by Lady Rascal
When it ended Madeleine started to clap. If Mistress Constance hadn’t nudged her sharply, the silent scorn of the people who turned to stare would soon have stopped her.
The second piece had a little old man crouching over a keyboard and thudding out a clockwork rhythm. For all his industry it was the fiddlers who had the best of the tune. Madeleine was delighted to watch two of them sawing away in such harmony.
Place de Grève and its toil and tears seemed so distant, although it was barely a stone’s throw away across the city.
Adamson had unbent sufficiently to nudge Madeleine during a slow passage in the music. When she looked at him he nodded towards the front of the audience.
A stout man was dozing in his seat. Only sharp nudges from his starchy wife were keeping him upright.
‘A true music lover,’ Adamson observed drily.
At the interval Adamson escorted his mother and Madeleine towards the refreshment tables. Madeleine dashed forward to stake her claim, or would have done if Adamson had not caught at her arm.
‘This is a respectable English gathering, mademoiselle. We must form an orderly queue.’
Madeleine enjoyed the feel of his strong fingers about her wrist and didn’t take offence. Several people whispered and smiled at this closeness, and to Madeleine’s disappointment Adamson let go of her arm as soon as he realised they were attracting attention. He collected three glasses of lemonade while his mother and Madeleine received little plates of sugared almonds, fondant creams and pastry cases of tipsy cream and conserve.
‘Pleasant. But I would rather have a nice cup of tea and a slice of heavy cake in my own home,’ Mistress Constance murmured before advising Madeleine not to eat quite so quickly.
Madeleine was puzzled. The room was stifling, yet still Mistress Constance wanted tea.
She finished her sweetmeats and lemonade, then started to nibble away at the sugar frosting the rim of her glass.
‘Not here, dear.’ Kindly but firmly Mistress Constance took the glass. ‘There’s plenty of sugar back at home if you need it.’
This was even more mystifying to Madeleine. Why did the aristos display things that weren’t for eating? And the food kept coming. Breakfast, morning coffee, luncheon, tea, dinner—not to mention the snacks. Goodness only knew when she would get the chance to eat the things she had squirrelled away so carefully under her pillow, back at the villa.
They settled down again ready to enjoy the second half of the sub. Adamson actually strained himself to ask Madeleine what she thought of the entertainment so far, although he was dismissive of her excitement.
‘This is a poor showing,’ he maintained. ‘When Allenby entertained last week we had musicians far superior to these. Now, they really would have given old Bach a run for his—’
He stopped. A tangle of young latecomers had arrived and, to the disgust of more respectable patrons, were having hilarious fun in finding their seats. One little blonde girl in particular seemed to be revelling in the disapproval of her elders. Pulling faces at those who turned to stare, she reduced her silly young friends to giggling hysterics.
Philip Adamson was not laughing. Neither was he joining in the growing chorus of disapproval.
One look at the recognition on his face was worth a thousand explanations to Madeleine.
CHAPTER THREE
The audience was in a susurration of complaint as the girl and her companions frolicked about the spare seats at the back of the salon. Only when a humourless butler put in a few sharp words did they reach something approaching quiet.
‘Philip! Turn around quickly—there’s a chance she might not see us!’ Mistress Constance hissed across Madeleine. Only when she brought her fan down with a sharp rap on her son’s knee did he start and look at her directly. He was still grinning.
‘I’m going to speak to her, Mother.’
‘Philip, I forbid it! Leave the girl alone!’
The musicians began playing again, but Adamson was paying no attention. He was more interested in the little blonde girl. As he started to make tiny gestures to the group at the back of the hall, Madeleine tried to distract his mother from her distress.
‘Who is she, Mistress Constance?’
‘Oh, oh—the shame of it...’ The older woman snuffled into her lace handkerchief. The audience about them moved restlessly while the conductor turned to frown at this further rippling interruption.
