Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (87 page)

He sat down on his bed; he was shaking, he realised, and absurdly near to tears. He looked at the clock: quarter past twelve. They’d be back for lunch at one. Including Elliott and Brewer. Bastards. How was he going to sit opposite them at the table, knowing they knew, knowing they must know by now that he knew and—

He felt in his pocket for his handkerchief; and his hand found one of the diaries.

The rehearsal – or rather the run-through, no one was allowed to call it a rehearsal – had gone really well. Jenna hadn’t said the actual words she was going to use, simply what they were going to be about; the important thing had been the organisation, who would sit where, what music or words would prompt the next person to stand up and so on.

There was a printed programme anyway; none of it was left to you to work out for yourself.

She had another panic attack just before she got up to do her own bit, longed for Charlie to be there. But he wasn’t, and she’d clung to Cathy’s hand instead and Cathy had been really great.

So now, she could go back and tell Charlie that so far she’d been fine; and this afternoon he’d be there. She certainly couldn’t do it without him.

Charlie sat on his bed, staring at the closed books; shaking now for a different reason, no longer angry, but acutely excited.

Here was revenge: sitting in his hands. He was quite literally holding it. It was an extraordinary sensation.

He really hadn’t expected very much of the diaries. But – they would be a distraction, he thought, walking slowly up the second flight of stairs to his room. And it would be kind of interesting to read about life in the nineteen hundreds.

Much of the early months were just – charming. Celia taking up good works, under the auspices of the Fabian Society, visiting Sylvia Miller – Barty’s mother – every week, in the two wretched rooms where she lived, to study how she was faring on the pound a week her husband Ted earned. A pound a week: and she’d already had six children. Some of them sharing their parents’ bed, others lying under the table, the baby – that had been Barty at the time – in a drawer.
She has to fetch water from a tap in the yard for the washing and to bath them all,
Celia had written,
and heat it on the range. Poor, exhausted, frail woman that she is. And Ted has to walk an hour a day to his job at a factory where he earns just twenty-three shillings a week. And by the standards of the neighbourhood, that is quite good. How can this be, in this day and age? It makes me so angry I can hardly bear it.

He remembered Barty’s outburst, the night he had said he felt poor. Suddenly it seemed very vivid; her outburst then had meant nothing compared to this, this living, almost breathing, document. Later,
Poor Sylvia tells me she has fallen again, as she puts it, the baby due just before Christmas. Seven children there will be then, in those two rooms: and I have the gall to complain about my back aching and Nanny not ironing Giles’s petticoats properly. I feel truly ashamed.

There were some early comments about Barty, how sweet she was, and how pretty:
Her hair is the colour of a lion’s mane, and she’s so quick on her little feet. And she has a lovely neck, so thin and delicate. Definitely my favourite: and she seems to like me too.

And,
Poor little soul, she has to be literally tied up much of the day, for her own safety, to the leg of the table, lest she pulls the boiling water on the range down on herself. She’s so lively and busy, it’s like being in a prison cell for her.

Then Celia had discovered the baby she was expecting was twins: and decided to keep the information from Oliver, so that she could continue doing what she wanted.
I feel so perfectly well, and he’ll just start fussing. Anyway, I have to be there for Sylvia’s baby. She needs me. It’s worth any risk. I have so much and she has so little.

Courageous old bird she had been, even then, especially as she seemed to have had a miscarriage the year before. That was why Oliver had insisted she should leave Lyttons; that was why she had taken up her good works. Manipulative and duplicitous then too: Barty had often told him that.

But then – and at this he had sat bolt upright on his bed – then Sylvia had her baby. Celia was there:

It was six weeks too early. I went with a Christmas hamper for them all and a shawl for the baby and she was in labour when I arrived. Ted was sitting on the steps, said she’d asked if I’d go in and be with her. Oh dear. This is so hard to write. I stayed with her, held her hand all the time. It was quite quick, she was very brave.

The baby was a girl. But – she was dreadfully deformed. Her legs twisted round each other and she had some sort of horrible open wound on her back. But so beautiful, just the same, a sweet, peaceful little face. We thought she was dead. Sylvia was so very, very upset, I felt so useless. The midwife had tried to revive her, but – no good. It seemed. She wrapped her in a towel, and gave her to me to hold, then went to fetch some more towels and newspapers from her own house.

Sylvia asked if she could hold the baby, and I put her in her arms. ‘Thank God she died,’ she kept saying, ‘thank God,’ and at the same time she was crying, crying with grief. I kept thinking, stupidly, how much nicer it would have been if the baby had been wrapped in the shawl.

