Madalena

by Sheila Walsh

  The unexpectedness of Dan’s treachery, his utter callousness still haunted him, nagging as the pain in his arm nagged.

  ‘Madalena?’

  Something in his voice made her look at him.

  ‘How do you feel about Daniel? Truthfully?’

  Her eyes sparked. ‘At this moment I think it. is very well that he is not here!’

  ‘But leaving this moment aside?’

  Madalena considered. ‘He is very amusing, I think ‒ and he has great charm.’ She grinned suddenly. ‘I believe he is a little in love with me.’

  She didn’t notice her brother’s sudden tenseness.

  ‘And you, Maddie? How do you feel? It is important.’

  Her laugh rang out. ‘Me? In love with Daniel? Is that what you think?’

  When Armand didn’t answer, she glanced at his pensive face and exclaimed, ‘You have quarrelled! There has been a fight! But of course, that is why you were so … bouleversé ‒ you did not wish me to know! Now I can see it all. It is Daniel who is responsible for your injury!’ In her excitement Madalena jerked on the rein and the gig swerved sharply to the side of the road.

  ‘Maddie! For pity’s sake! You will land us in the ditch. Give me the reins.’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she retorted, quickly re-establishing control of Betsy. ‘I am very well able to manage, as you can see. And I am right, am I not?’

  Armand shifted uncomfortably. ‘I … there was some trouble … a slight accident, that is all. I cannot explain.’

  ‘Oh Parbleu! Always it is the same with you men! Always the great mystery ‒ the secret you cannot divulge. Well, I can tell you that I find you all stupid and quite boring!’

  She drove on in mutinous silence. It was true. These men were nothing but a trouble to her! It was not enough that Papa, with all his great wisdom, was so quixotic as to imagine that he could castigate the Emperor and not suffer for it ‒ now, here was Armand playing at goodness knows what folly! And as for Devereux ‒ only the Bon Dieu knew how deep in intrigue he was! Her heart lurched and she was immediately angry … what Devereux did was of no interest to her ‒ he would please himself! The doctor’s house loomed up through her tears and she brought the gig to an unnecessarily abrupt halt.

  Dr Laidlaw subjected them both to a few searching looks as he tutted over the injury, but since neither seemed disposed to enlighten him, he held his peace. When Armand again began to cough, however, he was quite adamant that the boy must take a few days in bed. Madalena expected him to demur, but the quiet sympathy of Dr Laidlaw’s daughter Sally, who had been assisting her father, had acted like a balm upon Armand’s bruised spirits and he gave in, insisting only that his aunt should know nothing of his injured arm.

  When the time passed and there was no word from Daniel, Madalena supposed that they had indeed quarrelled. It seemed a pity, but no amount of probing would induce Armand to speak of it, and then the mystery was driven from her mind …

  The Duchess was failing. Madalena could not fool herself. This time, unless there was some miracle wrought, her dear friend could not possibly rally.

  Throughout the long summer days Madalena spent every available moment at her side, always ready with a smile and a softly-spoken word when the Duchess roused from a heavily drugged sleep; for the rest, she sat quietly stitching or just staring before her with folded hands, while her heart grew every day more like a stone in her breast.

  Sometimes Dev would be there to bully her into taking fresh air and exercise. It was enough, he had insisted with considerable dryness, that her aunt should be on his back already for permitting her to assume duties that were arduous and quite unsuited to a sensitive young girl. He did not add that Mrs Vernon had most forcibly, and with none of her customary vagueness, expressed it as her opinion that Madalena had already endured more than could be thought tolerable in the early loss of her mama ‒ not to mention being separated from the father she so adored ‒ without being subjected to further distress.

  The Duke wholeheartedly agreed with her, but wondered how one prevented Madalena from doing anything upon which she had set her heart.

  As if to confirm this, Madalena now sighed, ‘Poor Tante ‒ she cannot see that it is what I wish. True love and friendship does not permit one to take only the happiness.’

  She spread her hands expressively. ‘How am I expected to think only of Phoebe’s bride clothes at such a time? And what of poor Miss Payne ‒ am I to abandon her?’

