No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  Barty was looking forward to going to Ashingham, to seeing Billy and Giles and LM and Jay, and Lord and Lady Beckenham; it was so wonderful there, they were allowed to do whatever they liked, take picnics off for a whole day, ride the ponies, help on the farm – only they had to help, not play around – ‘the tenants have got work to do, they’re much too busy to be held up by a lot of tiresome children’. There were scary things as well, of course, like having to dine with the Beckenhams sometimes in the great dining-room, and being made to do what Lady Beckenham called conversing.

  ‘Don’t tell me you’re shy, Giles,’ she roared one night, while Giles sat scarlet and silent, ‘find something to say and say it. You can’t be that stupid. You owe it to your hostess, not to mention your own friends, to be interesting at the dinner table. You too, Barty. Now come on, think of a subject and we’ll discuss it.’

  She went into the drawing-room, where the piano was, did some scales and ran through the piece twice; it went quite well, in spite of her shaking hands. Perhaps it would be all right. She decided that after all she was a bit hungry: perhaps a piece of toast would be nice. She got into the dining-room just in time; Mary, the housemaid, was clearing away.

  ‘You help yourself, Miss Barty,’ she said, ‘you need to keep your strength up for this afternoon. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Oh – sort of all right,’ said Barty, ‘thank you.’

  She sat buttering toast, feeling lonely again; she really would like something to read. She had begun to like reading the newspapers; but they weren’t on the sideboard. Cleared away, she supposed, into Wol’s study. He liked to read them at length in the evening. Well – maybe she could go in and borrow one. She would put it back afterwards.

  She got up, crossed the hall, went in. It was horribly neat; ‘You’re afraid to breathe in here in case you disturb something,’ Venetia had once said and it was true. The papers were lying on his desk, ranged in perfect parallel rows; she went over and picked out the Daily Mail. That was her favourite. And noticed that propped up against the big silver desk clock was a letter addressed to Wol. In Aunt Celia’s writing. Oliver, it said, Personal and Urgent. She must have put it there before she left; thinking he was still in the house. Barty looked at it anxiously, taking in the word Urgent. Well, it was lucky she was going to his office; she could take it with her, give it to him there.

  Celia had left the house as usual that morning; she was indeed going to see Lady Annabel, and planned to come back later to collect some clothes and a few personal things, photographs of the children, a few of her favourite books, her jewellery. Not much of her jewellery, though, only what had been given to her by her mother, left to her by her grandmother. She did not feel she could take anything Oliver had given her; even her engagement ring was placed carefully with the rest in the small safe in Oliver’s dressing-room. She felt absolutely extraordinary; the sadness of the night before had gone, leaving her with a mixture of terror and huge excitement. She had promised Sebastian she would be with him by lunchtime.

  ‘I shall feel so odd, rather as if I was a bride, leaving the old home and coming to join you in the new. A rather elderly bride,’ she added with a sigh.

  Sebastian said nonsense, lots of women got married in their thirties these days, it was an indirect result of the war, and anyway, the youngest bride could not be more beautiful than she was.

  She still felt, though, not only desperately worried about Oliver, about how badly he might take the news, but about how he might behave as a result. About how wretched he would be, how he would cope with it, who he would talk to, whether he would feel himself able to talk at all. Or would he shut himself away in his study, grieving and raging silently, pretending to everyone that nothing was wrong? He had become an emotional stranger to her, absolutely changed from the rather tediously predictable creature he had once been; it seemed incredible to her that she had once known, almost to the last phrase, what he would say and how he would behave, right to the final nod of the head, in any given situation. It did in fact, define the vast distance which had formed between them, she thought, that she was totally unable now to predict his reaction, even to this, to something as momentous as the announcement that she was leaving him: it persuaded her that perhaps she was after all doing the right thing. For him as well as for her.

  Lady Annabel, charming as ever, was delighted with the editing, with her dust jacket, and even with the title Celia had suggested, Queen of Sorrows.

