Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (19 page)

She went back to work a week after the abortion; she felt tired and frail, but she was not in any real pain. She had not been feverish, she clearly had no infection. She had been terribly, terribly lucky. And it was over.

Absolutely over. No one would ever need to know.

She waited to feel happy, released, and felt neither. She felt at first simply depressed, then more violently unhappy. She would start to cry for no reason, a sudden rush of misery rising in her, so strong that there was no withholding the tears. Forced to explain it in the office, she said that a relative was very ill and refused to elaborate; within the family she met any questioning, any concern, with an entirely uncharacteristic irritability.

‘I’m all right,’ she would say fiercely to her father, to Kit, to Noni. ‘Just leave me alone, for heaven’s sake.’

The rest of them she managed to avoid.

She had terrible dreams: about bare rooms and bright lights, about gleaming instruments and about blood. She was afraid to sleep and read far into the night, but in the end the dreams would claim her. She often woke weeping at dawn, and then fell into a heavy second sleep from which she could scarcely rouse herself to go to work.

Her work suffered; she became slow, careless, lacklustre in her ideas. That depressed her further.

Henry’s marriage was like a nightmare in itself, slowly coming nearer. The date was set for March; there was talk of fittings, hair styles, shoes. She tried to show an interest, at least. It was not, after all, Henry’s fault. And certainly not Clarissa’s. So why did she feel so hostile towards both of them?

It was her own fault; her own, stupid, reckless fault. She had been forced to end a human life because of her own lack of responsibility. However hard she tried to hang on to the concept of the blob, she found herself forced to recognise what she had done. She had had a baby growing inside her body, sheltered, safe, warm, it had had a head and arms and legs and a beating heart (she had forced herself, with the courage of the insane, to study a book on obstetrics in the library) and she had dragged it out and killed it. It was perfectly simple. She had murdered her baby. A baby that in a few months’ time now would have been born. A live, smiling baby. It was her fault. And she would never, ever, be able to forget it or forgive herself.

CHAPTER 10

She clearly wasn’t at all well. The slight feverishness and tickly throat, lightly dismissed earlier in the day as being of little importance, had developed into a full-blown temperature of one hundred and three (and rising) by early evening. Clearly, not only the doctor but also her father had to be informed.

Barty sighed. She wasn’t exactly worried about Cathy, she was pretty sure she just had the strep throat infection that had laid half Manhattan low; but the illness (and responsibility) of someone else’s child was always a greater concern. Selfishly, she felt irritated; she had planned to work much of the weekend, Marcus Forrest had commissioned a book on Jennie Churchill, Winston’s American mother, and was now regretting it. He had asked her to look at the outline and a novel had come in from a completely unknown author, set in the Depression, which she thought wonderful, but which nobody else liked. She wanted to re-read it, make sure she wasn’t completely mad. It now looked increasingly unlikely she would get anything done at all.

She dialled Dr McCarthy’s number; he had cared for Jenna several times, and she liked him. He said he would come at once. He looked like the caricature of the old family doctor, white-haired and moustached, carrying a battered old leather bag; he always reminded Barty of Dr Meade in
Gone With the Wind
.

He checked Cathy over, confirmed it was the strep bug, prescribed some penicillin and plenty of fluids, and told Barty to call him again in the morning if she was no better.

Barty sent Mrs Mills out for the penicillin and slightly reluctantly called Charlie Patterson. He sounded only a little worried: ‘I’m sure she’s in good hands. If she gets worse, call me at once, and I’ll drive out there. Or do you—’

‘No,’ said Barty, quite sharply, ‘there’s really no need. Dr McCarthy is quite sure she’s fine, and once the penicillin has got to work, I’m sure—’

‘Is that my dad?’ Cathy had appeared in the doorway. She was very flushed, swaying slightly as she clung to Jenna’s hand. ‘May I speak with him?’

‘Of course you may, Cathy, but really you shouldn’t be out of bed—’

‘Please!’

‘All right. Come and sit down here, by the phone. But don’t be long.’

‘I won’t. Dad – ’ her voice had changed totally, became faint and shaky ‘ – Dad, I feel so awful. So terribly awful. What? Yes, he came, and he said my throat looked really dreadful. No, not yet. They haven’t got it yet. Dad I wish you were here, I feel so bad. So hot and kind of scared. What? Could you? I know I’d feel better if you – yes, yes of course. She’s right here. Barty,’ she held out the phone, ‘he wants to speak to you.’

Little bitch, thought Barty, taking the phone.

Charlie Patterson arrived very late that night. He looked slightly wild-eyed, standing on the porch. His car, a rather battered T-bird, still had its lights on and the driver’s door hung open. Clearly Barty’s attempts to reassure him had failed.

‘Charlie, honestly, she isn’t so bad. I wish I hadn’t let her speak to you. She’s actually better already, penicillin works so quickly, especially with children. They’re watching TV—’

‘Isn’t she in bed?’

‘Yes, of course she’s in bed,’ said Barty, trying not to sound defensive. ‘Jenna has a small set in her room. There’s some comedy show on, I thought it would cheer her up.’

