‘They’re so silly,’ said Giles, giving Barty a quick smile and then, ‘how long are you here for, Uncle Jack?’
‘Only a week. Planning to make the most of it, though.’
That night at dinner, he outlined his plans for making the most of it. ‘I hope you won’t mind, but I shan’t be around much. Got some friends to catch up on. See a few shows, that sort of thing.’
‘We won’t mind at all,’ said Oliver.
But Celia said, her eyes dancing with mild malice, ‘and why shouldn’t we want to see some shows too?’
‘My darling Celia,’ his blue eyes, darker than Oliver’s, but exactly the same almond shape, with exactly the same almost girlishly long lashes, moved over her face, ‘You can come to a show with me any time.’
‘Good. Then I shall. What do you fancy most?’
‘Oh, you’ll have to tell me. I’m dreadfully out of touch. The music hall, I suppose. I long to see the Gibson Girls. Oliver, what suggestions do you have?’
‘Now let me see,’ said Oliver looking at him, his expression absolutely deadpan. ‘There’s a new production of Othello I’d rather like to see. I could take you to that. And perhaps Rigoletto at Covent Garden. How would you like that?’
‘I think I probably wouldn’t, thanks very much all the same,’ said Jack, ‘I can’t seem to quite get the hang of Shakespeare. I remember you getting terribly excited about something by him, saying it had changed your life. I thought you’d gone a bit bonkers.’
‘He probably had,’ said Celia, ‘now, I’ll tell you what we should see, and I promise, Jack, I won’t interfere with the rest of your leave at all, it’s the first full length colour film. It sounds madly exciting. The World, the Flesh and the Devil it’s called. There now, you can take me to that.’
‘With the greatest of pleasure. Sounds very exciting. Does that appeal to you, Oliver?’
‘No, I think I’ll duck out, if you don’t mind,’ said Oliver. ‘Now tell us about India, Jack, have you enjoyed it?’
‘Absolutely loved it. Bit of action, lot of fun. Ended with a staff job you know, stayed behind as ADC to the Viceroy when the regiment went out to South Africa. Did I tell you that?’
‘No,’ said Celia smiling at him. Modesty was one of his most endearing characteristics. But she could see exactly why he should have earned such a prize: he had charm, he had social grace, and he was by all accounts a brilliant soldier.
‘Yes, well, I did enjoy it. I tell you what was marvellous, the Durbar. The Coronation out there, you know in 1911. Magnificent. Fifty thousand troops, at the ceremony in Delhi. Bloody – beg your pardon Celia – absolutely fantastic. The viceroy led the Indian princes into the ceremony of homage, dozens of ’em, and the king emperor’s train was carried by six pages, all either maharajas themselves or the sons of maharajas. Say what you will, they know how to put on a good show out there. The king and queen both looked wonderful, the king had a special crown created, you know. The people went mad, of course. Did a lot for increasing their enthusiasm. Not always as grateful as they should be, I’m afraid.’
‘And have you done all those exciting things, big game hunting and so on?’ asked Celia.
‘I have indeed. Got rather good at it, as a matter of fact. Bagged quite a few tigers in my time. You go on elephant back, you know. Jolly exciting.’
‘I’m afraid London will be rather dull for you after that.’
‘Oh – I don’t have any fears about dullness’, said Jack, ‘I intend to have a great deal of fun, and then it’s off to France to deal with the Hun. Shouldn’t take long. You’re not worried about it, Oliver, I hope?’
‘Oh – just a bit,’ said Oliver.
‘Well I’m going,’ said Jago. ‘Try and stop me.’
LM stared at him and felt terror literally churn in her stomach; she thought she was about to vomit. She clutched the arms of her chair so tightly that she could see the knuckles white when she looked down.
‘You mean you’ve volunteered?’
‘I certainly have. Today. Went with the lads.’
‘What lads?’
