Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  She was to go out in November, and initially stay with Maud and Robert.

  ‘Winter in New York isn’t exactly a delight,’ Stuart Bailey had written, ‘very, very cold indeed. The only thing I can say is it’s better than the summer. But I hope you will be happy here.’

  Barty was sure she would be; Maud and she had already exchanged letters, and Jamie, whom she had met and liked at Giles’s wedding, had sent a funny card saying he would be happy to find her an apartment. Even Kyle Brewer, the son of Robert’s partner whom she had met in childhood, and who worked for Macmillans, had written her a little note, saying he was looking forward to meeting her but that she needn’t think she was going to publish a single book that he wanted.

  Only Celia was predictably hostile to the idea; she told Barty she hoped she would enjoy New York, but that she was far from thinking it was a very good idea.

  ‘You are doing so well here, and when you get back, who knows what may have happened, we can’t keep a job open for you indefinitely, this young man we’ve hired to take over your work may prove to be extremely talented, and the Americans are a strange people, very pushy and vulgar. I hope you’ll be able to cope with it.’

  Barty, who had been assured by Wol her job would be waiting for her at the end of the year she was to spend in New York, said of course she didn’t take anything for granted, and she hoped her experiences would benefit her work: and thought to herself that anyone who could cope with Celia herself, not to mention the twins and Lady Beckenham, could manage a fair amount of pushiness.

  At her leaving party, she made a very pretty little speech about her gratitude to Celia and Oliver for the superb training she had received and how she knew it would equip her for anything New York might demand of her. Later, Celia kissed her with tears in her eyes and Sebastian gave her one of his bear hugs and said he had rarely been more proud and fond of anyone and that he hoped New York would properly appreciate her.

  ‘I think they will,’ he added, giving her the rather reluctant slow smile that had become his trademark these days, ‘they know quality when they see it, Barty.’

  Barty, already over-emotional and over-excited, burst into tears.

  She went up to Primrose Hill the next day, as he had said slightly stiffly that she might, to say goodbye to Izzie.

  She found her sitting with her nanny, playing with the dolls’ house Jay and Gordon had built for her; she jumped up and flew into her arms.

  ‘Barty, Barty, hallo. I’m so glad you’re here, can you stay for tea? Father is out, so it would be quite all right.’

  That sad little remark seemed to Barty to tell a hundred stories.

  Over hot anchovy toast, Izzie’s favourite, she told her why she had come: it wasn’t easy. Izzie set down her piece of toast and sat totally still, staring at her, her huge eyes filled with tears.

  ‘You mean – really away, for a long time?’

  ‘Quite a long time,’ said Barty carefully, ‘a year, but I will be back, I promise.’

  ‘But – but who will come and see me then?’ said Izzie.

  ‘Well, Henry and Roo and Elspeth of course, and their mummy and Aunt Adele and Lady Celia and Wol—’

  ‘Henry and Roo don’t come here,’ said Izzie, wiping her eyes. ‘Sometimes I go there. If Father lets me. Please Barty, please don’t go.’

  ‘I’ve – I’ve got to, Izzie. I’m sorry. I’ve got to work there. But I promise I’ll write a lot and send you pictures—’

  ‘Letters aren’t any good,’ said Izzie.

  ‘Of course they are.’

  ‘No, they’re not. Letters don’t hug you. And anyway, I can’t quite read.’

  ‘Izzie darling, your father will read them to you. I’m sure.’

  ‘He doesn’t read to me,’ said Izzie, her eyes heavy.

  ‘Well Nanny will. And I’m sure other people hug you, I’m not the only one who does.’

  ‘You nearly are,’ said Izzie and burst into tears again.

  They were sitting in the drawing room, Izzie on Barty’s lap, when Sebastian came home; Izzie was quieter, but still visibly upset, sucking her thumb.

  ‘Isabella, it’s time for your bath. Up you go to Nanny.’

  ‘Oh Sebastian, don’t make her go. We’re having – fun.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Barty, but I like Isabella to keep to a routine. And it’s not fair on any of us, including her nanny, if it’s upset. Isabella, go on, do as you’re told.’

