‘You’ve been reading too many romantic novels,’ said Robert laughing, ‘and does she reciprocate this adoration, do you think?’
‘I don’t read any romantic novels,’ said Maud indignantly. ‘And no, I don’t think she does. He really is just a brother to her. And anyway, Barty’s energies are all to do with her career. She is hugely ambitious, you know. I like her so very much. She’s a completely original person.’
‘I do agree she is very charming,’ said Robert. ‘Charming and interesting. Pretty, too. And if Giles is in love with her I can see why. However, all other things being equal, I think it would be better if you were mistaken. Now I’m off to do some business for a while. What about you?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about me. I have some serious shopping to do this morning with Adele. And then I want to go and spend some time just wandering about, soaking up some British architecture. Kit – goodness, but that boy is intelligent – Kit says I should go and see the Nash terraces in Regent’s Park. Apparently they are beautiful beyond belief.’
‘I’ll see you this evening then,’ said Robert.
‘Sebastian,’ said Celia, her voice meltingly agreeable down the telephone line, ‘I wonder if you would be kind enough to come in some time in the next few days. We really need to discuss the Christmas promotions for Meridian Times Ten; usually we’ve done it much earlier than this, as you know. It is really rather inconvenient your being in Oxford so much.’
‘Well, I’m sorry if it inconveniences you, Celia,’ said Sebastian. He sounded irritable. ‘Perhaps we should consider moving more permanently to London to suit you.’
‘Perhaps you should.’
‘I wasn’t entirely serious. Pandora likes it here, loves her house and her job, as you very well know. Anyway, I’ll see what I can do about coming up. It’s a little difficult this week.’
He didn’t want to leave Pandora; she had begun to feel less well, nauseous and terribly tired.
‘Well, shall we proceed without you?’ said Celia.
‘Absolutely not. No.’
‘Well, in that case’ – her voice was less agreeable now – ‘you’re going to have to come down. I’m sorry. Is there some kind of difficulty?’
‘No. No, of course not. It’s just that Pandora is – well, having some problems and—’
‘Problems? What kind of problems?’
‘Oh – professional ones, of course. At the Bodleian.’ God, he wished it were true, that the problems Pandora had were truly so simple, so wellcontained.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. They must be quite serious, if you feel it incumbent upon you to put them before your own work.’
‘They aren’t very serious, Celia,’ said Sebastian, keeping his voice level with a considerable effort, ‘but for the next few days, I want to be here with her. I’m sorry. Good morning to you.’
Later that afternoon, a letter arrived for Celia by hand from Foyles in the Charing Cross Road; would Sebastian like to be guest of honour at one of their famous literary luncheons in November? And could Lady Celia let them have an answer very quickly, within twenty-four hours if possible . . .
Pandora was half asleep by the fire when the telephone rang; Sebastian had gone out to buy some of the salmon that was the only thing she could consider eating for supper. Slightly confused, she made her way out to the hall to answer the phone and sat on the stairs, rubbing her eyes and yawning; it was Celia.
‘Pandora? It’s Celia. How are you? I’m extremely sorry to hear of your problems.’
‘My – problems?’ Had Sebastian told Celia about the baby?
‘Yes. Sebastian is clearly very worried about you.’ Obviously he had.
‘Oh, really?’ she said carefully.
‘Yes. Refusing to come to London for what is really a very important meeting. Very loyal of course, but – well, is he there?’
‘No, Celia, I’m afraid he’s not just at the moment. He’s—’
‘Well, ask him to telephone me, would you please? Urgently. Tell him there’s another matter that I need to talk to him about.’
Pandora tried to tell herself that Celia did not mean to be rude, that as Sebastian’s publisher and editor she did have a genuine and regular need to communicate with him, and said that of course she would tell Sebastian. ‘Would you like to be more explicit about whatever it is? So that I can give him an intelligent-sounding message?’
‘Oh good heavens, no. Much too complicated. Just pass that on, would you? And I do wish you well with your – problem.’
‘Celia.’ Pandora heard her voice growing as cool as Celia’s own, and felt a flash of anger with Sebastian, not only for telling Celia when they had agreed they would not, but for the way in which he had done so. ‘Celia, whatever Sebastian may feel about the matter, I don’t think having a baby should be described in quite such terms.’
