Illusions of Happiness (26 page)

Six days more confined to bed, and still James hadn’t come near her.

Surely he must have guessed what she’d gone through; must have heard her crying out during the horrible process of something almost akin to a full-term birth yet with nothing to show for it in the end.

She had asked to know the sex but Dr Peters had said the sex of an aborted fetus would not be recognizable. She hated that word aborted. It sounded so unwholesome as if she’d deliberately got rid of it. It shocked her too, that it was not termed a miscarriage, which would have sounded so much more wholesome.

Afterwards she had lain drained, praying that James would decide to eventually see her. He hadn’t come near and now she lay slowly recovering and trying not to feel bitter. Tomorrow she would get up, no matter what Dr Peters said. Tomorrow was Wednesday. She’d make herself feel well enough to visit Anthony. The day after her miscarriage Anthony came to the house to visit her, his aunt, as any fond nephew would, but was told that she needed complete rest, no visitors as yet apart from her husband lest she became too stressed. Everyone thought her constant weeping was related to what was now being generally referred to as her miscarriage, her devastation at losing her and James’s baby. Only Mrs Cole knew why she cried.

James too was probably devastated but not for the reason the staff believed. He sat alone in the seclusion of his rooms, not even Merton allowed to come near. Madeleine knew he must be feeling utterly lost and betrayed.

Fortunately, as far as she knew, he had no idea of the identity of the father. She trembled to think how much worse it would be if he knew it to be his own nephew. Eventually he would find out and it terrified her – as if she hadn’t wronged him enough already. But if only he could bring himself to see her, maybe she could explain how starved of love she had been – then she scolded herself for such a damned foolish thought, expecting a wronged man to sympathize with such a sad excuse.

In all these six days, James had not come anywhere near her; it was like some slow torture, knowing how he must feel and all the while feeling as wretched herself because of it.

Going to Anthony was the only solution she could think of to alleviate this need for someone to understand and sympathize but not for the wrong reasons. In fact Anthony might be deeply relieved that there was no longer any need to send her away for an abortion. She could hardly wait to be with him, but leaving the house without being seen, to be stopped and asked what she thought she was doing, what reason could she give? She couldn’t sleep that night for thinking about it.

Next morning she awoke to an idea that seemed to have formed while she’d slept. Of course, the only one who knew her secret was Mrs Cole. It was still early as she got herself out of bed trying to ignore the weakness in her legs from six days of inertia. She dressed warmly, after a fashion, the late February mornings chill and damp, then crept cautiously down the back stairs, one slow step at a time. Her caution had less to do with meeting any of the staff on the stairs as waves of weakness that almost overwhelmed her halfway down to the kitchen where Mrs Cole would be starting her day.

It was a relief not to meet anyone, have to endure a look of surprise from someone seeing her there. Beattie would be in one of the main rooms clearing out a fire grate, resetting it for the day ahead. Young Lily would be cleaning in the kitchen or whatever she did at this time of morning. Merton, if he wasn’t with James, would still be in his butler’s pantry downstairs.

Mrs Cole turned around at her entrance, startled at seeing her there, her voice shrill with alarm. ‘Madam, what on earth are you doing up?’

Madeleine noted the way she addressed her, no dear or love now. In an odd way, it hurt.

Mrs Cole said, ‘You shouldn’t be up. You should be in your bed,’ and seeing her dressed for outdoors, adding almost unnecessarily, ‘you’re not thinking of going out, Madam! You’re far from well enough.’

Madeleine drew herself up. She couldn’t be seen slumping against the door for all she felt weak from having descended the stairs.

‘Mrs Cole, I need you to get me a taxi, please.’ She hated the way she said ‘please’. It sounded almost servile, pleading, humbling.

The woman regarded her slowly then motioned to the scullery maid to absent herself. ‘Go and put that rubbish over there into one of the bins outside ready for the dustmen,’ she ordered then turned back to Madeleine. At Madeleine’s look of pleading, her tone became a little gentler.

‘You’re going to see
him
?’ Madeleine nodded. ‘Do you think you should be doing that just now? Mr Ingleton . . .’

