No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (54 page)

She loved the school when she went for the examination, loved the buildings, the atmosphere, the staff, so clearly not preoccupied with ladylike behaviour as they were at Miss Wolff’s. No doubt her other problems would follow her there, but she had been encouraged by something the head, or rather, the high mistress had said about there being girls at the school from every background.

‘The only elitism we recognise here, Lady Celia, is intellectual.’ Even the twins had been impressed by the scholarship, and told her they wished they were going to St Paul’s.

‘And getting away from horrible Miss Fauncey,’ said Adele.

‘And beastly Miss Barker,’ said Venetia.

Celia had told them briskly that there was very little chance of their ever getting away from Miss Fauncey and Miss Barker and certainly not into St Paul’s if they didn’t spend a little time at least of each school day doing some work. They were not coming down to Ashingham; they had a party, and a dancing class, and were going to keep Oliver company.

‘Somebody has to,’ said Adele, by way of revenge.

‘And we want to anyway,’ said Venetia.

‘Now here we are,’ said Barty, ‘and look, Mum, look, there’s Billy, isn’t it? No it can’t be, surely he can’t be on that huge horse.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Sylvia, ‘oh my goodness – it can’t be, it’s enormous.’ But it was: Billy was in one of the paddocks below the drive, astride a horse which could only be described as vast, cantering amiably round on a lunge rein held by Lady Beckenham. One foot was in a stirrup, his other leg was minus its addition, and there was an expression of absolute concentration on his face.

‘Keep your bloody hands down,’ Lady Beckenham was roaring, ‘you look like some sort of poodle on a circus horse. And grip with your legs, you’ve still got two thighs for God’s sake.’

They got out of the car and watched, transfixed, Barty biting her fist as she always did when she was nervous, Sylvia with her hand on her heart, her face white. Even Daniels seemed worried, removed his cap and wiped his sweating forehead. Only Celia stood relaxed and smiling, seeing that Billy was actually perfectly happy and safe, and knowing what her mother was doing for him.

‘Hallo,’ called Lady Beckenham when the lesson was finally over, ‘not doing so badly, now. Absolutely pathetic at first, weren’t you, Billy, but he’ll get there in the end. Now, what do you think of the horse?’

‘He’s heaven,’ said Celia, ducking under the fence, going over to the horse and patting its huge neck. ‘I haven’t seen him before, wherever did he come from?’

‘France,’ said her mother, ‘old battle horse; we’ve called him Major, they were all going for horse meat, auctioned at Waterloo. I couldn’t bear it, bought three of them. Peppered with shrapnel, but it worked its way out. Billy and I never stopped picking it out, cleaning out the wounds, did we, Bill?’

‘No we didn’t,’ said Billy. He had picked up the historic Beckenham crutch from the ground near the horse, and hopped over to them.

‘Hallo Mum, hallo Barty. Morning, Lady Celia.’

‘Billy, you’re so brave,’ said Barty.

‘Not really. He’s an old sweetheart,’ said Billy, ‘isn’t he, Lady Beckenham?’

‘He is. Marvellous animals all of them. Sweet as pie. You only have to shout halt, and they stop dead. Poor darlings, they could tell a tale or two. Beckenham’s going to take that one out next autumn, says he could jump anything.’

‘They’re sweet,’ said Celia, ‘what a marvellous idea.’

‘Yes, well a few of us thought it worth trying to save what we could. Poor things, they deserve it, doing their bit for king and country. Tell you something really amazing, every so often they form a line and canter down the field together. In a sort of charge. Brought tears to my eyes the first time we saw it, didn’t it Billy?’

Billy nodded. Celia looked at him. He was rosy-faced in the biting wind, and looked very strong; he had always been big, even as a child, but he actually seemed to have grown since Christmas, he must be at least six foot four, she decided, and broad with it. He looked wonderfully happy too, his grin wide, his blue eyes, Sylvia’s eyes, brilliant. It was odd, she thought and then crushed it again, that her mother’s adoption of Billy, along with her determination to keep him in his proper place socially, might turn out to be more successful than her own efforts with Barty.

