No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘What does your Mrs Pember Reeves think about women’s suffrage?’ asked LM.

  Celia’s face closed in on itself. ‘I – don’t quite know,’ she said quickly. ‘We never really talked about it.’

  Celia and the Fabian movement had parted, extremely stormily, after the removal of Barty from her family. Mrs Pember Reeves had told her that, quite apart from making a serious mistake from the point of view of the movement and its aims (thereby forcing them to request Lady Celia’s immediate resignation) she had done something wrong and extremely cruel.

  ‘You have turned that child into a social experiment, Lady Celia. She will suffer for it all her life.’

  Those words haunted Celia; two years later, when she was tired or dispirited, the memory of them could still reduce her to tears. She crushed them hastily now.

  ‘What we should do I think,’ she said slowly, ‘is find a really splendid woman novelist to write a book for us, with the suffragette movement at its heart. That would do a lot of good I’m sure. I’ll think about it really hard. Mind you, I haven’t got much time at the moment. We sail for America in two weeks. Oh LM, I’m so excited. On the Titanic! Her maiden voyage. How many people will be able to boast of that in years to come?’

  Lyttons were riding high early that year. The publishing business was generally booming, the actual number of books published had increased from six thousand in 1900 to over twelve thousand in 1912. People wanted to read and the leisured classes had been joined in that by the working man – and woman – better educated now and eager to extend their personal horizons. Lyttons had somehow caught precisely the mood of the age: its new fiction was intelligent and challenging, not merely entertaining. Celia’s Biographica list fed the hunger for knowledge, and a new series of books that Oliver had proposed on popular scientific subjects, such as astronomy, meteorology and botany, were flying out of the bookshops.

  ‘We love your books, Mr Lytton,’ the proprietor of Hatchards, Piccadilly told him over lunch at the famous publishers’ table in the Garrick Club one day. ‘They have such a style of their own. However different the subject matter and indeed the design of the dust jackets, they all have – how can I express it – they all have such an air of quality. I never hesitate to recommend anything from the house of Lytton to anyone. I trust them. Let us raise our glasses to Lyttons and to quality.’

  Such accolades had given Oliver the confidence to expand the company, increase print runs, hire extra staff. And to look at the American market – where already several of his English competitors were publishing. The forthcoming trip would be much more than just an opportunity to visit his brother’s home and meet the latest small Lytton. His working relationship with Celia had also settled into something more comfortable, less threatening than it had been in the early years; Oliver’s own self-assurance, his many personal successes, the fact he was now regarded in the literary world as one of the lions of publishing, had meant that he could see her not only as part of his winning team, but as important, essential, even, to it. He found himself able to consider her suggestions, to welcome her talent for innovation, to praise her, to criticise her, all with an easy disregard for the fact that she was his wife. Which in turn had its effect on their personal relationship, made it stronger, more robust, more pliable even. He still sometimes wished she was at home, running the household, caring for the children, but he could see that if he achieved that ambition, he would fail in another, equally precious: the growth of both the financial and literary success of Lyttons.

  Celia had also become one of London’s literary hostesses: an invitation to a dinner party at the Lyttons was something to be angled for, talked about, treasured. There in the dining-room at the back of the house, overlooking the exqusitely designed, carefully wild garden, the great and the good would gather: writers, publishers, artists, actors, the occasional politician, anyone, indeed, with something interesting and original to say. The Longman cousins, Robert Guy and William L were favourite guests; so was John Murray, Sir Frederick Macmillan, William Collins IV and his younger brother Godfrey, and – perhaps Oliver’s greatest friend in the industry, Joseph Malaby Dent. They would be joined by the most famous literary names of their day, Macaulay, Yeats, George Bernard Shaw, Hugh Walpole, Kipling, Harold Nicolson, and bringing grace and glamour to the occasion, the Sackville Wests, Mrs Patrick Campbell, Lady Diana Manners, the dazzling Grenfell brothers, Julian and Billy, and on one particuarly glorious occasion, the greatest dancers of their day, Nijinsky and Karsavina.

  It was said that if Celia Lytton had ever wished to write a gossip column for her friend Lord Northcliffe (another frequent guest) she would not have had to stir from her own dining-room. She presided over these occasions with charm and skill; her placements were challenging and interesting, one publisher’s bestselling author seated next to another, an old establishment figure opposite a revolutionary preaching trades union rights, state pensions or, of course, equal rights for women.

  Celia, her beauty illuminated by candlelight, dressed always in black, would sit at one end of the table, arguing, challenging, charming, and at times outraging; Oliver, all grace and old-style courtesy, sat at the other. It was an unbreakable rule of the Lytton dining-room that the ladies never left the gentlemen to their port and doubtful stories, but stayed to share in them, and so there was never the sharp division of male and female conversation. The talk would travel endlessly, unbroken, from gossip and chatter to literary argument to political debate and back again; the parties continuing well into the not-so-small hours, sometimes until three or four in the morning. One August, indeed, Celia had thrown a birthday party for herself that had only ended with a champagne breakfast as dawn broke. For anyone with social or literary pretensions, an invitation to the Lyttons was a delight: the lack of one was little better than a disaster.

