By The Sea, Book Two: Amanda

by Stockenberg, Antoinette

  "Yeah. Do you have any cigarettes?"

  "In the glove compartment. Look, Amanda, you just can't—how old are you, anyway?"

  Twenty-four. Old enough to smoke."

  "That's not what I mean and you know it. Have you been to university? Had any formal training?"

  "How insulting," she replied calmly. "Radcliffe, as a matter of fact. BA, political science."

  "Didn't they teach you that anarchy is not the method of choice for reform?"

  "No. Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. I don't say Anarchy I is part of their formal curriculum, but the progressive impulse is there, if you know where to look."

  "What were you planning to do with your friends from Café Budapest? Blow up the bars of their cell?"

  "I didn't have a plan," she said, hinting at the immaturity of such an approach. "I just wanted to make a stink, to get something in the papers. And I did. I wanted to get people thinking and talking, to shake them up."

  "What exactly is it that they should be thinking about when they see our faces scowling back at them over morning coffee tomorrow?"

  "About whether we want to continue this build-up of warships, which besides being of dubious use to a peace-loving world, is driving the price of bread and butter up and the buying power of a workman's wage down. That's what I want them to think about."

  "And instead they will read the caption beneath the photo and say to one another, 'What does an heiress know about the price of a dozen eggs? "

  "Where are we going, anyway?" she demanded, changing the subject.

  "How the devil should I know?" he answered, irritated beyond measure. "I'm just the Fain chauffeur. You tell me."

  "Take me to my Village studio, then," she said in a tired voice.

  "As you wish, Miss Fain," he replied in a tone somewhere between a sneer and a growl. He calculated that he could've walked the distance between Newport and New York in the time it was taking him to get there.

  Amazingly, Amanda managed to fall asleep in the car within half an hour. She lay huddled against the door, her head cushioned on a stadium blanket that she'd found behind her seat. Her big gypsy eyes were closed, her mouth composed in the silence of sleep. For the first time it occurred to Geoff that it could not have been pleasant, spending the night in a jail cell. She'd acted so blasé that he'd been tempted to assume that she spent time there regularly. Amanda Fain put up a good front.

  Four bone-wearying hours later, Geoff was reaching across Amanda's lap to throw open the passenger door. Sleepy-eyed, she turned to him and murmured through a yawn, "If you want to come in and freshen up..."

  "No, thanks. I need a major overhaul." He thought of his handsome suite at the Plaza with a longing bordering on lust.

  She yawned again. "It was nice of you to give me a lift ...."

  As if she'd been right on his way! Ah, well, an expression of gratitude from Amanda Fain was a hundred times more moving than the sight of an ordinary peasant groveling in the dirt. "Anytime, Amanda," he replied. He had to smile when he realized that it was the first time her name had passed his lips aloud, and unaccompanied by an oath.

  ****

  The morning of the first scheduled race of the 1920 America's Cup series dawned leaden and still. Geoff felt reasonably sure that there would be no race for lack of wind, but he showed up aboard Sir Tom's Victoria anyway, just in case. He was not the only one. Enthusiasm for the Races, bottled up for the last six years because of the war, was great; the spectator fleet was huge. Geoff was used to pre-race excitement; he'd been a regular at Cowes in England until his father had been forced to sell his yacht. He was used to the bustle of crews readying the boats to go out and to curious landlubbers and armchair sailors hanging around the docks, as fascinated by the sport as any hanger-on at a thoroughbred racetrack.

  But there was something quintessentially American about this pre-race scene: it was bigger, noisier, more free-spirited, more democratic than any in the British Isles. Not that the little man failed to show up to cheer his King aboard the royal yacht Britannia whenever possible. But there were one hell of a lot more people in the New York area available to come along and cheer.

  Aboard the elegant Victoria there was a lively crowd gathered around Sir Tom. He liked to boast that informality prevailed on his yachts. Despite the fact that he'd entertained nearly every crown head of Europe at one time or another, he considered himself plain Tom Lipton who put on no airs and graces when he put on a yachtsman's cap.

