by Maggie Ford
As the girl appeared at the doorway, Mrs Cole turned to her. ‘Phone Mr Ingleton’s doctor. The number’s in the book hanging at the side of the telephone. Tell him it’s extremely urgent. Do you understand? EXTREMELY URGENT! Tell him Mrs Ingleton has been taken seriously ill.’
Faintly, between groans, Madeleine could hear the girl asking for the number, then as if calling back over her shoulder. ‘Mrs Cole, he’s asking if I mean Mr Ingleton.’
‘No. Tell him it’s Mrs Ingleton, Mrs Madeleine Ingleton. Tell him it’s terribly urgent and to come straightaway.’
A moment’s pause, then, ‘He’s asking, what’s the matter with her.’
Mrs Cole gave an irritated tut-tut and raised her voice even louder. ‘It’s for him to tell us! Tell him it’s a woman’s trouble and looks serious and to come immediately.’ She looked down at Madeleine and smiled. ‘After all, Mr Ingleton pays him.’
When Madeleine, holding her breath against another sluggish twinge, barely returned the smile, Mrs Cole stood up, calling to the girl in the hall, ‘As soon as you’re off the phone go to the laundry room and collect some clean towels and a couple of clean flannels. Tell young Lily to heat some water – a couple of kettlefuls will do – pour it in a basin and bring it to me.’
Seconds later, came Beattie’s voice. ‘Lily’s not there.’
‘Then she must be outside in the garden or in the loo out there. I told her to make herself scarce. If you can’t find her, do it yourself. But be quick about it!’
This last was said almost in panic as Madeleine felt another pain run through her and let out a cry, not one to endure pain in silence. The sound seemed to echo through the house, bringing Beattie up the few stairs from the kitchen at a run, slopping hot water on her way.
‘Put it here,’ cried Mrs Cole. ‘And go and get a waterproof sheet – two waterproof sheets – one for the floor and one for this sofa. Can’t have the Master’s good furniture all wet and stained.’
‘What’s happened to her?’ Beattie enquired.
‘None of your business!’ Mrs Cole snapped at her. ‘Now go and wait outside the door for the doctor. Bring him straight in here when he arrives. Bring him in here, then you can go into the kitchen till he’s gone. I don’t want you moving about the house just now.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t ask questions. Just keep Lily company when she comes back from wherever she is until I can say you can go about your duties again.’
‘What if the Master wants anything?’
‘I doubt he will, he’s not at all well and won’t be down until well into the morning. Now be a good girl, and go and sit with Lily when she appears. Don’t gossip with her about this. If she asks, say I’ll talk to her later. Do you understand?’
‘But what if Mr Merton comes back down?’
Fortunately, James’s butler had been upstairs with him having awakened him and served him his morning tea as he always did first thing most mornings. Since James’s health had deteriorated these last couple of years, he’d have Merton stay and chat while he sat in his armchair by the window where the sun poured in if the day was fine, Merton pottering about the room or sitting on a hard chair nearby if James fancied a chat.
Over the years, long before he’d married Madeleine, they’d become almost like friends, more so now that James’s health had grown steadily more chronic.
‘If Mr Merton returns downstairs, I shall tell him Mrs Ingleton is a little unwell – that’s all he needs to know for now. Now go!’
As the girl went out of the door, Mrs Cole turned her attention back to Madeleine. ‘How are you feeling now?’
There was concern but no longer any real gentleness in her tone. The woman was obviously disgusted, for all she was merely staff. Madeleine gave a small, wan smile. ‘Not so bad now. The pain seems to have died away. In fact I’m feeling much better.’
‘Well that’s encouraging. Maybe it was only a passing thing.’
‘Maybe we don’t need the doctor. I’ll go upstairs and rest instead.’
‘No, best you stay here. Moving about could start it off again. And you must have your doctor to look at you.’
