Page 16 of Murder on the SS Leviathan
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‘Is bewitching, yes?’ Lucrezia spun slowly, sending the layers of green silk shimmering, then kicked up her foot to show off a shapely ankle. Iridescent beads in emerald and turquoise snaked about Lucrezia’s waist, descending through the skirt’s folds, catching the light.
For the third time in as many minutes, Cecile assured her that the evening gown was most fetching. In truth, the dress was startlingly theatrical.
‘I tell the modiste in Milan to make it in the style of Ellen Terry's costume for Lady Macbeth.’ Lucrezia struck a pose as the famous villainess: hands raised to clasp an imaginary dagger, and face alight with murderous ambition. ‘Perhaps you know the original,cara—sewn with real beetle wing cases, from the jewel beetle. Sadly, there was no time to make a costume just the same, but the effect is striking, no?’
She touched her fingertips to her collarbone. ‘Of course, I wished the neckline to sweep a little lower.’
Cecile had seen the performance herself, at the Lyceum Theatre, having begged Henry to take her. She remembered how the audience had gasped at Miss Terry’s entrance, her red hair braided and bound in gold, cascading over the heavy fabric of her gown. Even now, she could picture the great actress commanding those before her, moving about the stage from the first moment as if she were queen of all.
No one else could have played the part, it was said…
Cecile looked wistfully at her empty sherry glass. After the events of the day, the indulgence seemed deserved. Though she already had a slight headache, the temptation to pour a second measure from the decanter was strong.
Senhora Fonseca’s death had shaken her.
Meanwhile, she was unable to unravel her feelings regarding Mr. Robinson.
With Maud mostly keeping to her suite, and demanding Henry’s company, Cecile had been left either to retire to her cabin or allow herself to be ‘nursemaided’.
Even the day before, such a situation would not have perturbed her—for her gallant Texan was appealing and there was something about that caramel drawl that drew one’s gaze to the softness of his lips—but, she could scarcely bring herself to enjoy his company now.
Not while she was troubled by the possibility of him visiting Senhora Fonseca late at night; not while she dared conceive, even for a moment, that Mr. Robinson might have been responsible for the woman’s death.
He appeared beyond reproach—but what did Cecile truly know of him? Besides Henry, the only man she’d gotten to know with any degree of intimacy had been the Conte di Cavour—and that experience had left a bitter taste.
The fact remained that she’d no wish to cloister herself away for the entire crossing, and Henry had made it clear that she should join him at the captain’s table again this evening. Whatever her misgivings, she would need to rise above them and appear civil.
At least it would allow her to observe Mr. Robinson in company again. She hardly believed the captain would be so indiscreet as to mention the events surrounding Senhora Fonseca’s death but, perhaps, she would see something in Mr. Robinson’s manner that betrayed his guilt. However unsavoury the task, she would attempt to uncover the truth.
Lucrezia, standing by the mirror, smoothed a curl above her ear. ‘The coiffure is becoming. Claudette did well, I think.’ Picking up one of her pots, she dabbed rouge upon her lips, then pressed them together. ‘The style would suit you, also,piccola.’
Catching Cecile’s eye in the looking glass, she arched her brow. ‘There are many gentlemen on board who would be amusing to draw to oneself. Even the stewards here are so handsome, in their uniforms of gleaming buttons— and so obliging, as if they will do anything one asks. The Portuguese men are appealing, do you not think?’
Cecile looked away, to the darkness beyond the porthole.
‘I can’t say that I’ve taken notice, and I don’t care to attract so much attention as you, Lucrezia. Really, all this preening is beyond me—at least tonight.’ Rubbing her fingers to her temple, Cecile sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m not feeling myself.’
Lucrezia was immediately at Cecile’s feet, her expression chastened as she looked upwards. ‘Forgive me,cara. I am too frivolous.’
Cecile rested her hand upon Lucrezia’s. ‘And I’m too abrupt. It’s only that I keep thinking…’
‘—of what was happening underneath, while we were sleeping.’ Lucrezia nodded.
‘And she was hardly older than us.’ Cecile found her voice catching.
‘It is the tragedy, but it happens.’ Sitting back, Lucrezia rested her chin on her knees. ‘Men are unpredictable. This is why we must rely on each other, rather than placing all faith in them.’
‘The worst of it is the captain trying to keep it all so hushed. I suppose that’s what’s done. No one likes a fuss. But, it’s wrong, don’t you think? We didn’t know Senhora Fonseca much at all, but she deserves someone to care for her; to care about why she died—and to bring whoever killed her to face the consequences.’ An aching soreness filled Cecile’s throat.
She knew others would find it ridiculous—indulgent even—becoming overwrought over the death of a stranger. Yet, Cecile could not quieten her mind.
If she were honest with herself, she’d been troubled for some time. There had been too much death, and she could not deny her part. It seemed most likely that Livia had set the fire, having somehow escaped the castello’s crypt, but it was she who’d unlocked Livia’s manacles. Now, Livia was dead, and others had succumbed to the flames—not just the conte but also his manservant.
By the Grace of God, no others had been harmed, but three lives had been lost. A court of law mightn’t find her guilty, but her conscience told her that she bore some responsibility.
She couldn’t hide from herself, and what of her immortal soul?
