by Juliana Gray
I found Lord Silverton leaning against the starboard railing near the white bow of the ship, looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He was cradling a porcelain cup in one hand—coffee, I knew, black as pitch and without sugar—and his pipe in the other.
“There you are.” He gestured with his pipe to the scene below. “I’m always a trifle shocked by how much of humanity is awake and industrious at this hour, and in such damnable cold.”
“Not half so cold as England.”
“But cold enough.” He drained his cup and turned to face me. “Why, you’re all ready to go.”
“Of course I am. The captain informs me we shall be secured at the dock within a half hour.”
“Which means we have an entire half hour to take in this glorious sight before buckling down to the nasty business at hand.”
“I hope you’ve packed, at least.”
Lord Silverton shrugged his shoulders, which were covered in the thick checked wool of a Norfolk shooting jacket, belted at the waist, and looked as sturdy as Britain herself. “That’s what valets are for, my dear.”
“Have you really brought your valet?”
“Of course I have. I couldn’t possibly manage an expedition like this without Brown. For one thing, who would iron my shirts?”
“I certainly wouldn’t.”
Silverton flashed his white teeth. “Why, Truelove, the idea had not occurred to me, I assure you.”
I saw the word you rather than heard it, because a bellow came forth at that instant from one of the ship’s two funnels, nearly vaporizing the bones of my inner ear. I wanted to ask his lordship more about this valet—why hadn’t he mentioned him before, why hadn’t I noticed him among the crew?—but the noise from the funnel set in motion a flurry of activity from the various members of the Isolde’s crew, rendering conversation impossible. Silverton lifted himself from the rail, motioned to his ear, and signaled us inside.
By contrast, the interior of the ship imbued calm, hardly a steward to be seen. I followed Silverton down the staircase to the landing on the main deck, where a vast array of trunks and suitcases had appeared out of nowhere, presided over by an extremely pale man with greasy dark hair that hung over a yellowed collar, and a suit of clothing a chimney sweep would scorn. A white cigarette dangled from the corner of his mouth. I was about to say (incredulous), Is this your valet, Silverton? when the man straightened from one of the trunks and I realized he had no left arm, but rather a round silver hook, somewhat the worse for tarnish.
“Ah. Brown. Efficient as ever, I see. Have you wired ahead for the car?”
“Yes, sar,” said Brown, in a thick northern accent I strained to comprehend.
Lord Silverton turned to me and explained that, among other recent improvements, the Isolde had just acquired a brand-new Marconi wireless apparatus, together with an experienced operator, enabling her to communicate with the shore. Terribly useful in cases like this, didn’t I think? A car and driver would be waiting for us at the end of the dock, and we were already booked at the Hotel Grand Bretagne in Athens—separate rooms, of course, with another flash of those white teeth—and would seek out Mr. Livas at two o’clock in the afternoon. Was that agreeable?
“Yes,” I said numbly, trying to avoid the sight of Mr. Brown’s gleaming hook and returning to it inevitably. The smell of his cigarette prickled the hairs of my nose.
“Brown, have the stewards brought down Miss Truelove’s baggage yet?”
Brown motioned to an obscure corner of the landing. “Over there.”
My single meager trunk looked a pitiful thing next to the polished leather and shining buckles of the Silverton luggage. The traveling desk sat on top, honey brown and lonely.
“Ah. Yes. By my soul, that’s a fine old desk.”
“It was my father’s.”
“Of course. Miss Truelove, may I present my valet, Brown, who despite all appearance keeps me in elegant trim when he’s not stone drunk. Brown, Miss Truelove, whose word is law.” Silverton removed the pipe from his mouth and tapped it against the air.
“Delighted,” said Brown, or something like it.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brown.”
“It’s just Brown,” said Silverton. “He doesn’t answer to Mister. Do you, Brown?”
“No, sar.”
Silverton leaned close. “I acquired him in Venice at two o’clock in the morning of my twenty-second birthday, having nearly come to a bad end at the hands of a somewhat reckless gondolier and required a spot of rescuing. No one’s got a clue how he wound up in Venice to begin with, least of all Brown himself, though I daresay we’re better off not knowing.”
“I see.”
“Have no fear, madam. I assure you he’s as sound as a silver dollar, and even more valuable. Brown?”
“Sar?”
“Take my cup back down to the galley, there’s a good bloke, and ask them whether we disembark on the port side or the starboard.”
Off stomped Brown in a swirl of cigarette smoke, and his lordship replaced his pipe in his mouth and rubbed his forehead with a single broad thumb.
“He’s the sort of fellow one likes to keep busy,” he said.
Before we disembark the Isolde, a word about dinner the previous night.
At the time, I thought the conversation too trivial to mention, but now that I reflect more carefully on the events that followed, I realize that perhaps I was wrong. Besides, a dinner on board the Isolde is worthy of note in itself, I suppose, since such magnificent spectacles are a kind of moment in history, and should be preserved in some way, whenever possible.
