Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (98 page)

The dark eyes were suspiciously bright; Barty looked at her and for a moment, just a moment she was tempted to change her mind.

She owed everything to Celia: to this difficult, demanding, autocratic, intensely generous creature. Without her she would probably be what her sisters were, overworked mothers with no prospects of any kind except further childbearing. Celia had given her a luxurious home, a superb education, and perhaps the greatest gift of all, ambition. She had not been easy, she had not been tender or gentle or patient with her, but she did undoubtedly love her in her own way; what sort of person had she become, Barty wondered, that she was rejecting her now simply because she had not been given any shares in Lyttons?

And then she steadied herself, it was not simply because of that. It was because she had a vision for herself, which Celia had also given her, and which she could not fulfil unless she broke away. In time, they would become close again, possibly closer; for the time being, she had to stand firm.

‘I’m so sorry, Celia,’ she said, ‘so very sorry. But you of all people should understand what I feel. I’ll go and tell Wol now.’

Jay was very upset, said he would leave too, would come with her, would resign in protest.

‘Jay, don’t be silly. You’re doing so well, you have to make the most of what you’ve got here. You have such a good future; think how proud your mother would be. Anyway, there’s nothing to protest about. It’s my decision.’

‘Yes, and everyone can see why you made it.’

Barty was upset; she had hoped the connection would not be so easily made. She felt less upset when he uttered the rider ‘Of course I know you’re not a Lytton.’ Even he seemed to feel it: the invisible barrier, behind which she had no rightful place.

Venetia was less voluble, but just as firm in her support.

‘It’s a terrible shame, Barty. Just when we’re getting things going a bit, seeing our ideas pushed through a bit faster. Do you have to rush off so soon? Why not wait and see how it all pans out?’

‘I can’t, Venetia. Nothing’s going to change for me, that’s the thing.’

‘Of course it will, you’ll have more freedom, more flexibility, you’ll have your grand new title—’

‘But that’s all, Venetia. I won’t be part of Lyttons.’

‘Yes you will. Oh, you won’t have shares of course, but—’

I was the ‘of course’ that told her yet again that she was doing the right thing.

Giles said very little; merely told her that he hoped she was doing the right thing and that he wished her well. His own misery was bleak; Barty felt desperately sorry for him. He moved through the days in a dark resentment that was almost tangible; for his sake and his alone she was glad she had no shares. That would have been much more than he could bear.

As she watched him, she contrasted this bitter, disappointed, angry man with the kind little boy who had been her friend, her only friend, with the sensitive young man who had told her he loved her, and the soldier who had been so brave and so visionary that he had not once but twice been singled out for high honours. And was sad: so sad.

Wol hurt her most, in fact: first begging her with tears in his eyes not to go, then telling her he would miss her unendurably, throwing in some of the emotional blackmail that was his forte—‘I thought we were very special friends, you and I, Barty’—but then, finally, asking her what she wanted and when she tried to explain, saying, ‘But Barty, how could that possibly be? You are not a Lytton, however much we love you. Surely you must understand that.’

Even Sebastian had been guilty of it: ‘Darling, you must do what you want to do. And I’m sure you will be wonderfully successful over there. But we shall miss you so much. I don’t quite see the need for it.’

She tried to explain: and he smiled his lovely smile and said, ‘But darling, what did you honestly expect? You’re not a Lytton.’

And so: she was going.

She was not taking her nanny; she felt it would be too painful, too big an adjustment for the girl. She would invest time finding someone new; in the long run Jenna would benefit. In the short term, she was sure she could find someone to help. In fact she had one particular person very much in mind . . .

She would sail on Tuesday, 21 May. Immediately after Izzie’s party. Very suitable really; her last gathering of the Lyttons. She felt quite sure it would serve to strengthen her resolve still further. Not that it needed strengthening at all.

‘Celia, you know the matter I spoke of recently.’

‘You speak of a great many matters, Oliver.’

‘The financial matter? The loan from the bank?’

‘Oh—yes. I thought that was all settled.’

‘Unfortunately not. Despite the restructuring of the company, the projections we have done for the coming twelve months, they have refused the loan.’

‘Well that’s very unreasonable of them. What reasons do they give?’

‘Times are very hard. Money is short. Especially investment money. And our track record is not good at the moment. It is – rather worrying.’

‘And what does it actually mean? In practice?’

‘Oh’—he looked vague—‘it means we won’t be able to do some of the things I – we had hoped. Salaries will have to be kept at the same level for some time. We won’t be able to acquire any expensive properties. Of a literary nature, that is.’

‘But—it doesn’t mean another—well another Brunnings?’

‘Oh, good heavens no. I wouldn’t risk that twice in a lifetime. No, I’m sure we can get by. But it does mean we are going to have to keep a very wary eye on things. And find some money from somewhere.’

‘Have you told Giles?’

‘No. I haven’t told anyone.’

‘Well I think you have to. They’re shareholders now, they have a right to know.’

‘Celia, the company isn’t going bankrupt. Anyway, they’re not shareholders yet. Until quarter day. Things may have improved by then.’

‘Oh, Oliver, don’t be ridiculous. Companies don’t turn round financially in the space of—what?—under two months.’

‘No, but there may be a larger light at the end of the tunnel.’

‘This is a terrible time for the book trade,’ said Celia firmly, ‘for everyone, not just us. I’m sure we’re not the only house having trouble paying the bills.’

But she knew, from talking to people at functions, from listening to gossip, from reading the trade press, they were one of the few houses without much in the way of new properties—or even bankable old ones. Indeed without
Opium for the Few
their autumn catalogue would have looked very sorry indeed. However, Barty had done that, they owed her a great deal. Which they might not in real terms, be able to pay. Well, no doubt the New York company, which was flourishing in a highly irritating way, would make it up to her.

