She took breakfast on the pillared back patio whenever she could, to let the sun and sea tease her with the promise of the day to come. The painted iron benches and chairs were not as comfortable as the furniture inside, even with cushions, and her hair always ended up tearing loose, but that was fine. It was worth it to watch the waves fold into their long, slippery lines in the distance, and to listen to the wind clatter through the copper beeches, and to drink coffee that was never allowed to grow cold.
A ginger tabby was slinking its way across the lawn, intent on the bed of hydrangeas that traced the border of the patio. Madeleine took a bite of toast and watched it creep toward the plants, fragrant globes of azure and amethyst, the tip of its tail twitching.
She hoped there wasn’t a bird in there. She hoped the cat hunted only shadows.
Footsteps clipped behind her, too firm and fast to belong to the footman keeping an eye on her meal.
Vincent emerged from the house, pausing near the open doors to eye her up and down. He hadn’t slept at the cottage last night, so he must have only just arrived, still dressed in his traveling suit and a rumpled maroon necktie.
“Oh,” he said, unenthusiastic. “Miss Force. You’re here. Again.”
“I am.” She took a sip of coffee, her demeanor as bland as those Knickerbockers back in Jack’s New York reception room. “If you’re looking for your father, he’s gone into town for a while. He said he’d be back in a few hours.”
“All right.” Vincent noticed the cat, still hunting, and for about half a minute they watched it together, a pocket-sized tiger stealing closer to the mass of swaying flowers. A trio of sailboats crossed the waters beyond it, triangles of white slicing lazily through the blue.
There was a bird, Madeleine realized, squinting. A bird or a leaf shaped like a bird, a smudge of brown amid the branches.
She placed her napkin on the table, tucking a corner beneath her plate so it wouldn’t blow away, prepared to intervene.
“Only a few years past,” Vincent said quietly, “my grandmother wouldn’t have even acknowledged your existence. And why should she? She’d be rolling in her grave if she knew you were here now.”
The blood drained from her cheeks. She managed to pick up her cup again without spilling it, forming her reply just above the rim. “How fortunate for me, then, that we live today, when your grandmother is gone, and her son finds me wholly acknowledgeable.”
“It’s laughable that you think you’re on par with us. With my mother. Believe me, you’re just another girl to him, and he’s had a great many girls.”
The coffee went sour on her tongue, but she remained so bland, so brutally neutral. “But they’re not around anymore, are they?” She turned in her chair and looked up at him, dark and sneering, a patch of stubble on his chin that he’d missed on his morning shave, whenever that had been. He’d nicked his neck, too, right above his winged collar. A rusty red stain blossomed down from the brim.
“Exactly my point. They didn’t last, and neither will you. You’re cheap tinsel, Miss Force, and tinsel always tarnishes.”
Madeleine pushed out of the chair, moving to face him. The wind lashed by, and the edges of her napkin fluttered, and her lips curved into a smile that was not a smile. “We’ll just have to see what happens then, won’t we?”
“Mr. Vincent Astor! What a happy surprise! Whenever did you get in?”
It was Mother, chirpy, walking out to the patio in a rustle of steel organza and a chilly gaze.
Vincent gave Mother a curt nod. “Mrs. Force. Excuse me, I must get on.”
Some demon made Madeleine call out to his retreating back, “So pleasant to chat with you again, Mr. Astor.”
Mother took a seat at the wrought-iron table, smoothing her skirts. She accepted the cup of coffee Madeleine poured for her, adding cream and a measure of sugar so meager that Madeleine always wondered why she bothered with it at all. The silver spoon clinked, clinked against the china as she stirred, a little harder, Madeleine thought, than she usually did.
“It won’t do you any good to antagonize him.”
Madeleine plopped back into her chair. “As my very being seems to antagonize him, I don’t see what difference it makes.”
“Pouring salt over the wound, my dear.” Mother finally stopped stirring. “I have heard, from various sources, that the consequences of divorce can be even more devastating for the children than for the parents themselves.” She gazed out at the sailboats, still making their way along. “As difficult as that may be to believe.”