No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  There was, LM knew, no question of such a thing ever being necessary; Jago and she could be lovers, best friends, twin souls, but they could never be man and wife.

  ‘It’s unthinkable,’ he had said once, adding, ‘well, not unthinkable, but undoable.’

  LM agreed with him, while crushing a pang of rather natural hurt. He had, not surprisingly, a dread of her becoming pregnant.

  ‘I couldn’t bear it,’ he said, ‘really couldn’t stand it.’ Every month he would ask anxiously whether she was ‘all right’ and would visibly relax when she told him she was. She was fairly confident that it would never happen; she had never been so much as a day late, even when she had been really young, and running appalling risks. At thirty-five, as she now was, it seemed extremely unlikely.

  The only person who did know of course, was Mrs Bill; she had been with Edgar Lytton for many years, had watched LM grow up, and accepted what she saw as the extraordinary behaviour of her mistress with resignation and total discretion. She neither approved nor disapproved; it was LM’s own business, and as incomprehensible to Mrs Bill as her insistence on working all the hours God sent, when there was not the slightest need for it.

  One of the things Jago most liked and admired about LM was that she worked; it increased his respect for her. He never tired of hearing about it, not so much the details of the books they were publishing, that mostly bored him, but about the mechanics of the company, the cost of running it, the way books made a profit, or indeed a loss, and the number of people required to keep the operation going. He was also fascinated by the dynamics of her relationship with Oliver and Celia, how they could work together without strife.

  ‘We do have strife, though,’ LM said, laughing. ‘We argue all the time. About what to publish, when, and how much it’s going to sell at.’

  ‘That’s not strife,’ he said, looking at her with genuine amazement, ‘that’s housekeeping, I mean who’s the boss?’

  ‘Oliver and I are the boss,’ said LM, ‘and Celia just works with us. Not for us, with us. It’s perfectly simple.’

  Jago said if that was simple, he was the Earl of Beckenham. He was much fascinated by Celia’s parentage, by her life before her marriage, by her presentation at court; LM teased him about it and told him he was a social climber at heart. There were times when she really thought it was true.

  ‘Now Mrs Miller, this is Lady Celia Lytton. Lady Celia, Sylvia Miller.’

  Jess Hargreaves had been placed in charge of introducing various Fabian ladies to their subjects in Mrs Pember Reeves’s survey. Her pleasant rather strong voice boomed through Sylvia’s front room and into the room beyond, where the children, threatened with the loss of dripping for their tea if they misbehaved, sat listening enthralled.

  ‘Mrs Miller has – what is it now, Mrs Miller – oh, yes, six children. Her husband works in a warehouse in the city. Mrs Miller is very happy for you to sit with her, and to tell you anything you want to know; but she is worried she may be rather too busy to give you much of her time. Also she is expecting again, and not feeling terribly well, especially towards the evening, so it might be better if you came in the mornings, while most of the children are at school. Only Barty, she’s the baby, will be here then.’

  Sylvia looked at the ladies anxiously; she had been worrying all day about their arrival, had scrubbed the steps specially, got the washing out, put Barty into a clean pinafore dress. Mrs Hargreaves had stressed that none of it was necessary, but it was all right for her, she didn’t have to welcome a lady – and a Lady, what was more, they hadn’t warned her about that – into a dirty house full of grubby children and pretend it didn’t matter. She liked Mrs Hargreaves, but the new lady, she looked a bit – well a bit much with her hair piled up on her head and just a few curls escaping from a very large hat with an enormous bow at the side. She had lovely clothes, a loose cream wool coat over a long dress with a high lace collar, and very high-heeled shoes. Sylvia wished she could have had someone more normal.

  She wished even more that she’d said no, right at the beginnning, that she’d got enough to worry about, without trying to remember what she spent on what, and which child had had which illnesses, without having someone watching her while she got on with her work. Ted had told her not to do it and she’d been going to refuse; but when Mrs Hargreaves came back to see what she’d decided, it had been the awful day when she’d realised she must have fallen again, and she was in such a state it was easier just to give in.

