Madeleine accepted them all wordlessly, wearing what she could, fitting the rest into her pockets. As he opened the door to the hallway, she hurried back into the bedchamber, opened the dressing table drawer containing her Irish lace jacket and the baby blanket.
She yanked the blanket free from its layers of tissue, rolled it into a ball and crammed it on top of the pearls next to her hip.
From the center of the rug, Kitty watched them leave, her head still down, her tail tucked between her legs.
*
Carrie joined them in the corridor, already wearing her lifebelt with a beaver coat on top of it. As the four of them climbed the grand staircase up to A deck, they passed masses of people standing, talking, looking bored or worried or simply impatient. Stewards pushed by, bumping into them without apology, hurrying on. The cheerful sounds of the orchestra grew louder and then softer, then louder again. They entered the first-class lounge to find even more people gathered, the carved rococo ceiling fogged with smoke, almost as if a real fire burned in the fireplace and the flue had jammed. Apparently the occupants of the smoke room had spilled outward into the main area, and none of the gentlemen had cared to put out their cigars and pipes.
Everyone seemed to be in various states of dress—or undress. Madeleine saw women with furs tossed over their nightgowns and lifebelts, men in pyjamas and silk scarves and smoking jackets. They were people she knew （or at least had met）， leaders of society stripped down to their basics, modish matrons with their faces scrubbed and their hair woven into plaits. Tycoons of industry cradling glasses of cognac between their spread fingers and flapping around in velvet slippers.
A glance at her corsage watch told her it was not quite twelve-thirty in the morning.
What an eon has passed, she thought, between our dinner and now.
Jack led her to one of the green-pillowed chairs arranged around a small table. She sank into it, Carrie on the other side, Rosalie still standing. Robins found them eventually, looking somewhat disheveled as he wandered through the crowd. He joined them, straightening his tie.
Jack placed the lifebelts on the table but then stood without moving amid the languid commotion all around, his head only just slanted away, the yachtsman in him perhaps attuned to some deep phonic resonance that the rest of them could not discern.
Madeleine ran her fingers over the beads around her neck, tracing their repetitive smooth comfort.
“Madeleine! My gracious, Madeleine! Do you have any idea of what’s going on?”
Helen Bishop stood over her, tugging at the tapes of her life preserver.
Madeleine released her beads. “I’m sure they’ll tell us soon.”
“I should say so! I mean, they should! We’ve heard the most incredible rumors. They positively rousted us from our cabin and sent us up here. I forgot a few things and sent Dickie back, but still. Such a to-do!”
A group of young men near a mahogany-and-glass bookcase were laughing heartily, passing something from hand to hand. It was a chunk of ice, about as big as cricket ball, melting and dripping along their fingers.
Madeleine was no true sailor, not like her husband. From her summers in Bar Harbor, she knew how to handle a canoe and oars; from her time with Jack, she understood the basics of the Noma, a small echo of a mighty ocean liner such as this. But as she sat there in the padded comfort of her chair, she thought she could begin to perceive, like the hint of a suspicion that might turn out to be true or might not, a modest listing of the ship to starboard.
The string orchestra, arranged in a corner, began a cheerful ragtime tune.
She drew in a breath. “Jack, I think we should—”
She broke off as one of the ship’s officers clipped by, gold lace stripes flashing. It was Captain Smith. Jack quickly followed him, managing to snare his attention. They conferred together for a moment, the captain speaking in an undertone, Jack nodding. Then it was done; Jack came back to them while the captain moved to the fireplace.
“We’re going to have to put on our lifebelts, it seems,” he said. “Does everyone have one?”
“No,” said Helen. “Oh, no. I sent Dickie down to our cabin and he didn’t have his. I’d better go tell him.”
Jack turned to his valet. “Robins, be a sport and go back to our suite. Mrs. Astor needs warmer clothes. A hat and gloves with fur, if you can find them. And a coat. One for Miss Bidois, too.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jack caught him by the arm, dropped his voice. “Try to hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jack?” Madeleine reached up a hand to him.