Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  They arrived a week later, three models, a fashion editor and Cedric and his assistant. Adele had booked them into a hotel in Beaconsfield.

  ‘I’d love to have you here, Cedric,’ she told him on the phone, ‘but the house has been turned into a school and it’s absolutely full of little boys . . .’

  ‘My darling, how cruel. Sending me away.’

  ‘I hadn’t thought of that. All the more reason for the hotel I’d say.’

  ‘Will they be around while we’re shooting? They could make wonderful props.’

  ‘I think it would be much better, Cedric,’ said Adele severely, ‘if you confined your props to tractors and ploughs.’

  The thought of what Mr Dawkins might make of Cedric was alarming to say the least.

  His rather flamboyant pale-blue Bentley arrived at Ashingham the next morning; he leapt out, a dazzling figure in cream slacks and blazer.

  ‘Cedric, how do you manage to get clothes like that still?’ said Adele laughing, throwing herself into his arms. ‘And petrol to run that thing?’

  ‘We get a little extra, as our work is considered essential. And everyone chipped in with their coupons. I’m glad you like the clothes. Aren’t they lovely? Bermans, darling. I have this chum there, and occasionally they sell things off. This was filthy, but I had it cleaned and it’s come up beautifully, as you see. This is its first outing. Pure who’s-for-tennis, country-house-comedy, don’t you think? I thought it would be so suitable for today.’

  Adele caught a glimpse of Mr Dawkins peering out of a window, staring transfixed at them.

  ‘Utterly suitable,’ she said. ‘No fashion editor?’

  ‘The poor thing’s ill. Utterly poleaxed at the hotel. Said she ate something last night. I think she drank too much. Anyway, when she heard it was you, she calmed down.’

  ‘Well I’m very flattered,’ said Adele, ‘but it’s years since I did a fashion shoot.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Your eye is peerless, darling.’

  ‘Well, I’ll do my best. Now come on in, Grandmama is dying to meet you. She said were you one of those pixies. I presume she meant fairies. I said yes.’

  ‘Darling, you’re so cruel.’

  The shoot went well at first; the girls sat on tractors, leaned out of stables, walked in the woods. Adele was happier than she could remember being for months, putting outfits together, adding scarves, belts, overcoats from the gun room, and, for one picture of a girl sitting laughing on a gate, one of the little boys’ caps.

  And then it happened.

  Cedric, who had been growing quieter and quieter as the morning went on, suddenly turned extremely pale and disappeared behind a hedge; he came back grass-green.

  ‘So sorry. Shouldn’t have said that about Loretta. I did think that meat was a tiny bit suspect. Just give me five minutes and I’ll be all right.’

  But he wasn’t; half an hour later he had to be helped inside to lie down; even the sight of ten small boys walking from one classroom to another failed to penetrate his misery.

  ‘It’s frightful, Adele, too frightful. We have to finish today and we’ve got three shots to do still. Maybe in an hour or so – oh dear. Darling, where is the lavatory—’

  He came back shaking, lay down. ‘What are we going to do? We’re behind our deadline already. I just don’t think – oh dear.’ He closed his eyes, his hand on his brow; then opened them again feebly. ‘Darling, you’ll have to do it.’

  ‘Me! Cedric, I can’t.’

  ‘Of course you can. It’s really not very difficult. Jason will do the light readings for you, all you have to do is style the pictures. And compose them of course. He has no vision. And you have so much – oh God, I must leave you again—’

  It wasn’t really very difficult; she couldn’t have managed the light readings, but her eye was superb, and she had spent years studying what made a picture work, how to lift it out of the ordinary, give it what Cedric called ‘the magic’.

  She was particularly excited about the last picture she did; the three girls shot against the light in the late afternoon, walking in line behind one of the great Shire horses and the plough. They were wearing check tweeds from Worth, very sharply cut, with felt hats, and on their feet were not shoes but heavy wellingtons, again borrowed from the gun room; it was a bold piece of accessorising, but she knew it would work.

  Cold, tired and hugely excited, she went to find Cedric, who was feeling a little better.

  ‘I think they’ll be all right,’ she said.

  They were more than all right; the art director loved them, phoned to tell her that he was leading with the Shire horse shot across a spread – ‘those wellington boots, an inspiration’ – and moreover asked her if she’d like a credit.

  ‘A credit?’ said Adele. ‘What, a styling credit?’

  ‘Adele, don’t be dense, dear. A photographic credit. You certainly deserve it.’

  Adele said that would be very nice and wondered if there was anyone at Ashingham who would properly appreciate the importance of this piece of news. She decided rather sadly there was not.

  CHAPTER 36

  ‘I’m going to tell him. I’ve decided.’

  ‘You can’t. You know Mummy said it would just worry him, we weren’t to tell him, that it would be a lovely surprise when he got home. And it’s not your secret.’

  ‘It’s not even a secret.’

  ‘Yes it is.’

  ‘Roo, you’re being ridiculous. How can a baby be a secret? And I think he’d like to know. He likes babies anyway, he told me when Amy was born. And Fergal is quite big now. I mean, he’s one, not even a baby any more. It’s so nice to know they like each other again, don’t you think?’

