She was halfway down the short slight of steps to the kitchen when Mrs Cole’s voice filtered up to her.
‘… Sobbing fit to burst at the funeral, she was. Anyone hearing her would’ve believed her stricken by grief. But it was guilty conscience if you ask me. Because I know something no one else knows.’
Then Merton’s deep voice. ‘What would that be, Mrs Cole?’
Madeleine had froze on the middle step as Mrs Cole’s voice continued.
‘I ain’t saying, Mr Merton, but I know something that’d make your hair curl if you knew. I can bet my last ha’penny on that, especially about that miscarriage of hers, that everyone is being led to believe was her…’
Her voice went out of range, Madeleine already hurrying back up the steps, passing the open door to the drawing room from which the babble of voices issued, going into the small lounge, closing the door behind her.
There she collapsed into a soft chair to weep as silently as she could. How could the woman have changed so from the friend and confidante she once thought she’d had into that tittle-tattle with such a grudge against her? Had whatever she’d confided to her in the past been bandied about the house without her being aware of it? The more she thought of it the angrier she became. But moments later she had dried her eyes defiantly, her mind working.
Yes, she’d sell this house at the first opportunity. She’d give Merton and the two young girls a glowing reference but there’d be none for a tittle-tattling cook/housekeeper. If anyone asked for one, she’d tell them she had no trust in the woman, which now was true, having caught her at it, and she wasn’t prepared to give her a reference. Being out of work might give the woman food for thought. Feeling more composed she returned to the drawing room finding that the sandwiches and pastries had already been brought up, everyone standing about nibbling, sipping their brandy or sherry, the room filled with their chatter, livelier now with the sombre part of the funeral over.
She had to force herself to appear normal but it was hard not to lay aside what she had overheard. It wasn’t until later, after everyone had departed – young Beattie handing each their hat, coat, muffler, gloves, Merton quickly closing the front door after each guest so as to let in as few blasts of wintry March as possible – that it came to her. Would it really matter if her secret did come out? Once she and Anthony were married, would she really care what they thought? They might gossip for a while but she’d be living with him, her own house sold. As for Mrs Cole, perhaps she might give her a half decent reference after all.
The guests gone, she and Anthony now alone, it didn’t matter about the staff. She paid their wages. They’d take care not to gossip outside. Even so, it was as well to keep their secret a little longer.
Informing Merton that her nephew would be staying the night, she needing the company and the support of a near relative to help her deal with her loss, she told him she would need the guest room to be prepared for him.
‘Mr Anthony will not want early morning tea. He tells me he likes to sleep late,’ she added, pleased with her little lie. ‘I doubt I shall sleep very well after today’s ordeal so will probably not wish to be disturbed either. I will have my tea downstairs instead when I have breakfast.’
Whatever the upright if somewhat chubby man thought, his face gave nothing away as he murmured politely, ‘Very good, madam.’
‘Oh, and Merton,’ she called as he turned to go. ‘As I don’t expect to sleep very well tonight, I shall probably stay up until quite late so there’s no need to wait up for me to retire. Lock up at your usual time and let everyone know they can go to bed at their normal hour.’
‘Very well, madam,’ repeated Merton, and politely withdrew.
The moment he’d gone, Anthony, who’d been sitting on the opposite sofa to her, got up and slipped a record on the gramophone. As the soft, smooth strains of her favourite tune ‘Avalon’ filled the room, he came to sit beside her. She cuddled against him, neither spoke. The music ended. They sat on, reclining together. Madeleine closed her eyes in pure contentment, he continuing to hold her to him, they just lying in each other’s arms, doing nothing, saying nothing, something she had never known with him before. Their time together had always been taken up in a frantic scramble for their fulfilment of each other. This was new and it was wonderful and the hours slipped by unnoticed. Then as they lengthened towards midnight, he roused her and led her up the stairs, first entering the guest room to rumple the covers and the pillow to give the impression of the bed having been slept in, then leading her quietly to her room and closing the door behind them.
Their first ever night together; heaven, knowing they had no need to rush things; no need for her to hurry away after she had calmed herself following a mere hour of frenzied love-making. They could take their time; sleep soundly and contentedly in each other’s arms for what was left of the night, wake in the morning to revel in the pleasure of each other yet again.
Wonderful this morning to lay naked in his arms, slowly waking up knowing that in a little while they would make love again with no longer any call for her to leap out of bed, dress in frantic haste, hurry from the house to a taxi, fretting all the way back here in case James might be wondering where she was. She was already back here, and James
