No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Further trouble at Brewer Lytton,’ read an item half-way down the page. ‘The real estate firm of Brewer Lytton is rumoured to be laying off half its work force next week. The firm has just failed to win a contract to build a new department store on downtown Broadway. Hagman Betts, who have recently completed work on one of the new, smaller hotels on East 62nd, put in the winning bid. Brewer Lytton have also been seeking finance from several hitherto untapped sources, but all the institutions thus far approached have turned them down, presumably wary of an association with a firm which seems set on a downhill course. The bankers, Rea Goldberg, who had apparently expressed quite a firm intention to back another Brewer Lytton project, a housing development on the upper West Side, have now pulled out at the eleventh hour. No one was available for comment, either at Rea Goldberg or at Brewer Lytton.’

  Maud wasn’t sure what some of the words meant, but she got the general idea; it gave her a very nasty feeling in her tummy.

  Jamie woke up at about eleven, and she sat watching him while he ate his breakfast; it was an awful lot. Six rashers of bacon, five eggs, a heap of hash browns, and four waffles with maple syrup.

  ‘I have to build myself up,’ he said, by way of explanation. ‘I’ve been picked to row in the Harvard Eight.’

  ‘Can I come and watch you?’ asked Maud.

  ‘Of course you can. But it’ll be very cold.’

  ‘I won’t mind. Can we go to the zoo now?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘That was so much fun,’ said Maud happily, ‘thank you for taking me, Jamie.’

  ‘My pleasure entirely. Now I wonder if you’d mind very much if we popped into Elliott House. I’ve left some books there that I really wanted to study from tomorrow—’

  ‘Um – well, no. I mean – will Laurence be there?’

  ‘Nope. He’s gone to Long Island for the weekend. With his latest girlfriend.’

  ‘Poor thing,’ said Maud with a shudder. ‘I feel sorry for her.’

  She didn’t like Laurence; she had no idea of the full extent of his animosity to her father, but he certainly never talked to her, not even to say hallo. And he actually frightened her a bit with his ice-cold eyes and pulled-in mouth, and by the way he did everything so silently, suddenly appearing in rooms when you had no idea he was anywhere near. He was like one of the bad magicians in her fairy story books.

  ‘Right. I won’t be long, I promise. Come on, hop in.’

  She hopped in: to his new car, a lovely dark green thing with an open roof called a Buick.

  He had bought it the week before; ‘Not quite a Bugatti, like my dear brother has,’ he said to Robert, ‘but it gets me from A to B. Or rather from New York to Harvard. Goes like the wind, Robert. You should get one.’

  Robert said rather shortly he wouldn’t be buying any kind of new car, or even a bicycle for the foreseeable future.

  Elliott House was very quiet; only a couple of staff were about: the butler, who greeted them very warmly, and remarked how Maud had grown, and the housekeeper who asked her if she’d like some cookies and milk. Maud said she would, if they had time: Jamie said they had plenty, he had to find a few other things as well as his books.

  ‘Sports kit and so on. You’ll be all right Maud?’

  Maud said she’d be fine, and followed the housekeeper into the kitchen.

  Milk and cookies consumed, she wandered off in search of Jamie; he was nowhere to be seen. It was such a big house; she much preferred where they lived now. The only better thing about Elliott House was the indoor swimming pool – that was very special. She would like to have one of those at Sutton Place; maybe she could ask her father. There was lots of room. The dining-room was much too big and they hardly ever used it. She wandered out of the pool room and across the courtyard to where she had had her playroom. She wondered what it would be used for now. Nothing probably. It had been a lovely room. What a waste: all this house, just for Laurence.

  The playroom was very much in use: Laurence had converted it into his own library and study. Books lined three of the walls, and a huge desk stood in the middle of the room, with – ‘Oh boy,’ said Maud aloud – a revolving leather chair in front of it. She sat in the chair, used the desk to push herself off, whizzed round and round, this way and that. It was fun.

