Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘Yes. I mean no.’ She looked at him very levelly. ‘Mr Brooke – I don’t want to be rude. And I did enjoy your talk and I’m sure everyone did. But I would like to finish this now, it’s getting late.’

  ‘Oh God, I’m so sorry. How self-centred and selfish of me. Do forgive me. And thank you again.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right. Good night.’

  ‘Good night Miss—’

  ‘Harvey. Pandora Harvey.’

  ‘Sebastian Brooke,’ he said, and only realised when he had gone upstairs with Mr Jarvis, the assistant children’s librarian, how absurd she must think him, absurd and self-aggrandising.

  He had stayed the night in Oxford, having business to discuss next day with the manager of Blackwells; and then, drawn by what seemed some totally irresistible force, had walked into the Bodleian. She was actually walking out of it at precisely the same time, to go to lunch and then to stay with her mother for a week; he had often wondered since, and trembled at it, what might have happened if his conversation with Blackwells had lasted for even five minutes longer. He smiled and said how very nice to see her again, and might he perhaps take her for tea to show his gratitude for her kindness the night before and his remorse at his fatuous and self-centred attempts at conversation, and she laughed and said she had enjoyed the conversation and could not remember any kindness, that tea would be nice and perhaps even a sandwich since she was hungry.

  After that, they went for a walk by the river and then he drove her in his motor car down to the Trout pub on the great wild flats, where she surprised him by asking for half a pint of beer and they watched the peacocks and discovered they shared a passion for (amongst a great many other things) the paintings of Modigliani, the music of George Gershwin and the literary works of A. A. Milne. ‘If you wouldn’t find such fondness for a rival author offensive,’ Pandora added anxiously.

  Sebastian, who was growing accustomed to such remarks, said that of course he would not. And then she agreed to telephone her mother and tell her she wouldn’t be arriving until the next day and he bought her dinner at the Randolph. They sat there talking until they were quite alone in the restaurant and the waiters were half asleep, and Sebastian said that he didn’t suppose she would take it at all seriously, but he appeared to be falling in love with her and she said (with a glorious lack of foolish feminine guile) that she would certainly like to take it seriously, and also to think about its implications.

  A week later, she telephoned him from her small house in Oxford and invited him to dinner on the following Saturday evening; Sebastian arrived with a bottle of very fine claret, a large bouquet of white roses and a signed, first edition of The House at Pooh Corner. A few other friends were coming, she said, which disappointed him a little, but by one o’clock in the morning and after a very happy evening, and a wonderful meal which she had cooked, the friends had all left and she told him that she did seem to find herself also in love, and if he was still of the same persuasion, then she would be extraordinarily happy. Sebastian woke in the morning in her bed, her small body with its almost alarming capacity for pleasure coiled against his; he asked her to marry him later that day and she accepted.

  That had been the simple, straightforward part.

  Of course he had known Celia would be upset. He had expected it all: the icy disdain, the anger, the hurt. It was why he had put off telling her for weeks, why he chose – cowardly, for one of the few times in his life – to break the news on the twins’ birthday, when she was in determinedly family mood, when Oliver would be benignly present, when he thought that with luck, LM would be there too, with her level, calm courtesy. He had not expected the party to be over, the house emptied so soon of distraction. But still – it had been done. Oliver’s insistence on the celebratory champagne was unfortunate; but it had distracted attention, notionally at least, from the spilt wine and Celia’s rage at having spilt it. They had somehow got through the hour or so it required for courtesy to release him again, and return, exhausted, to his own house. He had hardly slept the rest of the night; when he did, he dreamed, fretful, sorrowful dreams and woke more than once to find himself weeping. In the morning he felt better: simply knowing that it had been done. And then he had discovered it had not been done quite as successfully as he had hoped.

