“I beg your pardon,” he said quickly. “I didn’t mean to bring up an unhappy topic. I’m sure it’s one you aren’t eager to talk about.”
Loretta took up the conversational gauntlet. “Oh, no, Mr. FitzRoy. Please don’t be embarrassed.” She leaned closer to Somerset. “People who weren’t there can’t understand the horror of it all. They don’t realize how deep an impression something like that can have on a sensitive soul.” She tilted her head slightly to her right, and Somerset noticed that Miss MacTavish had set down her fork with a hand that shook.
“Yes indeed,” he said. “I’m so very sorry, ladies. It was clumsy of me to bring up the topic.”
Miss Linden and Isabel murmured soothing noises intended, Somerset was sure, to put him at his ease and to let him know that they didn’t consider him a bumbling idiot. It didn’t work.
Eunice, gazing at each adult in turn, finally said, “Maybe we ought to talk about plants. They seems to be a safe topic.”
“Yes.” Somerset nodded gravely and decided he was beginning to really like the kid. “Plants do seem a very safe topic.”
So they talked about plants, a subject that kept Somerset amused, although he sensed that he occasionally lost his audience. Except for Eunice, who was rather like a sponge and who drank in everything he had to say.
But even though the ladies weren’t horticulturists, they seemed to like his being with them. That pleased Somerset immensely, and not merely because he wanted to know Isabel Golightly better. For some reason he couldn’t understand, it was a comfort to be with others who had shared the Titanic disaster. He didn’t know why, unless Miss Linden’s theory was correct, and it was simply soothing to be with others who understood.
The small group of new-found friends confabulated all through dinner, into coffee and dessert, and were still nattering when it became clear that the dining car was about to close. That being the case, their discussion spilled over into the sitting room of the private carriage Loretta had secured for them.
# # #
Isabel had placed the man who’d saved her and Eunice from a certain and horrible death on a pedestal even before she knew his name. She’d not expected ever to see him again, much less meet him and talk to him and take meals with him.
And he was a horticulturist.
Isabel wasn’t sure how she felt about that. It seemed so . . . so . . . She chided herself even as she admitted that horticulture seemed a mighty unmasculine profession for her hero to be involved with.
Although she hadn’t really thought about it before meeting Somerset FitzRoy—and she did like his name—she believed that the hero of her life, especially since he was an American, ought to be something like . . . well . . . a cowboy. Or one of those rugged Western sheriffs one saw when one went to the motion pictures. Or even a wealthy New York financier. Or a motion-picture actor. Isabel wouldn’t have pegged her hero as a horticulturist if she’d been given a million years and two million guesses.
She knew that was silly thinking. Mr. FitzRoy was what he was. And he’d saved her daughter’s life, and undoubtedly Isabel’s as well, because Isabel never would have climbed aboard the lifeboat without Eunice.
Besides all that, he seemed a very nice gentleman and a man of character and principal. A genuinely noble man. How often did a person meet one of those? In Isabel’s life, not often.
And so, for the sake of her genuine gratitude, and for the sake of her child, and for her own sake, Isabel enjoyed the evening, even if Somerset FitzRoy didn’t exactly fit her idea of a knight in shining armor. She hadn’t given a thought to plants other than perhaps to cabbages, carrots, and potatoes, before in her life until she met Mr. FitzRoy. She’d felt neither the need nor the desire to do so. Fortunately, the subject of plants and plant life gradually eased into other topics.
“So you’ve been to some of the great English estates?” Somerset asked, after the chitchat had slid away from individual plants and into the more general subject of English country gardens.
“One or two, yes. Many members of royalty hold open-house days,” Isabel said. She glanced at Eunice, bringing her into the conversation. “Do you remember when we visited Belvoire Castle, Eunice?”
“Um . . .” Eunice’s face crunched up in thought.
“You were very young, sweetie. We went with your great-uncle Charlie.”
Eunice’s expression brightened. “Oh, yes! Now I remember. It was pretty. And windy.”
“Very windy,” Isabel agreed.
“It was fun.” Eunice’s tone was wistful, and Isabel’s heart wavered a trifle. She’d been able to offer her daughter too few educational experiences and amusements in her short life.
