by Maggie Ford
She would never do that she told herself, yet when James had gone down with pneumonia, a tiny insidious voice inside her head had posed the same question over and over: what if pneumonia eventually took him, and the answer: she would be free to spend the rest of her life with Anthony.
Hating herself, she had consequently felt such a gush of relief to see him recover, sparing her the anguish of believing that those terrible thoughts in her head might have contributed to his demise. But now came a sense of impatience at the length of time his recovery was taking; disrupting her life almost as much as it had that winter, causing her plans for her Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve parties – said to be the ones to be seen at in London – to be cancelled. He’d needed peace and quiet and although recovering to some extent by then, her heart would not have been in it; he needed her and she wanted only to be with Anthony.
So she had seen 1922 in quietly, her days taken up helping to nurse him, seeing the year ahead as the same old water flowing under the same old bridge – a repeat of last year. Now suddenly it had all changed.
The coming of spring had helped aid his recovery to some extent apart from the bouts of bronchitis, his health still threatening to deteriorate. But the coming of warmer weather was helping to some extent, and true to his word, he had promised to have a firm of investigators try to trace her baby.
‘It might take some time,’ he’d said, ‘maybe months, even years. She will already be seven or eight now – no longer a baby. Do you still want me to carry on with it, my dear?’
Yes, she did. But what worried her was that Anthony would look on the child as a disruption to their relationship, a fear that grew in strength as the months passed. She’d even begun to question what she really wanted, her baby returned to her or her relationship with Anthony to continue. Somehow it seemed that she couldn’t have the two. Yet she longed to hold her baby – it was always a baby she saw despite James’s words, recalling still that warm soft skin against her face, hearing that one tiny whimper before it was snatched out of her arms by an alarmed nurse.
Maybe if she explained, Anthony would understand how she felt, yet whenever she lay in his arms, happy and fulfilled after having made such glorious and prolonged love, courage always failed her.
* * *
It was taking so long. October, and still no trace. Then in November came a letter saying the agent had finally located her. ‘Living in Derbyshire,’ James said after first reading the letter to himself. ‘Jones, the name of those who adopted her named her Caroline but call her Carrie by all account.’
Like a dog, came the thought, tearing at her. Treated like a dog? ‘Here, Carrie!’ Yes, like a dog.
‘What does the agent say about her?’ she cried, overwhelmed by a fierce onslaught of excitement coupled with an instant need to protect. ‘Does she seem well? Is she being well treated?’
The old fear of her having been brought up forced to do harsh manual work, maybe living in squalor, uncared for, maybe even having to endure ill treatment, such thoughts had always torn at her.
‘Exceedingly well by all account,’ James told her. ‘Those who adopted her are reasonably well off and already have her name down for a reputable girls’ public school when she is old enough. The report says she appears to have everything she could wish for and is apparently well loved and is, so we are told, a normal, happy, contended child.’
It was no consolation. In truth, although she would not admit it even to herself, it would have helped her case in getting her back had she been in need of love and attention. Not that she’d have intentionally wished that on her baby.
‘There is, however, a snag, my dear.’ James went on, his eyes on the agent’s report. ‘The adoptive parents are reluctant to have you see her or she to see you. They also fear that you might have a claim on her as the rightful mother, having not given her up willingly, she being taken from you against your will.’
Of course they’d be reluctant, was Madeleine’s first thought, her mind going instantly to some ulterior motive the agent might have missed, though she couldn’t imagine what, other than love for their adopted child.
‘So I cannot see what else you can do,’ James was saying, ‘except to content yourself that she is well loved and happy. If you love her, my dear, don’t take that away from her. It would be so cruel, torn from the only people she has ever known and loved, to be forced to live with strangers. I don’t think you could bring yourself to do that to her, my dear.’
Was he trying to be just, or saying this so that he could wash his hands of the whole business? You’ve done your duty and now you can rest, relieved you won’t be saddled with a small child in your life. She’s nothing to you. But what about me, my feelings, my love, my need of her, my desperate need of her? These thoughts screamed in her head.
‘No!’ she burst out. ‘How do you know if that’s the truth? They could have bribed these enquiry people of yours to say good things about her.’
James was frowning, finding his urgent and dedicated search for the sake of the woman he had married and felt indebted to, being questioned.
‘They are a reputable firm.’ His voice was sharp. ‘As a businessman I made certain they were. Why would you think I wouldn’t?’
Because at your age you don’t want her under your feet, that’s why. But she said nothing. But tears had begun to slip down her cheeks, tears she felt she had not the strength even to lift her hand to wipe away.
‘If you are absolutely set on this, my dear,’ he went on in a smoother tone, seeing her grief, ‘I could offer these people, say two thousand pounds to let you see her, and, let’s say twice that if they forgo their right to her. If they refuse, however, there is little we can do except resort to a probably lengthy legal battle, which could take years.’
Madeleine found her voice. ‘How could they refuse such a sum?’ With two thousand pounds, one could buy several decent sized houses. She tried not to acknowledge that James was being almost overgenerous for her sake.
