Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (46 page)

God, it was getting worse, the pain. She was breathing as lightly as she could, sparing herself every possible exertion lest she start to cough, but it was still extremely severe, a hot searing pain on both sides, now, of her chest.

Celia allowed herself a long time to get ready for the party as well, since every action exhausted her, the bath, dressing, doing her hair, putting on her jewellery even. Oh for a maid, how carelessly she had treated her maid when she had been a young woman, how she longed for one now. But she was ready by seven, and smiled with satisfaction at her reflection, at a stillbeautiful woman, in a narrow black crêpe dress, and long black gloves, dark hair drawn back in a perfect chignon, her mother’s treble-stranded pearls and heavy drop pearl and diamond earrings the only relief from the black.

She picked up her evening bag, an exquisitely beaded Deco creation, a present from Adele for her last birthday, packed carefully with cigarettes, scent – Quadrille by Balenciaga, her new favourite – two handkerchiefs and a selection of throat sweets and painkillers, pulled her mink stole round her shoulders and walked out to the hall where Lord Arden’s chauffeur was waiting for her.

‘Good evening your ladyship,’ he said; no one would have guessed, watching her walk past him, head high, holding her mink stole round her shoulders, the effort required even to get down the steps and into the car, or how much she was suffering.

‘My darling! You look perfectly beautiful. What a lovely dress.’

Amy smiled and leaned forward to kiss Celia; she looked and sounded so exactly like her mother it was almost eerie.

‘I’m so glad you like it. I don’t often wear pink but it’s awfully flattering. You look divine, Granny. I do so adore those earrings.’

‘Yes, well I’ve left them to you in my will,’ said Celia briskly. ‘As you know.’

She enjoyed such references, enjoyed the flurry of protestations that she looked absurdly young, that she would live for ever; but tonight the joke seemed to be a little less amusing.

‘Darling Granny.’

‘Is Adele here?’

‘Yes. She’s over there with Mummy, looking wonderful, I think, don’t you?’

Adele had clearly made a great effort; she was wearing a black satin A-line dress, which partially disguised her acute thinness, had had her hair done, and was carefully made up; she was sparkling furiously, over-talking and over-giggling, smoking through a long holder. But her eyes roamed the room constantly, and every so often her guard dropped and she looked so ineffably sad that Celia wanted to go and hold her in her arms, take her home with her.

But that would never do. It was Amy’s night, and they were all there to wish her well, her and the Honourable Richard Goodhew, who worked in the family stockbroking business, and was heir to a huge fortune.

‘New money, though, darling,’ Celia had said when Venetia told her about Richard, bubbling with excitement, ‘not to be trusted, no land.’

‘Oh Mummy, don’t be so tedious. Daddy didn’t have any land, for heaven’s sake.’

‘There was land in my family,’ said Celia, firmly and illogically, as if that settled the matter.

‘Now then, darling,’ she said, taking a glass of champagne, sipping it gratefully, so icy cold, so soothing to her throat, ‘you mustn’t let me monopolise you. I’ll be perfectly all right. Why don’t you introduce me to that extremely good-looking young man over there. Oh, Elspeth darling, you look lovely. Now, where’s Keir? Venetia my dear, congratulations, Boy, good evening.’

On and on it went, apologising for Lord Arden’s absence – he was hosting his shoot, she explained, the most important of the season – kissing, greeting, chatting – until suddenly, as she lit her first cigarette of the evening, stupid really, but she was so desperate for it, thinking it would ease her pain, she began to cough. An agonising, racking cough that seemed to urge every breath out of her body. As she excused herself, asked for water, made carefully for the door through a room which seemed to be hazy now, swaying slightly beneath her feet, nausea as well as pain overcame her, and she sank slowly and gracefully on to the ground, briefly unconscious, silenced at last. Half an hour later she was being rushed to King Edward VII Hospital in an ambulance, where she was diagnosed as having double pneumonia and placed immediately in an oyxgen tent; the family was informed that she was on the danger list, and the consultant, summoned from a party himself to examine her, told them that he would be unable to say for at least forty-eight hours whether or not she would recover.

‘I think I should go to England.’ Barty’s voice was very strained. ‘I’ve just had a cable from Venetia. Celia is desperately ill, with pneumonia—’

‘Oh, darling, I’m so sorry, but is that really necessary? I mean, I’m sure she’s very ill, but pneumonia isn’t what it was, it can be treated these days with antibiotics, and besides, by the time you get there, she’ll surely be better—’

‘That’s not the point. I ought to go. She would want me to be there. I know that. And if she’s not better – well, I have to know I did everything I could.’

‘Of course. Of course.’ Charlie’s voice was soothing, as if it was she who was ill, not Celia. Barty was irritated.

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

‘No! No, of course not.’

‘Darling, there’s no need to sound so horrified. I thought I might be some use.’

He was trying very hard to be supportive; she could see that.

‘I’m sorry Charlie,’ she said, ‘I didn’t meant to sound anything. I’m just so worried. Frightened.’

She was slightly surprised, shocked even that she should feel so very worried and afraid; that however ambivalent she might have felt in the past, Celia had become the very centre of her life, a strong, driving, absolutely important force. The prospect of life without that was unthinkable.

‘Should I take Jenna, do you think? She’s very fond of Celia. As Celia is of her, as you know.’

An honorary grandchild, no doubt about it; as important to her as any of her own.

‘It’s up to you, darling, of course. I wouldn’t have thought so, taking her out of school, away from her studies.’

Which you would do without a moment’s thought, Barty reflected, lifting the telephone to make the necessary arrangements; the girls had already been taken out of school for several weekends that term, all for perfectly good reasons on the face of it, but all contriving to make them think that school was less important than having a good time. Jenna, who was athletic, had missed two lacrosse matches, and a swimming gala; Barty had drawn the line, said school must come first. And now here she was, ringing the headmistress again, to take Jenna away from school for possibly two weeks.