There was an absolute silence from the other end of the line; then finally, ‘A – baby?’ said Celia. ‘You’re having a baby?’
‘Well – yes. Isn’t that what he said to you?’
‘No,’ said Celia, and her voice was odd, different, very quiet. ‘No, that isn’t what he said, Pandora. I’m sorry, I didn’t – I didn’t realise. How – wonderful for you. You really must – must accept my congratulations. Good afternoon.’
Pandora put the phone down and sat staring at it. She felt even more sick. Sebastian hadn’t told Celia about the baby; he’d told her some other, bland lie. Wanting, as he’d said to her, to break the news to her himself, as gently and as carefully as he could. And she’d presented her with it instead: not gently, not carefully but probably rather brutally. It had been very silly of her altogether, thought Pandora with a sigh; now everyone would have to know, which was exactly what they didn’t want. And Sebastian would be cross with her: very cross. There was no doubt in her mind about that.
He wasn’t cross: but he was clearly worried, upset even.
‘How did she sound?’ he asked, and Pandora said carefully, trying to be truthful, that she’d clearly been a bit surprised, but—
‘And what did she say?’
‘Well, nothing much. She congratulated me. As anyone would. Actually she said it was wonderful. So I don’t think she was too upset by it.’
‘I – hope not,’ he said.
He walked over to the window, stood staring out into the dusk. Pandora felt a stab of violent irritation; for God’s sake, why did they have to worry about Celia all the time? She was like a living ghost, haunting their lives. It wasn’t fair; she was married to Sebastian, she was having his baby, why did it matter so much what Celia might feel or say about it?
‘Sebastian—’ she said, trying to keep her voice gentle.
‘Pandora,’ he said, ‘please. I’m trying to think.’
He turned, looked at her for a moment, then walked out of the room. She heard him open the study door, heard it shut again, heard the telephone extension sound; she walked out into the hall then, unable to resist, heard him saying loudly through the door, ‘Celia, please, please—’ and then his voice became very low, the words unintelligible. Eventually the phone slammed down and a silence ensued. She went back quietly into the sitting room, sat in her chair once more.
He came in, and knelt in front of her, took her hands.
‘Pandora,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. But there’s something I – that I haven’t told you. And I think I really need to tell you now. And I’m so, so sorry—’
‘Apparently Pandora’s not well,’ said Adele to Venetia. ‘Sebastian’s just refusing to come to London at all, and Mummy’s absolutely furious because she needs him for meetings and things and keeps shouting at him on the telephone—’
‘Who told you?’
‘Well, Daddy, that she’s not well. And Giles about the shouting.’
‘I wonder if Pandora’s—’
‘I know. That’s exactly what I thought.’
‘How lovely.’
‘Absolutely lovely. Should we—�
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‘Not sure. Probably—’
‘No, probably not.’
‘Lady Celia, I have Mr Brooke on the phone—’
‘Mrs Gould, I’ve told you already, I’m not taking any calls today from anyone.’
‘But—’
‘Mrs Gould, please—’
‘Celia, this is Pandora, could I just—’
‘Pandora, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time to talk at the moment. I’m extremely busy, a fact which both you and your husband seem to have difficulty understanding.’
‘Giles, in the name of heaven, what are you doing with the promotional plans for your extremely modest list? Translating them into Arabic? I’ve been waiting for them for days. Just bring them in here, and if they’re not complete I’ll simply have to do it myself.’
‘Celia—’
‘LM, not now. I would have thought you of all people might have some grasp of how desperately busy I am. Why is it that not a single person in this company is able to do anything for themselves?’
‘Aunt Celia—’
‘Barty, I sometimes wonder if you listen to a word I say. I told you, I don’t want to be disturbed. Now either you can deal with those authors’ corrections on your own, as you assured me, rather too firmly, I thought, that you could, or you need help with them. Please make up your mind, and if you can’t manage, give them to LM. Stop taking up my time with them. I would have expected better of you, I must say.’
‘Celia, I wish you would talk to me about this matter.’
‘Oliver, there is nothing to talk about. Absolutely nothing. And if there was, you are hardly in a position to make a contribution.’
