No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (12 page)

‘Please don’t be obtuse. However you dress it up, you are asking for the money from me. You would hardly be going direct to the loan department at Elliotts would you? Without asking me first?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘that would clearly be ridiculous.’

‘Indeed. But even if you did, then you would still be in an advantaged position.’

‘Jeanette—’

‘Robert, please. Just give me a moment. While I—’ she stopped.

‘While you what?’

‘While I – calm myself.’

‘Calm yourself? What about?’

‘Surely you must realise – no obviously you don’t – realise how – how distressed I feel.’

‘Distressed? But why?’

‘Because it seems my friends were right,’ she said with a heavy sigh. Absurdly heavy, it seemed to him.

‘What? What do you mean, what were your friends right about?’

‘They said – many of them said – that you were marrying me for my money. I told them it was absurd, that there was no question of such a thing, that I was quite sure you loved me. I went into our marriage believing that. It seems I was mistaken.’

‘Darling, this is ridiculous. Of course you’re not mistaken. And of course I love you. Very much. But—’

‘Yes Robert? But what?’

He was silent.

‘Please do go on.’

‘It just seemed foolish,’ he said finally, his voice low, ‘not to approach you about such a matter.’

‘Foolish? Indeed?’ She turned round; her eyes were full of tears. ‘I’m sorry you would think it foolish to be honourable. Not to try to take advantage of me, not to try to benefit financially from our marriage.’

‘Oh really!’ he said, a rush of anger hitting him, ‘you’re being childish. Absurd.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You are. I am not trying to take advantage of you, as you put it. I’m hoping, Jeanette, to become more independent from you, not less. So that I benefit less from our marriage financially. Not more.’

‘Whatever your reasons or justifications, I find it very painful. And I could not agree to it,’ she said, finally. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve, blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes. ‘I’m more than delighted to support you in your new enterprise in any other way I can. Believe me. But financially – no. I’m sorry. I couldn’t even consider it. Now – if you will excuse me, I have to repair my face and restore my equilibrium. I am going to my room for a while. I’ll see you on the garden terrace at lunchtime.’

Robert stood looking after her; he wondered feebly how Jonathan Elliott would have dealt with such a situation. Not that, of course, it would have arisen.

Laurence came into the room; he looked at Robert.

‘Is my mother quite well?’ he said.

‘Perfectly well. Why do you ask?’

‘I passed her in the hall. She was looking – distressed.’

‘She was not distressed,’ said Robert. It was plainly a lie; and Laurence knew it. He looked at him, and his pale blue-green eyes, so exactly like his mother’s, were contemptuous.

‘She was distressed. Quite clearly.’ There was a pause. Then: ‘I think you should tell me why.’

‘I have no intention of telling you why,’ said Robert. ‘It’s nothing to do with you.’

‘Robert,’ said Laurence, ‘when my father was dying, he told me to look after my mother. I intend to do that. If she is distressed I need to know the reason why. So that I can attempt to deal with it.’

Robert stared at him; then he pushed past him and walked out of the room.

In a small house in London, at almost exactly the same time, an interesting reverse of this conversation was taking place.

‘I don’t understand,’ LM was saying, ‘why you won’t let me help you. If I lend you the money – lend, mind, not give – you can set up your own building firm. Put an end to all this uncertainty, to being pushed around by foremen, laid off. I have nothing better to do with my money, nothing that would give me more pleasure. Please, Jago. You can pay me interest, at any foolish rate you like.’

‘No,’ said Jago, ‘I won’t take it. And don’t ask me again.’

‘Oh really,’ said LM, ‘you are ridiculous. There are men everywhere who would give their – their right arms for an offer like this.’

Jago looked at her. ‘Wouldn’t be much good in the building trade with just the one arm, would they?’ he said and grinned.

It was a very hot day: hot and somehow oppressive. London was not in good heart that day. It had not been in good heart since the old king died; nor had the country. It was as if England itself knew that the hedonistic, pleasure-seeking of the Edwardian age was over forever, that the extravagances, the self-indulgence, the endless party that had been the short reign of Edward VII were at an end. Those hoping for more details of that party were disappointed; Edward had directed that his private papers and letters, many of them no doubt deeply scurrilous, were to be burned. Mrs Keppel had been banished from court, rebuffed when she arrived at Marlborough House to sign the visitors’ book. This was in spite of a promise from the queen that the family would look after her. The sterner virtues of the new king, with his equally stern-faced consort, so different from the saintly Alexandra – who had summoned Mrs Keppel to visit the dying king – were becoming already apparent.