  Geoff made his way through the crush to pay his compliments to Lipton, automatically scanning the crowd for faces he knew. It seemed inconceivable to him that some Fain or other would not somehow get between him and the day's plans to view the races. In fact, a message from Jim Fain had been left for him at the Plaza during the previous day. Geoff had not returned the call when he got back to his rooms. Nor did he really begin to feel comfortable until the Victoria was well on her way to the starting line to view the day's races.

  A little before the start of the race between Resolute and Shamrock IV, Lipton caught up with Geoff again.

  "Well, son, what do you think? Shamrock number four is twenty-five feet shorter than number three and forty-two tons lighter, and her designer himself calls her an 'ugly duckling'; and yet somehow I feel that number four may just do."

  "She carries a wicked area of sail, sir, much more than Resolute, it seems," Geoff remarked, mentally comparing the two yachts. "How substantial is the penalty for that?"

  "Also wicked," said Lipton with a chuckle. "But we don't care; we've decided to go for all-out speed. What we need now is an all-out breeze of wind." He looked around the dull sky without much hope, and then his eye returned to his latest darling. "Doesn't my Ugly Duckling look grand?" he asked fondly. "Who would believe she was laid up for six years at City Island waiting for a war to end and people's thoughts to return to more pleasurable pursuits?"

  "I seem to remember the Shamrock was en route across the Atlantic for the 1914 challenge when she learned war had been declared," said Geoff.

  "Aye, and you'll never guess where she learned it from: the crew picked up the news by wireless from a German cruiser! I can't help thinking that Shamrock IV is destined to have a special place in history because of that." He shook his head rather sadly. "So far as I am concerned, that Auld Mug is the most elusive piece of metal in all the world. Will I ever lift it? I wish I knew."

  "You have the best wishes of all of England, and of a great many in the United States as well," Geoff answered with feeling.

  "And for that I feel tremendously honored. When I arrived here just after the war, you know, I was given the greatest reception of my life. I always say that you have to live in America as I have done to appreciate the people here. I think the Americans understand my great love and respect for them and are returning the kindness."

  A huge steamer in the spectator fleet was crossing paths just then with the Victoria and, as if on cue, let out half a dozen great blasts of its steam whistle in salute to Sir Tom; its upper and lower decks, thronged with American passengers, cheered wildly for him. It was hard to believe that Lipton was not the American defender, so plainly adored was he.

  Before he left Geoff, Lipton winked and said, "You'll take my advice, then?"

  Puzzled, and embarrassed to appear inattentive, Geoff said, "Which advice was that, sir?"

  "Take the job. It'll do you a world of good. I got my first here when I was fifteen and had only thirty shillings in my pocket, and I've never regretted it."

  He rejoined some of his other guests to watch the start of the race, leaving Geoff to wonder whether a grand conspiracy was not underway to draw him into the web of Fain family life.

  At noon the gun went off, and it soon became apparent that in the light breeze, the American boat was the more weatherly of the two yachts. July 15 did not seem destined to go into the win column of Lipton's log. But then an extraordinary event happened: the normally efficient and flawless performance by an Am
erican crew dissolved into sloppiness after a heavy thundershower passed over the yachts. A halyard was ordered to be slackened on Resolute, but its bitter end had not been secured.

  The halyard ran up the mast, the sail fell down the mast, and Resolute, although leading at the time, was forced to withdraw. The luck of the Irish was with Sir Tom; he had his first victory of the series—his first victory in twenty-one years of challenges. The cheering was thunderous, and though Lipton offered immediately to resail the race, neither the New York Yacht Club nor anyone else on either side of the Atlantic would consider it. He was that well loved for his sportsmanship.

  One down for the old man, and two to go.

  Chapter 7

  "I'm delighted, my boy. Completely delighted. It's a chance to break into an exciting industry, and it's not as if you have to leave behind what you learn here, whenever you do decide to return to England."

  "Oh, I've made that decision, sir: the end of the year. If you're not agreeable to that, then I'm afraid the job's not for me."

