No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (87 page)

She thought about Felicity: Felicity, with her sweet face and gentle ways, her devotion to her family. Celia had liked her so much. She would have been the last person she would ever have suspected. But her mother had said how sexy she thought she was. God, her mother was clever.

Frightful nerve, though, when she had given her hospitality, published her poetry, offered her her big chance. Fairly bad behaviour. She suddenly found herself angry with Felicity. That helped, too. She wondered if it was still going on. Surely not. It couldn’t be: she would know. But—she hadn’t known. Hadn’t suspected. Well, it certainly wasn’t going to go on any longer now.

She smiled at herself, at her absurd indignation and tried to remember how Felicity and Oliver had seemed together that time at Ashingham. Certainly Oliver had seemed very taken with her. But no more than that. It must have been going on then. It must have been. When had it started though, when could it have—

‘Good God,’ said Celia aloud, ‘Dear God.’

It had been after that first trip to the States, that Oliver had come home able to make love to her again. Felicity had obviously done that for him. For her.

‘Well, Oliver,’ she said aloud, ‘you are a dark horse. A rather wonderfully dark one.’ She found the thought moving: almost exciting. How odd she was. How very, very odd.

The door opened. Oliver looked in.

‘Are you all right, my dear?’

‘Yes, yes thank you.’ She smiled at him.

‘You look better.’

‘I feel better. Thank you.’

‘You should go home now. Get some rest. You’ve had an exhausting time, and none of us can do anything until Monday. God, I hope this is going to be all right. This thing with Lothian.’

‘It will be, Oliver. I know it will.’

‘I hope so. Oh, by the way, this just came for you.’

He put a package on her desk.

‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’ll look at it later.’

‘All right. I’ll tell Daniels to take you home, shall I?’

‘Give me a bit longer.’

She picked up the package, took it over to one of her sofas. It was large—very large. It seemed to be a manuscript. It was a manuscript. A letter fell out. A letter on heavy, white vellum paper, covered in black, scrawling handwriting . . .

‘My beloved,’

By the time you get this, I shall be on the high seas. Quite possibly feeling sick. I’m a rotten sailor. Well, it will take my mind off my misery.

I enclose the manuscript of
Meridian Times Two
. I want you, and Lyttons, of course, to have it. I could not, in the end, even contemplate another publisher. No one else knows and understands
Meridian
as you do; no one else can do it justice. No one else deserves it.

This must not be a long letter, for if I really begin to tell you how much I love you, and what extraordinary happiness you have given me, I shall never stop.

I wanted only to say goodbye: lovingly, tenderly, with all my heart. And to allow
Meridian
, which, after all, brought us together, to make sure that we are not quite apart ever again.

Thank you for everything that you are. Sebastian

Celia sat on her sofa for a long time, holding the manuscript to her, the manuscript which was all that she had now of Sebastian. Then she stood up and walked into Oliver’s office and put it on his desk.

‘Here,’ she said, ‘here you are. No matter what happens now, Lyttons is safe.’

Click here for more books by this author

EPILOGUE

‘LYTTON.—On 17th March, at the London Clinic, to Celia, wife of Oliver, a son.’

‘I bet you’re glad, Giles,’ said Venetia, as the car rolled towards Harley Street, and their first meeting with their baby brother. ‘Suppose it had been another girl?’

‘I’d have left home,’ said Giles. He grinned at her.

‘Well, you did that years ago,’ said Adele, ‘you’re so lucky, I wish we could go to boarding school, it’s so dreary at Miss Wolff’s.’

‘You should work a bit harder, get into St Paul’s, like Barty. She loves it there don’t you, Barty?’

‘Yes,’ said Barty, ‘I really do.’

‘Yes, well we’re not clever like Barty,’ said Venetia.

‘That’s rubbish. You’re both terribly clever.’

‘No we’re not.’

‘Oh, all right,’ said Barty equably, ‘you’re not. But you’re much better at dancing and reciting poetry and talking to people and riding, than I am.’

‘That’s true. We’re going to be racehorse trainers, aren’t we, Venetia?’

‘Yes, and live at Ashingham. So there’s no point working at school anyway. Oh, look, we’re here. Thanks, Daniels.’

Oliver came out of Celia’s room, smiling. ‘You’ll have to wait a minute, she’s got too many visitors, matron says. Jack and Lily are about to leave.’

