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CHAPTER 1
How different Scott's life would have been had he been attracted to the young girl, the one more his age, who was standing at the railing of the ship, rather than her companion, the beautiful woman wearing a soft gray suit, her hair blond and straight, a cashmere scarf of a crystalline blue that matched her aquamarine eyes draped casually across her shoulders. It was she who drew his attention. Her posture and bearing suggested a sophisticated, long-standing confidence, and Scott was transfixed by her beauty.
He, like these two women and most of the other transatlantic passengers, had moved to the starboard side of the liner in anticipation of an imminent departure. Peering down from the navigation deck, he was determined to get a better look. Cutting a path through the throng, Scott circled the deck before squeezing between two of the ship's lifeboats to gain an unobstructed view of his new interest. But by then, the mysterious woman in gray had slipped from sight. Given her impeccable style, Scott guessed she was on her way to first class. He was in cabin (second class) — recommended as more fun by a friend of his father.
The woman's younger companion, however, remained where she had been, leaning against the railing. Based on her fair complexion, reddish-blond hair, and slight frame, Scott thought her English, no doubt. A child (from their resemblance, probably the young woman's sister) and a stern-looking woman, whom Scott imagined a nanny, joined her. Distracted from his observations by the noise of the crowd, Scott looked beyond the trio of women, searching for his parents among those bidding passengers farewell on Pier 86, some eighty feet below.
The day was August 30, 1963, and Scott was sailing from New York to the ports of Le Havre and Southampton aboard the SS United States, the fastest and most modern luxury liner afloat. In the late afternoon sun, the ship cast long shadows across the crowd below as the crew prepared to sail with the evening tide.
Though the crowd stood elbow to elbow, Scott quickly spotted his parents and waved. Mother's impeccable silhouette had caught his eye immediately, dressed as she was in her usual Celine finery; Sarah Stoddard dabbed at her eyes time and again with a white handkerchief, while his father, Edward, stood by displaying his usual steely demeanor.
Scott was headed to graduate school at the University of Geneva to study international relations. His mother thought Switzerland too far; his father considered studying abroad too extravagant. The Stoddards agreed, however, on one thing: their vision for Scott's future — a quick degree abroad before returning to get a law degree from a prestigious American university. His assignment was clear.
The ship's company jerked, startled by the two six-second blasts from the vessel's giant foghorns, which announced that the SS United States was soon departing.
Spurred on by the captain's megaphoned instructions from the top of the bridge, the crew scurried about on the starboard side loosening the brawny hemp ropes from the dock's massive cleats and then throwing them into the water. The twin diesel engines roared to life and, as soon as the last line was undone, the tide pulled the ship away from the dock. In seconds, Scott felt separated from everything he had known.
Dutifully waving until his parents disappeared into the mist, Scott remained at his post long after the other passengers had retreated. He watched the receding pier as the ship passed the Statue of Liberty and then exited the Hudson channel into the open Atlantic.
A noticeable lump hung in the young man's throat, and a shiver — either cold or emotion — rippled across his tall, muscled frame. Though the other passengers saw a young man, brown hair ruffled by the breeze, hands jammed into his coat's pockets, inwardly, Scott cheered — he was free: free to do whatever he wanted, free to be whomever he would be. And free from the almost constant supervision of his parents.
CHAPTER 2
Unpacking in his cabin, Scott discovered his activity sheet. Intrigued, he noted there was a dance in the ballroom following dinner. His thoughts wandered to the blond woman he'd spied on deck; he felt certain he would not see her there. She would be a world away, behind many secured passageways and doors, luxuriating in the grandeur of first class, which he would only be able to experience by paging through the ship's brochure. But perhaps the young English girl, her friend, would be in attendance. Determined to make an impression, Scott dressed in an elegant dark navy suit, blue-and-white striped silk tie, and a crisp poplin white shirt, lightly starched. A last check in his mirror revealed fashionably styled dark brown hair, cropped in the day's popular Kennedy cut; a pocket square, peeping out just the right amount; and a tie with one perfect, single Windsor knot. All was in order.
Scott made his way along the ship's passages to the dining room. It was customary that passengers were assigned to tables for the duration of the voyage. He sighed as he exchanged handshakes, for Scott's assigned companions consisted of five other male passengers: two business types (who spoke no English) and three young students returning to their English boarding school. Scott was not interested in the company of these men. Impatiently, he watched the entrance for more diverting diners.
There. Scott spied the glint of reddish-blond hair. The young woman, her sister, and the nanny proceeded to the front, near the captain's table where the second in command (the executive officer, subbing for the captain) was seated with his invited guests. The young woman, too, had dressed carefully for dinner, and her attire suggested a real interest in the after-dinner dance. A black dress, with empire waistline and spaghetti straps, smartly accentuated her slender frame. Black high heels and a white pearl choker perfected her ensemble. Smiling and conversing with everyone at the table (especially one of the young officers seated across from her), she appeared to be in a very gay mood.
