Crossings

CRITICAL RAVES FOR DANIELLE STEEL“STEEL IS ONE OF THE BEST.”—Los Angeles Times“THE PLOTS OF DANIELLE STEEL'S NOVELS TWIST AND WEAVE AS INCREDIBLE STORIES UNFOLD TO THE THRILL AND DELIGHT OF HER ENORMOUS READING PUBLIC.”—United Press International“A LITERARY PHENOMENON … ambitious … prolific … and not to be pigeonholed as one who produces a predictable kind of book.”—The Detroit News“There is a smooth reading style to her writings which makes it easy to forget the time and to keep flipping the pages.”—The Pittsburgh Press“Ms. Steel excels at pacing her narrative, which races forward, mirroring the frenetic lives chronicled here; men and women swept up in bewildering change, seeking solutions to problems never before faced.”—Nashville Banner

a cognizant original v5 release october 14 2010

Books by Danielle Steel

SUNSET IN ST. TROPEZ NO GREATER LOVE THE COTTAGE HEARTBEAT THE KISS MESSAGE FROM NAM LONE EAGLE DADDY LEAP OF FAITH STAR JOURNEY ZOYA THE HOUSE ON KALEIDOSCOPE HOPE STREET FINE THINGS THE WEDDING WANDERLUST IRRESISTIBLE FORCES SECRETS GRANNY DAN FAMILY ALBUM BITTERSWEET FULL CIRCLE MIRROR IMAGE CHANGES HIS BRIGHT LIGHT: THE THURSTON HOUSE STORY OF NICK TRAINA CROSSINGS THE KLONE AND I ONCE IN A LIFETIME THE LONG ROAD HOME A PERFECT STRANGER THE GHOST REMEMBRANCE SPECIAL DELIVERY PALOMINO THE RANCH LOVE: POEMS SILENT HONOR THE RING MALICE LOVING FIVE DAYS IN PARIS TO LOVE AGAIN LIGHTNING SUMMER'S END WINGS SEASON OF PASSION THE GIFT THE PROMISE ACCIDENT NOW AND FOREVER VANISHED PASSION'S PROMISE MIXED BLESSINGS GOING HOME JEWELS Visit the Danielle Steel Web Site at:

www.daniellesteel.comDELL PUBLISHING

To John,

Beyond words,

beyond love,

beyond anything….

d.s.

Strong people cannot be defeated….

he house at 2129 Wyoming Avenue, NW, stood in all its substantial splendor, its gray stone facade handsomely carved and richly ornate, embellished with a large gold crest and adorned with the French flag, billowing softly in a breeze that had come up just that afternoon. It was perhaps the last breeze Washington, D.C., would feel for several months as the summer got under way. It was already June. June of 1939. And the last five years had gone all too quickly for Armand de Villiers, Ambassador of France.

He sat in his office, overlooking the elegant garden, absentmindedly staring at the fountain for a moment, and then dragged his attention back to the mountain of papers on his desk. Despite the rich scent of lilac in the air, there was work to do, too much of it. Especially now. He already knew that he would sit in his office until late that night, as he had for two months now, preparing to return to France. He had known the request to return was coming, and yet when he had been told in April, something inside him had ached for a moment. Even now, there were mixed emotions each time he thought of going home. He had felt the same way when he had left Vienna, London, and San Francisco before that, and other posts previously. But the bond was even stronger here. Armand had a way of establishing roots, of making friends, of falling in love with the places he was assigned to. That made it difficult to move on. And yet this time he wasn't moving on, he was going home.

Home. It had been so long since he had lived there, and they needed him so badly now. There was tension all over Europe, things were changing everywhere. He often felt that he lived for the daily reports from Paris, which gave him some sense of what was going on. Washington seemed light-years removed from the problems that besieged Europe, from the fears that trembled in the heart of France. They had nothing to fear in this sacred country. But in Europe now, no one felt quite as sure.

Only a year before, everyone in France had been certain war was imminent, although now from what Armand heard, there were many who had buried their fears. But there was no hiding from the truth forever. He had said as much to Liane. When the civil war ended in Spain four months before, it became clear that the Germans were approaching, and their airfield just below Irún brought them within only miles of France. But even with that realization, Armand was aware that there were those who didn't want to see what was going on. In the past six months Paris had been infinitely more relaxed than before, on the surface at least. He had been aware of it himself when he had gone home for Easter, for secret meetings with the Bureau Central, when they told him that his assignment in Washington was at an end.

He had been invited to a constant round of glittering parties, in sharp contrast to the previous summer, before the Munich Accord with Hitler. There had been unbearable tension before that. But then, suddenly it was gone, and in its place was a kind of frenzied animation, and Paris was in her finest form. There were parties, balls, operas, art shows, and galas, as though by keeping busy, and continuing their laughter and their dancing, war would never come for the French. Armand had been annoyed at the frivolous gaiety he had seen among his friends at Easter, and yet he understood that it was their way of hiding from their fears. When he had returned, he and Liane had spoken about it.

“It's as though they're so frightened that they don't want to stop laughing, for fear that if they do, they will cry in terror and run and hide.” But their laughter wouldn't stop the war from coming, wouldn't stop Hitler's slow, steady march across Europe. Armand sometimes feared that nothing would stop the man now. He saw Hitler as a terrifying demon, and although there were those in high places who agreed with him, there were others who thought that Armand had become too nervous in the long years of service to his country, and was becoming a frightened old man.

“Is that what living in the States has done to you, old boy?” his closest friend in Paris had teased him. He was from Bordeaux, where he and Armand had grown up together, and the director of three of the biggest banks in France. “Don't be foolish, Armand. Hitler would never touch us.”

“The English don't agree with you, Bernard.”

“They're all frightened old women too, and besides, they love to play at their war games. It excites them to think of getting into a row with Hitler. They have nothing else to do.”

“What nonsense!” Armand had had to control his temper as he listened, but Bernard's wasn't the only voice he heard raised in derision at the English, and he had left Paris almost in a fury at the end of his two-week stay. He expected the Americans to be blind to the threat facing Europe, but he had expected to hear something different in his own country, and he hadn't heard enough. He had his own views on the subject, views of just how serious the threat was becoming, how dangerous Hitler was, and how rapidly disaster could befall them. Or perhaps, he thought on the way home, perhaps Bernard and the others were right. Perhaps he was too frightened, too worried about his country. In a way, going home again might be a good thing. It would bring him closer to the pulse of France.

Liane had taken the news well that they were leaving. She was used to packing up and moving on. And she had listened to his descriptions of the mood in Paris with concern. She was a wise, intelligent woman and had learned much from Armand over the years about the workings of international politics. Indeed, she had learned much from him, anxious to teach her his views, from the very beginning of their marriage. She had been so young and so hungry to learn everything about his career, the countries he was assigned to, the political implications of his many dealings. He smiled to himself as he thought back over the past ten years. She had been a hungry little sponge, soaking up every drop of information, gobbling every morsel, and she had learned well.

She had her own ideas now, and often she did not agree with him, or she was more adamant than he along the same vein. Their most furious battle had been only a few weeks before in late May, over the SS St. Louis, a ship carrying 937 Jews out of Hamburg, with Joseph Goebbels's blessing, and bound for Havana, where the refugees were refused entry, and where it would seem that they would perish as the boat languished outside the port. Others engaged in frantic efforts to find a home for the refugees, lest they be doomed to return to Hamburg and whatever fate might await them there. Liane herself had spoken to the President, drawing on her acquaintance with him, but to no avail. The Americans had refused to take them, and Armand had watched Liane collapse in tears as she realized all of her efforts, and those of countless others, had been in vain. There were messages from the ship, promising mass suicide rather than agreeing to return to the port from whence they had come. And at last, mercifully, France, England, Holland, and Belgium had agreed to take them, but still the battle between Armand and Liane had raged on. For the first time in her life she had been disappointed in her own country. Her fury knew no bounds. And although Armand sympathized with her, he insisted that there were reasons why Roosevelt had refused to take the refugees. It made her even angrier that Armand was willing to accept Roosevelt's decision. She felt betrayed by her own people. America was the land of rich and plenty, the home of the brave, land of the free. How could Armand excuse their failure to accept those people? It wasn't a matter of judgment, he attempted to explain to her, but of accepting that at times governments made harsh decisions. The important thing to acknowledge was that the refugees were safe. It had taken Liane days to calm down after that, and even then she had engaged in a lengthy and almost hostile discussion with the First Lady at a ladies' lunch. Mrs. Roosevelt had been sympathetic to Liane's anger. She too had been anguished over the fate of the passengers of the St. Louis, but she had been helpless to convince her husband to change his mind. The United States had to respect its quotas, and the 937 German-Jewish refugees exceeded the quota for the year. Mrs. Roosevelt reminded Liane again that all had ended well for the refugees. But nonetheless it was an event that had impressed Liane with the gravity of these people's plight in Europe, and suddenly she had gained a new understanding of what was happening far from the peaceful life of Washington diplomatic dinners. It made Liane anxious to return with Armand to France.

“You're not sorry to be leaving your country again, my love?” He had eyed her gently over a quiet dinner at home, after the incident of the St. Louis had finally died down.

She had shaken her head. “I want to know what's happening in Europe, Armand. Here, I feel so far away from everything.” She had smiled at him then, loving him more than ever. They had shared an extraordinarily happy ten years. “Do you really think war will come soon?”

“Not for your country, my darling.” He always reminded her that she was an American. He had always thought it important that she retain a sense of her own allegiance, so that she would not become totally swallowed up by his views and his ties to France. She was a separate entity, after all, and she had a right to her own allegiances and opinions, and thus far they had never interfered with his own. Now and then there was a raging battle, an outburst of disagreement between them, but it seemed to keep the relationship healthy and he didn't mind. He respected her views as much as his own, and he admired the zeal with which she stood up for what she believed in. She was a strong woman with an admirable mind. He had respected her from the moment he first knew her, in San Francisco, as a girl of just fifteen. She had been a magical child, with an almost ethereal golden beauty, and yet after years of living alone with her father, Harrison Crockett, she had gained a range of knowledge and wisdom unusual in such a young girl.

Armand could still remember the first time he had seen her, in a white linen summer dress and a big straw hat, wandering through the Consulate garden in San Francisco, saying nothing as she listened to the “grown-ups,” and then turning to him, with a shy smile, to say something in flawless French about the roses. Her father had been so proud of her.

Armand smiled at the distant memory of her father. Harrison Crockett had been a most unusual man. Stern, and at the same time gentle, aristocratic, difficult, handsome, obsessed with his privacy and protecting his only child, and a brilliant success in shipping. He was a man who had done much with his life.

They had met shortly after arriving in San Francisco, at a deadly little dinner arranged by the previous consul before he left San Francisco for Beirut. Armand recalled that he knew Crockett had been invited, but was almost certain he wouldn't come. Most of the time Harrison Crockett hid behind the walls of his elegant brick fortress on Broadway, looking out over the bay. His brother, George, was far more inclined to go to parties, and was one of the most popular bachelors in San Francisco, not so much for his charm as for his connections and his brother's enormous success. But much to everyone's amazement Harrison had come to the dinner. He had spoken little and left early, but before he did, he had been very pleasant to Odile, Armand's wife. So much so, that she had insisted on inviting him and his daughter for tea. Harrison had spoken of the girl to Odile, and had been particularly proud of his daughter's mastery of the French language, and with a proud smile, he had said that she was “a very remarkable girl,” a comment they had both smiled at as Odile relayed it to Armand.

“At least he has one soft spot. He looks every bit as ruthless as they say he is.”

But Odile had disagreed. “I think you're wrong, Armand. I think he's very lonely. And he's absolutely mad about the girl.” Odile hadn't been far off the mark. Shortly after, they heard the story of how he had lost his wife, a beautiful girl of nineteen, whom he had worshiped. He had been too busy with his shipping empire before that, but apparently once he turned his mind to marriage, he had chosen well.

Arabella Dillingham Crockett had been brilliant as well as beautiful, and together she and Harrison had given some of the city's most devastating balls. She had floated through the mansion he'd built for her, looking like a fairy princess, wearing the rubies he brought her from the Orient, diamonds almost as large as eggs, and tiaras, made especially for her at Cartier, on her golden curls. Their first child was heralded with the same excitement as the Second Coming, but despite the accoucheur Harrison brought from England, and two midwives from the East, Arabella died in childbirth, leaving him widowed with an infant, a girl child in her image, whom he worshiped as he once had his wife. For the first ten years after his wife's death, he never left his house, except of course to go to his office. Crockett Shipping was one of the largest shipping lines in the States, with ships spread out all over the Orient, carrying cargo, as well as two extraordinarily handsome liners that carried passengers to Hawaii and Japan. In addition, Crockett had passenger ships in South America, and some that traveled profitably up and down the West Coast of the United States.

Harrison Crockett's only interests were his ships and his daughter. He saw a great deal of his brother, as they ran the empire together, but for a decade Harrison saw almost none of his old friends. Then at last he took Liane to Europe for a vacation, showing her all the wonders of Paris and Berlin and Rome and Venice, and when they returned at the end of the summer, he began to include his friends in his life again. Gone was the era of the grand parties in the mansion on Broadway, but he had come to realize how lonely his child was, and how badly she needed the company of other children, other people, and so Harrison slowly opened his doors again. What ensued were activities that centered only around his daughter: puppet shows, visits to the theater, and trips to Lake Tahoe, where he bought a handsome summer home. Harrison Crockett lived only to please and protect and cherish Liane Alexandra Arabella.

She was named after two dead grandmothers and her mother, three lost beauties, and somehow she managed to combine the charm and loveliness of all three. People marveled when they met her. Despite the sumptuous existence she led, there was no sign of it having affected her. She was simple, straightforward, quiet, and wise beyond her years, from spending so many years dining alone with her father, and sometimes her uncle, listening to them talk business and explain to her the business of shipping, and the politics of the countries into whose ports their ships sailed. In truth, she was happier with her father than she was with other children, and as she grew older she went everywhere with him, and eventually to the Consulate of France, on a spring day in 1922, to have tea.

The De Villierses fell in love with her at once, and what followed as a result was a bond between the De Villierses and Crocketts that flourished over the next three years. The four of them often took trips together. Armand and Odile went to stay at the handsome estate in Lake Tahoe, they traveled on one of his ships to Hawaii with Liane for a vacation, and eventually Odile even took Liane to France. Odile became for her almost a second mother, and it was a comfort to Harrison to see Liane so happy and so well guided by a woman he respected and liked. By then Liane was almost eighteen.

It was the following autumn, when Liane entered Mills College, that Odile began to feel poorly, complaining of a constant backache, an inability to eat, frequent fevers, and finally a frightening cough that after several months refused to disappear. At first the doctors insisted that they could find nothing, and it was suggested quietly to Armand that Odile was simply homesick for her country, and he might consider sending her back to France. But vapors of that sort were unlike her, and he persisted in having her see doctors all over town. He wanted her to go to New York to see someone Harrison had recommended, but before the scheduled trip, it became obvious that she was far too sick to go. It was then that they finally discovered, in a brief and depressing operation, that Odile de Villiers was riddled with cancer. They closed her up and told Armand the news, which he shared the next day with Harrison Crockett as tears streamed down his face.

“I can't live without her, Harry. … I can't. …” Armand had stared at him in bereft horror as Harrison nodded slowly, tears in his own eyes. He remembered his own pain of eighteen years before only too well. And ironically, Armand was exactly the same age Harrison had been when he lost Arabella, he was forty-three years old.

But Armand and Odile had been married for twenty years, and the prospect of living on without her was almost more than he could bear. Unlike Harrison, they had no children. They had wanted two or three from the beginning, but Odile had never succeeded in getting pregnant, and they had resigned themselves long since to the absence of children in their lives. In fact, Armand had admitted to Odile once, he liked things better as they were. He didn't have to compete for her attention, and there had remained a honeymoon atmosphere between them for the past twenty years. And now, suddenly, their entire world was shattering around them.

Although at first Odile didn't know that she had cancer, and Armand fought valiantly to keep it from her, she very soon understood the truth and that the end was near. And at last, in March, she died as Armand held her in his arms. Liane had come to see her that afternoon, carrying a bouquet of yellow roses. She sat by her bedside for hours, more for the comfort Odile gave her than any that she was able to give. Odile had exuded an aura of almost saintly resignation, and she was determined to leave Liane with her love and a last tender touch. As Liane had faltered for a moment in the doorway, fighting back the sobs that would come as soon as she left the house, Odile had looked at her with strength in her eyes for just a moment.

“Take care of Armand for me when I am gone, Liane. You've taken good care of your father.” Odile had come to know him well, and knew that Liane had kept him from growing hardened or bitter. She had a gentle touch that softened every heart she came near. “Armand loves you,” she had said, smiling, “and he will need you and your father when I am gone.” She spoke of her death as if it were a trip she was taking. Liane had tried to deny to herself the truth about this beloved woman's condition. But there was no denying it to Odile. She wanted them all to face it, especially her husband, and then Liane. She wanted them to be prepared. Armand would try to avoid the truth by talking to her of trips to the seashore, to Biarritz, which they had loved when they were young, a cruise on a yacht along the coast of France perhaps the next summer, and another journey to Hawaii on one of the Crockett ships. But again and again she forced them all to face what was coming, what she knew, and what finally came that night after she had seen Liane for the last time.

Odile had insisted that she wanted to be buried where she was, and not sent back to France. She didn't want Armand making that dismal trip alone. Both of her parents were dead, as well as his. She left with no regrets, except that she had had no children who would care for Armand. She had put that trust in Liane.

The first months were a nightmare for Armand. He managed to carry on his work, but barely more than that. And despite his loss, he was expected, to some extent, to entertain visiting dignitaries to San Francisco with small diplomatic dinners. It was Liane who did everything for him, as she had for so long for her father. She carried a double responsibility then, despite the excellent staff at the Consulate of France. It was Liane who oversaw everything for Armand. That summer, her father scarcely saw her at Lake Tahoe, and she refused the offer of a trip to France. She had a mission to attend to, a promise she had made, which she fully intended to live up to—an awesome responsibility for a girl of nineteen.

For a time Harrison wondered if there was something more to her work and efforts, and yet after watching Liane more closely for a time, he was certain there was not. And in a way, he knew that what she did for Armand helped her cope with her own sense of loss. She had been deeply stricken by the death of Odile. Never having known her own mother, there had always been a hunger in her soul for a woman she could relate to, someone whom she could talk to in a way she couldn't talk to her father, her uncle, or their friends. As a child, there had been governesses and cooks and maids, but few friends, and the women Harrison dallied with occasionally over the years never saw the inside of his home, or met his child. He kept all of that far, far from Liane. So it had been Odile who had filled that void, and then left it, gaping open, a dull ache that never seemed to dim, except when she was doing something for Armand. It was almost a way of being with Odile again.

In a sense both Armand and Liane were in shock until the end of the summer. Odile had been dead for six months by then, and they both realized one September afternoon, as they sat in the garden at the Consulate, looking at the roses and speaking of Odile, that neither of them was crying as they spoke of her. Armand even told a funny story at Odile's expense and Liane laughed. They had survived it. They would live through it, each one because of the other. Armand had reached out a hand and taken Liane's long, delicate fingers in his own and held them. The tears sparkled then in his eyes as he looked at her.

