Authors: Lady Rascal
The weather kept fine. As Madeleine drove the cart along the lane on this particular day she could see that work in the five-acre field was nearly finished.
Mistress Constance, bare-armed for once and wearing an enormous white bonnet, was hacking at standing stalks with a bagging hook. Michael and Philip managed rather better, scything swathes for Higgins to bind into sheaves. The once even seas of golden grain were reducing to stubbled fields dotted with fat stooks of gathered sheaves.
Philip stopped work as soon as he saw Madeleine turn the cart into the field. Leaning on the handle of his scythe, he followed the progress of the little donkey cart.
‘Aren’t you interested in what delights we’ve brought you workers today?’ Madeleine whispered to him as he helped her down from the cart.
‘You’re the only delight I’m interested in.’ He kissed her openly. The village girls were highly amused until Mistress Constance boxed the ears of the nearest one soundly.
‘There’s bread and cheese—’
‘Last month’s cheese?’
‘Of course, madame. Pickles—’
‘Did you remember the pot of pickled cabbage in the larder window, Madeleine?’
‘Yes, madame.’ Madeleine was more interested in brushing each individual seed from Philip’s shirt. ‘Then for afterwards there are the very first apple dumplings of the year with cream, and a choice of beer or lemonade...’
‘I’m not hungry,’ he whispered with a smile, bending to kiss her again.
‘Madeleine! Cook made a tea bread last night—don’t say you’ve forgotten it?’
‘It’s in the bottom of the hamper, madame,’’ Madeleine called back as she and Philip strolled towards the shade of an elm.
‘There’ll be some fine rabbiting this evening,’ Philip sighed as they sat down in a cool pool of shade, a little distance from Kitty, Michael and their fat brown baby.
As Madeleine unwrapped Philip’s bundle of bread and cheese he looked about the shimmering heat-hazed field and its dusty workforce. ‘It’s times like this that I wish I could keep farming as a second string to my bow.’
Madeleine stopped and hugged him, wondering if the heat would ever force him to remove his waistcoat, as Higgins and Michael did quite readily.
‘I hope I can make you far too happy to miss it,’ she said simply.
The rest of harvest-time flew by in a haze of sunshine and dust. Madeleine had to fix muslin screens over the windows and door of the dairy when the wains began to roll in with their precious cargoes.
As young swallows swerved across the watermeadows and the first bats darted from under the eaves, Michael closed the barn door for the final time. Every grain, every stalk had been accounted for. The weather had held—not a scrap of the bumper harvest had been wasted.
Madeleine and Philip heard the cheers of delight as they straggled back down the lane. She was supposed to be driving the geese back from the stubbles. He had gone with her, making up some excuse about looking out for foxes. Neither was taking much interest in their supposed work.
In the fading light now they wandered home together. Torches were being lit in the yard at Willowbury, a sure sign that the harvest was really safe. Fire was too dangerous to risk while loaded wains were swinging through on their way to the rick yard.
Madeleine leaned against Philip and closed her eyes.
‘It’s a good job this is only my second-best waistcoat, you know. You’re filthy, miss!’
‘Where?’ She looked up at Philip in dismay as he moistened one finger and stroked it across her brow.
‘As black as a pot.’
Madeleine’s hands went immediately to her face. ‘Oh, no! I must go—I must run in and wash!’
Philip laughed and held her close with no hope of escape. ‘We’re all as grubby as each other. That’s part of the fun of harvest!’
Madeleine was not so easily mollified. ‘Thank goodness there’s still some meat and potato pie left over from dinnertime. I can warm that in the range while we’re all—getting—cleaned—up...’
Words finally failed her as they turned into the farmyard. A long trestle-table had been set up, and covered with fine linen cloths the equal of those at any Parisian sub. Cook and Betsy were busying about, setting down plates and plates of bread and butter, vast pies, tarts and patties. A huge ham of cured mutton, creamy and glistening, took pride of place, while Cook lay slice after slice of succulent roast beef around it like a skirt.
‘Our finances might be bent, but they aren’t completely broken!’ Philip laughed and let go of her reluctantly. ‘We can still afford to treat our fellow slaves to a good old fashioned harvest-home. Go on in and get ready. We’ll make this a celebration to remember!’
‘No—wait a minute.’ Michael had emerged from the shadows and stood before them. He looked too serious for his news to be anything other than doom-laden. ‘I wanted to have a word with you before the supper.’
Madeleine looked at Philip, who was studying his brother carefully.
‘Couldn’t it wait until later?’
‘I wanted to make an announcement after the feast.’
‘I’ll go inside and get ready,’ Madeleine began meekly, but Michael touched her on the arm.
‘No, I wanted you to hear this too, Mademoiselle Madeleine. I’ve been talking to Jack—did you know that he refuses to accept payment for the majority of his work?’
‘Bad health afflicts the poor as much, if not more than those that can afford medical help, Brother,’ Philip said evenly, as though anticipating what would come next.
‘That’s no way to run a business! And you intend to set up in partnership with him? You’ll be ruined within a twelvemonth!’
Philip held his temper, but would not stand by to see his friend sold short.
