The effect, in that blackest of summer thunderstorms, was extraordinary, and many of those watching the Arcadia's departure from small dinghies and sailing-boats found it difficult to believe that what they were witnessing was real. "It was as if a whole seaside town had suddenly detached itself from the greater bulk of Ireland, and moved mysteriously off into the night," wrote the chief correspondent for the Dublin Examiner. Another reporter found scribbled in his rain-spotted note book the following morning, "If I had drunk three more Guinness than I actually had, I might well have piped my eye. If you're the kind of fellow who likes your moments momentous, and your grandeur grand, then the Arcadia's sailing was for you and no mistake."
And another correspondent, for the Dundalk Courier, said, "I have seen fairyland, and it works."
Rudyard Philips stood in the wheelhouse, looking out over the reaches of the night with his hands clasped resolutely behind his back.
As the Arcadia sailed clear of the shelter of Dun Laoghaire, and out into the Irish Sea once more, he could feel the deck begin the first exploratory dips and rolls of a long ocean voyage, like a young girl stepping out on her first dance. With her four well-balanced four-bladed screws, the Arcadia did not vibrate badly, but on the first leg of their journey Rudyard had already noticed a kind of musical hum, as the decks and the woodwork and the metal fittings all harmonised to the deeper note of the oil-fired turbines.
There were still a few small boats scattered around in the darkness, and one or two of them let off coloured flares, red and white, which sparkled and then died away. Rudyard ordered the helmsman to answer them with a quick whoop on the foghorn. The helmsman said, "One mile out, Mr Philips, sir."
Sir Peregrine was still in his cabin. Rudyard stared out of the window in front of him for a long while, saying nothing; but then he ordered firmly, "Steady as she goes. Four knots." There were still one or two tiny lights bobbing around them, and however speedily Sir Peregrine wanted to escape from Irish waters, Rudyard considered that the Dublin harbourmaster's warning should be taken seriously. He would wait until they were clear of Eire's territorial waters before he ordered full speed.
At that moment, however, the speaking-tube whistle blew, and Rudyard leaned forward to answer it.
"Mr Philips?" came Sir Peregrine's echoing voice. "I'd be obliged to see you in my quarters."
Rudyard said to the helmsman, "Hold her steady," and left the wheelhouse to walk along to Sir Peregrine's cabin. He knocked at the door, and waited until Sir Peregrine irascibly shouted, "Yes? Don't stand there all night!"
Sir Peregrine was dressed in full formal uniform, medals, gold epaulets, and white wing collar. His white hair was combed into shining furrows with brilliantine, and there was a small cut on his left cheekbone from shaving.
"Isn't it time we stopped dawdling, Mr Philips?" he wanted to know.
"We're not quite clear of the small craft yet, sir," said Rudyard.
Sir Peregrine went to the porthole and peered savagely out. "What small craft? Those? A couple of decrepit herring boats, that's all they are, and they must be three miles away if they're an inch."
"There are others, sir," insisted Rudyard. "They're difficult to see with the rain blowing athwart us like this."
"They might be difficult for us to see," replied Sir Peregrine, with ill-controlled ire, "but we, Mr Philips, are about as invisible as Harrods at Christmas. We'll have full ahead, please, as I instructed; and any more of this tomfoolery will result in my ordering you off my bridge for the remainder of the voyage, if I make myself clear. Where's Mr. Charles?"
"In the chart-room, sir."
"Very well. Have Mr. Charles take over and get yourself ready for dinner. If you can't sail a ship, at the very least you can make yourself pleasant to the passengers."
"Sir, I—"
Sir Peregrine lifted a bony, well-manicured hand. "Enough, thank you, Mr Philips. Desist."
Rudyard steadied himself with a deep breath. "Yes, sir. Very well, sir. Thank you, sir," he rattled off, as if he were reciting a series of Hail Marys for the forgiveness of his insubordination. Sir Peregrine nodded in lemony satisfaction, and then said, "Did they bring up my Evian water yet? It's very thirsty work, dressing for dinner."