  ‘Hallo, Mrs Miller,’ said the lady, holding out her hand, ‘it’s so very good of you to let me do this. Can I hold your little girl? Just for a moment? I’m expecting myself, I’ve got a little boy already and I’m so hoping for a girl this time. Oh, isn’t she pretty? And what lovely hair. It’s the colour of a lion’s mane.’

  Sylvia hoped that the lady wouldn’t notice the nits in the lion’s mane. She’d spotted them herself that morning and hadn’t had time yet to do anything about them.

  ‘Well, I’ll leave you to get acquainted,’ said Mrs. Hargreaves, ‘and you can arrange with Lady Celia which days would be best for her to come. I’m sure you’re going to work together very well.’

  Work together, Sylvia thought: that was a fine way of putting it.

  But as time went on, it did get to feel rather like that. Lady Celia was extremely tactful; she never pressed her for any information if she wasn’t certain about it, always asked her if she was sure she could spare the time for her, and once or twice, when the evening sickness had been really bad, had actually rolled up her sleeves and made the dripping sandwiches for the children’s tea. She wasn’t supposed to do that, Sylvia knew; she liked her for it. Nor did she ever make Sylvia feel uncomfortable or inferior to her; indeed she always told her how wonderfully she managed, that she could never do half so well herself, and although she did have very nice clothes and arrived in a big chauffeur-driven car, she chatted away to her in the most normal manner about the children and Giles and her own pregnancy.

  ‘I’m a bit worried, I’m so big already, only four months, I think I must have a monster in there.’ She often sent the chauffeur off with the children for rides in the car, and although she was supposed to be meticulous about getting every detail right in her notes, saying it was important if the report was to be of any use, she sometimes would smile at Sylvia conspiratorially and tell her she could always make it up if Sylvia had forgotten whether she’d bought fourteen or fifteen loaves in a week, or spent a shilling or elevenpence on the boot club. She clearly found things like the boot club and the clothing club a bit difficult to understand at first.

  ‘Can’t you just keep the money aside, and buy things when you need them?’

  Sylvia tried to explain that if the money was there it would get spent on food. ‘There’s always a call on it. Important to have it where it can’t be touched.’

  After a bit Lady Celia stopped asking about such things.

  She adored Barty, and spent ages playing with her, or singing nursery songs.

  ‘I’d love to bring you some toys Giles has grown out of, and even some clothes. His pinafores and so on would do wonderfully for her, they’re just like girls’ clothes, but Mrs Hargreaves and Mrs Pember Reeves both say it’s absolutely forbidden. This whole thing is not about charity, as I know you understand.’

  Sylvia did know, and most of the time she wished it was; she would have loved a few outgrown toys for Barty who was bored most of the time now, being the ex-baby tied in her high chair for much of the day; half her delight at seeing Lady Celia came from being released, taken outside, shown books and played pat-a-cake with. Barty was so pretty too, Sylvia could see why Lady Celia liked her. It was true about her hair being the colour of a lion’s mane, and she had a very long, delicate neck; she was a clever little monkey, had learned to walk exceptionally early, which was a pity, given her position in the family: better if she’d been a pudding like Marjorie and Frank. As for clothes, Barty was dressed most of the time i
n what resembled rags; a few frilly pinafores from Lady Celia’s nurseries would be very welcome.

  Still the time and the attention were very welcome; from dreading Lady Celia’s visits, she had come greatly to look forward to them. She wondered if Lady Celia enjoyed them as much. It really didn’t seem very likely.

