Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (48 page)

‘My dear Celia,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else. From you.’

The night before they were due to leave for Ashingham, Izzie couldn’t sleep. It was too hot and she was too excited. Her case, carefully packed, was in the corner of her room; the clothes she was to wear for the journey lay on the chair. Kit had told her – tossing the almost unbearably exciting information at her casually – that she would be able to ride the twins’ old pony while they were at Ashingham, and Nanny had taken her to Daniel Neals and bought her some jodhpurs and jodhpur boots and some white cotton aertex shirts. She had also bought her some shorts, on Lady Beckenham’s instructions, and some wellington boots – ‘She needs to be able to muck about in streams and things, and her father will probably make a fuss if she spoils her nice things.’

Two whole weeks with Kit: in the country. She could hardly bear it, it was such a wonderful prospect. Playing outside, all the time, allowed to make a noise, and she would meet Billy, Barty’s brother. Barty had told her all about Billy, he only had one leg but he could ride even the wildest horses. And one of the weekends Jay had promised to come down and see them. She loved Jay, he was such fun, and he’d promised to give her riding lessons too.

‘And I’ll show you how to drive a tractor. Only don’t tell my mother.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

They were to be driven down by Daniels, ‘but when we get there I’m going to do some driving,’ said Kit casually to Izzie, ‘just around the estate. Grandmama says it’s high time I learned. She’s going to give me a couple of lessons. Only don’t tell mother.’

‘Of course I won’t.’

Heaven itself could surely not be as wonderful as the two weeks that lay ahead of her.

That afternoon her father had come to visit her in the nursery while she ate her tea.

‘I hope you’ll behave yourself at Ashingham,’ he said abruptly.

‘I will, Father.’

‘Do exactly what Lady Beckenham tells you. And Kit of course.’

‘Yes, Father.’

‘And don’t go falling out of any trees.’

‘No. I won’t.’

This was the first time he had shown the slightest concern over anything she did; she felt encouraged.

‘Thank you very much again for letting me go, Father,’ she said, ‘I’m so looking forward to it.’

‘That’s perfectly all right, Isabella,’ he said, and walked out of the room.

She looked now at the clock: the small hand was only at two. It was a very long time till morning; how was she going to get through it? She had once tried reading when she couldn’t sleep, but Nanny had been terribly cross and told her she would ruin her eyes and she’d tell her father if it happened again. It was too much of a risk, they might even now stop her going if they were cross with her.

But she was so so thirsty. She would just have to get a drink. The water in the nursery bathroom was a bit warm, but it was better than nothing. Cautiously, she crept out of bed and opened her door; the house was in darkness and very still. She went into the bathroom: there was no cup there, not even a tooth mug. She tried drinking out of the tap but it was very unsatisfactory. Surely no one would mind if she went downstairs and got a cup from the kitchen?

There was a full moon; she could see easily on the wide staircase. She walked down it very quietly; and then in the hall stopped. There it was: the awful, dreadful noise. Her father. Crying. Quite quietly, but on and on. She stood there not knowing what to do. She couldn’t go in to him, he would be so angry. But – it was so dreadful. Such an awful, sad noise. And then – it got worse. He said something. Aloud. Maybe there was someone in there with him. Maybe he had a friend after all. No one ever came to the house usually, no grown-ups, anyway, except Lady Celia, of course; but maybe they came at night. When she was asleep.

She stood there, hardly breathing, terrified to move; and then he spoke again, through the crying.

‘Oh Pandora,’ he said, ‘whatever would you make of me now?’

Not a friend, then: he was talking to her mother. Her mother, who had died when she was born. And then he started the crying again.

This was terrible. Awful. Izzie felt her own eyes fill with tears; sorrow for her father was suddenly stronger than her fear. Quickly, before she could lose courage, she ran across the hall, tapped on the study door.

‘Who’s that?’ The voice was angry, rough.

‘It’s me, Father.’

‘Go back to bed at once. What on earth are you doing up?’

