The Second Mrs. Astor(34)
Angels and servants had witnessed the kiss, that deep and scandalous thing; they’d missed, however, the ring that had come just after it, the blinding white vindication decorating her left hand.
Madeleine discovered her father in his study, staring at the Hughes watercolor of a black-haired shepherdess standing atop a knoll, one he’d acquired even before marrying her mother (who had since expanded the collection into far weightier pieces). It had always been one of his favorites, and without even trying to summon the memory from her childhood, Madeleine could still hear him explaining to her why: Acknowledge the lucidity of the air and the clouds. The play of shadows. The light behind her eyes. She is alive, isn’t she, Maddy? Right there on the paper, behind the glass. Caught in this singular moment forever by a great man, she lives on just for us. Isn’t that something?
“Father.”
“Madeleine.” He turned his head and looked at her, still distracted. “My girl. You realize I have to act now.”
“Yes. I don’t think it will be a problem. For him, I mean.”
“It had damn well better not be,” he said bluntly, abruptly focused, and Madeleine crossed to him, sank to his feet as she’d used to do as a little girl, relying upon his strength and kindness and strong arms. She rested her cheek against his knee. A sunbeam was tracing its way across the hardwood floor, the worn Venetian red rug, splashing light against the far wall.
“Should I be there when you talk to him?”
“No,” said Father. “This is a business I must manage alone.”
*
There is the matter of a young lady’s reputation, Father said into the telephone’s mouthpiece. There is the matter of offensive gossip. Innuendo.
The household telephone was stationed prominently in the foyer, inside a small alcove (possibly meant for a bust) inset by the front door. The tiled floor and wainscoted corridor made it impossible to converse with any expectation of privacy. Every little sound carried.
The device itself had been installed three years previous, so Katherine and Madeleine already knew from experience how easy it was to overhear at least half of a conversation. They hovered together in the drawing room a few steps away, just out of view, right behind the cracked door. They held hands as Father spoke.
You understand, he said, that I will act in my daughter’s best interest. It is my unshakable obligation, one I must and shall fulfill. I will tell you quite frankly, sir, that I will no longer be put off. You have a daughter yourself. You must understand.
A pause.
Excellent. It’s good to hear you say so.
Pause.
No, I’ll do it. I’ll make the announcement from my office later today. It will be more appropriate, I think, coming from me, at my place of business. To lend it all a more . . . official air. The press will channel their attentions here, on all of us here as a family, rather than on any of your . . . other retreats.
Pause.
I shall tell them we have not yet decided the date. I’ll keep it as vague as possible, while still making matters clear.
Pause.
We are agreed. I will inform Madeleine. Goodbye, Colonel Astor. I trust I will see you soon.
Pause.
If you insist. Jack. Goodbye, sir. Goodbye.
*
It seemed the gates of hell had swung open and disgorged a mass of tweed-jacketed men at their front steps. Madeleine stopped counting at thirty—thirty! in just the two hours since the announcement!—and stood on the other side of the door, caught between amazement and dismay. The incessant knocking had at least died down, as Matthews had sternly instructed the crowd that Miss Force was not at home at the moment, nor was she likely to be any time soon.
She felt flushed and hot and disconcerted. She looked at her mother, who looked back with an iron face and ordered the hall boy to stand guard at the top of the steps, a gangly child of no more than fourteen, perspiring and jittery and full of awe at his abruptly elevated position, instructing the rabble that they must respect the house; they must stay back.
It didn’t deter them, though, those grown men out to hook this shiny fish of a story caught in their net. Neither did the sun, the lack of shade, the airless waves of heat shimmering off the pavements and buildings. August had arrived, gummy and funky with the rot of wilting garbage. It had been so long since Madeleine had spent a summer season anywhere but by the ocean. She’d forgotten how stifling the city could be.
Mother, attempting to take command of the situation at her door, had already sent the hall boy a glass of iced tea and issued a brief statement from the safety of the entranceway: Yes, her youngest was engaged to Colonel Astor as of a few days past. Yes, the two of them had first met in Bar Harbor a year ago. And yes, the wedding was likely to be small, quiet, and for close family only.
It wasn’t enough. A couple of the journalists peeled away to file their reports, but a great mass of them remained, sweltering and determined to speak to Madeleine herself.
“I won’t,” she said now. “I don’t want to. I don’t know what more to say to them that you and Father haven’t already said.”
Mother settled into the appliqué chair by the telephone, cooling herself with a Chinese fan. Matthews approached with more iced tea. She accepted it with an eloquent, languid hand. “Just let them see you. Give them a smile. Tell them how happy you are.”
“No. My happiness is none of their business. I have nothing to say to them.”