No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (79 page)

‘The other reason,’ she said, ‘is Jasper Lothian. He told me not to see you. Would you like to tell me why that might be?’

Celia, lying on the sofa in her room, trying to read, had heard the commotion when Barty came in, heard Giles running up and down stairs; she peered out of the door and intercepted Giles with a look as he came down the second time.

‘What’s wrong?’ she asked quietly.

‘I don’t know. She’s terribly upset.’

‘Shall I go up?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘no I think she wants to be alone At the moment. Perhaps later.’

She tried not to think about it, to leave her; but after an hour or so she couldn’t bear it any longer. She went upstairs, knocked on Barty’s door.

‘Barty? Can I come in?’

No answer. She knocked again, then opened the door gently. The room was very stuffy: Barty was in bed with the covers over her. She must be terribly hot.

‘Barty, darling, let me open the window. What’s wrong, can I do anything?’

She was not prepared for the reaction. Barty turned over suddenly, sat up, looked at her. Her face was contorted with what Celia could only describe as hatred.

‘No,’ she said and it was very loud her voice, loud and harsh. ‘No, you can’t. I don’t want to talk to you, I don’t want to see you even. Get out of my room, please.’

Celia felt as if she had been physically struck.

‘Barty—’

‘I said get out of my room,’ she said more quietly, but with the same absolute dislike in her voice. ‘Now.’

Celia left.

‘Now come on, Mr Worsley. I’m not going to tell you any more if you don’t tell me something. What is all this about? And why does Jasper Lothian want me not to talk to you?’

‘Well,’ said Guy, ‘it’s like this—’

He talked for quite a long time; she listened quietly, without interrupting, except to say, ‘I think I remember your cousin. He looks very like you. I couldn’t think why I felt I’d met you before.’

When he had finished, she sat for a while, looking at the river. Then she said, ‘Lothian is a charismatic man. He was very powerful. His students were hugely influenced by him. Including me. I fell completely under his spell. His mind is – extraordinary. He is the most wonderful tutor. He makes you feel you could break new boundaries.’

‘In what way?’

‘In every way. Intellectually, of course. He made us argue, struggle, propound outrageous theories, support them. He made us examine everything we thought and thought we knew, and go back to first base and start again. It was a great privilege to be taught by him.’

‘And Mrs Lothian?’

‘We hardly ever saw her. She was always away somewhere or other. She was very beautiful, great fun, wonderful clothes. But a most unsuitable person to be a Master’s wife. Totally uninvolved in his work, in his life there—’

‘So – did you like him?’

‘Very much. Very much indeed. I adored him. We all did. We would have done anything for him.’

‘Yes. Yes, I see.’ Guy felt a great fear closing in on him; it was becoming clear that fiction had indeed mirrored fact. That she had even perhaps—

‘Miss Bartlet,’ he said. He had to get it over with.

‘Please call me Susannah.’

‘Susannah, please forgive me for asking this. But – did – did you have a – a relationship with him? With Jasper Lothian?’

There was a very long silence. He could hear people laughing in the background, gulls crying overhead, a tug hooting; the waitress came out, asked them if they would like anything else. They both shook their heads.

‘Lovely day isn’t it?’ she said and disappeared again.

Finally, Susannah Bartlett said, ‘No. No, I didn’t have an affair with him. But – my brother did.’

LM got back to Lyttons at three o’clock. She felt exhausted: exhausted and depressed. Everything seemed wretched. Her own future, Lyttons’ future, Oliver’s marriage; there seemed no joy anywhere. She phoned the house, to hear that Jay and the twins were having a picnic tea in Kensington Gardens with some other children and their nannies, sent up a silent prayer that no psychopath might lurk behind the bushes, nor indeed beneath the grey and brown uniforms that the Norland and Princess Christian nanny colleges saw fit to clothe their graduates in, and went to see Oliver.

‘Any news? Of anything?’

‘No. Nothing. Nothing has changed. Unless you count Matthew Brunning having sent over the draft contract. You might like to look at it. It ensures us employment, if that is of any interest to you. You and me, and Celia, that is.’

‘I expect it does,’ said LM tartly, ‘some of the major talent in English publishing, you could say. Oh, Oliver, I do wish you wouldn’t rush into this.’

‘I’m hardly rushing. And over this injunction on
The Buchanans
, there something else, you should know, we’ve had a letter from their lawyers demanding we pulp all existing copies and destroy the printing plates since we won’t completely rewrite as they wanted. They would send a representative to witness that this has been done.’

