by Shana Abe
But she’d thought at least that after the long, long day of ritual farewells to her husband, at least at the end of it, she could rest her head against her pillow and finally be released into unconsciousness.
Every time she closed her eyes, the visions came. The falling stars, the darkened ship tipped upright. The bodies. The casket.
Doctor Kimball had left her a tincture for moments like this, but she didn’t want to take it. She didn’t want drugs, only sleep.
Madeleine sat up, pushed back the covers. She found her kimono and slippers and crossed the moonlit chamber out into the hall. She came to the stairs at the end of it and went up instead of down, to the third floor, where Carrie was sleeping, and Vincent, too. She walked the long corridor until she reached the oak doors of the library. She pushed them open, just enough to slip inside, then closed them silently behind her.
Like most of the chambers in the mansion, the library was chilled and gilded and tremendous. There were lamps wired for electricity and wall sconces for gas, but she left them all off, moving through the shadows, trailing a hand along the chairs, the spines of the books, the knee-hole writing desk, until she reached the fireplace.
It was mottled red marble, scrolled with sculpted leaves. A pair of carved lion’s heads snarled from the columned ends. She rubbed her thumb over the open mouth of one of the lions, pressed the pad against its pointed teeth, then looked up at his portrait, hung just above her.
Bonnat had painted Jack life-sized, seated, his legs crossed, gazing back at her with his calm winter look. He had his right arm slung along the back of a blue satin chair, his left hand resting on his lap, his pose relaxed, his outfit formal, and even though it had been painted over a decade before they’d ever met, the resemblance to the man she had married was so crisp and true, she felt her heart squeeze.
The bay tree in its Ming jar by the desk gave a dry, rustling sigh; nothing ever stopped the drafts in this place. Madeleine turned away from Jack’s painted face and went back to the desk, sitting down before it as he used to do, drawing herself close. The entire surface was bare. Even the jasperware canopic vase he used to hold his pens had been removed.
She opened the top drawer, finding the pens rolling, blank sheets of stationery neatly stacked.
She opened the next and found a series of letters and invoices, some still in their envelopes, from the managers of his various hotels and properties.
She opened the next and found Kitty’s spare collar, heavy brown leather with a dangling brass tag. The tag had been engraved:
KITTY
J. J. Astor
840 5th Ave.
N.Y.
Madeleine hunched over it, the collar cradled in her hands. She didn’t even realize that she was weeping until her tears began to spatter the leather.
CHAPTER 32
I hid in the mansion. Society began to caper on without me. At first, it was a relief; I’d had my fill of people already at the services, and honestly, it’s no great hardship to hide in here. You’ll find out about that. It’s rather like being a princess locked in a tower, only the tower is made of money and bereavement, and the dragon keeping you inside it is the unending obsession of everyone else in the world.
Instead of the masses forgetting about me, as a teenaged-widowed-almost-mother, I became even more of a fascination. There were still so many articles being printed about me, about unborn you, about Jack. I received letters and telegrams practically every day from absolute strangers. Some were genuinely offering their condolences and good wishes.
Some were worse. Some were from other survivors (so they said), usually people from Titanic’s third-class, telling me that they, too, had lost their loved ones. That they had lost everything. These letters would invariably conclude with the authors begging me for financial support.
Some were worse still. At least three different sailors claimed to have found a piece of Titanic’s drifting debris—a plank of wood, a portion of a deck chair—incised (perhaps by a knife or a nail) with a final message from Jack to me, or to his children, which they would be pleased to deliver to me in person for only a modest fee.
I told Vincent it was a waste of time. That it was ridiculous to suppose any of these stories to be true and that, if Vincent gave in, he would be handing money to the most vile of men. Frauds, hucksters. Opportunists willing to blackmail our grief.
I told him the night had been too dark for scratching out messages. The deaths had come too relentlessly quick.
But Vincent, you know . . .
I do believe our shared sorrow has changed us both, reshaped us. Linked us, even, in a way neither of us anticipated. I don’t think your brother despises me quite as he used to do.
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 r
eporters 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.
If the oil painting of Venus riding a dolphin that stretched across the ceiling was too marine, too nautical. Too much ocean.
Marian accepted her cup with a murmur of thanks. She tasted it, replaced it to its saucer, and tipped her head.
“What a fine room,” she said. “I don’t think you’ve done much to it since Caroline’s time?”
“No,” Madeleine admitted, uncomfortable. “I haven’t really had much of a chance to do anything here. Not yet.”
“Your own time will come.” Marian took another sip. “Lina always did have a mighty preference for gilt.”
* * *
Captain Rostron and Doctor McGee had taken a taxicab from the Cunard pier, but it had thrown a wheel on the way over. Luckily, no one had been injured, but it had delayed them sufficiently enough that the pressmen were in a mood by the time they appeared. Madeleine was alerted to their arrival not by the butler, but by the rising volume of shouting outside.
“Is it always like this?” asked Mrs. Cumings. “Those horrible people all around you?”
Madeleine lifted a shoulder, forcing a smile. “So far.”
Mrs. Cumings shook her head. “Oh, my dear. I had no idea.”
“I don’t think anyone could have had,” said Marian. “Madeleine is forging her way through an upside-down world.”
“It is,” agreed Mrs. Cumings sadly. “It is upside-down.”
* * *
Madeleine hadn’t thought that she would recognize the Carpathia ’s captain. She had only a muddled recollection of boarding the ship, and once he had made certain that she was safely inside his cabin, she hadn’t encountered Arthur Rostron again. Doctor McGee, who had visited twice a day, was a much more familiar face.