Madeleine was about to repeat her question, but she was cut short. In a sudden movement Adamson leapt up, pushing his way along their row to leave the room in a rush. Mistress Constance stifled a wail of anguish. Thoroughly unsettled by now, the conductor turned to face the audience and brandished his baton for silence, but Madeleine was not interested.
‘What is it? Why’s he gone off?’
Mistress Constance flounced the lace about her neck and wrists in agitation.
‘Our reputation is lost forever now...as sure as eggs are eggs! Go after him, Madeleine! Try to make him see reason!’
Madeleine shifted nervously in her seat. To get up and leave in full view of all these people in transparent muslin was the last thing she wanted to do. On the other hand, she now saw the little blonde girl slip out in pursuit of Philip Adamson. Curiosity, tinted a pale green after the way she had seen him look at the other girl, now forced Madeleine out of her seat.
She looked around, and was a little heartened to see that all the girls of her own age were wearing the scandalous new fashion. She was not out of place.
Risking more wrath from the conductor, Madeleine stood up and inched her way along the row of occupied seats. There was not a murmur of complaint at her silent passing. Some of the gentlemen even smiled at her, although Madeleine recognised those sort of looks far too well. She had more sense than to return them in this company.
Once out in the hall Madeleine could breathe a sigh of relief. Closing the door thankfully behind her, she took stock of the situation.
This house was built along similar lines to the Adamsons’ villa, but on a much grander scale. It smelled even newer and more expensive.
A rattle of conversation was hurrying out from a half-open door opposite. Madeleine could make out the voice of Adamson, although his English meant nothing to her.
She knocked at the door and went in. Silence fell like a lead weight.
The first thing that Madeleine noticed was that this room was set with even more tables of food. Fine white tablecloths fluttered in a breeze from open garden doors. Then she saw Philip Adamson. He was standing in the far doorway, clasping both of the little blonde girl’s hands to his chest.
‘Oh...mademoiselle...’
Adamson dropped the girl’s hands as though they were red hot and folded his arms. He’s guilty! Madeleine thought with astonishment. He’s tortured with it! I really must get to the bottom of all this.
‘Miss Pettigrew and I were just—talking, mademoiselle.’
The girl shot Madeleine a look that said the talk was far from innocent. Turning away pointedly, she raised herself on tiptoe and kissed Adamson on the lips before fluttering out of the room. Madeleine was unable to respond to the few words of farewell that were thrown at her. She was too staggered by what she had just seen. Aristos actually kissing!
In broad daylight!
At least Adamson had the common decency to look ashamed.
‘That was—that was Miss Kitty Pettigrew,’ He said brusquely. ‘A—friend.’
‘We do have them in Paris, sir.’ Madeleine grinned at him, but he had gone from embarrassment to anger in a flash.
‘You have brought me a message from my mother, no doubt,’ he said, with sharp disdain.
‘Mistress Constance would prefer you to go back inside, Master Philip.’
Adamson looked back towards the garden. Fine net curtains had been suspended over the open garden doors to keep flies from the food. He paused before drawing one curtain back.
‘It was not you, then, who considered me worthy of your company.’
He stood on the threshold, half turned towards her. Dying rays of sun touched his hair with the colour of new gilding. Beyond the garden wall the sky was painted in a shade of old rose nearly matching his fine clothes.
There was no trace of the happy animation he had shown at the sight of Miss Kitty Pettigrew. In the evening silence he seemed even sadder and more solemn than ever.
‘Come back to the music, Master Philip. That’ll cheer you up!’
In an impetuous gesture Madeleine dashed forward to take his hand, but Adamson was not a man to be ordered about, even by the well-meaning. He shook off her hand almost roughly.
‘I intend to make my excuses to our host and return to our villa directly. I would be grateful if you could inform my mother that the coach will be sent to collect you both at ten o’clock. Good evening, Mademoiselle Madeleine.’
He left, hurrying the door shut behind him a little too briskly.
