conviction that it was possible to fool all of the people all of the
time.
Everybody knew that Chantelle owned that work, therefore nobody would
doubt its authenticity. That's the way Duncan Alexander would reason
it. It could not be Chantelle's idea. She had never been one to accept
anything that was sham or dross; it was a measure of the power that he
exerted over her, for her to go along with this cheap little fraud.
Nicholas indicated the forgery with his glass and spoke directly to
Charles Gras.
This is a cheat/ he spoke quietly, his anger contained and controlled,
but it is harmless. Now he turned away from it and, with a wider
gesture that embraced the whole ship, went on, But this other cheat,
this enormous fraud/ he paused to control the metallic edge that had
entered his tone, going on quietly again, this is a vicious, murderous
gamble he is taking. He has bastardized the entire concept of the
scheme. One propeller instead of four - it cannot manoeuvre a hull of
these dimensions with safety in any hazardous situation, it cannot
deliver sufficient thrust to avoid collision, to fight her off a lee
shore, to handle heavy seas. Nick stopped, and his voice dropped even
lower, yet somehow it was more compelling. This ship cannot, by all
moral and natural laws, be operated on a single boiler.
My design called for eight separate boilers and condensers, the standard
set for the old White Star and Cunard Lines.
But Duncan Alexander has installed a single boiler system.
There is no back-up, no fail-safe - a few gallons of sea water in the
system could disable this monster., Nicholas stopped suddenly as a new
thought struck him.
Charles/ his voice sharper still, the pod tanks, the design of the pod
tanks. He hasn't altered that, has he? He hasn't cut the corners
there? Tell me, old friend, they are still self -propelled, are they
not? Charles Gras brought the Courvoisier bottle to where Nicholas
stood, and when Nick would have refused the addition to his glass,
Charles told him sorrowfully, Come, Nicholas, you will need it for what
I have to tell you now. As he poured, he said, The pod tankers, their
design has been altered also. He drew a breath to tell it with a rush.
They no longer have their own propulsion units. They are now only dumb
barges that must be docked and undocked from the main hull and
manoeuvred only by attendant tugs. Nicholas stared at him, his lips
blanched to thin white lines. No. I do not believe it. Not even
Duncan - Duncan Alexander has saved forty-two million dollars by
re-designing Golden Dawn and equipping her with only a single boiler and
propeller. Charles Gras shrugged again.
And forty-two million dollars is a lot of money. There was a pale gleam
of wintry sunlight that flickered through the low grey cloud and lit the
fields not far from the River Thames with that incredible vivid shade of
Engis green.
Samantha and Nicholas stood in a thin line of miserably cold parents and
watched the pile of struggling boys across the field in their coloured
jerseys; the light blue and black of Eton, the black and white of St
Paul's, were so muddied as to be barely distinguishable.
What are they doing? Samantha demanded, holding the collar of her coat
around her ears.
It's called a scrum Nick told her. That's how they decide which team
gets the ball. Wow. There must be an easier way. There was a flurry
of sudden movement and the slippery egg-shaped ball flew back in a lazy
curve that was snapped up by a boy in the Etonian colours. He started
to run.
It's Peter, isn't it? cried Samantha.
Go it, Peter boy! Nick -roared, and the child ran with the ball
clutched to his chest and his head thrown back.
He ran strongly with the reaching coordinated stride of an older boy,
swerving round a knot of his opponents, leaving them floundering in the
churned mud, and angling across the lush thick grass towards the
white-painted goal line, trying to reach the corner before a taller more
powerfully built lad who was pounding across the field to intercept him.
Samantha began to leap up and down on the same spot, shrieking wildly,
completely uncertain of what was happening, but wild with excitement
that infected Nicholas.
The two runners converged at an angle which would bring them to the
white line at the same moment, at a point directly in front of where
Nick and Samantha stood.
Nick saw the contortion of his son's face, and realized that this was a
total effort. He felt a physical constriction of his own chest as he
watched the boy drive himself to his utmost limits, the sinews standing
out in his throat, his lips drawn back in a frozen rictus of endeavour
that exposed the teeth clenched in his jaw.
From infancy, Peter Berg had brought to any task that faced him the same
complete focus of all his capabilities.
Like his grandfather, old Arthur Christy, and his own father, he would
be one of life's winners. Nick knew this instinctively, as he watched
him run. He had inherited the intelligence, the comeliness and the
charisma, but he bolstered all that with this unquenchable desire to
succeed in all he did. The single-minded determination to focus all his
talents on the immediate project. Nick felt the pressure in his chest
swell. The boy was all right, more than all right, and pride threatened
to choke him.
