And when Hardy had finally extricated himself from the tiny table crammed in the cluttered backroom of the art supply store, Topper said: “Come to supper. I won’t take no for an answer, Captain Hardy.” His exuberance nearly knocked Hardy over and the question was flung at him with no preamble; he was unprepared and had therefore not concocted a suitable reply offering his thanks, but declining because of duty — responsibilities aboard ship, or some silly, meaningless excuse.
“Of course,” Hardy said, regretting the words immediately. Doubts pummeled him without ceasing as he walked back to the ship, accompanied by sharp notions that he would certainly regret his acceptance, and the evening would prove awkward for everyone. “Stupid. Stupid,” he muttered under his breath, denouncing himself for attempting any social event except those connected with official activities. Put him in his uniform, with prescribed rules and regulations amid the flurry of the King’s Instructions, and he was entirely at ease. Everything laid out in an appropriate manner, enlisted men and officers, with the proper ceremony observed — that was how it was to be; that was Captain Hardy’s life, his world.
But for some unaccountable reason he had ventured from the safety of his world, paid a visit to a shop on the pretext of needing art supplies, when his Day Cabin aboard Firedancer was filled with everything that he could conceivably need. He had gone in and when he saw Beatrice, panic surged through his chest and he heartily damned his weakness. And now supper.
Topper ladled a huge portion of peas onto his plate beside the mutton. “Must be exciting at sea, Captain Hardy?”
“A bit,” Hardy said, remembering that it was bad manners to smash your peas to a green pulp before scooping them up on your fork. Remembered that much, he thought, pleased at the tiny victory that he had wrested from the potential disaster of the evening.
“You must show us more of your work,” Beatrice said shyly, her soft voice barely carrying across the table. She sat directly opposite Hardy, and he made every effort to keep his eyes from falling on hers.
“Yes, do,” Topper said emphatically. “What you’ve brought by is splendid. Can’t draw a straight line myself but Bea there knows her stuff. Don’t you, Bea?”
“Oh, Topper. Please don’t go on like that.”
“Take the credit, Bea,” Topper said. “Your work is top-notch in my book.”
Hardy eyed a small carrot suspiciously, not sure if he should cut it in half or chance cramming the whole thing in his mouth at once. Drawing his knife on the innocent vegetable seemed a bit extravagant, but he worried that forcing the thing into his mouth might result in an unintended comic moment; his cheeks puffed out like an adder as he tried to crush the carrot with his teeth. He chose the knife, feeling ludicrous as he stabbed the carrot and pinned it with his fork, slicing through its body.
“So you’ll do it then?” Topper said to him.
The knife stopped. “Beg pardon?”
“Bring them around, Captain. Your paintings and such. Show them off a bit.”
Hardy’s mouth suddenly went dry. He wavered between answering and reaching for a glass of water.
Topper suddenly slapped the table. China and silverware bounced into the air. “Can you believe it, Bea? Can you believe it, Captain Hardy? Two days I knew that you were coming, two days for me to have some sherry in the house, and have I done it? I have not.”
“Topper Schiffer, you’ve frightened ten years from me,” Beatrice said. “Pounding the table like that, and in front of Captain Hardy.”
“Well, there’s nothing to be done,” Topper said, quickly standing and yanking the napkin from his shirt collar. “Nothing to be done but pop down to Burly’s and get us a bottle.”
Fear gripped Hardy. Topper would leave and he would be alone. With Beatrice.
“No, Mr. Schiffer,” he said, trying to hide the alarm that he felt. “It’s not necessary for you to go out.”
“Topper,” Beatrice instantly joined in. “I’m sure that we can make do with tea.”
“Tea?” He slid his arm into a tattered coat. “Tea, Captain Hardy,” he said, appalled at the notion. “And a fighting man at the table? A sailor at that. Tea won’t do, Bea.” He disappeared through the curtains and Hardy heard that despicable little bell tinkle happily as the door opened and closed.
A cold silence invaded the little room. Hardy glanced at the partially dissected carrot and carefully laid his knife and fork on either side of the plate. Somewhere he heard the steady tick of a clock. He glanced at Beatrice and forced a smile.
“The mutton was satisfactory, Miss Schiffer. Most satisfactory.”
“Oh, do you think so?” she said brightly. “I’ve never quite gotten the hang of fixing it, although you’d think that it was fit for the King the way Topper goes on about it.”
Hardy swallowed heavily. “Fit enough for me, Miss Schiffer,” he said. He studied the room as the unseen clock grew louder, each tick an accusation — talk, talk, talk. “Shall I help you with the table, then?” Hardy finally blurted out.
“Oh, no. No, Captain Hardy.” Beatrice jumped up and began quickly gathering dishes. “It’s woman’s work, you know.”
Hardy stood, grateful for something to do and for the noise that broke the oppressive quiet. “Nonsense. Nonsense. I’ve never held with that. Work is work. Man or woman, makes no difference. The only thing a woman can do that a man can’t is have…” He suddenly realized what he was saying and the words stuck in his throat. He was frozen solid, a cluster of silverware trapped in his hand. My God. My God, could you have been a bigger fool? What a callous, stupid thing to say. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said, the words rushing out in embarrassment. In polite company of all things. At the dinner table, talking about women giving birth to… children.
“No, don’t you give it a second thought, Captain Hardy,” Beatrice said easily. She scrapped food from the plate into a small bucket. “You’re quite right about that. And I find your attitude most enlightened. Most men treat childbirth as if it never happened. It’s the most natural thing in the world. A wonderful event.”
Relief filled his hollow body and he became eternally grateful that she did not stab him with a carving knife in outrage.
The awkwardness was broken and he stood, quietly handing her dirty dishes, filled with admiration for her gentleness. She spoke continuously as she took the dishes and placed them in the dry sink. Her voice was soothing and she moved with unhurried grace. She was at ease, not only because this was the kitchen, her domain, Hardy thought, but because she was one of those rare creatures with integrity of existence — she was imperturbable. He thought at first that she might have been as nervous as he and that talking was a way to overcome the fear that she felt, but he decided that that was not it; she was happy, and happiness expressed itself in an endless stream of words. She said something about a sister, and her sister’s children, and what a lovely child their youngest, Jack, was. She spoke of Mrs. Tarkington just down the street and how her eyesight, poor dear, was beginning to fail her and how she, Beatrice, always found time to take her some food and visit with her each day.