‘Oh,’ said LM. ‘Oh, dear. Yes, I am aware of that procedure. There are precedents, of course.’

‘The cost of this whole thing is absolutely crippling. And the publicity will not be good. It makes us appear careless, at best. It is not good publishing.’

‘No. Even so, I still think there might be someone else, some other way. I wish you’d fight.’

‘I’m weary of fighting, LM. I’ve been fighting since 1914. In various ways.’

‘I know, but – ’ She suddenly wished passionately that Celia was there: fighting. But she seemed oddly defeated; no longer part of things. She seemed to have abdicated responsibility. Well, she had other things to concern her.

‘I feel so – ashamed,’ he said suddenly, ‘so desperately ashamed. To have brought Lyttons to this. I’m so glad—’ he stopped.

She didn’t say anything, merely patted him on the shoulder and left him. But she was glad too. That their father wasn’t here to see it.

LM went into her office. Her father’s office, as it had been in the early days, which she remembered and Oliver did not: when Lyttons was partly printer and bookbinder, with publishing only a rather small, unimportant sideline. Her father would go down to the type-room himself every day, and put his cotton cuffs on to protect his shirt sleeves and set type himself, run off proofs and then look at them, considering them with infinite care. He had a great love for and understanding of typeface, ‘No, no,’ he would say, ‘this is a book of poetry, it needs a romantic typeface, set it in Bodoni.’ or, ‘That’s marvellous, LM, you can’t beat Times New Roman for authority and clarity.’ He was skilled at binding too, inexhaustible in his search for exactly the right materials, his slender fingers pushing and pulling parchment smooth, leather corners tight. He loved doing that almost more than printing; he had been, above all, a craftsman. A painstaking, devoted craftsman. And all his work was going to be thrown away: the result of some careless groundwork, some foolish nepotism and—

‘Miss Lytton?’

‘Yes.’

She looked up; a very pretty girl stood in the doorway. Slightly flashy, but undeniably pretty. She had dark red hair and dark brown eyes, long eyelashes, creamy skin and a very sweet smile. And an extremely attractive voice, light and clear. LM warmed to her immediately.

‘Yes,’ she said again.

‘I’m Lily. Lily Fortescue.’

The warmth cooled. Swiftly.

‘Oh yes?’

‘I’ve brought Jack’s wallet.’

‘Ah, thank you. A pity you didn’t get it here before, I could have taken it down to him.’

‘I’m sorry. I – well – I couldn’t have got it here in time. I could send it, if you like.’

‘No. No. I’ll take it next time. He doesn’t have a great deal of use for it at the moment.’

‘How – is he?’

‘Oh, he’s all right,’ said LM briskly, ‘a few broken bones and a bad bang on the head. He’ll recover. To do it again, no doubt.’

‘He’d better not,’ said Lily.

‘I fear no one is going to stop him. He’s not exactlya – responsible person.’

‘He could be,’ said Lily.

‘Indeed? And what gives you the authority to make such a judgement?’

‘Well – I was his girlfriend. For quite a long time.’

‘I am aware of that. But no longer, as I understand it.’

‘No,’ she said and her voice was very low.

‘Well, thank you for bringing the wallet. I am very busy, Miss Fortescue, your really must forgive me.’

‘I wondered if it might be a good idea to – send him some flowers, or something,’ she said, ‘just to cheer him up, you know. And if you’d give me the address of the hospital.’

‘Miss Fortescue,’ said LM, pulling a pile of letters towards her, picking up her pen, ‘I really think the less Jack hears of you from now on, the better.’

‘Yes,’ said Lily, with a sigh, ‘yes, I expect you’re right. Anyway – next time you see him, just give him my best wishes.’

She seemed to be lingering rather too long. Weariness, her own depression, made LM sharper than usual.

‘I doubt if even they will be welcome,’ she said, ‘and I think in the long run my brother will be a great deal better off without you. Now, I suggest you get back to your music hall or whatever. Some of us have work to do.’

‘I don’t think there’s any need to be rude,’ said Lily.

LM stared at her. ‘I rather disagree with you there. I certainly don’t feel any compunction to be specially polite to you.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Lily crossly, ‘stop being so hostile. You don’t understand.’

‘Oh, but I think I do.’

‘No, you don’t. You think I’m just a cheap little actress and I’ve been using Jack. Don’t you?’