  Slightly dizzy, she sat still for a while, considering the desk itself. It was terribly neat: everything perfectly lined up. Pens and pencils in two parallel trays, a pad of pristine white paper, a telephone, at right angles to that, Laurence’s diary, a much bigger tray of letters, and yet another tray with an assortment of things in it, which Laurence obviously felt must be neatly contained: a few invitations, a circular about an art exhibition, and a catalogue of books. She took a pencil from the tray, and a piece of paper, did a drawing of some of the animals she and Jamie had seen that day. A shaggy goat and a tiny little pony, no bigger than a dog, called a Falabella. She’d like one of those: it could live in the house with them. She drew it a kennel: a pony kennel. Rather than a stable. That would be fun.

  How awful if Laurence came back here now and found her. In his creepy silent way. She hoped Jamie was right, that he really was away. She stood up, half-scared, carefully re-straightened the paper and pencils – and then her arm caught the edge of one of the trays and it crashed to the floor. There was nothing in it that might break, thank goodness; she scrabbled about, picking everything up carefully, packing it back as neatly and carefully as she could. One of the things was a cheque book and it had fallen face downwards, with something on top of it, so that it was open, with the top cheque creased. That was serious. Laurence would surely notice. Maybe if she closed it, put some heavy books on it, it would flatten out again. She picked it up, turned it over, ready to fold it. The top cheque wasn’t blank though, it had something written on it. In Laurence’s very neat, black-inked handwriting, all the letters and numbers very upright and close together. She wouldn’t have noticed it even then, if the name on the cheque hadn’t been fixed in her head; a name from the article which had made her feel so horrid that morning and had upset her father. A funny name. Nathaniel Betts.

  ‘Daddy.’

  ‘Yes, darling.’

  ‘I can’t go to sleep. Can I come and sit with you for a bit?’

  ‘No, Maud, you can’t. I’m sorry. I’m busy and it’s late. Now go on upstairs again. Read if you can’t sleep, that’s what I always do.’

  ‘All right.’ She sighed, her voice resigned, turned to leave the room again. Robert looked up; she was drooping, as he had known she would be. Maud was very good at drooping; her neck and shoulders drooped, her head drooped, even her back, in some strange way, managed to droop. He smiled suddenly, amused out of his anxiety.

  ‘Come here, poppet. Sorry.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. You’re busy, I can see.’

  ‘Not too busy for you. Now you sit down there for just ten minutes while I finish this, and then we’ll read a story. How would that be?’

  ‘Good.’ She smiled at him, came over, gave him a hug. ‘I’ll be very quiet.’ She was good at that too; at sitting utterly still and silent, her large green eyes fixed on him. After a few minutes he threw down his pen.

  ‘You’re distracting me. You’re being too quiet.’

  ‘Miss Edwards says you can’t be too quiet.’

  ‘Well she’s right in a way. But – well anyway, go and get a story.’ She sat on his knee, sucking her thumb as she still did when he read to her, listening quietly.

  When he had finished, he said, ‘Right. Do you think you’ll be able to go to sleep now?’

  She sighed. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  She hesitated. Then, ‘Ye-es. A bit.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m worried. About Laurence.’

  ‘About Laurence? Why on earth should you be worried about him?’

  ‘I – knocked over something in his study today.’

  ‘Oh
dear. What on earth were you doing in his study? Not a good idea, poppet.’

  ‘No, I know. Jamie took me to the house.’

  ‘Well, he won’t know. He’s not psychic. And I’m sure you didn’t do any harm.’

  ‘But I did. And he might notice.’

  ‘Oh, Maud.’ Robert sighed. ‘What exactly did you knock over?’

  ‘A tray thing. His cheque book was on it, and a cheque got all bent.’

  ‘Uh-huh. And did you put it back?’

  ‘Yes. Well, sort of.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll think the housekeeper did it. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Oh good. Daddy—’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There was writing on the cheque. It was filled in, you know, like you do them. Money and a name.’

