No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (25 page)

‘He could, you know,’ said Barty, ‘have said goodbye. He could have come to the house. Or written, at least.’ She blinked back the tears. Every time one of her family displayed a loss of love for her, it hurt more, not less.

‘Now Barty, he’d never have come to the house. Of course he wouldn’t.’

‘I don’t see why not,’ said Barty, and then stopped. She was beginnning to see why not; and beginning to realise why they regarded her as they did. Billy’s goggle-eyed report of the house, the servants, the huge Christmas tree even, had done her no service. ‘Well anyway,’ she said, ‘I’d like to write to him. How do I do that?’

‘Give it to me,’ said Sylvia, ‘and then there’s a special address. But don’t expect anything back,’ she added warningly, ‘you know he can’t write that well.’

That was an understatement; Ted could hardly write at all; Sylvia was by far the more literate of the two.

‘No,’ said Barty, thinking this was not the only reason her father wouldn’t write to her, ‘no, I won’t expect anything back.’

‘I did wonder,’ said Laurence thoughtfully, ‘if you would feel compelled to go and fight for your native country.’

Robert looked at him; the tone was particularly cold, the expression especially derisive.

‘No,’ he said, ‘no Laurence, I don’t. The war in Europe is dreadful, and my brother has enlisted, but this is my home now. And even if I did, I am far too old to be accepted. I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

Laurence shrugged. ‘It’s of no importance to me either way. I was just a little – surprised that’s all. I would have thought it was the gentlemanly thing to do.’ He paused, then said, ‘No, perhaps surprise is the wrong word. Under the circumstances.’

With extreme difficulty, Robert said nothing. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he could endure this war of attrition. And how much it was worth enduring in any case. If Laurence hadn’t been away two thirds of the year, not even the charms and beauty of Elliott House and the gratification of keeping up appearances, would have made up for the discomfort and misery of the other third. With two years to go before Laurence came of age, he had already begun to look out for a site for his own house.

The telegram came on 7th February. LM was getting ready to go to work, dressing herself carefully in the long loose coat she wore to conceal the quite small bump. When she got to work, she put on a loose pinafore, making the excuse that she needed it to protect her clothes down in the cellars, where she spent much more time now, with so many of the clerks gone to the front.

She heard the footsteps on the pavement, then on the path and heard the doorbell go; she heard Mrs Bill’s voice, frightened, urgent, calling her name. And watched herself go down the stairs and take the yellow envelope, saw herself open it, and observed herself reading the words, the absolutely meaningless words.

Regret to inform you . . . report dated 5th February . . . Corporal Ford . . . killed in action . . . sincere sympathy. Under Secretary of State.

She heard herself saying to Mrs Bill, ‘Mr Ford has been killed,’ went upstairs, finished dressing, and quite dry-eyed, walked to the station as usual. She arrived at Lyttons, went into Celia’s office and said to her in an absolutely steady voice, ‘Jago has been killed,’ and walked out again.

And although it was dreadful, very dreadful indeed, knowing she would never see him again, that he was lost to her forever, terrible knowing that he had probably died some hideous death, far away from her, by far the worst thing of all was knowing that he had died not loving her any more, not wanting her any more, and not wanting the child they had conceived together in an earlier, happier life.

‘I’m thinking of offering Ashingham as a convalescent home,’ said Lady Beckenham. ‘Just for officers, naturally. I think one should do one’s bit. Several friends have gone out to drive ambulances, that sort of thing. I have thought of that as well. With Beckenham out of the way, it’s so easy down here suddenly. What do you think?’

‘I should think with you out at the front, the war would be over much more quickly,’ said Celia, smiling at her. ‘You’d have the Hun on the run in no time.’

‘Don’t joke, I’m perfectly serious. I heard the most marvellous story the other day. Absolutely true. Some woman called Blanche Thirieau, who lived in Paris, knew that her husband was involved in the Battle of the Marne, and decided to go down there and visit him. And she actually managed it. Charmed the captain, who sent off a soldier to fetch her husband. It just shows what can be done if you won’t take no for an answer. Still, I think I’d probably be as much use here. Now, when do you envisage sending the children?’

‘I don’t know, Mama. Still no bombs are there? But at the first hiss, then down they’ll come. Is Papa enjoying life at the War Office?’