  "Now, did I say that? I'll take what I can get, Geoff. I'm in no position to argue. I have a stack of cables and letters from Europe a mile high on my desk. Those inquiries have got to be answered, and letter writing's not my strong suit. I'll give you the general drift of things, and you can make it right. Make it exciting. Make them want my ships. We've got the steel, the manpower, the wherewithal. All we got to do is be able to say so."

  "Frankly, I think you have an enormously persuasive manner, Mr. Fain," Geoff said into the telephone. At least as persuasive as a hammerlock, he added to himself.

  "Nah, it just don't come out that way on paper for me. We're agreed, then? You'll have a couple of days to find rooms nearby, and then you'll get down to it?"

  "Well, sir, you'll remember that I did plan to see another race or two in the series—"

  "What the hell for? You know the Yanks are going to win it. Why waste the time? I mean, Lipton's a grand old man and all, but—" He stopped himself. "Hold on. I see an angle here. That crafty old codger still hasn't said boo about whether he wants me to build a ship for him. You could work on him and—and not only that, but you could take Amanda, by God!" He sounded as if the inspiration had dropped on him like a thunderbolt.

  "Amanda, sir?" Ah, yes. He should have seen it coming. Jim Fain had a daughter who was unmarried, unspoken for, and a little rough around the edges, to say the least. "Lady Seton" sounded so much more genteel than "convicted felon." Geoff cleared his throat. "You would be referring to your daughter, sir."

  "Who the hell else would I be referring to?" Jim Fain said impatiently. "She thinks a lot of Sir Tom. I think if I could get him to talk to her, to make her see reason, she'd respect his advice. He's a little like my ex-partner. She adored him," he added with some bitterness.

  "I see. So you think—"

  "Call her. Here's the number. I've got to do something with her. She's flying completely out of control. You can charge me for the time you spend with her if you like. Her analyst does."

  Geoff took down the telephone number and signed off, feeling like a pompous ass. It was hard to believe, but apparently Geoff—even Geoff—revered the baronetcy bought by his sheep farmer ancestor (for a thousand pounds) more than his new employer did. He felt like an errand boy. Worse: like a gigolo, having to escort Amanda around on retainer. Gad. There was irony here somewhere.

  Nor did his ego feel any more puffed up after he dialed Amanda's number. She couldn't go. Or wouldn't. She certainly wasn't saying which. "Oh God, no, it's impossible," she said, sounding surprised that he would ask.

  He became a little pushy; he was definitely becoming Americanized. It was the only language the Fains understood. "Why not, exactly?" he inquired.

  "Because exactly on the seventeenth," she said dryly, "I promised to take my cousin to the Metropolitan Museum of Art."

  "How old is he?"

  "Twelve."

  "So bring him along," Geoff replied. "Boys like boats." It had become a matter of principle now, damn it. If Fain wanted his daughter to be guided by the wisdom of a tea merchant, then damn it, Geoff would sit her down at the man's feet if he had to drag her by the hair to do it. Damn it.

  "Nope, I can't do that," she decided at last. "He would be crushed." When Geoff didn't respond, she added, "But I'll tell you what. I'll bring my cousin along for the next race after that, whenever it is."

  "Fine. I'll call you. Plan on it." Scowling, he hung up with the feeling that he'd failed this, his first assignment. He wondered briefly whether kidnapping was illegal in the United States, then put the thought aside. He had bigger fish to fry: rooms to line up, an automobile to lease for a longer term, tactful letters to send back home. He was confident that his father would be pleased with his decision to stay on in the land of milk and honey; his mother, on the other hand, would fear he was becoming corrupted.

  Which, he decided, he was, although a more accurate term might be "seduced." There was something utterly hypnotizing about watching Americans in action. It was like watching children grow up. They had none of the self-consciousness of an older nation, no sense that there were limits to life's possibilities. He could see it in Jim Fain, with his determination to make his mark on the world's shipbuilding industry; he could see it in Amanda, with her equal and opposing determination not to let him.