It sounded as if she wanted him to prove her condition, even hope he would relay the good news to James, congratulate him on becoming a father-to-be, sparing her any temptation to confide in others, ending up with it reaching his ears and she being held responsible for spreading it. Madeleine could feel the fear gripping hold of her. How could she even hope to plead with their doctor to keep the news from James without having to explain why?
Within five minutes of receiving the phone call, Dr Peters was being conducted into the room by the young housemaid who, on appearing to be hovering, hurriedly backed out at a sharp look from Mrs Cole.
Dr Peters came to stand over Madeleine, his expression gentle and friendly. ‘Now what have we been up to, my dear?’
Before Madeleine could reply, Mrs Cole spoke for her. ‘Mrs Ingleton told me she’s in the family way, Doctor, but this morning she had… well, you know, a little show and she got herself in a bit of a state.’
‘Quite natural,’ Dr Peters said slowly. ‘Well then, I need to have a look at her. And she must go straight to bed and rest.’ He looked down at her, all smiles. ‘No need for alarm at this juncture, my dear. We will get you to bed and you must stay there until all sign of bleeding ceases. But…’
Again he smiled, this time with gentle concern. ‘I do need to add that there is every possibility you could lose the child despite rest and care. We will have to wait and see how it goes. Hopefully all will remain well. But you must rest and not fret overmuch. I know that is hard to do, but you must try to concentrate on all being well. I will tell Mr Ingleton—’
‘No! Don’t!’ Madeleine cried. ‘I don’t want him worried. It might go away and then there’ll be no need for him to know.’
Dr Peters looked mystified. ‘Nonsense, my dear, he must be told or he will be even more upset that his wife has kept a thing like this from him.’
Madeleine sat up sharply before he could stop her. ‘Dr Peters,’ she began, then seeing Mrs Cole still there behind him, said as nicely as she could, ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Cole. Thank you so much for all you’ve done for me this morning, but do you mind leaving us please?’
She didn’t seem that put out by the request. After all, she must have already guessed what her employer’s wife was about to tell the doctor.
Once they were alone, Madeleine haltingly and almost in a whisper mumbled her secret to him, her voice threatening to break as tears began to course down her cheeks, not daring to look up into his face, knowing the expression she would see written there.
After she’d done, he stood there not speaking. Finally he said in low measured tones, ‘You cannot keep a thing like this from him, my dear.’
She wished he wouldn’t keep saying, my dear, almost as though he were in league with James.
‘Even if the bleeding ceases he will want to know what all this is about.’
‘We don’t have to tell him.’
‘Of course you must. All this activity going on in his own home, he is bound to know, ask questions. He is not a stupid man and to be perfectly honest, my dear Mrs Ingleton, you should have thought of him, his feelings, before you embarked on… Well, you understand what I am saying.’
Madeleine didn’t answer. His sharp tone went right through her. Dr Peters spoke for her.
‘I think it your duty to tell him. Or would you prefer I do it? Less traumatic perhaps than coming from you, worked up as you are.’
But Madeleine hardly heard him, as hands covering her face, she broke into a paroxysm of weeping and found herself nodding to his words without being sure why, hearing him say something about having a bed brought down lest climbing the stairs to her bedroom might cause even more danger of losing the fetus. But that was just what she wanted – to lose the thing and have done with it.
* * *
She lay in her own bed, n
o longer pregnant, all efforts to save the minuscule life having been for nothing. It had been a terrible few hours seeming to go on forever, the uncontrollable straining making her moan, wishing she could die. At least she’d been saved the terror of an enforced abortion but she’d no longer cared, just wanting it to end.
While she lay downstairs on the made-up bed, Anthony had telephoned on the pretext of asking after his uncle’s health but really to find out where she was, so she had learned later.
Told only that his uncle was well enough but that his aunt had been taken ill, he had come bounding round on a legitimate errand of asking after her. By that time James, alerted by Merton who had returned downstairs to find chaos ruling, had himself come to investigate. It had fallen to Dr Peters to tell him the disturbing news and though he had no doubt been careful with his words, James had gone back up to his room once Madeleine was pronounced out of danger – that was three days ago. He’d not been near her since; hadn’t even wanted to know whose child it was. For that at least she should have felt relieved; no third degree, no accusation, no need for her to lie to him; no adding insult to injury in his having to be told it was his own nephew. But that was no relief as she lay or sat around in her room doing nothing, like a nun in a cell, wanting only to close herself off from the world.
