No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  Oliver was happier altogether as Christmas approached; Lyttons’ volume of war poetry had been acclaimed in all the review pages, the sales of the dictionaries and classical works were climbing again, enhanced by a two-volume edition of Greek myths, and they had also made an excellent acquisition of a biography of Queen Anne, at once a most learned and enchanting work by the famous Lady Annabel Muirhead. This was the latest in a series of brilliant biographies she had penned, but the first to be published by Lyttons. Celia had acquired it, after lengthy and painstaking negotiation, the point at issue not being, for once, the the size of the copyright fee, but Lady Annabel’s need for reassurance as to the quality of the finished volume.

  ‘I have finally decided to entrust Queen Anne to you,’ she told Celia, ‘poor woman, can you imagine, seventeen children, and only one surviving infancy. I feel that a house which can publish anything as superbly as you have done Meridian must be right for me. But I will insist upon approval of the finished manuscript; I have not had entirely happy experiences with editors in the past. I have learned caution.’

  Celia said that of course she would have final approval; and the contract was signed. This did much to ease Oliver’s criticism of her; he was grudgingly gracious about her role in the acquisition, although rather less so of the commercial value to Lyttons of New Lives for Old, her account of women’s lives during and after the war, which had gone into a fourth edition.

  ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘of course I’m pleased that it’s doing well, but it is still not the kind of book I would have actually seen us publishing.’

  Celia managed, with an enormous effort, to remain silent.

  But, ‘Oh really, Oliver,’ said LM, who had come up to London for the monthly board meeting, something she had begun to attend regularly again, to Celia’s huge relief, ‘do stop banging on about what kind of book we ought to publish. Times are hard; provided the books are half-decent, and they sell well, we ought to be grateful to be publishing them.’

  Oliver said nothing; but afterwards, in the privacy of her office, LM told Celia she thought he was becoming rather dangerously out of touch.

  ‘Understandable, I suppose, with the war and so on, but he’s been back a while now, I really think you have to stand up to him, Celia, or we’ll end up publishing an awful lot of stuffy nonsense nobody wants to read.’

  Celia went over to her and hugged her; ‘I do miss you,’ she said simply.

  On the subject of Jack and his military list, however, she did not get LM’s support.

  ‘I don’t think it’s such a bad idea,’ LM said, ‘it’s the sort of stuff people will buy for their libraries. Not a big sale perhaps, but – well, I think you should agree. I shall give it my vote.’

  Celia feared that LM was driven in part, at least, by the same rather blind devotion to Jack as Oliver; but LM read her thoughts.

  ‘I’m none too sure Jack should be doing it,’ she added, with a slightly grim smile, ‘but you can keep an eye on him. He’ll tire of it in no time, I’m sure, and move on to something else. And meanwhile, he does have some very valuable contacts. And the idea of your great-grandfather’s diaries making a book is very sound I think.’

  ‘It’s the only one that is sound if you ask me,’ said Celia, but she finally gave the project her vote. She could hardly fight three Lyttons.

  ‘My darling!’ said Jack, coming into the drawing-room late that night, as she sat reading, ‘let me crush you in my arms and show my gratitude. Here – thank you present.’

  ‘Whatever for?’ said Celia, although of course she knew, returning his kiss just a little coolly.

  ‘Well, for letting me join your wonderful company. Oliver made it very clear it wouldn’t happen until you gave it your approval.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Celia. She was very surprised.

  ‘Absolutely. You know how he thinks your opinion on everything is only just below God’s. Go on, open your present.’

  She opened it: a small box from Aspreys. Inside was a gold brooch, in the shape of a tree, studded with small flowers made of diamonds; it was very pretty and clearly very expensive. She smiled at him, let him pin it on to her dress.

  ‘Darling, that looks beautiful. It was made for you. They must have seen you passing or something.’

  ‘Jack, it’s lovely. Absolutely lovely. I adore it. Thank you. But you can’t go spending all your money on things like this. If you’re going to work for Lyttons, this will represent about five years’ salary.’

