A Fall from Grace

by Maggie Ford

  ‘No, you’re not,’ James told her each time.

  ‘I don’t know… I don’t… mean to be…’ she would gasp. Then on being told she was not at all a nuisance, she would lapse back into semi-consciousness to sigh and moan and twist her head from side to side.

  The doctor was there constantly, a nurse too, who would shoo them out of the bedroom in order to attend the patient. Sadly they would go home after hours spent just gazing down at her when allowed, the next day to return to the same procedure.

  All the while, Madeleine found herself looking time and time again at Anthony, feeling helpless at the despair and fear in his eyes when her gaze caught his. It made her cringe with sadness to see the way he’d shake his head in defeat, almost imperceptibly.

  During one of their daily visits, unable to stand it any longer she excused herself and hurried away downstairs seeking the silence of the library to regain command of a sudden onslaught of emotion.

  To her relief Anthony had followed her. Now he stood by the door, his body taut.

  ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’ he questioned from where he stood. ‘I don’t really know what to do.’

  Impulsively she came towards him, needing to comfort. ‘Darling…’ But as she made to kiss him, he drew away.

  ‘No… not at the moment!’ he exclaimed and turning went out of the room, leaving her standing alone.

  It was so abrupt a reaction that it shocked her, leaving her in despair as she stared at the closed door. It was over – their time together, their affair. His mother was dying, he was already grieving, and she had been foolish enough to think he’d respond to her kiss, take her in his arms; maybe go further in their love for each other. She was an utter fool! In one unthinking, selfish move she had terminated their affair.

  Gazing at the closed door, unable to bring herself to return upstairs, to face him, she on one side of his mother’s bed, he on the other, never again to be as they had been to each other, would be unbearable.

  A little while later James came to get her. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked. ‘You rushed from the room so quickly I was worried for you.’

  ‘I didn’t want to cry in front of Mabel and Anthony,’ she lied. ‘He has enough to worry about without me breaking out in a flood of tears.’

  ‘That was so kind and thoughtful of you, my dear,’ he said tenderly.

  ‘No, it’s just that I didn’t want to make a fool of myself, the only one crying.’

  ‘It was still a tender thought, my dear. Anyway it’s time we left. Mabel needs to rest and sleep. And Anthony needs some privacy. Mabel’s sister and her husband are coming later and I think he may need some time to himself first.’

  She nodded, now wanting only to be away. Leaving James to say their goodbyes she tried not to feel troubled while at the same time feeling relieved that Anthony hadn’t come down to see them off; having to face him after what had transpired between them would have destroyed her.

  * * *

  His mother died just a week later. It had happened so quickly. They had not been there when it happened. They were notified not by Anthony but one of his mother’s staff arriving to hand them a note from him, the wording almost cold in its content: ‘Mother passed away early hours this morning in her sleep. Anthony.’

  But James saw nothing wrong in his terseness. His eyes filled with tears as he put the short note to one side after reading it aloud to Madeleine and murmured, ‘He must be utterly devastated. Such a wonderful woman – a kind and truly wonderful woman – all alone she brought up her son after my brother died, ever soldiering on. Why her? She didn’t deserve…’

  His voice faltering, he drew himself up, his rounded, somewhat ageing features firming. ‘We must go to him straight away. He may have need of us there. I shall telephone my office and tell them.’

  He thought for a moment while she watched him, then he said slowly, ‘I shall have to set about the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘Anthony will probably do that,’ Madeleine said, but he cut her short.

  ‘He will need all the help I can give him, a young man having just lost his mother, his father gone, he is alone in the world. He’ll need my help.’

  As if he were a child rather than a grown man, she thought. But she said nothing, thinking only of him with sadness in her heart, for herself as well as for him; her emptiness telling her she had lost him. How could they go on as they had, while he grieved so? No, it was over and that was grief enough for her, quietly consuming her. And all the time James was regarding her in the belief that her sadness was purely for his nephew’s sense of bereavement as he put what he imagined was a comforting arm about her shoulder and laid a light kiss on her brow. If only he knew…

  The following week beside his mother’s grave, while the vicar’s dull voice intoned the prayers for the departed, Anthony hardly looked in Madeleine’s direction. When he did it was as if across a gulf, his eyes pleading – for what, she couldn’t fathom. Aching love for her or the desolate loss of his mother? She ought to have been weeping for her sister-in-law. Instead she wept for what seemed for her the end of their wonderful times together. How would he want that, his mother so recently dead? It would probably feel to him like blasphemy. No, it was ended.

  Eventually he would find comfort in some other young woman, fall in love, marry, and she would have lost him forever, destined to live the rest of her life with James, this old man she had married and maybe it served her right for having thought to use someone like him for her own ends. And even that had backfired on her. She was no nearer to tracing her child than at the beginning. She had been a fool!

  She tried time and time again to catch Anthony’s eye even as everyone came away from the grave, a sad little group, a few friends, she with James to his car, Anthony to his with his mother’s sister and brother-in-law, they all returning to his home to the food laid out for them and to reminisce in respectful tones over memories of the one no longer there.

