Illusions of Happiness (13 page)

He held her away from him at arm’s length to gaze gently into her tear-stained face, his expression sad, stemming her weeping for a moment.

‘And did you?’ he asked quietly.

Her response was a fresh outburst of tears and again he held her to him. ‘There, my dear, you mustn’t cry. I know you’ve been harbouring a great deal of bitterness but it doesn’t do. You only destroy yourself.’

‘That’s why I had to go and face him with it.’

‘It doesn’t appear to have made you feel any the better, my dear.’

‘It hasn’t,’ she sobbed, glad her lie had been discovered, leaving her free of its burden.

At that moment, with his arms tightly and comfortingly about her, she so wanted to love him, hating herself that she couldn’t, not in the way a girl of twenty-one needed to love. He was the kindest man anyone could ever wish for, a tribute completely at odds with his profession as a stockbroker. She couldn’t imagine a man in that profession being easy-going in his business, yet with her he was always kind and sweet and thoughtful.

And yet, as he held her to him, murmuring words of comfort to her, sounding so sincere, there came thoughts of his gentle yet stubborn refusal to bow to this longing of hers to trace the baby taken from her. What was it they said – an iron fist in a velvet glove? Maybe that described it. Soft spoken yet hard-headed, biding his time until finally frustrated, she gave up. It was quite possible.

Allowing herself to continue being held close, she saw him for a second or two in a different light, and moments later found herself shaking off these uncomfortable thoughts, almost telling herself that she understood. No man approaching sixty would want to find himself saddled with a baby. There came another thought that hadn’t occurred to her before: the baby taken from her all that time ago would now be older. Why hadn’t that struck her until now? Yet her mind still saw a tiny scrap wrapped in its shawl, a tiny face gazing up at her, the warm baby smell wafting up to her. She felt the faint impression of tiny limbs against her body, and her senses cried out afresh for the baby they had taken from her.

‘I’m so miserable,’ she whispered against James’s shoulder. ‘I’m so terribly unhappy.’

‘He is not worth it, my dear,’ he murmured into her hair, missing the source of her true unhappiness utterly.

There were times when Madeleine wondered if she would ever recover from that traumatic encounter with her father.

Hardly more than a few minutes with him but seven months later those few minutes felt like a lifetime. If only she hadn’t lost her temper, screeching at him like a child in a tantrum. He, on the other hand, after his initial shock at seeing her, had remained perfectly composed, until silenced into defeat she had finally fled, still in a rage with nothing achieved, such was her father’s ruthless command over others. She should have known the power of his will from past experience.

But she too was strong-willed. She would put the memory behind her, centre her thoughts instead on throwing a splendid party for Christmas Eve, less than six weeks away, as well as for New Year’s Eve. It would help her regain her self-esteem, show that she could be the perfect hostess, in full control of whatever situation might pop up. She had already begun to send out invitations and had already received a good few acceptances.

The first-floor rooms, reached by a beautifully carpeted staircase could accommodate fifty people with ease as she had discovered from last year’s festive gathering. It had been her first attempt at organizing such a party and she had been nervous then.

James hadn’t been at all keen on the idea. ‘Do you think it right,’ he’d said, ‘throwing such a grand function when we’re still at war?’

‘It’s just what we should be doing,’ she’d told him, ‘keeping up morale. This war has been going on for three years now and everyone said it would be over in a few months. How much longer? We hear so much bad news from the front, people need cheering up. A party would help do that.’

It had all gone splendidly although he had stayed in the background most of the time. She wondered if he’d do the same this year.

She’d discovered during their first few months of marriage that James preferred to spend the festive season quietly with his widowed sister-in-law Mabel at her home in South Kensington together with her older sister and brother-in-law.

At the time not knowing enough people to organize a party, she hadn’t enjoyed spending that first Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve with virtual strangers. They’d been nice enough, but like James, rather quiet and withdrawn. Had it not been for his nephew, Anthony, who’d managed to get leave to be with his mother that Christmas, she’d have felt rather like a fish out of water.

