Baroness Zawisza stunned the assembly by wearing almost nothing except two gold-painted leaves over her breasts, and a slightly larger gold-painted leaf between her legs, held with nothing but the thinnest gold ballet-shoe laces, and leaving her bottom quite bare. On her head she wore a pyramid of gold-painted apples; and on her feet the highest of golden slippers. To anyone who had the courage to inquire, she was attending the fancy-dress ball as the golden apples of the sun. Julius Briggs remarked that "only a lady so utterly confident of her beauty and her wealth could have appeared in company as naked as this; and the remarkable part about it was that in spite of the fact that she had quite a few of the gentlemen hi a tizzy, and scandalised one or two of the older women, most of the other ladies appeared to be covetously envious, as if they too had a secret dream of dining and dancing with practically nothing on at all."
As a couple, however, it was Catriona and Mark Beeney who entranced the company the most. Catriona had never felt so gracious or so pretty. Her crinoline gown was like a sparkling cloud of frost from which her narrow waist curved up in silk and lace, and her full breasts were cupped so high in the bones of her bodice that her ruby and diamond necklace, the necklace which Mark had given her, was spread out almost horizontally. The natural slant of her eyes had been accentuated by dark eye cosmetics, and by the height of her fancy wig.
Mark, at her side, looked taller and more dandified than ever, and he responded to the formality of his dress by behaving towards Catriona with even more courtesy and consideration than he usually did.
When they danced together around the Grand Lounge after dinner, Catriona held up her skirts and petticoats in one hand, while the other hand lightly rested on Mark's shoulder. The orchestra played "Tales from the Vienna Woods", beautifully and delicately, as it should be played, and with a zither, which most interpretations leave out. And a two or three other couples took to the floor, because the sight of Mark and Catriona together was a glittering picture which most of the passengers wanted to savour and remember.
Afterwards, Mark and Catriona went out on deck, to that small private corner behind the Palm Court where they could watch the Arcadia's phosphorescent wash on the indigo reaches of the sea. A steward brought them a bottle of Veuve Clicquot on a silver tray, and a selection of mints.
Catriona said, "This has been the most wonderful evening I can ever remember."
"Me too,"' said Mark. His face was in shadow, but she could tell by the warmth of his voice how much he meant it.
"Do you know something?" said Catriona. "I don't even care how long this lasts. Even if it lasts for tonight and no longer, that's all I want."
Mark took her in his arms and held her close. Then he lowered his head and kissed her, his firm tongue pushing deep into her mouth. She sucked at it, even nipped at it with her teeth, until they could both taste blood.
It was one of those kisses from which she wished she never had to emerge; and she wouldn't let him go. She gripped the hair at the back of his neck, and tugged and twisted at the braid on his jacket. Her eyes were closed, because she wanted to concentrate all of the feelings he gave her inside of her head, in that private blackness where her passion lived. He tasted irresistible, and she fed from his lips as if she were eating a sweet and narcotic fruit. She wanted him so much she could have devoured him. His fingers touched her cheek, and then a ran chillingly and thrillingly down the side of her neck; and when at last he slid his hand into the frilly bodice of her dress and held her bare nipple against the sensitive palm, she shivered and murmured and said, "Mark..." in that strange clotted voice that sleep talkers use.
For one second, her hand brushed against the swelling in his white britches, but then she knew she had to turn away and take a deep breath to control herself, because she could feel the breeze-cooled moisture in the silk between her warm thighs, and this time she knew how important it was to resist. There were too many other considerations. Too much business. Too many complications. To become Mark's mistress tonight would be to jeopardise everything that her father's death had given her.
Mark said, "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she told him. "Everything's exactly right."
He leaned his elbows on the rail. "You said you were a little bit frightened of me. I hope you're not a little bit frightened of yourself as well."
"Isn't everybody?"
"I don't know. Maybe so. The only thing that frightens me is the prospect of growing old."
Catriona picked up her glass of champagne. It was very dry, and very cold. The best champagne, one of Nigel's lounge-lizard friends had told her, should taste like the dust from an Egyptian's mummy's bandages.
"Growing old doesn't matter so much when you're rich," she said.
"On the contrary," said Mark. "I think it's far better to grow old when you're poor. Can you imagine the frustration of having millions and millions of dollars, and knowing that all of those millions can do nothing at all to hold back time and make you young again."
"You're being very morbid."
"Not really. I guess I'm just upset."
"Because of me?" asked Catriona.
"A little. I love you, but you seem to be keeping yourself aloof."
Catriona smiled at him. "I love you, too. I think you're the berries, if you must know. But there's all this business going on. You're trying to buy the Arcadia, and George Welterman's trying to buy us up completely, and I just need a little time to think."
SIXTY-THREE
Early the following day, Catriona sent three wireless messages; and by tea-time, when she was sitting out on deck with Mary Pickford and Mark, Willis the Wireless had brought her two replies.
Mark popped an olive into his mouth, and said, "You've been very mysterious today, my love."
"A woman's entitled to be mysterious," retorted Mary Pickford. "In fact, she's obliged to be mysterious."
"There's mysterious and there's mysterious,' put in Baroness Zawisza, who had eavesdropped on them as she was gliding past in a daring dress by Beer. "There's mysterious ignorant and mysterious knowledgeable." Her tongue lightly rapped the "k" of "knowledgeable" so that it sounded like a Polish translation.
Sabran, just behind her, sniffed the sea air insolently, as if it were vulgar even to breathe it.
Catriona read her messages and then folded them up again and tucked them into her purse.
"You'll have to forgive my outrageous curiosity," said Mark.
"I forgive it," smiled Catriona. "I'd be curious too, if I were you; particularly if the messages said what these messages say."
"You're teasing me."
"'No," said Catriona, in a voice which told him that she meant it, that he wasn't to ask any more. He shrugged and popped in another olive and looked out towards the sparkling ocean. America was only a day away now, and there was a restlessness on board the Arcadia, an impatience to arrive. With Sir Peregrine at the helm, the ship had been making tremendous time, and there was a rumour already rife in the smoking lounge that if they kept going at their present speed, they would finally take the Blue Riband away from the Mauritania, after thirteen years.
Mark said, "You're pleased? You're upset?"
"I don't know," said Catriona. "Will you excuse me for a while? I think the sunlight's bringing on my headache."
"You didn't tell me you had headaches."
"'Mark," insisted Catriona firmly; and Mark raised his hands in surrender and stood up to help her out between the deck chairs.