Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (6 page)

She phoned Kit’s driver, asked him to come and fetch him and managed somehow to get her father up to bed. He looked up at her from his pillows, clearly focussing with great difficulty.

‘Silly fucking bitch,’ he said almost cheerfully, then turned on his side and fell instantly asleep. But she woke in the night to hear him moving heavily around, and when she went downstairs early in the morning, he was sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands.

‘Don’t even begin to ask how I’m feeling,’ he said glaring at her, ‘it won’t make pretty hearing. Make me some tea, would you, and bring it to my study. I’ve got work to do.
McCalls
magazine want a short story within the week, bloody inconsiderate, but I said I’d do it, God knows why.’

It was the last time he spoke to her for several days, apart from roaring orders from his study for more tea, toast, coffee, whisky; she could only offer silent thanks to the editor at
McCalls
and his lack of consideration.

CHAPTER 5

‘And now the kiss.’ The sombre, almost reverent voice broke into the moment; after the splendour, the ritual of the occasion, the simple fact of the husband bending to kiss his wife, was deeply moving.

‘She looks so young,’ whispered Venetia. ‘So terribly young.’

‘And he’s so handsome,’ hissed Jenna. ‘Like a prince in a story book.’

The choir launched into another anthem; there was a stir in the Abbey. In the front pew a tiny figure, dressed in white silk, watched with wide-eyed awe.

‘He’s so sweet, the little prince,’ said Izzie, ‘so tiny.’

‘He’s very good,’ said Venetia briskly. ‘I can’t imagine any of mine sitting through that in silence at four years old.

‘Yes, well, he’s probably not been spoilt from conception,’ said Boy lightly. ‘More champagne, everyone?’

‘Please,’ said Geordie, waving his glass at him, ‘Oh, isn’t this music wonderful?’

‘It’s all wonderful,’ said Venetia. ‘What a day. And just think Adele is there, in the Abbey, it’s just unbelievable.’

‘So are Lord and Lady Arden,’ said Boy just slightly tartly. ‘Shall we see if we can spot them? Look, they’re passing the peers’ gallery now.’

They looked at the small black-and-white screen, at the sea of faces.

‘There they are,’ said Jenna. ‘I saw them. Look, there, look.’

‘Jenna, you can’t possibly see anything,’ said Barty, laughing.

‘I can. And I did. I saw Aunt Celia, I—’

‘Yes all right. If you say so.’

‘I do say so.’

‘I saw her too,’ said a determined voice. It belonged to Lucy, the youngest Warwick, just six years old. ‘Didn’t I, Jenna?’

‘Yes, she did.’

Jenna and Lucy had formed a strong bond; Lucy saw the eight-year-old Jenna as virtually an adult, a view which Jenna fervently encouraged.

‘Well that was marvellous. Really marvellous. You know, don’t you, that the Earl Marshal and the Archbishop of Canterbury both fought long and hard to keep the cameras out of the Abbey?’

‘Not really!’ said Barty.

‘Really. Apart from the fact it meant tradesmen would have to be in the Abbey—’

‘Tradesmen?’

‘Yes, cameramen and so on. Don’t look at me like that, Barty, it’s true. And also, of course, it meant people might be watching it in unsuitable places like pubs.’

‘I heard that one,’ said Henry, ‘and that the men might not even take their hats off.’

‘So there you are. Now, Venetia, my darling, shall we have some food? I think they can manage without us for a few minutes. Then we can watch the procession from the balcony.’

Boy had recently acquired a large building in St James’s and had not yet sold it on; it had provided a perfect base for family viewing of the Coronation. Even Giles and Helena had been unable to resist the opportunity; Giles had originally said that he had no interest in the event whatsoever, but his family had overruled him.

‘You needn’t come, Father,’ the rather lumpy Mary had said, ‘but George and I are going, and Mother said if we went she would feel it was rude not to come too.’

Giles had been astonished, Helena was the last person in the world he would have expected to be caught up in Coronation fever; he made a pompous little speech about jingoism and the Coronation being an anachronism and said he had no intention of going. But he had joined them in the end.

‘We’ve commissioned a book on the thing, I can’t afford to ignore it.’

‘Of course not,’ said Helena.

They had all been in the building since seven; the routes into the capital had been closed at eight. They had watched the procession to the Abbey, in the damp drizzle, waving their flags and cheering. A wave of affection and happiness had swept over London; thousands of people had slept on the streets all night, uncomplaining in spite of the rain. It was as if all the hardship and loss of the past fifteen years were justified by this one heady day. A young and beautiful woman had been crowned, the mystic spectacle watched by millions, thanks to the new wonder of television, and as people everywhere were saying, England had never been greater than with a queen on the throne. And the news that morning that Everest had been conquered by Sir Edmund Hillary and his British team had come as an extra piece of glory on this day when the country was celebrating its very existence.

