Authors: Fiona McIntosh
‘That’s because you don’t know him. You don’t see him for who he is.’ It was a mistake from the moment the words flew from her mouth.
Georgina’s intrigued expression now dissolved into delight. ‘But you do, don’t you, Stella? You don’t just see him. You can barely take your eyes from him. And you know him intimately, apparently.’
She disguised her shame. ‘Only in your bored fantasies, Georgina! Stop fishing for problems that don’t exist. I suggest you grow up and start acting like the adult you pretend to be.’
‘Or what?’
‘Or learn some harsh truths,’ she snapped in another mistake.
Who is the adult here, Stella?
the voices in her mind demanded.
Take control!
Georgina, who had been smirking out at the horizon, swung around. ‘Such as what, Stella?’ She frowned, anger creeping through, and Stella noted a hint of panic. ‘What do you think you know?’
Grace rescued her. ‘Look!’ she called, arriving excitedly. ‘Strawberry, my favourite.’
Her sister pushed her rudely aside. ‘Maybe they’ll teach you to belly dance in Egypt, Gracie. You’ve got all the right wobbly bits for it. I asked you a question,’ she snarled back at Stella.
Grace glanced at Stella with an injured expression and it was the little girl’s burst balloon of cheerfulness that pricked Stella into losing control rather than seizing it.
‘Oh, do shut up, Georgina, you hateful creature. Why don’t you leave us alone, if you’ve got nothing pleasant to say to your sister?’
The eldest Ainsworth daughter grinned, triumphant. ‘You’re so easy, Stella. You too, Fatty. Enjoy your ice-cream – all of it.’ She pushed the wafer cornet that held the ice-cream so it blotted against Grace’s chin to leave a smear of pink, and grinned unkindly.
‘Georgie?’ Grace called and her sister turned back with a look of disdain.
‘Yes, Podge?’
‘I want to push my ice-cream into the middle of your face.’
Georgina tinkled a laugh. ‘But that wouldn’t be polite, would it?’ she taunted.
‘You’re always so mean to Stella.’
‘That’s because I hate her but you love her enough for both of us, and do you know something, Grace? Remember what you told me about Daddy and Stella?’
‘Georgina!’ Stella warned, her breath sharp and shallow.
‘No, I don’t remember,’ Grace replied, puzzled.
‘Well, I do. You were mostly unconscious that day, so you’re forgiven.’
‘I want you to stop making trouble for Stella,’ Grace pleaded, the ice-cream melting from the warmth of the Mediterranean sun, pink channels of wet sweetness trickling through the child’s fingers.
‘Poor Podge. I’ll make all the trouble I can. I want horrible Stella gone.’
Stella closed her eyes; this was unbearable. She felt Grace step forward, and opened them to see the youngster suddenly taller against her sister – she hadn’t noticed until now that the child had shot up slightly over spring. But it was more than that. There was something far more intelligent and intimidating about the girl than her sister had likely ever grasped.
‘In that case I shall tell you something else I heard in my sleep,’ Grace said.
‘Go on, then,’ her sister baited.
‘I don’t really understand, but I heard Daddy tell Mummy that he isn’t your father. They were arguing at my bedside when I was sick. I heard it clearly, though, and so did Stella because she was there too. And maybe that’s what Daddy means when he says I am as different to you as chalk and cheese. Mummy says I look like Daddy and Daddy says when I grow up I’ll have the best of both of them. You won’t.’
‘What are you talking about, you little pig!’ Georgie shot back, pushing her sister again.
Stella stepped in, her eyes wide with fright at Grace’s remarks. ‘Stop it, Georgina, right now. You’re making a scene.’
‘Did you hear what she just said?’ Georgina shrilled, staring angrily at Stella. ‘What does that look mean? What do you know? What is this rubbish?’
‘Georgina, I think you’d better leave. Don’t you have a salon appointment?’ She glanced at her watch desperately.
