Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  She arrived breathless and excited; Kit opened the door himself.

  ‘Is anyone here?’

  ‘No. Well, Father’s asleep. No one else.’

  ‘Good. Come on, let’s go and sit down.’

  They went into the drawing room and she closed the door.

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well listen. This is it—’

  She left half an hour later, with a passionate kiss. ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too,’ he said, ‘more than ever. It’s a marvellous idea. As marvellous as you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Father, I was so rude yesterday. Of course I want to go to New York.’

  ‘Good.’ He smiled at her, patently relieved. ‘I’m glad. So do I. Want to read Barty’s letter now?’

  ‘Yes please.’

  ‘Now then, I’ve been thinking about your birthday. It’s an important one, isn’t it? Sixteen. What would you like to do? Would you like a party?’

  ‘Oh—I don’t know. I’m not a terribly party person.’

  ‘Well—a family party. How about that?’

  She thought for a bit. ‘Yes. Yes, that might be very nice. Here?’

  ‘Yes, I should think so.’

  ‘And could Henry—and Roo of course—come?’

  That should put him off the scent.

  ‘Well they’re certainly family. As long as they’re not at school.’

  ‘If it was a weekend, which it would have to be, or I’d be at school too, it would be all right. They could get an exeat.’

  ‘Fine. Well—what about the weekend before? Your birthday’s on a Wednesday, I think.’

  ‘Oh—no,’ she spoke quickly, ‘no, I’d much rather it was after. Otherwise I wouldn’t feel properly sixteen. I’d feel I was cheating.’

  ‘You’re a funny one,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘all right. Afterwards.’

  ‘Good news,’ he said to Celia, ‘I think we’re winning. Not only has she given in to the idea of the American trip, but she’s specifically requested Henry Warwick comes to her birthday party. So it looks like—touch wood—it was just puppy love. As I always thought.’

  ‘Good. Thank God for it.’

  ‘Well—we’re not quite out of the woods yet. But—anyway, while we’re about it, could you put down the date in your diary? Saturday, 18 May. Big family party. Lyttons, Warwicks, Liebermans, the lot.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A few days before she left New York, Barty took the bus out to Long Island. She had to go; she had to lay this last and most dangerous ghost.

  She took Jenna; it was rather a long bus journey, but they could spend the afternoon on the shore. Jenna had never seen the sea, at least never experienced a beach; the South Shore had been Barty’s own first introduction to the beach, it could be Jenna’s too.

  The bus stopped at Southampton; she put Jenna in her folding pushchair and set off down the track towards South Lodge.

  It seemed much longer than when she had been driven down it in Laurence’s Packard.

  South Lodge was set at the very end of the track; she turned the corner, and there it was, just as she had remembered. She had visited it in her memory day after long day, night after sad night, imagined the steep, curving drive, the wisteria-covered stone walls, the pillars flanking the front door, the walled gardens to the side of the drive . . .

  Barty caught her breath, found she was crying, crying quite hard. Jenna turned her head at the unaccustomed sound, looked up at her, her small face intrigued.

  Barty smiled quickly, brushed her tears away; this was too much, she shouldn’t have come. She knew why it was hurting so much: not just because she had loved it so much, had been so extraordinarily, if briefly, happy there, it was where she had finally left Laurence that day, where they had spent their last night together, where they had had the last desperate showdown, where her life with Laurence had ended. Or so she had thought.

  She looked up at the house thoughtfully; it seemed to be completely empty. The windows shuttered, the great gates closed, no sign of life anywhere. She began to walk up the drive, towards the gates, slightly tentatively as if she might at any moment be stopped, ordered back. But she was not.

  She reached the gates, peered through; she felt a little better now. She could hear the roar of the ocean; the shriek of the sea birds. What a ravishing place it was. The lawns were still perfectly kept, the shrubs cared for. Obviously someone had given orders for it to be kept in perfect condition.

