The Second Mrs. Astor(83)

“Anything. Anything at all you’d wish anyone to know, even as a matter of public interest. A number of the other wives have given me statements about that last night, or else messages meant for their loved ones.”

Madeleine felt her lips press into a smile, keen as a blade. “And you, of course, will publish those messages purely as a matter of public interest.”

“A brief statement of fact can do no harm,” countered Mrs. Hurd.

“I believe a statement of fact about me has already been released. I was saved. Surely that’s enough.”

“But—a more personal note, perhaps? For the sake of your family?”

Madeleine glanced at her. Katherine Hurd, the reporter’s wife, was in her middle thirties, maybe, tall and wearing a summer hat, despite the time and the weather. The hat was silk and straw—not nearly warm enough—with large, faux coneflowers fixed to the brim. The petals trembled with the wind.

Madeleine let the blanket fall back from her hair. “You’re not a journalist.”

Mrs. Hurd pursed her mouth, released a rush of air that lifted and withered into smoke. “No. Not as such.”

“But your husband is.”

“Yes.”

Madeleine faced her squarely. “Do you have any news about any other survivors besides us? Anyone else rescued and taken aboard other ships?”

Mrs. Hurd hesitated, then shook her head. “Captain Rostron has forbidden all wireless communication to, or from, either my husband or myself. He has confiscated all the stationery aboard the ship in the hope that we cannot write without it. He’s even had our cabin searched for scraps of paper. We’ve had no news at all, I’m afraid.”

Madeleine looked away again, gripping the railing. The vapor rolled by, devious and blank, devouring everything beyond her.

He might still be out there right this moment, tossed by the waves, another gossamer soul surrendered to the sea.

Or, he might have been saved. Another ship, another rescue, another wild reckless hope, and she’d see him soon again, walking toward her with his fast graceful stride, his hat tipped back. Kitty, too, and why not? Other dogs had survived the sinking; she’d seen them. Kitty never would have left Jack’s side.

It was the not knowing, not knowing, that was slowly cleaving her heart in two.

From somewhere below, above the perpetual swishing of the waves, rose a hollow, rhythmic note of metal striking metal, like a chain hitting a flagpole, an echoing ting ! ting! ting!

Mrs. Hurd covered Madeleine’s hand with her own. “Dear child,” she said, in a much firmer tone than before. She sounded like a schoolteacher, like a headmistress, in charge even though she really was not. “You must take heart. All is not yet lost.”

Very gently, Madeleine freed her hand. “I pray you’re right,” she said, and walked away.

*

Back inside the cabin, she found Eleanor on the settee, clutching a pillow to her face, silently weeping in the dark.

Madeleine sat beside her without speaking, slowly stroking her friend’s hair.





CHAPTER 28


As headlines about Titanic’s sinking became splashed across every newspaper known to man, your half-brother’s grief was well-documented. Articles described him ricocheting from the White Star Line offices to the Marconi Company’s offices, tear-stained, desperate, offering any amount of money that could be named to the wireless operators in exchange for news of Jack’s survival.

None of the wireless men could accept his offer.

By the time Vincent found me aboard the Carpathia three days later, his grief had turned to rage.

But then, we were all of us in a state. Tormented by the unknowns.

Too often, I found my thoughts straying as I stared into that wall of gray mist, and in my imagination, the ship that sailed through it wasn’t Carpathia but Titanic: fog surrounding me, surrounding the steamer and the berg and the hundreds of corpses the berg had claimed, caught gelid in the boundary between the sea and the air. Just . . . bobbing along through all that nothingness.

Blank fathoms vaulting above them.

Blank fathoms stretching below.




Thursday, April 18th, 5:25 p.m.

Aboard Carpathia



People began to line the decks, the rescued and the rescuers, spilling out of the fusty confines of the saloons and lounges and overcrowded staterooms. It was raining, but no one seemed to care. Everyone was eager to catch sight of New York.

Mostly what they saw, however, were tugboats, dozens of them swarming the ship. The tugs held reporters, and the reporters held megaphones and money and hand-lettered signs, all of them bawling questions up to the passengers and crew. From inside the cabin, Madeleine could hear their shouts, if not their actual words, a dull sort of roar too close in her memory to the cries of the dying. She sat on the edge of the bed and twisted her hands in her lap.

Carrie and Rosalie stood at the porthole windows, looking out. Madeleine didn’t even want to glance up at them.

She was dressed and bejeweled and ready to flee. However that was going to happen.

Marian entered the cabin; the clamor outside acutely amplified until she closed the door again.

“Do not go out there,” she warned Madeleine. “We’re surrounded. All these beastly newsmen have flashlights and cameras and signs. Some are even offering cash to any of the crew willing to jump overboard and speak with them.”