Illusions of Happiness (19 page)

She would wake up to lie, tearful and sleepless, planning all sorts of mad schemes to get her back, imagining a helpless child; unloved, living a life of drudgery, misery, hunger, and, dear God, beatings, maybe locked in dark cupboards by those who’d adopted her? Never could she truly see her as living happily, loving and loved by those who’d adopted her, for how could they truly love a child that was not their own. And surely some faint instinct would make her daughter fret for her true mother, just as she fretted for her?

Common sense told her she would no longer be a baby but a little girl, almost six years old now. Yet all she ever saw was the tiny little face gazing up at her as she had held in her arms for less than what, a minute, before she was snatched away from her?

Anthony gone, the need for James to help her trace the child had been growing to almost an obsession though most times she curbed the need to badger him. This morning after another miserable dream, her determination to confront him was so strong that she even vowed to threaten to leave him if he didn’t at least try. Never before had she resorted to such an ultimatum. James had been so kind to her, happy to grant her smallest wish – except this one it seemed. She had tried to make allowances – his age, his never having had children about him, her child not being his – always finding herself losing the argument. But this morning she would fight him if need be.

She needed someone to love, to love her. The man who had given her that wasn’t here any more and James was a poor substitute. He had married her purely for companionship, for which she’d been prepared to settle in the belief that with all his money and influence he would trace her baby for her. How wrong she’d been, saddled now with an old man.

In Anthony she had found the passion she’d been missing. Now even that was gone – would not come back, of that she was certain, finding it hard to believe that he’d merely been dallying with her, having a good time at her expense. Left desperately needing love she would find her child, hold her in her arms again, protect her with every ounce of her being.

At breakfast she said suddenly, ‘I’ve been thinking a lot lately of the baby I had before we met.’

He glanced over at her from the little side table where their breakfast had been laid out for them and she noticed at that moment just how old he was beginning to look. Now sixty-three, his age showed in the sagging jowls of a rounded face, the face that had become a little podgier this last year or so, his stomach a trace more portly, while she was twenty-four, a young woman still.

He came to the breakfast table and sat down, placing his plate of kedgeree in front of him, his face expressionless as he poured his coffee, drew the sugar bowl towards him and stirred in a teaspoonful of sugar, sipping the brew, taking his time. It was almost as if she hadn’t spoken.

‘James, did you hear what I said?’

Replacing the cup on the saucer he remained looking down seemingly busy forking over his kedgeree. Now, he said quietly, as though addressing his plate, ‘It was a long time ago, my dear, when you lost your baby.’

Madeleine felt suddenly angry. ‘I didn’t lose her, James. She was taken from me!’

There was another long pause. She waited, growing angrier by the second until she thought she might burst; hard to keep her voice steady as she said, ‘I really thought when you married me that you would help me find her, as you promised to.’

Now he looked up at her. ‘I did not promise, my dear. I said I would try were it humanly possible – which has not proved to be the case. But you obviously interpreted it as a definite yes, hearing only what you wanted to hear. I have never deluded myself that an extremely comely young woman as you, my dear, would wish to marry an elderly person such as myself unless it was from a hope of availing herself of my ability to pull strings . . .’

‘I never . . .’

‘Of course you did,’ he interrupted. The hitherto mild voice suddenly became sharp, a tone he had never before adopted with her.

‘And I in turn married you purely for companionship as well you know. I made that quite clear to you. I have never lied to you on that subject.’

‘But you did lead me to believe you would try to trace my baby.’

‘Time appears to have clouded your memory I think. I gave you no reason, Madeleine, to believe any such thing, although I recall you alluding to the fact that you’d had a child given up for adoption and hoped one day to be in a position to trace it. It would have been wrong of me to make such an empty promise to help you, knowing how impossible it would be to fulfil. Even less possible now, after all these years.’

