He had helped load the last boats with frantic women and children.
He had placed a woman’s hat atop the head of a boy so that the child would be allowed to board with his mother.
He had sawed tangled ropes free from the davits with his penknife.
He had freed all the dogs from the kennels.
He had stood back calmly amid the pandemonium after all of the lifeboats were gone, smoking a cigarette with two other gentlemen.
Margaret and Carrie and the rest—they must have thought they were comforting her. But the only common thread Madeleine found to connect any of their stories was that no one knew what actually became of her husband. No one saw him again once the ship foundered.
Or, if they had, no one would tell her about it.
*
Late at night, shrouded in fog, she could go out.
Hardly anyone else did, which meant she mostly walked the decks alone, wrapped in her coat and the concealing blanket, her skin and hair clammy with the cold moisture but not caring, because in these moments no one cried, and no one spoke of drowning or freezing or who was to blame. The only sounds she had to listen to were the ordinary ones of the ship herself. Creaking ropes. Thrumming engines. The water below, soughing past.
In the pre-dawn hours of Thursday, the day they were due to dock at last, Madeleine stood at a railing along the promenade deck, contemplating the smooth misted nothingness that erased the sea and sky. That erased the world that would be waiting for her, clawing for her, scrabbling, such a short while from now.
The mast lights behind her lent the deck and rail and darkness a silvery, prismatic glow.
“Mrs. Astor?”
It was a woman’s voice, unfamiliar. Madeleine didn’t turn from the railing.
“My name is Katherine Hurd. I’m with—”
“I know who you are,” Madeleine said, quiet.
“Oh.” The woman paused, then rallied. “I’m very sorry to bother you. I was wondering if you’d—if you’d care to say something. For the record.”
Madeleine closed her eyes. “Such as?”
“Anything. Anything at all you’d wish anyone to know, even as a matter of public interest. A number of the other wives have given me statements about that last night, or else messages meant for their loved ones.”
Madeleine felt her lips press into a smile, keen as a blade. “And you, of course, will publish those messages purely as a matter of public interest.”
“A brief statement of fact can do no harm,” countered Mrs. Hurd.
“I believe a statement of fact about me has already been released. I was saved. Surely that’s enough.”
“But—a more personal note, perhaps? For the sake of your family?”
Madeleine glanced at her. Katherine Hurd, the reporter’s wife, was in her middle thirties, maybe, tall and wearing a summer hat, despite the time and the weather. The hat was silk and straw—not nearly warm enough—with large, faux coneflowers fixed to the brim. The petals trembled with the wind.
Madeleine let the blanket fall back from her hair. “You’re not a journalist.”
Mrs. Hurd pursed her mouth, released a rush of air that lifted and withered into smoke. “No. Not as such.”
“But your husband is.”
“Yes.”
Madeleine faced her squarely. “Do you have any news about any other survivors besides us? Anyone else rescued and taken aboard other ships?”
Mrs. Hurd hesitated, then shook her head. “Captain Rostron has forbidden all wireless communication to, or from, either my husband or myself. He has confiscated all the stationery aboard the ship in the hope that we cannot write without it. He’s even had our cabin searched for scraps of paper. We’ve had no news at all, I’m afraid.”
Madeleine looked away again, gripping the railing. The vapor rolled by, devious and blank, devouring everything beyond her.
He might still be out there right this moment, tossed by the waves, another gossamer soul surrendered to the sea.
Or, he might have been saved. Another ship, another rescue, another wild reckless hope, and she’d see him soon again, walking toward her with his fast graceful stride, his hat tipped back. Kitty, too, and why not? Other dogs had survived the sinking; she’d seen them. Kitty never would have left Jack’s side.
It was the not knowing, not knowing, that was slowly cleaving her heart in two.
From somewhere below, above the perpetual swishing of the waves, rose a hollow, rhythmic note of metal striking metal, like a chain hitting a flagpole, an echoing ting ! ting! ting!
Mrs. Hurd covered Madeleine’s hand with her own. “Dear child,” she said, in a much firmer tone than before. She sounded like a schoolteacher, like a headmistress, in charge even though she really was not. “You must take heart. All is not yet lost.”