Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (93 page)

‘He is extraordinarily able,’ said Lady Beckenham. ‘He has more of a feel for horses and stable management than you will ever have. And no, of course I don’t think we’re all the same. We’re quite different. But that certainly doesn’t make one class better than another. Each has something to offer the other. I don’t believe with mixing socially of course, but that’s another argument. We should respect one another. That is how I have always run this house and this estate and that is how your father ran it.’

‘Well I would say it’s led to a great deal of sloppiness,’ said James, ‘and, I might say, Sarah is of the same opinion.’

‘Which does not surprise me in the least. Her grandfather bought his title, as I recall. And if you go out on that horse now, James, you will regret it. She is lame, Bill is quite right. Up to you of course, but don’t blame either of us if you have to keep her in for the next six months.’

Three weeks later, Barty found Shepard sitting outside the back door almost in tears. He stood up suddenly in his embarrassment and knocked the cup of tea she was holding out of her hand.

‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Miller,’ he said (along with the other servants he subscribed to the view that the birth of Jenna had wrought a change in Barty’s marital status), ‘so sorry.’

‘Shepard, don’t be silly. It doesn’t matter.’

‘I’m afraid it will to his lordship.’

‘To who?’ Barty found it hard to accept the existence of a new Lord Beckenham.

‘To Lord Beckenham. He just told me that he was finding my deafness very hard to cope with. I know, of course, it can be a problem, but his lordship, that is, the—the—’

‘The real Lord Beckenham?’ said Barty, her lips twitching. Shepard was too distressed even to smile.

‘Indeed, Mrs Miller. He always was careful to speak clearly, and of course he understood it resulted from my time in the trenches and so was patient about it. As is her Ladyship, of course.’

Barty patted his arm. ‘Don’t worry about it, Shepard. We all understand. And I have never known you unable to hear me, even on the telephone.’

‘That is good news,’ said Shepard, ‘of course you do speak very well.’

‘Well, thank you. Now off you go and get yourself a nice cup of tea and you can bring me one to the Dovecot to make up for the one we smashed between us.’

She reported this conversation that night to Lady Beckenham, who said she would see what she could do.

Adele had decided it was time to move back to London. Ashingham had been a wonderful refuge for her, but with her grief fading, her sense of despair ended along with the years of uncertainty, she felt she needed to return to real life.

Her career as a photographer was developing fast; she could have worked five days a week had she accepted all the work she was offered. And she loved it, really loved it, it was where she felt her future happiness lay. She had started doing reportage work, along with the fashion; she would walk miles with her Leica camera, across London and into the countryside as well, indeed some of her best work was done there; fine landscapes, country people working, a woman on a milk round, a whole series of a blacksmith’s day, a group of children playing soldiers, drilling in the lane, a dense crowd of the new evacuees, fleeing the doodlebugs, on the platform of Amersham station.

To her great delight she had had several photographs published in
Picture Post
, and her most cherished possession was a letter from the American
Life
magazine, regretting that it could not use her shot of barrage balloons over Slough, but encouraging her to submit more work.

The children would settle in London; they were small enough to move. Noni loved Ashingham too, but she loved her Warwick cousins more. Lucas too; he was proving a brilliantly clever child—‘Like his father’, Adele said to Venetia—and was more fascinated by books than anything else. She started looking for a house: ‘something like Barty’s would do beautifully’ and took on the lease of a studio in Soho. Her mother put up the capital: ‘I can see it’s a good investment,’ she said to Adele, ‘and I’m very impressed by what you’re doing.’

Adele was so astonished by this change of heart she could hardly stammer out her thanks; later she realised that she had become rather high-profile in the heady world of magazines and advertising, and that for the first time in her life, her mother was proud of her.

‘It’s made me feel quite proud of myself,’ she said to Venetia.

Venetia was worried over Boy’s future. ‘He’s having a wonderful time being a war hero at the moment’—there had been a photograph of Boy in one of the newspapers at the Liberation of Brussels, at which he had been at the forefront, with pretty girls all over his tank, throwing him flowers and kissing him—‘but to be honest, I think he’s going to miss it dreadfully. Running some silly antique business just isn’t the same.’