The funeral was splendidly impressive, King George rode beside his brother-in-law the Kaiser, followed by Edward’s favourite horse, riderless, boots reversed in the stirrups, and then the usual parade of military and political luminaries; but it was the sight of the king’s little dog Caesar, trotting behind the coffin, an oddly touching sight amidst the pageantry, that touched his subject’s hearts. Every village, every town held services, every street was decked in black. Weeks later, the country was still officially in mourning. The famous black Ascot took place with everyone dressed in black, even the race cards were black-edged.

But Celia was content, extremely happy indeed, enjoying life, her return to health and strength – and of course her twins. They were good babies, far better at sleeping, at feeding, at smiling, at cooing, even, than their brother. She had recovered quickly from the birth, and was planning a return to Lyttons in September. That had been the compromise between her and Oliver; he had wanted her to have a year of domesticity at least, she wanted as little as two months. There had been a bitter battle, when he had accused her of not loving their children; she had accused him of not loving – or understanding – her, of disliking her presence in the firm. They had fought before, but they had never struck at one another’s soft underbellies, at Oliver’s insecurity, and at Celia’s slightly lukewarm maternal feelings. They had made it up, as they always did, but the scars had gone deep. There was, even now, a slight chill, a wariness between them; a lessening of the intense pleasure they had always shared in one another’s company.

But – as Oliver was constantly being told, he was one of the luckiest men in London; and while he might at times think otherwise, he also knew better than to argue. As everyone could see, he enjoyed commercial success, critical admiration, a dazzling wife and a beautiful family.

‘Don’t cry! Dear, dear Sylvia, don’t cry. Here, come here, please. Oh, dear—’

Celia opened her arms: like a child, Sylvia went into them. Just for a moment; then she pulled back, rubbed at her face with her fist.

‘I’m sorry, Lady Celia. This is no way to behave, when you’ve brought me the girls to see. I’m sorry. So sorry.’

‘Oh Sylvia, don’t be absurd. Let me – let me make some tea. You sit there, hold the babies. If you can manage them both. Barty, you come with me. Then we can talk.’

Celia went out into the yard to fill the kettle; Barty followed her like a small, devoted puppy. She was endlessly energetic, scuttling about everywhere on her wiry little legs. Being strapped to table legs, and into high chairs for half her short life seemed to have done her no harm. Celia looked down at her, at her funny, wide-eyed little face, at her mop of golden brown hair, and at the huge bruise on the side of her cheek. Sylvia had put that there; she had pretended at first, had said Barty had fallen down the steps, then that Frank had hurt her while playing with her. Then suddenly she told Celia what had really happened: that she had done it.

‘She gets on my nerves so much, Lady Celia. She’s so restless, won’t do what she’s told. Always somewhere she shouldn’t be, or crying to get out. I can’t cope with her. She doesn’t understand, I have to keep her in, it’s for her own good.’

That was when she started crying.

Sylvia had a bruise on her own face: on her temple. She said that was from Frank slamming the door on her; Celia knew that wasn’t true either. It couldn’t be. Sylvia looked wretched, so exhausted and frail.

‘I’ve fallen again. I knew it would happen, I knew it, I kept telling Ted, but he wants it, all the time, I can’t keep him off.’ It was a measure of her misery that she was talking about such things to Celia. ‘It’s the drink, Lady Celia, he’s started drinking quite a lot. How are we going to manage, how – and suppose it’s like last time, suppose—’

She started crying again.

‘Oh Barty,’ said Celia, holding the kettle out to the tap in the yard,

‘oh Barty, what are we to do with you?’

And then, as Barty smiled up at her, picked up a stone, started kicking it around the yard as she had seen her brothers do, and pushed a grubby hand into Celia’s, then, quite suddenly, Celia knew exactly what she was going to do.

‘She’s coming to stay for a while,’ she said flatly to Oliver, ‘just for a while, there’s no more to it than that. We have to help them. You know that’s what we believe in. Sylvia is pregnant again, the children are running wild, Ted’s knocking her about, and she can’t cope. And she specially can’t cope with Barty. She told me so, said she didn’t know what to do with her. And I love Barty, and she loves me. There’s plenty of room here, she can sleep in the night nursery with the twins, or even with Nanny until they’re a bit older.’

The more Oliver raged, said it was absurd, forbade it, said that he would not have such folly in his house, the more determined she became. ‘It’s our house, Oliver, it was a present from my father, remember? I cannot believe you are attempting to forbid such a thing. A thing that will do so much good to so many people. To Sylvia, to Ted, to the family. To Barty of course. What kind of a life is she having, tied to a table leg half the day, and now being hit by her mother?’

‘And what did Ted Miller have to say about this?’ said Oliver furiously, his face working with rage. ‘This kidnapping of his daughter?’