His lively chat had been an immensely welcome deliverance from the dull conversation that had promised to endure the entire day. Yet she found he could become serious, even intense at times when discussing politics or the war’s progress, still going on more than a year after everyone had said it would be over in a few months.

‘I’ve a feeling it’ll be carrying on for several more years yet,’ he’d said, his handsome face deadly serious for once, ‘certainly far longer than a lot of people expected.’

‘What makes you think that?’ she’d asked as everyone else adopted half concealed expressions of mild exasperation at his outspoken opinion.

‘Stalemate,’ he’d continued. ‘Dug in as they are which side’s going to give way? The whole thing’s bogged down in mud and as for this ridiculous business of sending men over the top, mostly at a walking pace, to be mown down in their thousands, like cattle to the slaughterhouse, as far as I can see the big brass are living in the past, trying to conduct a war the way they did back in the last century. It’s a wonder they don’t stick our lads in scarlet uniforms so they can stand out even more for Jerry to shoot at. It’s more like a bloody shooting gallery!’

‘Anthony!’ his mother had cried out. ‘Please, my dear! Please try not to swear in company.’

Madeleine could still remember his response which had been to give her a cryptic, sideways glance, together with a crooked grin and a brief wink that had had the effect of making her feel as if she was being treated as his confidante. That and the pleasing timbre of his tone had raised her heartbeat so much so that for months afterwards she’d find herself thinking of him, recalling his voice in her head. She would find herself imagining what it might be like to be married to him, be kissed and caressed by him and hear words of love as he lay beside her.

In fact it was what was missing in her own marriage. She and James had slept together only on their honeymoon and for all that had happened there might as well have been a bolster between them down the centre of the bed, he kissing her lightly on the forehead before turning over to sleep, in the morning enquiring if she had slept well – like some fond, elderly father.

Not that she wanted physical love from him. She was fond of James, she told herself, but not that way. Back home, to her relief, it was arranged each to have their own bedrooms, she with her own little sitting room next to hers while he had his library just along the hallway. As he had said, their marriage was purely one of companionship. They ate together, would relax compatibly together in the morning room or of an evening in the drawing room before retiring to their separate rooms for the night, went to the theatre together, met friends, attended meetings together, and this way they got on very well.

But sometimes she would find herself longing to have been married to someone younger; someone like Anthony. At times she was even aware of being glad he was still single. Were he married she might not experience this ridiculous racing of her pulse every time his name cropped up, though why being married should make a difference it was hard to say.

The simple answer came that he would no longer be free for her to daydream about him. Yet were he to marry she’d be devastated. If only she had known him before having met James, she might have ended up with him instead and would have been happy in a normal marriage rather than what she now had. Then common sense would prevail, telling her that had she not met James she would not have known Anthony anyway and she would be angry at herself for these silly dreams of hers.

Even so she found herself jumping each time the post arrived, hoping it might contain a letter from him. Merton would bring it in on a silver tray as they sat at breakfast or at lunch. James would scan each envelope before slitting it open. Now and again they were from friends or his younger brother and he would read them out aloud to her. More often they were business letters or letters from colleagues or his bank or an invitation to a business meeting. But she’d watch hopefully, all the time her heart beating rapidly, only to feel it drop like a dead weight as he lay each to one side.

The few times Anthony had written, hardly more than a couple this year, each letter contained little more than a few scribbled lines to say he was still safe and well while describing life on the Western Front merely as being pretty awful at times. James would read them aloud to her but there was never any mention of her.

The last one had been some time ago, in October. Since then there had been her Christmas Eve party and the one seeing out nineteen seventeen in a fervent hope that nineteen eighteen might eventually see better news. She had finally heeded James’s advice to tone down her parties out of respect for a general bleakness at the continuing stalemate along the entire Western Front coupled with news of the Italian army’s collapse before a fierce German onslaught. The only news to lighten the heart had been the Canadians recapturing Passchendaele in November and a hope that America having entered the war last April might help even the odds eventually.