  She got off Barty’s knee obediently, without argument, and walked out of the room, looking neither at her father nor at Barty until she reached the bottom of the stairs. There she turned and the expression on her face was of such adult resignation and control, Barty felt quite frightened. Suddenly she couldn’t bear it any longer. She had nothing to lose after all.

  ‘Sebastian.’

  ‘Yes, Barty?’ His face was sombre, almost harsh.

  ‘I’m sorry if this upsets you, and I know it will, but I wish—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I wish you could try to be more loving to Izzie. She’s nearly six now, old enough to notice. She’s growing up into such a sad little person.’

  ‘Barty—’

  She ignored him. ‘It’s not her fault, what happened. I know it was dreadful, but you can’t—’

  ‘Barty, I think it’s probably time you left. I really can’t listen to this sentimental twaddle.’

  ‘It’s not—’

  ‘I said leave. Now. I am surprised that you of all people who knew and loved – loved – ’he stopped, then ‘ – my wife, should be so incapable of understanding how I feel.’

  ‘Sebastian, of course I don’t understand – exactly. Nobody could. I know how dreadful it was.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’ His voice had risen; she felt quite frightened. ‘You couldn’t know anything about it. Now bloody well leave me alone. The child is perfectly all right. She is well looked after, she isn’t mistreated in any way—’

  ‘But Sebastian,’ said Barty, and it took every piece of courage that she had, ‘Sebastian, she isn’t getting any love.’

  ‘Get out,’ he said, ‘just get out. And be good enough to remember, please, that neither am I.’

  ‘All right, all right. I’m going. But – Sebastian, don’t look at me like that. You are loved. Very much. By all of us, all of us who ever loved you. Nothing has changed, nothing at all.’

  ‘Everything has changed,’ he said quietly, and his face was ashen suddenly, and drawn with pain, ‘everything has changed for me. Now goodbye, Barty. I hope you are happy in New York.’

  Nanny, watching from the window as Barty drove away in her little car, turned to swaddle Isabella in a thick bath towel. She was silent, seemed almost in shock, sucking her thumb and gazing in front of her, apparently unseeing.

  From downstairs, came a dreadful sound; ugly and raw, going on and on. Nanny knew what it was; she had heard it before. It was Sebastian weeping.

  Barty enjoyed the voyage to America even more than she had expected. In spite of the time of year, the Atlantic was unusually calm and, in any case, she enjoyed the thirty-six hours of rough weather they did run into, enjoyed the feeling of the ship riding the waves, never once felt in the least unwell.

  Oliver had insisted on a first class cabin for her – ‘We can’t have you roughing it, what would our American colleagues think?’ – and she spent her days reading happily on the deck in the wintry sunshine, a thick blanket wrapped round her legs, swimming in the small inside pool and even playing deck tennis with one of the many young men who were intrigued by her solitary status and her air of serene independence. She even once or twice ventured into the steam room and sampled the other tortures of the beauty parlours, but found them as tedious as she had expected, and returned to the more natural delights of the sea and the wind. She did not find the scenery – or rather the lack of it – remotely boring, rather the reverse; the endlessly changing colours of the sea and the sky, from dawn to darkness and th
e vast stretches of brilliant night sky and stars all seemed to her quite extraordinarily beautiful.

  One day she saw a school of dolphins, leaping joyously out of the water; they followed the ship for almost an hour, and she watched them, spellbound.

  Sebastian wrote of their near-cousins, the Phindols, in his Meridian books, creatures that could fly and sing as well as swim and they, amongst all his creations, had fascinated her most. She must remember to send some pictures of them to Izzie; she wondered when she might start to enjoy her father’s books and if he would read them to her and decided rather sadly that of course he would not.

  In the evening, she dined at her table, chatting politely to the other guests; they were not for the most part companions she would have chosen, being rich Americans, but they were extremely friendly and interested in her and what she did and still more so in telling her where they had been and what they had seen on their European tours. And every night she slept deeply, rocked in the cradle of the sea, her dreams untroubled by small, unhappy children or large, unhappy men.