‘Ask Mummy, Georgie,’ Grace pressed. ‘Ask her if you’re adopted. Is that the right word, Stella?’
‘Both of you, enough! Georgina is not adopted, Grace.’
Grace shrugged in an uncharacteristic way. ‘Georgie’s always mean, especially to you and Daddy. I’m glad you’re not my real sister. It’s time someone taught you it’s not right to be so nasty to everyone.’
‘Well, that someone is not you,’ Stella urged, spinning the child around and marching her forwards. ‘Don’t miss your appointment, Georgina, and take no notice of your sister’s taunts. I can’t say you don’t deserve it but I’m sorry it was such a cruel thing she said.’ Stella didn’t think she needed to be blamed for any more of Georgina’s troubles but somehow she sensed Grace’s brutal revelation was going to come straight back and bite her.
She gave Grace another gentle shove towards the opposite side of the deck. Stella glanced back at Georgina, who stood by the railing, the sun beginning its low dip behind her but none of its warmth seemed to touch the young woman. Her normally golden hair refused to reflect the softening light, sitting dully around a scowling, uncertain expression. Stella felt a moment of melting sympathy for Georgina but it was young Grace who snapped her from feeling responsible.
‘Stella, I’m not sorry for saying that to Georgie.’
They were halfway down a set of deck stairs. ‘No, I can tell,’ she admitted, lost for how to handle this situation. ‘Come on.’
Grace paused at the bottom and turned. ‘I know everyone thinks I’m not old enough but I’m not stupid.’
She gave Grace a look of exasperation. ‘Beware anyone who should think such a thing.’
‘It’s as though Georgie forgets that she loves me and uses me to make herself feel better when she’s cross.’
Stella put her arm around Grace’s shoulders, unable to help a sense of pride in Rafe’s daughter. ‘You are certainly not stupid, Grace. In fact, I think you’re an oracle.’
‘What’s that?’
‘All-knowing,’ Stella replied in an arch tone.
Grace grinned. ‘An oracle,’ she repeated.
‘You have a knack for looking at a situation and seeing the truth. And the best bit about you, Grace, is that you like to see the best in people, including your sister . . . even when she’s being cruel to you.’
‘I think if Georgie could, she’d prefer to be happy. I’m used to her picking on me but I don’t like it when she picks on you, Stella . . . or Daddy.’
She nodded. ‘Let’s wash your hands and then perhaps we can go up to the soda fountain.’
But in her heart she knew it was now only a matter of time before she was called before Beatrice Ainsworth to explain.
The invitation arrived at four sharp.
‘I’ve been asked to deliver this to you, Miss Myles,’ the steward beamed. ‘You may care to know that it’s black tie in the first-class dining room,’ he added.
‘Thank you,’ she said, hesitating for a fraction before she took the white envelope with its crest and Ainsworth name on it.
She expected a curt note from Beatrice to meet in her stateroom but she was thrilled and mostly shocked to see Rafe’s handwriting with an invitation to join the family for dinner this evening. Maybe Georgina hadn’t gone running to her mother.
Grace was under instructions for an afternoon nap, or ‘quiet time’, as the doctor had insisted, so Stella was free. Rather than be out and about on the ship and risk another hiss of words with Georgina, she spent her time ensuring she looked immaculate for the evening. She washed her hair, even running a light scented oil through it to prevent any frizziness; she’d found the tiny bottle of perfumed olive oil in Rhodes on their all-day stop and the young woman behind the market stall had shown her what to do. She smelled rosemary in it, along with citrus and other pleasant scents. Stella smoothed it into her dark hair and regarded herself in the mirror appreciating she looked more like her mother than she’d previously realised. People had always said so, but she’d not caught the likeness in herself so strongly as she did now.