But the headmistress was surprisingly understanding; and told Barty that of course she must go to Celia, and Jenna too.

She thought, as she waited at Grand Central for Jenna’s train, about when Oliver had had his stroke; and discovering that Laurence had tried to keep it a secret from her. It had been so much harder in those days, no transatlantic flights, she had had to endure a five-day sea voyage, terrified that Wol would die before she got home. He hadn’t, of course, he had survived against all the odds; Celia had been sitting there when she arrived, holding his hand, virtually demanding that he should live. Who was going to do that for her?

She supposed she should tell Geordie; and Izzie, of course. She would be dreadfully upset. Poor Izzie; for all that she had done wrong, Barty felt desperately sorry for her. She had sat listening to her for hours, as she poured out her misery and her remorse, tearing at her nails, her eyes swollen, her face ashen. And – was she really so much to blame?

Geordie was clearly the villain, he had told Izzie that the marriage was over, that he wanted a divorce. Who could really blame her, innocent and inexperienced as she was.

‘You don’t understand,’ she wailed, as Barty tried to console her, ‘Adele was my friend, that’s the whole point. If Geordie had been married to someone I didn’t know, or to someone who hadn’t meant so much to me, it wouldn’t have been so very bad, I agree. But to move in on her marriage, even if I did think it was over – oh Barty. She’ll never forgive me, never. Nor will Noni. Or Celia, or Father or—’

She looked so much the reverse of an adulterous woman, sitting there, looked all of sixteen years old again, her great brown eyes wild with remorse, tears streaming down her face, her long hair loose, falling over her shoulders, her hands wringing in her lap. Barty held out her arms to her, as she would to a child.

‘Darling Izzie, don’t. They will forgive you, maybe not Adele, but of course Celia and your father and – well, everyone, really. They’ll come to understand. That marriage has been falling apart for years, it was perfectly plain . . .’

But Izzie was not to be comforted.

Barty blamed Geordie more; he knew what he was doing, knew how inexperienced Izzie was, must have sensed she was in love with him. Of course he had sworn he was in love with Izzie, that he had had no idea Adele was clinically depressed, was seeing a psychiatrist.

‘Had I known that, I would have stayed with her, at least until she was better, I swear I would,’ he said, pushing his hands through his hair, looking at her out of tormented eyes. But it didn’t quite work, that remorse, she thought; he would have to have been fairly thick-skinned to have had no inkling of it. It was quite simply unbelievable.

This crisis, the first real one in his charmed life, was proving too much for Geordie; he wasn’t able to cope with it. Always before he had talked, smiled, eased himself out of trouble; this time he could not. He was going to have to pay a high price; Adele would never let him near Clio now, certainly not to spend any more than an afternoon with her, she would make sure that Noni and Lucas were told to have nothing to do with him either, would forbid him the charmed Lytton circle.

And then there was Izzie; Barty was shocked at his treatment of her. He had offered her no support, no comfort, as far as she could tell (Izzie had been staunchly loyal), had simply told her that for all their sakes it was best that their affair ended: and then walked out of her life. Some women could have coped with that; the kind of women to whom adultery was an amusing fact of life. But Izzie, innocent, sweet gullible Izzie, thinking he had loved her, looking to him for help and finding none: she deserved better.

He left New York, moved down to Washington, where he had relatives; his excuse being that it was easier for Izzie. Easier for him, of course, where no one knew her, no one would hear of the liaison, or about how he had deserted his sick wife. Clearly he was hoping to start again, build a new life. And that had a horribly familiar ring to it . . .

Charlie was not very pleased that Barty was going away. He didn’t actually object, he expressed a certain concern for her, and for Celia, but he clearly resented it. He was very good at sulking; at the cold, dull silence, the refusal to smile, the well-timed shrug. It was much more noticeable without the presence of the girls. The night before they had eaten supper in silence. She tried to break it, had asked him about his new project – not something she was terribly enthusiastic about – a saleroom for vintage cars, which so far had involved inspecting a lot of suitable premises, mostly very expensive and in central Manhattan, and poring over magazines specialising in such things, but not much else.

She had even showed him, that evening, an advertisement for a showroom in Gramercy Park that seemed very suitable to her, but even this had elicited no response. He sat hunched over his plate, not even reading, and then disappeared up to his study.

She supposed she should have agreed to let him come to England too; but it would be no time to introduce him to the family. And if – well, if Celia was ill for a long time, then he would get bored, restless, start pressurising her to go home again. Not that she would be able to stay long; and certainly Jenna would not.

She had settled down again with Charlie; had forced herself to accept him and what he had done. There was really no reason to leave him, she kept telling herself, to break up her new, happy little family, to find excuses to tell the girls. And there was something else, as well, something she found it difficult to acknowledge; she wasn’t at all sure she could face the humiliation, the ignominy of admitting she had made a mistake. Quite a major mistake. That the man she had married, had fallen in love with, was a fraud, not an Ivy League preppy, but an orphan boy, raised in an institution. Not that she cared; she truly did not.

And so (while disliking herself considerably for it) she had finally managed to believe what he said, that he still loved her, he still wanted to be married to her, he had done nothing seriously wrong. She had struggled to accept the new Charlie, the changed, less worthy Charlie, had slowly managed to set aside her distaste, her shock, acting out the charade he had forced upon her.

It wasn’t very good; in fact, it was rather bad. She found it hard to enjoy his company any more. Sex had become difficult, too; she tried, she complied, she pretended, but as she lay there, struggling to enjoy it, to draw some response from within herself, visions came streaming into her head like an over-familiar movie, of her discovery, of his explanation, of the rows they had had.