Illusions of Happiness (27 page)

Dr Peters, stethoscope to his patient’s chest, had resumed listening to James’s chest, the man’s rasping, laboured breathing filling the room. Now he turned abruptly, a finger to his lips for Madeleine to lower her voice.

‘Please, Mrs Ingleton, if you don’t mind.’

It was almost a command and instantly Madeleine fell silent while in the distance came the urgent jingling of an ambulance bell.

‘He shouldn’t have died!’ Madeleine sobbed, Anthony holding her close as the group of mourners came away from the graveside.

It would of course be seen as quite natural to show grief at losing a husband and her grief was genuine enough but no one knew how much self-recrimination was bound up in it; remembering those little unexpected moments when that tiny demon inside her head whispered to her that only by James’s demise would she ever be free to marry Anthony.

She’d tried to close her mind to its evil persistence; told herself time after time that she could never be so callous as to bow to the voice, but she knew she had listened. Now it seemed almost as if she had purposely willed his death and her grief felt almost an insult to the man – the kindest man she had ever known. In a way she had loved him even though she’d been well aware that all he had ever wanted from their marriage was companionship. But had she really given him that? She would never be certain.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she whispered to him as she wept against Anthony’s chest.

Misconstruing, Anthony tightened his arm about her and murmured, ‘Nothing you could’ve done. He was too ill. Nothing anyone could’ve done.’

It didn’t matter that he was holding her so close. She was after all, his aunt, it would not draw the attention of those standing in small groups or making their way to their vehicles, Merton, for instance, taking the staff back in the tiny Morris he owned, James having been generous with his wages for years.

She and James’s brother and his wife, along with Anthony, would be chauffeured back by Robert in James’s limousine, Anthony having left his vehicle at his uncle’s house where food awaited the return of the mourners.

Initially it was a subdued gathering, grateful to be out of the chill breeze of late March at last, exchanges made on how sad it was to see him go and he only in his mid-sixties – this from older members of the gathering, many of whom Madeleine had never seen – and that in their opinion he’d seemed to have merely given up on life.

But soon more cheerful anecdotes were being exchanged: James as a young man, his first wife, how they’d met – much of it new to Madeleine, he had hardly if ever spoken to her of his first wife. She often wondered why, though it had never bothered her. She just assumed he felt awkward about speaking of his first wife to his second. Sometimes it had seemed to her as if his first wife had never existed and she often wondered if he had really loved her, even been incapable of cementing love – as she and Anthony did. Was that why his previous wife hadn’t had any children, she wondered, as she listened now to the gabble of voices around her talking about his life.

There was a good sprinkling of colleagues of his; businessmen, rival stockbrokers, people from his firm, each with a tale of their own regarding the deceased. She didn’t really want to know; stood receiving everyone’s condolences, wishing only that they would all say their goodbyes and depart, leaving her and Anthony alone. Here, after the staff had cleared away and disappeared to go about their separate duties, she and Anthony would finally be alone at last, that thought sending a thrill of excitement running through her.

James’s relatives and staff were gathered around the large dining-room table, sitting in silence as his solicitor made ready to read the will. As expected, after certain bequests to his relatives, small token gratuities to his staff, everything else had been left to her, his wife, as it should: all his property and valuables together with his business, his investments, it being added that he’d tutored her well in the intricacies of the stock market for her to be well conversant with such transactions.

With no debts to be settled, she was suddenly a rich woman in her own right. As James’s solicitor declared that he would take pleasure in acting for her, advising her, making it his business to protect her from any future blips exactly as he had her late husband, her only thought was that now she and Anthony could be married, after a suitable period of mourning of course.

She would sell the house and live with him. James’s business would be left in the capable hands of his partner, George Foster, who’d keep her well informed and act on any new instructions she needed to give him. She intended not to let anything get past her. This last year, her dealing, with very few failures, had become almost an obsession with her.

