Perhaps he should reconcile himself to the fact that he was always going to be second best—that he could never have what he really wanted, whether it was a ship or a woman. Perhaps if he lowered his sights, and lived out his life as good old dependable Rudyard Philips, then all these vicious conflicts of loyalty would come to an end. He was lucky to have the Aurora, wasn't he? And there was never any shortage of eligible young women on board ship. He would find somebody some day. Somebody plain, and likeable.
There was a knock at his cabin door. He took a cigarette out of his cigarette-case, and said, "Come in." It was a messenger boy with an envelope, ship's stationery, with his name, "Mr. R. Philips," written on the front in oblique blue handwriting. He tipped the boy sixpence and tore the letter open with his thumb.
It read, "My darling Ruddy... I have been visited by your brother officer Mr. Peel who told me everything that happened on the bridge. He told me that you had no choice, and that I should not feel badly about you, because he himself bears no grudge, and would have done the same in your dilemma as you did. In any case I think you have shown me that no woman can live her life alone, according to her own rules and nobody else's... You are a gentle man whose simple affection and constant honour are an example to me. I was prepared to think only the worst of you, because I had been so badly hurt by my previous affair; when I should only have been thinking the best. Forgive me, Louise."
Rudyard laid the letter carefully on the edge of his bureau, and lit his cigarette. He watched the letter through narrowed eyes as he smoked, as if he wanted to make sure that it was real, and that it wasn't going to burst into flames, or shrink away to ashes.
Then he found that he had to clear his throat and press his eyes with the tips of his fingers, because he was crying.
THIRTY-SEVEN
It was while Catriona was dressing for her cocktail appointment with George Welterman that Trimmer remembered where he had first seen Philip Carter-Helm. He waited, of course, until she was dressed; and he expressed his aspirate admiration for the way she looked, in her casual Patou gown of white crepe de Maroc, almost ankle-length, but bare-shouldered, with thin white straps. He particularly admired her headband, too, with a white silk rosette on it, and banging ribbons. But while he was serving her a single strong gin-and-bitters, and lighting her up a small black Dutch cigar, he said, uncertainly, "That gentleman what was 'ere this morning, miss."
"Yes?" asked Catriona. She tilted up her chin while Alice sprayed her with perfume. The gramophone played "Hit Me In The Nose Blues" with a sleazy, shuffling, late-night kind of rhythm.
"Well, miss," 'e did say as 'ow 'e used to be han hacquaintance hof your father's, hif I'm not mistaken."
"That's right. What of it?"
"I was trying to think what hof it myself, miss; and then this arver I remembered has 'ow I seen your father haccompanied by a young man not dissimilar to Mr. Carter-'Elm when I was chauffering your father just habout three year hago; honly then, hof course, Mr. Carter-'Elm was considerably younger-looking."
"Where was this?" asked Catriona. She splayed out her fingers, and Inspected her nails.
"Hin Formby, miss, when they was first discussing the plans for the Arcadia. I 'ad to drive them to Liverpool, and they was talking about it nineteen to the dozen, 'ow the money was going to be raised, 'ow they were going to lay the keel. I remember it so much because they 'ad a hargument. 'Ammer and tongs."
"Philip Carter-Helm had a hargument—I mean an argument—with my father?"
"That's right, miss, as I remember it."
"But what did they argue about? Come on, Trimmer, you can't leave me in suspenders."
Trimmer tried to look as if nothing short of white-hot pincers could drag such a confidence out of him.
"Oh, come along, Trimmer," said Catriona. She blew cigar smoke impatiently, and felt very Gloria Swanson. "Nobody blames chauffeurs for listening. Especially now that my father's dead."
"Well, miss, I believe they was discussing a ship that used to belong to Keys in them days, the Orange."
"The Orange sank, didn't it?"
"'Yes, miss. About two weeks hafter Mr. Carter-Helm and Mr. Keys 'ad such a bull-and-cow habout it. Mr Carter-'Elm was saying something habout hinsurance, and 'ow nobody would hallow it; and your poor father was 'ollering back hat 'im and telling 'im not to speak like that, 'ow dare 'e. Hexpediency, that's the word your father kept using, hover and hover. Hexpediency."
Catriona waited for Trimmer to say something else, to explain what her father's argument with Philip Carter-Helm was all about. But Trimmer simply stood there, the light from the chandelier shining off his polished black hair, and waited to be dismissed.
"That's all?" asked Catriona.
" 'Fraid so, miss. Hafter that we was in something of a haltercation with a homnibus, and I didn't 'ear the remainder."
"Well," said Catriona, "I suppose that's something. The Orange sank off India somewhere, didn't it?'
"That's it, miss. Gulf of Khambhat. All 'ands saved, luckily. But a sad thing to lose 'er. Lovely ship, one of the best we 'ad."
"I thought we was lost ourselves, that storm we had today," said Alice. "I really thought the Lord had called me at last."
Catriona held up a pair of diamond and sapphire earrings, one to each earlobe, to see how they looked. "My father designed this ship, Alice. You don't think one potty little storm could sink it, do you?"
"Oh, of course not, miss. I didn't actually allow as it would."
Trimmer, who had now returned to the cocktail bar to buff up the glasses, said, "I think Miss Keys is 'aving you hon toast, Alice."
Catriona pouted out her lips. She liked the way she looked in the mirror. Definitely Gloria Swanson. She just wished the storm hadn't given her such a headache.
Trimmer said, "Hit was quite a blow, miss, hall the same. Never known a blow so bad, not hin the summer."
"Perhaps God sent it to remind us that we shouldn't be so vain," said Catriona.
"Well, 'oo can tell, miss? 'E moves hin very hinscrutable ways."
Catriona was almost ready when Edgar knocked at the door, with yet another reminder that she had a cocktail appointment with George Welterman. "All right," she said snappily; but before he could close the door, she called, "Mr. Deacon?"
"Miss Keys?"
She hesitated, and then came across the room, and said, "Can I ask you something?"
His eyes were like those of a rabbit, not frightened, but utterly impenetrable, either out of great knowledge or out of massive ignorance, both of which are equally threatening.
"I, um—" said Catriona, and then realised that both Trimmer and Alice were listening intently, even though they were both devoting enormous energy to shining glasses and to tidying up her cosmetics. "Let's talk out on deck. I'd like some fresh air."
Edgar took her arm and escorted her out on to the first-class promenade deck. The wind was still brisk, but there was a cheery seaside friendliness about the ocean, and the flags and bunting clapped in endless and enthusiastic applause.
"Have you seen a young chap called Carter-Helm?" Catriona asked Edgar.
Edgar looked at her intently. "I believe so," he said. "Fresh-faced, is he? Quite personable?"
"That's the man. Have you ever met him before?"
Edgar shook his head. "I don't believe so. Should I have done?"
"Well, I don't know. But he told me himself that he was a friend of my father's; and just now Trimmer told me that my father and Philip Carter-Helm had a tremendous argument about something or other about three years ago, when he was driving them both into Liverpool."