‘Right, well you can go and get on with your work now Billy,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘we’ll do this again on Monday. Sylvia, you look terrible. I hope you haven’t got this dreadful flu. You can go right back to London again if you have.’

‘Mama!’ said Celia.

‘No, I’m sure I haven’t, your ladyship,’ said Sylvia, her face scarlet as she suppressed a fit of violent coughing.

‘Well it sounds like it. You’d better get into the house. This wind’s beastly. Want to get back into the car?’

‘No I’d rather walk, thank you, your Ladyship.’ Anything would be better than getting back into that rolling thing.

‘Right. I’ve put you and Barty in the Dovecot. Barty, you’re growing up much too fast. Getting rather pretty. I shan’t be able to let Beckenham near you soon.’

‘Mama!’ said Celia, again.

‘It’s much better she’s prepared for him. Less of a shock that way.’

‘Barty’s won a scholarship,’ said Celia hastily. ‘We heard this morning. To St Pauls Girls School. Isn’t that marvellous?’

‘How absolutely extraordinary,’ said Lady Beckenham.

Sylvia got through lunch somehow: it was served in the housekeeper’s room, which was just about the warmest place in the whole of Ashingham, being small, with a wonderful roaring fire. Celia put Sylvia next to it, noticing her shivering, and fetched one of her mother’s shawls to put round her shoulders.

‘Are you all right?’ she whispered, knowing how much Sylvia hated a fuss.

Sylvia nodded rather weakly, and tried to enjoy the roast lamb which she could see and even smell to be delicious, but she still felt terribly sick. She managed a few mouthfuls, but each one was a struggle to swallow and turned in her mouth to a dry, almost dusty texture, rather like the stale bread which Mr Phelps sent her from time to time. It seemed a dreadful waste; it would be a very long time before she was offered roast lamb again.

The pain in her stomach was bothering her too; she sat, feeling rather hot now instead of cold, smiling politely as the chatter ran on and on, round the table, Billy so excited about his riding, Barty about her scholarship, Lady Celia rather quieter than usual, and looking a bit tired, she thought. Lady Beckenham didn’t eat with them, but she came in at the end of the meal to say she was going for a ride she’d see them at tea time, and that Cook had made Billy a birthday cake.

‘We’ll have that in here as well. Four sharp, then you can get down to the yard after that, Bill. I’m taking Major out, thought a gallop would do him good.’

‘Yes, your Ladyship. I’m sure it will.’

He spoke to her so naturally, Sylvia thought, he wasn’t at all afraid of her, although obviously respectful; indeed he seemed very fond of her. She stood up; she really needed to find a lavatory, she hadn’t liked to ask before, and it had been a long journey. The pain in her side stabbed at her; she closed her eyes briefly, a small gasp escaping her.

‘Sylvia, you’re not well are you?’ said Celia, ‘what is it?’

‘Oh – just a bit of a stomach ache. Nothing serious. Could you show me where the toilet is, Lady Celia?’

‘Of course. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it before, in all the excitement. Come along. It seems a bit serious, your pain. If you’re not better tomorrow we’ll get old Dr Greer to look at you.’

‘Oh I couldn’t allow that.’

‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to.’

Sylvia fell asleep in her room in the Dovecot; she loved it there, it was such a sweet little house, so much less frightening than the big one. She could have stayed there forever, but Barty arrived at ten to four saying they must go over to the house for Billy’s birthday tea.

‘Or don’t you feel up to it, Mum?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Sylvia, and she did feel better for her rest. ‘Think I’d miss that Barty? You need your head examined.’

Lady Beckenham had organised a wonderful tea party for Billy. There was a really big cake, beautifully iced, and candles, even though he was twenty. LM joined them along with Jay, Billy’s fellow grooms, and all the house staff, for Billy was very popular. The head groom, a tiny Irishman who had once been a jockey, and survived the war without a scratch, had been heard to say quite frequently that he’d rather face the Hun any day than Lady Beckenham in a temper. He said it that day as they waited for her.