On that final night of the voyage, I joined the three men—Lord Silverton, the captain, and the first officer—for the first time, having felt too unwell during the previous evenings. I admit, I entered the dining saloon with some misgivings. Seamen, after all, are not generally known for their gentlemanly behavior, but when I crossed the threshold into the splendid room, the captain and his mate both rose and greeted me by such polite expressions—pleasure at my returned well-being, regret that only one night remained—that I felt instantly at ease.
As I said, the conversation proceeded along trivial lines, through a succession of beautifully prepared dishes: oysters, veal consommé, poached halibut, filet of beef, roast duckling, potatoes lyonnaise, creamed carrots, lamb in mint sauce, fresh green peas, cheeses, cakes, coffee. Fine wines were decanted; several bottles, I think, though I allowed myself only a few precious sips at each course. (You will understand that a respectable young woman is not fully at ease in such a situation: a formal and elaborate meal with three gentlemen, not one of them entirely familiar to her, and no female company to support her dignity.)
Not to say that I didn’t enjoy the dinner. To be perfectly honest, I have never felt entirely at ease at a table of women, either; we seem to have so little in common, perhaps because I tend neither children nor husband. Like me, the captain had served the Duke of Olympia for many years, and he related many stories about the great man and his travels, which illuminated a side to His Grace’s character I had never been privileged to witness.
“Their Graces happened to be taking a tour of the Americas when the unfortunate disagreement broke out between the United States and Spain,” he said, as a steward solemnly carved the roast duckling into delicate slices, “and we were present in Havana Harbor that terrible night when the battleship Maine met her end.”
“How awful!” I said.
“The duke and duchess were both ashore at the time, attending a dinner at the governor’s residence—”
“Blanco,” said Silverton. “Curious chap. Ever meet him?”
“No, sir. My duties were confined to the ship—the duke was concerned about the safety of the vessel and crew, given the various diplomatic and revolutionary tensions—so I was actually on deck at the time of the explo
sion.” He shook his head. “I shall never forget that moment. An utterly peaceful night, such as one often experiences in that part of the world, and then a shattering noise from across the water, followed shortly by another one, even louder, the kind one feels in the interior of one’s skull. I turned at once in the direction of the commotion, and saw an immense orange cloud, flying metal, dust, and debris of every kind. The screams of the injured men rent the air.”
“Dear God,” I whispered.
“For an instant, we were too stunned to move. It was as if the world had ended. But then I realized what had occurred and ordered the lifeboats made ready at once to look for survivors. I captained one myself, and Mr. Wright here took another.” His grave face turned to mine. “I shall not describe what we found in that water. Suffice it to say that of over three hundred men on board, less than twenty escaped without injury. We took all we could to the hospital in Havana. A terrible night.”
At my side, Lord Silverton muttered something I couldn’t quite hear. His knuckles were pale as they gripped his wineglass.
Captain Merriwether exchanged a look with him, a kind of shared male sympathy I had observed before among British gentlemen who were forbidden by breeding and custom to express great emotion. He went on: “I met Her Grace at the hospital, to which she had rushed at once when she heard of the news. She is, as you know, an American herself. I believe she tended the wounded all night, until the duke almost carried her back to the ship. I shall never forget their faces.” He shook his head again and picked up his knife and fork to address the duckling. “They were not merely grieved in the abstract. It was as if a child borne of Her Grace’s own body had just expired.”
“Perhaps she was acquainted with one or another of the officers,” said Lord Silverton, whose knuckles had returned to their ordinary golden state.
“Perhaps,” said the captain, and the conversation turned to the political state in the Americas, the consequences of the dissolution of the old Spanish Empire, and other general subjects. My pulse began to quiet, my imagination to return to the beautiful paneled room, to its gold leaf and its intricate plasterwork, to the civilizing effect of light from a pair of magnificent silver candelabra. As I went to bed that night, sound on my feet, mercifully free of any lingering sickness, I prayed for the souls of those aboard the Maine, and thanked God that my employer and his wife had been able to render aid at the actual scene of the disaster.
It was only much later that I began to wonder if their presence in Havana that night had really been a coincidence.
But we are not in Havana at the present moment. We are in Greece, where the February sun beat down on the crown of my hat with remarkable strength as I descended the gangplank to the dock below.
I had nothing to carry except the small bag that hung from my wrist, containing a few essentials. To my right, the stewards were unloading Lord Silverton’s luggage, piece by magnificent piece, into a waiting cart pulled by a donkey with flattened ears and malevolent eyes. I presumed my small trunk was among the stacks. “This way,” Lord Silverton said, taking my arm, and I thought for an instant that I should object, until I saw the extreme bustle of the dockyard, the jumble of foreign white walls against the pungent blue sky, and I let my arm remain in the secure crook of his lordship’s elbow.
The promised motorcar waited at the end of the dock, or I should say the beginning. The passenger door stood open, and against the cab leaned a man in a double-breasted uniform of navy blue, topped by a tasseled flat-crowned hat of the type called a fez. He bowed reverently as we approached. I turned and shaded my eyes for a last look at the Isolde—“Don’t worry, she’ll be waiting for us anon,” said Lord Silverton—and I ducked inside the automobile.
