by Hazel Gaynor
I groaned as I slumped against the pillows and told her she was welcome to borrow my dresses, if she could bear to look feminine, for once.
“I’ll surely die before we ever reach France,” I added.
Madeleine pressed a damp cloth to my forehead. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep. Now, drink this. Ginger tea. Apparently, it helps.”
I was surprised Madeleine was so attentive. It had been a long time since we’d spared a kind word for each other, let alone a kind gesture.
“Daniel says you’ll be perfectly well when we’re on dry land,” she continued.
“Daniel?”
“Mr. Miller. A theater critic from Boston. We met over a game of poker.”
I groaned again. “Oh, Madeleine, really.”
“It’s funny how quickly you can get to know people when you’re stuck on a ship together.”
I pulled the covers over my head, unsure of which made me feel worse: my seasickness or my social disgrace of a sister.
“Please be careful,” I added as I peered out from the covers. “You don’t know anything about the man.”
“Don’t be such a wet blanket,” she said, waving away my concern. “I’m never alone with him, and as soon as we get to France, I’ll never see him again.”
I nodded with a sigh but couldn’t help thinking that nothing good would come of her mingling with strangers. My sister had a nasty habit of attracting men who didn’t have her best interests at heart. I didn’t trust this Daniel Miller, even though I’d never met him.
Over the next two days, I watched enviously from my sickbed as Madeleine came and went, leaving for dinner dressed to the nines and returning from the Starlight Club at some unmentionable hour, smelling of whiskey and fine perfume. She’d slid into life on the ocean like a well-seasoned traveler, thriving and vivacious, where I’d faltered and failed at the very first hurdle. The truth was, I envied Madeleine as we steamed toward France. I envied her refusal to conform, her insistence to go her own way. Mostly, I envied her ambition. She wanted to write about more interesting things than knitting patterns and homemaking and the frivolous subjects most female journalists were asked to write about, and she stuck with it, ever hopeful of some other, better opportunity to use her writing talents. I might not approve of her choice of profession, but I had to admire her tenacity.
As young ladies, we’d often performed for our parents’ dinner party guests. My piano recitals were always enjoyed, and my better paintings drew gasps of admiration, while Madeleine’s dark poetry was considered odd and left everyone grasping for the right words in response. Perhaps that had been the start of the resentment between us: I was praised lavishly while Madeleine rarely received a word of encouragement.
Our father had always blamed Auntie Nellie for stirring Madeleine’s journalistic interests. He’d accused Nellie of putting silly ideas in her head and Nellie, in turn, had told him exactly what she thought of his archaic opinions of what was, and wasn’t, suitable for his daughters. “Your daughters are smart girls, Mr. Sommers. Smart girls who can do anything they set their minds to. You shouldn’t set limits for them.” We’d often pressed our ears to the door and listened to their heated exchanges. We heard things we weren’t meant to hear, and which Madeleine had never forgotten.
Our father’s sudden death a year ago had left the family reeling. It had also driven a deeper wedge between Madeleine and me as we disagreed over our memories of him. Madeleine remembered a disapproving, distant man. I remembered a man of principle and firm encouragement. We’d left his funeral more divided than ever and the announcement of my marriage to Charles soon after had been the final straw. We hadn’t spoken to, or seen each other, since. Not until Violet’s summit at Veneto.
Madeleine increasingly lived a life without limits and without any regard for societal expectation. Ambition and possibility stretched ahead of her, while I lived a life of convention and duty, and now had the confines of married life to look forward to when we returned.
As I lay in bed, willing the heaving motion of the ship to stop, I found myself, once again, questioning if it was enough. Was there more to Clara Sommers than becoming Mrs. Charles Hancock? Was there something else I was meant to do? Someone else I was meant to be?
* * *
ON THE FOURTH morning at sea, I finally felt well enough to dress, eat a light breakfast, and sip a cup of coffee brought by the stewardess.
