Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (57 page)

Now where was Adele? Surely it was getting a little late.

Right. They’d gone. They’d all gone. She had waved them off from the top of the stairs, telling Clio how lovely she looked. She’d wanted to hug her, hold her close for the last time, but she’d decided that would be too dangerous, her resolve might weaken. She had to do it, for everyone’s sake, not least for Clio’s; she had to be brave and see it through. And really she had no alternative.

She looked at the clock; a quarter to eleven. She had to time it quite carefully. Once the ceremony had started, she must take the pills; when it was over, Venetia, at any rate, would start worrying about her. But she would hardly be able to get away from the reception until after lunch. It was lucky that Clementine and Kit were having a morning wedding and a buffet luncheon. A more conventional afternoon affair, with canapés, would have been over much more quickly.

She took off her grey silk suit, hung it up neatly, and then her silk slip and stockings and put on a dress she had always been rather fond of instead, soft harebell-blue wool. She didn’t want to be in her dressing gown; she wanted to look nice when they found her. She brushed her hair too, and sprayed herself with Diorling, her current favourite, and then went downstairs and fetched a large jug of water. She felt calm, very very calm . . .

If only, if only Kit could see her, thought Sebastian, as Clementine came into the church to the strains of ‘Zadok the Priest’, on her uncle’s arm, her face radiant, her red hair caught back in a crown of flowers, her blue eyes fixed on Kit with absolute attention and love. Her dress was very simple, white silk with a modestly scooped neckline and long, tight sleeves, a full skirt and quite a short train; and her bouquet was a mass of tiny sweetheart roses in pale pink. Behind her walked Clio, her small face solemn, and behind Clio, Lucy Warwick, the only grown-up – or nearly grown-up – bridesmaid, both of them in palest pink, with white flowers in their hair.

They walked, very slowly, all four of them. Then, as her uncle released her, Clementine stepped forward towards Kit, and in a brave and lovely break from tradition, she put her hand in his and reached up to kiss him, so that he might know she was actually, finally there, standing beside him.

It was at that moment, when love seemed quite literally to fill the church, that Celia and Sebastian looked at one another: across the aisle, across all the years, and they smiled; and everyone who saw that smile, knowing what it represented, understanding the reason for it, found it as moving and as poignant in its own way as all the rest of the day.

She piled up some pillows, in a great white mound, settled herself on them, on her bed. She had already got the pills ready, had put them on one of her favourite plates, a present from Cedric years ago; it had a small floral pattern on white, with a fine gold rim. There were thirty of the pills: more, far more than enough, she imagined, but she wanted to be quite, quite sure.

She lay looking at them for a while, then reached out and picked the first one up . . .

‘. . . and thereto I plight thee my troth.’

Kit’s voice, his lovely melodic voice, was slightly unsteady as he spoke; and Izzie felt a pang, sharp and deep, where she supposed her heart must be. In that moment, she forgot everything else, her guilt, her unhappiness, her concern for Adele, and remembered only a day almost ten years earlier when Kit had told her he loved her; when the tenderness and passion in his voice she could hear now had been for her, when she had felt absolutely happy, and absolutely safe. Now, suddenly, for the first time since then, she felt it again, and realised that she was finally free of Kit. She had not been before, she could see that now, she had been looking ever since for what had been given her and then taken away again. And now, there was another man, so very different from Kit, not a golden over-privileged youth with a tragic history, but a grown-up man who had dragged himself up by his own bootstraps and hitched himself to the stars. Not handsome, not romantic either, she supposed; no, that was wrong, he was romantic, funnily, cleverly, touchingly romantic; not an intellectual, but self-educated, and in his way every bit as brilliant as Kit. Nick had become, in just a few days, the absolute centre of her life, the source of all her happiness; she found it impossible to imagine now a time when she had not known him, not loved him, not been loved by him. She hadn’t expected it, nor did she feel she deserved it, but there it was, she had it, and as she stood there, thinking about Nick and what they had together, she wanted to share it with her father and to let him know she loved him too. She looked up at him, slipped her hand into his, smiled, and knew that the tears which were suddenly at the back of his eyes were happy ones also, and were for her.