She plucked her eyebrows, tidied her cuticles and buffed her nails until they were smooth and shiny. She creamed her arms that would be bare tonight and because she was wearing her black gown, she suddenly decided it needed a swept-up hairdo. Reaching for the phone, she made an appointment for a female attendant to visit her rooms. Within two hours she was buttoned into the magnificent black shift of satin that certainly did hug the curve of her body as she’d imagined it might when she’d first sighted it in the Brighton hotel. Bell-shaped sleeves were trimmed in black velvet and a softly curving cowled neckline of satin was echoed in an exquisitely oversized tie at the waist. Her hair was pinned up with a tiny velvet bow and, at her helper’s urgings, she had even agreed to a little bit of powder, a touch of rouge and a soft pout of lipstick.
‘You look beautiful, Miss Myles,’ the woman sighed with a smile behind her.
‘I look French,’ she admitted, recalling pictures of her mother wearing the same bright-red lipstick that Stella had souvenired from her dressing table.
The woman chuckled. ‘You do, actually.’
‘Oh, wait,’ Stella gasped, lighting up. ‘My mother’s black pearl earrings.’ She dug into the small leather box on her dressing table which held the few pieces she possessed. In moments they were both admiring the dainty pearl orbs hanging from her earlobes.
‘Perfect!’ the woman breathed next to her. ‘Every gent will want to dance with you tonight, Miss Myles.’
There’s only one I want to dance with
, Stella thought. ‘Have you been up to the first-class decks?’ she asked.
‘Of course, yes. You can fit my parents’ house into some of the staterooms.’
Stella laughed. ‘Gosh, I’m nervous now.’
‘Don’t be. They’re all wizened and wealthy up there. There are only a few gorgeous young ladies. There’s the Ainsworth daughter – she’s so attractive and every pair of eyes seem to follow her. But you, Miss Myles, you’re going to give her a run for her money.’
‘Wish me luck,’ she said, overly brightly.
‘You won’t need it. I’ll be watching you tonight as I might be on a shift up in the first ballroom.’
Stella smiled genuinely now. ‘Thank you so much for helping me.’ She tipped the woman generously and checked her watch as the door closed.
Cocktails were at six-thirty. It was already past that time and she was happy to skip that trial of small talk and arrive for dinner at seven-thirty. She picked up one of the notebooks she’d taken from Rafe’s study and moved to the final pages to read his most recent entry.
There was an entry about
Thymelicus hamza
, or the Moroccan small skipper butterfly, and the following page gave details on another called the chalkhill blue, with a sketch that included a soft crayon of blue on the insect’s abdomen. It was a helpful distraction that absorbed the half hour of time Stella needed to kill but mostly it dampened her rising anxiety of what mood and turn of events awaited her this evening across the Ainsworth dinner table.
‘Thank you,’ she beamed at the steward who pulled open a heavy door leading out onto the deck. Stella had instinctively anticipated a gust of cold wind. Instead the balmy evening of the Mediterranean was breathless, instantly wrapping her in its slightly moist warmth. She was glad she’d pinned her hair up now; apart from its elegance, she would avoid the inevitable frizziness that humid conditions provoked. The nausea had subsided too. She felt cheered as a result and capable of facing Beatrice’s questions when they came, as she was sure they would. There would be no scene in a public situation so maybe she would even have the opportunity to explain the truth of today.
‘It’s so calm. Are we berthed?’
‘No, Miss Myles.’ She was amazed at how all the staff she met seemed to know her name. ‘We’ve dropped anchor for a couple of hours to take on some supplies and to ensure we have an easy dinner serve tonight.’
‘Oh, so we sail on?’ She didn’t mean to sound disappointed but feeling hungry and well again was uplifting.
He nodded. ‘We dock at Rabat by ten tonight.’