  Roo was silent; a lifetime of at least appearing to defer to his elder brother had taught him discretion. Henry obviously meant what he said. He had that look about him. And maybe he was right; after all he was almost grown up now, really tall, and his voice had broken. He looked very like their father; Roo, who missed Boy dreadfully, would sometimes almost think it was him if Henry came unexpectedly into the room.

  Roo had joined Henry at Eton now; when the two of them went off together for the first time from Ashingham that spring, waving slightly grandly from the car, oddly handsome in their tailcoats, Joan Miller was not the only person to cry.

  ‘It just doesn’t seem possible,’ she said to Lord Beckenham, who was standing next to her, openly wiping his eyes. ‘Seems only yesterday they were running around in short trousers.’

  ‘It does indeed, my dear. And I shall miss young Roo terribly. The cadet corps’ gain is the battalion’s loss. Damn fine soldier he’ll be.’

  ‘Anyway,’ said Henry firmly now, ‘I’m going to write tonight. And if you tell Mummy I’ll break your neck.’

  ‘I don’t see her enough to tell her anything,’ said Roo slightly sadly, and it was true. Burying her personal unhappiness, Venetia was working increasingly hard, and had spent most of Roo’s final weeks at Ashingham in London. She had more or less taken over LM’s role, dealing with budgets, promotions and sales; booksellers loved her, appreciating her blend of slightly scatty flirtatiousness and tough bargaining ability. Nor did she waste their time; like her mother she had an instinct for how to present books, varying approach to content and audience, enthusing over a book to one shop where she would scarcely mention it in another. Her task was in any case not difficult; business was booming and the public could not get enough books. The bookshops that had survived the Blitz were desperately busy, and publishers found themselves in the novel situation of rationing their supply.

  Venetia was inevitably successful; which did much for her self-confidence. She and her mother worked extremely well together; delegation was one of Celia’s talents and she trusted Venetia absolutely. Their problem was Oliver, increasingly anxious over their approach, and their commercialism, resentful of their closeness.

  As always he said very little, but won what battles he felt to be absolutely imp
ortant with a stubborn and largely silent negativism; ‘I cannot and will not agree to that,’ he would say, and they would look at his closed face and know that time spent arguing would be put to better use on something else. He also felt physically disorientated; he had been deeply shocked by the loss of Lytton House, and found it hard to come to terms with working in Curzon Street, for reasons other than practical ones. He felt he had lost his past, his heritage; Lytton House had always been as much part of his life as his own home. He had spent long hours there from early childhood, absorbing its legends, its history and its atmosphere; the books that had lined his walls had also been the background to his life, and if he were set down in any part of the building blindfold, he could have told you exactly where he was simply by the sound and feel of it.

  The loss of all the records had upset him too, increased his sense of confusion. He had always liked to be able to trace the history of a book, from concept to publication, it gave him authority. He had loved browsing through old contracts and letters, they were as personally important to him as the children’s birth certificates, first locks of hair and shoes were to Celia. Curzon Street was providing a base for Lyttons; but it was in no way its home.

  And he missed LM dreadfully, her unspoken and unquestioning loyalty, the history they had shared. She was a staunch, if discreet, ally, she understood how he felt about books, how distasteful he found the rampant commercialism Celia and Venetia were employing. But LM was seldom there, a two-day week was a full one for her now, and even then she would come in late and go home early. She insisted there was nothing wrong, but she was clearly not well; nobody quite knew what was the matter with her, both she and Gordon parried questions with skill and brevity, but she was a bad colour and painfully thin; and she had a weariness about her that was absolutely at odds with her old forceful self.

  She insisted it was sleeplessness and worry about Jay, a just-plausible explanation which Oliver and Celia clung to. The real reason was something which she and Gordon had agreed to keep to themselves for as long as possible: she had cancer of the stomach and in the doctor’s considered opinion, since she was brave and insistent enough to ask for it, could be given a maximum of six months to live.

  ‘Adele! Letter for you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  From Vogue, no doubt, they said they would pay her. Well, that would be nice, she could do with—

  ‘Oh my God.’

  ‘What? Whatever is it?’ said Lady Beckenham.

  But Adele had gone: to her room, holding the precious envelope, small and brown like a telegram envelope, with its Deutsche Rotes Creuscz printed within the large Red Cross symbol. Impossible to look at that, at the German gothic lettering on the postmark without a shudder. But – for God’s sake, Adele, open it. Open it. She pulled it out: not only words, but in Luc’s own handwriting, not copied out coldly as her own had been. Words, wonderful, wonderful words: ‘Mignonne. Message delayed. All well with me. Write again, will collect from Mme André. Je t’aime, je t’embrasse, je t’adore. Luc.’

  It had come via Geneva, and then the Red Cross in London: and from there seemed to have been posted in the usual way, for it had an English stamp on it. She looked at the date; it had taken five months. Five endless, painful months. And it was a year since she had written to him.

  It took some time to digest, to work out what must have happened. He had left the apartment; she should have thought of that. But it explained the delay, his apparent failure to reply. Dear Mme André must have forwarded her letter to him or he had been back to the apartment. And he was still alive, still all right . . .