The phone was ringing; she would ignore it. She had started on her journey now, had taken one of the pills, had decided that she needed more than just water, which was a little flat and forbidding, that champagne would be nicer, with its lovely shining colour and taste. So she had gone down to the fridge and found a bottle of Lanson, her favourite, beautifully cold; it had been hard to open, she could never do it, she was struggling with it for ages, but in the end, she was carrying a full glass upstairs with the bottle in her other hand, and had settled back again on her lace pillows to drink it. She was feeling rather tired now; she had a few sips without taking any pills, then thought that, actually, time was passing and she must proceed. She had just picked up the next pill, was almost placing it on her tongue, when the phone began to ring.

She ignored it for a long time; but it didn’t stop. On and on, she could hear it quite loudly in the hall. It irritated her; it disrupted her mood of calm resolve. Who would be ringing like that, with everyone knowing today was the wedding? Or – a dreadful thought struck her – had something happened to Clio? That was the only thing she could think of. Had she had an accident, was she lying in the casualty department of some hospital? She waited for three more rings, then left her room again and ran downstairs, her heart thudding, her head spinning slightly. She supposed it was the champagne . . .

‘Hallo?’ she said.

There was a long silence: then ‘Adele? This is Geordie.’

‘. . . with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow . . .’

What a beautiful thing it was, Barty thought, the marriage service, so familiar and yet so different each and every time: her one regret about her marriage to Laurence was that it had not taken place in a church, with these lovely words, against a backdrop of music and friends, but in a cold and ugly register office. It hadn’t mattered then, she had been too happy to care; but sometimes, over the years, she wished she had it to keep as a memory.

Everyone in the family seemed to be fighting back tears; strange how intense happiness could create such raw and tender emotion. Sebastian was wiping his eyes with a handkerchief, Venetia was biting a trembling lip, even Jenna’s eyes had filled with tears. Barty smiled down at her, fiercely proud of her, glad, so glad that she was there with her. She glanced at Celia, and smiled: she had never felt so close to her. That was the moment the idea slipped into her head; and would not be dislodged.

‘Thereto I give thee my troth.’

Clementine had such a lovely voice, thought Elspeth, so musical, they both did, she and Kit, their children would speak wonderfully . . . God, she felt sick, terribly terribly sick; she just prayed she wasn’t going to have to rush out of the church, spoil their moment. Deep breaths, Elspeth, that’s it, keep calm you’ll be all right . . .

She saw Keir looking at her anxiously; she smiled up at him, squeezed his hand.

‘I’m all right,’ she whispered. At moments like this she knew she still loved him.

He was being very sweet now, he really seemed quite pleased about the baby and, in a huge concession, had agreed that Cecilia could stay with Tory and Jay’s nanny at the back of the church in case she started to cry. But he was still very worried about money, and with good reason. She’d had a look at the bank account and they were very overdrawn; quite soon now she’d be able to make her suggestion. She thought, provided she picked her moment very carefully, he’d agree. He had to, really.

‘I don’t know what you want, but please get off the phone.’

‘Adele, don’t. I don’t want to upset you but—’

‘Well, you are upsetting me. I am trying to get you out of my life, all of our lives and—’

‘I want to speak to Clio.’

‘You can’t.’

‘Adele, please. Please.’

‘She’s not here. She’s at the church. It’s Kit’s wedding day. She’s a bridesmaid.’

‘I know that. That’s exactly why I’m phoning. To wish her luck, tell her I’m thinking of her every minute, even though I’m not there . . .’

‘How touching. Well, I’m afraid you’re too late. Did you oversleep, Geordie, or were you busy doing something else in bed?’

‘For God’s sake, I’ve been trying to get through for hours. It’s not easy.’

‘Pity you didn’t think of it earlier. Rung yesterday, perhaps. When she was crying her eyes out because you weren’t here. Because you’ve abandoned her and abandoned her mother, as well, for that matter. Just get off the phone, Geordie, and leave us alone.’

There was a silence, then a click; the line went dead. Her eyes were streaming with tears. Adele left the phone off its cradle and went back upstairs to continue with her task.

‘. . . whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.’

