No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (72 page)

‘I’m fine, love,’ she said, ‘really, I am.’

‘You don’t look it.’

‘Well I am.’

‘Frank said you’d been bad again.’

‘I am – sometimes. You know.’

Barty nodded earnestly. ‘Yes, I do know. I remember when – well anyway, Mum, you are to see Dr Perring. Aunt Celia’s doctor. It’s all arranged. Daniels is coming for you on Monday and we’re taking you to his rooms. In Harley Street.’

‘Oh, Barty, not Monday, dear.’

‘Why not? Why ever not?’

‘Well because – because—’ Sylvia stopped. ‘It’s just not a good time,’ she said. ‘Because of – well, you know, what we just said.’

‘Oh. Oh I see. But – I thought that was when it was so bad. When it hurt so much.’

‘It is, Barty. But I can’t go to the doctor then. Can I?’

Barty thought for a bit. Then she said, ‘Well, you could talk to him. And he could see how bad it was then. I mean that’s quite good, I would have thought. In a way.’

‘Barty—’

‘No, Mum. I think we should go. He’s a doctor, after all, Aunt Celia says they’re never embarrassed by anything. Now, come on, let me make you a cup of tea. Cook sent you this lovely cake, and a pork pie for our lunch. And it’s a nice day, we can sit outside in the sunshine, and I want to tell you all about what I’ve been doing. I can ride, Mum, ride a horse now. Lady Beckenham taught me. And Giles taught me to play tennis. And at the end of next week, we’re all going to the seaside. To Cornwall. Come on, let me help you up the steps. Goodness, you’re thin. I’m going to make you eat all that cake all by yourself.’

The two letters arrived at the Bartlett house on the same day; ‘This one’s from Professor Lothian’, said Mary Bartlett.

‘Well open it, then.’

‘I will. It’s to us both.’

‘Give it to me.’

He slit it open, read it. Then he said, ‘I’m not sure about that. It sounds a bit complicated.’ He passed it to her. ‘What do you think?’

She read it very slowly, twice. ‘I don’t know. I certainly don’t want her upset.’

‘No, of course not. But I never like opening her mail.’

‘Nor do I. But if it is what Professor Lothian says – we should check it.’

‘You think so?’

‘Definitely. Yes. We can tell her it was a mistake. She won’t mind.’

‘All right,’ said Mr Bartlett, ‘here goes. If it is from this man – well, it could upset her.’

He opened the letter, read it carefully. Then he looked up.

‘It is. So I think – don’t you?’

‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Mary Bartlett worriedly and went out to the kitchen to wash the floor.

‘LM, I’m off in about quarter of an hour. I did hear what you said about going home, but I wish you’d reconsider it. Just for a few days.’

‘Celia, I can’t, I’m sorry. I’m worried about Jay.’

‘Of course. But it’s so wonderful having you here, like old times. I hadn’t realised how alone I feel till you were here with me again. But anyway, can you stay at least until the end of the day?’

‘Of course. As you won’t be here. Where are you going?’

‘Oh – to a meeting with some booksellers. In Guildford. And then to stay with a friend overnight. I’ll be back in the morning.’

‘You really don’t look well,’ said LM quietly, shutting the door behind her, ‘do you really have to rush about like this? You should be taking things easy.’

‘LM, it doesn’t suit me to take things easy,’ said Celia, managing a smile, and then, suddenly, she burst into tears. LM looked at her, then sat down on one of the sofas, patted the seat beside her, held out her arms. She was such an undemonstrative woman normally, that even in her misery, Celia was surprised. She sat down obediently beside her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘so sorry.’

‘It’s all right,’ said LM. She put her arm round Celia’s shoulders.

‘Something’s wrong isn’t it? Something more than just being pregnant, I mean?’

‘Yes,’ said Celia, blowing her nose, ‘but – well, I can’t tell you about it. I’m sorry.’

‘Why not? I hope you don’t think I’d be shocked. Or even judgemental.’

Celia looked at her very steadily. Normally, she knew, LM would be neither. She longed more than anything at that moment to talk to her, to tell her, to get a brush of her pragmatic wisdom. But this was LM’s brother, a beloved and much revered brother moreover, whom she had betrayed. It was impossible to talk to her about it.

