Читать книгу THE BETTER PART OF VALOR - Morgan Mackinnon - Страница 9

Chapter 2

On the SS City of Paris, Atlantic Ocean

The SS City of Paris was commissioned in 1865 and could carry 1,515 passengers and crew. The normal distribution of guests was approximately 200 in first, 400 in second, and 550 in third. The rest were the captain, officers, and crew. Third-class cabins were extremely Spartan, containing four bunks per cabin, a total of four shared washrooms, and eight shared lavatories. There were two dining rooms served by the same kitchen, and fare was unpretentious but filling, passengers sharing long dormitory tables with sturdy benches.

Second class featured cabins with two single beds, a washbasin, a small writing desk with a chair, and hooks for clothing. There were six communal washrooms and eight shared lavatories as well as two dining rooms offering a few tables for couples as well as dormitory-style tables.

First class had comfortable cabins with double beds, dressing/trunk room, a washbasin, a small divan and chair, a dressing table, and a writing desk. The ship sported two first-class restaurants, the formal dining room and the informal “supper” room. The difference was the formal dining room consisted of round tables seating anywhere from six to twelve guests, an orchestra played during evening hours, there would be dancing, and attire was formal. The captain of the ship would host at least two dinners, filling his table with dignitaries, ambassadors, or whoever else was on board and viewed as having some importance or money.

The informal dining room was exactly that. Formal attire was not required, there was no orchestra, and obviously, the ambience of the room was much more intimate than that of the formal dining saloon. The lights weren’t as bright, and large potted plants placed here and there provided privacy conducive to flirtations and assignations. Both ladies and gentlemen could laugh and share bottles of wine without seeming unmannerly or indelicate.

Also in first class were about a dozen “apartments,” which were larger than the cabins and consisted of a suite including a sitting room with sofa and chair, a writing desk, a small bar with glasses, and a modest selection of liquor. The bedrooms were similar to the ones in first class; one or two double beds with silken duvets and hooks for dressing gowns. Attached was a dressing room with room for trunks and full-length mirrors, and finally, the bathroom with a toilet, sink, and tub. One could probably just live in the apartment if it only had the addition of a kitchen.

With the help of two stewards, Cresta located the informal restaurant foyer at precisely 7:25 p.m. The Lieutenant Colonel had been seated at a small cocktail table and rose to his feet at her approach. Cresta did a mental inventory. Given her own height, he would be just a little over six feet tall, perhaps six foot one. The gentleman was wearing no hat on this evening, his dark brown hair parted on the right and neatly combed. Just as he had noticed her violet eyes, she observed his were a light blue framed by incredibly long lashes. She already knew he was Irish and his complexion ruddy but not in an uneven unattractive way. He wore, like most men of the time, a moustache which curled down slightly on either side of his sensuous lips and sported a small vee-shaped beard under his bottom lip resembling a Van Dyke or “fringe.” Van Dykes were quite popular with gentlemen because of the current French influence on styles. He was still dressed in his military uniform although sans cavalry sabre. Cresta gave the Lieutenant Colonel an 8. She could see where he would be judged quite handsome by women, arrogant and obsessive by men, but she hated facial hair on men in general, thus the two-point deduction from an ideal of 10. She had never kissed a man with facial hair and would not consider doing so in the near future, should the man be so bold as to try.

He took her hand and gallantly kissed it, making sure she was comfortably seated near him, and then inquired if she would care for some liquid refreshment before dinner. He expected her to order a sherry or perhaps a glass of champagne, but the lady surprised him.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel. Would you inquire as to whether they have Highland Park Scotch? A small goblet, if you don’t mind.”

Keogh was taken aback. A lady did not normally drink strong spirits unless she were of the fallen kind, and yet this lady was nothing of the sort. With some trepidation, he summoned the waiter and asked for two scotches, and yes, the ship did have a choice of either Highland Park or Bowmore.

