No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (83 page)

He didn’t feel remotely nervous; quietly confident in fact. He knew exactly what he was going to say. And how he was going to say it: very courteously, respectfully even. And then leave again. Then he would go straight to Lyttons and give them an absolute assurance that the book could go ahead. It all looked very simple suddenly.

And then the train stopped.

LM sat in the car, listening to Oliver and Celia talking easily, discussing the day ahead, wondering yet again how he could endure it: her duplicitiousness, her infidelity – it was extraordinary. She had heard only the raw edges of the row with Barty, had no real idea what it was about, but clearly Oliver had been defending Celia. And very vigorously. How could he do that? She had even seen him, as she emerged from her room on her way downstairs, give her a kiss, take her hand. She was baffled; she had thought she knew Oliver absolutely, in all his transparent honesty and straightforwardness, but clearly she didn’t at all. She thought again of his advice the previous evening, and wondered at that as well. She still wasn’t sure what to do about it: if she should take the advice. Had it come from Celia, in all its worldly pragmatism, she would have been more sure, but from Oliver—

And then if she did, how should she approach Gordon Robinson? Her proud, independent spirit shrank from going to see him, from telling him she had reconsidered his offer. Her personal history had made her nervous of letters and their capacity for being delayed, or failing to arrive altogether. She supposed she could go to his house and push a missive through the letterbox herself; but that seemed rather dramatic and even undignified. She couldn’t telephone him, because he had no telephone at home and he would certainly be horrified by a call at his office. But something would have to be done, and she would have to take the initiative. It had probably taken Gordon all the courage he possessed to say what he had. Wounded and rebuffed as he had been, he was not going to come to her on bended knee, begging her to reconsider. She still wasn’t sure that she should do anything. Oliver could be so wrong. His own behaviour over personal matters was hardly – well, hardly worldly.

‘Jasper, if you’re not ready in five more minutes I’m going without you. The train leaves at ten and we have to get tickets. I wish I’d never agreed to this.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, I really couldn’t say what time we’ll be in Cambridge now. Signal failure, that’s what it is. But I’m told it shouldn’t be more than another half hour.’

‘Another half hour!’ said Guy. ‘That’s appalling.’

‘I’m sorry, Sir. Really very sorry. We don’t like this any more than you do. We pride ourselves on our punctuality on the Great Eastern. But of course the safety of passengers is paramount. Could I get you a cup of coffee, Sir, from the restaurant car? Compliments of the management.’

‘Yes, that would be very nice, thank you,’ said Guy. His calm confidence had somewhat deserted him. He kept telling himself that there was no great hurry, that time was not quite of the essence, but it was dreadfully frustrating. And Lothian might go away for the weekend or something. God, why hadn’t he thought of that before? He wished now he’d listened to Jeremy and telephoned him. Jeremy’d told him he was mad, that it was an appalling risk. Well, it was too late now.

‘Is that Mrs Worsley? This is Lady Celia Lytton here. From Mr Worsley’s publishers. Good morning to you, I wondered if your son was there? If I might speak to him. Oh. Oh, I see. Well – yes, it is quite urgent. Do you know? – Ah, ah, yes, thank you. I’ll try Mr Bateson straight away. And if you do hear from Guy, would you ask him to telephone me please? At London Wall 456. Thank you.’

Jeremy was engrossed in his work when the phone rang. He had decided to set his brighter pupils on a rather ambitious reading course that year, to include Dickens and Trollope, and he was anxious that the children should see both authors in the context of the time in which they lived and the hugely differing circumstances of their backgrounds. It was extremely complicated; he had embarked on the work too late in the holidays and he felt hugely irritated by the interruption.

He picked up the phone said, ‘Yes?’ rather abruptly. Hearing it was Lady Celia Lytton made him feel no better: the combination of Lyttons,
The Buchanans
and his cousin having been largely responsible for his delay.

Hearing that she wanted Guy made him feel worse; either he had to explain, which was extraordinarily difficult, or not explain, which made him less than honest. He decided on the line of least resistance.

‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, ‘I have no idea where he is.’

It was, he reasoned, going back to Trollope’s Barchester with some relief, perfectly true. After a fashion.

Barty got up in a silent house. Everyone was out, it seemed. She was relieved. She felt completely incapable of talking to anybody. Probably ever again. She probed her feelings carefully, rather like she might probe a sore tooth. The shock and outrage of her discovery about the baby were easing now; it was still a dreadful thing, almost impossible to contemplate, but she had managed to believe much of what Oliver had told her. It had been done for the best; the baby’s life would have been dreadful and pain-filled. Besides, it was true, if she was two months early she would almost certainly not have lived. And her mother would not have been able to cope with her, and the dreadful problems she would have brought. Just the same: it hurt. It hurt dreadfully. That her gentle mother, whom she had loved so much, could have done such a thing. Or rather, asked Celia to do such a thing. That Celia could actually have done it. It was a crime, and Celia had committed it: Barty had meant it the night before when she had theatened to go to the police. She still could. In some ways, she felt she ought to. But, she supposed she wouldn’t. What would be the point? She started to dress, thinking about the other things Oliver had said, about her being an important part of the family. She would like to believe it, but – it wasn’t really true. They might be fond of her, might admire her, love her even, but she didn’t belong to them, she wasn’t a Lytton. She would never be a Lytton. And she wasn’t a Miller any more, either. She was – she was a no one. The thought hurt dreadfully. She sighed, looked at herself in the mirror as she started to brush her hair.

And then there was a knock on the door. It was Giles.

