A Fall from Grace - Maggie Ford (have you read this book TXT) 📗

With that in mind she had steeled herself to endure his embraces but she need not have worried. He’d been a perfect gentleman the whole evening.

Waited upon by Merton his elderly butler and a rather plain-faced maid called Beattie, they’d sat at either end of a small, rectangular table, his cook Mrs Cole having supper already prepared almost as if he’d expected his proposal would be accepted. That too had raised the question of his proposal being anticipated, one she’d soon shrugged off as she put her mind to considering all the benefits this union could bring.

She’d intended to tell Dolly all about it. Now she was glad she hadn’t. Dolly, in her present jealous mood, would have shrugged, maybe said something nasty. It didn’t matter any more. She had a future now.

James had found her a nice little furnished two-roomed apartment not far from where he lived. ‘I shall be able to see you more often,’ he’d said cheerfully, but for her leaving this hole of a place felt far more important.

She could hardly wait for Thursday, to see the back of this place, and Dolly, and that common, rough-tongued landlady who was always yelling up the stairs to any tenant who had a caller. The next five days would seem endless. Of a sudden she felt desperately cooped up in this room, verging on claustrophobia. She needed to get out, find some fresh air even though the day was deeply overcast.

For much of May the weather had been wonderful but today hardly conducive to cheering her up after her encounter with Dolly. Little to cheer anyone up these days: the war expected to be over by last Christmas still dragging on, the fighting in France seeming to be going nowhere, the Huns now using a terrible weapon, gas. The outrage at the sinking of the Cunard finer Lusitania by torpedoes within sight of British shores with the loss of well over a thousand fives, not even military, but civilian men, women and children, had angry crowds descending on shops owned by Germans, people stoning their owners or covering them in paint, no matter that they’d been in this country half their fives. Madeleine had heard the ruckus only a few days ago, windows being broken in a nearby parade, shouts and screams, police called, trying to quell their fury. She had shut her window to keep out the sounds and prayed to soon leave this awful area.

Now her wish had been granted. By the end of the week she would be gazing around at a bright and beautiful little apartment. The thought of her coming marriage suddenly excited her as she snatched up her hat and coat and hurried down the stairs as quickly as her out of date hobble skirt allowed, knowing that soon all her clothes would be the latest of fashion.

On a whim she turned in the direction of the nearby post office. There she bought herself some notepaper and envelopes and a couple of penny stamps. Armed with these she turned back to where she lived, almost at a run, all thought of enjoying some fresh air swept from her mind.

Seated at her table she began to write the letter, having to resort to pencil, all she had to hand, ink and a pen a luxury she’d so far had no need to afford until now. But suddenly this letter was important and pencil would have to do. Maybe the letter was somewhat premature yet she wrote as if there was no time at all to spare, her usually cultured, careful handwriting becoming a scrawl in her haste, hardly allowing herself time to think lest an attack of misgiving made her change her mind.

In the over-furnished drawing room that still reflected the old Edwardian days of over a dozen years ago, Aldous Wyndham had left the cheap-looking envelope to the very last in his usual pile of morning post. Most probably from someone begging monetary help of some sort, of which he received quite a few, being a man of some standing on a board of directors of a well-known, well-sought after Buckinghamshire grammar school.

Sighing at the likelihood of declining whatever the sender was begging from him, he slit open the envelope to scan the single sheet of thin notepaper prior to screwing it into a ball and throwing it into the wicker waste paper basket at his feet. But the moment he began to read, he froze.

Leaping to his feet, almost knocking over the waste paper basket, he hurried to the door, tore it open to bellow at the girl who was dusting the hall stand just a few feet away, ‘Where is my wife?’

The maid started as if struck, collecting herself to mumble, ‘I don’t know, sir,’ her head respectfully lowered.

‘Then find her,’ he commanded, at which the girl scuttled off, duster still in hand.

He was seated at his bureau when Dorothy finally came in, a little diffidently. Their maid had appeared harassed, leaving her to feel something must be terribly amiss, something she must have done was probably annoying him.

‘Where were you?’ he demanded, glancing up at her. The tone of his question made her catch her lower lip between her teeth.

‘I was in the kitchen with Mrs Plumley, planning today’s menu,’ she offered. ‘What was it you wanted, dear?’

‘Look at this!’ He held out the sheet of notepaper to her, his face now turned away from her, compelling her to come forward to receive it.

‘Read it!’ he snapped.

Quickly she began to read but only got as far as the first sentence. ‘It’s from Madeleine,’ she gasped.

‘I do not recognize the name,’ he growled, still with his gaze on the surface of his bureau. ‘Just read what it says… to yourself,’ he added as she started to read aloud.

As bidden she took in the words in silence, reading quickly and as briefly as she could. Finally she looked up. He was staring out of the window