  ‘So—’

  ‘I noticed the name. It was the same as in that article today, the one you folded into the paper.’

  ‘The one what? Maud what are you talking about?’

  ‘The name on the cheque. It was something Betts.’

  ‘Hagman Betts?’

  ‘Not exactly. Nathaniel Betts. And anyway—’

  ‘Just a minute, Maud. Laurence had made out a cheque to Nathaniel Betts?’ Robert swallowed. ‘Maud, darling, I don’t suppose you noticed what it said.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘I did notice. Well, there were too many noughts in the number place to work it out. But I could read the words bit. It said fifty thousand dollars.’

  ‘Oliver. Good morning to you.’

  It was Jack, smiling, fit-looking, still somehow unsuited to his civilian clothes.

  ‘I – missed you at the house.’

  ‘Yes, well, we take breakfast a little earlier than you do,’ said Oliver mildly.

  ‘I know, I know. I’m a layabed. I’m just indulging myself after all those years in the army.’

  ‘Well,’ said Oliver wearily, ‘you’ve probably earned it.’

  ‘I don’t know about that. But I intend to start getting up again much earlier soon.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yes. I clearly need to get a job. My army pension isn’t very large and I’ve only the small amount of capital Father left me. Worth a lot less than it was.’

  Especially as he’d gambled away quite a bit of it, Oliver thought; and wasted quite a bit more on actresses and their needs – needs like jewellery and champagne. Still, even before France, he had been out in the stifling heat of India, helping defend the Empire. He deserved some self-indulgence.

  ‘I expect that’s true,’ he said.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve got a proposition for you.’

  ‘A proposition?’

  ‘Yes. I’d like to join the family firm.’

  ‘Join Lyttons! But Jack—’

  ‘I know, I know. Only ever read four books. Five now, enjoyed the children’s story by that Brooke chap a lot. But – well, it does all begin to seem rather more interesting than I thought. And my idea was something you’re not doing. Something you should be doing.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Oliver smiled. Jack must have been taking more of an interest in Lyttons than he thought. ‘And what would that be?’

  ‘Military books. Military history. The stories of the great regiments, the great battles. How we won the empire, how we won the war. All that sort of stuff.’

  ‘Ye-es. And you think people would like to read it, do you? All that sort of stuff ?’

  ‘I certainly do. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well – no,’ said Oliver truthfully. Having come through four years of hell with the military life, he wanted only to escape from it.

  ‘Oh rubbish. Look how fascinated people are by the great battles. Waterloo. Trafalgar. The Khyber Pass . . .’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Look, ask Celia. I’m sure she’d think it was a good idea. I was in a bookshop yesterday, looking at the military books. Some of them are awfully jolly, lots of coloured pictures, and all that sort of thing. And I know plenty of people who could write the books for you, Teddy Grosvenor for a start, he’d love to do the Mutiny, I was talking to him about it, he brings it all to life just with a few words.’

  ‘Really?’ Oliver thought of General Edward Grosvenor, with his bluff manner and his fondness for port. Anything he wrote would be fairly brief. His vocabulary was extremely limited.

  ‘Yes. And think of old Beckenham, full of wonderful stories. Bet he’d like to get going on something. And Lady B’s grandfather’s journals, young Barty was telling me about them; fascinating they sound.’

  ‘Well—’

  ‘Good man. I knew you’d agree.’

  ‘Jack, I haven’t agreed.’

  ‘Well – say you’ll think about it. I’d really love to do it. And I’d work terribly hard. I swear.’

  ‘All right,’ said Oliver, ‘I’ll think about it. And thank you. Where are you off to now?’

  ‘Oh, going to a matinee. See a friend who’s in it. Awfully jolly girl called Stella. You’d like her. I might bring her to meet you some time.’

  ‘I’m sure Stella wouldn’t want to meet me,’ said Oliver wearily.

  ‘I want to talk to you about something.’