“Thank you, Liane.”

“For what?” She tried to pretend she didn't know, but she did. He had done as much for her. “Don't be silly.”

“I'm not. I'm very grateful to you.”

“We've needed each other for the past six months.” She said it openly and directly, her hand comfortable in his. “Life is going to be very different without her.” It already was, for them both.

He nodded, thinking quietly to himself over the past six months. “It is.”

Liane went up to Tahoe for two weeks then, before going back to college, and her father was relieved to see her. He still worried about her a great deal, and he was still concerned about her helping Armand constantly. He himself was only too aware that it was too much like her constant devotion to him. And Odile de Villiers had long since convinced Harrison that Liane needed other pastimes than caring for a lonely man. She was a young girl, and there was much that she should do. The year before, she had been scheduled to make her debut, but when Odile fell ill, she had refused.

Harrison brought it up to Liane again in Tahoe, saying that she had mourned for long enough and that the debutante parties would do her good. She insisted that they seemed silly to her, and wasteful somehow, all that money spent on dresses and parties and dances. Harrison stared at her in amazement. She was one of the richest young women in California, heiress to the Crockett Shipping lines, and it seemed extraordinary to him that the thought of the expense should even cross her mind.

In October, when she went back to Mills, she had less time to help Armand with his dinner parties, but he was on his feet again and fending well for himself, although he still felt Odile's absence sorely, as he confessed to Harrison when they had lunch together at his club.

“I won't lie to you, Armand.” Harrison looked at him over a glass of Haut-Brion ‘27. “You'll feel it for a long time. Forever. But not in the same way you did at first. You'll feel it in a moment … a remembered word … something she wore … a perfume … But you won't wake up every morning, feeling as though there's a two hundred thousand pound weight on your chest, the way you did at first.” He still remembered it all too clearly as he finished his wine and the waiter poured him a second glass. “Thank God, you'll never feel quite that agony again.”

“I would have been lost without your daughter.” Armand smiled a gentle smile. There was no way to repay the kindness, to let his friend know how much the child had helped him, or how dear she was to him.

“She loved you both dearly, Armand. And it helped her get over losing Odile.” He was a wise and canny man, and he sensed something then, even before Armand did, but he said nothing. He had a feeling that neither of them knew how much they needed each other, with or without Odile. Something very powerful had grown between them in the past six months, almost as though they were connected, as though they anticipated each other's needs. He had noticed it when Armand came up to Tahoe for the weekend, but he had said nothing. He knew that his instincts would have frightened them both, especially Armand, who might feel that he had in some way betrayed Odile.

“Is Liane very excited about the parties?” Armand was amused at Harrison's excitement. He knew that Liane didn't really care a great deal. She was making her debut more to please her father, being well aware of what was expected, and dutiful above all. He liked that about her. She was not dutiful in a blind, stupid way, but because she cared about other people. It was important to her to do the right thing, because she knew how other people felt about it. She would have preferred not have come out at all, yet she knew that her father would have been bitterly disappointed, so she went along with it for him.

“To tell you the truth”—Harrison sighed and sat back in his seat—“I wouldn't admit it to her, but I think she's outgrown it.” She suddenly seemed much more grown-up than nineteen. She had grown up a great deal in the past year, and she had been called upon to act and think as a woman for so long that it was difficult to imagine her with the giggling girls going to a grand ball for the first time.

And when the moment came, the truth of her father's words was more evident than ever. The others came out, blushing, nervous, frightened, excited to the point of being shrill, and when Liane sailed out slowly on her father's arm at her ball, she looked nothing less than regal in a white satin dress, her shimmering golden hair caught up in a little basket of woven pearls. She had the bearing of a young queen on her consort's arm, and her blue eyes danced with an inimitable fire as Armand watched her with a stirring in his soul.

The party Harrison gave for her was the most dazzling party of all. It was held at the Palace on Market Street, with chauffeured limousines pulling up directly to the inner court. Two orchestras had been hired to play all night, and the champagne had been sent from France. Liane wore a white velvet gown, trimmed with white ermine in delicate ropes all around the hem. The gown, like the champagne, had been sent from France.

“Tonight, my little friend, you look absolutely like a queen.” Liane and Armand circled the room slowly in a waltz. He was there as Harrison's guest. Liane was escorted by the son of one of her father's oldest friends, but she found him stupid and boring and was pleased with the reprieve.

“I feel a little silly in this dress,” she had said, grinning. For an instant she had looked fifteen again, and suddenly, with a quick shaft of pain, Armand had longed for Odile. He wanted her to see Liane too, to share the moment, drink the champagne … but the moment passed, and he turned his attention to Liane again.

“It's a pretty party, though, isn't it? Daddy went to so much trouble …” she said, but was thinking “so much expense.” It always irked her a little, made her feel a little guilty, but he supported worthwhile causes too, and if it made him happy, then why not. “Have you enjoyed yourself, Armand?”

“Never more than at this exact moment.” He smiled, at his most courtly, and she laughed at the chivalry, so unusual from him. Usually he treated her like a child, or at least a younger sister or a favorite niece.

“That doesn't even sound like you.”

“Oh, doesn't it? And what exactly do you mean by that? Am I usually rude to you?”

“No, you usually tell me that I haven't given the butler the right set of fish forks from the safe … or the Limoges is too formal for lunch … or—”

“Stop! I can't bear it. Do I say all that to you?”

“Not lately, although I confess, I miss it. Are you getting on all right?”

“Not half as well lately. They don't even know which Limoges I mean, with you …” For a moment he wondered at what she had been saying. What she had been describing sounded like a marriage, but he couldn't have been like that with her … or could he? Was he so accustomed to Odile knowing all, that he had simply expected Liane to step into her shoes? How extraordinary of him, and how totally insensitive, but how much more extraordinary still that Liane had actually done all that she had for all those months. Suddenly it made him realize more than ever that he had missed her terribly since she had turned her attention back to school, not so much for the selection of the right Limoges, but because it had been so comforting to talk to her after a luncheon, or a dinner party, or in the morning, on the phone.

“A penny for your thoughts.” She was teasing him a little, and his hand felt suddenly clumsy on her tiny waist.

“I was thinking that you were quite right. I have been very rude.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'll come back and help now, as soon as all this debutante nonsense is over with next week.”

“Haven't you anything better to do?” He seemed surprised. As lovely as she was, there had to be a dozen suitors waiting in the wings. “No boyfriends, no great loves?”

“I think I'm immune.”

“Now, that's an intriguing thought. A vaccination you've had, perhaps?” He teased and the music changed, but they stayed on the floor as Harrison Crockett watched. He was not displeased. “Tell me about this fascinating immunity of yours, Miss Crockett.”

She sounded matter-of-fact as they danced. “I think I've lived alone with my father for too long. I know what men are like.”

Armand laughed aloud. “Now, that's a shocking statement!”

“No, it's not.” But she laughed too then. “I just meant that I know what it's like to run his house, pour his coffee in the morning, walk on tiptoe when he comes home from the office in a bad mood. It makes it difficult to take any of the young cubs seriously, they're so full of romance and ridiculous ideas. Half the time they have no idea what they're saying, they've never read a newspaper, they don't know the difference between Tibet and Timbuktu. And ten years from now, they'll come home from the office just as disagreeable as Daddy, and they'll snap at their wives over breakfast in just the same way. It's hard to listen to all that romantic gibberish and not laugh, that's all. I know what comes later.” She smiled up at him in a matter-of-fact way.

“You're right, you've seen too much.” And he was sorry really. He remembered all the romantic “gibberish” he had shared with Odile, when she was twenty-one and he was twenty-three. They had believed every word they'd said and it had carried them for a long time, through hard times and into rugged, ghastly countries, through disappointments and a war. In a way, because of her life with her father, Liane had lost an important piece of her youth. But undoubtedly, in time, someone would come along, perhaps someone not quite so young as the rest, and she would fall in love, and then the complaints over the morning coffee would be outweighed by what she felt, and she would be carried off on her own cloud of dreams.

“Now what are you thinking?”

“That one of these days you'll fall in love, and it'll change all that.”

“Maybe.” But she sounded both unconvinced and unconcerned. The dance ended and Armand escorted her back to her friends.

But something strange had happened between them during the weeks of her debut. When Armand saw her again, he looked at her differently than he had before. She seemed more womanly to him all of a sudden, and it didn't really make sense to him. But the rest of the girls at the parties had all been so girlish, such children. In comparison, Liane was so much more grown-up, so much more poised. He felt suddenly awkward with her, less comfortable than he had before. He had taken her for granted for a long time, assumed somehow that she was just a very charming child. But on her twentieth birthday she looked more mature than ever, in a mauve moiré gown that turned her hair to spun gold and turned her eyes to violet as she smiled at him.

Her birthday came just before the summer, and Armand was almost relieved when she went to Lake Tahoe for the summer months. She was no longer helping him at the Consulate, he was on his feet now, and he didn't want to take advantage of her. He saw Liane only when her father gave a dinner party, which was still very rare. And by sheer force of will Armand managed to stay away from Lake Tahoe until the end of the summer, when Harrison absolutely insisted that he come up for the Labor Day weekend, and when he saw her, he sensed instantly what Harrison had known for so long. He was deeply and passionately in love with the girl he had known since she was scarcely more than a child. It had been a year and a half since Odile died, and although he still missed her terribly, his thoughts were now invaded constantly by Liane. He found himself staring at her all through the weekend, and when they danced on a warm summer night, he led her back to the table quickly, as though he could not bear to be that close to her without pulling her deeper into his arms. And oblivious of what he felt, she cavorted near him on the beach, her long, sensuous limbs cast across a deck chair on the sand. She rattled on as she had in years past, and told him funny stories, and she was more enchanting than ever, but as the weekend drew to a close, she began to sense his mood and his eyes upon her, and she grew quieter, as though being drawn slowly into the same spell.

When they all returned to town, and Liane to college, Armand fought himself for several weeks and then finally, unable to bear it any longer, he called her and berated himself afterward for doing so. He had just called to say hello and see how she was, but she sounded strangely subdued when he called her, and he worried instantly that something might be wrong. Nothing was, she assured him in gentle tones, but she was feeling something she didn't quite understand and wasn't sure how to handle. She felt guilty toward Odile, and unable to talk to her father about the confusing emotions she felt. She was falling in love with Armand as desperately as he was falling in love with her. He was forty-five years old and she was not yet twenty-one, he was the widower of a woman she had loved and respected deeply, and she still remembered her parting words: “Take care of Armand for me … Liane … he will need you …” But he didn't need her that much anymore, and surely Odile had never meant for Liane to take care of him like that.

What ensued was an agonizing three months. Liane could barely keep her mind on her studies, and Armand thought he would go mad at his desk. They met again at a Christmas party given by her father, and by New Year's both of them had given up the fight. He took her to dinner one night, and afterward, in an agony of tension and emotion, he told her all that he was feeling, and was stunned when her emotions cascaded out with the same force as his. They began seeing each other weekly, on weekends, and kept to quiet haunts so as not to become the center of gossip around town, and at last Liane told her father, expecting some resistance, and possibly even fury, but what she got from him instead was delight and relief.

“I wondered when you two would finally realize what I've known for two years.” He sat looking at her, beaming, as she stared.

“You knew? But how could you? I didn't … we didn't …”

“I'm just smarter than both of you, that's all.” But he approved of the way they had proceeded. They had each felt out their emotions with caution and respect for the past. He knew that neither of them took the matter lightly, and he wasn't even bothered by the difference in their ages. Liane was an unusual young woman, and he couldn't imagine her happy with a man her own age. And to her, the twenty-four-year span between them mattered not at all, although Armand had expressed some concern about it in the beginning. Now he didn't give a care to something so minor as that. He adored her. He felt as though he had been born again, and he rapidly proposed marriage. On her twenty-first birthday they announced their engagement. Her father gave a lovely party, and life tasted like a dream, until two weeks later, when Armand received word that his term in San Francisco had come to an end. He was being moved on to Vienna as Ambassador. And like it or not, it was time to go. He and Liane discussed a precipitous marriage, but her father intervened. He wanted her to complete her final year in college, which meant waiting another full year until they could be married. Liane was crushed, but she was anxious not to disobey her father, and the two lovers agreed that they would survive the next year somehow, with visits when they could, and letters each day in between.

It was a difficult year for them both, but they managed, and on the fourteenth of June 1929, Armand de Villiers and Liane Crockett were married at old St. Mary's in San Francisco. Armand had left Vienna a month, for the “wedding of the year,” as the San Francisco papers called it, and they both went back to Europe for a quick honeymoon in Venice, before returning to Vienna, where Liane would then be Ambassadress. And she stepped into those shoes with extraordinary ease. Armand tried to make everything easy for her, but she scarcely needed his help. After her years with her father, and the six months of helping Armand after Odile's death, she knew what to do.

Her father came to visit twice during their first six months there, unable to stay away. He had no business in Europe, but he longed for his daughter, and during his second visit she could no longer keep the news from him, although she had predicted accurately to Armand how he would react. She was having a baby the following summer, and her father responded with sheer terror, insisting privately to Armand that she had to be brought back to the States, had to have the best doctors, had to stay in bed, had to … He was haunted by memories of Liane's mother, and his agony when he had lost her. He was almost in tears when he went back to the States. And Liane had to write him daily to assure him that all was well. In May he arrived six weeks before the baby was due, and he almost drove them crazy with his worry, but Liane didn't have the heart to send him back to the States. When she went into labor, it was all Armand could do to subdue Harrison and to keep him busy, but fortunately the baby came quickly, a fat, angelic-looking girl with wisps of blond hair and round cheeks and a little rosebud mouth, born at 5:45 P.M. in a hospital in Vienna. When Harrison came to visit Liane three hours later, he found her eating dinner and laughing, as though she had spent the afternoon at the opera with her friends. He couldn't believe it, nor could Armand, who gazed at his wife as though she had wrought single-handedly the miracle of all time. He loved her more than life itself, and thanked God for this new life he had never even dreamed would be his. He was totally crazy about the baby, and when their second daughter was born two years later in London, he was just as excited all over again. This time they had convinced Liane's father that he could wait in San Francisco and that they would cable him the moment the baby was born, which they did. Their first child they had named Marie-Ange Odile de Villiers, which they had both thought about with great seriousness before doing. They both decided that it was what they wanted, and they knew that Odile would have been pleased. The second baby was named Elisabeth Liane Crockett de Villiers, which pleased Liane's father no end.

He came to London for the christening, and gazed at the baby with such rapture that Liane teased him afterward about it, but she also noticed on this trip that he didn't look well. He was sixty-eight years old, and had always been in good health, but he seemed older than his years now, and Liane was worried when she saw him off on the ship. She said something to Armand about it, but he had his hands full with a difficult diplomatic negotiation with the Austrians and the English, and afterward he felt guilty for not paying more attention. Harrison Crockett died of a heart attack on the ship on the way home.

Liane flew home to San Francisco without the children, and as she stood beside her father's casket she felt a loss she almost couldn't bear, and she knew that life would never be quite the same without him. Her Uncle George was already preparing to move into Harrison's house, and his shoes at Crockett Shipping, but her uncle was like a very dim star in the orbit of the bright planet that had been her father. She was glad that she didn't live in San Francisco and wouldn't have to see her uncle living in their house. She couldn't have borne watching the gruff, ornery old bachelor living her father's life and changing all the old ways. She left San Francisco within a week, with a feeling of grief that exceeded only what she had felt when Odile had died, and she was grateful to return home to Armand, to her babies, and to throw herself back into her life as Ambassadress at his side. From that moment on she always felt less of an allegiance to her own country. Her tie to the States had been her father, and now all of that was gone. She had the fortune her father had left her, but she would have much preferred to have her father living, and all that mattered to her now were her daughters and her husband and her life with them.

Two years after that they left London. Armand was reassigned as Ambassador to Washington. It was the first time in five years that Liane would be living back in the United States. It was an exciting time for them both, filled with the prospect of an important post for Armand and lots of responsibility for Liane, and the only thing that marred it was the fact that Liane lost a baby, this time a little boy, shortly after their arrival in the States. It had been a rough crossing, and she had had a hard time from the first. But aside from that, the years in Washington were a time they both remembered fondly, filled with spectacular dinners at the Embassy, glittering evenings amongst heads of state, nights at the White House, and acquaintances with important politicians who filled their lives with interesting events and fascinating friendships. It was a time they would miss now, and it seemed as though it were ending much too quickly. It was hard to believe that the Washington years had already come to a close. They would both miss their friends, as would their daughters. Marie-Ange and Elisabeth were respectively nine and seven now, and they had never known schools other than those in Washington. Armand had already made arrangements for them in Paris, and they both spoke perfect French, but still it would be a big change for them. And with a war possibly coming in Europe, God alone knew what would be in store. Armand had already discussed that possibility with Liane, and if anything happened, he planned to send the three of them back to the States. Liane could stay with her uncle in San Francisco, in her father's old house, and at least he would know that they were safe there. But for the moment, that didn't enter the picture. For the time being, as much as one could know that sort of thing, Armand knew that there would be peace in France, though of course there was no way of knowing for how long.

At present he had to ready the Embassy for his replacement, and he turned his attention back to the work on his desk, and it was almost ten o'clock when he looked up again. He stood up at his desk and stretched. He had been feeling so old lately, despite Liane's amorous protests, but at fifty-six he had led a very full life.

He locked the door to his office behind him, bidding good night to the two guards posted in the hall. And then he inserted his key in the lock of the private elevator at the rear that would take him to their apartments, and he stepped in with a tired smile and a sigh. It was always good to get home to Liane after a day's work, even after all these years. She was a wife any man would be lucky to even dream of having. She had been devoted and understanding and patient and humorous and loving for all of their ten years. As the elevator reached the fourth floor it ground to a halt, and he opened the door into the ornate marble hall that led to his study, their large paneled living room, and their dining room, and he could smell something delicious still being prepared in the kitchen beyond. And as he glanced up the marble staircase to the top floor, he saw her, still as lovely as she had been ten years before, her blond hair in a handsome pageboy on her shoulders, her blue eyes unlined, and her skin as fresh as it had been the first time he had seen her in his garden at fifteen. She was a rare beauty, and he cherished every moment with her, although these days the moments they shared were fewer than they had been in a long time, he was so damnably busy.

“Hello, my love.” She slid her arms around his neck as she reached the bottom of the stairs, nuzzling his neck in the way she had for the past ten years, and as it always did, the gesture warmed him to his very soul.

“How was your day, or shouldn't I ask?” He smiled down at her, proud of her, still proud that she was his. She was a beauty, and a rare, rare gem.

“I think I've almost finished packing. You won't recognize our bedroom when you come upstairs.”

“Will you be in it?” His eyes danced as he looked at his wife, even after his long day.

“Of course.”

“Then that's all I want to recognize. How are the girls?”

“They miss you.” They hadn't seen their father in four days.