‘Me too,’ said Lord Beckenham, who had come along, ‘you can shoot the Hun.’

Billy blew out his candles to much applause.

‘Now you must wish,’ said Barty.

He looked at her, then at his mother and Lady Beckenham. ‘To be quite honest,’ he said, his round face flushed, ‘I ain’t got nothing to wish for. Excepting a leg of course, and I wouldn’t be here if I had that.’

There was much applause and laughter: Lady Beckenham blew her nose loudly on one of the enormous and slightly grubby handkerchiefs she always carried about with her, and then said that was quite enough, and if Billy didn’t get down to the yard pretty damn soon and do evening stables, he’d wish he was somewhere quite different.

Sylvia went to bed almost as soon as she got back to the Dovecot; the relief of just lying down and keeping still was wonderful. She lay with her legs curled up; it eased the pain and Barty brought her a hot water bottle which helped as well. She was pretty sure now it was her monthly coming on: of all the times for it to happen. But at least she didn’t have to do anything else, until the next day. Probably by then it would be better.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, Mum? Shouldn’t I ask Aunt Celia to get the doctor?’

‘Gracious no, Barty. It’s nothing, I’ve had it before and it passes.’ She didn’t like to explain any more; Barty was much too young to understand such things.

‘Oh. So is it – well, you know, to do with your periods?’

Sylvia was shocked; ‘Barty, really! How do you know about that?’ she said.

Barty looked surprised. ‘Aunt Celia told me,’ she said, ‘she said it was important to know in good time. So it wasn’t a horrible shock. It doesn’t sound very nice at all,’ she added.

‘No, well it isn’t,’ said Sylvia briskly, ‘but it has to be endured, and that’s all there is to it. We’ll say no more about it now. I feel much better anyway. You go off and see Billy, he’ll be waiting for you.’

Barty tucked her up in bed, made her a cup of very sweet tea and went off to have supper with Billy and the other grooms. Leaving Sylvia feeling oddly unsettled at the thought of her daughter being instructed in such intimate matters by someone other than herself. It made her realise how wide the rift was between her life and Barty’s, how impossibly far apart they had become, for all Barty’s affection and loyalty. She hadn’t often felt jealous of Celia over the years, for being so close to Barty; but that night she did. Jealous and something close to resentful.

‘And how are you?’ said Lady Beckenham to Celia after dinner. They had dined alone with Lord Beckenham and he had gone off to bed. ‘And I daresay to try and persuade that pretty new young thing to bring him a nightcap. She probably will as well, she’s quite intelligent, likes the status of his attentions.’

‘Mama,’ said Celia laughing, ‘you are amazing. Don’t you really mind at all?’

‘Good God no. I’m deeply grateful to them. Otherwise I’d have to be on the receiving end, and really I can’t think of anything worse these days.’

‘Yes, I see.’ Celia was silent, trying and failing to imagine herself in such a position, with Oliver over-enthusiastically pursuing her, rather than almost visibly gathering his courage and indeed his strength, albeit it with a little more success lately.

‘Well?’

‘Oh.’ She had briefly forgotten the question, ‘oh, I’m all right.’

‘That’s not what I meant. As you very well know.’

‘Nothing’s changed,’ said Celia.

‘Nothing at all?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Glad to hear it. I’ll tell you something, when it’s all over, you’ll only remember the good things. Bit like having children really.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Celia and sighed. She would give a great deal, she thought, for her mother’s pragmatism. It was such an essential ingredient in the conduct of an extra-marital affair.