  That faithful and devoted lady, who had nursed her dear charge for so long, and with such constancy, had come more and more to depend upon Madalena’s youth and resilience of character in these last troubled days ‒ and Madalena’s comings and goings were by now so accepted by the entire household that she had taken to entering the house most mornings through the open windows of the library, without troubling anyone to answer the door.

  On a morning which was already hot and promised to be hotter, she heard sounds of movement from the small room adjoining the library, a room she had once laughingly dubbed Dev’s ‘cabinet de travail’.

  Thinking him to be there she stepped across to bid him ‘good morning’.

  She knocked, pushed the door wider and was puzzled to find the room apparently empty. She turned to leave and was instantly aware of a stealthy movement behind the door. Sensing an intruder, Madalena opened her mouth to summon help but before she could utter a sound, a hand clamped tight across her mouth. She struggled vainly against an arm locked about her body like a vice, and suddenly she was quite still, her eye riveted upon that arm, for ‒ merciful heaven ‒ it was wearing a familiar blue uniform sleeve!

  She made frantic squeaking noises, twisting her head until a voice she knew breathed furiously in her ear.

  ‘Silence, little termagant! I am going to release you now, but make me a scene and be sure I will snap that pretty neck!’

  The hands slackened. Madalena shrugged herself free and spun round, bristling with indignation, to confront Gaston Marceau.

  ‘Sacrés mille diables! Madalena de Brussec!’

  ‘Oui, mon brave capitaine!’ she panted scathingly. ‘It is indeed me … and I should be very much interested to know how you come to be in this house, where you do not at all belong.’ She clapped a hand to her mouth. ‘Tiens! You are broke-parole … oh no!’ she peered round. ‘Paul is not …?’

  ‘No.’ Captain Marceau had recovered swiftly from his initial dismay on seeing Madalena. He whispered now with a hint of exaggerated irony, ‘Be easy, I am quite alone! So ‒ what would you? Am I to be surrendered to the law? Can you do that to a fellow countryman?’

  ‘Sot! Be quiet and I will think!’

  Madalena’s mind was racing over possibilities. Of course he must not be caught, somehow she must get him away, but how? Voyons ‒ there was Dev’s boat, the Seamew. If Gaston could only sail her … Dev would be very angry, of course, if he ever found out … but if it were just to vanish …

  Gaston Marceau watched the so-revealing face before him, delighting again in its myriad changing expressions ‒ remembering how that over-generous mouth, now pursed in fierce concentration, could curve into instant laughter, setting the eyes brimming with golden light. Were it not for this accursed war he might have enjoyed pursuing their relationship to a more intimate conclusion. As things were …

  ‘You appear to be familiar with your surroundings,’ he said abruptly. ‘Are you then related to Lytten?’

  ‘No,’ she replied absently. ‘I come each day to visit his …’ Her voice trailed away as the full implication of his words hit her. ‘What did you say?’

  He did not answer at once and she grasped urgently at his sleeve. ‘Captain Marceau ‒ I insist that you tell me! Are you an intruder in this house ‒ or is it that you are here by arrangement?’ Even as she uttered the words, she knew ‒ and the blood drained from her face. Dev running an escape route for prisoners of war! She knew that such organizations existed, but Dev! Oh, it was madness, for if he were disc
overed …! How was treason ‒ her mind shrank from the terrible word ‒ punishable here in England? In France there was Madame Guillotine …

  ‘Are you unwell, mademoiselle?’

  Captain Marceau’s voice came to her from a great distance. Madalena strove to still her wild imaginings. ‘It is nothing,’ she said.

  ‘I was about to ask if you could contrive to forget this meeting.’ His eyebrow quirked almost sheepishly. ‘The fact is, Madamoiselle Madalena, I should not have shown myself.’

  Unaware that each word brought fresh torture to Madalena, he walked swiftly across to the panelling and turned a candle bracket. There was a soft whirring and one of the panels slid back.

  ‘I am supposed to lie concealed here,’ he confessed ruefully. ‘Ingenious, is it not? But, parbleu, so stuffy! One must breathe after all. I fear, however, that Monseigneur le Duc would not appreciate my necessity.’

  Madalena swallowed to relieve the curious constriction in her throat. ‘I shall say nothing. But I advise that you return to your hiding place with all speed, monsieur and resign yourself to its discomforts ‒ you may be less fortunate if you are discovered a second time.’

