by Shana Abe
Jack sat down across from them, began to tick off his fingers. “Margaret says she hopes you are feeling better. Mary Fortune says the same. A woman named Mrs. Bishop—your new friend, I presume?—sends her very best regards.” He mimicked Helen’s inflection exactly and then paused; they exchanged smiles across the table. “Eleanor Widener has invited us to join her table tonight at the Ritz restaurant—the à la carte restaurant, everyone’s just calling it the Ritz now—for the dinner she’s hosting for Captain Smith. Seven-thirty.”
“Oh,” Madeleine said, lowering her scone. “Must we? I thought we’d maybe huddle together tonight, rather than wade through a crowd.”
“Never fear. I regretfully declined, telling her I had already booked my own table at the Ritz and that I was looking forward to enjoying dinner alone with my beautiful bride too much to cancel it.”
She sat back, impressed. “How artful you are, Colonel Astor.”
“It was only the truth, Mrs. Astor. We dine at eight.”
* * *
The sunset that evening was the most lovely of the voyage so far, but the temperature outside had plummeted so severely that Madeleine didn’t try to venture abovedeck to admire it. She watched it from the sitting room window instead, already dressed for dinner in a gown of iridescent opal satin and net, rows of silver glass beads flashing and dancing against her ankles along the hem.
It was a Poiret, one of her best; for the rest of her life, she would associate the finest fashion house in Paris with ice and cold and death.
The sky beyond the window burned fuchsia and scarlet, orange and pink, tinting the ship and Madeleine and the suite around her all the same colors. She stood there looking at the world as though through a magical lens of stained glass, all the true hues around her washed away, drowned in the dying light of the sun atop the flat sea.
* * *
It was the first time she’d dined in the à la carte restaurant, perhaps because she’d been vaguely put off by all the gilt visible from inside it whenever she’d passed by. But the Louis XVI décor wasn’t as overbearing as she’d been afraid it would be. The fluted walnut columns and gold-trimmed boiseries seemed quite tasteful in the half-light, and the table centerpieces of milk-white daisies mixed with pink roses added a simple, delicate touch.
They were seated near one of the alcoves, far enough from the entrance to feel no draft, yet close enough to still hear the strains of Puccini from the string trio in the reception room beyond.
On their way in, they had greeted Eleanor and her group, and that was Madeleine’s first glimpse of their ship’s captain, as well. He had stood as they were introduced, a silver-bearded, older gentleman with a firm handshake and a kindly smile. Society’s captain, she had heard him called, as if it were a mark against him. But there was a reason why so many of society’s most prominent members preferred to sail with Edward Smith, Jack told her.
Experience, he’d said, dabbing caviar on a narrow point of toast, setting aside the bone spoon. Experience and comfort. Comfort in his experience.
The mood inside the restaurant was one of rising gaiety. Wine was poured around the room, the stewards rushing from table to table with fresh bottles. A steady stream of people Madeleine hardly knew stopped by to greet them both; at one point, the ship’s surgeon and his assistant pulled up chairs at Jack’s insistence—he had made certain to meet them the first day aboard, just in case—and they all toasted the ship.
They dined on grapes and smoked quail from Egypt, on plover’s eggs and oysters so fresh they slid along her tongue tasting of nothing but the ocean, of brine and tides.
Without meaning to, she’d kept one hand flattened over her middle for the entirety of the meal, testing that new life that pushed against her gown, protecting it. Jack had watched her throughout with his slight, knowing smile.
Halfway through dessert, he’d put down his sherry, reached for her hand.
Their fingers met, skin to skin, all her rings and bracelets afire like the sunset in the low, flattering light.
CHAPTER 24
I didn’t know it would be our last kiss, the last time we ever spoke.
I didn’t know it would be the last time we ever touched.
Sunday, April 14th, 11:40 p.m.
