Madalena

by Sheila Walsh

  Kit looked uncertain and her eyes beseeched him. ‘Kit ‒ I make you my promise! It is over. I do not wish your mama any further upset.’

  Kit shrugged. ‘Very well, m’dear ‒ if that’s how you want it, but I ain’t happy about it. If you ever feel that way again …’

  ‘I shan’t.’

  And indeed, by the time Kit left to return to London she seemed almost herself again, if a little quiet.

  Her aunt was frankly puzzled. The quarrel with the Duke must have left its mark and yet the child resisted all attempts to speak of what had happened, even with Phoebe. There were no tears, no tantrums, no refusal to eat ‒ though, to be sure, her appetite was ever tiny ‒ nothing, in fact, that Mrs Vernon would have considered normal in a young girl nursing a broken heart. It was just that one sometimes had the oddest sensation ‒ as though a vital spark inside her had been snuffed out!

  It was with some trepidation that she announced one morning to the girls that she was intending to drive over to Lytten Manor later in the day to visit the Duchess.

  Madalena’s head came up slowly, a delicate flush straining her cheek. ‘Do you think … that is, would it be proper for me to visit with you?’ The words came in a rush.

  Mrs Vernon stared, and hurriedly collected herself. ‘Why, of course you may, child ‒ if you are sure?’

  ‘Merci ‒ then I will come.’ Later, in the carriage, Madalena queried with diffidence, ‘How is … Devereux’s mama ill? I do not believe he ever said.’

  ‘I understand it to be a disease of the heart. She suffers a great deal ‒ and with such patience!’ Mrs Vernon sighed. ‘It is quite tragic. She has a companion ‒ a Miss Amelia Payne. She is a distant cousin of her late husband ‒ a most pleasant woman and devoted to the Duchess.’

  The carriage had plunged into a tunnel of towering trees through which the sun flashed in spasmodic dappled brilliance. The driveway climbed and meandered through luxuriant flowering shrubs until suddenly they were out in the open. Madalena gasped, for it seemed they would drive over the edge of the cliff, then the carriage swerved sharply and in a moment drew to a halt.

  Lytten Manor stood, rocky and obdurate like a fortress, with its back to the sea, its grandeur softened only slightly on the landward side by the creeper which tangled obstinately upwards, disguising its unlovely proportions. Unexpectedly, wild flowers burst between the flagstones in front of the door.

  As they descended from the carriage, two large black retrievers ambled forward to put the visitors through a friendly inquisition.

  A fresh-faced young footman ushered them into a massive, vaulted hall where quantities of dark oak panelling contrasted sharply with cool white walls. Logs blazed a cheerful welcome in the huge hearth and there were flowers everywhere.

  A tall, stooping butler came forward and at the same moment a plump middle-aged woman in a round gown of blue muslin, with a charming matching cap on her greying hair, came hurrying down the wide stairway.

  ‘Thank you, Gaston ‒ I will look after Mrs Vernon.’ Her eyes twinkled and she held out her hands in greeting. ‘Mrs Vernon ‒ you are come to visit my dear Dominique ‒ how kind! And this must be your niece?’

  Madalena had been making friends with the dogs, but she stood up at once to be introduced.

  ‘You are French ‒ how splendid! Come ‒ I will take you straight up. I must ask you not to stay too long, dear Mrs Vernon. You will see how it is; Dominique tires so quickly now and Dr Laidlaw has to be quite strict with her.’

  The Duchess occupied a suite of rooms on the first floor and Miss Payne led them into a vast blue and gold drawing room exquisitely furnished in the French style, across an endless expanse of rich gold carpet scattered with little sofas, gilded and upholstered in deep blue brocade.

  From a chaise-longue near the window came a softly accented greeting. Madalena tried hard not to stare, but found Dev’s mama totally different from anything she had expected; indeed it seemed inconceivable that life could exist at all in such a frail, emaciated frame.

  Snowy white hair, stylishly dressed, and a rose-pink foulard peignoir edged with swansdown and drawn high at the neck, framed a tiny face which, though ravaged with suffering, must once have possessed a delicate beauty. Only the eyes were vitally alive ‒ bright blue like her son’s and burning with an unquenchable spirit. The smile which greeted Madalena was of an incredible sweetness and something passed between them in those first few moments that was soon to forge a deep bond of affection.