  And the arrival of the ship in New York harbour at dawn would fill some of her happiest dreams ever afterwards: the astonishing buildings etched into the grey mist, the Lady, as the Americans called the Statue of Liberty, holding her torch high to welcome them in, the famous, almost mythical, places she had read about, the Woolworth Building, the Empire State reaching to the sky and the delicate lace-work of the Chrysler etched out of it in silver.

  It was magically beautiful; and as the sun tipped them all, dispelling the mist and turning the water from grey to blue, Barty felt as if in some strange way she had come home.

  Maud and Robert met her in the arrivals hall, Maud flushed with excitement, kissing her rapturously, Robert beaming and hugging her with delight. Barty thought suddenly and rather sadly of her parting from Oliver, so increasingly thin and frail these days, and somehow shabby, despite all Celia’s efforts, his golden hair wispily thin. Robert, stoutly robust, his grey hair thick and waving on the velvet collar of his superbly tailored coat, looked the younger brother, not the older by ten years.

  Maud had become most unusually attractive, Barty thought, her red hair carved into a perfect bob, her green eyes somehow larger than ever under carefully plucked brows, her fair skin dusted with pale freckles. She was perfectly dressed too, in one of the new crisply tailored suits in black and white check and with high-heeled court shoes on her narrow feet. She would take some living up to, Barty decided, sighing inwardly. She had escaped the tyranny of the twins’ beauty and chic; here was another daunting relation.

  ‘It is just so wonderful to see you, I can’t believe you’re finally here. Was your journey all right, you weren’t seasick at all, were you? Did you find any beaux to amuse you? Now the car is waiting for us and we’ll go right on home to Sutton Place, it won’t take long and we have quite a reception committee waiting for you, Jamie is there and so are Felicity and John, they couldn’t wait till tonight, when we are all going to dinner with them, and you can see Kyle as well. Oh, Barty, we are going to have such fun together. Such great great fun.’

  All through the day, as she was shown over the great house – another Lytton town house by the water, she thought – as she was settled into her room, next to Maud’s; as she was kissed and embraced by Felicity, and given one of John Brewer’s rib-cracking hugs; and given another, gentler, one from a beaming Jamie – an extremely handsome and charming Jamie, they were quite something these American relations – as they ate luncheon in the terrace-style dining room with its breathtaking view of the water and the Queensborough Bridge; as they walked in the brilliantly frosty Central Park; as they drove downtown along Park Avenue and then up Fifth, so that she could get a taste of the wonderland of lights that was New York City before arriving at the Brewer house on East Eighty Second: through all this, the feeling that she was home persisted. Somewhere in this wonderful, glittering place, however unlikely it might have seemed, was what she had been looking for all her life.

  She just had to find out what it was. Or who.

  As she walked into the Brewers’ vast first-floor drawing room, and Felicity greeted her once more, and John offered her a cocktail, Kyle Brewer came into the room towards her, holding out his hand, all sixfoot-two of him, broad-shouldered and long-legged, so handsome now in the American style, all long, floppy brown hair and deep blue eyes and perfect teeth. He was nice, really nice, she could imagine—

  A small and rather beautiful creature, with sleek ash blonde hair and wide blue eyes appeared from behind him, pushed her arm through his and held out the other hand to Barty.

  ‘How do you do?’ she said in tones so drawly they could almost be English. ‘It’s so very nice to meet you. I’m Lucy Bradshawe, Kyle’s fiancée. Welcome to New York.’

  She smiled at Barty, slightly condescendingly, and Barty smiled back, feeling over-sized and clumsy.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘Kyle told me all about your history, how you were adopted by the Lyttons from a really poor family. So fascinating! I’d love to know more.’

  ‘Well, there’s very little to tell really,’ said Barty.

  She disliked Lucy Bradshawe already.