  And then it happened; a gate to one of the walled gardens opened and a man came out. It was Mills! Mills, Laurence’s driver, the one who had driven her in and out of Manhattan that dreadful day. He caught sight of her, stared for a moment, frowned, then smiled uncertainly as he recognised her.

  ‘Miss Miller! Is that you—surely not—’

  ‘Yes, it is. It is me. Hallo, Mr Mills.’

  ‘Well in the name of all that’s wonderful. Here, let me open the side gate, let you in. How very very nice to see you, Miss Miller. And—who is this little one?’

  ‘Oh it’s – she’s my daughter,’ said Barty hastily.

  ‘So you’re married?’

  ‘Well—yes.’ It was simpler that way.

  ‘Hallo, little ’un. My word, she’s pretty.’

  Don’t notice, please, don’t notice, don’t say she looks like Laurence.

  He didn’t. ‘You come along in, Miss Miller. Now would you like maybe some tea? And where’s your car?’

  ‘I came on the bus, Mr Mills.’

  ‘The bus!’ If she had said she had come by flying saucer he would clearly have found it less astonishing. ‘You came all that way on the bus! Well you’d certainly better come in.’

  ‘Is – is there anyone else here, Mr Mills? I mean . . .’

  ‘Well, no of course not, Miss Miller. Didn’t you know—hadn’t you heard—oh, dear—’

  ‘Mr Mills, of course I know. I know Mr Elliott was killed. In France.’

  ‘Well that’s right. Why should he have wanted to go, Miss Miller, that’s what we kept saying, he didn’t have to, there was no need, he was far too old. Risking his life and—well. It was so terribly sad.’

  ‘I think he was just very—brave, Mr Mills.’

  ‘Very brave. Very, very brave.’

  ‘Anyway—I just wondered if—well, you know, if anyone was living here now?’

  ‘Nobody’s lived here, Miss Miller,’ he said, looking surprised, ‘nobody’s lived here for—well, for several years.’

  ‘Oh really? But I thought—when Mr Elliott married—’

  ‘He never brought her here, Miss Miller. Never. Oh, except for just once, when they took photographs for some magazine or other. He never would let her come here. Never. I think she wanted to, well I know she did, I heard them fighting over it more than once, but he just said no and that was that. You know what he was like, Miss Miller. Very determined.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do know. Very—determined.’

  ‘We had to keep it up, take care of it, the house had to be kept absolutely spick and span, but she never came. He did, from time to time, on his own, but he never even brought any of his friends here ever again. After—well after you, Miss Miller.’

  ‘Oh,’ Barty felt very odd: confused, shaken.

  ‘Are you feeling all right?’ he said suddenly, looking at her intently. ‘You look terribly pale. You really shouldn’t have come all that way on that terrible bus. With the little one. Come along into the kitchen, sit down here, I’ll make you some tea. Mrs Mills isn’t here this afternoon, she’d be able to look after you better. Here, now, that’s right. Does the little one want a cookie?’

  ‘She’d love one,’ said Barty. ‘Thank you.’

  And she went on sitting there for a long time, staring out of the window now, down the great sweeping lawn, across the tall grasses and out at the sea. Wondering at this extraordinary man, who had hated her so much he had sent her photographs of his fiancée, and
reports of his wedding, just to hurt her, and loved her so much he had never allowed anyone to visit this house, this special house which he had told her was the only place in the world where he felt properly safe—and which they had made their own for however brief a time.

  Mills insisted on driving her back to the city: ‘I couldn’t possibly let you take that child back on the bus. And what Mrs Mills might say I cannot imagine.’

  She kissed him gently when she said goodbye, to his huge embarrassment, and said she hoped she would see him again and sent her love to Mrs Mills.

  ‘It’s been a wonderful day, Mr Mills. Really wonderful. Thank you so much.’

  ‘It’s been an absolute pleasure, Miss Miller. And she is just the cutest little kid I ever saw. You know there’s something about her that reminds me—’

  ‘I must go,’ said Barty hastily, slithering herself and Jenna out of the car, ‘and there’s a cop bearing down on you, Mr Mills, watch out. Goodbye, and thank you so much again.’

