No Angel

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Thank you.’ She tried to smile. She felt dull, heavy, utterly weary. He met her eyes, and something passed between them, something gentle, a kind of rapport, a sympathy.

  ‘You must take care of yourself,’ he said, ‘given your history and if you will forgive the lack of gallantry, you are no longer – very young.’

  ‘No,’ she said, with a sigh, ‘indeed I am not. Thirty-five.’

  ‘Well – it won’t be easy. But you are fortunate, you have a great deal of help and support. And I’m sure the other children will be delighted.’

  Would they? Not if they knew that the baby was – might be – only a half-brother or sister, only half-related, that its father was not – might not be – their own beloved father. They would be hostile, angry with her, angry with the child, would take against it, on their father’s behalf.

  ‘And – your husband.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Have you told him yet?’

  ‘No. No I haven’t.’

  ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ he said, ‘he deserves to know.’

  Now what did that mean? So that Oliver could get rid of her, divorce her, throw her out? So that she could tell him she was leaving him, quickly, get it over? And – Sebastian? He deserved to know too. Or did he? Maybe not. Whatever she did, whatever she said it was wrong. Wrong to tell, wrong to keep silent: wrong to stay with Oliver, wrong to go.

  ‘Mr Lytton isn’t – very strong you know,’ said Dr Perring.

  ‘No, I know that.’

  ‘Given his medical history, he achieves a great deal. I’m constantly surprised by him.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, wondering where this was leading.

  ‘A happy family is the greatest gift a man can have. You have given that to your husband, Lady Celia. You have made him very happy.’

  ‘I – hope so.’

  ‘You have. And happiness is the best medicine. This baby now could be a very large dose of it.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said and in that moment, from that word could, she knew he did realise, did understand. Was giving her some advice even; valuable, wise advice.

  ‘I don’t altogether like the way the world is going,’ he said, beginning to pack up his bag. ‘It seems to me we have lost a lot of the old values.’

  ‘I – suppose so.’ Don’t start lecturing me, Dr Perring. Don’t.

  ‘Of course, everyone of my generation talks like this. I am a great deal older than you, nearer your father’s age. I should be thinking of retirement in five years or so.’ He smiled. ‘But – the old ways still seem to me best. Marriage, the family, as a foundation for happiness. It can take quite a lot of punishment, you know, a good foundation. You can kick it around a fair bit. But knock it right away, or rather dig it right up, and the house falls down. On everyone inside it.’

  She sat silent, staring at him. He thought she should stay: remain silent, go on with things as they were, pretend.

  ‘Anyway, I must get on.’ He smiled at her. ‘I have always admired you, Lady Celia. The way you combine your career with your family. The courage you showed through the war, keeping Lyttons going. Your generosity to Barty—’

  ‘Oh that,’ she said and sighed, ‘there are a great many people who criticise me for that.’

  ‘I daresay there are. People love to criticise, to say what you should have done, what they would have done, when they usually do nothing at all, for anybody. Of course the situation isn’t perfect for Barty. But you have given her a life and opportunities she would never have had. And when a charming and clever young woman takes her place in the world, a place she would never have dreamed of without you, then you will have enormous reason for pride.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ Why was she crying? What was the matter with her now?

  ‘Well, of course I do. Left where she was, she would probably be a mother herself by now. Buried beneath the struggle against dirt and exhaustion and poverty, like her own mother. Don’t listen to others. Be pleased with yourself. About what you have done. As for those twins of yours – well—’

  ‘My husband says they’ll either end up in prison, or as the first women prime ministers,’ said Celia, smiling at him through her tears.

  ‘I’d say the latter. They’re wonderful girls. Beautiful too, like their mother. And Giles, a young man now. You’ve made a marvellous family, my dear. It’s not easy. And now you mustn’t—’

  ‘Mustn’t what?’ she said, ‘tell me, Dr Perring, I need advice.’