  ‘You see,’ said Celia, ‘what did I tell you? The first Penguins a huge success. And—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did see. And I also read that the biggest order came from Woolworth. Woolworth indeed! I told you it was a cheapskate operation. What about the bookshops?’

  ‘Oliver, the first batch of Penguin authors included Hemingway, Linklater, Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers. Doesn’t sound very cheapskate to me. Well, we’ve missed one great opportunity this year; what are you going to find for 1936?’

  ‘It’s a lovely office,’ said Barty, ‘I really like it. Thank you, Stuart, so much. I shall be very happy here.’

  ‘And work hard, I hope. Although I am sure I have nothing to worry about there. Oliver tells me you work like a demon.’

  ‘I try to. I think I do. It’s funny, that expression, isn’t it? And then people are said to write like angels.’

  ‘And who do you particularly think has an angel holding their pen right now? Of American origin, that is?’

  ‘Oh, well – Scott Fitzgerald, of course. Ernest Hemingway. Dorothy Parker, of course—’

  ‘Of course. Will you be calling in at the Algonquin during your time here?’

  ‘I expect I’d be shown the door again quite quickly,’ said Barty laughing, ‘I can’t see people like the Lunts and Robert Benchley welcoming me.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. They might be pleased to see a new face. Anyway, Barty, if you can find me a new Fitzgerald, or a new Dorothy, for that matter, I shall be a happy man. My ambition is to see Lyttons rise to rival Macmillan. Although, as Macmillan have offices in Chicago, Dallas and Boston to name a few, as well as New York, I think they don’t have a great deal to worry about for the time being. But with your help, who knows. Meanwhile, I’m putting you on to our popular fiction list; the senior editor is Clark Douglas, and you will report to him. I’ll introduce you to him in a little while, he’s out with an author right now. I’ll leave you to get organised; and there are a few proofs which need reading on your desk. See you later.’

  He left after giving her his rather brief smile; Barty watched him go, thinking she wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him. Very nice while he was pleased with you, but—

  She looked round her small office; it was tiny, but utterly charming, more of a study than an office, rather like a small version of Celia’s with a pretty fireplace and lots of bookshelves and an old-fashioned wooden desk. She looked at the books: the usual selection, lots of the Lytton books, a complete set of Meridian of course, they did wonderfully well in America, the Buchanans which didn’t – ‘too English’, apparently. She wondered suddenly if an American version, an American family saga, would suit the market. If she could set that up, well, it was a bit early to be thinking of that.


  She liked the area where Lyttons was based: Gramercy Park. It was comfortable and in another world from the forest of skyscrapers. There were sudden small squares and tall brown houses (known as brownstones) mostly built at the turn of the century. And then its architectural treasures were so unexpected too, the famous Con Edison Clock Tower and the Stuyvesant Fish House. The Lytton building was actually a house, just south of what was known as The Block, beautiful, a brownstone with wide steps running up to the front door, and an ornate ironwork balcony set over it. Robert had found it for Oliver when the New York office had opened before the war, and still talked about it with proprietory pride.

  The reception area, built in the wide hall of the old house, felt friendly and bookish, almost like a library; the receptionist, a woman called Mrs Smythe (‘nobody knows her first name,’ Stuart said to Barty), was twinkling and almost cosy, and the looking-out boys at the back of the reception were cheeky and fun. Barty sighed: a contented sigh. She was going to be very happy here. And best of all, nobody really knew she was anything to do with the Lytton family: no tedious explanations all the time, no self-justification, nobody thinking she was doing well because of being almost a Lytton. Or doing badly and yet surviving for the same reason.

  ‘That must be quite a challenge,’ Kyle had said to her after dinner on that first night, ‘working at Lyttons and being part of the family.’

  ‘Well, I’m not exactly—’ Barty began and then stopped. It was always impossible to explain.

  ‘Oh, but you are. Absolutely part of it, that huge, talented, terribly attractive mob.’

  Barty wondered how Celia would feel at having her family described as a mob, even a terribly attractive one. It was becoming clear to her already why Celia disliked Americans so much.