No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (55 page)

‘Yes, I know. Of course I know. But at least I am entirely yours now. Even if you cannot be entirely mine. I feel – easier about it. Cleaner. As if I can let my emotions go.’

‘Oh,’ she said again, She looked down at her hands, twisting her rings; she felt dangerously close to both grief and joy. At the knowledge that for her, for a totally unpromised, unhopeful future, Sebastian should have left his wife, even though he no longer loved her. She no longer loved Oliver – did she? – but the severance of all the ties was still a terrifying prospect. Of course, Sebastian and Millicent had no children; but they had those other marital offspring, memories, shared intimacies, hopes, fears, laughter, friends, had lived together through grief and joy, separation and reunion. Together they had shaped his ambition, overcome her breakdown, recovered from the disappointment of a child lost, and no more conceived; more than half their lives had been joined. What he had done for her and his feelings for her had required great courage: and great love.

‘Oh, Sebastian,’ she said, and realised she was crying. ‘Oh, Sebastian, I—’

‘Yes?’ he said, looking at her very intently. ‘Yes, Celia?’

‘I – love you,’ she said, very slowly and then faster, savouring the words, savouring the relief of saying them as well as the fear. ‘I love you. Very very much.’

After she had gone – much much later, Sebastian sat staring out of the window at his garden. It had been a defining moment that, when Celia said she loved him. Until then, she had always shied away from it, and he had sometimes wondered if he was not simply a diversion for her, a diversion from her increasingly unsatisfactory marriage. Which had hurt, for he loved her very dearly, she had become the centre of his life, and he would have done anything for her. On the other hand, it seemed unlikely that he was only a diversion, for he was aware that he had achieved something rather remarkable in seducing her.

She was famously beautiful and desirable and equally famous for her fidelity to her husband. No one had heard so much as a whisper of scandal about her; even her own enemies, rather more in number than Sebastian’s, could find nothing more damaging to say about her romantic life than that she was a flirt. Other aspects of her life provided grounds, to be sure: she neglected her children, people said, she was drivingly ambitious in a most unwomanly way, she had shown Oliver very little consideration when he came back so ill from the war, leaving him at her mother’s house while she continued to run Lyttons in London.

But her virtue was unquestionable and throughout the war, when infidelity had been so commonplace, all during Oliver’s long absence, she had never done anything that would occupy more than a half sentence of malicious talk. Sebastian was aware of this; it had added – albeit modestly – to his sense of triumph in having finally seduced her, in having accomplished something of rare, indeed unique, distinction, but until that morning he had not known for certain that it was more than a seduction. Now he did know; and moreover, that in time it would be possible to move forward yet again.

Jack was taking Lily out to lunch that day; she had no matinee and they were celebrating their anniversary. ‘Three months exactly, darling, isn’t that quite something?’

He had bought her a present, a small gold watch which she had admired in the window of Garrards, and he had told her to come and collect him from the office.

‘I’d like you to see where I work. Where I earn my crust.’

‘Lot of jam on that crust,’ said Lily briskly, giving him a kiss, and then said she would like to come in, and if she could meet the legendary Lady Celia Lytton, that would be a big bonus.

Jack wanted to talk to Celia himself; he needed her opinion on General Gordon’s manuscript. It seemed pretty good to him, but it was a bit short. He wasn’t very experienced yet, of course, but he did know there wasn’t enough there to make up a full-sized book, even with the lavish illustrations planned for this one. It was his first book, and it was very important to him. He wanted it to be good, to be as right as it possibly could be. Oliver was very pleased with what he called the trade reaction; several of the big bookshops, including Hatchards, Bumpus, Blackwells of Oxford and James Thin in Edinburgh, had all expressed interest in the project.

‘I told you,’ he said to Celia, ‘it’s a minority interest, but it’s a very real one. The British love anything in uniform. And the Mutiny is a marvellously emotive subject, I think it’s going to do very well. As for that stuff of your great-grandfather’s – superb. Quite superb.’

Celia said she had to see a couple of bookshops that morning; ‘But I should be in about eleven. I’ll have a look at it then.’

