She slipped into the night nursery; the twins lay, sleeping sweetly, in their side-by-side cots. They could only sleep where they could see one another. One night, when Adele was ill and the doctor, wrongly fearing scarlet fever, had prescribed isolation, her cot had been moved to another floor. They had both wailed dismally far into the night until Nanny, in a flash of inspiration, had put a small mirror in each cot. Each twin gazed in grateful surprise at the image of herself jammed against the cot bars and fell asleep.
Celia smiled, her eyes filled briefly with tears, blew them each a kiss. She hated leaving them. Anything might happen.
‘Darling, do come along. We’re going to miss that train.’
‘I’m coming. I am. Goodbye, Nanny. Thank you for being so absolutely wonderful. See you in three weeks. Oliver, where’s Giles? We can’t go without saying goodbye to him.’
‘He’s downstairs, waiting to wave us off.’
‘Is he upset?’
‘No, he’s fine.’
‘I’ll come down,’ said Nanny, ‘make sure he’s all right.’
‘Very good of you, Nanny. Come on, darling, please.’
‘Giles, my darling, goodbye. Be the best boy. We’ll bring you lots of presents from America. And arrange for Maud and her brothers to come and stay. Give Mummy a big hug.’
Giles obediently did so.
‘Have a nice time, Mummy. And Daddy.’
‘We will, old chap. Now come along, darling, into the car. Truman’s loaded everything up. I’m not joking, we really are in danger of missing the train.’
‘I’m coming, really I am.’
‘Have you really got to go?’
‘Yes, of course we have. You know we have. Now Giles, no crying, there’s a good chap. You’ll upset your mother.’
Giles bit his quivering lip. He walked with them to the door, stood between Nanny and Brunson, holding both their hands. ‘Have a wonderful trip, Sir,’ said Brunson. ‘And you, Lady Celia.’
‘Thank you, Brunson. We’ll be back before you all know it.’ Giles suddenly broke free, ran forward. His small face was anxious. ‘Have you said goodbye to Barty and the twins?’
‘Yes, of course. Well – I looked at them. They were all asleep.’ He looked at her. Then he said, ‘Lettie was right about Barty, then.’ Celia stopped, very still, then she bent down to Giles’s level. ‘What do you mean, darling?’
‘Celia for the love of God, come along. Please.’
‘No Oliver, wait. This is important. Giles, what was Lettie right about?’
‘She said – she said—’
‘Celia!’
‘What did Lettie say?’
Nanny ran forward, grabbed Giles’s hand. ‘Giles, don’t upset your mother. She doesn’t need to be worried just now.’
‘What did Lettie say, Giles?’
He ignored her, looked up at Nanny, very shrewdly. Then he said, ‘She said you wouldn’t give up your trip for Barty.’
‘What did she mean?’
‘Master Giles, I said don’t.’
‘Giles, what did she mean? Why should I give up my trip for Barty? I don’t understand. Did she say anything else?’
‘Celia, I’m going. I’ll see you at the station.’
‘Giles—’
‘Master Giles—’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘She—’
‘Giles, tell me, please.’
‘She said you wouldn’t give up your trip for her. For all your – your talk about—’ his voice shook then steadied – ‘about her being one of the family.’
‘Giles,’ said Celia, and for more reasons than one, she felt as if she was falling into a deep, dark abyss, ‘I don’t understand. Why did Lettie say that? Why should I give up my trip for Barty? There’s no reason to. She isn’t ill, after all . . . is she?’
Part Two
1914 – 1918
CHAPTER 9
‘Dead! Oh, Oliver how dreadful. What can we do, should you go – what happened?’
‘Apparently she had a – a miscarriage,’ said Oliver, looking up from the telegram which had just been delivered. ‘I don’t know any more than that. The funeral is next week. I would like to go, of course, but it is quite impossible. There’s no way I could get there in time.’
‘Of course not. Poor Robert. Poor, poor man. A miscarriage! But it all went so well last time. I suppose she was – what – forty-five. But even so . . .’
