Audrey was also a very gentle and charming person, as he found out in the ensuing conversation, for she was fluent in English and had a delicious laugh and fresh, natural smile. He found her quiet self-confidence quite attractive as she told him about the history of the hotel, the town of St. Pierre, and the island of Martinique. She told him how her father had raised her alone, since her mother had died of smallpox years earlier. It was fascinating, and before Wake realized it, almost an hour had gone by. Everything was so completely and pleasantly alien to him—a world away from the life of men aboard a warship. And a respite from depression over his marriage. Realizing he had been with only the hotelier’s daughter the whole time, his face flushed with embarrassment. He knew he had to circulate the room and talk with other guests.
“Audrey, thank you so much. You have been a wonderful guide to St. Pierre for me and we haven’t even left the room!” he said, looking into her lovely smile.
“It is my pleasure, Lieutenant. We on Martinique are great admirers of Americans and enjoy spending time with them. You are so open, without pretenses.”
Audrey’s face suddenly stiffened and her voice lost its gaiety. “Hmm. . . . Here come the Fabers. Including Catherine, I see. I will go and find my father to introduce you to them. Please excuse me, Lieutenant.”
Wake glanced around to see who she was talking about. A distinguished older couple were entering the room, accompanied by a petite woman in her mid-twenties expensively gowned in forest green. Her long brown hair was swept up in the latest Paris coif and the glittering diamonds in her earrings and necklace accentuated a sad-eyed face, as if she held some dark grief. Wake wondered if a loved one had died recently and, if so, why she wasn’t wearing black according to custom. She was the precise opposite of Audrey, more fragile and unsure but stunningly beautiful also, and every man in the room watched her glide across the floor behind the older couple.
“Ah, yes,” called out Raoul Jason as he emerged from the crowd. “Monsieur et Madame Faber, et Madame Catherine. How very lovely you ladies look this evening. Thank you for gracing our humble reception.” The older man mumbled something in French, then abruptly departed the room as his wife went to a woman friend in the corner, leaving the young lady alone in the middle of the room. Jason deftly guided her toward Wake, who couldn’t retreat and wondered what to say.
As Jason introduced Catherine Faber de Champlain to Wake the young lady’s face slowly creased into a smile, more of duty than enjoyment. Wake learned that she was the wife of Monsieur Faber’s younger brother and had been visiting for the last month from France before returning to Europe to join her husband in Genoa, where he was newly posted as the French consul general. Jason further explained that Catherine spoke English, Spanish, and Italian in addition to her native tongue and therefore he hoped they could take pleasure in a conversation. Having fulfilled his social responsibility, Jason moved on around the room.
“Enchanté, Madame Faber,” Wake said, trying to look and sound more elegant than he felt. He felt the urge to make her smile, a real smile, so he tried to make a joke.
“I am headed to the European Squadron of our navy, so perhaps you can teach me some things to say in those languages that will not get me in trouble.”
Another forced smile fleetingly crossed her face. “Just never say the following, Lieutenant, unless you truly mean it—Je t’aime.”
Her tone was sadly serious and Wake realized his joke had fallen flat. “I’m afraid you already have me at a disadvantage, Madame Faber, for I don’t know that particular phrase.”
“It is French for ‘I love you,’ Lieutenant. It is cruelly overused as a ruse de guerre between men and women and too often believed by the intended victim.”
He instantly knew she was speaking for herself, explaining her apparent melancholy. He replied gently, “Then I promise to stay with the words I know, madame. They all start with bon. Like ‘bonjour, bon appetit, and bon voyage.’ I don’t think they could hurt. Would that be safe for both people in the conversation?”
He was rewarded with a genuine giggle as her face softened. “Yes, Lieutenant. I think that you will be quite safe with those words, and depending on where and when you say them, you may very well inject a little good humor into the conversation. You Americans are so wonderfully naïfs. So different from Europeans.”
“Naïve, madame? Sometimes it is better to be that way. At least it’s more comfortable to not know what’s impossible before you attempt it.”
Her eyes held his as her hand touched his arm. “You Americans are becoming famous for accomplishing the impossible. But I must warn you about being naïf, Lieutenant . . .”
He felt himself being drawn into her dark blue, almost indigo, eyes. “Yes, madame?”
“When you go to the Continent the women will love you for being naïf, but the men will despise you for it. They will think you weak and vulnerable. They try to take advantage of the weak and vulnerable, Lieutenant. Be very careful.”
Wake nodded his acknowledgment, so surprised by the change in her tone and sincerity of her warning that he couldn’t form a reply.
“And, Lieutenant,” she said as her smile returned, this one gentle, “it would please me greatly if you called me by my given Christian name of Catherine.”
“All right, Catherine,” Wake answered, still mesmerized by her eyes. His words seemed to come from someone else. “Please call me Peter.”
He dimly heard dinner being announced by a man in the doorway, then felt Catherine’s arm entwine around his. Without a