Madeleine shook her head but replied, ‘I have to. I need to . . .’ She broke off feeling herself growing faint and unsteady. With an effort she came upright, held on to the door knob to steady the sensation of swaying. The movement seemed to revive her and she took a deep breath. ‘You don’t understand, Mrs Cole, I—’

‘Oh I understand well enough. I suppose there’s little else you can do. The master’s in shock as you can imagine. And hurt. Deeply hurt. But I suppose if you’ve no care for him in the state of shock he must be in, you’ll do what you feel you have to. I’ll telephone for a taxi for you. What goes on or happens after that is up to you, I suppose. None of my business.’

With that she went from the kitchen to telephone for a taxi, leaving Madeleine to sink down on a chair beside the preparation table and wait. Lily came back from putting the rubbish in the dustbin. She eyed Madeleine curiously but said nothing and knelt down beside her bucket to resume her task of washing the floor by the sink.

By the time Mrs Cole returned, Madeleine was feeling much stronger – edgy, but more in control of herself.

‘The taxi will be here in about five minutes,’ she stated and went on cutting rind off the bacon she’d been preparing in case the master felt like having breakfast, something he hadn’t done since this business started, but she’d prepare it anyway as she had done these last six or seven mornings. The rest of the staff had had theirs at the ungodly hour of six o’clock: porridge, as always, very fortifying for a working day.

The door was opened by Jessop, Anthony’s manservant and chauffeur, who managed to master a stare of surprise at seeing her here so early and with a smile stepped back to let her in.

‘Mr Anthony is still in his bed, Mrs Ingleton,’ he said as he conducted her into the lounge. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Meantime, please make yourself comfortable. Is there anything you would like? Some tea? Or coffee?’

‘I’d simply adore a cup of tea,’ she said gratefully, adopting the easy way she and Anthony spoke together, the way all the young modern society people spoke, full of over-accentuations; the way she and James never spoke at home, he still tending to live as if having never left the last decade behind.

The tea was refreshing and was accompanied by a plate of gorgeous bourbon biscuits, several of which she devoured, feeling suddenly hungry. She felt stronger too. In the taxi she’d collapsed back on the seat, her head reeling, her body feeling limp and lifeless. At one time she’d wondered just what she thought she was about, that she should never have embarked on this mad venture. She’d been sure she could suddenly collapse and die in the vehicle. How she had got herself up the steps to Anthony’s house she hardly knew.

Having managed to control herself as Jessop opened the door to her, and having managed to walk steady and upright behind him to the lounge, she’d been overwhelmingly glad to sink into an armchair, be left alone for a few minutes to recover until his cook came in with the tray of tea and the biscuits. She hadn’t had breakfast but felt she couldn’t have consumed more than one or two of them; enough to make her feel human again.

By the time Anthony came down, still in his dressing gown and silk choker, the tan silk trousers of his pyjamas peeping from underneath, she was feeling more like her old self again, glad that she had taken the risk in coming here. She needed to put this last week behind her and that could only be achieved by being here with him.

He stood looking at her. ‘How’re you feeling?’ There was deep concern and such a depth of tenderness in his eyes that she wanted to leap up and throw herself bodily into his arms but the effort might have been too much. Revived as she felt, she knew she still wasn’t right and that subsequent six days confined to bed had only helped to weaken her in her opinion.

She smiled up at him. ‘I’m a lot better,’ she said but he was staring down at her.

‘You look drained.’

The conversation seemed stilted. Fear shot through her that he might have lost some, if not all of his love for her because of what had happened.

‘I suppose I am,’ she said in the same stilted tone. ‘But I’ll be better soon. Then we can take up where we left off . . .’

She let her voice die away. He was still staring down at her. He’d not moved from the spot.

‘I’m sorry,’ she went on. ‘I realize you wouldn’t have expected me to turn up like this. I suppose you’ve got to be off to the bank, even though it’s Wednesday and we usually meet on Wednesdays . . .’

Again she let her voice die away, at a loss, not knowing what to say to him, her heart sinking as if through the very carpet.

Suddenly he exclaimed, ‘Sod the bloody bank! Oh God, Maddie, I’ve been so worried. I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell anyone . . . about us . . .’