‘I was thirsty.’ Another surge of courage; she pushed open the door. He was sitting at his desk, his arms folded in front of him. She could see he had been crying a lot; his face was streaked and his eyes looked red and sore. There was a glass half full of something, some grown-up drink on the desk in front of him and a bottle beside it, in front of the photograph of her mother. She knew it was her mother although her father had never told her, of course, had never ever mentioned her; but Kit had, and Barty had shown her pictures of the person, the beautiful person who she had never known and who they had told her she so exactly looked like and would have liked to have known so much.

‘I said go back to bed.’

‘I – heard you crying.’

‘Oh you did?’ He was scowling at her.

‘Yes. And I was sorry for you.’

‘Indeed? Well—’

‘And I heard you talking to – to my mother.’

‘To your mother? Did you now? Well, sadly not, Isabella, I would have been talking to her in person, if it wasn’t—’ He stopped.

‘If it wasn’t what?’ she said.

‘No,’ he said with a sigh, ‘no, I won’t say it. You wouldn’t understand. Go back to bed, Isabella, please.’

‘But—’

‘I said go back to bed.’

She knew she was defeated. But she stood her ground. ‘I’m very sorry, Father. That you’re so unhappy.’

‘Well – thank you for that,’ he said politely.

Encouraged, she decided to go on: to say something that might please him, make him feel better.

‘I do love the books,’ she said, ‘your books.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. Kit reads them to me. They’re so exciting and so special. And I love all the creatures.’

He was silent.

‘The special creatures, I mean. The swimming cows I like best, and the flying fish. I wish I could see them really.’

Still no answer. But he was looking at her less angrily now; she went on.

‘I was thinking, what if they came to this land. Just for a day. And met ordinary cows? How special that would be.’

‘What did you say?’ he said, and although he was still scowling at her, he didn’t sound quite so angry.

‘I said,’ she said, only half aware that this was the first proper conversation she had ever had with him, ‘I said how good it would be if your creatures came to England, and to our time, for just a day. And our cows saw your cows swimming. What they would think. If our cows would try to swim—’

He said nothing; she decided to go on.

‘And the flying fish. What swimming fish would think of them. And then the two sorts of time, ours and theirs, I thought what if they got mixed up—’

There was a long silence; she felt quite frightened. Had she made him so angry he’d never speak to her again? She should have left at once, when he first told her and—

‘Please go to bed,’ he said finally. ‘I need peace and quiet to work, not a lot of silly nonsense from you.’

She sighed. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said and turned to the door; and then, because she felt she had become just a little closer to him, and because he had been so very upset, and although it seemed unlikely that might be the reason for it, she said, ‘Father, if you really don’t want me to go to the country, I will stay here.’

He looked at her in complete silence, not moving; she stood there, meeting his gaze very steadily. And seeing it all fading away, the wonderful holiday, the two weeks with Kit and the pony riding and the streams and the blackberry picking and helping on the farm, all gone from her. She looked at it, and at him, rather helplessly, not knowing what to do, wondering what he was going to say, if the words ‘yes, I want you to stay here’ were going to come, and how bad it would be for her, if she had to hear them.

But ‘Of course I want you to go,’ he said, and even through the flood of her relief she felt a twinge of disappointment that what he really wanted was to be rid of her, that he didn’t want her with him, ‘what on earth would be the point of your staying here?’

‘I don’t know, Father. I just thought—’

‘Well you can stop thinking. Now run along to bed. It’s very late.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know. It’s about two o’clock.’

‘You can tell the time?’

‘Only half of it,’ she said, ‘only the little hand.’

‘What a lot I don’t know about you,’ he said quite quietly, and then sat staring at her and she could see he wasn’t seeing her, he was looking past her into some sad, difficult place.

‘Good night, Father.’

‘Good night, Isabella.’

She went back to bed and lay awake for a while, thinking about him, about how unhappy he was and how angry and worrying that she must be the cause of it; and if there was anything at all she could do to make him forgive her. And finally deciding that there was not.