‘The brickies. You must have heard about the pals’ battalions. Lord Kitchener’s just given the nod to them. Volunteer together, serve together. That’s the promise. You haven’t been reading the right papers, Meg. Twenty thousand men in Manchester all volunteered together, formed fifteen battalions. City Tramways in Glasgow, that’s another one, whole battalion in just sixteen hours, Boys’ Brigade—’
‘The Boys’ Brigade?’ said LM faintly. ‘Boys?’
‘Yes, well obviously only the ones old enough. It’s a great idea. All together going out there, doing your bit for king and country. Anyway, so down we went to the town hall, lunchtime, three dozen or so of us. Off for training in a week or two, they said. Do you know, even the Australians are sending a force. Defending their empire. You can’t help but be moved by that, Meg.’
‘Oh Jago,’ said LM, and her iron self-discipline deserted her, so fast that it surprised even herself. ‘Oh Jago, I don’t want you to go.’ Fear and misery reduced her to helpless tears; she sat there staring at him, sobbing quietly. He looked at her, first almost amused, then concerned. He went over to her, knelt in front of her, took her face in his hands.
‘Hey now. Don’t be silly, Meg. This isn’t like you. I’ll be all right. Course I will. I can’t not go, let the old country down. You wouldn’t want that, would you, feeling ashamed of me and all?’
‘I’d rather be ashamed of you, than be without you,’ said LM quietly.
‘Well, you won’t be without me for long. It’ll be over by Christmas. Then we’ll be back, right as rain. You see. Oh, Meg, don’t, don’t cry like that. Please don’t.’
He took her in his arms, felt the sobs shaking her body, felt moved to tears himself.
‘Hey,’ he said, ‘come on. You’ve got to be brave too, you know. Not just me. That’s how I’ll get through.’
‘I can’t think why you didn’t talk to me about it,’ she said, ‘ask me how I felt.’
‘Because,’ he said, with simple logic, ‘whatever you felt I’d have had to go. Simple as that. Now then – upstairs? Now? Take your mind off things.’
‘You couldn’t,’ she said, ‘really you couldn’t.’
‘I’ll have a damn good try.’
They went upstairs; she lay in bed, naked, still crying. He got in beside her, took her in his arms.
‘I love you,’ he said, ‘I love you so much. Still. Much as ever. You know that don’t you?’
She nodded.
‘And you love me. Don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I do.’
‘Well then. That’s all that matters.’
He started to kiss her. She felt his penis rising against her, sweetly familiar, felt the other familiar things, the urging within herself, the deep softening. She had thought it wouldn’t happen, that misery would dull her, but it seemed to have sharpened her, made her want him more. She drew him into her, urgently hungry, felt him filling her, felt love filling her too; and memory with it: all the times that had mattered. The wonderfully shocking first time, on the floor by the fire at her house, the first time he had said he loved her, that she was special, unlike anyone else, all the glorious Sunday mornings, their own particular time, the night she forgave him for Violet Brown, when he had been so gently, so abolutely and tenderly remorseful and she had been so angry, and somehow the two emotions had exploded into something so sensual she still felt the memory physically, felt her body tighten and tauten whenever she thought of it, in her office, at the dining table, even in church. And tonight, this was another special time; she felt herself beginning to climb, a hot, dark ascent, felt her body clenching and unclenching, loosen and tauten round him, felt not only her physical self but her emotions gathering, pulling her around her centre, felt the flaring out, the spreading, the fanning of her orgasm begin, pushed, fought into it, let herself fall, felt first the breaking, the fierce pea
ks of it, and then the circles, lapping out and out, bigger and brighter each one, and finally, resting on the edge of it, sweetly at peace, felt fear and love for him fill her in equal parts and began to weep once more.
‘I’m not going,’ said Robert.
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ said Laurence.
‘I’ve told you, Laurence, I won’t.’
He was finding it hard even to sound strong. He still felt utterly shaken, by the discovery not only that Laurence was right, had, theoretically at least, the power to order him from the house, his house, but that Jeanette had not loved or trusted him sufficiently to change her will, the will that Jonathan had instructed her to make, had watched her sign, had had his lawyers file away.
