‘I want to be a keeper’s boy when I grow up,’ he announced.
But LM, observing his love of books, the pleasure he took in writing, and even in learning his times tables, knew that his ambitions would ultimately rise beyond that.
She knew Jago would never have countenanced boarding school for him; not at an early age, at any rate. She still struggled to keep faith with Jago, as far as Jay’s upbringing was concerned; it was difficult, because they had never even had so much as an ‘I’d want a child of mine to play the piano/have a bicycle/his own dog’ kind of conversation, and certainly nothing of a serious nature. But she thought she knew at least what kind of life, in the broadest sense, Jago would have wanted for his son. It would certainly include a good education. And, boarding or not, if he were to go to a good school, even at thirteen, he would need a better grounding than the village school could provide.
There was quite a good boys’ preparatory school in Beaconsfield which she planned to inspect for an eight-year-old entry; after that, perhaps he might go to a grammar school, rather than to public school. She knew Jago would have approved of that. On the other hand, public school would open professional doors to him in later life that even the best grammar school would not: it was all very difficult. And she had no one to share her anxieties with; Oliver was always too busy, too distracted, to talk to her about anything except Lyttons; Lady Beckenham and Celia both thought that he should go to prep school when he was eight; it was as inevitable as exchanging milk teeth for adult ones, short trousers for long. Dorothy, on the other hand, would have liked to keep Jay safely at home, even to do his lessons until he was eighteen. And there simply wasn’t anyone else.
Dear Miss Lytton,
I so enjoyed our teatime meeting the other day, and I am writing also to thank you from the bottom of my heart for the book you sent me. I shall value it always: such a superb piece of writing and the fact that is is a First Edition, and the book is already in its seventh printing, makes it quite extraordinarily valuable. It is so extremely kind and generous of you.
I do very much hope that on your next trip to London, for the monthly board meeting which you mentioned, you will allow me to buy you tea once again. I look forward to hearing from you.
Yours sincerely,
Gordon Robinson
The letter had come that morning; she read it smiling, thinking how nice it was to be able to give such pleasure with such ease. He really was a very charming man. A little dull, perhaps, slightly old-maidish even, but considerate, thoughtful, and so very courteous. And really, she was happier in the company of such people: the glittering crowd with whom Oliver and Celia tended to surround themselves, the Beckenhams’ dreadful hunting and shooting lot – she preferred quietly-spoken, unpretentious Gordon Robinson any day. Then she started thinking about Jago and what Gordon Robinson would have made of him, and indeed what he would have made of Gordon Robinson, and sighed heavily. She sometimes thought she must be a very odd person.
‘This is very early in the day to be behaving like this,’ said Sebastian.
‘Ten o’clock indeed!’
‘I know, I know. But I have this meeting in Hampstead, and I couldn’t resist it. I just looked up the Finchley Road and thought I could see you for an hour or so. So here I am.’
‘I might not have been here.’
‘Sebastian! When are you ever out of the house early?’ Sebastian was a late riser; for a person of such consummate energy, it was surprising.
‘Well come on, shall we go upstairs?’ They had been kissing, with some fervour, in the hall. He stood back, holding out her hands, examining her. She was wearing a dark pink crepe dress with one of the new very short skirts half way up her calf, and a dropped waistline, her dark hair hidden under a small-brimmed cream straw hat. ‘It seems almost a shame to take that off, you look so lovely in it.’
‘I’m not going to take anything off. Except, perhaps, the hat. I haven’t got time. I just wanted to see you, Sebastian, see you and touch you and hear you. Nothing more.’
‘Oh my darling. Oh dear. You’ve made me feel quite – well emotional. Come into the kitchen then, let me make you a cup of tea.’
She followed him in, sat on one of the wooden chairs, watching him in silence.
‘I do love you, you know,’ he said abruptly, ‘so very much.’
‘I know you do. I know, Sebastian.’
‘It’s beginning to make me unhappy.’