CHAPTER 21

She kept crying: on and on. She just couldn’t stop. It was unlike her. Unexpected. She didn’t usually cry at all. Certainly not uncontrollably, like this. She supposed it must be—

‘Adele, what is it?’

Damn. Her mother. The last person she would have wanted with her, the last person whose advice she would welcome.

‘It’s – nothing,’ she said, sitting up, blowing her nose hard. ‘Nothing important. Go back to bed, Mummy, I’m sorry I woke you.’

‘You didn’t. I was seeing to your father. Now come along, we’d better discuss this. Are you going to tell me about it or not?’

Adele was silent, wiping her eyes, feeling the tears begin again, unstoppable.

‘Very well,’ said Celia. ‘I’d better begin, I think. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’

Adele stared at her, her sobs halted. ‘How did you know?’

‘Oh, Adele, really.’ Celia sat down on the bed, took one of Adele’s hands. ‘Do credit me with a little sense. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t know? I’m your mother. Not a very maternal one, perhaps, but still your mother. And I have been pregnant a few times myself.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know quite where I’ve gone wrong. Both of you so unhappy. Not just one, but two of you getting pregnant out of wedlock.’

‘Mummy’ – Adele managed to half smile at her – ‘we do know about you, remember.’

Celia ignored her. ‘Anyway, what is to be done? I presume it’s Mr Lieberman’s?’

‘Of course. And what’s to be done is this. I’m going to Switzerland tomorrow. Not Paris, that was a lie. Sorry, Mummy. Anyway, it’s to – to get rid of it.’

‘I see,’ said Celia quietly. ‘And what does he have to say about that?’

‘He doesn’t know.’

‘He doesn’t know? Does he know you’re pregnant?’

‘Yes, and he was vile about it. Furious, no concern for me or the baby, just – horrible.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ said Celia.

‘Oh Mummy! That’s a bit harsh. Why do you say that? Just because he’s foreign, I suppose. And – and Jewish.’

‘Adele, that is most unfair. I have absolutely no prejudice against either foreigners or Jews. I don’t know where this – this idea came from.’

‘Things you’ve said, I imagine,’ said Adele briefly.

‘Then you misunderstood me. Seriously. The only quarrel I have with Luc Lieberman, and it is a serious one, is his treatment of you. He has taken advantage of you in the most appalling way; he’s much older than you, I imagine he is your first lover’ – she looked at Adele quizzically; she nodded – ‘so he seduced you. And then did nothing for you. Nothing at all. Just allowed you to squander your youth and talent on him, in return for a bit of sex. Which no doubt was extremely pleasurable.’

‘Mummy, really—’

‘Oh, come along, Adele. This is an adult conversation we are having. And an important one. Nevertheless, I cannot tell you how wrong I consider it for you to get rid of this child without his knowledge.’

‘But why? He doesn’t want it.’

‘He doesn’t think he wants it. He was no doubt immensely shocked. It’s always a shock for any man, they never expect it, it’s extraordinary. Your father was always absolutely astonished when I told him I was pregnant.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. But – however badly Lieberman has behaved, he does deserve to know what you are going to do.’

‘He won’t care.’

‘Adele, he almost certainly will. The paternal instinct is surprisingly strong. The urge to protect the female and care for the young.’

‘I saw very little sign of it in Luc,’ said Adele and she started to cry again. Celia leaned forward and pushed back her hair, wiped her tears away. Adele, absolutely unused to any kind of tenderness from her mother smiled at her rather uncertainly.

‘I told you,’ said Celia. ‘He was shocked. Whatever he felt when you told him, it will have changed. He will be feeling quite differently now.’

Adele was silent; then she said, ‘But Mummy, he can’t marry me. He won’t marry me. I know that. He’s told me so many times. And I don’t want to have to bring up a baby on my own. It’s not fair on anyone, least of all the baby.’

‘Of course it isn’t. And if he really continues to display a lack of concern and interest, then I might well advise you to have this termination.’