Anthony rang once to ask how she was. That was ten days ago. Since then there had been silence. Between weeping and staring at the four walls, Madeleine felt it would have been a blessing to have died, wished even now that she would.
Twenty-Three
Six days more confined to bed, and still James hadn’t come near her.
Surely he must have guessed what she’d gone through; must have heard her crying out during the horrible process of something almost akin to a full-term birth yet with nothing to show for it in the end.
She had asked to know the sex but Dr Peters had said the sex of an aborted fetus would not be recognizable. She hated that word aborted. It sounded so unwholesome as if she’d deliberately got rid of it. It shocked her too, that it was not termed a miscarriage, which would have sounded so much more wholesome.
Afterwards she had lain drained, praying that James would decide to eventually see her. He hadn’t come near and now she lay slowly recovering and trying not to feel bitter. Tomorrow she would get up, no matter what Dr Peters said. Tomorrow was Wednesday. She’d make herself feel well enough to visit Anthony. The day after her miscarriage Anthony came to the house to visit her, his aunt, as any fond nephew would, but was told that she needed complete rest, no visitors as yet apart from her husband lest she became too stressed. Everyone thought her constant weeping was related to what was now being generally referred to as her miscarriage, her devastation at losing her and James’s baby. Only Mrs Cole knew why she cried.
James too was probably devastated but not for the reason the staff believed. He sat alone in the seclusion of his rooms, not even Merton allowed to come near. Madeleine knew he must be feeling utterly lost and betrayed.
Fortunately, as far as she knew, he had no idea of the identity of the father. She trembled to think how much worse it would be if he knew it to be his own nephew. Eventually he would find out and it terrified her – as if she hadn’t wronged him enough already. But if only he could bring himself to see her, maybe she could explain how starved of love she had been – then she scolded herself for such a damned foolish thought, expecting a wronged man to sympathize with such a sad excuse.
In all these six days, James had not come anywhere near her; it was like some slow torture, knowing how he must feel and all the while feeling as wretched herself because of it.
Going to Anthony was the only solution she could think of to alleviate this need for someone to understand and sympathize but not for the wrong reasons. In fact Anthony might be deeply relieved that there was no longer any need to send her away for an abortion. She could hardly wait to be with him, but leaving the house without being seen, to be stopped and asked what she thought she was doing, what reason could she give? She couldn’t sleep that night for thinking about it.
Next morning she awoke to an idea that seemed to have formed while she’d slept. Of course, the only one who knew her secret was Mrs Cole. It was still early as she got herself out of bed trying to ignore the weakness in her legs from six days of inertia. She dressed warmly, after a fashion, the late February mornings chill and damp, then crept cautiously down the back stairs, one slow step at a time. Her caution had less to do with meeting any of the staff on the stairs as waves of weakness that almost overwhelmed her halfway down to the kitchen where Mrs Cole would be starting her day.
It was a relief not to meet anyone, have to endure a look of surprise from someone seeing her there. Beattie would be in one of the main rooms clearing out a fire grate, resetting it for the day ahead. Young Lily would be cleaning in the kitchen or whatever she did at this time of morning. Merton, if he wasn’t with James, would still be in his butler’s pantry downstairs.
Mrs Cole turned around at her entrance, startled at seeing her there, her voice shrill with alarm. ‘Madam, what on earth are you doing up?’
Madeleine noted the way she addressed her, no dear or love now. In an odd way, it hurt.
Mrs Cole said, ‘You shouldn’t be up. You should be in your bed,’ and seeing her dressed for outdoors, adding almost unnecessarily, ‘you’re not thinking of going out, Madam! You’re far from well enough.’