  ‘I know it overstates the case a little,’ Celia said, slightly apologetically, ‘but it certainly describes her personal life. And her reign was hardly happy in any way, either. I think it is also a very strong title, which we need.’

  They parted at eleven: ‘Do tell Mr Lytton how happy I am about everything,’ said Lady Annabel, smiling graciously from the doorway of her exquisite house, and that I would like to discuss the new book with both of you. Dear Florence; such a very irritating woman, I always think.’

  Celia said she would; thinking not only how desperately sad it was that she would not be at Lyttons for what she knew would be a most triumphant publication of Queen of Sorrows, but that there would be no discussions between her and Oliver and any third person, with the possible exception of a solicitor, for some considerable time.

  She had another appointment before returning to Cheyne Walk: with Dr Perring.

  ‘That cough is really worrying me,’ Sebastian had said, ‘and you don’t look at all well. I don’t want to take on some invalid, you have to be fit and healthy if you’re going to live with me.’

  She had arranged to go to Dr Perring’s consulting rooms in Harley Street, rather than call him to the house; sitting in the waiting-room, with so little standing now between her old life and the new, the enormity of what she was about to do suddenly overwhelmed her, together with a wave of such violent nausea that she thought she was actually going to vomit. Even when it passed, and she was lying back rather limply in her chair, feeling shaky and weak, she still felt utterly exhausted, could not imagine ever having the strength to get up again.

  ‘Lady Celia?’ It was the nurse, smiling brightly. ‘Dr Perring will see you now. Please follow me.’

  In the years to come, Celia was never to forget that journey, one of the most important in her life: down the thickly carpeted corridor, with its alcoves set with urns of flowers, its pale grey walls covered with bland watercolours, the sunlight beating through a window ahead of them at the end of the corridor, and nurse in her absurdly elaborate uniform, silhouetted against it, dark and somehow slightly sinister. And Celia following her, still feeling weak and light headed . . .

  ‘I really need time to think about this one, Mr Lytton,’ said Peter Briscoe. He had come into the offices, in response to Oliver’s urgent summons. ‘They’re obviously very serious. Is there any way you could do as they suggest, and write out the offending episode?’

  ‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘it’s quite impossible. It is central to the whole book, one of the major strands; it affects everything, the daughter’s view of her father, the wife’s reaction to the affair, even the son’s attitude, a very high-minded young man, the conscientious objector, you know, he is horrified by it. No, it has to remain. There is no book without it.’

  ‘And – forgive me – the book is printed, you say, not merely typeset, or at proof stage?’

  ‘Yes, indeed. I’ve just had three thousand copies done. It will be appallingly expensive if we don’t publish now. Not to mention the loss of face.’

  ‘Then we must fight for it,’ said Peter Briscoe. ‘I will telephone you in a day or so, tell you what I think we should do next. Test their nerve, I suggest.’

  ‘And how would we do that?’

  ‘Write back and say the chapters cannot be removed and that publication will go ahead. There is bound to be an element of bluff on their part. No one embarks on any legal course of action without knowing they might lose. They are private individuals after all. You have the weight of a
large publishing house behind you.’

  ‘Well – a publishing house anyway,’ said Oliver with a sigh. ‘It won’t be very large if we have to pulp The Buchanans.’

  Peter Briscoe decided to talk again to Guy Worsley. He felt he would like to get further measure of Jasper Lothian. Find out just how tough an opponent he might prove, just how much money and power he had had behind him. Guy had no telephone in his small flat in Fulham, which was tiresome; Peter Briscoe told his secretary to send him a telegram, instructing him to come to see him as soon as possible to discuss the matter of The Buchanans further. Arrogant young fellow, thinking he could get away with such a thing. It was blatant folly. That was what came of the young achieving success; they lacked the wisdom and experience with which to temper it.

  Meanwhile, he would start drafting a letter to Lothian, telling him that there was no question of removing anything from the text of the book. It was all becoming extremely uncomfortable; and time was running out on them. He had not yet mentioned to Oliver Lytton that if they went ahead, the damages awarded to Lothian could be very substantial, but he would have to do so soon. Pulping the book would certainly be cheaper than that.