‘You would?’

‘I said I might. I have no moral objections to it. It’s certainly the sensible thing to do. But I would warn you, Adele, you will be dreadfully unhappy. For a long time. And you will carry the guilt for the rest of your life. It’s a very harsh thing for a woman to do, you know, to have an abortion. It’s not a simple operation, not like taking out an appendix. That’s a child you’ve got there. Don’t think you’ll feel fine when it’s all over, that you can put it behind you, forget about it. You can’t.’

Adele looked at her curiously. ‘Did you – I mean was there ever—’

‘I never did,’ said Celia, ‘but I came close to it. For reasons which I am not prepared to discuss. But I did have several miscarriages. One of which, possibly two, I could have avoided, had I rested, done the right thing. But in the case of the first, I was being foolish, more concerned about my career, and the second – well, that was a deliberate decision. Which I didn’t regret, but still suffered for dreadfully.’

‘What was it?’ said Adele. This was the most extraordinary conversation she had ever had with her mother.

‘Oh – you don’t want to know.’

‘Yes, I do. I really do.’

‘Well – it was during the war. LM was down at Ashingham, she had just had Jay and she – well, she hadn’t heard from his father. Actually he had been killed. She had assumed he didn’t want the baby, she was preparing to have him adopted. Then a letter arrived at her house in London from—’

‘Her husband?’

‘The father,’ said Celia. Her eyes met Adele’s in absolute complicity. ‘This is very – private information, Adele, I would not want it shared with anyone.’

‘Of course not.’

‘Anyway, this letter came. Telling her how happy and proud he was. I knew it was important she got it quickly. There were literally days, possibly hours before she signed Jay away. She was down at Ashingham. I had to get it to her.’

‘So – you took it to her?’

‘Yes. There was no one else, our chauffeur had joined up, few people could drive, you must remember. I drove down myself – in premature labour. I knew what I was doing, and I thought LM was more important. Well, she was.’

‘Oh, Mummy. What a sad story.’ Adele looked at her mother, her fierce, tough, uncompromising mother and realised she would never see her in quite the same way again.

‘Not entirely, I got there in time. LM was overjoyed. And I – well, I—’

‘Lost the baby?’

‘Yes. Next day. It was a girl. And it took me a very long time – perhaps for ever – to get over that. I’m telling you only so that you know exactly what a serious thing you are doing, Adele. It’s not something you can decide lightly; nor that you can decide on your own. You must tell Luc about it. And remember, it’s his baby too; it isn’t just yours.’

Izzie was sitting with Kit on the steps at the front of the house, waiting for Billy to finish a conversation with Lady Beckenham, when the car pulled into the drive. The large grey Bentley. Her father’s car.

She looked at it in terror; what had he come for, what did he want, was he so angry with her he was going to take her home, after only – what – four days?

‘Hallo, Sebastian,’ said Kit, standing up, walking over to him, holding out his hand, ‘good to see you.’

‘Good to see you,’ said Sebastian shortly, and then ‘I hope Isabella’s been behaving herself?’

‘Of course she has. We’ve had a really good time, haven’t we Izzie?’

‘Yes,’ she said very quietly. ‘Yes, a very good time.’

‘Good. Very hot in London, you’re lucky to be here. Is anyone about?’

‘If you mean Grandmama, yes, but she’s busy at the stables. Grandpapa’s cleaning the guns. I can get him if you like—’

‘No, no. Well not yet, anyway. It’s Isabella I’ve come to see.’

‘I hope you’re not going to take her home,’ said Kit, ‘she’s starting riding lessons with Billy today. And this afternoon, we’re going for a picnic.’

‘Of course I’m not going to take her home,’ said Sebastian shortly. ‘I just wanted to – well, to see her. Talk to her about something.’

This was such an extraordinary statement that Izzie felt quite shocked. Never, in all her six years had her father said he wanted to talk to her. She must have done something very bad. Maybe the school had complained about her, or Nanny had said she didn’t want to look after her any longer—

‘I’d like to talk to her alone,’ said Sebastian.