  ‘Five years’ salary well spent. Yes, Oliver named some pittance. Anyway – I’m absolutely thrilled. And I intend to work very hard.’

  ‘You’ll have to,’ said Celia, ‘we’re very exacting employers. No more eleven o’clock breakfasts for you, young Jack.’

  ‘Of course not. I shall be there morning, noon and night.’

  ‘I think that might interfere rather badly with your social life,’ said Celia, laughing, ‘but it sounds exemplary, nonetheless.’ She looked at him. ‘Tell me Jack, whatever made you think of this in the first place? This rather late entry into the world of publishing?’

  ‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘I don’t know. It just – came into my head.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, nodding, her expression carefully innocent, ‘oh I see.’ She was too fond of him to tell him she had discovered that he had been trying to get jobs in the City for six months, and been turned down by everyone. It was a horribly familiar story, one told by army veterans at every level of society.

  She smiled at him; she could afford to be generous.

  ‘I’m going out now, anyway,’ he said.

  ‘Out!’ She looked at the clock. It was after eleven. ‘Oh Jack, you make me feel so old.’

  ‘Yes. Got a girl to meet. Absolute smasher.’

  ‘Really? That’s unusual. The lovely Stella?’

  ‘Good Lord no. Got a bit tired of Stella. Bit of a gold-digger, between you and me.’

  ‘Surely not? Well, you’re well rid of her then. So – this one – What’s her name?’

  ‘Lily. Lily Fortescue.’

  ‘Pretty name. And – let me guess – an actress?’

  ‘Yes. Absolutely wonderful. She’s in a new revue.’

  ‘Really? And – is she beautiful?’

  ‘Terribly beautiful. Anyway, I must go, or I’ll be late. I’m taking her out to supper. Night darling. Thank you again.’

  Celia smiled after him fondly. Whether or not the military list was successful, it would be fun to have him in the office.

  Lily Fortescue was in high spirits that night.

  ‘Done an audition for CB,’ she said to Jack, ‘got a part in his next revue.’

  ‘Oh my darling, that’s wonderful. I’m so thrilled for you, so proud. What part will you play?’

  ‘Oh, lots of parts,’ said Lily, who found Jack’s conviction that she was the greatest star since Mistinguett touching, but rather hard to live up to, ‘but a couple of really good numbers. Song and dance. You know.’

  ‘Darling, you are clever. When does it open?’

  ‘Oh, not till the spring. Rehearsals don’t even start till after Christmas. So I can carry on with the Follies for now.’

  ‘Splendid! Now come along, darling, you’ve got to keep your strength up. What do you want to eat?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m very hungry. Tell you what, I’d love some lobster.’

  ‘You shall have it.’

  She had sophisticated tastes, Lily did, for a girl who was born and grew up in a small house in Peckham, in a family of seven. She had met Jack Lytton at a party in the Silver Slipper one night, and she had been very taken by him, with his golden good looks, and his rather dashing, boyish charm. She enjoyed his company very much, and was intrigued to hear that he was related to Lady Celia Lytton.

  ‘She’s lovely, isn’t she, in all the society papers. I saw a picture of her at the Black Ascot, looking really beautiful. And she’s got twins hasn’t she, twin girls; yes, I thought so
, there was a picture of the three of them in the Tatler last week.’

  Lily was an avid reader of the society magazines; she read them rather as if she were studying for an examination. As a result she could tell you exactly when Ascot, or Goodwood, or Queen Charlotte’s Ball was each year, and what the more prominent society ladies had worn to each one.

  She was twenty-four years old and extremely pretty, with dark red hair, brown eyes, and a glorious figure; her voice, with its carefully refined accent was pretty too, oddly musical, and she had very nice manners. She was also very kind-hearted, and after two months, was genuinely fond of Jack; he was fun and he was kind and considerate as well. She wasn’t exactly hopeful that their relationship might blossom into something permanent, but she was not unhopeful either; he did frequently express undying love for her, and was waiting at the stage door for her almost every night, whatever the weather. Moreoever, he had not yet proposed any hanky panky, although his kisses were increasingly passionate (and rather good); Lily liked that. In any case, it relieved you of worry; although she had been to one of the new contraception clinics like all modern girls, there was still that gnawing anxiety for two or three days each month.

