The saloon led to a hallway—he was not there either, squeezed up against the polished wood wall—which led to the smoke room, full of stained glass and even more men. There was a scattering of ladies in here, too, lodged in this sanctuary of masculinity. The women slept atop the sofas, their hats and gloves and shoes arranged neatly nearby.
Madeleine crept among them as if on cat’s paws, keeping her blanket tugged close against her chin.
He was not here.
She kept going, not understanding the layout of the ship and not caring to, only walking along as her feet took her, finding more people, their expressions etched with sorrow, even asleep—not him, not him—moving on.
*
On a wooden bench in another narrow corridor, she passed an older woman covered to her waist in falling furs, a satin cushion beneath her head. One hand rested atop her sternum, clenched into a defiant, spotted fist. Her hair was gray and stringy and unkempt. She was breathing heavily, eyes closed, her features cadaverous.
It was Charlotte Cardeza. The grand Mrs. Cardeza, looking like nothing more than a grizzled fishwife caught napping in the open, her mouth agape, aged and senseless.
Madeleine edged past, paused, went back to her. As carefully as she could, she lifted that bony knotted fist, straightened the furs and slid the top one up further, all the way up to Charlotte’s chin, before lowering her hand again.
Kinder hearts are stronger, her mother had once said.
Maddy needed to be strong.
She crept on.
*
A deck below, in what might have been the second-class lounge, Madeleine at last encountered a pair of women awake, wrapped in blankets and nestled in chairs in a corner, holding hands and conversing in whispers. She paused at the entrance, then turned away to grant them privacy.
“Madeleine.”
She turned back, uncertain in the low light. The woman spoke again, her voice scarcely a murmur above the steady thudding of the liner’s engines.
“Madeleine, it’s me.”
“Margaret?”
The woman stood, shedding her blanket. She wore black velvet and diamonds and opened her arms, smiling sadly, and Madeleine, all at once and without warning, lost her courage.
She rushed forward to embrace her, barely missing three people along the way.
“They didn’t tell me,” she said into her friend’s shoulder. Her body trembled; her face felt wet and hot. Margaret’s auburn hair was loosely bound into a plait, and Maddy turned her face into the rough silk of it, scented of rosemary and brine. “They didn’t tell me you were here. I asked and they said they thought so but didn’t know. They said they’d find out for me but didn’t know.”
Margaret patted her on the back. Maddy hardly felt it through the thick ruin of the coat.
“I’m sorry,” Margaret whispered. “I should have come to you before. But the doctor said you were to be left undisturbed, and there’s been so much to be done down here with everyone, with all these poor people from steerage. But I should have come. I am sorry.”
Maddy was crying now, trying not to, trying not to make any noise at all so that no one around them would wake, her lungs burning and shrinking. She pulled back, scrubbing her hands along her face. She felt the stare of Margaret’s companion, candidly curious, and ducked away from it.
“Have you seen Jack? Is Jack here?”
“No, my dear heart. No. I’ve been up and down this ship, top to bottom. And . . . no.”
Madeleine nodded, wiping at her cheeks again. She lifted her gaze to a painting of a Spanish galleon battling lapis-colored waves. It hung just a fraction crooked on the wall, the ormolu frame a peeling glimmer against the darker wood behind it.
“Come on.” Margaret touched her arm. “Come with me, little mother. We need to get you back to bed.”
*
The rain turned into fog, and the fog consumed the ship and everything around her, forcing the Carpathia to slow. Hours and hours were added to their voyage home.
Madeleine slept more, hidden beneath her blankets. Occasionally she’d wake, either from the booming blasts of the foghorn or else whenever Carrie or Rosalie or the doctor would show up. She’d eat the food they’d brought and answer the physician’s questions, and then fall back into her ocean of slumber.
It was Carrie who told her there was no sign of Victor Robins, the valet, either. Madeleine could only nod.
If she suffered any nightmares during those damp gray days, she couldn’t remember them, and for that Madeleine was intensely grateful.
Her visitors brought any tidbits of news they could glean about Jack, about what had happened to him after Lifeboat Four had launched.