As she stared up at him, he broke off and, bending over her, pulled her up into his arms and she clung to him as though she would die if he let her go now.

‘James doesn’t know it was you,’ she whispered, her face buried in the warm curve of his neck and his shoulder.

She so wanted him to make love to her, but instinct told her it was too early after what had happened and maybe even dangerous.

‘He’ll have to know sooner or later,’ he whispered.

‘There’s no need. Since I’ve lost what I was carrying, it’s done. It’s over – no need for him to know whose it was, so long as we’re cautious.’

She knew he would be. He had no wish to go through this fear again. ‘In time we can get back to where we were.’

He pulled away from her a little way still holding her. ‘I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this, darling. Maybe it’d be best if he did know. He would divorce you. He may do that even now. And then we can go away together and be married.’ It sounded wonderful, but James wasn’t well enough it seemed to think of divorce or any other course.

The weeks were going by and still James had hardly left his room. Maybe he did when she wasn’t there. She thought to ask Mrs Cole then thought better of it. These days Mrs Cole was keeping herself at a distance. If they happened to have cause to speak, she now addressed her as Madam, no longer love or dear.

Chronic ill health was now preventing James from going to his office, it being managed without him, not quite so efficiently, she felt, as when he’d been at the helm. She had learned a lot about investment business from him and her own money pursuits seemed to falter very little, swelling her bank balance considerably and she had little need to consult him on anything. Not that she could these days the way his health was going.

He hardly seemed to care what she did; whether she was at home or out. At least it didn’t seem to matter any more that she went out each Wednesday. She seldom set eyes on him to know whether he cared or not.

‘He’s going to have to know the truth about us sooner or later,’ she told Anthony as she lay in his arms, after they had made love, with Anthony having taken the utmost care to see her safe. Her fear of causing herself hurt after her miscarriage, as she preferred to call it, had now dissolved.

‘Of course he’s aware that I’ve had a relationship but he has never questioned me. But then I never see him. Merton says that he’s not at all well but I’m not allowed to even go into his room. In fact when the doctor was called a couple of days ago I tried to go to him to see how he was but his door was locked. It seems only he and Merton have a key. Even our housemaid doesn’t go in unless Merton allows her. And he takes all James’s meals up to him. I don’t know what to make of it. I’m sure he hates me.’

Anthony tightened his arm about her, drew her closer to him. ‘Why should you let that worry you, my love? The way things are you should be pleased. You’re more or less as free as a bird to do what you like.’

She had to agree. ‘But I worry about his health,’ she couldn’t help saying.

On the Friday at the end of March, Dr Peters was called in the middle of the night. Madeleine heard the sound of people moving about downstairs, then someone coming up the main staircase, voices, Merton’s and the doctor’s, James’s door being opened and, as she came fully awake, being closed gently.

Instantly she was out of bed, throwing her dressing gown around her as she made for his room. The door was closed but it opened easily as she turned the brass handle. She half expected James to explode, ‘Get out of this room!’ but all she saw was Dr Peters bending over him with Mrs Cole standing by.

‘What’s wrong with my husband?’ she burst out. ‘Is he very ill?’

Dr Peters turned and came towards her, his face grave as he spoke in terms a layman could understand.

‘As you know, dear lady, your husband has been suffering for some time now from chronic bronchitis since last contracting pneumonia. I am afraid he has now suffered an acute attack of bronco-pneumonia and it is serious, very serious. There is also pleurisy and it is crucial he be taken to hospital immediately. At this moment I am waiting for the ambulance. I cannot understand why I wasn’t alerted sooner. I should have been called to him much earlier. Did you not realize how ill he was, Mrs Ingleton?’

‘No one told me,’ Madeleine could only gasp. She turned towards Mrs Cole for help. ‘Why wasn’t I told? I had no idea.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought you were that interested,’ was the hissed reply, the sting of the words piercing right through her.

‘He’s my husband!’ she cried out, only to receive a curt, ‘Humph!’ but she ploughed on in anger. ‘Yet I’ve not been allowed to even go into his room to find out how ill he was.’