It was very dark in the room, just the candlelight. That’s why I couldn’t be sure, not at first. But I am now. I am sure and I’m very clear about what happened. The baby breathed: not just once but two or three times and then she gave a little sigh and her eyelids fluttered. Sylvia said, ‘Oh God. Oh dear God, no,’ lying there, staring at her, kissing her poor, sweet little head. After that she looked at me, quite alert suddenly, and said, ‘Will you help me?’ Of course I did. I was her friend and I had to help her. I fetched a pillow and I really can’t remember clearly what happened next, but we did what had to be done. It did have to be done. She was so deformed, suffering so much. Her brain must have been damaged too, not breathing for so long. In a rich household perhaps, but in that one – God help her. God help them all.

We wrapped her in the shawl I had brought, and Sylvia held her, so sweetly and tenderly, and we knew this time she was quite safe.

The guilt will be with me for the rest of my life. But it did have to be done. And I was proud to have helped her to do it.

‘Sweet Jesus,’ said Charlie aloud. ‘Dear sweet Jesus.’

‘Clemmie, my darling, are you all right?’

‘What?’ She was concentrating, trying to work out if it had been painful, or just the usual discomfort. Just the usual, she decided. Definitely. And it was ages since the last one. At least half an hour.

‘I said, are you all right? You seem very – distracted.’

‘Sorry, Sebastian, I am a bit. The baby’s beating the hell out of me. But – no, I’m fine. I’d like to lie down for half an hour or so, if that would be all right.’

‘My darling, of course it would. Do you want some food? Or a drink?’

The thought of food was horrendous; where could it go? With her stomach a punch ball, squashed up somewhere near her shoulders. She smiled at Sebastian.

‘Food no. A drink yes, some warm milk would be lovely. Mrs Conley knows how I like it.’

‘Fine. I’ll go and tell her. Kit, what about you?’

‘Oh I’ll have a whisky, I think. I need some Dutch courage.’

‘What on earth for? You haven’t got to do anything.’

‘I know, but it’s still going to be quite – difficult. Isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ said Sebastian with a sigh.

‘Charlie, are you coming down to lunch? It’s all ready.’

His voice sounded strange, shaky and strange.

‘I – don’t think I will, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a terrible headache, I’m trying to get rid of it before this afternoon.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Can I come in?’

‘Of course.’ He was lying on the bed; he did look terrible, she thought, very pale and sort of – upset.

‘Oh, Charlie.’ Jenna suddenly felt awful, filled with a wild, selfish panic. ‘You’re not going to be too ill to come, are you? I couldn’t do it without you.’

‘Of course not. That’s exactly why I’m having a rest. I’ll be fine, darling, we don’t have to go for an hour and a half. I’ve found some codeine, I feel better already. Just tell the others how sorry I am, will you? And I’ll be downstairs at half past two, don’t worry.’

‘Promise?’

‘I promise. I won’t let you down. How was this morning?’

‘Fine. Absolutely fine. I feel much better now. I wish you did.’

‘I will do. Off you go, darling. I’ll see you later.’

‘OK.’

Half an hour later, Cathy appeared.

‘You OK, Dad? Jenna said you weren’t feeling well.’

‘I – wasn’t. But I’m fine now.’

He didn’t feel fine; he felt shocked, dazed with what he had learned and what he had read. And at the power he held so unexpectedly and so literally in his hands.

CHAPTER 47

Keir was one of the first in the church: so worried had he been that they would send him away, say there was no room, after his discourtesy in ignoring the invitation. But of course they did not; they showed him to a pew, halfway down the aisle, with great courtesy, gave him an order of service. One of her favourite quotations was on the front cover under her name: ‘rich with the spoils of time . . .’. It suited her so well. He sat reading, smiling: they were doing her very proud. And so they should. Children, grandchildren, husbands, lovers: all playing their part. He suddenly and rather surprisingly wished he could do something for her too.

The Millers arrived quite early as well; they had said they would like that, like to have a look around the church. Really, they were longing to get away from the Warwicks. They were all very nice but, as Billy put it, they didn’t seem much to do with Barty.

‘But we’re not here for Barty, Bill,’ said Joan firmly, ‘it’s Lady Celia’s day.’

‘I know that, but – well, we wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Barty. She was part of them all. I wish you hadn’t said we’d stay the night.’

‘Well, I did. It was kindly meant. And it means we can see Jenna. She’s coming over, Venetia said. So stop grumbling. Most people’d be glad to spend the night in a house like that.’

‘Well I wouldn’t.’

‘Too bad. Look, here we are. Joe, tidy your hair, looks like you haven’t brushed it for days. You too, Michael. Come along now, in we go. And remember, we’re here for Jenna.’

Elspeth didn’t see him at first; she was shown straight to a pew right at the front and she sat looking round her. If she was looking for anyone it was for Marcus Forrest. She saw several friends, watched poor Clemmie waddling in – really there was no other word for it – with her arm through Kit’s, following Sebastian. She didn’t look at all well, poor girl. She was obviously having a horrid time. Elspeth waved and smiled at her and Clemmie waved back. She looked a bit worried, Elspeth thought, as well as ill; probably about Kit. He’d been very upset about all this.

