The Second Mrs. Astor

by Shana Abe

  Another moment between them, stretching long and strange and lovely somehow, filling her with both elation and dread, because Madeleine understood then that, despite what she’d said to her mother, she knew she stood at the edge of a very steep cliff, and falling off of it would mean either flight or annihilation.

  A lance of sunlight speared the clouds. From the corner of her eye, Madeleine saw a pair of figures approach. She turned to them in relief.

  “I’m afraid my mother and sister are swooping in,” she said, returning Katherine’s wave. “Mother has been . . . quite keen to meet you. Do you mind?”

  “Not in the least.”

  “She’s very impressed with your flowers,” Madeleine said under her breath, and the colonel slanted her another look.

  “Only she?”

  “No. Not only she.”

  * * *

  Madeleine made the introductions. She heard herself making them, saying the correct words, using the correct tone, and everyone shook hands correctly as she watched from slightly outside of herself, still suspended in the fleeting light. Still standing at the edge of that cliff, wondering what would come next.

  From the saltwater bathing pool walled off from the bay came echoes of splashing, of children shouting and nannies chiding, and cormorants screeching for scraps.

  People were beginning to stare at them again.

  Mother was speaking. Katherine was trying to catch Madeleine’s eye.

  Colonel Astor tested the bottom of his stick against the grass and shifted on his feet, the wind flipping his jaunty striped tie this way and that. For the first time, she caught a hint of his cologne.

  Sandalwood, rich and heady. Amber. Bergamot.

  * * *

  “I didn’t think dogs were allowed at the Club,” Katherine was saying.

  The colonel’s eyebrows quirked. “Oh, aren’t they?” he asked innocently. “Alas.”

  As if on cue, Kitty yawned, showing miles of tongue and teeth. Madeleine and Katherine burst into laughter, spontaneously, loudly, and both at once.

  It was one of the hallmarks that branded them as sisters, their matching laugh: low and full-throated, bubbling up without reservation. It remained the despair of their mother (who feared it revealed a shade too much a bourgeois background) but was as natural as breathing to Madeleine and Katherine, who both brimmed with appreciation of anything absurd.

  Throughout their childhood, Mother had dressed them identically, to the frustration of them both. Chocolate-haired and blue-eyed, the sisters might already have been twins, except that Katherine was always a little taller, a little merrier, more sparkling.

  Even so, the colonel’s attention kept returning to Madeleine, instead of fixing upon the brighter star.

  “Miss Force! Colonel Astor! A photograph? To commemorate Miss Force’s win in the tournament?”

  It was a young man in a boater and tennis whites, already setting up his camera and tripod on the spread of lawn just ahead of them. He must have been a member of the Club, although Madeleine didn’t recognize him.

  The colonel looked at her. “Would that be all right?”

  “Yes,” answered Madeleine’s mother, and tucked a loose lock of hair back behind Madeleine’s ear before moving to stand beside her.

  Katherine grinned. Madeleine pushed more hair behind her other ear, and they all four faced the photographer, gathering closer, pulling the dog into the frame. The colonel’s sleeve brushed lightly against her own, electrifying; she clamped her arms to her sides, hoping she didn’t stink of tennis and the fried cod she’d had for lunch.

  The young man removed his hat. He stooped behind the camera and lifted a closed palm to them, his fingers opening one at a time to count one . . . two . . . three . . .

  Madeleine would have many years to reflect upon this moment. She would study it, pick it apart in a dozen little ways and wonder how things might have turned out differently had she been daring enough to overrule her mother. To say, No, I’d rather he didn’t take our photograph, please. I’d rather we all just turn around and walk the other way.

  Set a precedent, as it were.

  In her darker musings, she would wonder why Jack himself hadn’t said something. Offered her a whispered warning about what it would mean, a sidelong glance, something. After all, he had to have known what would happen next. He had to have at least suspected. He’d asked her if it would be all right, and maybe that was all the warning he thought she needed.