  As they talked, Madalena’s eyes strayed constantly to a nearby portrait. It was of a man ‒ very point-de-vice ‒ in purple satin coat and much lace; one hand rested lightly on the hilt of a dress sword and about the eyes there was a faint, mocking smile.

  The Duchess followed her gaze. ‘Eh bien ‒ you are admiring my Julian. Was he not a handsome rogue?’

  ‘Dev is very like him, I think!’

  The words were blurted out involuntarily and at once the Duchess’s glance swivelled round with a quickening of interest.

  ‘You know my son?’

  A tell-tale flush had crept up under Madalena’s skin; she looked for all the world like a child caught out in a misdemeanour.

  Mrs Vernon interposed hastily, ‘We met his grace in London.’

  ‘But of course ‒ how interesting! I had forgotten you have been in London. You must regale me with all the latest “on dits”. I confess I am ever eager for Devereux’s return so that he may bring me up to date on all the scandals.’

  There was such a pregnant silence that the Duchess cast a quizzing glance from one to the other and surprised in Madalena’s eyes such a stricken look that she was moved to exclaim quickly, ‘No matter ‒ it will keep. My interest stems purely from jealousy that I can no longer play my part ‒ and my wicked son is pleased to indulge me! Come ‒ we will talk of other things.’

  Mrs Vernon’s face expressed such patent relief that the Duchess was further intrigued, but she continued blandly, ‘Perhaps, Mademoiselle de Brussec, you will tell me of my beloved Paris ‒ I expect I should find her much changed.’

  Madalena began to talk very quickly and the moment passed, but before very long it became obvious that the Duchess was tiring.

  ‘I regret to be so tiresome.’ A wan smile curved the blue-tinged lips. She extended a woefully thin, yet still elegant hand to Madalena. ‘You will visit me again, cherie?’

  ‘Merci,’ said Madalena shyly. ‘I should, of all things, like to come.’

  Her visits were soon a much loved daily ritual. On the bad days, when breathing became a torture, Madalena would sit beside the vast canopied bed amidst shell pink draperies, sometimes talking quietly of the mama she could scarcely remember and the papa she so adored, sometimes just sitting in a companionable silence.

  A painting of the Madonna and Child on a nearby wall often drew her eye and moved her to confide wistfully, ‘I have a small alabaster statuette in my own room at Plassy. It is of the Madonna kneeling beside the Bébé’s crib.’

  ‘You are missing your home very much, I think,’ the Duchess guessed softly. ‘And your papa also?’

  Sudden tears filled Madalena’s eyes, but she blinked them back resolutely.

  ‘Most of the time I manage. It is when things do not go well ‒ Papa has a way of going straight to the heart of a problem ‒ and at once it is made simple.’

  ‘And your dear aunt does not have quite this perception.’

  Madalena flashed her a quick, grateful smile. ‘Ah, you can see! Tante Vernon is a sweet, kind person, but one cannot talk to her. That is why I am so pleased that you permit me to visit with you.’

  ‘Cherie ‒ the joy is all mine! You have brought me a breath of something that I had almost forgotten.’ Their hands moved together instinctively on the silken coverlet and Madalena could at once feel the febrile, uneven pulse.

  ‘We will not talk any more,’ she said quickly. ‘I will just sit here and you may sleep if you wish.’

  For a long
time they remained thus; Madalena allowed her thoughts to wander until inevitably they turned to Dev ‒ soon he must return home ‒ the mere possibility flooded her with an exquisite sensation of mingled joy and pain. She became aware that the Duchess was awake and regarding her all too expressive face.

  ‘Tell me, child ‒ that stricken look which I oft surprise in you ‒ is my son responsible for that look?’

  The convulsive tightening of fingers was answer enough.

  ‘I would not cause you further pain, ma mie, but can you not bring yourself to speak of it?’

  There was a vigorous shake of the head.

  ‘Because I am his mama? Ah, child! I love Devereux dearly ‒ he is to me a devoted son. But he is also a Destain of Lytten ‒ and there is in all the Destain men a streak of ruthlessness ‒ a degree of arrogance, especially in their attitude towards women. It can, unless they find a true and lasting love, mar their character.’ She paused. ‘I very much fear you may have fallen a victim to this trait in my son’s character.’

