No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (67 page)

‘Now, Lady Celia. That cough is very nasty.’ He looked at her severely. ‘I think you should stop smoking at once. For a start. It isn’t good for you, in my opinion. You do have some congestion in your lungs, and it could turn into bronchitis very easily. I will prescribe some cough suppressant for you, and I want you to inhale several times a day, with Friars’ Balsam.’

‘Yes,’ said Celia meekly, ‘yes, I will.’

She didn’t mind taking medicine, nor did she mind inhaling; she would mind not smoking. She had come rather to depend on it; it soothed her raw nerves.

‘Now, the other symptoms. The tiredness – well of course you work too hard. And you’ve always slept badly, haven’t you? I expect you would like me to prescribe a sleeping draught.’

‘I would – yes. Some nights I don’t sleep at all. It’s terrible.’

‘Of course. Well I can do that. And the indigestion – I’ve just been looking back through your notes.’

‘Yes?’ Surely he wasn’t going to say she had an ulcer or something.

‘You say it makes you feel nauseous?’

‘Yes. Yes it does.’

‘Mmm. Appetite?’

‘What appetite?’ said Celia, smiling at him with an effort.

‘Lady Celia—’ he sat back and looked at her, and he was smiling at her now, a kind, concerned, but indisputably amused smile. She felt irritated; that her ill-health might be a subject of amusement to him. It certainly didn’t amuse her.

‘Yes?’

‘Lady Celia—’ another silence, then he said, quite casually, ‘there is – there is one question I haven’t asked you.’

‘Yes?’

‘When did you last have a menstrual period?’

‘All right Miss Barty?’

‘Oh – yes thank you, Brunson.’

‘Daniels is waiting with the car. To take you up to Lyttons. If you’re ready.’

‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

‘You don’t want any more lunch?’

‘No. No thank you. It was very nice, but – well I’m not very hungry.’

‘Of course not. Nothing destroys the appetite like nerves. I once appeared in a revue, when I was at my secondary school.’

‘Did you, Brunson?’ It was impossible to imagine Brunson appearing in anything less solemn than a morality play.

‘I did indeed. I was so nervous that I couldn’t swallow my supper the night before, never mind my breakfast or luncheon. But you know, the moment I got on the stage, said my first line – I felt quite different. Not nervous at all.’

‘What was your first line, Brunson? Can you still remember it?’

‘Indeed I can. It was, “Bring in the prisoners, Captain Cook”. It was a sketch about some cowardly pirates who had run away. Quite funny, although I say it myself.’

‘I’m sure it was. And you were—’

‘The magistrate. Although, of course, what a magistrate was doing on board ship, I don’t know. Anyway, I enjoyed it in the end, and so will you this afternoon. Cook and I were listening to you practising, we thought it sounded quite beautiful.’

Barty felt very touched; she stood on tiptoe and kissed Brunson on the cheek. Aunt Celia would probably have had a fit, she thought, watching him blush, hearing his embarrassed cough.

‘Thank you so much, Brunson. I feel much braver suddenly. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

‘We shall enjoy that, miss. Don’t forget your music.’

‘Oh – no. No, I won’t. Thank you.’

She took her music case; the letter was in it. As soon as she got to the office, she would give it to Wol. Although probably Aunt Celia would have told him whatever it was herself by now. Still it would be nice to hand it over.

She ran down the steps; Daniels was waiting with the car door open. It was the big car: the Rolls. He saluted her and then grinned.

‘Good afternoon, Milady Barty. And what very fine weather we are having for the time of year. Where does her ladyship wish to go? Straight to her concert hall, or somewhere else along the way?’

Barty giggled. ‘To Lyttons please, Daniels.’

‘I have heard the crowds are already gathering the length of Wigmore Street for your concert,’ said Daniels, ‘and very wise of them too. Otherwise the seats might all be gone.’

He grinned at her; Barty got into the car and smiled back.

‘Your music case, milady. It wouldn’t do to forget that.’

‘No Daniels, it certainly wouldn’t.’

Celia felt as if she were falling very fast and suddenly into a large black hole. A hole filled with such horror and such terror that she gasped aloud, staring at Dr Perring. His expression was amused and gentle.