It was tomorrow! Tomorrow! She had celebrated her actual birthday quietly at school, waking that morning to the happiness of being sixteen, old enough to be married, had accepted everyone’s good wishes and cards, her father’s letter, telling her how proud of her he was—that made her feel a bit bad—and enclosing a cheque for fifty pounds. ‘To be placed in your bank account, of course, not for frittering away.’ Fifty pounds! That would keep her and Kit for several months.

He said he had a proper present for her, which he would give her on Saturday, during the party. That made her feel bad too: to think she wouldn’t be there. Well—it was his own fault. It really was—wasn’t it?

She felt even worse when she got home on the Friday evening and saw all the preparations for the party. A marquee had been set up in the garden, filled with tables and gilt chairs; there was a vast stack of plates and glasses and silver trays and salvers in the kitchen; crates of wine stood in the pantry, including a large supply of champagne; ice buckets, neatly polished were in the corner of the marquee.

‘Henry and Roo have arranged some dancing for later, they’re bringing a gramophone and some records. I couldn’t be much help there,’ Sebastian said. ‘Oh, and I’ve arranged for Adele to take you shopping in the morning.’

‘Shopping!’

‘Yes. A girl has to have a very special dress for such an occasion. You haven’t got one as far as I can see. I’ve told her no expense is to be spared.’

‘Oh Father – ’ tears filled her eyes ‘ – Father, I don’t deserve this.’

‘Of course you do. I’m very proud of you, Isabella. As proud as can be.’

He was so seldom effusive, she felt physically quite shocked.

‘Now then, Celia is coming after lunch tomorrow. She’s going to do the flowers. You might be able to help her.’

‘Yes. Yes of course I will.’

All these people: all doing so much for her, and she was going to fail them: to run away. Perhaps—

But no. She wasn’t running away because she was ungrateful and unhappy; quite the reverse. It was because she was terribly, terribly happy. And nor was she running away to some unspecified, meaningless place. But to Gretna Green, where she and Kit could get married. Without permission from anybody. They would understand in time. Of course they would. And be happy for her.

‘Kit?’

‘Yes? Be quick, the house is full of people.’

‘Kit, your mother is coming here tomorrow after lunch, to do the flowers.’ Oh, dear. Another wobble. Celia, frightening, beautiful, famous Celia, doing the flowers for her, for her party. It was a great honour. She took a deep breath, steadied herself. ‘Come with her.’

‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Bye.’

‘Bye—my darling.’

It was the ‘my darling’ that did it. So much more grown-up and loverlike than just ‘darling’.

They were grown-up. They deserved to be treated as grown-ups.

‘Isabella, I’m just going out for a few minutes, to post some letters. When I come back, we’ll have supper.’

‘Yes, Father, that will be very nice.’

As soon as he’d gone, she shot into his study, telephoned the taxi company.

‘I’d like to order a taxi, please. For tomorrow evening, at six. To go to King’s Cross. Yes, that’s right. Now could you wait at the bottom of the street, my father’s having a party and you might have a bit of trouble getting near enough to the house. Yes, just where this road meets Elsworthy Road. Thank you. I’ll be there.’

She had been wondering about her suitcase. If they were seen leaving with that they’d be done for. If they just left the house everyone would assume they were going for a quick stroll. Well—she’d think of something.

‘Mother, can I come up with you tomorrow to Sebastian’s when you go to do the flowers?’

‘You can, my darling. But wouldn’t you prefer to come up with your father?’

‘Oh—I’ve got something for Izzie. I want to give it to her quietly, before everyone’s there.’

‘Well your father will be there in very good time. I really don’t think it’s the best idea, Kit, it will be pandemonium up there, and you’ll just—’

‘Get in the way? Be of no use? Well thanks.’

His voice was bitter; Celia felt dreadful. There was nothing that distressed him more than such observations.

‘Darling, of course not. But—’

‘No it’s all right. I understand. I’ve got used to it, you know.’

‘No, Kit, of course you must come. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. At about two. No later.’

‘Oh—I don’t know. Not if—’

‘Kit—’

‘Well—all right. Thanks. If you’re sure it’s not too much bother.’

‘Kit, it’s no bother at all. I’m sorry if I upset you.’

‘That’s all right.’

Well, he’d handled that pretty well.

‘Isabella—’

‘Yes, Father?’

‘A little toast.’

They were alone in the dining room; in the late May dusk. Sebastian had opened the French windows; the sky was turning palest grey, settling over the pink haze of a London sunset. The gently brilliant colours of spring, of apple and cherry blossom, wisteria and clematis filled the garden; somewhere a thrush was singing its evening song, a pair of swallows swooped and rose again.

‘Lovely, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, Father, it is.’

‘Your mother loved this time.’

He scarcely ever mentioned her mother; it hurt him too much.

‘Did—did she?’

‘Yes. And this time of year. That’s why she was so—happy that you were to be born in the spring.’

‘Yes. Yes, I see.’

‘You’re so very like her, Isabella.’

‘Yes, I know. I mean, people are always telling me.’

‘I haven’t been a very good father to you, I’m afraid.’

‘Father, that’s not true.’ Tears filled her eyes, hot, dangerous tears.

‘No, it is true. I’ve been rather—distant, I’m afraid. Certainly at first.’

She was silent.

‘I just wanted to tell you that I know that if your mother could see you today, she would have been so very proud of you.’

‘Would she?’

Not of a daughter who was going to run away: run away from her own birthday party, hurt her father dreadfully.

‘Yes, she would. She was a remarkable person, your mother. Very freespirited.’