No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (81 page)

Giles hesitated outside Barty’s door; it was hours now since he’d left her there. It was – he looked at his watch – half past six. She’d been lying there nearly all day. He couldn’t leave her any longer. He couldn’t. He knocked gently. No answer. He opened the door, looked at her. Lying there, almost as he had left her, on the bed with the covers pulled over her head.

‘Barty,’ he said gently, ‘Barty, it’s me, Giles.’

‘Hallo,’ she said. Her voice was odd: unfamiliar. Sort of heavy.

He went over to the bed, looked down at her. She pushed the covers down; her face looked awful. Red and flushed and sort of sweaty; and her eyes were terribly swollen. She had obviously been crying and crying.

‘Can I open the curtains? It’s awfully stuffy in here.’

She nodded. ‘Yes, if you like.’

He pushed the curtains back, opened the window. The light fell on her face; she winced.

She saw him looking at her, tried to smile.

‘I must look awful. Sorry.’

‘You don’t look awful. You never look awful.’

This time she managed a proper smile.

‘Of course I do.’

He sat down on the bed. ‘Poor old you. Poor Barty. Want to – want to talk about it?’

She shook her head violently. ‘No. No I don’t.’

‘All right. Well can I get you anything?’

She shook her head again. ‘No, thank you. Well – I might have a bit more of that lemonade.’

‘All right. Here.’ He poured a glass out for her, held it for her. She took a few sips.

‘That’s nice.’

‘Good.’

He smiled at her. Perhaps it had just been her mother. Perhaps she’d be all right now. After she’d had what Nanny called a really good cry.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said again gently, ‘so sorry. Whatever it is.’

She looked at him. He thought she was going to smile at him. But she didn’t. She suddenly started to cry again, sobbing, like a small child, her arms folded across her body as if she was in some kind of terrible pain, saying, ‘Oh, Giles, Giles,’ over and over again.

‘Barty,’ he said, ‘Barty, don’t. please don’t.’

And then, he didn’t quite know how, he was lying on the bed beside her, holding her in his arms, and she was still crying, her head turned to him, clinging to him, as if he was a lifeline, and he just went on holding her, saying stupid meaningless things, like he couldn’t bear to see her so upset, and that she must try not to mind so much, whatever it was. And then, that he loved her. Loved her very much indeed.

‘Home?’ said LM. She had put her head round Oliver’s door; he was still sitting at his desk, Just as she had left him, poring over pages of figures.

‘I keep hoping I’ll find something,’ he said, ‘something that I’ve forgotten about, some asset that will save us. I can’t.’

‘I’ve been doing exactly the same thing,’ said LM. ‘How absurd we both are.’

‘Any luck?’

‘No. None. I’m afraid.’

‘I’m afraid we’ve run out of it,’ he said, ‘luck, I mean.’

‘It seems so. In every way.’

She hadn’t meant to say that; he looked at her.

‘Anything wrong?’

‘No. Well – a bit. Yes.’

‘You can tell me about it. If you like.’

‘I know but—’ She hesitated.

It was delicate. LM found it hard to talk about anything more personal than how she had slept at the best of times. She might, had other circumstances been different, have told Celia. But – Oliver. Her younger brother. Self-protective, uncommunicative. Like her. As their father had been. It had probably not helped any of them.

She sighed.

‘Go on’ he said, ‘it might take my mind off my own troubles. Think of it as a kindness to me. We could have a glass of sherry, if you think that might help.’

Perhaps she could. Perhaps it would help.

‘Well, it will probably all sound very – foolish,’ she said.

Oliver looked at her; he reached into the cupboard by his fireplace and pulled out a bottle of sherry and two glasses.

‘Go on,’ he said.

