Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  Adele looked at her curiously. ‘Did you – I mean was there ever—’

  ‘I never did,’ said Celia, ‘but I came close to it. For reasons which I am not prepared to discuss. But I did have several miscarriages. One of which, possibly two, I could have avoided, had I rested, done the right thing. But in the case of the first, I was being foolish, more concerned about my career, and the second – well, that was a deliberate decision. Which I didn’t regret, but still suffered for dreadfully.’

  ‘What was it?’ said Adele. This was the most extraordinary conversation she had ever had with her mother.

  ‘Oh – you don’t want to know.’

  ‘Yes, I do. I really do.’

  ‘Well – it was during the war. LM was down at Ashingham, she had just had Jay and she – well, she hadn’t heard from his father. Actually he had been killed. She had assumed he didn’t want the baby, she was preparing to have him adopted. Then a letter arrived at her house in London from—’

  ‘Her husband?’

  ‘The father,’ said Celia. Her eyes met Adele’s in absolute complicity. ‘This is very – private information, Adele, I would not want it shared with anyone.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Anyway, this letter came. Telling her how happy and proud he was. I knew it was important she got it quickly. There were literally days, possibly hours before she signed Jay away. She was down at Ashingham. I had to get it to her.’

  ‘So – you took it to her?’

  ‘Yes. There was no one else, our chauffeur had joined up, few people could drive, you must remember. I drove down myself – in premature labour. I knew what I was doing, and I thought LM was more important. Well, she was.’

  ‘Oh, Mummy. What a sad story.’ Adele looked at her mother, her fierce, tough, uncompromising mother and realised she would never see her in quite the same way again.

  ‘Not entirely, I got there in time. LM was overjoyed. And I – well, I—’

  ‘Lost the baby?’

  ‘Yes. Next day. It was a girl. And it took me a very long time – perhaps for ever – to get over that. I’m telling you only so that you know exactly what a serious thing you are doing, Adele. It’s not something you can decide lightly; nor that you can decide on your own. You must tell Luc about it. And remember, it’s his baby too; it isn’t just yours.’

  Izzie was sitting with Kit on the steps at the front of the house, waiting for Billy to finish a conversation with Lady Beckenham, when the car pulled into the drive. The large grey Bentley. Her father’s car.

  She looked at it in terror; what had he come for, what did he want, was he so angry with her he was going to take her home, after only – what – four days?

  ‘Hallo, Sebastian,’ said Kit, standing up, walking over to him, holding out his hand, ‘good to see you.’

  ‘Good to see you,’ said Sebastian shortly, and then ‘I hope Isabella’s been behaving herself?’

  ‘Of course she has. We’ve had a really good time, haven’t we Izzie?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said very quietly. ‘Yes, a very good time.’

  ‘Good. Very hot in London, you’re lucky to be here. Is anyone about?’

  ‘If you mean Grandmama, yes, but she’s busy at the stables. Grandpapa’s cleaning the guns. I can get him if you like—’

  ‘No, no. Well not yet, anyway. It’s Isabella I’ve come to see.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to take her home,’ said Kit, ‘she’s starting riding lessons with Billy today. And this afternoon, we’re going for a picnic.’

  ‘Of course I’m not going to take her home,’ said Sebastian shortly. ‘I just wanted to – well, to see her. Talk to her about something.’

  This was such an extraordinary statement that Izzie felt quite shocked. Never, in all her six years had her father said he wanted to talk to her. She must have done something very bad. Maybe the school had complained about her, or Nanny had said she didn’t want to look after her any longer—

  ‘I’d like to talk to her alone,’ said Sebastian.

  ‘Of course. Shall I tell Billy, he was going to give her a riding lesson?’

  ‘No, no. It won’t take long. Come along, Isabella.’

  She stood up reluctantly, her legs felt rather wobbly. He set off briskly along the side of the house; then looked back at her.