‘Aren’t you worried Jenna will get it?’

‘I’m afraid it’s too late for that. She’s bound to, it’s all over the school. No doubt that’s how Cathy got it.’

‘I suppose so. Well—’

‘Follow me.’

As they opened the door, they heard a distinct giggling; it was muffled as soon as Cathy saw her father. She lay back on her pillows, holding out her arms.

‘Daddy, Daddy, I’m so glad you’re here. I feel so bad.’

‘I’ll leave you two together,’ said Barty. ‘Come on, Jenna, downstairs.’

‘But Mother—’

‘Jenna. Downstairs.’

Down in the den, she gave Jenna a hot drink. Jenna snuggled up to her mother, smiled at her.

‘Isn’t it nice Charlie’s here? And he can see South Lodge and everything. He’s been dying to come out for ages, Cathy said, but he didn’t like to ask.’

‘Really?’ said Barty drily.

She lay awake in the darkness for a long time, in the great room which had been Laurence’s, with its wall of windows opening on to the ocean, and felt very unhappy. She was hating this. South Lodge was hers, a precious, private place filled with precious, private memories; only the most intimate beloved people were invited there. Wol and Celia, of course, had been, Sebastian and Izzie, Geordie and Adele, and Robert Lytton and Jamie and Maud, of course, and a very few other very close friends. But Charlie Patterson, about whom she felt . . . well, what do you feel, Barty? Come on, maybe this is the time to confront it.

She felt fond of him. Really you couldn’t not, she had told herself repeatedly, he was so charming and good-natured and thoughtful and considerate. And undoubtedly attractive, sexy, even, with his quick, anxious smile, his large brown eyes behind their tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles, his way of concentrating very intently on what she said. He reminded her – just very slightly – of John of whom she had been so fond during the war, indeed had almost married. He had the same gentle charm, the same rather old-fashioned manners. She liked the way he dressed too, he had a strong sense of style and on his long, lean body, the shabby but well-cut jackets, the button-down cotton shirts, often frayed at the cuffs, his washed-out jeans, always looked good. He dressed Cathy beautifully too, very simply, in plain little dresses or skirts and blouses for best, wellworn jeans and T-shirts and big sloppy jumpers for the weekend. A lot of them, he said slightly ruefully, came from the thrift shops and Barty liked that, liked the sense of it, liked too that he could find such things among the jumble of bad taste that made up 90 per cent of thrift-shop stock.

He was fun as well; he had asked her and Jenna to supper a couple of times, ‘You must let me repay you a little’, and had served up a very good chicken pie. Afterwards they had played Scrabble and she had thought how wonderfully good he was, not only with Cathy but with Jenna too. Imaginative and jokey and in no way condescending.

And then somehow after that, it had only been one step to his inviting her out to dinner: that had been fun too, after the initial slight awkwardness of finding themselves together without the children. He was easy to talk to; and, for the first time, had talked about his wife and how much he still missed her.

‘Really seven or eight years is nothing in terms of healing, when you have loved someone that much.’

‘I know it,’ said Barty. ‘Neither is ten, or eleven, I’m sorry to have to tell you.’

‘So – your husband was killed in the war?’

‘Yes. He was – well, he was in France, after D-Day, with Eisenhower. He never even knew about Jenna.’

‘That must be hard.’

‘It’s very hard. But I do at least have her. I’m very lucky.’

‘I feel the same about Cathy. And she was so marvellous after Meg died. She was only three, you know, maybe that helped in a way, too little to understand properly. She was so sweet and brave and so very companionable. We’re everything to each other now. In fact I worry that we’re too close. That she’ll have trouble forming other relationships. It’s one of the reasons I’m so glad she and Jenna are such good friends. She’s never had a really close friend before. It’s very good for her. Although, of course, I miss her sometimes. Especially at the weekends when she goes out to Southampton with you,’ he added, and then after what was just fractionally too long a pause, ‘but I don’t begrudge it to her for one second. And of course I do manage to get a lot of work done.’

‘I don’t know how you manage at all,’ said Barty, carefully ignoring the slightly heavy hint. ‘It must be so very hard, always working with an eye on the clock, presumably having to cancel meetings if Cathy’s ill.’

‘It is,’ he said, ‘and the income has dropped, I’m afraid. But I decided at the very beginning that Cathy must come first and I’ve stuck with it. But it ain’t easy. It’s the getting of clients that’s hard; I can deal with servicing them. And hey,’ he said with his most boyish grin, pushing his glasses up his nose, ‘we’re not starving.’

‘What exactly do you do? I mean rentals, development, what? My brother-in-law is in your business, so was my father-in-law, I know a little about it.’

‘Oh they are? That’s interesting. I’m very much on the service end, put apartments and people together. But as I can only afford a very small office and one secretary, it’s difficult.’

‘Maybe you should meet Jamie. You never know, there might be an area you could collaborate on—’

‘That’d be great.’

Jamie took him out to lunch, told Barty he was a nice enough guy, ‘but I don’t see there’s anything we can do together. We’re dealing with such a different end of the market.’

