‘Just a moment, please, Mr Brooke,’ she said.
LM was working on the costings of Queen of Sorrows when the phone rang; she was so engrossed that she left it for a couple of rings before picking it up.
‘Mr Brooke for you, Miss Lytton.’
‘Oh – thank you. Put him through.’
‘Celia? Sebastian. What is it, what’s happened, have you finally come to your senses, have you overcome your wifely principles? Come on, you’d better tell me, and it had better be good, I’ve been through two weeks of hell waiting for some word from you—’
There was a silence; then LM said carefully, ‘Mr Brooke, this is not Celia. It is Miss Lytton. It was I who called you.’
Celia lay in bed, looking rather warily at her mother. Lady Beckenham had arrived, demanded coffee and toast, handed Jay over to Nanny and the delighted twins, instructed Mary that they were not to be disturbed and settled in the large chair by the window, all in the space of rather less than five minutes.
‘I thought,’ she said, ‘you would need someone to talk to.’
‘I – do,’ said Celia, ‘yes.’
‘How are you feeling?’
‘Sick. Terribly.’
‘Baby still in place?’
‘Yes. Very firmly so, I’d say.’
‘Good. Or is it?’
‘What?’
‘I said is it good? Or would you have wished it away?’
‘I thought I would,’ said Celia simply, ‘but when it seemed to be going, I knew I wanted to keep it.’
‘Right. And now I suppose you’re wondering whose it is.’
‘Well—’
‘Oh come along, Celia,’ said her mother impatiently, ‘I’m not a fool and neither are you. Of course you are. You’re thinking it could be Oliver’s and it could be this other man’s. Am I right?’
‘Well – yes.’
‘And you don’t know what to do, or what to say?’
‘Yes. That’s exactly right. I simply don’t know what to do. About any of it.’
‘Oh Lord,’ said Sebastian. There was a very long silence. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Lytton. I didn’t mean to sound rude.’
‘You didn’t exactly sound rude,’ said LM. ‘Just a little abrupt.’
‘Well, I’m sorry for that, too.’
‘That’s perfectly all right.’
‘But someone did phone me. I thought it was – Celia.’
‘Someone did. It was I.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Another silence. LM could hear him thinking. And saw the shadowy shape which had been troubling and puzzling her slowly form itself into a clear outline.
‘Er – what about?’
‘About what, Mr Brooke?’
‘Oh sorry, I’m not making much sense. You telephoned me. What was it about?’
‘Ah yes.’ She cleared her throat, wished she could clear her mind. ‘It was about – about your leaving Lyttons.’
‘Ye-es?’
He sounded wary now. She paused. It had seemed such a simple conversation; now it was very complex.
‘It seems such a pity,’ she said, finally.
‘It is a pity. It is indeed. But – Macmillan and Collins made me extraordinarily generous offers; and now Dawsons have topped both of them. I’m sorry, Miss Lytton, I found them too tempting.’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, well, I can understand that. But I thought you were so pleased with Lyttons.’
‘I was. Desperately pleased.’
A funny word to use; but then she supposed they were both talking in riddles now.
‘Well then – long term surely—’
‘Miss Lytton, there seemed to be no long term with Lyttons any more. It is hard to explain but—’
‘I don’t think you have to,’ she said, ‘actually. And of course money is very important. Well, if I really cannot persuade you . . .’
‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I fear you cannot.’
‘A pity.’
‘Yes. A great pity and I do appreciate all that Lyttons have done for me.’
‘If you did,’ she said, and her voice was cooller now, ‘if you properly appreciated it, you would not be leaving.’
‘Well there are you wrong, Miss Lytton. There you are terribly wrong. I’m sorry.’
She was silent.
Finally he said ‘Is – is Celia there?’
‘No,’ she said without thinking, ‘no, she’s ill.’
‘Ill?’
‘Yes.’ Damn. That was a mistake. She really, really didn’t want to tell him in what way and why. Not now. Didn’t want to think about it, even.
‘Is it serious?’
‘Oh no. No it isn’t serious. Just – just a cold.’
