Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (8 page)

‘Do please call me Luc. I would be
désolé
of course. But I understand. I am so sorry about your foot. Is it very painful for you?’

‘Oh, it’s – nothing. Really. I’ll be quite happy here. I’ll see you in a few minutes.’

She smiled at him; her eyes met Adele’s in absolute complicity.

‘
D’accord
. Come with me, then, Mam’selle Adele. That is, if you would be interested in the archives.’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I’m sure I would. And Luc, do please call me just Adele. There’s no need to be formal.’

‘Oh,’ he said, and his voice was courteously surprised, ‘oh, but I thought there was. Your father is, after all, my
patron
. I feel I have to show his eldest daughter some degree of respect.’

‘How do you know I’m his eldest daughter?’

‘Your mother told me.’

‘She did?’ said Adele. ‘When?’

‘Oh, the last time we met. She showed me some photographs of you.’

‘Really?’ Adele was astonished. Her mother was normally not the sort of woman to go round showing pictures of her children to anyone, let alone total strangers, and even less likely to impart rather intimate information as to which of her two twins had been born first. And yet – she could see why. There was something about Luc Lieberman that invited confidence, intimacy even; he drew you into his rather intense personality, and you found yourself – well, lost.

‘I can’t imagine why you should have been interested in learning such a thing,’ she said, looking away, fiddling with the clip of her handbag.

‘Mam’selle Adele,’ he said, and his face was very serious indeed, ‘I would be interested in learning anything about you. Anything at all. But now that I have met you, I am not surprised to learn that you are the older of the two of you. You seem the older.’

‘Oh, goodness,’ she said, and tried to laugh again, ‘does it really show, do I have grey hairs and wrinkles coming already?’

‘No grey hair or wrinkles, no,’ he said, ‘but you seem to be more grown up than your sister. Just a little.’

‘Really? Goodness,’ she said, feeling silly and not in the least grown up. ‘Do please let me see the archives. I’m sure they must be fascinating.’

Lunch at Maxim’s was pure pleasure. The twins had been there before of course, never tired of its splendours, the Lautrecs, the atmosphere, the lamps, the waiters with their long white aprons, the wonderfully chic Parisiennes pushing food delicately around their plates. Hair much longer here, they noticed, and skirts marginally so, and those dear little closefitting small-brimmed hats; all important things to be taken back home.

But for Adele, sitting next to Luc, concentrating (in a way that was quite new to her) on everything he said, however complex, struggling to follow when he and Guy and their father broke into French, these were secondary things. She felt, still, slightly dizzy, shaken somehow to her innermost self; not the familiar Adele at all, but someone nervous, tentative almost, examining what she said before she said it, and quite often deciding to remain silent, lest she should sound foolish, and yet at the same time vividly, almost painfully happy. Venetia, she noticed, was perfectly herself, chattering away to Guy, and indeed anyone else who would listen, about their morning’s shopping, their holiday in Antibes, how much she adored Paris; Adele felt slightly astonished by it, that Venetia could not be as affected by the occasion as she was, but was grateful for it nonetheless.

‘Now, we have a wonderful new book to publish,’ said Oliver, smiling at his daughters across the table at the end of the meal. ‘A discovery of Monsieur Lieberman’s. It’s about the war, and it’s called
Lettres tristes
. It’s a novel, written in the form of a correspondence between an English soldier and a girl he meets as he journeys home wounded from the trenches. He arrives home, knowing he is in love with her, knowing he will never see her again and expected to marry his English fiancée. Very moving, very moving indeed, and I think exactly the right time to publish. With the war receding from us in time.’

‘Indeed, Monsieur Lytton. And the author, Marcel Lemoine, is such a charming man. In fact, I was going to suggest, that when you publish the book in England, if you were planning a little
reception
for it, then he could perhaps come to London himself. I’m sure the English would like him. He did fight in the trenches himself, it is a book based on real knowledge.’

‘Indeed,’ said Luc Lieberman, ‘he is an exceptional man. The only problem as I see it is that he doesn’t speak very much English, but – maybe Lady Celia could help. Her French is good I believe.’