‘Don’t say that. There’s no point in any of it if we’re unhappy,’ she said, thinking of her mother.
‘I suppose not. And – when a man is in love he endures more than at other times.’
‘That’s very profound.’
‘Not original I’m afraid. Nietzsche. I was reading him this morning. Anyway, here you are. Nice cuppa. I’ve got something else to tell you.’
‘What?’
‘I’ve told Millicent about you.’
‘You – what?’ She stared at him, jolted physically.
‘Yes. Well not exactly you, of course, that would have been unwise, dangerous for you even. But that there was a you. I told her this weekend. I can’t go on like this, married to her, loving you so much, pretending . . .’
‘But Sebastian that’s—’ she paused, then – ‘that’s so cruel. Why do it, when she’s perfectly happy? You said so yourself and there’s no possible future for us—’
‘Oh, she doesn’t really care. She took it rather well, actually. She doesn’t see much of me these days, after all, and she rather enjoys her status, of marriage to a famous man who’s more or less deserted her. It suits her rather romantic turn of mind. It also turns out she has an admirer. So in any case I won’t even have to turn up at her side for hunt balls in future.’
‘Oh,’ she said. She sat there staring at him, envying him more than she would have believed, this swift, easy exit from his marriage.
‘But,’ he went on, sitting down opposite her at the table, taking her hand in his, gazing at her very intently, ‘but however she had reacted, I would have had to do it. I love you too much to go on like this, travelling up and down to her every weekend, pretending. Far too much. I am still fond of her of course; I always shall be. I shall see that all goes well for her. But I cannot continue to live with her. Even for two days a week. It is as wrong for her as it is for me. And for you.’
‘Sebastian—’ her voice was heavy with fear: fear and regret,
‘Sebastian, you know—’
‘Yes, I know. Of course I know. But at least I am entirely yours now. Even if you cannot be entirely mine. I feel – easier about it. Cleaner. As if I can let my emotions go.’
‘Oh,’ she said again, She looked down at her hands, twisting her rings; she felt dangerously close to both grief and joy. At the knowledge that for her, for a totally unpromised, unhopeful future, Sebastian should have left his wife, even though he no longer loved her. She no longer loved Oliver – did she? – but the severance of all the ties was still a terrifying prospect. Of course, Sebastian and Millicent had no children; but they had those other marital offspring, memories, shared intimacies, hopes, fears, laughter, friends, had lived together through grief and joy, separation and reunion. Together they had shaped his ambition, overcome her breakdown, recovered from the disappointment of a child lost, and no more conceived; more than half their lives had been joined. What he had done for her and his feelings for her had required great courage: and great love.
‘Oh, Sebastian,’ she said, and realised she was crying. ‘Oh, Sebastian, I—’
‘Yes?’ he said, looking at her very intently. ‘Yes, Celia?’
‘I – love you,’ she said, very slowly and then faster, savouring the words, savouring the relief of saying them as well as the fear. ‘I love you. Very very much.’
After she had gone – much much later, Sebastian sat staring out of the window at his garden. It had been a defining moment that, when Celia said she loved him. Until then, she had always shied away
from it, and he had sometimes wondered if he was not simply a diversion for her, a diversion from her increasingly unsatisfactory marriage. Which had hurt, for he loved her very dearly, she had become the centre of his life, and he would have done anything for her. On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that he was only a diversion, for he was aware that he had achieved something rather remarkable in seducing her.
She was famously beautiful and desirable and equally famous for her fidelity to her husband. No one had heard so much as a whisper of scandal about her; even her own enemies, rather more in number than Sebastian’s, could find nothing more damaging to say about her romantic life than that she was a flirt. Other aspects of her life provided grounds, to be sure: she neglected her children, people said, she was drivingly ambitious in a most unwomanly way, she had shown Oliver very little consideration when he came back so ill from the war, leaving him at her mother’s house while she continued to run Lyttons in London.
