The Second Mrs. Astor(21)
She did remember the air outside as she’d walked beside her mother up the path leading to the grand marble entrance, how mild and tender it felt, not quite cool but not too warm, either, because sunset was only a half hour or so away. She remembered how the light turned the enormous Ionic columns that braced the roof from pale gray to peachy gold; how it reflected off the windows in great blinding squares; how all the other concertgoers greeted each other in friendly tones, everyone gratified with the air and the sun and the turnout.
She remembered their seats, somewhat near the back third of the interior hall but not unreasonably so, her own right at the end of the aisle. Sitting there with Mother, fanning herself with the program card, wishing she could peel off her gloves.
Mother was smiling and scanning the audience, because the purpose of going to a concert at the Building of Arts was not, of course, to actually listen to the music. It was to see and be seen, and on this occasion, she would be seen in her new evening gown of palomino crêpe, which had arrived only that very morning from Redfern in Paris.
Madeleine was there to be seen fixed at her side, her gradually-becoming-notable daughter, a shining ornament in human form, casting her meager glow upon the sophisticated Mrs. Force.
Katherine, sensing the trap, had refused to come. Father had escaped back to New York days ago. Jack was—
Jack was here, standing before them. He stood with his hat in his hand, his tanned fingers distinct against the black beaver brim. He smiled down at her as if he hadn’t been gone for days, as if he hadn’t just materialized from the air as he always did. She glanced to his left and right, but his son wasn’t in view. Only the man himself, bowing his head to her mother, lifting his gaze back to Madeleine, bidding them both a good evening in that quiet, pleasant voice as people pushed by him along the aisle.
“Good evening, colonel!” said Mrs. Force. “We hadn’t heard you were in town again.”
“My final meeting was canceled—the fellow missed the train in Pittsburgh—so I was able to sail a little sooner than I’d planned. I did hope to return in time for the concert. Madeleine mentioned you might be here, so it’s happy luck I’ve found you. How well you look tonight, Madeleine. That shade of green suits you.”
“Thank you,” she said, acutely aware of how quiet the members of the audience in their immediate vicinity had become.
“Where are you seated, Colonel Astor?” inquired Mrs. Force.
“Oh,” he said, gesturing with the hat, “I’ll be standing in the back. All the other tickets had sold. It’s the price I pay for my tardiness.”
“Nonsense!” said Mother. “You must take my seat.”
“Madam, I could never take—”
“I insist! Look there, right over there, is my friend Mrs. Silas Reynolds. Her husband could not attend at the last moment, and so she has an empty seat right next to hers.”
Mother turned and waved to a woman stationed at the far other end of the hall, who lifted her hand and returned the wave so instantly, Madeleine knew they had planned the entire maneuver. Heat climbed up her neck, flooded her cheeks. No one, no one could possibly be fooled, least of all a man as sharp as Jack.
“There, you see? I shall have her empty chair, and you shall have mine, and everyone will be happy.”
Madeleine couldn’t bear to look up at him. She couldn’t look at anyone. She kept her gaze trained on her hands, fingers and knuckles clenched in a white satin ball on her lap.
“Are you certain?” Jack was asking gravely, as if she were sacrificing her arm or her heart’s blood.
“Positively. I would never be able to enjoy the music knowing you were stuck back there with the hoi polloi. You’ll be wonderful company for Madeleine. She’s mentioned she missed you very much, you know, even though it’s been only days.”
Madeleine closed her eyes. Her face felt on fire. “Mother, please.”
“Well, you did. And now you don’t have to.” Mrs. Force came to her feet.
Jack said, “At least allow me to escort you to your friend.”
“I wouldn’t want to bother you . . .”
“It’s no bother at all. Now I insist.”
Mother brushed past and Madeleine stood to let her by, and then she and Jack were looking at each other straight on. He was smiling, really smiling, but in a way that looked like a secret: his lips pressed closed, the corners tipped. There was merriment behind his eyes, but she couldn’t tell if he was amused at her, or at her mother, or at the whole scheme, so clumsy and obvious.
Sorry, she mouthed.
And his smile grew. He looked back at her mother, offered his arm. “Mrs. Force? Shall we, before the musicians file in?”
They slipped away, Jack a full head and a half taller than Mother, who always walked with the straight dignity of a ballerina, no matter how transparent her intrigues.
Madeleine resumed her seat. After a moment, she summoned enough pluck to lift her chin, finding the thick card of her program again and using it as a fan, casually, easily, as if she had not a single care.
From the edges of her vision, she felt their stares, all the people seated around her appraising her, whispering behind their hands. She felt their curiosity, their disdain and titillation shivering along her skin.
*
He returned just as the lights were dimming, once, twice, thrice, to let the audience know it was nearly time to stop gossiping and preening and at least imagine, for the next hour or so, that they had gathered together as one to be uplifted by the magnificence of the performance, by the hard work and mastery of the musicians and conductor and composers.