‘She is not his daughter, she is their daughter. He’s very happy about it. Very. It will be a great help to them all.’

She did not say that Ted Miller had been so drunk that he had been incapable of marshalling any coherent words at all, save that Barty’s was one less mouth to fill, and if Celia wanted to fill it she was welcome. Or that Sylvia, even in her doubtful gratitude, had wept tears of very real grief as she put Barty’s few ragged clothes into a paper bag and held her to her for a long time before she kissed her goodbye.

‘And the Fabian society, what do you think they will they have to say about this?’

‘A great deal, I’m sure. I don’t think I care. As far as I’m concerned, people like the Millers are going to have to wait an awfully long time to benefit from this report of Mrs Pember Reeves. Years, decades. By which time Barty’s life will be quite ruined, and Sylvia will be dead. What I’m doing is practical, Oliver, it will help them all now. And really, what difference will it make to you? You hardly ever see the children, except at the weekends. The house is huge; it’s selfish and – and wrong of you to keep it all for ourselves, for our family’s benefit.’

‘And have you thought what damage you may do to Barty herself? Estranging her from her family, making her confused, disoriented, discontented with her lot?’

‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous, Oliver. She’s not going to stay forever. Just a few – months. I shall take her to visit her family every week. And I – well I have had one idea. That I think you will be pleased with. I can see that – well that there will be adjustments. All round. And more for the nursery staff to do. So – I have decided to do what you want, what you asked me to do. I shall stay at home, taking care of the children, for another year. So if I do that for you, surely you will do this for me? And agree to Barty staying with us for a while?’

CHAPTER 7

‘The
Titanic!
On the maiden voyage! Oh, Oliver how wonderful that would be. But do you think you could get tickets, I’ve heard it’s terribly difficult. Oh, it would be wonderful my darling, do try. Heavens, I’d have to get an awful lot of clothes to buy, it’s going to be the best-dressed ship ever, you know. I’d have to get new luggage too and – yes, Giles, what is it, darling? I’m talking to Daddy, I’ve told you so many times not to interrupt.’

Giles was standing in the doorway of the dining-room, the expression on his solemn little face a mixture of determination and anxiety.

‘Will you come for a walk in the park?’

‘With you? Oh, darling, I can’t, I’m so busy, Nanny will take you, surely she’s going anyway, with the twins and . . .’

‘She can’t take us all,’ said Giles, ‘it’s too many children for her to manage. She said so.’

‘Well, then Lettie can go too.’

‘It’s Lettie’s day off. Please, Mummy, I do want to and it is Saturday—’

‘Giles, darling I can’t. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ve got such a lot of work to do and then—’

‘You don’t go to the office on Saturday.’

‘No, darling, I know. But I have to work here. I’m sorry. And then – Giles, darling, don’t look like that, come here, I have something so exciting to tell you.’

‘What?’ said Giles. His voice was heavy.

‘You remember Uncle Robert? And Aunt Jeanette; they came to stay with us just before the twins were born.’

‘Ye-es,’ said Giles.

‘Of course you do. He’s Daddy’s big brother. Anyway, they’ve had a little baby. Isn’t that exciting? She’s called Maud. And we’re going to America to see her, in a few months’ time. On a huge new ship. Look I have some pictures here, Daddy is going to try to get us tickets on her first voyage.’

‘Can I come?’

‘No, darling, I’m afraid you can’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, because it’s partly work, our trip. We want to publish some books in America. And anyway, you’d be at school. And if we took you, we’d have to take the twins.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be fair otherwise.’

‘They wouldn’t know. They’re only babies.’

‘Not really babies any more: they’re nearly two.’

‘They still wouldn’t know.’

‘Of course they – Giles, no I’m sorry, you can’t. One day perhaps. When you’re a bit older. Now look, do you want to see some pictures of the ship?
Titanic
, it’s called.’

‘Ships are always called she, not it,’ said Giles. He walked out of the room. Celia looked after him.

‘Oh dear—’

‘We could take them all, you know,’ said Oliver, ‘it might be fun.’

‘Oh, Oliver, darling, no. It would mean taking Nanny, and possibly Lettie as well. And then what about Barty, we couldn’t leave her behind.’

‘Why not?’

‘Oliver, you know why not. She’s part of the family. You know she is.’

‘I don’t know anything of the sort,’ said Oliver, ‘actually. But we had better not enter into that particular discussion just now. It might spoil a nice day. Anyway, I suppose you’re right, Barty or not, it would turn into a mammoth undertaking. Not to mention a very expensive one. Anyway, I’m pleased you’re so delighted with the idea.’

