Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  Duke Carlisle looked at him intently for a moment. Then he smiled. ‘While supporting that stock temporarily yourself for a day or two? Inflating its price, exceeding your own estimates? So that the final price is – a little unfortunately for your client – higher than the one you paid him?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Very clever. Worthy of both your father and your grandfather, if I might say so.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And move your own money out of the country, Laurence. Fast.’

  ‘I have already done that, to a large extent.’

  Barty thought she had never been so happy. She had a job she loved, the independence she had always craved, a home of her own – and now she had a friend in London, a true friend of her own age, and a friend, moreover, who was absolutely nothing to do with the Lyttons, and who Barty could claim as her very own. She was called Abigail Clarence and she lived in another flat in another house in Russell Square. Barty had entered her life by way of a collision of her bicycle and Abigail’s as they both arrived home from work; Abbie, as she liked to be called, was extremely clever and rather beautiful in an unconventional way; she had straight dark brown hair, cut into a Dora Carrington bob – ‘I actually modelled it on Christopher Robin’ – very large green eyes, and a rather hawk-like nose which somehow suited her high cheekbones and angular jaw. Her mouth was very wide, and when she laughed which was often, revealed surprisingly perfect teeth; she was tall and rather athletically built and spent many of her weekends exploring the home counties on her bicycle.

  She was the freest spirit Barty had ever encountered, astonishingly unencumbered by prejudice of any kind, class, intellectual, even racial. One of the most wonderful things about Abbie, in Barty’s eyes, was not so much that one of her own great friends was a working-class Jewish girl called Rebecca from the East End of London, but that Abbie herself was as blithely unaware of Rebecca’s origins as it was possible to be. She liked her just as she liked Barty: because of her personality and what she was.

  Abbie was also a great advocate of sexual freedom; ‘If everyone slept with everyone they wanted to, it would free women from the tyranny of marriage, and probably improve marriage altogether. After all, there’s much more to it than sex; my way people would concentrate on the other, more important things. Women don’t get all fussed if their husbands eat somewhere other than at home, why should it be any different with sex?’ Barty felt this was a slighty impractical theory, but she didn’t say so.

  She was the daughter of two Fabians – ‘and don’t ever let anyone tell you they’re proper socialists, Barty, they absolutely are not. Obsessed with class, all of them’ – and it was through this revelation that Barty’s own history had come out. Not everyone, as Abbie pointed out, her green eyes dancing with amusement, knew about one of the most famous Fabian women of them all, Maud Pember Reeves; ‘Come on Barty, tell. I know there’s more to you than meets the eye.’

  And reluctantly, her hands twisting with embarrassment, her head bowed with the old mortification, not meeting Abbie’s eye from the beginning of the story to the end, Barty told. When she had finished, Abbie put her arm round her and hugged her.

  ‘I cannot believe,’ she said, ‘that you’ve come through all that and stayed so – so normal. Being practically stolen from your mother by some wicked lady bountiful—’

  ‘She isn’t wicked,’ Barty protested, ‘she meant it for the best.’

  ‘They all do. It was wicked just the same. How terrible for you. Well done, old thing. Well done.’

  Barty felt a sudden and unaccountable need to defend Celia. ‘She was – very, very good to me, you know. My mother adored her. And Aunt Celia—’

  ‘Is that what you had to call her?’

  ‘Well – yes. Anyway, Aunt Celia took care of my mother in lots of ways: paid for doctors and so on, especially at the end of her life when she was so ill, arranged for me to go and visit them all the time.’

  ‘Oh, how kind,’ said Abbie, her voice sharp with malice.

  ‘It was,’ said Barty again. ‘I can’t let you get this thing wrong, Abbie. And if Lady Beckenham, that’s Aunt Celia’s mother, hadn’t taken care of Billy, my brother, given him a job in her stables, no, don’t look like that, he’d be out on a mat now, begging, like all the other poor wretches who came home without limbs. And I love Wol, that’s Mr Lytton. He was so kind to me. So don’t judge them all too harshly.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Abbie, ‘not really. I can see they meant well. And OK, in lots of ways, you did benefit. St Paul’s and so on. I had lots of friends there, you know. Even came to the odd concert – I probably saw you. Even so, most people just would not have survived that. Bully for you, getting out too. Into the flat. Bet Lady Bountiful didn’t like that.’

