An Improbable Pairing Read online

  The countess held court. Seated at the head of the table, the others were arrayed around her. As befits the star of the show, her attire was stunning. She wore a sheath embroidered with pearls and sparkling embellishments. A silver band gathered her blond hair in a sophisticated updo while allowing copious beautiful tresses to tumble out in seemingly random—though surely planned—fashion. A delicately braided silk cord circled her neck and, suspended from it, a sapphire and diamond brooch nestled at her décolletage.

  Aware that most Americans were known to gush a little too quickly, Scott spent most of the time at the countess’s table listening and sipping the free-flowing champagne. When he spoke, it was sparingly and with brevity, mainly answering any questions directed his way.

  At one point, he asked Millie to dance. When he pulled her close (and then a little closer), she didn’t resist. He knew they made a handsome couple on the dance floor. Once they returned to the table, the questions began. Their dancing together had been noticed, and now, out of their respect to Millie, the countess and her companions were protectively interested in finding out just who this American fellow was.

  “Mr. Stoddard are you going to Europe for business or pleasure?” the countess asked.

  “Neither. I’m entering a graduate program at the University of Geneva in international relations,” Scott replied.

  “Well, you must be very smart,”

  “Thank you; I have a lot of people fooled.”

  “The countess lives part of the year in her home near Geneva,” Millie interjected.

  “If you have any problems or need any help,” the countess said, “I would be glad to try to assist you.”

  “You’re too nice,” Scott said, “but I couldn’t impose on you.”

  “Not at all. Geneva can be a difficult place. Perhaps you should take my number just in case.”

  Take her number? Of course he would.

  “Desirée knows everyone in Geneva,” Millie said. “You must call.”

  Around midnight, Millie announced it was time to go. Scott addressed each person, following the correct and expected protocol of “good evenings” and “pleasure to meet yous.” In parting, the countess turned to Millie. “Why don’t you and Mr. Stoddard join me tomorrow night for dinner? We have some catching up to do, and we can’t have you languishing down there. Your mother would never forgive me.”

  “We’d love to, wouldn’t we Scott?”

  “Certainly,” he said, marveling at his good fortune. Things couldn’t be more perfect.

  They found their way back without incident, and Scott delivered Millie to her cabin on the upper decks. He wondered: was her sister’s nanny lying in wait for Millie’s return? As Millie deftly unlocked the door, she said, “I’ll see you tomorrow” and gave him a kiss on the cheek, slightly grazing his lips in passing.

  Scott walked to his stateroom and considered the evening. He recognized that Millie was the more age-appropriate romantic interest of the two women he’d met. She was perfect, lovely in every way, but he couldn’t get his mind off the countess. Dare he even think of a liaison with this more sophisticated, wiser, worldlier woman? Well, he was; the thought filled his mind. The Countess de Rovere was unaccompanied. She hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring; maybe she’d never married; perhaps she was divorced. Scott mulled over their encounter. Was there any reason to believe she could have anything more than a casual interest in him? Whether anything more was possible, his hopeful imagination thought perhaps she’d reveal more of herself at tomorrow night’s dinner.

  Scott’s anticipation at seeing the countess again was building. But there was Millie; how could he give the countess the attention he so wanted and encourage any trace of reciprocity with his dinner date present? The countess would surely find any impoliteness crass. Balancing his attention between two sophisticated women, both of whom were attuned to the maneuvers of men, would be like walking a tightrope.

  four

  THE NEXT EVENING, MILLIE DIDN’T DISAPPOINT. DRESSing beyond her years, she wore a sexy flapper-styled dress with white fringe, lace, and beads. Obviously skilled in cosmetics, Mille had dramatically accentuated her eyes and lengthened her eyelashes with mascara. The reddest possible lipstick completed her outfit. The night before, Scott had been the only man in first class without a tux. Having never anticipated a foray out of steerage, he hadn’t packed his own for the crossing; his tux, along with the rest of his stuff, would be shipped once he’d found a place in Geneva. Though he’d felt uncomfortably underdressed for first class and the countess, his charcoal suit would have to do.

