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

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.

‘You look drained.’

The conversation seemed stilted. Fear shot through her that he might have lost some, if not all of his love for her because of what had happened.

‘I suppose I am,’ she said in the same stilted tone. ‘But I’ll be better soon. Then we can take up where we left off…’

She let her voice die away. He was still staring down at her. He’d not moved from the spot.

‘I’m sorry,’ she went on. ‘I realize you wouldn’t have expected me to turn up like this. I suppose you’ve got to be off to the bank, even though it’s Wednesday and we usually meet on Wednesdays…’

Again she let her voice die away, at a loss, not knowing what to say to him, her heart sinking as if through the very carpet.

Suddenly he exclaimed, ‘Sod the bloody bank! Oh God, Maddie, I’ve been so worried. I couldn’t see you. I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t tell anyone… about