  ‘Of course I want to meet her,’ Celia said, smiling at him brilliantly across her office desk a few days later, ‘I can hardly wait. We must arrange it as soon as we can. I will talk to Oliver and see if we can find an evening when we are both free. It’s just that we are extremely busy at the moment, the twins’ season is so hectic, you know, I have a lot of extra entertaining to do, and a lot of country house parties, and then there’s Ascot and—’

  ‘Celia,’ said Sebastian, keeping his voice level with an effort, ‘Celia, we are not asking for an elaborate visit. A dinner, just the four of us, will do, so that you can—’

  ‘Oh, Sebastian, don’t be absurd. You never did have the faintest idea about running a household. Even the smallest dinner has to be planned; and I would certainly not want Pandora to feel less than properly welcomed. I want her to meet the entire family, naturally, nothing else would be acceptable to me, and that inevitably requires organisation—’

  ‘It would be perfectly acceptable to us,’ said Sebastian firmly, ‘a quiet evening, I mean, or I could even bring her to Lyttons—’ He stopped; he could see she had not liked the ‘us’.

  ‘No, Sebastian. I could not possibly agree to that. And certainly I don’t want her brought to Lyttons. Now give me a week or two and I will find a date.’

  The week, and then two, passed; dates were even proposed and then cancelled, changed and then changed again. Apologetic notes were written, elaborate explanations offered; Pandora was first amused then irritated.

  ‘It’s absurd. I think I shall just walk into her office one day, and introduce myself. Then it will be done.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ said Sebastian. ‘Please, please don’t.’

  He looked genuinely anguished; she sighed.

  ‘I am finding this – difficult, Sebastian. I really am. Whatever the reason. Please get it settled. Please.’

  Sebastian said he would.

  Finally he lost his temper: Celia had just cancelled a fourth firm arrangement, had asked Janet Gould to telephone him and express her great regret. Her mother was giving a court dinner, had asked her to step in at the last minute, she felt she couldn’t fail her when she had done so much for the twins that season, she did hope Pandora would understand.

  Sebastian put down the phone, looked at it thoughtfully for a minute or two and then called a taxi and went to Lytton House. He was in Celia’s office for less than five minutes; that afternoon Pandora received a note, delivered by hand, inviting her and Sebastian to a family dinner at Cheyne Walk on the following Thursday.

  I do hope it will be convenient for you; the entire family will be there, including Barbara Miller and my parents, the Earl and Countess of Beckenham, all of whom are most eager to meet you. As of course am I. I look forward to receiving your acceptance.

  Yours sincerely,

  Celia Lytton

  It was, as Pandora remarked just slightly huffily, strongly reminiscent of a royal command: ‘Suppose it wasn’t convenient?’ but Sebastian told her that as with a royal command, convenience was not even a consideration.

  ‘She has asked us, my darling and we will be there. And I daresay you will fall in love with her as everyone does and forgive her all her monstrous behaviour.’

  ‘I have no intention of falling in love with Celia Lytton,’ said Pandora firmly.

  Sebastian grinned at her. ‘Well, we shall see,’ was all he said. And then watched her struggling not to let it happen.

  ‘So, my little genius, what are you going to do now?’ he said, refilling Barty’s glass.

  ‘Oh – I haven’t thought yet.’

  ‘I bet you have.’ His dark blue eyes were on hers, thoughtful, probing.

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nbsp; ‘Well – only vaguely. You know.’

  ‘Enjoy a bit of well-earned leisure?’

  ‘Goodness no. Nothing I’d hate more. I like to be busy, all the time.’

  ‘I know you do. But a few weeks wouldn’t be a bad idea. Are you going to this villa of theirs?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Barty with a sigh, ‘I really don’t want to. But what excuse do I have, and—’

  ‘Might be fun.’

  ‘It won’t be fun,’ said Barty.

  ‘What won’t?’ said Kit. He had left the room to get himself some lemonade.

  ‘Oh – nothing,’ said Barty quickly, ‘just leaving Oxford, looking for a job.’

  ‘Why do you have to look for a job?’

  ‘Because she likes working,’ said Sebastian, ‘she’s addicted to it. Like your mother.’

  ‘And you,’ said Kit.

  ‘Well, maybe.’

  ‘But not the Terrors.’

