No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (59 page)

Kyle settled to it, and was found four hours later, totally engrossed in his task, with a stack of neatly labelled manuscipts in one box: ‘And I thought it might be helpful if they were documented in some way, so I started a sort of ledger in date order, cross-referenced alphabetically. I hope that’s all right.’

Oliver smiled at him, his weary, sweet smile.

‘It’s very much all right. I think God must have been listening to me at last. I’ve been praying for years for someone like you to come along.’

Kyle returned that afternoon to carry on with his task; he said it sounded much more interesting to him than shopping.

On the nursery floor, Giles and Barty, being older than the others, were allowed to stay up after supper in the day nursery; Barty challenged Giles to a game of chess and won fairly effortlessly in just over an hour.

‘You’re pretty good,’ he said, carefully casual, ‘I don’t get much of a chance to play, of course.’

‘Of course not. Wol taught me. He’s really excellent. How’s school?’ she said, packing the pieces back into the box.

‘Pretty good, thanks. I’m enjoying it.’

‘No more bullying?’

‘Good Lord, no. I’ll be an Upper next year, able to use Tap and that sort of thing.’

He looked inordinately pleased at this prospect. Barty looked at him.

‘What’s Tap?’

‘Oh, a bar in the town. One can drink beer or cider there.’

‘Oh, I see. Aunt Celia was saying she hoped you’d get into Pop. What’s that and will you?’

‘Good Lord, I shouldn’t think so. It’s a sort of – well its official name is the Eton Society. Only twenty-four boys, usually the best games players. You have to be elected. I’m sure I won’t be.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well—’ he suddenly looked less pompous and grinned at her slightly awkwardly, ‘you have to be terrifically popular for a start. Which I’m not.’

‘Oh, I see,’ She smiled back, ‘me neither.’

‘Still?’

‘Still. But now that I’m going to St Paul’s it might be better, I think.’

‘I didn’t know that, Barty.’

‘Didn’t Aunt Celia tell you?’ She felt hurt.

‘No. She doesn’t write – much – at the moment.’

‘Oh, well. I got a scholarship actually.’

‘Barty, that’s tremendous. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you. Anyway, what are the advantages of being in this Pop thing?’

‘Mostly just being in it. But you can wear bow ties, and coloured waistscoats and sealing wax on your top hat. That’s about it really.’

Barty looked at him very solemnly.

‘I don’t know how you can even contemplate not belonging to that,’ she said. He looked back at her and they both started to laugh, on and on, until Nanny came in and told them they’d wake the little girls up. After that she asked him to teach her to play gin rummy, got the hang of it at once and after losing the first game, won the next two – and then carefully tactful, allowed him to beat her again.

Afterwards, lying in bed, Giles thought how Barty really was the prettiest and the jolliest, not to mention the most interesting girl he had ever met. He hoped she’d enjoy St Paul’s. She certainly deserved it.

Sebastian Brooke had thought he would be grateful for a weekend of peace in London. He had a great deal of work to do, and besides, he liked his own company. But he found himself, early on Saturday evening, feeling both lonely and resentful. It was absurd he knew; Celia was only fulfilling her function as wife and he had no claim on that, but like all lovers, he was beginning to look for more than what had at first seemed so perfectly and joyfully satisfactory. And somehow it was especially painful that weekend; Sebastian was a highly sociable animal, and moreover, as he cheerfully admitted, something of a snob. He would have adored to spend the weekend at a country house party, and a rather grand house at that, to have played tennis and charades and gone for walks and dined in style. The prospect of the solitary meal of poached salmon which Mrs Conley had prepared for him, however delicious, became increasingly unattractive. Indeed, as he sat in his dining-room, contemplating the evening ahead, drinking the first of what he fully expected to be several glasses of a rather good Sancerre, he felt himself becoming almost morose. It was not too surprising then, that when Elspeth Granchester telephoned him on the off chance that he might be able to join her party at the Savoy for dinner and dancing and then on to the Forty-Three, he told her that there was really nothing he would like more.