‘You mean they saw the baby before us? That’s not fair.’

‘I know. I’m sorry. But they’re off later today, on their trip to New York, and they have such a lot to do.’

‘New York! Lucky, lucky them. I don’t see why they couldn’t have taken us with them’ said Adele.

‘I do,’ said Giles.

‘But why? They were always saying they would before it was fixed, and then the minute it was, they said they wouldn’t.’

‘Well, I think Lily’s agent thought that a husband was quite enough of a hindrance on this trip. Anway, it’s a belated honeymoon really, they haven’t had a proper one yet, and so that Lily can meet some casting directors and—’

‘I wonder if she’ll have to lie on a casting couch,’ said Venetia.

‘Venetia! What do you know about casting couches?’ said Oliver. He sounded rather shocked.

‘Quite a lot,’ said Venetia airily. ‘Someone at school told me about them, so I asked Lily. She said they’re sort of really lovely sofas, and the actresses lie on them, and the film-makers decide whether they look beautiful enough.’

‘Oh,’ said Oliver, ‘oh yes, I see.’

The door opened, Jack and Lily came out.

‘Hallo you lot,’ said Lily, ‘How are you?’

‘Jealous,’ said Adele.

‘Cross,’ said Venetia.

‘We want to go to Hollywood with you.’

‘I know, darlings. I wish you could come. But it’s very expensive getting there you know, and—’

‘Daddy would pay, wouldn’t you, Daddy? He’s so rich now, that
The Buchanans
has broken every record, and the new
Meridian
as well. He wouldn’t mind, he’d—’

‘Adele, you are not going to New York,’ said Oliver, ‘so can we please hear no more about it. Now, do you want to meet your new brother or not?’

‘Yes, please.’

‘Come on, then.’

Jack and Lily waved kisses to everyone and disappeared down the stairs. They looked very happy: they were very happy. Unbelievably so, Jack thought. Everything had worked out just splendidly. They had had a marvellous wedding at Chelsea Old Church and a reception at the house in Cheyne Walk; Celia had begged to be allowed to do it for them, and Lily had persuaded him to accept. They had had one slightly difficult conversation, he and Celia, but once that was over, somehow they had slipped back into their old, easy relationship. He was still a bit disappointed in her, but everything did seem to be perfectly all right again. Sebastian had gone to America, Celia was having this new little sprog, and that, combined with saving Lyttons from bankruptcy, had made Oliver very happy. It had probably just been a moment of madness on her part. Well a moment or two. Jack was no stranger to moments of madness himself. And old Oliver was, after all, a bit dull. So, he couldn’t entirely blame her. And when he was so happy himself—well it was easy to forgive and forget.

Apart from Lily agreeing to marry him, he had had the most marvellous bit of luck. Lord Beckenham, with whom he had always got on awfully well, and who had certainly taken to Lily in a big way—rather too big a way but Lily had said she could handle his lordship perfectly well and in fact was enjoying it—had mentioned that the Royal Angling and Gunsports Club was looking for a secretary and would Jack like him to put a word in. He’d got on splendidly with them and been offered what was really a jolly good and interesting job. Much more his bag really than publishing.

And now they were off to New York. On the
Mauretania
, which would be very jolly. And all the American Lyttons, whom he liked a lot. Including Kyle, who was doing very well at his publishing firm; Oliver had told him, apparently, that he was planning to get him on board at Lyttons New York, which was also doing very well. The only problem was the wicked half-brother, Laurence, who owned forty-nine per cent of it and was, Oliver said, more than capable of causing trouble. But so far, he had kept very quiet. Jack wondered if he and Lily might manage to meet Laurence. He sounded intriguing. Like something out of a novel himself.

‘Come along, my darling,’ he said, as they reached the street and hailed a taxi. ‘we have a great deal of packing to do.’

Lily said he might have a great deal to do, she’d done hers and if he thought she was going to help with his he had another think coming; she was going shopping.

Celia was lying back on her pillows, holding the small, befrilled baby in her arms. She smiled at them.

‘Hallo, all of you. Come and say hallo to the baby. We thought we’d call him Christopher, Kit for short. Do you like that?’