  ‘They don’t seem too addicted to work, no.’

  ‘Anyway, Barty, you don’t have to look for a job,’ said Kit, ‘you’ve got one already.’

  ‘I have?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘What is it?’ said Barty, intrigued.

  ‘Well, working at Lyttons,’ he said, adding with all the simplistic logic of a child, ‘everyone in the family does.’

  ‘But I’m not—’ said Barty and stopped.

  ‘The Terrors don’t,’ said Sebastian, cutting into the conversation smoothly.

  ‘I expect they will. Mummy – Mother – says they will one day. When they’ve grown up a bit. I heard her talking to Father about it.’

  ‘You shouldn’t listen to other people’s conversations, young Kit,’ said Sebastian, ‘it’s not the done thing, you know.’

  ‘Oh, but I was there,’ said Kit, looking hurt. ‘Not listening outside the door or anything. I was reading, they never take any notice of me, just carry on talking. Mostly about boring things. Anyway, that’s what she said, Mummy, I mean. And then she said that of course Barty would too. As soon as she came down from Oxford.’

  Barty had gone rather pale. ‘Did she really, Kit?’

  ‘Yes, of course. She said you should train to be an editor, that you’d be wonderful. Better than Giles, she said you’d be,’ he added with a sweet smile.

  ‘I think Giles will be a wonderful editor,’ said Barty staunchly.

  ‘Mother says he has no idea.’

  ‘But—’ said Barty and stopped again.

  ‘Of course he could be,’ said Sebastian quickly, ‘a wonderful editor, I mean, but I know Oliver sees him moving into the managerial side. He will be Mr Lytton the Third after all. LM says he’s marvellous with figures.’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Barty. ‘Much more important than being an editor.’

  ‘Anyway, she wants you to be an editor,’ said Kit, picking up the newspaper, ‘so I expect you will be.’ He smiled his seraphic smile. ‘Did you know Dame Ellen Terry has died? That’s sad, I liked listening to her on my wireless.’

  Later after lunch, Sebastian and Barty walked along the river walk; she was quiet and seemed distracted.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ he said.

  ‘Oh – I don’t know.’

  ‘Yes you do. Penny for ’em.’

  ‘It’s well – it’s – you won’t say anything to Aunt Celia, will you?’

  ‘Of course not. I never speak to her these days without full written permission.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘It’s just that I really don’t want to work at Lyttons.’

  ‘You don’t like the idea of publishing?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do. It’s something I’ve thought a lot about actually. But—’

  ‘But not at Lyttons.’

  She nodded soberly.

  ‘Because it would be too easy? Because of what people would say?’

  ‘Well yes. And—’

  ‘And what?’ He put his arm round her shoulders. ‘Come on, you can tell me.’

  ‘It’s just that – well, it means more – more gratitude. More knowing how lucky I am. I’m so tired of it, Sebastian. So terribly tired of it.’

  Later that night, safely back in Oxford with Pandora, Sebastian told her of Barty’s problems. She listened intently, her large brown eyes fixed on his; then ‘Poor Barty,’ she said, ‘poor little thing.’

  ‘Not so poor,’ said Sebastian, feeling a rather surprising and disconcerting rush of defensiveness towards the Lyttons, ‘she’s had huge benefits from the arrangement. It wasn’t all bad. Celia adores her and—’

  ‘I fancy being adored by Lady Celia is not an undiluted pleasure,’ said Pandora.

  ‘Of course not. But it’s better than not being adored by her, like poor Giles. And then Barty is extremely clever and her temperament allows her to take full advantage of that. And training as an editor at Lyttons is not exactly a bad way to start a career.’

  ‘Of course not. But – it’s what she said, Sebastian. I can so sympathise with that. About the gratitude. It must be so difficult.’

  ‘Quite difficult. I have had to endure it myself to a small degree. Not now of course, but in the beginning. When Celia first bought Meridian and fought for it so hard, and against Oliver too—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I don’t think I want to hear too much about those days,’ said Pandora. ‘Come along, my darling, let us go to bed. I’ve been missing you rather dreadfully . . .’