Anthony’s last letter to his mother had been three months ago and she had become worried sick by it. This morning she arrived out of the blue, to be announced into the morning room and startling Madeleine and James who were taking their ease over a cup of after-breakfast tea.

Her narrow features were drawn and wan. ‘I’m so worried. I can’t help it,’ she mewed yet again in her wavering voice as she gazed into the blazing fire that had been stoked up against the January chill.

The tea Madeleine had poured for her from a fresh pot their maid had brought in over ten minutes ago still lay untouched and was now lukewarm. She looked old. She’d always looked older than her brother-in-law despite being a few years younger, her sallow skin far more lined than his somewhat smooth skin, but this morning she looked positively haggard.

‘If anything has happened to him, I would have received a telegram by now wouldn’t I?’ she asked pitifully.

‘My dear Mabel, of course you would,’ James told her sternly, looking vaguely uncomfortable as he leaned forward in his armchair. ‘You must try not to worry. So long as there’s been no telegram, nothing official, no dire news telling you . . . well, you know what . . . you have to believe he is fine, merely not at liberty to write at the moment, far too much going on over there. You must have a little faith, my dear.’

It was obviously no comfort to her nor did it help Madeleine’s own fears for his safety. She had to admit that to some extent her own concern for him had taken her mind off that still lingering memory of her traumatic meeting with her father and for that she felt, maybe selfishly, almost grateful.

Even so it was with profound relief two weeks later that Mabel came to say she’d at last received a letter from Anthony saying he was OK but had sustained a shrapnel wound in the soft tissue of the upper part of his right arm; nothing serious, but he had landed up in a field hospital to have the shrapnel removed and had been unable to use the arm for a while. He’d not had the heart to ask any of the overworked nurses dealing with so many terribly injured men to write a letter for him.

His letters were arriving again if infrequently and few and far between. Then around late April they again ceased. News from the Western Front was as depressing as ever, terrifying at times. Madeleine found herself praying almost desperately for his safety, often conscious of tears of premature grief filling her eyes should she let herself imagine something awful happening to him. It felt almost as if she was becoming part of him; far more than was healthy for a woman married to someone else.

She was keeping in as close a contact with his mother as she dared without appearing as if she were harassing her for news of him. She would call on her, usually to take afternoon tea with her hoping she would feel glad to have someone visiting, but she knew that sooner or later she could be in danger of becoming less welcome by visiting too often.

‘What do you think must be preventing him writing?’ she queried of her as casually as she could while they sat drinking tea, these days without the accompaniment of rich cake.

‘I’m sure I don’t know!’ bleated Mabel, the reply sounding a little testy to Madeleine’s ears. ‘I daren’t think. Maybe it’s that he is being troubled by that injured arm of his again.’

‘Maybe,’ Madeleine agreed, quickly changing the conversation to more trivial matters. But her heart ached with thinking about his safety as Mabel rang the bell for the tea things to be taken away.

In May, with the war well into its fourth year and still grinding on, she had finally yielded to James’s requests to curb her extensive social entertaining because there was little to warrant any such indulgence with no promise of peace on the horizon. But she did vow to give the biggest party ever seen the moment the war was over, although that prospect looked as distressingly bleak as ever, kiddies growing up having never known what it was like with this ever deepening food rationing to see a well-laden table. The thought of children inevitably reminded her of her own baby. Where was she? Was she going hungry, those who’d adopted her, uncaring as to how she fared so long as they ate?

As always, she forced herself to shut out that vision knowing it would only start her off condemning James yet again over his obvious reluctance to trace the child for her. She’d tell herself time and time again that she could understand his reluctance – his age, not his child, born out of wedlock – and tried not to think ill of him.