“We'll make up for lost time next week on the ship.” He smiled at Liane. “Our reservations were reconfirmed today, and”—the smile widened—“I have quite a surprise for you, chérie. The gentleman who had reserved one of the four Grand Luxe suites has had to cancel, because his wife was taken ill. Which means …” He seemed almost to be waiting for a drumroll as Liane laughed and took his arm to escort him into the dining room. “It means that as a courtesy to this tired old returning Ambassador, we are being given one of the Normandie's four most luxurious suites. Four bedrooms, a dining room of our own, if we wish to use it, which we won't. We'll be too busy enjoying the Grande Salle a Manger. But perhaps the children will enjoy having a dining room of their own and a living room with a baby grand piano. Our own promenade deck, my love, where we can sit at night, looking up at the stars …” His voice drifted off dreamily, as he was really looking forward to the crossing on the ship. For years now he had heard nothing but raves about the Normandie, and he had never been on it. Now it was an extra treat that he could give to his wife. No matter that she could have paid for all four of the Grand Luxe suites herself, he would never have let her. He had too much pride about that sort of thing, and he was happy to be able to spoil her a little, and happier still that they would have five days together, suspended between two worlds. At last he would be free of the final exhausting days at the Embassy in Washington, and he would not yet have been swallowed up by the work he was to do in France. “Isn't that good news?” His eyes danced.

“I can hardly wait.” And then she giggled as she sat down at the enormous dining table set for two. “Since we have a piano in our cabin, should I practice the piano a little before we leave? I haven't played in years.”

“Silly girl. Hmm”—he turned his attention to the odors emanating from the kitchen—“that smells awfully good.”

“Thank you, sir. Soupe de poisson for my lord and master, une omelette fines herbes, salade de cresson, Camembert, Brie, and chocolate soufflé, if the cook hasn't fallen asleep.”

“She must be ready to kill me with these hours I'm keeping.”

“Never mind, my love.” Liane smiled at him with a kiss in her eyes, and the maid came in with their soup.

“Did I tell you that we're dining at the White House tomorrow?”

“No.” But Liane was used to surprise command social engagements. She had given dinner parties for as many as a hundred people with notice of only two days.

“They called today.”

“Is the dinner for anyone important?” The soup was good, she liked their cozy dinners tête-à-tête, and like Armand, she wondered now how many moments like these they would have once they were back in France. They both suspected that he was going to be terribly busy, and she might not see much of him for a while. At least not at first.

Armand smiled at his wife. “Tomorrow night is for someone terribly important.”

“Who?”

“Us. It's just a friendly little impromptu dinner for us before we leave.” There had already been a formal farewell reception three weeks before. “Are the girls excited about the ship?”

Liane nodded. “Very.”

“They can't possibly be as excited as I am. They call her the Ship of Light.” And then he saw her smiling at him again. “Do you think me very foolish to be so excited about the trip?”

“No, I think you're very wonderful, and I love you.”

He reached out and patted her hand then. “Liane … I am a very lucky man.”

he long black Citroen that had been shipped over from Paris the year before drew up to the Pennsylvania Avenue entrance of the White House, and Liane stepped out. She was wearing a black satin dinner suit with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and a white organdy blouse underneath the jacket, lined in the finest of white silk. Armand had bought her the suit at Jean Patou when he had gone to Paris at Easter, and it fit her perfectly. Patou had her measurements, and Armand always chose gifts for her that suited her to perfection, as this one did. She looked like a high-fashion model, with her long, slim figure and her perfectly smooth blond hair, as she stepped from the car. Armand emerged just behind her, wearing his dinner jacket. Tonight was an informal evening. None of the men would be wearing white tie.

There were two butlers and a maid waiting in the entry hall to greet them, to take any wraps the ladies might have brought and to direct them upstairs to the Roosevelts' private dining room. And of course there were presidential guards stationed in the hall.

It was a considerable honor to be entertained at the White House. Liane had been here several times to lunch quietly with Eleanor and a handful of other ladies, and she was particularly pleased to be dining here tonight. Upstairs on the second floor, in their living quarters, the President and his wife were waiting, she in a simple gray crepe de chine dress from Traina-Norell and a handsome rope of pearls. There was always something unassuming about the woman. No matter who had designed her clothes or the jewels that she wore, she looked as though she might have been wearing an old dress and a sweater, sensible shoes, and a warm smile. She was the kind of woman one would have wanted to come home from school to, as there would have always been a warm welcome waiting and a gentle smile.

“Hello, Liane.” Eleanor saw her first and walked over quickly. The President was already engaged in animated conversation with the British Ambassador, Sir Ronald Lindsay, another old friend. “It's so nice to see you both.” Her smile extended to Armand, who diligently kissed her hand and then looked into her eyes.

“We shall miss you most of all, madame.”

“But not half as much as we shall miss you!” She spoke in a high-pitched, thready voice, which people made fun of often, and yet to those who knew her it had a comforting and familiar lilt. It was just another endearing aspect of Eleanor. It was difficult to find anyone who didn't love and respect her, and in the past five years Liane had been one of her most ardent fans, in spite of their recent heated exchanges over the SS St. Louis. Armand had already reminded Liane not to bring that up again tonight. She had heeded the warning in the car with an obedient nod and then a chuckle. “Am I as tactless as all that, my love?” “Never” had been the answer, but Armand had a fatherly way about him with his wife, and he often reminded her of things, as he would have the girls.

“How are the children?” Liane was quick to ask. The Roosevelts' grandchildren were always in and out of the White House.

“As naughty as ever. And the girls?”

“Excited, and wild. Every time I turn around they've unpacked their trunks to look for a favorite doll, or create some mischief.” The two women laughed. With five children of her own, Eleanor was well versed in the ways of the very young.

“I don't envy you the task of packing up! It's bad enough for us in the summer when we go to Campobello. I don't think I could ever have managed getting them all the way to France. Surely one of my children would have leaped overboard on a dare, and we'd have had to stop the ship. I shudder at the thought, but Marie-Ange and Elisabeth are much better behaved. You should have a peaceful crossing.”

“We hope so,” Armand added, and then the threesome joined the others, the British Ambassador and his wife, Lady Lindsay, the Duponts of Delaware, the ever-present Harry Hopkins, a distant cousin of Eleanor's who was in Washington for two weeks, and Russell Thompson and his wife, Maryse, a couple that Liane and Armand enjoyed a great deal and saw often. He was an attorney, closely allied to the Roosevelt Administration, and she was from Paris, and a very lively girl.

Cocktails were served for half an hour, and then a butler announced that dinner was served in the President's dining room. As always at the dinners that Eleanor arranged, the food was exquisite, the menu superb. The table in the private dining room was set for eleven with a beautiful service of blue and gold Spode china, and heavy silver, on a cloth of very old and delicate lace. And there were large arrangements of blue and white iris, yellow roses, and white lilac set amongst long white candles in silver candelabra, and all around the room handsome murals of the American Revolution caught one's eye. It was a dinner Armand and Liane would long remember, as the President guided the conversation artfully between subjects of interest to all, often punctuated with an anecdote about something that had recently happened in Congress or the Senate. There was no talk of war during the entire meal. But inevitably, the subject came up over dessert. But by then everyone was sated and content, having eaten caviar, roast duck, a delicately smoked salmon, endive salad, and a rich array of cheeses from France.

The baked Alaska was almost a superfluous touch, but it was so delicate that hearing the men speak of war seemed less of an agony than it would have been earlier in the evening. But as usual the conversation became heated, with Roosevelt insisting, as he always did, that there was nothing to fear in Europe or the United States.

“But you can't mean that,” the British Ambassador insisted, torn between the heavenly delights of the baked Alaska and the more pressing issues at the table. “For God's sake, man, even in your own country, you've been preparing for war. Look at the trade routes you've begun assigning to shipping, look at the industries that have been stepped up, primarily steel.” The British knew only too well that Roosevelt was no fool, he knew what was coming, but he was determined not to admit it to his own people, or even here, amongst an assortment of close friends and international elite.

“There's no sin in being well prepared,” Franklin insisted, “it's good for the country, but it doesn't carry with it implications of coming doom.”

“Perhaps not for you …” The British Ambassador suddenly looked depressed. “You know what's happening over there as well as we do. Hitler is a madman. He knows it.” He pointed to Armand, who nodded. In this group, his views were well known. “What are they saying in Paris this week?”

All eyes turned to Armand, and he seemed to weigh his words before speaking. “What I saw in April was very deceiving. Everyone is trying to pretend that the inevitable will never come. My only hope is that it won't come too soon.” He looked gently at his wife. “I'll have to send Liane back if that happens. But more importantly than that”—his eyes left his wife and returned to the others—“a war in Europe now would be a tragedy for France, for all of us.” He gazed sadly at the British Ambassador, and as their eyes met, both men knew that they saw all too clearly what was coming as Hitler pressed forward. It was a terrifying fate. But as silence fell over the table Eleanor quietly stood up, as a signal to the ladies that it was time to leave the gentlemen to their brandy and cigars. Coffee would be served to the ladies in an adjoining room.

Liane got up slowly, as she disliked this particular moment of any dinner. She felt always as though she were missing the most important conversations of all, once the men were alone to speak their minds on the important issues of the day, without tempering their words for the ladies. During the drive home she questioned Armand as to what she had missed.

“Nothing. It was the same talk one hears everywhere now. Fears and denials, Roosevelt standing his ground, the British certain of what they think will come. Thompson agreed with us, though. He told me quietly when we left the table that he's certain Roosevelt will be in the war before the year's out, if it comes. It would be good for the economy here, war always is.” Liane looked shocked, but she knew enough about the truths of economics she had learned from her father to realize that what Armand was saying was true. “In any case, my little love, we shall be home soon enough to see for ourselves what's happening over there.” He looked distracted during the rest of the drive home, he had a great deal on his mind, and Liane let her mind drift back to the warm embrace she had received from Eleanor when they left. “You must write to me, my dear. …”

“I shall,” Liane had promised.

“Godspeed to you both.” The peculiar voice had cracked, and her eyes were damp. She was fond of Liane, and well aware that before they met again, the welfare of both countries might be jeopardized in terrifying ways.

“And to you.” The two women had hugged, and then Liane had slipped into the Citroen beside her husband for the short drive to the Embassy, which was still their home.

When they reached their front door, the chauffeur escorted them inside, and, as always, two guards waited, bid them good night, and then disappeared to their own quarters, where all appeared to be silent. The servants had all gone to bed, and it was long past the hours when the children would be up. But as they made their way toward their rooms, Liane smiled at her husband, tugged at his sleeve, and put a finger to her lips. She had heard a rapid shuffling and the click of a light.

“Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?” he whispered. He was less attuned than Liane to what she was hearing, but she swiftly opened the door to Marie-Ange's room with a broad smile.

“Good evening, ladies.” She spoke in a normal voice, and Armand thought she was crazy, but then suddenly there was an eruption of giggles and scurrying feet. Both girls had been hiding in Marie-Ange's bed, and now they ran toward their parents with laughter and excitement.

“Did you bring us any cookies?”

“Of course not!” Armand still looked shocked. Liane knew her daughters better than anyone, and it always amused him how well she did so. He began to smile now too. “What are you doing up? And where is Mademoiselle?” Their nurse was supposed to see that they went to bed and stayed there. Mutiny against her was a difficult task, as they all knew, but now and then the girls succeeded, with enormous delight.

“She's sleeping. And it was so hot …” Elisabeth looked up at him with the wide blue eyes of her mother, and as always, something deep inside Armand melted as he looked at her and then picked her up in his powerful arms. He was a tall, well-built man, and even in his mid-fifties he had a physique and a strength that suggested youth. Only the lines in his face, and the full mane of well-combed white hair, indicated his years, but his daughters were oblivious of the fact that their father was so much older than their mother. All they cared about was that he was their papa, and they adored him, just as he adored them.

“You're very naughty to be up so late. What have you both been doing?” He knew that Marie-Ange would have started the revolution and Elisabeth was only too happy to follow. That much he knew of his daughters, and he was quite right. As he watched them Liane switched on the light, and what they saw was a sea of toys pulled out of the boxes and trunks where they had been packed. The room was filled with steamer trunks packed with the girls' dresses, coats, hats, and shoes. Liane always bought them in Paris.

“Oh, my God,” Liane groaned. They had unpacked everything but their clothes. “What in heaven's name were you doing?”

“Looking for Marianne.” Elisabeth said it in a saintly little voice and looked up at her mother with a smile bereft of front teeth.

“You knew I didn't pack her.” Marianne was Elisabeth's favorite doll. “She's on the table in your room.”

“She is?” But both girls began to giggle. They had just been having fun. And their father looked at them as though he would scold them, but he didn't have the heart to, they were too full of life and too much like their mother for him to ever really get very angry at them. And he had no reason to. Mademoiselle ruled them with an iron hand, and Liane was a marvelous mother. It allowed him to enjoy them without having to play the ogre. But nonetheless he admonished them now for a moment in French. He told them that they had to help their mother with the packing, not take everything apart. They had to get everything ready, he reminded them, because they were leaving for New York in two days.

“But we don't want to go to New York.” Marie-Ange looked up seriously at her father, ever the spokesman for the team. “We want to stay here.” Liane sat down on Marie-Ange's bed with a sigh, and Elisabeth climbed into her lap as Marie-Ange continued to negotiate with her father in French. “We like it here.”

“But don't you want to come on the ship? They have a puppet theater, and a cinema, and a kennel for dogs.” He had told her before, but now she wavered as he spoke of them again. “And we'll all be happy in Paris too.”

“No, we won't.” She shook her head, looking into her father's eyes. “Mademoiselle says there will be a war. We don't want to go to Paris if there's going to be a war.”

“What's that?” Elisabeth whispered to her mother as she sat on her lap.

“It's when people fight. But nobody is going to be fighting in Paris. It will be just like it is here.” Armand and Liane's eyes met over the heads of their girls, and Liane could see that Armand was going to have a serious talk with Mademoiselle in the morning. He didn't want the girls frightened with talk of war.

And then suddenly Elisabeth spoke up and broke the spell. “When Marie-Ange and I fight, is that a war?”

The others laughed, but Marie-Ange corrected her before her parents could. “No, stupid. A war is when people fight with guns.” She turned to Armand. “Right, Papa?”

“Yes, but there hasn't been a war since long before you were both born, and we don't need to worry about that now. What you girls have to do is go to bed, and tomorrow help repack all these things you've taken out. Au lit, mesdemoiselles!” He attempted to sound stern, and although he almost convinced his daughters, he didn't even begin to convince his wife. He was putty in their hands. But he was also worried now that they would be frightened about a war in France.

Liane took Elisabeth back to her own room, and Armand tucked their eldest into her bed, and Liane and Armand met back in their own room five minutes later. Liane was still smiling at the mischief of the girls, but Armand was sitting on their bed, taking off his patent leather pumps, with a worried frown.

“What is that old fool doing frightening the girls with talk of a war?”

“She hears the same things we do.” Liane sighed and began to unbutton the beautifully made black satin jacket from Patou. “But I'll speak to her in the morning about the girls.”

“See that you do.” The words were harsh, but the tone of his voice was not as he watched his wife undress in her dressing room. There was always something more to say between them, some further reason why he couldn't tear himself away from her, even now, after an endless day and a long night. He watched the silky cream of her flesh appear as she took off the white organdy blouse, and he hastened quickly to his own dressing room to cast his dinner attire aside, and he returned only moments later in white silk pajamas and a navy-blue silk robe, his feet bare. She smiled at him from their bed, the lace of her pink silk nightgown peeking over the sheets as he turned off the light.

He slid into bed beside her and ran a hand gently up her arm until it reached the smooth satin of her neck, and then drifted down again to touch her breast. Liane smiled in the darkness and sought Armand's mouth with her lips. And there they met and held, in the darkness, their children forgotten, the nurse, the President, the war … and all they remembered as they peeled off each other's nightclothes was their hunger for each other, which only grew sharper over the years, instead of dimmer. As Armand's powerful hand touched her naked thigh, Liane moaned softly, parting her legs to welcome him to her, as she always did, and she smelled the muted spice of his cologne as he kissed her again and their flesh joined, and for the first time in a long time she found herself wanting another baby as he entered her gently at first and then with increasing passion, and as they kissed again with greater fervor, this time it was Armand who moaned softly in the night.

he doorman at 875 Park Avenue stood stolidly at his post. The jacket of his uniform was of heavy wool, and the wing collar he wore cut into his neck. The cap with the gold braid sat on his head like a lead weight. It was eighty-seven degrees in New York in the second week of June, but he still had to stand at his post, cap on, jacket in place, bow tie straight, white gloves on, smiling pleasantly at the tenants as they came in and out. Mike, the doorman, had been on duty since seven o'clock that morning, and it was already six o'clock at night. The heat of the day had barely abated, and he had another hour to stand there before he could go home at last, in baggy pants, a short-sleeved shirt, comfortable old shoes, no tie, no hat. A blessed relief it would be, he thought to himself in his Irish brogue. And a beer he could be usin' too. As he stood there he envied the two men who manned the elevators. Lucky devils, at least they were inside.

“Good evening, Mike.” He looked up from his heat-dimmed reverie to touch his fingers to his cap with mechanical precision, but this time to the greeting he added a friendly smile. There were those in the building he wouldn't bother to smile at, but this man was one he liked, Nicholas Burnham—Nick he had heard the man's friends call him. He always had a friendly word for Mike, a moment to stop and talk to him in the morning as he waited for his car to be brought around. They talked of politics and baseball, the latest strikes, the price of food, and the heat that had been shimmering off the streets of the city for the past two weeks. Somehow he always managed to give Mike the impression that he cared about him, that he gave a damn that the poor old man had to stand outside all day, hailing cabs and greeting ladies with French poodles, because he had seven children to support. It was as though Nick understood the irony of it all, and he cared. It was that that Mike liked about him. Nick Burnham had always struck him as a decent sort of man. “How did you survive the day?”

“Not bad, sir.” It was not entirely true, as his feet, raw, hot, and swollen, were killing him, but suddenly they didn't seem so bad. “And you?”

“It was pretty hot downtown.” Nick Burnham's office was on Wall Street, and Mike knew that he was big in steel, the most important young industrialist in the nation, The New York Times had called him once. And he was only thirty-eight years old. The difference in their stations in life and their incomes never bothered Mike. He accepted things like that, and Nick always gave him handsome tips and generous gifts at Christmas time. Besides, Mike knew that in some ways Nick didn't have an easy row to hoe. Not in this house anyway. As much as Mike liked Nick, he hated his wife, Hillary. A highfalutin, fancy bitch, she was. Never a kind word, never a smile, just a lot of fancy jewels and furs she'd soaked her husband for. When Mike saw them go out at night, more often than not she was saying something nasty to Nick, about one of the maids, or that he was late, or that she hated the people giving the party they were going to. A rotten little bitch she was, Mike always said, but a pretty one, not that that was enough. He wondered how Nick managed to stay such a pleasant man, married to a girl like that.

“I saw Master John today, with his new baseball bat.” The two men exchanged a smile, and Nick broke into a big grin.

“You may hear the sound of breaking windows one of these days, my friend.”

