Oliver said he was very busy but he would try to find time to read it; a couple of days later he told Celia he would like to make Guy Worsley an offer.
‘You get him in, Celia, you spotted him. I agree, it’s marvellous stuff. I think we should make him an offer. But I’d like to meet him first, make sure this isn’t just a flash in the pan, that there really are more in the pipeline. Does he have an agent?’
‘No. No, Jack said he didn’t. We have Jack to thank for him, really. He met him and told him to send his manuscript in.’
‘Good,’ said Oliver briskly, ‘I’m glad he’s making a contribution. Has he talked to you about his book on the Indian Mutiny by the way?’
‘Yes, just a bit,’ said Celia.
The meeting between Guy Worsley and the Lyttons took place the next day; it was an extremely happy occasion. Guy was put under contract with immediate effect: two hundred and fifty pounds was offered for the first book, with an option on the next two. After the meeting, Jack joined them all for a champagne lunch at Simpsons in the Strand.
‘Awfully jolly it was,’ he said to Lily that evening. ‘Honestly, my darling, there really isn’t much to this publishing lark. I’m having huge fun with it already.’
It was very odd: being forced through this essentially happy time without the one thing which made her properly happy. Celia sat in the chapel at Ashingham on Christmas Eve, thinking about Sebastian, and about how much she missed him, thinking that there were five more days to go before she could even speak to him, and trying not to think about what might have happened by next Christmas. She had moved into the next stage of adultery now; past the first rapture, past the initial guilt and fear, past settling into some kind of acceptance of it, had found herself in the new, hugely dangerous one, of wanting more, more time, more commitment, wanting some kind of progress.
She saw her mother’s eyes on her and smiled brilliantly; forced herself to concentrate on the service. Such a lovely service, with the crib and candlelight. All the children were there, Giles looking terrifyingly grown-up, Barty sitting beside him, sweetly serious, and the twins, giggling, whispering and nudging each other, silenced now and again by their grandmother. Jay was sitting next to Barty, who had her arm round him. He looked very well, and very much a little boy. He would start at the village school after Christmas; he could hardly wait, he told Barty.
‘I’m going to be a doctor, I’ve decided, when I grow up. So I can make sick children better, like they made me. And like you did,’ he added, for LM had told him about what Barty had done for him.
Besides, he had never forgotten her sitting there, reading to him in hospital that night. He had no idea what the story was; it was all a fuzzy memory, only that he had gradually felt better and better, until he went to sleep. Since then, though, his mother had read him the book herself; it was the best story he’d ever heard.
Billy was there, too, sitting at the back of the chapel with the other staff; he had his new leg now, was managing well on it. He had wanted to go home for Christmas until he had heard that Barty was coming; then he changed his mind. His mother had seemed relieved; she was going to Frank’s girlfriend’s house, she told him in her letter, it would save her a lot of work. The girlfriend was called Gwen, ‘a lovely girl and so good to me’. It was generally assumed, Barty said, that they would get married as soon as Frank was earning a bit more. He was doing well, though: he had at last got a proper job, as a clerk in an insurance office, went to work in a white collar every day. Sylvia was very proud. If only Ted could have seen him.
After church, after supper, when the children and an exhausted Oliver had gone to bed, after LM and Jay had gone home to their cottage and when Lord Beckenham was asleep in the library, Lady Beckenham looked at Celia.
‘What are you up to?’ she asked.
Celia looked at her as blankly as she could.
‘Nothing. I don’t know what you mean Mama.’
‘Of course you do. You’re all jumpy. And not with us half the time. Got yourself a lover, have you?’
‘Mama!’
‘I don’t blame you. Not in the least. Oliver looks completely washedout. And he’s been very difficult, I realise that. Be careful, though, won’t you. Who is it?’
‘I – well, that is—’ Celia relaxed suddenly. It would be a relief to talk about it. And her mother was the only person she could totally trust.
She told her: as much as she dared. Her mother listened in absolute silence; then she said, ‘Sounds all right so far. Don’t let it get out of hand. Lovers are no substitutes for husbands, Celia, except in bed. And that gets tedious in the end. You could end up losing everything.’
