Faint lines fanned outward from the corners of his eyes, crinkling his tan. Deeper lines bracketed his mouth, that long moustache, and she found herself looking at them and admiring them and thinking, How well his face suits him.
The diamond in his stickpin sparked a sepia rainbow.
The colonel cleared his throat. “I was just contemplating what a pleasant evening we’re having. How fine the night is, the gloaming, when I saw you here. I didn’t mean to intrude.”
She smiled. “You’re not intruding, Colonel Astor.”
“Ah,” he said. “Very good.”
A pair of crickets began to exchange songs, hesitant at first, gradually throbbing stronger. Madeleine clasped her hands over her elbows, then dropped them again when she realized she was wrinkling her dress. “I was listening to the music. I think I got a bit lost in it.”
He cleared his throat again. “Do you like opera?”
She thought, surprised, He is nervous.
She said, “We saw The Tales of Hoffmann last year, in Paris. Have you seen it?”
“Ages ago. I don’t remember most of it, I’m afraid.”
Her smile turned rueful. “I didn’t understand most of it,” she admitted. “But I enjoyed the production.”
He nodded, looked away. Behind him, the diaphanous ghosts lingered in the dark, drinking their sparkling wine, chortling. Above them both, the stars began to wake, a handful at a time, right above their heads.
The colonel seemed in no hurry to speak again, but neither did he leave; Madeleine cast about for something more to say. “This is the first time I’ve seen you in Bar Harbor, sir. I don’t believe you visit often?”
“No. I’ve been here before, naturally. Friends and extended family, all that. But Newport is . . .” He paused, frowning.
“Yes, it’s—”
“My customary summer home.” His gaze angled back to hers. “Yours is here, however?”
“Ever since I can remember.”
“And you . . . like summering here?”
“Well.” She lifted an open palm to the air. “It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“Of course.”
Silence again. She regretted now giving away her glass of champagne, because at least then she’d have something to hold in her hands, something to do besides stare up at him and feel gauche.
She said, “I’m sure it’s nothing so excellent as Newport, though. I’ve heard the cottages there are all fashioned of marble and gold, inside and out, like the temples of the gods crowning Mount Olympus.”
He ducked his head and smiled at last, rubbing a thumb along the line of his jaw. “Some of them are, perhaps. Certain families seem to take pleasure in that sort of thing. But I think most of the homes are more limestone than marble. Plaster and brick. And cuivre doré—only gold leaf, I’m afraid.”
“But even so—like heaven, all white and blue and gold.”
“I suppose that was the idea,” he said seriously.
“How resplendent it must be.”
“Yes,” he said, as if he’d never considered it before. “Yes, Miss Force, it is.”
Beyond the trees and shrubs and heavy-headed flowers, a dinner bell chimed. They both glanced toward the brighter heart of the garden, where all the tables were laid, then back at each other. Without a word, Colonel Astor offered her his arm.
Madeleine took it. Her gloved hand lay small and curved against the black of his sleeve. Her head reached just above his chin.
“Speaking of the theater,” he said, walking slowly beside her, “I appreciated your performance last night.”
“Oh?”
“You were . . . enthusiastic.”
“Oh.” She laughed, mortified. “I know I’m not terribly skilled, but I don’t seem to ever lack enthusiasm. Things were going all right, I think, until I forgot my line.”
“Did you? Forget a line?”
“You must have noticed. Everyone noticed.”
They stopped. He turned to her without releasing her arm.
“What I noticed was how committed you were to your role. How you made me believe in her tragedy. Her great loss. It seems to me that’s the most valuable skill one might have on the stage, the ability to convince the audience that you inhabit the truth.”
She searched his face for any sign of teasing, but he only looked back at her with that unwavering focus, in shadow now, the gloaming he had admired before fading into a darker, deeper night.
The wind pushed again and her skin tightened and Madeleine wished very much for a shawl, or a witty thing to say, or for her sister’s infinite poise.