‘I did wonder. Your breasts look rather – swollen. And the tiredness, the nausea – you had quite severe acidity when you were expecting the twins. But as you hadn’t mentioned anything . . . You hadn’t considered it?’

‘No,’ said Celia shaking her head, ‘no.’ And it was true, she hadn’t; such a possibility, absurdly, had not entered her head. Of all her anxieties, this was one she had not considered, not contemplated even.

She sat there, her head whirling with dates, with events, trying to force some semblance of order into them. She had been so preoccupied, so absolutely absorbed in what was happening to her, on every level, that she had simply stopped taking note of the one most ordinary, most important, most crucial thing. When had it been, when had she last had a period? Since Glasgow? Yes, definitely since Glasgow. Since Oxford, that wonderful glorious night in the hotel in Woodstock? She had run absurd risks in getting away. Dreadfully reckless, in more ways than one. Think Celia, think. What had she done since then? Worked herself into the ground, gone to a lot of parties, and nightclubs, given a birthday party for the twins – and – yes, she’d had her period then, had thought it was the last straw with all those little girls coming. But since then – surely, surely – but no. Nothing. That had been the last time. And that had been May 6th. And now it was July. The middle of July – well nearly the end, actually. Oh, God. Dear, dear God. She was – or could be – over two months pregnant.

‘I just never thought of it,’ she said, and felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t know why.’

‘Don’t look so upset. It’s not so serious, surely. Your husband will be thrilled. Do him good. He’s been looking awfully tired and a bit down lately. I would say this will give him a new lease of life. Even if he does say it’s the last thing he wanted.’

She was silent, hardly hearing what he said, questions, terrifying questions filling her head. How, when, where – and most terrifying, most dreadful – whose? Whose, whose, whose baby was it? It could as well be Oliver’s as Sebastian’s. He had made love to her, and a great deal more than once, over the past two months. And she always allowed him these days, never made excuses, never refused: simply because of her guilt. This child could have been conceived as easily in sadness and remorse with Oliver, as in joy and triumph with Sebastian. She had tried to be careful, had always been careful, indeed. But: well, her body and her fertility had betrayed her before. Several times.

She looked fearfully into the future, even an hour into the future, and knew her place in it to be absolutely altered. Forever. Whatever she did now, wherever she went, whoever she was with, it would be under changed circumstances, different rules. She was no long free to leave her husband because she might be carrying his child; she was not entitled to stay with her husband because she might be carrying her lover’s. There was no escape for her, no hiding place; she and her baby were helplessly, hopelessly doomed.

‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘oh, Dr Perring,’ and burst into tears.

He was very good, very gentle; he passed her a handkerchief, buzzed the nurse and told her to bring a cup of sweet tea and asked her if she would like to talk about whatever it was that was worrying her.

‘I’m not – sure,’ she said, leaning back in her chair, feeling so weak now, so shaken that she hardly knew where she was, ‘I—’

And then remembered. Remembered the letter. And knew that whatever else she decided or did, she must stop Oliver reading it. It belonged to another life, that letter, another woman; it had nothing whatever to do with the new life and the woman she had so suddenly and dangerously become.

She must get home and get the letter and destroy it; it was the first and most important thing that this new woman had to do.

‘Barty, dear, come along in. I’m afraid I have a bit of a disappointment for you.’

Barty was used to disappointment; her short life had had more than its fair share of it. Nevertheless, looking at Janet Gould’s kindly face, she felt tears well in her eyes, a large lump in her throat. She knew what it must be, this particular disappointment: Wol couldn’t come to the concert. Something had happened, some crisis had occurred, he had had to leave the office. And since Aunt Celia was not to come either, no one would be at the concert to hear her play.

She bit her lip, trying to stop it trembling. ‘Yes?’ she said carefully. ‘Mr Lytton has had to go out for an hour or so. A meeting at the printers with Mr Jack. So he won’t be able to travel to the concert with you. But he told me to tell you that he would be there, in plenty of time, and that you were to go ahead. He will be in the audience, in the front row—’ she stopped and smiled – ‘holding his thumbs, exactly as he promised.’

‘Oh,’ said Barty and although it would have been nice go with Wol, and although it would add slightly to the anxiety, fearing he might be late as he sometimes was, she felt almost perfectly happy again. ‘Oh, that’s fine, Mrs Gould. Thank you.’

