Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (56 page)

He looked at her for a long time when she had finished, then reached across the table and stroked her cheek tenderly.

‘My darling. You haven’t been lucky in love any more than I have. In fact, I would say our stories are rather similiar. A few months of intense happiness and then long years of loneliness. Only, of course, I’ve lost the woman I loved twice.’

‘Dear Sebastian. Yes, I know. And you’ve been so brave, you’ve so much made the most of it.’

‘Hardly. Look at poor Isabella, years of neglect on my part. Oh, my darling, I don’t know what you should do. It does seem very hard on those poor girls to separate them now. But – you can’t stay with him.’

‘You don’t think so?’

‘Not possibly. Nobody can base their life on a lie. Or a series of lies. Let me think . . .’

He was silent for a while; she watched him, his head bent in concentration, breaking a piece of bread into ever smaller pieces. Finally, he looked up at her and said, ‘I would suggest – and it is only a suggestion, my darling – a little deception. A bit of dissembling. As you know, I’ve done quite a lot of that in my time.’

Barty said nothing, simply smiled at him.

‘The girls are at boarding school, after all. Perhaps Charlie’s business could take him to another city, at least in the term time. I would have thought Los Angeles, for example, would be a splendid place to sell classic cars. You obviously couldn’t go with him, not with your career in New York. That way, even in the holidays, you could spend some time apart, the girls could go and stay down there with him, and I feel sure that for a few weeks you could maintain the fiction that you were happy together. He is not after all a disagreeable fellow.’

‘No,’ said Barty, ‘no, he’s not.’

‘It wouldn’t be perfect, and it wouldn’t be easy. But I think it would be better than any of the other alternatives. And you could insist on it. You do after all hold what I believe are vulgarly called the purse strings. If Mr Patterson wants to remain in a lifestyle to which I imagine he has become very happily accustomed, then he is more or less obliged to do what you say. Anyway, that’s my suggestion, darling. For what it’s worth.’

‘I think it’s worth an awful lot,’ said Barty, leaning over to kiss him. ‘Thank you, Sebastian. I shall think about it very, very carefully.’

Adele wasn’t going to Celia’s dinner; she had pleaded exhaustion, and a need to rest for the next day. She had also refused to see Barty. Upset, Barty had talked to Venetia, who told her, rather coolly, that Adele saw her as being in the Geordie camp. ‘You are his publisher after all.’

‘Well that’s ridiculous,’ said Barty. ‘I’m not in anyone’s camp. My relationship with Geordie is purely professional.’

‘Oh really? I thought you were quite friendly. Didn’t he go to South Lodge for Thanksgiving, that sort of thing?’

‘Venetia, you’re looking for trouble,’ said Barty coldly. ‘Let’s just say I’d like to see Adele, if she’d like to see me. I can’t do more than that.’ She went back to her hotel feeling very upset; the power of the twins to upset her, the old enmity and rivalry between them, the ability they possessed to close ranks absolutely against her, all these things were never quite going to go away.

Adele woke up on the wedding day feeling almost excited. This was the day. The day when it would all be over, when she would be safe. For the first time for weeks she got up before breakfast, went down to join Clio and Nanny in the kitchen. Clio was rather subdued; her disappointment at the failure of her father to appear had been intense.

‘He wrote and said he’d be coming,’ she said, when Adele found her the day before, standing at the window, watching for him, eyes huge and smudged with tears. ‘He told me, you know, in that letter to Noni. Why can’t he, why?’

‘Daddy’s not very good at – at knowing what he’s doing,’ said Adele, struggling to keep the viciousness out of her voice, ‘and he’s a long way away, it all has to be planned.’

‘He’s had lots of time to plan it,’ said Clio, ‘ages and ages. He knew about me being a bridesmaid, Noni told him. Doesn’t he want to see me, in my frock, doesn’t he love me any more?’

‘Oh my darling,’ said Adele, her own tears rising, ‘of course he loves you and of course he wants to see you. But he can’t, he’s so busy and—’

‘Barty’s busy. Izzie’s busy. Noni’s busy. They’ve all come. Why can’t he?’

