The Second Mrs. Astor(35)

“Madeleine—”

“They pick apart every little thing I do! If I smile at them, they call me insipid. If I don’t smile, they call me aloof. Remember that article in the Caller last month? They said I was brazen just for waltzing with Jack twice at the Olyphant ball.”

“Twice in a row,” Katherine pointed out. “You harlot.”

“Kat!” snapped Mother, then closed her eyes, holding the glass to her forehead. She sighed. “Dearest, try to remember what the colonel said. It’s a stratagem of give and take with the press, so you must be prepared to give them something. Anything. They’ll never decamp otherwise.”

“I’ll wait for Jack. He’s coming by tonight, after all, and he can deal with them then. If I try to talk to them now, they’ll just muddle me, and for what? All they do is print lies about me, anyway.”

She heard how churlish she sounded even as she said it but she didn’t care, because it was too hot, and everything smelled, and she was right. Her happiness belonged to her, to her and Jack, a sweet and fragile thing she wanted to nurture, to hold close, not turn into some cheap public display. Most frustrating of all, she didn’t have better words than the ugly ones she’d already said; she had nothing more sensible or mature or articulate to offer beyond, No, I won’t, I won’t, this fresh joy is all mine, and I won’t let them take it from me.

Mother lowered her glass of tea, shifting to sit upright. “Madeleine Talmage Force, this is your job now. It is a job for a woman, not a petulant child, and I trust you will remember that. I thought you understood these terms. I thought the colonel himself had made them clear. No doubt he’d say the same to you were he standing here right now, and may I say I am very glad that he isn’t.”

Madeleine dropped her eyes, shamed and angry, and angry about being ashamed. Her mother rose from the chair, lifted her daughter’s chin with the tip of the fan. She held her gaze a moment, searching, then gave a ghost of a smile.

“You can do this,” she said, a gentle, forgiving tone: the tone of Madeleine’s youth, of her many mistakes, of her mother’s unshakable faith in her and the universe at large. “You know it, I know it, and certainly Colonel Astor knows it. Show those men out there that you are the lady of grace and poise they hope you will not prove to be.”

Madeleine wet her dry lips, then nodded. She took the tea from her mother and sucked down a long, heavy swallow.

“Choose just one to talk to,” suggested her sister, leaning against the cool plastered wall. “The tallest one, the handsomest one. The one closest to the urn of petunias. It doesn’t matter which, I expect.”

The knocker sounded again, three brisk raps. Matthews, already standing by, waited for Mother to nod her head, then opened the door a fraction.

“Ah,” he said, and the door swung wider; outside shone ragged crowns of trees against a milky bleached sky. “A delivery of flowers, madam. For Miss Madeleine.”

He accepted the box in his arms, turning to place it on the chair before moving to close the door again.

Madeleine spared the box a glance then stepped forward, lifting her hand—her left one, Jack’s ring flashing—to stop him. Matthews looked once more at Mother, then at Madeleine, then bowed his head and moved aside.

Madeleine handed the tea back to her mother. She approached the doorway, the baking day. All the men below the steps, pink-faced and quiet, jostling closer at the sight of her.

Cameras began to lift.

One of the reporters broke apart from the others, climbing all the way up to the entranceway. Not the tallest, not the handsomest, but certainly the boldest.

The hall boy eyed him edgily.

“Miss Force, Chicago Tribune, how’d’you do. May I offer my congratulations on your engagement.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you care to make a statement?”

“I . . . I am greatly happy.”

“Would you show us the ring, please,” called out a man from the back. “May we see the engagement ring?”

It felt odd to simply hold her hand out to them, but she did, and the camera shutters began to snap and snap, a host of clicking insects.

“What did the colonel say when he gave it to you?” called out another fellow.

“It was a rather private moment,” she said, but made herself smile.

“When will the wedding take place?”

“We have not decided yet. This fall, perhaps,” she improvised. “Or later.”

“Where will it be?” asked the man in front of her, scribbling quickly across a notepad. Sweat ran down his face, collected in drops beneath his chin. “Manhattan? Newport? Rhinebeck-on-the-Hudson?”

Madeleine laughed and shook her head. “I really don’t know. It’s all—honestly, it’s all happened so quickly.”

“Are those flowers from Colonel Astor?” He was peering past her, his eyes scanning the entrance hall.

Madeleine looked back at the box, long and white, precisely balanced across the kingwood arms of the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t even opened it yet.”

The reporter gave a scant smile. “It must be overwhelming. You’re seventeen, aren’t you, Miss Force?”

“Eighteen,” she corrected him, her humor fading.

“Eighteen,” he repeated, making a show of writing it down. “And tell me, do you feel confident stepping into the role the former Mrs. John Jacob Astor has left for you, as the leader of the society of Newport and New York?”