And then she remembered the letter.

‘Mrs Gould, will he be coming back here before the concert?’

‘Oh, I think so dear, yes.’

‘Well – could you give him this?’ She rummaged in her music case.

‘It’s very important.’

Mrs Gould took the letter. ‘Yes of course. And good luck, Barty. I will hold my thumbs too. I’m sure you’ll be splendid.’

‘Thank you.’

She turned, walked down the stairs, got into the car.

‘We’re to meet Mr Lytton at the concert hall, Daniels, after all.’

‘Righty ho, milady. Off we jolly well go then.’

Daniels was much given to such racy expressions: reserved for the occasions when his employers were not listening. He was also given to admiring pretty girls and to enjoying their new short skirts; had that not been the case, had not one not just come into view at the end of Paternoster Row, had he not been eyeing her intently in the rear view mirror as he started the car and edged forward – perhaps more slowly than if she had not been there – he would not have seen Janet Gould running out of Lytton House and looking frantically after him, waving a letter. He stopped the car with a screech of brakes.

‘Yes, Mrs Gould?’

‘Oh, thank goodness I caught you. Here, Barty, you had better give this to Mr Lytton yourself. He isn’t coming back here after all, he just telephoned. He’ll go straight to the concert from the printers. All right, dear?’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Barty.

Dr Perring watched Celia thoughtfully as she pulled on her coat and hat with feverish haste, told him she had to get home quickly, at once, indeed, and told him that yes, of course she would take care of herself, and would come back in a fortnight for a further examination and she would give up smoking at once.

Finally, as she said goodbye to him at the door, he said, ‘Would you like me to arrange for you to have a test?’

‘A test?’

‘Yes, a pregnancy test. Such things are now available. It seems to me you need to be absolutely certain about this. So that you can make your plans—’

He knows, Celia thought, aware of it, even through her panic and her fear; he knows, he has guessed. And was grateful; without being sure why.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, pease I would like that.’

‘Well, let me have a sample of your urine. A morning specimen if possible.’

She was fascinated. ‘And what do you do with it?’

‘It goes to a laboratory, where it’s injected it into the body of a female toad. Then after twenty-one days, we do a dissection. If she has ovulated, it means that without doubt your pregnancy is confirmed.’

‘Poor toad,’ said Celia, amazed that even in her anguish she could feel such concern, and then, ‘Dr Perring, I have to go. I’ll bring you a specimen tomorrow. It would be very nice, as you say, to be sure.’

But driving down Harley Street, rather too fast, energised with adrenalin and panic, she thought that however sure she might be that she was pregnant, she could never, ever, be sure by whom. It was a dreadfully frightening thought.

‘Oh – Brunson, hallo.’

‘Lady Celia! We were not expecting you.’ He sounded almost reproachful.

‘No,’ said Celia, ‘no, I know.’

‘A gentleman phoned for you, Lady Celia. Mr Brooke.’

Sebastian! She had forgotten about him. Waiting for her, waiting to greet her, to welcome her. Just forgotten him: had thought only of Oliver. Of keeping the letter from Oliver. How extraordinary.

‘Thank you, Brunson. I’ll – I’ll telephone him. Now – I just wanted to get something. From Mr Lytton’s study. And then I think – could you ask Cook to make me a cup of tea? Please.’

‘Nothing else, Lady Celia?’

‘No. No thank you. I may have something to eat later.’

‘Very well.’

He disappeared through the door at the top of the kitchen stairs; Celia went into Oliver’s study. The letter was not there.

‘Susan! Susan are you down there? Brunson!’ She stood at the top of the stairs, calling down to the kitchen.

‘Yes, Lady Celia!’

Susan came up, looking nervous. She hadn’t been with them very long and she was clumsy; she had already broken a small looking-glass and a china ornament. Lady Celia had been very nice about it but—

‘Susan, there was a letter in Mr Lytton’s study. On his desk. You haven’t moved it, have you?’

‘No, Lady Celia. It was there, I remember it when I was dusting. I didn’t touch it.’

‘Brunson, have you seen it?’

‘No, Lady Celia. Here is your tea—’