Why, why had she not done so, why? He supposed – he hoped, he prayed – because she had thought it unnecessary, that they would live in the house together for a long, long time, until they were both old people and it would be right and proper for it to become Laurence’s. But he feared it was because, in the unlikely event of her dying earlier than him, she had not wanted him to have it. Had not wanted him living there, as master. Otherwise why pretend, why dissemble?
Looking back examining the conversations, he could see the assurances were all double-edged. Yes, my dearest, of course everything is in order; no, my darling, you have nothing to worry about. Never actually saying she had changed the will, made the house over to him. Made anything over to him. It was all still for Laurence.
He might never have entered her life, might never have married her, for all the record there was of him in her papers, her official affairs. So – had she from the very beginning seen him as an adventurer, after her money? It was a dreadful thought. His mind ranged endlessly over the conversations about money, the time she had refused him even a business loan, the time she had set aside his suggestion that they should buy a house in London so that he could see his brother and sister more frequently, the many, many times he had suggested joint purchases of shares, of stock, of works of art.
‘I will ask the trustees,’ she would say vaguely, ‘a wonderful idea, my dearest one,’ and that would be the last he would hear of it.
He felt grieved, saddened, angry even, the memory of her shadowed, his love for her – and it had indeed been love – tarnished.
‘Look, Laurence,’ he said now, struggling to sound reasonable, light-hearted even, ‘look, you can’t really want to live here alone.’
‘I won’t be alone, I shall have my brother.’
‘Your brother cannot possibly live here with you, without adult supervision. I simply can’t even countenance that.’
‘You have to countenance it,’ said Laurence, ‘I have the law on my side.’
‘But I’m your legal guardian, as your mother’s widower.’
‘I think I would dispute that as well. The trustees play that role.’
‘That is also open to legal argument,’ said Robert, his temper beginning to lash, ‘and I shall certainly pursue it.’
The financial implications were not too serious; his company was flourishing, he was a modestly rich man now in his own right. Thank God, he thought, thank God she had not loaned him the money to start Brewer Lytton; Laurence would be calling that in as well.
But to be banished from what he had come to regard as his own home, along with Maud, like some kind of disgraced servant, to have to find somewhere else to live, was insupportable. Not only for him, but for Maud. That was one of the things which made him most angry with Jeanette. Her own daughter’s future, her place in the family home set at risk. How could she have done that?
Perhaps she had loved Maud less dearly, had regarded her in some way as less important than the boys. The Elliotts. Maud was a Lytton. But could a mother really think, act like that? Maud’s family, her entire small world would crumble. It would make losing her mother far worse. She adored Jamie, who was very sweet with her, and displayed a kind of dog-like loyalty to Laurence, following him round the house whenever he was home, scurrying on her small legs, calling to him to wait for her. He never did, of course; he clearly disliked her almost as much as he did Robert. Maud was too small to notice; at least if they moved out of the house she would be spared the discovery.
But Robert had no intention of moving out. There was Jamie as well as Maud to consider; he needed a great deal of love and care, he had adored his mother, missed her dreadfully. The thought of leaving him alone in the house with the servants and his brother was inconceivable. So he would have to come too, wherever they went, and that would deprive him of his own birthright. Surely the whole thing was unsustainable in any court of law. Robert lay awake night after night thinking about it, his mind ranging frantically from legal boundary to moral frontier. He had taken preliminary advice from his own lawyer, who had expressed total astonishment at the terms of the will and at Laurence’s determination to uphold it.
‘What on earth have you done to him Robert?’ he said, laughing.
‘He’s only a boy. This is Hamlet re-enacted, or something very close to it.’
Robert said it was not a laughing matter and that what Laurence thought he had done was murder his mother.
‘Rather than his father. Just like Hamlet. All we need is a crazy sweetheart and—’
‘It’s me that’s going crazy,’ said Robert. ‘The point is, can he get away with it, does he have the law on his side?’