  With a stifled sob Madalena’s head drooped. ‘No, no … it was entirely my own fault! I truly believe that he did love me … but something happened … I was stupidly jealous …’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘I behaved very badly … and made a scene at Lady Sefton’s ball, with everyone looking on! And then …’ there was an embarrassed pause, ‘and then … we had one big row … and all is over!’

  The Duchess stroked the fine copper curls now spilled upon the coverlet. ‘Such finality, child? Devereux would be angry ‒ that I can see ‒ but he will perhaps forgive you, no?’

  ‘I think not,’ came the muffled reply, ‘for he now believes that I am just a coquette.’

  The Duchess hid a smile and raised the tear-stained face. ‘Voyons ‒ do you know ‒ I had not thought my son so poor a judge of women!’

  ‘N … no …’ stammered Madalena, colouring, ‘but … well, it is just possible that he had some cause …’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It was all nothing ‒ but Dev was extremely angry.’ Remembering, the light of battle flashed suddenly in her eye. ‘Which was most unfair since he had behaved quite abominably and without the least regard for my feelings!’

  ‘Ah! Then doubtless it is his pride that smarts! He feels betrayed ‒ yes?’

  Madalena nodded.

  ‘Men! Always it is their pride! You must be very clever, ma chère, and show him that you are not repining.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ Madalena sounded doubtful. ‘I was wondering if perhaps it is better that I do not come when … when Devereux is home. I would not wish for any awkwardness.’

  ‘You must do as you think best, child … but I should miss you.’ The Duchess seemed suddenly exhausted and Madalena was at once contrite and refused to discuss her troubles any further.

  It was several days later, when Madalena had taken her usual short cut across Lytten land and was about to step out on to the carriageway, that she heard a horse coming fast. Instinctively, she shrank back into the shrubbery. The two dogs bounded ahead of Devereux on Thunderer. As they drew abreast of the place where she crouched, their heads came up and with joyous yelps they veered off the road and came snuffling into the undergrowth. She heard Dev wheel Thunderer round and call sharply to the dogs; their ears pricked, but they stayed panting at her feet, their tongues lolling with pleasure at this new and interesting game.

  ‘Allez-vous en!’ she hissed. ‘Oh, please go, you great stupid animals!’

  Dev’s voice came again ‒ nearer and more imperative.

  Peering through the leaves she could see his topboots gleaming against the horse’s steaming flanks. At the very moment that she had resigned herself to the ignominy of being discovered lurking in the bushes, the dogs reluctantly acknowledged the voice of authority and trailed their tails back to the road.

  When the hoofbeats had quite died away, Madalena emerged, brushing a tangle of twigs from her dress and stood – uncertain …

  The Duke strode into the hall stripping off his gauntlets and tossing them, with hat and riding whip on to the nearest chair. Without pause, he moved on up the staircase. At the door of his mother’s room he checked ‒ then knocked softly and entered.

  ‘Devereux!’ She held out eager hands, her bright eyes devouring him as he crossed swiftly to the bed. His heart stopped momentarily as he stooped to drop a kiss on each pallid cheek, and perceived at once her increasing frailty.

  He settled beside her on the bed and possessed himself of her hand, a warm smile hiding his distress. ‘Ma chère Maman!’ He used the affectionate greeting of his childhood. ‘How is my one and only love?’

  The Duchess chuckled and then sobered a little. ‘Am I still that, mon fils?’

  ‘Oh, without a doubt, my dear; you are the only woman who has never failed me or in any way disappointed me.’ There was a hardness in his voice. She knew instinctively that he was thinking of Madalena and was about to speak when there was a soft rap on the door. It opened to admit Amelia Payne.

  ‘May I come in, dear? Ah, Cousin! Gaston told me you were come. How do you find your dear mama?’ Without pause, she prattled on, relating all her news, listing the number of times Dr Laidlaw had called, what he had said, in minute detail, on each successive visit and how much good his own visit must now do his poor mama.

  Devereux stood up and crossed to the window to curb his mounting irritation. Cousin Amelia was a good soul ‒ devoted to his mother, for whom nothing was too much trouble; it was a pity that she was also a fool! The catalogue wore on …

  ‘… but she has now found a new friend, a dear child! And what do you think, Cousin? She is French ‒ such a treat for dear Dominique!’

  The Duchess saw her son stiffen ‒ he pivoted round slowly.

