The Second Mrs. Astor(80)

Madeleine bit her lip, shook her head. Their hands parted.

“That’s all right. Here, come sit up in the bed and I’ll bring you the tray. Try the soup. It’s not bad.”

“No. Excuse me. I must get dressed and go look for my husband.”

“Colonel Astor is not aboard the Carpathia,” said Marian, in the same gentle tone. “There are a great many people not aboard, though. There’s talk that they may have been picked up by other ships.”

“You can’t know that for certain. He might be here somewhere. He might be injured—”

“Mrs. Astor. Do you imagine there is a single person of our ilk who would not recognize the colonel?”

“Perhaps he’s on a lifeboat that hasn’t come in yet! I need to go see!”

“All the lifeboats are in, long in. You’ve been asleep for nearly twenty-four hours. We’ve been underway for New York practically the entire time.”

She stood paralyzed, trying to comprehend it. This time when Marian took her hand, she allowed herself to be led back to the bed.

“You’ve had quite a soldier of a nurse guarding you all this while, but as the ship’s surgeon was of the opinion that you are out of immediate danger, your Miss Endres is off helping with the other injured passengers. There’s a lot of frostbite, broken bones, sprained ankles, matters of that sort to deal with. I suspect the doctor is overwhelmed. So I volunteered to check in on you, to see if I could entice you to eat.” She regarded the simple tray with a frown. “There was buttered bread to go with the soup, but it seemed to me the butter had gone off, so I skipped it. We have crackers instead.”

Madeleine slumped against the pillows. Marian Thayer got up, found Madeleine’s sweater, and arranged it over her shoulders.

“The rest of your clothes will have dried by now, I think, although I’m afraid your fur is beyond repair. We stored your jewelry in the ship’s safe, just so you know. Doctor McGee has issued strict orders that you remain in bed, and I really do think you should listen to him.”

Madeleine gazed down at the bowl of soup, at the bits of carrot and celery turning in the greasy broth, and felt her stomach pitch. When she picked up the spoon, her hand was trembling.

“I’m afraid I must tell you something more,” said the other woman, regretful.

Madeleine put down the spoon, trying to control her nerves.

“Apparently there’s a journalist aboard this ship. Maybe two. And at least two people with cameras.”

“What?” she said, stunned. “Already?”

“The journalist booked his ticket as a legitimate passenger. He was headed off to Europe for a holiday with his wife before Carpathia got our distress call and diverted, so it’s really just an unfortunate coincidence. I assume the people with the cameras are merely hobbyists, but they’ve been snapping shots all the while. I wanted to warn you. I understand that . . . your relationship with the press has been difficult.”

Madeleine wanted to laugh at that but couldn’t. She could only sit there, blinking at the soup, the wooden tray, the linen napkin so neatly folded.

“The newspaperman has been slipping around, attempting to interview the survivors. A Mr. Hurd, I am told. Carlisle or Carlos, something like that. His wife’s name is Katherine. They both continue to inquire about you.”

Madeleine flattened her palms against the sheets, her fingers spread, shaking her head.

“My husband is missing, too,” said Marian in her gentle, grave voice. “I have a son your age, and by God’s good grace he lived through that night. Eleanor Widener’s had no word of either her husband or her son.” She placed the spoon back into Madeleine’s hand. “Think of your baby, Mrs. Astor, and eat.”





CHAPTER 27


Carpathia’s magnificent Captain Rostron had given over his own cabin to me and Eleanor and Marian. (In the days that followed, he would be hailed as a hero, and indeed he is. Without him, I have no doubt that every single person aboard Titanic would have perished, instead of three-quarters. I do not plan to go on an ocean liner again, but if I do, I will find the one he commands.)

If you’re thinking that three of us sequestered in a cabin meant for a single occupant was a lot, you’re right, but believe me, we were lucky. Nearly everyone had to share rooms or berths (except for Bruce Ismay, hiding away in one of the ship’s hospital examination chambers, and he wasn’t even injured). Had you been offered someone’s cabin or their bed, you could at least sleep in relative comfort. But the Cunard liner was a great deal smaller than our own had been, you see, and she had set sail from New York with nearly the same number of passengers as they’d taken in from the lifeboats. We were all of us practically shoulder-to-shoulder.

For the four days it took us to get back to New York, people bedded down wherever they could, on tables, on benches, on the floors of the lounges and saloons. Whenever awake, they formed huddles of misery, sobbing and whispering and repeatedly exchanging their tales of that night.

I’ve mulled for many an hour on that, the compulsion to discuss what had happened again and again. I think now I’ve teased it out. If one breaks the horror apart, breaks it into all these little, smaller moments, perhaps it’s possible to reconstruct it in such a way as to make everything more . . . manageable.