  CHAPTER 5

  It was almost Christmas. The Lytton house was filled with it, every downstairs room and the nursery decorated with garlands made of evergreen and bunches of holly. A vast tree stood in the hall, studded with wax candles, which were to be lit on Christmas Eve, the pile of presents under it growing daily. Wonderful smells of baking rose up from the kitchen, carol singers arrived almost every night, and Giles would stand at the door in his nightgown listening to them. Celia had taken him to see the giant Christmas tree in Trafalgar Square and the special shop windows in Regent Street and Knightsbridge, and they had sent a letter up the big chimney in the drawing-room to Santa Claus, carefully dated December 1909 to avoid confusion. Every house in Cheyne Walk was brilliant with lights, and the trees along the row were all strung with twinkling, star-like garlands. Celia had a child-like love of Christmas; this year, being pregnant, it seemed to her especially poignant. She remembered the Christmas when she had cried so unexpectedly and so often and felt the guilt ease away. She had planned Christmas surprises, bought and wrapped presents, organised a big Christmas dinner party and a children’s party as well. Oliver, whose Christmases had been rather severe affairs, presided over by his overworked father, and without a mother to give them magic, teased her about her excitement, worried about her getting too tired, but became caught up in her starry happiness nonetheless.

  Twice a week, though, the happiness faded, was replaced by guilt. The Miller house had no tree, no presents, and the street was dull and dark, apart from one tree in the window of the house at the end. Ted had promised to go and hack a branch of yew down from the park one night nearer Christmas; they could decorate that, he said, with a few sweets and chains of coloured paper, and they could set the two big candles he had been promised from the factory in the window. There wouldn’t be much in the way of presents exactly, Sylvia explained to Celia.

  ‘But Ted’s doing overtime and we should be able to afford a ham on the bone, by way of a Christmas dinner. And some oranges and nuts. And Ted’s mum, she said she’d be over with some sweets for the children.’

  Celia hadn’t realised Ted had a mother; she’d assumed all four parents must be dead, or they would surely be helping their beleaguered children. It turned out that Sylvia’s parents had both died, and so had Ted’s father, but his mother lived with her only daughter in Catford.

  ‘But they don’t get on, her and Ted. She says he could do better in life. I’d like to know how. Anyway, we agreed years ago, it’s better she stays away. Comes for Christmas Eve or thereabouts and that’s enough.’

  Celia had actually prepared a Christmas box for the Millers: little toys for all the children, a tin of pressed tongue, a small box of crackers, and some dried fruit. And a couple of warm shawls for the new baby. She had to be careful, if there was too much, the other families who were being observed might get to hear of it; there would be jealousy and she’d get into terrible trouble.

  She was worried about Sylvia; she had almost two months to go, and hardly seemed able to drag herself about, she was even paler than usual, and apart from her large stomach, was wraith-thin. That was hardly surprising: Ted had been ill for a couple of weeks, unable to work, there’d been a shortfall in the money, and when there was less money, the children and the wife went without. The man needed the food to work; that was a given, an accepted precept, nobody questioned it. Even a pregnant wife. Even allowing for such problems, Sylvia was not herself. Normally brave and cheerful, she was much given to fretting, obsessed that there was something wrong with the baby.

  ‘It’s so small,’ she said to Celia one cold, dark afternoon, ‘and it’s hardly kicking at all. I hope it’ll be all right.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s all right,’ said Celia soothingly, ‘it’s small because it’s another girl, I expect.’

  ‘Doesn’t follow. I was huge with Marjorie. We’ve been lucky so far, not lost any. Most people have, out of six.’

  Celia couldn’t imagine how anyone in Sylvia’s situation could regard themselves as lucky, but she smiled at her encouragingly.

  ‘Well there you are. You’re obviously a good, healthy mother, have good, healthy babies.’

  ‘It’s terrible when they die,’ Sylvia said, her eyes gazing into space as she squeezed out the washing, ‘really terrible.’

  ‘Yes, of course it must be. Here, let me do that.’

  ‘No, no you mustn’t, Lady Celia. Not my washing.’

  ‘Why not? I don’t have to do my own,’ said Celia simply, ‘go and sit down, Sylvia, please. Give Barty a cuddle, she’s been so good.’

  She stood at the table, squeezing out the endless clothes. None of them looked very clean.

  ‘What I mean is,’ said Sylvia, stroking Barty’s soft cheek, ‘what I mean is, if the baby dies, there’s a funeral to pay for. Over two pounds that can cost, and we only have insurance for thirty shillings.’

  At least one shilling a week from a working class family budget went on burial insurance.