CHAPTER 20

There was something about Guy Worsley that attracted publicity. He had always been the centre of attention, even at school. It was hard to analyse exactly why; he was clever to be sure, and charming and wonderful company, and he was certainly very good-looking – but none of it was exceptional, none of it out of the ordinary even. There was, of course, his rather frail health, his much discussed weak heart – the stuff of women’s fiction Oliver said slightly contemptuously, when he heard about it – and that certainly added to his charm for women, alongside the talent for gossip and the love of rather female-oriented conversation about frocks and house decor.

The fact that he had had several well-documented love affairs did not stop rumours that he was homosexual. It didn’t mean a thing, people said, lots of them liked women as well as men. Guy himself never went out of his way to deny the gossip, indeed it was said he rather enjoyed it; but the fact was that he was heterosexual, and apart from a rather famous episode at his public school when he had been found in flagrante with both the head boy and his housemaster on the same evening – or so the story went – there was nothing to support the rumours, although they did add considerably to his glamour.

But none of these things quite explained how it was that wherever he went, whatever he did, people talked about him. And the story of the
Buchanan
saga and its purchase by one of the most important and interesting publishers in London made for very good talk indeed. It was almost too good to be true, like a story in itself, as Lily Fortescue, who felt she had played an important part in it, had been heard to remark more than once. Everyone knew that Lady Celia Lytton had discovered him, had made him part of her famous literary social set indeed, that the publishing world had been fighting over the books for months, and that Oliver Lytton had paid a record sum of money for them: all these things made him still more popular, yet more desirable, everyone wanted to know him, to hear about him, to have him at their parties.

And the books were much talked about too;
The Buchanans
became the subject of literary gossip too, at places like the Garrick and the Reform, it was an early example of what came to be called ‘talking up’. Items about it appeared in the weekly papers, speculating as to the content, the likely publishing schedule – and the extent of its ultimate success. Long before copies had even reached the editors, it was described as one of
the
books of 1920.

Sebastian Brooke was very slightly irritated by it.

‘You’re just jealous,’ Celia told him, kissing him fondly to show that she didn’t quite mean it, although she also knew that there was enormous professional jealousy between authors. ‘You’ve been knocked off your throne for a day or two.’

‘Absolute nonsense,’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s quite a relief in a way. I just don’t think it’s that remarkable.’

‘Well it isn’t. Not like
Meridian
is, of course. It’s not original, and it’s not even particularly literary. It’s just a wonderful yarn, which is what people want, and it’s also going to be a continuing saga, which is what we want. Years and years of
The Buchanans
, if we’re lucky. And there are some very clever bits of plot in it. The slightly sanctimonious, eccentric academic, with his little bit of fluff on the side – I love that. And the poor daughter, robbed of her sweetheart, turning to music for succour – it’s terrific stuff.’

‘Well, let’s hope you’re right.’

Kyle Brewer was not doing well; he knew it and he suspected that his father also knew it. In this he was right.

‘He tries hard,’ John Brewer said to Felicity one night over dinner, ‘but he makes some extremely stupid decisions and misjudgements. And he’s inefficient as well, inclined to forget things. I really can’t trust him completely with anything, even now. It’s extraordinary, because he’s not stupid, far from it. Clearly we were wrong to push him into the firm; I don’t know what to do about it.’

Felicity said they hadn’t really pushed him into the firm, and that it had seemed the best idea at the time; ‘And don’t forget, he did try to get a job in journalism. And publishing. So I don’t think we should blame ourselves. Perhaps we should suggest he tries again.’

‘Well, we could. But then he’d be earning a pittance, and I don’t know if he can afford that luxury. He’s taken that apartment, he’s seems to enjoy spending his salary. He’s got responsiblities and he has to meet them. Maybe I should give him a pep talk, perhaps that’s all he needs. To realise he’s got to grow up, work a bit harder. God, I wanted to be a professional football player when I was his age.’

‘No, you didn’t,’ said Felicity, getting up and giving him a kiss, ‘you always wanted to get into real estate. “I want to see New York twice its size,” you said to me one night, over dinner, “and I want to be personally responsible for at least some of that”.’