When the drinks came, Keogh proposed a toast. “To new friendships.” Cresta tapped his goblet with hers. “Long may they last.”

After the toast, Keogh sat rather nervously, turning his glass around and around on the drinks table. “Ah, Missus Leigh, would you be offended if I were to suggest perhaps we dispense with the formalities of name? I would very much like it if you were to call me Myles.”

Cresta leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a minute.

“Thank you! The whole formal titles thing is quite affected and silly. I will call you Myles, and you will call me Cresta. Agreed?”

The two new friends talked of home and family for a bit. He had family near Carlow in Ireland and was on leave to visit his brother Tom and Tom’s wife, Alice. His immediate family had consisted of five brothers, of which Myles was the youngest. One, John, died young. There had been eight girls, one who died in infancy. The Keoghs had a large holding at Orchard, Leighlinbridge, County Carlow, where they raised barley, and it was the barley crop that ensured a good income and protected the family from ruin during the great potato famine. The River Barrow ran right through the area, so it was fairly easy to get the harvested barley to Dublin markets.

Myles gestured to the whiskey. “I have never known a woman preferring to drink scotch other than my aunt, Miss Mary Blanchfield, who had a liking for it. It is too strong for most women.”

Now that Keogh had dropped some of the apologetic piffle, Cresta felt free to be frank. “I am not ‘most women’ as you will find. I like a little scotch because it unclutters my mind. I fear I was never a woman to be set upon a pedestal and fawned over.”

She told him she had been born in Virginia; her parents had believed in education for all children including girls, and she mentioned she’d gone to college.

“Ah. I have made the acquaintance of many young ladies who have been educated at finishing schools—studying the arts, music, singing, household management, that sort of thing. Tell me, is that what you studied?”

She smiled. “No, Myles. I am an alienist.”

Myles had just taken a sip of Scotch and nearly choked on it.

“An alienist? Why isn’t that a…a…”

“Yes, it’s a professional who studies the human mind and ascribes various types of behavior to either external or internal influences. I also study the impacts of civil behavior such as extreme stress on the human mind and how much can be tolerated. In other words, I study when the mind reaches the tipping point between reality and insanity.”

Keogh didn’t know what to say. He had a friend in New York City who was an alienist, but his job was to evaluate the mental state of men accused of criminal behavior and establish if they could understand the implications of what they had done. It was definitely not a job for a woman. A woman handling such a job would surely be big, raw-boned, fleshy of appearance, and unladylike in manner. This lady was…a lady.

“And…and your late husband? May I ask after him?”

Cresta drained the little goblet, and without thinking, Myles held up his hand to the waiter and ordered two more. She smiled again. “I know I am not what you envisioned, Myles, and for that I do apologize. I am not given to lies or artificiality. I’m different, and I know that is difficult for you to understand. My husband was also an alienist. In fact, we shared an office in Virginia. He was a philanderer who cheated on me, lifted his hand to me, and had he not died in an accident, I would have divorced him.”

Shock after shock. Keogh was Catholic. Catholics did not divorce. While it was acceptable for a man to dally with a widow—after all, widows had been married and they knew about sex—a divorced woman was something else. Almost fallen in some sense. A woman who had taken an oath before God to forever love and obey one man then divorce that man and look for another. It was blasphemous. Of course, if the man had the proper provocations and justification for divorce, that might be different. For her to confess she would have done so and admitted as much to him should cause him to rise and excuse himself.

And yet he did not. Wasn’t he himself referred to as a fallen Catholic? Hadn’t he had sex outside marriage? Wasn’t he being a hypocrite? A faint realization seemed to be intruding on his mind. He had never found a woman who interested him enough to marry. Just one, and he’d lost her in 1866. She too had been a widow. She had been outspoken. Her husband had used her badly. Perhaps this woman with her mesmerizing eyes and her forthright manner was much more formidable and interesting than he had thought.

He rose and offered his hand. “Dear lady. We have imbibed, and now we shall have supper. May I?”