Adamson had gone, and nothing Madeleine could have done or said would have stopped him.
When the glasses had stopped trembling she went to the table to inspect the cold collation. It seemed a pity to waste such an opportunity, so Madeleine ate three slices of cold mutton and wrapped a couple more pieces in a napkin to take home for her hoard.
She nearly wiped her greasy fingers down her dress, but thought better of it at the last moment. There was plenty of tablecloth for that, so she wiped her fingers there instead.
Slipping back to the music-room as quiet as a mouse, she chose her moment to scuttle across to her seat.
‘Well?’ Mistress Constance beamed roundly.
Madeleine passed on Adamson’s message. For the life of her she couldn’t think why Mistress Constance seemed so crestfallen.
Neither woman had much enthusiasm for the rest of the evening’s entertainments, but for very different reasons. After her secret feasting, Madeleine had to force her supper down when the time came.
Mistress Constance did not seem to see that her companion’s healthy appetite had lessened. She was more concerned with keeping a good distance between them and the little blonde girl.
‘I’m surprised young Kitty Pettigrew’s out and about so openly.’
Madeleine was none the wiser. She decided to play along and see what happened. Tutting gravely, she shook her head in pretended despair.
‘Do you know, Madeleine, I wonder at the resilience of the young? To have suffered such a disappointment when so obviously bound for the altar—’ Mistress Constance said slowly.
It was the opening that Madeleine had been hoping for.
‘Then she’s been jilted?’
‘Ssh! We never mention it, dear. It was all over the county at the time, but died down when she escaped to Europe. Philip has no business stirring up matters that are no concern of his!’ In response to Kitty’s laughter and disgracefully low neckline Mistress Constance drew her own stole even more primly about her shoulders. ‘It certainly seems that Miss Pettigrew has recovered from her disappointment.’
‘Miss Pettigrew looks very young, madame.’ Madeleine watched Kitty laughing with the young men and girls who surrounded her. She thought of the more serious look that had passed between the girl and Adamson. ‘Perhaps she needs time to spread her wings in the sunshine, and flutter from one to another for a while, like a butterfly.’
Mistress Constance was about to complain at this, but a footman eased his way towards her with a welcome message.
‘The coach is here,’ the older woman said, with a last surreptitious glance in Kitty’s direction. ‘Let’s make our escape!’
The household was subdued when they returned. Madeleine was relieved when Mistress Constance suggested they retire immediately. Philip Adamson was nowhere to be seen, but by the oppressiveness of the atmosphere he could not be far away.
Madeleine went into her room and shut the door. She was glad to be alone with her thoughts at last.
Suddenly she remembered the slices of mutton in her bag. Taking them out, still wrapped in the napkin, she went to stuff the parcel under her pillows with the rest of her hoard.
There was something wrong. The sheets were different—the pillows had been changed. Someone had been there.
Her food had been stolen!
There was no trace of the things that she had hidden so carefully. Madeleine cursed. What if the Adamsons ran out of food—then where would she be? Only a few slices of cold mutton between her and starvation.
She had to start again. Her first priority was to find a better hiding-place. For the next hour she went over the room by the light of one small candle until she found a promising nook. No one would think to look between the solid back of the wash-stand and the wall. Even Madeleine could barely get her small fingers in through the gap.
Now she could see about building up her stocks again.
The house was silent as Madeleine left her room and stole across the landing, wincing at every creaking floorboard as she crept along.
When she was halfway down the stairs a clicking whirr froze Madeleine in her tracks. Only when the hall clock finished striking the half-hour did she breathe easily again.
Once downstairs, she found that the kitchen door was not only closed, but locked too. That seemed very odd to Madeleine. Out of curiosity she tried the sitting-room door. That too was locked.
They knew. The Adamsons had seen through her subterfuge and thought she was going to make off with the family silver. Madeleine looked wildly back up the stairs, expecting to be confronted by staff who had been lying in wait for just such a moment.