  ‘Right, perhaps you’d like to put your clothes on again, and come back into the consulting room. Thank you, nurse.’

  Dr Perring had examined her very carefully, questioned her closely as to her general health, listened to her chest – and indeed her heart – for a long time. He had taken some blood for analysis, checked her reflexes and her blood pressure, had looked in her ears and her eyes, and down her throat. Celia was feeling quite nervous by the time she was sitting in his chair again; beginning to think there must be something quite seriously wrong with her.

  ‘Now, Lady Celia. That cough is very nasty.’ He looked at her severely. ‘I think you should stop smoking at once. For a start. It isn’t good for you, in my opinion. You do have some congestion in your lungs, and it could turn into bronchitis very easily. I will prescribe some cough suppressant for you, and I want you to inhale several times a day, with Friars’ Balsam.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Celia meekly, ‘yes, I will.’

  She didn’t mind taking medicine, nor did she mind inhaling; she would mind not smoking. She had come rather to depend on it; it soothed her raw nerves.

  ‘Now, the other symptoms. The tiredness – well of course you work too hard. And you’ve always slept badly, haven’t you? I expect you would like me to prescribe a sleeping draught.’

  ‘I would – yes. Some nights I don’t sleep at all. It’s terrible.’

  ‘Of course. Well I can do that. And the indigestion – I’ve just been looking back through your notes.’

  ‘Yes?’ Surely he wasn’t going to say she had an ulcer or something.

  ‘You say it makes you feel nauseous?’

  ‘Yes. Yes it does.’

  ‘Mmm. Appetite?’

  ‘What appetite?’ said Celia, smiling at him with an effort.

  ‘Lady Celia—’ he sat back and looked at her, and he was smiling at her now, a kind, concerned, but indisputably amused smile. She felt irritated; that her ill-health might be a subject of amusement to him. It certainly didn’t amuse her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Lady Celia—’ another silence, then he said, quite casually, ‘there is – there is one question I haven’t asked you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘When did you last have a menstrual period?’

  ‘All right Miss Barty?’

  ‘Oh – yes thank you, Brunson.’

  ‘Daniels is waiting with the car. To take you up to Lyttons. If you’re ready.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’

  ‘You don’t want any more lunch?’

  ‘No. No thank you. It was very nice, but – well I’m not very hungry.’

  ‘Of course not. Nothing destroys the appetite like nerves. I once appeared in a revue, when I was at my secondary school.’

  ‘Did you, Brunson?’ It was impossible to imagine Brunson appearing in anything less solemn than a morality play.

  ‘I did indeed. I was so nervous that I couldn’t swallow my supper the night before, never mind my breakfast or luncheon. But you know, the moment I got on the stage, said my first line – I felt quite different. Not nervous at all.’

  ‘What was your first line, Brunson? Can you still remember it?’

  ‘Indeed I can. It was, “Bring in the prisoners, Captain Cook”. It was a sketch about some cowardly pirates who had run away. Quite funny, although I say it myself.’

  ‘I’m sure it was. And you were—’

  ‘The magistrate. Although, of course, what a magistrate was doing on board ship, I don’t know. Anyway, I enjoyed it in the end, and so will you this afternoon. Cook and I were listening to you practising, we thought it sounded quite beautiful.’

  Barty felt very touched; she stood on tiptoe and kissed Brunson on the cheek. Aunt Celia would probably have had a fit, she thought, watching him blush, hearing his embarrassed cough.

  ‘Thank you so much, Brunson. I feel much braver suddenly. I’ll tell you all about it later.’

  ‘We shall enjoy that, miss. Don’t forget your music.’

  ‘Oh – no. No, I won’t. Thank you.’

  She took her music case; the letter was in it. As soon as she got to the office, she would give it to Wol. Although probably Aunt Celia would have told him whatever it was herself by now. Still it would be nice to hand it over.

