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

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