  Anthony was deliberately avoiding her she knew that now without a doubt. At the funeral supper he didn’t come near her except once to speak to his uncle, then, with her standing beside James, he didn’t even cast a single glance in her direction when she uttered a word of two of sympathy.

  He didn’t look well himself, his face very slightly flushed. It may have been from standing by his mother’s grave in a somewhat chilly wind for May, or perhaps from grief, or was it the beginnings of ’flu?

  Madeleine’s heart almost stopped at the thought. Known to be highly infectious, it could leap from one victim to a dozen others in a single breath. What if he had caught it, sitting so close beside his ailing mother? Dear God, what would she do if it were to take him? She felt the blood suddenly drain from her cheeks at the thought, leaving them feeling cold, and she drew in an involuntary, tremulous breath.

  The sound made both him and James glance at her, James asking, ‘Are you all right, my dear?’ she compelled to answer that she was fine. It was then that she caught the look on Anthony’s face, instantly reading the thought in his mind. ‘Don’t fall ill. I couldn’t bear it if you left me.’

  His love hadn’t died. It had all been in her mind. Yet instead of being given reassurance of their love, it seemed to tear her heart to pieces.

  ‘Please dear God,’ came the silent answering prayer, as she managed a wan smile, ‘don’t let him go down with ’flu. He does love me and I couldn’t bear to lose him, not now. What would I do if that were to happen?’

  He, gone forever… She, James’s wife until the end of her days… It almost made her cringe, wanting only to fall into Tony’s arms, declare her love. Instead she merely smiled hearing herself repeat, ‘I’m fine – really I am.’

  * * *

  The weeks had gone by and she hadn’t seen or heard from him at all. She had tried telephoning him at home, but he never seemed to be there. Contacting his bank, the message was always that he was unavailable. Whether that was true or the staff was told to tell her th
at, she had no way of finding out. She had written to him but there was never a reply.

  ‘Have you heard from Anthony lately?’ she casually asked James over breakfast two weeks after the funeral.

  He looked up from slicing off the top of his boiled egg. ‘Only to say how grateful he was for all we did during his mother’s illness. I read it out to you, remember?’

  Yes, she did remember, but it had merely begun with Dear Aunt and Uncle. Nothing for her at all much less mentioning her by name.

  ‘And for supporting him at the funeral,’ James finished. ‘As if we would dream of not attending – my own grieving nephew.’

  He smiled faintly at his sad little quip and returned to dealing with his egg.

  Wanting so much to take the subject further but fearing to betray her feelings, she let it go at that. But after some two weeks of silence from Tony, her anxiety getting the better of her, she dared to venture that she hoped he was all right.

  James took it innocently. ‘I expect he doesn’t think it right to bother us with his private grief. I expect he is sinking himself in his work. Nothing like work to keep the mind off one’s loss.’

  ‘What if he’s gone down with the ’flu and won’t or can’t tell us?’

  ‘If he’d gone down with it, we would have been told immediately.’

  ‘We should go and see him though. It looks so churlish to stay away. After all anyone who’s bereaved needs other people.’

  ‘I shall telephone him, my dear. But now I must be off to my office. You mustn’t let yourself worry over people.’

  He dropped a kiss on the top of her head, adding, ‘You worry yourself too much over others, my dear. I shall see you tonight. Have yourself a nice day with your friend, and don’t exert yourself too much with this Whitsun party of yours.’

  She’d told him she was seeing one of her many friends that day so that they could go over her plans for the party she intended to throw at Whitsun. Since her secret meetings with Anthony she’d rather let her social life slip, Easter’s soirée being the last of any importance and that not as exciting as it should have been with her mind more on herself and Anthony.

  On her way to see May Caldwell-Bell, who’d become a helpful friend and organizer of parties over the years, she turned off and directed the taxi driver to Anthony’s home.

  ‘The master must have mentioned to his uncle that he would be going to Scotland for a while,’ she was informed by the butler, who answered her ring of the bell. ‘He said he rather needed an old friend to stay with a short while to help him recover from his loss rather than worry his relations.’

  Madeleine wanted to blurt out that he hadn’t told them a thing, but she merely nodded, said she must have forgotten, and hurried away saying she was late for an engagement.

  Why hadn’t he told her? Why hadn’t he written? She was hardly able to concentrate on the plans for Whitsun, leaving May to frown and ask if she was feeling well. What excuse she made for her lack of concentration she couldn’t recall. When James came home she asked him if Anthony had told him where he would be for the next few weeks. He looked surprised at first then recollection seemed suddenly to dawn.

  ‘Ah, I remember now. He telephoned me at my office – completely slipped my memory. I meant to tell you but we’ve been so busy – business quite brisk now the war is over, even though the country is feeling the pinch. Still we can only be on the up and up – not like Germany, people starving, the German mark not worth a pfennig these days, people having to buy the smallest item with no less than a basketful of worthless marks.’

  So jovial, so much unnecessary detail… It allowed the old suspicion to creep into Madeleine’s mind that he must have some inkling of her relationship with Anthony, and it led her to believe he was biding his time but in the meantime was unable to resist the odd jab.

