“Tell Wilton I want the roadster brought up, the Bearcat. I’m going to see a stoker in Queens who claims he saw him in the water after the ship went down.”
“Vincent.”
His back stiffened. His head lifted. He pivoted slowly in his chair to take her in.
She wore black. She didn’t own a black morning dress, so it was a day dress, simple and severe.
“You’re out of bed,” he said, toneless. “Finally.”
“We’ve had news.”
He shoved out of the chair. “I don’t want to hear it.”
“I know.”
He stared at her, so awkward and handsome, that savage light rekindled behind his eyes.
“Perhaps you should sit down again,” she suggested.
“No. I’m going out. I’m going to talk to a man who says he saw him—”
Madeleine was shaking her head, her lips pressed tight.
“—saw him alive in the water, next to a raft, a life raft that—”
“Vincent—”
“He is not dead, damn you! He’s out there somewhere! Hurt or lost or—”
“He is aboard a funeral ship. They’re bringing his body back in a few days.”
Vincent reached up to clutch at his hair with both hands before letting his arms fall loose again. He made a sound deep in his throat, not a word but that low, flat moan of despair that chilled her as nothing else could have: the wounded beast again, here on dry land.
It stripped away the usual wall of reserve she maintained with him. She walked through the bars of light, reached for his hand, and he came back to life, recoiling away from her.
“It could be a mistake!”
She lowered her arm. “It could be, but I doubt it. They described him. They described what he was wearing, the suit and shoes and shirt. His gold watch and belt buckle. His wedding ring.”
Outside the house, the April sky shone a celestial blue. Outside, she heard the motors of automobiles and omnibuses filled with people, regular people, going about their regular lives, their errands, as if nothing could ever shatter them. Not on such a pretty spring morning, the clouds pale and fluffed, the light bright as butter.
A pigeon landed on the sill of the window, fanning its wings. It strutted for a moment, its head jerking, then dipped down into the air below.
Vincent had not released her from his stare. His lips drew back; he began to shake his head.
“This is your fault. This is all your fault! You lured him to you. You seduced him. He would have never been on that ship if not for you.”
“Oh,” she said coldly, “this again. I thought we had already addressed this particular stupidity of yours.”
“You’re a terrible girl. A terrible wife. You left him behind to die, and I suppose you’ve gotten your wish now, haven’t you?”
Madeleine lost her fragile sense of calm. “Why do you think I insisted we turn back the lifeboat?” she shouted. “Why do you think? We were one of only two boats to return to the people pleading for help, and I made that happen! I was searching for him in every face! Do you think I cared about any of those other men we saved? I would have tossed them back to the ocean in a heartbeat had I come across your father and we needed the room!”
She covered her mouth with her hand, forced herself to lower it again. She shot a quick glance over her shoulder at the open doorway—still empty—then flexed her fingers, closed them into fists.
The silk crêpe of her gown glistened in the sunlight, every shade of ebony, of unforgiving loss.
“So, yes. I may be a terrible person, as you say. I may be selfish and terrible. But I loved him. I would have sacrificed my own life for his. I certainly would have sacrificed any of those other men’s lives.”
He said nothing. He looked carved from stone.
“I didn’t even know them,” she said, much quieter. “They were nothing to me. They were disappointments. Every time I helped haul them up into the boat, letting them crumple and bleed water along my feet, they were disappointments. I don’t care if that makes me a monster. I would have thrown any of them back for him. All of them. Feel free not to share that with the papers, and don’t you dare blab to anyone that I’ve been crying. Don’t you dare.”
He sat down heavily into the chair. He propped his elbows against the rosewood desk and dropped his head into his palms, his fingers speared through his hair.
“You don’t really mean that, do you?” he muttered to the desk. “That you would have killed another man to save him?”