The woman shifted her gaze to Madeleine. Before Jack could introduce them, she stuck out her hand. “You must be Miss Force. I’ve read all about you, I’m afraid.” And she laughed, her onyx earbobs swaying.
“Oh,” said Madeleine, uncertain, extending her own hand.
Unlike nearly every other Newport matron Madeleine had met, instead of looking wearily to the side of her, or icily straight through her, this woman’s eyes bored into her own, greenish-gray and directly assessing. She had a strong face, not plain and not fair, exactly, but something of both, with even features and laugh lines around her mouth and very dark eyelashes. There was an air about her of barely repressed mirth, as if she knew some happy, hilarious secret she was determined to keep to herself.
The feathers of her hat drooped in graceful curves down to her chin. Madeleine resisted the urge to straighten her own hat, a simple French basket of navy-dyed straw; like everything else about her, it was the best she could do, even if it was not quite right enough for the Rhode Island set.
“You’re far more beautiful than the papers give you credit for,” said the woman in a pleasant tone; her handshake was forceful and brief. “But then, I never give the papers much credit to begin with.”
“Madeleine,” said Jack, also smiling. “May I introduce Mrs. J. J. Brown, an old summer friend.”
“Margaret,” the woman corrected him. “Please. I hope you don’t mind if I call you Madeleine. I feel as though I know you already.”
“Not at all. Um, Margaret.”
“I read that you had quite an adventure the other night. A midnight rescue at sea! Is it true, Madeleine, that you helped lower the lifeboat yourself to help save those unfortunate sailors?”
“Oh,” said Madeleine again. After months of serenely murmured slights （the lifted, plucked brows; the faux looks of concern; my dear, are you really quite at ease here? Perhaps you’d feel better playing games with the children on the porch rather than trying to converse with us dreary old folks）， Margaret’s open friendliness was rattling. “Hardly. I got them drinks, really. Some sandwiches.”
“More than that,” said Jack, covering her hand with his. “You were their beacon. They told me so themselves.”
Madeleine shook her head, embarrassed. She’d wondered at the time if she should have done more. Once aboard the Noma, the rescued men had essentially shrunk into sodden, vacant-eyed hulks, even wrapped in blankets and fortified with steaming mugs of coffee （laced with brandy; Jack had poured it himself）， their fingers brushing dead cold against hers. After that, both Jack and her father had assured her there was nothing more to be done. Everyone was safe, and they’d be back to shore by morning. She’d returned to her bed and tumbled into a dark, dreamless sleep.
Across the street, a fleshy man in a battered jacket had stopped to observe them, pulling a pad of paper from his breast pocket and a pencil from behind his ear.
“We’re on our way to luncheon,” Jack said now, nodding toward the hotel ahead, glass windows glinting, men and women ambling in and out of the main doors in crisp linen and gauze and more silk. “Might I tempt you into joining us?”
“Why,” said Margaret Brown, “there is nothing I would enjoy more.”
She sent Madeleine another smile—if there was any animosity behind it, Madeleine truly couldn’t tell—and fell into step beside them. None of them looked at the man across the street.
As they approached the entrance, Margaret asked, “What were those fools doing out on a sloop in the middle of a gale, anyway?”
“Bankers,” answered Jack, succinct, and Margaret laughed again as they walked inside.
CHAPTER 13
Your father wanted me to like Newport. Oh, he wanted me to love it as he did, and I swear to you, I did try. But it’s difficult to love that which not only does not love you in return, but regards you with little more than thinly veiled contempt. For all of his efforts, for all of Jack’s dinners and dances, the tennis games at various clubs, the Astor Cup, the polo matches—Newport remained stiff and hoary toward me. We were invited places; after all, no one directly insults an Astor, not without risking certain consequences. But besides Margaret Brown, I found no genuine friends.
The warm and sunny days of my girlhood were back in Bar Harbor. I suppose they always will be.
The only thing I miss about Newport is Beechwood itself. The cottage belongs to Vincent now, and that’s fine, too. I had my days there. I had that one special, magical day there, and no one could ever ask for more than what I was given then.