She was not in by eleven; nor by half past, or even twelve. Jack sighed; he really had wanted to get the book sorted before Lily came in. And besides, he thought it would be an idea to tell Celia how much Lily wanted to meet her. She might be too busy for such an encounter. She did work terribly hard; and she could be quite difficult when she was feeling harrassed. She might even object to his inviting Lily into Lyttons, if she was in a really bad mood. In which case, he would have to tell Lily to stay down in reception.

He thought of talking to Oliver about the book, but that didn’t seem a very good idea. Last time he’d tried to discuss its structure, he’d just said he didn’t have time for that kind of detail, and to talk to one of the editors. But the editor who was dealing with the book, a rather highbrow young man called Edgar Green, wasn’t actually being terribly helpful about it, had just told Jack to get some more text done, if he thought that was necessary. Jack got the impression Edgar rather resented his presence at Lyttons. Anyway, the real point was he couldn’t work out where exactly the extra text might be needed. That was the sort of thing Celia was so good at.

At twenty-five past twelve, the girl in reception telephoned him to say that Miss Fortescue had arrived; Celia was still not back. Lily would be so disappointed. And he’d had a wasted morning. Still, he could show Lily his office. He was rather proud of it. He went down to collect her.

‘And this is what we call a proof,’ he said airily, pulling out a set of proofs of
Meridian
, which Celia had given him. ‘These funny squiggles in the margins are the printer’s marks, they’re how you correct the proofs. Always in the margins, you see.’

‘They do look complicated,’ said Lily respectfully.

‘Oh, you learn them quite quickly. First the proofs come up in long sheets from the printers, they’re called galleys, and then like this, the page proofs. And – oh, there’s Celia now. Celia, hallo, please do come in. I’ve been waiting for you.’

‘Have you, Jack? I’m so sorry.’ She stood there, smiling in the doorway, looking rather vague, not quite her usual efficient self. ‘I got held up, those bookshop owners are dreadful, and then I had to go and see Gill Thomas.’

She was slightly flushed and her blue eyes were very brilliant; she was wearing a loose pink dress and a cream hat. He felt rather proud of her suddenly, proud to be working with her.

‘Oh it doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘it doesn’t matter at all. This afternoon will do. Celia, I’d like you to meet Lily Fortescue. She’s come in to collect me, we’re going out to lunch. We’ve got something to celebrate. Lily, this is Lady Celia Lytton.’

‘How do you do, Miss Fortescue,’ said Celia. She smiled again, held out her hand, ‘it’s absolutely lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, and about all your success, getting a part as one of Mr Cochrane’s Young Ladies, Jack is so excited about it. Is that what you’re celebrating? How thrilling.’

She was talking rather more than usual, Jack thought; well that was all right. It was when she was quiet he felt nervous. He looked at Lily. She was taking Celia in, her brown eyes studying her carefully. She was obviously very impressed by her; well, so she should be. But he was proud of Lily too, she was so pretty and she had such beautiful manners. She was telling Celia that it was only a small part, nothing to write home about, but everyone had to start somewhere, and if Celia would like to come and see the show she would be absolutely thrilled.

‘So would I,’ said Celia, ‘absolutely thrilled.’

A silence fell then; Celia looked between them both, then said quickly, ‘Well I’d better get to my desk. Jack we can talk this afternoon about your book. I’m sorry about this morning. Lovely to meet you, Lily. Have a marvellous lunch, both of you.’ And then she was gone.

Lily followed Jack down the stairs and out into the street; she was rather quiet until they got to the restaurant.

Then he said, ‘Isn’t she lovely? Didn’t you like her?’

‘She is very lovely,’ said Lily, ‘and yes I did like her. I liked her a lot.’

‘We get on awfully well,’ he said, pushing her chair in, sitting down himself, ‘always have done, I was only a lad when they got married, I’d only just got my commission. I thought she was tremendous then, so beautiful and such fun. And much as I admire old Wol, as the children call him, he isn’t exactly fun.’

‘No?’ asked Lily.

‘No, not really. And since the war, even less so.’

‘Well she obviously is,’ she said.

Jack looked at her. Then, ‘What is it, Lily?’ he said, ‘you don’t seem quite yourself.’

‘Oh I’m fine,’ she said, ‘really.’

‘Lily, come on. There’s something, I know there is. Didn’t you like Celia? She didn’t say something that upset you did she?’

‘No,’ said Lily, ‘no, of course not. She was utterly charming and very nice to me.’

