Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (49 page)

‘I’m – sorry,’ he said and his voice was funny, deeper than usual, and a bit as if he was being shaken up and down. ‘I’m very sorry, Isabella.’

She stood there absolutely silent, not moving, knowing without at all knowing why, that anything she did or said might be wrong, might be dangerous. Another long silence; and then he gave her the funny almostsmile again. ‘You’re all right, are you? Down here with Kit?’

‘Yes, Father. Thank you. It’s really – really fun.’

‘Good. I’m afraid you haven’t had much – fun.’

He was staring past her again now, at that funny place beyond her; but still holding her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

‘That’s all right, Father.’

‘Well, we’d better get back,’ he said, sounding suddenly more ordinary, ‘Billy will be waiting for you. I don’t want to make you late. Come along.’

He released her hand and turned to walk away; she started hurrying after him. Then he stopped again.

‘I don’t suppose you remember, but you said something else that night. About the time. Remember that?’

‘Not – not really.’

‘You said you could only tell half the time. I thought that sounded like the name of a rather interesting book. Half the time. What do you think?’

‘I suppose so. Yes.’ She didn’t really, but—

‘Well if you don’t like it, I shan’t call it that,’ he said, sounding suddenly cross again.

She panicked. ‘Oh, but I do. Really.’

‘Good. Come along, keep up.’

As they reached the fence, he climbed over it, then turned as she was going to go underneath it and reached over to her, picked her up, then set her down and took her hand again. He smiled at her rather uncertainly. She smiled back.

‘Next term, if you like,’ he said suddenly as they reached the house, ‘I’ll come and give a talk at your school.’

‘Father, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to, if it makes you upset.’

‘Oh, but I do have to,’ he said, and sighed, very heavily. ‘I think I owe you that at the very least.’

Poor, poor Adele. It was today, today she was having the beastly thing done. It was so harsh, so cruel she had to go through it and on her own. Of course it was the right thing to do, especially as Luc had been so vile about it but – she was so tender-hearted, it was bound to upset her. It had upset her already, dreadfully.

Venetia sighed. They were both so upset, both so unhappy. It was odd that it should have coincided, their unhappiness. She felt quite dreadful still, desperate at times. And so lonely. She had sent the children off to Frinton with Nanny and a nursemaid, thinking that some peace and quiet would soothe and help her and it didn’t seem to be doing anything of the sort. The house seemed vast and echoing with her misery; she didn’t know what to do with herself, just wandered about London, shopping, returning to the house feeling more lonely than ever. Every time she passed a mirror and saw herself, her white, exhausted face, her dull hair, her dark-ringed eyes, she wondered who on earth would ever want her now, what possible future she could have.

Well tomorrow or the next day at the latest, Adele would be here, and she could look after her, nurse her. They could nurse each other: back to happiness.

And then Adele at least could begin again.

Only – she did love Luc so very much. Really, really loved him. It wasn’t a schoolgirl crush, or just sex, or something amusing to do with her time, taking a married lover; it was love. Venetia did know that. Proper, intense, and very unselfish love. And getting rid of his baby would hurt her dreadfully. Horribly. Maybe it
wasn’t
the right thing to do, maybe she should have tried to dissuade her.

The phone started to ring: on and on. Who could that be, everyone was away. He mother probably, asking her to supper. She kept doing that, and Venetia kept refusing. She couldn’t face her mother at the moment: even though she had been so supportive and good to her. She knew that whatever Celia said, she felt that she had brought at least some of her troubles on herself. Well maybe she was right, maybe she had. But it was a very hard thing to accept, just at the moment.

‘Telephone, Mrs Warwick. Miss Lytton, phoning from Paris.’

Paris! What was she doing there, she was supposed to be in Switzerland—

‘Venetia? It’s me. Look, I won’t be coming back to London, not for a bit, anyway. Luc is being absolutely wonderful and I – we – are going to keep the baby.’

‘Come along,
mignonne
. A little more fish. We have to make you strong, able to perform this important task that you have been given.’

‘What important task?’ said Adele laughing, shaking her head at the forkful he was proffering. ‘No thank you, Luc, really, the more I eat, the more I’m sick.’

‘The task of bearing my son.’

‘It might be your daughter. And it’s not just yours.’

‘Of course it will be a son. I feel it. And my grandmother says that even if you are sick, it is better to eat. I am going to order a little crème caramel, plenty of milk and eggs.’

‘Your grandmother! Luc, you haven’t told her?’

‘But of course. I tell her everything.’

‘Whatever did she say?’

‘She was delighted.’

‘She can’t be delighted. You’ve committed a mortal sin, or whatever the Jewish equivalent is.’

‘For my grandmother, I can commit no sin. Besides, she never liked my wife, she thinks this is far better for me. You must meet her, she will love you.’

‘Luc, this is going a bit too fast for me,’ said Adele. ‘A week ago, there was no question of your leaving your wife, now you tell me I must meet your grandmother and that she will love me.’

‘A lot has changed in this week,’ said Luc soberly. His dark eyes were sombre, meeting hers. ‘A week ago, I was a selfish, self-obsessed pig. Today I am to be a father, I have great responsibilities, I will think of myself no longer, only my son.’

‘And me.’

‘And you, of course. You, whom I love so very much.’