‘The colours are superb,’ said Geordie, looking out of the window. ‘It’s better in its way than if the sun was shining, it’s as if the red, white and blue had been painted on a black-and-white photograph. Adele will make a lot of that.’

‘I wonder where she is? A better view than Mummy, from all accounts.’

‘I look forward to the comparing of notes,’ said Boy lightly.

‘I just wish we had a royal family,’ said Jenna, ‘it’s so romantic. It’s dreadfully dull, just having presidents. Elizabeth is just beautiful, and Philip’s so terribly handsome. Mamie Eisenhower is just so, so plain.’

‘Jenna!’ said Barty, ‘that is no way to describe your president’s wife.’

‘It is because it’s true,’ she said coolly, with a toss of her red-gold hair. ‘How would you describe her?’

‘Plain,’ said Geordie, laughing. ‘Sorry, Barty. It would be wonderful to have a dazzling young First Lady. Maybe we will some day.’

‘Unlikely, I’d say,’ said Barty. ‘You’d need a dashing young president for a start, and where on earth would he spring from?’

‘Oh, look, isn’t she marvellous!’ cried Izzie.

‘Who’s that?’ Sebastian scowled at the screen; he had been asleep for the past hour.

‘The Queen of Tonga. Look at her, what a wonderful woman, sitting there in her open carriage in this pouring rain.’

‘Half the country is out there in the pouring rain. At least she’s in a carriage with an umbrella over her.’

‘Oh Father, don’t be such an old grouch. And look at the Queen! Doesn’t she look beautiful, in that crown, waving, look—’

‘Izzie I can see perfectly well, thank you.’

‘Father, you’re spoiling it for me.’ She sounded suddenly genuinely upset; she had longed to join Boy’s party, had refused the invitation, knowing that her father and Kit would want to spend the day together, Kit listening on the radio, knowing that any kind of national celebration halfdistressed him.

‘Izzie don’t be silly—’

‘No, it’s true.’ She felt tears rising to her eyes. Absurd, she knew, for an intelligent young woman of twenty-three to be so emotionally engaged with this day; but she was, she had been caught up in the wave of national excitement, with the preparations, the dressing up of the city, the endless articles in the newspapers and magazines, the parties being held everywhere. She wanted to be a part of it, part of the celebration – not just of the event, but of this dazzling demonstration of English pageantry, the importance of the Constitution, the divine right of kings. If you were English, you had to care about it; Izzie was very English. And here she was, alone with a bad-tempered old man and a morose young one. It wasn’t fair. The phone rang sharply; it was Henry Warwick.

‘Izzie? We’ve all been talking about what we might do tonight. I thought a party in my flat. Want to come? It won’t be the same without you.’

‘Oh – Henry I’d love to. Thank you.’

She knew she shouldn’t; knew she shouldn’t ever do anything to encourage Henry’s feelings for her. He had always liked her ever since she had been tiny, and she had adored him, toddling round after him and Roo in their big noisy nursery, so different from her own silent top floor. In her adolescence, just after – well, when she was seventeen and he nineteen, they had had a bit of a teenage romance. It had ended rather abruptly when she had caught him kissing another girl at a party he had taken her to and she had quite literally attacked him, slapping his face: ‘Hey, steady on,’ he had said, laughing, trying to tease her out of it, ‘we’re not married, Izzie. You know I like you best.’

‘No you don’t,’ she said and had made him take her home there and then, and in spite of his importunings the next day, flowers, apologetic notes, she had refused to have anything more to do with him. Over the years they had eased back into friendship; Henry had had countless girlfriends, was permanently engaged to one or another of them, and she had had one very serious love affair; he had comforted her over its ending in a very brotherly and proper way. But a few weeks later, he had taken her out and told her that he still adored her and asked her if she would consider going out with him again. Rashly, lonely and hurt, she had agreed. But it hadn’t worked. Henry was too bland, too conventional for her, his only real ambition was to make a lot of money and head up his grandfather’s bank. He lacked subtlety; he was good-looking, charming, and great fun; but she knew a serious relationship with him was absolutely out of the question. And so she had extricated herself from it, telling him he was too good for her; he had reluctantly allowed her to go and had been engaged twice since, while constantly telling her, whenever he was drunk enough, that he was really only waiting for her.

‘Good,’ he said now. ‘Look, it could be difficult getting across London. I could try and—’

‘Henry, don’t try anything. I’ll come on my bike.’