‘Well, the only thing we can do is write to Robert,’ said Oliver. He sighed. ‘And go and see him as soon as we can. How very sad. I liked her so much. And respected her, she was really extremely clever. I – we – owe her a lot.’
‘I know it,’ said Celia, who had actually, at times, resented the strength of Jeanette’s involvement in Lyttons, and Oliver’s overt admiration for her, and now felt guilty about it. ‘She was marvellous to us. And I liked her too. That visit last summer was such fun, with all the children. She was so full of life, I can’t imagine her – oh God. How cruel. I’ll write to Robert at once. And those poor boys . . .’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Oliver, ‘they’ve had an appalling time, both parents lost. Oh, Celia, what a dreadful week this has been, the archduke murdered, war looming, and now poor Jeanette.’
‘She is a little older of course,’ the doctor had said cautiously, when confirming the new pregnancy, adding with slightly false jocularity that nature knew what she was doing. ‘Only you mustn’t place too much faith in her. Your blood pressure must be kept down, so plenty of rest, Mrs Lytton, in fact bed-rest at certain times, a long sleep every afternoon, no early rising, no strenuous exercise and of course absolutely no—’ he cleared his throat ‘—no further intimacy. And I shall call to see you every week.’
‘Don’t look like that, Robert, my dearest,’ Jeanette said, when the doctor had gone. ‘It will be perfectly all right, I know it will. Look what a model obstetric case I was with Maud. I feel wonderful. And so happy and excited.’
‘I know, my darling, I know. But – well I can’t help worrying.’
‘You mustn’t. And besides, it’s all my fault. I should have – well I should have insisted we were more careful. But it’s so difficult in the heat of the moment. And they’re such wonderfully heated moments, aren’t they?’
He smiled at her, touched by her happiness. ‘You really must take things more easily’ he said, ‘no more large-scale entertaining. No visits to Elliotts or—’
‘I know, I know, Robert. Or Lyttons. I won’t. I promise. This is much more important. Even I can see that.’
Well, at least she was acknowledging that. He had been miserable lately; she had been so absorbed, so busy with her new important literary life, as she put it. She had loved it; loved going into the Lyttons office – rather a smart office, a brownstone near Gramercy Park, built in the French style, but as she pointed out to Oliver, important that it should be prestigious, a good shop window for him. Robert had hated it all so much: feeling, ironically, estranged from her, in her involvement with his family. He had actually found the office for them; after that he was allowed no part of it. She took it over, showed it to Oliver, discussed leases, decor, staffing levels; he had been completely overwhelmed by her, by the whole thing. Robert watched him, and worried. Jeanette was very good at overwhelming.
It was not a large organisation, Lyttons New York, but it was quite a powerful one. It was run by an impressive young man called Stuart Bailey, whom Oliver had poached from Doubledays and appointed as editorial director. A managing director in charge of the business side had been found by Jeanette.
‘He runs one of the charities I’m involved with, immensely capable, and very much in sympathy with the arts generally. I would suggest he and Stuart report jointly to you. Rather than ask either one of them to report to the other. They are both high-fliers in their field. It wouldn’t work.’
Oliver, impressed, as always, by her grasp of company structure, agreed. In the event, as Robert ha
d known they would, they both reported to Jeanette. Initially, the company published only what Lyttons in London did; after a few months, Stuart Bailey began to acquire his own books and authors. He was both shrewd and imaginative; Celia, particularly, had adored him.
‘He’s perfect. We ought to have him in London, really.’
‘I think,’ said Oliver, looking at her rather quizzically, ‘there would not be room in London for the two of you.’
By the end of the first year, the company was doing well; not quite showing a profit, for the investment had been heavy, but certainly breaking even was within its sights. Jeanette was excited, deeply absorbed in it, constantly on the lookout herself for talent, for ideas. She seemed to Robert to be increasingly like Celia: absorbed in her work, becoming detached from her family. It troubled him and not only because he was jealous and resentful. She had formulated plans for the next year, for expansion, had proposed an art book division, was talking of making a solo trip to London, to discuss acquisitions with Oliver. It was all becoming absurdly grandiose. Or so it seemed to Robert.