‘Immensely. I can’t imagine he’s doing anything remotely useful, but he seems happy.’

‘I must have him to dinner again,’ said Celia, ‘I feel bad about being so inhospitable. But what with one thing and another, I haven’t got around to entertaining much lately. It’s difficult without Oliver and—’ she looked down at her burgeoning stomach.

‘Don’t worry about your father. He’s perfectly happy. How do you feel?’

‘Oh, tired. But all right. Five months is quite a good time. Don’t you think?’

‘I can’t remember,’ said Lady Beckenham vaguely. ‘Whole thing’s a bit of a blur, thank God. Have you told Oliver yet?’

‘Yes. I thought I’d better. In case someone else did. He was thrilled, although a bit worried of course.’

‘Any real news?’

‘No,’ said Celia soberly, ‘only that he was alive four days ago. That’s all you know. You get a letter and you think, thank God, and then remember that in the four days since it was sent anything could have happened.’

‘Jolly tough,’ said Lady Beckenham. ‘I do know, I’ve been through it.’ There was a silence, then, ‘Was he at the last big one, do you think?’

‘Mama, I don’t know. I don’t think so.’ The reports of the attack on Neuve Chappelle and its attendant huge casualties had frightened her severely, not least because she had no idea if Oliver had been there or not. That made things infinitely worse.

His letters were determinedly cheerful, but still told of horrors: ‘We are shelled the whole day long, the noise is dreadful and carries on in one’s head the whole night. My main problem is lack of sleep, yesterday we were moving up a hill, having been ordered to reinforce another Division, lovely day, sun shining, blue sky, I have to admit to a flash of happiness and was thinking of you rather intently, when there was a rain of shellfire from concealed machine guns and snipers. So much for daydreaming. We lost quite a few men, and were starting to dig ourselves in at our destination, when the shelling started again and went on all night. But don’t worry about me, my darling, I am not even scratched.’

She slept badly, visions of Oliver mutilated, dead, dying, and perhaps most hideously choked and blinded by the new terror, poison gas, waking her constantly from restless sleep; only going to Lyttons kept her sane. She was working feverishly, long, long hours, doing not only her own work but also that of Oliver, Richard Douglas, and James Sharpe, the art director. She particularly enjoyed the design work; she had a quick, innovative eye and some of the jackets she was commissioning were more interesting and arresting than anything Lyttons had done before. She had replaced James and his assistant, Philip, with two clever young women; the three of them worked together extraordinarily well. The more senior of the two, Gill Thomas, was a great admirer of the look and ideas to be found in the weekly magazines; she had designed a range of jackets of the women’s fiction list which were strongly reminiscent of the covers of
Women’s Weekly
. They were selling in thousands.

LM was still working hard, overseeing everything from budgets to shipments, promotions to stock control. Knowing she would have to leave for a while at least, and in the foreseeable future, was frightening Celia. She could not imagine how she would be replaced. LM had recruited and trained an excellent assistant – who had been told in strictest confidence the terms of her engagement – but she would be in no way a substitute.

Which reminded her. She looked at her mother.

‘Is – is the dovecot in use at the moment?’

The dovecot was a small, exquisite building, reputedly designed by the third Earl to house his mistresses. It was called the dovecot because of its construction; it was circular, with a slate roof topped by a small glass rotunda, and stood about fifty yards or so back from the terrace, next to the sunken rose garden and close to a side door, which allowed discreet access to and from the main house. Inside there was a small panelled drawing-room on the ground floor, and a bedroom above it. It had no kitchen, but a bathroom, with primitive but perfectly efficient plumbing, led from the bedroom. Most wonderfully of all, it had its own tiny walled garden; it afforded, in its own way, perfect privacy.

‘No, why do you ask?’

‘I think LM might have need of it.’

‘LM? What on earth for?’

Celia took a deep breath. ‘To live in for a while with her baby’ she said.

Lady Beckenham looked at her. She prided herself on never expressing surpise at anything; she considered it common.

‘I see,’ was all she said now ‘well, yes, tell her, any time.’

‘Thank you,’ said Celia, ‘I will.’

‘You all right, Mum? Without Dad?’