  Not even the war had dampened the Americans' enthusiasm. Reluctant at first to join the fray—as any young and inexperienced child would be—the Americans had managed to turn the tide, and now they were more cocky and ebullient than ever. Even now, soldiers were still returning to ticker-tape parades, in almost shocking contrast to the subdued homecomings he saw and experienced in his own, far more devastated country. There were monuments everywhere in the United States; in England there were memorials. He wondered what it would take to give the Americans pause. He wondered what it would take to check the Fains in their headlong, headstrong pursuit of success. He meant to watch for a while and see.

  So he set up shop in Old Saybrook, a pretty, historical community a few miles west of the Ironworks in New London, settling on a comfortable colonial house run by Mrs. Streep, a New England widow plump as a fox sparrow, who immediately invited her unmarried niece to tea. Geoff spent twenty friendly minutes with the two ladies, then retired to his own rooms to shuffle the furniture and take down the artwork.

  It was now the seventeenth, the day of the second race, which he'd been too busy even to think of going to see. As it turned out, there was little wind and the race was not completed within its time allotment. Thank God Amanda and her cousin had not come; two brats and an anticlimax was a combination too depressing to consider.

  The day after that, Geoff climbed into his newly leased Hudson Super Six and drove to his first day at the office. The morning was fine, the drive pleasant, and his mood, if not ebullient, was at least expectant. This was new. This was different. He hoped that Jim Fain had taken care of such matters as work permits, but he didn't especially care. He'd almost be willing to do the job as a courtesy, just for the experience and the chance to watch.

  The chance came early. When he arrived Fain was already there and in the middle of an argument with his son. The elder Fain's office was separated from the clerical help by windowed walls; apparently Fain had no secrets from anyone anywhere. He was waving his arms around in a lively display of exasperation. When he spied Geoff, he beckoned him inside.

  "In case I didn't mention it, work starts at eight-thirty," said Fain.

  "It is eight-thirty," answered Geoff, surprised.

  "If it were my first day on the job, I'd have been here early," Fain grumbled.

  "I'm ready to begin. Good morning, David."

  David nodded and his father said, "You can't begin, not until we square away an office for you. Seems I'll have to evict the previous tenant," he said, glaring at his son.

  "Where am I supposed to stay?" demanded David.

  "You only come to New London once a week to
look over the repairs to the freighter; we'll stick an extra desk in the office for you."

  "Swell. Why not just put me with the stenotypists?" He marched over to a window overlooking the yard and pulled out a cigarette case, took a cigarette from it, and lit it, his back set to his father in angry rejection all the while.

  Fain jerked his head in David's direction. "My son, the martyr. You'd never know he has a fabulous top-floor suite in New York with a staff of four to answer every whim." He threw up his hands. "What's the matter with you, boy? You know the shipyard ain't fancy. We double up when we have to and we don't make a federal case out of it."

  "Easy for you to say. I have everything set up. I have a phone—"

  "Keep the damn phone! We'll have a new one put in for Geoff. Look, I can appreciate your wanting things to run smooth, but give me a break here, David," he pleaded.

  Geoff, as usual around the Fains, was neither seen nor heard. That was part of the fascination: did they do it because they'd accepted him as one of their own, or did they treat all outsiders like domestics, necessary evils to keep their world oiled and running?

  David blew out a stream of smoke, then said to Geoff, "If the phone rings when I'm not there, leave it ring. Some things are personal, you know?"

  Fain, relieved, slapped his son on the back. "He's something with the women, he is," he explained to Geoff with a tolerant smile. "Loves 'em and then leaves 'em; but at least he protects their identities while he's doing it. All right, boys, now let's get back to work."

  Within an hour the mile-high pile of correspondence on Fain's desk had been transferred to Geoff's desk. It became immediately obvious that there was no way Geoff could respond to the inquiries, since he did not have the information necessary to do so. There were only two ways that he could acquire that information: learn the shipbuilding business from the ground up, or take copious and accurate notes from Jim Fain himself. For the present, he would be working closely with Jim Fain.