  ‘Come along,’ he said, ‘I thought you were in a hurry.’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’

  He led her across the lawn towards the meadow; when they reached the fence he climbed over it, and then turned and waited, clearly impatient while she wriggled under it on her tummy.

  ‘Woods or meadow?’ he said.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘Never say you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘it indicates a lack of interest. Express a view even if you’re not sure.’

  ‘Woods,’ she said quickly.

  He walked for a few minutes, and because it was such a narrow path, she had to walk behind him. Even with his limp, he walked very quickly, she had trouble keeping up. She wondered when he would start talking; this really was the strangest experience of her life.

  ‘Right,’ he said suddenly stopping, leaning against a tree, looking at her, ‘there’s something I have to say to you.’

  ‘Yes, Father?’

  ‘I – thought I ought to come. I – well, that is, to thank you.’

  ‘Thank me!’ She felt the ground beneath her feet literally heave; she put out her hand to steady herself against the tree.

  ‘Yes. I wasn’t very – grateful the last time we talked.’

  ‘Weren’t you, Father?’

  ‘No. Remember when that was?’

  ‘Yes, Father. It was in the night when you were – when I said about your books.’

  ‘Exactly. I don’t suppose you realised it, but it was quite helpful.’

  ‘Helpful? How?’

  ‘It gave me an idea. I – well, I hadn’t really had one before. For my new book.’

  ‘I gave you an idea?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said irritably, ‘do stop repeating everything I say, Isabella, it’s not necessary.’

  ‘Sorry, Father.’

  ‘Anyway, it was about the cows, do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I do. I said what if they came to our time for a day and met our cows . . .’

  ‘Exactly. Well, I found that interesting.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘There was something else you said as well, about the time. Remember that?’

  ‘I think so.’ She hesitated. ‘You mean about Meridian time and our time, getting mixed up?’

  ‘That’s right. Well, anyway, it was a great help to me. And I thought you should know that. That’s all.’

  ‘I’m very glad, Father.’ She stood staring up at him; and for some reason, although she was pleased she had helped him, she felt dreadfully sad, because he still looked so cross, with that awful face which made it so plain he didn’t like her at all. She might not have noticed before, but it was so lovely at Ashingham, with so many people being kind to her and talking to her, it reminded her of how miserable she felt at home a lot of the time. It was going to be so much worse when she got back. She felt tears start, felt them beginning to spill over. She brushed her hand across her eyes.

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ he said impatiently, ‘don’t start crying. I thought you’d be pleased.’

  ‘Sorry, Father. Sorry. Of course I am. I—’

  And then it was no good, she started crying harder, proper crying, coming up from her chest; and she stood there, staring at him, longing so much for him to care that she was crying, instead of being cross with her.

  Finally she managed to get it under control; and as she bit her lip, choked back the last sobs, she realised he was looking at her with a very odd expression on his face. Not cross any more, not smiling either; just rather – no, very – sad. And for a long time they both stood there, each of them confronting one another and each other’s unhappiness. And
then, awkwardly, slowly, as if it was very difficult for him, he reached out a hand towards her.

  ‘Come here,’ he said quietly, but she couldn’t, she went on standing there.

  ‘I said come here.’ Still not seeming cross.

  She took a step towards him then, and then another, expecting any moment for him to lose patience, to move away, and still he held out his hand.

  And finally, and it seemed a very long journey, she reached the point where she could reach him, and then she put her own hand out and placed it in his. It was very warm, his hand, warm and firm; she had never touched him before, she realised. He closed his hand round hers very gently and stood looking down, down at their two hands in silence as if he had never seen them before. And then he looked down at her, looked into her eyes as if he was hoping she would understand something.

  ‘I’m – sorry,’ he said and his voice was funny, deeper than usual, and a bit as if he was being shaken up and down. ‘I’m very sorry, Isabella.’

  She stood there absolutely silent, not moving, knowing without at all knowing why, that anything she did or said might be wrong, might be dangerous. Another long silence; and then he gave her the funny almostsmile again. ‘You’re all right, are you? Down here with Kit?’