  ‘No, she didn’t. But only in a nice way, she said she’d miss me.’

  ‘I expect she does. I would. Fancy her being sent to your mother by dear old Mrs P R. I don’t think that study of hers she presented to the government did any good at all, you know. However many statistics about poor families it contained. Still, a good effort. My parents adore her.’

  ‘Aunt Celia was sort of expelled from the Fabians,’ said Barty, ‘for what she did to me.’

  ‘I bet she was,’ said Abbie.

  Abbie was a teacher; the best school she had been able to get was a rather prim little girls’ school in Kensington, but her dream was to become the headmistress of a large intellectual girls’ school like the City of London, where she had been educated, and to instil in her pupils her dreams and beliefs about equal rights for women, which included not just the vote, but equal work opportunities with men and even more incredible, equal salaries.

  ‘One day, the decision of a woman not to marry but to pursue a career of her choice, in medicine, let’s say, or at the bar, won’t earn her derision, or worse still, pity, but admiration and a life of freedom and fulfilment. And if she does marry and have children, she will continue with her career, and continue to compete with her husband in the outside world. Doesn’t that sound wonderful to you?’

  Barty said slightly apologetically that it did, but that she had grown up with just exactly such a role model; ‘And don’t look like that, Abbie, I do happen to know she battled every inch of the way. It really wasn’t easy for her.’

  Defending Celia was a novel situation for Barty; so novel indeed that when she went into Lyttons the next morning she found herself looking at Celia with new and almost indulgent eyes. Only hearing her contemptuous dismissal of an idea of Giles’s for Lyttons to endow a couple of scholarships restored her more usual view of her. So upset was she for him, that she reversed her refusal to attend a family dinner at Cheyne Walk that night for Venetia and Boy, to mark the arrival of Henry. She knew her presence would be hugely comforting to Giles; he told her so repeatedly that he missed her, and that he found Lytton life unbearable without her that she had ceased to find it flattering and found it irritating instead. Nevertheless, she was extremely fond of him; and told herself that attending the dinner would really do her no harm. Sebastian and Pandora were coming, and she adored them both; especially Pandora. She so admired her independence, her refusal to become a chattel; her insistence on keeping her house in Oxford, so that she could carry on with her job at the Bodleian, and that they share their time between Oxford and London seemed to Barty the most splendid thing.

  Celia had not failed to notice Venetia’s low spirits after Henry’s birth; at first she thought it was an entirely natural post-natal depression, but her intuition was as sharp as her eyes and Venetia’s over-eagerness to explain away Boy’s almost constant absence from the house provided a more satisfactory explanation.

  She grieved for her daughter; the fact that her instincts over the marriage had been proved right was absolutely no consolation. She longed to intervene, to speak to Boy, to discuss it openly with Venetia; Oliver, in a spirit of rare authority, forbade it.

  ‘It is nothing to do with
you, what goes on within that marriage; it is Venetia’s, and she must cope with it however she sees fit.’

  Celia said that Venetia was absolutely unable to cope with it and that she was not only inexperienced, but surprisingly timid; Oliver looked at her and smiled.

  ‘You were inexperienced once, my dear, although most assuredly not timid; you handled your marriage in your own way. She must learn to do the same.’

  ‘Our marriage, Oliver,’ said Celia, ‘not mine. And we handled it together.’

  ‘If you say so, Celia,’ said Oliver. ‘I seem to remember some fairly uncompromising decisions. Anyway, our marriage is not under discussion. To interfere with Venetia’s would be not only unwise, but destructive. Give her time; she is only nineteen. And quite clever really; I think when she matures she will be more than a match for Boy. He is extremely selfish, self-obsessed almost; that tends to lead to a certain blindness as to what is actually going on.’

