Chapter 15
Jennifer slept. She aroused briefly when Bruce left, murmured a sleepy goodnight and felt his kiss-and drifted off again, into dreams that were colored pink--just pink, as she remembered. They were very peaceful, very gentle, very delightful.
She awoke to hear the breakfast gong, surprised again at finding herself naked-and then surreptitiously enjoying it, and enjoying the night again in memory. I'm depraved. That's what I am. Depraved. And I like it. A month ago the idea of sleeping with a man wouldn't have occurred to me. Well, possibly it would have occurred to me- as something that would happen to the bad little girls Mother Dear always talked about, as if they were the girls next door whose every depravity Mother Dear knew -and thoroughly disapproved of-I might have imagined such a thing as being made love to-but the results would have, in my mental pictures, been catastrophic. Filled with all sorts of wicked punishments for the transgression.
But it isn't like that at all. I just feel-content. Jennifer grinned to herself. And just a wee bit tired, but such a nice tiredness.
And I'm hungry! The fact of hunger was an ever-present amazement to Jennifer. She seemed to think that, having had sex, food was unimportant. But she discovered each time that these two life functions went hand in hand.
She showered, taking a little longer than usual because she was inspecting her body and admiring its remarkable capacity for enjoyment. Her breasts impressed her, as they might an adolescent girl. She enjoyed soaping them, bringing the foam to little peaks over her nipples and then washing it away in a warm deluge that bared her breasts again. The soft hairs of her pudendum soaped up into a white froth that tickled her pussy. A mild stimulation, but Jennifer found it delightful, a very faint reminder of the way Bruce had touched her, stimulated her.
She dressed slowly, sensuously, feeling the gentle rasp of cloth against her skin, the special tightness the pantyhose imposed on her and the binding of her breasts into a bra.
Each part of sex, as she knew at, was a separate and interesting phenomenon: the teasing and lovemaking that preceded it, each step in the buildup of tensions-the tremendous explosions of orgasm, white-hot behind the eyes, soundless but intense in the belly-the long, lazy period of unwinding, of just-being, as the body flowed with new but languorous strength. And now this-awakening to the fulfilled desire and the actual physical hunger of the body, demanding new energies, new fuel for those future fires.
It would be nice to have Bruce here, to touch him, to watch him clothe his bronzed body, perhaps to discuss the very foods they would eat and to make a last-minute rush to get to the dining salon. It wasn't exactly a lack. She didn't recognize it as that because she had never had it. It was just that that lazy morning-time being together should be part of it, it seemed to her. It should be shared. It was too delightful a nothing time, of half-completed gestures, of slow motions, not to be shared.
That was probably one of the factors of marriage, the sharing afterward. Of course, there must be hundreds of other reasons, all equally good, for marriage. She just wasn't up to thinking them out right now. It was nicer just to let things happen and then to fit them into some kind of pattern or non-pattern that made a marriage-or left one like this, faintly lost.
Not that she was really considering marriage. It was just an abstract idea-marriage, a certain state of being for two people. For right now love-making was satisfactory. With Bruce it was eminently satisfactory. At the moment she couldn't imagine making love with anyone else, of giving her body to some man to use-and excite her into using it herself.
This whole trip had been a thing of impulse -a whim triggered by discovering the intricacies of her own body, and having a man-Bruce -see her discovery. And letting him go. And then going after that impossible Cass-and on to this. "This" being a state of infinite bliss.
Of course, there had been more to it than that. Those years of repression under the rule of Mother Dear. Even the books the succession of maids had left had played their part in setting the pattern.
And now she was caught up in its diaphanous but delightful threads. I could step out, break those cobweb strands, and go back to just- being-in that big house. But that's what I broke away from. I don't want to go back. Even if this should hurt-and it will hurt when Bruce and I part, as is inevitable-I want it. I want all of it, so much so that I'm willing to risk the hurt.
They were brave words she was telling herself, and she almost made herself believe them. But she knew one thing, she was willing to risk the hurt-when it came.
Maybe I won't care so much by then. Maybe I'll be used to being made love to. And the making love will be enough. The man won't matter.
But for now she could put all that away, leave it to the future. Now was today. And she was a healthy young female headed for a hearty breakfast.
The tropic sun splashed on the deck. Somewhere forward she could hear voices and laughter and the cadence of deck tennis. On the deck below she heard the sounds of people playing around the pool, one loud splash and laughter, subsiding to a murmur. The air was warm and languorous, with just a hint of decadence, of forests growing and dying. That, she decided, was absurd. They were too far off shore here for her to smell a tropic forest. But the illusion persisted.
She dawdled. In spite of a hearty appetite she lingered by the rail, watching the blue-green waters glide by, delighted by the sight of a flock-herd?-no, school of flying fish that leapt and skimmed along off the-let's see- starboard bow. Jennifer felt proud of herself for remembering such seamanlike terms. She was even learning to refer to walls as bulkheads and floors as decks and the bathroom as the head. Left was port and the rear was the stern.
Feeling proud of herself for remembering, Jennifer headed for the dining salon, debating a choice between fluffy waffles-which would probably be fattening-and scrambled eggs, which was unimaginative but very good for what ailed her-an empty stomach. Nice crisp toast hot enough to melt the chilled butter the chef seemed to think essential, and marmalade. With coffee that, no matter what the Dutch chef did to it, still tasted faintly of cocoa.
The breakfast, as always, lived up to billing. It was excellent. And Elsie and Anna were in their usual respective forms-Elsie bouncing and radiant, Anna expecting every calamity, up to and including the sinking of the ship on a reef. And about it all she seemed remarkably cheerful, a sort of good-natured Cassandra.
