A Good Woman

Chapter 27

Their last two days in New York were hectic but fun. Annabelle took Consuelo to the theater to see a musical and she loved it. They had dinner at Sardi’s and the Waldorf Astoria, in grand style. They took a ferry around Manhattan, and Annabelle pointed out Ellis Island to her again, and told her more about it. And on the last afternoon they walked past her old house again, just to say good-bye. Annabelle stood there for a long moment, paying tribute to it, and all of those who had lived there, even the innocent part of herself that had been lost. She no longer had anything in common with the girl she had been then. She had grown up.

She and Consuelo walked away quietly hand in hand. Consuelo had learned much about her mother during this trip, and her grandparents, her uncle Robert, and even some of her mother’s friends. She hadn’t liked her friend in Newport, the one with all the children. She hated knowing that she had been mean to her mother and made her sad. And she was sorry about the man who had died in Mexico. She could tell that her mother loved him.

This time, Brigitte was slightly less nervous as they boarded the Mauretania to go back. The ship had been so comfortable and luxurious on the way over that she had calmed down considerably. It was an odd feeling for Annabelle as they slipped past the old White Star piers, and Cunard. It reminded her suddenly of when she had gone to pick up her mother thirteen years before, after the Titanic sank. But she didn’t mention it to her daughter, and surely not to Brigitte, who managed to bring it up anyway. Annabelle scowled at her and she stopped.

Annabelle felt herself leaving a piece of her heart behind as they glided past the Statue of Liberty again. She hadn’t felt this tied to her own country for a long time and it was a comfort knowing that they’d be back next summer. Consuelo had talked of it constantly in New York. She loved the cottage and couldn’t wait to return.

There was no one they knew on the ship this time; Annabelle had checked the passenger list. But she wouldn’t have cared. She had nothing to fear. She had braved Newport and New York without incident, and had no more secrets to protect. And even if someone found out about her past, what could they do to her? They couldn’t take away her house, her life, her work, her child. All they could do was talk about her, and she had lived through it before. They had nothing that she wanted. Even Hortie’s painful betrayal had shrunk in size on this trip when she saw her. All the people who had once hurt her so badly were gone, and they had nothing she wanted anymore. They could take nothing from her. She had her own life, and it was a good one.

Annabelle and Consuelo visited the dog kennels again, as they had on the last trip. There was no pug this time but several Pekingese and poodles. Consuelo had missed Coco, her pug, and couldn’t wait to get back to her. Her mother had promised her a weekend in Deauville when they were home. Even Antoine’s impact on Annabelle had faded during this trip. He was a nasty little small-minded man, who lived in a tiny world full of people with narrow ideas. There was no room for her in that world. And no place for him in hers.

They were walking back from the dog kennel, and stopped at the rail to look out at the sea. Consuelo’s long blond hair was blowing in the breeze, and Annabelle’s hat blew off her head and rolled like a wheel down the deck as they chased it, laughing. Annabelle’s hair was still as blond as her child’s, and the hat stopped finally at the feet of a man who picked it up and handed it to them with a broad grin.

“Thank you,” Annabelle said breathlessly, with a girlish smile. The hat had led them a merry chase. Her face was brown from the sun in Rhode Island. She put the hat on again, at a slightly cockeyed angle.

“I think it will blow off again,” the man warned her. She agreed and took it off, as Consuelo struck up a conversation with him.

“My grandfather and uncle died on the Titanic,” she announced, to open the conversation, and he looked at her soberly.

“I’m very sorry to hear that. So did my grandparents. Maybe they met each other.” It was an intriguing idea. “That was a very long time ago. Before you were born, I think.”

“I’m seven,” she said, which confirmed it. “And I’m named after my mother’s mother. She’s dead too.” He tried not to smile at the conversation, and it sounded as though their family had been decimated. “So’s my father,” she added for good measure. “He died before I was born, in the war.”

“Consuelo!” Annabelle scolded her, startled. She had never heard her give out so much information, and she hoped she didn’t do it often. “I’m sorry,” she turned to the man who had retrieved her hat. “We didn’t mean to give you our death rolls.” She was smiling at him, and he smiled back.

“You must have known that I’m a journalist,” he said to Consuelo kindly.

“What’s that?” She was interested in what he had to say.

“I write for newspapers. Or actually, I publish one. The International Herald Tribune in Paris. You won’t have to read it till you’re older.” He smiled at them both again.

“My mother is a doctor.” She was conducting the conversation with him entirely on her own, as Annabelle looked slightly embarrassed.

“Really?” he said with interest, and introduced himself, and said his name was Callam McAffrey, originally from Boston, and now Paris.

Annabelle introduced them as well, and Consuelo volunteered that they lived in Paris too, in the sixteenth arrondissement. He said that he lived on the rue de l’Université, on the Left Bank. It was near the college of Beaux Arts, and Annabelle knew the area well.

He invited them both to tea, but Annabelle said they had to get back to their stateroom to dress for dinner. He smiled as they walked away. He thought the little girl was adorable, and the mother very pretty. She didn’t look like his vision of a doctor. He had interviewed Elsie Inglis several years before, and Annabelle didn’t look anything like her, to say the least. He was amused at how liberal her daughter had been with their family information, somewhat to her mother’s dismay.