  Tonight, they took a more direct path through the ship, and Millie filled him in on the countess as they walked.

  “I think Desirée approves of you, and she doesn’t like just anybody,” Millie said.

  “Why, because she included me in the dinner invitation?”

  “No, because she said, pointedly, that I should hang on to that, the that meaning you.”

  “Well I hope you do,” Scott said. “So, what’s her story?”

  Millie’s mother had known Desirée’s mother, Françoise de Bellecourt, who was descended from a long French line. Desirée had married and then divorced an Italian count, who came from a Venetian shipping family, after a short and childless marriage. Something to do with the count’s gambling debts, Millie supposed. She didn’t reveal Desirée’s age, and Scott didn’t ask, though he wanted to know. He guessed she was somewhere between twenty-eight and thirty.

  Fifteen minutes after nine, the countess appeared in the first-class dining room doorway. The ship’s personnel, falling all over themselves, guided her to the captain’s table where the countess took her seat. Scott had seen her now for the third time, and he was struck, once again, by her elegance. The Countess de Rovere wore a North African caftan of white silk and gold thread. The loose folds hung from her five-foot, seven-inch silhouette, draping her body, revealing nothing, yet suggesting everything. A single gold ring and hammered bangle cuff completed her look. Scott, momentarily mesmerized by the countess’s grace and sexuality, had to mind his manners. He didn’t want Millie to see him surveying the countess, or worse, staring with too much interest.

  After a settling-in period of a few minutes, the countess turned to Scott and asked, “Do you have friends in Geneva?”

  “No, I don’t know anyone.”

  “Well, that’s not quite true. You know me. Do you have a place to live?”

  “I’m going to rent an apartment.”

  “It would be best to rent something in the old town, near the university, but of course it’s more expensive,” she said.

  “Convenience has a price,” Scott said.

  Was she being cordial because he was a newcomer or was there something else?, Scott wondered. Now and then, it seemed Desirée’s aquamarine eyes were revealing more than the casualness she affected in conversation. But he couldn’t be sure. And Scott knew that the slightest indiscretion would end his budding friendship with Millie and dismantle any beginnings of a relationship with the countess. No; if a move was to be made, the countess must be the one to act. Scott realized how highly improbable this scenario was, but, if he could wait patiently enough, there was still time to find out. A woman like Desirée—beautiful, single, and wealthy—would, without a doubt, have an army of suitors.

  Millie’s voice broke into his thoughts: “Scott, you seem to be somewhere else,” she said in an accusing tone.

  “Oh yes; sorry. I was just thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “Nothing really.”

  “Come now, can’t we know just the tiniest hint of what took you so far away?” the countess asked.

  Scott felt a certain heat in his cheeks, which he knew were turning red. He told himself to relax, to breathe, but on reflection, he wasn’t totally displeased his interest had been revealed; that reverie and resulting blush had exposed Scott’s preoccupation. Perhaps this gave the countess the tip she was looking for. He imagi
ned that Desirée liked having the upper hand, and he wasn’t ready to give her any more clues to confirm her suspicions. Not at this time, anyway. Scott guessed the countess could be the kind of woman who wanted to subject every man and was probably driven mad by those she couldn’t immediately ensnare. I’d love to drive her mad, he thought.

  “Forgive me,” Scott responded. “I was reveling in my extraordinary fortune at having dinner with the two most beautiful women on the ship.”

  “Flattery will go a long way with the distaff set, Mr. Stoddard,” the countess laughed.

  “It’s only flattery when it’s not true,” he replied.

  On that note, their repartee ended, and conversation turned to plans for Europe. When the ship reached England, Scott learned that Millie and her sister, like most of the ship’s company, would disembark in Southampton. They’d be picked up and chauffeured to their mother’s summer home in Somerset, where the girls would enjoy the last few warm days before returning to London. The countess, however, would leave the ship at the first port of call, Le Havre, France, on the Normandy coast, early in the morning before it crossed the channel northward to Southampton. She’d proceed to Paris, where she would visit her mother, and then on to Florence, where she’d stay until the end of October. Although Scott didn’t say, he was scheduled for a few days in both London and Paris, a kind of young man’s grand tour, before arriving in Geneva.