‘Well, my French is quite good actually,’ said Adele, ‘and I would love to meet Monsieur Lemoine, I think it’s a marvellous idea to have him over for the publication. And of course you should come too, Monsieur Lieberman, as the discoverer of this great talent.’

‘That would be a delight,’ he said.

‘Well, well,’ said Venetia, ‘and when did you develop a talent for speaking French, Adele? You’ll have to have some lessons pretty quickly.’

‘Oh, shut up,’ said Adele, ‘I mean
tais-toi
. There, you see, I do remember quite a lot. It was one of my best subjects.’

‘Which doesn’t mean much. And views on publishing all of a sudden too. Oh, it’s all right, I thought he was—’

‘Isn’t he? So – so sexy.’

‘Yes. Terrible clothes, though.’

‘Terrible. I thought that probably meant—’

‘Possibly. Can’t assume it, though. They’re not all—’

‘No Frenchwoman,’ said Adele firmly, ‘would let her husband go round looking like that.’

‘What about her fiancé?’

‘Don’t think so. Do you? Anyway, we must—’

‘I’ll ask Daddy. Not Mummy, she’d guess. She never—’

‘No, but she obviously liked him too.’

‘How do you know?’

‘She told him I was the oldest. Of us two.’

‘How absolutely extraordinary,’ said Venetia.

‘I know. I just feel, Venetia, that he’s well – that he’s—’

‘Important?’ said Venetia.

‘Yes. Very important.’

‘Barty, my dear—’

His voice came from his study as she walked through the hall.

‘Yes, Wol?’

‘Could I have a word with you?’

Barty’s heart sank; she knew what it was about.

‘This is – difficult for me,’ he said, sitting back in the big leather swivel chair at his desk. ‘Sit down, my dear, sit down. Now then—’

She sat, silent, determined not to help him in any way.

‘Celia tells me you have turned down our offer of a job at Lyttons.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s right, I would have told you as well, but you were away—’

‘I know, I know. That’s not the problem. It’s just that—’

A long silence; Barty fixed her eyes on him politely.

‘Well, Celia is very upset.’

Barty felt angry suddenly. Celia had no right to be upset; emotion was irrelevant. This was a business matter, not a family one. She said as much to Oliver.

‘I’m afraid that isn’t quite true, Barty, is it?’

She looked at him steadily. ‘Of course it is.’

‘Now you know it’s not. Celia loves you, she has worked very hard to help you over the years and—’

‘Wol, please. That’s not fair.’

He sighed. ‘Isn’t it?’

‘No. You know it’s not. I didn’t ask to come here, I didn’t ask to leave my family. I know it was a wonderfully generous thing to do, and of course I have had incredible opportunities, that I would never have dreamed of. But—’ She stopped.

‘But what?’

It was no use; she couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say how much of it had hurt, how much damage as well as good Celia had done; and besides, Wol knew that, she had told them both once, one dreadful night when she had still been a child, when other, far more dreadful truths had come out, none of them would ever forget any of it, not a word that had been spoken.

She took a deep breath. ‘The thing is, Wol, I want to do things on my own. I think I’d feel this even if I was a Lytton—’

‘You are a Lytton. In many ways.’

She allowed him that.

‘All right. If I was a Lytton by birth. I don’t want to have things handed to me on a plate, I don’t want to have it all made easy for me, I don’t want people saying, “Oh, she’s only got that job because – because they brought her up.”’

‘Barty, they won’t. You got a First Class degree in English Literature. From Oxford. No one can achieve that without extraordinary talent. And application, of course.’

‘You should know,’ she said, smiling at him, ‘you got one too.’

‘It’s easier for a man.’

‘Oh, Wol!’

‘I’m afraid it’s true. But anyway, we want you to come and work at Lyttons because we think you will help us. Not to do you a favour. I hope we are more professional than that. We think you will make a very good editor; we think you have great potential.’

‘How can you tell?’

‘Don’t you think, Barty, that we have learned to recognise such qualities over the years? I have been in charge of Lyttons, Celia has been in charge of editorial excellence there, for twenty-five years. And I don’t think we’ve done too badly.’

She was silent; then she said, ‘But there must be many other young people you could offer this job to.’

‘I daresay there are. A certain number, yes. But why should we go out and find them? Why not just have you?’