How lovely the words were, Venetia thought, watching Kit and Clementine through a blur of tears; they had their own music, as rich and as uplifting as the organ, moving now into the lovely cadences of Bach’s ‘Fugue in D Minor’. They looked so perfectly joyful, the two of them, smiling, their hands still clasped; she turned to look up at Boy and he smiled at her, his eyes very tender; nothing like a wedding either, she thought, for enfolding all the other marriages in the church in its magic and its happiness. They had been lucky, for the most part, she and Boy, and very happy; there had been problems, but they had managed nevertheless to create that most elusive thing, a large and happy family. And then into the warmth and pleasure, there slithered a growing anxiety about Adele. She had warned Venetia that she might not come of course, might not be able to face it; but she loved Kit so much, and it was Clio’s so-important hour. Surely she would wish to see her in it?

She felt uneasy, illogically afraid, and felt a sudden desperate longing to be with Adele, to see for herself that she was all right. Perhaps if she ran out of the church now that the important part of the service was nearly over, and drove quickly to Adele’s house, she could check she was all right and be back in time to join the crowd outside the church. But – oh, she couldn’t do that, couldn’t disrupt the service, spoil Kit’s and Clementine’s day, she was being absurd. She was worried about Adele because she worried about her all the time at the moment, and because the emotion of the moment had intensified her anxiety. As soon as she reached Cheyne Walk she would phone her; but she really couldn’t before then. It wasn’t fair.

She felt terribly sleepy; she must concentrate. She had only had about four pills, but somehow, the endless sleepless nights, the raw extra misery of talking to Geordie, had left her so, so tired. She had expected it to be easy, taking them, but it was quite hard work, actually, each one an effort, they were quite big. The champagne had been a good idea in its way, but it wasn’t ideal for swallowing things; the bubbles made her hiccup. She closed her eyes, just for a moment, felt herself beginning to drift off. Don’t Adele, you can’t risk going to sleep now, you haven’t had enough, and you won’t get another chance, not like this one, concentrate, take another, that’s right and then another.

They were walking down the aisle now, smiling at everyone, Kit turning to right and left, rather rigidly, Clementine waving here, then there, blowing kisses and half laughing with happiness.

As they passed her, Izzie looked at Clio; she was peering desperately through the crowd, turning her little head this way and that, a bewildered sadness on her face. And when Izzie got outside and looked for her, she couldn’t find her.

Everyone was laughing and kissing and saying how marvellous it had been, how beautiful Clementine had looked, how handsome Kit was, how sweet the bridesmaids had been. Izzie began to look more seriously for Clio now, among the crowd, in the porch of the church, even back inside. She wasn’t to be seen.

Izzie felt panic rise; where was she? Had someone taken her? Maybe Nanny had whisked her off – but no, there was Nanny, talking to Mrs Conley, who had been sitting at the back of the church.

Izzie walked out to the road, looked up and down it, but there was no small figure there; maybe she had just run away, but where would she start to look for her if she had, in which direction? There was the Embankment just a few hundred yards away, at the bottom of the road. It was dreadfully dangerous and she was so tiny . . . maybe she should tell someone, Sebastian perhaps. She started to go back to the crowd, hoping, half expecting, even, to see Clio holding someone’s hand, or maybe even scooped up in their arms – but no. She was not to be seen.

‘Izzie!’

Ah. Maybe someone had found her, someone who had seen her so obviously searching, had put two and two together: but no, it was Elspeth, looking rather pale, she thought, leaning on Keir’s arm.

‘Hallo, Izzie, you look marvellous. You didn’t leave your bag behind, did you? The verger has one, asked me if I recognised it, I said I thought it was yours.’

‘Yes, yes, I did,’ said Izzie, ‘thanks, Elspeth, where is it?’

‘Inside the church, just inside the door. See you soon.’

Izzie walked into the church. It was completely empty now, oddly and rather forbiddingly silent. Her bag was perched on a pile of hymn books; she picked it up, looked round the church. And then she heard it; the sound of sobbing, quite soft, but very clear, coming from behind the font. Izzie walked over to it, and there, sitting on the floor, her arms wrapped round her knees, her head buried in her arms, and her crown of white roses sadly askew in her dark curls, was Clio, weeping.