He saw them in the dining room that night, but didn’t approach. He didn’t want to intrude. But he noticed Annabelle on deck alone the next day, walking quietly by herself. Consuelo had gone swimming with Brigitte. And this time Annabelle was wearing a hat that tied under her chin.

“I see you’ve anchored your hat on solidly,” he said, smiling at her, as he stopped for a moment to stand by the rail next to her. She turned to him with a smile.

“It’s breezier now than it was last month when we came over.” It was the end of July.

“I love these crossings,” he volunteered, “in spite of our respective losses at sea and family tragedies. It gives you a chance to catch your breath, between two lives and two worlds. It’s nice to have some time out to do that sometimes. Have you been in New York all this time?” he asked with interest. He was pleasant to talk to.

“Some of it. We’ve been in Newport for the past few weeks.”

He smiled. “I was in Cape Cod. I try to get back every summer. It takes me back to my childhood.”

“This was my daughter’s first visit.”

“How did she like it?”

“She loved it. She wants to come back every summer.” And then she volunteered a small piece of information about herself. “I hadn’t been back in ten years.”

“To Newport?” That didn’t surprise him.

“To the States.” That piece of information did.

“That’s a long time.” He was a tall, spare-looking man with salt and pepper hair, warm brown eyes, and a chiseled face, somewhere in his early forties. He appeared more intelligent than handsome, although his appearance was pleasant. “You must have been busy to stay away for so long. Or angry about something,” he added, in the spirit of good journalism, and she laughed.

“Not angry. Just finished. I made my life in France. I went over to volunteer at the front, in a hospital, and I never went back. I didn’t think I missed it. But I have to admit, it was nice to go home, and show old landmarks to my daughter.”

“You’re widowed?” he inquired. It was an easy assumption to make, since Consuelo had told him her father was dead, and had been for the whole seven years she’d been alive. Annabelle started to nod her head, and then stopped herself. She was tired of the lies, especially the ones she didn’t have to tell, to protect someone else, or even herself from the unkind.

“Divorced.” He didn’t react to it, but looked puzzled. To some, it would have been a startling admission. But he didn’t seem to care.

“I thought your daughter said that her father died.” Annabelle looked at him for a long moment, and decided to throw caution to the winds. She had nothing to lose. If he was shocked and walked away, she didn’t care if she never saw him again. She didn’t know the man.

“I wasn’t married to her father.” She said it quietly, but firmly. It was the first time she had said that to anyone. In the circles she had grown up in, it would have been cause to end the conversation immediately, and ignore her from then on.

He didn’t answer for a moment and then nodded, and looked at her with a smile. “If you’re expecting me to fall over in a faint, or jump overboard rather than talk to you, I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed. I’m a reporter. I’ve heard a lot in my day. And I live in France. It seems to be a pretty common occurrence there, although they don’t admit it. They just have children with other people’s wives.” She laughed, and he wondered if that was the case and the cause of her divorce. She was an interesting woman. “I suspect it happens more often than we know or want to believe, even at home. People have children with people they love but don’t marry. As long as no one gets hurt, who am I to say they’re wrong? I’ve never been married myself.” He was a very open-minded man.

“I didn’t love him,” she added. “It’s a long story. But it turned out all right. Consuelo is the best thing in my life.” He didn’t comment, but seemed fine with what she’d said.

“What kind of doctor are you?”

“A good one,” she said with a smile, and he laughed in response.

“I would assume that. I meant what specialty.” She knew what he meant, but enjoyed playing with him. He was nice to talk to. He was open and warm and friendly.

“General medicine.”

“Did you practice at the front?” He didn’t think she was old enough to have done so.

“As a medic, after a year of medical school. I finished after the war.” It was interesting to him that she didn’t want to practice in the States, but he could see why. He loved Paris too. He had a much richer life there than he had had in New York or Boston.

“I went over to be a reporter for the British at the beginning of the war. And I’ve been in Europe ever since. I lived in London for two years after the war, and I’ve been in Paris now for five years. I don’t think I could ever go back to live in the States. My life is too good here in Europe.”

“I couldn’t go back either,” Annabelle agreed. And she had no reason to go back. Her life was in Paris now. Only her history was in the States, and the cottage.

They chatted for a little longer, and then she went to find Consuelo and Brigitte at the pool. They saw him again that night, as they left the dining room after an early dinner. He was just going in, and he asked Annabelle if she’d like to have a drink later on. She hesitated, as Consuelo watched them both, and then she agreed. They made a date at the Verandah Café for nine-thirty. Consuelo would be in bed by then, so she was free.

“He likes you,” Consuelo said matter-of-factly, as they walked back to their cabins. “He’s nice.”

Annabelle didn’t comment. She had thought that about Antoine too, and she’d been wrong. But Callam McAffrey was a different type, and they had more in common. She wondered why he’d never married, and he told her that night, as they sipped champagne at the Verandah Café, which was open to the sea air.