‘Yes, dear, I’m fine. Really I am. A few headaches still, but nothing to complain about. Billy’s being very good, acting the man of the family as your dad said he should. Only problem is money. We’re very short. I’m thinking of getting a job. In a factory or whatever. There’s plenty of work. Not like at first, with all the firms closing down.’

‘I know, Aunt Celia told me. Up to forty-four per cent unemployment, she said. It was partly because of there being no trade with Germany any more.’

‘Fancy you knowing that,’ said Sylvia admiringly, ‘you’re getting so clever, Barty.’

Barty ignored this. ‘Where’s Billy?’

‘Queuing. With Frank.’

‘Queuing?’

‘Yes. For food. The queues are so long, an hour’s nothing for a bit of meat. I send them to stand there instead of me. Everyone does it now. And Frank being so small, he can often wriggle towards the front and nobody notices.’

‘We might be going away soon,’ said Barty suddenly in a small voice.

‘Going away? Where to?’

‘The country. To Aunt Celia’s mother’s.’

‘But why?’

‘Because there might be some bombs, Aunt Celia says.’

‘Yes, I’d heard that, too,’ said Sylvia. ‘They’ve started somewhere, haven’t they, not in London though.’

‘No. In Newcastle. The docks.’

‘Well, you’ll be one worry off my mind,’ said Sylvia with a sigh.

‘Mum, I don’t want to go. I won’t be able to see you so often.’

‘Barty, you must go. You can’t stay here.’

‘Why not? I’m older now, I can be a help to you, I want to be at home again, with you all, please, Mum, please—’

‘Barty, no. You’re being silly. You’re lucky, going somewhere like that, nice and safe. I wish the others could come with you.’

Barty looked at her. ‘Perhaps they could,’ she said.

‘No Celia, I’m sorry. I’m perfectly happy to have your children, and Barty of course, she has very nice manners, but I shall be very busy with my convalescents soon, I really can’t take in a houseful of urchins.’

‘But Mama, don’t you see, it’s difficult for me. Keeping Barty safe, when her brothers and sisters are in danger in London.’

The Countess looked at her. Then, ‘Celia’, she said, after a long pause, ‘this is precisely the sort of thing you should have taken into consideration when you decided to make that child part of the family. Now I’m afraid it’s too late, and you have to live with the consequences.’

Celia looked at her in silence. Then, ‘I’m afraid you’re right,’ she said, and sighed. ‘I – I think I’ll go and see LM.’

LM had submitted with surprising ease to Celia’s suggestion that she move down to Ashingham.

‘You can’t stay here, LM, no one has guessed yet. I know they haven’t, mostly because—’ she stopped.

‘I know,’ said LM with a touch of humour, ‘it’s so extremely unlikely. A pregnant old maid.’

She was so brave, Celia thought: so uncomplaining, never railing against the cruelty of Jago Ford’s death, just accepting it. A letter had come to LM from his CO; he had died a hero’s death, he said, on a night raid, and more important, Celia thought, had died instantly from a German bullet, would have known nothing about it.

‘That has to comfort you, LM. Suppose he had died slowly of injuries, in hospital or something.’

LM was more cyncial. ‘I’m surprised at you, Celia. Have you ever heard of a soldier not dying instantly, and a hero, to boot. Jago might have died that way and of course I hope so, but I have no illusions. It might have been rather different.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘well, let’s think about you. Much more positive. I think you should come down here, you would have complete privacy. Mama certainly wouldn’t bother you, she’s busy converting Ashingham into a hospital – a very aristocratic hospital naturally – and you can have your baby either there or at the local nursing home. Then you can decide what you’re going to do.’

‘Oh I have decided,’ said LM. Her face was very hard, very set. ‘I shall have the baby adopted. I don’t want it.’

‘Adopted! LM, you can’t do that!’

‘Why not?’

‘Well because – because you can’t. It’s your baby, yours and Jago’s. You can’t just give it away.’

‘Of course I can. Jago didn’t want it, I don’t want it.’

‘How do you know that?’ said Celia.

‘He would have written and told me if he had. Of course he would. He was clearly horrified, and didn’t know what to say. And it will be far better with some nice woman who will care for it, look after it, give it a good home.’ She sounded as if she was talking about a puppy or a kitten rather than about a child.