‘Of course. Shall I tell Billy, he was going to give her a riding lesson?’

‘No, no. It won’t take long. Come along, Isabella.’

She stood up reluctantly, her legs felt rather wobbly. He set off briskly along the side of the house; then looked back at her.

‘Come along,’ he said, ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’

‘Sorry, Father.’

He led her across the lawn towards the meadow; when they reached the fence he climbed over it, and then turned and waited, clearly impatient while she wriggled under it on her tummy.

‘Woods or meadow?’ he said.

‘I don’t mind.’

‘Never say you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘it indicates a lack of interest. Express a view even if you’re not sure.’

‘Woods,’ she said quickly.

He walked for a few minutes, and because it was such a narrow path, she had to walk behind him. Even with his limp, he walked very quickly, she had trouble keeping up. She wondered when he would start talking; this really was the strangest experience of her life.

‘Right,’ he said suddenly stopping, leaning against a tree, looking at her, ‘there’s something I have to say to you.’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘I – thought I ought to come. I – well, that is, to thank you.’

‘Thank me!’ She felt the ground beneath her feet literally heave; she put out her hand to steady herself against the tree.

‘Yes. I wasn’t very – grateful the last time we talked.’

‘Weren’t you, Father?’

‘No. Remember when that was?’

‘Yes, Father. It was in the night when you were – when I said about your books.’

‘Exactly. I don’t suppose you realised it, but it was quite helpful.’

‘Helpful? How?’

‘It gave me an idea. I – well, I hadn’t really had one before. For my new book.’

‘I gave you an idea?’

‘Yes,’ he said irritably, ‘do stop repeating everything I say, Isabella, it’s not necessary.’

‘Sorry, Father.’

‘Anyway, it was about the cows, do you remember?’

‘Of course I do. I said what if they came to our time for a day and met our cows . . .’

‘Exactly. Well, I found that interesting.’

‘Oh, I see.’

‘There was something else you said as well, about the time. Remember that?’

‘I think so.’ She hesitated. ‘You mean about Meridian time and our time, getting mixed up?’

‘That’s right. Well, anyway, it was a great help to me. And I thought you should know that. That’s all.’

‘I’m very glad, Father.’ She stood staring up at him; and for some reason, although she was pleased she had helped him, she felt dreadfully sad, because he still looked so cross, with that awful face which made it so plain he didn’t like her at all. She might not have noticed before, but it was so lovely at Ashingham, with so many people being kind to her and talking to her, it reminded her of how miserable she felt at home a lot of the time. It was going to be so much worse when she got back. She felt tears start, felt them beginning to spill over. She brushed her hand across her eyes.

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ he said impatiently, ‘don’t start crying. I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Sorry, Father. Sorry. Of course I am. I—’

And then it was no good, she started crying harder, proper crying, coming up from her chest; and she stood there, staring at him, longing so much for him to care that she was crying, instead of being cross with her.

Finally she managed to get it under control; and as she bit her lip, choked back the last sobs, she realised he was looking at her with a very odd expression on his face. Not cross any more, not smiling either; just rather – no, very – sad. And for a long time they both stood there, each of them confronting one another and each other’s unhappiness. And then, awkwardly, slowly, as if it was very difficult for him, he reached out a hand towards her.

‘Come here,’ he said quietly, but she couldn’t, she went on standing there.

‘I said come here.’ Still not seeming cross.

She took a step towards him then, and then another, expecting any moment for him to lose patience, to move away, and still he held out his hand.

And finally, and it seemed a very long journey, she reached the point where she could reach him, and then she put her own hand out and placed it in his. It was very warm, his hand, warm and firm; she had never touched him before, she realised. He closed his hand round hers very gently and stood looking down, down at their two hands in silence as if he had never seen them before. And then he looked down at her, looked into her eyes as if he was hoping she would understand something.