“I fell in love with a nurse in England during the war. She was killed a week before the armistice was signed. We were going to get married, but she didn’t want to until the war was over. It took me a long time to get over it.” It had been six and a half years. “She was a very special woman. From a very fancy family, but you’d never know it. She was very down to earth, and worked harder than anyone I’ve ever known. We had a good time together.” He didn’t sound maudlin about it, but as though he cherished the memory still. “I visit her family from time to time.”

“Consuelo’s father was British. But not a very nice man, I’m afraid. His mother is terrific though. We’ll probably visit her in August.”

“When the British are great, they’re fantastic,” he said generously. “I don’t always get along as well with the French.” Annabelle laughed ruefully, thinking of Antoine, but said nothing. “They’re not always as straightforward, and tend to be more complicated.”

“I think I’d agree with that, in some cases. They make wonderful friends and colleagues. Romantically, that’s another thing.” He could tell just from the little she said that she’d been burned, presumably by a Frenchman. But Consuelo’s British father didn’t sound like a peach either. It seemed to him as though Annabelle had had more than her fair share of lemons. And in his day, so had he, other than Fiona, the nurse he’d been in love with. And he had been alone now for a while. He was taking a break from romance. His life was simpler that way, which was the same conclusion Annabelle had come to.

They talked about the war for a while, politics in the States, some of his experiences in journalism, and hers in medicine. And if nothing else, she thought he’d make a nice friend. He walked her back to her stateroom eventually, and said a friendly but polite goodnight.

He invited her for a drink again the next day, and they had a very nice time. He played shuffleboard with Annabelle and Consuelo on the last day of the trip, and she invited him to dinner with them that night. He and Consuelo got along very well, and she told him all about her dog, and invited him to come and see her, while Annabelle made no comment.

They had a last drink that night, and out of the blue, as he walked her back to her cabin, he said that he’d like to come and see the dog. He had a Labrador himself. Annabelle laughed at what he said.

“You’re welcome to come and see the dog anytime,” she said. “You can even come and see us.”

“Well, my main interest is actually the dog,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “but I guess it would be all right to see both of you too, if the dog doesn’t mind.” He looked gently down at Annabelle then. He had learned a lot about her on the trip, more than she knew. That was his job. He could sense the pain and trials she’d been through. Women of her upbringing didn’t leave their homes at twenty-two, and volunteer to go three thousand miles from home, to serve in a war that wasn’t theirs. And they didn’t stay there afterward, and take on the profession she had, unless some pretty bad things had happened to them at home. And he had a feeling a few more had happened since. She wasn’t the kind of woman, he felt sure, to have a child out of wedlock, unless she had absolutely no other choice. And she had clearly made the best of it, and everything that had happened to her. She was a good woman. It was written all over her, and he was hoping to see her again.

“I’d like to call you when we get back,” he said properly. She wasn’t stiff, but she was always ladylike and correct, and he liked that about her too. She reminded him of Fiona in some ways, although Annabelle was younger and prettier. But what he had liked most about Fiona, and now Annabelle, was what was inside. You could tell she was a woman of determination and integrity, high morals, with an enormous heart, and a fine mind. A man couldn’t ask for more than that, and if a woman like Annabelle crossed your path, you didn’t miss the opportunity to get to know her better. Women like her didn’t come around often in a lifetime. He’d already been lucky enough to have one in his life, and he knew that if he ever had the good fortune to meet another, he wasn’t going to miss the chance.

“We’ll be in Paris,” Annabelle said to him. “We might go to Deauville for a few days. I promised Consuelo we would. And maybe to England to see her father’s family for a bit. But we’ll be around. I have to get back to work, before my patients forget that I exist.” He couldn’t imagine anyone doing that who had ever known her. And he didn’t intend to lose track of her.

“Maybe the three of us could do something this weekend,” he said pleasantly, “with the dog of course. I wouldn’t want to hurt her feelings.” Annabelle smiled in answer. The weekend was only a few days away, and she liked the idea. In fact, she liked everything she had learned about him on the trip. And she had a good feeling about him, of solidity, integrity, warmth, and kindness. Their respect for each other was mutual so far. It was a good start, better than most she’d had. Her brotherly friendship with Josiah should have told her something she didn’t understand at the time. And Antoine’s dazzling fancy footwork right from the beginning covered an empty heart. Callam was an entirely different kind of man.

They said goodnight outside her cabin. And the next morning she got up and dressed early, just as she had when she arrived in Europe ten years earlier, when she had left New York in despair. There was no despair this time, no sorrow, as she stood at the rail and watched the sun come up. She could see Le Havre in the distance, and they would dock there in two hours.

As she looked out over the ocean, she had an incredible sense of freedom, of finally having shed her shackles at last. She wasn’t burdened by the yoke of other people’s opinions, or their lies about her. She was a free woman, and a good one, and she knew it.

As the sun rose into the morning sky, she heard a voice next to her and turned to see Callam.

“I had a feeling I’d find you here,” he said quietly, as their eyes met and they both smiled. “Nice morning, isn’t it?” he said simply.

“Yes, it is,” she said, her smile deepening. It was a nice morning. They were both good people. And it was a fine life.