Adele couldn’t find anything else to say to comfort her, just sat holding her, weeping with her, her anger at Geordie stronger than any emotion she could ever remember. Bastard! Selfish, self-centred, cruel. Rather like Luc. But at least Luc had been brave, had been, underneath it all, a good person; that could hardly be said of Geordie. He was a weak, charming coward; she hated him. She really, really did. Izzie was welcome to him; and, moreover, she deserved him . . .

Clio had gone to bed fairly happy; comforted by Noni, promised that everyone in the whole church would be looking at her and thinking how pretty she looked, promised that her father would be sent lots and lots of pictures of her. But she had woken twice in the night, crying; Adele, lying awake, as always, heard her and was about to go to her, but Noni got there first, and the second time had taken her into her own bed, and cuddled her back to sleep. It was better that way; really, Clio would be so much better off without her. Moping about and crying all the time; it wasn’t good for any child to have a mother like that.

‘I’ve told her we can get ready together,’ Noni said, ‘and I’ll do her hair. I’ve got rather good at hair. Kenneth in New York showed me the most marvellous trick for keeping a French pleat up, shall I do yours, Maman?’

‘No,’ said Adele quickly. ‘No, I’ll do my own. Thank you, darling.’

‘And you’re wearing – ?’

‘Oh – something new. Pale grey silk.’

She’d known she must get something, had forced herself out to Woollands and Harvey Nichols, or they’d be suspicious otherwise.

‘Can I see?’

‘When it’s on.’

‘Hat?’

‘Oh – ’ she hadn’t thought of that ‘ – I’m wearing one I got for Ascot last year.’

‘Maman, you can’t go to Kit’s wedding in an old hat.’

‘Of course I can,’ said Adele, irritation sending her voice up half an octave. ‘It’s not old, anyway, it’s only been worn once.’

‘I know but—’

Lucas appeared in his morning dress.

‘Thought I’d give you a preview. How’s the waistcoat?’

‘Darling you look marvellous. Really so handsome. Here, let me just ease that knot a bit—’

Adele smiled at him. It was so unfair, Noni thought, rage rising from somewhere deep within her; he did so little, and yet he had the power to lift her mood and please her, simply by coming into the room.

‘We’ll go and get ready, then,’ she said. ‘Come along, Clio.’

‘Yes, all right,’ said Adele absently. Noni looked back; her mother was already engrossed in Lucas’s tie.

Izzie looked at herself in the mirror doubtfully; the outfit really had been a mistake. It was a particularly heavy red and drained her face of colour; it was the wrong length too, too long for her, longer than the fashionable calf-length, just dowdy looking. Even in her misery, she felt angry with the wretched saleswoman at Saks, who had told her how marvellous she looked. Well, at least Nick couldn’t see her. He had phoned the night before, to tell her he loved her and he was missing her.

‘Although it’s very peaceful. Without you snoring beside me.’

‘I don’t snore.’

‘Darling you do, I’m afraid. Quite loudly, sometimes. Has no one ever told you? Not very aristocratic, I must say. You must never go to sleep in presentations. I can’t talk any more. Mike says we can’t afford it. I love you, Princess. Keep looking up at the stars.’

‘I will. And I love you too.’

She put the phone down.

Her father looked in. ‘All right?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. You look wonderful, Father.’

He did; astonishingly handsome still, in his black morning coat. ‘Put the hat on.’

He put it on, settling it carefully, adjusting it in her mirror; ‘You’re a vain old thing,’ she said, kissing him, ‘but you have a right to be. You’re going to outshine the groom.’

‘Nonsense,’ he said, ‘no one could do that. You look nice.’

‘I know I don’t,’ she said, ‘but never mind. Everyone else will look marvellous, so who’s going to look at me?’

‘I am,’ he said, ‘with great pride.’

Were any of the other guests, Celia wondered, sitting in the church, noticing the likeness? Wondering at it, the uncanny resemblance of the set of the head, the width of the shoulders, the same thick, thick hair, the way it grew quite low on their foreheads, the same fine features, the same heavy brows. Probably not; the forty years or so between them had wrought some powerful changes, in colouring, stance, ease of movement. But the voices were exactly the same: deep, powerful, musical, and so were their quick, sweet, almost impatient smiles and their equally quick, ferocious scowls. Not that they were going to be in evidence today. Two quite extraordinary men. And she loved them both, so very much . . .

