The Second Mrs. Astor(84)

“Well, I never,” said Carrie, astonished.

“I saw at least five different men holding up placards,” said Marian, “inquiring specifically about Mrs. Astor.”

Someone knocked on the door. Marian turned back, opened it cautiously, then stood aside to let the ship’s second officer enter.

“Good evening, ladies,” he said, removing his cap. “Captain Rostron sent me to inform you that we should be docked by around nine this evening. He would have come himself, but—” The officer grimaced, gestured to the portholes. “After a brief stop at the White Star Line’s terminal to lower Titanic’s boats”—he paused, looking uncomfortable—“er, her lifeboats, we’ll head to Pier 54. That’s ours. We’ll be disembarking the injured first, but then you. The captain wants to reassure you all that the strictest measures are being employed to keep the press at bay, but, of course, our influence ends at the Cunard terminal.”

Madeleine and Marian exchanged a look.

“Mrs. Astor, your stepson has requested permission to come aboard after docking and customs to escort you off. The captain has granted his request.”

“I see,” she said, confounded.

The officer replaced his cap, gave a nod.

“Wait, please,” said Marian, catching him by the arm. “Is there any news? Anything at all?”

The man’s gaze slid from hers. “I really cannot say, ma’am.”

*

Night fell. The ship reached the Cunard pier amid bursts of white light that popped and burned beyond the portholes—not lightning now, but camera flashes.

Marian Thayer left on the arm of her son.

Eleanor Widener left sandwiched between two friends.

Madeleine sat. She waited. The cabin grew cooler, and she used her sable as a blanket across her lap.

“If only madame had a veil,” brooded Rosalie, seated in the swivel chair by the desk. “Hélas, I should have thought. I might have borrowed one.”

“It’s fine. Don’t trouble yourself about it.”

There was absolutely no chance, Madeleine knew, of leaving the ship unrecognized, no matter how obscured her face.

The door opened swiftly, without the courtesy of a knock. Vincent stood at the entrance, his hand still on the latch. An officer, not the same one as before, stood behind him, peering in.

Madeleine came to her feet, clutching the coat. Vincent took a step forward, his gaze skittering past her, searching the cabin. His face looked chalky pale, his mouth a thin line.

“He’s really not here,” he said.

“No,” she answered, soft.

He took another step forward, his movements jerky, his eyes full of a strange, savage light. He said to the room, “Excuse me. I wish a minute to speak with Mrs. Astor alone.”

Both Carrie and Rosalie looked at Madeleine; she gave a small nod. They filed out.

The door closed. Vincent only stared at her.

She was about to ask him what he’d heard about survivors on other ships, if anything, even though she knew it must be nothing by the way he stood so terrible and still, when he said, his lips barely moving, “You killed him.”

The air left her lungs. “What did you say?”

“You. You killed him.” His voice was hushed, restrained, the opposite of the light behind his eyes. “You left him behind to die.”

“I didn’t leave him behind! They wouldn’t let him on the lifeboat! They were only letting on women and children—”

“There are men everywhere out there,” he roared. “Men from Titanic all over this ship!”

Madeleine fought not to raise her voice in kind. “I don’t know anything about them. I don’t know who they are, or how they were saved. There were some who stole into the boats by the ropes at the last minute, but Jack would never do that. He would never take someone else’s place. He asked to come aboard, and they refused him. That’s all I know.”

A quiet rapping at the door.

“Mrs. Astor? Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” she called. “One moment.” She held Vincent’s gaze, dropped her arms to her sides to reveal her stomach. “Your father was protecting us, from start to finish. And if he has died, then he died still protecting us, and that was his choice.”

She wore the white cardigan over her dress. The swell of her belly stretched the soft knit.

“Because he’s a good man, Vincent. You know that. A good husband, and a good father.”

Jack’s son took in the fact of her pregnancy without expression. The slope of his shoulders, the slant of his jaw, his long lashes: for the first time ever, with the camera lights flaring and fading behind him, gleaming along the pomade in his hair, she saw in him a suggestion of the man she loved.

Then, horribly, he began to laugh.

She brushed past him, opening the door to find Rosalie and Carrie nearby, clearly concerned. The ship’s officer who had arrived with Vincent stood opposite them, looking down, adjusting his cuffs.

Madeleine cleared her throat. “Which is the way we should go, sir?”

“This way, ma’am, if you please.” He tugged at his cap. “I’m to accompany you all down.”

Amid the crush of people who still waited to disembark, Madeleine found a woman in a calico dress wrapped in a blanket, no coat. A young boy with a wet nose clutched at her skirts with both hands, his face pinched.