Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (35 page)

Maud and Robert met her in the arrivals hall, Maud flushed with excitement, kissing her rapturously, Robert beaming and hugging her with delight. Barty thought suddenly and rather sadly of her parting from Oliver, so increasingly thin and frail these days, and somehow shabby, despite all Celia’s efforts, his golden hair wispily thin. Robert, stoutly robust, his grey hair thick and waving on the velvet collar of his superbly tailored coat, looked the younger brother, not the older by ten years.

Maud had become most unusually attractive, Barty thought, her red hair carved into a perfect bob, her green eyes somehow larger than ever under carefully plucked brows, her fair skin dusted with pale freckles. She was perfectly dressed too, in one of the new crisply tailored suits in black and white check and with high-heeled court shoes on her narrow feet. She would take some living up to, Barty decided, sighing inwardly. She had escaped the tyranny of the twins’ beauty and chic; here was another daunting relation.

‘It is just so wonderful to see you, I can’t believe you’re finally here. Was your journey all right, you weren’t seasick at all, were you? Did you find any beaux to amuse you? Now the car is waiting for us and we’ll go right on home to Sutton Place, it won’t take long and we have quite a reception committee waiting for you, Jamie is there and so are Felicity and John, they couldn’t wait till tonight, when we are all going to dinner with them, and you can see Kyle as well. Oh, Barty, we are going to have such fun together. Such great great fun.’

All through the day, as she was shown over the great house – another Lytton town house by the water, she thought – as she was settled into her room, next to Maud’s; as she was kissed and embraced by Felicity, and given one of John Brewer’s rib-cracking hugs; and given another, gentler, one from a beaming Jamie – an extremely handsome and charming Jamie, they were quite something these American relations – as they ate luncheon in the terrace-style dining room with its breathtaking view of the water and the Queensborough Bridge; as they walked in the brilliantly frosty Central Park; as they drove downtown along Park Avenue and then up Fifth, so that she could get a taste of the wonderland of lights that was New York City before arriving at the Brewer house on East Eighty Second: through all this, the feeling that she was home persisted. Somewhere in this wonderful, glittering place, however unlikely it might have seemed, was what she had been looking for all her life.

She just had to find out what it was. Or who.

As she walked into the Brewers’ vast first-floor drawing room, and Felicity greeted her once more, and John offered her a cocktail, Kyle Brewer came into the room towards her, holding out his hand, all sixfoot-two of him, broad-shouldered and long-legged, so handsome now in the American style, all long, floppy brown hair and deep blue eyes and perfect teeth. He was nice, really nice, she could imagine—

A small and rather beautiful creature, with sleek ash blonde hair and wide blue eyes appeared from behind him, pushed her arm through his and held out the other hand to Barty.

‘How do you do?’ she said in tones so drawly they could almost be English. ‘It’s so very nice to meet you. I’m Lucy Bradshawe, Kyle’s fiancée. Welcome to New York.’

She smiled at Barty, slightly condescendingly, and Barty smiled back, feeling over-sized and clumsy.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

‘Kyle told me all about your history, how you were adopted by the Lyttons from a really poor family. So fascinating! I’d love to know more.’

‘Well, there’s very little to tell really,’ said Barty.

She disliked Lucy Bradshawe already.

‘You see,’ said Celia, ‘what did I tell you? The first Penguins a huge success. And—’

‘Yes, yes, I did see. And I also read that the biggest order came from Woolworth. Woolworth indeed! I told you it was a cheapskate operation. What about the bookshops?’

‘Oliver, the first batch of Penguin authors included Hemingway, Linklater, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. Doesn’t sound very cheapskate to me. Well, we’ve missed one great opportunity this year; what are you going to find for 1936?’

‘It’s a lovely office,’ said Barty, ‘I really like it. Thank you, Stuart, so much. I shall be very happy here.’

‘And work hard, I hope. Although I am sure I have nothing to worry about there. Oliver tells me you work like a demon.’

‘I try to. I think I do. It’s funny, that expression, isn’t it? And then people are said to write like angels.’

‘And who do you particularly think has an angel holding their pen right now? Of American origin, that is?’

