The Second Mrs. Astor(40)
And now, on the brink of that ritual that would change her name, her family, her home, Madeleine knew in her heart that all she truly did care about was the end result. Becoming his wife. Heart to heart, flesh to flesh.
Jack’s attorney had managed at the last minute to wrangle a Congregationalist pastor for the ceremony, who was quietly shuttled in from Providence, and then just as quietly shuttled out afterwards, a thousand dollars richer. It seemed a strange miracle that none of the newsmen lurking in town had picked him out of the crowd, but then, there were so many frantic rumors regarding what was going on, who was where, when was what, that perhaps it was just the benefit of chaos.
Colonel Astor and Miss Force were to be married in Connecticut in a week. No, Boston in a month. No, Robins Island in the next few days. The Noma was being provisioned and coaled for a short voyage north, or a long one south, or maybe she was preparing to head all the way to the Bahamas. The crew wouldn’t say.
To throw the press off the scent, Madeleine and her family had spent the days leading up to the ceremony back in Manhattan, popping in and out of the brownstone on so many errands the reporters had to trot to keep up, and split into groups, and hurl their questions on the fly. Jack was still able to fend them off with a laugh and a quip, but Madeleine had given up attempting to be cordial. When a man demanding to know the details of the antenuptial agreement actually stepped in front of her to prevent her from entering a jewelry store uptown, his black eyes gleaming, his sour breath in her face, she found herself recoiling. She found herself clenching her fists.
A white-hot pressure spiked through her that felt very much like murderous rage. An animal rage, barbarous and untamed, and it felt feral and boiling and good.
Her fists had raised, all on their own. Who knew what she would have done next, in those flowing, perilous few seconds with that pressman blocking her way; Madeleine had never struck anyone in her life but was certain, certain, that she could, that she should, and that it would feel even better than good if she did.
The man’s eyes had widened.
And then, thank heavens, she found herself ushered inside by the store’s burly security guard, who gave the reporter a sharp elbow to the side in the process, one she sincerely hoped broke some ribs.
Don’t lose your temper, no matter how they goad you.
And how they did like to goad.
Father had had worse luck. On his morning walk (the opposite direction Madeleine and Katherine would take a quarter hour later; their lives had become maneuvers within maneuvers), he’d been trapped by a photographer, who ended up getting away with a snapshot of an exasperated William Force shaking his cane at the lens.
Town Topics published the image with glee.
*
The Noma floated, lights dimmed, off the coast of Long Island amid gentle swells and a lavender-smudged dusk. Madeleine, her father, and Katherine had slipped aboard that afternoon as the ship remained moored off Eightieth Street; their luggage had been smuggled on first, and then them, and then Jack, and somehow, it had all worked out. By the time the reporters had gathered en masse at the water’s edge, the yacht was already beyond them, steaming rapidly out to sea.
So far, not one of the papers had dared to charter a boat to follow them.
So far.
They would reach Beechwood by dawn. Mother and Vincent and a handful of guests would meet them there.
The full moon hung behind the drifting clouds, round and pale, encircled with mother-of-pearl mist. The long, slender bow of the Noma sliced through the waves as easily as a sword might a soufflé; on this evening, the deck hardly rocked beneath Madeleine’s feet.
In the water all around her crested night castles of foam, white-maned horses, sinuous mermaids with splashes of tails and wild flowing hair.
It was cool out; it felt always cool to her on the ocean after dark, no matter the daytime weather. But the wind skimmed by with that first bite of fall to it, briny still, sometimes pungently fishy from a gust pushed from shore.
The season had changed yet again, and this time, Madeleine was going to change with it.
“Penny for them,” said Katherine, standing at her side on the foredeck, gazing out at the broken reflection of that great fat moon.
“Only that everything is changing.”
“True enough.” Katherine sent her a wise look. “By this time tomorrow, you’ll be a new woman. I do emphasize woman.”
“Stop. You’re making me blush.”
But she wasn’t blushing. When she thought of Jack, of whatever tomorrow would bring, she didn’t feel afraid, or ashamed, or bashful. She felt impatient. Her blood seemed turned to champagne, fizzing and euphoric.
She cupped her hands around the edge of the railing and thought, What will this moon look like tomorrow night? Will it be different, because I will be?
“How grown up you are now, little sister.”
“Am I?” She smiled, dry. “Most of the time I don’t feel so. At least, not lately.”
“More than I am, I think, because there isn’t a man alive who could drag me to the altar yet. From now on, I shall have to call you missus, and you’ll have to wear your hair in a curly pile on top of your head, along with pounds of pearls around your neck, and when young ladies walk by, you’ll cluck at them and think them saucy just for the sparkle in their eyes.”
“Good gracious. I sound horrible.”
Katherine snuck her arm through Madeleine’s. “But I’ll still love you, even though you’ll have become so unbearable. And you’ll let me borrow your pearls.”