Lady Diana had told him that the moles were in the pattern of Sagittarius, her birth sign. The outlook for Sagittarians for 1924 was an unexpected windfall from an official quarter. Lady Diana had taken this as a good omen, although she had refused to tell Dick why. "Women must keep their mysteries," she had said, turning away.
Dick, in spite of himself, and in spite of his tiredness, found that he was aroused. He put down his gin glass next to her scarcely touched Boopa-Doopa and stood up. He approached Lady Diana from behind and laid his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her hair, and then her cheek. She smelted of something so exquisite and so expensive that both his heart and his pay cheque began to tremble. She was so small, and so erotic! He could think of nothing else but a upraised hindquarters, her cheeky smiles, and the sexual games she had played with him.
He said, "I may stutter sometimes, you know. But that duh, that duh, that doesn't make me any less of a man."
"I know," said Lady Diana simply, letting down the front of her negligee so that her small breast was bared to the lamplight. "But you mustn't ever forget that you don't own me. Not a bit of me. Not even one toenail, when it's clipped off. Not even one hair, if it falls out. You don't even own the waft of my French knickers, when I toss them into the laundry basket."
Dick kissed the side of her neck and licked inside her ear. "You c-can be d-dashed c-cruel sometimes, c-can't you?" he said.
"Of course," she said. "And don't you adore it?"
She turned around and seized the buckle of his pants. With three quick jerks, one to the left, one to the right, one to the left, she unfastened his belt, and then her hand ran deftly down his fly buttons as if she were shelling peas. His redness bobbed up out of his woollen underpants, and he thought to himself, in delight and fright, "It's happening again! So quickly, and it's happening again!"
And he didn't once think of "Walter", back in his own cabin, who was fitting on his toupee and putting on his small dark glasses, and preparing himself for an early breakfast as the Arcadia's mystery man.
He was too involved in sighing, as he anointed Lady Diana's insides.
FIFTY
Breakfast on Thursday morning was an especially grand affair. The first-class dining lounge had been festooned with garlands of roses, which had been specially prepared before the voyage by the royal florists in London and stored in pink tissue in the Arcadia's cold room, behind the bacon sides and legs of lamb.
The lounge was sparkling with nine o'clock sunshine, and fragrant with the scent of pink and white floribunda. Twelve pretty young girls in Greek tunics with roses in their hair flittered between the tables in a free-form interpretation of music from Ravel's ballet Daphnis and Chloe, while stewards carried out shining chafing dishes that were heaped with glistening yellow mountains of freshly scrambled eggs, crisply fried bacon, fried whitebait, curried kidneys, brains in black butter, and shoals of brown varnished Loch Fyne kippers.
Champagne was served, and so was Dragon Smoke tea from south-western China, and Costa Rican coffee. The table-linen was all pink damask, and every table was strewn with white roses. Everyone had dressed up for breakfast, the gentlemen in white flannel blazers and white ducks, and the ladies in a variety of pink and white frocks of silk and laon and crepe de chine. "The whole lounge had the appearance of being in a froth," wrote the society editor of the newly established newsmagazine Time.
Mark was waiting for Catriona at a small circular table in the corner of the lounge opposite the orchestra. As she made her entrance, he stood up, his tan looking darker than ever against his perfectly cut blazer. The crest of American TransAtlantic was embroidered in red and gold on his breast pocket.
Catriona, a little pale, was escorted in by Edgar Deacon. She had chosen to wear not pink or white, although it had been requested that all first-class passengers should do so, but a mauve crepe dress with flowing sleeves, a black feather belt, and a skirt that was formed of layers of triangular drapes of pleated fabric. She also wore a matching cloche hat, in mauve, with one long ribbon which reached down as far as her hem.
"You look just a little bit more than perfect," said Mark, reaching out and taking her hand. There was a bustle of conversation as people around them noticed the way they greeted each other.
"And you look just a little bit like Rudolph Valentino on a yachting holiday." Catriona smiled.
"That's a compliment?" Mark asked Edgar. But Edgar refrained from smiling or from answering. George Welterman was sitting only two tables away, talking in a loud voice to Charles Schwab, and Edgar didn't want to look as if last night's crisis had disturbed him.
"Enjoy your breakfast," Edgar told Catriona, pushing in her chair for her. "I must go and have a word with Mr. Philips."
Rudyard Philips, in his white cruising uniform, was sitting in the captain's chair, recounting his story about the mixed-up shoes on Aurora (Grand Duchess Marie, America's ranking Russian exile, had found a pair of men's tennis shoes, size ten, outside her door in the morning instead of her silver evening slippers, size four, and had illustrated her displeasure to the captain by wearing them in to dinner).
Edgar leaned over and said quietly, "I'm sorry to interrupt you, Mr. Philips. But a quick word in your ear."
Rudyard excused himself, and followed Edgar outside to the anteroom,
where they stood in a corner by a large overhanging Helzine soleirolii, or Baby's Tears.
"You seem to be filling in for Sir Peregrine very adequately," said Edgar.
"Thank you,' said Rudyard. "I am a master in my own right, of course."
Edgar nodded. "I've spoken to Dr. Fields again," he said. 'Sir Peregrine isn't likely to regain the use of his right arm, it seems, nor his right leg—not without months and possibly years of treatment."
"I see," said Rudyard.
Edgar laid a hand on Rudyard's gold-braided shoulder. "We have to face up to the fact that this is the end, as far as Sir Peregrine's seagoing career is concerned, although he may probably wish to stay with Keys as an adviser. We're going to need a new master for the Arcadia, and a new fleet commodore."
"Yes," Rudyard replied. He was standing as straight-backed as he could.
"Obviously you're hankering to get back to the Aurora," Edgar went on, "but under the circumstances the board is going to have to ask you to take over as captain of the Arcadia for the rest of this voyage, and also for the return run to Liverpool. After that—well, it's no secret that the future of the company is in the balance."
"Taking command of the Arcadia is scarcely a hardship, Mr. Deacon." Rudyard smiled. "And didn't I understand you to say that IMM have guaranteed the jobs of all of our officers and crew?"
"As far as economically possible, they have," said Edgar. "But what I really want you to understand is that it may be two or three months before we can find a suitable replacement for Sir Peregrine, and even when we've found him, he's going to have to spend quite a few weeks familiarising himself with the ship. So you may be away from the Aurora for some time."
Rudyard felt as if his stomach had dropped down one of the Arcadia's lift shafts. He could see himself in one of the engraved mirrors on the other side of the anteroom, and his mouth had opened. He looked like a bystander in a news photograph of a serious accident. The serious accident, however, had happened to him.