  She ran down the steps; Daniels was waiting with the car door open. It was the big car: the Rolls. He saluted her and then grinned.

  ‘Good afternoon, Milady Barty. And what very fine weather we are having for the time of year. Where does her ladyship wish to go? Straight to her concert hall, or somewhere else along the way?’

  Barty giggled. ‘To Lyttons please, Daniels.’

  ‘I have heard the crowds are already gathering the length of Wigmore Street for your concert,’ said Daniels, ‘and very wise of them too. Otherwise the seats might all be gone.’

  He grinned at her; Barty got into the car and smiled back.

  ‘Your music case, milady. It wouldn’t do to forget that.’

  ‘No Daniels, it certainly wouldn’t.’

  Celia felt as if she were falling very fast and suddenly into a large black hole. A hole filled with such horror and such terror that she gasped aloud, staring at Dr Perring. His expression was amused and gentle.

  ‘I did wonder. Your breasts look rather – swollen. And the tiredness, the nausea – you had quite severe acidity when you were expecting the twins. But as you hadn’t mentioned anything . . . You hadn’t considered it?’

  ‘No,’ said Celia shaking her head, ‘no.’ And it was true, she hadn’t; such a possibility, absurdly, had not entered her head. Of all her anxieties, this was one she had not considered, not contemplated even.

  She sat there, her head whirling with dates, with events, trying to force some semblance of order into them. She had been so preoccupied, so absolutely absorbed in what was happening to her, on every level, that she had simply stopped taking note of the one most ordinary, most important, most crucial thing. When had it been, when had she last had a period? Since Glasgow? Yes, definitely since Glasgow. Since Oxford, that wonderful glorious night in the hotel in Woodstock? She had run absurd risks in getting away. Dreadfully reckless, in more ways than one. Think Celia, think. What had she done since then? Worked herself into the ground, gone to a lot of parties, and nightclubs, given a birthday party for the twins – and – yes, she’d had her period then, had thought it was the last straw with all those little girls coming. But since then – surely, surely – but no. Nothing. That had been the last time. And that had been May 6th. And now it was July. The middle of July – well nearly the end, actually. Oh, God. Dear, dear God. She was – or could be – over two months pregnant.

  ‘I just never thought of it,’ she said, and felt her eyes fill with tears. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘Don’t look
so upset. It’s not so serious, surely. Your husband will be thrilled. Do him good. He’s been looking awfully tired and a bit down lately. I would say this will give him a new lease of life. Even if he does say it’s the last thing he wanted.’

  She was silent, hardly hearing what he said, questions, terrifying questions filling her head. How, when, where – and most terrifying, most dreadful – whose? Whose, whose, whose baby was it? It could as well be Oliver’s as Sebastian’s. He had made love to her, and a great deal more than once, over the past two months. And she always allowed him these days, never made excuses, never refused: simply because of her guilt. This child could have been conceived as easily in sadness and remorse with Oliver, as in joy and triumph with Sebastian. She had tried to be careful, had always been careful, indeed. But: well, her body and her fertility had betrayed her before. Several times.

  She looked fearfully into the future, even an hour into the future, and knew her place in it to be absolutely altered. Forever. Whatever she did now, wherever she went, whoever she was with, it would be under changed circumstances, different rules. She was no long free to leave her husband because she might be carrying his child; she was not entitled to stay with her husband because she might be carrying her lover’s. There was no escape for her, no hiding place; she and her baby were helplessly, hopelessly doomed.

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘oh, Dr Perring,’ and burst into tears.

  He was very good, very gentle; he passed her a handkerchief, buzzed the nurse and told her to bring a cup of sweet tea and asked her if she would like to talk about whatever it was that was worrying her.

  ‘I’m not – sure,’ she said, leaning back in her chair, feeling so weak now, so shaken that she hardly knew where she was, ‘I—’

  And then remembered. Remembered the letter. And knew that whatever else she decided or did, she must stop Oliver reading it. It belonged to another life, that letter, another woman; it had nothing whatever to do with the new life and the woman she had so suddenly and dangerously become.