‘What was that about?’ said Jack.
‘Oh – the old man’s in a bit of a bait. He’s been trying to get hold of Sebastian Brooke and he’s gone missing.’
‘Doesn’t sound very serious.’
‘No. But Brooke wanted to write some sort of foreword to the new edition; they’ve been holding up the printing for days.’
‘Oh, I see.’
‘And nobody seems to know where he is. Anyway, everything all right with the Mutiny?’
‘Oh – yes. Fine. Celia made some suggestions and I’ve asked the author – it seemed too odd to talk about Sandy as an author – to incorporate them.’
‘Good. She’s a clever lady. Only I was cursing her this morning, as well.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh – she’s got the Queen Anne proofs. Not her fault, I said she could take them, but it’s the master set and she won’t be back till tomorrow. I’d forgotten. She’s gone away as well, hasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ said Jack, ‘yes that’s right. Yes, she’s gone to stay with her sister.’
He felt rather odd suddenly. No more than that, of course. Just – odd. It was Henry’s choice of words that did it, he thought, walking slowly back to his own office: ‘She’s gone away as well.’
Sebastian was away; Sebastian had gone missing. And then hearing Lily’s voice very clearly: ‘I reckon somebody’s been giving her one.’ Both of them missing: both of them out of London. Only of course that was absolutely unthinkable. Even more unthinkable than that Celia should be – well – doing anything wrong at all.
Janet Gould was worried about Oliver. He looked very shaky; more like he did when he first came back. He was working much too hard, she was sure of it. She wondered if he’d been looking after himself over the weekend while Lady Celia was away. She really shouldn’t have left him alone, not while he was still so frail. Like most secretaries, Mrs Gould held a proprietorial, an almost wifely attitude towards her boss. He did need to eat properly, with all the damage that had been done to his stomach. And he probably hadn’t bothered that weekend. She decided to make him a cup of coffee and to take him a few biscuits; that would help. When she went in, though, he was looking more like himself, working on a pile of proofs for the new Dictionary of Music he had commissioned a year earlier. He had personally contributed several of the entries and had insisted on checking the proofs himself. Yet more unnecessary work for him, that was what junior editors were for. But he was still clearly worried. She longed to be able to help. An idea came to her.
‘Should I – that is, would you like me to phone Lady Celia’s sister, see if she is there?’ she asked.
She was startled by his reaction; he looked up, glared at her, as if she had done something terribly wrong.
‘Why on earth should you do that?’ he said. His voice was harsh.
‘Well – I thought perhaps she might have spoken to Mr Brooke about the foreword. Have the copy for it, even. Also, I believe she has the proofs of the Queen Anne book, Mr Smyth was wanting them.’
‘Mrs Gould, as I have already said, we have a business to run and more important concerns than Mr Brooke’s feelings. The printing is to go ahead. As for the Queen Anne proofs, they can wait. I really don’t want you to waste your time and the company’s money, chasing my wife all over the country. Thank you, that will be all.’
‘Yes Mr Lytton.’
Poor man. He was obviously feeling terrible.
‘Do eat your biscuits,’ she said and withdrew, closing the door carefully behind her.
Caroline looked at the clock. Nearly two o’clock. She really wanted to go riding. She’d been awfully loyal, stayed in most of the weekend, fielded a couple of phone calls from Oliver, said Celia was out for a walk the first time, asleep the second, called Celia at once to tell her. She’d instructed her staff to fetch her at once if Mr Lytton phoned: not to attempt to answer any calls from him themselves. In any case they were infinitely discreet, like all good domestic staff, understood the code very well. She hadn’t even gone out hunting on the Saturday, Celia had sounded so wobbly. This was clearly very much her introduction to adultery. Amazing, after – what? Fifteen years of marriage.
Caroline thought of the several occasions on which she’d deceived her husband, and felt momentarily guilty. Then crushed it hastily. He’d never known, and indeed the last time he’d gone off to the war, he’d told her how lucky he was to have such a marvellous marriage. Had died, no doubt, thinking that. So what harm had she done him? Absolutely none. And she could hardly blame Celia: Oliver looking so drained and clearly not up to anything much. And Celia still so beautiful. He had been wonderful looking once, she’d envied Celia in those days, still did in a way, not for her huband any more, but for her career. And the new lover of course.