Madeleine drew herself up. She couldn’t be seen slumping against the door for all she felt weak from having descended the stairs.
‘Mrs Cole, I need you to get me a taxi, please.’ She hated the way she said ‘please’. It sounded almost servile, pleading, humbling.
The woman regarded her slowly then motioned to the scullery maid to absent herself. ‘Go and put that rubbish over there into one of the bins outside ready for the dustmen,’ she ordered then turned back to Madeleine. At Madeleine’s look of pleading, her tone became a little gentler.
‘You’re going to see him?’ Madeleine nodded. ‘Do you think you should be doing that just now? Mr Ingleton…’
Madeleine shook her head but replied, ‘I have to. I need to…’ She broke off feeling herself growing faint and unsteady. With an effort she came upright, held on to the doorknob to steady the sensation of swaying. The movement seemed to revive her and she took a deep breath. ‘You don’t understand, Mrs Cole, I—’
‘Oh I understand well enough. I suppose there’s little else you can do. The master’s in shock as you can imagine. And hurt. Deeply hurt. But I suppose if you’ve no care for him in the state of shock he must be in, you’ll do what you feel you have to. I’ll telephone for a taxi for you. What goes on or happens after that is up to you, I suppose. None of my business.’
With that she went from the kitchen to telephone for a taxi, leaving Madeleine to sink down on a chair beside the preparation table and wait. Lily came back from putting the rubbish in the dustbin. She eyed Madeleine curiously but said nothing and knelt down beside her bucket to resume her task of washing the floor by the sink.
By the time Mrs Cole returned, Madeleine was feeling much stronger – edgy, but more in control of herself.
‘The taxi will be here in about five minutes,’ she stated and went on cutting rind off the bacon she’d been preparing in case the master felt like having breakfast, something he hadn’t done since this business started, but she’d prepare it anyway as she had done these last six or seven mornings. The rest of the staff had had theirs at the ungodly hour of six o’clock: porridge, as always, very fortifying for a working day.
* * *
The door was opened by Jessop, Anthony’s manservant and chauffeur, who managed to master a stare of surprise at seeing her here so early and with a smile stepped back to let her in.
‘Mr Anthony is still in his bed, Mrs Ingleton,’ he said as he conducted her into the lounge. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here. Meantime, please make yourself comfortable. Is there anything you would like?
Some tea? Or coffee?’
‘I’d simply adore a cup of tea,’ she said gratefully, adopting the easy way she and Anthony spoke together, the way all the young modern society people spoke, full of over-accentuations; the way she and James never spoke at home, he still tending to live as if having never left the last decade behind.
The tea was refreshing and was accompanied by a plate of gorgeous bourbon biscuits, several of which she devoured, feeling suddenly hungry. She felt stronger too. In the taxi she’d collapsed back on the seat, her head reeling, her body feeling limp and lifeless. At one time she’d wondered just what she thought she was about, that she should never have embarked on this mad venture. She’d been sure she could suddenly collapse and die in the vehicle. How she had got herself up the steps to Anthony’s house she hardly knew.
Having managed to control herself as Jessop opened the door to her, and having managed to walk steady and upright behind him to the lounge, she’d been overwhelmingly glad to sink into an armchair, be left alone for a few minutes to recover until his cook came in with the tray of tea and the biscuits. She hadn’t had breakfast but felt she couldn’t have consumed more than one or two of them; enough to make her feel human again.
By the time Anthony came down, still in his dressing gown and silk choker, the tan silk trousers of his pyjamas peeping from underneath, she was feeling more like her old self again, glad that she had taken the risk in coming here. She needed to put this last week behind her and that could only be achieved by being here with him.
He stood looking at her. ‘How’re you feeling?’ There was deep concern and such a depth of tenderness in his eyes that she wanted to leap up and throw herself bodily into his arms but the effort might have been too much. Revived as she felt, she knew she still wasn’t right and that subsequent six days confined to bed had only helped to weaken her in her opinion.
She smiled up at him. ‘I’m a lot better,’ she said but he was staring down at her.