She would go. She would definitely go. She had decided once and she had decided again. That decision had simply been interrupted. She couldn’t stay here, held in this prison, any longer. It was stifling her, incapacitating her. In every way. She felt enervated, diminished, hardly able even to talk any longer. The last straw, she realised, had actually been Oliver telling her she was not a Lytton. If that was the case, then what was she doing here? Her rage at his saying that had passed, leaving only a terrible misery. She had spent her whole life being a Lytton. How could he deny her that? Whatever she had done. No, she must go. However much unhappiness it caused, that was what she had to do.

She would telephone Sebastian and tell him, and then when Oliver came home, she would tell him and try to explain to the children and then she would leave. She went into her study, picked up the receiver and asked for Sebastian’s number.

‘So you want to – well, let us say, have a relationship with this man.’

‘Yes, Very much.’

‘And he with you.’

‘Yes. But he wants it only within marriage.’

Oliver smiled at her: a rather wintry smile.

‘An interesting reversal of the usual state of affairs.’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Well is marriage so horrific a prospect?’

‘I don’t believe in it.’

‘But you would have married Jay’s father?’

‘Yes. Yes, I suppose I would. He—’

‘Yes?’

It was so difficult talking about all this.

‘He did ask me. When he knew about Jay. But – then he was killed. As you know.’

‘Yes, I do know. You had a lot of unhappiness. So many did. Caused by the war.’

‘Yes. And that’s another thing, Oliver, he assumes, of course, that I was married to – to Jay’s father. He would be so horrified, if he knew.’

Oliver looked at her. He poured himself another sherry.

Then he said almost impatiently, ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, LM, why tell him?’

‘He’s not here, Lady Celia. No. He’s gone for a meal with his agent. He said to tell anyone who phoned, he’d be back at about nine. He won’t be late, because he’s leaving tomorrow, quite early. On this trip. You know?’

‘Yes, Mrs Conley. I do know.’

‘I’m just off home myself now. But I’ll leave a note, saying you rang.’ She felt desperate, near to tears. She needed to speak to him so badly. To have her courage boosted.

‘Well – yes. Thank you, Mrs Conley. But he will be back – later?’

‘Oh, yes, Lady Celia. By nine thirty I’d say. At the latest.’

‘So you think I should lie?’

LM was shocked; Oliver, who was a by-word in the family, in the publishing industry, for honesty, for absolute integrity. Advising such a course of action, taking the side of pragmatism, of economy with the truth.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘no need for that. Just silence. Valuable stuff, silence. I’ve great respect for it, personally.’

‘But—’

‘Look, LM. You’ve had many years of loneliness, not a lot of happiness. If you have a chance of it now, why, in the name of heaven, not take it? And if, in the process, you have to allow this man to assume you were married to Jay’s father – as you would have been, you say – well, what is so wrong with that? Come on, let’s go home now. I could do with a bit of peace before tomorrow.’

Celia decided to go up to the nursery. If she were not to see her children for a while, then it would be good to spend a little time with them. In any case, there were Sylvia’s funeral arrangements to discuss with Barty; however upset and hostile she was, that had to be done. She went up to the top floor; she could hear the twins chattering, telling Nanny in between shouts of snap, what they were going to do in Cornwall. It sounded rather alarming, involving cliff-climbing and underwater fishing. She went in, smiled at them.

‘Are you all right now?’ said Venetia.

‘Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.’

‘We want you to come to Cornwall,’ said Adele, ‘we just said, didn’t we, Nanny?’

‘You did,’ said Nanny.

‘I’m afraid that really is out of the question,’ said Celia, thinking just how much out of the question it would be. ‘I have too much to do here. Now – where’s Giles?’

‘Don’t know.’ They turned back to their game; Nanny stood up, followed her out of the room.

‘I’m worried about Barty,’ she said, ‘she’s been in her room all day. Crying a lot. She sent me away. It doesn’t seem right.’

‘No. No, it isn’t,’ said Celia. ‘No, I’ll go in and see what I can do, Nanny. Although I was sent away as well.’

She sighed; she didn’t relish this encounter at all.