But her virtue was unquestionable and throughout the war, when infidelity had been so commonplace, all during Oliver’s long absence, she had never done anything that would occupy more than a half sentence of malicious talk. Sebastian was aware of this; it had added – albeit modestly – to his sense of triumph in having finally seduced her, in having accomplished something of rare, indeed unique, distinction, but until that morning he had not known for certain that it was more than a seduction. Now he did know; and moreover, that in time it would be possible to move forward yet again.
Jack was taking Lily out to lunch that day; she had no matinee and they were celebrating their anniversary. ‘Three months exactly, darling, isn’t that quite something?’
He had bought her a present, a small gold watch which she had admired in the window of Garrards, and he had told her to come and collect him from the office.
‘I’d like you to see where I work. Where I earn my crust.’
‘Lot of jam on that crust,’ said Lily briskly, giving him a kiss, and then said she would like to come in, and if she could meet the legendary Lady Celia Lytton, that would be a big bonus.
Jack wanted to talk to Celia himself; he needed her opinion on General Gordon’s manuscript. It seemed pretty good to him, but it was a bit short. He wasn’t very experienced yet, of course, but he did know there wasn’t enough there to make up a full-sized book, even with the lavish illustrations planned for this one. It was his first book, and it was very important to him. He wanted it to be good, to be as right as it possibly could be. Oliver was very pleased with what he called the trade reaction; several of the big bookshops, including Hatchards, Bumpus, Blackwells of Oxford and James Thin in Edinburgh, had all expressed interest in the project.
‘I told you,’ he said to Celia, ‘it’s a minority interest, but it’s a very real one. The British love anything in uniform. And the Mutiny is a marvellously emotive subject, I think it’s going to do very well. As for that stuff of your great-grandfather’s – superb. Quite superb.’
Celia said she had to see a couple of bookshops that morning; ‘But I should be in about eleven. I’ll have a look at it then.’
She was not in by eleven; nor by half past, or even twelve. Jack sighed; he really had wanted to get the book sorted before Lily came in. And besides, he thought it would be an idea to tell Celia how much Lily wanted to meet her. She might be too busy for such an encounter. She did work terribly hard; and she could be quite difficult when she was feeling harrassed. She might even object to his inviting Lily into Lyttons, if she was in a really bad mood. In which case, he would have to tell Lily to stay down in reception.
He thought of talking to Oliver about the book, but that didn’t seem a very good idea. Last time he’d tried to discuss its structure, he’d just said he didn’t have time for that kind of detail, and to talk to one of the editors. But the editor who was dealing with the book, a rather highbrow young man called Edgar Green, wasn’t actually being terribly helpful about it, had just told Jack to get some more text done, if he thought that was necessary. Jack got the impression Edgar rather resented his presence at Lyttons. Anyway, the real point was he couldn’t work out where exactly the extra text might be needed. That was the sort of thing Celia was so good at.
At twenty-five past twelve, the girl in reception telephoned him to say that Miss Fortescue had arrived; Celia was still not back. Lily would be so disappointed. And he’d had a wasted morning. Still, he could show Lily his office. He was rather proud of it. He went down to collect her.
‘And this is what we call a proof,’ he said airily, pulling out a set of proofs of Meridian, which Celia had given him. ‘These funny squiggles in the margins are the printer’s marks, they’re how you correct the proofs. Always in the margins, you see.’
‘They do look complicated,’ said Lily respectfully.
‘Oh, you learn them quite quickly. First the proofs come up in long sheets from the printers, they’re called galleys, and then like this, the page proofs. And – oh, there’s Celia now. Celia, hallo, please do come in. I’ve been waiting for you.’
‘Have you, Jack? I’m so sorry.’ She stood there, smiling in the doorway, looking rather vague, not quite her usual efficient self. ‘I got held up, those bookshop owners are dreadful, and then I had to go and see Gill Thomas.’
She was slightly flushed and her blue eyes were very brilliant; she was wearing a loose pink dress and a cream hat. He felt rather proud of her suddenly, proud to be working with her.