“You look a little better this morning, miss,” she chirped as she set the tray beside the bed. “You might feel up to taking a stroll on the promenade deck later. It’s a lovely morning. The sea is flat as a mill pond.”
I’d never seen a mill pond but said I would take her word for it and that I would do my best to get some air.
“And would you remove the roses?” I added. “The petals are already browning.”
“It’s the sea air, miss. The salt. Fresh flowers don’t do very well in it.”
I offered a wry smile. “I know exactly how they feel.”
By noon, I was able to take a walk without rushing to the railings every few minutes. The sea breeze was invigorating, and despite being a little chilly, I settled in one of the deck chairs and took out my sketchbook and pencils. I hadn’t sketched for a while, and it felt good to move my pencil across the blank page, capturing interesting shapes, forms, and depth.
It was Violet who’d first encouraged my love of art, setting up arrangements of tea roses and peonies she’d cut from the garden, which I carefully studied, my brows knitted into a concentrated frown, my tongue poking out of the side of my mouth as I tried to replicate their image on my page. It was Violet who’d first arranged for an art tutor to visit Veneto during the school holidays, to teach me formal techniques and improve my natural talents. I’d loved those summers. Behind the easel, there was no need to impress or to be beautiful, clever, charming Clara. When that first tutor, dear Miss Ingram, passed away just a few years ago, Edward Arnold had taken her place. I’d found him intimidating at first, his demonstrative enthusiasm so different from Miss Ingram’s gentle encouragement, but my initial shyness around him had mellowed quickly into admiration and then to anticipation as I found myself looking forward to our lessons.
Now, as I sketched a charming young family playing a game of shuffleboard on the deck, my thoughts turned again to Edward’s lost letter as I tried to recall his words: Your going away has made me realize how much I enjoy your company, Clara, and I will miss you terribly. . . . When I’m with you, there is only purity and newness and such wonderful possibility.
I became so absorbed in my thoughts and my sketching, I didn’t notice the gentleman standing at my shoulder, watching me work.
“It’s a very good likeness,” he remarked.
Startled, I dropped my pencil.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, bending to retrieve it from beneath my chair. “I didn’t mean to alarm you!”
“Thank you,” I said as I took it from him. “I didn’t notice you there. You gave me a fright!”
He apologized again. “It’s hypnotic, watching you sketch. You do it very well.”
I shrugged off the compliment. “It’s something I dabble in now and again. That little boy has such an endearing face, I couldn’t resist.”
“Well, I’m sorry to interrupt you. Please, carry on.”
I closed my sketchbook. “I couldn’t possibly. Not with an audience. Besides, my hands are numb from this breeze.”
“Daniel,” he said, offering his hand. “Daniel Miller.”
So, this was Madeleine’s mysterious gentleman friend. “Clara,” I replied, shaking his hand. “Clara Sommers. I believe you’ve met my sister. Madeleine.”
His lips curved into a broad smile. “Aha! Yes. Your sister is quite the poker player. She’ll have me bankrupt by the time we reach Cherbourg.” He motioned to the empty deck chair beside me. “Do you mind if I join you for a moment?”
I did mind but was too polite to say so. I nodded toward the
chair. “I must apologize for my sister. She’s rather . . . unconventional.”
At this, he laughed. “She’s a breath of fresh air. Madeleine has made the journey almost bearable.”
“You’re not one for ocean travel?”
“Not really. I get a little restless after a day or two.” He ran his hands through his hair to smooth it against the breeze. “She tells me the two of you are spending time in Europe together before returning to America on the Hindenburg. I’m quite envious! I find the airships fascinating.”
I pulled on my gloves. “I wonder, is there anything my sister hasn’t told you?”
He smiled. “Plenty, I’m sure, but a gentleman doesn’t pry.”
He was charming, granted. It was easy to see why Madeleine had encouraged the friendship. “And what is the purpose of your trip, Mr. Miller?” I asked in an attempt to change the direction of the conversation. “Culture? Business? Poker, perhaps? Madeleine mentioned that you work as a theater critic for the newspapers.”