‘I’m thrilled with it. I do hope you can get us on
Titanic
, that’s all. But anyway, another ship would do just as well. And Oliver, it’ll be lovely to have a little time on our own. Just the two of us. It doesn’t often happen these days, does it?’

‘It doesn’t. Well I’ll leave you to your organisation. I presume you’re busy with the proofs of the Browning book?’

‘Terribly. It’s going to be late if I’m not careful. And we’ll miss the centenary. Not to mention the shopping. I must get something for the baby too. Oh it’s all so exciting. You were wrong about Jeanette being past child-bearing age, you see. I’m glad they’re so happy together.’

‘Now what makes you assume that?’ asked Oliver, smiling just a little heavily.

‘Well – they must be. If they’re having babies. I do wonder what she looks like.’

‘She looks just like you,’ said Robert, ‘exactly. Same hair, same eyes—’

‘Oh, dearest. I’m not nearly that beautiful.’

‘Of course you are. And those little hands, look, so graceful and – heavens, Jeanette, she’s just been sick. What should I do, call the doctor, get the nurse, what do you think—’

‘Oh Robert,’ said Jeanette, laughing, ‘babies are sick all the time. It’s called possetting. Give her to me and that muslin napkin. Come along, little one. Oh, Robert I can’t believe it still. After all the trouble I had with the boys.’

She really hadn’t been able to believe it. When the doctor first diagnosed her pregnancy, she had simply laughed. Of course she wasn’t pregnant, she couldn’t be, she was forty-three years old, she always had terrible trouble conceiving, she’d been ill constantly . . .

‘Mrs Lytton,’ the doctor said, ‘Mother Nature’s a clever old lady. Very frequently, women of your age find themselves pregnant. It’s what we call the last-chance baby. There is a sudden surge in fertility. No, there’s no doubt about it, you are pregnant, about five months I would say. I can hear the heartbeat and it’s very strong.’

‘But I feel so well,’ said Jeanette almost plaintively.

‘Good,’ he said patting her hand, ‘be grateful. Now you must tell your husband. I imagine he’ll be delighted.’

Robert was: delighted and immensely proud. He had given up any hope of fatherhood when he married Jeanette; he had not thought it of any great consequence to him in any case. He had never liked children and his experience of Jeanette’s boys had not changed his mind. But the emotions which filled him that day, when she told him that she was not only pregnant, but healthily and happily so, were overwhelming. He sat staring at her, asked her twice if she was quite sure, and found his eyes filling with tears.

Pregnancy, this time around, suited her; she was well, happy, confident. She seemed to ripen, her voluptuous body became proud and full and she was serene, less awkward and proprietorial with him. It was as if their positions had shifted, as if he had in some way assumed some sort of authority over her, rather than the rather uncomfortable reverse he was used to.

The day the baby was born, he suffered agonies of fear: but Maud arrived shortly after Christmas in what the doctor described as an indecently short time,

‘No difficulty of any sort,’ he said cheerfully, ‘and the whole thing was extremely easy for her. Congratulations.’

It was altogether the happiest time Robert could ever remember; his new real estate company, founded two years earlier in partnership with John Brewer, and financed by Lawsons bank at a very competitive rate, was doing well. Several streets on the west side of Manhattan island were being built by Brewer Lytton, and they had just been successful in their bid to build a medium-sized, luxury hotel on the upper East Side. This too had had the effect of stabilising the marriage; of making Robert feel less like some uneasily manipulated puppet with strings pulled this way and that at Jeanette’s whim. In fact the only cloud on his particular sky that summer, a dark, brooding angry one, was Laurence.

‘He won’t even speak to me,’ he said to Jeanette, a week or so after they had broken the news to both the boys. Jamie had been initially pleased, flushed and beaming with excitement; then catching Laurence’s furious, forbidding gaze he had carefuly switched off his smile, stiffened in his mother’s embrace.

Laurence said politely, ‘Congratulations, sir,’ and shook Robert’s hand, as his mother had bidden him; but afterwards, meeting him in the corridor on his way to the garden, Laurence said, ‘If anything happens to my mother, I shall never forgive you. Never.’

It was said with such venom Robert was shaken; later, he told himself he must have exaggerated it, that it was natural for Laurence to be worried. His mother’s obstetric problems were not unknown to him, and he was old enough to recognise the danger of her condition, particularly in view of her age.

‘And dearest,’ Jeanette said, when he told her, ‘you must realise it is difficult for him. He is old enough to understand what has brought this pregnancy about, he has to confront the fact that we are making love with one another. That’s uncomfortable for a boy of his age, who is coming to terms with his own sexuality. We must be understanding; don’t be too hard on him.’

