Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (6 page)

‘Don’t be absurd,’ she said, ‘it was nothing. I enjoyed your talk,’ she added, and went back to her task; he felt at once dismissed and encouraged.

‘I get so tired of it,’ he said, and ‘Of what?’ she said, looking up after a long moment, as if distracted, and unwillingly so, from what she was doing.

‘The talk. I do it so often, and it seems to me to be so boring. It probably is,’ he added, ‘but they seemed to enjoy it this afternoon, didn’t they?’

‘Oh, yes, I think so,’ she said.

‘And quite a good number of people, didn’t you think?’

‘Oh, I did. Yes.’

‘It’s always a strain, you know. Wondering if anyone will come, wondering if they’ll laugh at the right moment, all that sort of thing.’

‘I imagine, yes.’

‘You never get used to it. Not really. Absurd, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. I mean no.’ She looked at him very levelly. ‘Mr Brooke – I don’t want to be rude. And I did enjoy your talk and I’m sure everyone did. But I would like to finish this now, it’s getting late.’

‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. How self-centred and selfish of me. Do forgive me. And thank you again.’

‘That’s perfectly all right. Good night.’

‘Good night Miss—’

‘Harvey. Pandora Harvey.’

‘Sebastian Brooke,’ he said, and only realised when he had gone upstairs with Mr Jarvis, the assistant children’s librarian, how absurd she must think him, absurd and self-aggrandising.

He had stayed the night in Oxford, having business to discuss next day with the manager of Blackwells; and then, drawn by what seemed some totally irresistible force, had walked into the Bodleian. She was actually walking out of it at precisely the same time, to go to lunch and then to stay with her mother for a week; he had often wondered since, and trembled at it, what might have happened if his conversation with Blackwells had lasted for even five minutes longer. He smiled and said how very nice to see her again, and might he perhaps take her for tea to show his gratitude for her kindness the night before and his remorse at his fatuous and self-centred attempts at conversation, and she laughed and said she had enjoyed the conversation and could not remember any kindness, that tea would be nice and perhaps even a sandwich since she was hungry.

After that, they went for a walk by the river and then he drove her in his motor car down to the Trout pub on the great wild flats, where she surprised him by asking for half a pint of beer and they watched the peacocks and discovered they shared a passion for (amongst a great many other things) the paintings of Modigliani, the music of George Gershwin and the literary works of A. A. Milne. ‘If you wouldn’t find such fondness for a rival author offensive,’ Pandora added anxiously.

Sebastian, who was growing accustomed to such remarks, said that of course he would not. And then she agreed to telephone her mother and tell her she wouldn’t be arriving until the next day and he bought her dinner at the Randolph. They sat there talking until they were quite alone in the restaurant and the waiters were half asleep, and Sebastian said that he didn’t suppose she would take it at all seriously, but he appeared to be falling in love with her and she said (with a glorious lack of foolish feminine guile) that she would certainly like to take it seriously, and also to think about its implications.

A week later, she telephoned him from her small house in Oxford and invited him to dinner on the following Saturday evening; Sebastian arrived with a bottle of very fine claret, a large bouquet of white roses and a signed, first edition of
The House at Pooh Corner
. A few other friends were coming, she said, which disappointed him a little, but by one o’clock in the morning and after a very happy evening, and a wonderful meal which she had cooked, the friends had all left and she told him that she did seem to find herself also in love, and if he was still of the same persuasion, then she would be extraordinarily happy. Sebastian woke in the morning in her bed, her small body with its almost alarming capacity for pleasure coiled against his; he asked her to marry him later that day and she accepted.

That had been the simple, straightforward part.