‘If he has a legal guardian,’ said his lawyer, ‘if he does, and that person is as determined as Laurence to get you out, then you might be in trouble.’
‘There is no one guardian as such,’ said Robert, ‘there are only the trustees. Of the Elliott estate.’
‘And they are not precisely defined as Laurence’s guardians?’
‘They are.’
‘Well then, in theory, they could ask you to leave. But only if they felt it was in the best interests of both boys. You say the younger one, Jamie, is fond of you?’
‘Very.’
‘Then you have a strong moral case. You were an excellent husband, a devoted father and stepfather, and the status quo is on your side. They might examine your management of the household, make sure you are not absconding with any funds, indulging in any great personal extravagance, but provided they are satisfied with that, they are most unlikely to go along with the propositions of a clearly disturbed boy. I should stop worrying about it, if I were you.’
‘I may be able to stop worrying,’ said Robert, ‘but I can’t stop being distressed by it.’
It was true; Laurence’s continued hostility was not pleasant to live with. He took his meals in his own room, stayed out a great deal and was altogether a seething, hostile presence in the house. If Robert went into the library or the drawing-room or even out into the garden, and found him there, Laurence would immediately leave; he never spoke to Robert, except to impart the most essential information, such as the date of his departure for Harvard, or to ask him whether or not he would be at the house at Long Island for the weekend, in case they should coincide.
It was difficult for the servants, and impossible for Jamie. ‘I hate it,’ he said, his face flushed, watching Laurence as he stalked out of the dining-room one Saturday lunchtime, having said that he had not expected Robert to be there, ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘I don’t think you can do anything,’ said Robert, adding carefully that he thought Laurence’s behaviour was largely due to grief. ‘He’ll get over it. And it will be easier when he’s gone to Harvard next month. I’m sure that by Christmas he’ll be much more himself,’ he added, mentally shrinking from the complexities, not only of Christmas, but also of Thanksgiving.
‘He won’t speak to me much either any more,’ said Jamie, sadly, ‘only to tell me things. I hate it,’ he said again, ‘it’s so miserable. It makes missing Mummy much worse.’
‘I know, Jamie, and I’m sorry,’ said Robert, ‘really I am.’
‘It’s all right. It’s not your fault. You won’t go, wil
l you Robert? I’d really hate it if you did.’
‘I won’t go, no,’ said Robert, ‘but if I did, I’d take you with me. Of course. But there’s no question of it. Not for a long time anyway.’
In the end, obviously having consulted the lawyers, Laurence came to see Robert one evening as he sat in his study.
‘I have decided’ he said, ‘to allow you to stay here for the next three years. But as soon as I’m twenty-one, and have full authority to do so, I shall insist you leave my house. Is that quite clear?’
‘Quite clear, thank you, Laurence. And perhaps we can now be a little more civil to one another,’ said Robert.
Laurence stared at him. ‘I never found you uncivil,’ he said finally, ‘simply unacceptable.’ And walked out of the room.
Jago had gone: for four weeks’ basic training at a base camp in Kent. He would be allowed home on leave after that for a few days, before sailing for France. LM felt utterly desolate and bereft, to her own surprise. Her usual firm disciplined optimism entirely left her; she was like another creature, frail and intimidated by fate. Worst of all, she had no one to discuss it with; after Jago had talked to Celia at the Lytton offices, he had never been mentioned again by either of them; LM because she was too embarrassed, too mortifed by the incident, Celia because of her intense respect for emotional privacy. She had not even asked LM if everything was all right; LM, surprised and grateful for this, simply greeted Celia with a large bunch of flowers which she laid on her desk on the Monday morning, and assumed, correctly, that she would understand its message.
But now she longed for a confidant, someone with whom she could not only share her misery and fear, but from whom she could seek reassurance, however hollow, someone who would say, ‘Don’t worry, it’ll be all right,’ or repeat the favourite refrain of the day, ‘It’ll all be over by Christmas.’ But there was no one. She longed for Oliver to volunteer, so that she could at least communicate with Celia about it; but the days and weeks went by and he did not.
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