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

her, long-suffering, patient, mild-tempered; she now saw a man revealing the face his business rivals saw – a man who took no prisoners. Even when presenting a likeable face to the world of business in which he lived, she realized that a man of any other calibre would never have survived the cut-throat profession of stocks and shares. She had often wondered how someone so placid when with her could command others in a profession so intense and sometimes ruthless. Now, hearing him address her as he had, she knew she had met her match. There would be no hope of tracing her child through him. She must look elsewhere. But where? There was nowhere. She felt defeated. Bursting into tears, she rushed from the room.

But two months later something did present itself – in the form of a letter from Anthony, addressed directly to her.

When Merton handed her the post, she immediately recognized the handwriting and her heart leapt. Leaving the rest of the post she hurried up to her bedroom and sat at her neat little bureau, tearing open the envelope with feverish fingers, grateful James had already left the house before the second mail of the day. The first always came very early in the morning, this second one of three daily posts arriving around eleven.

Reading the two pages of closely scribbled writing, joy soared within her like a bird on the wing, but coupled with great sadness for him, and such deep understanding that she found herself crying as she read:

My own true darling,

I dare not imagine what you must have been thinking of all this past year. Time and time again I wanted to write but could not bring myself to form the words. After losing mother, I felt I couldn’t face the hubbub of London. I felt strangely guilty over her death, almost in a panic. An old friend in Scotland said I had to get away, suggested spending some time with him until I was well enough to face the world again. I left the bank in charge of Mr Knowles my capable undermanager with whom I’ve stayed in contact by phone.

I thought of you so often and have been utterly wretched. Yet I couldn’t face coming back. The loss of mother affected me so much more than I could ever have imagined. I’d lost all control, rather like a type of shell-shock delayed from the war; coming quite out of the blue the day after losing her. I began to find myself unable to keep a muscle still, feeling I was losing my balance. Even in the quiet isolation of Scotland it’s taken a long time to recover. My friend has been so supportive. But for him I could have gone the way of many a shell-shocked man.

I thought I returned from France merely a bit shaken up with no more than a badly fractured leg, but it’s the wounds you don’t see. Lots of men like it will maybe never be cured. I did wonder if I would ever be the same again. I know I didn’t feel one hundred per cent in my mind when I came home to convalesce but couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone, not even James, least of all you, my darling. I am so sorry; but I had no wish to inflict my confusion upon you, my sweetest love.

But I think I am recovered now; one of the lucky ones maybe, but for some time I just couldn’t bring myself to come back and face a normal life, much less have you see me in that state. So now I can only hope you still love me and want me but I will understand if you don’t.

I will be returning to London some time next week and if I can face it (though I’ll not know until I do), go to live in my mother’s house which, as you know, has been closed all this while. I’ve written to Uncle James to say I’m returning home (I’ve never told him either about my condition) but this is a special letter to you fervently hoping that your love and affection for me hasn’t died.

Please, darling, write and tell me how you feel about me and if you still feel anything for me. I wait upon your answer with the fervent hope that you still feel about me as you did.

I love you so very much.

Anthony

The letter ended with a long row of kisses to which she pressed her lips before folding it carefully in order to slip it beneath her jumper next to her heart, tearing the envelope to shreds and dropping them into the waste paper basket, not that she wished to destroy even his envelope, but with an irrational fear of anyone, James say, inspecting the basket, and seeing her name in his handwriting.

It was a full two weeks before he came home. Having telegraphed James and his mother’s sister and her husband as to when he’d be coming home, Anthony found they were all there waiting to welcome him back, having been admitted by his mother’s butler whom he still retained.

He looked pale and weary and to Madeleine’s eyes, much thinner even though naturally slim. He appeared disconcerted to see them there waiting for him. Glancing from one to the other almost defensively, his eyes had gone immediately to Madeleine and although he didn’t smile, she saw some of that tension fade, his eyes soften with relief. She felt her heart go out to him and vowed that she would bring back that boyish grin, perhaps have his hands again roam with confidence over her naked body, her love helping return him to his earlier confident self.

Yet had she ever known him as he would have been before the trauma of war had got to him? Harking back to the days when he’d made love to her, the almost frantic urgency of his hands roaming her body, had he then been in