  She went back into Beaconsfield that afternoon.

  This time her message was shorter. There was really so little to say: when very much more was impossible.

  ‘Je t’adore aussi. Mam’selle Adele.’

  She handed it over with her sevenpence, her eyes streaming.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said again; and went to sit outside in the autumn sunshine, reading again and again her own message from Luc, tears streaming down her face.

  My dearest,

  I know this is rather – premature, but I do love you so very much. And I wonder if you would consider becoming engaged to me: when I finally get home again. Those days and weeks together and that last wonderful night were not just the happiest of my life, they were beyond my wildest imaginings. I think we could be so happy together and make such a very good life. Please, Barty, take time to think about it and don’t feel in any way pressured to answer. We have plenty of time – I fear. Or perhaps I hope.

  Your very loving

  John

  Barty read this with the mixture of happiness and panic that followed all John’s declarations of love and requests for commitment. She kept hoping that the panic would ease, but it rose up to reach her, snaking its way into her head and her heart, disrupting her pleasure, giving her no rest.

  It was absurd, she would tell herself, she loved John and he loved her, they were absolutely right for one another, they shared views, pleasures, ambitions, were absolutely at ease with one another. She could imagine so well and so happily a life together with him, having children with him, could see that at no time would he stand in the way of anything she wanted to do, resent her career, or envy her success.

  It would be a peaceful, fulfilling life, each of them adding to the happiness and fulfilment of the other, she would go into it joyful, confident, absolutely secure. There would be no fear, no jealousy, no deceit, no violent demands on her attention; she would not have to pause before every action, however small, to wonder if it would find acceptance; she would know absolutely where she was and within the constraints of all that seemed to her to be important about marriage, she would be free, free to be herself.

  And yet, yet the panic would not go away.

  ‘Letter for you, Major Warwick.’

  ‘Thanks, corporal. Let’s see – oh yes, it’s from my eldest son, judging by the writing. He’s a pretty good correspondent.’

  Better than his mother, Boy thought, ripping open the letter. She hardly wrote at all, and when she did, only with news of the children or her job with Lyttons which seemed increasingly to occupy her. She implied she was practically running the place. Some kind of inflated secretarial job no doubt, handed to her on a plate to keep her occupied. And give her an excuse for being in London rather than cooped up in Ashingham with her children.

  He began to read:

  ‘Dear Father,

  I hope all is well with you. We enjoy your letters very much and are so proud of you. When we read about the 8th Army retaking Tobruk we were incredibly excited; we were home at Ashingham on an exeat and Great-grandpapa went through the whole thing with us, drawing maps of the area and the Qattara depression. He said it was a bit like a boxing ring in which both sides were facing one another. It sounds jolly exciting.

  Everything is fine here; Roo is enjoying Eton and is already in the rugby and cricket teams, and he likes boxing. Also he’s the star of his year in the corps. I’ve kept a pretty close eye on things and I don’t think there’s been any bullying. Of course you can’t always tell, but he certainly hasn’t said anything. Amy and Elspeth are both at St Christopher’s now, keeping the Warwick flag flying. They both say they wish they could go to a girls’ school.

  GGP’s Ashingham battalion goes from strength to strength and the reinforcements round the place are really fantastic! He now does a dawn patrol in addition to all the others, although everyone says an invasion is very unlikely. He’s very disappointed, but still hoping of course! He really is a dear old chap. He had a letter in The Times the other day, about utility suits. These are the cheap, basic men’s suits tailors now make to save cloth. GGP discovered that they have to have waistcoats and sent off a furious letter to The Times about it, saying of course they shouldn’t have waistcoats and no one needed a new suit anyway, he hadn’t had one made since 1925. He was terrifically pleased with himself.

  Joan Mil
ler, you know, married to Billy, Barty’s brother, is having a baby in September. She says she thinks it’s twins.

  Amy’s riding is really fantastic, she can take really quite big jumps. Great-grandmama is so proud of her, they ride together all the time. GGM is amazing, Adele was saying the other day that she’s over eighty, yet she still works on the farm for a few hours every day. There are a whole lot of landgirls there now, jolly pretty, some of them.

  Adele is very excited, she took some fashion pictures at Ashingham and they were published in some magazine and she’s been asked to do some more.

  Apparently Uncle Giles is in Sicily. We don’t see much of Aunt Helena. Jay is still in England – I think! A bit hush hush, all that. We met his girlfriend, Tory, at Christmas, she’s an absolute corker. Barty is still enjoying the ATS, what she does sounds really interesting.

  Everyone is very excited because Kit has written a book. He’s certainly cheered up! Apparently it’s awfully good. I haven’t been able to get hold of a copy yet because it’s in proof form – note technical publishing term! Maybe I shall join Lyttons one day! I think I’d rather go into banking like Grandad. Maths is definitely one of my strongest subjects. And history. I also rather like art. Bit of a cissy subject I know, but still! I’m also playing loads of rugger, but I’m not in Roo’s league.

  Bit embarrassing to be beaten by your younger brother, but I’m getting used to it.