‘Yes, it’s quite nice,’ said Giles. He grinned at her, slightly embarrassed. The whole thing had been slightly embarrassing, he thought: his parents being so old, well past all that sort of thing, suddenly producing a baby. Still, they’d seemed very happy about it. And at least it was a boy.

‘Oh, he’s so sweet,’ said Adele, ‘so tiny. Look at all those fingers, waving about.’

‘Only ten I hope,’ said Barty. She put one of her own out; the baby gripped it tightly, squinted blindly at her out of his blue eyes.

‘We thought, Wol and I, that you might like to be his godmother,’ said Celia to Barty. ‘As you’re not—strictly speaking—related to him. How would that be?’

‘It would be—wonderful,’ said Barty. She flushed with pleasure, and smiled at Celia: a rapturous smile. ‘I couldn’t think of anything I’d like more.’

‘Good. Well that’s settled then. You can keep a really close eye on him.’

‘Yes, on his spiritual welfare,’ said Giles, ‘that’s what godparents do, isn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ said Celia.

‘Can we hold him, Mummy? If we’re really, really careful?’

‘Yes. One at a time, perhaps. Go and sit down in that chair over there.’ Sister put a disapproving face round the door.

‘More visitors. Miss Lytton. I shouldn’t really let her in—’

‘Try and keep her out,’ said Celia, laughing, ‘LM, come in. Meet Kit. Where are Gordon and Jay?’

‘At home, playing with the trains,’ said LM. She looked slightly disapproving. The discovery that Gordon Robinson had an entire, large room in his house devoted to a Hornby train layout, set at waist level, with stations, tunnels, signals and points, had been a considerable shock to her. It had also greatly eased the absorption of him into Jay’s life: this combined with Jay’s discovery that Gordon’s other passion in life, apart from books, was birdwatching. The two of them spent whole weekends roaming the countryside around Ashingham, sitting in hides, peering through binoculars, collecting and chronicling birds’ eggs. When Jay was eight, Gordon had promised to take him to the Highlands of Scotland, to watch the eagles; Jay was keeping a chart of the three hundred or so days until then and ticked one off every night.

‘Well, there’s young Kit, as we have decided to call him. Being shared by your bridesmaids.’

Venetia smiled at LM. ‘We had a fitting this morning. The dresses are lovely.’

‘I’m glad you like them,’ said LM. That had been the other shock: that Gordon had insisted on a proper wedding. Not large, but quite formal, in the small church at Ashingham.

‘He’s going to find out now that I wasn’t married to Jago,’ she had said to Celia, ‘it’s bound to come out. What am I going to do?’

‘Stay vague,’ said Celia, ‘an awful lot of churches and so on were bombed. Records destroyed. I think the wedding was in one of those, don’t you? And anyway, the only thing the vicar will actually need is Jago’s death certificate. Which you’ve got.’

‘No,’ said LM decisively, ‘no, I don’t think I can do that. I’ve never actually lied to Gordon and I don’t want to start now. I’m—I’m going to have to tell him, I’ll do it tonight.’

She had turned up the next day at the hospital, looking quite cheerful. ‘You won’t believe this,’ she said, ‘but he’d guessed.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. He just started laughing when I told him. He said he hadn’t liked to embarrass me by telling me before, when I was obviously so eager to keep it concealed from him. That seemed to make it perfectly all right.’

‘Men are very odd,’ said Celia.

Later that afternoon, the Beckenhams arrived. Lady Beckenham looked at the baby and nodded approvingly.

‘Very nice,’ she said, ‘well done, Celia. Looks exactly like his father. Exactly. More than the others do.’

‘My dear, what a thing to say,’ said Lord Beckenham. ‘Here, let me hold him a minute. Yes, he does look like you, Oliver. Jolly nice-looking.’

A young and very pretty nurse appeared.

‘I’m sorry, Lady Celia, but Mr Drummond is here, wants to have a look at you. I wonder if your visitors could wait outside for a moment or two?’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Lord Beckenham. He handed the baby back to his daughter. ‘Very fine, Celia. Lovely little chap. Now where would you like us to wait, my dear?’ he said to the nurse. ‘You just lead the way and I’ll follow.’

‘Beckenham—’ said Lady Beckenham. But he had already disappeared.

Celia lay back, grateful for a little peace and quiet. She smiled down at Kit; he looked back at her, unseeingly. He did look exactly like his father. That, at least, was perfectly true.