knew what this cost, he thought, turning from checking that the blinds fitted tightly, letting in neither light nor curious eyes, to see Brooke bouncing on the bed. “‘Alone at last,’ she said dramatically,” Brooke said, smiling up at him, and all his irritation, all his uneasiness, dissolved. This was their honeymoon. Nothing else mattered.
He held out his hand to her, and she rose, coming into his arms. She had just raised her face to his when there was a knock on the outside door, followed by the sound of it opening. “Brooke? Matthew? Are you here?”
“Oh, heavens.” Brooke and Matt sprang apart, he straightening his tie, she smoothing her hair. “Yes, Aunt Winifred. We just got here ourselves.”
“Really, Brooke, that was cutting it close, wasn’t it?” Winifred Olmstead gazed about the suite with narrowed eyes. “This will do, I suppose,” she said, thus dismissing the overstuffed sofa and armchairs, the porcelain fixtures in the lavatory, the thick pile carpets. “If one must travel, and I suppose one must to be civilized, then one should do so in comfort. The St. Paul is an ugly ship,” she went on, running a gloved finger across the top of a mahogany dresser and frowning, even though the glove remained spotless, “and Campania rattles, there is no other word for it. Cunard always was more concerned with speed than with their passengers’ comfort. No, I did well in choosing this ship for you. I dare say you’ll enjoy yourselves.”
Matt glanced at Brooke and then as quickly looked away, at the laughter he saw bubbling in her eyes. “It was very good of you, ma’am,” he said, in a voice that was only a bit strangled, and held out his hand. “Henry. Good to see you.”
“And you, too, my boy.” Henry’s hands went back in his trouser pockets after he’d shaken Matt’s hand, as was his habit. It was easy to ignore Henry Olmstead in the presence of his forceful wife, but in the past months he and Matt had grown to like each other. Even if Matt had once arrested him for murder, falsely, as it turned out. “Sure you’ll survive all of this?” he added, his voice lowered.
Matt shrugged. “God knows. And then Europe, afterwards.” He paused. “It’s a generous gift, Henry.”
Henry waved that off. “Brooke means a lot to us.” He looked up at Matt, his eyes unexpectedly keen. “We want her to be happy.”
“I know that.” Something in Matt’s tone must have been reassuring, for Henry nodded, and the intent look left his eyes. Matt knew the truth, though. Henry was a more complex man than he appeared. “I think,” he began, and at that moment there was another knock on the door. Nodding at Henry, he crossed the sitting room to open the door.
“Matt, my boy,” boomed the man who stood there. He sauntered in, his shoulders thrown back and chest thrust out, as if he owned the world. “Came to see you off. Done well for yourself, my boy, that you have.”
“Thank you.” Matt shot another glance at Brooke and saw that she was suppressing laughter again. “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife’s relatives. Mr. and Mrs. Olmstead, Thomas Nevesey.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Nevesey boomed, holding out his hand. He was a small man, and yet his presence filled the room. His sandy mustache bristled with vitality, and his tan herringbone suit, while of impeccable cut, seemed on him to be almost garish. “Let me guess. Republicans, are you?”
“Tom,” Matt muttered.
“Indeed.” Winifred’s voice was glacial. “I’ve heard of you, Mr. Nevesey.”
“I’m aware of that.” Henry’s eyes held the same twinkle as Brooke’s. “You are Matt’s, ah, ward boss, I believe it’s called?”
“That I am.” Nevesey stood with his legs braced, as if the ship were already at sea, his thumbs tucked into his vest pockets. “Helped Matt get his job, I did. Can always use a man like him on the force.”
“Er, yes,” Matt put in, fidgeting, hating the appearance of impropriety. Nevesey hadn’t really gotten Matt his job, but he might just help him keep it. Last year the dauntless Theodore Roosevelt had been named to the board of police commissioners; he had since waged a one-man campaign to clean up the corruption uncovered by the Lexow Commission. Among other things, he had forced the resignation of patrolmen and detectives alike and brought in new people, Matt among them. Yet among all this reform, politics still lurked, and ward bosses still held power. A wise police officer kept on their good side. There was no need to advertise that, however. “Would you like to see the cabin, Tom?”
