They whispered together tête-à-tête while covertly glancing at the gentlemen in the room. Henry Dries Stahl was rich, but had nothing to say. Freddy Flynn, Flora’s brother, was handsome, but liable to drink too much and become boorish. Hollis Granger was funny, but he had a peculiar smell. And then there were a lot of men who were all-right-looking, and were capable of holding a conversation with a woman, but were already married. Finally, Vida’s eye settled on an Englishman with some title or other, who was tall and wore a pleasant, open expression, and who she had seen at breakfast alone reading a book. Mr. Selvedge was passing then, and Vida wasted no time flagging him.
“There’s a favor you must do for me,” she said.
“Anything,” Selvedge replied with a little dip of the head.
“That British fellow who sits alone at breakfast, what’s his name?”
“Oh, that’s Lord Morrow.”
“Is there a Lady Morrow?”
“His mother, but she retires early and sleeps late.”
“Would you mind sitting Mrs. Adell beside him this evening for dinner?”
“Wonderful idea. Let’s make the introduction now.” Selvedge offered his hand to Lilly, and she took it, and off they went.
Vida watched Lilly walk away. Her head was high and steady as though the rest of her were pulled on wheels. Her lips swayed with that subtlety exhibited by girls bred from birth for a smart marriage, and her black train trailed over the carpet that had inspired her to say such melancholy things. For a moment Vida felt melancholy, too, thinking of all the years her new friend had labored to mold herself into the perfect bride, only to be left as she was now. But she would be all right, and meanwhile Vida had her own match to pursue. She turned to the grand hearth, pushed her bosom in and up so that it would catch the best light, pivoted to grab a passing glass of champagne. She sipped and took in the room. Mr. Selvedge was coming back her way.
“Any more seating changes you would like me to make?” he asked. His eyes were merry, and she could see he wasn’t really annoyed.
“As it happens, my parents won’t be coming this evening after all. I’m sorry to tell you so late—you do go to so much trouble. Perhaps you could find another table for me to join?”
“It’s no trouble at all. And you weren’t seated with your parents this evening in any case.”
A sweet wind filled Vida’s lungs. “Why not?” she asked with a coy sideways glance.
“Mr. Fitzhugh Farrar asked that you be seated at his table. I do hope you don’t mind. All the sporting fellows always ask to be sat with him, so you may find it a bit of a bore.”
Oh, I don’t care about that, Vida very nearly said out loud, so thrilled was she to hear that not only would they be seated together, but that Fitzhugh himself had requested it. “I’ll manage, somehow” was what she actually said with a little wink.
“It is always a pleasure,” Mr. Selvedge replied, winking back, “to be of service to a young lady who enjoys herself. May I escort you to your table, Miss Hazzard?”
A happy gust surged in Vida, and she held her hand aloft for him to take, and then he paraded her past the Blues of Park Avenue, and Mr. and Mrs. Louis Jones, and the rows and rows of footmen and waiters, past the oil paintings and statuary and potted palms and gilded doodads, and into the dining room, where a quartet was playing mildly, and where many of the first-class passengers were already seated, just waiting to see her as she came through the door. Mr. Selvedge commented on who was who, but she scarcely listened. For one thing she knew already, and for another she was concentrating on moving just the way a girl like her was supposed to, with grace but also with a little frisson of flirtation, and on lowering herself into her golden chair with as much elegance as possible, while still keeping her waterfall of a skirt away from her feet. She was as Dame Edna had described her—she knew just how to walk the line. To be decorous enough not to run afoul of good society, yet never falling into conformity.
“Can I get you anything?” he asked as he poured champagne from the large bottle in the silver urn.
“No, thank you, Mr. Selvedge,” she replied, letting her fingers rest at the base of her champagne flute. “I have everything I need.”
Beyond several plates and sets of silverware and glasses of every shape was a small tent of white cardstock with her name scrawled in dark ink. At the next setting, there was an identical name tag that said simply Fitz. As the other members of their dining party leaned in to find their own names, she nodded and smiled a remote, elegant smile, all the while thinking to herself that the real fun would begin when Fitzhugh sat down beside her. Fitzhugh, with his neat and gleaming hair, his tails and tux and white tie, and she, in a shade just slightly pinker than a wedding dress, beside him like they were already a match announced. It had been her parents’ idea, of course. But she was making it her own, moment by moment, spinning pleasant fantasies of the adventure her marriage would be. Rosa de Hastings was at a far-off table this evening, looking a little dour, and Vida thought of the sense of triumph she’d feel when it was all settled. Dame Edna’s article would proclaim it in the newspapers, and everyone who doubted Vida would have to admit that she had taken a grand prize. She was trying to calculate how many days until then—until they reached shore, and the news could be cabled back to San Francisco—when the chair beside her was pulled back. Her smile flickered on, and she turned, hoping to see the young man whose name she had just been savoring in her thoughts.
“Oh.” The word echoed between her ears and escaped her mouth before she could help it. Disappointment dragged down her smile, and her shoulders, too. “It’s you.”
The nobody wore a face of mild amusement, just as he had when she saw him last. He was dressed as plainly as he had been that day at the map room. It was only one of a dozen things that irritated her about him. But he could have shown a little respect to the women in that room, who had given their afternoons to getting dressed, by putting on a tie. “Not who you were expecting?” he asked. His tone made clear that he knew the answer.
“Why would I be expecting you?” Vida asked. She had not been drinking the champagne that Mr. Selvedge had poured for her—she had wanted to wait so that she could toast Fitzhugh with a full glass—but now she took a big gulp and stared off at the dining room, still full of people dressed their absolute best, but somehow a little less sparkly than in the moment before. “The name tag is quite clear on who is sitting next to me, unless by some strange coincidence your name is Fitzhugh as well.”
“A bit of weather, I’m afraid, and the captain required Fitz’s expertise at the helm. He sent me to make his excuses. My name is Sal.”
“Sal?” She was trying to hide her contempt, but not really very much. “Just Sal?”
“I have a family name, but no family anymore, so I don’t bother with it much.”
“I suppose you want me to feel sorry for you.”
Though his expression was placid his words came back like a whip: “Why would I want something like that?”
“If you think I’ll be sweet to you,” she replied, fast as he had, “and tell you that I am not disappointed by the fact that the seating arrangements had me next to Mr. Fitzhugh Farrar, of the shipping Farrars, known around the world for his exciting explorations of places unknown, and instead I find myself wasting my breath on a nobody—well then you must believe I am as polite as I look. I assure you, politeness is just a costume I wear sometimes when I find it advantageous.”