He never told Izzie. It was the bravest, most difficult thing he had ever done; but somehow he knew he must not. It was too ugly, too much for her to bear. One day perhaps; but not yet. Not while she was still a child, still so innocent. It was also a measure of how much he loved her.
It would have been easier to tell her. To tell the truth: to blame the whole thing on the adults. Rather than pretending first that he agreed to wait, and then that he thought it was better if they didn’t after all think about getting married for quite a long time. Leaving her hurt, terribly, terribly hurt. But at least with her innocence, her faith in people intact.
They didn’t ask him to do that.
Celia and Sebastian, his parents, said he must do what he thought best. They asked nothing of him: except to finish his relationship with Izzie.
At first, too angry, too shocked even to speak to either of them, he asked if he might go down to Ashingham and spend some time there, on the Home Farm with his grandmother.
That was dreadful – in its own way. Being there without Izzie, without her attention and thoughtfulness, her soft, pretty voice, her gift of bringing things to life for him, her hand taking his, her giggle, her slightly tedious jokes. It was absolutely dreadful.
He had to learn all over again what loneliness and isolation were. He sat scowling on the terrace, was morose and difficult with Billy Miller, sullen with his uncle James – or was he his uncle? God, it was so confusing. He couldn’t work, he couldn’t do anything. He didn’t want to do anything.
How could they have done that: how? How could his mother, his brilliant beautiful mother have cheated on his father – on Oliver and to that extent? How could she have deceived him all those years? How could she have lived that lie, on and on? Telling everyone, simply by her silence, that he was Oliver’s son. How could she have deceived her own children, presented him to the rest of the family as their brother, to the world as the youngest Lytton? And how could Sebastian – his father – have allowed it? Not just the deception, but the letting go, not claiming him, not saying ‘this is my son’.
All for – what? Convention? Protection of themselves? Preservation of the status quo, the family, the name? Not a Lytton then; but a Brooke. Not even a Brooke: a bastard. All the ugly things, the ugly words: bastard, born on the wrong side of the blanket, out of wedlock, child of shame.
He couldn’t bear it; he couldn’t.
That first night had been dreadful; driving back in the car, Izzie clinging to his hand, crying, Sebastian and Boy silent.
Celia and Adele took a taxi back to Cheyne Walk. The party was hastily cancelled, the baffled waitresses cleared up the uneaten food, the undrunk champagne, while the younger children complained, begged to be allowed to stay, and the older ones understood only that something serious had happened, tried to find out what.
Roo and Henry Warwick heard a conversation, their ears pressed to their parents’ bedroom door; completely baffling, completely unsatisfactory . . .
‘It all makes sense suddenly,’ their mother had said, ‘well, a lot of things. Poor, poor Kit.’
‘And poor Izzie.’
‘And poor Daddy. That’s who I keep thinking of. If it’s true. Poor, poor, darling Daddy.’
And then their father said, very gently, ‘I think, my darling, that Oliver is far better at taking care of himself than you realise.’
And then they couldn’t hear any more.
Next day Adele came round: still more baffling conversation, in their stupid twin-talk.
‘So do you think—’
‘Oh, I suppose—’
‘But if—’
‘Yes, but then—’
‘Poor Izzie.’
‘Poor Kit.’
‘Poor Daddy.’
‘Will Mummy ever—’
‘Shouldn’t think—’
‘Nor would I.’
‘It’s—’
‘I know. But one shouldn’t—’
‘Of course not.’
And then their mother saying firmly, ‘not for us to judge though’, and Adele saying ‘absolutely not’.
Both of them were clearly upset at lunch and then went for a walk together down the street, their arms round each other like stupid schoolgirls. When they came back, they were quite giggly and suggested they all played Monopoly.
‘Should we ask Izzie round? Might cheer her up, she loves Monopoly.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Venetia carefully, ‘not today. Maybe in a week or two.’