‘Oh. Her cough. She did have a cough.’
‘She did indeed. She does still.’
‘Yes. Well give her my best wishes.’
‘I will. thank you. And enjoy your new publishers, won’t you?’
‘I’ll try to.’
Sebastian rang off; he felt rather sick. There was no doubt the old girl had worked it out. She was very sharp. Now what? Oh, what did it matter? It was over, everything was over. People could think what they liked. He didn’t care. Life was so hideous already, it couldn’t get worse.
He was sorry Celia was ill, though; she hadn’t seemed well for a few weeks. She smoked too much. He’d told her she had to stop when she came to live with him. He hated smoking. Especially women who smoked. She’d gone to the doctor that morning; the morning she was supposed to arrive. That was when all the trouble had started – with that visit to the doctor. She’d been coming straight on to him and she’d never arrived. She—
A sharp shard of suspicion suddenly pierced Sebastian’s brain. More than suspicion, revelation. Bright, hard revelation. Revelation and anger. That was it: of course. It all made sense. The sudden withdrawal, the refusal to talk, to see him. The panic, the near-fear in her voice. It had baffled him at the time; but – would she have done that? could she have done that? Not told him, hidden herself and it away? Surely, surely not. It was unforgivable. If it was true. He picked up the phone again, dialled Lyttons’ number, asked for LM. She answered, sounding wary.
‘Yes.’
‘Miss Lytton,’ he said, and his voice sounded very strange, even to him, ‘Miss Lytton, is Celia – is she pregnant?’
‘I’ll tell you whose baby it is,’ said Lady Beckenham.
‘Oh Mama, don’t be absurd. How can you tell me, how can you know?’
‘It’s Oliver’s. And I do know.’
‘But how?’
‘He’s your husband. He’s lived with you all these years. He’s kept you, looked after you, fathered all your children and oh, yes, I know, bored you to death, criticised you, all those things. This is his baby, Celia. There can be no doubt about it.’
‘Mama—’
‘Celia,’ said her mother and her blue eyes were very hard, ‘Celia, Beckenhams don’t have bastards. Well—’ she added, with a rather cool smile, ‘Beckenham women don’t have bastards.’
‘This is ridiculous,’ said Celia. She reached out, took a drink of water.
‘It is not ridiculous. It is common sense. It’s about values and standards and society and keeping your family intact. So you think this child might be your lover’s. What are you doing to do? Rush off to him with it, bring it up illegitimate, break up your own family, tear your chidren apart.’
‘Well—’
‘For God’s sake. Pull yourself together. You’ve had your fun, Celia. Now get back to real life.’
Celia sat staring at her; her eyes filled with tears. She bit her lip, took a deep breath.
‘You don’t know—’ she said, ‘you just don’t know how bad I feel.’ Lady Beckenham looked at her and her face softened. She went over to her, sat on the bed, took Celia’s hand.
‘Listen,’ she said, ‘I’ll tell you something. I never thought to, but this is the time for you to hear it. I was once – in your situat
ion. Well, you know about Paget, but – it went further than that. I was pregnant. But I didn’t even consider that it might be his. Not for a moment. I just put it out of my head. And when you were born—’
‘Me!’
‘Yes, you. I knew I was right. I looked at you, Beckenham to the last black eyelash – Paget had those awful pale things – and I knew I’d been right all along. You were Beckenham’s child and this child is Oliver’s. Whatever happens. Now you put the rest behind you and just get on with it. It’s not just good advice, Celia; it’s the only advice. Oh, Lord, I can hear those dreadful children of yours. What are they doing?’
‘Sliding down the bannisters,’ said Celia. Her voice was so thick with tears she could hardly get the words out.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake. You can’t allow that. It’s dangerous. I’m going to stop them. Venetia! Adele! Get off there at once. At once do you hear me. You know I don’t allow it at Ashingham, and your mother shouldn’t allow it here. Where’s Jay?’
‘Up there,’ said Adele. Lady Beckenham looked up and saw Jay’s sturdy backside descending towards her at a great rate from at least fifteen feet above her head. She closed her eyes briefly and thanked God that LM was several miles away.