She discovered to her surprise that it was quite pleasant to speak with a man again, even if much of the conversation centered on plant life. Isabel hadn’t spoken to a man, except for those in her immediate family and those whose houses she scrubbed, since before Eunice was born. The circumstances of Eunice’s birth and Isabel’s own folly and shame had caused Isabel to do everything she could to redeem herself, and that meant she’d had nothing to do with men socially.
“I didn’t visit Belvoire,” said Somerset. “Wish I had. There were some lovely gardens in Kent and Kew.”
“‘Go down to Kew in lilac time,’” quoted Miss Linden dreamily. “It was lovely, wasn’t it?”
“Indeed,” said Somerset. “And Cambridge had some beautiful plantings.”
Loretta, who had been everywhere, including Cambridge, said, “Oh, my, yes. Along the canal and the river. I remember being so impressed with some of the topiaries.”
“Ah, yes, the topiaries. I created a topiary figure in my own garden back home,” said Somerset.
Isabel gazed at him, amazed, although she knew that most of the gardeners she’d known in Upper Poppleton were men and, therefore, that she shouldn’t consider Somerset’s interest in plants unusual. Besides, a botanist probably made more money than a cowboy. Not that money mattered—well, not as far as Somerset FitzRoy went, anyhow.
And he was writing a book. That signified that he was a serious-minded gentleman. Or she supposed it did. Isabel mainly listened as Somerset and Loretta talked about the beautiful estates they’d visited, and Eunice asked questions. Isabel popped into the conversation occasionally when Eunice needed to know the correct word to use in a sentence.
Then, a couple of hours into the evening, when Somerset was showing Eunice some of his plant sketches, Isabel decided that it didn’t matter if Somerset was a horticulturist. Not even a cowboy or a sheriff or a motion-picture actor could have been more noble than he when she’d needed him. She was certain no New York financier would have bothered to save Eunice’s life. Rich people didn’t give a hang about poor people.
Not that that mattered, either, of course. It’s not as if she was ever going to see the man again after this train trip . . . although it was odd that they’d run into each other after the Titanic disaster. Perhaps it was a sign. An omen. Perhaps God had meant for them to meet again. Perhaps . . .
Perhaps Isabel Golightly was a fool and an idiot who hadn’t learned from her own experiences. She was disgusted with herself.
Too soon, Somerset said, “But I’m keeping you ladies from your rest. Perhaps we can resume this discussion tomorrow.”
Knowing she shouldn’t, but unable to resist, not because she gave a hang about plants, but because she wanted to be with him some more, Isabel said, “That would be lovely.”
“May I draw some of your plants, Mr. FitzRoy?”
Regarding her daughter keenly, Isabel saw Eunice with her hands clasped in front of her, staring up at Mr. FitzRoy with fierce concentration. Isabel had taught Eunice never to beg and never to be a pest. Rich people didn’t appreciate the children of chars getting in the way or putting themselves forward. She experienced an impulse to shush the little girl.
Somerset preempted her. “Absolutely, Miss Golightly. In fact I have some colored pencils you might enjoy experimen
ting with.”
Eunice’s eyes gleamed and her cheeks went pink. “Oh, that would be bully, Mr. FitzRoy. Thank you ever so much!” “Bully” was a word Isabel had never heard Eunice use before, and it tickled her so much she forgot to fret about her daughter’s audacity.
“Thank you very much, Mr. FitzRoy,” Isabel said. “That’s awfully kind of you.”
“Nonsense. I’ll enjoy it.”
Isabel doubted that, but she didn’t say so. Besides, she was as eager as Eunice to meet Somerset again. It’s only for the duration of the train trip, she told herself, and wished it weren’t so.
“It was so nice to meet you, Mr. FitzRoy,” Loretta said, standing and holding out her hand for Somerset to shake. Not for Loretta Linden the shy, shrinking ways of a blushing maiden. Now she, unlike Isabel, not only knew she was as good as anyone else, but had no trouble acting like it. Then again, she had money, and money always seemed to give a person confidence.
“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Linden.” He glanced at Marjorie, who had tucked her knitting into a bag on the floor and had stood up, her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her expression remote. “Good-night, Miss MacTavish.”
