Crossings (7 page)

When the time approached, Nick did everything he could for her—bought her extravagant gifts, helped her set up the nursery, promised that he would be there to hold her hand— but she sank into a terrible depression in her ninth month, which the doctor felt contributed to a lengthy and nightmarish labor. It was an event that almost cost Hillary her life, and the baby's, and she never forgave Nick for the agony she went through. The depression persisted for six months after the birth of the child, and for a long time Nick thought that he was the only one who would ever love Johnny, but finally Hillary began to come around.

Or so he thought, and then the following winter, she had gone back to Boston for Christmas, without the baby, and visited friends. Suddenly she seemed to be taking forever to come home, and he realized that she was staying there to go to all the parties that her friends gave, and she was pretending to herself and others that she wasn't married, and she was just a debutante again, and she was having a grand time. A month after Hillary had left for Boston, Nick went up to get her, and insisted that she come home. A grand row had ensued between them, and she had even begged her father to let her stay there. She didn't want to be married, to live in New York, to take care of a baby, but this time her father was shocked. She had chosen to marry Nick, and he was a good husband to her. She had a responsibility to go back and at least try to work out the marriage, and she had a responsibility to the child as well, but she returned to New York with the cheer of a prisoner facing execution, feeling betrayed by all, and hating Nick the most, because he represented everything she didn't want in life, which was growing up. Her father had spoken to Nick before they left. He blamed himself for his daughter's behavior. He knew that she had been spoiled as a child, but he never realized that she would expect that as a way of life forever, shirking responsibilities on all fronts and hurting her husband and child. But Nick assured him that in time, and with patience, Hillary would grow into her new role. And at the time, he believed it, and he exercised as much patience as he had promised her father he would, but it was to no avail. She continued to take no interest in the baby, and the following summer she went to Newport, this time taking Johnny and the nurse, to avoid any further comment. She stayed there for the entire summer, and when Nick went up to see her, he became aware that she was having an affair. She turned twenty-one that summer, and was having a hot romance with the brother of one of her friends. He had just graduated from Yale and thought that he was very racy, sleeping with Hillary Burnham, which he told half the town, until Nick paid him a visit, and the boy went back to Boston with his tail between his legs and the tongue-lashing Nick had given him still ringing in his ears. But the real problem in it all was Hillary. Nick took her back to New York again, and attempted to shape her up in earnest, but in the next few years she bounced back and forth between Newport, Boston, and New York like a yo-yo, having affairs whenever she thought she might not get caught, including this last one. She had gotten involved with Ryan Halloway while Nick was in Paris. It didn't mean a thing to her, and Nick knew it, but it was her way of telling Nick repeatedly that she wasn't really married, never would be, that he couldn't own her, that she was free forever, free of him, and their son, and her father, who had died three years after she had married Nick. Her mother had long since given up all hope of having some influence upon her, and eventually so had Nick. She was what she was, a striking, very pretty woman, with a bright mind, which she wasted, and a sense of humor that still amused him, on the rare occasions when they talked. Most of the time they just fought now, or he ignored her. He had thought once or twice of divorcing her, and knew that he would have no trouble doing that, but if he did, she would get custody of Johnny. The courts were almost always favorable to the mother, unless she was a prostitute by profession, or hooked on dope. So in order to keep his son, Nick had to live under the same roof with Hillary, for better or worse, as long as he could stand it, and there were times when he thought he truly could not.

He had had some faint hope that by taking her to Paris, it would distract her, and she might behave herself for a while over there. But the trip was not off to an auspicious beginning. He knew that the affair with Ryan had ended after Christmas, but he also suspected that she was working on something new. She always got particularly edgy when something new was starting, like a racehorse fretting at being penned in. He knew that there was nothing he could do to stop her. As long as she kept her affairs reasonably secret, he was resigned to living with her, and in recent years she had grown a little warmer toward their son. No matter, Nick saw to it that Johnny had warm, loving nurses, and he had a father who adored him, which was more than Nick had had at the same age. But he would never agree to give up Johnny, to divorce and live a life that would rob him of the child he loved. Johnny was the center of his existence, and if that meant putting up with Hillary and her infidelities and her temper, then it was a price he was willing to pay.

He watched her now as she sat down at her dressing table, ran a comb through the silky hair, and watched him in the mirror, and then, as though to annoy him doubly, she took a long swig of the Scotch and water that was in a glass on her dressing table. And suddenly he realized that beneath her white satin dressing gown she wore a black silk dress.

“Going somewhere, Hil?” His voice was even, his eyes like bright-green rocks.

She hesitated only for a moment, the Thoroughbred in her flaring her nostrils. He could almost see her feet prancing as she readied for another race. “As a matter of fact, yes. There's a party tonight at the Boyntons.”

“Funny”—he smiled ironically, he knew her too well now—”I didn't see the invitation.”

“I forgot to show it to you.”

“No matter.” He started to leave the room, and she turned in her seat, speaking softly.

“Do you want to come, Nick?”

He turned and looked at her. There probably
was
a party at the Boyntons. But he very seldom went to parties. When he did, she invariably wound up in a corner, flirting with someone new or even an old friend. “No, thanks. I brought some work home.”

She turned her back to him again. “Don't say I didn't ask you.”

“I won't.” He stood in the doorway, watching her sip her drink again. “Give them my best, and try to come home early.” She nodded. “And Hil …” He hesitated.

