Illusions of Happiness (11 page)

What she didn’t fancy were the few days they were to spend at a small hotel at Buxton in Derbyshire after the wedding and the intimate part of it as his wife. She’d grown fond of him of course but their relationship had been purely platonic, he seeming to prefer it that way somewhat to her relief. Now faced with her prospective duty as a wife she was becoming increasingly concerned at the thought, even to wondering what she thought she was doing, getting wed to an older man like James.

Another uneasiness had been her parents’ refusal to see her married, something one would have thought they’d be only too relieved to see happen. She’d hoped, maybe foolishly, to at least have had some reply to the letter she’d sent her mother months ago telling her of James’s proposal, but there had been nothing. She found herself making excuses for her, aware that all post going through her father’s butler who, being answerable to him, would have shown him the letter only to have it taken and torn up.

Now, ten days to the wedding, she had finally made up her mind to turn her back on them and concentrate on the lifestyle she now enjoyed, a nice little apartment, James spending out on her while still as gentlemanly as ever. The one thing that worried her was that he continually sidestepped any mention about her desire to trace the child taken from her.

‘So much to think about just now,’ he’d say. ‘For the time being we should concentrate on the wedding, my dear.’

Said so gently that she could hardly badger him further, especially as just lately the stress of the coming wedding was beginning to show on his face worrying her that by the time the day arrived he might even fall ill, the whole thing then having to be cancelled. At times she even dreamt that he had collapsed and died, all her hopes dashed. It wasn’t wise to push him until after the wedding.

The day was here. It had been arranged for James’s younger brother Henry and his wife Lydia to be witnesses. Having arrived from Northampton, they were now here with her in her apartment waiting for the car to take all three to the registry office not far away.

Having met them only once before it was like having strangers about her. Her mother should have been here, fussing and fiddling. These two virtual strangers served only to heighten that absence. The thought made her eyes grow moist.

Only a bride would know how emotional this day could be, tears of overwhelming joy, but for her they were tears of longing for her mother and it was all she could do to hold them back.

Lydia was looking at her in mild consternation. ‘I know, dear, it must be a little overwhelming for you but try not to spoil your face. It’ll soon be over. Then you’ll be as happy as any. James has been so lost since losing his first wife and you’ll be a good companion to him. It is what he needs.’

That unfortunate little speech did nothing to help her but at least she managed to dry her eyes enough to smile at the woman as she suppressed the longing to have her mother here beside her.

The limousine had arrived. The chauffeur helped her into the vehicle together with a close friend of James in black morning suit as if going to a funeral who sat down stiffly beside her. It should have been her father giving her away, not this man, this stranger. Hastily she pushed that thought aside as well, relieved when they drew up outside the registry office.

It was then she saw her. The small, thin woman in a long skirted grey suit and a high beaver toque trimmed with tulle that practically hid her face. But Madeleine recognized her immediately.

‘Mummy! Oh, Mummy!’ Hardly believing what she was seeing, Madeleine ran to her, leaving the other two standing. ‘You came!’

She stopped in her tracks as her mother recoiled. Madeleine stood where she had paused, having to speak across the small distance between them. ‘I never dreamt you would come. Where’s my father?’

‘He isn’t coming.’

Madeleine smothered the pang that swept through her. She should have known. ‘You travelled here alone?’ It was hardly believable. Her mother never travelled anywhere without him.

Lydia and Henry were hovering, uncertain whether to go on inside or not. She ignored them. ‘Does he know? Surely he didn’t let you come all on your own?’ She couldn’t bring herself to say anything other than ‘he’.

‘Your father is in the City. Miles drove me to Beaconsfield Station and helped me buy my rail ticket and I had a taxicab bring me here.’

‘How did you know where to find this place?’

‘Your father’s chauffeur made enquiries for me. Miles has been so very helpful but I cannot say anything to your father about it. He would be livid if he knew I’d come here, and Miles could be in such trouble.’