With Anthony’s money too, they had as much money as they could ever need; she would follow the stock market to its fullest extent and together they would live a complete and exciting social life, paint the town red almost every night.

James’s solicitor Mr Laurence Ferguson, having concluded the reading of the will, was gathering his papers together, as Madeleine come to thank him for his time.

‘Now remember, Mrs Ingleton,’ he said in his deep voice, ‘I am here whenever you feel you need help or advice on anything that might cause you the least concern – as I’ve always done for your husband. I have been his family solicitor these many years, I might say for as long as I can remember.’ He gave a small polite chuckle then went on, ‘Your husband trusted me implicitly and I hope you will be able to do the same, Mrs Ingleton.’

Yes, she was happy enough to keep him on. There was little point in fishing around for anyone else. James had trusted him and so would she. But at this moment the small group of beneficiaries needed to enjoy some refreshments and a brandy or two before leaving.

‘Will you join us, Mr Ferguson?’ she asked and he beamed, thanking her but saying he needed to get back to his office.

‘Just one small glass of brandy,’ she coaxed, bidding him to go into the drawing room with the others while she went downstairs to see if Mrs Cole had the plates of dainty sandwiches and little pastries ready to be taken up to them.

She was halfway down the short slight of steps to the kitchen when Mrs Cole’s voice filtered up to her.

‘. . . Sobbing fit to burst at the funeral, she was. Anyone hearing her would’ve believed her stricken by grief. But it was guilty conscience if you ask me. Because I know something no one else knows.’

Then Merton’s deep voice. ‘What would that be, Mrs Cole?’

Madeleine had froze on the middle step as Mrs Cole’s voice continued.

‘I ain’t saying, Mr Merton, but I know something that’d make your hair curl if you knew. I can bet my last ha’penny on that, especially about that miscarriage of hers, that everyone is being led to believe was her . . .’

Her voice went out of range, Madeleine already hurrying back up the steps, passing the open door to the drawing room from which the babble of voices issued, going into the small lounge, closing the door behind her.

There she collapsed into a soft chair to weep as silently as she could. How could the woman have changed so from the friend and confidante she once thought she’d had into that tittle-tattle with such a grudge against her? Had whatever she’d confided to her in the past been bandied about the house without her being aware of it? The more she thought of it the angrier she became. But moments later she had dried her eyes defiantly, her mind working.

Yes, she’d sell this house at the first opportunity. She’d give Merton and the two young girls a glowing reference but there’d be none for a tittle-tattling cook/housekeeper. If anyone asked for one, she’d tell them she had no trust in the woman, which now was true, having caught her at it, and she wasn’t prepared to give her a reference. Being out of work might give the woman food for thought. Feeling more composed she returned to the drawing room finding that the sandwiches and pastries had already been brought up, everyone standing about nibbling, sipping their brandy or sherry, the room filled with their chatter, livelier now with the sombre part of the funeral over.

She had to force herself to appear normal but it was hard not to lay aside what she had overheard. It wasn’t until later, after everyone had departed – young Beattie handing each their hat, coat, muffler, gloves, Merton quickly closing the front door after each guest so as to let in as few blasts of wintry March as possible – that it came to her. Would it really matter if her secret did come out? Once she and Anthony were married, would she really care what they thought? They might gossip for a while but she’d be living with him, her own house sold. As for Mrs Cole, perhaps she might give her a half decent reference after all.

The guests gone, she and Anthony now alone, it didn’t matter about the staff. She paid their wages. They’d take care not to gossip outside. Even so, it was as well to keep their secret a little longer.

Informing Merton that her nephew would be staying the night, she needing the company and the support of a near relative to help her deal with her loss, she told him she would need the guest room to be prepared for him.

‘Mr Anthony will not want early morning tea. He tells me he likes to sleep late,’ she added, pleased with her little lie. ‘I doubt I shall sleep very well after today’s ordeal so will probably not wish to be disturbed either. I will have my tea downstairs instead when I have breakfast.’