Aboard Titanic
She awoke briefly from a dream about standing at the edge of a green copper roof—one of Jack’s hotels, perhaps—looking down at a busy street far below. In the dream, there came an earthquake, the mildest thing, but it alarmed her to be so close to the edge, and so Madeleine took a step back and opened her eyes. The last faint tremor of the earthquake still rattled her bed, but then it was gone, and she was able to fall back asleep.
* * *
“Madeleine. Wake up.”
“Father?”
The mattress shifted, dipped. “No, it’s me.”
She rolled over toward his voice, pushing her hair from her eyes. “Jack? What’s wrong?”
He was perched beside her on the bed just as he had been that morning, only now he was silhouetted with light instead of captured in shadow, and his clothing was different, and he smelled of brandy and cigars, and he wasn’t smiling.
He ran a hand up and down her arm, his palm bunching the silk of her gown.
“The ship has struck an iceberg.”
“What?” she said, bewildered.
“I’m sure it’s nothing. Just some scratches along the paint. But the captain has ordered everyone to collect our lifebelts and go abovedeck.”
“Our lifebelts?” She noticed now that the door behind him was open—the source of that bright shaft of light—with Rosalie beyond it, moving back and forth, carrying bundles in her arms. Madeleine wondered fuzzily if maybe this was all still part of her dream, but Jack’s hand was cold, very cold. It was that, more than anything else, that began to wake her.
“Purely a precaution,” he was saying in his soothing low voice. “I told you Smith was experienced, and with experience on a liner like this comes a solid dose of prudence. The insurance companies require all these little steps and measures. We’re utterly safe. This is Titanic, after all. We’ll go upstairs and wait in the lounge for a bit while they sort it all out, and then we’ll just come right back here. We were moving ahead at about half speed for a while, but I believe we’re now stopped. Maybe it’s not too late to catch a glimpse of the berg itself. It’ll be a fine story to tell our daughter one day.”
She sagged back against her pillows, feeling the heat of the mattress warmed by her body, the softness cushioning her head. The notion of even having to poke her bare feet out from beneath the covers seemed overwhelming.
Jack leaned over, brushed his lips against hers. She tasted the brandy, felt the small pleasant sting of his moustache, and lifted an arm to his shoulder to bring him closer.
“It’s only for a bit,” he said again, pulling away.
The electric lights overhead switched on, cut glass glinting. Rosalie, in her uniform but yawning widely, came to the bed.
“I will help you dress, madame.”
Madeleine yawned with her, sitting up. She ran a hand over her face, then crawled out of the bed.
“The mint woolen tailor-made, madame?”
“Yes, all right.”
She stood there swaying some, her body still half-surrendered to slumber, letting the nightgown come off, the combinations on, her corset (not tight), stockings, all the rest. As she slipped her feet into her buckled shoes, Jack entered the chamber again, changed out of his formal evening wear for a lounge suit of blue serge and brown flannel. He carried three lifebelts, handed one of them to the maid.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Yes.” She yawned again, unable to help it. “What about Kitty?”
The dog stood between them, her ears pinned back, her head low. Jack bent down to stroke her nose. From outside the suite, Madeleine heard fists pounding on doors, men’s voices talking about lifebelts and coats. Kitty didn’t even cock an ear to it.
* * *
Just before they walked out the door, he pivoted to the wardrobe, pulling out her jewelry box. He grabbed a handful of things and returned to her with them: the platinum-and-diamond collar, a necklace of South Sea pearls. Five rings, a pin, and the strand of carnelian.
Madeleine accepted them all wordlessly, wearing what she could, fitting the rest into her pockets. As he opened the door to the hallway, she hurried back into the bedchamber, opened the dressing table drawer containing her Irish lace jacket and the baby blanket.
She yanked the blanket free from its layers of tissue, rolled it into a ball and crammed it on top of the pearls next to her hip.
From the center of the rug, Kitty watched them leave, her head still down, her tail tucked between her legs.