The words seemed to stress how bitter her father was towards her still. She knew now that for as long as he lived he would never forgive her. Yet the thought seemed to strengthen her. It was also a concern for her. Her mother had defied him. Should he find out, how would her mother fare? He’d never lifted a hand to her, but wouldn’t have to. He was capable of making life hell by words alone which was the reason why, until now, her mother had always been the subservient little woman.

Madeleine experienced a passing thought quite out of keeping with the situation – what had her mother been like when they were first married? Strong-willed? No, maybe not, but feeling loved and returning that love with an easy will. Only with the passing of years would she have diminished to become what she was now. Yet here she was, brave and strong and defiant. Madeleine wanted to cuddle her close but her mother would have shrunk away from the embrace, she was sure.

‘Would you introduce us, Madeleine?’ Lydia’s voice behind her made her jump. She gathered her wits.

‘This is my mother,’ she announced proudly.

Someone was running down the steps from the registry office, a young man, full of bounce and energy, his tone cheery but urgent as he called out:

‘Sorry to interrupt but Uncle James is waiting. I’m Anthony by the way – his only nephew, his sister Eileen’s son, who’s a widow. Lost me father ages ago, killed in the Boer War. I was eleven, and when—’

‘No more, Tony dear!’ Lydia cut in. ‘We must go in. Is your mother coming in with us?’ she asked Madeleine, who turned anxiously towards her mother.

‘Are you coming in, Mummy?’ Her mother gave a small nod, and meekly allowed herself to be guided up the steps by the effusive Anthony.

It made her day for her, having her at the ceremony, brief though it was. But her mother left almost immediately it was over, not staying for the celebratory gathering.

‘I don’t know how long it will take me to get home and I must be home before your father or I shall have to tell lies or get poor Miles into trouble,’ she said, already becoming tense at the thought. ‘I told Cook, Mrs Plumley – she’s still with us – that I was going to visit a friend in Beaconsfield. So I must make sure to be home and settled in time for your father.’

‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, Mummy?’ Madeleine asked anxiously.

Her mother nodded. ‘I shall be just fine.’

There was an unusual confidence in her voice. ‘I shall telephone from the station for Miles to come and collect me.’

This was another surprise. Her mother had always been intimidated by the telephone. As she left she gave Madeleine a kiss on the cheek saying, ‘Take care of yourself, Madeleine my dear, and be happy. I’m so very pleased for you. You will be fine from now on. And so shall I.’

With that she got into the taxicab James had found for her, waving as the vehicle drew away, leaving Madeleine weeping silently deep inside.

‘I love you, Mummy,’ she whispered as the taxi turned the corner out of sight. It was the last time she ever saw her mother.

She wrote during her short honeymoon in Derbyshire, saying that she hoped she was keeping well but she never received a reply. She guessed that her father would have probably intercepted it, opened it, read it and torn it up. Her mother would have been left never knowing she had written to her.

She was glad that she had purposely not mentioned their meeting, knowing her father of old, merely said she was happy being married, had plenty of money and didn’t need handouts any more – this meant for her father’s eyes – so there was no need to worry about her any more. She had not expected a response from him nor did she get one.

It was eighteen months later when she did hear – a letter arriving through his solicitor saying that her mother had been suffering from a galloping consumption for near on a year and had passed away early the previous week, her funeral having taken place two days ago. Such was her father’s attitude towards her, his own daughter, that he’d not even told her of her mother’s condition much less informing her of her death except through his solicitor, even worse deliberately keeping the date of the funeral from her.

The shock of hearing it in this way was like a fist hitting her between the eyes, grief like a dagger to the heart. James found her crumpled up on a sofa in the drawing room, her face buried in a cushion, one arm dangling, the letter limp between her fingers, on the point of fluttering to the floor.

He was by her side in seconds. ‘My dear, what is it? What is wrong?’

When she made no reply, he bent and retrieved the now fallen letter to quickly scan its contents. She heard his gasp of horror and when he finally spoke his tone was a mixture of anger and astonishment.

‘I can’t believe your father could do this to you. How could anyone be so callous?’

