My usual response is an incredulous stare, then to walk away. I have menservants now to accompany me whenever I go out, so the journalists and cameras do not hound me as easily as they used to do. I’ve learned, you see, since my days as a dewy débutante on your father’s arm.
I have learned that you do not have to speak to the press at all. You owe them nothing.
You don’t have to speak.
*
But I will answer that question for you, my son. Because you were there, and your father was there, and so was I. All three of us together, locked in love for that blink of a moment in time.
The best memory I have about Titanic was that she was so large.
So epic.
I never felt any swaying or bobbing or turbulence to interfere with my meals, my sensitive appetite, or my slumber. I never felt any sort of vulnerability aboard that ocean liner, right up until the very end.
I imagine that’s a blessing, don’t you? Whoever wants to know how it’s all going to end before it actually does?
Only poets and madmen, I would think.
Thursday, April 11, 1912
Aboard Titanic
The music wafting through the Café Parisien from the outer chamber nearby might have been chosen specifically to counterpoint the hum of conversation rising from the dining tables, everything tasteful and subtle and full of undercurrents neatly hidden beneath the brighter notes. Madeleine followed those notes even as she didn’t mean to, sipping her café au lait and pretending not to mind the looks aimed at her, the sound of her name spiking through the air, from mouths to ears and back again.
She had secured a table near one of the windows, brilliant with the late morning sun. She kept her own focus distant, engrossed, gazing out at the ocean view as if sitting alone at this splendid chic table in this splendid ivy-trellised restaurant didn’t bother her at all. The wicker back of her chair bit into her shoulders; she had to keep reminding herself not to wrap both hands protectively around her middle.
Her hat, forest felt and chocolate silk wrapping, was rounded and large enough that it blocked a good deal of the chamber. The curved brim was meant to shield her, to protect her from the day, but what it really did was hide her from the intrusive stares.
The scent of her coffee, creamy and rich, filled her nose. The fat pair of croissants on her plate lay spread with jam, red raspberry glistening.
A woman approached the table. From Madeleine’s perspective beneath her hat, she consisted entirely of an overskirt of green-and-white serge.
“Am I late for our coffee date?” inquired Margaret, pulling out her chair without waiting to be helped. “I apologize.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. I was early, and the waiters kept hovering, so . . .” She shrugged, looked at her café au lait and those croissants, buttery and fresh. “My appetite,” she added dryly, “seems to have returned.”
“That’s good news. I’m ready for a real meal myself, taking on all these stairs. Everyone goes on about those fancy elevators, but I haven’t seen a moment yet when there isn’t a stack of people waiting outside of them.”
“I haven’t tried the elevators. This is the first time I’ve been out of our suite since we boarded last night, actually.”
Margaret angled a shrewd look around the long, sun-splashed room, at all the people deliberately glancing away. “Not quite our cozy saloon back on the dahabiya, is it?”
“No,” Madeleine said, and attempted to smile. “It isn’t.”
“Where’s Jack?”
“He went to the Enquiry Office to post some letters, and then I believe he meant to visit the vendors on the sun deck while we’re still anchored. Did you go?”
“I did. Not for long. Nearly as crowded as Khan el-Khalili in Cairo up there, without as many bargains. I have plenty of lace back home.”
A waiter appeared, taking in Margaret with an assessing eye. Madeleine supposed this to be a truly authentic Parisian café, as not one of the staff had warmed to her until she’d mentioned her surname. The main dining saloon welcomed every passenger in first class, but the privately owned Café Parisien, along with the à la carte restaurant next door to it, served whom they pleased. Namely, those passengers who could afford yet another charge on their fare.
It was a slender, exclusive space, lined with those white trellises and walls of climbing ivy （real or silk, she couldn’t tell）， the only shipboard restaurant Madeleine had ever seen with such open ocean views. It was one of the reasons she had chosen it for her late breakfast. Not quite like dining outdoors, but almost.