And then she saw him: saw Keir, sitting about half a dozen rows back: looking at her. Just looking. And suddenly she wasn’t there in St Martin-in-the-Fields, an about-to-be-divorced woman with two children, and an ex-lover, mustn’t forget that, an ex-lover – she was twenty-one again, and a virgin, in the Bodleian, making notes on
Paradise Lost
, while those eyes, those dark, probing eyes met hers. And however much she might look away, as she was doing now, frown slightly, as she was also doing now, pretend it meant nothing to her, and carry on with what she was doing, he went on looking at her. A few minutes later, exactly as she had done then, she looked again, and the slightest smile touched the corners of his mouth as he recognised the fact. And she felt it, just as she had done then, disturbed, touched in some remote corner of herself, and deny it as she might, the sensation stayed with her, uncomfortable, important, impossible to ignore. After her sisters arrived to sit with her, and her brothers; after she shifted along to make room for other people and half hoped that, if she looked around, her view of him would be blocked by one of the great pillars; through the music, the lovely, lovely requiem soaring through the church; through the murmurs of excitement as this distinguished person and that one arrived, politicians, actors (there were the Oliviers and the Redgraves), and even minor – well, quite minor – royalty (the Duchess of Kent, and was that the Mountbattens?); even after she had finally seen Marcus Forrest, walking in with the rest of the Lytton New York contingent (and sinking just a little too reverently on to his knees), she was aware of Keir there, looking at her. Then, and in spite of everything, she was so very glad and grateful that he had come.

Jenna walked in, very pale but composed, with Charlie and Cathy, followed by Lord Arden; as she passed the Millers’ pew she saw Joe and smiled at him with such joy that everyone who saw it was touched and smiled too. Joe smiled back at her, then flushed scarlet and looked down at his over-large feet. The sight seemed to afford him some comfort.

The twins came in together, almost last; they looked stunningly beautiful, and remarkably like their mother. They were dressed not identically, but very similarly, in black dresses and coats, each wearing one of the pearl chokers which Celia had made her trademark. Adele was sitting next to Lord Arden; he smiled at her tenderly. She took his hand and held it, and as she did so, the years rolled away as they had done for Elspeth and she was on a ship with him again, the last ship to sail from Bordeaux, riding the dangerous seas up the coast towards England, the target of German bombers and mines, cheering and encouraging one another while her children played on the deck in the sunshine quite unaware of the extraordinary piece of history they were living through.

‘We are gathered here today, to celebrate the life of Lady Arden’ – it was the rector of St Martin’s, speaking in a rich voice, so well-suited for the occasion – ‘to celebrate it in the presence of her beloved family . . .’

There it went again; that sharp, painful tug. It was unmistakably pain that time; Clemmie cautiously looked at her watch. Exactly fifteen minutes since the last one. Exactly. That was what was frightening her, the preciseness. Not random pain, not even quiet, steady discomfort but neatly timed orderly spasms. They didn’t hurt much yet; but she could see that they could. That they would. So maybe she was in labour. That was all right. Labour took a long time, hours and hours; there was no way she was going to have the baby here, in this church, in the middle of Celia’s memorial service. No, as soon as the service was over, and it was only going to last a little over an hour, then she would tell Venetia or Adele, or maybe someone a little less involved, Elspeth perhaps, or Izzie, and an ambulance could be called and she would be taken to hospital and, if she was very lucky, her baby would be born that day. Much more likely actually it would be born tomorrow . . .

She realised everyone else was standing up and so heaved herself up as quickly as she could. Goodness, she was uncomfortable. She took Kit’s hand again, and smiled at Sebastian. They were both obviously near to tears. The last thing she should do was worry them about a baby that looked as if it just might be born tomorrow . . .

They had sung the first hymn: Giles, white as death, was walking towards the lectern. His hands shook as he smoothed down the page, adjusted the ribbon which marked the place; he cleared his throat, looked round him desperately, afraid he was not going to be able to utter a word. Then something extraordinary happened; he looked at Helena and she smiled at him. A warm, brilliant smile: of encouragement and, no doubt about it, affection. And Giles too, was suddenly in another place, not in the church, watched by dozens, hundreds of distinguished people, but leaving home alone, in absolutely equal terror, for life in the army, not as an officer, because he had failed at his selection, but as a private soldier. She had been smiling at him in exactly that way then, in encouragement and love, and now he smiled back at her, as he had then, with a flash of unmistakable gratitude, his courage suddenly found. And he began to read, his voice ringing through the church, strong and moving, not flat and dull as he had feared. ‘. . . The days of man are but as grass: for he flourisheth as a flower of the field . . .’