He smiled, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it; she smiled back. That Luc would cease to think of himself seemed hugely unlikely but she had no intention of saying so.

It was very strange, what this child had done to him: to him and their relationship.

She had done what her mother said, telephoned him, said she must see him; oddly subdued, he had said he would like that, had offered to come to London, if she felt too unwell to travel.

But ‘No, Luc, I would rather come to Paris. Thank you.’

He had met her off the boat train, looking pale and drawn; had taken her to a small restaurant and sat her down and held her hand and without looking up at her had begged for her forgiveness for his behaviour.

‘It was –
atroce
. Appalling. I cannot believe it even of myself. I am so ashamed, my darling, so dreadfully ashamed. I have no excuse – except perhaps the shock of it. I did not expect it.’

‘I can’t think why not,’ said Adele irritably, hearing her mother’s words, ‘we’ve been doing all the necessary things to make a baby for months and months. Years, actually.’

‘My darling, I know. But – well, just try to believe me. And then I thought you had decided not to discuss it with me, not to decide with me what was best—’

‘No, no, Luc. It was only because you were so horrid—’

‘And you said some very hard things to me. No doubt deserved, but still – upsetting. Very upsetting.’

‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ said Adele remorsefully, ‘but I thought you didn’t care about me, that you didn’t want to know about the baby, of course I said some hard things—’

‘Of course. Well, we have been at cross purposes. But not any more. Everything will be different from today. I love you and I am so proud of you. Now I have booked us into our hotel, in the rue de Seine, and tomorrow, well tomorrow is the important day.’

‘What sort of important?’

‘You will see. Come along,
chérie
, I want to remove that extremely pretty dress and see if I am able to detect already any signs of our son’s existence.’

Next day, he had disappeared early, leaving her alone (and grateful for it, for she still felt very unwell), but with instructions to meet him for lunch at the Closerie des Lilas, on the Boulevard Montparnasse; one of the prettiest restaurants in Paris with its trailing vines and enchanting
terrasse
, and one of their favourites, filled as it was with Parisian café society, writers, artists, journalists, all of whom seemed to know and love Luc. And after lunch, after the rejected fish and the uneaten crème caramel, he turned to her and said, very seriously, ‘Well if you will not eat, we may as well leave. But before we do, I have a present for you.’

‘A present!’

‘A present.’

She prepared herself to be pleased. Luc wasn’t very good at presents. All the usual things that mistresses were supposed to enjoy, jewellery, lingerie, scent, never came her way. Not that she cared; she was too particular to appreciate someone else’s taste: even Luc’s. He brought her rare books sometimes, flowers quite often, but not anything she could set down on her bedside table and gaze at before she went to sleep.

‘Here.’ He handed her a small box.

There were none of the usual trimmings, no ribbons or even pretty paper, just a small brown cardboard box. Amused, she began to open it. Jewellery? Perfume? She opened it; inside was a mass of tissue paper, and well buried in it—

‘A key? Luc, what—?’

He stood up, held out his hand. ‘Come. I will show you.’

He hailed a taxi: gave an address she didn’t recognise.

The taxi drove off: leaving the Boulevard Montparnasse, down the Boulevard Saint Michel, past the Luxembourg Gardens, down a maze of streets, before finally pulling up in a small street off the Place St-Sulpice.

‘
Voilà
,’ he said.

She got out, wondering: in front of her was a large door.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘try your key.’

She put it in the lock: it turned slowly but easily. She pushed through the door. It was a
porte cochère
leading into a courtyard, quite a big one, cobbled and white-walled, filled with sunshine, and set with geraniums in tubs; across it was another door, slightly ajar.

‘Push it,’ said Luc and she did, and then on her left was a staircase. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we climb.’

‘Luc,’ she said, ‘Luc, what—’

‘Climb.
Ascendez!
’

She climbed. Three flights of narrow stairs and then at the top, immediately in front of her, another small door. Adele was silent; she hardly dared even breathe.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘now is the moment. I will do the English thing. Come along.’

And he bent down and picked her up, and pushed the door with his foot very gently and it swung open and they were standing in a hallway so tiny it was the size of the cloak cupboard at Cheyne Walk.

Another door then: opening on to a room, a square room, with a low bed in it, and no other furniture at all. The shutters were closed and the room was in darkness, but she was afraid to turn on the light, for fear of spoiling the magic.

‘Luc—’

He set her down, turned her to him, kissed her tenderly.

‘This is our new home,
ma chère, chère
Mam’selle Adele. I hope you will like it and settle in it and be happy in it, my dearest one, together with our son. It comes with all my love.’

She woke early next day, when the Paris dawn was just breaking; he was awake himself, beside her in the big square bed, watching her, smiling at her.

‘
Bonjour
.’

‘
Bonjour
, Luc.’

‘Did you sleep well?’

‘Very well. Thank you.’

‘I hope what took place last night did not disturb our son in any way.’

‘I – really don’t think it did,’ she said, smiling at the memory of his great gentleness, his constant anxious questioning and concern for her.

‘Good. Would you like some coffee?’

‘I would, please,’ said Adele, astonished to find that she did not feel even remotely sick.

He got up, walked out of the room and reappeared with two large bowls of steaming coffee; she sat up, drank hers gratefully.