No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Yes, Celia?’ Oliver was saying. She jumped. She really should concentrate harder in meetings. She found it rather difficult, even when she wasn’t worrying about her biology. Her mind roamed around as they discussed costings and publication dates and the wording of Lyttons’ entry in the Writers and Artists Year Book, a new work of reference for writers, illustrators and publishers.

  She looked at Oliver and flushed; he was wearing his sternest, I-am-not-giving-you-any-special-concessions-just-because-you-are-my-wife expression.

  ‘I think you had an idea to discuss?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I have. Actually. I – well I was thinking about the Everyman series.’

  ‘We’ve all been thinking about that,’ said Oliver heavily. The new Everyman imprint, launched by Joseph Malaby Dent, was pledged to publish a cheap library of the greatest works ever written. And it was doing well; self-improvement was very much on the agenda in these times of social change.

  ‘I think we should launch a series of biographies. Equally cheap. About the outstanding men – and women, of course, lots of them – in history. I think it would do extremely well. I don’t think we should necessarily run it chronologically, because people are so much more interested in more recent figures. Disraeli, Florence Nightingale, Marie Curie, Mr Dickens himself, would all be wonderful subjects. Lord Melbourne even; everything to do with Queen Victoria still seems to attract great attention. Henry Irving, Mrs Siddons, there are so many. And we could commission an original illustration for each one, as a frontispiece, and—’

  She stopped; everyone was staring at her. Their faces were unreadable. She flushed, faltered, then went on.

  ‘And maybe those illustrations could be offered separately with each book. As a promotional item. And each book could contain an advertisement for the next one at the end. And I thought we could launch the series through The Times book club, make a virtue of the beastly thing, perhaps offer a bigger discount than usual . . .’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Oliver firmly, interrupting her. ‘Definitely not. Nothing would persuade me to do that.’

  Celia felt rather sick; she looked at him. He was looking sterner than ever. She’d been sure, so sure this was a good idea. So sure, indeed, that she hadn’t even sounded him out in private beforehand, as she sometimes did. She should have done. Saved herself this kind of humiliation. She looked down at her shoes. They were very nice shoes or rather short boots, in grey leather with black buttons at the side. She’d been really excited when she’d found them. They looked wonderful with her new grey skirt and jacket.

  ‘Pretty shoes,’ Giles had said when she’d gone up to see him, wearing them for the first time. ‘Pretty Mummy.’

  She’d been so pleased at that. Absurdly pleased. Maybe she should give up on her career, for a while at any rate, immerse herself again in the more normal business of life like buying clothes and playing with her child. Then it wouldn’t matter if she – well if she was pregnant. Everything would be safer, easier. In fact—

  ‘Absolutely brilliant idea,’ Richard Douglas was saying, ‘really quite, quite brilliant, Celia. What a clever girl you are. What do you think, LM?’

  ‘I agree with you,’ said LM. ‘The market for biography is very large. It could run for years. Always new people coming along. Or rather, leaving.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean, leaving?’ said Oliver. He looked rather irritable.

  ‘Dying,’ said LM briskly, ‘every obit is a potential new subject. I even agree about The Times book club, Celia.’

  ‘I said no,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Well – maybe not.’ LM smiled at him. The Times book club was not so much a thorn in every publisher’s side as a dagger. Formed in 1905 to increase circulation of the paper, it offered books to members of their reading library – supplied at a discount by publishers – which were then sold on cheaply as used books even after only two or three borrowings. ‘But we would certainly value the exposure they offer. Celia, it’s a splendid idea. I really am most impressed.’

  ‘I agree with you about launching the series with more recent subjects,’ said Richard Douglas. ‘In fact, we might even make the whole thing alphabetical. What about that?’

  ‘Couldn’t keep that up,’ said Oliver, ‘you’d get some new subject with a name beginning with A and then where would you be?’

  ‘I do like the library idea though,’ said Celia earnestly, ‘so that it is something people collect. Build up. Maybe the spines could have letters on them, quite large, I mean, above the title. So that people could file them and find them easily.’