‘Good,’ said Jack. He sat back and smiled at her. There was a silence. Then Lily said thoughtfully, ‘I tell you what though, Jack. I reckon someone had just been giving her one.’

‘What? Oh darling, no. You’re quite wrong there. Celia is a pillar of virtue.’

‘She might have been a pillar up to now,’ said Lily, ‘but not any more. I’d put a lot of money on it, Jack. If I had it. I know that look. All sort of flushed and vaguely excited. She’d been with someone this morning, I bet you. Booksellers holding her up indeed! Pull the other one, Lady Celia, I felt like saying.’

‘My darling,’ said Jack and he looked quite anxious, ‘I really can’t let you talk like this. Celia would never, ever cheat on Oliver. She just wouldn’t. I’d stake my life on it.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ said Lily, leaning forward, giving him a kiss, ‘I think I value your life a bit more highly than that, Jack.’

CHAPTER 21

‘These sales figures for
Meridian
really are extraordinary,’ said Oliver, ‘seven editions now, and we are still only in March. That book has legs, as my father used to say. We are going to have to reprint yet again, as soon as possible. We’d better inform the printers.’

‘It is amazing,’ said Celia, ‘Christmas long past, usually children’s books fall right off in January. Sebastian will be pleased. Have you told him?’

‘No,’ said Oliver, ‘I think you should do that. He was your discovery, not mine.’

She looked at him.

‘That’s very – generous of you, Oliver.’ She was surprised; he had always found it difficult to acknowledge her successes. And this one—

‘Well it’s true. Mind you, I think once
The Buchanans
are out there in the shops, I shall give you a run for your money.’

‘Oh really?’ she said smiling at him, liking the fact that he saw
Meridian
as hers. As it was. As the author was.

‘Yes. It’s worth a tremendous effort. I’m going to advertise it quite heavily. I’m printing seven and a half thousand of the first volume. I feel extremely confident about it.’

So that was it. He had a success of his own to build up his self-esteem. And it would be a success; it was inevitable. The first volume was superb.

‘I think we’ll sell more than that,’ she said, ‘I’d do ten thousand if I were you. It’s so marvellous.’

‘Really? Well – I’ll consider it. You know I did think briefly we might try to publish it earlier, in June say. It would be a scramble, but I’m rather afraid of someone beating us to it, doing something similar. Sagas are so very popular now. Everyone’s out to beat the Forsytes. What do you think?’

‘I think absolutely not,’ said Celia. ‘The autumn and Christmas, of course, are the perfect times for big new novels, and you shouldn’t rush it. It just wouldn’t be worth it. Besides no one could get anything similar out in time now; we’d have heard about it.’

‘I expect you’re right. I shall take your advice. Certainly we could do with the time. And James Sharpe has done some very good work on the jackets. You do like them, don’t you?’

‘Yes. Yes, I really do.’

It was true; they were slightly old-fashioned, but all the better for that, it suited the style and the concept: the dust jacket showed a house – the Buchanans’ house in Oxford – in loving detail, viewed from the front gate with the door standing just open, inviting the reader inside. It was both charming and clever.

‘Good. Well – I have to admit I was wrong about the
Meridian
jacket. It looks marvellous in the shops, and I’ve lost count of the number of booksellers who have told me how much people like it. Oh, now what on earth is the matter, you’re crying, Celia, whatever is it?’

‘Oh – nothing,’ she said quickly, ‘nothing at all. I mean nothing to do with the book. I’m just a bit tired that’s all. And you know that makes me over-emotional.’ Thinking that Oliver’s attitude to the jacket, Gill’s jacket, Gill’s presence at Lyttons, had been the catalyst which had driven her into Sebastian’s bed. ‘I’m sorry, Oliver.’

‘You do too much, I’m afraid,’ said Oliver with a sigh, ‘and I’m sorry you had to get involved with the Indian Mutiny as well. Very sorry.’

‘Oh – it was all right. It’s not too bad. A bit leaden, the writing, but we can liven it up with the editing. I think my great-grandfather’s diairies will make all the difference.’

‘Well – thank you anyway. I know it’s not the project nearest to your heart. But I still think it will do well. And it’s nice to see Jack so enthusiastic. Working hard too, I must say.’