‘It was merely a suggestion,’ he was saying. ‘They are pretty well off, apparently, and totally unable to have children of their own, so why would they relinquish her now, for any amount of money – a child they love dearly? They have, however, made one gesture. That is, in the guise of, say, a distant friend, they agree to let you see her but not to talk to her.’
‘But I want her back!’ Madeleine burst into a sudden flood of tears.
Having slowly stood up at her outburst, he now gazed down at her as she sank down on the sofa, now sobbing outright. ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he said firmly as if hanging on to patience. ‘There’s nothing more I can do.’
‘There has to be,’ she wailed, but his voice remained steely.
‘I’m afraid not, my dear. I suggest you content yourself with merely going to see her to reassure yourself that she’s happy and well cared for…’
‘I can’t do that!’ she broke in.
He’d not moved to comfort her; merely stood looking at her, his voice remaining passive as he spoke again, the words biting into her.
‘You cannot be so selfish as to take her from a family who loves her and whom she loves – the only parents she’s ever known. To drag her away from all that, have her pine for those she loves and has lost, compelled to live with a stranger in a strange house – that is unthinking and grossly selfish and I have never put you down as being that, my dear.’
How she now hated those words, my dear. A term of endearment yet they could hold a sting as much as any reprimand. At that moment she hated him with all her heart. She wanted to rush at him, tear his cheeks with her nails, rake at his eyes, hurt him with every means she had. But all she did was sit crouched in misery as he came and gently patted her bent shoulders.
‘You would not wish to inflict such a cruel action upon a defenceless child,’ he whispered. She found herself shaking her head in agreement as quiet sobs convulsed her whole body.
Twenty
It was arranged.
Under the guise of distant friends of the family briefly stopping off on route to somewhere else while passing through, she and James would arrive late afternoon. The child was to be kept far enough away to be seen but not to be spoken to.
In a fever of nervous tension, Madeleine sat beside James in the car, her eyes riveted on their chauffeur’s back, not seeing anything of the towns or countryside they passed through. It was taking hours to get there, James holding her hand most of the way. They had lunch somewhere though she couldn’t remember where or what she ate or anything of the tiny country pub in which she sat picking at her food, conscious only of the smell of beer and a gabble of conversation.
The agent had arranged the time of arrival and there being no delays on the way, the weather for November being kind to them, they were a little early although dusk was already closing in.
The house stood well back from the road. It was large and imposing, reached by a curving driveway, and it reminded her somewhat of her father’s house from where she had been banished long ago. It wasn’t a good start.
They were met by a maid servant and conducted to the rear of the house and into a spacious, well-lit conservatory. There they found themselves met with guarded smiles from the couple and an even more guarded but polite handshake by the husband, his wife having moved out of range of any necessity to partake in the ritual, her face taut and almost hostile.
Bidden to be seated at a small, round, wickerwork table, there was no pretence at social niceties, no offer of tea despite their long journey. The couple also sat; the wife a little apart from them, the husband seemingly stationing himself between them and the interior of the house as if guarding against any attempt to rush into the place when the child was brought into the living room, which they could see into, it too being well lit.
‘You had a decent journey here?’ he began, a formality to which James replied in equally formal tones.
‘Very good, thank you.’
‘It was long,’ Madeleine began, only to find the two people turn their eyes to her, the wife’s veiled and slightly guarded, her husband making an effort at a smile.
‘It is quite a way from London. I’ve been there a few times but found it noisy, people hurrying about as if their lives might come to an end at any moment – which I expect they could, seeing the amount of traffic there is.’
He laughed somewhat hollowly at his own little joke. The woman gave him a sharp look upon which he sobered instantly.
‘Well, we’d better get on with the business,’ he said abruptly and, getting up, went into the house leaving silence behind him, his wife sitting where she was, very stiff, staring down at her hands, while Madeleine looked desperately at James for something to say. The business, those words, as if the baby was no more than an item on some committee agenda.
She stood up, James also rising to stand beside her. She fumbled for his hand and felt it tighten around hers. She tried to draw comfort from the grip but her heart was racing. Her mouth felt dry. Any moment now she would be seeing the baby she’d had taken from her.
A movement within the room beyond interrupted her thoughts. The man had come in holding the child in his arms but the window glass was throwing back her own reflection, making it difficult to see through from where she stood.
As he approached her view became clearer and she could see the child, her small arms clinging about his neck; a child of around seven years old. In that second she felt her stomach go over. Even though the years had passed, she had still half expected to see a baby. It came as a shock, a weird sense of looking at a stranger, not her child at all. All these years filled with pictures of a tiny, screwed up face, half buried in a white shawl. Suddenly this didn’t seem real at all, no sudden recognition.
As he brought her closer to the window, still clinging about his neck as though unsure what was happening, the room’s bright light revealed a round little face, blue eyes wide and round, the rosebud mouth a little apprehensive as if not sure why she was being brought there.