Sheer force of will had driven Peter Berg a pace ahead of his bigger,
longer-legged adversary, and now he leaned forward with the ball held in
both hands, arms fully extended, reaching for the line to make the
touch-down.
He was ten feet from where Nick stood, a mere instant from success, but
he was unbalanced, and the St Paul's boy dived at him, crashing into the
side of his chest, the impact jarring and brutal, hurling Peter out of
the field of play with the ball spinning from his hands and bouncing
away loosely, while Peter smashed into the earth on both knees, then
rolled forward head over heels, and sprawled face down on the soggy
turf.
It's a touch-down! Samantha was still leaping up and down.
No/ said Nick. No, it isn't. Peter Berg dragged himself upright. His
cheek was streaked with chocolate mud and both his knees were running
blood, the skin smeared open by the coarse grass.
He did not glance down at his injuries, and he shrugged away the St Paul
boy's patronizing hand, holding himself erect against the pain as he
limped back on to the field. He did not look at his father, and the
moisture that filled his eyes and threatened to flood over the thick
dark lashes were not tears of pain, but of humiliation and failure, With
an overwhelming feeling of kinship, Nick knew that for his son those
feelings were harder to bear than any physical agony.
When the game ended he came to Nicholas, all bloodied and mud-smeared,
and shook hands solemnly.
I am so glad you came, sir, he said. I wish you could have watched us
win. Nick wanted to say: It d
oesn't matter, Peter, it's only a game.
But he did not. To Peter Berg, it mattered very deeply, so Nicholas
nodded agreement and then he introduced Samantha.
Again Peter shook hands solemnly and startled her by calling her, 'M'am.
But when she told him, Hi, Pete. A great game, you deserved to slam
them/ he smiled, that sudden dazzling irresistible flash that reminded
her so of Nicholas that she felt her heart squeezed. Then when the boy
hurried away to shower and change, she took Nick's arm.
He's a beautiful boy, but does he always call you "sir"? haven't seen
him in three months, It takes us both a little while to relax. Three
months is a long time It's all tied up by the lawyers. Access and
visiting-rights what's good for the child, not what's good for the
parents.
Today was a special concession from Chantelle, but I still have to
deliver him to her at five o'clock. Not five past five, five o'clock.
They went to the Cockpit teashop and Peter startled Samantha again by
pulling out her chair and seating her formally. While they waited for
the best muffins in Britain to be brought to the table, Nicholas and
Peter engaged each other in conversation that was stiff with
selfconsciousness.
Your mother sent me a copy of your report, Peter, I cannot tell you how
delighted I was, I had hoped to do better, sir. There are still three
others ahead of me. And Samantha ached for them. Peter Berg was twelve
years of age. She wished he could just throw his arms around Nicholas
neck and say, Daddy, I love you, I for the love was transparent, even
through the veneer of publicschool manners. It shone behind the thick
dark lashes that fringed the boy's golden brown eyes, and glowed on the
cheeks still as creamy and smooth as a girl's.
She wanted desperately to help them both, and on inspiration she
launched into an account of Warlock's salvage of Golden Adventurer, a
tale with emphasis on the derring do of Warlock's Master, not forgetting
his rescue of Samantha Silver from the icy seas of Antarctica.
Peter's eyes grew enormous as he listened, never leaving her face except
to demand of Nicholas, Is that true, Dad? And when the story was told,
he was silent for a long moment before announcing, I'm going to be a tug
captain when I'm big. Then he showed Samantha how to spread strawberry
jam on her muffins in the correct way, and chewing together heartily
with cream on their lips the two of them became fast friends, and
Nicholas joined their chatter more easily, smiling his thanks to
Samantha and reaching under the table to squeeze her hand.
He had to end it at last. Listen, Peter, if we are to make Lynwood by
five -'and the boy sobered instantly.
Dad, couldn't you telephone Mother? She might just let me spend the
weekend in London with you., I already tried that. Nick shook his head.
It didn't work,, and Peter stood up, his feeling choked by an expression
of stoic resignation.
From the back of Nick's Mercedes 450 Coupe the boy leaned forward into
the space between the two bucket seats, and the three of them were very
close in the snug interior of the speeding car, their laughter that of
old friends.
It was almost dark when Nicholas turned in through Lynwood's stone
gateway, and he glanced at the luminous dial of his Rolex. We'll just
make it. The drive climbed the hill in a series of broad even curves
through the carefully tended woods, and the three-storied Georgian
country house on the crest was ablaze with light in every window.
Nick never came here without that strange hollow feeling in the bottom
of his stomach. Once this had been his home, every room, every acre of
the grounds had its memories, and now, as he parked under the white
colummed portico, they came crowding back.
I have finished the model Spitfire you sent me for Christmas, Dad. Peter
was playing desperately for time now.