As she had indeed been, Sebastian thought, so lovely a flower, for so many years, her beauty unfaded for so long, her head unbowed, her face lifted always to the sun. He saw her now, perfectly clearly, as she had been that very first day when he had walked into her office with his manuscript. She was sitting at the desk; he had read to her from it and had known even then that he had found love, and knew that she had found it too, astonishing, joyful, and impossible to deny. She had fought it, as only she could, angrily, fiercely:

‘I want you to tell me you love me,’ he had said one day.

‘I can’t,’ she’d said, ‘I really can’t.’ Struggling to remain faithful to Oliver, but it had done no good.

He remembered how she sent him finally away, refusing to leave Oliver, remembered her grief and his, seemingly unbearable. He remembered visiting her in hospital when Kit had been born, when, despite all the other people in the room, she seemed to be alone in it, alone with him and their son, an extraordinary and palpable closeness; and he remembered going to her the night Pandora died, when her love for him overcame all her grief, all her jealousy at his own marriage and how he had found with her the only comfort there was for him in the world.

And he remembered her dying, that he had been able to be with her, and it suddenly seemed the greatest gift of all.

‘
Panis Angelicus
’, one of the loveliest anthems; Lord Arden felt it sustaining him as he walked up to the lectern. The bible was ready, open at the Letter to the Corinthians; all he had to do was read it. Not very difficult, he could manage that; but then somehow something more seemed to be required of him and to his absolute astonishment he found he was able to do it.

‘I would just like to say a few words,’ he said, hearing his own voice quite strong and very clear, and everyone who had known how nervous he was even of reading, let alone speaking, was astonished. ‘A few words about Celia before I read the lesson. St Paul wrote to the Corinthians about charity, but what he meant by that was love. That is why I have chosen it. Celia’s greatest gift was her ability to love. She loved unconditionally, and in a great many different ways. She loved her husband, her children, her grandchildren and her friends – ’ at this point his eyes rested on Sebastian and he briefly smiled ‘ – she loved Lyttons, she loved her work, she loved words, she even, I think – ’ and at this point his old eyes twinkled ‘ – she even managed to love me. Certainly she made me very happy for the few years we had together . . .’

‘The old sweetheart,’ whispered Adele to Venetia, her eyes filling with tears.

‘I hope she did,’ Venetia whispered back. And then St Paul spoke to them: ‘. . . with the tongue of men and angels . . . charity suffereth long and is kind . . . beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things . . . now abideth faith, hope and charity and the greatest of these is charity.’

There was a long silence after he had finished; even music would have seemed an intrusion.

It was really hurting now; Clementine felt quite shocked by the ferocity of the next pain. Longer too, rising to a peak, then fading blessedly away; if this was going on for twelve hours or whatever, she hoped she was going to be able to be brave enough. As it faded again, she eased her hand away from Kit’s, looked at her watch; only ten minutes that time. This was speeding up rather fast. Of course it was still all right, plenty of time, but a bit worrying. She relaxed into herself, as they had taught her to do at the hospital, breathing deeply, and tried to concentrate on Clio introducing
Alice in Wonderland
– ‘which was the very first thing my grandmother ever read me, and which has been my favourite ever since’ – and then on Lucy and ‘The Owl and The Pussycat’, and then, of course, on Rupert, with his golden curls and his serious self-assurance, launching into the first chapter of the first book of
Meridian
– ‘Once upon a different time, there was another country, in another world, not far away from this one . . .’

Oh, no. Not again. Was it really ten minutes? They had been quite long readings. Have a look, quickly, hand disengaged from Kit again, look at the watch – Oh, God, this was pain all right, this was real pain, relax Clemmie, deep breaths – look at the watch. Eight minutes. Eight very short minutes. What next? What was she going to do, what on earth was she going to do?

Izzie sat listening to
Meridian
with her own special memories. Of a little girl, a sad, lonely little girl who had heard her frightening, stern father weeping during the night, and who had gone bravely (very bravely, for she was extremely frightened of him), to enquire if he was all right.

And how that little girl had given him her own thoughts about
Meridian
, and had seen those thoughts become a story; thoughts which had brought them together, had helped him to forgive her for taking her mother away from him.

She loved him so much; so very, very much.

She smiled a smile of sheer glorious happiness at him, and hoped he would understand.

Sebastian caught the smile and returned it; it gave him courage and strength. Only thing was, Arden, the old bugger, had taken his theme: about Celia and love. Of course he had much more to say, but the sweetness and the spontaneity of those few words made his own seem rather ponderous and theatrical. Well, he could improvise a bit: just as Arden had. Of course he had an absolute right to do it, he was her husband after all and – and then he heard a muffled gasp, and looked sharply at Clementine. He saw her biting her lip, white-faced, saw her hands clenched at her sides, her eyes suddenly wild and afraid and realised at once what was happening to her and what he must do.