‘Yes. Yes, that’s true, he is,’ said Celia. No point in saying anything else: that Jack had as little grasp of publishing as the twins – probably rather less; that his book was going to be extremely expensive to produce and then would find it hard to recoup its cost. Oliver was blind about Jack and – rightly of course – felt he wanted to help him. Well, probably Lyttons could afford it, as Sebastian said. And anyway, he was a Lytton.

‘You do look tired, my dearest. You need your weekend away, it will do you good.’

‘I – I hope so,’ said Celia opening a file on her desk. ‘Oliver you will have to forgive me, I have so much to do.’

‘Of course. I’ll leave you in peace.’

He walked out of her office, shut the door gently. Celia stared after him, wondering how he could possibly be so blind: and how she could be so wicked.

They were going to stay at a hotel in Glasgow. Celia felt it was better for everything to be as near to the truth as possible. She left a Great Northern timetable lying about, asked Janet Gould to book her ticket on the sleeper to Glasgow – where Caroline would have met her – made sure Oliver was there when she reminded Daniels to collect her from the office to go to St Pancras, asked Caroline to telephone during the day about the arrangements, so that there would be a written message from her lying on the hall table: all the small, careful deceptions of adultery which, in the case of discovery, make the crime seem so much more heinous, so much greater a betrayal.

She was feeling increasingly dreadful about it, had twice actually cancelled the whole thing. Only Sebastian’s passionate importunings, her sister’s rather cooler admonitions not to be a fool – ‘You have to take happiness where you can, Celia, surely the war taught you that’ – persuaded her to proceed. She would look at Oliver over the dining table, at his desk, beside her in bed, Oliver, whom she had once loved so much, still cared for so deeply, Oliver, who deserved not a moment of pain, Oliver, who she knew continued to love her with an extraordinary devotion, and could hardly bear to contemplate what she was about to do to him and to their marriage. Superstitious fears crowded her conscience; something dreadful would happen to the children, her father would have a heart attack, Oliver would become ill – and no one would be able to find her. To increase her wretchedness, Oliver had been particularly sweet to her over the past two weeks, less critical, more appreciative; she found herelf longing for some unjust words, some harsh comment. Neither came. The night before she left he kissed her tenderly and said, ‘I do hope you enjoy your few days with your sister. You deserve a holiday from us all,’ and she found herself, yet again, in tears of remorse and guilt.

‘There you see,’ he said, ‘you’re exhausted. Exhausted with looking after us all. Especially me. Take a few extra days, my darling, why don’t you, it’s such a long way just for a weekend. Even a long one.’

But she said no, of course not, she couldn’t possibly do that, she would be back on Tuesday morning as she had said: promising herself it would be the last time as well as the first, that the whole thing must finish with the weekend, that she would return after it to a life of matronly virtue, would renounce Sebastian as she parted from him, that, in the event of discovery, she would at least be able to assure Oliver that it had been a brief madness which had ended as soon as it had begun. What she felt for Sebastian was an addiction: and addictions could surely be overcome.

She had already left for St Pancras when the printer telephoned to say that he could start work on the new edition of
Meridian
on Monday. At the same time Henry Smyth, the young editorial director whom Oliver had hired to replace Richard Douglas, remembered that Sebastian had particularly asked if he could write a short letter as a frontispiece to the new edition. When Oliver phoned Sebastian at his London home, he was told by his housekeeper that he had gone away for the weekend, but when he rang Suffolk he was told by Millicent Brooke, in more than slightly brisk tones, that Sebastian no longer came down for weekends. Oliver said he was sorry to have troubled her, and told Henry they would have to get the text for Sebastian’s letter first thing on Monday morning. And made a note to ask Celia if she knew about the change in Sebastian’s domestic arrangements.

‘I have decided it’s an addiction I feel for you,’ Celia said, half-laughing, half-tearful over breakfast on the Sunday: breakfast taken, like dinner the night before in their rooms, for fear of recognition.

He had booked the bridal suite: ‘For you come here as my bride, Lady Celia,’ a superb set of rooms, with a vast, comfortable bed, a charming sitting-room, and a bathroom which she particularly liked, all mahogany and brass fittings, with a bath large enough for them both. It was their world for the weekend: safe, warm, infinitely luxurious, and they moved into it with delight, and something close to relief at finding themselves properly alone at last.