  But the Madeleine of that particular afternoon was scarcely a month past her seventeenth birthday; she was teenaged and untested and sweaty and bedazzled. She didn’t speak the subtle code of the magnificently rich, not then.

  To be honest, it likely wouldn’t have made any difference anyway. In the space of just that single conversation—the sea light, the clouds, his gray eyes and his dog—she had already made her choice. She was already plummeting off that cliff, ready to soar.

  And so the shutter had snapped, capturing them in their untidy, sunlit line, about to become the cynosure of the world’s avid attention.

  * * *

  When the grainy image showed up on the front page of the scandal sheet Town Topics three days later (COLONEL JOHN JACOB ASTOR, 46, AND MISS MADELEINE T. FORCE, 17, AND FAMILY, CELEBRATING AT THE SWIMMING CLUB, BAR HARBOR), it showed the dog yawning again and Mrs. Force beaming.

  After that, she started to notice them: men—it was always men—lingering at the edges of events, their hats pulled low over their foreheads, sometimes toting cameras, sometimes not. There was something about the stalking, the staring, the incessant sprinkling of her name in gossip columns that unnerved her. When they noticed her noticing them, they’d touch their hats and nod, and Madeleine would turn away, because she didn’t want to look any of them in the eyes for too long. She didn’t want them to memorize her face.

  She became better at the art of stillness; she had become the hunted, after all.

  Two weeks went by, and she didn’t encounter the colonel again. The flowers still arrived every morning, and he still never called, and no one in the household now said a word about it, not even Madeleine herself. She began to spot the journalists less and less.

  America’s richest man had apparently packed up and moved on, taking the ravenous appetite of the public with him. Which was fine with her; certainly it was fine; it was madness to think the brief attention he’d paid to her had been anything more than a superficial kindness—perhaps even a gentlemanly sort of pity—all this while. He’d sent her a single posy, and she’d thanked him, and now they were trapped in a loop, where he felt obligated to continue with the flowers because she’d been so grateful.

  John Jacob Astor was reported to be in Newport aboard his yacht.

  In Manhattan at his Fifth Avenue chateau.

  Abroad in the West Indies with his son.

  At his mansion in Rhinebeck.

  Back in Newport.

  But he wasn’t back in Newport. On that point, the tabloids were entirely wrong.

  * * *

  She was standing with her father against the railing of the Robin Hood Park Raceway one afternoon, waiting for the horses to thunder past. Katherine and Mother had decided to take luncheon at the Club instead, but Madeleine and William Force, both dedicated riders, appreciated the energy of the races, the earthy must of the track and clods of soil flying, and the rising excitement of the swaying, cheering crowd with every go-round. It was as raucous as it ever got among Bar Harbor’s society proper, and Madeleine enjoyed adding her small voice to the chorus.

  Like many of the ladies in attendance, she wore a picture hat, tied in place by a scarf that wrapped around the crown and brim, tugging against her head with every burst of wind. The cream silk scarf was wide and opaque, and it was easy enough to knot it so snugly beneath her chin that it concealed half her face.

  Perhaps that was why she didn’t see him at first, or perhaps she was just distracted. One moment he wasn’t there, and the next he was. A
s before, in the audience of Hamlet, he seemed to simply manifest between two beats of her heart.

  “Miss Force. A pleasure to see you again.”

  He was standing next to her on her left. As her hat gave another quick, hard tug, the long tails of the scarf lofting, she reached up to brush them back into place, and he bent his head to meet her eyes past the panels of silk framing her face.

  “Colonel Astor! Forgive me! I didn’t realize you were there.” I thought you were in Newport, she almost said, but stopped herself in time.

  He smiled broadly, removing his bowler. “Quite all right. I’ve been told I’m stealthy as a cat sometimes.”

  She was flustered, and surprised at being flustered. She’d thought of him every single day since their last conversation—of course she had; he’d made certain that she would with the daily flowers. Newspaper reports or not, she’d searched the summer fashionables for him every time she ventured out. But here he was again, without warning, like a genie’s wish unexpectedly granted.