* * *
Carrie joined them in the corridor, already wearing her lifebelt with a beaver coat on top of it. As the four of them climbed the grand staircase up to A deck, they passed masses of people standing, talking, looking bored or worried or simply impatient. Stewards pushed by, bumping into them without apology, hurrying on. The cheerful sounds of the orchestra grew louder and then softer, then louder again. They entered the first-class lounge to find even more people gathered, the carved rococo ceiling fogged with smoke, almost as if a real fire burned in the fireplace and the flue had jammed. Apparently the occupants of the smoke room had spilled outward into the main area, and none of the gentlemen had cared to put out their cigars and pipes.
Everyone seemed to be in various states of dress—or undress. Madeleine saw women with furs tossed over their nightgowns and lifebelts, men in pyjamas and silk scarves and smoking jackets. They were people she knew (or at least had met), leaders of society stripped down to their basics, modish matrons with their faces scrubbed and their hair woven into plaits. Tycoons of industry cradling glasses of cognac between their spread fingers and flapping around in velvet slippers.
A glance at her corsage watch told her it was not quite twelve-thirty in the morning.
What an eon has passed, she thought, between our dinner and now.
Jack led her to one of the green-pillowed chairs arranged around a small table. She sank into it, Carrie on the other side, Rosalie still standing. Robins found them eventually, looking somewhat disheveled as he wandered through the crowd. He joined them, straightening his tie.
Jack placed the lifebelts on the table but then stood without moving amid the languid commotion all around, his head only just slanted away, the yachtsman in him perhaps attuned to some deep phonic resonance that the rest of them could not discern.
Madeleine ran her fingers over the beads around her neck, tracing their repetitive smooth comfort.
“Madeleine! My gracious, Madeleine! Do you have any idea of what’s going on?”
Helen Bishop stood over her, tugging at the tapes of her life preserver.
Madeleine released her beads. “I’m sure they’ll tell us soon.”
“I should say so! I mean, they should! We’ve heard the most incredible rumors. They positively rousted us from our cabin and sent us up here. I forgot a few things and sent Dickie back, but still. Such a to-do!”
A group of young men near a mahogany-and-glass bookcase were laughing heartily, passing something from hand to hand. It was a chunk of ice, about as big as cricket ball, melting and dripping along their fingers.
Madeleine was no true sailor, not like her husband. From her summers in Bar Harbor, she knew how to handle a canoe and oars; from her time with Jack, she understood the basics of the Noma, a small echo of a mighty ocean liner such as this. But as she sat there in the padded comfort of her chair, she thought she could begin to perceive, like the hint of a suspicion that might turn out to be true or might not, a modest listing of the ship to starboard.
The string orchestra, arranged in a corner, began a cheerful ragtime tune.
She drew in a breath. “Jack, I think we should—”
She broke off as one of the ship’s officers clipped by, gold lace stripes flashing. It was Captain Smith. Jack quickly followed him, managing to snare his attention. They conferred together for a moment, the captain speaking in an undertone, Jack nodding. Then it was done; Jack came back to them while the captain moved to the fireplace.
“We’re going to have to put on our lifebelts, it seems,” he said. “Does everyone have one?”
“No,” said Helen. “Oh, no. I sent Dickie down to our cabin and he didn’t have his. I’d better go tell him.”
Jack turned to his valet. “Robins, be a sport and go back to our suite. Mrs. Astor needs warmer clothes. A hat and gloves with fur, if you can find them. And a coat. One for Miss Bidois, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack caught him by the arm, dropped his voice. “Try to hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jack?” Madeleine reached up a hand to him.
“Sorry, darling, I should have thought of it before. Your frock is very pretty, but if they’re likely to move us outside at all, you won’t be warm enough.”
“It’s best to be sensible,” Carrie said.
“Precisely.”
