No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  Part Three

  1918 – 1920

  CHAPTER 15

  ‘Oliver! Oliver, my darling, don’t, don’t cry. Didn’t you hear what I said, I said the war is over. LM just telephoned, saying had we heard, Oliver don’t, please don’t—’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wiping his eyes on the back of his hand, blowing his nose hard. ‘Yes, I did hear.’

  ‘But—’ she stared at him, ‘but Oliver—’

  ‘Celia it’s wonderful news, of course it is. But I find it hard to rejoice, I’m afraid. Look at me, look at all these chaps here, look at young Billy, think of Jay’s father. All for what? Well, at least there won’t be any more dead, any more wounded.’

  ‘No. No, of course there won’t.’

  She felt upset at his reaction, confused; LM had said London was in uproar, the king had come out on to the balcony at Buckingham Palace, strangers were joining hands and singing Rule Britannia, in Trafalgar Square huge crowds were dancing, shouting, ‘Have we won the war?’ and then, ‘Yes we’ve won the war’. It sounded so exciting, such fun, making some kind of sense of all the misery of the past four years. And here, in her mother’s house, her husband was in tears.

  She sighed, struggling for patience, as she did so often these days. Later, she heard from Sylvia that young Frank had reported a very muted reception to the ceasefire on the front. Told to maintain their position for the remaining few hours, the men had waited silently for news. At eleven a.m. the Germans laid down their arms.

  ‘It was weird. A few of us got together, us and Fritz, exchanged ciggies, till the officers stopped it, said it wasn’t allowed. I don’t think any of us could quite believe it.’

  Her brother-in-law told much the same story. ‘All I could think of, all most of us could think of, was the millions of men who’d died. For what? It was hard to rejoice.’

  Oliver had come home to Ashingham in late September; he could be cared for there in comfort. He was still very frail; he had sustained a serious wound to his stomach, and had had three separate operations to remove all the shrapnel. The wounds were only now beginning to heal.

  He was grateful to be home, quietly pleased to see her and the children, but beyond that interested only in himself and his recovery. Celia took a few days off to be with him and settle him in; it was a strange, happy time, but looking back, everything seemed to be slightly out of focus, nothing as it had been or even as she might have expected. She had met him in London at Victoria, watched, shocked, as his stretcher was taken off the ambulance train, to see his emaciated form – and ashen face, with his blue eyes, which seemed somehow paler and more sunken. He was helplessly weak, scarcely able to lift his hand to take hers and smile at her. She had hired a private ambulance and travelled in it with him; he had hardly spoken during the journey, not even to complain, although he was clearly still in considerable pain. Later that night, when he had been settled in his room, given some medication, had a sleep, she had gone quietly in, sat down beside him.

  ‘I can hardly believe you are here,’ she said, and then, when he did not answer, ‘I love you, Oliver. I love you so much.’

  Still silence: then, ‘May I have some water?’

  Absurdly, she felt resentment: that he could say this and yet not respond to her; then she shook herself. He had been repeatedly to hell and back; she had no right to expect anything from him at all.

  She gave him some water, said quietly, ‘How are you?’

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘yes, all right. Glad to be home.’

  And that was all she got from him for twenty-four hours.

  The next night he seemed stronger; he had slept well, the pain was easier. The twins and Barty had been allowed in, just for a few minutes each; he had smiled at them, appeared pleased to see them, managed to kiss the twins, to hold Barty’s hand. He told her he had enjoyed her stories, they had helped him a lot; it was more than he had said to anyone since he got back. Again irritation, and an odd resentment stirred in Celia; again she stifled it, shocked at herself. Later she went in with a cup of warm milk for him; he was on a liquid diet, and being given fluid intravenously. She helped him to sit up, held the cup for him; he sank back on the pillows exhausted, and suddenly smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you, my darling. I’m – sorry.’

  ‘Oliver! For what?’

  ‘Not to be more of a husband to you.’

  ‘Oliver, that’s absurd. I don’t expect anything from you, anything at all.’

  ‘I do love you,’ he said, and went straight to sleep.

