THE BETTER PART OF VALOR. Morgan Mackinnon
and a modest selection of liquor. The bedrooms were similar to the ones in first class; one or two double beds with silken duvets and hooks for dressing gowns. Attached was a dressing room with room for trunks and full-length mirrors, and finally, the bathroom with a toilet, sink, and tub. One could probably just live in the apartment if it only had the addition of a kitchen.
With the help of two stewards, Cresta located the informal restaurant foyer at precisely 7:25 p.m. The Lieutenant Colonel had been seated at a small cocktail table and rose to his feet at her approach. Cresta did a mental inventory. Given her own height, he would be just a little over six feet tall, perhaps six foot one. The gentleman was wearing no hat on this evening, his dark brown hair parted on the right and neatly combed. Just as he had noticed her violet eyes, she observed his were a light blue framed by incredibly long lashes. She already knew he was Irish and his complexion ruddy but not in an uneven unattractive way. He wore, like most men of the time, a moustache which curled down slightly on either side of his sensuous lips and sported a small vee-shaped beard under his bottom lip resembling a Van Dyke or “fringe.” Van Dykes were quite popular with gentlemen because of the current French influence on styles. He was still dressed in his military uniform although sans cavalry sabre. Cresta gave the Lieutenant Colonel an 8. She could see where he would be judged quite handsome by women, arrogant and obsessive by men, but she hated facial hair on men in general, thus the two-point deduction from an ideal of 10. She had never kissed a man with facial hair and would not consider doing so in the near future, should the man be so bold as to try.
He took her hand and gallantly kissed it, making sure she was comfortably seated near him, and then inquired if she would care for some liquid refreshment before dinner. He expected her to order a sherry or perhaps a glass of champagne, but the lady surprised him.
“Thank you, Lieutenant Colonel. Would you inquire as to whether they have Highland Park Scotch? A small goblet, if you don’t mind.”
Keogh was taken aback. A lady did not normally drink strong spirits unless she were of the fallen kind, and yet this lady was nothing of the sort. With some trepidation, he summoned the waiter and asked for two scotches, and yes, the ship did have a choice of either Highland Park or Bowmore.
When the drinks came, Keogh proposed a toast. “To new friendships.” Cresta tapped his goblet with hers. “Long may they last.”
After the toast, Keogh sat rather nervously, turning his glass around and around on the drinks table. “Ah, Missus Leigh, would you be offended if I were to suggest perhaps we dispense with the formalities of name? I would very much like it if you were to call me Myles.”
Cresta leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes for a minute.
“Thank you! The whole formal titles thing is quite affected and silly. I will call you Myles, and you will call me Cresta. Agreed?”
The two new friends talked of home and family for a bit. He had family near Carlow in Ireland and was on leave to visit his brother Tom and Tom’s wife, Alice. His immediate family had consisted of five brothers, of which Myles was the youngest. One, John, died young. There had been eight girls, one who died in infancy. The Keoghs had a large holding at Orchard, Leighlinbridge, County Carlow, where they raised barley, and it was the barley crop that ensured a good income and protected the family from ruin during the great potato famine. The River Barrow ran right through the area, so it was fairly easy to get the harvested barley to Dublin markets.
Myles gestured to the whiskey. “I have never known a woman preferring to drink scotch other than my aunt, Miss Mary Blanchfield, who had a liking for it. It is too strong for most women.”
Now that Keogh had dropped some of the apologetic piffle, Cresta felt free to be frank. “I am not ‘most women’ as you will find. I like a little scotch because it unclutters my mind. I fear I was never a woman to be set upon a pedestal and fawned over.”
She told him she had been born in Virginia; her parents had believed in education for all children including girls, and she mentioned she’d gone to college.
“Ah. I have made the acquaintance of many young ladies who have been educated at finishing schools—studying the arts, music, singing, household management, that sort of thing. Tell me, is that what you studied?”
She smiled. “No, Myles. I am an alienist.”
Myles had just taken a sip of Scotch and nearly choked on it.
“An alienist? Why isn’t that a…a…”
“Yes, it’s a professional who studies the human mind and ascribes various types of behavior to either external or internal influences. I also study the impacts of civil behavior such as extreme stress on the human mind and how much can be tolerated. In other words, I study when the mind reaches the tipping point between reality and insanity.”
Keogh didn’t know what to say. He had a friend in New York City who was an alienist, but his job was to evaluate the mental state of men accused of criminal behavior and establish if they could understand the implications of what they had done. It was definitely not a job for a woman. A woman handling such a job would surely be big, raw-boned, fleshy of appearance, and unladylike in manner. This lady was…a lady.
“And…and your late husband? May I ask after him?”
Cresta drained the little goblet, and without thinking, Myles held up his hand to the waiter and ordered two more. She smiled again. “I know I am not what you envisioned, Myles, and for that I do apologize. I am not given to lies or artificiality. I’m different, and I know that is difficult for you to understand. My husband was also an alienist. In fact, we shared an office in Virginia. He was a philanderer who cheated on me, lifted his hand to me, and had he not died in an accident, I would have divorced him.”
Shock after shock. Keogh was Catholic. Catholics did not divorce. While it was acceptable for a man to dally with a widow—after all, widows had been married and they knew about sex—a divorced woman was something else. Almost fallen in some sense. A woman who had taken an oath before God to forever love and obey one man then divorce that man and look for another. It was blasphemous. Of course, if the man had the proper provocations and justification for divorce, that might be different. For her to confess she would have done so and admitted as much to him should cause him to rise and excuse himself.
And yet he did not. Wasn’t he himself referred to as a fallen Catholic? Hadn’t he had sex outside marriage? Wasn’t he being a hypocrite? A faint realization seemed to be intruding on his mind. He had never found a woman who interested him enough to marry. Just one, and he’d lost her in 1866. She too had been a widow. She had been outspoken. Her husband had used her badly. Perhaps this woman with her mesmerizing eyes and her forthright manner was much more formidable and interesting than he had thought.
He rose and offered his hand. “Dear lady. We have imbibed, and now we shall have supper. May I?”
The seriousness of their previous conversation largely forgotten, Myles saw the lady seated at a side table in the large supper restaurant, near a small fountain. He preferred side tables, especially when with an elegant young lady. Young? College educated and widowed. How old was she? She would have to be…nearing twenty-five, but she barely looked that old. There was something in her eyes. Not hardness but experience and determination. He mused for a moment that this woman might be more than he could handle, but since he was a man and a military man at that, a man used to giving orders and expecting himself to be obeyed, the prospect of taming this creature and bending her to his will suddenly became a pleasurable proposition. A challenge he couldn’t resist.
They ordered; rather, she told him what she desired, and he did the ordering for both of them. She wanted the filet mignon well done, potatoes Lyonnaise, green salad, and a buttered roll. Myles had no objection to this although he added to his order a side of green beans, florets of cauliflower, and ordered his steak rare. Ever since he’d been in military service, he’d learned that rare was usually how meat was served when you had meat, and he’d adjusted to that.
When the meal came, Cresta watched as her companion cut into his steak and made a face. When he looked puzzled, she remarked that she