  Celia looked up at Oliver, made a determined effort to smile. It was a considerable effort; this was usually the signal for a long tirade of criticism, of complaints about her frittering away Lyttons’ reputation, the lowering of standards over which she had presided. Or a painstaking appraisal of some very minor book which had come in, and whether they should publish it. He seemed to have entirely lost his capacity for taking an overview, for seeing what did and didn’t matter, what Lyttons should and shouldn’t publish.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, what is it?’

  ‘Jack came in this morning.’

  ‘Jack! Into Lyttons?’

  ‘Yes. He had a proposition for me.’

  ‘For you?’

  ‘Well – for Lyttons.’

  ‘Oliver, really. When did Jack have an idea in his head that was remotely to do with publishing?’ She smiled at him. ‘What does he want to do, write a book about his regiment for us?’

  ‘Something like that, yes.’

  ‘What?’ She stared at him; he was clearly serious.

  ‘Don’t look so astonished,’ he said irritably, ‘he’s not entirely stupid, you know.’

  ‘Of course he’s not stupid. He’s highly intelligent. But he’s not – well very literate.’

  ‘I think that’s a little harsh.’

  ‘Sorry, Oliver.’ She always forgot how careful she had to be about Jack. Oliver could criticise him; she was not allowed to.

  ‘Anyway, he’s made a suggestion which I’m considering very carefully. I would like you to as well.’

  ‘Yes?’ she said. Trying to sound positive.

  ‘It is that we should start a military list.’

  ‘A military list!’

  ‘Yes. A series of books on military matters. Histories of regiments, of battles, of traditions – all that sort of thing.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think—’ she took a deep breath; this was going to be difficult, but it had to be said, quickly, before the idea took hold, ‘I think it’s an appalling idea.’

  He looked at her levelly. ‘And why do you think that?’

  ‘It’s so specialist, Oliver. Such a small section of the reading public would appreciate it. And those books are expensive to produce, otherwise they’re not worth having and—’

  ‘Not cheap, of course. Like Meridian.’

  ‘Oh Oliver, please don’t start on that again. It really isn’t relevant.’

  ‘It seems quite relevant to me.’

  She was silent.

  ‘Any other objections?’

  ‘Well – I really don’t think, even if we did such a thing, had such a list—’ she hesitated, ‘well, I presume you don’t actually think Jack sho
uld be in charge of it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh really, Oliver, he has no experience. He wouldn’t have the faintest idea what he was doing, wouldn’t know about printing costs, illustrations, how to deal with the trade . . .’

  ‘Well, obviously he would have people to help him on the practicalities. But the ideas and a lot of the contacts would come from him. That seems to me entirely sensible. Sensible and fair.’

  ‘So you envisage – let me get this straight – a whole new department? Devoted to Jack and his military books?’

  ‘Oh Celia, don’t be absurd. Not a whole department. Obviously. Although I don’t recall your objecting to a whole department, as you put it, being turned over to Biographica.’

  ‘That is entirely different. As you very well know. The market for biography is vast and—’

  ‘Oh yes, entirely different,’ he said, ‘it was to be your department. That was the real difference. Well, I like this idea of Jack’s. Very much. At least a military list would have some – quality to it. The books would have class. Not a whole lot of rubbish.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver please . . .’

  ‘You simply don’t seem to realise how much you’ve done to lower Lyttons’ reputation. Putting a lot of rubbish out. Cheap poetry, trashy fiction which looks like Peg’s Paper.’

  ‘It was not—’ she stopped. She must keep calm. ‘We had to publish popular stuff, Oliver. The alternative was letting Lyttons go right under. Going bankrupt. I told you. It was so tough. You don’t understand. It was just – oh God. How I wish LM was here. She might be able to convince you.’

  ‘I am very surprised at her allowing it all, I must say,’ he said, ‘even more than at you.’

  She tried again. ‘Oliver, you really don’t understand. We had hugely increased costs. A falling market. No staff to speak of—’

  ‘You seem to me to have done quite well in that direction as well. Hiring a lot of rather second-rate women. Who I would not personally have considered.’