  She felt better after that, better able to cope with his irritability, his self-obsession, his silence. It was difficult; the children were disappointed, had expected hugs, kisses, an interest in them and in what they were doing. As I did, thought Celia, struggling to explain to them why he was as he was, to lower their expectations. The twins were not impressed, but Barty was.

  ‘He’s had such a horrible time,’ she said to them, ‘and he’s just dreadfully tired. He can’t think about anything else till he’s better.’

  The twins stared at her; then, ‘He’s not your daddy,’ said Adele, and, ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ said Venetia, and they both ran off; Barty looked after them, her eyes filling with tears. It was so long since they’d been unkind to her, she’d forgotten how it hurt.

  ‘Don’t take any notice of them,’ said Celia, putting her arm round her, ‘you know what they’re like. And thank you for trying to explain. What you said was exactly right.’

  Barty didn’t answer, managed a rather weak smile, and walked off towards the library. Next afternoon Celia found her reading to Oliver from the Just So stories. She felt irrationally irritated.

  ‘Barty, you know Wol is supposed to sleep in the afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, but he—’

  ‘Now run along. My mother was looking for you.’

  ‘That was unkind,’ said Oliver mildly, when Barty had gone.

  ‘Not at all. She knows perfectly well this is your rest time.’

  ‘I was wide awake, the door was open, she offered, and I thought it would be nice. I was bored.’

  ‘Oliver, I would have read to you, if you’d wanted me to.’

  ‘Yes, but Barty offered. Oh darling, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, it’s a good sign, don’t you think, that I was bored?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course.’ She looked at him; she wanted to talk to him, this might be a good time. ‘Oliver, after the weekend, I really have to get back to London. To Lyttons.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ he said, closing his eyes. ‘I’ll be all right. I’m well looked after here.’

  Nothing about her, nothing about missing her: only himself . . . Stop it Celia, stop it, you’re being childish. She bent and kissed his forehead.

  ‘Good. I’m glad you feel that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Shall I sit with you for a while?’

  ‘Oh no, darling, I don’t think so. I’m very tired, I might sleep now, after all. You did say it was my rest time.’

  ‘Yes I did,’ said Celia and left the room quietly.

  When she left on Sunday night, she kissed him goodbye tenderly. He seemed stronger, sitting up, reading.

  ‘Goodbye, my darling, I’ll come down again next weekend. As long as I can get the petrol, of course.’

  ‘Yes, well, if you can. I feel so much better this evening. It’s been a lovely day.’

  ‘Hasn’t it? I’m glad you enjoyed it.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have.’

  ‘I’m afraid the house in London is in a bit of a state. And the office. What with the—’

  ‘Really? Darling, could you possibly bring me some books down when you come? I’m reading more now, and your father’s library is a bit limited. Nothing more recent than Mr Dickens.’

  ‘Yes of course,’ she said happily. ‘I could bring you some manuscripts and some of the things we’ve been publishing, if you like.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘oh no, that
sounds rather too much like hard work. I was more thinking of things like Conan Doyle, this fellow Dornford Yates. That really would cheer me up.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘yes, all right.’

  ‘I’m tired now, darling. I wonder if you could draw the curtains, let me have a sleep. Goodbye. I’ll hope to see you very soon.’

  Nothing about missing her, nothing about driving carefully, nothing about what problems might confront her at the other end. Of course, she must expect that. Of course. But it was difficult just the same. Unbidden, the words of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough, came into her head: it was one of her favourite quotations. ‘The duke returned from the wars today, and did pleasure me in his top-boots.’

  That was what she had dreamed of through the years: an impatient, joyful, glorious reunion. Reality was proving very far from that.

  The next weekend he looked far better; the weather was beautiful still, and he was in the garden when she arrived, just before Saturday lunch. Barty was sitting with him; she ran over to Celia.

  ‘Aunt Celia, hallo. Wol is much better, he’s got his drip out, and he’s eating some soup. I fed him myself last night,’ she added proudly.