‘Oh, well – Scott Fitzgerald, of course. Ernest Hemingway. Dorothy Parker, of course—’

‘Of course. Will you be calling in at the Algonquin during your time here?’

‘I expect I’d be shown the door again quite quickly,’ said Barty laughing, ‘I can’t see people like the Lunts and Robert Benchley welcoming me.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. They might be pleased to see a new face. Anyway, Barty, if you can find me a new Fitzgerald, or a new Dorothy, for that matter, I shall be a happy man. My ambition is to see Lyttons rise to rival Macmillan. Although, as Macmillan have offices in Chicago, Dallas and Boston to name a few, as well as New York, I think they don’t have a great deal to worry about for the time being. But with your help, who knows. Meanwhile, I’m putting you on to our popular fiction list; the senior editor is Clark Douglas, and you will report to him. I’ll introduce you to him in a little while, he’s out with an author right now. I’ll leave you to get organised; and there are a few proofs which need reading on your desk. See you later.’

He left after giving her his rather brief smile; Barty watched him go, thinking she wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. Very nice while he was pleased with you, but—

She looked round her small office; it was tiny, but utterly charming, more of a study than an office, rather like a small version of Celia’s with a pretty fireplace and lots of bookshelves and an old-fashioned wooden desk. She looked at the books: the usual selection, lots of the Lytton books, a complete set of Meridian of course, they did wonderfully well in America, the Buchanans which didn’t – ‘too English’, apparently. She wondered suddenly if an American version, an American family saga, would suit the market. If she could set that up, well, it was a bit early to be thinking of that.

She liked the area where Lyttons was based: Gramercy Park. It was comfortable and in another world from the forest of skyscrapers. There were sudden small squares and tall brown houses (known as brownstones) mostly built at the turn of the century. And then its architectural treasures were so unexpected too, the famous Con Edison Clock Tower and the Stuyvesant Fish House. The Lytton building was actually a house, just south of what was known as The Block, beautiful, a brownstone with wide steps running up to the front door, and an ornate ironwork balcony set over it. Robert had found it for Oliver when the New York office had opened before the war, and still talked about it with proprietory pride.

The reception area, built in the wide hall of the old house, felt friendly and bookish, almost like a library; the receptionist, a woman called Mrs Smythe (‘nobody knows her first name,’ Stuart said to Barty), was twinkling and almost cosy, and the looking-out boys at the back of the reception were cheeky and fun. Barty sighed: a contented sigh. She was going to be very happy here. And best of all, nobody really knew she was anything to do with the Lytton family: no tedious explanations all the time, no self-justification, nobody thinking she was doing well because of being almost a Lytton. Or doing badly and yet surviving for the same reason.

‘That must be quite a challenge,’ Kyle had said to her after dinner on that first night, ‘working at Lyttons and being part of the family.’

‘Well, I’m not exactly—’ Barty began and then stopped. It was always impossible to explain.

‘Oh, but you are. Absolutely part of it, that huge, talented, terribly attractive mob.’

Barty wondered how Celia would feel at having her family described as a mob, even a terribly attractive one. It was becoming clear to her already why Celia disliked Americans so much.

‘You know, I was too frightened of Celia to say almost anything at all to her when I came over. She is the
most
terrifying woman I have ever met.’

‘Oh, Kyle, do have a little tact,’ said Felicity. ‘Celia has been like a – well, a very close relative to Barty. I don’t suppose she finds her in the least terrifying.’

‘I do,’ said Barty simply, ‘we’re all absolutely terrified of her. All her children, all her staff. Even though we all love her.’

‘And – Oliver?’ said Felicity. There was an interesting note in her voice suddenly: softer, almost wistful. ‘Is he terrified of her too?’

‘No,’ said Barty firmly. ‘Wol isn’t terrified of her at all. He’s the only person she listens to. Or rather takes any notice of. Him and Sebastian.’

‘Ah,’ said Felicity, ‘yes, Sebastian. Is he still part of the family?’

‘Not so much. Since his wife died. He’s become very reclusive. Poor Sebastian. Even Aunt Celia can’t do anything with him. She used to go and see him quite often, she was really terribly fond of him, you know—’

‘Yes,’ said Felicity and her eyes were amused, ‘yes, I did know. Oliver did tell me about him.’