She smiled fresh thanks and climbed the outside deck stairs, carefully holding her gown clear of her heels but revelling in the stillness of the evening. Stella arrived at the first-class main entrance and had to work hard to keep her jaw from opening in awe. The glass dome in the ceiling would allow in glorious light by day, but now it glistened and sparkled with the aid of a huge chandelier, whose crystal teardrops gave her a series of sparkling winks as if encouraging her despite the flips and dips her belly had suddenly decided upon. She’d given a lot of thought to today’s outburst with Georgina and realised there were no explanations for it; the facts were plain – the adult Ainsworths’ indiscretion had led to their youngest child overhearing something about her sister. They were to blame, not the children and certainly not herself. She had not fanned the fire but tried to extinguish it. It all sounded straightforward in her mind and yet despite her bright mood on the deck below she now felt nervous at what awaited, especially why anyone might still be inviting her to join the family for dinner after what had occurred. Why not a private interrogation?
Her footfall was soundless on the thick, richly coloured carpet of the lounge she had to cross. Save ship staff, it was deserted, which only added to its beauty which she could now see for herself was reminiscent of the work of Sir Christopher Wren. Her being alone increased the tension of her arrival, as clearly with cocktails consumed everyone had drifted into the dining room. She had one more room to cross – the magnificent drawing room, resplendent with open fires, mahogany bookcases and another jaw-dropping domed atrium that was even more impressive than the last.
Doors swung back as if cued to move on her arrival.
‘Good evening,’ the steward said, nodding politely. The steward opposite bowed his head slightly too.
Stella’s lips opened now helplessly at the opulence before her. Grace had breathlessly explained at some stage that the first-class dining room stretched for one third of an acre but only now did Stella believe her. ‘Er . . . Good evening, thank you.’
‘Miss Myles?’ said another voice, his tone as rich as the wealthy patrons who were seating themselves across that third of an acre of sumptuous décor. ‘Welcome to the dining room,’ an older senior man greeted. ‘I hope you approve of its Louis XVI styling?’ he wondered and she knew he was clueing her. He would be aware that she was coming up from second class and needed all the help she might be gifted.
‘It’s mesmerising,’ she rewarded him.
The maître d’, tucked into a black tailed suit, did a tiny click with his highly polished shoes. ‘I’m pleased you like it.’
She paused to glance at the deep pinks and rose-coloured painted ceiling of cherubs and garlands that were a foil for the rich mahogany panels of the room and dove-grey painted walls. She took in the arrangement of pilasters and columns, the sea-blue carpet and matching chairs upholstered with that identical colour and inset panels to echo the pink garlands on the ceiling. Glittering lamps added yet more ornamentation and she sighed, turning to smile at him.
‘The ceiling is marvellous.’
‘The decoration represents the
Triumph of Flora
,’ he explained. ‘Of course Neptune is never far away,’ he jested and she glanced at the large monogram of the ship represented in the dome – two anchors crossed on a trident that symbolised the god of the seas.
‘Makes me feel insignificant,’ she breathed. ‘The colours so vivid.’
‘Oh, I doubt that you could ever feel insignificant. You look beautiful, Miss Myles,’ he assured, reading her thought that perhaps black was too sombre to be worn amidst all this gaiety. ‘May we show you to the table? The Ainsworths are seated.’
‘I do hope I haven’t kept everyone waiting.’
‘Not at all.’ He offered a waiter’s arm. ‘Please. Daniel, if you would show Miss Myles to the Ainsworth table.’
The handsome young man in a white jacket and black waistcoat and trousers beamed her a bright smile and she allowed him to loosely link arms to escort her. Stella forced herself to breathe slowly, felt the sharp glances of older women cutting up from their conversations to fall upon her like splinters of glass, each a tiny slash of envy. Her youth, the slim figure that allowed the velvet gown to drape effortlessly from it, the suggestion of longing within dark beauty that drifted past them, gave no indication of her rising excitement of seeing him again. She had cast her features in calm, a soft smile just hinting, and her gaze fixed beyond anyone in particular so that she didn’t meet anyone’s eyes to make her falter until her companion began to slow.
‘Here we are, Miss Myles,’ he warned, moving off the carpet to thread their way around two tables to a slightly smaller one that could seat up to six, where she saw a bespectacled Rafe leaning in to talk to his wife. She couldn’t prevent her breath catching in jealousy, had not been prepared for such pain of envy now that he secretly belonged to her. Rafe was right; he was dangerous for her. She had never felt so possessive.