  ‘How lovely,’ said Celia, kissing Oliver. ‘I’m so glad. Hallo, darling. It’s marvellous to see you in the garden.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I’m so enjoying it. And Barty is a wonderful nurse. And she’s been playing the piano for me as well. Darling, did you bring me some books to read?’

  ‘Yes, lots. And also a new book I want you to—’ She was dying to show him Sebastian Brooke’s astonishing work; it had absorbed her totally through the week, reading it, thinking about it, planning when and how they could publish it, what it would be worth, how much she should offer his agent.

  ‘Oh, darling, nothing new, please. I told you I really couldn’t manage it. Something light, I did say. I meant to ask you if you could get something by Warwick Deeping. And Conan Doyle, as I—’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘yes, of course. Well, that is what I’ve brought. Actually. Here.’

  ‘Wonderful. I shall start immediately after my lunch. My soup. How long will that be, Barty? Would you like to go and find out?’

  Barty ran off. Celia waited. Waited for him to say he was pleased to see her, ask her how the drive had been, the week had been. How she was, even. None of it came. Nor did it for the entire weekend.

  ‘How is your husband?’ asked Sebastian Brooke the following Monday. They were lunching at the Savoy Hotel, waiting for his agent; she had already made an offer for the book. Otherwise she knew someone else would. She had actually asked Oliver if he would like to discuss it, and he had said flatly that he wouldn’t. ‘I’m not up to it, darling, sorry. I just have to leave it all to you for the time being.’

  The offer had been accepted; four hundred pounds. An enormous amount of money. Then Sebastian’s agent, Paul Davis, had phoned her again. Macmillan wanted the book, had offered more. Was she still interested? She said yes, she was, but didn’t think she could go any higher; in that case, said Paul Davis, she might have to wave it goodbye. Celia took a deep breath, said would five hundred pounds secure it? Davis said he would put it to his client. He came back to her later that day, and said five hundred and fifty would see it safely hers. These were enormous sums of money: the standard advance against royalties (of twenty per cent) was twenty pounds. Oliver had always said that if it was enough for A E Housman it was enough for anyone. Very occasionally there would be an item in The Bookseller saying that some extremely famous author had been offered two hundred pounds, but it was rare. And Sebastian was hardly famous. Although of course he would be, and Lyttons would be more famous with him. Celia closed her eyes, gripped the edge of the desk and said all right, five hundred and fifty. It would, after all, be money recouped from Sebastian’s sales. The lunch was to settle the deal and celebrate the association of Lyttons and Sebastian Brooke.

  ‘Oh – he’s much better,’ she said to Sebastian now. ‘Yes. Still very weak, of course.’

  ‘I’m sure. Poor chap. But glad to be home. Glad to see you.’ He smiled at her: that wonderful, brilliant smile.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘well yes, he is glad.’ And then for no reason other than that she wanted to tell someone, had to tell someone, added, ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Now what does that mean, you suppose?’

  ‘Oh – I don’t know. He’s very – down.’ Even as she heard the words she thought how absurd they sounded, how ridiculously inadequate; she met Sebastian Brooke’s eyes, smiled awkwardly. ‘What a stupid thing to say. Of course he is.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘of course he is. But that doesn’t make it any easier, does it?’

  ‘No,’ she said startled, ‘no, it doesn’t.’

  ‘It’s awfully difficult,’ he said, ‘all round. These reunions.’

  ‘You – that is—’

  ‘Oh I had one,’ he said smiling again, ‘a disastrous one. I’ve recovered now. As you see. I’ll tell you about it another time if you like.’

  She looked at him, wondering, not for the first time, about his personal affairs, aware suddenly how much he and his life intrigued her. ‘That would be . . .’ she said, then stopped.

  Paul Davis was being shown to the table. He bowed over Celia’s hand. She disliked him; he was excessively sycophantic: an oleaginous shark, as Oliver had once called him. She was surprised that he was representing Sebastian, that Sebastian should have taken on such a man; on the other hand he was extremely successful.

  ‘Lady Celia. How beautiful you look, and what a very nice treat. Not many publishers buy me lunch in such style these days.’

