The Grand Luxe Suite on the Atlantic's Nobility
Chez Pierre 57, the steamship Paris, docked at Pier 57, was known as the ‘nobility of the Atlantic’.
Mabel sat on the luxurious sofa in the Grand Luxe Suite, the most extravagant stateroom on the first-class deck, flipping through the cabin guidebook. The French Line passenger ships were famous for their opulence, but this one felt worlds apart from the London-bound steamer she had taken the previous spring.
Carlyle had finished the check-in and gone downstairs to the telegraph office to handle urgent business before departure, carrying a stack of documents. Is he that busy…?
From the very first night of their marriage, leaving his bride behind to work had struck Mabel as an unthinkable way for a husband to behave. Yet she had tried hard to find a reason to understand him. The de Rocheret Trading Company imported luxury goods from Europe and supplied department stores across the entire United States. Its business had grown explosively in recent years, and it held a near-monopoly on French luxury items. It was hardly surprising that Carlyle was so occupied.
Mabel let out a long sigh.
If this was how the honeymoon would be, her wish to get to know her husband better during the trip seemed unlikely to be fulfilled.
But because she had sworn before the altar to spend the rest of her life with him, there was no turning back.
Therefore, she would simply give her all.
Overcoming the terror of that first night was the first gate. But Mildred’s and Louise’s advice had been so diametrically opposed that she had no idea which one to follow.
I should ask Louise for more precise instructions on exactly what I should do actively.
Even imagining lying in bed with Carlyle made her heart clench and her stomach churn.
A heavy horn blast sounded. The ship gave a gentle vibration. Mabel startled and looked out the window.
“Oh, Lara! Are we leaving?”
Ingrid peeked out from her cabin, her face filled with anticipation. She was in the middle of tidying Mabel’s wardrobe.
Isaac, Carlyle’s valet, had also come out from the opposite cabin after finishing his own and wandered into the lounge.
Each cabin had its own small window, but the suite boasted a large one and a small terrace, so the view of the outside world was right before their eyes.
“I’m going out to the terrace. Would the two of you like to come and see?”
Isaac approached as though he had been waiting for the invitation and opened the terrace door for her. The moment Mabel stepped outside, Ingrid fetched her duffel coat and draped it over her shoulders.
Three maids had accompanied them on this voyage: Isaac, Ingrid, and Fergus. It was fortunate that Carlyle would not feel lonely even if he had to leave her alone.
Mabel leaned against the railing and watched as the Paris steamed away from the dock.
The Manhattan skyline, packed with towering buildings, looked even more beautiful from afar. As sunset approached, the electric lights glowing in every window created a truly magnificent sight.
Suddenly, an ache struck Mabel that Carlyle had missed this splendid view.
He’s taking a long time…
“Isaac, when will the baron return?”
When Mabel asked, Isaac answered anxiously.
“Um… he should return before dinner, madam. Shall I go down to the telegraph office to ask and come back?”
Isaac, a servant, had read the owner’s indifferent behavior toward his newlywed bride and was gauging her reaction.
Mabel shook her head with a bitter expression.
“No, it’s all right. Once the room is tidied, you two should get some rest as well. If you need anything, just call for me.”
The instant Mabel gave permission, they returned to their cabins and hurried to finish packing. They then moved to second-class quarters.
Left alone, Mabel sat on the sofa and unfolded the guidebook. After a moment’s hesitation, she quietly removed her shoes, stretched her legs onto the sofa, leaned back against the armrest, and let out a deep sigh.
Haa…
She wiggled her toes, which had suffered all day inside her shoes.
Mildred would have been shocked, but no one was there to scold her for sitting incorrectly. Nor would there be anyone in the future.
At that moment, a strange sense of liberation washed over her.
Maybe marriage isn’t only bad.
As her posture relaxed and her tension eased, hunger finally surged. Soon, her stomach growled.
When does dinner start…?
Mabel recalled that she had eaten nothing since the previous night and turned back to the guidebook. It stated that dinner began at seven o’clock in the evening.
Wine
During the voyage, complimentary wine is served at lunch and dinner. Order champagne, whiskey, or aperitifs from the table as you like.
Mabel had heard of the French Line, the renowned French-flag steamer.
In the United States, where Prohibition was in force, the ship offered free wine. Friends who had taken the French Line for European travel unanimously reported that passengers had been tipsy like it was a festival for six straight days.
I could have one glass of wine…
Mabel murmured to herself.
To overcome the fear of the first night, she might need to borrow a little alcohol’s strength. Could she do it well?
If you don’t know anything, how can you do well.
She grumbled, mixing self-deprecation into her words. It was as if she were fighting an invisible shadow. The feeling only made her more unsettled.
Calm down, Cornelia Mabel Darlington.
Then she realized she was no longer a Darlington but Cornelia Mabel de Rocheret, and fresh shock hit her.
Mabel suddenly felt drained of strength and lay back in her disheveled posture. With her legs stretched out and head resting on the armrest, she flipped open the guidebook again as though trying to chase away her thoughts.
Movies were shown every afternoon at five o’clock, followed by dance time from nine to eleven after dinner.
Mabel flipped over onto her stomach and kicked the sofa with her feet, the image of Carlyle dancing a waltz with Lavinia rising in her mind.
She pouted and muttered spitefully.
How very close they were…
At that moment, the suite door swung open with a bang. Carlyle, entering, spotted her sprawled on the sofa and froze.
Mabel jumped in surprise and scrambled up, hastily pulling down her skirt that had ridden up to her knees. Her face burned.
She had already half entered, and he had knocked again.
“Excuse me.”
Mabel offered the guidebook like a fan in her hand and moistened her dry lips.
“P-please… come in.”
The door closed with a thud. Mabel trembled.
It was the first time she and Carlyle had been alone since their engagement. The spacious suite suddenly felt cramped.
“Is the urgent matter… finished?”
“It is.”
Carlyle removed his fedora and headed toward his own cabin, thick folder in hand.
“…That’s good.”
Mabel murmured timidly to his retreating back.
When Carlyle was near, her breathing grew tight strangely. She had hidden in the safe confines of the cabin, but perhaps it would be better to rest briefly before coming out just before dinner.
The moment Mabel rose from the sofa, Carlyle walked out from his cabin.
“Where is your passport?”
Startled by the sudden question, she hurriedly looked around.
“My… my passport? It’s in my handbag…”
Mabel took the passport from the handbag on the console table. After the war, European border controls had tightened, making passports mandatory for entry.
She was proud of possessing her own independent passport under her name. Most women had been dependent on their fathers’ or husbands’ passports.
When they had gone to London, Mabel had only been recorded with one line in Walter’s passport: “Mabel Darlington, Walter Darlington’s niece.” Then, thanks to the honeymoon, she had obtained her own independent passport.
Now that she was married, would she have to return to her husband’s passport with only one line—“Wife of Carlyle de Rocheret”? She did not want that.
“Why are you suddenly looking for my passport…?”
When Mabel hesitated, he strode forward and extended his hand.
“I need to check something.”
She flinched and handed over the passport at once.
Even when Carlyle moved quietly, hiding his presence, a heavy pressure emanated from him. So she had not been able to refuse but had desperately wanted to hide somewhere.
Carlyle unfolded the neatly folded passport and alternately looked at it and her, just like an immigration officer.
Mabel stood there, tense as an immigrant before a customs inspector she did not understand.
“Is there a problem with my passport…?”
He gave a light chuckle.
“Twenty-one years old.”
“Yes…?”