‘And he was always at the house, all the time. Now he hardly ever comes. It’s horrible. I feel so sorry for him, and yet – it’s so hard to help.’

‘I like Sebastian,’ said Kyle, ‘I think he’s terrific. And my God, I wish we published him at Macmillan. He must be worth his weight in gold.’

‘Well that really is unthinkable,’ said Barty laughing. ‘Sebastian
is
Lyttons. We couldn’t imagine life without him. Him and Meridian.’

‘I wonder—’

‘Well don’t.’

‘Very well. And how is dear old Giles, and his new wife and family? Maud always thought, you know, that he and you—’

‘He’s very well,’ said Barty, cutting into this smoothly, ‘and very happy. And the baby is so sweet.’

‘And how is he doing at Lyttons? I don’t suppose Celia is allowing him to make a lot of headway there?’

‘Kyle!’ said Felicity. ‘You really are outrageously rude. Do please show a little more consideration for Barty’s feelings.’

‘Actually,’ said Barty, ‘Giles is doing very well at Lyttons. Celia and Wol are very pleased with him.’

It wasn’t true of course, but she felt she owed them all, and particularly Giles, some loyalty.

‘I’m glad to hear it. Now what about—’

‘Kyle, if you don’t mind, I think I’d like to leave now. I told you, I’m terribly tired.’

Lucy’s pretty little mouth was just slightly turned in on itself, her eyes, as she looked at Barty’s, very sharp. She’s jealous, thought Barty, she doesn’t like me being the centre of attention; she enjoyed that fact, it amused her. And it was certainly a novel experience.

She went to sleep thinking about Kyle and how very different he was from the shy, rather subdued boy she remembered from childhood; it was extraordinary how people changed as they grew up.

Jamie was lovely too, full of charm; the only person she now really wanted still to meet – and probably never would – was the wicked Laurence. That really would be interesting.

LM had given a great deal of thought to Jay’s future and whether it might – or indeed should – lie with Lyttons. One thing was quite certain: Jay and Jay alone would decide. He was extraordinarily decisive about everything and strong willed with it; if he had made his mind up on a matter, nothing and nobody could change it. Just like his father, LM often thought.

He had left Oxford with an upper second in history and what he referred to laughingly as a first in rowing; he had been in the second eight and would have made the first had not a bout of influenza interfered with his training. He had also, Adele often said, got a double first in girls.

Girls adored Jay; it wasn’t just his dark good looks, or his slightly jokey charm, it was his interest in them. In them and what they were doing. He could often be found at parties, not dancing, not drinking – although he did both with great enthusiasm – but sitting in a corner with some girl talking to her intently: and not about the sort of things girls expected to find themselves discussing with a man.

‘It’s not fairy talk,’ Adele explained to Venetia, who had a specially soft spot for Jay, ‘not clothes and stuff. But it’s still a bit – different. For a man. Like what they want to do, what they think about things, whether they plan to get married, whether they want to have a career or just babies. He really, really wants to know. It’s not a fake thing. And the girls
love
it.’

The girls did; they found it irresistible. If Jay had tried to evolve a formula for a successful sex life, he could hardly have done better. He had had his first serious girlfriend at seventeen, had had several full-blown love affairs while he was at Oxford and had even considered marriage to one girl who had been there with him. That had ended in tears on both sides, to LM’s immense relief; she had liked the girl, but her ambition to be a doctor and work overseas with one of the missions seemed hardly compatible with any future Jay might have. He had no serious girlfriend at the moment, and neither was he sure what he wanted to do; as a result, he was working for Lady Beckenham at Ashingham. The house was being re-roofed and she had told him if he was prepared to work hard and muck in he could join her team of labourers.

‘But no slacking, I want you up there in all weathers, and no rushing off to London for some party or other either.’

Jay said he wouldn’t do any such thing and told her she wouldn’t regret it; and in fact he did work extremely hard and was the only roofer out one morning when the slates were so icy that everyone else refused to work. He didn’t rush off to London either; but he and Billy Miller, who had always been good friends, spent a great many very happy evenings at local dances and hostelries, and acquired a certain local notoriety when they both drank so much one night they passed out and were still on the bar floor in the morning.