“I say, it was jolly sporting of Max to disappear in the middle of winter,” said his lordship, when we were settled in our seats and lurching about the narrow streets of the port. “Imagine if it were August. I daresay I should have told the duchess to find another chaperone, no matter how fetching the charge.”
“You are not my chaperone, Lord Silverton. In fact, I can’t think of anyone less suitable for the role.” The interior of the automobile smelled of cigarettes and perspiration. The seats were upholstered—if that was the word—in an old and beaten leather that might once have belonged to a boot. I removed my handkerchief from my handbag.
“I protest. I’m a model of respectability,” Silverton said. “In any case, as the duchess well knows, it’s all very well for a young woman to go larking off by herself in the English countryside, or a steamship bound for America, but it’s quite another story in these half-civilized corners of the Mediterranean. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to be useful to you, whether you like it or not. We are a pair, Truelove.”
I glanced at his profile and found the expected smile. To my surprise, I felt my own mouth curving upward in reply. Some sort of involuntary human response, no doubt; readily explained by science.
“We are not a pair, Lord Silverton. We are two people thrown together by circumstance—”
“I’ll wager yon taxi driver believes otherwise.” He nodded toward the man operating the automobile, who had just lit a cigarette and was now happily filling the interior with smoke. “And Brown’s convinced I have ulterior motives, though I will allow Brown is the sort of chap who imagines ulterior motives from the cutlery.”
“Why on earth are you telling me this? I am quite indifferent to the opinions of others.”
“Just so you know what everybody’s thinking, Truelove. I find that sort of information useful, from time to time.” He raised his fist to his mouth and coughed. “And it’s not impossible that we shall have to pretend that there is some sort of formal relationship between the two of us when we set out into the hinterlands. Locals can be so disapproving.”
“Formal relationship?”
“Marriage, my dear Truelove.”
“I shan’t pretend any such thing!”
“Possibly you won’t have a choice.”
“Then we shall be brother and sister. Would you please open the window? The smoke is oppressive.”
Silverton turned obediently to the window and forced it downward, allowing a draft of sharp air into the interior. “Oh, brother and sister! Of course! Perfectly plausible. Just look at us! I’m sure they’ll never think twice.”
“So I suppose you’re an expert on all this, Lord Silverton?”
He slumped back in his seat, stretching one long leg against the floorboards while the other bent beneath him. He was really too long for the motorcar. How he kept all those ungainly limbs under such strict control, I could hardly imagine. My own body was so neat and compact, so easily contained in the close quarters of the automobile. I shifted an inch to the left, and realized that he hadn’t answered me.
“Not that it matters,” I said. “I’m sure we shall find a way to jog along in harness, until our mission is completed.”
The buildings were giving way to rocks and brown fields. Silverton turned his head and stared out the window, toward the distant hills. The motorcar picked up speed, bouncing over ruts, and his lordship was forced to raise his voice to overcome the gathering roar of the engine, the draft from the window, the rattle of parts as we fought the road beneath.
“About this Greek fellow we’re going to meet!”
“What about him!”
“There’s every chance he’ll turn out to be a rascal of the first order!”
“A what!”
“A RASCAL!”
“Oh! Of course!”
Silverton braced one hand on the seat before him. “You don’t sound a bit worried!”
“I’m not!”
“Still, you might want to sit back and let me do the talking!”
“What!”
“Let me do the talking!”
The brakes squealed, the automobile pitched forward. Lord Si
lverton’s long arm swung out to catch me. A few feet ahead in the open front, the driver poked his head over the windscreen and let loose a fluent argument in his native tongue.
“Something to do with goats,” said Silverton. “And unnatural acts to do with goats, if I am not mistaken.”
His arm was remarkably solid against my stomach. His cheek had somehow angled near mine, smelling of some sort of piquant shaving soap with which I was altogether unfamiliar. I said, or rather gasped, “Do you know Greek?”
“I have retained a lucky word or two from my early schooling,” he said solemnly, removing his arm at last. “Alas, mostly ancient.”
I craned to see the road, and indeed a herd of angry goats occupied the beaten dirt before us, daring the automobile to do its worst. Amid the distempered chorus of maa-maa, a ragged goatherd in billowing trousers exchanged a show of fists with our driver.
“The poor things,” I said.
“You wouldn’t say that if you’d ever made contact with the wrong end of a goat’s forehead.”
I reached for the handle of the door. “Is there ever a right one?”
“What are you doing?”
“Getting the goats from the road.”
“The devil you are!”
But I was already out of the automobile, shooing the goats with my hat. The air was colder than I expected, but the sun felt pleasant on my hair, like a warm and benevolent hand. The goats stank lustily of unwashed animal, making me think of the stables back at Aldermere Castle, but instead of turning genial brown eyes toward me, as had the Duke of Olympia’s livestock whenever I wandered into their presence, the Greek goats regarded me with the shocked resentment one accords to foreigners wandering through one’s village market. Shoo! I said to one, waving my hat with authority, and Maa-maa! he replied indignantly, bolting into one of his neighbors. Maa-MAAAA! complained the second goat, bolting in the opposite direction, and like tennis balls released down a flight of stairs, the goats bucked and bounced into one another, swarming past the goatherd to the opposite side of the road.