Izzie went to her room when they finally got back to the house, shot out of the car without looking at Kit, in the door; ‘Don’t come near me,’ she said to her father fiercely, ‘don’t dare come near me. And don’t send anyone else up either.’
She stayed there all the next day; in the evening she appeared in the drawing room white and hollow-eyed.
‘I’m sorry, Father,’ she said.
‘Oh my darling. Why sorry, none of it was your fault.’
She didn’t quite understand why not.
‘I’m sorry about the party,’ she said, ‘after all you did for me. Very sorry.’
‘Oh that,’ he said, ‘that doesn’t matter. It couldn’t matter less.’
‘I think it did. Anyway, I just wanted to say that.’
He was silent; then, ‘Would you like anything to eat?’
‘No. No, thank you.’
‘How about some cocoa?’
She hesitated. ‘Yes. All right.’
‘You’re still wearing your pearls.’
‘I shall never take them off.’
He seemed to have got off lightly. With Izzie at any rate.
Not with Kit though. Kit stayed away from him, in icy, aloof isolation, refusing to listen to his stumbling attempts at an apology. Sebastian wrote to him; the letter came back unopened. Once or twice he called at Cheyne Walk; Kit refused to see him.
It was a double irony, a double tragedy; to have been acknowledged, however unhappily, by a son, and to have lost him, both in the same hour.
‘Try not to be too upset,’ Celia said. ‘He’ll come round. I know he will. He won’t speak to me either. He’s outraged, shocked, hurt, all those things. And he’s very young.’
‘He’s twenty-six, for God’s sake.’
‘He’s a very young twenty-six. As Adele once said.’
‘And now – Celia, how – how many people know, do you think?’
‘Oh – hardly anyone. Still. That’s what Kit wants, clearly.’
‘I suppose I’m relieved. But sad too in a way. I would so like to claim you at last. You and him.’
‘Well you can’t,’ she said, and told him what had happened that night when she had got home to Oliver.
She had gone into his room; he was sitting, staring out of the window and she had said, ‘Oliver, there is something, something I have to tell you.’
And he had said, looking at her with something close to amusement on his face, ‘Celia, do you really think I did not know?’
Sebastian telephoned Barty the next day and asked her to come up to the house.
‘Isabella’s very upset that you’re leaving, she wants to say goodbye. And I think she’ll be able to talk to you.’
‘Of course,’ said Barty.
She found Izzie tear-stained, exhausted, but calm.
‘I just feel so – stupid,’ she said, ‘I thought he loved me so much and – well, the first bit of opposition and he just crumbled. Fell at the first fence, as Lady B would say.’
‘Haven’t you thought,’ said Barty gently, ‘that he might have given you up because he loved you so much. That he suddenly realised, once he’d been made to think about it, what he was actually doing to you? I mean, I know you’re very grown up, Izzie, but – do you really think you’re ready to be married?’
‘Yes, of course,’ she said, ‘but anyway, it was all my idea. I thought of it, I persuaded him, not the other way round. You mustn’t think badly of him.’
�
�I don’t. No one could love Kit more than I do – what a stupid thing to say, you do, lots of people do, but he is quite a – a liability. Not just because he’s blind, but because he’s very self-centred—’
That was a mistake.
‘He’s not. He’s not self-centred. He’s incredibly unselfish, actually.’
‘Izzie, that wasn’t a criticism. It’s all part of his blindness, his helplessness. In time, perhaps, he thought you would come to resent that, not be able to do all the things you want—’
‘But I would have, we’d planned it all—’
‘Of course. And I’m sure he would have been as helpful as he possibly could. I’m only saying that in many ways you would have had to look after him all your life.’
‘But that’s what I wanted. That’s what we both wanted. Well – ’ her voice shook ‘ – well, I thought it was what we both wanted. You don’t understand.’
‘Perhaps I don’t. No. But I’m sure he must have realised what hard work it would have been for you. How much it would have – wearied you.’