She could do with a lover herself just now; but men of her generation were in short supply. Oh, well. A horse was a pretty good subsitute for a man. She’d always thought so. Less demanding and certainly more rewarding. Yes, she’d go. Oliver would hardly be telephoning now, from the office. He had more important things to do than worry about his wife and where she might be.
Caroline’s butler, McKinnon, was dozing by the fire in his sitting-room when the phone rang; it took a few rings to wake him properly and a few rings more before he reached it. Everything took longer these days; old age put the brakes on life, not just on yourself.
‘Kersley House, good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon. Is Lady Celia Lytton there?’
‘Just a moment, Sir. Who may I say is calling?’
‘This is Mr Lytton. Mr Jack Lytton speaking.’
‘Good afternoon, Sir.’
Now what should he do? The mistress had told him most precisely that any calls to Lady Celia should be directed to her: but she was out riding.
‘I’m sorry Sir. She is not available at the moment.’
‘Well – when might she be available?’
‘I really cannot say, Sir. I’m afraid.’
‘Well – has she left for London?’
‘I don’t believe so, Sir, no. I will ask Mrs Masterson to telephone you when she returns. She is out riding.’
‘Oh – no. Doesn’t matter. Only an enquiry about a book. Thanks anyway.’
‘Entirely my pleasure, Sir.’
It had hardly meant anything of course: if you hadn’t been looking for something, it couldn’t have meant anything at all. Of course the butler wouldn’t know every one of Celia’s movements; of course he would refer an enquiry to her sister. Just the same – oh this was wretched. Jack tried and failed to address his mind to editing the last few entries of the fourth Earl of Beckenham’s diaries of battle. They were gory enough to distract anyone from anything. Severed limbs littering the battlefield, horses dying in agony, men gagged as the surgeons operated on them in the field – only surely, surely the butler would have known whether or not a guest – his mistress’s sister for heaven’s sake – had departed from the house after the weekend. Surely. It was the sort of thing they were paid for, for heaven’s sake . . .
‘Jack? Hallo, it’s Celia. I was out for a walk. Is something wrong?’ She sounded anxious.
Jack felt terrible. Terribly guilty: at bothering her, worrying her.
‘No, no, of course not. I’m so sorry to have bothered you. It was just that I wanted to ask you about the Mutiny.’
‘But that can’t be urgent. I’m back tomorrow. You know that.’
‘Yes. Yes of course. I’m really sorry. Bit of over-keenness.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She was silent; then ‘Well, can it wait? Or is there an army of excited readers out in the street?’ She sounded amused; Jack felt better.
‘Of course it can wait. It was just that all that gore, in your great-grandfather’s diaries you know, I wasn’t sure how much to cut.’
‘About half,’ said Celia, ‘or even three-quarters. I must go, Jack, I’ll miss my train. ’Bye. Give my love to Oliver.’
‘Of
course. ’Bye, Celia. See you tomorrow.’
Silly bugger, he thought; ringing her like that. Thinking about her like that. If – when – Lily knew her better, she’d realise it was all a lot of nonsense. Absolute nonsense.
CHAPTER 22
‘I wish you could be married to two people at once.’
There was a silence. Don’t look at Oliver, Celia, don’t.
‘Can you be married to two people at once? Does anyone do that?’ Everyone laughed then: the tension was broken.
‘I’m afraid not, Maud,’ said Robert, ‘not allowed. But why do you ask? Who do you have in mind?’
Maud’s small face was earnestly intent, her green eyes very large. ‘Well, I used to think I wanted to marry Jamie.’
‘Maud, Jamie is your brother.’
‘My half-brother. That might make a difference. But now I want to marry Giles, as well. Well, judging from his photograph. He’s very handsome.’
