Catriona said, "I love you." And then, "Damn it!"
"You'll come with me to Boston?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet."
"Then make it up."
Catriona hesitated for a moment, but then she thought, What on earth am I hesitating for? It's all happened like a whirlwind, but who cares? When you find the man you really love, that's the way it happens. You fly together like two magnets, and from then on you're stuck.
"All right," she said, with a slow smile. "I'll come. As long as you're sure that I can bring Alice."
"You can bring fifty Alices."
Mark glanced up at the clock. It was two minutes of twelve. "I have to run now," he said. "I have a meeting with John Crombey, and then I have some wireless messages to dictate. But let's take a walk after luncheon; and why don't you let me escort you to the fancy-dress ball tonight?"
"I was going to go with Mr Philips," said Catriona. The thought was suddenly sad and strong. Edgar had told her that it would be excellent for passenger morale if she appeared at the fancy-dress ball on Rudyard Philips' arm. Now Rudyard Philips was lost, presumed drowned; and although Catriona could only remember him as a short, rather pugnacious man with a rather abrupt way of speaking—a stickler for shipboard etiquette, rather diffident and difficult to talk to—she was still regretful, because he was one of her officers and he had died in the course of his duty. Her father would have been upset, and so was she.
Mark said, "I've lost some good friends at sea, including my father. The sad thing is, you can't even bury them."
"I don't suppose Mr. Philips would have minded," said Catriona. "He did tell me that the sea was everything he had."
"In that case," said Mark, "I guess he wouldn't have minded too much. I don't suppose my father would, either. But my mother used to say that it wasn't the same, throwing a wreath on the sea. Not the same as placing it on a headstone."
Catriona said gently, "I'll see you at three, in the Palm Court."
It was twelve o'clock exactly.
FIFTY-FOUR
At noon, on board the Keys liner Arcadia, in mid-Atlantic, several crucial events took place.
The most crucial event was the spring in Harry Pakenow's time clock, displaced by less than one-sixteenth of an inch when he dropped him to the deck of the automobile hold, failed to activate the sear which was supposed to fire the primer which would detonate his thirty sticks of dynamite.
Twelve o'clock came and went, and the Arcadia, having abandoned at last her search for the body of Rudyard Philips, was swiftly and majestically building up speed again as she sailed towards the golden western horizon, her bows glittering with spray, her slanted funnels streaming out plumes of smoke, a picture postcard of a luxury 1920s liner making her way across the ocean to New York. To take the passenger's mind off the tragedy, Ralph Peel had ordered complimentary champagne for everyone in cabin class, free sherry in second, and a bottle of ale apiece in third. Fox-trot music blew across the first-class decks in the lunchtime breeze, and gradually the party atmosphere began to revive, especially in anticipation of today's celebration lunch and tonight's fancy-dress ball.
There was some excitement, too, at the prospect of Mr. Joe Kretchmer and Mr. Duncan Wilkes meeting each other over luncheon, because both of them had been seen to falter during elevenses, especially when the smoking-lounge steward had brought them le snac du jour, which had been a hot Gruyere fondue of plovers' eggs, Dublin Bay prawns, spiced cubes of pork, and diced marrow. Maurice Peace had been predicting that today's lunchtime confrontation would probably decide the winner of the eating contest, and he had been taking hundreds of pounds in extra bets. Interest in the contest, which had flagged during the past few meals because it had seemed as if the competitors would do nothing more spectacular for the rest of the voyage than slowly masticate their way through forty-three different dishes a day, was suddenly and generally revived.
Another crucial event was that Sir Peregrine sat up in his berth and announced to Nurse Queensland that he was perfectly well and that she had better bring him his trousers, unless she wanted to be instantly dismissed. Nurse Queensland called for Dr. Fields, but Dr. Fields was busy with Lady Cressworthy, who had been complaining about pains in the small of her back, particularly after last night's after-dinner tango. By the time Dr. Fields had examined Lady Cresswortby and discovered a row of purple contusions which appeared to have been inflicted by the bones of a spectacularly tight corset, Sir Peregrine had struggled into his uniform and limped out of the cabin up to the bridge. "I am perfectly well, madam," he had told Nurse Queensland, flapping at her with his good arm. "I am in the rudest possible health. But if you don't stop your fussing, I shall be even ruder."
He swung himself scissor-legged into the wheelhouse, and announced to a startled Ralph Peel that he was resuming command of the Arcadia, both operationally and socially. If he was still limping by tonight, then hang it all, he would appear at the fancy-dress ball dressed up as Long John Silver. Mr. Peel was to correct the Arcadia's course by one and a half degrees to port, and what the devil was he doing running the ship at twenty-nine knots? Were they in a race? If so, with whom? Dignity and safety came before speed. And Mr. Peel, once he had carried out his orders, was to return to his quarters and have another shave. Sir Peregrine did not care for officers on the bridge who looked like lemurs.
"You can call my steward and tell him to bring me a large glass of Russian tea, with a spoonful of maple syrup in it, and two aspirin tablets. What's the latest from Ascot?' Because of the time difference as they crossed the ocean, the early-afternoon races had already been run.
"Mrs. Jeffrey's Dinkie won by a neck from the King's horse Weathervane in the Royal Hunt Cup, sir."
"Mrs. Jeffrey? You mean to tell me that the Royal Hunt Cup was won by a woman?"
"Yes, sir," said Ralph. Then, seeing how displeased the commodore was, he added, "I'm afraid so, sir."
"What else?" demanded Sir Peregrine.
"Sansovino won the Prince of Wales stakes."
"Well, thank God for that. Where's Mr. Deacon?"
"I'll have him sent up to the bridge, sir."
"No, no, don't bother. Where's Mr. Philips?"
There was an awkward silence. The helmsman glanced uncomfortably at Ralph Peel; but then, when he saw that Sir Peregrine was frowning at him ferociously, he snapped his eyes straight ahead again.
"You haven't been told, sir?" asked Ralph.
"Told? Told what?"
"About Mr Philips, sir. I would have assumed that Dr. Fields would have told you."
Sir Peregrine reached out for the back of the captain's chair with his left arm, and gripped it to support himself. "What would you have assumed that Dr. Fields would have told me?"
"I'm not sure I ought to say, sir. I don't want to cause you another stroke. Perhaps you ought to ask Dr. Fields, sir, with respect."
"If this intelligence about Mr. Philips is so shocking that it strikes me down for good, then all I can say is that there are worse ways to go. One could die at the annual dinner of the Shipwrecked Mariners Society, during one of Gerald Maude's awful speeches."