Celia didn’t answer.
‘You think you’re in love with him, don’t you?’
‘Mama, I know I am.’
‘Yes, well, love affairs do that to you. Always remember though, that you cheat. Oh, not in the obvious way. Of course you’re doing that. I mean you cheat on life. Always nice to one another, always amusing, always looking your best. But reality isn’t about that, it’s about running the house and organising the servants, and disciplining the children. Don’t forget that, Celia. There’s more to life than flowery words and orgasms.’
‘Mama!’
‘Well, it’s true. What sort of a chap is he?’
‘You’d approve. At least I think you would. He went to Malvern.’
‘I don’t know that I would,’ said Lady Beckenham, grinning at her, ‘but I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. Not that I expect I’ll meet him. Certainly shouldn’t.’
‘No,’ said Celia sadly, ‘no you certainly shouldn’t. But I wish you could.’
‘Just try to enjoy it,’ said her mother, patting her shoulder, ‘enjoy it for what it is. Don’t ask too much of it. You’ll spoil it if you do. And don’t feel too guilty about it either. Now I’m going to bed. Barty looks wonderful doesn’t she? Sweet child.’
‘You don’t mean you think you were wrong about her?’ said Celia, grateful for a change of subject.
‘Certainly not. You’ve got a long way to go yet. But she’s getting very pretty. Mind you, that’s going to be a headache.’
‘No more of a headache than the twins.’
‘Oh, Celia. Of course it is. You can’t be that stupid. Goodnight.’
Sylvia enjoyed her Christmas Day with Gwan and her family; but after it, when the weather became colder and wetter and the swirling London fogs thicker, she became very unwell. She contracted a form of influenza, not the dreadful septic variety, but it led to one of what she called her chests, and she spent most of January in bed. She was so ill that Marjorie even suggested they should get the doctor; Sylvia scolded her. ‘We can’t afford it, Marjorie. It’s only my chest. I’ll be all right.’
She did what she always did; put on a brave face when the family were there, went to bed for the day as soon as they were all out, and struggled up at the end of it to make their tea. By the end of January, she was on the mend, she said; her chest was better, but she had developed an intermittent pain in her stomach, not unlike when she got her monthlies, only sharper, and more severe.
‘I’m all right,’ she said almost fiercely to Barty, when Barty suggested she should see Dr Perring. ‘I’m much better. Now don’t you fuss.’
‘When we all go down to Ashingham next month for Billy’s birthday, maybe you could see someone down there. I’m worried about you, Mum, I hope you’ll be well enough to come.’
Sylvia smiled at her. ‘I’ll be all right, and if you think I’m missing that, you’ve got another think coming. Can’t wait. Billy twenty. Who’d have thought it?’
‘I’m thirteen this year, you know,’ said Barty.
‘I know you are, dear. And very grown-up you look too. A real young lady. Lady Celia must be very proud.’
‘Aren’t you proud?’ asked Barty anxiously.
‘Of course I am,’ said Sylvia, ‘but it’s Lady Celia who’s done it, turned you into a lady.’
‘Mum, she hasn’t turned me into anything. I’m still me.’
‘Now Barty,’ said Sylvia severely, ‘that’s just silly. You wouldn’t talk like you do, know what you do, you wouldn’t even look like you do without Lady Celia. You walk so nicely Barty, it’s those dancing classes I suppose.’
‘Maybe,’ said Barty doubtfully. The classes at Madam Vacani’s, attended by half the well-born little girls in London, escorted by their nannies, were a weekly torment for her.
‘You have to be very grateful to her. And never forget it.’
‘I know,’ said Barty, ‘and I know I’m very lucky. It’s just that—’
‘Just that what, dear?’
‘Just that I get so tired of being grateful. And whatever you say, and whatever I talk like and everything, I am still me. The same me who started out here. You’re my mother, and Dad was my father. That hasn’t changed. And it’s important. Well, it’s important to me, anyway.’
‘It’s important to me as well,’ said Sylvia, patting her hand, ‘of course it is.’
