Last Voyage of the Valentina(27)

He was hopelessly smitten. He was unable to withdraw his gaze without a great deal of effort, so compelling was she. Her sisters only confirmed what he had always suspected—that she was unique. Their veins shared Arbuckle blood and yet they possessed none of Alba’s beauty or her mystery. God had broken the mold after creating Alba. He stared at his reflection. Could she ever grow to love him? Didn’t she know how much she tormented him? Would his heart ever recover? Would he be left analyzing his moves like he did after a rubber of bridge? Wondering that perhaps if he had played a little better, with a little more cunning, he might have won?

At dinner he was seated between Miranda and Caroline. As he listened to them he was reminded of bread sauce and how bland it was without salt. Miranda and Caroline needed a good deal more salt. But as he and Alba had discussed on their walk, the likes of Michael Hudson-Hume didn’t want spunky women. Spunky women frightened them. They lacked salt themselves. He gazed across the table at Alba. She looked tired, or bored, her strange eyes paler in the light of the candles and more shadowy than ever. She sat beside her father and yet they barely talked. It was imperative that he succeed tonight.

After dinner his moment came. Thomas put his hand on Fitz’s back and suggested they go into his study for a glass of port and a cigar. Fitz managed to double-blink at Alba, but although she blinked back, her expression was one of defeat.

“I’ve had enough of the company of women,” Thomas said, pouring them both a glass of port. “This is rather good,” he added, handing the glass to Fitz. “A cigar?” He opened the humidor and pulled one out, passing it under his nose and sniffing it. “Ah, the sweet smell of a cigar.” Fitz thought it would be rude not to smoke. Besides, this was his one chance to befriend him.

They both spent a good few minutes preparing their cigars. “I smoked so many cigarettes in the war,” said Thomas, “that afterward, when the beastly business was over, I took to cigars instead. Didn’t want to be reminded of it. You know.”

He sat down in a worn leather chair. Fitz did the same. The lights were dim. He looked about the room, at all the books in their glass bookcases, most of them old, beautifully bound, inherited no doubt. After a good ten minutes of chat Fitz cut to the chase.

“My father was in the war. It changed him. He was never the same after that.”

“Where was he?”

“Italy.” Fitz noticed Thomas’s forehead crease into deep furrows. He paused for a long moment, swirling the port around in his glass.

“Where?”

“Naples.”

Thomas nodded grimly. “Terrible business, Naples.”

“He says he’ll never forget the poverty. The despair. Human beings sunk so far, such depravity. The indignity of it. He’s still haunted by what he saw, even now.”

“I never got as far as Naples.” Thomas took a swig of port and swallowed loudly. “I was in the navy.”

“Ah,” said Fitz.

“I captained an MTB.” Fitz nodded. He had once read an article about the motor torpedo boats. They had harassed enemy coastal convoys in the Channel, the North Sea, the Mediterranean, and the Adriatic. “It was quite a unique feeling to cut through waves at forty knots. We’d be in and out in seconds before our targets knew what had hit them. Bloody marvelous,” he continued, then drained his glass. “I don’t like to think of it these days. Haven’t been back. It’s a closed chapter. A man should suffer his pain in private, don’t you think?”

“I disagree, Thomas,” said Fitz boldly. “I believe a man should suffer his pain only in the company of other men. We fight together and we smoke together. There’s a good reason why women leave the dining table at the end of a meal. Leaves the men free to show their vulnerability. There’s nothing shameful about that.”

Thomas puffed away, watching with dewy eyes the man who seemed to have tamed his daughter. “I never thought I’d see Alba with a man like you.”

“No?” Fitz chuckled good-naturedly. “Why not?” He wasn’t acting now.

“You’re a sensible fellow. You have a good head on your shoulders. You’re intelligent and driven. Have a proper occupation. Come from a good family. Why would Alba go for someone like you?”

“I don’t know the sort of man she usually goes for,” said Fitz, trying not to take offense.

“Men who can satisfy her in the short term, not a runner like you.”

“She’s a lively girl,” said Fitz, surprised that her own father should allude to her promiscuity, however obliquely. “Not only is she beautiful, Thomas, but she’s colorful, vibrant, mysterious. She intrigues me.” He sighed heavily and drew on his cigar. “She’s unfathomable.”