The Second Mrs. Astor(60)
Kitty had decided to seat herself on Madeleine’s right foot. Madeleine leaned forward, careful not to dislodge the dog, and caught the matron’s eyes. There was a small smudge of black on her chin, likely from a cinder, but there didn’t seem a polite way to mention it.
“How do you do? I’m Madeleine.”
“Oh,” said the matron, still blinking; she looked as if she could barely hold back tears. “I know who you are, of course! Both of you. How do you do.”
Margaret stirred. “Forgive me. Madeleine, Jack, this is Emma Bucknell, a friend from Philadelphia. Emma’s been touring Egypt, as well, it turns out.”
“How nice,” said Madeleine warmly. “Didn’t you love it?”
“It was exceptional,” the matron said. “But now—now we have this.”
“It won’t be long until the liner comes,” Jack said, crossing his legs. “Martin assured me he means to load the tenders within the hour. We’ll be off soon.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bucknell. She blotted her eyes with a handkerchief. “I just—oh, I just have the most frightful feeling about it all. I’m sorry! I’m not usually like this. But I have the most frightful feeling. Just the most foreboding feeling about getting on that ship.”
Margaret shifted on the bench. “Emma, you’ve had too much coffee today and not enough food, that’s all it is. Once you see Titanic, you’ll realize everything is fine. We’re going to be there in time for supper, I’m sure, and then you’ll feel better.”
“If it’s anything like dining on the Olympic,” Madeleine offered, “you’ll be quite satisfied.”
“It will be better than the Olympic.” Jack came to his feet, brushing at his jacket, Kitty instantly springing up to follow. “All of it, from bow to stern. There’s no need to worry, madam. Titanic is the safest ocean liner in the world.”
“That’s right,” agreed Margaret, but her eyes were distant once more. “Everyone says so.”
*
The minutes ticked by, the hour Jack had been promised turning into an hour and a quarter, and then an hour and a half, and still the steamship had not been sighted on the sea line, and the tenders did not launch.
Madeleine grew uncomfortable; with her increasing size, it had become harder and harder to sit still in one place for too long. Kitty needed to be walked, in any case, so they left their group behind to take in the scenery, such as it was.
A long, thin jetty stretched out over the chopped water, a stone tower crouched at its end. The two tenders, the Nomadic and the Traffic, pitched in the waves. They were already heavily loaded with luggage and mail; all they needed now were the paying passengers.
Plus, Titanic.
The clouds lowered, lifted, bunched and scattered. Sunlight waxed and waned, sending bright flashing coins across the harbor, and the wind gusted cooler.
“How are you feeling?” Jack asked, as Kitty sniffed at a scruff of grass growing from the muck near the path.
“Tired,” she admitted. “A little impatient, I guess. But it’s nice to escape that smoky waiting room. I was getting queasy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, for what? I wasn’t complaining, I assure you.”
“I know. I just . . . I want things to go smoothly. I want you to be careful.”
“I am careful,” she said, irritated.
“And I want to get you a proper meal,” he went on with barely a pause, “because you’re so grumpy without one.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“All right. I pardon you.”
She gazed at him, speechless, torn between wanting to be offended and wanting to laugh. Jack slanted a smile at her, lifted her hand in his to kiss her knuckles, one by one, over her kid glove.
“Mrs. Astor. How beautiful you are when provoked.”
“You are supposed to tell me I am beautiful all the time, not just when you needle me.”
“You are the sole object of true beauty in all the world,” said her husband, “no matter your mood. And that is the honest truth.”
*
The White Star manager hustled them aboard the tenders in an optimism of hope, Madeleine thought, given that they were launching out into the harbor without any hint of the liner to meet them yet in view.
The Nomadic, like Titanic, was essentially new, built especially to shuttle people and mail and supplies to and from White Star’s enormous new Olympic-class ships, which were far too large to dock near the quay. The tender was spacious enough inside, clean and refined, with tiled floors and carved plaster walls and a long, varnished bar lined with waiting stewards. She’d been on it once before, ten weeks ago when they’d disembarked from the Olympic. Back then, it hadn’t seemed quite so congested.
Jack guided her to one of the wooden banquettes in the forward lounge, and Madeleine sat again, her maid on one side of her and her nurse on the other, Kitty ducking under the table at her feet, as the colonel and his valet went to see about procuring food from the buffet.
“Waiting for a steward to come to us,” he said, looking around at the chattering, restless mob of people, “will leave us all old and gray.”
They returned with sliced fruit and finger sandwiches, which Madeleine was desperate to eat, but by then, the tender was beginning to battle the rougher waves of the outer harbor, and her stomach rebelled. She tried a bite of apple, chewing as slowly as she could, but in no time, her nausea was worse, and her headache had returned.