‘And – what did you think about him?’

‘I thought he was very nice, Barty. Very nice. Touch too laid back, maybe. I don’t see him burning the midnight oil, but—’

‘You mean he’s lazy?’

‘That would be a bit of a harsh judgement, on the strength of one lunch. Let’s say he just seems to me to be a bit of a coaster. Anyway, is he a new beau?’

‘No,’ she said firmly. Too firmly probably. ‘No, he isn’t.’

‘You could do worse. And he thinks a lot of you. Says you’re the most attractive woman he’s met for a very long time.’

‘Well, he would, talking to you, wouldn’t he?’ said Barty, disproportionately pleased nonetheless. She was five years older than Charlie; it was very good for her ego if nothing else that he found her attractive.

Charlie said he had liked Jamie a lot. ‘If your husband was anything like him, he was a nice guy.’

‘He wasn’t, actually,’ said Barty, laughing. ‘Neither like Jamie, nor specially nice. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. But let’s not get into that now.’

‘He told me he was one of the trustees in some trust fund you’d set up for Jenna.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Barty. ‘It worries me a bit, her only having me.’

‘You’ve got quite a substantial set-up to worry about, haven’t you?’ he said. ‘Pretty complex, all of it.’

‘Well, yes. Quite complex. That’s why I try to keep it well in order.’

She changed the subject; it always worried her when Charlie tried to talk about her financial situation. However casually.

After two more dinners
à deux
, Charlie had kissed her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that either. She hadn’t had any kind of relationship since Laurence; she had assumed herself to be sexually quite dead. She certainly didn’t see stars; but it was nice enough. In fact, it was very nice. But she had no desire to take it any further.

And that night at South Lodge she led him firmly to the spare room and closed the door on him, without even kissing him goodnight.

He was out on the verandah when she came down in the morning, holding a steaming mug of coffee, staring out at the ocean.

‘Good morning. Your nice Mrs Mills made this for me. Can I get one for you?’

‘No, it’s fine. I’ll get one for myself.’

‘It’s glorious here. So very special.’

‘I’m glad you like it.’

She was hating this; him being here, standing on the verandah, Laurence’s verandah, looking at the ocean across the dunes. Laurence’s dunes. He had no business there, he was intruding, she wanted him gone.

‘How is Cathy?’ she said carefully.

‘Oh, much better. As you said, penicillin is remarkable. They’re both out cold. She woke up just long enough to say, “Hi, Dad”, and then went back to sleep. Could we – could we take a walk along the shore?’

‘Oh – you go,’ she said quickly. ‘If that doesn’t sound too unfriendly. I really have too much to do. Work, you know. I got a bit held up yesterday. We can have breakfast when you get back.’

‘OK.’ He smiled, but his brown eyes were slightly puzzled. ‘If that’s what you want. It’d be more fun with you, but – well, I guess I won’t get lost.’

She felt guilty then, said, ‘I’m sorry. Maybe later in the day. I’ll drive you around a bit, show you the Hamptons.’

That wouldn’t be so bad; it was just South Lodge, she couldn’t bear him being there.

‘Sure. Well – I’ll see you later.’ He bent to kiss her lightly on the cheek; she pulled back. This time he looked hurt.

‘Sorry,’ she said, and hurried into the house.

Around mid-morning, after one of Mrs Mills’s enormous brunches, she suggested a drive. She still didn’t want to, but she felt she had been rude.

‘That’d be good. Do we take the girls?’

‘Oh I don’t think so. Cathy should stay indoors. Mrs Mills will be here—’

‘It’s all right,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘I’d much rather go without them.’

They pulled out of the drive, headed up towards the Hampton Road.

‘It’s so pretty here.’

‘Isn’t it? And we have culture too. The Parrish, our own museum, not some tinpot little thing, either, we have some very fine examples of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century American paintings. And see, there’s our very grand town hall. Pillars and all. Now I thought we could go across to Sag Harbor, it’s so lovely there, and then we can make a circle back through Easthampton. That’ll give you a pretty good idea of the place. Jackson Pollock, the painter, lives in Easthampton now, you know. I might even give you a glimpse of The Creeks. It’s on Georgica Pond and it’s the most important house in the whole of the Hamptons. People practically murder to get an invitation there. It even has its own theatre, where Isadora Duncan was supposed to have danced. We could maybe grab a coffee in Easthampton, or even—’

‘Barty,’ he said very gently, ‘you don’t have to do this.’

‘What?’

‘Show me around. In this rather frenetic way.’

‘Yes I do,’ she said. ‘I’d like to.’

‘I do understand,’ he said gently, ‘at least I think I do.’

‘Understand what?’

‘That it’s hard for you, me being here. It was obviously a very special place, for just you and Laurence. We had one, Meg and I, not our own, of course, but a place we always went to, up in Connecticut. It was there I proposed to her, there we went after we were married, and we took Cathy there, right after she was born, as soon as Meg was strong enough. I’ve never been back there except on my own. So – I know how this must feel for you. Having to share it.’