‘Oh it doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter at all. This afternoon will do. Celia, I’d like you to meet Lily Fortescue. She’s come in to collect me, we’re going out to lunch. We’ve got something to celebrate. Lily, this is Lady Celia Lytton.’
‘How do you do, Miss Fortescue,’ said Celia. She smiled again, held out her hand, ‘it’s absolutely lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, and about all your success, getting a part as one of Mr Cochrane’s Young Ladies, Jack is so excited about it. Is that what you’re celebrating? How thrilling.’
She was talking rather more than usual, Jack thought; well that was all right. It was when she was quiet he felt nervous. He looked at Lily. She was taking Celia in, her brown eyes studying her carefully. She was obviously very impressed by her; well, so she should be. But he was proud of Lily too, she was so pretty and she had such beautiful manners. She was telling Celia that it was only a small part, nothing to write home about, but everyone had to start somewhere, and if Celia would like to come and see the show she would be absolutely thrilled.
‘So would I,’ said Celia, ‘absolutely thrilled.’
A silence fell then; Celia looked between them both, then said quickly, ‘Well I’d better get to my desk. Jack we can talk this afternoon about your book. I’m sorry about this morning. Lovely to meet you, Lily. Have a marvellous lunch, both of you.’ And then she was gone.
Lily followed Jack down the stairs and out into the street; she was rather quiet until they got to the restaurant.
Then he said, ‘Isn’t she lovely? Didn’t you like her?’
‘She is very lovely,’ said Lily, ‘and yes I did like her. I liked her a lot.’
‘We get on awfully well,’ he said, pushing her chair in, sitting down himself, ‘always have done, I was only a lad when they got married, I’d only just got my commission. I thought she was tremendous then, so beautiful and such fun. And much as I admire old Wol, as the children call him, he isn’t exactly fun.’
‘No?’ asked Lily.
‘No, not really. And since the war, even less so.’
‘Well she obviously is,’ she said.
Jack looked at her. Then, ‘What is it, Lily?’ he said, ‘you don’t seem quite yourself.’
‘Oh I’m fine,’ she said, ‘really.’
‘Lily, come on. There’s something, I know there is. Didn’t you like Celia? She didn’t say something that upset you did she?’
‘No,’ said Lily, ‘no, of course not. She was utterly charming and very nice to me.�
��
‘Good,’ said Jack. He sat back and smiled at her. There was a silence. Then Lily said thoughtfully, ‘I tell you what though, Jack. I reckon someone had just been giving her one.’
‘What? Oh darling, no. You’re quite wrong there. Celia is a pillar of virtue.’
‘She might have been a pillar up to now,’ said Lily, ‘but not any more. I’d put a lot of money on it, Jack. If I had it. I know that look. All sort of flushed and vaguely excited. She’d been with someone this morning, I bet you. Booksellers holding her up indeed! Pull the other one, Lady Celia, I felt like saying.’
‘My darling,’ said Jack and he looked quite anxious, ‘I really can’t let you talk like this. Celia would never, ever cheat on Oliver. She just wouldn’t. I’d stake my life on it.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Lily, leaning forward, giving him a kiss, ‘I think I value your life a bit more highly than that, Jack.’
CHAPTER 21
‘These sales figures for Meridian really are extraordinary,’ said Oliver, ‘seven editions now, and we are still only in March. That book has legs, as my father used to say. We are going to have to reprint yet again, as soon as possible. We’d better inform the printers.’
‘It is amazing,’ said Celia, ‘Christmas long past, usually children’s books fall right off in January. Sebastian will be pleased. Have you told him?’
‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘I think you should do that. He was your discovery, not mine.’
She looked at him.
‘That’s very – generous of you, Oliver.’ She was surprised; he had always found it difficult to acknowledge her successes. And this one—
‘Well it’s true. Mind you, I think once The Buchanans are out there in the shops, I shall give you a run for your money.’
‘Oh really?’ she said smiling at him, liking the fact that he saw Meridian as hers. As it was. As the author was.
No Angel Page 52