He cleared his throat. “Yes. I have a commission to review the new show at the Moulin Rouge.”
“The Moulin Rouge? Isn’t that rather . . . immoral?”
“I certainly hope so!” He laughed. “But my trip isn’t all pleasure. I’m also visiting a cousin in Paris.”
“Well, I’m sure he will be very pleased to see you.”
“She,” he corrected. “And perhaps not.”
The man was a riddle.
I gathered my things and stood up. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Miller,” I said, offering my hand in farewell. “If you’ll excuse me, I must change for the captain’s dinner tonight. I find I have an appetite, at last.”
He stood also. “My apologies again for interrupting you.” He nodded toward the sketchbook tucked under my arm. “I do hope you’ll finish that. You clearly have a talent.”
“I have an interest, Mr. Miller. Talent is too generous an accolade.”
“We all have a talent for something, Miss Sommers.”
“And what is your talent, Mr. Miller? Pressing compliments upon unsuspecting lady travelers?”
He laughed, tipped his hat, and strolled away.
I put the enigmatic Mr. Miller from my mind as I returned to our stateroom to change for the captain’s farewell dinner. I pinned my hair into a chignon, refreshed my makeup, and decided on the champagne-colored gown I’d packed. It was perfect for the occasion. Even Madeleine said it looked “nice, the way it shimmers beneath the lights.” She’d at least worn one of her better dresses, a red silk that made her look almost like a woman for once, not that she was too happy about it.
“Stop tugging at your slip,” I scolded as we made our way to the first-class ballroom. “And pull your shoulders back. It’ll hang properly then.”
She muttered something about preferring me when I was bedridden, but I was in a good mood and ignored her.
Over a fine meal of turbot in lemon wine sauce, rack of lamb, and a decadent dessert of dark chocolate mousse and orange blossom cream, we chatted politely with the other guests at our table and took turns dancing with the captain and other senior members of the crew. I was relieved to see Madeleine mostly behaving herself, although things deteriorated as the night wore on and Daniel Miller appeared. He whisked Madeleine away for a dance or two before she became involved in a heated political discussion with several men I hadn’t seen before. One by one, their wives stepped away to talk among themselves, but Madeleine carried on, refilling her glass too often.
I enjoyed a few dances myself, as Daniel proved to be the gallant sort, not leaving a lady on her own, but I eventually grew tired and returned to the cabin just after midnight.
“We disembark tomorrow morning, Madeleine,” I said as I was leaving. “Don’t stay up too late.”
She didn’t listen. Madeleine never listened. She always thought she knew best and didn’t need anyone else’s advice. Not our father’s or our mother’s, and certainly not mine.
I wondered if Violet had expected too much from us, if her scheme to send us off to Europe together might only widen the scar between us rather than heal it, as she hoped. I pictured her, propped up against her pillows in bed, her nurse administering some medicine or other. I hoped, at least, she was comfortable, and I hoped the doctor’s optimism would prove to be right, and that we had time to undertake this journey and return home to Violet to say our goodbyes.
As I slipped into bed for the last time on the Queen Mary, I wondered what lay ahead for us all.
Maddie
The captain’s dinner was unexpectedly enjoyable, the conversation excellent, but I had overindulged on the delicious Bordeaux wine and woke with the most phenomenal hangover. Clara found it highly amusing.
“Some ginger tea might help?” She laughed. “Or how about a hearty breakfast? Smoked salmon? Eggs?”
“Stop it,” I groaned. Fish was the last thing in the world I could stomach at that moment. “It isn’t funny.”
“It is,” she countered. “It’s very funny. We finally arrive, and now it’s you who is sick at sea. We’re pulling into the port now, Madeleine. We’re in France!”
I moved around the cabin like a sloth, throwing my things into my case and insisting Clara leave the drapes closed as I sipped an Alka-Seltzer and wished I’d refused the final glass of wine Daniel Miller had insisted on pouring as a toast between friends.