“Not to worry. I'll catch the ball if it sails down here.”

“Thanks, Mike.” He patted the old man's arm and disappeared inside the house as Mike smiled to himself. Forty-five minutes to go, and maybe tomorrow it won't be quite so hot. And if it is, well … that's the way things are. Two more men came in, and Mike touched his hat, thinking of Nick's son, John. He was a handsome little tyke, looked just like his old man, except that he had his mother's jet-black hair.

“I'm home!” Nick's voice rang out in the hall as it did every night, and as he put his straw hat on a table in the hall, he listened for familiar sounds, of John running down the hall to greet him perhaps. But tonight there were none. A maid in a black uniform and a white lace apron and cap came out of the pantry instead, and he smiled at her. “Good evening, Joan.”

“Evening, sir. Mrs. Burnham is upstairs.”

“And my son?”

“I believe he's in his room.”

“Thank you.” He nodded and walked down a long, thickly carpeted hall. The apartment had been entirely redone the year before, and everything was done in white and beige and cream. It managed to look both soothing and expensive at the same time, and had cost him an arm and a leg, particularly after the three decorators and two architects Hillary had hired and fired one by one, but the end result was one that he could live with and that he imagined had pleased her. It wasn't exactly the kind of place where one would expect to find a little boy, nor the kind of home where he could run his fingers along the wall or bounce a ball, but at least in the child's room, Nick had prevailed. There, everything was done in reds and blues, the furniture was comfortable old oak, the children's paintings on the wall were still a little overdone for Nick's taste, but at least he knew that these were rooms where John could have a little fun. There was a bedroom for his nurse, a large room for him, a little sitting room with a desk, which had been Nick's when he was a boy, and a large playroom filled with toys, where he could entertain his friends.

Nick knocked softly on the door of the hall that led to John's rooms, and instead of an answer, the door was instantly yanked open, and he found himself looking down into the smiling face of his only child. He swept him up in his arms with a happy smile, and a gurgle of laughter greeted his ears, as it did every night.

“You're crushing me, Dad!” But he didn't really seem to mind.

“Good. How's my favorite little boy?” He set him back on his feet, and John grinned up at him.

“I'm fine and my new bat is great.”

“That's good. Break any windows yet?”

“Of course not.” John looked offended as his father rumpled the blue-black hair. He was an interesting cross between Hillary and Nick, her creamy skin, Nick's green eyes, her hair. The two looked as entirely different as two people could, Hillary dark and small and delicate, Nick powerful and blond and strong, and yet the boy combined the best of both, or so everyone said. “Can I take my bat on the ship?”

“I'm not so sure about that, young man. Maybe if you promise to leave it in your trunk.”

“But I have to take it, Dad! They don't have baseball bats in France.”

“Probably not,” Nick agreed. They were going over for a year, or six months, if things got too tense. Nick had so many contracts over there this year, that he had decided to run the Paris office himself, and leave his right-hand man in charge in New York. And of course he was taking Hillary and John. He wouldn't consider staying there for that long without them, and it was important that he go. At first Hillary had wailed and moaned and complained to him every day, but for the last month she had seemed resigned, and John had decided that it would be fun. They were putting him in an American school just off the Champs-Élysées, and Nick had rented them a handsome house on the Avenue Foch. It belonged to a French count and his wife, who had moved to Switzerland the year before, during the panic before the Munich Accord, and now they were happy in Lausanne and in no hurry to return. It was a perfect arrangement for Nick, Hillary, and the boy.

“Want to come to dinner with me, Dad?” The nurse had just signaled John that it was time to go, and he turned hopeful eyes up to Nick.

“I think I'd better go upstairs to see your mom.”

“Okay.”

“I'll come down after you eat, and we can talk for a while. How's that?”

“That's good.” John smiled at his father again and left with the nurse as Nick stood for a quiet moment in the room, looking at his old desk. His father had given it to him when he was twelve, and almost ready for boarding school, but he had given it to John long before that. And if he had his way, his son would never be sent away to school. He had hated his years away, feeling banished from his home. John would never know the agony of that, Nick had told himself long before besides, he was far too crazy about the boy to let him go.

He closed the door behind him then and walked back down the long beige hall until he reached the grand piano in the central hall, and then walked slowly up the carpeted stairs to their rooms.

As he approached the landing he saw that the door to their suite of rooms was ajar, and he could hear Hillary's voice beyond, calling shrilly to the maid, who ran in from Hillary's dressing room, carrying an armload of furs.

“Not those, dammit! For chrissake …” He could only see her from the back, her shining black hair hanging like silk to the shoulders of her white satin dressing gown, but he could see just from the way she was standing that she was annoyed. “You fool, I told you the sables, the mink coat, and the silver fox. …” She turned then and glanced at Nick, her dark eyes meeting his green ones for a long moment as everything stood still. He had told her often not to shout at the help, but it was something she had done all her life, and she had never adapted well to change. She was only twenty-eight years old, but she looked every inch a woman of the world, with her well-coiffed hair, her carefully made-up face, her long red nails, her stance, her style. Even in her dressing gown she was the epitome of chic. “Hello, Nick.” The eyes and the words were cool, but she stood still as he approached, held up her cheek for him to kiss, and then turned her attention back to the maid. But this time she didn't raise her voice. “Would you please go back and get me the right furs.” But even at that, her tone cut like a knife as Nick watched.

“You're awfully hard on that girl.” It was a tone of gentle reproach, one she had heard ten thousand times before, and she didn't give a damn. He was always nice to everyone, except her, of course. He had ruined her life, but he'd got what he wanted out of it. Nick Burnham always got his way, but not with her. Not anymore, she told herself again and again. Once was enough. And she'd made him pay for it for the last nine years. If it hadn't been for Nick, she'd still be in Boston, maybe even married to that Spanish count who was so nuts about her the year she came out…. Countess … she liked the ring of that…. Countess…. “You look tired, Hil.” He gently stroked her hair and looked into her eyes, but he met no answering warmth there.

“I am. How do you think everything in this house has got packed?” By the maids, he almost said, but he bit his tongue. He knew that in her mind she'd done it all. “Christ, I have to pack everything for you, for John, table linens, sheets, blankets, plates, your things …” Her voice grew high-pitched as she spoke, and he walked away and sat down on a Louis XV chaise longue.

“I can pack for myself, you know that. And I told you, the house in Paris has everything we need. You don't have to take your own bed linens and plates.”

“Don't be an ass. God only knows who's slept in those beds.” And for an instant, just an instant, he almost said that they couldn't have been any worse than the people who had slept in hers. But he said nothing, he only watched as the nervous little maid returned, hopefully with the right furs this time: two sable coats, one mink, and the silver fox jacket she had received at Christmas, in a large handsome box, from God knew who. One thing was certain, it was not from Nick. The sables were, the mink, the chinchilla coat she was leaving behind, but the fox was an enigma, more or less, although he assumed it was from Ryan Halloway, the son of a bitch.

“What are you staring at?” Without intending them to, his eyes had strayed to the fox. They had fought about it several times before, and he did not intend to discuss it with her again. “Don't start that. I don't have to go to Paris, you know.”

Oh, Christ, he thought to himself, not that. It had been such a long day, and he was so hot. He didn't want to fight with her today. “Do we really have to go through all this, Hil?”

“No, we don't. We could stay here, you know.”

“No, we couldn't. I want to run my Paris office for the next year. I have important contracts over there, and you know it. So we're all going. Somehow, I've never thought of Paris as a rough place to live.” But she did. For some reason, she was bound and determined to stay in New York. “Come on, Hil, you've always loved it over there.”

“Sure, for a few weeks. Why the hell can't you fly back and forth?”

“Because I'll wind up never seeing you or John. For crissake.” He stood up all at once, and the maid scurried out of the room. She knew the pattern of their fights. Eventually he blew his top and began to shout, and more often than not she threw something at him. “Can't we just let this thing lie? Can't you just accept that we're going? For chrissake, the ship is sailing in two days.”

“So let it, or go by yourself.” Her voice was like ice as she sat down on the bed, stroking the silver fox and looking up at him. “You don't need me over there.”

“Is that right? Or is it that you'd like to get rid of me for a year, then you could run back and forth to Boston to visit that little son of a bitch.” He knew how promiscuous she was, he had known for years. But he believed in preserving his marriage, for John's sake, for his own. His own parents had been divorced, and he had led a lonely, unhappy life as a child and had vowed never to do that to his own son. All he wanted was to be married and to stay that way, and he would, no matter what, no matter what Hillary did. But still the angry words slipped out more often than he wanted them to. “Aren't you ever afraid you'll get pregnant, Hil?” They both knew he meant by someone else.

“Apparently you've never heard of abortion … if what you say is true, of course, that I play around, which I do not. But babies are not exactly my thing, dear Nick, or don't you recall?” They always aimed their blows below the belt. They had for years.

“Oh, yes, I do.” The muscles in his jaw tensed as he clenched one hand, but his voice was oddly soft. She had never forgiven him for what had happened nine years before. She had been the most beautiful debutante in Boston. He remembered well her raven hair in sharp contrast to the white gowns her parents had had sent from Paris. There were many men who wanted her. Her father was in his fifties when she was born, her mother thirty-nine, and they had long since given up hope of having a baby, when suddenly Hillary appeared. She had been spoiled from the beginning, adored by her father, pampered by her mother, grandparents, and nurse. She had had everything she wanted, and she intended to go on living that way forever, until suddenly, on the night of her debut, she saw Nick. He was tall, blond, and handsome, with one of Boston's prettiest girls on his arm. And everyone had whispered from the moment he walked in … Nick Burnham … Nick Burnham … a fortune in steel … sole heir of his father … At twenty-nine, he was one of the richest young men on Wall Street, handsome as hell, and single. Hillary had almost floated out of the arms of the man she was dancing with, and had gone to meet Nick. They were introduced by one of her father's friends, and she had done everything she could to sweep him off his feet. And with surprisingly little effort, she had succeeded. Nick had gone to Boston often after that, and then Newport the following summer, and it was there that it had happened. Hillary had wanted him to want her more than any other woman he had ever known, and she had given her virginity to him, because she thought she loved him, and because she wanted to own him.

What she hadn't counted on was that she would get pregnant, which she did the first time he made love to her. He was shocked at first, and Hillary was totally hysterical. She didn't want to have a child, she didn't want to get fat, have a baby … She had been so childlike as she cried in his arms that he had laughed at her. She said something about finding someone to help her get an abortion, but he wouldn't hear of it. She was an enchanting woman-child, and the idea of a baby pleased him to no end, after the initial shock had passed. He spoke to her father without telling him about the baby, asked for Hillary's hand, and informed Hillary that they were getting married, which they did before the summer ended. It was a lovely wedding in Newport, and Hillary looked like a fairy queen in the white lace dress that her mother had worn at her own wedding. But beneath the happy smiles, she hid a sinking heart. She wanted Nick, but she didn't want to have a baby. She hated every moment of their early days of marriage, despite his constant cosseting and spoiling, because she knew he had married her because of the baby, and she didn't want competition from the child.

When the time approached, Nick did everything he could for her—bought her extravagant gifts, helped her set up the nursery, promised that he would be there to hold her hand— but she sank into a terrible depression in her ninth month, which the doctor felt contributed to a lengthy and nightmarish labor. It was an event that almost cost Hillary her life, and the baby's, and she never forgave Nick for the agony she went through. The depression persisted for six months after the birth of the child, and for a long time Nick thought that he was the only one who would ever love Johnny, but finally Hillary began to come around.

Or so he thought, and then the following winter, she had gone back to Boston for Christmas, without the baby, and visited friends. Suddenly she seemed to be taking forever to come home, and he realized that she was staying there to go to all the parties that her friends gave, and she was pretending to herself and others that she wasn't married, and she was just a debutante again, and she was having a grand time. A month after Hillary had left for Boston, Nick went up to get her, and insisted that she come home. A grand row had ensued between them, and she had even begged her father to let her stay there. She didn't want to be married, to live in New York, to take care of a baby, but this time her father was shocked. She had chosen to marry Nick, and he was a good husband to her. She had a responsibility to go back and at least try to work out the marriage, and she had a responsibility to the child as well, but she returned to New York with the cheer of a prisoner facing execution, feeling betrayed by all, and hating Nick the most, because he represented everything she didn't want in life, which was growing up. Her father had spoken to Nick before they left. He blamed himself for his daughter's behavior. He knew that she had been spoiled as a child, but he never realized that she would expect that as a way of life forever, shirking responsibilities on all fronts and hurting her husband and child. But Nick assured him that in time, and with patience, Hillary would grow into her new role. And at the time, he believed it, and he exercised as much patience as he had promised her father he would, but it was to no avail. She continued to take no interest in the baby, and the following summer she went to Newport, this time taking Johnny and the nurse, to avoid any further comment. She stayed there for the entire summer, and when Nick went up to see her, he became aware that she was having an affair. She turned twenty-one that summer, and was having a hot romance with the brother of one of her friends. He had just graduated from Yale and thought that he was very racy, sleeping with Hillary Burnham, which he told half the town, until Nick paid him a visit, and the boy went back to Boston with his tail between his legs and the tongue-lashing Nick had given him still ringing in his ears. But the real problem in it all was Hillary. Nick took her back to New York again, and attempted to shape her up in earnest, but in the next few years she bounced back and forth between Newport, Boston, and New York like a yo-yo, having affairs whenever she thought she might not get caught, including this last one. She had gotten involved with Ryan Halloway while Nick was in Paris. It didn't mean a thing to her, and Nick knew it, but it was her way of telling Nick repeatedly that she wasn't really married, never would be, that he couldn't own her, that she was free forever, free of him, and their son, and her father, who had died three years after she had married Nick. Her mother had long since given up all hope of having some influence upon her, and eventually so had Nick. She was what she was, a striking, very pretty woman, with a bright mind, which she wasted, and a sense of humor that still amused him, on the rare occasions when they talked. Most of the time they just fought now, or he ignored her. He had thought once or twice of divorcing her, and knew that he would have no trouble doing that, but if he did, she would get custody of Johnny. The courts were almost always favorable to the mother, unless she was a prostitute by profession, or hooked on dope. So in order to keep his son, Nick had to live under the same roof with Hillary, for better or worse, as long as he could stand it, and there were times when he thought he truly could not.

He had had some faint hope that by taking her to Paris, it would distract her, and she might behave herself for a while over there. But the trip was not off to an auspicious beginning. He knew that the affair with Ryan had ended after Christmas, but he also suspected that she was working on something new. She always got particularly edgy when something new was starting, like a racehorse fretting at being penned in. He knew that there was nothing he could do to stop her. As long as she kept her affairs reasonably secret, he was resigned to living with her, and in recent years she had grown a little warmer toward their son. No matter, Nick saw to it that Johnny had warm, loving nurses, and he had a father who adored him, which was more than Nick had had at the same age. But he would never agree to give up Johnny, to divorce and live a life that would rob him of the child he loved. Johnny was the center of his existence, and if that meant putting up with Hillary and her infidelities and her temper, then it was a price he was willing to pay.

He watched her now as she sat down at her dressing table, ran a comb through the silky hair, and watched him in the mirror, and then, as though to annoy him doubly, she took a long swig of the Scotch and water that was in a glass on her dressing table. And suddenly he realized that beneath her white satin dressing gown she wore a black silk dress.

“Going somewhere, Hil?” His voice was even, his eyes like bright-green rocks.

She hesitated only for a moment, the Thoroughbred in her flaring her nostrils. He could almost see her feet prancing as she readied for another race. “As a matter of fact, yes. There's a party tonight at the Boyntons.”

“Funny”—he smiled ironically, he knew her too well now—”I didn't see the invitation.”

“I forgot to show it to you.”

“No matter.” He started to leave the room, and she turned in her seat, speaking softly.

“Do you want to come, Nick?”

He turned and looked at her. There probably was a party at the Boyntons. But he very seldom went to parties. When he did, she invariably wound up in a corner, flirting with someone new or even an old friend. “No, thanks. I brought some work home.”

She turned her back to him again. “Don't say I didn't ask you.”

“I won't.” He stood in the doorway, watching her sip her drink again. “Give them my best, and try to come home early.” She nodded. “And Hil …” He hesitated.

“Yes, Nick?”

He decided to go ahead and say it. “Try not to leave New York in flames when you go. And whatever you're up to, kiddo, remember, we set sail in two days. And one way or the other, you're coming with me.”

“What does that mean?” She stood up and turned to face him.

“It means that whether you leave some bleeding heart behind or not, you're coming. You're my wife, however much you may want to forget that.”

“I never do.” There was bitterness in her voice as she said it. She hated being married to him, more so because he had been so nice to her. It made her feel guilty toward him, and she didn't want to feel guilty. She wanted to be free.

“Have a good time.” He closed the door softly behind him and went downstairs to see his son. And as soon as he had left the room, Hillary dropped the dressing gown from her shoulders, revealing the little black silk halter dress she had bought at Bergdorf Goodman. She clipped diamond earrings into place and looked in the mirror. She knew she would see Philip Markham at the party, and she wondered as she finished the Scotch and water how Nick always knew. Nothing had happened with Phil yet, but he was leaving for Paris in August, and who knew what would happen then … who knew….

he vast, splendidly designed ship lay in her berth at Pier 88 on the Hudson River, and every inch of her looked the part of the elegant queen. As Armand stood for a moment outside the limousine, he glanced upward at the three graceful smokestacks silhouetted against the sky. She weighed eighty thousand tons, and yet was the swiftest, most sophisticated vessel on any sea. To look at her took your breath away, and there was an inevitable moment of reverent silence as one perused her beauty. She was still more beautiful under full steam, and yet even here, at rest in her berth, she was undeniably a queen.

“Papa! Papa! I want to see.” Elisabeth catapulted out of the Citroën first, and stood beside her father for a moment, her small hand clasped firmly in his. “Is that it?”

“No.” Armand smiled down at his youngest daughter. “It is she. La belle Normandie, mon trésor. You will never see another ship like this one, little one. No matter what they build in years to come, there will never be another Normandie.” It was a sentiment already echoed by many. In the seven years since she had been launched, she had been traveled by the great and elite, the rich, the spoiled, the elegant, lovers of beauty and of the sea, and there was not a soul among them who did not agree. The Normandie was an extraordinary vessel, and totally unique, the most beautiful, most elegant, swiftest. A floating island of luxury in every imaginable way.

Armand turned as he sensed his wife standing beside him. For a moment he had forgotten all of them. If he had allowed himself to, he might have cried. There was something about the Normandie that swelled the heart and made one particularly proud of France. What an accomplishment this ship was. What pride one had to feel just sensing the labor of love that had gone into her, from stem to stern, and hull to sky. She was a veritable beauty.

Liane sensed Armand's emotions and silently agreed as she watched her husband's face, and when he turned to her, she smiled.

“You look like a proud papa all over again,” Liane teased in a gentle voice as he laughed.

But he nodded agreement, without shame. “What a victory for France.”

By then Marie-Ange had joined her sister, and the two girls were hopping up and down with glee. “Can we go on board now, Papa? Can we? Can we?”

