The Second Mrs. Astor(15)
Madeleine flushed and did not answer.
“Flowers,” Mrs. Cardeza said. “How . . . extraordinary.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s when it began,” Katherine continued. “Maddy played Ophelia, and I must say, she did a bang-up job. Colonel Astor thought so, too. Did either of you manage to catch it?”
Mrs. Cardeza’s nostrils flared as her mouth formed a downward curve, lending her the aspect of a disapproving sheep. “I’m afraid we did not.”
The pair of them swept off, pushed eastward by a fresh gust of wind.
Katherine shook her head. “A damned shame they missed the performance. I bet it’s about to become the talk of the town.”
Madeleine couldn’t even act shocked over the swear word. She could only watch the women leave, their shadows swaying long and righteous along the shorn grass. The clenching in her chest abruptly loosened, giving way to a dismal heaviness, and then nausea.
What had she done? Once Mother found out . . . Or—worse—Colonel Astor . . .
Her sister linked their arms once more, drawing her close, and kissed her on the cheek.
“Cheer up. You’ll dance again tonight, love, this time with him, in front of all of them. Let them look down their noses at that.”
*
It wasn’t a ball, it was only a dance. And it wasn’t in any sort of official ballroom, like the one at the Swimming Club or the Casino or even the auditorium at the Building of Arts. It was held inside the cottage itself, in a parqueted chamber that might have managed concerts, or theatrical productions, but tonight contained a small orchestra and tables of pastries and punch and garlands of crimson roses—dozens of them—draped along the ceiling and beveled glass doors, even around the brass chandeliers.
The other guests moved past the garlands as if they did not exist, those hefty red chains, as if they didn’t notice at all that they walked through clouds of perfume, a scent that seemed to diffuse from the opened blooms and then simply hang in the air, weighted and weightless at once, sweetening all that it touched.
Madeleine noticed. She stood by the champagne table as the colonel’s guests mingled and stared; she took deep, deliberate breaths of that perfume, and let her fingers drift along the petals of a particularly extravagant blossom.
She wished she wasn’t wearing gloves. She wished she could feel the texture of it against her uncovered skin.
The colonel and his son had greeted the Force family as they’d entered, so that was done. She hadn’t caught sight of him after that, and the orchestra was already on its fourth piece. Father was caught in a tangle of gentlemen lingering in one of the corners, sharing stock tips and snifters of brandy. Katherine had been twirled away early on at the behest of a strawberry tycoon from California (Thousands of acres, Mother had whispered happily, right along the coast!), and Madeleine was on her second glass of punch. She had not danced once, not even with the naval cadet across the room who kept throwing her flagrant glances. It was as if she wore some sort of sign, a placard yoked around her neck, unseen by her but read by everyone else: DO NOT TOUCH.
“Here he comes,” Mother warned. Madeleine lifted her head.
The colonel was a few paces away, shaking hands with a rust-bearded man in an admiral’s uniform . . . but his eyes were on her. He spoke a few final words to the admiral and then broke away, closing the space between them in rapid steps.
“A capital night,” enthused Mother, as soon as he was near. “Dinner was so delightful, and now this!”
“Thank you. I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
“Maddy,” said Mother, “don’t you think it’s a capital night?”
“Most capital,” Madeleine said, stroking her hand along the garland by her hip. “And what lovely flowers.”
Colonel Astor frowned at one of the garlands. His shirt was ivory linen, immaculately ironed and starched; beneath the chandeliers, the ruby studs tracing a path down his chest flashed all the colors of the roses. “Do you like them, then? I feared they might be too much. I had Dobbyn arrange things somewhat on the spot, poor fellow, so I can’t blame him for the excess.”
“Everything is perfect. American Beauties are my favorite.”
“Are they really? They were my mother’s favorite, as well.”
Which, of course, Madeleine already knew. It had been mentioned in the papers more than once. She was not entirely without wiles.
“What excellent taste your mother had.”
The colonel opened his hand. “Will you dance with me, Miss Force?”
“I would be so happy to,” she answered, sincere. She passed her punch glass to her mother and accepted his hand.
She was wearing a Fortuny gown of dove silk with glass beading along the shoulders (brand new, perhaps a little much for the evening, but Katherine had declared it perfect), and the long, tiered folds of the overskirt floated above the floor as they walked, rippling and falling like the wings of a slow-skimming moth.
They turned to each other. She had the sense of eyes watching them, of conversations broken off, but it didn’t matter. He lifted his chin, lifted her hand. Then, with a dip of his shoulder, he led her into the next measure of a waltz.
She was a good dancer; she knew that. But he was equally as good. Madeleine couldn’t count the number of times her toes had been mashed by some awkward partner, boys who’d blushed bright as beets at having to go so far as to place a hand at her waist. But she and the colonel glided across the polished wooden floor as if they’d rehearsed together for years, their steps at once perfectly matched, their timing synchronous. She felt a flash of understanding of that old chestnut they moved as one, and in her mind the phrase transformed a little, became even better: they moved as one beneath his lacework of roses.