The Second Mrs. Astor(65)
From somewhere on the ship behind them, distant but distinct, came the sound of bagpipes playing a low, mournful lament as they left Ireland behind them.
*
It seemed to Madeleine that their suite had rooms enough for nearly all of their party, but only Rosalie stayed with them. Carrie had a single cabin across the hall, and Robins had been booked in second class, decks below. Madeleine would have felt badly about it but, as Robins himself had cheerfully pointed out, Titanic’s second-class cabins were on par with any of the ones in first on other liners. And perhaps Jack’s valet appreciated the space between them, even if he did have to traverse the ship a number of times a day to do his job. Rosalie, in charge of Madeleine’s trunks and hatboxes and jewels (whatever wasn’t stored in the Purser’s Office for the day) had no choice but to remain nearby.
Madeleine made sure several of the vases of flowers ended up in Rosalie’s room.
She dressed for dinner slowly that second night, choosing a high-waisted tunic of smoky lilac chiffon over satin, one of her few from Worth that still fit. As Jack and Robins selected his evening coat in the next room, Rosalie stood behind Madeleine at the dressing table, brushing and parting and shaping her hair, creating perfect dark tendrils and curls, all held in place with diamond-encrusted clips.
Madeleine looked at the girl in the mirror and the girl in the mirror looked back at her, gradually transforming into someone Madeleine didn’t know, a glossy creature of alabaster skin and parted lips, no hint of her inner qualms revealed.
She slipped out of her silk kimono and into the gown, then sat again as Rosalie added her necklace, a fitted collar of more diamonds, platinum filigree that reached from her jaw to the base of her throat.
Her golden bangles.
The rings to go under her gloves.
“Powder, madame?” Rosalie asked.
“No, I don’t think so. I look so pale already.”
Her maid replaced the container upon the table, picked up the embossed compact of cream rouge instead.
Madeleine frowned. “All right.”
“Scent?”
“Yes. The French jasmine.”
“Very good.”
Madeleine lifted her wrists, tilted her head, as her maid stroked the glass stopper against her skin. When she rose from her chair, she was fully Mrs. John Jacob Astor, ready to ignore all that displeased her. Ready, on her husband’s arm, to glimmer.
*
She hadn’t been back to the Palm Room since boarding, but it seemed to her the same people stood in the very same clusters, drinking their same aperitifs against the same potted plants as they quietly sliced apart reputations.
Outside the ship, the stars were beginning to melt into their river of light. The ocean rippled silver and calm, and the ether became crystalline with ice. Inside, however . . . inside Titanic, the celebrated men and women surrounding them lived as if captured in amber. Nothing changed for them, nor would, not ever. The air was perfectly heated, the food was exquisite and fresh, and the gossip fresher still.
The Astors paused for a moment at the wide foot of the grand staircase, allowing themselves to be noticed, and when she looked up at her husband, Madeleine honestly thought there could not be a more attractive man in the room, White House anecdotes or no. Certainly there could be no man more compelling.
Jack’s right, she thought. Everything will be fine.
The orchestra leapt into a tune from The Tales of Hoffmann. They recognized it at the same time, their eyes locking.
That summer night. The paper firefly lanterns, the heady flowers. The moment she’d realized there existed a lovely, tenuous spark between them, unlikely as it might have been.
Jack lowered his gilt lashes, lifted her hand to his lips. Beneath the warm lights, his hair was sandy gold and dark.
“Am I the most fortunate of men?”
She rested her other hand on his upper arm, her glove stark against his sleeve. The music flowed, and they were the only two people in the world.
“You’ve made me the most fortunate of women. So I’m going to be immodest and say yes.”
“Lucky us,” he whispered against her hand.
“Yes,” she said. “Lucky us.”
Dinner awaited.
*
She made it through, laughing when she should, listening when she should, always remembering the proper fork or knife or glass for each course, because the lessons of her youth were hammered into her, no matter the circumstances, and in the back of her mind was a small, worried voice always reminding her to be correct, be the public wife he needs.
In addition to Margaret, Jack had invited a few of the brighter luminaries of his circle: the Wideners from Philadelphia, Eleanor and George, along with practically the entire Fortune family from Winnipeg, which included three lively daughters and a son not much older than Madeleine. Mr. Mark Fortune, like Jack, was involved in real estate. They had a few interests intermingled.
The conversation remained anodyne, consisting mostly of comments about the meal, the accommodations, and had anyone yet ventured into the gymnasium or the Turkish baths?
Despite the voice in her head, despite her many, many lessons in etiquette, by the seventh course (salmon mousse with dilled carrots, lightly roasted), Madeleine’s energy was waning. Her attention began to wander.
“I don’t care what anyone else says,” declared Mabel Fortune, the second (third?) daughter, her voice cutting sharp through Madeleine’s stray thoughts. “I think your story is fiercely romantic.”