Liane took them each by the hand, and Armand busied himself giving orders to the porter and the chauffeur, and five minutes later they passed through the enormous archway marked COMPAGNIE GÉNÉRALE TRANSATLANTIQUE, and stepped into an elevator that took them to an elevated section of the quay. There were three separate entrances for the 1,972 passengers who would come aboard, discreetly separate and labeled PREMIÉRE CLASSE, TOURISTE, and CABINE. “Premiére classe” was first of course, and there would be 864 passengers entering through that archway before the ship sailed that afternoon. And when Armand, Liane, and the girls stepped onto the Normandie's deck, it was shortly after noon. They had left Washington at 5:00 A.M., by train, and reached New York half an hour before. They had been met by a limousine from the Consulate in New York and whisked directly to Pier 88, on West 50th Street.

“Bonjour, monsieur, madame.” The uniformed officer smiled down at the two impeccably dressed little girls in matching pale-blue organdy dresses with white gloves and straw hats and shining black patent leather shoes. “Mesdemoiselles, bienvenue à bord.” He looked pleasantly at Armand then. The young officer loved his job, and in the years that he had been assigned to checking passengers on board, he had met Thomas Mann, Stokowski, Giraudoux, Saint-Exupéry, movie stars such as Douglas Fairbanks, heads of states, giants of the literary world, cardinals and sinners, and crowned heads from almost every European country. It was exciting just waiting for them to say their names, if one did not recognize them at first glance, which, more often than not, he did. “Monsieur?”

“De Villiers,” Armand said quietly.

“Ambassadeur?” the young man inquired, and Armand confirmed it with a silent nod.

“Ah, bien sûr.” Of course. He noted as he glanced at his passenger list again that the De Villierses would be occupying one of the ship's four most luxurious suites. He had no way of knowing that it was a courtesy of the “Transat,” as the CGT was called, and he was impressed to realize that the ambassador and his family would be occupying the Grand Luxe suite Trouville. “We will show you to your cabin at once.” He signaled to a steward who materialized at his side and immediately took Liane's small carrying bag. The rest of their trunks had been sent ahead several days before, and what they had brought with them on the train would meet them in their stateroom only moments after they reached it themselves. The service on the Normandie was supreme.

The Trouville suite was on the promenade deck, and it was one of two suites available on that deck, with a promenade of its own, looking out over the handsome open air space of the Café-Grill. There were benches and lamps, and the stairways and railings formed a graceful design as Armand glanced down from their private terrace. Inside, there were four large elegant bedrooms, one for Liane and himself, one for each of the girls, and one for their nurse as well.

There were additional rooms available on the same deck for extra servants they might have brought along. One of these was needed for Armand's male assistant, Jacques Perrier, who was traveling on the ship as well, so that Armand could continue his work. But the rest of the “studios” would not be used by them, and would be kept locked. The only other inhabitants of this rarefied upper deck would be the family in the Deauville suite, which was identical to the Trouville in its grandeur and expense, but in no way similar to the De Villierses' suite of rooms. Each first-class cabin on the ship was done in an entirely different decor, with no repetitions from suite to suite. Down to the last detail, each single room was totally unique. And as Armand and Liane looked around their suite, their eyes met, and Liane began to laugh. It was so outrageously extravagant, so elegant, so beautiful, that she felt as excited as their girls.

“Alors, ma chérie.” He smiled at her as the steward left them in the main foyer, standing beside the promised baby grand piano. “Qu'en penses-tu?” What do you think? What could she think? It was a miraculous place to spend five days, five weeks … five months … five years…. One would like to stay aboard the Normandie forever. And she could see in her husband's eyes that he thought so too.

“It's incredible.” All around them, on their way aboard, they had noticed the lavish art deco motif, the rich woods, handsome sculptures, enormous glass panels everywhere. It was beyond being a floating hotel, but more like a floating city of perfection, where absolutely nothing was out of sync, and everything one saw was a caress to the eye. She sat down on a dark-green velvet couch and giggled at Armand. “Are you sure I'm not dreaming? You won't wake me up, and we'll be back in Washington?”

“No, my love.” He sat down beside his wife. “It's all true.”

“But this suite, Armand, I cringe to think what it must cost!”

“I told you, they upgraded us from the deluxe rooms I had reserved.” He looked victorious again as he smiled at his wife. It pleased him to make her happy, and it was obvious that she was as overwhelmed as he. In her years of traveling with her father, she had seen great luxury, but this was something more, something totally remarkable and unique. Just to be on the Normandie, for a moment, one felt like a part of history. It was easy to believe that there would never again be a ship quite like this, and that people would be talking about it for years and years. “Would you like a drink, Liane?” He opened double wood-paneled doors to reveal an enormous well-stocked bar, and Liane stared at it and then him.

“Good God! You could float the ship on all of that!” But as she spoke he opened a bottle of Dom Pérignon champagne. He poured her a glass and held it out, turning to pour one for himself as well, and then while standing looking at his beautiful wife, he raised his glass, his eyes on hers, and toasted her. “To two of the world's most beautiful ladies … La Normandie … et ma femme.“ The ship, and his wife. Liane looked happy as she took a sip of the sparkling wine, and then she came to stand beside him. It felt like a honeymoon again, and she had to remind herself that the girls were in the next room.

“Shall we take a walk and look around?” Armand asked.

“Do you think the girls will be all right?”

He looked at her in amusement and then laughed. “Here? I think they'll manage.” And Mademoiselle was already helping them to unpack their toys and dolls, as the trunks had been waiting in their rooms.

“I know exactly what I want to see.”

“And what is that?” He watched her run a comb through her long blond hair, and felt a pang of lust for her. He had been so busy in recent weeks, he had scarcely seen her. It seemed as though they never had time to be together. But hopefully, on the ship, they would have time to stroll, wandering from deck to deck, and to chat as they had enjoyed doing so much for the past ten years. He felt lonely when he didn't have enough time to talk to her. But on this trip, he had promised himself, he and Jacques Perrier would only work from nine to noon, and the rest of the time he would be free. The trip was of course a rare opportunity for Perrier as well. A young man of about Liane's own age, he would normally have traveled back to France on a lesser ship, and in second class. But this time, as a reward for his five years of devoted work, Armand had intervened on his behalf, a special discount was obtained, and it was possible for him to make the crossing on the Normandie with them. Liane had been pleased for Jacques at the news, but now she hoped that he would find his own pursuits. Like Armand, she was hungry for them to have some time alone together. And she knew that the girls would have plenty to do, with the swimming pool, the children's recreation rooms, the kennels, where they could visit the traveling dogs, the puppet theater, and the cinema. There was lots for them to do, and, hopefully, for Jacques too. Liane asked Armand as they left the suite if he thought Jacques might already be on board.

“He'll find us after we sail, I'm sure.” He had spent two days in New York on his own, seeing some friends, and was undoubtedly having some sort of party in his room. “Now, what is it that you're so anxious to see, Liane?”

“Everything!” Her eyes shone like a little girl's. “I want to see the bar with the varnished pigskin walls, the winter garden … the main salon …” She smiled up at her husband then. “I even want to see the gentleman's fumoir. It looks incredible in the brochure.” She had done her homework well, and Armand was amused.

“I don't think you'll get in to see the gentleman's smoking room, my love.” His eyes took her in again in the pretty red silk suit. It was difficult to believe that they had been married for ten years. She didn't look a moment over nineteen. From his vantage point of twenty-four more years, she always looked somewhat like a child. And now, as she strolled along on his arm, they made an extremely handsome pair as they wandered down to the boat deck, to the forward promenade, from where they could see New York in the heat of the bright June day. But here, on the ship, there was a slight breeze. They went back indoors a few moments later and down to the promenade deck, where they took a quick tour of the first-class lounge and glanced into the theater, and Liane spoke to him about the pool.

“It has a terraced shelf for the girls, so they'll be safe.”

“Those two little fish?” Armand smiled down at his wife. “They would be safe in any pool.”

“I still feel better knowing there's a protected area of the pool for them. Do you suppose it's open now?” She wanted to see everything at once.

“I suspect they keep it closed until the ship sets sail.” The Normandie was famous for its rather elaborate farewell parties, and undoubtedly it would have occurred to some to visit the pool with a bottle or two of champagne. They never would have got the visitors off the ship in that case. It was difficult enough as it was. Everywhere, they could see people visiting the ship, glancing into staterooms, peeking into elegant lounges and suites.

Once past the theater, they wandered on to the library, a handsome, serious-looking room, and it was just past it that Liane discovered the winter garden she'd read about, and she almost gasped as they stepped inside. There was a tropical jungle of greenery everywhere, marble fountains delicately splashing water, and tall glass cages filled with exotic birds, and there was an open-air sensation due to the fact that they had reached the forward of the ship. Liane thought it was the most exotic room she had ever seen and she turned to her husband with a look of happy disbelief. It seemed more than ever like a dream.

“It's even prettier than the photographs in the brochure.” In fact, the whole ship was. Even from these first glimpses, there were treasures everywhere, touches that could not be portrayed adequately in a photograph or sketch, and could barely even be described. It was all like an exquisite fairyland, filled with extraordinarily handsome, interesting-looking people in a setting more spectacular than Versailles or Fontainebleau. They both agreed that they had never seen anything anywhere to rival it, and as they made their way back to the other end of the ship, to the sun deck, where they would live for the next week, other voices echoed their thoughts in whispered tones: “Extraordinary … extraordinaire … un miracle … incroyable … incredible … remarkable … she's every inch a queen.” People constantly compared her to other ships, yet there was no comparison to be made. She stood alone. The Normandie. A solitary work of art. A crown of jewels in France's fleet.

“Shall we see if Jacques is here, Liane?” They were walking past the studios, approaching their rooms, and for just an instant Liane felt her heart give a tiny tug. She didn't want to see Jacques yet, didn't want to see him here at all. She wanted Armand to herself, to share the voyage with only him. She was almost sorry they had brought the girls. It would have been so wonderful to have had the next five days alone with him.

“If you like, Armand.” Ever obedient, she knew how much Armand needed Jacques. Yet it would have been nicer if they hadn't had to do any work on board. But such was the existence Armand led. Responsibilities above all. They stopped and knocked, but with relief, Liane noted that there was no response. A steward approached them at once.

“You're looking for M. Perrier, Ambassadeur?”

“I am.”

“He is in the Café-Grill with friends. Would you like me to show you the way?”

“No, no, it's quite all right.” Armand smiled pleasantly at the man. “There'll be plenty of time after we set sail.” At least he knew the young man was on board. He had felt sure he would be by now, but he had wanted to be absolutely sure. There were still some very important memos they had to get out, in preparation for Armand's arrival in France. “Thank you very much.”

“Not at all. I'll be your chief steward for the trip. Jean-Yves Herrick.” He pronounced it Err-eek, and Armand had known from his accent that he was from Bretagne. “I believe you'll find a message from Captain Thoreux in your suite.”

“Thank you again.” Armand followed Liane inside, and beside an enormous handsome basket of flowers on the piano and two baskets of fruit from their Washington friends, there was indeed a letter from Captain Thoreux, inviting them to watch the ship set sail from the bridge, a rare privilege granted to few, and Liane was pleased.

“Do you suppose he'd let us bring our camera?”

“I don't see why not. Do you want to check on the girls before we go?” But when she did, she found that they had disappeared. Mademoiselle had left the De Villierses a note, informing them that the girls wanted to see the kennels and the tennis court on the upper sun deck, and Liane knew that they would be safe with Mademoiselle. There was lots for all of them to explore, and she followed Armand now, back in the direction they had come. The bridge, they discovered, was on the sun deck at the front of the ship, and directly over the winter garden that had so enchanted Liane a little while before.

Two officers quietly stood guard outside the wheelhouse, keeping the curious from getting inside, and Armand handed them the note Captain Thoreux had sent, and they were rapidly ushered inside to meet him themselves. He was a wiry, white-haired man with deep creases around deep-set blue eyes, and he kissed Liane's hand and then shook Armand's, welcoming them aboard his ship as they sang its praise.

“We're all very proud of her.” He beamed. The Normandie had just won the Blue Riband again, for speed records across the Atlantic, but she was equally remarkable for her beauty as well, as they all knew.

“She's even more beautiful than we dreamed. An extraordinary ship.” Armand looked around at the perfectly regimented order of the bridge. It looked like the insides of a Swiss clock. Everything was immaculate, hushed, in perfect order. Charts were spread out on a large table, the view from here was superb, and there was an elevated platform where the captain and his first officer stood, ruling the movements of the ship, which Armand had heard for several years were also the smoothest of all ships afloat. There had been some talk of unpleasant vibrations at first, but even that problem had been overcome in the Normandie's early days. And because of the remarkable design of her hull, it was also said that she had almost no wake. She was in every possible aspect beyond even her designer's and builder's dreams.

From a quiet corner, where they would not get in the way, Armand and Liane watched the ship get under way, pulling out slowly from Pier 88, assisted by tugs until she left the port, and then turning slowly east, pointing her nose toward France, until at last the port of New York slowly disappeared, and they were at sea. Armand was once again impressed by the swiftness of the ship's maneuvers and the smooth workings of Captain Thoreux's team.

“We hope that you will both have a very pleasant journey.” Thoreux smiled again at Liane. “And it would be my great honor if you would join me for dinner tonight. We have some very interesting people on the ship. We always do.” He was too proud of his ship not to boast a bit, but he had every right to do so, and Armand accepted the invitation with pleasure, wondering who else was on board, and who they would meet at the captain's table. He hoped that Liane might have a little fun, make some friends, and find some people to keep her amused while he worked with Jacques. They thanked the captain again and returned to the Trouville suite.

It was by then three in the afternoon, and Armand suggested that they order some sandwiches and tea in their room. They had a pantry of their own, and the dining room they'd noted before would be useful at times like this, and as Liane stretched out on the large, comfortable blue-satin-covered bed, he read her the menu and she grinned.

“You won't be able to roll me off the ship in France if I eat all that.”

“You can afford to add a pound or two.” She had a tendency to be too thin, but he had to admit he liked her that way: long, elegant, and lean. It always gave her the look of a young colt, especially when she played games with the girls on their lawn. There was ever something youthful about Liane, especially now as she peeled off the red silk suit, to reveal tiny cascades of satin and lace. He slowly put the menu aside, and with another thought in mind he approached, but just then their doorbell rang. He hesitated for a moment and Liane sighed.

“I'll be right back.” But before she heard his voice, she knew. It was Jacques Perrier, ever devoted to the task at hand. His earnest horn-rimmed, spectacled face, his dark suits, his briefcase always chock-full. Liane knew him only too well. The honeymoon with Armand would end before it ever began, with Jacques Perrier's help. She heard them now, conferring in the living room, and a moment later Armand came back to her.

“Is he gone?” Liane sat up on the bed, her garter belt and stockings and brassiere still in place on her lissome frame.

“No … I'm sorry, Liane … there were some cables that apparently came in just before we left. … I have to … just a moment …” He faltered for a moment, trying to read her eyes. But she only smiled at him.

“It's all right. I understand. Will you work here?”

“No, I thought we'd go to his room. You order something to eat. I'll be back in half an hour.” He came to kiss her quickly on the lips and then was gone, his mind filled with his duties for France, and she glanced at the menu again. But she was not hungry for food, she was hungry for Armand, for more of his time, and there was never enough. She lay down on her bed and then relaxed, listening to the soft murmuring of the ship until she fell asleep, dreaming of Armand and a beach somewhere in the South of France. She was trying to get to him, but she couldn't get past a guard who insisted that she couldn't get through. And the guard wore the face of Jacques Perrier. She slept like that for two hours, while Marie-Ange and Elisabeth escorted their governess to the swimming pool.

In the Deauville Suite, Hillary Burnham stood staring at the wood-paneled bar with an air of exasperation. There were gallons of champagne, but she couldn't find the Scotch.

“Goddamn lousy bar. Stinking French, all they ever think of is their bloody wine.” She slammed the door and turned to stare at Nick, her black eyes shining like shimmering black onyx, her hair like black silk over a spectacularly beautiful dress of white crepe de chine. She had thrown the hat to match on a chair when she walked into the living room of the suite, scarcely noticing the decor, or acknowledging the beauty of her surroundings. All she did was tell her maid to start unpacking her clothes and iron the black satin skirt with the raspberry satin top that she was going to wear that night. “Don't you want to take a look around before you have a drink, Hil?” Nick was watching her as she stalked away from the bar with a shake of her head, and she reminded him, as she had a long time before, of a petulant, desperately unhappy child. He never quite understood why she was that way. One could tell oneself that she had been spoiled when she was young, that marriage chafed her more than it did most, that she was disappointed in her life, but it was still hard to understand why. Underneath the sharp tongue, and the harsh words, there was still a beautiful girl who could still turn his knees to mush. It saddened him that he could never inspire the same in her. For a mad moment or two he had told himself that she might be different on the ship, that away from her friends and her fast life, she might once again become the girl he had first met, but it had been a foolish thought and he knew that now. There had been several clandestine phone calls made from her dressing room the night before, and at eleven o'clock she had gone out for a couple of hours. He didn't ask her where she'd gone. It didn't really matter now. They were leaving for a year, and whatever it was, he knew that she would be leaving it behind. “Would you like some champagne?” His voice was polite now, but less warm than it had been before.

“No, thanks. I think I'll go have a look at the bar.” She glanced at a map of the ship and saw that there was one just beneath where they were, and she ran her lipstick quickly across her lips before heading for the door. Johnny was out on their private deck with his nurse, excitedly watching the skyline of New York as they pulled out of port, and for a moment Nick felt torn, and then made a rapid decision to follow his wife. This was a good place not to fall into old ways, and he wanted to keep an eye on her. Whatever she had done in New York, he was not going to let her do it for the next year. The American community in Paris was not overly large, and he didn't want her creating any scandals there. And if she was going to be as restless as she had been for the last nine years, then he was going to just have to tag along. “Where are you going?” She looked back at him over her shoulder, with a look of surprise.

“I thought I'd join you at the bar.” He kept his voice even and their eyes met and held. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all.” They spoke to each other like strangers, and a moment later he followed her down the hall. She descended to the Grillroom on the boat deck, where the buffet ran all day and all night, and the walls were of the varnished pigskin that had so intrigued Liane. It was an enormous airy-looking room that looked out on the first-class promenade, where many of the passengers had gathered as the ship set sail. And now, in couples and small groups, they wandered into the grill, their faces animated, their voices filled with chatter and laughter, excited about the trip. Only Hillary and Nick seemed to sit in total silence, or so he felt as he watched the people come in and sit at tables. He felt odd not saying anything to his wife, but then he realized that they scarcely knew each other anymore. She was almost a stranger to him. All he knew about her was that she went to parties constantly, bought new clothes, and disappeared to Newport and Boston whenever she could. It was more than a little odd to be sitting here together, and he wondered suddenly, as she ordered a Scotch and water, if she felt trapped, being there with him. He couldn't even imagine what to say. What do you say to a woman who has been avoiding you for almost nine years? “Hi, how's your life? Where have you been for the past decade? … Hello, my name is …” He began to smile to himself at the absurdity of what he was feeling, and when he looked up, he saw her eyeing him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion.