Elsie, though, had the main poop, as she put it. "The dyke is gonna leak. The word is she's going to prefer charges against the tour director -Bruce what's his name-on attempted rape last night. We hear tell she even has bruises to prove it, and is willing to show them to the captain. Since they're in places the captain probably hasn't seen in years and won't remember too vividly, the sight should be interesting. To the captain."
Anna sighed. "Oh, he's not that old. He winked at me last night. Or maybe he had something in his eye. But I distinctly saw a wink." Anna frowned. "I think."
Jennifer sat, her stomach suddenly cold. So the bitch was going to force Bruce to admit his affair with Jennifer-and Jennifer would back it up. It could, of course, cost him his job.
For herself, Jennifer didn't care. Wasn't this a swinging singles cruise, designed to entertain and to encourage such little peccadilloes as fornication-even though the brochures did not so specify? But it could hurt Bruce. And with a nine-year-old girl to bring up, there must be expenses.
Jennifer had no idea of the economics of it, but a tour director who was charged with attempted rape of a passenger certainly would have difficulty finding another post, even if he weren't jailed for it.
She also had some vague ideas that jurisdiction at sea, in the case of a crime, generally rested with the captain. Or was it under the last port of call? Or the next? Not that it made any real difference. Bruce would be hurt, and that little rogue of a girl would be smeared. It couldn't happen. It mustn't happen.
Jennifer flung down her napkin without even tasting her coffee. "Where's this hearing?"
Elsie looked up from a platter of scrambled eggs and muttered around a mouthful of toast, "Captain's quarters. I think. I'm pretty sure. I had it from that cute little Javanese girl. Do you know she takes classes at UCLA between trips?"
This last was said to Jennifer's back as she hurried from the dining salon. A steward directed her to the captain's quarters and then tried to tell her she wouldn't be admitted. She was held up outside the door to the captain's quarters by a steward who had obviously been listening at the panel and didn't care for witnesses. He waved her away.
Jennifer leaned around him and banged a hard little fist against the door. The door opened a crack and an eye peered out. Jennifer made a pass with one finger extended and the eye jerked back. The door swung a fraction open and Jennifer pushed her way in.
She first saw Bruce and the startled expression on his face. He nodded to her and turned back to Carol, who was lifting her skirt to display a livid bruise. "And he kicked me. There. When I wouldn't agree to his foul suggestion."
The captain, slow, ponderous and wearing glasses with bright gold rims, leaned far forward to peer at the leg exposed, shaking his head. "Undoubtedly a very bad bruise, Miss Clark."
"And there are others..." Carol was reaching for her blouse when the captain held up a hand. "Oh, we know about the bruises, so you needn't disrobe. But as for Bruce Caldwell being responsible, I have my doubts, Miss Clark. Particularly at the time you say. Midnight." The captain beckoned a steward forward. "At midnight where was Mister Caldwell?"
The steward scowled. "Midnight?" He stared at the captain's desk. "In crew's quarters, fo'c'sle, sir. Binding up Seaman Vrietland's ankle. He had fallen in the number two hold."
"Can't Seaman Vrietland testify to this himself?"
"He could, sir. Except that his ankle is quite bad. If you wish him present, I can have him brought up. "
The captain waved that away and stared at Carol Clark. "From shortly before midnight till three, Bruce Caldwell was in crew's quarters."
Carol drew herself up with a shuddering chest. "Are you going to believe a passenger, or one of these-servants?"
"I was present, Miss Clark. Seaman Vrietland's injury happened to be quite serious. We even had to call in the ship's doctor, which wasn't at first thought necessary. Do you wish to challenge the word of the captain?" He shrugged. "It is your privilege, of course. An appeal to the directors of the line-or even a court case, if you care to carry it that far."
Carol dropped her skirt, white-faced. "I certainly do."
"Then perhaps you had better hear what Miss Yung Tau Kee has to say. Miss Yung is your deck stewardess. She was in your room shortly after midnight. At your request. And was subjected to a most embarrassing scene. We prefer not to say more about the actions of a passenger, but the opportunity to observe your body was ample. Miss Yung says you had no bruises at that time."
"Oh, you're protecting your own, all right! It's a conspiracy. You are trying..."
She swung around and saw Jennifer. "And what about her? Where was she?"
The captain frowned and then smiled at Jennifer before turning back to Carol. "What about her? I am not aware she was charged with any offense. Do you wish to make such a charge? Knowing, of course, that Miss Lorn can then sue you for quite a large sum."
Carol opened her mouth, let it hang there a moment and then snap it shut.
Bruce stepped up to the captain's desk. "Miss Lorn and I saw the Southern Cross together..."
The captain clucked, "Very disappointing display this trip," as if it were his personal failure. "Not up to the usual. Ground fog." As if he couldn't admit that there were fogs on his sea.
"And then went below." Bruce grinned almost amiably at Carol. "To look at pictures of my family. You've heard of them, I believe."
Carol spun on a spiked heel and started out, but the captain's voice challenged her.
"Miss Clark, I wouldn't encourage any further stories about attempted rape if I were you. I might be forced to exercise my full rights as captain and place you under arrest for the false testimony you have given here this morning. Now, go back to your cabin-and I suggest you stay there until we dock in Acapulco. And hide that little quirt in a better place, next time. It could be found to match those bruises."
Carol, with a final glare at Jennifer, marched out. She would have slammed the door but it had a very good, very serviceable door check.