More laughter: ‘It’s just as well he’s not here,’ said Celia, ‘he would be very embarrassed. Flattered as well, of course, but he’s very shy. You’ll have to be a bit careful when he comes on Saturday, Maud.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t marry your cousin, either,’ said Felicity, ‘so it’s back to the drawing-board, Maud. Or the marriage bureau.’
‘You can in England, actually,’ said Oliver. ‘It’s not thought advisable, I believe, purely on health grounds. But it’s not illegal.’
‘How extraordinary. It’s quite illegal in the States.’
‘Clearly Americans are more law-abiding than we are,’ said Oliver, ‘or something like that.’ He smiled at her, then frowned and went back to his newspaper.
His attitude towards Felicity was rather odd, Celia thought. He was both edgy and affectionate with her; it was as if he found himself fond of her almost against his will. Probably that was exactly the case; he was increasingly anti-social these days, shying away from any engagement that was not at least semi-professional. ‘Oh, I haven’t got the time any more for that sort of thing,’ he would say or, ‘Oh, I really don’t have the energy these days to make conversation with those kinds of people.’ Anyone who drove him to make an exception to such rules was bound to inspire slightly contradictory emotions.
She could see why he did like Felicity: she was the sort of soft, gentle woman he approved of, living entirely for and through her family, deferring to men in all things. He should have married someone like her, Celia thought rather sadly, not an overbearing, over-ambitious creature who – well he had married her. Or rather she had married him. She often thought that, left to his own rather nervous preferences, Oliver would have quietly removed himself from her wilful, eighteenyear-old self. But he hadn’t. And meanwhile, thank God for Felicity; it would help to ease the weekend.
‘If you will excuse me,’ Oliver said, putting the paper down again, ‘I have to get to the office. What are your plans for the day?’
‘Oh, we’re going to show Maud the sights,’ said Robert, ‘the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben, try and get her locked up in the Tower—’
‘You mustn’t do that,’ said Venetia, her eyes very large. ‘It’s horrible there.’
‘Venetia, of course we won’t. Just teasing. They wouldn’t have her, anyway.’
‘I wish you two could come with us,’ said Maud, longingly.
‘We could,’ said Adele, ‘of course we could, we could miss school, just for one day, Mummy, please, please may we, please . . .’
‘No,’ said Celia firmly, ‘absolutely not. If your last reports hadn’t been so bad, I might consider it. But you need every moment that you can get at your desks. Look at you, you haven’t even got your boots on yet. Barty, go and get your coat and tell Daniels the twins will be five minutes.’
‘Yes, Aunt Celia.’ Barty stood up. ‘I’ll see you all later. I hope you have a lovely day. My special favourite place is St Paul’s Cathedral,’ she said to Maud, ‘right up in the whispering gallery. Be sure to go there if you can.’
‘She’s nice,’ said Maud watching as Barty left the room, ‘I really like her.’
‘She’s enchanting,’ said Felicity, ‘such a lovely story, Celia. You must be very proud of her. Now don’t let us keep you, I know you have to get to the office as well. Kyle dear, are you coming sightseeing with us? Or do you want to go to Lyttons, see around there with Oliver?’
‘I’d love to go to Lyttons,’ said Kyle, ‘if that’s all right. With Oliver.’
He had joined their party: it had been Felicity’s idea. John had told her that he was performing badly, that he had offered more than once to resign, that he even seemed depressed and she had suggested and John had agreed that he probably should look again at the world of letters.
‘But some kind of pride, I suppose, keeps him from using the Lytton connection as a last resort. I know you said Oliver was willing to help, but—’
‘Well, he has developed an understandable – and rather admirable – nervousness about nepotism. But it could be that visiting Lyttons London, talking to Oliver and Celia, might change his mind. Would you mind if I wrote to them and suggested he came with us?’
John said that he would not; and Kyle, presented with the twin delights of a visit to London and what Oliver described as a tour of duty at Lyttons, found himself quite unable to refuse the invitation.
‘But I don’t want to be a nuisance,’ he said with a sigh, ‘I’m getting very sick of that.’
Felicity told him not to be ridiculous; ‘You are hardly going to be a nuisance over the space of four or five days.’