With that he bent and gathered her up into his arms, she allowing him to do so without any will of her own left to resist.

‘I am so terribly sorry, my dear,’ he murmured like one crooning to a child. ‘I met your poor mother only the once when she came to attend our marriage ceremony but I found her to be an exceptionally nice person. I took a liking to her on the instant of meeting her.’ His arms had tightened about her in a new surge of disbelief.

‘How could your father withhold her illness from you, much less not informing you of her tragic end, nor of the funeral. It seems to me quite deliberate. Forgive me but how vicious and cruel can the man be?’

Madeleine pulled herself away from his grip to throw herself back on to the sofa, though this time to sit upright, trying to collect herself. There was no need to forgive James his opinions. She was entirely in agreement. It was unbelievable how cruel her father could be. It made her heart ache and she vowed that to the day she died, she’d never forgive him.

Sitting on the sofa beside her, James said quietly, ‘You must put it behind you, my dear.’ Gently he took her hand. She let it linger there.

‘Try to think of nicer things,’ he went on. ‘Our companionship, the happiness you now have. I
have
made you happy, haven’t I, my dear?’

She nodded without speaking as he went on: ‘Think back to the lovely time on our honeymoon. I know it was nowhere exotic such as I would have loved to take you were it not for this terrible war. But when it is finally over, I will take you to places you have never seen before. I’ll make sure you’ll never be sad again, my dear.’

Listening to him, Madeleine’s mind went back to that first night at his home before travelling off to Derbyshire. She’d been so on edge, hardly able to concentrate on being introduced to his staff – Merton his manservant, his cook and housekeeper Mrs Cole, the housemaid Beattie, and Lily the scullery maid, and Robert his chauffeur – for thinking of James expecting to exercise his marital rights once upstairs. But he’d done nothing of the kind.

She’d never set foot in any of the upper rooms of his home and with heavily beating heart had allowed herself to be led up there, he preceding her, having not so much as held her hand, allowing her to follow two steps behind. In fact he had been as awkward and embarrassed as she, following him into the large, splendid bedroom with its big double bed which she instantly guessed had once been his and his first wife’s, they no doubt far more at ease with each other during their married life than James and she were at that moment, would ever be.

She hardly remembered what he had said, her mind more on the problem of changing into night attire and having to lay beside him. She did remember them both standing in the centre of the room a few inches apart, he leaning forward to kiss her, and apparently sensing her slight, instinctive almost, recoil and had instantly stepped back from her, going to a little table to one side that held a decanter of brandy and two glasses and had said as he poured out a tiny measure for each of them, ‘Maybe a small nightcap for us both.’

It was then she’d realized how awkward he too was feeling, and out of compassion for him, had forced herself to relax, taking the glass he’d offered with its tiny measure of spirit.

‘To our companionship,’ he had said quietly.

The word companionship had come as an overwhelming relief as he’d leaned forward and kissed her cheek – a tender kiss; no embrace, the kiss of an elderly man to a child, not what she had expected. She’d been nineteen, he indeed elderly in comparison, and now her husband. His moustache had felt soft against her skin, his lips even softer; flaccid, and she remembered having instantly recalled the firm demand of another much younger man’s lips on hers that had made her insides squirm with desire, and then had come the thought: what had she done, marrying a man thirty-seven years her senior? But she knew – so that one day she’d have her child back.

Since then she had raised the subject time and time again, yet more than eighteen months later he was still making excuses not to trace the baby – after all this time it might well be impossible; nothing to go on; his stockbroker business demanding all his attention right now; the way the war was going so many other concerns taking precedence.

She’d even suspected a personal reluctance to have a child, any child, especially one not of his blood, around him at his age. She’d begun to ask him less and less these days, slowly seeing the sense behind his reasoning. It had been a long time and that deep longing, that ache she used to feel had begun to diminish a little. Her life had settled down. Other than a reluctance to trace the child, he gave her everything she desired, while continuing to see their marriage as mere companionship for which she was grateful.