Madeleine wet her dry lips, then nodded. She took the tea from her mother and sucked down a long, heavy swallow.
“Choose just one to talk to,” suggested her sister, leaning against the cool plastered wall. “The tallest one, the handsomest one. The one closest to the urn of petunias. It doesn’t matter which, I expect.”
The knocker sounded again, three brisk raps. Matthews, already standing by, waited for Mother to nod her head, then opened the door a fraction.
“Ah,” he said, and the door swung wider; outside shone ragged crowns of trees against a milky bleached sky. “A delivery of flowers, madam. For Miss Madeleine.”
He accepted the box in his arms, turning to place it on the chair before moving to close the door again.
Madeleine spared the box a glance then stepped forward, lifting her hand—her left one, Jack’s ring flashing—to stop him. Matthews looked once more at Mother, then at Madeleine, then bowed his head and moved aside.
Madeleine handed the tea back to her mother. She approached the doorway, the baking day. All the men below the steps, pink-faced and quiet, jostling closer at the sight of her.
Cameras began to lift.
One of the reporters broke apart from the others, climbing all the way up to the entranceway. Not the tallest, not the handsomest, but certainly the boldest.
The hall boy eyed him edgily.
“Miss Force, Chicago Tribune, how’d’you do. May I offer my congratulations on your engagement.”
“Thank you.”
“Would you care to make a statement?”
“I . . . I am greatly happy.”
“Would you show us the ring, please,” called out a man from the back. “May we see the engagement ring?”
It felt odd to simply hold her hand out to them, but she did, and the camera shutters began to snap and snap, a host of clicking insects.
“What did the colonel say when he gave it to you?” called out another fellow.
“It was a rather private moment,” she said, but made herself smile.
“When will the wedding take place?”
“We have not decided yet. This fall, perhaps,” she improvised. “Or later.”
“Where will it be?” asked the man in front of her, scribbling quickly across a notepad. Sweat ran down his face, collected in drops beneath his chin. “Manhattan? Newport? Rhinebeck-on-the-Hudson?”
Madeleine laughed and shook her head. “I really don’t know. It’s all—honestly, it’s all happened so quickly.”
“Are those flowers from Colonel Astor?” He was peering past her, his eyes scanning the entrance hall.
Madeleine looked back at the box, long and white, precisely balanced across the kingwood arms of the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t even opened it yet.”
The reporter gave a scant smile. “It must be overwhelming. You’re seventeen, aren’t you, Miss Force?”
“Eighteen,” she corrected him, her humor fading.
“Eighteen,” he repeated, making a show of writing it down. “And tell me, do you feel confident stepping into the role the former Mrs. John Jacob Astor has left for you, as the leader of the society of Newport and New York?”
“Um, I hadn’t really—”
“Do you think you can make good on her social record?” cut in another man, who had come to stand beside the first, pushing back his hat. “As Mrs. Astor the second?”
“I’m sure I will do my best,” she said stiffly.
“So, in your opinion, divorcés should be allowed to wed again?”
“I beg your pardon?”
The Chicago man leaned closer, reeking of musk. “Isn’t it true that the terms of the colonel’s divorce stipulate that he cannot remarry during Mrs. Ava Astor’s lifetime?”
“I don’t have any idea what—”
“How does Colonel Astor plan to void that provision? Will he purchase a remedy to it somehow? With all his money, will he just buy his way out?”
Madeleine drew back. “Excuse me. The heat. I must return inside.”
*
The front door was again shut. The reporters were （according to Katherine, stationed at the drawing room window） rapidly scurrying away.
“Like cockroaches,” she called out cheerfully.
Madeleine untied the grosgrain bow atop the flower box, allowing the ribbon to fall aside. She lifted off the lid.
Inside were three dozen blood-red roses, American Beauties, long-stemmed and flawless.
Jack’s card read:
For my own beauty. Thank you for being mine,