‘Of course not,’ she said briskly, sitting up, blowing her nose. ‘Of course I don’t. And it’s nothing very – serious. Honestly. Now I must go. My car is downstairs.’

‘You’re not driving yourself?’

‘Yes, of course. LM, I’m not ill. I hope,’ she added carefully, for she had thought this through, as well. LM knew she was pregnant, would know she had gone away. She just might suspect something. Certain seeds needed to be planted. God, this affair had made her a mistress of deception.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I just feel slightly odd. I was terribly sick this morning, I expect that’s it. Anyway, I must be on my way.’

Somehow, once she had left the office, was in her car, she knew she would feel better. It would be irrevocable. No turning back. And there was no other way. No other way at all.

‘Bye, dearest LM. I’ll see you very soon. I’m hoping to come down to stay with my mother soon. Possibly when the children are in Cornwall.’

‘Fine.’

Go on, Celia, walk out of the door. Then you’ve only got to get downstairs and into your car and then—

‘Lady Celia.’

‘Yes, Mrs Gould?’

‘These page proofs have just come in. Mr Lytton said he particularly wanted you to see them.’

‘I can’t. Not now.’ She felt an odd outrage that something should be managing to detain her.

‘They’re Lady Annabel’s proofs. Mr Lytton did say I had to make sure you saw them.’

‘Oh—’ she hesitated. They were indeed crucially important. There were a few things which she had been worried about: chapter headings, the typesetting of the index, these needed the sort of attention only she could give. And it would only take half an hour. She hadn’t got to check the whole damn book. She’d just have to do it now. Otherwise, there’d be terrible trouble next week. Life would be going on. Well most of it anyway . . . Resigning herself to thirty more minutes of churning misery, she sat down again and reached for her pencil.

‘Is there anything we can do to speed up this action?’ said Jasper Lothian.

Howard Shaw looked at him; he appeared extremely agitated. His always wild hair looked as if it had not been combed for a week and he was very pale. Even his hands looked pale, pale and clawlike. He really was not a very attractive man Still – he was the client.

‘Well, we’re giving them the full ten days if you remember. To reply to my last letter.’

‘Which said?’

‘That I was applying for an injunction, unless they gave me their written assurance that the book had been substantially rewritten or pulped.’

‘Yes, I see. Well, I would prefer we didn’t do that. Did you tell them they had ten days?’

‘No. But it is usual to give a little grace.’

Lothian looked at him. ‘But they haven’t come back to us? There is no word?’

‘No.’

‘This is no occasion for grace, Mr Shaw. I want that book stopped.’

‘Well,’ said Howard Shaw, ‘If we have representatives from both sides along, it could take quite a few days yet. A judge will want to read the material, will demand persuasive grounds for the action.’

‘And if neither side is there? Wouldn’t that be quicker?’

‘Well—’ Shaw hesitated, ‘well, we can apply for an ex parte injunction’

‘What’s that?’

‘A hearing when only we are present. But it’s very unusual for a case of this sort and usually only used in emergencies, so that the other side doesn’t have time to prepare, or attend court.’

Lothian frowned. ‘That sounds attractive. But how would it be arranged?’

‘It would be – arranged by applying for a court hearing to take place almost immediately.’

‘But why should the court agree to that? I find that very hard to imagine.’

‘If they hadn’t been told about it.’

‘Is that legal?’

‘A letter could be held up. We could claim there was great urgency, and that the other party has still not come back to us. That much is true.’

Lothian hesitated. Then he said, ‘I think that is what we should do.’

‘Fine,’ said Howard Shaw. ‘I’ll get to work on it straight away.’

Celia was sitting, trying to concentrate on the proofs, when she felt the first punch of pain. She ignored it, frowned, shifted; it came again. Slightly stronger. She sat back, trying to analyse it; the third time she knew. She had felt it before. It was a miscarriage threatening. A miscarriage! The thing she had prayed for, longed for, fate’s own solution, requiring no wickedness on her part, no brutal action. All she had to do was ignore it; there would be no need to do more, no need to drive to Godalming, to submit herself to Dr Blake, to have to live with that for the rest of her life. All she had to do was to stay here, to go on working, then perhaps walk round the block, before driving home, driving quite a long way round to get home, and then not go to bed and lie down, but busy herself there, maybe even turn out her desk as she had been promising herself she would, perhaps take another short walk before finally being forced to go to bed and call the doctor. Then she would lose the baby, and neither Oliver nor Sebastian need ever know, and she could decide what to do about her marriage and her future, untrammelled by this complex, confusing thing, that had to hurt someone almost unbearably and would at the same time make no one properly happy.