We went up on deck to watch our arrival into the bustling French port of Cherbourg. There was something thrilling about arriving to a new continent, and my hangover eased as I took it all in.
Though the skies were as gray as wool, there was a buzz of excitement as the disembarking passengers scurried to waiting cars or to meet family. I looked out at the large array of vessels: clippers and motorboats, and another ship nearly as large as the Queen Mary. Seagulls searching for scraps swooped overhead, and salt and seaweed tinged the air. It wasn’t dissimilar to a port in America and yet, it felt entirely new, different.
“It was great to meet you, Maddie. Have a wonderful time in Paris,” a male voice called from behind me as we descended the gangway and stood on solid ground for the first time in five days.
I turned and looked up to see Daniel, standing at the ship’s railings. He smiled. I felt the smallest rush of regret that our poker games had come to an end. He was an excellent player, and it had made for good sport. Now it would be just me and Clara again, and that, I wasn’t looking forward to at all.
“Bon voyage, as the French say,” I called in reply, shielding my eyes from the sun that poked through a gap in the clouds.
“Adieu!” he replied.
“Would you please stop shouting, Madeleine,” Clara whispered as she tugged at my arm. “We have to collect our luggage, and the Paris train won’t wait for us.”
All too soon, the Queen Mary was a distant memory, and the next stage of our journey was upon us.
The Queen Mary had been wonderfully lavish and grand, and the Paris train was significantly less so in comparison. Clara grumbled about the lack of space as we settled into our cramped compartment seats, but I liked it. Now we were really traveling. Now I felt like we were following in Auntie Nellie’s and Violet’s footsteps before us, when things were dirtier and more crowded and decidedly less comfortable.
“What are you smiling about?” Clara asked. The color had returned to her cheeks at last and she was much more conversational since we’d left the ship.
“Just enjoying the experience,” I replied. “I’ve never been on a French train before.”
Clara fussed with her gloves and glanced around the compartment. “It isn’t very different from an American train.”
“But it’s a French train,” I countered. “Le train, oui? C’est spécial, Clarabelle!”
Clara shook her head at my grade school foreign language skills, but I noticed a flicker of a smile at her lips. I hadn’t used her childhood nickname for so many years and was surprised at how easily it had come to me.
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br /> “You like the oddest things,” she said. “Truly, it’s a wonder we’re related at all.”
She turned to look out of the window and I left her to her thoughts as I pulled out another of Jules Verne’s books, Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. When I tired of reading, I played solitaire with a deck of cards Daniel had given to me after I’d beaten him again. “A lucky deck,” he’d said. I hoped he was right. I had a feeling we could use a bit of luck along the way.
I finally enticed Clara to play a few games of Old Maid to pass the time, and although she feigned disinterest at the start, she soon slipped back into the competitive Clara I’d known as a child. She sulked when she lost a hand and gloated when she won, just as I remembered. We only disagreed once, thankfully, and some hours later, the locomotive came to a lurching halt at the station platform in the Gare Saint-Lazare.
A uniformed guard threw open the compartment doors, sending travel-weary passengers spilling out onto the platform and scattering like marbles from a dropped bag. The station was enormous—one of the largest and busiest in Paris—with dozens of platforms and multiple stories. Signs arched over every doorway, indicating directions for the Métro, while several small cafés advertised their croissants and café au lait and croque monsieur sandwiches.
We slid into a taxicab, jamming Clara’s ridiculous trunks in with us. In spite of my fatigue, I put my French into practice as I explained to the driver where we needed to go. His reply was like music.
I glanced at Clara, who appeared equally enchanted, her gaze firmly fixed on the passing sights. For a while, we forgot about our differences and enjoyed our discovery together, both of us spellbound by the grandeur of one of the most beautiful cities in the world.
Eventually, the taxi turned down a narrow street and pulled up outside a charming hotel.