Won't you come up and see it? I don't think so - Nicholas began, and
Peter blurted out before he could finish.
It's all right, Uncle Duncan won't be here. He always comes down late
from London on Friday nights, and his Rolls isn't in the garage yet.
Then, in a tone that tore at Nick like thorns, Please.. . won't see you
again until Easter. Go/ said Samantha. I'll wait here. And Peter
turned on her, You come too, Sam, please. Samantha felt herself
infected by that fatal curiosity, the desire to see, to know more of
Nick's past life; she knew he was going to demur further, but she
forestalled him, slipping quickly out of the Mercedes.
Okay, Pete, let's go. Nick must follow them up the broad steps to the
double oaken doors, and he felt himself carried along on a tide of
events over which he had no control. It was a sensation that he never
relished.
In the entrance hall Samantha looked around her quickly, feeling herself
overcome by awe. It was so grand, there was no other word to describe
the house. The stair way reached up the full height of the three
storeys, and the broad staircase was in white marble with a marble
balustrade, while on each side of the hall, glass doors opened on to
long reception rooms. But she did not have a chance to look further,
for Peter seized her hand and raced her up the staircase, while Nick
followed them up to Peter's room at a more sedate pace.
The Spitfire had place of honour on the shelf above Peter's bed. He
brought it down proudly, and they examined it with suitable expressions
sun.
When at last they descended the staircase, the sadness and restraint of
parting was on them all, but they were stopped in the centre of the hall
by the voice from the drawing-room door on the left.
Peter, darling. A woman stood in the open doorway, and she was even
more beautiful than the photograph that Samantha had seen of her.
Dutifully Peter crossed to her. Good evening, Mother. She stooped over
him, cupping his face in her hands, and she kissed him tenderly, then
she straightened, holding his hand so he was ranged at her side, a
subtle drawing of boundaries.
Nicholas, she tilted her head, you look marvelous so brown and fit.
Chantelle Alexander was only a few inches taller than her son, but she
seemed to fill and light the huge house with a shimmering presence, the
way a single beautiful bird can light a dim forest.
Her hair was dark and soft and glowing, and her son an the huge dark
sloe eyes were a legacy from the beautiful Persian noblewoman that old
Arthur Christy had married for her fortune, and come to love with an
obsessive passion.
She was dainty. Her tiny, narrow feet peeped from below the long, dark
green silk skirt, and the exquisite little hand that held Peter's was
emphasized by a single deep throbbing green emerald the size of a ripe
acorn.
Now she turned her head on the long graceful neck, and her eyes took the
slightly oriental slant of a modern-day Nefertiti as she looked at
Samantha.
For seconds onl
y, the two women studied each other, and Samantha's chin
came up firmly as she looked into those deep dark gazelle eyes, touched
with all the mystery and intrigue of the East. They understood each
other instantly. It was an intuitive flash, like a discharge of static
electricity, then Chantelle smiled, and when she Smiled the impossible
happened - she became more beautiful than before.
May I present Dr. Silver? Nick began, but Peter tugged at his mother's
hand.
I asked Sam to see my model. She's a marine biologist, and she's a
professor at Miami University - Not yet, Pete/ Samantha corrected him,
but give me time. Good evening, Dr. Silver. It seems you have made a
conquest. Chantelle let the statement hang ambiguously as she turned
back to Nick. I was waiting for you, Nicholas, and I'm so glad to have
a chance to speak to you. She glanced again at Samantha. I do hope you
will excuse us for a few minutes, Dr. Silver. It is a matter of some
urgency.
Peter will be delighted to entertain you. As a biologist, you will find
his guinea pigs of interest, I'm sure. The commands were given so
graciously, by a lady in such control of her situation, that Peter went
to take Samantha's hand and lead her away.
It was one of the customs of Lynwood that all serious discussion took
place in the study. Chantelle led the way, and went immediately to the
false-fronted bookcase that concealed the liquor cabinet, and commenced
the ritual of preparing a drink for Nicholas. He wanted to stop her. It
was something from long ago, recalling too much that was painful, but
instead, he watched the delicate but precise movements of her hands
pouring exactly the correct measure of Chivas Royal Salute into the
crystal glass, adding the soda and the single cube of ice.
What a pretty young girl, Nicholas. He said nothing. On the ornate
Louis Quatorze desk was a silver-framed photograph of Duncan Alexander
and Chantelle together, and he looked away and moved to the fireplace,
standing with his back to the blaze as he had done on a thousand other
evenings.
Chantelle brought the glass to him, and stood close, looking up at him -
and her fragrance touched a deep nostalgic chord. He had first bought
Calkhe for her on a spring morning in Paris; with an effort he forced
the memory aside.