“Yes, Nick?”

He decided to go ahead and say it. “Try not to leave New York in flames when you go. And whatever you're up to, kiddo, remember, we set sail in two days. And one way or the other, you're coming with me.”

“What does that mean?” She stood up and turned to face him.

“It means that whether you leave some bleeding heart behind or not, you're coming. You're my wife, however much you may want to forget that.”

“I never do.” There was bitterness in her voice as she said it. She hated being married to him, more so because he had been so nice to her. It made her feel guilty toward him, and she didn't want to feel guilty. She wanted to be free.

“Have a good time.” He closed the door softly behind him and went downstairs to see his son. And as soon as he had left the room, Hillary dropped the dressing gown from her shoulders, revealing the little black silk halter dress she had bought at Bergdorf Goodman. She clipped diamond earrings into place and looked in the mirror. She knew she would see Philip Markham at the party, and she wondered as she finished the Scotch and water how Nick always knew. Nothing had happened with Phil yet, but he was leaving for Paris in August, and who knew what would happen then … who knew….

he vast, splendidly designed ship lay in her berth at Pier 88 on the Hudson River, and every inch of her looked the part of the elegant queen. As Armand stood for a moment outside the limousine, he glanced upward at the three graceful smokestacks silhouetted against the sky. She weighed eighty thousand tons, and yet was the swiftest, most sophisticated vessel on any sea. To look at her took your breath away, and there was an inevitable moment of reverent silence as one perused her beauty. She was still more beautiful under full steam, and yet even here, at rest in her berth, she was undeniably a queen.

“Papa! Papa! I want to see.” Elisabeth catapulted out of the Citroën first, and stood beside her father for a moment, her small hand clasped firmly in his. “Is that it?”

“No.” Armand smiled down at his youngest daughter. “It is
she. La belle Normandie, mon trésor
. You will never see another ship like this one, little one. No matter what they build in years to come, there will never be another
Normandie.”
It was a sentiment already echoed by many. In the seven years since she had been launched, she had been traveled by the great and elite, the rich, the spoiled, the elegant, lovers of beauty and of the sea, and there was not a soul among them who did not agree. The
Normandie
was an extraordinary vessel, and totally unique, the most beautiful, most elegant, swiftest. A floating island of luxury in every imaginable way.

Armand turned as he sensed his wife standing beside him. For a moment he had forgotten all of them. If he had allowed himself to, he might have cried. There was something about the
Normandie
that swelled the heart and made one particularly proud of France. What an accomplishment this ship was. What pride one had to feel just sensing the labor of love that had gone into her, from stem to stern, and hull to sky. She was a veritable beauty.

Liane sensed Armand's emotions and silently agreed as she watched her husband's face, and when he turned to her, she smiled.

“You look like a proud papa all over again,” Liane teased in a gentle voice as he laughed.

But he nodded agreement, without shame. “What a victory for France.”

By then Marie-Ange had joined her sister, and the two girls were hopping up and down with glee. “Can we go on board now, Papa? Can we? Can we?”

Liane took them each by the hand, and Armand busied himself giving orders to the porter and the chauffeur, and five minutes later they passed through the enormous archway marked COMPAGNIE GÉNÉRALE TRANSATLANTIQUE, and stepped into an elevator that took them to an elevated section of the quay. There were three separate entrances for the 1,972 passengers who would come aboard, discreetly separate and labeled PREMIÉRE CLASSE, TOURISTE, and CABINE.
“Premiére classe”
was first of course, and there would be 864 passengers entering through that archway before the ship sailed that afternoon. And when Armand, Liane, and the girls stepped onto the
Normandie's
deck, it was shortly after noon. They had left Washington at 5:00
A.M.
, by train, and reached New York half an hour before. They had been met by a limousine from the Consulate in New York and whisked directly to Pier 88, on West 50th Street.

“Bonjour, monsieur, madame.”
The uniformed officer smiled down at the two impeccably dressed little girls in matching pale-blue organdy dresses with white gloves and straw hats and shining black patent leather shoes.
“Mesdemoiselles, bienvenue à bord.”
He looked pleasantly at Armand then. The young officer loved his job, and in the years that he had been assigned to checking passengers on board, he had met Thomas Mann, Stokowski, Giraudoux, Saint-Exupéry, movie stars such as Douglas Fairbanks, heads of states, giants of the literary world, cardinals and sinners, and crowned heads from almost every European country. It was exciting just waiting for them to say their names, if one did not recognize them at first glance, which, more often than not, he did.
“Monsieur?”

“De Villiers,” Armand said quietly.

“Ambassadeur?”
the young man inquired, and Armand confirmed it with a silent nod.

“Ah, bien sûr.”
Of course. He noted as he glanced at his passenger list again that the De Villierses would be occupying one of the ship's four most luxurious suites. He had no way of knowing that it was a courtesy of the “Transat,” as the CGT was called, and he was impressed to realize that the ambassador and his family would be occupying the Grand Luxe suite Trouville. “We will show you to your cabin at once.” He signaled to a steward who materialized at his side and immediately took Liane's small carrying bag. The rest of their trunks had been sent ahead several days before, and what they had brought with them on the train would meet them in their stateroom only moments after they reached it themselves. The service on the
Normandie
was supreme.