  ‘Yes, Father. Thank you. It’s really – really fun.’

  ‘Good. I’m afraid you haven’t had much – fun.’

  He was staring past her again now, at that funny place beyond her; but still holding her hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again.

  ‘That’s all right, Father.’

  ‘Well, we’d better get back,’ he said, sounding suddenly more ordinary, ‘Billy will be waiting for you. I don’t want to make you late. Come along.’

  He released her hand and turned to walk away; she started hurrying after him. Then he stopped again.

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember, but you said something else that night. About the time. Remember that?’

  ‘Not – not really.’

  ‘You said you could only tell half the time. I thought that sounded like the name of a rather interesting book. Half the time. What do you think?’

  ‘I suppose so. Yes.’ She didn’t really, but—

  ‘Well if you don’t like it, I shan’t call it that,’ he said, sounding suddenly cross again.

  She panicked. ‘Oh, but I do. Really.’

  ‘Good. Come along, keep up.’

  As they reached the fence, he climbed over it, then turned as she was going to go underneath it and reached over to her, picked her up, then set her down and took her hand again. He smiled at her rather uncertainly. She smiled back.

  ‘Next term, if you like,’ he said suddenly as they reached the house, ‘I’ll come and give a talk at your school.’

  ‘Father, you don’t have to. If you don’t want to, if it makes you upset.’

  ‘Oh, but I do have to,’ he said, and sighed, very heavily. ‘I think I owe you that at the very least.’

  Poor, poor Adele. It was today, today she was having the beastly thing done. It was so harsh, so cruel she had to go through it and on her own. Of course it was the right thing to do, especially as Luc had been so vile about it but – she was so tender-hearted, it was bound to upset her. It had upset her already, dreadfully.

  Venetia sighed. They were both so upset, both so unhappy. It was odd that it should have coincided, their unhappiness. She felt quite dreadful still, desperate at times. And so lonely. She had sent the children off to Frinton with Nanny and a nursemaid, thinking that some peace and quiet would soothe and help her and it didn’t seem to be doing anything of the sort. The house seemed vast and echoing with her misery; she didn’t know what to do with herself, just wandered about London, shopping, returning to the house feeling more lonely than ever. Every time she passed a mirror and saw herself, her white, exhausted face, her dull hair, her dark-ringed eyes, she wondered who on earth would ever want her now, what possible future she could have.

  Well tomorrow or the next day at the latest, Adele would be here, and she could look after her, nurse her. They could nurse each other: back to happiness.

  And then Adele at least could begin again.

  Only – she did love Luc so very much. Really, really loved him. It wasn’t a schoolgirl crush, or just sex, or something amusing to do with her time, taking a married lover; it was love. Venetia did know that. Proper, intense, and very unselfish love. And getting rid of his baby would hurt her dreadfully. Horribly. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do, maybe she should have tried to dissuade her.

  The phone started to ring: on and on. Who could that be, everyone was away. He mother probably, asking her to supper. She kept doing that, and Venetia kept refusing. She couldn’t face her mother at the moment: even though she had been so supportive and good to her. She knew that whatever Celia said, she felt that she had brought at least some of her troubles on herself. Well maybe she was right, maybe she had. But it was a very hard thing to accept, just at the moment.

  ‘Telephone, Mrs Warwick. Miss Lytton, phoning from Paris.’

  Paris! What was she doing there, she was supposed to be in Switzerland—

  ‘Venetia? It’s me. Look, I won’t be coming back to London, not for a bit, anyway. Luc is being absolutely wonderful and I – we – are going to keep the baby.’

  ‘Come along, mignonne. A little more fish. We have to make you strong, able to perform this important task that you have been given.’

  ‘What important task?’ said Adele laughing, shaking her head at the forkful he was proffering. ‘No thank you, Luc, really, the more I eat, the more I’m sick.’

  ‘The task of bearing my son.’