Silence. ‘Don’t you?’

‘Well—’

‘You’re you’re wrong. I love Jack. I love him very much.’

LM stared at her. ‘You have an odd way of showing it, Miss Fortescue.’

‘Oh, stop it,’ said Lily again and then suddenly burst into rather noisy sobs.

LM was alarmed; she was not used to histrionics.

‘Now then,’ she said gruffly, ‘now then. No need for that. Here, you’d better sit down.’

‘I don’t want to sit down,’ said Lily. Large tears rolled down her face. LM wondered briefly if they were genuine. She was, after all, an actress. Then she pulled herself to order. That was unkind. The girl seemed upset.

‘Oh don’t be absurd, ‘she said. ‘Here, come along. Sit down here. How would you like a cup of tea?’

Lily nodded between sobs.

‘He – had asked me to marry him,’ she said suddenly.

‘Yes, I know. He told me so. And you refused.’

‘Yes. But I didn’t want to.’

‘So why did you? Oh, I remember, Jack said something about you going to America.’

‘Oh, I made that up.’

‘Made it up?’

‘Yes, I had to have some good reason to give him. No the thing was – well,—’

Janet Gould came in with the tea. ‘And there are some biscuits, Miss Lytton. Oh, hallo, Miss Fortescue.’

‘Hallo,’ said Lily through sniffs.

‘You mustn’t worry about Mr Jack. He’ll be fine, I’m sure, won’t he, Miss Lytton?’

‘Absolutely,’ said LM. She had not realised that Lily was so familiar a figure at Lyttons.

‘I know how fond of him you are,’ said Mrs Gould, ‘But he’s quite a tough character. Anyway, you drink your tea. Nothing like a nice cup of tea, I always say.’

‘That’s what my mum always says, as well,’ said Lily. ‘Thank you, Mrs Gould.’

‘Right,’ said LM, when Janet Gould had rather reluctantly gone, and the door was closed again. ‘Tell me why you turned Jack down.’

‘Well – well I know it sounds stupid. But – it just wouldn’t have done, wouldn’t have worked.’

‘But why not? Exactly?’

‘You’re—’ she hesitated, ‘you’re all so posh.’

‘Posh!’

‘Yes. Look at this room for a start, it looks like something out of a mansion, the marble fireplace and the wood panelling and that. And the house in Cheyne Walk, that is a mansion, more or less. And Jack was a colonel in the cavalry. And Lady Celia, and her parents, whatever would they make of me?’

‘I don’t think it would matter in the least,’ said LM, ‘what they made of you.’

‘Yes, it would. After a bit. You should see where I live—’

‘Where do you live?’

‘In a terrace house in Bromley.’

‘I grew up in something very similar in Peckham,’ said LM calmly. Lily ignored her. ‘Three up three down it is. I mean, it’s very nice and comfortable and everything, but – well – It’s a terrace. And my dad’s got a greengrocer’s stall. I left school when I was twelve. Jack went to some posh school – where’d he go?’

‘Wellington,’ said LM.

‘Is that where Mr Lytton went?’

‘No, he went to Winchester. Jack wasn’t clever enough, he didn’t get in.’

‘Oh. Well anyway—’

‘So you turned Jack down, purely because you thought he was too posh? Is that right?’

‘Yes. Because I just don’t think it would have worked.’

LM looked at her. Her expression was very solemn. Then she smiled: the sudden, wide grin which so transformed her face. ‘Miss Fortescue,’ she said, ‘my father was a jobbing bookbinder. He arrived in London from Devon, with nothing but a very small suitcase and his apprenticeship papers. He went to work for a Mr Jackson, who had a bookshop and a small printing press on which he printed educational pamphlets. He taught my father typesetting as a second skill. My father married the boss’s daughter – my mother – and slowly worked his way up in the world that way. Now then. Does that sound very posh to you?’

‘No,’ said Lily. She smiled rather reluctantly back at LM. ‘No, it doesn’t.’

‘And,’ said LM, wondering why she was revealing all this to a complete stranger, ‘My – that is, Jay’s father was a builder. He was killed in the war. As for Celia: well, yes, her parents are rather posh. As you put it. But I think we outnumber them rather satisfactorily. Although I have to tell you that her father would be extremely pleased to have you in the family. Anyway – if Jack has been giving you the impression that he’s in some way socially superior, then I can only say it’s time he was brought back down to earth with a bit of a bang.’