By the fireplace, Captain Smith had raised both hands without a word, gradually gathering the notice of the crowd. The ragtime song ended with a few abrupt twanging notes.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. I require now that everyone put on their lifebelts and begin to move up to the boat deck—”
“What the bloody hell is going on?” snarled a man behind Madeleine, but the captain only continued without expression, speaking as if he had not been interrupted.
“—the boat deck, if you please, in an orderly fashion, with your lifebelts on.”
“Are we sinking?” called out a woman, but Captain Smith didn’t answer her, only bent his head and walked away.
“Well,” announced a matron to Madeleine’s right, plump and red-haired. “We just came from there, and let me tell you, I am not going back! I don’t care if it is the captain’s order! It’s like an icebox out in the open up there, and I will not go!”
“But mother—” protested the young woman at her side.
“No. I’m sorry, but no. We’re going back to our cabin. That’s the end of it.”
Several others looked around, glowering, but as the captain had vanished, they could only complain to their fellow passengers.
Jack picked up one of the belts, held his hand out to Madeleine. “It will be easier to put them on here, rather than up there. One less thing to worry about. Let me help you.”
He worked quickly, obviously familiar with odd rectangular sections of the vest, the long string ties. She held out her arms as he secured the last bow, then readjusted it around her waist, trying to find a way to make it more comfortable. It was heavier than it looked.
The lounge was emptying. Jack turned to Rosalie, secured hers in the same way, and then finally slipped into his own.
They were already outside, walking down the enclosed promenade—it was an icebox out in the open air; the plump woman had been right—when Robins caught up to them. A loud hissing sound was coming from somewhere above, and they didn’t hear him at all until he shouted.
“Sir! Colonel Astor, sir!”
The valet rushed up carrying a mass of slippery furs, having to pause twice to catch it all up in his arms again.
Jack snapped open one of the deck chairs, and Robins carefully set everything upon it.
As people passed by, Madeleine put on the white cardigan Robins had brought, the fur-lined hat (but no gloves), even the extra pair of stockings he’d somehow found. She struggled into the sable coat (very tight with the added bulk of the lifebelt around her), and Jack finished it all with her fox shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Sir,” said Rosalie, tentative. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is not my coat.”
She indicated the mink that was left, spread across the slats of the chair.
“Just put it on,” Madeleine said. “For goodness sake, you’ll freeze otherwise.”
They joined the other passengers trudging up the stairs.
The hissing grew louder, more and more piercing. By the time they reached the boat deck, it had climbed into a shriek, hurting her head. She pressed her hands over her ears and turned in a circle to find the source of it: pipes running along the forward funnels were furiously venting steam, great clouds of vapor ballooning up to the stars.
Titanic’s crew swarmed around the lifeboats, ripping off their covers, letting out the ropes, yelling at each other without sound. Groups of passengers stood back and watched them work as if they were watching a play, with looks of detached interest.
The frigid air bit her skin, stung her eyes. Jack touched her elbow, his face close, his lips moving, but even when she lowered her hands, she couldn’t hear him over the roar. He nodded his comprehension, took her by her hand, and pulled her along. She glanced back to make certain the rest were following as they threaded through the clumps of people.
He led them all to the gymnasium, a well-heated space that smelled strongly of leather and bleach. But after the door was closed behind them, at least the chill abated, and the scream of the escaping steam lowered to a less painful decibel.
The benches were claimed, so they aimed for the electric horses. She eyed the sidesaddle before her, knew she’d never manage it with the fashionably tight skirts she wore, and sat sideways instead, as if on a very short chair.
More people were coming in, going out, clapping their hands against the cold. The hint of the list became more definite.
“Should we be out there?” she asked, sotto voce. “Prepared to be in line for a boat?”
Jack shook his head. “They’re only getting things ready, and really, darling, it’s all for naught. This ship will not sink. I’ve toured her, remember? Every precaution was taken in building her, every innovation employed. We are far safer in here than on one of those little boats out there. Warmer, too,” he added.