  ‘Possibly, yes,’ said Richard. ‘I see this as having altogether a very strong graphic style. Don’t you, Oliver?’

  ‘What? Oh – yes. Yes indeed.’

  Celia looked at him again; he was finding this difficult, finding it hard not to feel jealous. She must be careful.

  ‘Fairly lyrical, I think,’ said Richard, ‘the style, I mean. Art nouveau, I would suggest. And the binding, possibly dark blue. I’ll get the studio to mock some things up. We mustn’t waste time on this. Definitely get the first two or three out for Christmas. I like the idea of selling the illustrations separately, Celia. My goodness. What a clever girl you are.’

  He had a tendency to sound patronising; he did then. Celia knew he didn’t mean to. And he had been more encouraging to her than Oliver had. But there was always an element of surprise expressed in any praise he gave her: that she, a woman, could have strong, clever ideas.

  She felt clever: clever and strong. What had she been thinking of, ten minutes earlier: something about staying at home, giving up work? Absurd. Totally absurd.

  ‘We must find a name for it,’ said LM, ‘the imprint that is. Any ideas for that, Celia?’

  ‘Well—’ she hesitated, looked round. She had of course: a wonderful idea. But they were most unlikely to like that as well, surely.

  ‘Well, I thought – I thought – Biographica. What do you think?’

  Another silence. Then LM said, ‘I think that’s marvellous, Celia. Very, very strong, simple, memorable. Moreover—’ she hesitated – ‘moreover, I think we should consider letting it be your responsibility. Your own imprint. Would you agree, Oliver?’

  It was a bold suggestion; she was the only person who could have made it; being a Lytton, not being married to Celia, and of course not having any editorial territory of her own to defend. Celia stared fixedly at the grey boots again. Of course Oliver would never agree to that, to her looking after the series.

  ‘Well – well, we could consider that, I suppose,’ Oliver said. He cleared his throat. ‘As long as other senior people are happy with it, of course. I wouldn’t like the decision to be taken here and now in this room.’

  ‘Why ever not?’ said LM briskly. ‘We three make all the major decisions. I don’t recall you getting Mr Bond’s agreement, down in accounts, to the launching of the new Heatherleighs, or Miss Birkett’s to the medical series. That was Celia’s, too. Good gracious, Celia, we shall have to look to our laurels, if we are not to see you in complete control of Lyttons soon.’

  Celia smiled at her; she felt she could have flown through the air. But then she looked at Oliver again and he was patently struggling to smile, to look good-humoured. This was hard for him. She had to show him she still felt quite clearly that he was in charge.

  ‘I absolutely agree with Oliver,’ she said, ‘this is not a decision to be taken here. Not while I’m here, even. But of course I’m really pleased you all like the idea so much. And I would love to be properly involved, with it. Please.’

  She could feel Oliver easing, saw his face relax, and returned his swift, careful smile. It was a long time, she suddenly realised, since he had had a really strong idea of his own.

  ‘Ted,’ whispered Sylvia, ‘Ted, I’ve got something to tell you.’

  ‘What? What’s that?’ His voice sounded startled, confused. He was always so exhausted at bedtime, that he fell asleep at once. Except very oc
casionally. Pity he hadn’t that night.

  ‘Ted, I’m – well, I’m in the family way. Again. I—’

  ‘What?’ He sat up, shocked into wakefulness, forgetting to be quiet, ‘Oh, Sylvia, no. Oh, dear, oh dear girl. How’d that happen?’

  ‘Usual way, I suppose,’ she said, managing to sound light-hearted, even in her anxiety and with the nausea which was always worse in the evening than the mornings. Probably just as well.

  ‘But I was so – well, I thought I was any road – so careful. Oh dear.’

  ‘I know, Ted. But – it does happen so easy. Doesn’t it?’

  ‘Seems to.’

  There was a long silence. Then, ‘When?’

  ‘Christmas. Thereabouts anyway . . .’