  He stepped back, lifting a hand to the person standing silently on his other side. “May I introduce my son, Vincent. He’s decided to summer here with me for a while, no doubt to keep me in line. Vincent, Miss Madeleine Force.”

  They shook hands, their palms barely touching. One quick shake, up-and-down, before he pulled away.

  Vincent Astor, she knew, was her age, or not much older. She’d seen his face in the rag sheets, his name linked to one blue-blooded socialite after another amid constant speculation of some imminent engagement, even though he was only just starting his studies at Harvard.

  It was said that his mother, the scandalous Ava, had been a great beauty in her day, but she spent more time abroad than not, so Madeleine had no idea if it were true. It was probably true. Her son had the brooding, heavy-browed look of a man already in his twenties, not his teens, and he certainly didn’t resemble his father much. But he was attractive, if unsmiling, and his eyes had met hers steadily, almost defiantly, in that moment that their hands clasped.

  His eyes were gray, like the colonel’s, only darker. More dire.

  Careful, warned a voice inside of her, clear and sudden. Careful with this one.

  From over her shoulder came a diffident cough.

  “Oh,” said Madeleine, blushing. “Sorry! I don’t know where my head is today. Colonel Astor, Mr. Astor, please meet my father, William Force.”

  She leaned back as they all greeted each other, keeping her eyes on the hem of her dress, on the shiny black tips of her shoes. She was afraid to look up again and afraid not to look up. She knew they were all three waiting for her to speak, but her mind was empty. If only Katherine were here—she always knew the exact right thing to say, something droll and smooth and gracious.

  Then be Katherine, directed the voice. Play the part.

  She lifted her lashes. Across the racetrack, a photographer had raised his camera, pointing the lens straight at them.

  She turned around, set her back against the railing. She imagined herself a Gibson girl, cool and perfect, and smiled up at the colonel.

  “How pleasant you’re both here for the season. Do you have any special plans? I’m told there’s going to be a regatta among the yachts in Frenchman Bay this weekend. Unofficial, of course.”

  Thank goodness, it worked. Straight off, everything returned to normal. Well, as normal as it could be with Jack Astor and his heir standing with them, chatting about nautical miles and tides and who in Bar Harbor had the fastest ship.

  A horn sounded in the distance. Madeleine turned again to the track. The ground beneath her began to tremble seconds before she saw any of the horses, but then there they were, streaking past in percussive, rolling beats, and for a very brief moment the steeds and their jockeys were the entire world, the massive engine of their competition churning by, the heat and essence and pulse of it engulfing her senses.

  In a flash, they were gone. She gazed after them, her hands gripping the metal railing with the excitement of it all, bits of sod now clinging to the front of her dress by her ankles. Father craned his neck to peer down the course, and Madeleine let go of the railing, opening and closing her fingers.

  Colonel Astor leaned closer to her ear. “A zealous fan of the ponies, Miss Force?”

  She glanced up at him and then it was as if the rest of the world were gone, too, not just the sweating horses and their jockeys, their thunder; everything else was gone but the colonel, smiling down at her, his eyes bright, his lashes long, the shadow cast by the brim of his bowler a soft painted darkness along his cheekbones.

  She hesitated, weighing the consequences of truth against what she knew she ought to say.

  “I would rather be the rider than the observer, honestly.”

  “A young lady of action. I appreciate the sentiment.”

  “Or, merely a young lady who is easily bored.”

  “Are you? Easily bored?”

  She sensed a line crossed, some moment of politeness missed, and tried to think of a way to go back but couldn’t. “Maybe. My mother might say so.”

  “I hope,” he said quietly, after a moment, “that I do not bore you.”

  Madeleine studied her toes once more. When she answered, her voice was even quieter than his. “Colonel Astor, I cannot imagine any man more stimulating than you.”

  As if they’d planned it, they dropped their poses and faced each other as the crowd around them milled and the horses battled close again. The wind pushed, recapturing the tails of her scarf, lifting them to float between them. She saw his gaze follow that, the cream silk dancing.