  ‘Oh dear me. Dangerous stuff, advice,’ he said, ‘All I was going to say was, you mustn’t let yourself down. You must recognise how well you’ve done and go on doing it. That’s all. Good morning. Now lots of rest, throw those cigarettes away, and come and see me in a month’s time. Unless you want a consultation before that, of course. I’m always here.’

  Celia went over to him and gave him a kiss.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘I’m so grateful to you.’

  Dr Perring’s face was pink with pleasure. ‘Good gracious,’ he said, ‘no need for gratitude. I just want you to be happy. Remember that. Really happy.’

  Now who else had said that? Oh, yes, her mother. Be happy, or there’s no point in it. Only she wasn’t happy; she was dreadfully unhappy. And whatever she did, more unhappiness lay ahead, a frightening, forbidding thing.

  Perhaps she should get rid of it. Rid of the baby. Perhaps that was the solution. It wasn’t impossible. In fact it was quite easy. Provided you had money. It could be properly done, by a skilled surgeon, there was no need for old women in back streets with knitting needles. Now who could tell her about that? Bunty Winnington, she knew had had at least one abortion; Elspeth too, she thought. But – oh God, if she asked either of them, they would know. Know it was her, know why she had to have one. Know it was Sebastian’s baby. No use saying a friend of hers needed to know. And the gossip would be worse, more horrendous than ever.

  And as so often before, during the past few weeks, she wondered yet again how it was possible that Oliver had not heard the gossip, not been outraged by it, not confronted her with it. Why, why not?

  ‘Oh, God,’ she said aloud, resting her head in her arms on her desk, ‘Dear God, what have I done? What have I done to everyone?’

  The Secretary’s Office

  St Nicholas College

  Cambridge

  Dear Mr Bateson,

  Thank you for your letter. It was good to hear that you survived the war so well, and that you are enjoying your teaching career.

  I am able only to give you Miss Bartlett’s family’s address; she was not one of the students who remained in touch with the university and she has never returned for reunions. Her parents will presumably be able to redirect your letter and after that it will, of course, be up to her. The address is 42 Garden Road, Ealing, London, W5, and her father’s name is Mr WE Bartlett. I do hope this is helpful and I look forward to seeing you at the next college reunion. Perhaps if you manage to locate her, you will be able to persuade Miss Bartlett to join you!

  Yours sincerely,

  W Stubbs

  (Secretary, St Nicholas’ College)

  ‘Marvellous,’ said Guy when Jeremy showed him the letter, ‘bloody marvellous. Well done, old chap.’

  ‘It was nothing. Let’s just hope that Mr Stubbs isn’t too friendly with old Lothian.’

  ‘Even if he is, what interest could he possibly have?’ said Guy, ‘it’s such an innocent request, after all.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Jeremy, ‘now shall I write, or will you?’

  ‘You actually knew her, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes I did. Not well, but she’d remember my name.’

  ‘Then you write. That way the letter can sound perfectly – or almost perfectly – innocent. You could say you just wanted to see her, in connection with a reunion. And then we could go along and see her together. If that’s all right with you. I feel much more hopeful already.’

  ‘Well – hold your horses,�
�� said Jeremy, ‘she might not agree. And even if she, does, and even if she talks openly, which is quite unlikely, she might have the worst news of all.’

  ‘Which would be?’

  ‘That the rumours were true. That she did have an affair with Lothian.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said Guy. ‘I hadn’t exactly thought of that.’ There was a silence; then he rallied; ‘I’m quite quite sure she didn’t, though. I feel it in my bones.’

  ‘So far,’ said Jeremy, ‘your bones haven’t proved too reliable, have they?’

  ‘Not so far, no,’ said Guy humbly.

  The children were all going back to London; Jay was outraged.

  ‘It’s not fair, why can’t I come too?’

  ‘You don’t live there,’ said Barty, ‘lucky you.’

  Giles looked at her. ‘Don’t you like London?’

  ‘Not specially. I prefer the country. When I’m grown-up and a famous writer, I shall live somewhere near here.’

  ‘You could live here.’

  ‘No I couldn’t, Giles. Don’t be silly.’

  ‘I’m not being silly. Why not?’