He looked up at her approach, took off his glasses and immediately stood to greet her. His complexion, freshly bronzed, looked healthy against the starched white of his shirt, the sleek fit of his white waistcoat that she suspected followed the latest fashion of being backless together with a contrasting blacker-than-black dinner suit that included a sharply cut tail coat. There was no doubt that together with Beatrice, in a midnight-blue gown with a daringly wide neckline, they were the most trendsetting and stylish couple in that vast room. Stella would not have been surprised to hear that every pair of eyes had turned towards them at this moment; her own included could not tear themselves from Rafe, ridiculously handsome and shooting her a smile that was all the whiter for the tan it beamed out from.
‘Good evening, Stella.’ The voice she loved smoothed over her as he dipped his head politely. ‘I’m glad you could join us.’ His gaze looked hungrily across her and she silently drank in his attention like a butterfly lapping at nectar.
‘Oh, hello there,’ Beatrice said, uncharacteristically informally. Her voice sounded vaguely slurred to Stella.
‘Thank you for inviting me, Mrs Ainsworth,’ she said, smiling a quick thank you to Daniel who pushed her chair in. He stole away as Beatrice waved newly manicured nails of scarlet in Stella’s direction in a gesture that didn’t feel welcoming.
‘Not I, Stella,’ Beatrice confirmed, putting a hand on her husband’s arm in a proprietorial way. She noticed Rafe did not look at his wife; his gaze was riveted sombrely on her instead. Instantly dark and angry, he removed his arm from Beatrice’s touch. A thin lock of Beatrice’s bright hair slipped free from its usually precise updo and dangled like a strand of golden toffee. ‘As ever, it is Dougie who likes you to stick close,’ she said, her gaze wandering as she absently tucked the wayward hair behind her ear. ‘Champagne, waiter!’ she called.
Stella glanced again at the simmering Rafe. ‘They’ll bring it all too soon, my dear,’ he ground out.
‘Er . . . it’s a privilege to be on this level,’ Stella tried.
‘I’m sure it is for you,’ Beatrice drawled, pulling her red lips into a familiar slash.
Stella breathed slowly. ‘Where are the girls?’
‘They’re taking dinner in their room tonight. It’s just us,’ Beatrice answered, cat eyes flashing at her and Stella saw the threat in them.
‘Champagne, for everyone?’ a waiter suddenly arriving asked, his mood as bubbly as the bottles being opened with loud pops and accompanying laughter around the large dining room.
‘Stella?’ Rafe offered.
‘Er, yes, thank you.’
Flutes were poured and with their effervescence fizzing far more happily than the atmosphere at their table suggested they should, three glasses were glumly raised.
‘Shall we drink to an enjoyable voyage?’ Rafe proposed and Stella heard the ironic note in his toast.
Beatrice was onto him. ‘No, Doug, I doubt that can happen. I think instead we should drink to keeping promises, shall we?’
He sighed. ‘Bee . . .’
Stella swallowed a sip of the French champagne, tasting its tart dryness, wishing she could enjoy the rest but knowing it would taste acidic if she continued without facing Beatrice’s wrath. ‘I kept my promise, Mrs Ainsworth.’
‘Did you, Stella?’ Beatrice took a long draught of champagne, nearly emptying her glass. A bead of it remained on the waxy red coating of her lips as she now focused her fury at its target. ‘So how come I have a near hysterical teenage daughter, weeping in her cabin, refusing to come out?’
Stella glanced at Rafe. He stared back coldly.
‘I can’t say we aren’t disappointed, Stella,’ he offered.
She blinked, confused and annoyed. ‘Then why did you ask me to join you for dinner?’ she shot back, looking appalled at him.
‘Doug had already sent the invitation before the drama erupted,’ Beatrice admitted. ‘He refused to go back on it.’
‘Maybe he should have,’ Stella suggested.