‘Good Lord,’ said John, ‘how extremely prescient of me. Well, it impressed you, obviously.’

‘It certainly did,’ said Felicity, ‘I just wish poor Kyle could impress someone, that’s all.’

Kyle wished he could impress someone, too. He felt depressed and anxious about himself and his performance, and that in turn led him into more foolish mistakes. But he didn’t see what he could do about it. The newspaper and publishing world didn’t want him. And he was blowed if he was going to crawl to Oliver Lytton, or even Stuart Bailey, and ask them for personal favours. So he seemed to be stuck with bricks and mortar. He kept telling himself it could be worse.

LM was oddly happy these days. Her great fear had been of boredom; but she found, much to her surprise, that she was managing to fill her days quite satisfactorily. She read a great deal; she walked long distances; she was developing an interest in archaeology and taking a correspondence course on the subject. Celia had also started sending her manuscripts to read, and publishing plans to consider, and there were the monthly board meetings to keep her in touch. She supposed that in a few years’ time and certainly if Jay went away to school, she might very well return to Lyttons during the week. She was quite vexed about the school situation; Jay was clearly very clever, he could virtually read already, he enjoyed doing his letters and he had an extraordinary, almost photographic memory. He loved her to read him poems over and over again, which he then remembered perfectly. He would sit at the table, or walk beside her as they strode across the countryside, reciting them. He was a particularly charming child; even allowing for a great deal of maternal prejudice, LM knew that to be the case, everyone said so, even Lady Beckenham.

He was self-assured without being cocky, friendly but not pushy, independent but in no way precocious. He was also exceptionally selfreliant, perfectly happy with his own company, and like all only children, very much at ease with adults. At five and a half he could easily have been seven, he was tall, and very strong, with his father’s rather wide face and Celtic colouring, dark blue eyes and almost black hair, and his mother’s sudden smile and bursts of joyous laughter. He loved helping Billy in the stables; he also adored Lord Beckenham who took him around the estate, visiting the farm, talking to the tenants. He spent quite a lot of time with the gamekeeper, who allowed him to collect pheasant eggs and place them in coops, along with extra eggs. ‘So the pheasant blood gets changed,’ he explained earnestly to LM. He watched in fascination as hundreds of broody hens were put in the coops.

‘I want to be a keeper’s boy when I grow up,’ he announced.

But LM, observing his love of books, the pleasure he took in writing, and even in learning his times tables, knew that his ambitions would ultimately rise beyond that.

She knew Jago would never have countenanced boarding school for him; not at an early age, at any rate. She still struggled to keep faith with Jago, as far as Jay’s upbringing was concerned; it was difficult, because they had never even had so much as an ‘I’d want a child of mine to play the piano/have a bicycle/his own dog’ kind of conversation, and certainly nothing of a serious nature. But she thought she knew at least what kind of life, in the broadest sense, Jago would have wanted for his son. It would certainly include a good education. And, boarding or not, if he were to go to a good school, even at thirteen, he would need a better grounding than the village school could provide.

There was quite a good boys’ preparatory school in Beaconsfield which she planned to inspect for an eight-year-old entry; after that, perhaps he might go to a grammar school, rather than to public school. She knew Jago would have approved of that. On the other hand, public school would open professional doors to him in later life that even the best grammar school would not: it was all very difficult. And she had no one to share her anxieties with; Oliver was always too busy, too distracted, to talk to her about anything except Lyttons; Lady Beckenham and Celia both thought that he should go to prep school when he was eight; it was as inevitable as exchanging milk teeth for adult ones, short trousers for long. Dorothy, on the other hand, would have liked to keep Jay safely at home, even to do his lessons until he was eighteen. And there simply wasn’t anyone else.

Dear Miss Lytton,

I so enjoyed our teatime meeting the other day, and I am writing also to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the book you sent me. I shall value it always: such a superb piece of writing and the fact that is is a First Edition, and the book is already in its seventh printing, makes it quite extraordinarily valuable. It is so extremely kind and generous of you.