  ‘Because I don’t belong here. That’s why not.’

  She sounded and indeed felt irritable, as she often did when the question of her background was raised, however indirectly.

  ‘Well—’ Giles hesitated. She was flushed, visibly ruffled.

  He felt awkward, sorry for her. He could see why she became upset; her position, as she got older, was so complex.

  He often wondered if his mother had actually thought for more than five minutes before taking Barty home with her: probably not, she never seemed to think about anything properly. It would have seemed a good idea to her at the time, the right thing to do and she would have scooped Barty up, rather as if she was a stray puppy and set her down again in her new surroundings and expected her to be happy in them. Of course, in some ways, she was, but there had been some nasty moments, not least when she had been so ill that day: Giles could still remember how outraged he had felt, hearing Nanny lying about her, and telling her she was a guttersnipe, and his parents going off without knowing about any of it: well, they would have done, if he hadn’t told them.

  And the other children at school, being so beastly to her, that had been very hard. What would happen, and it was only a few years now, when she really grew up? Would she stay with the Lyttons, as another daughter, or would she finally go home to her own family? Surely not: although she often spoke of it with a sort of longing. It just wouldn’t work, she wasn’t like them, not any of them any more. Billy was a jolly nice chap, but there were light years between him and Barty in terms of education and – well just manners and the way they spoke. And what sort of person would she marry, someone who his mother would approve of, or someone her own mother and brothers and sisters knew? It would be terribly difficult for her. Anyway, lots of people would want to marry her, that was for sure. She was so pretty now and so jolly, Giles couldn’t think of any girl whose company he enjoyed more.

  This summer had been superb, he had taught her tennis and she played really quite well, and his grandmother had given them both some riding lessons. She was obviously scared at first, but she had gritted her teeth and got on with it, as Lady Beckenham had instructed and after a week or two, was trotting and even cantering quite competently. She wasn’t as good as the twins, who might have been born on horses, so blithely brave were they, so easily and gracefully did they sit on the pony: so good indeed, that Lady Beckenham had bought another pony, so that they had one each. She entered them for all the local gymkhanas, and at the end of the month, a row of red rosettes hung on the bridle rack in the ponies’ stables.

  ‘Anyway I want to get back,’ said Barty now, ‘because my mum isn’t well.’

  ‘Isn’t she? I’m sorry.’

  ‘No. She wasn’t before I came down here. I had a letter from Frank the other day, and he said she’s been rotten, and I want to get her to see a doctor.’

  ‘She hasn’t even seen a doctor?’ said Giles incredulously, ‘and she’s been ill for weeks. Why on earth not?’

  ‘Because, Giles,’ said Barty with rather weary patience, ‘she can’t afford it. That’s why.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Giles, ‘how absolutely appalling.’

  ‘Lily, get your coat.’

  ‘What for? I’m quite happy here.’

  ‘Treasure hunt. Really big one.’

  ‘Jack, I’m a bit tired of treasure hunts.’

  ‘No, but this one is special. Thirty of us so far, thirty cars that is, first clue is at Buckingham Palace. Come on, darling, we’ll be last.’

  ‘It’s not a race is it?’

  ‘Of course it’s a race. No point in a treasure hunt if it’s not.’

  ‘Lily looked at him; he was flushed, he’d had too much to drink – and she had a busy day next day. She shook her head.

  ‘No, Jack, I’m sorry, I really don’t want to come. You go.’

  It was the first time she had said that, had refused to go anywhere or do anything with him; he stared at her for a moment, his face shocked. Then he said, slowly and very reluctantly, ‘No, I don’t want to go without you, Lily. If you won’t come, I’ll just have to give it a miss.’

  Lily hadn’t expected that; she’d thought he’d just go, off like a small, sulky boy. She was profoundly touched.

  ‘Well – well maybe I will. Just this once. Wait till I go to the cloakroom, get my coat. It’s quite chilly for August.’

  ‘Lily, you’re a great girl,’ said Jack.

  ‘Good Lord,’ said Oliver, ‘Look at this.’