Her hand had brushed the library door, and it swung open away from her.
‘Michael?’
Whether the voice was bleared with wine or merely the lateness of the hour Madeleine could not tell. It certainly did not sound threatening, so she pushed the door a little further.
‘It’s Madeleine, Master Philip.’
A dragging rumble and the smash of breaking glass made Madeleine enter, whatever the consequences.
Philip Adamson was sitting at the writing-desk, his back towards her. The room was lit only by the paleness of the summer night sky outside.
He did not speak until Madeleine had touched a candle alight with her own and set it before him.
‘Hi-Higgins thinks he’s so clever...hiding the drink every night. But two can play at—at that...Would you believe I could be devious enough to hide things, mademoiselle?’
She stepped over the pretty little glass that lay smashed on the floor beside his desk.
‘Certainly, sir. The only saints are in heaven, as far as I know. Who is Michael?’
‘Nobody.’
Adamson stared into space. Madeleine had been around the bars of the Rue Mouffetard long enough to know that drinkers came in three varieties: the violent, the carefree and the morose. It was easy to see which sort Adamson was.
‘I—I don’t want to go back to England. I can’t...Not now...’
‘Bed.’
Lost in confusion, he turned large puzzled eyes to her. Candlelight was harsh to his pale face, sharpening the already thin features still further. Carefully avoiding the broken glass, Madeleine crouched down beside him and took his hands.
‘Leave this and go up to bed. Nothing will ever start to look better through the bottom of a glass, sir, whatever it is.’
He shook his head slowly, squeezing her hands in his as he did so. He was determined to feel sorry for himself, and Madeleine knew that down that path was total destruction. She persevered, wondering what Kitty Pettigrew would think of him now.
‘No decent lady will look at you twice if you’re going to get in a state like this.’
‘I’m not drunk, mademoiselle...’
Adamson pulled himself upright in his seat and regained at least a little composure. Madeleine smiled.
‘No. Not really.’
He had lost the ribbon from his hair and Madeleine automatically raised her hand to push the dark waves back from his face
. Although he frowned uncertainly, Adamson did not flinch from her touch.
At their first meeting, Madeleine had expected the worst. Now she knew Adamson really did not heed others.
‘I—I’ve got to find Michael...’
Madeleine could not bear to see the restrained and formal Adamson brought to such a pass, whatever the cause. She stood up, drawing him to his feet too.
‘Get a few hours’ sleep first, sir. Everything always looks better by morning light. Come on. I’ll take you up to your room. Lean on me.’
He was not so unstable that he had difficulty in walking, but the arm about Madeleine’s shoulders was heavy in spirit. She was glad Mistress Constance had confessed to being a heavy sleeper, for the noise they made going upstairs was considerable.
At the top Madeleine cast about while Adamson swayed gently beside her.
‘Which way?’
He pointed unsteadily at a door which was a comforting distance from Mistress Constance’s room. Even Madeleine realised it would not be quite the done thing for a lady’s companion to be discovered in this sort of situation.
After they had battled to the room and got safely inside, Madeleine sat Adamson down on the bed. After checking that the house was still sleeping, she closed the door. Going back to him, she knelt down and started to remove his shoes and stockings.
‘What—what are you doing?’
‘I’ve told you. I’m putting you to bed.’
‘That’s a job for H-Higgins...’
‘You can’t disturb him in the middle of the night just because you’re too moody to go to bed at a decent time.’
Adamson frowned at this, but said nothing and remained limp as Madeleine removed his jacket. When she started to undo his waistcoat buttons he seemed to get the message and began pulling absently at his shirt.
‘What have you been drinking?’
‘Brandy. And wine, when the brandy was gone.’
‘You ought to have more sense.’
‘I don’t usually have more than a glass or two...normally—but tonight...’
He sighed, but managed to wrestle his way out of his shirt unaided. Madeleine had come across a nightshirt laid out on the bed and gathered it up to go over his head.