Robert said it was Laurence who was being hard on him, not the other way round; but Jeanette said that was absurd, and that they were two mature and very happy people and must make every allowance for an immature and anxious boy.

‘And Jamie is delighted, he came and whispered to me last night, as he went up to bed, and so that is wonderful, don’t you think? Laurence will come round, my dearest, you mustn’t doubt it. We just have to be patient.’

But so far he hadn’t done anything of the sort; he came in dutifully to his mother’s room to meet his sister on the day she was born, bent over her cradle solemnly and looked at her, then kissed his mother and again, shook Robert’s hand. But he refused the offer to hold her, to give her his finger to grip, to comment on her appearance, or even to take any part in choosing a name. Jamie, initially excited, begging to hold the baby, covering her small face with kisses, eventually took his lead from his big brother and visited the nursery less and less, except when Laurence was out; Jeanette, amused by this, used it as an illustration to Robert of how Laurence, too, would grow accustomed to his small sister’s presence.

‘We mustn’t rush them, dearest. There’s plenty of time.’

Robert doubted it greatly; but he didn’t say so. Laurence was sacred territory for Jeanette: beyond criticism, beyond doubt even.

‘Mum, Mum, oh Mum—’

Barty hurtled down the steps, into Sylvia’s arms. Sylvia held her absolutely tight, partly because she was so pleased to see her, partly because she didn’t want Barty to see she was crying. She missed her so much; more and more. Every visit – and Celia had kept her word, Barty was sent in the car every two weeks to Line Street – was more painful than the last. Sometimes Celia came too, sometimes she did not. The visits were for the most part agony; at first Barty screamed when it was time to go back to Cheyne Walk, clung to her mother, had to be prised off. That made Celia angry, Sylvia could tell, although she struggled not to show it.

‘Now Barty,’ she would say, stroking the back of her head as she buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, ‘now Barty, you mustn’t behave like this. It’s not fair on your mother. She has so much to do and to worry about, it’s such a help for her, to have you taken care of, and to know you are happy.’

Sylvia knew Barty couldn’t possibly understand this; but she did, and it made her feel bad, ungrateful herself. Of course it was better for Barty, she had only to look at her, putting on weight, her face no longer white but rosy, her hair silky and well-combed, her grubby, threadbare clothes and worn-out boots replaced by lace-trimmed pinafores and fine leather shoes. And nobody was going to hit her at Cheyne Walk, nobody shout at her. She had become one of the privileged few, safe, protected, cocooned by money from the real world; it must be better for her. And if Sylvia missed her, longed to have her back, longed to have her babbling away again, getting up to mischief, fighting for her freedom, struggling to be free of the high chair, of the table leg, giggling at her brothers as they teased her, saying Mum and Dad and Marjie and Billy in her rather deep husky little voice, then that was wrong of her. She mustn’t even think of it. Barty was one of the luckiest children in London, in England, probably in the world. She had escaped the certainty of poverty, the risk of brutality; it would be a crime to force her back into it. Of course one day, she would come back. Of course she would. She kept telling Barty so. When things were better, when her dad was back in regular work – he was doing casual at the moment. When his temper had eased, when the new baby – little Mary, so sweet really, but so demanding and noisy, crying such a lot – was older: then Barty could come home again. But until then, she must stay with the Lyttons. She was lucky to be there. So lucky.

‘Go way.’ Adele’s imperious little voice rang across the day nursery. She pushed Barty: pushed her hard. ‘My dolly. Mine.’

Barty stood her ground; she didn’t want the doll, and anyway, she had dolls of her own. Plenty. Aunt Celia, as Celia had instructed her to call her, often bought her toys: she had dolls, teddies, a dolls’ cot, nearly as much as the twins in fact. But not quite. At Christmas – and she had gone home for her first Christmas day although not the second (her mother had said she wasn’t very well and nor was her dad) the twins and Giles got toys from everyone, from their grandparents, their uncles and aunts, from Nanny even; Barty just got them from Aunt Celia and Wol. She loved Wol; he was so kind and gentle, had more time for her than Aunt Celia, often came to the nursery and played with them all.

She had given him the name: Aunt Celia had told her to call him Uncle Oliver, but of course she couldn’t, and after the first few faltering attempts, had managed Wol. He had liked that, had smiled at her and said it was a very nice name, and in future that was what she was to call him. She couldn’t say Aunt Celia very well either, but she kept trying. You did keep trying when Celia told you to do something. She’d learnt that. Her mother called her Lady Celia; Barty had asked soon after her third birthday, if she could call her that too, But Celia had said good gracious no, of course not, Barty was part of the family and it was much too grand a name.