  Celia took the paper; it was the Daily Mail. There was a picture on the front of what looked like fifty cars jammed in front of Buckingham Palace, and another photograph of a lot of young people, hanging out of several of the cars, all looking as if they had had very much too much to drink. The picture was captioned Bright Young Things put in the dark.

  ‘Isn’t that Jack’s friend, Harry Cholmondley?’ said Oliver.

  ‘Where? Oh yes, I think it is. Jack was probably there, then.’

  ‘He was lucky not to be in jail,’ said Oliver, ‘if he was. Listen, “The commotion at one in the morning outside Buckingham Palace as forty cars arrived, tyres screeching, had to be heard to be believed, a passer-by reported. Crowds of young people then jumped out and began rushing up and down the railings, shouting and pushing into the sentry boxes, looking for clues in a treasure hunt. The captain of the guard turned out all his available men and called for reinforcements, believing the palace to be under siege. The young people finally dispersed, after the clue they were looking for was found at the foot of the Queen Victoria memorial and sent them off to Trafalgar Square instead: but not before several had been arrested. Among them was Viscount Avondean, Lord Forrester, the Hon Henry Parker and” – oh God—’

  ‘Jack?’ said Celia, seeing his face.

  ‘“And Jack Lytton, a member of the distinguished publishing family, accompanied by his friend Lily Fortescue, the well known actress”.’

  ‘Well known!’ said Celia. ‘Really—’

  ‘Celia, please! “A senior policeman commented that they might all have been expected to know better, although conceding that for the most part it was obviously an expression of high spirits and that no great harm had actually been done”. God, what do you think I should do?’ said Oliver.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Celia wearily, ‘he’s a complete idiot, but he’s thirty-five years old, for God’s sake, and it’s not as if you’re his father.’

  ‘I find it hard to believe he’s that age,’ said Oliver, ‘when I think—’ Celia stood up. ‘Excuse me, Oliver, please. I must get something from my room before we leave for the office.’

  She just made her bathroom in time; this was awful. The nausea was getting worse. Well – it wasn’t for much longer. She sat on the bed for a while, pulling herself together; then went slowly downstairs. Oliver was standing in the hall, looking very b
lack, pulling on his gloves.

  ‘He may be thirty-five, as you said, and I may not be his father, but I have to put up bail for him. His solicitor just telephoned.’

  ‘Bail! How absurd.’

  ‘Not really. There is such a thing as the law of the land. Jack has broken it, and rather publicly. Certain formalities have to be followed. So I’m going to Bow Street and you had better make your own way to the office.’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ That was a relief; if she was sick again, at least he wouldn’t know. She felt too weak and wretched to give more than a moment’s consideration to Jack. ‘And I have an appointment later this morning. With – Gill. I’ll be back at lunchtime.’

  ‘Fine.’

  She had finally decided to get rid of the baby. She had to: it was the only thing that made sense. She had telephoned Bunty Winnington, in spite of her misgivings, asked her for the name of her doctor, for a friend. Bunty had been very helpful, given her not only the name, but a telephone number as well.

  ‘Tell your friend not to worry, darling. He’s marvellous, absolutely the highest possible medical standard, and no fear of any comeback. As long as you’re discreet, of course. Pricey though: seven hundred pounds now. Tell your friend he likes cash. Naturally.’

  She was going to see him that morning; his consulting rooms were in Bayswater. Normally, Bunty had said, you were in the nursing home a week after that. ‘Sooner sometimes. And home next day. Bit washedout, tell your friend, but perfectly all right. Like a bad curse really. Good luck, darling. To your friend, that is.’

  So in a week, it would be – could be over.

  ‘Ten pounds! Oh all right. Here – I think that’s right.’

  ‘Thank you very much, sir. I’ll have your brother brought up now, sir.’

  ‘Is – is Miss Fortescue still here?’

  ‘Who? Oh, the actress. No, she went hours ago. Sergeant, bring Mr Lytton up will you. There will be a charge, Mr Lytton, disturbance of the peace.’