The Second Mrs. Astor(59)
“We’ll come back,” he promised. “Next winter, if you like. Or we could go somewhere new entirely, another place they don’t know us at all. How about Japan?”
She considered it. “Margaret raves about Nagasaki. I believe she mentioned wanting to retire there.”
“There you have it. It’s settled. A few seasons spent at home, a season or so abroad. You and me and little Paris. Or Arthur. Or Joseph. Or Hubert.”
“Not Hubert!”
He laughed. “Not Hubert. We’ll mull it over. There’s time.”
“John Jacob,” she said.
“How many of us do there need to be? Let’s give him a name of his own. Something new.”
“John Jacob the Fifth would be new.”
“I’m afraid not. That one’s already taken. A distant cousin in England.”
“The Sixth, then,” she said, stubborn.
His arm tightened around her, his body warm and close. “Hubert, Grover, Shoeblack. Snarksblood, Muleview, Faradiddle, Muddington—heigh-ho! ‘Muddington Astor’! That has a solid ring to it, don’t you think? No? Well then, how about Pinky, Pokey, Jokey, Mopey—”
She was laughing too hard to say anything so she pushed up to her elbow instead, leaning over him, stopping his nonsense with a kiss.
CHAPTER 21
The press discovered us again in Rome. Jack had telegraphed both Vincent and Dobbyn the details of our itinerary, and I must suppose that is how the newsmen found us. (I had dashed off a letter to your Aunt Katherine with the same, but she would have never spoken to the press about it.) In any case, one way or another, the information got out, and the next thing we knew, it was published in the papers. We spent Easter hiding in our hotel, which was actually enchanting, watching the sunrise pinken the baroque warren of Piazza Navona from our private roof terrace, cappuccinos in hand. But, eventually, we had no choice but to emerge from our nest to move on to Cherbourg, our departure point in France.
I took comfort in the thought that at least while on the steamship, we would blend in with the rest of the first-class crowd. It seemed exceedingly unlikely there would be a journalist waiting to waylay us on board.
Cherbourg was, naturally, overcast. I couldn’t help but think it appropriate, given my mood and the immediate future I was sure awaited me. The journey from Paris on the Train Transatlantique had taken no less than six hours. Six hours of smudgy black cinders and chugging motion and nauseatingly uneven scenery flashing by, so weirdly paced I could not gaze out at it for more than a few minutes at a time. Even the train’s compartments were small, I thought. Too small to make room for my uncertain stomach, the headache gathering in a knot behind my eyes. By the time we arrived at the quayside terminus, I was in a state well beyond misery.
And then, worse and worse, the ship wasn’t even there yet. Our liner had been delayed, we were told, back in Southampton—her first port of call—where she had nearly crashed into another ship ripped loose from her moorings just by the unearthly power of Titanic’s displacement and wake.
So we waited. A manager from White Star’s Paris office circulated among us inside the station, offering apologies and reassurances, and the unlucky man, I felt sorry for him. I did. He wasn’t to blame for any of it, but you would think he’d arranged the holdup himself, the way some of our fellow passengers abused him.
The only bright spot was that we ran into Margaret Brown again, also waiting to board. She had received a telegram that her grandson in Denver was gravely ill, and so she had left Helen in Paris to rush back home. Titanic was the first available ship headed for New York, and as there were several first-class cabins still open, Margaret had had no problem securing a berth.
It was a relief to see her again, I confess.
In retrospect, of course, I would not have wished that voyage upon anyone, especially a friend.
Wednesday, April 10, 1912
Cherbourg, France
The waiting room of the train station was plainly too small for the number of people anticipating the arrival of Titanic. Madeleine estimated there was well over a hundred and fifty of them, and that was just the first-and second-class passengers. There were even more people on the crowded platform outside, mostly booked in steerage, she would guess: men in flowing robes that reminded her of the galabeyas of Egypt; women with exotically bright shawls wrapped over their shoulders and around their heads, standing and sitting in clusters, calling out to their children in languages she had never heard before. When the wind blew in past the quay, the many shawls would lift and flutter, and she was reminded of clouds of butterflies, dancing against the gloom.
Porters pushing oversized trolleys loaded with suitcases and trunks wound through the multitudes, answering question after question and somehow keeping their composure amid all the jabbering confusion.
Mr. Martin, the White Star man, had already shepherded the Astor group, Margaret, and an older, ermine-clad matron (nervously pale, constantly blinking) through the concourse to a row of benches placed against a wall, somewhat removed from the maelstrom of people.
“I simply do not know . . .” the matron would mutter, again and again. As she never seemed capable of finishing her sentence, Madeleine had no idea what she did not know. She seemed to be an acquaintance of Margaret’s—who kept absently patting the back of her hand, as if in comfort—but Margaret, in her preoccupation, had failed to introduce them.