  She felt quiet that night; they had all been going out to dinner, and she was more than relieved to hear it was cancelled.

  ‘John has a client come into town unexpectedly,’ said Felicity, ‘and I’m tired; maybe you and I could eat alone together, if that wouldn’t be too dull.’

  Barty said nothing could be nicer than a dull dinner.

  She liked Felicity very much; she was so gentle and yet so dynamic, travelling all over the country, giving her poetry readings, writing at least four long mornings a week while still entertaining tirelessly for John.

  ‘I’m just an old-fashioned wife,’ she said slightly apologetically to Barty that evening. ‘I guess I think that’s what we’re for. Looking after the men. It must sound very strange to you, having grown up in Celia’s household. But then you see I came to a professional life rather late. Celia always worked, from the very beginning of her marriage.’

  ‘Yes, she did, and I’m not entirely sure Oliver wouldn’t have liked an old-fashioned wife himself,’ said Barty laughing.

  ‘Oh, surely not.’

  ‘No, I mean it. He gets so exasperated with her, never having any time for him, always under pressure, always too much to do, always out—she is very exhausting to live with.’

  ‘But she’s done so much.’

  ‘Yes, she has. And of course Lyttons wouldn’t be the same without her. She’s brought so much to it.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But especially now—he’s not so well, poor old darling.’

  ‘Yes. But it’s not serious, is it?’

  ‘Well—not desperately serious. But he’s not so young, he’s been in a wheelchair for over ten years, he’s just had a minor heart attack—’

  ‘I didn’t realise that,’ said Felicity slowly.

  ‘Oh, it was very minor. But the doctors all say he has to ease up, stop working every day, hand over at last—’

  ‘And if he does—will he be all right—’

  Her voice had an odd note to it; tremulous, deeply anxious. Barty looked at her; she was pale and her eyes were brilliant. She felt a need to reassure her.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, I’m sure he will.’

  ‘I was—I am—so fond of him. Well, we both are. He stayed here once or twice when he came over without Celia on a business trip. He used to talk so fondly of you, of all the children of course. But I think he had a very special feeling for you.’

  ‘He did?’ Barty was pleased, touched. ‘Well, it’s mutual. He was so good to me. There was one night especially when—well let’s say I was all set to run away.’

  ‘Why was that?’ said Felicity gently.

  ‘Oh—something happened. I – found out about something. Something in my childhood. Which upset me dreadfully.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  She almost told her, almost began to talk about it; then drew back. There was nothing to be served; it was not her secret, not really, it was Celia’s, and it was better buried. Buried with the baby, her sister, the baby who had died, so long ago . . .

  ‘I can’t tell you,’ she said quickly, ‘it’s too personal and too painful, and – well anyway, Wol was marvellous then, so kind and gentle and—and steadying, somehow. I love him very much.’

  ‘I – can understand that,’ said Felicity. ‘He’s a very unusual person. Do send him my—my special love, won’t you?’ She too seemed on the brink of saying something more; then, like Barty, she pulled back, clearly thinking better of it.

  She stood up suddenly, smiled at her, her sweet, brilliant, warm smile. ‘It’s been so lovely having you here,’ she said, ‘I’m so sorry you’re going. Are you going back to Lyttons or have you finished with them now?’

  ‘Not to Lyttons,’ said Barty, ‘I have just one appointment in the morning.’

  ‘With—?’

  ‘Oh—nothing important.’ She smiled at Felicity. ‘Just—just tying up a few odds and ends. And then I’ll be ready to move off around two. We sail at five.’

  ‘You will come back, won’t you? I’d hate to think this was your last visit.’

  ‘Oh Felicity,’ said Barty, ‘it absolutely won’t be my last visit. I promise you that.’

  CHAPTER 47

  ‘What did you say?’ said Jay.

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Jay, don’t argue. We’ve got it. Got Opium. Just be grateful and start putting some plans in place for it fast.’