‘It wouldn’t.’
‘Izzie, you want to go to university, don’t you? I’ve heard talk of you wanting to be a doctor. How could you have done that?’
‘I could. He’d have helped me.’
‘I think perhaps he realised that he couldn’t have helped you as much as he would have liked. Or as much as you needed. I think he loved you so very much that he couldn’t bear that.’
‘It was a bit – quick,’ said Izzie scowling.
‘It seemed a bit quick, I agree. But don’t you think that underneath he did know it? And being – confronted – by what he was doing, made him realise it – quickly?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Izzie, but she managed a watery smile at Barty. ‘Thank you. Thank you for coming. I wish you weren’t going away.’
‘Come and see me.’
‘That’s what Father said. He still wants to go. Not for a whole year now, he said, but this summer. In the holidays.’
‘Izzie, I wish you would. I’ve got – well, I’ve got a nice place to live. Not right in the middle of New York, somewhere much better. Come and stay with me, you and Sebastian, I’d love it. So would Jenna.’
‘All right. We will,’ said Izzie, ‘it’ll be better than being here, without Kit.’
‘I think a bit better,’ said Barty, smiling.
Sebastian thanked her, walked down the road to her car.
‘She’s very fond of you.’
‘I’m very fond of her. As you know.’
‘I don’t suppose you feel very fond of me. At the moment.’
‘Sebastian,’ said Barty, reaching up to kiss him, ‘if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last few years, it’s that what people have done or not done doesn’t seem to have much effect on how you feel about them. As I said to Izzie, you must come and stay with me in New York. I’d like that, very much.’
‘Have you got room for us?’
‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I’ve got room.’
It was his grandmother who made some sense of it all for Kit.
She heard him one morning being rude to Billy; telling him to go away and leave him alone.
‘Kit,’ she said, ‘I know you’re very unhappy and with good reason, but that is no excuse for speaking to Billy like that. If you can’t behave better, you’ll have to go home.’
‘And where’s that?’ he said. ‘I feel I don’t have one any more.’
‘Oh don’t be so ridiculous. Here, take my hand, let’s go for a walk. You’ve lost your companion, haven’t you, that’s very hard.’
‘It’s all very hard,’ he said, and heard his voice shake.
‘I’m sorry. Very sorry. I can only tell you you will feel better in time.’
‘I don’t see how you can know that.’
‘I’m nearly ninety,’ she said. ‘I was married for almost seventy years. I know a lot about life and what it can do to you.’
‘Grandmama, with respect, I don’t think you ever had anything like this to contend with. I feel so – ashamed of them. Of them both.’
‘Yes, of course you do. And it’s a dreadful shock.’
‘I admired Sebastian, you know. I thought he was marvellous. And we were very close. I – I shall never forget the day of Pandora’s funeral. I think I really helped him.’ He laughed, a harsh, heavy sound. ‘Well, I now know why.’
‘Oh, Kit. Does it matter?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Does it matter why you were able to help him, why you were so close? You were, you did, you loved him. All right, so he was your father. That doesn’t invalidate it. A lot of people never get at all close to their fathers. It doesn’t mean anything. Except that you helped him. A great deal. That’s what mattered.’
‘I just can’t forgive him,’ he said, ‘I never shall. Or my mother.’
‘Oh I think you will.’
‘Grandmama, I won’t. That was a dreadful lie they lived all those years. It was an appalling thing to do.’
‘Why?’
‘What?’ He stopped.
‘Perhaps you should consider why they lived the lie. It wasn’t – perhaps – what they wanted to do. But they did it for a lot of perfectly good reasons. To preserve the marriage. To keep the family together.’
‘It’s so hypocritical.’
‘And what’s so terrible about that? What would you have had them do? Your mother walk out on Oliver who loves her so very much, desert her other three children, disrupt everything, including Lyttons? Do you really think that would have been the right thing to do? That hypocrisy you disapprove of so much entailed great personal sacrifice on their parts.’