  THE NEXT TWO EVENINGS AFFORDED NO MORE VISITS TO FIRST class. Scott was disappointed. He had hoped to dine with the countess again, and the lack of invitation could mean she wasn’t interested or that Millie had prevented any more threesome evenings. But this didn’t stop him from thinking about Desirée. It made him obsess even more.

  Still, Scott enjoyed the dinners and dancing with Millie, who always dressed in something a little too sexy or mature for her age. For a nineteen-year-old, she seemed very much of the world. Scott recognized that she knew much more than he did, which caused some anxious moments. She’d already been everywhere. Though Millie wasn’t snooty (at least, with Scott), she could drop little teasers at will, such as, “Oh, at Christmas, we always go to Badrutt’s in St. Moritz. The après-ski is marvelous there.”

  Scott was familiar with St. Moritz, but what was Badrutt’s? He knew better than to ask. That worldliness, he reasoned, resulted in his unease around Millie. And if the younger Millie was a challenge, Scott could well imagine what spending stretches of time with the more sophisticated countess would be like. He’d always been considered smart; everything he attempted looked easy. “Lucky Scott,” his friends in school had called him. But these two women were making him realize just how very far behind he was. Scott was determined to catch up.

  That, however, was exactly the sort of distraction Scott didn’t need right then. University would require all his concentration. And in truth, wasn’t he getting ahead of himself with this preoccupation with the countess? Other than the mild (and brief) flirtation at dinner, she’d given no indication she’d wanted anything more than to charm him. Perhaps Desirée acted the same way with every man she met.

  AFTER FOUR DAYS TOGETHER, IT WAS OBVIOUS MILLIE AND Scott liked each other (though Scott could have liked her even more if thoughts of the countess had not been lurking in his head). The young people explored the ship and enjoyed activities, finding plenty to talk and laugh about. They sought each other out for dinner and dancing. On the sixth morning, the ship was scheduled to arrive in Southampton, some ninety miles southwest of London, and that made the last night on board difficult. There is always a sadness associated with shipboard farewells—and they are particularly rough when all parties know a next meeting will likely never occur. Not wanting to admit reality, Millie and Scott promised to keep in touch. Scott grasped at the idea of visiting London during the school year. It was one of many little plots hatched during their last evening, schemes designed to assuage their melancholy: their shipboard acquaintance would terminate when the ship docked.

  five

  SCOTT SET HIS ALARM TO RING BEFORE DAWN. THE NEXT morning, the SS United States was docking in Le Havre, and those passengers heading to Paris and other points would disembark. Among them would be the countess. He wanted one last look.

  A light fog enveloped the ship. At six in the morning, only a few passengers filed down the gangway to the dock. Hidden in a dark doorway, Scott waited and watched the deck; he knew Desirée would not be among the early group, and it was essential that he spot her before she spotted him. He didn’t want his interest known before he was ready. . . and before he knew hers.

  Scott glimpsed her sleeve, peeking out from a cabin doorway, first. The vicuna coat, a broad gold cuff encircling a wrist, and a dark brown, kid leather glove—they could only be hers. Desirée appeared in full view, and he was again taken with her beauty: that serene face, her confident posture, and those crystal blue eyes. Encircling her neck was a yellow print Hermes scarf; a chocolate felt fedora completed the countess’s travel ensemble. As Desirée headed down the deck, Scott walked in the opposite direction until he reached the stairs to the sports deck. Stopping, he watched her disembark from the ship’s bow.

  The countess stepped off the gangway and onto the dock and then inexplicably and unexpectedly, she turned. Her gaze traveled up the side of the ship and across the deck, suggesting that she was looking for something—or, Scott hoped, for someone. He thought he detected the slightest hint of disappointment inch across Desirée’s face before she turned away, got in the waiting limousine, and was gone.

