Page 79 of As Many Souls as Stars
Rosamund tossed a fur shawl to the floor. Caviar barked at it, frightened. Then he jumped up onto the mattress, into the open travelling case.
‘Not that one,’ Rosamund said sharply. ‘There’s something precious in there. Down.’
Caviar whined, but he exited the case. Satisfied, Rosamund went back to sorting through clothes, humming to herself. Eventually the humming devolved into singing. ‘But as far as I’m concerned,’ she warbled, out of tune, ‘it’s a lovely day…’
The door to the cabin slammed open. Walt strode in and bellowed back to her, in a far more capable singing voice than her own, ‘Isn’t this a lovely day to get caught in the raa-aa-aain—!’
His dark hair was slicked back, dinner jacket slung over one arm. She had watched him shave that morning, but there was already a thin layer of stubble on his chin—and the tie she’d so painstakingly tied was askew. Rosamund prepared herself to comment acerbically on this, but then Walt threw his jacket onto the bed, picked her up, and swung her around by her waist.
The dog yipped and hid, quivering beneath the dressing table. Rosamund shrieked and slapped Walt’s arm, to little effect.
‘Evening, Rosie-Posie,’ he said, returning to his normal volume, which was still far too loud. Everything he said sounded like it was coming through a loudspeaker. ‘You aren’t dressed? Dinner’s soon.’
‘I can’t decide,’ she replied, gesturing to the dresses strewn across the bed.
‘The green one.’
‘Ugh, no. It’s a dinner, not a garden party.’
‘Oh, pardon me, Your Highness. Silver?’
Rosamund hummed in thought and lifted up the silver gown. It was covered in crystal beads, glittering in the pink-red sunlight shining through the window of the cabin. ‘Isn’t it a bit much for the first evening?’
‘Who cares? You’ll knock ’em dead.’
‘Hm. Possibly. Zip me up?’
He helped secure her in the dress. The back plunged almost to her hips, and he whistled. ‘You look good,’ he said. ‘Maybe we don’t need the lavender in this marriage, after all.’
Rosamund felt a pang of affection for him, which was swiftly followed by guilt. How many lies she’d told him; how little he knew. ‘Let’s get a drink.’
Then she threaded her arm through his, and he led her out of the cabin.
The first-class bar was an extraordinary room that smelt as much of money as it did the food: chandeliers shimmered with the movement of the water beneath them, and there were ruby velvet tablecloths, and waiters with napkins on their arms and impeccably waxed moustaches. They ordered champagne and caviar. Although Walter had grown up rich, he was the son of a self-made man—that had instilled in him both a wide-eyed appreciation for nice things and a determined entitlement to them. He spread the caviar in great gobs of burst-black juice, once even breaking the cracker in half with the force of his spoon. Meanwhile, Rosamund watched him over the bubbles of her drink, chewing the inside of her cheek.
They talked inanely about music and movies, while the sunset winked at them through the porthole. Walt liked his jazz hot and his pictures racy; Rosamund preferred classical and had a soft spot for romances, although she’d never let that slip. She didn’t much want to think about romances now, though. She felt faintly queasy. She’d never sailed before, and she had expected it to be different than this somehow—either more movement or less. Not this strange, half-living shifting of the floor beneath her feet.
‘Do you think you’ll like America?’ Walter asked her.
She winced, taking a hurried sip of her champagne to hide it. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t I?’
‘True enough. You wanted to get away from England, right? This is definitely away.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s just—sometimes I worry you’re getting cold feet.’
Rosamund huffed. ‘Imarriedyou, Walt. What more commitment do you want?’
He shrugged in acknowledgement of this. ‘I already phoned Pa and explained it all,’ he said. ‘He was so happy about it—fell for it hook, line, and sinker. It’d be awkward to show up empty-handed.’
Hook, line, and sinker. Walt spoke constantly in aphorisms and metaphors, words punctuated by flailing gestures and restless movements. He was wonderfully expressive. The day before the wedding, he’d taken Rosamund to a Catholic Mass, and he’d chewed the wafer with such a pained grimace, it seemed like it had actually turned to flesh in his mouth. Rosamund had hidden her laughter with a cough. Walt often made her laugh. He felt so real, sohuman: a nice change.
‘I won’t change my mind,’ she told him. ‘I made a vow, and I meant it. Till death do us part.’
Walt grimaced. ‘I hate that bit. Makes it feel like a deal with the devil.’
She had to laugh at that. ‘Yes, it does,’ she agreed, and they toasted to that with their champagne glasses, as behind them the sun made its death spiral into the Atlantic.