Slowly, almost cautiously, as one might on being ordered to, the man moved closer still to the window though not right up to it, making it seem he was worried lest Madeleine made an attempt to leap through the very glass. But she could now see better the short, wavy, fair hair, tied on each side of the little head with bows of light blue ribbons. She wore a pale blue, short-sleeved dress, her soft little arms smooth and pink and healthy.
She was so pretty that it took Madeleine’s breath away and unable to stop herself she let go of James’s hand and made towards the window. The man immediately drew back a fraction as though fearing she might be contemplating running into the house to pluck the child from him.
The woman too had leapt to her feet, was instantly beside Madeleine. ‘You can see she’s bonny and well cared for.’ The voice was sharply protective. ‘She’s well loved. She knows where she is here. She knows no other life but this one – no other parents but us. All her little friends are here and at her school. They come to her birthday parties. You can’t take her away from all that. You couldn’t be so cruel.’
Madeleine found herself weeping. She turned to the woman to beg for some understanding of how she felt, only to find the woman too had tears in her eyes.
‘Please…’ the tone was soft yet beseeching in its strength. ‘You mustn’t take her from us. You mustn’t spoil the life she has here for the sake of your own happiness at the expense of hers? You couldn’t be that selfish. You can’t give a child up and then claim it back when it suits…’
‘But I didn’t give her up. She was taken from me. I had no say…’
‘Neither has she – taken away and not understanding why.’
‘She is right, Madeleine.’ James’s voice seemed to come from afar. He had come to stand beside her without her realizing it. She ignored him.
‘But I’ve no children of my own. I never will…’
‘Nor will we have, if she is taken from us,’ the woman said quietly. ‘And we can give her everything she needs.’
‘So can I…’
‘Except the only life she knows, the friends she’s made at school, the family she loves. Don’t you see? To her I’m her mother, the only mummy she knows.’
A tiny voice was making itself heard in Madeleine’s head as she stared at the strained, tearful face of the woman the little girl knew as Mummy: You cannot do this to her… She is happy here… Maybe if you had permission to visit her from time to time…
But that would never be enough, would it, pretending to be an aunt, or a friend of the family and watch her own child grow up not knowing her?
James was standing at her elbow. ‘Come, my dear, we’ve done all we can here,’ he was whispering in her ear. ‘We’re upsetting these good people. If you insist on doing this, it should now be done through solicitors.’
She shrugged away from him, but the fight had gone out of her. Even James was against her. But she’d known that all along despite him having gone out of his way to trace her child. Yes, a child, no longer the baby of her dreams, a child she couldn’t recognize; didn’t even have her looks; more like those who’d adopted her, or maybe not. Then suddenly as James’s limousine bore them away, she knew whom she resembled: the one who’d seduced her, the child’s real father who, so she’d heard, had been killed in the war.
Sinking back in her seat, feeling suddenly exhausted, she knew she could never take back the child, his child, without cringing at the way his smooth talk had misled her, only to abandon her the moment she’d found herself pregnant. She was glad he’d died – sorry for his fiancée although she was probably happily married to someone else after all this time, but him, he had got all he’d deserved and that at least was satisfying.
But the child – no, she couldn’t take her back, not now. Visions of the baby she had once held had seemed strangely to have faded. She told herself now as she sat back in the car that the child was happy where she was, cared for by parents – yes, they were in a way her parents – wh
o loved her; had given her everything she could wish for. The woman was right.
Besides, having her back, under her feet, even with a nanny, could mar her social life, her world in which a small child had no place; but more, could mar her relationship with Anthony. Madeleine glanced at James and as if on cue he turned his face to her.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ he asked gently.
‘I’m all right,’ she echoed.
‘Really it is the best thing all round, to leave her where she is,’ he murmured, almost hopefully, patting her hand. ‘Don’t you think, my dear?’
She nodded.
‘So we will let the matter drop, my dear? Leave that little family to get on with their lives?’ She nodded again.
‘I do think it is for the best, my dear,’ he furthered. ‘And you’re not upset, are you? Perhaps thinking you might change your mind later?’
‘No,’ she said abruptly, wishing he would cease badgering her.
‘I’m glad,’ he said, his tone betraying his relief that the matter was done and dusted as far as he was concerned. It was what he had wanted all along but he had been gracious enough to give her a choice. She was grateful yet felt a little rattled that it had been so easy for him. But yes, the decision had been hers in the end, yet in a way she felt a sense of loss and of having been cheated somehow. She knew she would be telling herself all the way home that it had been another man’s child, a man she wanted nothing to do with, wanted not to remember and that little face would have always forced her to remember. Best left alone.
He gave her hand a final pat then settled back in his seat, a weight off his mind, Madeleine thought as she closed her eyes and let the limousine carry her towards home to the life she knew, back to Anthony, now with no awkward situations over children. One day she might have a child with him, who knows. One day. The prospect helped disperse the final shreds of that which had been driving her for so long, yet now it was gone, solved, she felt deep inside that she had lost something precious.