  Celia stared at him; he smiled back at her the sweet, rather blank smile with which he closed subjects, ended discussions which he no longer wished to pursue. She knew what he meant, what he was referring to; and it was safer left where it was, in their past, which however stormy and difficult, had at least led them safely to where they stood now – a couple, much admired and revered, long married, clearly happy. Such images worked their own magic, had the power to rewrite history; they were fractured at great peril.

  ‘You’re so very clever, Oliver,’ she said now and went over to kiss him.

  Boy was at his most charming that evening, smiling, chatting easily, flattering everyone, enquiring after Lyttons, after Barty’s job there, after Sebastian’s latest book, discussing new books and authors with Celia – ‘I thought Rosamund Lehmann’s was one of the most interesting of the season, and as for Barbara Cartland, such fun and so pretty’ – and Pandora’s painting (her new passion), Kit’s progress at school, and, most tactfully of all, Giles’s golf, also a new passion, rather than his job at Lyttons. ‘I’ll give you a game, old boy. Next Saturday, if you’re free. And if my wife can spare me, of course.’

  ‘And if I said I couldn’t?’ said Venetia. Her tone was light, but her eyes were hard; Boy blew her a kiss across the table.

  ‘Then of course I wouldn’t play.’

  ‘You should go too, Venetia,’ said Pandora, ‘it’s a lovely game, I used to play a little.’

  ‘Now that is a marvellous idea,’ said Boy, ‘I’d like that so much, darling. Sadly though, no ladies on the course on Saturday.’

  ‘Why not?’ said Barty innocently.

  ‘Barty, darling, the ladies can play any time. Saturday is for the boys. They wait all week for the chance.’

  ‘Only the ones who work, surely?’ said Barty, sweeter still. My God, thought Celia, she’s developing claws. Well done.

  Boy smiled at Barty, lounged further back in his chair. ‘Well – yes, of course,’ he said lightly. ‘But it means us slothful individuals have more people to play with.’

  ‘Boy’s not slothful,’ said Venetia quickly, ‘he’s very busy, managing his affairs and the gallery, various charitable committees, boards he’s on—’

  ‘My darling, you’re so sweet,’ said Boy, blowing her another kiss. ‘I fear Barty has a point. I don’t work very hard at the moment. Disgraceful, is it not, for a young man of today?’

  ‘I have a friend who thinks that everybody should work, whatever their sex,’ said Barty, ‘and that in another generation they will. She thinks work is what gives life its purpose and gives us our individual dignity. Especially women, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Indeed!’ said Boy. ‘Well, it’s an interesting view. Most interesting. I should like to meet your friend. Discuss her ideas. Anyway, I do have plans for myself—’

  ‘Really?’ said Celia. ‘Do tell us. We had no idea.’

  ‘Well, my father can’t go on for ever. It was always understood I would move into the business when he was ready for me. I’ve been spending an increasing amount of time there recently, haven’t I, Venetia?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Venetia, flushing, ‘yes of course.’

  That was mean, Celia thought, that was unforgivable. To have presented her with that as an excuse for his absences in retrospect, announced it without warning; she looked at him now, steely-eyed herself.

  ‘I’m very surprised not to have heard more about that,’ she said. ‘I saw your father only the other day, at a dinner. He didn’t mention it.’

  ‘Naturally not,’ said Boy. ‘He is a little – mortified by it. By not being able to carry the entire firm on his own slightly less young shoulders. Something which you and Oliver must surely have thought about yourself, Lady Celia? So wise to involve Giles in good time.’

  Game, set and match to Boy, thought Barty: beastly man. She had no great love for Venetia; she had suffered too much at her pretty little hands. But she deserved better than this. She could bear it no longer, she felt Venetia’s humiliation and it hurt; she stood up, smiled apologetically round the table. ‘I’m terribly sorry, but I think I ought to go. I’ve got to get up early in the morning, lots of work to do, would you excuse me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Oliver. ‘We mustn’t keep you. Do you have your car?’

  ‘No, I came from Lyttons with Giles—’

  ‘I’ll drive you home,’ said Giles. ‘I’d like to.’