Here was her salvation; the god of women and female crises had heard her prayers and responded to them. She should thank him – or her – on bended knee.

Oliver saw Dr Perring’s car outside the house as he parked his own. He looked at it fearfully, wondering what it signified. He slammed the door of his car shut, half-ran up the path and in the door. Brunson greeted him, took his coat.

‘Why is Dr Perring here, Brunson? Who is ill?’

‘Lady Celia is in bed, Mr Lytton. She instructed me to telephone Dr Perring. He has been here for about fifteen minutes.’

‘And you don’t know why?’

‘No, sir. I don’t.’

‘Are all the children all right?’

‘Perfectly well, Sir, yes. As far as I know. Miss Barty has gone to see her mother, Master Giles is upstairs and the twins are at a party.’

‘Right. Good. Well – I’ll be in my study, Brunson. If Dr Perring wants me.’

Dr Perring appeared a few minutes later.

‘Ah, Oliver, Good to see you. Your wife asked me to tell you to go up as soon as you can.’

‘Is she all right?’

‘She’s – fairly all right. I hope. But she’ll tell you all about it.’

He was smiling: Oliver took heart from that. And went upstairs, two at a time, to see Celia. She was lying on the pillows, looking pale, but oddly happy. She patted the bed beside her and took his hand. ‘Oliver,’ she said, ‘I’ve got something to tell you.’

It had been a moment of absolute revelation. That she could not, would not, was quite unable, indeed, to encourage that baby to miscarry. Any more than she would have been able, she could see quite clearly now, to keep her assignation with Dr Blake. She had sat there as one more pain came and went, thinking or rather trying to think, how pleased she was, what a sweet agony of relief it was, and then found herself gripped by panic. At the thought of losing the baby. For all the problems with which it presented her, all the decisions she would have to make, all the pain she would have to inflict, she wanted it fiercely and passionately. She wanted it and she wanted to keep it safe, wanted to care for it, wanted to love it. She could not have explained for a moment why: except that if a baby was an expression of love – and it was – then this one was a very loud and forceful one.

She had not acted at all honourably over the past few months; by forcing herself to go through this particular trauma, she would feel at least a little penance had been done. It was illogical in its own way; both Sebastian and Oliver might arguably have preferred to know nothing about it. About this child, this odd, half-legitimate, child. But neither would they have wanted it to be deliberately destroyed. She had no right to do that: to either of them. They had a claim on it – or one of them did – and it was not for her to renounce that claim. Even while shrinking from the moment of revelation to Sebastian, she knew now that it had to be done. It was the only good that could possibly come out of the whole thing.

‘Dr Perring says I have to stay here for at least two weeks. Complete bed-rest. The – the pain is stopping already. And—’

‘And no other signs?’ he said delicately.

He was always embarrassed by anything remotely intimate. It was one of the reasons he never suspected any of her pregnancies. In the early days she had teased him about it, had talked frankly – country girl that she was – about her body and its functions, but it had never ceased to distress him, so she had given up. Even childbirth remained a mystery to him and although she was baffled, and sometimes even irritated that he turned away when she breast-fed a baby, she allowed him to do so without comment.

‘No. Nothing. But there was definitely a danger. Well, there still is. But—’

‘I’m so glad,’ he said, leaning over and kissing her, ‘so very glad.’

And even as she allowed him this happiness, not sure how long-lived it would be, she wondered, with a thud of panic if she had actually done the right thing. But shortly after that, she fell asleep; and although still anxious for more reasons than one, she slept better than she had for weeks, deeply and dreamlessly, and woke refreshed and feeling strong again.

