The walls were chockablock with paintings. Landscapes, seascapes, horses, churches, nudes. By fate or intuition, she found the one of Ava at once, because it was directly above the nightstand by the bed, larger than all the rest.
Luminous.
She had been painted as a Roman goddess, standing in a flowing tunic of royal blue, one leg flexed, a copper-red wrap falling gracefully from her white shoulders. She wore a diadem of green stones and held an empty chalice in one hand, gazing directly at the viewer with a subtle, intrigued smile. Madeleine had never seen her predecessor’s face before, but there was no question it was she, because her other hand rested atop the tousled head of a young boy who was clearly Vincent, also in robes, looking up at his mother with an expression of reverence. They posed in bright light against a pillar of stone; just behind it stood a third figure in shadow, tall and lean. It was more a suggestion of Jack than a portrayal of him, but there he was, his face angled away, his head bent. The imperfect outline of his shape melted into a background of clouds and sky. Even little Vincent seemed less than his mother, fuzzier, a visual device meant to indicate where one should look.
At Ava, of the rippling chestnut hair and cupid’s bow lips.
Ava, with her long neck and flawless skin and sloping shoulders, and dark doe eyes that held Madeleine’s own with the confidence of the very rich, the very lovely, the very talented and unique.
Madeleine returned that gaze a minute longer, then turned around and crept away.
CHAPTER 15
December 1911
Manhattan
Mr. and Mrs. Robert Goelet regretfully decline the polite invitation of Colonel and Mrs. John Jacob Astor for Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mr. and Mrs. G. W. Vanderbilt II regret that an absence from town will prevent them from accepting the kind invitation of Col. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor for Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mrs. Hermann Oelrichs regrets that she is unable to accept the polite invitation of Colonel and Mrs. John Jacob Astor for Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mr. and Mrs. William Church Osborn regret that they must decline the kind invitation of Col. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor for luncheon on Sunday, December seventeenth.
Mr. and Mrs. August Belmont regret that a previous engagement prevents them from accepting Col. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor’s kind invitation for Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mr. and Mrs. John Davison Rockefeller must regretfully decline the kind invitation of Colonel and Mrs. John Jacob Astor for Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mr. James B. Duke very much regrets that he cannot accept Col. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor’s kind invitation for luncheon on Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Fortune Ryan regret that a prior engagement prevents them from accepting the polite invitation of Col. and Mrs. John Jacob Astor for Sunday afternoon, December seventeenth.
Mr. and Mrs. John Pierpont Morgan, senior, regret that they will be unable to attend the luncheon of Colonel and Mrs. John Jacob Astor on Sunday, December seventeenth . . .
CHAPTER 16
We were roundly snubbed. I don’t mind admitting that to you now, although at the time, it was a reality we danced around, your father and I. A blank space had opened between us, this conclusive fact of our apartness, and neither of us could quite think of how to breach it. Or even if it was ours to breach. Anyway, it’s not much of a secret these days, that cocoon of isolation the Four Hundred spun around us after we ventured off the Noma. I honestly can’t claim it came as a surprise—at least, not to me.
But I don’t think Jack had ever noticed how many versions of she’s certainly not Ava, is she? were exchanged behind our backs. The whispers of the Knickerbockers never wormed their way into his ears the way they did mine.
The press delighted in noting our unusual lack of festivities, especially so close to the holidays. Why, the colonel and Mrs. Ava Astor had entertained so grandly in the years before! They had opened their mansion and their wallets and the legendary stories of French champagne and resplendent dinners and costume balls had become etched in the memories of anyone who mattered, and a great many more who did not. It was, after all, an Astor tradition to throw such glamourous parties, those lavish fêtes, just as the Mrs. Astor used to do.
How strange that her son and his teenaged bride had shunned the idea of even an informal Christmas reception. Perhaps the new Mrs. Astor wasn’t feeling quite well.
And I wasn’t. Not really.
The mansion was cold. I was cold. Every single day was cold and raw and lonely, even the ones when my family came to visit, or some of my old Junior League friends （their eyes wide as soon as they walked in, trying not to gawk at the relentless cascade of ostentation and gloom）。