Rudyard walked through the chart room to the corridor which led to his cabin. Dick Charles was in there, his feet up on the table,
reading a copy of Pictorial Weekly (twopence) and drinking tea. "The old man wants you," said Rudyard, shortly. Dick put his magazine down and brushed biscuit crumbs from his uniform. "I h-hope he doesn't w-want me to w-welcome the p—the p—the passengers," he said. "I'm terrified I'm going to run into that Lady Diana FitzP—FitzP—"
"I know who you mean," said Rudyard, tiredly. "But I shouldn't worry too much. She'll probably be snapped up by the time you get down to dinner."
At that very moment, though, Monty Willowby poked his head through the chartroom door and said, "Mr Charles? Mr Peel said you might be interested to know that Lady Diana FitzPerry has specifically requested to sit at your table tonight. Cocktails sharp at eight-thirty, please, gentlemen. Dinner sharp at nine."
Dick Charles stared at his mug of tea unhappily.
"I think the arrer of true love has stuck itself in your heart at last, Mr Charles," smiled Monty Willowby.
When he had gone, Rudyard said, "Yes, come on, Dick. There must be worse things than being fancied by the hottest go-er in Westminster."
"I suppose so," said Dick, without much enthusiasm.
"Think about it as a duty," Rudyard suggested. "Arduous but not unpleasant."
"Hunh!" Dick protested. "It's all r-right for y-you! You're m-married."
Rudyard looked at him quickly, and then, more slowly, down at the floor. "Yes," he said, in a small voice. "I suppose you might say that I am."
The awkward silence that followed was interrupted by Monty Willowby, who popped his head in again and said, "Begging your pardon, Mr Charles, but Mr Peel told me to say that he has heard how certain talents as practised by Lady Diana FitzPerry could be beneficial for speech impediments. If you see what he means, sir."
Rudyard couldn't help laughing. Dick threw his magazine at Monty Willowby with a loud flutter of pages. It fell open on the floor at a saucy photograph of Lois Byrd, of Mack Sennett comedy fame. "How's this for a bit to eat?" the caption read.
Rudyard went through to the wheelhouse, and passed on Sir Peregrine's instructions for full speed. Now the Arcadia's reciprocating engines began to build up power, with a deep and noticeable drumming sound that gradually awakened the passengers to the fact that they were really on their way, and that they would soon be sailing at more then twenty-six knots. Catriona asked Alice to open one of her portholes, so that she could hear the splashing of the liner's sharp bows as she cut into the choppy water of the Irish Sea. A smell of brine and fuel-oil and summer rain blew into the stateroom, and mingled with the perfume.
It would take three or four miles for the Arcadia to build up to her full cruising speed, just as it would take over a mile and a half to stop her dead, in case of emergency. Even though she was 960 feet long—longer than the Woolworth Building would have been if it were laid on its side—she could pass a given point when she was sailing at twenty knots, from her sharp-bladed bows to the flag on her overhanging stern counter, in a fraction over twenty-nine seconds.
Two miles out from the Irish coast, the Arcadia was making only eight or nine knots, but that was still fast for a vessel her size in coastal water. Sir Peregrine had left his cabin now, and descended to the Grand Lounge with Edgar Deacon, Percy Fearson, Ralph Peel, and the rest of his officers, where they began to greet the assembling passengers. The ship's orchestra was playing a mildly syncopated version of one of Chopin's mazurkas, while stewards balanced between the guests like jugglers with trays of champagne. The array of evening dresses was spectacular—so spectacular that it looked as if every diamond and ruby and emerald mine had been plundered simply for the decoration of tonight's gowns; and as if every species of exotic bird had been plucked of its plumage. There were stunning creations by Paquin, Doeuillet, Paul Poiret, and Worth, all of them in ravishing colours and fabrics that shimmered in the light from the chandeliers.