“What's funny, Nick?”

He was about to say something pacifying and vague, but then he decided not to. “We are, I guess. I was trying to remember the last time we sat at a table like this, all by ourselves, with no place to go, nowhere to rush off to. It's funny, that's all. I was wondering what to say to you.” It was so easy to send her into a rage and he really didn't want to. He almost hoped that they could make friends again. Maybe the year in Paris would do them good. Maybe without her little circle in Boston to run off to she'd make an effort. He smiled again at the thought and covered one of her long, beautiful hands with his, feeling beneath his fingers the tencarat diamond he had bought her. He had bought her a lot of jewelry at first, but she rarely seemed as pleased to receive it as he was to give it, and in recent years his gifts to her had stopped. He knew though that there had been gifts from others, like the fox jacket the winter before, and a large emerald brooch she had worn often, as though to flaunt it at him … a ruby ring … He forced his mind back from his thoughts. They would do no one any good now. He looked into the big black eyes and smiled at her. “Hello, Hillary. It's nice to see you here.”

“Is it?” The anger seemed to fade, replaced by something sad. “I don't know why it should be, Nick. I haven't been much of a wife.” There was no apology in her voice, only a tinge of bitterness in the statement.

“We've become strangers in the last few years, Hil, but it doesn't have to be that way forever.”

“It's already been that way forever, Nick. I'm all grown up and someone you barely know, and to tell you the truth, most of the time I can't even remember who you are. I have these distant memories of the parties we went to long ago, of how handsome you were, and how exciting, and I look at you, and you look the same….” Her eyes grew too bright and she looked away. “But you're not.”

“Have I changed that much in all these years?” He looked sad too. These were words they should have said long before, and never had, and suddenly here they were in a bar on a ship that had just set sail, beginning to open up their hearts. “Am I so different now, Hil?”

She nodded, her eyes bright with tears, and then she looked up at him again. “Yes, you're my husband.” She said it as though it were a terrible word, and he could see the old restlessness in the way she moved her shoulders and suddenly moved back from the table in her seat, as though to escape him.

“Is that such a bad thing?”

“I think—” She almost choked on the words, but for once she decided to go ahead and say it. He might as well know how she felt. Why not? “I think for me it is. I don't think I was ever meant to be married, Nick.” This time it was said in a voice of confession, the bitterness was gone, and she looked like a beautiful young debutante again, the debutante he had “raped,” in her words once, and got pregnant, and “kidnapped” from her home, and “forced” into marriage. She had rewritten the screenplay long since, and she believed what she said. There was no point arguing with her, or reminding her that she had wanted to go to bed with him, that it was as much her fault as his that she had got pregnant, and that he had tried to make the best of it with her, but she had never even wanted to try. “I feel … I feel so trapped being married … as though I'm a bird that can't fly, but can only flap its wings, hobbling around the ground, going nowhere, being made fun of by its friends. It makes—” She hesitated for a moment and then went on. “It makes me feel ugly … like I'm not what I used to be anymore.”

“You're even more beautiful than you were.” He said it, looking into her eyes, and taking in the creamy skin, the silky hair, the delicate shoulders, and graceful arms. There was nothing ugly about Hillary Burnham, except at times the way she behaved, but he didn't say that now. “You've grown up to be an exceptionally beautiful woman. But that's not surprising. You were always an exceptionally beautiful girl.”

“But I'm not a girl anymore, Nick. I'm not even a woman.” She paused as though groping for words. “You don't know what it's like for a woman to be married. It's like you become someone's possession, their thing, no one sees you as yourself anymore.” It was something he had never thought of, and it sounded a little crazy to him now. Was that what she had been fighting all these years? Was that what all the affairs were all about? Her fight to make herself separate, to be someone and something on her own? It was a novel thought to him.

“I don't think of you as a possession. I think of you as my wife.”

“What does that mean?” For the first time in half an hour there was anger in her voice again, and she signaled for another Scotch as a waiter drifted by. “My wife. It sounds like ‘my chair, my table, my car.’ My wife. So what? Who am I when I'm with you? I'm Mrs. Nicholas Burnham. I don't even have a name of my own, for chrissake. Johnny's mother … it's like being someone's dog. I want to be me. Hillary!”

“Just Hillary?” He looked at her with a sad smile.

“Just Hillary.” She looked back at him for a long time and took a sip of her drink.

“Is that who you are to your friends, Hil?”

“Some of them. At least the people I know don't give a damn about who you are. I'm sick to death of hearing about Nick Burnham—Nick Burnham this … Nick Burnham that … Oh, you must be Mrs. Nicholas Burnham … Nick Burnham's wife … Nick Burnham … Nick Burnham … Nick Burnham!!” She raised her voice as he shushed her.“Don't tell me to shut up, damn it. You don't know what it's like.” It felt good to confront him. That was something new in their totally separate lives. Now perhaps he could understand what lay behind her ferocious independence. But the funny thing was that it was precisely that that had drawn her to him originally and he knew it. She had liked the fact that he was Nicholas Burnham, with all the weight that carried with it. “And I'll tell you something else. No one in Boston gives a damn about who you are, Nick.” That wasn't entirely true and they both knew it, but it made her feel better to say it. “I have my own friends there, and they knew me before I married you.” He had never realized that that was so desperately important to her. He wondered suddenly if there was some way he could ease the burden of this anger she felt. And just as the thought entered his mind a steward approached them.

“Mr. Burnham?”

“Yes?” He thought instantly of Johnny. That he had got hurt somewhere on the ship, and they had come to find him.

“You have a message from the captain.” Nick glanced at Hillary and saw her eyes blaze, and he suddenly knew something more, that she hadn't told him in the past hour over drinks. She was jealous of him.

“Thank you.” He accepted the gold-banded envelope with a nod, and the steward disappeared as Nick took out the single engraved sheet with the formal wording. “Captain Thoreux … requests the pleasure of your company at dinner … in the Grande Salle à Manger at nine o'clock this evening.” It was what was referred to as the Second Sitting, and the most elegant of the two, the first one being at seven.

“What's that all about? Are they already kissing your ass, Nick?” She had finished the second drink, and her eyes were too bright, but not with tears now.

“Shhh, Hil, please.” He looked around to see if anyone had heard her. The idea that anyone kissed his ass embarrassed him. But there was no escaping the fact that he was a very important man, and it was inevitable that he would be pursued. He wore his mantle of importance well, albeit at times almost too humbly, which made it all the more insane that his wife resented who he was. He was the last human being on earth to cram it down her throat. But she had heard it all too often. “The captain is inviting us to dinner.”

“Why? Do they want you to buy the boat? I hear this tub is called France's floating debt.”

“If she is, she's a beauty and well worth it.” He had learned long since not to respond directly to her questions when she was in that kind of mood, it only made her more angry. “The invitation is for nine o'clock. Do you want to have something to eat now?” It was only four-thirty. “We could have something here or go into the Grand Salon for tea.”

“I'm not hungry.” He watched her eye the waiter for another drink, but he shook his head and the waiter disappeared.

“Don't treat me like a child, Nick.” She almost hissed the words at him. All her life people had done that, her mother, her father, her governess, Nick. The only people who didn't were people like Ryan Halloway and Philip Markham. They treated her like a woman. “I'm all grown up now, and if I want another drink, I'll have one.”

“If you drink too much, it'll make you seasick.”

For once she didn't argue with him, but took out her gold Cartier compact with the diamond clasp as he signed the check for their drinks, and put on a bright red slash of lipstick. She was one of those women who, with very little effort, could turn the heads of an entire room, and she came damn close to it as they walked outside to the promenade for some air. New York was already long gone now. The Normandie was going thirty knots, and scarcely leaving any wake behind her.

They stood there side by side at the rail, in silence for a time, and he thought over what he had learned about his wife during the past hour of conversation. He had never before realized how much she resented being his wife, or at least not for those reasons. She wanted to be her own woman, and not belong to any man. Maybe she was right, he wondered, maybe she shouldn't be married. But it was too late for those thoughts now. He would never let her go. He would never give up Johnny. He glanced down at her where they stood and for an instant wanted to put an arm around her, but he sensed instinctively that it wouldn't be the right thing to do, and instead he sighed softly in the wind as other couples strolled past them. He longed for that kind of friendship and ease with his wife, but they had never had that between them. They had had sex and passion and magic and teasing, in the beginning anyway, but they had never had the quiet that grows between two people who are comfortable with each other. In a way, he questioned if they had ever really shared love, or only their bodies.

“What are you thinking about, Nick?” It was an odd question from her, and he turned to look down at her with a slow smile.

“Us. What we have, what we don't.” Dangerous words, but he was feeling a little daring. The wind was whipping his face, and he felt oddly free here. It was the kind of magic they talked about on ships, feeling as though one were in a separate world. The rules of one's normal life, so carefully adhered to, no longer seemed to apply here.

“What do we have, Nick?”

“Sometimes I'm not sure anymore.” He sighed and leaned down against the rail. “I know what we had at the beginning.”

“The beginning wasn't real.”

“The beginning never is. But ours was as real as most. I loved you very much, Hil.”

“And now?” Her eyes dug deep into his.

“I still love you.” Why? he asked himself. Why? Maybe it was because of Johnny.

“In spite of all I've done to you?” She was honest about her sins, some of the time at least. And like him, she felt especially free now, especially after the two Scotches.

“Yes.”

“You're a brave man.” The words were open and honest, but she didn't tell him that she loved him. To do so would have been to strip herself bare, to admit that she belonged to him, and she would no longer do that. She tossed her hair in the wind then and looked out to sea as he watched her. Without looking at him, she spoke. It was as though she didn't want him to see into her soul, or maybe she didn't want to hurt him any more than she already had. “What am I supposed to wear to this dinner tonight?”

“Whatever you want.” He sounded suddenly tired and sad. The moment had passed, but he had wanted to ask her if she loved him. Maybe it didn't matter anymore. Maybe she was right. They were married. She was his. He owned her. But he knew that in her case, thinking that he owned her was a delusion. “The men wear white tie. I guess you should wear something pretty formal.”

She knew that in that case the raspberry and black satin outfit wouldn't do, and as they wandered back to their cabin on the sun deck, she mentally meandered over what she had brought in her trunks and settled on a delicate mauve satin gown.

When they reached the Deauville suite, Nick glanced into their son's room, but he still hadn't returned from his tour around the ship with his nurse, and Nick was suddenly sorry that he hadn't taken him himself. But as he returned from Johnny's room, he saw Hillary looking at him. She had taken off the white crepe de chine dress and was standing there in a white satin slip and stocking feet, looking more beautiful than ever. She was the kind of woman one wanted to ravage until she screamed. He hadn't thought of her that way when she was eighteen. But he thought of her that way now. Often.

“Good God, you should see the look on your face!” Hillary began to laugh her deep, throaty laugh as Nick approached her. “You look positively wicked, Nick Burnham!” But she didn't seem to mind it. She stood there, the strap of her slip falling off her shoulder, and he saw that she wore no bra, and every inch of her seemed to taunt him.

“Then don't stand around looking like that, Hil, unless you want to get into serious trouble.”

“And what kind of trouble is that?” He stood directly in front of her, and could feel the warmth from her tantalizing body. But this time he didn't play with words with her, he crushed his lips down on hers, never wondering if she would reject him. You never knew with Hil, it depended on the importance of her lover at the current moment. But there was no lover now. She was on a ship, miles from shore, lost between two worlds, and she stretched her arms up to her husband, and without further ado he swept her up in his arms, walked into their bedroom, and slammed the door with one foot before depositing her on the bed and tearing the white satin slip from her body. What it revealed was a white satin of a different kind, and his mouth drank in the cream of her flesh, like a man dying of hunger. She gave herself with a passion dimly remembered from the past, spiced now with the knowledge of years she had acquired since he met her. But he asked no questions now, he thought of nothing but his rampant desire for her, which seemed to know no bounds as their bodies plunged on the peaceful ship and his body covered hers and at last they lay spent. He watched her afterward as she slept, and knew the truth of her words of an hour before. She was his wife. There was no doubt about that. But he would never own her. No man would. Hillary owned herself, always had, always would. She was always just out of reach, and as he watched her lying peacefully in his arms, he knew with a bittersweet sorrow that he had always wanted the impossible. She was like a rare jungle beast one longed to tame. And the truth was, she was right, secretly he did want to own her.

o a woman, the ladies who entered the Grande Salle à Manger that night, sauntering slowly down the stairs as people watched, would have made any man proud. Their hair and makeup were done to perfection, they were impeccably turned out by the maids they had brought along, and most of their gowns had been designed in Paris. The jewels competed only with the brilliant lights in the room, equal to the brilliance of one hundred and thirty-five thousand candles and reflected in the endless walls of hammered glass sixty feet longer than the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. The room, three decks high, seemed filled to the rafters with ruby taffetas and sapphire velvets and emerald satins, and here and there a gown of gold. Liane herself looked exquisite in a black strapless taffeta dress she had bought at Balenciaga. It cascaded behind her in a sea of ruffles. But it was when Hillary Burnham came down the stairs that everyone seemed to stare at her clinging Grecian gown of the palest mauve satin. It molded to her exquisite form in a way that made everyone hold their breath, including the captain. Around her neck she was wearing pearls the size of very large marbles. But it wasn't the rope of pearls that caught the eye, but the raven-black hair, the creamy skin, the brilliant black eyes, and her body as it swayed slowly down the stairs to the captain's table.

The captain's table was just in front of the enormous bronze statue representing peace, which stood tall among the diners, her head held high, though not as high as Hillary's as she reached the table, with Nick just behind her, impeccable in white tie and tails, with mother-of-pearl studs in his starched shirtfront, diamonds circling them and at their center. But it was the diamonds at Hillary's ears, peeking from behind the shaft of black satin hair, which set off the dancing lights in her eyes.

“Good evening, Captain.” Her voice was deep and husky, and in spite of their best efforts, everyone lost the thread of their conversations at the table. Captain Thoreux stood up, bowed in well-executed, almost military fashion, and bent to kiss her hand.

“Madame … bonsoir.” He stood to face her again and introduced her to the group. “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” and then he introduced Nick. The group at the captain's table was considerably older than were they, except for Liane. But most were of the captain and Armand's generation. Their wives were elegant and well dressed but slightly overstuffed, and heavily bejeweled, as though if they counterbalanced their portly shapes with an equal quantity of jewels, one might not notice their excess weight. But no one looked at them once Hillary arrived. The men's eyes were riveted to Hillary and her gown, which seemed to flow over her like water, straight across her shoulders in the front, and then down to a point just below her waist in back, revealing the delicious flesh every man who saw her longed to touch.

“Good evening, everyone.” She made no effort to remember their names, and awarded a second glance only to Armand, looking extremely handsome tonight, wearing his decorations with his white tie. She made no effort to talk to Liane, although they sat across the table from each other, but Nick seemed to make a special effort to make up for her, chatting pleasantly with two older women on either side, and an elderly man who turned out to be an English lord. Liane noticed that Nick glanced frequently at his wife, not so much as an affectionate sign, as Armand had done two or three times since the dinner began, but rather as though he were checking up on her. She saw him appearing not to strain to hear what Hillary said, but she had the feeling that Nick Burnham did not trust his wife, and between the plateau de fromages and the soufflé Grand Marnier, she began to suspect why. Hillary was speaking to the elderly Italian prince on her left, and had just told him that she always found Rome extremely dull. But as though to keep him intrigued, she smiled pleasantly as she made the slight, and then looked past him again to cast an eye at Armand. “I understand you're an ambassador.” She glanced then at Liane, and it was obvious that she was wondering if Liane was his daughter or his wife. “You're traveling with your family?”

“I am. My wife and daughters. Your husband tells me that you have a son on board. Perhaps we can get the children together sometime to play.” Hillary nodded, but she seemed annoyed. It looked somehow as though children's games were not precisely what she had in mind. There was a predatory quality about her tonight, a woman looking for easy prey, and with a face and body like that, Liane thought to herself, it couldn't be very hard to find. She was amused at Armand's polite rebuff. She never worried about him, the only one she ever lost him to was Jacques Perrier. As it turned out, they had worked all afternoon, and he had come back to the Trouville suite just in time to bathe and get dressed, a circumstance Liane was accustomed to, although she had hoped to see more of him on the ship.

“Perhaps,” she had threatened him as she ran his bath and handed him a kir, “I shall have to throw Jacques overboard.” Armand had laughed, grateful for an understanding wife. But he had not seen her earlier on their private deck, staring out to sea, with a look of sorrow on her face. She longed for the days of long ago, when he was a less important man, and there hadn't been a constant flow of memos and cables and reports to occupy his mind, and he had had more time for her. He so seldom did now.

She wondered then what Nick Burnham was like. He seemed a pleasant man, but he offered very little of himself. He was polite, well-bred, he seemed to take in the entire scene with quiet eyes, but one knew him no better when dessert was served than one had known him when he had first sat down. She wondered if perhaps he adopted such a bland facade to counteract his more than startling wife. Liane had a feeling that she was out to shock. It was not that her dress was inappropriate, but it was designed obviously to catch the eye and keep it there. One thing was certain, Hillary Burnham was not shy.

Nicholas was observing his wife through new eyes tonight. He had watched her from the moment they introduced her as his wife, to see how she would react, following her confessions to him that afternoon in the bar. Insanely he hoped that something in her would soften, but she was no different than before. The moment the captain said the fateful words “Mme. Nicholas Burnham,” she was out to prove something to them all. It almost made Nick sorry for her to see her chafe at the bonds she so ardently resented. But there was nothing he could do to help her. Even a kindly look from him annoyed her and she rapidly turned her attention to Armand, with a come-hither look in her eyes. But the ambassador appeared not to notice.

“This isn't Boston or New York, Hil,” Nick whispered later as the entire group headed toward the Grand Salon. “If you give yourself a bad name here, it'll stick with you for the next five days.” He was referring to her unsuccessful attempt at flirtation with Armand, the captain, and two of the other diners.

“Who gives a damn? They're a bunch of old bores.”

“Are they? I rather thought you liked the ambassador.” It was his first truly cutting remark of the trip, but he was tired suddenly of her games. Even when he tried to understand her, inevitably she angered him or hurt him. And she was also straining obviously at the bit, and it worried him. He was never quite sure what she would do or say. “Do yourself a big favor while you're on board.”

“What's that?”

“Behave yourself.”

She turned to face him then, stopping dead in her tracks with a wicked smile. “But why? Because I'm your wife?”

“Don't start that crap again. As it so happens, that's exactly who you are. There are almost a thousand important, influential people on this ship, and if you don't watch your ass, my dear, every one of them is going to know just what you are.” His anger was full-blown now. He could do nothing to stop it and no longer cared to.

“And what's that?” She was almost laughing at him now, totally oblivious of his concern. And he had been about to answer her with two simple words: “A whore,” but the captain was at their sides again in the magnificent room, and Hillary turned to him with a charming smile. “Will there be dancing tonight?”