‘Maybe he could work at Lyttons,’ said Adele. ‘You know Mummy thinks the sun shines out of his every orifice.’

‘No, thank you. That’s my little kingdom. I don’t want him muscling in on it. Anyway, what would he do? Only the same sort of thing as me. Maybe it’ll be the bank after all. But I can’t quite see it. And then there’s Giles, another worry.’

‘Well, he’ll be back at Lyttons. Obviously.’

‘That’s exactly it,’ said Venetia. ‘He will.’

‘I think,’ said Lady Beckenham to Billy, one lovely morning, as she gazed from the terrace across the intensely green dew-drenched landscape, ‘I think the time has come for me to move on.’

‘Move on, your ladyship?’ said Billy in horror, visions of being left alone at Ashingham with the new Earl rising before his eyes.

‘Yes. Oh, don’t worry, I’m not suggesting taking a bungalow in the village.’

That seemed even less likely than joining Lord Beckenham.

‘Well, I’m pleased to hear that,’ said Billy. He had had another fight with his new employer the day before, had even told Joan he thought he might have to leave.

‘I’m going to move into Home Farm, Bill. And run it. Buy James out, if he agrees, which I think he will. He can’t cope with it and he needs the money. Beckenham left me a few pence. And I shall take my own horses and Shepard of course.’

‘Yes. Yes, I see,’ said Billy. He felt a leaden weight somewhere in his stomach. Lady Beckenham looked at him, a gleam in her dark eyes. ‘Want to join me? I might be able to use a little help and support. You seem to understand farming as well as horses. You could come in as a stakeholder if you like.’

Billy flushed deep red. ‘I haven’t got any money. Otherwise I’d be very interested.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve left you some money in my will, you know.’

‘Me!’

‘Yes, you. I don’t know many people who deserve it more.’

‘Oh, my good Lord,’ said Billy. He felt faintly dizzy.

‘Yes. Seems to me it’d be more use to you now. Less death duties to worry about as well. So you can have it, if you like. I’ve admired the way you’ve got on with life, especially recently, not easy coping with the new era down here.’

‘No, your ladyship.’

‘So, what do you say? It’s not charity, mind, you’ll have to work hard, damned hard, but I know you will. And I think we’d make a good team.’

‘I’ll have to ask Joan,’ said Billy, ‘course. But it sounds—well, it sounds grand to me.’

‘Good. Jolly good. There’s a lot of wasted potential there. I know we have no option at the moment with all this arable, but building up a herd of really good cattle, Herefordshires for instance, would be a marvellous investment, and a really exciting thing to do.’

Billy sat staring at her, his face even more red. Then he got out his rather grubby handkerchief and blew his nose very hard.

‘It was a lucky day when I lost my leg and came down here and that’s a fact,’ he said. ‘I don’t know how ever to thank you, your ladyship.’

‘By working hard,’ said Lady Beckenham, ‘and never pretending to agree with me. I’ll need frankness from you, Bill, more and more as I get older. Promise me that.’

‘I promise,’ said Billy.

‘It’s over then,’ said Kit.

His voice was flat; his face expressionless.

Izzie looked at him, switched off his radio. She had thought it might upset him: the endless reports of the crowds outside the Palace, never less than a thousand strong, of Mr Churchill first walking from the service of thanksgiving at St Margaret’s, Westminster back to the House of Commons, of him standing on a balcony in Whitehall as he said, ‘My dear friends, this is your victory’, and of the crowd singing, ‘For he’s a jolly good fellow’ to their hero, this short, stout, ageing gentleman. There were stories of people running with his car that day, of fathers holding up babies so that they could boast in later years they had seen the great man on Victory Day. And then the stories of revellers climbing lamp-posts, or up on to window ledges, of the royal family on the balcony, waving to the crowds, sharing in the moment . . .

All people for whom the war had ended well.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes it’s over.’

Kit sighed. ‘Well—good.’

‘Kit—’

‘What?’

‘You helped, you know. You helped win it.’

‘Do you really think so? Do you really think without Kit Lytton, today would not have happened?’

‘Of course not. But without lots of Kit Lyttons it wouldn’t. You were a symbol, Kit, you and the others, of courage and hope, of never giving up—’

‘Oh sure,’ he said, ‘I never gave up. It gave me up, though.’

