“Coffee for Mrs. Brown,” she said to the waiter, as coolly dismissive as she could manage. Attempting to be friendly had gotten her only churlish looks.
“Oui, madame.”
“Excusez-moi,” interjected Margaret. “Je préfère le vin rouge.”
“Bien s?r.”
As the waiter bowed and moved off, Margaret sat back, removing her gloves. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Better than yesterday, at least. I . . . I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about your grandson. I don’t remember if I did at the station. I was in something of a state, to be honest, and it’s all rather a nightmare to me now. But I hope he’s doing well.”
“Thank you. I hope so, too. In the end, I know we must surrender everything into the Almighty’s hands. But I remember . . .”
Margaret trailed off, lost again. A pair of seagulls hung in the sky beyond their window, tilting and floating.
Madeleine said, “If he’s anything like his grandmother, he has the heart of a lion. I’m sure he’s very strong.”
“Yes. We Browns are tough enough, all right.” Margaret nodded, then gave a dazzling smile; in it, Madeleine had a glimpse of the girl she used to be, a girl with a soul like a flame, heroic enough to travel across the country to test her mettle just because she could.
“Tough as nails,” Margaret was saying, “and just as stubborn. I’ll get there, and everything will already be fine, I’m certain. I’ll have raced back home for nothing.”
The string trio outside the room shifted into a new piece, softer and even more genteel. A passing waiter placed a glass of red wine exactly between them, as if he could not recall who had ordered it. He walked off without making eye contact.
Margaret’s smile turned more sardonic; she reached for the glass.
A new woman swept by in slow, stately steps, pausing by their table as if she had just noticed who sat there.
“Why, Miss Force, Mrs. Brown. I didn’t realize you were also on board.”
“Mrs. Cardeza,” replied Margaret. “Surely you’ve heard that my friend is Mrs. John Jacob Astor now. It was somewhat in the news.”
“Of course. Naturally, one does try to keep up with all of the little tidbits of social happenings, but one becomes so busy, you know . . .”
“Quite.”
“We are to be shipmates all the way to New York, it seems.”
“All the way,” drawled Margaret, looking away, trying her wine.
Charlotte turned to Margaret directly, cutting away from Madeleine to get to her point. “Mrs. Brown, as you are here, perhaps you might care to join my son and me at our table for dinner tonight in the dining saloon? Frank Millet is among us, along with Major Butt. The major is always so entertaining with his tales of life at the White House, being such an intimate of President Taft’s. Such a handsome, honorable man. We’ve secured the best table in the saloon.”
“What a delightful offer. But I’ve already joined the Astor table, I’m afraid.” Margaret examined her etched goblet, the wine inside gleaming liquid garnet against the sun. “Although I’m sure I wouldn’t presume to know what’s best, or even honorable. Merely what is most agreeable.”
A small sensation began at the entrance of the restaurant, billowing outward in a hushed verbal ripple. Madeleine glanced around to discover her husband weaving toward them, his bowler in hand.
Charlotte Cardeza made a grimace of a smile, her face puckered. “I see. Enjoy your voyage.”
“We assuredly will,” said Madeleine, a touch louder than she intended to as the other woman huffed away.
*
The Astors took a walk on the promenade deck after lunch, because Kitty had needed to escape the suite, and Jack wanted Madeleine to see what she could of the wild Irish coast. By noon, however, what she could see wasn’t much. They were stationary at Roche’s Point, the narrow mouth of Cork Harbour, still some miles away from the mainland shore.
A thin blue haze had crept in, turning the islands around them into distant dreamscapes, sleeping beasts of rock and green with mysterious stone towers bumping along their spines. The Queenstown traders had already scrambled back down to the tenders and bumboats; a group of passengers stood at the edge of the deck to watch them depart. Madeleine and Jack joined them, gazing down at the boats chugging away, ribbons of pearl trailing behind them, small as toys against Titanic’s enormous bulk.
The deck began to vibrate. Or perhaps it didn’t; perhaps it was only her imagination, because it was clear now that the great ship was moving, but she heard nothing from the engines. Only the other passengers, laughing and talking, and a thuggery of seagulls that persisted in circles around the mooring cables of the forward funnel, calling out their shrill cries.