‘LM,’ said Oliver, putting his head round the door, ‘We need the deeds of this building. Before we go to the meeting. You don’t have them do you? I thought I did, but I can’t find them anywhere. Could you just check your files?’

‘Of course.’

She was fairly sure she didn’t have them, but . . . She went through all the files where the deeds might be, moved on to the ones where they should not be, finished with the ones where she knew they could not possibly be. They weren’t there. She went along to Oliver’s office.

‘I don’t have them. I’m sure you did; you asked me for them, before the war, said they should be put in your safe. In fact, I remember putting them in there.’

‘I know, but I’ve looked again and again, and they’re not there. Well – we can get duplicates, I suppose. Just doesn’t look very efficient. Par for the course, I’m afraid.’ He managed a smile.

‘Excuse me, I have to see James Sharpe about something.’

‘Of course.’

LM looked at the safe: the old, heavy safe Edgar had bought when they first moved into Paternoster Row. ‘Now we’re not living over the shop,’ he said, ‘we have to have somewhere to store valuables. It’s very important.’

She knew she had put the deeds in there: she knew it. She suddenly realised why Oliver might not have found them: she had not placed them with the company documents, but with the personal ones which had also been kept in the safe during the war: the old family records, going back to Edgar’s childhood, birth certificates, marriage certificates, documents of that kind. She would look; she knew where Oliver kept the key, in the top drawer of his desk. She unlocked the safe, looked inside it frowning. It was very full and very untidy. Unlike Oliver really; he was as methodical as she was. But she would recognise the big parchment folder the minute she saw it: it even had a red wax seal on it.

There it was. Right at the bottom. She pulled it out; only underneath it was something else. A much more recent package: a big envelope – maybe she should look in that first, it would save a lot of time.

She pulled out the contents; it was a small, a very small bundle of letters. Only half a dozen. All with an American stamp on. From Robert, no doubt. She wondered if she had ever seen them. Idly intrigued, she opened one of the envelopes, And sat there, reading, absolutely frozen with shock. Shock and total disbelief. For the letters were not from Robert. They were love letters. They were from Felicity.

Ten past ten. He had gone. The car taking him to Waterloo, and thence to Southampton, would be – where would it be? She knew the area round his house, the way there from the City, how long it took to travel each tiny bit of it, knew it so well, so painfully well. He would probably be – he would be – at Regent’s Park, driving round the Outer circle. And would be thinking – God what would he be thinking? And feeling? She dared not let her mind even drift in that direction. It was too awful, too painful. She got up, went out into the corridor, walked up and down it, went into the ladies’ cloakroom, looked at her face in the mirror. Her pale, exhausted face, with its shadowed eyes, which actually betrayed almost nothing of the terrible misery that lay behind it.

But she was safe now. Quite safe. There was no way, no way at all she could contact Sebastian any more. She couldn’t see him, couldn’t telephone him, she couldn’t write to him, for many, many weeks, it was physically impossible. He had moved out of her reach; the dilemma, at least, was over.

She felt tears spilling into her eyes, brushed them away impatiently, blew her nose. And then forced herself, with an enormous effort of will, to smile, smile at herself in the mirror. If she could do that, she could do anything.

‘No, I’m sorry, sir. Professor and Mrs Lothian have left. You just missed them, as a matter of fact. What a pity you didn’t telephone first. They’ve gone away for a few days. Would you like to leave a name and address so that they can contact you when they get back?’

‘How would you like to go for a walk?’ said Giles.

‘I – well, I don’t know.’

Barty felt awkward with him, embarrassed and she was afraid of him asking her about the row, what it had been about. She didn’t want to tell him: but she knew it would be difficult to lie. And he adored his mother: in spite of being rather overawed by her, half afraid of her, even. It would all be like stepping into some very dangerous new country without a map. She supposed that was what growing up meant.

‘Oh, come on,’ he said, ‘You look like you haven’t been out for days.’

‘All right,’ she said, ‘yes, that might be nice. By the river?’

‘Well, certainly not to the park. I know how much you hate it.’ She smiled at him. ‘Yes, I do. Have ever since—’

‘I know.
Titanic
day.’

‘Yes. It was so awful. My life – got much better after that though. Thanks to you.’ She looked at him. ‘I owe you quite a lot. One way and another.’

He blushed. He was clearly feeling awkward after the incident the day before.

‘Oh, I don’t think so,’ he said, ‘come on, let’s go.’

They crossed the Embankment, went down on to the walkway. He walked carefully, a little way away from her. She was relieved, without being sure why.

‘I’m looking forward to Cornwall, aren’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes. yes, I am. I wish Jay was coming. He’d love it.’

‘I know. Father says it’s because LM worries about him so much.’

‘Well, I’m going to see if I can make her change her mind,’ said Barty. ‘I’ll look after him.’

‘We both can. I think it’s going to be really jolly. The hotel is full of families, and they have treasure hunts and picnics and parties.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Barty, ‘I don’t terribly like parties.’

‘These will be fun, I think. One or two of my friends from Eton will be there. I’ll look after you, don’t worry.’

‘You’d better,’ said Barty. She managed a smile for the first time: a proper smile.

They walked in silence for a while: then Giles said, ‘Sorry about last night. Sorry I got you into trouble.’

‘We were both in trouble.’

‘Yes. Typical adults.’

‘Yes.’

He looked at her. ‘Mother apologised to me though. Said she’d misunderstood. Did she to you?’

‘Yes, she did,’ said Barty, ‘actually.’

‘Good. She does think the world of you, you know.’

‘I really don’t think that’s true,’ said Barty.