  Later – much later – Pandora lay in his arms watching him sleep, and thinking how much she loved him.

  The violence of her feelings for him had not only taken her by surprise at the time, they continued to shake and even shock her. A great dynamic force for pleasure of every kind, emotional, intellectual, physical. She was not entirely inexperienced; she had been deeply in love on every level with her fiancé, and during the twelve years since his death had had one or two lovers – ‘Well, two actually,’ she said, laughing to Sebastian when he pressed her for accuracy, but she had been largely frustrated, her energies mostly suppressed. Now the places to which she travelled in Sebastian’s bed, the experiences she shared with him there, were of a splendour and richness she had not imagined possible. Released by him, by his skill and tenderness and a considerable creative sexuality, her responses ran almost out of control at first; then she found she was able to offer him gifts of her own, a tireless sexual energy and curiosity, a clear, uninhibited delight. She could not have enough of him, would fall asleep finally sated and wake him, laughing gently at herself, a few hours later for more.

  ‘I’m an old man, my darling, I need my rest,’ he would say, but in truth was filled with joy and even relief that he could give her such pleasure. Love for her had always been before a finite thing, a part of life, one of its delights; but now what she felt was life and love become one thing, and the source of this delight, the man lying on the pillows beside her, was to become her husband within a few short weeks, to be hers and beside her for the rest of her life; she felt dizzy, almost shocked with love.

  She knew much about him, about his past, he had told her ‘everything it is necessary for you to know’, kissing her tenderly after a long night of revelation, some of it surprising, a little even shocking; she sensed there might be still more. But she felt, curiously, content with what she had of him; and whatever had been left out of the telling, his most secret self, could wait to be revealed. He intrigued and disturbed her; it was part of his power to arouse her, not only emotionally but physically. Lying with him, as he led her on further and higher, exploring him slowly and sweetly, she felt she was making another journey, on another plane entirely; in time, she felt sure, she would have him all.

  The holiday in the Cap d’Antibes villa was not a complete success; the twins were bored and irritable, refusing so much as to play tennis or get into the pool, Giles suffered so badly from the heat that he had to spend much of the time indoors, and Oliver contracted one of the stomach infections to which he was prone sin
ce the war. On the other hand Kit and Jay who had accompanied them, were blissfully happy, playing in the pool all day long, diving and leaping endlessly into it like rather noisy porpoises, Celia lay in a chair under the trees, oddly serene, reading manuscripts, and Barty surprised everyone, including herself, by becoming a sun worshipper, her face and body turning a perfect golden brown, her long tawny hair becoming streaked and lightened and her small nose developing pretty, tiny freckles. She was out by the pool early each morning, swimming energetically up and down with Celia, who was a most earnest disciple of the fashion for slimness and fitness. She had even tried to get one of the new ‘professors’ of fitness to come to the villa and teach them some physical jerks, but to her fury had left it too late.

  The evenings were only modestly sociable; villas up and down the coast were filled with partying English and French, but Celia had decided (to her later regret) to take a small villa and very little in the way of staff. She therefore found herself unable to give the kind of large dinner parties that their neighbours were enjoying or to accept too many invitations; this made the twins even crosser.

  Then, in the last week, Boy Warwick and a party turned up unexpectedly, having berthed for a few days in the Port de l’Olivette, and motored in to find them. Even Celia was pleased to see them and the twins were ecstatic, suddenly eager to show off their modest swimming skills, and showing a hitherto unrevealed passion for sailing.

  But by the end of three weeks everyone, even Kit, had had enough.

  On the last evening, Oliver announced that on the way home he was going to visit Constantine, the publisher in Paris with whom Lyttons had a reciprocal arrangement.

  ‘I have been talking to Guy Constantine on the telephone this morning, and he has several books to discuss with me, as I do with him; it seems foolish not to take advantage of being this side of the Channel. Celia, my dear, I imagine you will want to come with me; and Giles, it would do no harm for you to visit the Constantine offices and meet some of their people. Now—’