‘Oh, she was all for it, miss,’ was the reply. ‘Hundred per cent behind him, she was, and so proud of him. If I was a younger man, I’d go meself.’
With that Madeleine stepped back letting the man get on with his job as, with a heart that felt like a lead weight inside her chest and a sick feeling in her stomach, she made her way back to the house. With all chance gone of persuading Freddy to change his mind about her, what was she going to do now?
‘Are you not feeling well, my dear?’ her mother asked as she went into the breakfast room. ‘You look quite pale.’
‘I just feel a little queasy this morning,’ she answered as she glanced with distaste at the breakfast laid out on the sideboard.
‘Then you’d be better eating something. Last night’s dinner was a little rich. But a good breakfast will soon settle your stomach, dear.’
The last thing she wanted was to eat. Her mother continued, ‘Come and sit down and I’ll get you something. What would you like, egg, bacon or some ham, some kedgeree? Or perhaps a little porridge would be better?’
‘Nothing, Mummy,’ Madeleine said shortly.
‘Toast then. A slice of plain toast? With a little marmalade.’
‘I don’t want anything, Mummy! Just a cup of tea.’
For an answer her mother came and put a hand on her daughter’s brow. ‘Your head does feel a little too warm. Perhaps we should call…’
Before she could finish, Madeleine leapt up and ran from the room, sickness welling up inside her. She just made the downstairs cloakroom, her stomach rebelling as she dropped on to her knees by the toilet to lean over the pan, heaving, bringing up, or so it felt, her whole insides.
Lying feebly against the cold porcelain she heard her mother tap on the toilet door, quietly calling, ‘Are you all right, my dear. Can I help?’
‘No, Mummy,’ she answered weakly. ‘Please, go away. I’m all right.’
‘Have you been sick, darling?’ her mother persisted.
‘A little,’ she made herself reply. ‘You were right, Mummy. Dinner last night was rather rich. But I’m all right now.’
‘Perhaps you overate. You must watch what you eat, Madeleine. We cannot have Hamilton seeing you putting on weight, can we? He is so proud of you and you are so beautifully slim.’
Beautifully slim. For Hamilton? The thought made her want to vomit again. ‘Please go away, Mummy,’ she begged desperately. ‘I’m feeling a lot better now. Just leave me, please.’
Beautifully slim! What would he say, what would they all say when she did begin putting on weight? And in one place only? Already her breasts had become slightly bigger than they had been. She had noticed that. And they tended to tingle as well, just a little. Was that a sign of pregnancy? She didn’t know. Whatever it was it was strange and as she thought more about it, rather frightening.
Another paroxysm of retching caught her, now only bile, bitter, acid, stinging her throat. With it came tears flowing unheeded down her cheeks. Despite all effort to be quiet lest her mother hear, sobs broke from her. Any minute her mother would ask her what was wrong, demand to come in, then what? What excuse could she make? But from the other side of the door there was silence. Her mother had left.
Breathing a trembling sigh of relief, Madeleine let herself slip to the floor, her body curled like a fetus, and gave herself up to a welter of abject misery.
‘I’m sorry, Father, I can’t help what I feel.’ Her response to his angry reaction to this evening as she cringed inwardly before his fearsome glare was heated and obstructive even though she knew it would never pay her to be so.
‘I am not concerned by what you feel!’ he blared back at her while her mother sat some distance away on the edge of one of the sitting room chairs, like a small girl awaiting her turn to be berated. Why did her mother have to be so meek before her own husband? Why could she not stand up for her own daughter?
But of course, she wouldn’t. She was in truth of the same opinion as he. And even if she hadn’t been she would have convinced herself that he was right. She always did. It was left to her, Madeleine, to stand up for herself, and this she was doing, too angry even to tremble before his glare.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she began.
Why did she never address him as anything but Father while her mother was always Mummy? It just didn’t seem fit to call him anything other than that, certainly not Daddy, laughable had it not been so unthinkable.
‘But I don’t care for him in that way,’ she ploughed on bravely. ‘And I certainly can’t love him.’
‘What does that have to do with it?’ he demanded. ‘The first aim of marriage for a young lady is security and there is none more secure than Hamilton Bramwell, other than, as your mother says, a possible suitor with a title, except that the way you are behaving of late, putting on weight daily by your appearance, no one else will even look at you much less accept you.’
Her mother had melted just a little. ‘You must admit, dear, lately you have been eating more than is good for you, despite all our cautioning…’
‘Please do not interfere, Dorothy!’ commanded her father, returning to his daughter. ‘Possibly we’ve not allowed you to be alone together to talk privately of things you might feel a need to discuss. But you get on well together. Hamilton likes you immensely and you admit you like him.’
‘As a friend, yes, not as a…’
‘Enough of this!’ he cut in almost savagely, making her jump a little. ‘I have enough to worry about without being plagued by your foolish whims and fancies. We are at war. It has been arranged for young Hamilton to join his father’s old regiment as a junior officer. During
