“Sorry, darling, I should have thought of it before. Your frock is very pretty, but if they’re likely to move us outside at all, you won’t be warm enough.”
“It’s best to be sensible,” Carrie said.
“Precisely.”
By the fireplace, Captain Smith had raised both hands without a word, gradually gathering the notice of the crowd. The ragtime song ended with a few abrupt twanging notes.
“Ladies and gentlemen. Thank you. I require now that everyone put on their lifebelts and begin to move up to the boat deck—”
“What the bloody hell is going on?” snarled a man behind Madeleine, but the captain only continued without expression, speaking as if he had not been interrupted.
“—the boat deck, if you please, in an orderly fashion, with your lifebelts on.”
“Are we sinking?” called out a woman, but Captain Smith didn’t answer her, only bent his head and walked away.
“Well,” announced a matron to Madeleine’s right, plump and red-haired. “We just came from there, and let me tell you, I am not going back! I don’t care if it is the captain’s order! It’s like an icebox out in the open up there, and I will not go!”
“But mother—” protested the young woman at her side.
“No. I’m sorry, but no. We’re going back to our cabin. That’s the end of it.”
Several others looked around, glowering, but as the captain had vanished, they could only complain to their fellow passengers.
Jack picked up one of the belts, held his hand out to Madeleine. “It will be easier to put them on here, rather than up there. One less thing to worry about. Let me help you.”
He worked quickly, obviously familiar with odd rectangular sections of the vest, the long string ties. She held out her arms as he secured the last bow, then readjusted it around her waist, trying to find a way to make it more comfortable. It was heavier than it looked.
The lounge was emptying. Jack turned to Rosalie, secured hers in the same way, and then finally slipped into his own.
They were already outside, walking down the enclosed promenade—it was an icebox out in the open air; the plump woman had been right—when Robins caught up to them. A loud hissing sound was coming from somewhere above, and they didn’t hear him at all until he shouted.
“Sir! Colonel Astor, sir!”
The valet rushed up carrying a mass of slippery furs, having to pause twice to catch it all up in his arms again.
Jack snapped open one of the deck chairs, and Robins carefully set everything upon it.
As people passed by, Madeleine put on the white cardigan Robins had brought, the fur-lined hat （but no gloves）， even the extra pair of stockings he’d somehow found. She struggled into the sable coat （very tight with the added bulk of the lifebelt around her）， and Jack finished it all with her fox shawl, wrapping it around her shoulders.
“Sir,” said Rosalie, tentative. “I’m sorry, sir, but this is not my coat.”
She indicated the mink that was left, spread across the slats of the chair.
“Just put it on,” Madeleine said. “For goodness sake, you’ll freeze otherwise.”
They joined the other passengers trudging up the stairs.
The hissing grew louder, more and more piercing. By the time they reached the boat deck, it had climbed into a shriek, hurting her head. She pressed her hands over her ears and turned in a circle to find the source of it: pipes running along the forward funnels were furiously venting steam, great clouds of vapor ballooning up to the stars.
Titanic’s crew swarmed around the lifeboats, ripping off their covers, letting out the ropes, yelling at each other without sound. Groups of passengers stood back and watched them work as if they were watching a play, with looks of detached interest.
The frigid air bit her skin, stung her eyes. Jack touched her elbow, his face close, his lips moving, but even when she lowered her hands, she couldn’t hear him over the roar. He nodded his comprehension, took her by her hand, and pulled her along. She glanced back to make certain the rest were following as they threaded through the clumps of people.
He led them all to the gymnasium, a well-heated space that smelled strongly of leather and bleach. But after the door was closed behind them, at least the chill abated, and the scream of the escaping steam lowered to a less painful decibel.
The benches were claimed, so they aimed for the electric horses. She eyed the sidesaddle before her, knew she’d never manage it with the fashionably tight skirts she wore, and sat sideways instead, as if on a very short chair.