‘Good. Then join us at eight. Don’t dress up, black tie will do.’

For dinner at Ashingham, dressing up was still very much expected; male guests always wore white tie for dinner. Robert looked up and down the long table, and thought that however inevitable it might be, especially in the post-war climate, to question the old social values, it was still very good to see them in action from time to time. It gave life an order, a sense of tradition and his was probably the last generation that would see such wealth, such social power on show in a private house. And it was an impressive show: the huge room, the glorious panelling, the fine fireplace, the long, long table, the lavish flowers, the gleaming silver. And the servants, in full livery, waiting with such infinite discretion and skill: plates placed and removed again, dishes proffered, glasses filled and refilled.

The women, particularly, looked marvellous, flattered by candlelight and jewellery. Lady Beckenham’s transformation had slightly surprised him. In her daytime uniform of shabby tweeds, she was scarcely distinguishable from her gamekeeper. At night she emerged as a still beautiful woman, her thick black hair, shot with silver, beautifully arranged with incredible speed by her long-suffering maid, her fine bosom and surprisingly small waist accentuated by the sort of gowns she always wore, rather stiff, in embroidered and jewelled satin.

Celia was looking lovely of course – although tired, she always looked so tired these days – in cream silk, and Felicity equally beautiful in silvery lace, with pearl drops in her hair; she had been placed next to Oliver and had succeeded in making him laugh aloud twice, a difficult feat at the best of times, and was now listening most courteously to Lord Beckenham, as he held forth about the various campaigns he had fought, in the fullest and goriest of detail, finishing each anecdote with, ‘Your grandfather would have enjoyed that one.’

The conversation generally lacked the charm, though, of a London or even a New York table, he thought, that was his only reservation; it was parochial, largely concerned with country matters, and its best moments were unconscious. Robert had been ruefully describing how he once turned up at a white tie dinner in New York in a dinner jacket: Lord Beckenham turned to look at him incredulously.

‘I hope you dismissed your man at once,’ he said, ‘extraordinary ignorance. Disgraceful.’

It clearly did not occur to him, Robert realised, that anyone might not employ a valet. At the other end of the table, Lady Beckenham was holding forth about the disgraceful state of modern English society.

‘They’re diluting the peerage. It’s quite dreadful, eight earldoms created in the last three years, and sixty-four baronies. They’re just selling them, you know, to the ghastly new rich. A knighthood only costs ten thousand, a baronetcy forty. And in London, the most awful women are coming to the fore as hostesses, Lady Cunard, American, of course, and Lady Colefax, and that appalling Laura Corrigan, no better than when she was a telephonist, well she’s American too—’

‘Mama, Felicity is an American, you mustn’t be so rude,’ Celia said. But Lady Beckenham turned to her and said, ‘Oh, that doesn’t count. Mrs Brewer is not like an American, she’s extremely well-bred. Not many like her.’ She said this with enormous authority, as if she had an intimate knowledge of the workings of American society.

Felicity said nothing for a moment, then, ‘More than perhaps you’d think, Lady Beckenham.’

There was a silence, then ‘I very much doubt it,’ replied Lady Beckenham.

Afterwards in the library, during charades, and prompted by Celia, she apologised, but Felicity laughed and said she hadn’t minded for a moment, and that to be called well-bred by Lady Beckenham was an honour indeed.

Much later that night, when almost everyone had gone to bed, Lady Beckenham sat down by the fire. Celia was reading.

‘Delightful woman,’ she said, ‘I like her very much. Extremely attractive. Oliver obviously likes her. I saw them with their heads together in the garden earlier.’

‘Yes,’ said Celia, barely lifting her head, but smiling at her absently, ‘yes, he does. It’s nice, he hardly ever likes anyone.’

‘Well she exudes sex,’ said her mother, ‘hardly surprising that he should.’

Celia stared at her. ‘Felicity! Sexy! Mama, she’s a really old-fashioned perfect, submissive wife.’

