The Second Mrs. Astor(94)
But neither was he willing to listen.
Of course the messages were hoaxes. One was signed “John.” One spelled “heaven” as “hevin.” And one addressed me as “Madie,” which your father never would have written, not even while dying.
*
There was one day that I did not hide, and that was the one during which I hosted a luncheon for Captain Rostron and Doctor McGee from the Carpathia, to thank them for all they’d done. I have to admit that it was not my idea, but it was a good one. Marian Thayer telephoned me, suggesting that she be the hostess and I one of the guests. But I told her candidly that I wasn’t up for leaving the house yet, and that there was still an army of newspapermen camped outside, so that anywhere I went, I would be towing chaos directly behind me. I suggested my home as an alternative, and she readily agreed.
It was to be an informal affair, just our guests, me, Marian, Eleanor Widener, and another widow who had been in our lifeboat, a friend of Marian’s. At the last moment, Eleanor pleaded illness and had to cancel. She had lost both her husband and her son to the ocean, and no one minded the abrupt change of plans.
I sent her flowers afterwards.
May 31, 1912
Manhattan
At some point after his divorce, Jack had decided to renovate the Fifth Avenue chateau. When he and Ava had lived in it with Jack’s mother, it was actually two separate residences, two separate households, that shared a common exterior. They also shared the entranceway, but once inside the main hall, it was necessary to aim either right or left, depending on who was visiting whom. Twin grand staircases curled up opposite walls, leading to either the Mrs. Astor, or else to her son and daughter-in-law.
After Lina’s death, Jack had combined the homes, replacing the twin staircases with just one, even more grand and frilled. But it wasn’t until after Ava moved out that he’d added the finishing touch, a ten-foot-high marble fountain situated in the middle of the bronze-and-glass entrance hall, constantly, softly splashing.
Dolphins danced on their tails at the top, spat water from their mouths. Fat baby sea nymphs, complete with golden tridents, frolicked in rows below them, shiny and dripping.
In the wide bottom basin, goldfish swam in silent circles around and around, slender orange wisps with translucent long tails, fed twice daily by a dutiful kitchen boy.
Madeleine stood beside the goldfish to receive her guests. She was not the late Mrs. Astor; she didn’t need to greet anyone while lurking beneath a giant portrait of herself—there was no portrait of her, anyway, giant or otherwise.
Nor was she Mrs. Astor the first, that glamorous Roman goddess who would never step foot in this house again.
She was merely herself, smaller than these rooms, larger in girth than the girl she used to be, a woman with a fresh bleeding wound to her soul that could never be healed . . . but that could at least be understood by the ladies coming to visit her today.
Madeleine thought Jack’s goldfish were welcoming enough, with their small colorful grace.
Marian and her friend, Florence Cumings, arrived first. About a week ago, Madeleine had finally realized that the most brawny footmen in the household needed to remain by the entrance gates to keep the peace. It was especially true today, because the insect swarm of reporters and photographers outside had been joined by an entirely new nuisance: moving-picture operators, filming everything in sight.
The news of Madeleine’s luncheon starring the heroic Rostron and some of Titanic’s most famous widows had already been leaked to the press, and the press was ready to pounce.
The butler spotted the limousine carrying Marian and Florence; by the time the auto reached the lower steps, the footmen were already hurrying out the doors to escort them inside. Both women exited quickly from the automobile, garbed in solid black and heavy veils.
They came in, glancing around, and Madeleine was so happy to see Marian, she simply walked up to her and wrapped her arms around her.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, and broke away, surprised at herself.
Marian tossed back her veil. She had the same gentle, grave smile she’d worn back on the ship. “It’s good to see you again. You look well, Madeleine.”
“I’ve been tucked away for weeks. I think it’s helped.”
Marian nodded. “You remember Mrs. John Cumings?”
“Yes, of course.”
Florence Cumings was the matron in sable from Lifeboat Four, the one who had joined her voice with Madeleine’s in insisting they row back for the survivors.
Madeleine smiled. “Welcome. Welcome to you both. Please, come in. We’re still waiting for the captain and doctor.”
“There’s a snarl of traffic out there,” said Marian. “They’re likely caught in it.”
“There is always,” said Madeleine, leading them to the south-west salon, “a snarl of traffic out there. Traffic of one kind or another, I’m afraid.”
The salon was flooded with light; Madeleine had chosen it over the southeast because it seemed less somber. But as she watched Marian and her friend discreetly take in the ivory lacquered walls, the tall Japanese urns and marble statues of robed girls playing lyres and holding roses, she realized suddenly that this room was more like a mausoleum than any other in the house. For a second, it crippled her—how had she not seen it before?—but then Marian and Mrs. Cumings were settled in their chairs, and Madeleine was pouring tea, wondering in quiet, simmering embarrassment if they had noticed what she had noticed, the funeral feel of it all.