‘Smoked salmon, for everyone?’ Their head waiter was back, his tone full of delight.
‘Thank you,’ Rafe said as plates with silver cloches were laid down.
The ladies said nothing.
Stella sat back and her waiter placed a gloved hand on the lid of hers. Another waiter reached between Rafe and Beatrice and with a nod to each other the two men lifted the lids with a synchronised flourish.
Rafe and Stella forced out appropriate noises of pleasure. Beatrice flouted good manners to lean on her elbow and stare into her plate.
‘
Bon appétit
,’ one of the men said, sounding awkward, and they moved away.
Stella regarded the bright orange of the salmon twisted into soft rose-like shapes around a mound of floppy cream cheese flecked with herbs. Delicate, translucent rings of onion encircled each other while the muddy green of capers studded the plate. Strategically placed, gleaming drops of citrus gel complemented the quarters of lemon, sliced so finely they were malleable enough to be twisted artistically on the plate. ‘How beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘Seems a pity to disturb it.’
‘That’s how I feel about our daughter, Stella.’
‘Mrs Ainsworth, what exactly did Georgina say to you?’
‘That you all but confirmed that Douglas is not her real father. She said it was plain in the sneer on your face.’
Stella, who had been reaching for her fish knife and fork, now placed her hands firmly in her lap. ‘I did no such thing,’ she said quietly and flicked her gaze to Rafe. ‘How could you think something so heinous of me?’
‘You could have denied it,’ Beatrice snarled, her voice lifting.
‘Bee, please . . .’ Rafe cautioned, looking around at the other diners.
‘Mrs Ainsworth, firstly, while I think Georgina should know the truth it is not my place to tell you how to raise your child, so against my own nature, I fibbed and covered Grace’s information . . . but I did it for Georgina’s sake.’
‘You won’t blatantly lie for me, is that what you’re saying, Stella?’
‘Yes. I won’t lie to protect you,’ she felt obliged to qualify, trying not to emphasise the last word, given that she did fib to protect Beatrice’s daughters.
‘But you would lie to protect my husband, perhaps?’
Stella blushed at the truth but she pressed on, ignoring the well-laid trap and refusing to topple into it. ‘I can remember most precisely how this afternoon’s conversation with Georgina transpired. It was Grace who spilled your long-held secret and I did everything any adult could do to defuse the situation. I also had stern words with Grace. Georgina is unaccountably cruel-mouthed to her sister and even in the short time I’ve been in her company I notice that Grace is aptly named for how she responds to the constant barbs. This was an occasion where Georgina’s harsh tongue hurt sufficiently for Grace to reply uncharacteristically viciously. I was as shocked as Georgina at the outburst, I have to admit, and I’m as concerned as you. No one should learn such traumatising news in this manner.’
‘I don’t understand it,’ Beatrice continued as if Stella had not spoken so earnestly. ‘Why didn’t Grace even mention to me that she’d overheard us talking? You’d think that would be the first thing she’d do, don’t you?’
Stella shook her head. ‘I promise she didn’t mention it to me either, Mrs Ainsworth, or I can assure you I would have taken immediate steps to prevent it being shared. It came out of nowhere but you have to know that Georgina provoked Grace into it.’
‘The truth is I don’t believe for a moment that Grace was awake or even conscious enough to make sense of anything being spoken above her that evening,’ Beatrice said.
‘Are you suggesting I shared with Grace what I unhappily had to listen to and then gave you my word I would never repeat?’
‘Oh, let’s not run around in circles, Stella. That’s precisely what I’m suggesting.’
Stella pushed her chair back. ‘Then you’d be wrong, Mrs Ainsworth. Please excuse me.’
‘Is that it, Stella?’ Beatrice sneered. ‘Do you think that’s the end of this?’
‘It’s best I leave now. I do not want to upset you further.’ She glanced at Rafe for help but it was as though he sat between them as an interested observer. She wanted to shout at him to offer some support.