（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 said 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.