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘I don’t know. Well, I’ve thought a bit. We can just manage – just this time. Put Frank in the other room, in an orange crate. Then Marjorie can come in with us. And the new one in the drawer.’

  ‘I s’pose. Yes.’ There was another pause. ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘Not too bad. Tired.’

  ‘I’m sorry, old girl,’ he said, ‘very sorry. I won’t let it happen again. I swear.’

  Sylvia was touched; she leaned over and kissed him, trying not to disturb Frank.

  ‘It was my fault as well,’ she said, untruthfully implying that she had been as enthusiastic as he. She felt he’d earned that much at least. And they’d never be able to cope if they started quarrelling.

  She was pregnant, as she had known of course that she must be. And having once got used to the idea, and despite the sickness and the lassitude, she was pleased. Of course it helped with Oliver; made him less touchy about her working at Lyttons. And very happy, of course: happy and proud.

  He was not so foolish as to suggest Celia might consider staying at home, at least for a while, but he did say he thought she should take things a little easy, and perhaps work shorter days; Celia (rather to his surprise) agreed that it might be a good idea and then, entranced by her new job and its new responsibilities, anxious to prove herself worthy of it, proceeded to work harder and for longer hours even than before. Three months later, LM found her curled up with pain on her office floor; that night she miscarried the baby, a little girl, and lost so much blood that it was feared for twenty-four hours that she might not live.

  Oliver, as angry with her for putting herself at risk as he was distressed at the child’s loss, forbade her to work at all until further notice; Celia, weak and wretched, could only feebly agree. The doctor, having established to his satisfaction that there was no serious physical cause for the miscarriage, that she had not had a fever, and that there were no indications of any tumours, ‘although she might have a weakness in the neck of her womb’, said that in his opinion it was a simple case of what he called over strain.

  ‘Nature intends you to rest while your baby matures,’ he said sternly, ‘not rush about putting an undue burden on your body.’

  He prescribed a strong tonic for her, containing a great deal of iron, and complete bed rest for at least two weeks, had a quiet word with Oliver as to the danger of another impregnation taking place too soon, and warned Celia that once a miscarriage had taken place, there was a very real danger of it happening again at the same point in any subsequent pregnancy.

  ‘Your womb may have a weakness; it will expand as long as its unhealthy condition will permit and than will relieve itself of the baby, unless you are very careful indeed. No lifting, even of books, no running up and down stairs. I always advise against opening windows, that sort of thing.’

  Celia nodded dully at him and didn’t speak.

  She recovered physically quite quickly, but mentally suffered severe depression, lying in bed, in an uncharacteristic lethargy, crying a great deal, staring up at the ceiling with blank eyes, fearing, indeed knowing that this was the price she was paying for her crushing ambition. She was hostile to everyone around her – with the rather surprising exception of Jack.

  He arrived home on leave while she was still in bed and spent many hours sitting with her. Being emotionally uninvolved, and in any case, cheerful and uncomplicated, he was simply sweetly sympathetic, which was exactly what she needed. He told her funny stories about life in the mess, played draughts and various uncomplicated card games with her and generally made her feel something like normal again. The night before he was due to leave, he found her weeping copiously; too upset to pretend, she told him she was dreading being without him again. Touched and sad, Jack got on to her bed and sat with her in his arms, promised to write regularly, and even offered to sing her a whitewashed version of a few barrack room songs, if she thought that would cheer her up.

  That made her first giggle and then cry again, but less desperately; finally she fell asleep in his arms, her head on his shoulder, whereupon he crept away, leaving a funny message pinned to her pillow about being afraid of Oliver challenging him to pistols at dawn if he found them together. She often thought of that in the years to come, of his kindness and sweetness and what a good friend he had been to her – and of how extremely depressed she must have been, not to have found him attractive . . .