“Of course, my dear.” The captain, like the other officers aboard the ship, had seen droves of Hillarys over the years, some older than she, some not. Lovely, spoiled, bored with their lives ashore, tired of marriages and husbands who had faded from their lives long years before, but they had seen few quite as beautiful as this. She stood beside their table in the Grand Salon now, and even in the splendor of the room, she was aware of every pair of male eyes on her. There were glowing crystal fountains filled with light, windows twenty-two feet high, and murals etched in glass, covered with ships, and an orchestra had already begun to play, but Hillary was the finest attraction of all. She had wilted not one bit from the feast in the dining room. If anything, she seemed more effervescent than the endless flow of French champagne. “In fact”—the captain smiled at Nick—“may I have your permission, sir, to ask Madame for the first dance?”

“Of course.” Nick smiled pleasantly his assent and watched them as they walked away. The orchestra was playing a low French waltz, and Hillary's body moved with extraordinary grace as the captain guided her expertly around the floor, and other couples joined them, among them Armand and Liane.

“Well, my love, have you fallen head over heels for the siren from New York?” Liane smiled at him as they danced.

“I have not. I am far more impressed by the beauty from the West Coast. Do you suppose I have a chance with her?” He brought her fingers to his lips and kissed them, keeping his eyes on hers. “Are you having fun, chérie?”

“I am.” She smiled happily as she looked around the room. She was never happier than when she was in Armand's arms. “She's quite something, though, isn't she?” She was still intrigued with Hillary, and Armand looked over his wife's head with a peaceful glance.

“The Normandie? Ah, yes, she is.”

“Now, stop it.” Liane laughed. “I know you hate to gossip, but I can't resist. You know exactly who I mean. I mean the Burnham woman. She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.”

“Indeed.” He nodded, a smiling sage. “Beauty and the Beast are rolled into one. I don't envy him. But I think he knows exactly what he's got on his hands. He watches her every move.”

“And she knows it, and she doesn't give a damn.”

“I wouldn't say that.” Armand shook his head. “I think she does it to annoy him. One could murder a woman like that.”

“Maybe he's madly in love with her.” Liane enjoyed the thought of a passionate romance.

“I think not. If one looks deep into his eyes, he's not a happy man. Do you know who he is, Liane?”

“More or less. I've heard his name. He's in steel, isn't he?”

Armand laughed. “He isn't ‘in’ steel. He is steel. A few years ago he was the youngest, most important industrialist in the States. His father died when he was quite young, and left him not only a fortune that almost defies the imagination, but an empire to run as well. He has proven himself admirably. I believe he's crossing over now because he has some very important steel contracts with France. And today, he is truly the master of his industry.”

“At least he's on our side.”

“Not all the time.” Liane's eyes raised to Armand's. “He has contracts with the Germans too. And that, my love, is how an empire is run. Without a heart at times, but always with a firm hand and quick mind. It's too bad he can't exercise the same power over his wife.”

Liane slowly digested this as the dance came to an end. She was more than a little shocked to realize that Burnham was selling steel to Hitler as well as to France. To her that seemed a betrayal of all that she believed in, and she was surprised at Armand's easy acceptance that business was business, but he was more familiar than she with the world of international politics, and dealings and compromises were the norm for him.

“Does that shock you about Burnham, Liane?” He looked down at her pensive expression and she nodded.

“It does.”

“Those are the ways of the world, my love.”

“That's not how you do business, Armand.” She was so idealistic that it touched him. She had so much faith in him and his integrity, and that meant a great deal to him.

“I don't sell steel, my little love. I deal in the honor and well-being of France on foreign shores. That is by no means the same thing.”

“The principles should be the same. What's right is right.”

“It's not always as simple as that. And according to what they say, he's a very decent man.” It was the impression Liane had of him, but now she was not as sure. For a moment she wondered if that was the problem with his wife, perhaps she didn't respect him. But she realized almost as soon as the thought came that that had nothing to do with the way Hillary behaved. She was selfish and unpleasant and spoiled, and she probably always had been. There was a sharp edge to her that nothing veiled, and her beauty was outweighed by the evil that lurked within her. “I wouldn't, however, say that his wife is a decent girl.”

“Hardly that.” Liane smiled.

“There are very few men as lucky as I.” He bent to whisper in her ear and then escorted her off the floor. She danced with the captain then, the Italian prince, and her husband again, and then they excused themselves and returned to the Trouville suite, and she was happy to be alone with Armand at last. She yawned as she took off the lovely black dress. Armand was in his dressing room, and when he returned, he found her already in bed and waiting for him, and his own words echoed in his own head again. There were few men in the world as lucky as he, and when he came to bed, Liane proved it to him again, and they fell asleep in each other's arms.

It was a very different scene from the one in the Deauville suite, where Hillary was, as usual, making trouble. Nick had forced her to come back to the suite. She had found someone more interesting to dance with at last, from another group, and Nick had accused her of being rude. And in the end, after watching her cavort for too long, he thanked the captain for a lovely time and excused himself with his wife, to return to their suite.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”

“The person you hate most, my dear. Your husband, the man who holds the end of the gilded chain you wear.” He had smiled at her to quell the fury he felt, but she had gone into their room and slammed the door, and tonight it was Nick who sought refuge’ in the bottle of Scotch. And as he drank he found himself thinking of Armand and Liane. He thought they made a handsome pair, and he admired the grace and poise with which Liane moved and behaved. She was an impressive woman in her quiet way, and her subtle glow hadn't gone unnoticed, even in the shadow of Hillary's far more gaudy light. He was tired of her games, he decided with his fourth glass of straight Scotch. More tired than she knew. More tired than he himself was willing to admit most of the time. If he would have allowed himself to feel the pain, it would have been too much to bear. In the end he put the bottle away, and at three o'clock that morning he went to bed, grateful that Hillary had taken a sleeping pill and was already asleep.

he sea air was having the effect that it always did. The next day on the ship, everyone seemed to wake earlier than they were used to, having slept better than they had in years, and with appetites that brought the stewards to their rooms with heavily laden trays. And Armand sat in their private dining room with the girls and Mademoiselle, while Liane bathed. The girls were already anxious to get out and move about the ship.

“And what are you going to do today?” He smiled at the girls over a breakfast of kippered herring and shad roe, and Marie-Ange made a face as she watched him eat. “Would you like a taste?” he teased, and she vehemently shook her head.

“No, thank you, Papa. We're going swimming with Mademoiselle. Will you come?”

“I'm going to do a little work with M. Perrier this morning, but perhaps your mother will.”

“What will your mother do?” Liane appeared in their dining room, wearing a white cashmere dress, her long blond hair pulled back in a neat bun, and white suede shoes. She looked as fresh as an English rose, and Armand admired her again, wishing suddenly that he had lingered in bed long enough for them to make love. “Good morning, girls.” She kissed them both, greeted Mademoiselle, and then stopped to kiss Armand on the top of his head.

“You look lovely, my dear.” It was obvious that he was sincere, and she smiled at him.

“At this hour of the day?” She looked surprised and pleased. He always noticed what she wore and how she looked and she could see in his eyes when he was especially taken with her. As he had a moment before, she wished now that Armand had stayed awhile in their room. But he had been quick to hurry out of bed. He had a great deal of work to do, and he had promised her that he would finish before lunch. “Anyway, what was it that you were volunteering my services for?”

“A swim with the girls. How does that sound to you?”

“Like a fine idea.” She smiled at Marie-Ange and Elisabeth. “I'd like a little time to shop, and maybe walk a bit. But we'll still have plenty of time to swim.” She smiled at the girls and poured herself a cup of tea, glancing at Armand. “You know, if I don't walk off some of this food, I'm going to weigh two hundred pounds when we reach Le Havre.” She looked at his enormous meal and helped herself to a piece of toast.

“I don't think there's any real danger of that.” He accepted a final cup of tea from his wife and looked at his watch. And almost as though the signal had been prearranged, they heard their doorbell ring and it was Jacques Perrier, with the eternal briefcase in his hand. Mademoiselle had let him in, and he greeted Liane solemnly and then Armand.

Bonjour, Madame … Monsieur l'Ambassadeur … Tout le monde a bien dormi?” He inquired how they had slept, and he sat down with a mournful look. He was, as always, anxious to get to work, and Armand stood up with a sigh.

“I'm afraid, ladies, that duty calls.” He smiled into his assistant's eyes and went into the bedroom to get his own briefcase. He emerged a moment later with a sober look and his official face. “We're off.” He waved to the girls as they left, and suggested to Perrier on their way out that they go to the gentleman's fumoir on the promenade deck, two decks below. There weren't liable to be too many men there now, and they could get their work done in peace amidst the morocco leather settees and easy chairs in the enormous room without interruption. Perrier was quick to agree. He had spent the evening there himself the night before, having no particular interest in the dancing in the Grand Salon. Instead he had chosen to read his memos in the fumoir, and prepare for the next day's work. He had stopped at the adjoining Café-Grill on the way back to his room and had had a brandy and a late-night snack, and then he had gone to bed at midnight, before Liane and Armand had returned to their suite.

“Did you sleep well, Perrier?” Armand inquired as they descended the grandiose staircase in the smoking room. There were no women there. It was entirely reserved for men, and was meant to remind them of their clubs, but it was far more sumptuous than any club, with walls covered with gold bas-relief of Egyptian sporting scenes, and two-deck-high ceilings, which were characteristic of almost all the Normandie's gathering rooms. Armand selected a quiet corner with two large leather chairs and a desk and put aside the newspaper published on the ship. They had enough to do.

“I slept very well, thank you, sir.”

Armand looked around before opening the folders he had brought. “This is quite a ship, Perrier, isn't it?”

“Indeed, sir, she is.” Even he, with his lack of interest in frivolity, had been impressed since the moment he came aboard. There seemed to be startling beauty everywhere, breathtaking design, the finest that their country could produce, from boiserie to sculpture to delicately carved glass, the eye took it all in and the senses soared, even here in the smoking room. “Well, shall we get to work?”

“Yes, sir.” The familiar folders came out, and they worked quietly for hours, Perrier making careful notes and putting each folder aside as the matter was resolved. And by ten thirty they had begun to warm up. It was then that Armand noticed Nick Burnham come in. He was wearing a blazer and white slacks and a tie, which pronounced him an alumnus of Yale. He chose a quiet spot across the room, picked up the newspaper of the ship, and began to read, but he glanced at his watch once or twice, and Armand assumed correctly that he was meeting someone there. He wondered if he too had brought an assistant along. He knew that there were many businessmen who did, yet somehow Nick didn't seem quite the type. He seemed more the sort of man who would leave his business at the office at the end of a day, and concentrate on other things. He didn't have the driven qualities of many of his colleagues in the business world. Just then another man came in and looked around. Nick Burnham stood as soon as the newcomer came in. The man then strode across the room, with an almost military gait, and shook hands firmly with Nick and sat down. He ordered a drink from one of the fleet of waiters standing by, and the two men sat down and leaned toward each other in quiet conversation for a time, and Armand guessed that there was business being done. Nick nodded his head frequently and made several brief notes, and the older man he was talking to looked pleased when at last he sat back in his chair, nodding slowly as he looked at Nick and lit a cigar. Whatever it was that they had discussed, it had gone well. At last the second man stood up, they shook hands, and the man crossed the room again, exiting this time through the Café-Grill, as Nick watched, his lips pursed, his eyes following the man's every step until he was gone. Then Nick took out his notes again and when Armand glanced up, he was intrigued by the look on Nick's face. During his entire conversation with the other man he had seemed interested but casual, his body relaxed, his face intent, but not nearly as intent as he looked now, going over his notes. Perhaps he was more driven than he seemed.

Armand realized again what an important man Nick was, and that undoubtedly the deal being discussed in the smoking room was one that involved staggering sums. Yet the man had about him an apparently easy, relaxed manner. As Armand watched him now, he sensed that the casual ease was only a front, an air he had given himself long since to put those he dealt with falsely at ease. There was nothing relaxed about him now, and Armand could almost sense the wheels turning at full speed in Nick's head. He thought him a most intriguing man, and hoped that before the trip ended they would have time to talk. He caught Nick's eye as he left the room, and Burnham smiled pleasantly at him. He had liked the way Armand had handled Hillary's misbehavior the previous night. He had made it politely obvious that he was impervious to her charms, and Nick was relieved. He didn't particularly want to have to deal with one of her affairs in the close quarters of first class on the ship, and he sensed that Armand was a decent man. They sensed that about each other, and there was a kind of silent camaraderie as Nick smiled and then Armand went back to his work.

Nick went out on deck on the first-class promenade for a breath of air, and when he glanced up, he saw Liane on the terrace of the Trouville suite, her face turned toward the wind. He stood there watching her for a long moment. There was a lovely grace to the woman. She looked like an ivory sculpture in her white cashmere, and he remembered again how quiet and poised she had been the night before. But then he saw her daughters come onto the terrace to claim her attention and a moment later she followed them inside, not having noticed him standing there.

Liane walked the girls around the shops before they went to the pool, and they bought a present for Armand. Liane chose an Hermès tie, and Marie-Ange absolutely insisted that they buy him a little bronze model of the ship on a marble stand. He could put it on his desk in Paris, they said, and Liane agreed to let them buy the treasure for their father. They left it in their suite before going on to the pool with their mother and Mademoiselle.

The pool itself was an extraordinary sight. The enameled sandstones and bright mosaics were designed in intricate patterns everywhere, and the pool was over seventy feet long.

Even filled with the happy swimmers who cavorted in the deep end, it didn't seem crowded, and the girls were almost squealing with delight as Liane led them to the terraced shallow end. She had changed into a navy-blue knit swimsuit with a white belt, and she tucked her hair into a white cap before diving into the deep end of the water. She swam with long, skilled strokes back to the girls as they splashed about in their red bathing suits, beginning to make friends. There was a little boy in a red tank suit much like theirs, and Elisabeth had just learned that his name was John. When John looked up at Liane, she noticed his eyes were a brilliant emerald-green, in sharp contrast to his fair skin and almost jet-black hair. She had the feeling that she had seen him somewhere before. There was something familiar about his eyes, and his smile.

Liane then went for a swim, and as she swam she noticed that groups had begun to form, people were calling each other by their first names, and like the children, they had begun to make friends. But she saw no one she knew. With Armand so busy with Jacques Perrier, they had socialized less than most, and when she was alone, she felt a little strange about leaving their rooms. She took the air on their private promenade, or went on quiet walks, or as now, she did something with the girls. But she was not one of those women to hang around, chatting with the other women in shops, or picking up people over tea in the Grand Salon.

They swam for well over an hour, and then at last Liane urged them from the pool. She took them back to the suite to change for lunch, and escorted them to the children's dining room, decorated by Laurent de Brunhoff with Babars painted on the walls, holding each other's tails. The girls had fallen in love with it the night before, when they'd eaten there with Mademoiselle. And as Liane left she saw the little boy from the pool come in with his nurse. She smiled down at him and he waved at the girls, and then she returned to her suite to change. She had only ten minutes left to dress for lunch and she wondered if Armand would be back soon, but as she sat down on the couch to wait in a beige wool suit from Chanel, a steward rang the bell and handed her a note. Armand and Jacques had not yet finished their work, and he preferred to stick with it until they had, so he could at least spend the afternoon with her. For just a moment as she read his distinctive scrawl, she felt her heart sink, but she smiled at the steward anyway and went downstairs to the Grande Salle à Manger to eat alone.

She was seated at a table for eight, and two of the couples had opted not to dine. The other couple was from New Orleans, a pleasant older pair who made easy conversation about the ship. Liane noticed that the wife wore a diamond ring the size of a sugar cube, and she didn't have a great deal to say. The husband was in oil, he said. They had lived in Texas for years, and Oklahoma before that, but in their twilight years they had moved to New Orleans. She and Armand had been there once. She spoke to them for as long as she could, but they all fell silent over dessert. And before the coffee came they excused themselves to go and take a nap, and Liane sat alone, looking over the dining room and the animated tables everywhere. She felt lonely for Armand, wishing that he would finish his work. And after eating some fresh fruit and a cup of tea, she stood up and walked outside, where she almost immediately ran into Nick Burnham with his son, and then she realized where she had seen the boy before. He was the child she and the girls had met at the pool, and then again in the dining room. He looked very much like Nick, which was why he had looked so familiar to her. She smiled at the child and then at Nick, before talking to the boy.

“How was your lunch?”

“Very good.” He beamed, he looked happy holding on to his father's hand, happier than he had looked before. “We're going to the puppet show.”

“Would you like to come?” Nick smiled, and Liane hesitated. She wanted to wait in the suite for Armand, but she could leave him a note and take the girls, and when he came, she could always leave them there. Mademoiselle could pick them up when the show was over.

“Yes, I would. I'll go back and get my girls and meet you there.” She wondered briefly, as she hurried back to the Trouville, where Hillary Burnham was, but she didn't look the type to spend much time with her son, Liane assessed, and she was quite right. In their suite she found Marie-Ange and Elisabeth playing a game in their rooms. Mademoiselle wanted them to take a nap, but Liane rescued them and left a note for Armand. “Gone to the puppet show with the girls. Meet us there. Love, L.” And then the three of them ran off to the children's playroom on the same deck. There was a carousel, and a Punch and Judy show about to begin. She spotted Nick and John sitting in a row of empty seats, waiting for them. Liane and the girls sat down just as the lights began to dim, and the next hour flew by as the children laughed and screamed and answered the questions they were asked by Punch, and applauded heartily when the show came to an end.

“That was fun.” John looked up at Nick with a broad grin. “Now can we go on the carousel?” It had just been turned on and stewardesses were assisting the children to climb up, as a row of waitresses prepared generous portions of ice cream. The Normandie was like a fairyland for grown-ups, and the children as well. As grandiose as the rest of the ship was for the adults, this was every bit as wonderful for the smaller folk. Elisabeth and Marie-Ange disappeared rapidly from their mother's side and selected horses on either side of their new friend, and all three of them waved happily as the carousel began to turn.

“I just don't believe this place.” Nick smiled at Liane. “I think I like their playrooms better than ours.”

Liane laughed. “I think I do too.” For a moment they stood there watching the children giggling and talking on the carousel. “We saw your son this morning in the swimming pool, and I thought I knew him from somewhere.” She smiled at Nick. “Except for his hair, he looks just like you.”

“And the girls are the image of you.” In truth, Liane thought Elisabeth looked more like Armand, but they both had her blond hair. Armand's hair had once been as dark as little John's, but it had been white now for years, but one could see that his coloring had not been fair, unlike Nick, who seemed almost Viking-like with his broad shoulders and green eyes and blond hair. “This is going to be a fun trip for them.” Liane nodded, lost for a moment in her own thoughts, wondering if it would also be a fun trip for herself and Nick. She was beginning to feel that she had scarcely seen Armand since the trip began, and she hadn't seen Hillary with Nick for lunch. She wondered to herself what a woman like that did for fun. She looked like the kind of woman who had fun only when surrounded by men, wearing slinky gowns and covered with jewels and furs. It was hard to imagine her sitting by the pool, or reading a book on deck, or playing tennis. And as though he had read her thoughts, Nick turned to her again. “Have you played any tennis yet?”