  Gaston took one of her hands and found it cold in spite of the warm day. He raised it to his lips, his restless eyes never once leaving her face. ‘A thousand pardons, mademoiselle, that I used you so ill. Perchance, if I am spared, I may one day be permitted to make amends.’

  Without warning he bent suddenly and just touched his lips to hers ‒ and then he was gone and the panel was sliding into place.

  Madalena turned as in a dream and walked with lagging steps back through the library and up the staircase. She was very quiet for the remainder of the day and when, towards evening, the invalid’s blurred eyes fluttered open, they were able to discern the rigidity of the slight figure at her side ‒ head bent and hands clasped convulsively upon the coverlet. Her own hand groped feebly to cover those clasped ones.

  Madalena was instantly concerned. ‘Chérie ‒ there is something you want?’

  The head moved feebly on the pillows; Madalena had to bend close to catch the words ‘… do not grieve, child … if it is the will of the Bon Dieu, I am content.’ There was a long-drawn sigh. ‘… it has been so … long …’

  Madalena choked back her tears. ‘Oh, but you must not leave me … not now … I need you … I don’t know how I shall go on without you!’

  A vague look of distress flared for a brief moment in the weary eyes ‒ and then they quietly closed.

  Madalena knew a moment of sheer terror; she pulled on the bell-rope until Miss Payne came running and from then onwards there was much subdued coming and going. Dr Laidlaw arrived and, after examining the Duchess, spoke to Lytten in hushed tones, his manner grave.

  Devereux came to Madalena’s side and took her arm, gently but firmly. ‘Come ‒ I am taking you home.’ She stiffened, staring in a panic from him to the still figure so tiny beneath the pink silk counterpane.

  ‘No! I must stay. I … she might need me!’

  ‘She is not conscious, my dear ‒ and Dr Laidlaw assures me she will remain that way for some hours.’

  Her mouth trembled mutinously, and his voice took on a sterner note. ‘I am quite determined, Maddie. You have been here all day ‒ you are worn out!’

  The doctor joined them. ‘His grace speaks the truth, mademoiselle. I promise you, there is no more you can do for the moment, and we cannot have you ill upon our hands also.’ He smiled down at her in his gently quizzical fashion. ‘I should not be able to face your good aunt.’

  With a last, lingering glance for her dear friend, Madalena allowed herself to be led unresisting from the room and down the staircase. Castor and Pollux rose from their places before the great fireplace and ambled across the hall, but they, too, seemed subdued and contented themselves with nuzzling her hand.

  She spoke no word for the whole of the journey. Devereux finally reined in the horses.

  ‘Madalena …’

  ‘She is going to die, isn’t she?’

  He looked at her white, shuttered face and knew there was little he could say for comfort. He took her hand and it lay passive in his own. ‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid she is.’

  ‘I should have been permitted to stay.’

  ‘No, Madalena. It could be many hours.’ Deliberately he kept his voice even. ‘It is impossible to tell how long.’

  ‘I begin to think that you do not care,’ Madalena said in flat, precise tones.

  Devereux’s hand tightened on hers until she cried out with the pain. Slowly, great shuddering sobs welled up and tore at her throat until they engulfed her. Devereux caught her close, pressing her head tight against his shoulder, his fingers moving in the red-gold curls while tears soaked into his coat.

  In her distress and confusion the imminent death of his mama had somehow become inextricably linked with his own dangerous folly ‒ and she wept for them both. ‘Ah … ah … forgive me … I did not mean …’

  ‘It’s all right, petite,’ he soothed, unaware of the conflict raging inside her. ‘Hush now, you must let her go, you know.’

  ‘I know it.’ Madalena gasped between sobs. ‘Oh, I am selfish!’

  Presently she sat back. Apart from an occasional convulsive shudder, her grief was spent. Like a child she allowed Dev to mop up her tears and finally gave a prosaic little sniff.

  ‘Ah, mon Dieu ‒ what an exhibition I make of myself!’ She put out a shaky hand. ‘And your poor coat ‒ it is quite ruined!’ Without looking up, she added haltingly, ‘Dev, I am so ashamed to have spoken as I did …’

  ‘Good God! Do you think I care anything about that!’ He bit off the words and continued more gently, almost to himself. ‘I have lived with it for so long now, watched her go from a beautiful, vital woman to a shell. There is a kind of relief in knowing it is almost at an end. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Oh yes!’ She longed to comfort him, but sensed that he would hate it, so she said simply, ‘You will let me know? I promise I shall not make you another scene.’