‘An addiction!’ Sebastian said. ‘I’m not sure I quite like that. It’s possible to cure addictions, after all. I certainly don’t want you to be cured of me.’

‘I can’t be exactly cured of you,’ Celia said, rather quietly, ‘I shall never ever be cured of you. You are part of me now, part of everything I do and feel and think. I shall love you for the rest of my days. But I could manage without you, I suppose. If I had to.’

‘Of course you couldn’t,’ he said, smiling at her over the piece of toast he was heaping with butter and honey. ‘You’d be quite, quite lost. And wretchedly unhappy.’

‘Sebastian, that’s an extremely arrogant statement.’

‘It is indeed. I’m an extremely arrogant person. As you know. And therefore given to arrogant statements. But I do know I’m right. You couldn’t manage without me because you’ve changed. You’re different. That Celia I first knew, so cool and in control of herself and her life, of course she could have managed very well. But the new Celia – she has an absolute need of me.’

‘Absolute?’

‘Absolute. And you know why?’

‘No,’ she said laughing, ‘but I do know this is nonsense.’

‘It is not nonsense, Lady Celia,’ he said, his expression very serious, ‘because the new Celia, the vulnerable, uncertain one is my creation. Entirely mine.’

‘Of course I’m not.’

‘But you are. As I am yours. You must not underrate that. We have transformed one another, by love. You should enjoy that thought, not argue with it. Now eat that fruit. It’s good for you. And after that I thought perhaps another short sojourn in that wonderful bath, and thus back to bed.’

‘Sebastian—’

‘Now listen to me,’ he said almost severely, picking up an orange, beginning to peel it for her, ‘here we are, in the situation we have dreamed of, rich in time at last, no longer paupers. For heaven’s sake let us enjoy every single golden sovereign of it.’

She looked at him; he was suddenly very still, his eyes on hers, his expression serious, almost stern. She felt a shock of desire for him, so violent she could not stay still; she stood up, holding out her hand to him.

‘Let us indeed,’ she said.

Sex, she thought, as she lay on the bed afterwards, smiling at Sebastian while he ordered champagne on the telephone, was such an extraordinarily complex thing, the physical pleasure threaded through ineradicably with emotion and intellect, so transient but still so enduring, so joyful and yet of a great and solemn importance in the conduct of love.

What she felt for Sebastian was difficult and dangerous, and while bestowing great happiness on her life, was filling it at the same time with fear and potential pain. But while she was making love with him, she found at the heart of the physical turmoil, the throbbing, shaking, violent delight, a most surprising and almost fervent peace.

‘I love you,’ she said simply now, ‘I love you very, very much. Whatever happens, to either of us, remember that.’

‘I will,’ he said, and his expression was unusually sombre, ‘whatever happens, I will remember. I promise you that.’

They ventured out once or twice, walking down the streets, looking into the shops, sitting in the park.

‘Isn’t it strange?’ said Celia, tucking her hand into his, ‘people looking at us assume we are simply a couple, a happy, uncomplicated couple.’

‘I don’t suppose they assume anything at all,’ said Sebastian, laughing, ‘they have better things to do with their lives. You mustn’t aggrandise yourself, Lady Celia, it must be your background.’

She said she wasn’t aggrandising herself at all, that people did tend to notice, to look at other people, and remained much taken with the thought: the difference between appearance and reality. It seemed to her very much the stuff of fiction; work, as always, weaving its way into her most intimate life.

‘I wonder,’ she said suddenly, ‘if I had met you at a party or something, if I had not known you were a writer, would I have been quite so – taken with you.’

‘You mean you only love me for my genius? Shame on you.’

‘Of course I don’t mean that.’

‘I think you would have been just as taken with me,’ he said, ‘actually. I would have been the same person, after all.’

‘To you. But not to me. What first entranced me about you was – well not your story of course. But your passion for it. And the way you told it. Sitting there, on my sofa, like—’

‘Like Scheherazade? Telling tales for her Arabian sultan? What a wonderful idea. I wonder if you will free me after a thousand and one nights.’

‘If only we could have a thousand and one nights,’ she said sadly, ‘maybe I could contemplate it. After only one, it seems horribly unlikely.’