She was looking forward to the trip to Ashingham with the usual mixture of excitement and dread. It would be lovely to see Billy, to get out of London, and see the countryside, breathe the nice clean air. Even in February. But she was petrified of Lady Beckenham. Petrified of all the animals, of the noises that filled the country darkness. And then there was her coughing. Once she started she couldn’t seem to stop. It wasn’t very nice, not at all lady like. Suppose she did that in front of Lady Beckenham? And she always felt so sick in the car driving down. Last time she’d had to ask Lady Celia to stop. She’d been very nice about it, but Sylvia had felt dreadfully embarrassed. Still – it would all be worth it. To see Billy. He was doing so well.
‘Oh, for some proper time together,’ said Sebastian. He sighed heavily. They were lying in his enormous bed; Celia had just said she must leave.
‘I really have to be back at Lyttons by four. I can’t help it, Sebastian, don’t look like that.’
‘How you can even think about work, about going back to Lyttons, about anything at all, after that performance I cannot imagine. Look at you—’ he extended a finger, wiped the sweat from her stomach, licked it gently. ‘Rain. Rain of Celia. Sweet afternoon rain.’
‘I know.’ She smiled at him rather shakily. It had been an epic occasion: even for her. On and on she had gone, thinking it would never end: climbing and climbing, soaring, swooping almost into relief, then climbing again, shouting, loudly, with triumph as well as joy, as her body gripped the pleasure, clung to it, shaped it, and then, finally, released it in a huge explosive flood. And then, as he had come too, drowning into her, she had come again, shocked and surprised by it, and had heard herself, through the violence, utter a different sound, raw, primitive, like the pleasure itself.
‘Don’t go,’ he said, ‘stay here. Stay with me. My love. My beloved.’
‘Sebastian I can’t. Really, I can’t.’
That was when he said they needed more time.
It became an obsession: how, when, where. A night, he said, imagine a whole night. Lying together, actually sleeping together. And then a day she said, think of a day, time to talk, to think to walk, to eat together.
‘What about your mother’s place? I would love to meet her. She sounds so utterly splendid.’
‘She wouldn’t allow it.’
‘I thought she approved.’
‘She approves of adultery. Of sex. But not of involvement, not even of love.’
‘That won’t do then. I love you, Celia.’
She was silent; she still hadn’t said it.
‘How about a conference somewhere? A literary conference?’
‘Oliver would know it didn’t exist. And if it did, he would want to be there too.’
‘An invitation to speak somewhere?’
‘He’d know about that too. I wondered—’
‘Yes?’
‘I wondered about my sister. She lives in Scotland. I could say I was going to visit her. She’d understand.’
‘That might do. That might do very well.’
‘But—’
‘But what?’
‘Still hugely risky.’
‘And this isn’t, I suppose?’ he said laughing. ‘We’re only a mile or so from your husband.’
She laughed too, began to climb out of bed. ‘Yes, I know. How silly.’ ‘I love you, Celia, Say you love me.’
‘I – can’t.’
‘Why not? Oh, I know. You’re frightened of it, aren’t you? Why?’ She kissed him, disappeared into the bathroom without another word.
But, ‘I’ll speak to my sister,’ she said, as she kissed him goodbye. Caroline was amused. ‘Of course. I wondered how long you’d be able to stand it. Dear old Oliver: talk about a shadow of his former self.’
Celia felt oddly defensive. ‘I think he’s a little more than that, Caroline.’
‘Glad to hear it. Anyway, just tell me what you want me to say and to whom, and I will. Goodness, it doesn’t seem a minute since you were so shocked when I told you about Mama and George Paget.’
‘I know,’ said Celia and sighed.
‘How about the first weekend in March?’ she said to Sebastian later. ‘Or—’ her voice tailed away.
‘It sounds perfect. What’s the matter?’
‘I – just wondered about weekends.’
‘Why?’
‘You know. Weekends are for – for Suffolk, I thought.’
‘Nonsense. Weekends are for love.’
‘Don’t say that,’ she said, her voice suddenly forlorn.
