Robbie? Tall, black-haired, drop-dead gorgeous. Sable coat and a Robin Hood hat. Don’t tell me she slipped off the boat before we put to sea.”
Robbie closed his eyes, a priest in pain. “You
would
, Mr. Jack. You
would
.”
Jack grinned. “Is she that bad? What’s her name?”
“Diana Playfair. A mannequin, as I heard, or maybe an actress.
Or
something worse,” the steward added darkly. “Not quite respectable, if you take my meaning, until the Honorable Denys Playfair went and married her.”
“Ah. Didn’t see the husband.”
Robbie shook his head. “The Honorable Denys isn’t aboard. Some say they’re
estranged
.”
“You lift my heart, Robbie, you really do.” Jack held out a twenty-dollar bill. “Get me a deck chair near her. Please.”
Robbie palmed the money with a dubious air. “Awfully cold in the North Atlantic, in Febr’y. Can’t tell as there might not be
ice
. Captain says as how it’s goin’ ter be a filthy run. Storms, he says, off the coast of Greenland.”
Jack offered him another twenty. “I’ve got to work on my tan, Robbie.”
The steward sighed. “I’ll do my best, sir. She’s a looker, all right, our Diana. Though there’s some,” he added as an afterthought, “as don’t hold with her politics.”
“Why?”
“She’s one of them
Fascists
,” the steward said.
* * *
DIANA PLAYFAIR WAS NOT to be found among the paneled columns and deep armchairs of the First Class lounge, and she scorned the Captain’s table that evening, where her seat was reserved among the select. This was a measure of her importance to the Cunard Line—Jack, as the British ambassador’s son, had a place at the table along with Lord and Lady Kemsley. Mrs. Sloan Colt and her blushing daughter were there, too—Catherine seated conveniently next to Jack—but June Minart and her mother remained in exile. Presumably Mrs. Minart had failed to bribe the
Queen Mary
’s captain.
Jack tried to talk to Cathy Colt while keeping one eye on the empty chair reserved for Diana Playfair. Maybe she was just chronically late. Dramatic entrances would suit her.
“I hear you’re going to Sarah Lawrence in the fall,” he said to the ballerina arms.
“Yes. I am.”
“That should be swell. A girl I know had a great time at Sarah Lawrence. Frances Ann Cannon. You know Frances Ann?”
“No. I don’t.”
“My sister Kathleen is thinking about Sarah Lawrence. Ever met Kick? That’s what we call my sister—Kick.”
“No. I haven’t.”
Jack got the distinct impression that Catherine Colt found him as repulsive as a slug. She’d edged her chair away, and kept her eyes firmly on her plate. In different circumstances the girl’s undisguised dislike might have piqued his interest—but not tonight. He had other game to hunt. He was hoping for what Robbie called Something Worse. He craned his head around the vast dining room, but Something Worse was not to be found.
When Catherine scurried off before dessert, pleading a headache, the man to her left—a German in his thirties—caught Jack’s eye.
“You won’t see the Fair Diana tonight,” he said. “Seasickness. She’s a martyr to it. Probably lying in her cabin with a compress on her head and her maid at her feet.”
The Fair Diana. It was a deliberate play on her last name, one the German probably hadn’t invented; but his English was good enough to halt Jack’s darting mind.
“You know the lady,” he said.
“Very well indeed.”
There’s some as don’t hold with her politics. She’s one of them Fascists.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Jack held out his hand.
“Willi Dobler.” The German was dark and anything but Teutonic; a poor representative of the Aryan ideal. His clothes, however, had obviously been tailored in London; and he held his cigarette like a work of art. “You’re the second son.
Jack
Kennedy.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Again, the faint smile that failed to reach Dobler’s eyes. “We met at
Robbie closed his eyes, a priest in pain. “You
would
, Mr. Jack. You
would
.”
Jack grinned. “Is she that bad? What’s her name?”
“Diana Playfair. A mannequin, as I heard, or maybe an actress.
Or
something worse,” the steward added darkly. “Not quite respectable, if you take my meaning, until the Honorable Denys Playfair went and married her.”
“Ah. Didn’t see the husband.”
Robbie shook his head. “The Honorable Denys isn’t aboard. Some say they’re
estranged
.”
“You lift my heart, Robbie, you really do.” Jack held out a twenty-dollar bill. “Get me a deck chair near her. Please.”
Robbie palmed the money with a dubious air. “Awfully cold in the North Atlantic, in Febr’y. Can’t tell as there might not be
ice
. Captain says as how it’s goin’ ter be a filthy run. Storms, he says, off the coast of Greenland.”
Jack offered him another twenty. “I’ve got to work on my tan, Robbie.”
The steward sighed. “I’ll do my best, sir. She’s a looker, all right, our Diana. Though there’s some,” he added as an afterthought, “as don’t hold with her politics.”
“Why?”
“She’s one of them
Fascists
,” the steward said.
* * *
DIANA PLAYFAIR WAS NOT to be found among the paneled columns and deep armchairs of the First Class lounge, and she scorned the Captain’s table that evening, where her seat was reserved among the select. This was a measure of her importance to the Cunard Line—Jack, as the British ambassador’s son, had a place at the table along with Lord and Lady Kemsley. Mrs. Sloan Colt and her blushing daughter were there, too—Catherine seated conveniently next to Jack—but June Minart and her mother remained in exile. Presumably Mrs. Minart had failed to bribe the
Queen Mary
’s captain.
Jack tried to talk to Cathy Colt while keeping one eye on the empty chair reserved for Diana Playfair. Maybe she was just chronically late. Dramatic entrances would suit her.
“I hear you’re going to Sarah Lawrence in the fall,” he said to the ballerina arms.
“Yes. I am.”
“That should be swell. A girl I know had a great time at Sarah Lawrence. Frances Ann Cannon. You know Frances Ann?”
“No. I don’t.”
“My sister Kathleen is thinking about Sarah Lawrence. Ever met Kick? That’s what we call my sister—Kick.”
“No. I haven’t.”
Jack got the distinct impression that Catherine Colt found him as repulsive as a slug. She’d edged her chair away, and kept her eyes firmly on her plate. In different circumstances the girl’s undisguised dislike might have piqued his interest—but not tonight. He had other game to hunt. He was hoping for what Robbie called Something Worse. He craned his head around the vast dining room, but Something Worse was not to be found.
When Catherine scurried off before dessert, pleading a headache, the man to her left—a German in his thirties—caught Jack’s eye.
“You won’t see the Fair Diana tonight,” he said. “Seasickness. She’s a martyr to it. Probably lying in her cabin with a compress on her head and her maid at her feet.”
The Fair Diana. It was a deliberate play on her last name, one the German probably hadn’t invented; but his English was good enough to halt Jack’s darting mind.
“You know the lady,” he said.
“Very well indeed.”
There’s some as don’t hold with her politics. She’s one of them Fascists.
“I don’t believe we’ve met.” Jack held out his hand.
“Willi Dobler.” The German was dark and anything but Teutonic; a poor representative of the Aryan ideal. His clothes, however, had obviously been tailored in London; and he held his cigarette like a work of art. “You’re the second son.
Jack
Kennedy.”
“Guilty as charged.”
Again, the faint smile that failed to reach Dobler’s eyes. “We met at
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