  ‘It might be your daughter. And it’s not just yours.’

  ‘Of course it will be a son. I feel it. And my grandmother says that even if you are sick, it is better to eat. I am going to order a little crème caramel, plenty of milk and eggs.’

  ‘Your grandmother! Luc, you haven’t told her?’

  ‘But of course. I tell her everything.’

  ‘Whatever did she say?’

  ‘She was delighted.’

  ‘She can’t be delighted. You’ve committed a mortal sin, or whatever the Jewish equivalent is.’

  ‘For my grandmother, I can commit no sin. Besides, she never liked my wife, she thinks this is far better for me. You must meet her, she will love you.’

  ‘Luc, this is going a bit too fast for me,’ said Adele. ‘A week ago, there was no question of your leaving your wife, now you tell me I must meet your grandmother and that she will love me.’

  ‘A lot has changed in this week,’ said Luc soberly. His dark eyes were sombre, meeting hers. ‘A week ago, I was a selfish, self-obsessed pig. Today I am to be a father, I have great responsibilities, I will think of myself no longer, only my son.’

  ‘And me.’

  ‘And you, of course. You, whom I love so very much.’

  He smiled, raised her hand to his lips and kissed it; she smiled back. That Luc would cease to think of himself seemed hugely unlikely but she had no intention of saying so.

  It was very strange, what this child had done to him: to him and their relationship.

  She had done what her mother said, telephoned him, said she must see him; oddly subdued, he had said he would like that, had offered to come to London, if she felt too unwell to travel.

  But ‘No, Luc, I would rather come to Paris. Thank you.’

  He had met her off the boat train, looking pale and drawn; had taken her to a small restaurant and sat her down and held her hand and without looking up at her had begged for her forgiveness for his behaviour.

  ‘It was – atroce. Appalling. I cannot believe it even of myself. I am so ashamed, my darling, so dreadfully ashamed. I have no excuse – except perhaps the shock of it. I did not expect it.’

  ‘I can’t think why not,’ said Adele irritably, hearing her mother’s words, ‘we’ve been doing all the necessary things to make a baby for months and months
. Years, actually.’

  ‘My darling, I know. But – well, just try to believe me. And then I thought you had decided not to discuss it with me, not to decide with me what was best—’

  ‘No, no, Luc. It was only because you were so horrid—’

  ‘And you said some very hard things to me. No doubt deserved, but still – upsetting. Very upsetting.’

  ‘Of course. I’m sorry,’ said Adele remorsefully, ‘but I thought you didn’t care about me, that you didn’t want to know about the baby, of course I said some hard things—’

  ‘Of course. Well, we have been at cross purposes. But not any more. Everything will be different from today. I love you and I am so proud of you. Now I have booked us into our hotel, in the rue de Seine, and tomorrow, well tomorrow is the important day.’

  ‘What sort of important?’

  ‘You will see. Come along, chérie, I want to remove that extremely pretty dress and see if I am able to detect already any signs of our son’s existence.’

  Next day, he had disappeared early, leaving her alone (and grateful for it, for she still felt very unwell), but with instructions to meet him for lunch at the Closerie des Lilas, on the Boulevard Montparnasse; one of the prettiest restaurants in Paris with its trailing vines and enchanting terrasse, and one of their favourites, filled as it was with Parisian café society, writers, artists, journalists, all of whom seemed to know and love Luc. And after lunch, after the rejected fish and the uneaten crème caramel, he turned to her and said, very seriously, ‘Well if you will not eat, we may as well leave. But before we do, I have a present for you.’

  ‘A present!’

  ‘A present.’

  She prepared herself to be pleased. Luc wasn’t very good at presents. All the usual things that mistresses were supposed to enjoy, jewellery, lingerie, scent, never came her way. Not that she cared; she was too particular to appreciate someone else’s taste: even Luc’s. He brought her rare books sometimes, flowers quite often, but not anything she could set down on her bedside table and gaze at before she went to sleep.