  He had been quiet, almost morose, during the evening; refusing to be drawn even by Boy’s attempts to charm him. Their friendship, already uncomfortable, had virtually foundered on Giles’s discovery of Venetia’s pregnancy. Quite apart from a sense of outrage that Boy could have behaved so badly, he felt a greater one that his parents were so apparently willing to accept the situation; not even Adele could tease him out of his distress.

  ‘Absolutely no need,’ said Celia now, smooth as ice, ‘we don’t want the whole party disintegrating. Daniels will take Barty, he’s not busy. Goodnight, my dear.’

  Celia lifted her cheek to be kissed. If I was Giles, Barty thought, kissing her dutifully, then Wol, hurrying off with an awkward wave before further such exchanges were necessary, if I was Giles, she’d be asking me what extra work, why, did I need help with it; in spite of her place in the sun at Lyttons, she felt sad for him.

  It was a novel sensation to be in a happier situation than the family, but she seemed to be; oddly, she really didn’t enjoy it. She supposed she must actually love them all more than she had thought. And wondered if she should take up Boy’s suggestion that he meet Abbie: that would really be fun. She would make very short work of him.

  CHAPTER 6

  Sebastian was very, very angry. Pandora looked at him, dark, brooding, hostile, hunched over the morning papers, speaking only in monosyllables, refusing egg, bacon, toast, coffee even, and felt a pang of first remorse and then irritation in return.

  It was an outrageous way for him to react. To what she had told him. Childish, absurd, spoilt behaviour. But then he was childish, absurd and spoilt. Those things were all part of what she loved about him: uncomfortable as they were.

  ‘Sebastian—’

  ‘Not now, Pandora. I’m reading.’

  ‘Well, I’m very sorry,’ she said, ‘to have interrupted you. But—’

  ‘Pandora—’

  ‘Oh really!’ She was silent. They had never had a row. Unless you counted the odd argument over a house, a garden, where they should spend Christmas. It just didn’t happen. She didn’t know how to cope with it.

  He looked up her and scowled. ‘I think I’ll go out. For a walk.’

  ‘Fine, I’m going to work.’

  ‘Don’t forget I’m lecturing tonight. In London.’

  ‘I hadn’t forgotten.’ She looked at him, absorbing his hostile eyes, the hard line of his mouth. ‘I think I won’t come,’ she said.

  He stared at her. Then he said, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake!’ And got up and left the house, slamming the door behind him.

  Pandora, half amused, half upset, w
ent to work; he would appear, she was sure, at lunch time, his arms full of flowers, apologising, telling her he loved her, that he had been wrong. He didn’t. The afternoon ended; surely when she got home he would be there. Waiting for her, asking her to come to London with him. He wasn’t. There wasn’t even a note. Well, he would phone; he would arrive in London, stricken with guilt, would ring to say he was sorry, that he loved her.

  She ate supper, listened to the wireless, read a book; no phone call came. She had a bath, then went to bed. She was beginning to worry now. At the silence. And of course at his reaction. So angry, so violently angry. As if she had done something terribly wrong.

  Which of course, of course she hadn’t. It was ridiculous. She had simply told him. Thinking he would be pleased. As pleased as she was. That she was going to have – that they were going to have – a baby.

  ‘He is just heaven! Heaven,’ said Maud. ‘Truly the most beautiful little boy I ever saw. May I hold him?’

  ‘Of course you may,’ Venetia smiled at her. The quickest – indeed the only – way to her heart these days was through Henry. ‘I hope he isn’t sick or anything down you. He’s just had a feed and – oh God, Maud, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry!’ Maud smiled, mopped at her dress with the napkin Venetia passed her. ‘All babies do it. I’m told,’ she added carefully. ‘I have no personal experience of course.’

  Venetia looked at her, as she sat there, nursing Henry. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, but she was terribly attractive with her red hair and green eyes, and her figure was wonderful, so tall and slim, yet with a full bosom. Her skin was exquisite, very pale, almost translucent, lightly freckled, and she had the most beautiful hands, very white and slender. She gave Henry one of her long fingers to hold; he gripped it tightly in his chubby fist and smiled at her.