The Second Mrs. Astor(89)

But I couldn’t stay silent forever. The gathering of newsmen beyond the chateau’s walls had only grown. They were at the doors at all hours, demanding an interview. They were insatiable, and I had to feed them.

William Dobbyn begged me for a statement he could give them, however vague, however short.

So I gave him one. I told him to tell the reporters that I didn’t remember much of it. I was on Titanic with my husband; I was in the lifeboat without him; I was aboard Carpathia alone. That was all.

There was no force upon this earth that could make me offer up my actual memories.

Not to them.




April 23, 1912

Manhattan



The telephone call from the White Star office came early in the morning. The captain of the Mackay-Bennett, a cable ship hired by the company to recover the bodies, could confirm with certainty that they had found the remains of Colonel John Jacob Astor. The ship would spend a few more days at sea before steaming to Halifax, Nova Scotia, where the dead could be collected from the curling rink in town.

Dobbyn came to her with the news, along with Carrie, who stood woodenly behind him with lowered eyes.

Madeleine sat up in her bed with her hands resting over her stomach. She didn’t really hear the words Jack’s secretary was saying; she knew what they would be, anyway, so she didn’t need to hear them.

So sorry . . . dreadful news . . . what we surmised . . .

She gazed down at the diamond on her hand, the gold band against it, then stretched out her arm and ran her palm across the undisturbed left side of the bed. The side where Jack slept—where he used to sleep.

She looked up again. “Have you told Vincent yet?”

“No, ma’am,” said Dobbyn. “I thought it best to inform you first.”

“Thank you.” A sigh escaped her, soul deep. “I’ll tell him.”

*

She knocked against his door, softly at first, and then, when there was no answer, a little harder.

“Come in,” Vincent called, his voice impatient.

She opened it, stepped into the sunbeams that streamed through the windowpanes, brightening the furniture, the paintings and orange mandarin drapery to tropical brilliance. Vincent was seated at his writing desk, scribbling something with his head down and his shoulders hunched. He didn’t turn around to see who had entered.

“Tell Wilton I want the roadster brought up, the Bearcat. I’m going to see a stoker in Queens who claims he saw him in the water after the ship went down.”

“Vincent.”

His back stiffened. His head lifted. He pivoted slowly in his chair to take her in.

She wore black. She didn’t own a black morning dress, so it was a day dress, simple and severe.

“You’re out of bed,” he said, toneless. “Finally.”

“We’ve had news.”

He shoved out of the chair. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“I know.”

He stared at her, so awkward and handsome, that savage light rekindled behind his eyes.

“Perhaps you should sit down again,” she suggested.

“No. I’m going out. I’m going to talk to a man who says he saw him—”

Madeleine was shaking her head, her lips pressed tight.

“—saw him alive in the water, next to a raft, a life raft that—”

“Vincent—”

“He is not dead, damn you! He’s out there somewhere! Hurt or lost or—”

“He is aboard a funeral ship. They’re bringing his body back in a few days.”

Vincent reached up to clutch at his hair with both hands before letting his arms fall loose again. He made a sound deep in his throat, not a word but that low, flat moan of despair that chilled her as nothing else could have: the wounded beast again, here on dry land.

It stripped away the usual wall of reserve she maintained with him. She walked through the bars of light, reached for his hand, and he came back to life, recoiling away from her.

“It could be a mistake!”

She lowered her arm. “It could be, but I doubt it. They described him. They described what he was wearing, the suit and shoes and shirt. His gold watch and belt buckle. His wedding ring.”

Outside the house, the April sky shone a celestial blue. Outside, she heard the motors of automobiles and omnibuses filled with people, regular people, going about their regular lives, their errands, as if nothing could ever shatter them. Not on such a pretty spring morning, the clouds pale and fluffed, the light bright as butter.

A pigeon landed on the sill of the window, fanning its wings. It strutted for a moment, its head jerking, then dipped down into the air below.

Vincent had not released her from his stare. His lips drew back; he began to shake his head.

“This is your fault. This is all your fault! You lured him to you. You seduced him. He would have never been on that ship if not for you.”

“Oh,” she said coldly, “this again. I thought we had already addressed this particular stupidity of yours.”

“You’re a terrible girl. A terrible wife. You left him behind to die, and I suppose you’ve gotten your wish now, haven’t you?”

Madeleine lost her fragile sense of calm. “Why do you think I insisted we turn back the lifeboat?” she shouted. “Why do you think? We were one of only two boats to return to the people pleading for help, and I made that happen! I was searching for him in every face! Do you think I cared about any of those other men we saved? I would have tossed them back to the ocean in a heartbeat had I come across your father and we needed the room!”