Of course he had known Celia would be upset. He had expected it all: the icy disdain, the anger, the hurt. It was why he had put off telling her for weeks, why he chose – cowardly, for one of the few times in his life – to break the news on the twins’ birthday, when she was in determinedly family mood, when Oliver would be benignly present, when he thought that with luck, LM would be there too, with her level, calm courtesy. He had not expected the party to be over, the house emptied so soon of distraction. But still – it had been done. Oliver’s insistence on the celebratory champagne was unfortunate; but it had distracted attention, notionally at least, from the spilt wine and Celia’s rage at having spilt it. They had somehow got through the hour or so it required for courtesy to release him again, and return, exhausted, to his own house. He had hardly slept the rest of the night; when he did, he dreamed, fretful, sorrowful dreams and woke more than once to find himself weeping. In the morning he felt better: simply knowing that it had been done. And then he had discovered it had not been done quite as successfully as he had hoped.

‘Of course I want to meet her,’ Celia said, smiling at him brilliantly across her office desk a few days later, ‘I can hardly wait. We must arrange it as soon as we can. I will talk to Oliver and see if we can find an evening when we are both free. It’s just that we are extremely busy at the moment, the twins’ season is so hectic, you know, I have a lot of extra entertaining to do, and a lot of country house parties, and then there’s Ascot and—’

‘Celia,’ said Sebastian, keeping his voice level with an effort, ‘Celia, we are not asking for an elaborate visit. A dinner, just the four of us, will do, so that you can—’

‘Oh, Sebastian, don’t be absurd. You never did have the faintest idea about running a household. Even the smallest dinner has to be planned; and I would certainly not want Pandora to feel less than properly welcomed. I want her to meet the entire family, naturally, nothing else would be acceptable to me, and that inevitably requires organisation—’

‘It would be perfectly acceptable to us,’ said Sebastian firmly, ‘a quiet evening, I mean, or I could even bring her to Lyttons—’ He stopped; he could see she had not liked the ‘us’.

‘No, Sebastian. I could not possibly agree to that. And certainly I don’t want her brought to Lyttons. Now give me a week or two and I will find a date.’

The week, and then two, passed; dates were even proposed and then cancelled, changed and then changed again. Apologetic notes were written, elaborate explanations offered; Pandora was first amused then irritated.

‘It’s absurd. I think I shall just walk into her office one day, and introduce myself. Then it will be done.’

‘Please don’t,’ said Sebastian. ‘Please, please don’t.’

He looked genuinely anguished; she sighed.

‘I am finding this – difficult, Sebastian. I really am. Whatever the reason. Please get it settled. Please.’

Sebastian said he would.

Finally he lost his temper: Celia had just cancelled a fourth firm arrangement, had asked Janet Gould to telephone him and express her great regret. Her mother was giving a court dinner, had asked her to step in at the last minute, she felt she couldn’t fail her when she had done so much for the twins that season, she did hope Pandora would understand.

Sebastian put down the phone, looked at it thoughtfully for a minute or two and then called a taxi and went to Lytton House. He was in Celia’s office for less than five minutes; that afternoon Pandora received a note, delivered by hand, inviting her and Sebastian to a family dinner at Cheyne Walk on the following Thursday.

I do hope it will be convenient for you; the entire family will be there, including Barbara Miller and my parents, the Earl and Countess of Beckenham, all of whom are most eager to meet you. As of course am I. I look forward to receiving your acceptance.

Yours sincerely,

Celia Lytton

It was, as Pandora remarked just slightly huffily, strongly reminiscent of a royal command: ‘Suppose it wasn’t convenient?’ but Sebastian told her that as with a royal command, convenience was not even a consideration.

‘She has asked us, my darling and we will be there. And I daresay you will fall in love with her as everyone does and forgive her all her monstrous behaviour.’

‘I have no intention of falling in love with Celia Lytton,’ said Pandora firmly.

Sebastian grinned at her. ‘Well, we shall see,’ was all he said. And then watched her struggling not to let it happen.

‘So, my little genius, what are you going to do now?’ he said, refilling Barty’s glass.

‘Oh – I haven’t thought yet.’

‘I bet you have.’ His dark blue eyes were on hers, thoughtful, probing.

