No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (9 page)

‘Of course I realise he probably doesn’t love me as much as I love him.’ Jeanette Elliott smiled serenely at her best friend, summoned to hear what she had described as some rather important news. ‘I also know he probably likes the idea of my money. But I don’t care, Marigold. I want to marry him.’

‘You’re mad,’ said Marigold Harrington. She was well known in New York society for her frankness. ‘You really are completely mad. You’ll regret it.’

‘I don’t think so. I really don’t. I’m sure he’s very fond of me. And I’ve been quite lonely since Jonathan died, you know. I actually rather like being married, that’s the thing. I think Robert will be—’ she hesitated, then said thoughtfully, ‘an excellent husband. And the boys need a father. They are growing up fast, and—’

‘Do they like Robert?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Jeanette quickly, ‘very much.’ She stood up, walked over to the window, and stood looking out across Central Park. ‘Don’t the trees in the park look beautiful, all lit up? I so love Christmas.’

‘Jeannette—’

‘Marigold, please! Let me enjoy being happy. Please. Robert wants to marry me. He doesn’t have to. He’s not a pauper, he has quite a lot of money of his own, he’s very successful.’

‘Which bank does he work for?’

‘Lawsons. He worked for Morgans in London, and came to their New York office in 1902, moved to Lawsons eighteen months ago. He was well thought of there. Oh, I’ve checked him out, Marigold, have no fear. I’m not quite as stupid as you think.’

‘I don’t think you’re stupid Jeanette. Not usually, anyway. I just think you’re being a bit – blind. You know what they say about love.’

‘Nonsense. I just told you, I have no illusions at all about Robert’s feelings for me. But as I said, I think he’ll make a very good husband. He’s charming and amusing and good-looking.’

‘Hardly the most important things.’

‘In some ways they are. To me, at this point. And then he’s very easy. Not the least like the standard stiff-necked Englishman. Most of my other friends like him very much; I don’t see why . . .’

‘Most of your other friends don’t know you’re going to marry him. And so soon. Anyway, I do like him. What I know of him. I’ve only met him two or three times, don’t forget. I just don’t see why you have to – well take such a big step. Why not just have him as your lover? For a while at least?’

‘Oh, I’ve had him as my lover for a while,’ said Jeanette cheerfully, her large blue-green eyes sparkling at Marigold with something close to malice, ‘but now I want something more. We both do. And it would be very bad for the boys if that were to continue, if it became gossip. And with Laurence going off to Deerfield in the fall, everything has to be absolutely in order. No, I’m afraid you can’t change my mind, Marigold. It’s absolutely made up. Robert has written to his brother and sister and told them we are to be married, and now I am telling you. As my dearest and oldest friend. There will be an announcement in the
New York Times
tomorrow. Then the whole world will know. And no doubt will have a great deal to say about it. Now won’t you have a drink before you go. Tea, or a glass of wine?’

‘All right, I can take a hint,’ said Marigold. ‘I’m leaving. We have to go to a concert tonight, at the Carnegie Hall. I should be on my way. Thank you for telling me anyway. Before the rest of the world.’ She stood up, went across to Jeanette and kissed her. ‘And I really do hope you’ll be very happy.’

‘I hope so too,’ said Jeanette, ‘thank you. And – you will come to the ceremony, won’t you? You and Gerard?’

‘Of course. Of course we will. Thank you.’

As her car joined the hectic traffic, Marigold looked up at the great Palladian-style house on Fifth Avenue, built by Jeanette’s father-in-law as a monument to his money. Lights were blazing through the winter dusk, and there was a huge Christmas tree on the front lawn. Marigold thought that even if Robert Lytton did love Jeanette very much indeed, he would have to be a man of absolute innocence and unworldliness not to be at the very least aware of what he was acquiring when he married her. On the two occasions when she had met him, Robert Lytton had seemed to her very far from being either innocent or unworldly. But then of course, neither was Jeanette. Formidable was scarcely an adequate adjective to describe her. Marigold decided she could stop worrying about Jeanette; and began to wonder instead if Robert Lytton, for his part, knew exactly what he was taking on.

