"I shan't starve, then," said Mark, his eyes on Catriona.
"I doubt it, sir," said Monty Willowby, with self-satisfaction, "and I must say that those American gentlemen who have been inhibited in their home country by the Volstead Act, and by dietary fanaticism, have all found the abundance of our larders to be most reassuring."
"They are," said Mark, "most reassuring."
"Tea is at four, sir," Monty Willowby reminded him. "Dinner is at eight. Supper will be set out in the first-class smoking-room at eleven. Early breakfast is available from five-thirty. But if at any time you feel peckish, sir, don't hesitate to let my stewards know. A plate of deviled beef-bones and cottage fried potatoes never goes amiss, sir, does it?"
Mark looked pointedly at Monty Willowby's protuberant belly, straining at his beige hunting-vest and the gold chain of his Albert watch. "No," he remarked, "apparently not."
For a half-hour after lunch, Catriona went out on to the first-class promenade deck in a white summer coat and a white peekaboo hat to take the breeze. Mark Beeney was strolling arm-in-arm with Marcia Conroy, and he raised his straw boater to her as she passed. Once they had gone by, Catriona could hear them furiously arguing. "Well, what did you want me to do, high-hat her?" Mark protested. Catriona smiled to herself, and went to the varnished rail, where she gazed seventy feet down the sheer wall of the Arcadia's side to the frothing green Irish Sea below.
It was almost two o'clock. In an hour, they would be lowering her father into his grave at the church of St Christopher, in Formby. The sadness and the regret she felt were almost bottomless, like the deepest reaches of the ocean. But none of her anguish could bring him back, not even to the moment when he had let out his last breath, nor to the second when he had paused at the foot of the stairs and asked Dottie for his Food of Life. The breath he had breathed and the words he had spoken had been heard, and faded, and gone. She hoped desperately that her father was happy, if it was still possible for him to be happy; and for her own sake she hoped that he understood how much she loved him.
Edgar Deacon came up in white ducks and a navy-blue yachting blazer with red stripes. He rested his bony, dark-haired wrists on the rail beside her, and pretended to stare at the dazzling sea for a while.
"You and Mark Beeney got on well together, then?" he asked.
"We shouldn't have done?"
"Of course you should. I'm glad that you did. You shouldn't forget that he's the competition, though. Nor how much he covets this ship."
"Is that so terrible?"
"My dear, he cares for nothing but his own interests. He would happily see Keys go bankrupt, if it meant that he could have the Arcadia for himself. He's quite unscrupulous."
"He's nice. I like him."
"Of course you like him. But he's far harder than he looks. He's not just an oceangoing cake-eater. He's one of the brightest young businessmen in America."
"I can't really believe that he wants to see us go out of business."
Edgar turned and leaned his back against the rail. He watched Mark Beeney and Marcia Conroy as they briefly appeared on the far side of the promenade deck, and then as they disappeared again behind the raised glass roof that covered the first-class lounge.
"If it meant that he could acquire the Arcadia cheaply, he wouldn't give twopence if our whole workforce had to go on the dole. He's a young sheik, Miss Keys, that's all; and the Arcadia would be a fine jewel for him to set in his puggaree."
Catriona stared down at the foam as it endlessly unravelled from the ship's glossy black hull and spread out across the surface of the ocean. Only a few feet away from the rail, silent gulls kept pace with the Arcadia's progress, occasionally fluttering and diving for small fish that had been churned up by the liner's giant screws. The ship had passed the shelter of the north Welsh coast now, and the southwest wind had freshened up. Catriona wound her scarf around her hat and turned up the collar of her coat, so that all anyone could see of her was her pretty nose.
"The way Mark Beeney looks at it," went on Edgar, "American TransAtlantic ranks fourth, both in carrying capacity, and the prestige of his fleet. His fleet makes money, certainly, but it lacks glamour; and these days glamour is what the cabin-class business is all about. if he could buy the Arcadia, he would easily rank third, and he would also have all the swank he's been looking for."
"He's been talking to you about it?" asked Catriona.
Edgar stood straight, and self-consciously adjusted his yachting cap. He's been dropping hints about the Arcadia for months: both to me and to your father."
"I mean recently. You were exchanging intimate looks at the luncheon table as if you were secret lovers."
"He did call me before we left Liverpool, yes."
"He made an offer?"
Edgar shook his head. "He just wanted to know if we were interested in selling, that's all. A tentative inquiry. But I doubt if he could go above 3 pounds million."
"So what do you think about it?"
"I don't think anything about it, other than what I told you last week. We're technically bankrupt, and any offer that might pay off our debts has to be considered. It grieves me considerably to think of having to sell the Keys fleet out of the family, but so far it strikes me as the only reasonable alternative. Three million might keep us going for a little while longer, but then we would have lost the Arcadia for ever."
"And that's why I shouldn't allow myself to be sweet-talked by Mark Beeney?" asked Catriona, a little irked.
"Let me just say this," said Edgar, "Mark Beeney is very attractive to women, and he has a way with him. For your own sake, for all of our sakes, for the sake of those families in Liverpool, you'd be better to keep a relatively cool distance."
Catriona turned to Edgar and peered at him from under the shadow of her peekaboo hat. "You're not just the tiniest bit jealous, are you?" she asked. "I mean, as well as being so businesslike and concerned for those families in Liverpool?"
Edgar gave her a complicated little smile. "I am simply trying to discharge my duty to your late father's company in the way that he would have wished me to," he said. He cleared his throat, and then turned away.
Just then, Mark Beeney came across the deck. He grinned, and lifted his hat, and took Catriona's hand.
"Miss Keys," he said, cheerfully. "I thought it was you under that hat. You have the most attractive smeller on the whole deck. Mr. Deacon, how are you?"
Edgar gave a non-committal nod. "Bearing up, thank you, Mr. Beeney."
"It's almost two-thirty," said Mark Beeney. "The lovely Marcia has gone to the beauty salon to get herself dolled up for tonight's festivities. Didn't we have a date for a tour of the ship?"
"Of course," said Catriona, taking Mark Beeney's arm. "Look, here's Mr. Philips now. Our guide. You'll excuse us, Mr. Deacon?"
"Please," said Edgar, overpolitely. "It's your ship."
Rudyard Philips came up looking surprisingly pink, as if something had just shocked or embarrassed him. In fact Mademoiselle Narron had taken his arm only ten minutes ago as he left the first-class dining-lounge and jostled him into a corner, deliberately or accidentally thrusting one of her mighty thighs between his. He hadn't quite been sure what she had been trying to do, and perhaps she hadn't been, either, because nothing had ensued but an awkward tussle and a salvo of "excuse-mes" and "I beg-your-pardons." Blushing, she said that the sway of the ship had made her lose her balance. Could she see him later? With other passengers watching, he had tipped his cap and said, "Assuredly'. It had sounded rather old-fashioned but it had been the first word he could think of. The slight cuts on Mademoiselle Narron's wrists had been concealed by three or four large diamond bracelets, and a long-sleeved purple dress by Dior.