  But once he had gone, she lapsed back into misery and into a growing difficulty with Oliver and with her marriage. She felt, indeed knew, that Oliver blamed her for the miscarriage; he was withdrawn from her, refused to discuss how he felt, and indeed when he did visit her room, was more inclined to sit making polite conversation or even reading, than showing her any kind of understanding or comfort. One night she found a book called Women in Health and Sickness, rather pointedly laid open on her dressing-table. Celia put down her hairbrush and read, ‘Women’s sphere is not to sparkle in the realms of literature, but to shine with a clear, steady and warm light in the home’, then ‘a healthy body with a fairly informed mind is preferable to an overtstocked brain and a delicate frame’. Oliver had obviously left it for her; she cried almost all night and could hardly bear to look at him for days, so badly did she feel at his continuing hostility and her own remorse.

  Eventually, though, Oliver became worried enough about her state of mind to consult not only the family doctor, but also a gynaecologist, then a psychologist, and even a herbalist. To no avail; Celia continued in her state of blank misery.

  Finally, in despair, Oliver asked her mother what she thought he should do; Lady Beckenham arrived at Cheyne Walk, complete, as usual with her maid, and after a couple of days, told Oliver she thought the best thing Celia could possibly do was go back to work.

  ‘She’s just lying up there feeling sorry for herself, with nothing to do; she needs occupation. I always found a week’s fishing up in Scotland put me right after one of these things. Don’t look so surprised, Oliver, I lost at least four. Bloody miserable it is too, you couldn’t begin to imagine it, being a man. Can’t imagine much about anything, if you’re at all like Beckenham. I’d rather thought you were a bit different, I must say. And she thinks you blame her; you shouldn’t. These things happen. I’ve ridden to hounds when I was pregnant with no mishaps; lot more likely to induce miscarriage than bookwork, I’d have thought. Anyway, I don’t imagine fishing would do Celia much good, but I hope you take my point. You let her get back to that work of hers, she really loves it, heaven knows why and I think you’ll find she’ll be as right as rain in no time. Only don’t get her pregnant again yet, for God’s sake. It happens horribly easily afterwards. She’s not as strong as she likes to think.’

  Oliver was so appalled by the picture she painted of him that he went straight up to Celia, took her in his arms, and said tenderly, ‘Darling, I want you to know I do love you.’

  ‘Do you?’ she said, looking at him warily. ‘You don’t seem to.’

  ‘Of course I do. I’m sorry you’ve had such a rotten time. And—’ he paused, looking back at her just as warily, ‘well, I want you to come back to Lyttons as soon as you possibly can,’ adding, ‘only part-time at first,’ when she sat u
p in bed, her face flushed with excitement and said:

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘No darling, not tomorrow. Next week, if you’re good.’

  At which Celia burst into tears again.

  ‘Darling, please don’t. I want fewer tears now. Perhaps it’s not such a good idea,’

  ‘No, no, it is. I just need to have something else to think about. I’m so, so sorry, Oliver, I feel so guilty, so bad. I should have been more careful, it’s quite right what the doctors have all said; it was selfish of me, and it’s hurt you so much as well as me. Please forgive me.’

  ‘I do forgive you,’ he said, kissing her, ‘of course I do. And you – well you weren’t to know,’ he added with great generosity. ‘But next time, well of course you must do what the doctor says. Rest, rest and more rest.’

  ‘And you’re not angry with me any more?’

  ‘Not angry. Sad for us both, that’s all. But next time we’ll get it right. And that isn’t going to be for quite a while,’ he added firmly. ‘We must be very, very careful. Now your mother thinks you should join us for supper downstairs. Feel up to that?’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘Wily old bird, your mother,’ he said, ‘lots of common sense. I like her more and more. She told me she had at least four miscarriages herself. Did you know that?’

  ‘Not till today,’ said Celia, ‘when she told me. I suppose it’s not the sort of thing you’d talk to your children about. But I did find it comforting. It didn’t stop her having more babies. So—’

  ‘Darling, I told you, no talk of more babies.’

  ‘Well – all right’ said Celia with a sigh, ‘but I have missed loving you dreadfully. It’s one of the things that’s made me most miserable. I thought you didn’t want me any more, that you were too angry with me.’

  ‘I want you terribly,’ said Oliver, ‘and if – well, as I said, we must just be very careful. I know you don’t like that, but—’