If he turns round again and smiles at her just once more I shall be sick, Jenna thought; it was revolting, the way they were carrying on. Twice last night she had caught them necking, once before dinner and once after, and the second time Fergal had undoubtedly had his hands on Cathy’s breasts. It was disgusting. They hadn’t been sitting together at the table, luckily, but he kept smiling at her, making silly faces, and she kept leaning forward so that her cleavage showed, making sure he was looking all the time.

Jenna had been sitting two places along from her, next to Lucas; she really couldn’t see why they all thought Lucas was so awful, she found him very interesting, and he had a really odd sense of humour, which she liked, he didn’t laugh at any of Fergal’s awful jokes, but came out from time to time with really funny one-liners.

He was quite tall and very thin, and he had a rather gaunt, bony face, with deep-set dark eyes and very long eyelashes: very long for a boy, anyway. He was also rather interestingly dressed; he was in a dinner jacket, of course, all the men were, but instead of a conventional black tie, he had on a floppy black cravat. Jenna thought it was very stylish. Cathy, meanwhile, had been drinking unwatered-down wine and she got so drunk that she had to be helped from the table by a laughing Fergal; Jenna saw her mother watching rather anxiously. She supposed she must feel more responsible for her without Charlie being there.

She still wished with all her heart that the Millers were there now, in the church; although there were lots of other nice people there. She loved Jay and Tory and their children and she quite liked Giles even though he was so – so solemn. George, his son, was quite nice, a bit pompous, but interesting underneath. Mary was a terrible pain, just like her mother, neither of them seemed to know that smiles had been invented . . .

And Boy, he was marvellous, so funny and naughty, sent everyone up, even Celia. Jenna really liked him. And some of the Warwicks were all right. She supposed Fergal was just spoilt. Barty had told her he’d been born in the middle of an air raid, in the house at Cheyne Walk and that Celia had rescued Venetia, who was in labour, from Lytton House in the middle of the worst air-raid of the war, that she had cycled through the City of London with a tin hat on her head and bombs falling all round her. She was wonderful; Jenna adored Celia. She knew her mother did, too; in spite of saying she had been a mixed blessing in her life. She thought they were quite alike, in a funny way: funny, because they weren’t related at all. But they were both so obsessed with their careers and with Lyttons, both had such high standards, such belief in the power of hard work, both were so passionately interested in an amazing assortment of things.

‘And you’re both tall and both beautiful,’ she had said to her mother; Barty had laughed and said she might be tall, but beautiful, no.

‘Of course you are. Terribly. I bet my father thought you were beautiful.’

To which her mother had replied that everyone thought the person they loved was beautiful, and that she had considered Laurence extremely handsome.

‘But he was. In all the pictures you’ve shown me, he could have been a film star.’

Jenna knew she looked exactly like him; and of course that was nice, to carry on his looks even if she couldn’t carry on his name, not if she got married, anyway, but she’d actually rather have looked more like her mother. She preferred Barty’s colouring, her high cheekbones and her huge tawny eyes. She looked quite wonderful today.

Right. She would get dressed now, and do her hair, then tell Nanny she was having trouble with her hat and ask her to take Clio to the church in the official car and say she’d follow in her own little MG. Noni and Lucas had already gone. If Nanny started to argue, she’d start crying and then Nanny would give up straight away and do what she said. Everyone knew better than to make Adele cry.

Who would have believed this, Venetia thought, smiling at Kit as he sat there, concentrating on the music? Who would have thought that his terrible, tragic youth could have turned into such happiness. And it was real happiness; it shone out of both of them, him and Clementine. She was such a rare combination of cleverness and niceness; despite being immensely successful, Venetia was still, at the age of forty-eight, deeply impressed by any kind of academic accomplishment. Clementine was ferociously clever; not only a brilliant novelist, but extremely well-read, rather like Barty, only you could chat to Clementine, giggle with her. A bit more like Izzie, actually, Venetia thought, a shadow falling suddenly over her day. Izzie as she had been, before she went to New York, before she had changed and become – well, whatever she had become. It still didn’t quite fit; the casting of Izzie as wicked adulteress. She was still too shy, too eager to please, too naive; or maybe just very good at seeming those things.