‘And has it never occurred to you how sexy that can be?’ said her mother. ‘I’m surprised at you, Celia. I thought you were more in touch with the ways of the world than that.’

Celia smiled at her again, and went back to her book.

‘Oh what heaven this is. Sebastian, I’m so thrilled you could come. So sweet of you to find a space in your terribly crowded diary.’

‘Not very crowded,’ he said, smiling down at her; they were dancing, after dinner and before moving on to the nightclub. ‘Not this evening anyway.’

‘Oh, I can’t believe that. An attractive single man like you – you are single, aren’t you, Sebastian?’

‘Yes and no,’ he said.

‘Now what does that mean?’

‘It means I was once married, and am no longer. And—’

‘But you must have another – lady friend.’

‘I have dozens,’ he said lightly.

‘But no one special? No one at all? That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘And what have you heard?’ The effect of several Old-Fashioneds and a great deal of champagne, together with a certain sense of grievance, however slight and however unjust, against Celia, was making him less watchful, less careful than usual.

‘Oh, that there is someone. And she is – what shall I say – not free. Which is why nobody is told who she is. Oh, now come along, they’re calling us over. Taxis must be here.’

Later, in the Forty-Three, another two glasses of champagne working up a bright confusion in his head, Sebastian found himself dancing with Elspeth again.

‘Now come along,’ she said, ‘I long to know. Was I right, about your lady?’

‘My lady? And which lady would that be?’

‘The one you are said to be in love with.’

‘I’m afraid she isn’t mine,’ he said and sighed.

‘Ah – so I was right.’

‘Right?’

‘Yes. I guessed right.’

‘You did?’ his head suddenly cleared; panic cut through it.

‘Yes, I’ve thought so for ages. We all have.’

‘Oh. Oh I see. But how—’

‘Oh, you know. One develops an instinct. Now stop looking so frightened, Sebastian. This is the nineteen twenties. Nobody cares what anyone does any more.’

Celia didn’t go riding with her mother and Felicity next morning; she went to visit LM. She missed LM dreadfully; more and more as time went by. Watching her now, as she bustled around her small house, making tea, talking to Celia at the same time as she made up a packet of sandwiches for Jay – ‘He likes to go and help Billy on Sundays’ – she admired her from the bottom of her heart. She was so competent, so calm: and so settled in her new life. Celia found it almost incredible that LM could have moved, with comparative ease, from her intellectually busy existence at Lyttons into the solitude and emotional torpor of village life.

‘Are you ever going to come back properly? I need you so much.’

‘Of course you don’t,’ said LM briskly, ‘you don’t need anyone, Celia.’

‘LM, that’s a terrible thing to say.’

‘Sorry. But I think it’s true. You’re the most self-sufficient person I’ve ever known.’

‘I’m not you, know,’ said Celia sadly, ‘and anyway, I could say the same about you.’

‘Well – maybe we’re both very good actresses. Anyway, I’ll be here for a while yet. I can’t disturb Jay now, while he’s so happy.’

‘You’re such a good mother, LM. And I’m such a bad one.’

‘Nonsense,’ said LM, ‘as far as I can see, mothers come in all shapes and colours. You just go at it differently from some. Your children seem pretty all right to me. Oliver looks tired,’ she added.

‘Oliver’s always tired,’ said Celia slightly bitterly, and then seeing LM’s face, ‘sorry, LM. Shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Of course you should. I’m always flattered that you can talk to me, be honest. Even about my brother.’

Celia said nothing; wondering what on earth LM would say if she were really honest with her.

‘It must be very – difficult for you, I think,’ said LM, ‘when you have so much energy. And you like being out and about so much.’

‘Yes, it is. In a way. But at least I have Jack at the moment. He squires me about.’

‘I’m glad he’s doing something useful. What about his book?’

‘Oh – you know,’ said Celia carefully, ‘it’s going to look marvellous, anyway. And the trade like it.’