‘Why not?’
‘Because – well because I – oh, Sebastian, don’t be stupid. Surely you can see what I mean.’
‘My darling, I do see what you mean. Is it really so painful for you?’
‘Yes,’ she said very quietly, ‘and I know how absurd that is, when you have to think of – of Oliver, and – and—’
‘I devote an enormous amount of emotional energy,’ he said, kissing her, his face rather sad, ‘to not thinking of that. As for Millicent, I truly cannot remember when we last made love.’
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, I see.’ The day suddenly became brighter, the room warmer.
‘We’re nearly there,’ said Barty excitedly. ‘Look, there’s a sign to Ashingham Village. Are you all right, Mum? You look a bit pale.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Sylvia. She spoke with difficulty; the combined effort of not coughing and not vomiting over the past hour had been almost too much for her. She felt dreadfully sick.
‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said again staunchly and managed a smile.
‘Good. Oh, it’s so lovely to be here.’
Barty and Celia, had picked Sylvia up quite early in Line Street, in the huge car driven by the new chauffeur, a dazzlingly handsome young man called Daniels. Barty, who had loved Truman and wept with genuine grief when she heard of his death at Mons, nevertheless had something of a crush on Daniels, who was just slightly cheeky, and called her Milady Miller when Celia was not around.
Barty was in high spirits; Celia, recognising her academic potential, and ambitious for her, for more reasons than one, had entered her for St Paul’s Girls School. She had passed the examination with flying colours.
‘Barty!’ Celia said at breakfast, her eyes scanning a letter, ‘Barty you’ve won an award. That’s a minor scholarship you know. Well done. It’s a great achievement.’
Barty had been excitedly disbelieving, had demanded to see the letter for herself; but there it was, the proof. ‘We are pleased to inform you that Barbara Miller’s work in the English paper was of a very high standard; consequently we would like to offer her one of our foundation awards. We look forward to welcoming her to the school in September and feel confident she will do well here, and will in due course be going on to further education.’ Further education: Barty knew what that meant. University. She shut her eyes briefly; it was almost too ex
citing.
She loved the school when she went for the examination, loved the buildings, the atmosphere, the staff, so clearly not preoccupied with ladylike behaviour as they were at Miss Wolff’s. No doubt her other problems would follow her there, but she had been encouraged by something the head, or rather, the high mistress had said about there being girls at the school from every background.
‘The only elitism we recognise here, Lady Celia, is intellectual.’ Even the twins had been impressed by the scholarship, and told her they wished they were going to St Paul’s.
‘And getting away from horrible Miss Fauncey,’ said Adele.
‘And beastly Miss Barker,’ said Venetia.
Celia had told them briskly that there was very little chance of their ever getting away from Miss Fauncey and Miss Barker and certainly not into St Paul’s if they didn’t spend a little time at least of each school day doing some work. They were not coming down to Ashingham; they had a party, and a dancing class, and were going to keep Oliver company.
‘Somebody has to,’ said Adele, by way of revenge.
‘And we want to anyway,’ said Venetia.
‘Now here we are,’ said Barty, ‘and look, Mum, look, there’s Billy, isn’t it? No it can’t be, surely he can’t be on that huge horse.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Sylvia, ‘oh my goodness – it can’t be, it’s enormous.’ But it was: Billy was in one of the paddocks below the drive, astride a horse which could only be described as vast, cantering amiably round on a lunge rein held by Lady Beckenham. One foot was in a stirrup, his other leg was minus its addition, and there was an expression of absolute concentration on his face.
‘Keep your bloody hands down,’ Lady Beckenham was roaring, ‘you look like some sort of poodle on a circus horse. And grip with your legs, you’ve still got two thighs for God’s sake.’
They got out of the car and watched, transfixed, Barty biting her fist as she always did when she was nervous, Sylvia with her hand on her heart, her face white. Even Daniels seemed worried, removed his cap and wiped his sweating forehead. Only Celia stood relaxed and smiling, seeing that Billy was actually perfectly happy and safe, and knowing what her mother was doing for him.
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