Jeanette Brownlow was only twenty years old when she married: it was a case of love at first sight on both sides. Jonathan Elliott had seen her across the room at a debutante ball two years earlier and decided he would like to marry her; she had accepted his invitation to dance, and before it was even half over had decided much the same thing. She had not at the time realised that Jonathan Elliott’s father was Samuel Elliott, founder of Elliotts Bank, fast becoming one of the younger giants of Wall Street. When she did, it made him seem even more attractive.

Matters took a little time to settle; Jonathan was being pressed by his father to consider marriage to the daughter of an old friend, accomplished, but dull. Jeanette was not beautiful, but she was lively, stylish and very witty; she was also quite determined to marry Jonathan.

Three months later Jonathan told his father that he wanted to marry Jeanette. Samuel Elliott was not pleased: she had no fortune to speak off, her father was only a modestly successful businessman and she had a reputation for being wild. There was a story of Miss Brownlow climbing to the top of one of the statues in Central Park wearing nothing but her stays after a party, and another of her dressing up as a young man and going to a music hall. But Samuel reckoned without Jeanette’s charm; she worked on him patiently and tirelessly for over twelve months, flattering him, amusing him, asking for his advice on her modest investments – thereby displaying, as far as he was concerned, not only her famous single-mindedness, but a certain shrewdness which he both liked and admired – and it was finally agreed that the young lovers should be allowed to marry when Jeanette was twenty.

After which she launched herself into the career of a corporate wife with extraordinary skill.

Her only failure was at child-bearing; for each of her two sons she had several miscarriages, and before Jamie, the younger, was born she had endured two stillbirths. It was agreed that there should be no more attempts at securing the large family she had longed for; and besides, as Jonathan, who was still deeply in love with her, pointed out, he had an heir and a spare and her energies could now be fully devoted to him.

Jeanette who had not enjoyed the torments of her child-bearing years, returned to her role of corporate hostess with some relief. When Jonathan was thirty-five, he became president of Elliotts; when he was forty, Samuel died; the family moved into the Fifth Avenue mansion and Jonathan took over the bank. He ran it superbly; his two greatest assets were a cool head, and absolute clearsightedness. In the panic of 1907, sparked off by a spate of overspeculation, while people fought to withdraw their money from their banks, he put out a statement saying that if they left it where it was, it would be safe. While other financial establishments panicked, he stayed calm, worked, together with JP Morgan and others, on persuading several of the major banks to put money into the stock exchange and joining Morgan in his warning that anyone on the stock exchange who panicked and thus exacerbated the problem would be, as Morgan famously put it, ‘properly attended to’ when the crisis was over. Eight banks did collapse and a great many financial institutions with them; but Elliotts was one which survived.

But also in 1907, Jonathan Elliott was diagnosed as having cancer and he died a year later. Jeanette was devastated; she had truly loved him, and he her, and not a day had passed since they met when they had not told one another so. Luckily, however, she had a brave and blithe spirit; she knew that a future either for her or her two boys, Laurence and James, could not be built on introspection and grief. Moreover she was a clever woman, with a clear grasp of the financial world; she demanded (and got) a position on the board of Elliotts, returned to her life as a hostess, and did her very best to see the boys were raised as Jonathan would have wished.

It was at a charity benefit in the summer of 1909 that she met Robert Lytton. Recognising in him the same degree of looks, charm and determination, if not quite the financial prowess, that Jonathan had possessed, she moved swiftly into a relationship with him. After four months, he asked her to marry him; only a little – and not unnaturally – suspicious of him, she refused, but suggested that they should be lovers. Whether out of moral probity, or from a long-term shrewdness, Robert Lytton refused her offer until she had at least agreed to consider marriage; Jeanette, amused and charmed by this, as well as troubled by a certain sexual frustration, agreed that she would certainly continue to consider it. The discovery that sex with Robert was extremely pleasurable was only one of the factors which persuaded her to agree finally to his third proposal of marriage at the end of November.