  * * *

  It was autumn. The Whitsun soirée had gone off better than expected, as had her party for James’s birthday as well as the huge fifth of November firework party, all thanks to May who had done most of the planning, revelling in it, while Madeleine found it hard to concentrate.

  She and James had gone away to the South of France for almost two weeks, which included the August Bank Holiday. On the beach and by the pool, she had sat under a sunshade most of the time preferring her skin unblemished by strong sunlight, contrary to the new craze of proving one could afford to holiday abroad by exhibiting as much tanned flesh as was decently acceptable in the newest fashion of sleeveless, calf-length, flat-busted evening dresses with deep neckline back and front.

  Summer seemed to her to have lasted forever. Now autumn was creeping by and she had never felt so alone. Every now and again there came a letter from Anthony, saying that he was feeling a lot better but felt it hard to come back to London yet awhile. He still missed his mother and returning to London just yet would only bring it all back to him; he had put a manager in charge of the bank and was in touch by telephone and telegram should the man need to consult him, and so far all seemed to be going smoothly. Not one letter to her personally, her name hardly included in his letters to James except to hope she was well. It hurt, but more, it worried and distressed her. There was no longer any doubt that he had done with their association, their year of love over. Any minute she expected to hear of his becoming engaged, happy to marry and settle down, herself forgotten – that wonderful love they had shared a mere passing phase, never to be revealed. Anthony, everything having been left to him by his parents in their will, was a wealthy man; whoever married him would want for nothing.

  She wanted for nothing, materially, James saw to that. But she ached for love. The memory of it haunted her, kept her awake at night; followed her around in whatever she did. Christmas and New Year found her striving to concentrate on throwing her usual parties. People thought they were as wonderful as ever, commented on her beautiful thin figure, she having lost so much weight that her bust had all but disappeared – such a perfect figure they said enviously as she smiled, smoked endless cigarettes at the end of an ivory cigarette holder and danced until dawn and hardly ate a thing. James, noticing the change in her, had become worried.

  ‘I think you ought to see our doctor,’ he told her. ‘Such a drastic weight loss cannot be right. You could be suffering from something of which you’re not aware, my dear.’

  But she’d always been slim and told him so.

  At other times, should she happen to give a natural little cough, he would study her gravely with a worried look on his round face. He never said the word, but she knew what he was thinking: ‘consumption?’

  She would smile confidingly and say, ‘If I had anything wrong with me, James, I wouldn’t be as energetic as I am.’

  But hers was a nervous energy, not stemming from health, for at times she felt all she wanted to do was lie abed and dream of Anthony, of him making love to her so fiercely that she would cry out in ecstasy, finally to lie limp in his arms, utterly fulfilled. And having known such sensations, her life had become unbearable now they were no longer there for her.

  Seventeen

  Dull weeks, never-ending weeks, counting each day as though it was in itself a week. An effort to find any pleasure in her normal rounds of social visiting, planning social dinners, going to the theatre with James. It was becoming an effort to maintain her reputation for throwing excellent parties for which she had been and still was, surprisingly, seen as the most exciting of hostesses in a long time, with people hanging upon her invitations. Yet it all seemed so superfluous, pointless.

  This February morning, James having gone off to his office, she sat at her bureau, writing to Anthony, unable to contain herself any longer. She had written countless letters at first. But he’d never replied, not to her personally, writing only to his uncle, maybe including her, almost as an afterthought it seemed, merely by hoping she was well, as any nephew might enquire of his aunt.

  It hurt, worse than if he hadn’t included her at all. How could he have put her
aside so easily, those wonderful times together, how they’d made love, how they would lay in each other’s arms afterwards, utterly fulfilled. Now he was behaving as if it had never been. A whole year since she’d last seen him, how could he put aside those times so easily – as if they had never been?

  Madeleine finally gave up writing letters he apparently refused to answer, and she struggled through this lonely time, surrounded by her social friends, throwing her soirées; she had tried to put her whole self into her Christmas and New Year celebrations, finding no joy in them even though all declared them a huge success, as always. No one noticed how lacking she was in spirit, for she had become adept at hiding her loneliness from the eyes of her world.

  Time should have healed the hurt. Instead, it had built up and up, like a child’s building blocks. His silence was having another effect, turning her mind inward to another loss: questions that were keeping her awake at night, more now than ever they had before – where was the baby taken from her all those years ago? How had she fared and what sort of life had she been forced to lead?

  In the past she’d had dreams in which she would find her child only to lose sight of her again, would wake up weeping, grateful only that she still slept alone, James in his own bedroom, unable to hear her and tell her in his patient tone that she must try to get over it. As the years passed, the dreams had subsided, but memories of Anthony leaving had begun to return and in full force; almost like nightmares, finding herself running through the streets, people staring at her, and she not heeding them, seeing ahead of her, her baby. Yet no matter how fast she ran, the baby – always a baby – would recede at the same pace even though not seeming to move.

  She would wake up to he, 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?