‘I think we should all go out for a long walk,’ she said, when he was finally safely down. ‘Come along, I’ll tell Cook to make up a picnic.’
Sylvia sat in her chair, quite literally doubled up with pain. She had never experienced anything like it: not ever. It was like fire – no more like hot blades – inside her. She felt dreadful altogether, terribly sick and she had a bad headache. And she was hot. Barty was coming with the car to take her to the doctor. Well she couldn’t go. She just couldn’t. She shifted slightly and even that small effort made her groan aloud; it was terrible, truly terrible and—
‘Mum! We’re here. You all right?’
‘Not – not too good,’ said Sylvia. Even speaking somehow hurt. Barty appeared in the doorway. ‘Mum, you look awful. Oh, dear, what can I do, how can I help—’
‘Oh I’m all right’ said Sylvia, ‘but Barty, I don’t think I can go today. I told you it was bad timing.’
‘Yes, but I can’t leave you here. Like this. Look, everything’s changed anyway, Aunt Celia’s at home in bed, she’s not very well, so Dr Perring is coming this afternoon and he can see you there. That’ll be much better, won’t it? And he’ll know what to do, I’m sure he can help. Oh, Mum – you’re so hot—’
Daniels came down the steps. ‘Everything all right, Milady?’
‘No. Not really. My mother’s not at all well. But I still think we should take her home, don’t you?’
‘Oh, rather.’
‘But I can’t move,’ said Sylvia, ‘I really can’t.’
‘I’ll carry you,’ said Daniels, ‘come on, Miss Barty, hold the door open, and now the car, that’s right. There you are, Mrs Miller, let’s lie you down on that seat. That’s the way. Here, use this rug as a pillow. Brandy?’
Sylvia shook her head feebly.
‘Right then, off we go.’
‘You ought to have been an ambulance driver, Daniels,’ said Barty.
‘Funny you should say that. I’ve often thought of it. My brother was one in the war. Money’s bad though. And I’m trying to save for a place of me own.’
‘Are you Daniels?’ said Barty. She sounded quite upset. ‘I hope you won’t be leaving us.’
‘Don’t worry, Milady. If I leave, I’ll take you with me.’
‘Lady Celia, there’s a gentleman to see you.’
‘A gentleman?’ Who was it, Jack, Dr Perring?
‘Yes. A Mr—’
Mary was interrupted; Sebastian appeared in the doorway. He looked completely dishevelled, his hair wild, his eyes shocked, his tie loosened, his jacket undone. It was over three weeks since Celia had seen him; the violence of what she felt made her literally faint.
She lay back on the pillows, briefly closed her eyes.
‘Lady Celia if you’re not feeling well—’ Mary looked anxious.
‘It’s all right, Mary. Really. Mr Brooke may come in.’
‘Shall I bring you anything?’
‘Oh – no. No it’s all right, thank you. Unless Sebastian, you’d like something to drink?’
‘No,’ he said, impatiently. ‘No, nothing. Thank you.’
Mary withdrew; Sebastian closed the door behind him. He stood looking at her for a long time; his face absolutely tender, totally concerned.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said.
Then he came over to the bed, and took her hand and kissed her on the forehead.
‘I love you,’ he said, ‘I love you so very, very much. More than ever now. So much more than ever.’
For the second time that morning, Celia started to cry.
CHAPTER 29
‘Ovarian cyst,’ said Dr Perring, examining Sylvia’s abdomen as gently as he could. And adding in a lower voice to Celia, ‘infected, I would say. She should really be in hospital.’
Sylvia’s eyes, already wide with pain, filled with terror as well.
‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘not hospital, please not hospital.’
‘Well – we’ll see.’ He patted her shoulder gently, pulled the bedcovers up. She had been put to bed in Jack’s old room; Barty sat outside, waiting while he examined her. ‘Lady Celia, you should be in bed.’
‘I know. But she seemed so ill and so upset, I thought I should be with her for a bit. And Barty.’
‘Let’s go outside and talk about it.’
