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

‘You’re very welcome, miss, I’m sure.’ The kindly words followed her, stayed with her as she made her way to the taxicab whose driver had been paid to await her return, as she knew her stay in that house would be brief. In fact it had been much shorter than she’d anticipated, even less fulfilling.

Rather than her visit being a triumph, the whole escapade, which is what it had turned out to be, had achieved nothing, leaving her wondering why she had even bothered. In the back of the taxi, her disillusionment concealed from the driver by the fashionable broad-brimmed hat she wore, she tried to ignore a heavy sense of defeat deep in her stomach that it hadn’t been she who had triumphed but her father, she being made to feel a fool.

It nagged at her the whole journey back to London, though glad to have a first-class carriage to herself affording her privacy to nurse her dejection without being observed.

Arriving home earlier than she had expected to, she prayed not to meet James as Merton opened the door to her. All she wanted was to hurry on upstairs to the privacy of her room and indulge in a few moments of quiet misery. But it wasn’t to be.

James came out of his study as she entered the hall, saw her, and called out, ‘Ah, there you are! Had a pleasant day with your friend have you, my dear?’

His tone was soft yet to her mind held a note almost of accusation, making her respond far too quickly. ‘Yes, very nice thank you.’

There was a pause. Then he said as Merton went discreetly off down the hall, ‘Strange, my dear, your friend Mrs Margaret Dowling whom you said you were seeing today telephoned three hours after you left – by which time you should have been with her – to invite you there this Wednesday.’

For a second she froze. Next minute she’d thrown herself into his arms, sobbing fit to burst. ‘Oh, James, I’m sorry. I lied to you. I didn’t go to see her. I went to confront my father for withholding the death of my mother from me. I needed so much to have it out with him.’

He held her away from him at arm’s length to gaze gently into her tear-stained face, his expression sad, stemming her weeping for a moment.

‘And did you?’ he asked quietly.

Her response was a fresh outburst of tears and again he held her to him. ‘There, my dear, you mustn’t cry. I know you’ve been harbouring a great deal of bitterness but it doesn’t do. You only destroy yourself.’

‘That’s why I had to go and face him with it.’

‘It doesn’t appear to have made you feel any the better, my dear.’

‘It hasn’t,’ she sobbed, glad her lie had been discovered, leaving her free of its burden.

At that moment, with his arms tightly and comfortingly about her, she so wanted to love him, hating herself that she couldn’t, not in the way a girl of twenty-one needed to love. He was the kindest man anyone could ever wish for, a tribute completely at odds with his profession as a stockbroker. She couldn’t imagine a man in that profession being easy-going in his business, yet with her he was always kind and sweet and thoughtful.

And yet, as he held her to him, murmuring words of comfort to her, sounding so sincere, there came thoughts of his gentle yet stubborn refusal to bow to this longing of hers to trace the baby taken from her. What was it they said – an iron fist in a velvet glove? Maybe that described it. Soft spoken yet hard-headed, biding his time until finally frustrated, she gave up. It was quite possible.

Allowing herself to continue being held close, she saw him for a second or two in a different light, and moments later found herself shaking off these uncomfortable thoughts, almost telling herself that she understood. No man approaching sixty would want to find himself saddled with a baby. There came another thought that hadn’t occurred to her before: the baby taken from her all that time ago would now be older. Why hadn’t that struck her until now? Yet her mind still saw a tiny scrap wrapped in its shawl, a tiny face gazing up at her, the warm baby smell wafting up to her. She felt the faint impression of tiny limbs against her body, and her senses cried out afresh for the baby they had taken from her.

‘I’m so miserable,’ she whispered against James’s shoulder. ‘I’m so terribly unhappy.’

‘He is not worth it, my dear,’ he murmured into her hair, missing the source of her true unhappiness utterly.

Twelve

There were times when Madeleine wondered if she would ever recover from that traumatic encounter with her father.

Hardly more than a few minutes with him but seven months later those few minutes felt like a lifetime. If only she hadn’t lost her temper, screeching at him like a child in a tantrum. He, on the other hand, after his initial shock at seeing her, had remained perfectly composed, until silenced into defeat she had finally fled, still in a rage with nothing achieved, such was her father’s ruthless command over others. She should have known the power of his will from past experience.

But she too was strong-willed. She would put the memory behind her, centre her thoughts instead on throwing a splendid party for Christmas Eve, less than six weeks away, as well as for New Year’s Eve. It would help her regain her self-esteem, show that she could be the perfect hostess, in full control of whatever situation might pop up. She had already begun to send out invitations and had already received a good few acceptances.

The first-floor rooms, reached by a beautifully carpeted staircase could accommodate fifty people with ease as she had discovered from last year’s festive gathering. It had been her first attempt at organizing such a party and she had been