‘So you were leading me on,’ she cried angrily. ‘Seeing me as gullible, so you could marry someone to keep you company in your old age. Why me – why not some elderly, lonely woman your own age, or was it that you merely fancied a younger woman around you so you could show her off?’

‘I really think we should stop there, my dear!’ He stood up suddenly, making her jump. His tone, though hard, was controlled, though the words, ‘my dear’, far from their usual gentleness, were brittle.

‘I’m sorry, James!’ she cried. ‘I didn’t mean it to sound that way.’

‘No?’ The query was hard.

Things were getting out of hand. She’d never seen this side of him before. Always he had been ever polite and gentle with her, long-suffering, patient, mild-tempered; she now saw a man revealing the face his business rivals saw – a man who took no prisoners. Even when presenting a likeable face to the world of business in which he lived, she realized that a man of any other calibre would never have survived the cut-throat profession of stocks and shares. She had often wondered how someone so placid when with her could command others in a profession so intense and sometimes ruthless. Now, hearing him address her as he had, she knew she had met her match. There would be no hope of tracing her child through him. She must look elsewhere. But where? There
was
nowhere. She felt defeated. Bursting into tears, she rushed from the room.

But two months later something did present itself – in the form of a letter from Anthony, addressed directly to her.

When Merton handed her the post, she immediately recognized the handwriting and her heart leapt. Leaving the rest of the post she hurried up to her bedroom and sat at her neat little bureau, tearing open the envelope with feverish fingers, grateful James had already left the house before the second mail of the day. The first always came very early in the morning, this second one of three daily posts arriving around eleven.

Reading the two pages of closely scribbled writing, joy soared within her like a bird on the wing, but coupled with great sadness for him, and such deep understanding that she found herself crying as she read:

My own true darling,

I dare not imagine what you must have been thinking of all this past year. Time and time again I wanted to write but could not bring myself to form the words. After losing mother, I felt I couldn’t face the hubbub of London. I felt strangely guilty over her death, almost in a panic. An old friend in Scotland said I had to get away, suggested spending some time with him until I was well enough to face the world again. I left the bank in charge of Mr Knowles my capable undermanager with whom I’ve stayed in contact by phone.

I thought of you so often and have been utterly wretched. Yet I couldn’t face coming back. The loss of mother affected me so much more than I could ever have imagined. I’d lost all control, rather like a type of shell-shock delayed from the war, coming quite out of the blue the day after losing her. I began to find myself unable to keep a muscle still, feeling I was losing my balance. Even in the quiet isolation of Scotland it’s taken a long time to recover. My friend has been so supportive. But for him I could have gone the way of many a shell-shocked man.

I thought I returned from France merely a bit shaken up with no more than a badly fractured leg, but it’s the wounds you don’t see. Lots of men like it will maybe never be cured. I did wonder if I would ever be the same again. I know I didn’t feel one hundred per cent in my mind when I came home to convalesce but couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even James, least of all you, my darling. I am so sorry, but I had no wish to inflict my confusion upon you, my sweetest love.

But I think I am recovered now, one of the lucky ones maybe, but for some time I just couldn’t bring myself to come back and face a normal life, much less have you see me in that state. So now I can only hope you still love me and want me but I will understand if you don’t.

I will be returning to London some time next week and if I can face it (though I’ll not know until I do), go to live in my mother’s house which, as you know, has been closed all this while. I’ve written to Uncle James to say I’m returning home (I’ve never told him either about my condition) but this is a special letter to you fervently hoping that your love and affection for me hasn’t died.

Please, darling, write and tell me how you feel about me and if you still feel anything for me. I wait upon your answer with the fervent hope that you still feel about me as you did.

I love you so very much.

Anthony

The letter ended with a long row of kisses to which she pressed her lips before folding it carefully in order to slip it beneath her jumper next to her heart, tearing the envelope to shreds and dropping them into the waste paper basket, not that she wished to destroy even his envelope, but with an irrational fear of anyone, James say, inspecting the basket and seeing her name in his handwriting.