(She was ashamed to realize she’d never even considered where the captain might have gone after that, where he had slept since he’d given up his own bed. She had been so wrapped in weariness and misery.)
Yet as soon as she saw him again, she remembered. Like a puzzle piece locking into place to complete a larger image, she knew him: lantern-jawed, sunburned, blue eyes that met hers squarely, squint lines fanning pale from their corners—just like Jack. He wore his uniform, and that was more familiar still; she recalled the rows of gold braid on his jacket sleeves as he’d walked ahead of her on the deck of the steamer, the threaded insignia of his cap badge catching the sun as he’d glanced back at her from over his shoulder to see if she was still there.
Madeleine had trimmed the dining room table with vases of wildflowers and pink roses, anchors to the earth. She had ordered a simple series of courses, only five, because the women were still in deep mourning, and anything more elaborate might be considered frivolous, at least by the papers. The conversation remained genial but subdued, consisting mostly of the weather, the route of the Carpathia, which port of call was a favorite of the gentlemen.
At a particular lull, after the grilled lamb chops were cleared, Madeleine turned to the captain.
“I was told that you had all the ship’s stationery hidden away during our voyage home. All the paper confiscated. To stop the reporters on board from writing about us.”
He frowned in a thoughtful way, looking down at his water goblet. “As it happens, Mrs. Astor, I did. I didn’t want them pestering anyone. Matters were unpleasant enough, as you know. They were paying passengers, however, so that was about all I could do.”
She leaned forward. “Thank you for that.”
“Yes, thank you,” echoed Marian.
Madeleine rose to her feet—a little awkwardly these days, with her growing baby—and instantly, both men did as well.
“No, no,” she said, indicating they should sit again. “Please. I’m only fetching something from over here.”
She crossed to the fireplace, took the pair of small wrapped boxes waiting there from the mantelpiece. There was a mirror above the hearth, a great silvery rectangle that bounced light around the room. She faced herself in it briefly, her cheeks slightly rounder than they had been a year before, her hair much more elegantly upswept. Now that Jack was gone, she didn’t bother with so many gemstones, only her engagement ring and two simple diamond clips at her ears. She was all black and silver and sparks, though. At least in the mirror she was. Black and sparks, and haunted pale eyes.
She returned to the table, handing each man a box.
“The smallest of tokens,” she said, “representing our infinite gratitude.”
She had rehearsed the phrasing in her head, hoping that it didn’t sound mawkish, that she’d chosen the right words. Both men seemed caught off-guard.
“We hope you like them,” Marian added, when neither of them moved to unwrap the boxes.
The captain rubbed his chin. “Mrs. Thayer, we were only—”
“Of course,” said Marian. “You were only saving our lives.”
“Please do accept our thanks,” said Mrs. Cumings.
They had commissioned a pocket watch for the captain, a cigarette case for the doctor. And although they were of solid gold and crafted by the finest artisans in the city, right now they really did seem to Madeleine to be nothing more than tokens, shiny things wrapped in expensive tissue paper.
Spoken words could never fully express what had passed through her that morning, how it had felt to see the mast lights of the ship coming toward them through the dawn. Golden trinkets could not measure up as thanks enough. A mountain of gold would not measure it.
“We know we can never really repay you—” Madeleine began, but her voice caught in her throat, and she couldn’t finish.
Captain Rostron touched a finger to the cover of the watch, where his initials had been emblazoned in dark blue enamel, then looked up at her.
“There, now,” he sai
d quietly. “It was only my duty, and my honor. Knowing you’re safe at home again is thanks enough for me.”
* * *
June came, and her birthday. She had at last turned nineteen, which seemed only a step away from something better than all the years before, something more mature and stable and less prone to heartache.
Vincent left for Europe with his mother and sister, and the Fifth Avenue residence seemed to take on an even keener echo. Madeleine retreated to Beechwood for a while, the home she liked best. She would eat her meals outside when she could, watching the shifting blue waters of the cove. Sometimes she would entertain Katherine or Mother or Father, or any of her girlhood friends who dared to trickle by. But mostly she remained alone, because that usually felt better than not.
She wondered if the locals would end up spinning morbid legends about her, the solitary young widow always in black, walking through the salt wind with her hair streaking madly behind her. After she died, they could whisper about her ghost still stalking the grounds, eternally searching Sheep Point Cove for her lost love.
As her time grew more near, however, Madeleine realized she needed to return to the city. Mother was especially adamant that the baby be born in Manhattan, closer to hospitals and competent care.
(Carrie, who overheard that particular remark, said nothing, only narrowed her eyes.)
So Madeleine gave in. One amethyst twilight, she paced a last loop along the expanse of Beechwood’s rear lawn with her hair entirely loose—why not give the legend an extra little kick?—then went back inside and did not come out again except to motor away.
But the Manhattan chateau had not surrendered its emptiness. Even after it began to fill with doctors, with nurses, with Mother and Katherine, everyone at the ready for the moment Jack Astor’s baby decided to arrive . . . the house was empty.
Like Madeleine, its heart—whatever heart it might have once possessed, beneath its stylish public shell—had been felled.
She began to steal out the servants’ door once a day to be chauffeured around the park, around a maze of random streets. Away from everyone else, she would lean her head out the open window and let the smoke and fumes of the city flow over her, clinging to her hair and clothing and skin. She imagined herself an ordinary girl then, no one special, just a girl going out somewhere. Maybe meeting friends for an ice cream soda, or going to a concert uptown.