The seriousness of their previous conversation largely forgotten, Myles saw the lady seated at a side table in the large supper restaurant, near a small fountain. He preferred side tables, especially when with an elegant young lady. Young? College educated and widowed. How old was she? She would have to be…nearing twenty-five, but she barely looked that old. There was something in her eyes. Not hardness but experience and determination. He mused for a moment that this woman might be more than he could handle, but since he was a man and a military man at that, a man used to giving orders and expecting himself to be obeyed, the prospect of taming this creature and bending her to his will suddenly became a pleasurable proposition. A challenge he couldn’t resist.

They ordered; rather, she told him what she desired, and he did the ordering for both of them. She wanted the filet mignon well done, potatoes Lyonnaise, green salad, and a buttered roll. Myles had no objection to this although he added to his order a side of green beans, florets of cauliflower, and ordered his steak rare. Ever since he’d been in military service, he’d learned that rare was usually how meat was served when you had meat, and he’d adjusted to that.

When the meal came, Cresta watched as her companion cut into his steak and made a face. When he looked puzzled, she remarked that she did not like her meat to be bleeding. Her honesty was refreshing, and rather than be offended, he laughed. They ordered red wine with dinner, and each had two glasses.

By the time they’d finished a final brandy and some crème cake with coffee for dessert, Cresta said she’d had a lovely time but she really should get back to her cabin and try to get some sleep. Myles gallantly helped her up and escorted her out of the restaurant. He paused to retrieve his blue greatcoat from coat check, leaving a tip on the counter for the attendant. As they passed the door to the outer deck, Myles could see stars twinkling overhead and asked if she would like to go outside for a moment. Cresta expected this and let him escort her outside. The panoply of stars overhead was beautiful, mystical, breathtaking. Here and there could be seen a brief streak of light as a star fell to its death. Out on deck, it was windy and cold, and it was only an instant until the tall officer removed his greatcoat and wrapped it around Cresta’s shoulders. She noticed how his hands lingered on her shoulders just a bit too long, and she smiled into the darkness, pleased. It did not require too much effort to take his arm and just gaze out at the dark waves and beyond.

*****

Once Myles Keogh saw his dinner companion to her cabin, he went back outside and stood at the rail of the liner. He’d put his greatcoat back on and thought about the events of the day. He’d met a strange, mercurial woman like none he’d ever encountered before. She said what she meant and did not flirt and giggle like most of his women. He thought briefly of his one love, Abby Grace Clary, who he had met in the fall of 1865. Her brute of a husband had been a brevet Brigadier General named Robert Emmet Clary who had been a drunkard and a brawler and was court-martialed more than once. Clary thankfully died in December of 1864, a result of excessive drinking. This was in Memphis, Tennessee, where Myles was assigned at the time. He fell in love with the pretty, young widow and decided if he was to marry anyone in life, it would be her. After a cautious, discreet courtship, Keogh went out of town on a short assignment, and when he returned, he learned that Abby Grace Clary had died of gastrofever and had been interred in a cemetery in Washington, DC. Keogh was heartbroken and grieved for his lost love by hitting the bottle more than was good for him and falling into a deep depression. He swore then he would never court another woman and would resign himself to being alone the rest of his life.

Now as he stood at the railing, his eye was caught by a shining star above, and he wondered if it was Abby Grace. The star then caught fire and flew across the heavens in a fading trail of light. He turned away. Was she blessing him or cursing him? He did not know.

Back in her cabin, Cresta carefully took off her evening clothes and changed into a virginal white cotton nightgown, plumped the pillows on her bed, and took out the black notebook kept hidden in her trunks. Producing a ballpoint pen, she began her first entry. In a paragraph, she listed her observations and her impressions and signed it “Dr. Cresta M. B. Leigh, PsyD.” Then she locked the book away again and sank down onto her soft bed, thinking of a deep, lilting Irish accent and very blue eyes.