  That night he took her to the Savoy – special occasion he had said. She was looking at him fondly, thinking for the hundredth time how handsome he was, when he said, ‘I’ve got some good news tonight too, Lily.’

  ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘I’ve got a job. In my brother’s firm.’

  ‘What, the publishing one?’

  ‘Yes. Isn’t that exciting?’

  ‘It is,’ she said, ‘very exciting. I didn’t know you were as clever as that, Jack,’ she added, and then realised she hadn’t been exactly tactful. He didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Well I am,’ he said, grinning at her, ‘and I’m going to have my own department as well. A military list it’s called.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means I will be publishing books about—’

  ‘War?’ she said, ‘how boring.’

  ‘Not really,’ he said. He did sound hurt now; Lily quickly adjusted her expression to one of breathy enthusiasm. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t understand them,’ she said quickly.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you would. And not just about war. About regiments and battles, and – well things like that.’

  ‘Oh well,’ she said, ‘yes that does sound very interesting. That’s exciting, Jack. Congratulations. Will you earn lots of money?’

  ‘Not lots. Not at first, anyway. But a fellow has to start somewhere. And it’s better than nothing. All I’ve been doing up to now is spending my army pension and my inheritance. Both of which are pretty puny.’

  ‘Yes. And it is the family firm,’ said Lily, ‘so I suppose you’ll be a part of that from now on. I seem to have got a young man with prospects.’

  ‘You have indeed. So – raise your glass to me, Miss Fortescue. A successful London publisher sits here before you. Aren’t you proud?’

  ‘Very,’ she said.

  ‘And the best thing is, I think I’ll be able to afford my own place pretty soon now. So—’ he smiled at her, his intense blue eyes, with their long, feminine lashes, gazing into hers, ‘so we’ll have somewhere to go to be together. If – if you think you’d like that.’

  Here we go, hanky panky, thought Lily, but she smiled back at him. She did quite think she’d like it, and it was about time, she was beginning to miss it. Still, no point in being easy to get; she certainly wasn’t having him thinking she was going to be a pushover.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky,’ she said, ‘and don’t you believe all you’ve heard about actresses, either.’

  ‘Darling, of course I don’t. Not all of it at any rate. Anyway, here’s to us. Cheers.’

  ‘Cheers,’ said Lily.

  It was Lily who introduced Jack to Guy Worsley; and Jack who introduced him to Oliver. Guy Worsley was among the friends with whom she went to the Silver Slipper, one night after the show; he was going out with one of the other girls, a pretty blonde called Crystal. Lily had met him once before; he was clearly very well connected, although without a title of his own, and seemed to know everybody. He was quite young, only twenty-five; he had left Oxford in 1916 with a First in classics, then tried to enlist, but failed because of what he called a slightly dicky heart. He spent the next two years at the War Office and was now working, with very little enthusiasm, in his father’s stockbroking firm. When Lily first met him she thought he might be a fairy, he had rather girly looks, soft brown, wavy hair, and large dark eyes. He was also, which confirmed this view, full of all the latest gossip, and took an inordinate interest in what everyone was wearing, including himself. The girl he was with however, said he was certainly nothing of the sort, quite the reverse indeed.

  ‘Very enthusiastic darling; can’t get enough.’

  He had told Lily when she met him that he was writing a book; she remembered it now – it was one of her more endearing characteristics, and indeed one of her social graces, that she did remember such things – and asked him how it was going.

  ‘Oh, pretty well,’ he said, smiling at her, ‘in fact I’ve finished the first volume.’

  ‘And is it published yet?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no I’m afraid not. I haven’t even tried for that. It’s a saga you see, it’s going to go on in several volumes and I thought any publisher would want to see more than one volume. So I’m struggling away on the second.’