“That I would, my boy.” Nevesey’s voice lowered as he followed Matt into the bedroom. “Looks like you’ve landed yourself in clover.”
“It won’t affect how I do my job.”
“Never thought it would, my boy, never thought that.” Nevesey glanced quickly around the bedroom, and his voice lowered still more. “Though when you came to me to tell me you wanted to go on this honeymoon—you know you’ll have some trouble when you get back?”
Matt nodded. He’d already faced resentment from his fellow officers over his good fortune. “I expect it.”
“Good. Just so you know. Of course, with Mrs. Devlin and all, can’t say I blame you.”
“No, sir.”
“Not many men have a rich wife. Enjoy it, my boy.”
“Yes,” Matt said, his voice stiff.
“Bothers you, does it?” Nevesey’s gaze was sharp, belying his genial, jovial manner. “Well, don’t let it, my boy. Not many get the chance. Now, before I go, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
Matt followed him out into the sitting room. Winifred drew back as they passed, ostentatiously pulling back her skirts from Nevesey, but Matt made himself ignore it. Soon enough all the guests would be gone, and he and Brooke would be alone. Maybe then it wouldn’t matter that their backgrounds were so different. “Who?”
“Ambrose Smith, ship’s detective. He’s just outside, here. Helped him get this job, you know. He was a sergeant here in New York until all those commission hearings,” Nevesey said, opening the door.
Which meant that he was less than honest, Matt thought, looking at Brooke, whose own look was curious. Nevesey was an irresistible force, however, and so, shrugging, Matt stepped out, closing the door behind him.
“A most distasteful man,” Winifred declaimed into the sudden silence, ringing with the absence of Nevesey’s voice. “I wonder you can tolerate him, Brooke.”
Henry turned away from the window looking onto the promenade deck, where he’d stood since Nevesey’s arrival. “Not a man to underestimate, I’d think,” he said.
“No. Matt owes him rather a lot,” Brooke said. “And I like him.”
Winifred stared at her. “How can you, possibly?”
“Well, I do. Aunt, what do you think I should buy in Paris?” she asked, and the conversation immediately turned to the more pressing matters of Paris couturiers and style. Poor Matt, she thought, listening to her aunt with only half her attention. He was feeling much the same as she had when first she had come to live with her aunt and uncle, very much out of his element, with the added pressures of his job. She’d never ask him to give up his work; it meant too much to him. She only hoped that by the time they returned to New York he’d be more reconciled to the changes in his life.
The ship’s horn blew two short blasts, drowning out all conversation and startling everyone. “That’s the signal for going ashore, my love,” Henry said, coming forward and taking Winifred’s arm.
“Oh, dear.” Winifred fumbled in her purse and brought out a lace-edged handkerchief, touching it to dry eyes. “I do hate goodbyes. Are you certain you’ll be all right, Brooke?”
“On this ship? Of course. After all, I have Matt. And,” she went on quickly to forestall whatever Winifred was about to say next, “Mr. Nevesey will not be sailing with us.”
“I should hope not!” Indignation replaced Winifred’s sadness. “A man like that on the New York—well! I know standards are sadly lowered these days, but we must fight against them when we can.”
“Yes, aunt,” Brooke murmured, shepherding them out onto the promenade deck. The pier was thronged with people to see the big ship start her voyage, and a few feet away Matt strode towards her. “Mr. Nevesey is gone, Matt?”
“Yes.” He leaned forward to kiss Winifred on the cheek, a salute she suffered in silence, and shook Henry’s hand. And then Henry was leading Winifred away, though she continued to call back admonitions and advice, until they reached the stairs and were gone. An absurd lump rose in Brooke’s throat, and she swallowed it. No need for sadness, not when she was on her honeymoon.
The ship gave another blast on its horn, and there were shouts from lower decks and the pier as the thick cables that held the New York to the land were let go. Matt joined Brooke at the railing, both of them waving at the people below, as the New York edged out of her berth. The buildings of Manhattan began to recede; ahead was open water, and Europe. As if at a signal, Matt and Brooke glanced at each other, and grinned, silently agreeing in that moment to leave their conflicts back on land. Their honeymoon had begun.