She knocked very gently. No sound. Obviously, Barty hadn’t heard her. Maybe she was asleep. Well, that would do her good. Very slowly and carefully she opened the door, looked in. And saw them. Saw them lying on the bed together, in each other’s arms. And felt violently, dreadfully angry. ‘Giles! Giles get up. Get out of this room. Go to your own and stay there. Until your father comes home. You are disgraceful. Disgraceful. How dare you! How dare you behave like this. And you Barty, what are you thinking of? In this house, how could you? After all—’

She stopped. Just. Just in time. She turned, walked out of the room, ran down the stairs. She was half-crying again. She had just reached the main landing when she heard Barty’s voice behind her; she turned and saw her standing, a few feet away. Her eyes were blazing, her face working, her fists were clenched. She stepped forward and Celia thought she was going to hit her.

‘How dare you speak to me like that,’ she said, her voice very low, ‘how dare you. I know – what you thought, and you had no right to think it. As if I would, as if Giles would. In this house. And to me. He was being kind, comforting me. He is my friend, my best friend—’

‘Barty,’ said Celia, her voice absolutely cold, ‘Barty, friends of different sexes do not lie on a bed together holding one another like that. I have obviously failed to make some important things clear to you. I blame myself.’

‘Oh, shut up!’ said Barty.

‘Barty!’

‘Just shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. It’s you who are disgusting, you who are disgraceful.’

‘What did you say?’ Did she know, had she heard something?

‘I said you were disgusting. I know what you did, and it was horrible. Horrible!’

This came out more as a scream than anything else. Celia looked up, realised the twins were hanging over the bannisters, their eyes enormous.

‘Go to your room at once,’ she shouted at them. ‘And you, Barty, get in there.’

She half-pushed her into her bedroom. Barty ducked, ran down the stairs, into the drawing-room. Celia followed her; she was standing by the fireplace, her fists clenched, breathing heavily.

‘I’ll say what I want to say and I don’t care who hears me. All right? But you might care, you will care, I know what you did, you killed our baby. Killed my mother’s baby. Well, didn’t you? Didn’t you?’

Dimly, Celia was aware that Oliver and LM had come into the house, that they were standing in the hall, listening; thought, and was amazed to find that she could think at all, that the servants might be listening too, and closed the door behind her. It opened again; Oliver came in.

‘It’s all right,’ he said quietly, and stood against it, so that no one else could enter.

Barty ignored him; her eyes, her wide, brilliant eyes, were fixed on Celia.

‘Well – didn’t you? Don’t deny it, because I know you can’t. Mrs Scott told me, she told me what happened, my mother told her, that the baby was alive, and you put a pillow over her face and she died.’

‘Barty—’ said Celia, stepping forward, feeling only at that moment, dreadful pain for her, ‘Barty, you have to let me explain. Please.’

‘I don’t want you to explain,’ she said, but she was silent, nonetheless, stood staring at her, with her fists still clenched.

‘The – the baby was alive. That is true. But she was dying. When she was born, she didn’t breathe at all. She was two months’ premature, she had dreadful deformities.’ She looked at Oliver as if for support; he nodded imperceptibly. ‘Her legs were horribly twisted, and she had something called spina bifida, a terrible open wound on her back. She seemed to be dead, but suddenly she did breathe – once or perhaps twice. And – and your mother asked me to help her. I think – I know – she felt it must be ended quickly. Rather than letting her suffer any more.’

‘I don’t believe you. It would have been your idea. Everything has to be your idea. Everything you want to do, you do. My mother had just had the baby, she couldn’t have even thought of such a thing, I know she couldn’t. She was my mother, she was good and kind and gentle. It was you, taking over, like you always do, making things go your way, doing what you think is best. Like you brought me here. I didn’t ask to come, I didn’t want to come, it’s been horrible, I should have stayed at home with my own family. Giles is the only person who’s been my friend, and now you have to interfere with that, as well. Why shouldn’t he like me, be fond of me? I suppose I’m not good enough for him. After all you’ve done for me, that’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?’