‘Well – only vaguely. You know.’

‘Enjoy a bit of well-earned leisure?’

‘Goodness no. Nothing I’d hate more. I like to be busy, all the time.’

‘I know you do. But a few weeks wouldn’t be a bad idea. Are you going to this villa of theirs?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Barty with a sigh, ‘I really don’t want to. But what excuse do I have, and—’

‘Might be fun.’

‘It won’t be fun,’ said Barty.

‘What won’t?’ said Kit. He had left the room to get himself some lemonade.

‘Oh – nothing,’ said Barty quickly, ‘just leaving Oxford, looking for a job.’

‘Why do you have to look for a job?’

‘Because she likes working,’ said Sebastian, ‘she’s addicted to it. Like your mother.’

‘And you,’ said Kit.

‘Well, maybe.’

‘But not the Terrors.’

‘They don’t seem too addicted to work, no.’

‘Anyway, Barty, you don’t have to look for a job,’ said Kit, ‘you’ve got one already.’

‘I have?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘What is it?’ said Barty, intrigued.

‘Well, working at Lyttons,’ he said, adding with all the simplistic logic of a child, ‘everyone in the family does.’

‘But I’m not—’ said Barty and stopped.

‘The Terrors don’t,’ said Sebastian, cutting into the conversation smoothly.

‘I expect they will. Mummy – Mother – says they will one day. When they’ve grown up a bit. I heard her talking to Father about it.’

‘You shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations, young Kit,’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s not the done thing, you know.’

‘Oh, but I was there,’ said Kit, looking hurt. ‘Not listening outside the door or anything. I was reading, they never take any notice of me, just carry on talking. Mostly about boring things. Anyway, that’s what she said, Mummy, I mean. And then she said that of course Barty would too. As soon as she came down from Oxford.’

Barty had gone rather pale. ‘Did she really, Kit?’

‘Yes, of course. She said you should train to be an editor, that you’d be wonderful. Better than Giles, she said you’d be,’ he added with a sweet smile.

‘I think Giles will be a wonderful editor,’ said Barty staunchly.

‘Mother says he has no idea.’

‘But—’ said Barty and stopped again.

‘Of course he could be,’ said Sebastian quickly, ‘a wonderful editor, I mean, but I know Oliver sees him moving into the managerial side. He will be Mr Lytton the Third after all. LM says he’s marvellous with figures.’

‘Well, there you are,’ said Barty. ‘Much more important than being an editor.’

‘Anyway, she wants you to be an editor,’ said Kit, picking up the newspaper, ‘so I expect you will be.’ He smiled his seraphic smile. ‘Did you know Dame Ellen Terry has died? That’s sad, I liked listening to her on my wireless.’

Later after lunch, Sebastian and Barty walked along the river walk; she was quiet and seemed distracted.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

‘Oh – I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do. Penny for ’em.’

‘It’s well – it’s – you won’t say anything to Aunt Celia, will you?’

‘Of course not. I never speak to her these days without full written permission.’ He grinned at her.

‘It’s just that I really don’t want to work at Lyttons.’

‘You don’t like the idea of publishing?’

‘Yes, of course I do. It’s something I’ve thought a lot about actually. But—’

‘But not at Lyttons.’

She nodded soberly.

‘Because it would be too easy? Because of what people would say?’

‘Well yes. And—’

‘And what?’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Come on, you can tell me.’

‘It’s just that – well, it means more – more gratitude. More knowing how lucky I am. I’m so tired of it, Sebastian. So terribly tired of it.’

Later that night, safely back in Oxford with Pandora, Sebastian told her of Barty’s problems. She listened intently, her large brown eyes fixed on his; then ‘Poor Barty,’ she said, ‘poor little thing.’

‘Not so poor,’ said Sebastian, feeling a rather surprising and disconcerting rush of defensiveness towards the Lyttons, ‘she’s had huge benefits from the arrangement. It wasn’t all bad. Celia adores her and—’