  ‘Madalena?’

  ‘Yes, mon fils,’ she said quietly. ‘She has been coming daily these weeks past. We have become very close. You do not mind?’

  ‘Mind ‒ why should I mind?’ His manner was offhand, but he wore the shuttered look he had always assumed as a boy when he did not wish one to pry.

  ‘I have no idea,’ she said innocently. ‘But Madalena seemed to feel that she must stay away when you are home.’

  ‘Silly child! I’ll set her straight.’

  He was descending the staircase as Madalena stepped into the hall. They eyed one another in brooding silence ‒ the Duke impassive ‒ Madalena wide-eyed and pale, and with a heart hammering so that he must hear it. The dogs came bounding forward from their place beside the hearth and she bent thankfully to speak with them, just long enough to regain her composure.

  ‘You seem very popular with Castor and Pollux,’ he observed dryly.

  ‘Yes, we are great friends.’ She hoped her voice did not betray her agitation as she added with a touch of defiance, ‘I am visiting your mama.’

  ‘So she tells me. I trust you will not be so foolish as to stay away on my account.’

  ‘Why ever should I do so?’

  ‘I was under the impression that such was your intention.’

  ‘Well then ‒ I have changed my mind!’ She lifted her chin and wondered at the sudden gleam of amusement as his eye travelled from her to the dogs. Casually he leaned forward and retrieved a broken sprig of blossom from her hair.

  ‘And where did you come to this great decision? In the shrubbery?’

  A hand flew guiltily to her mouth and then suddenly ‒ unexpectedly ‒ she began to chuckle. ‘Oh, but it was quite ridiculous! These silly creatures would not leave and I was excessively uncomfortable! I prayed that you would not come to look.’

  He frowned. ‘I am only sorry that you found it necessary to hide.’

  ‘Oh, it was an impulse! You know how I am given …’ She broke off on a gasp ‒ and her final words were scarcely audible, ‘… to impulse!’ Hot colour flared and died; for an instant there was a look of desperate vulnerability ‒ and then she had recovered herself to say in a stifled voice, ‘Your mama ‒
I must go!’

  He made no effort to detain her.

  Over the following days the Duchess watched Madalena mask her anguish with a brightness that hurt. She tackled her son one evening as he sat with her. His profile was not encouraging, for the candlelight threw up the high-bossed cheekbones and emphasized the intolerant thrust of jaw. Feeling her eyes upon him, he turned and smiled and at once her heart swelled with fierce maternal pride. Dieu! How many women were blessed with such a son! If only …

  ‘Chéri ‒ could you not be less of a bear with Madalena?’ The smile vanished abruptly. ‘You see? Even to mention her makes you cross! Was what she did so dreadful that you cannot be a little kind? She tries so hard …’

  ‘Urged on no doubt by you!’

  ‘It grieves me to know she is unhappy,’ she said steadily, ‘and to know that my son is the cause.’

  ‘Leave it, Maman! Don’t meddle! Madalena is a child ‒ if you don’t encourage her, she will recover.’

  ‘Will she, my son? And what of you ‒ will you also recover?’

  He flung himself out of the chair. The Duchess watched his taut, unyielding back with distress. The outstretched hand gripping the chairback showed every vein, every hard-ridged sinew; the words, when they came, seemed torn from him.

  ‘It wouldn’t do, Maman ‒ and you know it! I’m not the man for Madalena. Just for a while, back there in London, she almost convinced me that it would work, but ‒ God help me ‒ it was madness even to think of it! She is so young, so impetuous, so pathetically, damnably trusting! And I’m not worth it!’

  The Duchess was near to tears. ‘Devereux, oh, my dearest! You do yourself too much injustice!’

  ‘Do I, Maman?’ He came suddenly to kneel at her feet as he had not done since he was little. ‘Do I? Be honest.’ His voice was harsh, the eyes he raised to her were bleak. ‘You know what kind of man I am ‒ and I do not know if I can change. If you had a daughter like Madalena, would you really entrust her to such as me?’

  She cupped his face very gently with trembling hands. ‘I will tell you this, child ‒ you are, in all things, so very like your father ‒ and yet, from the day of our marriage, my Julian never caused me one moment of distress.’ She saw that he was not convinced. ‘Ah well, you must do as you think best, but I beg you, do not go on punishing Madalena as well as yourself.’