It was a full two weeks before he came home. Having telegraphed James and his mother’s sister and her husband as to when he’d be coming home, Anthony found they were all there waiting to welcome him back, having been admitted by his mother’s butler whom he still retained.

He looked pale and weary and to Madeleine’s eyes, much thinner even though naturally slim. He appeared disconcerted to see them there waiting for him. Glancing from one to the other almost defensively, his eyes had gone immediately to Madeleine and although he didn’t smile, she saw some of that tension fade, his eyes soften with relief. She felt her heart go out to him and vowed that she would bring back that boyish grin, perhaps have his hands again roam with confidence over her naked body, her love helping return him to his earlier confident self.

Yet had she ever known him as he would have been before the trauma of war had got to him? Harking back to the days when he’d made love to her, the almost frantic urgency of his hands roaming her body, had he then been in the throes, albeit hidden, of shell-shock? If they ever made love again, would those hands have the same feverishness or would they be far gentler? In her innocence she had loved that sense of urgency. Would that now be lost – that was if he ever made love to her again? She couldn’t tell.

From that first exchange of glances, he hadn’t looked her way again, almost as if trying to avoid eye contact. She felt isolated as the conversation passed back and forth despite him seeming little interested in joining in other than answering questions as to his present health and hopes that he’d be able to pick up on his life again. Once as his aunt expressed her deep sadness over the loss of her sister, killing the conversation for a moment, Madeleine saw him wince, his lips tighten, until James tactfully turned to the present troubles in Ireland, Anthony for a while forgotten.

Madeleine too felt disinclined to talk, finding herself virtually ignored, and in a way glad to be so.

Finally, the butler came to enquire if they would be staying for tea. James immediately took the hint, catching an anxious message in the look on Anthony’s face and saying he thought his nephew was looking tired and perhaps it would be best to leave and allow him to settle into his home to rest after his long journey from Scotland.

Each visitor went over to Anthony to say farewell, the men shaking his hand, his Aunt Lydia kissing him on the cheek a little tearfully, no doubt thinking, if only his mother were here. Madeleine in turn approached him.

‘It’s good to see you home, darling,’ she whispered.

But he merely nodded, saying, ‘Thank you, it’s good to be home,’ for a moment making her doubt the contents of his letter to her.

His head lowered, not looking at her, nothing there to support the words he’d written, she felt her heart drop within her. Then without raising his head, he lifted his eyes to her and they were filled with a silent message of love, before he looked away to the departing guests, his Aunt Lydia giving him a final wave, and leaned back in his chair. Compelled to follow the well-wishers, Madeleine dared not look back at him.

James was waiting for her at the main door. Was it her imagination or was there a strange look on his face? Had he seen what had passed between her and Anthony? If so, had he correctly interpreted it? There was no way to know but she knew they’d come dangerously close to betraying themselves. Yet, strangely, she didn’t care. Her heart was sailing with joy in her breast. One day James would find out or be told, and what he would or could do about it, at this moment she couldn’t have cared a jot.

Nigh on eighteen months of silence, of loneliness, with no word from him, then hurt and anger at his unexplained silence other than the odd letter to James, she mentioned almost as an afterthought. That was now all in the past. Now she lay in his arms, her heart going out to him when she thought of all he’d gone through in his struggle to force himself back to sanity. Realizing that in the grip of a mental breakdown, he’d virtually isolated himself from everyone, even her, almost broke her heart each time she’d thought of it.

She wanted to creep inside him, comfort him with her warmth, feed him with her love, but all she could do was to take him into her body and afterwards to just lie in his arms.

Apart from that one letter to her three weeks ago now, he had not spoken of those months at all, and she felt it better not to pry. Although he’d bared his heart in his letter, he seemed unable to give voice to them. Maybe she would never know. Maybe best she didn’t. Better just to have his arms about her; be grateful just to have him back.