  Without meaning to, she licked her lips. “How is your dog?”

  He watched that, too, and the horses rumbled by, and it was another long moment before he answered her. “Restless, I think. Like you, she prefers to be in the thick of action, rather than observing from afar.”

  “A good pup.”

  “Very.” He looked away. She felt that, the physical and mental distance he constructed between them as he took two steps back and slipped both hands into his jacket pockets. He aimed a wry smile down at the ground, then turned to her father.

  “Mr. Force. I wonder if I might be so forward as to invite you and your family to spend the weekend at my cottage here, sir. We’re slightly starved for company, you see, and if there is a yacht race, we’ll have an exceptional vantage of it from the back lawn.”

  “Ah,” replied Father, bland as rice pudding. “A kind offer, Colonel Astor. Most kind. I must consult with my wife, of course, but I think I can say we are free.” William Force glanced at his daughter. “I admit I do enjoy a good regatta. We would gladly accept your hospitality.”

  “Wonderful.” The colonel gave a nod, not looking at Madeleine or her father again but instead at the trampled, empty track that stretched before them.

  The thunder of the race began once more to swell near.

  Vincent Astor said nothing, only staring bleakly off into the stands.

  * * *

  The photographer was persistent, and he got his shot anyway: that carelessly unguarded moment of intimacy, of Madeleine and Jack gazing at each other as the wind teased her scarf, her head tipped back, his bent toward hers, both of them standing a shade too close for propriety.

  However, because of her hat and the distance, the frustrated newspaper editor could only safely caption it as COL. ASTOR, DIVORCED, AND YOUNG BEAUTY ENJOYING THE RACES.

  CHAPTER 4

  I thought I had witnessed splendor before. Luxury.

  I had been schooled alongside Knickerbocker girls who would not willingly share a single molecule of oxygen with me if they could help it. Who acted as if I did not exist whenever we dined or studied in common areas, and who spoke to me in classrooms only when our lessons mandated they do so. I had heard about the gulf between their world and mine, but until that weekend at your father’s Bar Harbor cottage, it had all seemed so . . . contrived. Invented. A convenient construct designed to help those splintery
, unpleasant young women feel better about their lives. About who they admitted into those lives.

  Nevertheless, I remember how flummoxed we were when our History teacher one day chalked out upon the slate that scorching fragment of a sentence from the Declaration of Independence:

  . . . all men are created equal . . .

  It was, perhaps, the one topic the Old Money Girls and the New Money Girls could agree upon.

  Of course, we’re not all equal.

  You see, little Jakey, there’s equal—in the sense of human potential and dreams and the rule of law—and then there’s equal. As in, who are your people, my dear?

  I guess you’ll find out about all that soon enough.

  So: that weekend.

  Jack’s leased cottage overlooked the bay, expansive and bright, light and breeze gracing every chamber. Gilt and granite, beeswax and mahogany. It was so easy to waft from one sun-soaked room to another.

  The water below us, the forest behind. All that land. All that empty openness unfurled in the midst of one of the nation’s most exclusive towns, upon one of the nation’s most exclusive islands, majestic beyond the harbor. Beyond the sloping grounds, houses crowded closer and closer together; the town streets cut more and more tapered. All of it rippled down to conclude in a thick huddle of wooden shanties on stilts at the water’s edge.

  Lobster boats and tour boats and ferries jounced in the bay. They looked barely a dirty smudge against the splendor of the yachts spread along the waters beyond.

  * * *

  On the grounds of this fair cottage, there was a garage and stables and gardeners and game attendants and maids and footmen ready to leap into action at the lift of a finger.

  Would you like your tea refreshed? More lemon, less sugar? Yes, miss.

  Have you lost your croquet ball in the shrubbery? I will find it, miss.

  Do you need your wrap, miss? The taffeta or the pongee? I will send a girl for it at once.

  The butler (I recall his name was Baird, and that he was leased along with the mansion) seemed to ooze out of the woodwork whenever needed.