  But it was her trip to New York which was absorbing much of Celia’s energy that spring; she was inordinately excited about it. With only six weeks to go, she had bought an enormous number of clothes for the voyage: day dresses, dinner dresses, sports clothes – she was much taken with the idea of deck tennis and all the other sporting activities available on this wonderful ship. She had invested in a set of new luggage, including a cabin trunk, which was actually a small portable wardrobe and would not even need to be unpacked. She and Oliver had a stateroom on Two Deck, and were promised calm seas and a record speed for the voyage. Robert would meet them at the docks on their arrival in New York, they would stay at the Elliott mansion on Fifth Avenue, and apart from the social delights of the visit – Jeanette was insisting on giving a large dinner party for them, and on taking them out to Long Island for a weekend in East Hampton – there would be plenty of time to meet American publishers and bookshop owners; and for Celia to partake of such New York pleasures as Saks Fifth Avenue and Henry Bendel. She was so excited she was literally unable to sleep.

  ‘I have been thinking,’ said Jeanette.

  ‘Really, my darling?’

  ‘Don’t mock me, Robert. You know I don’t like it.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ It was true; she liked, indeed demanded, to be taken seriously. ‘Are you going to tell me about it?’

  ‘Yes. Because it could affect you. I am thinking of investing in Lyttons.’

  Robert felt a stab of irritation. When he had needed investment money, she had refused; now that he was doing well, she was seeking to join in his success. And to rob him, to a degree, of his personal achievement.

  ‘I think it’s a little late for that, my dear,’ he said, trying to keep his voice light, ‘Brewer Lytton are doing very nicely.’

  ‘No Robert, you misunderstand. Of course they are. I’m so proud of you. No, I mean the other Lyttons. The literary Lyttons.’

  ‘What? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I am so very impressed by them all. Oliver and Celia, and his rather terrifying sister. It seems to me they are extraordinarily talented. Moreover I find what they are doing quite fascinating. I
have always been drawn to the arts, as you know. Here is my chance to be personally involved.’

  ‘In – what way would you see that involvement?’

  ‘I thought I would like to help them establish a presence in New York. Oliver mentioned that he was thinking of it when we went over there, but that he lacked the finance, and I know that several English publishers are moving into the city.’

  ‘I see.’ He felt shocked, almost outraged. That she should bestow upon Oliver what she had refused him; that she should think of it herself, without any prompting, any request. It was monstrously unfair: not to say arrogant.

  ‘Yes. I thought I could provide some capital: on a strictly business basis of course.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So that they could obtain premises, hire staff, all that sort of thing. I should enjoy it enormously.’

  ‘And would you be looking for an – involvement in this venture?’ asked Robert.

  ‘Oh – a little, obviously. I should want to know what they were publishing and why, should like to go to board meetings, I would be on the board naturally.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘But mostly, I would like to learn about publishing, first hand. I think it would be a most interesting experience.’

  ‘Yes, I daresay.’

  ‘You don’t look altogether pleased. Why is that, my dearest?’

  She knew as well as he did. But there was no point spelling it out.

  He looked at her. ‘I just wondered, Jeanette, if you had considered the possibility that Oliver might not welcome your proposal.’

  ‘Not welcome it? How absurd. Why ever should he not?’

  ‘He is a fiercely independent person. And Lyttons is very much a family firm. I don’t know that he would welcome outside interference.’

  ‘Now that is absurd, Robert. If he was so independent, he would have founded his own firm, not merely taken on his father’s. This would actually be a chance for him to do that. And I am family, or so I had supposed. I am a little hurt that you should consider me otherwise. No, I have made up my mind. I shall write to him, so that he has time to consider the suggestion before they arrive here in April. In fact if you will excuse me, my dearest, I shall go and do it now. There is no time like the present; Jonathan taught me that.’

  Damn Jonathan, thought Robert, walking out of the room, closing the door just a little too firmly; damn him and damn his money. He didn’t like this; he didn’t like it at all.

  Jago stood in the entrance to the hall in Camden High Street, one of very few men in a turbulent ocean of women – and wondered just for a moment what he was doing there. He was tired, and really needed to get to bed early. He had to be up at five the next day, to get to a job in Clapham, but – well, he had just felt he ought to. He was more than concerned at the exclusion of women from the franchise, he felt actually outraged. And he didn’t understand how LM, who was, after all, a prime candidate for the battle could continue to regard it as in some way beneath her. Well, not beneath, but certainly outside her immediate interest.

  He supposed it was because she had never had to fight for her rights. Or indeed for anything really. Her father had obviously been half a century ahead of his time in his attitudes, sending her to university, and then employing her in a proper position, equal to that of her brother, rather than in some kind of token job, looking pretty in reception or typing letters. So she took it as her due. But then surely she should feel she had to campaign for other women, who had not had such opportunities. It wasn’t her background: lots of the famous suffragettes came from quite privileged homes. Christabel Pankhurst herself had hardly had to fight for her position in the world. They cared for other women, they wanted to extend their good fortune. LM should too. They had had words about it: not exactly angry with each other, but certainly annoyed. Well, it was too bad; he felt he had to come and he had said so; and now he was here. And didn’t quite know what to do with himself, or where to sit or—

  ‘If you don’t want to miss the beginning, you’d better sit down. Plenty of room, over there look.’ It was a light, slightly amused voice, with a London twang to it: a pretty voice.