“No. I'm afraid I'm not very good.”

“Neither am I, but if you have time for a match sometime, I'd love to play. I saw the ambassador hard at work today in the smoking room, and if he wouldn't object, I'd enjoy a game of tennis very much.” There seemed to be no ulterior motive in his voice, and Liane suspected that he was a lonely man.

“Does Mrs. Burnham play?” There was no catch in her voice, but he wondered if it was a reproach.

“No, she doesn't. She played a lot in Newport as a girl, but she hated it.” And then, “You're from San Francisco, aren't you?”

She was surprised that he knew, and he read it in her face and answered with his easy smile. “Someone mentioned your maiden name last night. Crockett, wasn't it?” She nodded again. “My father used to do business with yours.” That was easy to believe; her father had had huge steel contracts for his ships. “We have an office out there, it's a beautiful town, but I always seem to end up on this side of the world.”

She smiled at him, amused. “Paris isn't so bad.”

“I guess not.” He grinned. Neither was the Normandie, nor any of the other places he stayed. It was just too bad Hillary didn't feel that way, but she had her own reasons for wanting never to leave home. “Is your husband being stationed back in France?”

“For now anyway. He hasn't lived there in years, I guess they thought it was time to bring him back for a while.”

“Where were you before the States?”

“London, and Vienna before that.”

“That's another of my favorite towns. I hope to have a chance to visit there on my way back from Berlin sometime.” He said it candidly, as though he had nothing to hide, and Liane looked shocked.

“Will you be living in Berlin?”

“No. Paris. But I have some business there.” His eyes examined hers carefully, to see what reaction lay there. But he knew from the way she had stiffened just from the word Berlin. “My business, Mrs. de Villiers, is selling steel. Not always to my favorite people, I'm afraid.” It was very much what Armand had said, but she didn't approve and it showed.

“The time will come eventually for all of us to choose sides.”

“Yes.” He nodded in agreement with her. “It will. But not for a while, or so I'm told. And in the meantime I have contracts to live up to, not only with France.”

“Do you sell to the English too?”

“I did. They've made other arrangements now.”

“Perhaps they didn't approve of your business dealings in Berlin.” And then suddenly as she said the words she blushed, sensing that she had gone too far. “I'm terribly sorry … I didn't mean … I shouldn't have said …”

But again Nick Burnham smiled his peaceful smile. She hadn't offended him, and he respected her for speaking her mind. “Perhaps you're right, and don't apologize for what you said. You were right with what you said at first, the time will come for all of us to choose sides. I'm just trying not to let my personal views affect my work for now. I can't afford to play those kind of games. I have a steel business to run, but I sympathize with what you feel.” He looked very gently down at her, and she was doubly embarrassed for what she had said. He was a very easy, personable man. And there was something more to him as well, an openness, an honesty, a lack of pretense or show. There was something very solid and strong about the man. She could see it even in the gentle way he spoke to his son when the children returned. He was the kind of man one felt that one could turn to at any time, and one always knew that he would be there, rock solid, a good man to be with in a storm.

She turned then and saw Armand, looking for her from the door. She waved and he approached, and she saw that he looked almost as tired as he did at home.

“How was the Punch and Judy show?” He kissed her gently on the cheek, watched the girls, who were back on the carousel with John, and then noticed Nick Burnham approach. The two men exchanged a brief hello and a shake of hands.

“Did you get your work done, Ambassador?”

“More or less, at least for today.” He smiled at his wife. “Were you very lonely at lunch, Liane?”

“Very. But Mr. Burnham was kind enough to invite us to join him here. The girls met his son this morning at the pool, and they've become fast friends,” She smiled up at Armand again, oblivious of all eyes but his. “Where's Jacques? Did you push him overboard?”

“Would that I could. But that briefcase of his would never sink, it would simply follow me to Le Havre like a shark, and devour me the instant I set foot on shore.” Liane and Nick Burnham laughed, and they chatted on for a few moments about the ship. There was a play scheduled in the theater that night, it had been a big hit in Paris the winter before, and Liane and Armand were looking forward to it. “Would you and Mrs. Burnham care to join us for that?”

“I'm afraid my wife doesn't speak French.” Nick smiled regretfully at his new friends. “But we might join you for drinks afterward.” Liane and Armand said that they thought that might be an excellent idea, but when they left the theater at eight o'clock that night, they didn't see the Burnhams in the Grand Salon, and Liane talked Armand into going back to her favorite room, the winter garden beneath the bridge. They sat there for several hours, drinking champagne and looking out into the night. And as they sat between the aquariums filled with rare fish and cages filled with exotic birds, Armand admitted that he was relieved the Burnhams hadn't come. The task of keeping Hillary at bay hadn't held much appeal, although he liked Nick, and Liane agreed.

“He asked me to play tennis sometime while you work. Would you mind?” She turned her deep-blue eyes to him.

“Not at all. I feel guilty enough as it is, leaving you with nothing to do.”

“On this ship?” Liane laughed. “I would be ashamed to admit it if I could find nothing to do here.”

“Are you having a good time, then?”

“A very good time, my love.” She leaned toward him and spoke in a whisper. “Especially right now.”

“Good.” At last they wandered back to the Café-Grill, and then out onto the promenade, and then they ascended to their private deck and into their rooms. It was almost two o'clock by then, and Liane was half asleep.

“Are you working tomorrow morning again?”

“I have to, I'm afraid. Why don't you play tennis with that chap. I'm sure there's no harm in it.” Liane agreed. Nick wasn't the kind of man to make passes at someone's wife, and he had his hands full enough as it was. Liane and Armand settled comfortably in their bed, and he had had every intention of making love to her, but before either of them could pursue the thought, he was snoring softly and she was sound asleep.

“here are you off to at this hour?” Nick was drinking coffee in their private dining room, and John and his nurse were playing on the deck, when Hillary appeared in a pair of white slacks and a red silk shirt, cut like a man's. It set off her dark shiny hair, and the creamy color of her skin. She had disappeared also the day before, having explained to Nick that she had gone for a massage at the pool, and then a facial in the beauty shop. The treatment had taken almost all day.

“I thought I'd take a walk.” She glanced at him and her eyes were cold.

“Don't you want something to eat?”

“No, thanks. I thought I might go for a swim in a while. I'll eat after that.”

“Okay. Where shall I meet you for lunch?”

She hesitated, but not for long. They were on the trip together, after all, she had to make some effort for him. “How about the Café-Grill?”

“Don't you want to eat in the main dining room?”

“The people at our table bore me to tears.” So much so that the night before, she had excused herself before the dessert and it had taken him two hours to find her afterward. She had gone down to the tourist decks, for a look around, and declared it a hell of a lot more fun when she returned. But he had told her that he didn't think she ought to go down there. “Why not?” She had looked both surprised and annoyed, and he had explained that if nothing else, the jewels she wore made it unsafe, and she had only laughed at him. “Are you afraid the peasants will hold me up?” He hadn't answered and she had only laughed again, but she seemed much more docile than she had that afternoon, except when he suggested drinks with the De Villierses. She had declared them both prissy bores, and had gone back to her room for another bottle of champagne. He noticed that she was drinking a lot on the trip, but she had drunk a lot in New York too. He just didn't see as much of her there, and it was easy to notice the bottles decreasing rapidly in their private bar. She seemed to do most of her heavy drinking in their room.

“Hil …” He started to say something as she left. “Do you want company today?” He felt somehow as though he ought to be with her. He had promised himself that things were going to be different on this trip. But they weren't yet. They couldn't be. She never let him near her, and now she shook her head again.

“No, thanks. I want to have another massage before lunch.”

“The massages must be great.” There was suspicion in his voice again, and he berated himself silently for what he thought. It was crazy to distrust your own wife to that extent, yet she had cuckolded him so often before that now he suspected her at every turn.

“They are.”

“See you at lunch.” She nodded and closed the door, without saying good-bye to their son. John came in a few minutes afterward and looked around.

“Did Mom go out?”

“Yes. She went to get a massage at the pool, like yesterday.”

John looked up at his father with confused eyes and shook his head. “She doesn't even know where the pool is. I wanted to show it to her and she said she had something else to do.” Nick nodded, pretending almost not to hear, but he had already heard too much. And he knew that she was at it again. But where? And with whom? In tourist class? In cabin? With a purser on another deck? He couldn't chase her everywhere. He was going to confront her at lunch, but now he forced his mind back to his son.

“Do you want to go look at the dogs?”

“Sure.” The little boy beamed and they went upstairs to the upper sun deck, to see the dozen or so French poodles being exercised there. There was also a Saint Bernard, a Great Dane, two small ugly pugs, and a Pekingese, and John petted each of them in turn as his father looked out to sea, lost in his own thoughts. He was thinking of Hillary again, and wondering where in hell she was. For an instant he wanted to scour the ship and turn it upside down, but what was the point. He had fought this battle for nine years, and he had long since lost. He knew it well. Even on the ship she was the same as she was in Boston or New York. She was rotten to the core and had always been, the only thing he thanked her for was their son. He turned his eyes back to John and smiled. He was holding one of the funny, snortling little pugs.

“Dad, when we get to Paris, can I have a dog?”

“Maybe, we'll have to see what the house is like.”

“Could I really maybe?” John's eyes almost popped out of his head and his father laughed.

“We'll see. Why don't you put your friend down for now, and I'll take you to the playroom to find your other friends.”

“Okay. But can we come back?”

“Sure.” And as they left, Nick glimpsed the tennis courts and remembered his invitation to Liane the day before. Her husband hadn't seemed to object, and he would enjoy a game or two to burn off steam. It was either that or throw something at the wall in his suite. He had to find something to do to calm his nerves between now and one. He was almost sorry that he had not yet met a man with whom to play. But Hillary was right about one thing at least, the group at their table in the Grande Salle à Manger was extremely dull. There were not too many young people on the ship, it was a very expensive journey, and most who made it in first class had long since “arrived.” There were important journalists and authors, attorneys and bankers, musicians and conductors, but all of them had reached a certain stature in life, not unlike Armand. And few of them were as young as Nick, possibly none of them, except the ambassador's wife, Liane, and his own. He was used to being the youngest man around, but for a moment he regretted it. He would have liked to have had a male friend his own age along just then.

He escorted his son downstairs to the playroom, where he spotted Armand and Liane's girls, and then after a moment's hesitation he decided to take a walk on the promenade outside the Grill, and he saw Liane there, sitting on a bench with a book, her head bent and her blond hair flying in the wind.

He hesitated before he approached, but in the end he decided to anyway. “Hello.” She looked up in surprise and then smiled as she saw him. She was wearing a pink cashmere sweater set and gray slacks, and a double strand of pearls. This was acceptable only as morning dress, for a walk on the promenade, but she had no other plans. “Am I disturbing you?” He stood, with his hands in his pockets, braced against the wind, in white flannel slacks and blazer once again, but today he wore a bright red bow tie.

“Not at all.” She closed her book and slid over on the bench.

“Is the ambassador already at work?”

“Of course.” She smiled. “His assistant arrives every day at nine o'clock, with one of those big hooks they used to use in vaudeville, and whether Armand has finished his breakfast or not, Jacques drags him off.” Nick grinned at the image she conjured up.

“I saw him yesterday. I must admit, he doesn't look like much fun.”

“He isn't, but he'll make a good ambassador one day.” And then she smiled again. “Thank God Armand was never like that.”

“Where did you two meet?” It was a little bit impertinent to ask, but he was intrigued by them. It was obvious that they had a special bond, a deeply woven tie of love, despite the span of years that separated them, and the fact that Armand obviously worked very hard. But she seemed to understand and sympathize, and wait ever patiently for him. He wondered how one found a woman like that. Perhaps by being not quite so impetuously taken with a young debutante of eighteen. And yet Nick knew, from the age of their oldest child, that Liane must have married young as well. She couldn't have been more than thirty now, he thought. In fact, she was thirty-two, but she had always been mature well beyond her years, woman enough to marry—unlike Nick's wife, the spoiled child bride.

“We met in San Francisco when I was very young.”

“You still are.”

“Oh, no.” She laughed. “I was fifteen then, and …” She hesitated for a moment, but one said things to people on ships that one would not say at other times. She fell prey to that magic now, and turned to him with wide-open blue eyes. “Armand was married to someone else, a woman I loved very much. My mother died when I was born, and Odile, Armand's wife, was like a mother to me. He was the consul general in San Francisco then.”

“Did they divorce?” Nick was intrigued, Liane looked all innocence, not the harlot or the home wrecker, somehow she didn't figure in this plot, but Liane slowly shook her head.

“No. She died when I was eighteen, and Armand was almost destroyed. We all were, I think. I think I was numb for almost a year.”

“And he fell in love with you?” Now the story began to make sense.

Liane drifted back in memory, her eyes wearing a far-off look and her mouth a gentle smile. “Not as quickly as all that. It took a year or two before we realized how much we cared. I was twenty-one when we finally admitted it to ourselves and each other and we got engaged.”

“And got married and lived happily ever after.” He liked the story better still. They were fairy-tale people after all. But again Liane shook her head.

“No. Just after our engagement was announced, Armand got transferred. To Vienna. And my father insisted that I finish my last year at Mills.” She turned and smiled at Nick. “It was a very long year for us at the time, but we survived it. We wrote to each other every day, and as soon as I graduated he came back, and we were married, and off we went.” She was smiling broadly now. “Vienna was a wonderful spot. We were very happy there, and then London after that. Marie-Ange and Elisabeth were born in those two posts respectively, and then we came back to the States.”

“Your father must have been pleased.” And then suddenly he remembered the error of what he had just said, remembering that her father had probably been dead for nearly ten years.

“No, my father was already gone. He died right after Elisabeth was born.” She smiled gently at Nick then. “That seems a long time ago now.”

“Do you go back to San Francisco often?”

“No. It's really not my home anymore. I've been gone for too long and I only have my uncle now. We've never been very close and …” Her voice was very gentle as she spoke. “… my home is with Armand.”

“He's a very lucky man.”

“Not always.” She laughed. “Even fairy tales have their rocky spots. I'm as difficult as anyone else. He's a very good, very kind, wise man. I am fortunate to have known him for all these years. My father didn't think I'd get along as well with a younger man, and I think he was right. I lived alone with my father for too long.”

“Is your husband a great deal like him?” He was still curious about them, even more so now after hearing her tale.

“No, not at all. But my father had prepared me well. I ran his home, I listened to the business problems he and my uncle had. I wouldn't have been satisfied with much less.”

“Were you an only child?”

“Yes.”

“So is my wife. But she had less responsibility than you, less exposure to the real world. She grew up expecting Christmas every day, and birthday parties, and debutante balls. It's fun, but it's not exactly the essence of real life.”

“She's a very beautiful girl. It would be difficult for her not to be spoiled. Women who look like that often grow up expecting life to be something that it is not.” But as she said the words he found himself wanting to ask her “And you? Why aren't you like that?” Liane was lovely too, but in a different way. In a gentler, quieter, more womanly way than his wife. Instead, he thought of something else.

“You know, it's funny our paths never crossed, with our fathers doing business with each other, and we aren't that far apart in age.” And the elite from one end of the country to the other were a small group, as they both knew. Perhaps if she had gone to college in the East, he might have met her at some party or ball, but with her at Mills, and earlier he at Yale, their paths were never destined to cross, until now on the Normandie, on the high seas.

“My father was really a recluse for years. There were a lot of people I didn't meet, people my father knew or did business with. He never really recovered from my mother's death. It's a miracle I even met Armand and Odile, but I think he wanted me to meet them so I could show off my French.” She still remembered Odile's report of their first meeting with Harrison. She thought of it again now and had to pull her attention back to Nick. “Where is Mrs. Burnham, by the way?” It was not impertinent to ask, and yet when she saw the look in his eyes, she regretted the question almost at once. There was something smoldering quietly there.

“She wanted to have a massage. Which is why I came looking for you.” Liane seemed surprised at his words and put her book down on the bench. “I was wondering if I could talk you into that tennis game we talked about yesterday. Does that appeal to you right now? There's no one on the courts. I was just there. John wanted to take a look at the dogs. Anyway, could I tear you away from your book for a quick game?”

She hesitated for an instant and glanced at her watch. “I have to meet Armand for lunch at noon. He promised that today he'd break away.”

“That's fine. I'm meeting Hillary in the Grillroom at one.”

“Then let's.” She smiled at him. She hadn't had a male friend in years, not really since Armand. But it would be fun to have someone to play tennis with. “I'll hurry up and change and meet you there.”

“Ten minutes?” He looked at his watch, a handsome piece of black enamel and gold from Cartier.

“Fine.” They both rose and went up to the sun deck, where they lived, and met ten minutes later on the courts, she in a pleated tennis dress that exposed half of her slim thighs, and he in well-tailored white shorts and a tennis sweater over a shirt from Brooks Brothers. They played a relaxed, carefree game. He beat her twice, and she took him by surprise in the end, and beat him 6-2, with a whoop of victory and a handshake as he sailed across the net. Suddenly they both felt happy and free and young.

“You lied to me. You're very good.” She congratulated him, still out of breath from the three quick games, but it had been fun.

“I'm not. But you're not bad yourself.” It was just the outlet he had been longing for, and he felt better now. “Thanks. I needed something like that.”

She looked up at his considerable height with a smile. “You must feel awfully cooped up here. No matter how large the ship is, it's still a confining space. I'm lazy enough not to mind, but I suppose it's different for you.”

“Not really. I just get wound up sometimes. I have a lot of things on my mind.” She was reminded then of the contracts he had, both with Paris and Berlin, but she didn't mind as much now. He was a nice man, and there was something about him that suggested decency and integrity. Nick Burnham was a difficult man to dislike and she was growing comfortable with him. “Anyway, this helped a lot. Thank you again.”

“Any time.” She smiled. “Maybe this is the perfect antidote to all that food.”

He grinned. “Then let's play again. Tomorrow at the same time?”

“All right.” She glanced at her watch. “Now I really have to run, or I'll be late for Armand.”

“Give him my best,” he called out as she hurried back to the Trouville suite.

“I will. And enjoy your lunch.” She waved and disappeared and he stood for a long time looking out over the rail, thinking back on the things she had said. He liked the story of how they had met. And Armand was really the perfect man for her. She seemed to know it too, which was nice. Unlike Hillary, who watched him approach at one o'clock in the Grill with a sense of impending doom. He was wearing his blazer and slacks again and she had changed into a peacock-blue silk dress and high-heeled blue kid shoes.

“Have a nice massage?” He signaled the waiter and they both ordered a Scotch.

“Very nice.”

“Where did you say you get the massages?” He feigned innocence as he stirred his drink, his eyes boring into hers.

“Checking up on me, Nick?”

“I don't know, Hil. Do you think I should?”

“What difference does it make if I had a massage or not?” Her eyes drifted away from his, as though she were too bored to continue looking at him, but something inside her fluttered nervously. Now and then, dealing with Nick was truly like dealing with the man of steel.

“It makes a big difference to me if you tell me lies. And I told you before, what you do here will become common knowledge on the ship. I get the feeling that you're spending a lot of time in second class and I want it to stop.”