Dinner ended. Scott, along with almost everyone else, migrated to the lounge, where he stationed himself at the bar. Situated near the entrance, Scott was strategically positioned to observe all comings and goings. When the young Englishwoman did enter, she was not alone. Though her sister and the nanny had disappeared, four other girls were in tow. Scott knew from experience that separating her from her friends could be a challenge. Approaching two girls to ask one for a dance was chancy. With five girls, any potential suitor would have to pass muster with all to be considered by one. Grimly, he remembered the many debutante balls and cotillions he had attended since his teens — the very life he was trying to escape by leaving Charleston. Under the circumstances, he knew he must swim with the tide. Ah, well; perhaps he'd find an interesting diversion.
The music was continuous, the combo orchestra showing off its range of songs, from Bobby Vinton's Blue Velvet to Peter, Paul, and Mary's Blowin' in the Wind. The girls, animated, talked and giggled. Scott finished his drink, summoned his courage and, with good posture and a winning smile, approached them as confidently as possible.
"Good evening, Miss," he said. "I'm Scott. That dress looks like it wants to dance. Shall we?"
"That's a very brash beginning, but you're an American, so I forgive you. I'm Millie."
"That's a lovely name, but it doesn't answer the question. Would you like to dance?"
"Yes, Miss Millie Summersmith accepts with pleasure the kind invitation to dance."
"Well, we had better hurry. This song will be over if we continue to banter."
"Is there something wrong with bantering, Mr ... what did you say your name was?"
"Scott. Scott Stoddard."
As they made their way to the dance floor, he could see the other men's envious glances and was glad he'd moved quickly. Millie's dress suited her well. Her smile was genuine, and her pale green eyes glistened in the room's soft light.
For the first few moments they were quiet, patiently learning each other's moves. As they eased into the rhythm of unconsciously following and leading, he said, "Summersmith; that's English, isn't it?"
"Are you always a master of the obvious?"
"I'm not always anything, but I was right about the dress."
For the next two dances, Millie made sure she and Scott got to know each other. She: nineteen, parents divorced, her father living in New York, her mother in London. That summer, the three of them stayed in New York, on Long Island. Scott had correctly surmised that the younger girl was her sister (Tillie) and the older woman, her sister's nanny. Millie made it clear that Miss Bannister was Tillie's nanny, not hers, letting Scott know by the subjects broached — and so many other, subtle ways — that she was a young sophisticate.
Scott volunteered that, at twenty-two, he was traveling to Geneva to earn his master's degree. Millie laughed. His first trip to Europe! She'd been going back and forth between Europe and the States from an early age. She teased him about his American accent; his good-humored rebuttal — "You're the one with the accent, Millie."
As they laughed, a well-dressed, tall (though not quite as tall as Scott), and handsome-enough guy tapped him on the shoulder to ask, "May I cut in?"
Millie answered, "Sorry, not now." The rejected suitor quickly turned to pursue another dance partner.
"He looked eager," Scott said.
"Eagerness is too common a trait."
"Then I will try to keep it in check."
When they stopped dancing, Millie asked, "Want to have some fun?"
"I thought we were."
"They have more fun in first class," she said knowingly.
"I bet they do."
"Let's go! I know someone there, a friend of my mother's."
Millie rejoined her companions' table, retrieving her evening bag and saying something to her girlfriends, who convulsed with nervous laughter. Scott wondered — was it him or their destination that prompted giggles?
CHAPTER 3
Through the laundry room, startling workers busy with the sheets and towels turning over and over in vast steamy vats, Scott and Millie hurried through the labyrinth below decks. Millie led them to a double steel door; when opened, the passageway revealed still another, a revolving door, to negotiate. Finally, they entered the ballroom.
Scott gaped: crystal chandeliers, mahogany paneling, etched and stained glass, and an imposing, serpentine bar created a scene of opulent elegance. The full orchestra, an animated crowd, and champagne-fueled revelry — this was how he'd imagined evenings on the Titanic or parties described in The Great Gatsby. Luxury was front and center.
"We made it," Millie said. "Let's find Desirée."
She was leading him across the ballroom when Scott spotted Millie's companion, the beautiful woman he'd admired during boarding. Weaving through the tables and dancers, they approached her table in the corner of the ballroom. A party of two men in black tie and two women wearing ball gowns, their jewelry ablaze, were gathered there. The men rose as Millie approached the table. They all seemed to know Millie.
"Millie, my darling," Scott's mystery woman said.
"Yes, c'est moi, up from second class," Millie said.
"I don't understand why your father insists on putting you down there."
"He says not to spoil us. Desirée, please let me introduce you to my friend, Scott Stoddard, an American. Scott, the Countess de Rovere."
The countess extended her hand. Scott took it gently and looked directly into her eyes. "Enchanté, Countess."
As the formalities of introduction and small talk progressed, Scott noticed the countess spoke with confidence and ease in both French and English. From what he discerned, she and her friends had spent late July and August in the Hamptons and were now returning to their respective residences in Europe. As they spoke, he marveled at her gestures, how her beautiful hands accentuated conversation; it was like watching a skilled conductor lead a symphonic orchestra. He'd never experienced any woman like her.
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.
CHAPTER 4
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.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "An Improbable Pairing"
by .
Copyright © 2019 Gary Dickson.
Excerpted by permission of Greenleaf Book Group Press.
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