When she awoke the next morning, her finger had swollen and she had to work to get the ring off, using cold water and lotion and soap. Even so, the red indent from the band remained crushed into her flesh, not fading until well after noon.
CHAPTER 10
COLONEL J. J. ASTOR SEEN ABOUT
—Special to Town Topics
July 30, 1911
Newport, Ri.
Colonel John Jacob Astor is busy this season at Beechwood. He has entertained frequently at his mother’s summer home, with the finest of society’s luminaries passing through his doors. But the young woman now most often in his company is still that fresh Force rose. She, along with, we fear, La Force Majeure, seem entirely unaware of their fine surroundings, so taken are they with the life of the beau monde. There is no better view, we’ve heard, than that to be had from the colonel’s own backyard, where he and the eager Miss Force were recently witnessed having a very intimate tête-à-tête.
William Force telephoned the colonel the next morning.
By then, Madeleine and her mother had already returned to their brownstone in New York, their planned visit to Newport concluded, so when the tabloid was published, the entire family, everyone, everyone, read it the same day it was being hawked by the scabby-kneed newsboys shouting from street corners.
Madeleine read it last, probably, because Katherine had tried to hide it from her, then, red-faced, had offered the paper over with a snap of her arm, looking as steely as Madeleine had ever seen her. Mother was out paying calls; Lord knew what she was hearing.
Angels and servants had witnessed the kiss, that deep and scandalous thing; they’d missed, however, the ring that had come just after it, the blinding white vindication decorating her left hand.
Madeleine discovered her father in his study, staring at the Hughes watercolor of a black-haired shepherdess standing atop a knoll, one he’d acquired even before marrying her mother （who had since expanded the collection into far weightier pieces）。 It had always been one of his favorites, and without even trying to summon the memory from her childhood, Madeleine could still hear him explaining to her why: Acknowledge the lucidity of the air and the clouds. The play of shadows. The light behind her eyes. She is alive, isn’t she, Maddy? Right there on the paper, behind the glass. Caught in this singular moment forever by a great man, she lives on just for us. Isn’t that something?
“Father.”
“Madeleine.” He turned his head and looked at her, still distracted. “My girl. You realize I have to act now.”
“Yes. I don’t think it will be a problem. For him, I mean.”
“It had damn well better not be,” he said bluntly, abruptly focused, and Madeleine crossed to him, sank to his feet as she’d used to do as a little girl, relying upon his strength and kindness and strong arms. She rested her cheek against his knee. A sunbeam was tracing its way across the hardwood floor, the worn Venetian red rug, splashing light against the far wall.
“Should I be there when you talk to him?”
“No,” said Father. “This is a business I must manage alone.”
*
There is the matter of a young lady’s reputation, Father said into the telephone’s mouthpiece. There is the matter of offensive gossip. Innuendo.
The household telephone was stationed prominently in the foyer, inside a small alcove （possibly meant for a bust） inset by the front door. The tiled floor and wainscoted corridor made it impossible to converse with any expectation of privacy. Every little sound carried.
The device itself had been installed three years previous, so Katherine and Madeleine already knew from experience how easy it was to overhear at least half of a conversation. They hovered together in the drawing room a few steps away, just out of view, right behind the cracked door. They held hands as Father spoke.
You understand, he said, that I will act in my daughter’s best interest. It is my unshakable obligation, one I must and shall fulfill. I will tell you quite frankly, sir, that I will no longer be put off. You have a daughter yourself. You must understand.
A pause.
Excellent. It’s good to hear you say so.
Pause.
No, I’ll do it. I’ll make the announcement from my office later today. It will be more appropriate, I think, coming from me, at my place of business. To lend it all a more . . . official air. The press will channel their attentions here, on all of us here as a family, rather than on any of your . . . other retreats.
Pause.
I shall tell them we have not yet decided the date. I’ll keep it as vague as possible, while still making matters clear.