But now she was to have another baby. And was promising that this new game of hers – for that was how he saw it – would cease. He was surprised she had acquiesced so easily: surprised and relieved.
‘Of course the baby is more important,’ she said, ‘and certainly until he is safely born, he will be my prime consideration.’ She smiled at him. ‘And I’m sure, this time, it is a boy. An heir for you. Don’t look so worried, my dearest. I will be good. And I’m sure, as Dr Whitelaw always says, that nature knows what she is doing.’
Only nature didn’t of course; and at six months exactly, she went into premature labour, gave birth to a stillborn boy and died twenty-four hours later.
Robert Lytton was sitting alone in his study, trying to finalise plans for the funeral when Laurence came in without knocking.
‘I want to talk to you,’ he said.
‘Yes? If it’s about the funeral, I’d welcome any suggestions, of course.’ He was actually pleased to see Laurence; since Jeanette’s death he had scarcely left his room, had had his meals served there, had left it only to go for long solitary walks in Central Park. He had been holding his mother’s hand when she died, had sat by her unmoving on her long, last, dreadful day, refusing to move, even when Robert had asked him for a few moment’s alone with her. A few minutes after the doctor had confirmed her death, he stood up, kissed her forehead and left, dry-eyed, his face blank. Jamie, crying helplessly, had run after him, but had come back almost at once, banished from his brother’s grief, and hurled himself into Robert’s arms.
Robert, struggling to cope with his own wretchedness, faced with the nightmare of caring for a young family on his own, including a little girl of two, had been concerned for Laurence, had gone to his room several times, knocked gently on the door, and been told to go away.
‘He wants to be by himself,’ Jamie said, his large blue-green eyes, so like his mother’s smudged and swollen with crying, meeting Robert’s half-embarrassed, half-bewildered. ‘he told me to tell you not to – not to try and talk to him.’
‘Well, that’s perfectly natural,’ said Robert carefully. ‘I think we should respect that, don’t you Jamie?’
Jamie nodded, tried to smile. Still only thirteen, he was too shocked, too distressed by his mother’s death to maintain any kind of hostility towards Robert. He liked his stepfather, he couldn’t help it, he had always thought he was kind and funny and fun; and when Laurence went away to school the autumn after Maud was born, he had relaxed into an acceptance of him. It was difficult when Laurence came home of course, and at first he had tried to pretend he was still not really having anything to do with Robert, and then to persuade Laurence that Robert was really all right, but Laurence fixed him with his cold eyes and said, ‘You can be disloyal to our father if you must, Jamie. I find it impossible. Perhaps you’ll understand when you’re older. Don’t worry about it. I know it’s difficult for you.’
‘That’s not fair!’ Jamie staunchly said, but Laurence shrugged and told him he was only speaking the truth as he saw it.
After their mother died Jamie woke one night to hear a dreadful rasping sobbing in the next room: it was Laurence. Jamie had gone in, climbed into his bed, tried to comfort him. But Laurence lay there, stone-still, and refused to talk about it; except to say, as Jamie finally turned away from him, ‘You know he did it, don’t you? He killed her, it’s his fault.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Jamie said, and half-frightened by the rage in Laurence’s voice, went back to his own room to grieve on his own; in any case he didn’t really know what Laurence meant.
But Robert had.
‘She died because of you,’ Laurence said to him now, ‘she died because she was having your child.’
‘Laurence! That’s a terrible thing to say.’ But guilt stirred in Robert’s blood; the same thought had not only occurred to him, it haunted his days and filled his dreams.
‘Your mother died through a loss of blood,’ he said firmly, fighting the tremor in his voice. ‘I understand your grief and even your anger, but please don’t imagine anything sinister.’
‘Nothing sinister,’ said Laurence, ‘a simple case of cause and effect, wouldn’t you say? You fucked her—’
‘Laurence! How dare you speak to me like that. Apologise at once.’