  The ladies were still at breakfast on the following morning when the crunch of wheels was heard on the driveway. Madalena pushed her plate away with a nervous gesture, the bread upon it already mangled beyond recognition.

  When Devereux was admitted she was standing pale, but fully composed; only the whiteness of her knuckles gripping the back of the chair betrayed her distress.

  He halted upon the threshold and apologized for intruding upon their meal, but Mrs Vernon, guessing from one look at his face what must be the purpose of so early a call, assured him with gentle concern that he must not be thinking any such thing.

  ‘Your dear mama?’ She hesitantly voiced the question that Madalena could not ask.

  ‘This morning, ma’am very peacefully ‒ at about five o’clock.’

  The Duke’s words, conventionally phrased, were addressed to Mrs Vernon, but all his attention was concentrated upon her niece. Dear God ‒ how still she was! Her plain-ugly little face was heavy-eyed with lack of sleep. Feeling an overwhelming urge to ease her hurt, he found himself saying abruptly, ‘Madalena ‒ will you come back with me ‒ now?’

  Mrs Vernon’s halting, but very genuine, commiserations were stemmed in mid-flow; her mouth dropped open and both she and Phoebe exclaimed aloud at the seeming insensitivity of such a suggestion.

  Their words fell on the empty air.

  Devereux held out a hand and with only a moment’s hesitation Madalena placed her own trembling one into its comforting clasp. He returned her uncertain gaze with a quiet, confident nod.

  When however she stood before the door of the Duchess’s room, she turned to him in sudden panic.

  ‘I can’t … go in!’

  ‘Yes you can. Come.’ He held the door wide and gently propelled her forward.

  She had no idea what she had expected ‒ or dreaded. Here there was only the soft light from the branched candles at the head of the be
d and banks of white flowers that filled the air with an incredible sweetness.

  Madalena found herself drawn irresistibly towards the bed and scarcely heard Dev murmur that he would wait below.

  The Duchess lay in a simple white gown beneath the silken coverlet. Her hair had been brushed loose and bound into braids with white ribbons; it framed a face so serene that Madalena drew closer to gaze in awe. The lines of suffering had gone and she looked as she must have looked in days before ill-health overtook her. It was an unbelievable transformation. Madalena lost all sense of time; she sat beside the bed as she had so often done ‒ and it was as though her dear friend was with her still, giving her strength and a great feeling of peace, almost of happiness. It was only with reluctance that she finally crept from the room and made her way downstairs.

  The library door was ajar. She walked in ‒ and stopped, her heart turning over.

  Dev was leaning against the mantelshelf, his head bowed in so obvious an abandonment to grief that Madalena experienced a fierce, almost maternal longing to gather him into the comfort of her arms. But such grief for a man is a private thing as she well knew ‒ and so she silently stepped back into the hall, where she made a point of speaking quite loudly and at some length to the dogs before she again approached the library and tapped lightly on the door.

  Dev had moved to the window and turned as she came in. An anxious look reassured her that he had recovered himself.

  ‘Thank you for bringing me,’ she said simply. ‘It is, of all things, a memory that I shall treasure.’

  ‘I am glad.’ The strain in his voice hurt her.

  ‘How did you know that it was just the right thing for me?’

  He put a hand beneath her chin and turned her grave, funny little face up to him. ‘I am beginning to realize that I know you as I know myself.’

  She stood quiescent under his brooding, intense scrutiny ‒ her widening eyes returning just the hint of a query. He shook his head at last and said on a sigh, ‘Come ‒ I will take you home.’

  It was a simple funeral and when it was over Devereux came briefly to the house. He would be going away for a while, he said. Miss Payne had gone into Devonshire almost at once, to a married sister. She had been offered a home at Lytten Manor for as long as she wished, but Miss Payne had always been somewhat in awe of her austere cousin, and without her dear Dominique the house held too many memories. She had been quite overwhelmed to discover that the Duchess had left her an annuity, sufficient to make her independent, and so she had stammered her gratitude and departed in a flood of tears immediately after the funeral.