He led her out to the landing; Barty jumped up. ‘Is she – all right?’ ‘She’s not very well, I’m afraid. But we shall make her better. Now, the best thing you can do is sponge her down for a little while and get her to drink plenty of water. Can you manage that?’
She nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘Good girl. I’ll come up again before I leave. Don’t worry, your mother’s very strong.’
‘Which you are not,’ he said sternly to Celia, following her to her own room, settling her back into bed. ‘I told you, any exertion and you’ll lose that baby.’
‘I’m sorry.’
He looked at her; she seemed very upset, had obviously been crying. She was pale, and her eyes were heavy and shadowed.
‘You must try to be calm,’ he said gently, ‘it’s important. Nothing matters more than this baby, you know. Try to rememer that.’
‘I will,’ she said, ‘really, I will.’
‘Good. Now, any more pains?’
‘No. None.’
‘No bleeding?’
‘No.’
‘Backache? Headache?’
‘No, really.’
‘Good. Well, we seem to be keeping him there for the time being.’
‘Him?’
‘Or her. Actually if it’s her, there’s more of a chance, you know. Girls are tougher.’
‘They certainly are in this family,’ said Celia.
‘I think I would agree with that,’ he said, smiling at her gently, ‘Now then, Mrs Miller. I’m afraid she is very ill.’
‘I was afraid so, too.’
‘She has a very large ovarian cyst. Infected. And I fear, indeed I suspect, peritonitis developing. The abdomen is very hard. She has a high temperature. Really she should be in hospital. Although there is little that can be done, except possibly draining the abdominal cavity. I would like another opinion on that ideally.’
‘She’s terrified of hospitals. Always has been,’ said Celia ‘Couldn’t she stay, at least a little longer?’
‘It could be dangerous. But I suppose if she’s frightened and upset it won’t help. I think at the very least she should have a nurse here, I could arrange it if—’ he paused.
Celia smiled at him. ‘Of course. Whatever she needs. Please. Just organise it. And do get a second opinion, by all means.’
‘Well,’ he said, folding up his stethoscope, smiling down at her, ‘I was afraid we might have to get a
gynaecologist for you. That is beginning to seem unnecessary, at least. So let us be thankful for small mercies.’
Mercy! That was the word Sebastian had used to her.
‘For God’s sake,’ he had said, ‘show me some mercy.’
And she had lain there, crying, staring at him, telling him she could not.
‘I don’t understand,’ he kept saying, ‘I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me.’
‘I couldn’t, Sebastian. Really, I couldn’t. I didn’t know what to think, what to say to you.’
‘But – it might be mine? It surely might be mine?’
She was silent; willing the words out. They wouldn’t come.
‘Celia! Tell me. Don’t retreat from me like this, I can’t stand it. You’re pregnant, quite possibly, quite probably, indeed, I would say, with my child. How can you just – desert me like this?’
‘I – don’t know,’ she said and the effort, even of saying that, was intense.
She had until Friday. Then Sebastian was leaving for the United States. ‘I will be at home until then,’ he said, ‘and you can come to me. In which case I will stay here and take care of you. Otherwise I shall be gone and you will not see me again. For a very long time, at any rate. But obviously this is your decision, although I find it very hurtful that you should have tried to keep it from me.’
She had said nothing – again. And now she was entirely absorbed in her indecision; waiting for something to help her end it.
‘I was wondering,’ said Guy, ‘if there was any point in going to see the Bartletts.’
‘How could there be?’
‘Well – they might not have got the letter.’
‘Very unlikely.’
‘Or she might not realise how important it is.’
‘That’s true. Although you did say it was urgent.’
‘She might be away. The girl, I mean.’
‘In which case, there’s nothing to be done until she gets back. Is there any great hurry?’
‘Huge. Publication is in less than a month. A decision has to be made, whether to pulp the books or not. Whether to risk it, or not. Oh, Jeremy, it’s such a beast of a thing. My hour of glory: my first novel – all come to nothing. I – I know it’s mostly my own fault. But it’s not fair.’
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