‘Because,’ she said, and her voice was thick with exasperation, ‘because I don’t want you to. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

He was silent; then he said, ‘So, you want to try and make your way in publishing, do you?’

‘Well – yes.’

‘I see. Apply to other firms for other jobs?’

‘Yes. So it’s – fair.’

‘And do you think that these other firms won’t know who you are? Barty, you have grown up with all these people. You have gone to children’s parties at the Macmillans and the Murrays, you’ve danced with the Blackwood boys, you’ve dined with the Collinses. Do you really believe that they won’t bend over backwards to accommodate you, give you a chance? To please me and Celia, as well as you. Will that be fair?’

She was silent.

He looked at her. ‘Tell me, Barty, if none of this was – an issue, which publishing houses would you most admire at the moment?’

‘Oh – I’m not sure. Jonathan Cape, I suppose.’

‘Because of the Sitwells?’

‘Yes. Murrays. It’s so – so scholarly. Macmillans, they’re so innovative somehow, so commercially successful.’

‘All very interesting. And what about Lyttons?’

‘Well, of course.’

‘I think we have a little of everything; a good base in poetry, equalled by none in biography, thanks to Celia’s immense talent, a fine series of reference books, the Meridian books of course, a strong commercial list, look at the Buchanans, still going strong, a worthy rival to the Forsytes – if you knew nothing of us, wouldn’t you want to apply to us as well?’

‘Yes, of course. But—’

‘And then we are still comparatively small. Small enough for you to make your mark. If you have the talent. If you don’t, if we are wrong, then you will not survive with us for very long. I promise you that. As for making it easy for you, speak to Giles. See what he has to say.’

‘I know, but—’

‘Barty.’ He leaned forward. ‘Please come to us. I want you to, I know we can benefit one another.’

‘Wol, I—’

‘There is something else,’ he said, not looking at her, picking up a pencil, beginning one of the elaborate doodles that often accompanied his thought processes, ‘for reasons which I don’t wish to go into, Celia is not entirely – happy at the moment. She is finding certain aspects of her life difficult. She’s very brave, she always has been, she would cut her own tongue out before admitting to it but – well, I would like to do what I can to help her. And it would make her feel very happy indeed to have you at Lyttons. She sees it as a rejection, your refusal, a personal rejection. I can understand your feelings; she cannot.’

Barty thought this was highly unlikely, Celia was, despite her arrogance, immensely perceptive, but she said instead, ‘I’m sorry she’s not happy. Is there anything I should know about?’

‘No, no, and you certainly shouldn’t mention it. This is a conversation of absolute confidentiality. I know I can trust you.’

‘Yes, of course.’

He looked at her. ‘I have seldom asked anything of you, Barty. I was perhaps less – happy about your arrival than Celia was, indeed I argued against it, I think I can tell you that now without fear of distressing you.’

She nodded, her eyes fixed on his.

‘But you have given me great joy. As I told you that – that – well, on a particular occasion, you mean as much to me as my own children. And I hope I have given you whatever support you felt you needed in return.’

‘Yes, yes, of course you have. And more—’

‘Except,’ his eyes twinkled at her, ‘except in the matter of your presentation at court. I found myself outflanked there. Had Lady Beckenham not intervened, I fear you would have been there making your curtsey along with the rest. However—’

She smiled. ‘I expect I would have survived.’

‘I expect you would. However, I am going to ask you something now. Something I want you to do for me. In – I will not say not in return, that would be unfair, it would smack of emotional blackmail – in acknowledgement, perhaps.’

She nodded again, knowing what was coming, thinking it was still emotional blackmail, but forced to recognise that he had every right to apply it.

‘Take the job, Barty. Come to Lyttons for a while – let us say two years. After that you will have made your mark, other houses will be after you anyway—’

She smiled again. ‘Hardly.’

‘Well, we shall see. But – will you do that? Please?’

There was a long silence; then she said quietly, as she had known she would have to, ‘Yes, Wol. Yes I will.’

‘Good. And don’t think your life will be easy. As I said, ask Giles. He hardly has a feather bed to lie on at Lyttons.’

‘No. No, I know.’

He stood up and kissed her. ‘Thank you, Barty. Thank you so very much.’