  ‘You must meet my friend, Jack Lytton,’ said Lily. ‘He’s a publisher. Come on, he’s over there, talking to that girl. Much too pretty for my liking. Jack, Jack, come and meet Guy. He’s written a book you can publish.’

  ‘Only if it’s about the army, Lily, remember,’ said Jack, grinning, shaking Guy Worsley’s hand. Guy Worsely said it wasn’t exactly about the army, although it did cover the war. ‘Crucial point, actually, girl’s fiancé gets killed, so—’

  ‘So it’s fiction?’ said Jack, and yes, Guy said, it was, and did Jack really only publish military books?

  ‘Well I do,’ said Jack airily, as if a large shelf-full was already being eagerly bought by the reading public, ‘but my firm publishes all sorts.’

  ‘And what’s your firm?’

  ‘Well, it’s not actually mine,’ said Jack, ‘but my brother’s. In fact, it’s the family firm. Lyttons, you know.’

  Guy stared at him for a moment then said yes, actually, he did know. ‘Well, I’m sure they’d like to have a look at your book. I’ll tell them about it. It sounds jolly good.’

  Guy said he wasn’t sure how good it was, and he would very much appreciate an opinion on it.

  ‘You must bring it in, show it to my brother,’ said Jack, ‘I’ll telephone you on Monday when I’ve had a word with him. Now come on Lily, on to the floor, I’ve asked them to play “Whispering” for us, told them it is our song.’

  ‘This is really rather good,’ said Celia looking up at Jack and smiling, ‘this book your friend sent in. I’d like to take it home and really get my teeth into it tonight. Did you say he’s writing several?’

  ‘Yes. Said they werea – a saga. I think that was the word he used. Lots of books about the same people.’

  ‘Interesting idea. There’s this book called The Forsyte Saga, you know, that everyone’s talking about. I was thinking we should try and find one of our own.’

  ‘Oh, I must tell him, he’ll be awfully bucked,’ said Jack, ‘he’s a frightfully modest chap, wasn’t expecting to get it published at all.’

  ‘Jack, there is no question at the moment of our publishing it,’ said Celia severely, ‘I simply said I’d like to read it properly. You mustn’t raise his hopes, it would be most unfair.’

  ‘Oh – all right. Now can I just show you this outline Teddy Grosvenor’s done about the Mutiny, awfully exciting, Celia, we’d sell a lot of copies I’m sure.’

  ‘Just leave it on my desk,’ said Celia, ‘I’ll look at it later today
if I have time. Better still, show it to Oliver. It’s much more his bag than mine.’

  ‘Righto. I won’t say anything to Guy Worsley for a day or two, then?’

  ‘Not for a week or two. If I want to talk to him, I promise you’ll be the first to know.’

  The Worsley book was actually extremely good. She found it hard to believe that it was a first novel, and that the author was so young. She felt the slight crawling of her skin that always greeted the discovery of a new talent: it had never failed her that sensation, it was an excitement, a thud of the heart and in the head, a rush of power that was almost sexual. All editors dream of making such discoveries; it is what empowers them, gives them authority and status. Celia had made several major discoveries in her time, spotting talent with a sureness and swiftness which sometimes surprised even her; since Oliver’s return and the onslaught of his interminable criticism, however, her shining confidence had been dulled, her judgement become diffident. But that day, reading the first chapter of Guy Worsley’s saga, she knew absolutely that it had to be acquired by Lyttons, and as quickly as possible.

  ‘It’s really quite wonderful,’ she said to Oliver. ‘It’s about a family living in Oxford and London, during and after the war. Buchanan they’re called; he’s the master of an Oxford college, rather eccentric, wears silk dressing-gowns, you can imagine the sort of thing, and the wife is rich in her own right, not an attractive figure exactly, but a very interesting one, leading her own life really. There’s a daughter whose fiancé has been killed in the war, and who decides to forge a career for herself in music, and a son who went through the war as a conscientious objector, working for the ambulance service, and is now studying medicine. All very topical: lots of strands, lots of cross-currents. And it’s beautifully written and extraordinarily well-plotted. Please read it, Oliver, it could be our answer to the Forsytes.’