I do very much hope that on your next trip to London, for the monthly board meeting which you mentioned, you will allow me to buy you tea once again. I look forward to hearing from you.

Yours sincerely,

Gordon Robinson

The letter had come that morning; she read it smiling, thinking how nice it was to be able to give such pleasure with such ease. He really was a very charming man. A little dull, perhaps, slightly old-maidish even, but considerate, thoughtful, and so very courteous. And really, she was happier in the company of such people: the glittering crowd with whom Oliver and Celia tended to surround themselves, the Beckenhams’ dreadful hunting and shooting lot – she preferred quietly-spoken, unpretentious Gordon Robinson any day. Then she started thinking about Jago and what Gordon Robinson would have made of him, and indeed what he would have made of Gordon Robinson, and sighed heavily. She sometimes thought she must be a very odd person.

‘This is very early in the day to be behaving like this,’ said Sebastian.

‘Ten o’clock indeed!’

‘I know, I know. But I have this meeting in Hampstead, and I couldn’t resist it. I just looked up the Finchley Road and thought I could see you for an hour or so. So here I am.’

‘I might not have been here.’

‘Sebastian! When are you ever out of the house early?’ Sebastian was a late riser; for a person of such consummate energy, it was surprising.

‘Well come on, shall we go upstairs?’ They had been kissing, with some fervour, in the hall. He stood back, holding out her hands, examining her. She was wearing a dark pink crepe dress with one of the new very short skirts half way up her calf, and a dropped waistline, her dark hair hidden under a small-brimmed cream straw hat. ‘It seems almost a shame to take that off, you look so lovely in it.’

‘I’m not going to take anything off. Except, perhaps, the hat. I haven’t got time. I just wanted to see you, Sebastian, see you and touch you and hear you. Nothing more.’

‘Oh my darling. Oh dear. You’ve made me feel quite – well emotional. Come into the kitchen then, let me make you a cup of tea.’

She followed him in, sat on one of the wooden chairs, watching him in silence.

‘I do love you, you know,’ he said abruptly, ‘so very much.’

‘I know you do. I know, Sebastian.’

‘It’s beginning to make me unhappy.’

‘Don’t say that. There’s no point in any of it if we’re unhappy,’ she said, thinking of her mother.

‘I suppose not. And – when a man is in love he endures more than at other times.’

‘That’s very profound.’

‘Not original I’m afraid. Nietzsche. I was reading him this morning. Anyway, here you are. Nice cuppa. I’ve got something else to tell you.’

‘What?’

‘I’ve told Millicent about you.’

‘You – what?’ She stared at him, jolted physically.

‘Yes. Well not exactly you, of course, that would have been unwise, dangerous for you even. But that there was a you. I told her this weekend. I can’t go on like this, married to her, loving you so much, pretending . . .’

‘But Sebastian that’s—’ she paused, then – ‘that’s so cruel. Why do it, when she’s perfectly happy? You said so yourself and there’s no possible future for us—’

‘Oh, she doesn’t really care. She took it rather well, actually. She doesn’t see much of me these days, after all, and she rather enjoys her status, of marriage to a famous man who’s more or less deserted her. It suits her rather romantic turn of mind. It also turns out she has an admirer. So in any case I won’t even have to turn up at her side for hunt balls in future.’

‘Oh,’ she said. She sat there staring at him, envying him more than she would have believed, this swift, easy exit from his marriage.

‘But,’ he went on, sitting down opposite her at the table, taking her hand in his, gazing at her very intently, ‘but however she had reacted, I would have had to do it. I love you too much to go on like this, travelling up and down to her every weekend, pretending. Far too much. I am still fond of her of course; I always shall be. I shall see that all goes well for her. But I cannot continue to live with her. Even for two days a week. It is as wrong for her as it is for me. And for you.’

‘Sebastian—’ her voice was heavy with fear: fear and regret,

‘Sebastian, you know—’