“Good night, Mr. FitzRoy,” said Marjorie in her vaguely stifled voice.
After the door closed behind him, Isabel had a shocking impulse to hug herself. And it wasn’t only that she found Mr. FitzRoy, the hero of her life, attractive. Not that he wasn’t, but . . . At any rate, it was because it had been so terribly long since Isabel had allowed herself or, indeed, been able, to hold a conversation with anyone of the opposite sex. Not that she’d said much tonight, but it had still been thrilling, even if they’d only talked about plants and gardens.
And she’d better but a clamp on that emotion instantly. She’d allowed herself a thrill once before, to her everlasting regret, and she aimed never to do so again.
“My goodness,” said Loretta, bestowing a broad smile upon Isabel. “What a nice man. And to think that he actually saved your lives. I’m so glad you found him for us, Eunice.”
“Loretta!” Marjorie was, naturally, shocked by this flippant remark.
Isabel laughed and ignored Marjorie. That was much the best thing to do with the poor woman when she displayed her devotion to convention. “Yes, Eunice, Mr. FitzRoy was a fortunate find. I had been wanting to know his name ever since that awful night. And he’s even going to let you use his colored pencils. That should be fun for you.”
“Oh, yes,” Eunice breathed, as if she weren’t quite sure the promised treat would come to pass. Isabel’s heart suffered a sharp pang.
“But you need to wash up now and take off your day clothes.” Isabel remembered with a secret thrill that both she and Eunice now had more than one set of day clothes, thanks to Loretta’s generosity. She could meet Mr. FitzRoy tomorrow with the confidence that came when one knew one looked respectable, even if one really wasn’t.
“Yes, Mama.” Eunice actually skipped to the wash basin.
“He’s a handsome man, too.” Loretta cast a significant look at Isabel, who felt her cheeks get warm.
“Tosh. That has nothing to do with anything.”
“If you say so, Isabel dear. But he is handsome.” Loretta grinned like an imp.
“I thought you didn’t approve of men,” Isabel said, feeling uncomfortable and a trifle annoyed. She didn’t want to think of Somerset FitzRoy as a handsome man. She didn’t want to think of him as a man at all, if it came to that, because men always complicated things. She wanted to think of Somerset FitzRoy as a savior and a friend to Eunice—oh, very well, and to herself—and that was all.
“I don’t disapprove of all men,” Loretta said. “Only the ones who want to oppress our sex.”
“Honestly!” said Marjorie, her lips twitching as if she were trying to suppress a gurgle of mirth—heaven forbid that Marjorie MacTavish exhibit a sense of humor-“The two of you shouldna talk like that in front of a bairn!”
“I don’t mind,” said Eunice, who clearly didn’t.
Isabel decided Marjorie might have a legitimate point, although it would probably be the first time.
“Fiddle,” said Loretta. “Children are never too young to learn the truth.”
Marjorie and Isabel exchanged a glance. Isabel thought Marjorie’s looked approximately as helpless as her own probably did. When Loretta Linden began talking about what she termed “the truth,” they both tried not to encourage her.
“Here, Eunice,” Loretta went on. “I thought you might enjoy a new nightgown for your trip to San Francisco.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a pretty white flannel nightgown with pink embroidery decorating the yoke, sleeves, and hem.
Eunice’s already-large eyes went as round as platters. She didn’t reach for the confection, but only stood at the wash stand, shocked. Isabel’s heart suffered another spasm. Eunice had never seen such a glorious night garment, much less worn one. She probably didn’t believe it was truly meant for her.
“That’s so very nice of you, Loretta. But you must stop giving us things. We’ll get spoilt.” She smiled at her daughter to let her know she didn’t believe it of Eunice. And she didn’t. She wasn’t so sure about herself.
“Fiddlesticks.” Loretta walked over to Eunice, who had finished with her washing-up and had stripped out of her shirtwaist and skirt and now stood in her knickers, gaping at the nightgown. “Here. Let me help you put it on.” She slipped the nightgown over the little girl’s head.
When her head emerged from the fabric, Eunice was gazing at the new nightie as if she’d been transported to a magical kingdom and been assigned the role of princess. Isabel had seldom seen her daughter look so much like a normal little girl.