‘I apologise for using an obscene word,’ said Laurence and his voice was very calm, very cold, ‘but not for the act which it describes. You impregnated my mother when she was too old and not in good enough health for such a thing, and as a result she died. I fail to see how you can avoid taking responsibility.’
Robert was silent.
‘Anyway,’ said Laurence, ‘after the funeral, at which clearly the niceties must be observed, I hope we shall not meet again. I have no desire to see you or to speak to you.’
‘I’m sorry Laurence,’ said Robert, so buffered by shock against this that he hardly felt anything at all, ‘but of course we shall have to meet again. We share a house, a family.’
‘We don’t share a family,’ said Laurence, ‘Jamie is my brother and we are both the sons of my mother and father. And Maud is nothing to do with me.’
‘Of course she is. She’s your half-sister.’
‘Well let me put it this way. I have no desire to see her again either. So I’d be grateful if you would leave my house as soon as it’s feasible and take her with you.’
‘Laurence, I think perhaps your unhappiness has driven you a little mad,’ said Robert. ‘This is not your house, it is – well it is the family house.’
‘It belonged to my parents. It’s now mine.’
‘I’m afraid that is incorrect. It’s mine, as a matter of fact. And—’ he struggled to remain courteous and reasonable, ‘and of course you will live in it too.’
‘Are you sure about that?’ said Laurence and his voice was odd, his eyes cunning. ‘My father’s will dictated specifically that the house was to come to me. After my mother died. It is the Elliott family home, built by my grandfather.’
‘I’m aware of that. And of course when I myself – pass away – the house will be yours. In the meantime, I repeat, it is the family home. And I am presently the head of the family.’
‘You are not the head of my family,’ said Laurence, ‘and I think you will find that the house is mine.’
‘And you would propose to live in it on your own? Do I interpret the situation correctly?’
‘You do indeed.’
‘And your brother?’
‘He will live here too. He belongs with me. That is what my father would have wished.’
‘Well, that’s quite absurd. Jamie is only thirteen. You are three years from being of age. It is quite out of the question that you should live here on your own.’
‘We shall have the servants. They’ll take care of us.’
‘Laurence, this is an absurd conversation,’ said Robert finally, ‘not least because
this house is mine. And there is no question of my leaving it.’
‘I think,’ said Laurence, ‘that you should talk to the lawyers.’
‘Will you have to go, if there’s a war? Will you have to go and fight?’ asked Giles.
‘I don’t know,’ said Oliver, whose mind had been swerving around this possibility for months, ‘I suppose – yes I probably will. But we must all pray that it doesn’t happen.’
‘Not much hope of that,’ said LM briskly. ‘It not happening, I mean. We can all pray as much as we like.’
She had come to supper with the family; partly to discuss when and if they might go to see Robert. He and she had been very close: born within a year of one another, they had grown up virtually inseparable. Oliver, born late in their childhood and to their stepmother, while much loved by them both, had never quite broken through that bond.
‘Poor little boys,’ LM said, ‘it must be so hard for them.’
‘Terrible,’ said Celia, ‘and poor little Maud too.’
‘Yes, but she still has her father, at least. The boys are twice orphaned.’
‘I didn’t like Laurence,’ said Giles. ‘He wouldn’t play with me at all.’
‘Well he’s a lot older than you are,’ said Celia, ‘although I have to say he did seem quite difficult. Jamie was a sweet little boy. I wonder how they’re coping.’
‘I’m sure that with Robert’s help they’re coping very well,’ said LM.
‘Anyway, I had thought I might go out and visit Robert. But now, of course, with war being imminent, it seems unlikely. Ships will hardly be ploughing across the waters on pleasure cruises will they?’
‘Oh I don’t know,’ said Celia. ‘America is hardly in the same direction as France and Germany. Or is it?’ Her geography was famously weak.
‘Not quite,’ said Oliver, smiling at her, ‘but I fancy the waters anywhere around this island could become pretty hazardous if war is actually declared. More to the point, the liners could be called into service, I’d have thought. And then there could be fuel shortages, heaven knows what. Either way, I wouldn’t advise it.’
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