Ken Follett - A Dangerous Fortune

“Then we’ll search the train. He must be on it still.”

But he was not.

THE AZTEC WAS FESTOONED with colored lanterns and paper streamers. The Christmas party was in full swing when Augusta boarded: a band played on the main deck, and passengers in evening dress drank champagne and danced with friends who had come to say goodbye.

A steward led Augusta up the grand staircase to a stateroom on an upper deck. She had spent all her cash on the best cabin available, thinking that with the snuffboxes in her suitcase she need not worry about money. The room opened directly onto the deck. Inside it had a wide bed, a full-size washbasin, comfortable chairs and electric lights. There were flowers on the dresser, a box of chocolates beside the bed and a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice on the low table. Augusta was about to tell the steward to take the champagne away, then changed her mind. She was beginning a new life: perhaps she would drink champagne from now on.

She was only just in time. She heard the traditional shout of “All ashore that’s going ashore!” even as the porters brought her luggage into the cabin. When they had gone she stepped onto the narrow deck, turning up her coat collar against the snow. She leaned against the rail and looked down. There was a sheer drop to the water, where a tugboat was already in position to ease the great liner out of the harbor into the sea. As she watched, the gangways were withdrawn one by one and the ropes cast off. The ship’s foghorn sounded, a cheer went up from the crowd on the quay, and slowly, almost imperceptibly, the huge ship began to move.

Augusta returned to her cabin and closed the door. She undressed slowly and put on a silk nightgown and a matching robe. Then she summoned the steward and told him she would not require anything further tonight.

“Shall I wake you in the morning, my lady?”

“No, thank you. I’ll ring.”

“Very good, m’lady.”

Augusta locked the door behind him.

Then she opened her trunk and let Micky out.

He staggered across the stateroom and fell on the bed. “Jesus save me, I thought I was going to die.” He moaned.

“My poor darling, where does it hurt?”

“My legs.” She rubbed his calves. The muscles were knotted with cramp. She massaged his calves with her fingertips, feeling the warmth of his skin through the cloth of his trousers. It was a long time since she had touched a man this way, and she felt a flush of heat rise at her throat.

She had often daydreamed about doing this, running away with Micky Miranda, both before and since the death of her husband. She had always been stopped by the thought of all she would lose — house, servants, dress allowance, social position, and family power. But the bank crash had taken all that away, and now she was free to give in to her desires.

“Water,” said Micky feebly.

She poured a glass from the pitcher beside the bed. He turned over and sat up to take it, then drank it all.

“Some more … Micky?”

He shook his head.

She took the glass from him.

“You lost the snuffboxes,” he said. “I heard the whole thing. That swine Hugh.”

“But you’ve got plenty of money,” she said. She pointed to the champagne in the ice bucket. “We should drink this. We’re out of England. You escaped!”

He was staring at her bosom. She realized that her nipples were hard with excitement, and he could see them poking through the silk of her nightwear. She wanted to say You can touch them if you like but she hesitated. There was plenty of time: they had all night. They had the whole voyage. They had the rest of their lives. But suddenly she could wait no longer. She felt guilty and ashamed, but she longed to hold his naked body in her arms, and the longing was stronger than the shame. She sat on the edge of the bed. She took his hand, drew it to her lips, and kissed it; then she pressed it to her breast.

He looked at her curiously for a moment. Then he began to stroke her breast through the silk. His touch was gentle. His fingertips brushed the sensitive nipple and she gasped with pleasure. He changed his grip and held her breast in his palm, lifting and moving it. Then he grasped her nipple between finger and thumb and squeezed. She closed her eyes. He pinched harder, so that it hurt. Then, suddenly, he twisted her nipple so viciously that she screamed and pulled away from him, standing up.

“You dumb cunt,” he sneered, getting off the bed.

“No!” she said. “No!”

“You really thought I would many you!”

“Yes—”

“You’ve got no money and no influence anymore, the bank is bust, and you even lost the snuffboxes. What would I want with you?”

She felt a pain in her chest, like a knife in her heart. “You said you loved me….”

“You’re fifty-eight — my mother’s age, for God’s sake! You’re old and wrinkled and mean and selfish, and I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last woman on earth!”

She felt faint. She tried not to cry but it was no good. Tears welled up in her eyes and she began to shake with sobs of despair. She was ruined. She had no home, no money and no friends, and the man she trusted had betrayed her. She turned away from him to hide her face: she did not want him to see her shame and grief. “Please, stop,” she whispered.

“I’ll stop,” he spat out. “I’ve got a cabin reserved on this ship and that’s where I’m going.”

“But when we get to Cordova …”

“You’re not going to Cordova. You can get off the ship at Lisbon and go back to England. I’ve no further use for you.”

Every word was like a blow and she backed away from him, holding her hands up in front of her as if to ward off his curses. She bumped against the cabin door. Desperate to get away from him, she opened it and backed out.

The freezing night air cleared her head suddenly. She was behaving like a helpless girl, not a mature, capable woman. She had lost control of her life briefly, and it was time to seize it back again.

A man in evening dress walked past her, smoking a cigar. He stared at her nightclothes in astonishment but did not speak to her.

That gave her an idea.

She stepped back into the cabin and closed the door. Micky was straightening his tie in the mirror. “There’s someone coming,” she said urgently. “A policeman!”

Micky’s demeanor changed in a flash. The sneer was wiped off his face and replaced by a look of panic. “Oh, my God,” he said.

Augusta was thinking quickly. “We’re still within British waters,” she said. “You can be arrested and sent back on a coast guard cutter.” She had no idea whether this was true.

“I’ll have to hide.” He climbed into the trunk. “Close the front, quickly,” he said.

She shut him in the trunk.

Then she flipped the latch to lock it.

“That’s better,” she said.

She sat on the bed, staring at the trunk. In her mind she went over and over their conversation. She had made herself vulnerable and he had wounded her. She thought of how he had caressed her. Only two other men had touched her breasts: Strang and Joseph. She thought of how he had twisted her nipple then spurned her with obscene words. As the minutes went by her rage cooled and became a dark, vicious yearning for revenge.

Micky’s voice, muffled, came from inside the trunk. “Augusta! What’s happening?”

She made no reply.

He began to shout for help. She covered the trunk with blankets from the bed to deaden the sound.

After a while he stopped.

Thoughtfully, Augusta removed the luggage labels bearing her name from the trunk.

She heard cabin doors slam: passengers were heading for the dining room. The ship began to pitch slightly in the swell as it steamed out into the English Channel.