‘Your bike . . .’ Izzie’s bike was a family joke; she loved it and frequently pedalled to work on it, negotiating the ever-increasing London traffic without a qualm. ‘It’s much nicer than being in the beastly tube, or stuck in traffic,’ she would say. Sebastian had told her that her mother too had loved cycling ‘all over Oxford, always getting her skirt caught in the wheel’. Izzie didn’t wear a skirt on her bike, she wore the new calf-length trousers, and tore down the busy streets, her long hair flying out behind her.

‘Well as long as you wear those rather splendid trousers,’ said Henry, ‘I’ll be very happy. Are you sure? It’s quite a long way.’

‘Henry, it’s not. It’ll take me twenty minutes. Straight down Baker Street and Park Lane and through the park. It’ll be fun.’

‘Well, OK. Get here as soon after seven as you can.’

‘Will – will Clarissa be there?’

Clarissa Carr-Johnson was Henry’s latest girlfriend; bosomy, tinywaisted, giggly, with a fine line in practised flirtatious behaviour. She was everything Izzie was not.

‘Hope so. But her pa’s giving some reception tonight, he’s some incredible city bigwig you know, she may not be able to get away.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Izzie quickly. She needed Clarissa to be there; on the other hand it would be much nicer if she was not.

Celia smiled at Lord Arden; they were finally back in his London house in Belgrave Square, exhausted by their long day, but very happy.

‘Marvellous, wasn’t it?’

‘Absolutely marvellous. I enjoyed it so much. Dear Lord Arden.’

‘My very dear Lady Arden.’ He bent and kissed her hand; she tried not to feel irritated.

‘Do you remember the last one?’ she said, pulling off her long white gloves.

‘Of course. It was magnificent too. And to think that dear little girl is now the Queen.’

‘And that sweet young woman has become the Queen Mother. It’s happened rather quickly, hasn’t it?’

‘Very quickly. That’s why we were so right to get married, Celia. Life is chancy.’

‘Indeed it is,’ she said soberly. Wondering what the others were all saying and doing now, how Kit in particular had got through the day, what Sebastian had done . . .

Don’t think about Sebastian, Celia, don’t.

‘More champagne?’

‘Yes please. And then—’

The phone shrilled.

‘My dear!’ said Lord Arden. ‘How lovely to hear from you. Wasn’t it, yes, absolutely incredible. Yes, of course.’

He passed the phone to Celia.

‘It’s Adele.’

‘Hallo Mummy. I just wanted to compare notes. I feel so excited I think I could fly. Now I wonder if you saw anything I might have missed, that I could add to my story. What? Would you mind? Oh, that would be wonderful. Thank you, Mummy, I’ll come right away. I’ll walk, it’s the only way. I’m not far from you, I’m in the Mall. Oh and you’ve still got your robes on haven’t you? I want a picture of you in them, both of you.’

Celia put the phone down, smiling. It would be wonderful to share the day with just one member of her family.

Barty left Jenna at the Warwicks’ for the night, at Jenna’s insistence, and went back to her hotel. She had refused to stay with anyone, preferring to remain neutral. She loved the Basil Street Hotel, with its old-fashioned ways, and Jenna found its proximity to Harrods and Woollands extremely satisfactory. Already she was an alarmingly determined shopper. She was a great collector, an odd thing in so young a girl. She collected all manner of things: teddy bears, toy horses, farm animals, furniture and people for a magnificent dolls’ house that had once been her aunt Maud’s, commissioned by Robert Lytton. It was an almost perfect replica of their house in Sutton Place, New York. And then hats – she loved hats – shoes, sweaters and that great American passion, T-shirts. Jenna had T-shirts in every conceivable colour and combination of colours, some of them much too big for her that she was waiting to grow into, some too small that she had grown out of and refused to part with. She dressed, not surprisingly, in a style which was fairly distinctive. If she had to wear dresses, they were plain, in strong colours, and worn with long stockings, usually black.

‘I will not wear those gross white socks any longer,’ she had announced firmly to her mother when she was quite small. Barty, who had already adopted a policy of acceding to Jenna’s will whenever it was not actually dangerous or anti-social, agreed that she need not. Jenna wore her hair long, scooped back from her face, and the pretty seed pearl and coral necklaces favoured by most little girls of her age were absolutely shunned. On the other hand, she liked to wear a watch: she had learned to tell the time soon after her fourth birthday, and was never without one on her wrist. So far they had been plain, childish watches, but she was beginning to show an interest in more unusual varieties: another opportunity to collect. Barty had bought her a plain square silver one with a black strap which she had seen in the window of a second-hand jewellery shop and hidden in her cabin trunk for Jenna’s next Christmas present.