CHAPTER 28

LM picked up the phone and dialled Sebastian’s number. It could do, she reasoned, no harm and it just might do some good. She found his defection baffling; he had expressed such loyalty to Lyttons, had been so delighted with the way he had been published, and had even, Celia had said, been planning to waive his copyright fee on the second book. So why, suddenly? – Of course the male ego, combined with the author ego, was a capricious thing. But he had seemed such a friend of the family as well, part of Oliver and Celia’s social set. Barty talked about him and his books endlessly. There was probably nothing she could do, but she felt it unlikely that Oliver, who was famous for his pride, would have put in a personal plea.

‘Always remember, the authors come first,’ Edgar Lytton had said to both her and Oliver as they learned their trade under his guidance. ‘They are our treasure. Guard them carefully, cherish them. Without them we are nothing.’ LM had a strong feeling that Sebastian had not been sufficiently cherished.

She was rather enjoying herself: it was Monday morning and she had the office to herself. Well, the main floor anyway. Oliver had gone to a meeting with some other publishers, to discuss whether or not they might band together to defeat the printers’ outrageous demands and Celia was still at home in bed. She had been there all weekend: surprisingly docile. The children had been told simply that she was not very well, and Oliver had accepted LM’s congratulations briefly, but refused to discuss it further. He had seemed rather tense; but then it was natural. There was considerable anxiety over Celia, she had miscarried before. Dr Perring called each day, twice on Saturday when she had complained of cramps. But this morning everything was feeling steadier, she said, smiling at LM; ‘And no bleeding to talk of. So I’m – well – hopeful.’ She reached out and touched the bedside table. ‘I’m so grateful to you for staying, LM. It’s very good of you. And with Jay coming up with Mama tomorrow, you shouldn’t feel too anxious. He can stay here, he’ll be perfectly happy, not lonely at all. He can even go to Cornwall with them all, if you like.’

‘Oh I’m not sure about that,’ said LM quickly. Visions of rising tides, giant waves, swirling currents, spun before her eyes. ‘I think we’ll be back at Ashingham by then.’

‘Well, as you wish. Anyway, don’t worry about him.’

‘I presume your mother is coming to see you because she’s heard about the baby,’ said LM.

‘Well – yes. Something like that,’ said Celia.

LM had actually had a rather nice weekend; she and Gordon Robinson had gone to the theatre on Saturday night, and seen Lewis Casson and Sybil Thorndike in
Richard III
and then out to supper. On Sunday afternoon, they had taken a walk on Hampstead Heath and had tea at Jack Straw’s Castle. She enjoyed his company increasingly; he was extremely cultured, compared the
Richard
with another at Stratford he had seen a year earlier, ‘But I did prefer this one, without a doubt. It had more humour. Or should I say wit.’ And it was so good to have someone to talk to: as an equal, an interesting equal. She had even managed to discuss – in very broad terms – Jay’s schooling, in all its complexity. He had agreed with her that prep boarding schools were inhumanly cruel, that Jay should not be sent away.

‘But I would have thought at thirteen, if he is as clever as you say, and if you can afford it, then he should have the opportunity to go to public school. I was at a day school myself: fee-paying, but still, it carried none of the cachet of public school. I have no doubt it held me back. I am sure Jay’s father would not have wanted that.’

LM said that perhaps he would not, and thanked him for his thoughtfulness.

‘It’s so very hard to decide such things on one’s own.’

‘Of course,’ he said, ‘I’m no stranger to loneliness. I understand and sympathise.’ It was an oddly poignant remark.

They had had supper at the Trocadero, and he actually agreed to a couple of glasses of wine: ‘But no more; it goes to my head extremely fast,’ and he raised his glass to her and said, ‘to us,’ in a way which was in no way coy or embarrassing, but entirely charming and rather serious.

The next day as they walked across the Heath, she had stumbled, and he had put his hand under her elbow to steady her and left it there for quite a while. So absurd, LM thought, to be so girlishly, so foolishly delighted by such a thing; but it was a long time since anyone had even looked at her, never mind admired her. She had been troubled, particularly in the early years of her solitary life, by physical frustration; had missed Jago’s lovemaking, almost as much as she had missed his company, had found her body at times fretful and uncomfortable. But time and a solitary existence had almost removed such considerations; now, suddenly, in her pleasure and happiness, she was reminded of it, of the intense, warm, passionate pleasures of sex, found herself – although considerably against her will – imagining physical contact with Gordon Robinson. Imagining it and even longing for it, and dreading that he might in some way sense it. The only cloud over the weekend had been when he told her he had particularly enjoyed morning service that day.