She knew all her friends would be horrified. Marigold’s view, that Robert was only after her money, was only the start of a huge and inexorable torrent; she would have to be very strong to stand against it. She did not mind, indeed the prospect quite amused her; as did people’s naivety. She could look after herself; her own personal fortune was vast and she managed most of her stock and shareholdings with skill and pleasure. The two houses were in her name, and her role at the bank was an executive one, however much the new chairman might dislike it. When he tried to suggest that she should not attend major meetings any more, she reminded him gently that in less than ten years Laurence would be joining the bank, and it was important that the Elliott view and philosophy of banking was maintained for him. There was little, she argued, that Robert Lytton could do to move in on Elliotts and its assets; if he wished to work there, he would find it uncomfortable and quite possibly humiliating.

Robert was not Jonathan, she had no illusions on the matter, and she was certainly not blind to his faults. But he was clever and charming, she was physically and emotionally in love with him; her life as his wife would be a great deal more pleasant and amusing than it would be as Jonathan’s widow. And besides, the boys needed a father figure: and they – well they would come to like Robert a lot. She was quite determined about that.

‘I hate him,’ said Laurence, ‘I just hate him. He’s so – so ingratiating. I don’t know how Mother can. After Father.’

‘What’s ingratiating?’ said Jamie.

‘Slimy. Wanting to be your friend. Agreeing with everything, just so you’ll like him. Ugh!’

‘He doesn’t seem so bad. He gave me that train set last time he came, said it wasn’t even a Christmas present.’

‘Exactly! Why do you think he did that?’

‘Because I wanted it?’ said Jamie hopefully.

‘Of course not. To make you like him, think well of him. Well, I won’t be bought by him, Jamie, even if you will. And if you are, I won’t be your friend any more.’

Jamie said hastily that he wouldn’t be bought by Robert Lytton either. He was quite frightened of Laurence. He took more after their grandfather than their father, with a tendency to go off into dark brooding silences. One day he said, he would be an even greater banker than Samuel Elliott: ‘That’s my plan. And Robert Lytton needn’t think he can try and stop me.’

Jamie couldn’t imagine why Robert Lytton should want to try; he seemed keen only that the two boys and he get along well. But Laurence was always right about things; so maybe he just didn’t understand. Maybe he should try and like Robert less; only his mother had said she hoped they could all be friends, and it was very nice to see her happy again, hear her laughing. He loved his mother more than anyone else in the world; knowing how unhappy and lonely she had been after his father died had been worse than his own grief.

Anyway, Christmas was coming; he wasn’t going to let any of this spoil it. And after Christmas, Grandmother Brownlow was coming to look after them while his mother and Robert Lytton went off to Europe on their honeymoon. They were going to see the London Lyttons, as Robert called them; and his mother had promised that next time they went to London, she would take him and Laurence as well. He’d asked if they couldn’t go this time, but she’d said no.

‘We’re on our honeymoon, darling. We want to be on our own. Just this once.’

He didn’t really know what that meant, but Laurence had explained. Or rather he’d told him that they’d be having sexual intercourse all the time.

‘I think it’s disgusting. At her age. She’d better not have a baby, that’s all.’

Jamie wasn’t entirely sure what sexual intercourse was, but the idea of his mother having a baby was dreadful. He was her baby; she was always saying so. She surely wouldn’t want that to change.

Celia stood in the church, holding Giles’s hand, wondering how she could be doing this: singing, actually singing
Away in a Manger
, listening to the choir, pointing out the crib: when only two hours before, she had – no don’t think about it. Don’t.

‘Look,’ she whispered to Giles, ‘look, they’re coming with the candles now.’

It was very dark in the church; it had been dark in the room. Sylvia’s room. Too dark to see anything really. All those shadows. Impossible.

Giles squeezed her hand, looked up at her, smiled; Sylvia had squeezed her hand too, very feebly, whispered thank you. For what? For nothing. Nothing at all really. Just for – for comforting her over her baby. Her dead baby. It had been dead. Quite dead. Still and white and collapsed in on itself. On herself. A girl, it had been, as Celia had said. A tiny, sweet-faced girl. Too tiny. Born too soon.

The virgin’s baby was enormous; rosy and smiling. Not tiny, not born too soon. Six weeks too soon. The virgin was smiling; Sylvia had smiled, finally, as she bent to kiss her goodbye, smiled through her tears.