  ‘Don’t, Sylvia,’ said Celia, distressed at this talk of babies’ funerals, ‘don’t even think about it.’

  ‘I have to think about it,’ said Sylvia earnestly. ‘And then if a child is born early and it’s alive, and then it dies, you don’t get no insurance at all. So it means a pauper’s grave. We couldn’t do that. We’d have to find the money somehow.’ Her face was very drawn, her eyes heavy.

  ‘Sylvia please! You mustn’t distress yourself so much. Of course your baby won’t die. It – she, I’m sure it’s a she – will be lovely and strong. Just like Barty. There, shall I hang this up for you?’

  ‘We’ll leave it for now,’ said Sylvia, ‘till the children have had their tea. Nicer that way for them.’

  The washing line hung in the kitchen, sagging over the small table; it was indeed much nicer without it.

  ‘Anyway, Lady Celia, I shouldn’t be talking like this, worrying you. You being in the family way as well.’

  ‘Oh, well mine’s a long way off,’ said Celia, ‘not till May. Only unlike you, I’m absolutely enormous. My doctor’s coming to see me tomorrow actually. What does – what does your doctor say? About you being small?’

  Sylvia looked at her, and her heavy eyes were almost amused. ‘We don’t see the doctor, Lady Celia. Not for a baby. It costs a lot of money, seeing a doctor does.’

  Celia felt sick suddenly; she was always making these mistakes, saying stupid, thoughtless things. Here she was, over-cared for, over-indulged, her every ache and pain fussed over, her tiredness treated as an illness in itself, and Sylvia couldn’t consult a doctor over a very real worry. It was terribly wrong.

  ‘Sylvia, if you want to see a doctor,’ she said quickly, knowing she was yet again overstepping the strictly drawn up boundaries, ‘you could see mine. I would gladly arrange that. If you’re really worried.’

  Sylvia flushed, looked shocked. ‘I couldn’t,’ she said, ‘it’s very kind of you, Lady Celia, but I really couldn’t. It’s only a baby. Not an illness. I’ll be all right. Oh, now, here are the children. I’d best be getting on.’

  Celia wondered miserably, as she was driven home, if she was actually making matters worse rather than better for the Millers.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Oliver. He was reading a letter intently; he had been sorting through the post at the breakfast table, adding to the ever-growing crowd of Christmas cards on the sideboard.

  ‘What?’ asked Celia. She was buttering her third piece of toast; her appetite was enormous.

  ‘My brother. He’s getting married.’

  ‘Well don’t sound so surprised. He’s twelve years older than you, I can’t think why he hasn’t been snapped up before. Who’
s the lucky girl?’

  ‘Hardly a girl. She’s older than Robert. She’s – heavens. She’s forty-two. A very elderly bride. How extraordinary.’

  ‘Oliver, forty-two is hardly elderly. LM is nearly thirty-six. I shall tell her you said that, if you’re not careful.’

  ‘Oh, darling please don’t. It was a slip of the tongue. But I am surprised. Robert so likes pretty girls.’

  ‘Well maybe she’s a pretty woman. Or a rich one,’ she added thoughtfully.

  ‘Celia, really! Anyway, Robert doesn’t need to marry money. He’s got more than enough already.’

  ‘You don’t know that, Oliver. Darling, don’t look at me like that, I’m only joking. You know how much I adore him. I do hope they come to London to visit.’

  ‘That’s exactly what they are doing. As part of their honeymoon.’

  ‘How lovely. When? I hope I’ll still be able to move out of my chair.’

  ‘You should be able to. Quite soon after Christmas. They’re getting married just before, on Christmas Eve. Then sailing out of New York on January the first.’

  ‘Of course we must ask them to stay,’ said Celia. She looked at Oliver thoughtfully. ‘All a bit sudden, isn’t it? Maybe it’s a shotgun wedding.’

  ‘Celia, don’t be ridiculous. Anyway, this was sent a while ago, it takes two weeks at least for a letter to come from New York.’

  ‘I know. That still makes it sudden. What’s her name?’