  ‘Well, we know about style at Lyttons,’ said Celia.

  ‘Indeed you do. How is Oliver? I heard he was home.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, he’s much better. He’s down at my mother’s home, convalescing.’

  ‘Well, I hope he will be back in London soon. Putting us through our paces, driving hard bargains. I daresay a spell in the trenches is good for that sort of thing.’

  ‘A spell in the trenches isn’t good for anything,’ said Sebastian Brooke quietly. ‘except taking away your zest for life.’

  ‘You’ve heard about Sebastian’s war, have you?’ said Paul Davis.

  ‘No. No I haven’t. We’ve only talked about Meridian.’

  ‘Well, no doubt he’ll tell you about it. His great claim to fame was enlisting as a private. Didn’t you, Sebastian?’

  ‘I did indeed.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’ asked Celia in genuine astonishment.

  ‘Oh – I entirely lack leadership qualities,’ said Sebastian lightly. ‘I thought I’d rather be told what to do. I also greatly admire the British working man, and came to admire him even more out there. I don’t think I would have enjoyed being in the officers’ dugout nearly as much.’

  ‘But – but it must have been so much harder,’ she said, ‘the conditions, the—’

  ‘In some ways, perhaps. Physically yes. But emotionally, mentally it was easier. I just literally obeyed orders.’

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘Oh – two of the big ones. Etapes, the Somme—’

  ‘Oh. Well—’ she stared at him, unable to think of anything to say.

  ‘Then he got lucky,’ said Paul Davis, ‘got wounded. Got sent home. And had time to write this wonderful book. Let’s talk about that shall we? Now I’ve had a further offer, Lady Celia.’

  ‘You have?’ She felt sick. She really could not, dared not, offer any more.

  ‘Yes. Collins phoned me just before I left.’

  ‘Paul,’ said Sebastian, ‘I’m not sure that I—’

  ‘Sebastian, let me do this will you?’ said Paul Davis, visibly struggling to sound cheerful and firm. ‘I don’t know why I let you come to this lunch. Very irregular.’

  ‘It was because I insisted,’ said Sebastian lightly, ‘as you do actually very well know.’ Celia looked at him; his eyes met hers in absolute complic
ity. And something else. Something she pushed to the bottom of her mind.

  ‘OK, all right. Anyway, that’s the situation, Lady Celia. They’re very anxious to buy it. Talking about some quite large sums of money.’

  ‘Well,’ said Celia firmly, ‘I understood that my offer had been accepted.’ She didn’t feel very firm. She knew the five hundred and fifty was far more than Lyttons could actually afford at that time, that it was an outrageous amount of money for a new author. But she also knew she had to have Meridian, had wanted to put down a sum that would guarantee the book for her. If necessary she had decided to do the unthinkable, and fund the offer from her own private income.

  ‘It was. But I have to do my best for my client. I’m beginning to envisage some kind of an auction, as a matter of fact. Starting with your final bid, of course.’

  ‘I’m afraid it is my final bid.’ She felt sick; she could see Meridian moving away from her. She looked out of the window at the river, envisaged the book drifting down towards Greenwich, to the meridian line which was so central to its concept, taking Sebastian with it. Well, perhaps, it was for the best; she should never have made such a huge offer without Oliver’s agreement; or at least LM’s.

  ‘In that case,’ said Paul Davis regretfully, ‘I’m afraid you’re in danger of losing it. Because – ah, Lady Celia do you want to order?’

  She nodded, picked up the menu. She felt terribly disappointed, near to tears. It was ridiculous; she’d lost books before.

  ‘Sebastian, I think you said the oysters. And then—’

  ‘No, just a moment,’ said Sebastian, ‘come back in a minute, would you?’ he said to the waiter. ‘Paul, I’m very unhappy about this. Very unhappy indeed. Lady Celia has already made a very generous offer and I am happy with it. She wants to publish the book. Provided that her ideas agree with mine, which is what I had thought this lunch was about, I want her to publish it. Can we please settle on that?’