‘I try to go to a different church at least once a month. Today I went to Chelsea Old Church. A wonderful sermon, on the testing of faith. Such a very stimulating subject, I always find.’

LM lacked the courage to say she no longer had any faith to test; nor that she had not been to church for years, except for at Christmas. She worried about it for a few hours, then put it behind her. It wasn’t as if she was going to enter into a proper relationship with Gordon; they were just friends, enjoying one another. And friends did not have to share views on everything.

The phone was answered. ‘Primrose Hill 729.’

‘Ah. Is Mr Brooke there?’

‘No. No, I’m afraid he’s not. You’ve just missed him as a matter of fact. He’s gone to pick up his ticket.’

‘His ticket?’

‘Yes, he’s off on a trip on Friday. To America.’

‘America!’

‘Yes. On a lecture tour. Anyway, I’ll tell him you called. Shouldn’t be long. What name shall I say?’

‘Lytton. Miss—’

‘Oh, Lady Celia, I didn’t recognise your voice. Silly of me. You sound different. Very well then. Soon as he gets in.’

‘I’m not—’ said LM, but the phone went dead.

‘Still nothing from Miss Bartlett? Or her parents?’ said Guy.

‘Nope. Nothing. Sorry.’

‘Damn. Damn, damn, damn. What can have happened?’

‘God knows. God only knows.’

‘I have found a judge,’ said Howard Shaw, ‘and we can see him on Wednesday morning, for the hearing.’

‘Excellent. And—’

‘Well, I have written to Peter Briscoe, the Lyttons’ solicitor, informing him, naturally. We can only hope now that the secretary gets it typed and into the post in time. And that the address I have given her is absolutely correct. But I daresay it is.’

‘Excellent,’ said Jasper Lothian, ‘I’m most impressed, Mr Shaw.’

‘Oh, Mr Brooke, there you are. Got your ticket all right?’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian abruptly. ‘I’d like a coffee. Straight away, if you please. In my study.’

‘Yes. Mr Brooke—’

‘Mrs Conley, I said straight away. If there are any messages, I’ll hear about them later.’

He walked out of the room; Mrs Conley watched him and sighed. He was very bad-tempered these days. She’d be quite glad when he’d gone. Maybe the phone call from Lady Celia would cheer him up.

‘I wondered,’ said Harry Cholmondley, ‘if you’d like to be my best man.’

‘Like it? My dear old chap, wonder no more. I’d be thrilled. Thrilled and proud. Who’s the lucky girl? Daphne, I presume?’

‘Oh – yes. Yes, of course. She accepted me last night. Everyone seems pretty pleased.’

‘I’m sure they are,’ said Jack. ‘Well, congratulations, old man. Well done. I envy you, I must say.’

‘Well – you too could be a bridgeroom, Jack. If you wanted.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Jack. He sounded rather subdued.

‘Why on earth not?’

‘Oh – I’m a bit off the idea of marriage,’ said Jack, ‘actually.’

‘You are? What on earth for?’

‘I – just am. I’m not sure that it works. Oh good Lord—’ he stared at Cholmondley, went rather pink, ‘now I’ve upset you. Sorry, old man. Didn’t mean anything of the sort, really.’

‘That’s all right. Anyway, I’m sure you’re wrong. Most people seem to find it the best thing.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘You should marry Lily, you know. She’s such a great girl, one in a million, I’d say, even if she is – oh Lord.’ He cleared his throat, took a large slug of whisky, ‘sorry old man, didn’t mean any offence.’

‘None taken,’ said Jack, ‘I know what you mean but I simply couldn’t care less about it.’

‘Good man. Fearfully old-fashioned that sort of thing. Look at Rosie after all. And Gertie. And Lily obviously loves you.’

‘Do you think so?’

‘Of course I do. You can marry Lily and I can marry Daphne and we’ll both be very happy. Bet you.’

‘I’m still not sure,’ said Jack

‘Well think about it. For my sake.’

‘Yes. All right, I will. Anyway,’ he added with a sigh, ‘I haven’t got any money.’

‘Nor have I, old man.’

