I became the face of feminine heroism, doughty yet demure. The newspapers published story after story about me, usually quoting other survivors who claimed they saw me that night, or they saw Jack, or they saw us both, so terribly, romantically star-crossed. According to them, we were all over the ship in her final hours, even down in steerage, helping to comfort the distraught.
They said that we aided others into the lifeboats but jauntily refused to go ourselves, no matter how much they （our dearest, most bosom friends!） implored us to do so.
That Jack had jumped into my boat and then out again no less than four times to make room for more women.
That I had helped furiously row away from the sinking ship, only to collapse daintily afterward.
That, as I covered the men we’d saved from the ocean in woolen rugs, I’d howled out my husband’s name, she-wolf-like, into the unforgiving night.
People were inventing all manner of stories about the sinking—because some of the papers would pay for them, you see—and if they dribbled the name “Astor” into any of their accounts, it was like the publisher had been guaranteed a return in gold.
I became the dream of countless dreamers, women from all around who still—still—thought that my smashed life was perfect. That the marriage which had taken everyone so aback before had crystallized into the most wondrous, sorrowful fairy tale.
I was young, I was wealthy, and I was famous. That was all they really knew, and that was all they needed to know. It was enough to sustain their fantasies.
At long last, I had managed to gain the world’s admiration and respect, and all it took was the loss of my husband. The felling of my heart.
Jack was right when he’d told me that his people would eventually come around.
The taste of this success is like ashes on my tongue.
*
Those first few days, before they hooked his body from the sea . . . those were the worst, I think. Those were the days I surrendered to my heartache and hid away inside the mansion, mostly beneath my bedcovers. I would not answer anyone’s questions. I would not look anyone in the eyes. I lived in dread of the next time someone would walk into my bedchamber, because I was sure they’d lean down close and whisper some version of, Yes, he is really gone. Now you must tell us what actually happened.
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.