  ‘Yes, but how, I mean the price was going sky-high—’

  ‘Let’s say I – entered into a little arrangement with the author,’ said Barty lightly, ‘who’ll be coming over, incidentally, to promote it in the autumn.’

  ‘I see. And does Celia know?’

  ‘Of course. She’s going to tell Oliver.’

  ‘I still don’t understand—’

  ‘You don’t need to,’ said Barty, ‘not at the moment anyway.’

  Jay went back to his office feeling more hopeful than he had for weeks.

  ‘Barty—’

  ‘Yes, Giles.’ She smiled at him.

  ‘Barty, what is this I hear about this book you’ve bought?’

  ‘Acquired, Giles, acquired.’

  He frowned. ‘Whatever. Opium For the Few, anyway. By this American chap?’

  ‘Geordie MacColl, yes. He was a discovery of mine when I was working in New York. Every book a bestseller. We published a couple over here.’

  ‘Very American.’ This was a clear criticism.

  ‘Well—they would be. That hasn’t stopped other books being successful after crossing the Atlantic, Giles. Like a few of Mr Hemingway’s works, The Grapes of Wrath, Gatsby—’

  ‘Yes, yes, I don’t need a lecture on American literature, Barty.’

  ‘Of course you don’t.’

  ‘The thing is that you seem to have acquired this book, as you put it, without reference to me. Or my father.’

  ‘That’s true. But you were taking such a long time to make up your minds, Celia and I and at least one other editor thought we should have it, and we were going to lose it. So as it hasn’t actually cost Lyttons anything—’

  ‘That’s not quite the point, Barty. As I see it.’

  ‘And how do you see it, Giles?’

  ‘My father is in charge of Lyttons. Everything has to be approved by him—’

  ‘That’s not quite true though, is it? Editorial decisions have always been made by Celia. Celia and her editors.’

  He hesitated. ‘Perhaps. In the past. But we’re working in different times now. This is no longer a small cosy family business—’

  ‘You could have fooled me, Giles. Actually.’

  He ignored this. ‘Publishing, like everything else, has to move into the modern world. Decisions can’t be made on an individual’s whim. A company’s development must be based on strategies, there has to be a chain of command—’

  ‘Giles, this is like being back in the ATS, listening to my CO. We’re talking bo
oks, not battles.’

  ‘There has to be order in everything. I learned that above all in the army. It works. Now I’ve talked to my father, and we have agreed that in future no book is to be bought or—acquired—without a full, careful assessment by us. Taking into account cost, potential . . .’

  ‘All right, Giles. I get the idea. And of course I’ll bear it in mind. But that’s the future. Opium For the Few is now. Fortunately, in my opinion. Now I must get back to work, if you’ll forgive me.’

  Celia came in quietly a few minutes after Giles had stalked into his own office and slammed the door.

  ‘Well done,’ was all she said.

  ‘Not long now. Only—let’s see, a month and three days.’

  ‘Three and a half.’

  ‘I’ve got the—you know.’

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘Just think. Going up there, through the darkness, into our new life.’

  ‘I am thinking. I don’t think of anything much else.’

  ‘Well you should. You should be thinking of your new book. We’re going to need that.’

  ‘Of course. Although whether my father will publish it after—well, afterwards, I really don’t know.’

  ‘He will. He’ll need to, from what I’ve heard. Lyttons are not doing terribly well at all.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Kit! They are Father’s publishers, I heard him talking to your mother. On the phone.’

  ‘Oh dear. Well anyway—got to go. Bye, darling, I love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘Did you enjoy that, Oliver?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The wedding, of course. Didn’t Tory looked absolutely wonderful? Jay is a lucky young man. Although she’s lucky too of course.’

  ‘Oh—I suppose it was all right. Not really for me, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oliver really. No one can say weddings aren’t for them.’

  ‘Celia, you asked me and I answered you. I’m sorry if my answer was the wrong one.’