‘Harry,’ said Jack, ‘you have an estate of three thousand acres in Scotland, another of two thousand in Wiltshire and a very nice house in London. How can you say you haven’t got any money?’

‘I know, I know, but it all costs a packet. All the servants in London, you know, eating their heads off all year round, and the farms hardly showing any profit, and—’

‘You sound like Lady Beckenham,’ said Jack.

‘Do I? I like her. Awfully jolly old trout. You should talk to her about getting married. She’d set you right.’

‘I don’t think she’d exactly approve of Lily,’ said Jack.

‘Are you sure it was Lady Celia?’ said Sebastian.

Mrs Conley sighed. ‘Of course I’m sure. She said it was. And to ring her the minute you got in.’

‘Oh. All right. Well thank you. I will.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Brooke, Lady Celia isn’t here. Could it have been Miss—’

‘It couldn’t have been anyone else. I had a message to ring her. My housekeeper is hardly going to make a mistake of that sort. Please put me through.’ Then, as Margaret Jones hesitated, he said, ‘Oh for God’s sake. This is urgent.’

He sounded furious; Margaret Jones considered what to do. Lady Celia certainly wasn’t here, and was unlikely to have phoned anyone, she was at home in bed, resting. Then she realised: It must have been Miss Lytton who had left the message. She could put Sebastian through to her; she was a sensible person, she would calm him down.

‘Just a moment, please, Mr Brooke,’ she said.

LM was working on the costings of
Queen of Sorrows
when the phone rang; she was so engrossed that she left it for a couple of rings before picking it up.

‘Mr Brooke for you, Miss Lytton.’

‘Oh – thank you. Put him through.’

‘Celia? Sebastian. What is it, what’s happened, have you finally come to your senses, have you overcome your wifely principles? Come on, you’d better tell me, and it had better be good, I’ve been through two weeks of hell waiting for some word from you—’

There was a silence; then LM said carefully, ‘Mr Brooke, this is not Celia. It is Miss Lytton. It was I who called you.’

Celia lay in bed, looking rather warily at her mother. Lady Beckenham had arrived, demanded coffee and toast, handed Jay over to Nanny and the delighted twins, instructed Mary that they were not to be disturbed and settled in the large chair by the window, all in the space of rather less than five minutes.

‘I thought,’ she said, ‘you would need someone to talk to.’

‘I – do,’ said Celia, ‘yes.’

‘How are you feeling?’

‘Sick. Terribly.’

‘Baby still in place?’

‘Yes. Very firmly so, I’d say.’

‘Good. Or is it?’

‘What?’

‘I said is it good? Or would you have wished it away?’

‘I thought I would,’ said Celia simply, ‘but when it seemed to be going, I knew I wanted to keep it.’

‘Right. And now I suppose you’re wondering whose it is.’

‘Well—’

‘Oh come along, Celia,’ said her mother impatiently, ‘I’m not a fool and neither are you. Of course you are. You’re thinking it could be Oliver’s and it could be this other man’s. Am I right?’

‘Well – yes.’

‘And you don’t know what to do, or what to say?’

‘Yes. That’s exactly right. I simply don’t know what to do. About any of it.’

‘Oh Lord,’ said Sebastian. There was a very long silence. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Lytton. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’

‘You didn’t exactly sound rude,’ said LM. ‘Just a little abrupt.’

‘Well, I’m sorry for that, too.’

‘That’s perfectly all right.’

‘But someone did phone me. I thought it was – Celia.’

‘Someone did. It was I.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Another silence. LM could hear him thinking. And saw the shadowy shape which had been troubling and puzzling her slowly form itself into a clear outline.

‘Er – what about?’

‘About what, Mr Brooke?’

‘Oh sorry, I’m not making much sense. You telephoned me. What was it about?’

‘Ah yes.’ She cleared her throat, wished she could clear her mind. ‘It was about – about your leaving Lyttons.’

‘Ye-es?’

He sounded wary now. She paused. It had seemed such a simple conversation; now it was very complex.

‘It seems such a pity,’ she said, finally.

‘It is a pity. It is indeed. But – Macmillan and Collins made me extraordinarily generous offers; and now Dawsons have topped both of them. I’m sorry, Miss Lytton, I found them too tempting.’