  Scott reflected on this fleeting vignette for days: what had it meant? He wondered—should he have waved and acknowledged her? Why hadn’t he reacted? Did Desirée’s wandering glance mean what he hoped, or was it simply happenstance? Shaking his head, he thought I have to get over her right away. His infatuation with this woman couldn’t interfere with his plans for school.

  THAT LAST MORNING WAS NO BETTER THAN THE NIGHT before. Passengers were impatiently waiting to get off the ship, and Millie and Scott had the dreaded anticipation of another final farewell. And then it was Tillie’s and Miss Bannister’s turn, with Millie and Scott not far behind. As they reached terra firma, Scott spied a large black Rolls Royce, the uniformed chauffer motioning excitedly. Though the liner provided the short transfer to the London-bound train, Millie and her entourage were going some hundred and fifty miles west of London to their holiday home.

  Millie gave Scott a tight embrace, a decidedly more-than-friendly kiss on the lips, and said, “It was wonderful. We had ever so much fun. Please come to London soon. Please write.” And then, with a low sigh, “We had a great time, didn’t we?”

  “We did. An excellent time.”

  Millie settled into the back seat of the Rolls, extending her hand from the rear window in her signature wave. Scott knew this goodbye was likely final. No matter the promises made or sweet words said to lessen its blow, they’d enjoyed a shipboard dalliance and nothing more. He wasn’t looking for an attachment with any future. But Scott knew that, if an opportunity for a liaison with the countess somehow arose, that would be an animal of a different stripe. The countess was a species all her own.

  six

  AFTER A FEW DAYS IN LONDON, SCOTT LEFT FOR PARIS and checked into the George V, one of the city’s great luxury establishments. He arrived in the early afternoon, the ideal time to ensure his room would be ready without delay. Entering the grand lobby, he recognized that these were not the staid colors and furnishings of conservative London. Generous use of marble and gold, wrought iron with filigree, imposing Corinthian columns, giant cascading arrangements of fresh flowers, and Aubusson rugs—a more Versailles approach to decoration—welcomed Scott; this sumptuous space resembled a palace more than a hotel. Shown to his southern-facing room on the fourth floor, Scott took in the view. There, across the Seine, about a mile away, was the top of the Eiffel Tower. He was definitely in Paris.

  The porter, placing Scott’s luggage on mahogany racks, offered to open the cases
: should he call the maid to put monsieur’s affairs in order? Scott declined, and the porter left. Alone, Scott surveyed the room. He smiled at the platter of chocolate truffles and the bottle of Moët & Chandon chilling in the silver ice bucket. As he sipped his champagne, Scott read the hotel director’s welcome note and mentally thanked his father’s friends who had recommended this mansion of luxury; they definitely knew their way around.

  It was a long shot, but that same afternoon, Scott called Andre Bourdonnais, a feature writer for Paris’ leading newspaper, Le Figaro, and friend of a friend, who unexpectedly invited him to lunch the very next day at Époque, a brasserie just a short walk from the George V.

  Scott strolled down the Champs-Élysées, enjoying the sights of Paris. There, at the top end of the eight-lane boulevard, was the Arc de Triomphe; at the other end, some two kilometers away, he could see the Place de la Concorde. It was late September, and the large plane trees were beginning to show the effects of cooler nights; some were losing a few of their huge leaves of gold.

  Upon his arrival at Époque, the maître d’ informed Scott that Monsieur Bourdonnais had already been seated. As he was escorted to the table, Scott spotted his host waving at him. Another man was also at the table, and Andre introduced Leon Cardin, one of his coworkers who was a sports reporter.

  The men exchanged a few pleasantries; Andre and Leon asked where Scott was staying and how long he would be in Paris. They were very interested in the SS United States—with its speed, the ship had become a transatlantic rival to the SS France, the country’s flagship liner. They encouraged him to stay longer than a couple of days; there was so much to see. And the two writers indicated how impressed they were about his acceptance into the University of Geneva’s graduate program.