Whatever the upright if somewhat chubby man thought, his face gave nothing away as he murmured politely, ‘Very good, madam.’

‘Oh, and Merton,’ she called as he turned to go. ‘As I don’t expect to sleep very well tonight, I shall probably stay up until quite late so there’s no need to wait up for me to retire. Lock up at your usual time and let everyone know they can go to bed at their normal hour.’

‘Very well, madam,’ repeated Merton, and politely withdrew.

The moment he’d gone, Anthony, who’d been sitting on the opposite sofa to her, got up and slipped a record on the gramophone. As the soft, smooth strains of her favourite tune ‘Avalon’ filled the room, he came to sit beside her. She cuddled against him, neither spoke. The music ended. They sat on, reclining together. Madeleine closed her eyes in pure contentment, he continuing to hold her to him, they just lying in each other’s arms, doing nothing, saying nothing, something she had never known with him before. Their time together had always been taken up in a frantic scramble for their fulfilment of each other. This was new and it was wonderful and the hours slipped by unnoticed. Then as they lengthened towards midnight, he roused her and led her up the stairs, first entering the guest room to rumple the covers and the pillow to give the impression of the bed having been slept in, then leading her quietly to her room and closing the door behind them.

Their first ever night together; heaven, knowing they had no need to rush things; no need for her to hurry away after she had calmed herself following a mere hour of frenzied love-making. They could take their time; sleep soundly and contentedly in each other’s arms for what was left of the night, wake in the morning to revel in the pleasure of each other yet again.

Wonderful this morning to lay naked in his arms, slowly waking up knowing that in a little while they would make love again with no longer any call for her to leap out of bed, dress in frantic haste, hurry from the house to a taxi, fretting all the way back here in case James might be wondering where she was. She was already back here, and James would no longer be waiting for her, would never again be waiting for her.

The thought brought unexpected moisture to her eyes as she lay in Anthony’s arms. Quickly she sniffed them back but the sounds brought him awake, made him look at her.

‘Something wrong, darling?’

‘No, nothing, love, I just thought of James, that’s all, and . . .’

She broke off. She hadn’t meant to say that. Rather she’d wanted to refer to her earlier thought of how wonderful it was lying here with no need to leap up and run off; so wonderful that she’d suddenly felt overwhelmed. It would have had him instantly pulling her to him to begin making love to her. Instead he held his body back from her to gaze at her from his pillow.

‘That’s all behind you, darling. You have me now. Remember that.’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’

‘OK then,’ he said, and moving his hand beneath her neck, drew her to him, his other hand already caressing her naked breasts, and as their lips met, the hand moved slowly down to her thighs to nestle between her legs and, as she sighed, tightly grasped her there. She gasped in her need of him.

Suddenly he released her, sat up and slewed his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her as he opened the drawer of the bedside cabinet and she knew instantly what he was about.

Waiting for him was an unbearable chasm just as it had been last night while he took precautions to safeguard her from harm.

He’d put that second sheath in the cabinet drawer ready for this morning, thinking of her protection of course, but all she wanted to do was to grab his shoulder, turn him back to her, tell him that it didn’t matter if she did conceive; that it was what she wanted – to have his child, she a mother at last, cementing their union of love. If it happened today, they’d still be married in time to keep tongues from wagging. The child would be legitimate, all she had ever wanted, and it would be Anthony’s – hers and Anthony’s. All these years of yearning, at last she would be happy instead of having to tell herself she was; genuinely happy in her own right an end to all these years of knowing that happiness had always been only an illusion for her.

‘Darling,’ she whispered as he turned back to her, ‘let’s not bother using anything.’

She hated the things: harsh, sturdy rubber seeming to rasp against her tender flesh, no feeling of him except for those couple of times last year when carried away in a few moments of madness they had forgone such precautions. The result had been overriding fear of abortion, only to suffer anyway as the fetus decided to rid itself of her nevertheless, it not even formed enough to be recognizable as a human child.