Montparnasse. Thierry Sagnier

His parents always maintained a cordial distance from one another, two goldfish in a very large bowl. He had, until this moment, always assumed Mother and Father had somehow arisen from the marital bed without ever making physical contact; now he struggled to put the scene out of his mind.

      His own physical needs were not that urgent; they never had been, though he participated freely in randy discussions with his friends. Desire was more like an expectation denied, the disappointment of a gift hoped for and not received.

      Another spray of icy water washed across the deck. Easter was asleep in their cabin. Or perhaps she had woken and was scribbling in her diary. It was the one thing that brightened her mood. She wrote for hours, hunched over the correspondence table and humming to herself. He admired her neat handwriting and had from the day she’d sent him a thank you note for taking her to lunch after a work interview with his father’s company. The roundness of her l’s and w’s had impressed him, but now he found her devotion to the journal irritating. He was forbidden from reading the entries, and that was vexing. Complaining of a mild headache, he had left her in the cabin a half-hour earlier and now stood on the topmost deck of La Savoie. He was the only passenger out in the inclement weather.

      The enveloping mist made him shiver. He could dimly hear the strains of music—a waltz full of strings—coming from the formal ballroom one deck below. Their first night aboard, he and Easter had danced to the very same tune.

      He considered seeking shelter there; a stiff shot or two at the bar could lighten his mood, but no, it probably wouldn’t, and might indeed act to the contrary. He wasn’t dressed for the occasion. A guest had spilled a glass of red wine on the trousers of the elegant evening outfit he’d had tailored for the trip and the suit was in the hands of the ship’s laundress.

      It wasn’t all Easter’s fault. Who could have known that the slightest movement of the ship, the merest hint of pitch or wallow, would cause her discomfort? When they were courting, she had enjoyed their outings on the lake, sworn a love for the water and not once had he considered that the trip across the Atlantic could be less than a joyful experience. In fact, he had deliberately opted for a slow journey. There were faster ships than La Savoie afloat—the Flandres traversed the Atlantic in less than a week—but a leisurely 12-day cruise had seemed a splendid way to begin their lives as man and wife.

      The voyage, sadly, had become a nightmare for her. In fact, Frederick thought, it was a nightmare for them both.

      Easter hardly ate. After the third day, she refused to accompany him to the dining room and asked instead that meals—inconsequential as they were—be brought to the cabin. She survived on toast, tea, an occasional cup of beef broth, lettuce without dressing, and fruit. Her slim form grew leaner; her lips became pale and thin, almost marginal. Her eyes lost their gleam.

      They had visited the ship’s doctor four times, and the man had finally stopped prescribing larger and larger doses of nostrums to settle Easter’s stomach. Now he came by the cabin twice a day, hinting to Frederick that Mrs. Cowles’ discomfort might be more than mere seasickness. Perhaps, he hinted darkly, it was mental, even psychological. The words frightened Frederick.

      “The stress of the marriage, I might assume,” the physician said, his voice barely a whisper. “The fear of physical intimacy.” Giving Frederick a meaningful look, he’d added, “The—how may I put it in acceptable language—discomfort associated with certain marital acts committed during the honeymoon.”

      Frederick had nodded, not sure he did understand, fearful of the implications but unwilling to pursue the subject. The man’s dress white uniform with galloons and epaulets spoke of authority, but he was French, and everyone knew the French thought of sex with disturbing constancy. So of course, physician or not, he would mention that first.

      Back home in Chicago, men who’d returned from the war were full of tales of the French’s sensual indulgences.

      The music from the ballroom changed cadence, strains muted by damp and wind, to something jazzy and bouncy, horns, clarinets and slide trombones. The orchestra had four American Negro singers. On the first night the quartet had sung a medley of spirituals. Frederick and Easter had danced to those, too. He had heard Negroes were highly prized in France.

      Perhaps the French doctor was right; it was the stress of it all, the harried days before the wedding, the demands made upon a bride, the train trip from Chicago to New York, the wedding night at the Pontchartrain.

      Frederick shook his head free of carnal thoughts. That Easter was feeling so poorly was not her fault, and it was only normal she should prefer not to share her bunk. The situation had nothing to do with him; women were that way, their meeker constitutions prey to every affliction.

      On the other side of the deck, a couple leaned on the railing and looked out to the sea.

      How long had they been there? They both wore long matching raincoats and the man’s arm was across the woman’s shoulder, pulling her to him. There was a brief flare of light, a match on a cigarette. Something the man said made the woman laugh, and the sound was snatched by the night wind. Her hair whipped about her head. She stretched her neck to kiss the man’s cheek. The man turned slightly and their lips met. The band struck up another waltz. Frederick plunged his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat, felt a flash of envy and anger. He watched the couple embrace briefly, then disappear into a doorway.

      If he returned to the cabin, Easter might be feeling better by now and could, conceivably, welcome his arrival.

      And I could be, Frederick thought, Queen Marie of Romania and Emperor of Rome, as his father was fond of saying.

      Chapter 2

      The diary beckoned. It was in the smaller travel bag, beneath her undergarments. A silly place for a woman to hide anything, she knew, but hiding it was habit, not precaution. Frederick would never dare search her luggage.

      Easter wanted to write; she had always kept a journal. Now, not writing caused her almost as much discomfort as the movement of the great ship.

      Frederick was at the bar—how he could even consider eating or drinking was beyond her understanding—and her nausea was not as acute as it had been earlier in the day. She sat up in the bunk and swung her feet to the floor, then took a moment to breathe deeply and evenly. Opening the travel bag, she gathered journal, pen and ink.

      *****

      Aboard La Savoie, Sunday, April 6, 1919

      So much has happened this year! I feel guilty writing this, but since childhood, I’ve been led to believe my new status of wife would be the culmination of my existence. It isn’t. Now that I am Mrs. Frederick Cowles, I’m not even certain I like the name. I thought vast secrets would be revealed, but this has not happened. I have put my life as Catherine Easter Beaumont behind me, yet I have not changed at all and frankly do not plan to do so. Does this make me a poor spouse?

      We’ve spent the past four days aboard this dreadful ship, and I do not understand the charms water holds for so many. My stomach is in a constant state of rebellion. I cannot eat, much less drink anything but the mildest infusion. According to the French doctor who visits me twice daily (and whom I do not like; he has hair on his knuckles and an oily complexion. He must be from the south of the Continent), I have not yet found my sea legs, much to Frederick’s dismay. I avoid mirrors; I know I look a fright. Plus, of course, “my friend” will soon come to visit, so I suffer from cramps and am irascible. If I believed in omens, I would certainly see all this as an inauspicious beginning to my wedded life.

      Shall I write of the wedding night? It was memorable only by the associated revulsion. I will write only in the interest of posterity (How foolish! As if this diary will ever be seen by anyone but me).

      *****

      Easter put her pen down. In her first entries, she’d avoided the embarrassing, the rude, and the awkward. Nowhere was mentioned her first period, or the painful infection that had laid her low for a month when she was 16, or, a short time later, the perfunctory groping of the boy who lived down the street. As she grew older and began to trust her powers of observation, her descriptions of