At precisely seven that evening the gong rang for dinner. “This thing is choking me,” Matt grumbled, tugging at the wing collar of his starched white shirt as he and Brooke turned in from the promenade deck to the mahogany stairs leading to the grand saloon for dinner. Sandy Hook Lightship, the official beginning of an Atlantic passage, had already been passed, and land was long behind them. The ship was alone, a majestic, lonely city, and the sea had taken over. The sway from side to side made footing on the stairs, now rising, now falling, uncertain at best.
“Don’t,” Brooke reached up a wifely hand to straighten his tie. “You look good in a dinner jacket, Matt.”
“I feel like a monkey. Will I have to dress up every night?”
“Yes,” she said firmly, biting back a smile. Of all the trials of his new life, she suspected Matt found his new wardrobe the worst. Certainly he complained about it enough, but in this company it wouldn’t do for him to wear his old tweed suits that had come off the peg from Sherman’s store in Newport. Snobbish, perhaps, but there it was. She was proud of Matt. She didn’t want anyone disdaining him for such a foolish reason.
Her hand resting lightly on his arm, she was pulled up short when he stopped dead just inside the doorway to the grand saloon. “Holy...” he began, and stopped, staring. This afternoon they had explored the ship, looking in at the oak-paneled library with its hundreds of volumes; the comfortable, clubby smoking room, where women were not allowed; and the ladies’ drawing room, with its plushly upholstered sofas and ottomans. Nothing, however, matched the grandeur of this room. It stretched far, far away from them, twice as long as it was wide, with long tables covered by snowy white linen cloths marching away, converging in the distance like railroad tracks. Domed chandeliers shed brilliant light over the scene, while the softer glow from hundreds of candles in silver holders glanced upon arrangements of spring flowers: daffodils, jonquils, hyacinths; and glittered off the sparkling crystal, fine porcelain dishes, and polished silver. Upon the wall frolicked creatures of the sea, mermaids and dolphins and tritons, while high overhead arched a ceiling of glass, dark now with night. White-jacketed waiters, towels folded in precise creases over their arms, flitted among the tables, filling with sumptuously garbed passengers, nearly three hundred of them. Only first cabin passengers here; second and third cla
ss had their own quarters, and were kept strictly separate. Matt wondered now if he’d feel more comfortable there.
“I don’t believe this,” he said, flatly, moving forward at last as someone jostled them from behind. “It’s as grand as anything in Newport.”
“And you dislike it just as much, don’t you?” Brooke said, slanting him a look.
“I didn’t say that. It just—takes getting used to.”
Her hand tightened on his arm, as if in reassurance. “We’ll be spending a lot of time here,” she said, as they followed a waiter to their table. “There’s an organ, up there,” she pointed to an oriel window set high in the wall far across the saloon, “and a pulpit there, for Sunday services.” Another oriel window, in the opposite wall, behind them. “Any entertainments they have planned will be here. We’ll have to look in the ship’s newspaper.”
Matt hesitated as the waiter turned a swivel chair, bolted to the floor, toward him, and then sat. Beside him Brooke was already seated, smoothing down the skirt of her pale green satin gown. He liked her in green, though he wasn’t certain he liked the low cut of this gown, or the fact that the man across the table was winking at her. “The ship has a newspaper?”
“The ship has everything. Mr. Hoffman.” She was smiling at the man who had just winked at her again. “What a pleasure to see you here.”
“Miss Cassidy.” The man beamed at her, and Matt’s temper rose. No matter if Brooke knew him; she was his wife, and nobody was allowed to treat her in such a way. “Sorry, it’s Devlin now, isn’t it? Julius Hoffman,” he said, holding out his hand to Matt. “You’re Detective Sergeant Devlin.”
“Yes,” Matt said, slightly taken aback, and looked to Brooke for guidance. Hoffman was vaguely familiar, but Matt had met so many people in the last few months that even his trained eye couldn’t recognize everyone. He was a middle-aged man, balding, and not above medium height. His dinner jacket, though well cut, sagged upon his sloping shoulders. His black mustache bristled with vitality, however, and the eyes that met Matt’s were dark and bright and shrewd. Not a man to underestimate. “Have we met?”