  Jago swung round to look at its owner: she was pretty too, young, with fair hair and large grey eyes, surprisingly well-dressed, in a pale green dress and hat. ( Jago sometimes got rather tired of LM’s uniform, although he would never have said so to her, thought how much nicer she would look in softer, more feminine clothes.)

  ‘Come on,’ she said, smiling, as he continued to stand there, ‘you can sit with me if you like.’

  He followed her in; to his embarrassment she led him to the front row. He looked round; the hall was full. There were several men, a good twenty or so; that was encouraging. His companion saw him checking them out and smiled.

  ‘You’re not alone, you see. No need to be frightened.’

  He smiled back at her.

  The speaker raised her hand for silence: a tall, striking woman with black hair and piercing dark eyes.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ she said, ‘it’s good to see so many new faces as well as the more familiar ones. I would urge any newcomers to join the NUWSS; we need all the supporters we can muster. You will find enrolment forms at the back of the hall; please take one as you leave. Now, I want to talk to you first about violence.’

  Lord, thought Jago; surely this lot weren’t going to turn to violent protests as well. They must realise it didn’t do their cause much good.

  ‘As you know,’ the speaker went on, ‘we at the NUWSS have always eschewed violence; we favour peaceful means and the gentle persuasion of such parliamentary figures as Mr Lloyd George and Mr Balfour, rather than the more militant methods of our sisters. The Labour Party has come round very strongly to the idea of supporting votes for women. So what I want to talk to you about next tonight is the establishment of an Election Fighting Fund. This would finance candidates for the Labour Party, at the next election, probably in 1915. If we can get enough candidates elected, then our own battle will be won.’

  Jago sat listening intently, wondering if in fact she was right; if a continued peaceful campaign would be more successful than the extremely belligerent one favoured by the suffragettes. To work from within certainly seemed more sensible; on the other hand it required a certain faith in politics and politicians, which Jago personally lacked. Just the same, at the end of the meeting, he found himself signing up, not only for membership of the NUWSS, but as a volunteer for the Election Fighting Fund.

  ‘Although I don’t know what I can put into it,’ he said to the pretty girl, whose name, he had discovered, was Violet Brown. ‘I haven’t got a penny piece to spare.’

  ‘No more have I, nor have many of us,’ she said, smiling at him cheerfully, ‘doesn’t mean you can’t help us find people who have. You know anybody who might know anybody with money?’

  Jago said, rather too hastily, that he couldn’t think of any off-hand.

  He didn’t mention it to LM for a few days. She was – well she was a bit odd about her finances. Protective. Almost secretive. Refused to talk about them. He could never quite work out why. She had so much money: what seemed to him an unlimited supply. He supposed it was partly because she was innately tactful and saw it as an area of difficulty between them, but also because she was, and always had been, completely independent in every way: her money, like her life, was her own, to manage as she wished, and she was answerable to nobody. She once revealed to him, rather uncharacteristically, that she had lost quite a large sum speculating on the stock market, not enough to cause her problems, exactly, but certainly to give her pause for thought. But when he asked her for details, offered her sympathy even, she became edgy, almost truculent.

  ‘It’s my own business,’ she said, clearly regretting she had mentioned it at all, ‘and if I’ve been foolish then that is for me to worry about, it has nothing to do with anybody else.’

  After that he had never mentioned money again.

/>   It wasn’t that she was tight, quite the reverse. Not only had she, over the years, continued to offer him money to start his own firm – which he continued to refuse – but she always bought him splendid presents for his birthday and for Christmas, clothes, books, pictures and ornaments for the small house he was so fond of. At first, being as proud and independent as she was, he had found them difficult to accept; but he had come to see that this would in itself have been mean, that in allowing her to give him presents, he could give something back to her. For his last birthday, she had given him the most generous present yet, an extremely nice silver pocket watch on a chain. That had been almost too much, in fact; he liked it very much, but he hardly ever wore it, except when he visited her; it seemed to him likely to invite hostile comment from his friends and workmates and even the possibility of assault and robbery as he walked home late at night through the mean streets of Kilburn, or sat drinking in public houses. At times it also represented a considerable temptation. It was all very well being the owner of something so splendid, but when he was out of work he would look at it, lying in its dark blue velvet-lined box, and think that if he sold it – or even pawned it – he would have no problems for several weeks, could buy food, coal, a great deal of beer. He could even take LM out for an occasional meal rather than endlessly accept her hospitality. So far he had resisted, aware, of course, that it would be a dreadful betrayal of their relationship, but he sometimes wondered if it had ever occurred to LM that she had bestowed a burden as well as a gift upon him. He rather thought it had not.

  ‘Well – I suppose so,’ she said, when he finally suggested a donation.

  ‘I certainly approve of the NUWSS more than the suffragettes. Their approach seems more intelligent to me. Working with the Labour Party seems a much more positive position to start from. I’ll – well I’ll certainly think about it, Jago.’