‘Oh for God’s sake, Grandmama. They should have behaved properly in the first place, you speak as if they did nothing wrong—’
‘Oh, we should all behave properly, Kit. All our lives, never make mistakes. Of course. Perhaps you will manage that. Although I wonder if you thought of the wretched unhappiness you would have caused if you had succeeded in your plan. Quite apart from depriving Izzie of her youth.’
‘That’s unfair.’
‘It is not unfair. She is a child. She is totally unready for marriage.’
‘But it was what she wanted.’
‘Kit, she has no idea what she wants. She’s very unsophisticated, absolutely unworldly. Far less so than the twins were at her age, certainly less so than your mother.’
‘I feel so disappointed in my mother,’ he said, ‘so betrayed.’
‘Well, that’s natural. But – you will forgive her. I promise you. She loves you very much. She’s a remarkable woman, Kit.’
‘I don’t think I can,’ he said, ‘forgive her.’
‘Oh nonsense. Good Lord, Beckenham did some dreadful things to me. As I did to him, I daresay. Have you not heard about it all?’
‘A – a bit,’ he said, a grudging smile on his face.
‘Of course. Family legend now, quite amusing, the housemaids. But at the time, when I was a young woman, a bride, in love with my husband, it was appalling. He first got into bed with someone else a month after our honeymoon. I was pregnant with James, and he was having an affair with some woman, not a housemaid, I could have coped better with that, some woman in London. But – I did forgive him. The misery eased and I came to appreciate the other things, what he was, what he did for me. And then there were all the housemaids, think of that, under my roof, knowing the staff were watching, highly amused by it all. A couple of illegitimate babies as well, to be dispatched, with their mothers, to cottages I had to find for them, with discreet financial allowances which I had to organise. Not easy, Kit, actually. But – I would say we had a pretty happy marriage. A pretty good one. Marriages don’t stay in neat, tidy shapes you know; they sprawl about, very messily sometimes. The important thing is not to let them get out of control. Which I think is what your mother did.’
‘Oh.’ He didn’t feel exactly better; but there was just a sli
ght easing of his misery. ‘And then – my father. Or rather, Oliver, what could it have been like for him?’
‘Oh, Kit,’ she said, ‘Kit you really don’t want to worry too much about Oliver. He is an extremely tough nut, far more able to take care of himself than all that vague, frail helplessness implies. He had his own way of dealing with the situation, I do assure you. I’m not saying he wasn’t exactly happy with it, but – well, he hasn’t been weeping into his pillow for the last few years. Why don’t you talk to him about it? Mind you, you won’t get much out of him. I have never known a man more able to avoid confrontation.’
‘I – see,’ said Kit. ‘Well, I might – talk to him. One day. Yes.’
‘Two things I’d like to say, and then we’ll go back and have a stiff drink. I do admire you for keeping it from Izzie. Very brave indeed. I understand it was entirely your own wish. One day you may feel you can tell her, but she’s much too young now. And the other thing is I never heard such rubbish about you not having a home. Of course you have. It could be argued you have two. Three, if you’d like to count this one in.’
‘Thank you,’ said Kit. And realised that he thought he rather would.
CHAPTER 51
‘They’ve agreed in principle,’ said Oliver.
‘Good. I thought they would. After all, if it hadn’t been for you, there would be no New York office. You have a half share in it.’
‘I know that, my dear. So you have often said. Just the same, it was far from being a foregone conclusion. They’re sending someone over to draw up the agreement. Go through our figures, all that sort of thing.’
‘Oh, really? Who?’
‘Stuart didn’t say. Just that someone would be coming. And bringing a lawyer, of course.’
‘It sounds a little – high-handed.’
‘Well – I could hardly object. And they could have called one of us over there. They didn’t.’
‘Well – it would have had to be you. And they could hardly expect that.’
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