‘I manage it pretty well at Brewer Lytton,’ said Kyle gloomily.
‘If you will excuse me, Felicity,’ said Celia now, ‘I should go as well. And I’ve arranged for you to meet a girl who does a lot of design work for us, Gill Thomas, to discuss your jacket and illustrations on Tuesday. I’ll bring your proofs down to Ashingham with me, you can look at them there.’
‘I can’t wait to see them. Although it doesn’t sound as if I’ll have much time for proofs,’ said Felicity, laughing. ‘Your mother obviously has the most wonderful time planned for us.’
‘Oh, she’s terribly good at house parties,’ said Celia, ‘she adores them. She missed doing them more than anything else during the war. She turned Ashingham into a convalescent home, you know, so it wasn’t possible. It won’t be large, probably only about twenty people, including us. You’ll have a lovely time, Felicity. I hope so anyway.’
‘Won’t I have a lovely time too?’ asked Robert.
‘Of course you will,’ said Celia She was very fond of Robert, she liked the way he teased her. He took life less seriously than Oliver. ‘How are your charades?’
‘Oh – pretty good.’
‘Charades!’ said Kyle. ‘Oh dear.’
‘I don’t suppose they’re compulsory,’ said Felicity.
‘Not quite. What about jigsaws?’
‘Oh – I like jigsaws. Nice and quiet.’
‘My mother has a huge table, set with a jigsaw, and people do a bit each time they pass. And quite a lot after dinner. She says more romances have started over that table than anywhere else. Now, I must go. Have a wonderful day all of you. Kyle, you can come with me, that’s a much better idea. If you’re brave enough to risk my driving.’
‘I’m sure it’s excellent. What car do you have?’
‘Oh, it’s heaven. I thought you saw it last night. It’s a dear little Morris, I love it to death.’
‘She always has small cars,’ said Venetia, who had come back into the room, ‘so there’s no room for her children in them.’
‘Quite right. Venetia, do go and get in the car, for heaven’s sake. I can hear Daniels hooting. Your father will be late for work.’
‘Why does it matter?’ said Adele, appearing behind her, ‘I never understand, when he’s the boss.’
‘Because everything depends on him, that’s why. So he can’t be late. And don’t let your grandmother hear you saying a
nything so vulgar as the boss tomorrow, or she’ll send you home again. Last time we were there, one of them started talking about weekends,’ she said to Felicity, ‘my mother’s blood pressure soared. She’s a terrible snob,’ she added slightly unnecessarily.
‘I can see I shall have to be very careful, myself,’ said Felicity, ‘what’s wrong with saying weekend?’
‘It’s extremely vulgar. Saturday to Monday is what you say in England. God, I’m only teasing, Felicity. Only she isn’t, I’m afraid. Come on Kyle. Time to go.’
‘And you, Maud,’ said Felicity, ‘and I think you should wear a hat. It’s very cold.’
‘The twins have some lovely clothes,’ said Maud, ‘they were showing me last night. They get them at a shop called Woollands. Could we go to Woollands do you think?’
‘Maybe in the morning. Today is sightseeing. Off you go and fetch a hat, it’s very cold. And some gloves.’
Celia was writing copy for the autumn catalogue when Sebastian came into her office. She looked at him and tried to smile. He shut the door behind him, leaned against it.
‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, ‘it’s so – dangerous.’
‘Of course it’s not. You coming to my house, that’s dangerous. Us dining in the country, the other night, staying in Oxford, that was dangerous. This is very safe.’
‘I – suppose so,’ she said. But she didn’t really think so. Every day, every risk brought them closer to the final denouement; she was sure it had to come. The close shave that afternoon in Scotland, when Caroline had rung the hotel in a near-panic, to tell her Jack had phoned almost an hour earlier – she’d been scared then. Jack was sharper, so much more worldly than Oliver – but it had been all right, the call seemed genuine enough. Just Jack being over-keen as usual. And it had been good to be able to send her love to Oliver, making sure Jack would tell him that he’d spoken to her. God, she would never have believed she could be so devious.
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