She knew this mood; there was no talking him out of it.

‘Let’s go for a walk,’ she said. ‘Come on, it’s a lovely evening.’

She had chosen to spend the day—a school holiday—there, rather than in London as her father had suggested; ‘Kit might be a bit down,’ she had said, ‘I’d like to be with him.’

‘But what about me?’ he said. ‘I might like you to be with me.’

‘Father, there are lots of people you can be with. Kit only has me.’

They walked slowly down towards the woods: their favourite walk. She held his hand, as she always did.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

‘What about?’

‘What you must be feeling. It must be hard to be—totally pleased.’

‘Yes it is. Apart from the tiny matter of my losing my sight, there are millions of men and women and even children dead. So we’ve won the war. At what price.’

‘Yes. But there’s no point going down that road, Kit. We’re English, and we—you—fought for that, for England’s freedom. That’s what matters now.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Careful, this is the bumpy bit.’

‘Let’s sit down,’ he said suddenly.

‘Why?’

‘Because I want to say something. And I want to concentrate on it, not have to worry about bumpy bits.’

She helped him sit down, sat waiting quietly.

‘I – want to thank you,’ he said.

‘Whatever for?’

‘For helping me, so much. For being so patient, when I was being such a pig. For being so understanding. Always. For being here today.’

‘I knew it would be hard for you today,’ she said.

‘Exactly. Who else thought of that? Certainly not my mother. Or my father.’

‘Well, I do think about you an awful lot,’ she said.

‘Yes, I know. And I appreciate it an awful lot.’

‘You did a lot for me too, once,’ she said smiling.

‘I did?’

‘Yes, when I was little and Father wasn’t quite so—so kind to me.’

‘That’s an understatement,’ he said, ‘he was horrible.’

‘Well I can understand now. Just about. You knew my mother, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Was she very pretty?’

‘She was lovely. I think about her a lot,’ he said suddenly.

‘Why?’

‘Because everyone says you look exactly like her. So that helps me imagine you. It’s awful, not being able to see you.’

‘Why, especially?’ she said.

There was a long silence; then he said, ‘Izzie, I know this may be a bit – a bit of a shock. But—well—’

‘Yes, Kit? What?’

‘I – that is, I think that—well, the thing is, Izzie, I probably shouldn’t be saying this. But I – well, I love you. Very much. And I know you’re only just fifteen—I have a birthday present for you, by the way—’

‘Oh Kit, you didn’t have to—’

‘Yes, I did. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about it a lot. And you may not feel the same way at all. But if you do—well, Izzie, all I’m saying is, next year you’ll be sixteen. And I thought we could tell them all then.’

‘Tell them what?’ said Izzie. It was not a foolish flirtatious question; she hardly dared breathe, certainly didn’t dare believe what she might be hearing.

‘That one day—maybe when you’re eighteen, my mother was eighteen after all when she got married—’

‘Married! You’re asking me to marry you?’

She felt dizzy, quite faint; she closed her eyes.

‘Yes. Yes, I am. If you felt you could take me on. I know I shouldn’t be asking you at all, certainly not yet, and it is asking a lot. But I do love you so very much, I couldn’t have got through these past few years without you, and I can’t imagine being able to get through the rest of my life either.’

‘Oh Kit.’ Izzie discovered she was crying; crying and smiling at the same time.

‘Is it such an awful idea?’

‘Awful? It’s wonderful. I think—well, ever since I could think of such things at all, I’ve kind of imagined—dreamed about it. About how lovely it would be, how happy we would be. And just put it out of my head as a bit of silly schoolgirl nonsense.’ Without quite realising it, she had imitated her father’s voice exactly; Kit smiled.

‘Well—not such nonsense. But it is asking an awful lot; I mean here I am, a chap who can’t see—’

‘A chap who can write wonderful stories, a very successful chap, actually.’

‘Well, let’s not argue about it. And of course you must go to university or whatever you want to do, I wouldn’t dream of stopping you—’

‘Kit! Do you really think I’d go to university and leave you if we were married?’

‘We could live in Oxford, in what used to be your mother’s house, maybe. I thought of that. Oh, I’ve worked it all out.’