“Oh, ma’am,” Eunice whispered. “Oh, Miss Linden. Thank you ever so much.”
“It’s no more than you deserve, Eunice. I’ve never met a better-behaved young lady.” Loretta’s eyes glittered suspiciously.
Isabel hadn’t suspected her new friend of being a secret sentimentalist under her surface veneer of invincibility. “Thank you very much, Loretta,” she said, truly touched by the woman’s kindness.
“And that’s enough of that.” Evidently through with mawkishness for the day, Loretta bent and gave Eunice a quick peck on the cheek. Eunice surprised everyone by throwing her arms around Loretta’s neck and hugging her hard. Isabel found herself lifting a hand to her cheek to remove a slight bit of moisture there.
Marjorie sniffled, and when Isabel turned to see why, she saw Marjorie dabbing at her own eyes with a hankie. When she saw Isabel watching, she turned away and blew her nose. Her emotional display—as minor as it was—surprised Isabel, who hadn’t suspected that Marjorie would give way to sentiment, since a proper lady never did so.
How much her life had changed in the past few weeks! Before she set out for Southampton with Eunice in order to sail on the Titanic, Isabel had never even dreamed of traveling to San Francisco in a private railroad carriage with two brand-new friends she hadn’t met before boarding the ocean liner.
After she finished with her own night-time ablutions and donned her night dress, Isabel lay down in the cot next to Eunice’s—that’s another thing she was unaccustomed to: a bed of her own—and tried to empty her mind so she could rest.
# # #
Sleep didn’t come easily. She couldn’t stop thinking about Somerset FitzRoy and how they’d first run into each other. The terror of that night plagued her, waking and sleeping. And the mental images of the steerage-class passengers, herded together like sheep and trying like mad to reach the spurious safety of the upper decks, haunted her.
She should have tried to bring others with her when she escaped up the service staircase with Loretta. If she hadn’t been so panic-stricken, she might have thought of someone besides herself and Eunice. Now she felt guilty and ashamed of herself.
She supposed she should try to emulate Loretta Linden. Loretta didn’t allow anyone or anything to get her down. If Loretta
hadn’t been a superior sort of person, she never would have tried to find Isabel and Eunice on that dreadful night. She’d have saved herself and forgotten all about them. If she had, Mr. FitzRoy wouldn’t have had the opportunity to rescue them, because they’d have been trapped and would have gone down with the ship.
Of course, neither Loretta nor Somerset knew the full story of Isabel and Eunice, or neither would have bothered with them in the first place.
When she finally got to sleep that night, Isabel dreamed about the night of April 14-15. In her dream, she was looking for Eunice. In her dream, Somerset FitzRoy didn’t appear like a miracle out of the chaos and confusion to reunite them and lead them to safety. Instead, Isabel ran like a madwoman, searching for her daughter. But she never found her, and the ship sank, and the frigid water climbed up her body until it threatened to cover her head. And still, she couldn’t find Eunice.
She woke up once and discovered she’d been crying in her sleep. Sheepishly, she slipped out of her bed and tiptoed to her handbag, where she removed her handkerchief, wiped her eyes, blew her nose, and told herself that it was way past time for bathos and bad dreams. She had a daughter to rear in a bold, new world, and she couldn’t afford to get sloppy about something that was over and done with.
Chapter Four
The train chugged through the woods toward the station in San Francisco several days after it left New York City. The tangy scent of pine trees and redwoods kissed Somerset’s nostrils and made him remember why he’d moved from Chicago to the west coast in the first place. The forest primeval, somebody had called it. He couldn’t remember who. He should probably ask Eunice Golightly, who seemed to know everything.
“Smell that bracing balsamic scent, ladies!” Loretta thumped herself on the chest and sucked in air, then let it out in a whoosh. No wilting lily she.
“It’s wonderful,” Isabel murmured, as if her mind were elsewhere. Which it probably was, mused Somerset, who’d been thinking a lot about Isabel Golightly in the past few days. He probably should be ashamed of himself for being grateful to learn she was a widow, but he wasn’t.
Perfect Stranger Page 5