‘That’s unfair, Michael. Say what you like to me, but don’t abuse Jack when he’s not here to defend himself—’
‘My dear fellow, wait until you hear what I’ve got to say! You can’t be expected to fund his charity work and support a wife at the same time! Think of Madeleine—wouldn’t it be better if you had a proper job to keep yourselves, and help Jack out in more of an occasional capacity—just a suggestion, you understand—’
‘I—don’t know... I’ve never considered any career other than medicine... I don’t know what else I could do...’ He smiled down at Madeleine, remembering a previous error at not including her in his plans. ‘Of course, Madeleine and I will have to discuss it thoroughly together, first—’
‘No time for that,’ Michael said airily. ‘If you’re going to be married tomorrow, then Kitty and I shan’t have time to find you another wedding present! You do seem to be getting on a bit better with the farming now.’
Philip and Madeleine looked at each other. If the same thought had momentarily crossed both their minds, then neither was going to risk putting it into words.
‘What exactly did you have in mind to give us?’ Philip asked cautiously.
‘Why, Willowbury, of course! Isn’t it obvious?’
‘No, not really—’ Madeleine began in bewilderment.
‘You aren’t staying? You really are going to try for America?’ Philip was quicker to take up his brother’s meaning, and congratulated him warmly.
‘I was wrong to leave poor Kitty to fret alone for so long. With this new democracy in France, every Frenchman wants a slice of his native turf, so I made a tidy sum from selling our land there. Now that we’ve got Mr Pettigrew’s permission to marry—however he might bluster—I won’t make the same mistake again. I’ll keep my family with me all the time—they’ll want for nothing. I thought I’d stay here, though, until the old place was set up enough to take on men again. By then you’ll be a first-class doctor, Philip—or charity worker, depending on whether you and Jack can bring yourselves to charge—and Madeleine will be an old hand at running the estate!’
There was only one small cloud on Madeleine’s bright horizon.
‘What about Mistress Constance? I might have been all right as a companion, but what will she think about having me about the place as a “mistress in waiting”?’
‘I’ve thought of all that.’ Michael winked at her archly. ‘When Philip comes home for good, I’m going to offer mother a trip back with us to America. A holiday to begin with, to be extended as she likes. If nothing else, the thought of losing her might spur the Reverend Wright into proposing marriage at long last!’
The next evening Madeleine was sat up in bed, watching peacocks mount the low sloping branches of the cedar outside to their roost. Their colours had been leached by the growing dusk, and only hunched black shapes stood sentinel on the boughs.
Impatiently she leaned across and tapped on the bedroom wall. There was a noise from beyond the dressing-room door, and quickly Madeleine took a small pot from the bedside table and opened it.
Her room was full of the scent of Philip’s things now. His escritoire stood in the corner, and a small bookcase of dusty volumes beside the bed. As rose-petal perfume stole out from Madeleine’s new jar of handcream, the fragrance of her possessions mingled elusively with his.
As she dropped cool blobs of cream on to the backs of her hands, a knock came at the concealed door. Philip pushed it open a fraction, as though not certain of what he might find.
‘Mrs Adamson? Fancy meeting you here!’
‘I thought you’d moved house—I’ve been stuck here on my own for ages!’
‘Not married above half a dozen hours and scolding already?’
‘Come in and sit here by me, you strange-mannered English person. I’ll soon show you what scolding is!’
Madeleine watched him appreciatively as he entered the room. Although he had not changed for bed, he had removed his cravat and, wonder of wonders, his waistcoat too.
‘Why aren’t you ready for bed?’ she whispered shyly, pretending to concentrate upon smoothing the whipped rose cream into her skin.
‘Someone interrupted me by knocking on the wall, that’s why.’
He bent forward to kiss her, but was rewarded with a blob of handcream on the tip of his nose.
‘That’s as cold as ice!’
‘Serves you right!’ Drawing up her knees, Madeleine put the top back on the little jar and replaced it on her bedside table. ‘I know exactly how you saw through my trickery, Philip Alexander Edward Adamson!’ She had been giggling about his full name all afternoon. ‘The only thing I didn’t think of. Your mother came in here two minutes ago and gave me the final hint. She brought me some handcream—it must have been my hands that gave me away! Not many nice young ladies spend their days up to the elbows in soapsuds...Philip, why are you looking at me like that?’
He had his head tilted to one side, in the way he did when about to laugh. ‘What exactly did Mother say to you just now, Madeleine?’
‘A lady should use plenty of cold cream and always keeps her gloves on in bed,’ Madeleine repeated parrot-fashion. Then she stopped and started pinching her new husband as he tried in vain to defend himself. ‘Don’t laugh! Don’t you laugh at my hands!’
‘I’m not laughing at you! Pax! I’m not!’ he managed between frantic assaults of pinching and tickling. ‘Madeleine—no—stop! Stop it! Come here.’
Catching both her hands in his, he put a stop to her games, but not the laughter. That could not wholly be contained, even by a kiss.
‘Time to be serious, now. Your hands are quite pretty enough for me, Madeleine. That isn’t what Mother meant.’ He kissed each in turn. ‘I love you, and gentle love takes the place of all creams and modesty.’
Standing up, he went about extinguishing all the candles in the room before returning to take her in his arms once more. Madeleine felt a slight apprehension flutter over her. He sensed it, and sat down beside her again. ‘I may have been a slow starter when it came to romance, Madeleine, but don’t worry.’ With a whisper he kissed her nose, then started to chuckle softly. ‘As Jack says, it’s amazing how the medical encyclopaedias always fall open at the most interesting pages!’
Madeleine giggled then, but, as the evening shadows fluttered about them, she soon fell silent.
That was the strangest thing of all—for at that moment she had never felt happier in her entire life.