‘I beg leave to doubt that, my dear.’
‘You can beg leave all you like, Oliver, it is nothing to do with you. Nothing whatsoever.’
‘Oh, Abbie, it’s terrible at Lyttons these days. She—’
‘Who?’
‘Aunt Celia. Who else? She’s in a permanently dreadful temper, won’t talk to anyone, shouts at everyone, and Giles says it’s just the same at home. Poor old Wol, he really gets the worst of it. And he never fights back, it’s so unfair. So terribly, terribly unfair.’
‘Celia, I’m thinking of going over to New York, sailing with Robert and Maud next week. I could do with a change and Lyttons New York will, hopefully, benefit from my presence. I’m booking on to the Mauretania unless you have any objection, which I can hardly imagine you do.’
‘Adele, Mummy’s crying again. She won’t talk to me about it. I really hate it, what can I do?’
‘Nothing, Kit. There’s nothing any of us can do. We just have to wait till something changes. It usually does. Want to come and see Venetia with me?’
‘Oh – yes, all right. I’ll bring my book, in case it gets really boring.’
‘Fine. What book is it?’
‘One of ours. The Buchanans. I love them. Much better than the Forsytes.’
‘Don’t tell Mummy. I heard her shouting down the phone at poor Guy Worsley, telling him the latest book was nothing like up to his usual standard. She’s making him rewrite the whole of the first six chapters.’
Celia was sitting at the desk in her study early one evening when her mother arrived at the house.
‘I was told you were at home. You’re not ill, are you?’
‘No. No, of course not. I’m never ill, you know that, Mama.’
‘Not strictly true, but near enough. You look dreadful. What on earth is the matter with you?’
‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’
‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Venetia says you’re upset, Kit says you’re always crying, even Oliver, soul of discretion that he is, says you’re not quite yourself.’
‘I seem to have a lot of spies in the house reporting to you.’
‘Just as well, it seems. Come along, you’d better tell me. You’re not going to feel better until you do. Although I can perfectly well work it out for myself. It’s this baby, of course.’
‘Of course it’s not.’
‘Celia, I’m not a complete fool. And I would also like to say that it’s hardly surprising. That you should feel as you do. Very difficult for you. And I’m sorry. But there’s nothing to be done about it and you have to pull yourself together, you can’t go on like this.’
‘Oliver’s going to New York,’ said Celia, pulling viciously at a thread on her dress, ‘and I can’t blame him, I know. But it’s the last – the last straw. I don’t know, Mama, it seems so incredible I still – still—’
‘There, there,’ said Lady Beckenham, taking her daughter in her arms and patting her rather awkwardly on the head, ‘of course you still do. And the best thing you can do is recognise the fact. One of your greatest virtues, facing facts. You’re turning your back on this one as far as I can see, that’s the trouble. Out of character. That’s what’s upskittling you.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course. It’s perfectly obvious to me. You’re running away from yourself.’
‘But – oh, I don’t know. I feel so – so pathetic.’
‘Well that’s the last thing you are, Celia. You could claim all sorts of vices, but being pathetic is not one of them. Now you have a good cry, it’ll do you good. And then you can come to Curzon Street and have dinner with Beckenham and me. You look as if you haven’t eaten for weeks.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Celia, blowing her nose.
‘There you are. Very foolish. You do too much. And Oliver probably shouldn’t go to New York just now, leave you to cope with everything. I should ask him not to, if I were you. He’ll be pleased.’
‘He won’t,’ said Celia, with a shaky smile, ‘you’ve no idea how vile I’ve been.’
‘Then be a bit less vile. Come on, blow your nose and go and wash your face. You look like one of the servants, all blotchy like that. Beckenham will be delighted to see you. He’s working very hard on his letters for that book of yours. Given him a new lease of life. Not sure I’m entirely pleased about that,’ she added, and smiled at Celia. Celia smiled back.
‘Of course you are. You love him really.’
‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ said Lady Beckenham, sounding mildly surprised. ‘Well there you are. You’ll feel the same one day.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Of course I do. Otherwise why should you mind so much Oliver going to New York?’
‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Celia wearily.
‘Goodbye, dear Maud and darling Uncle Robert,’ said Adele. ‘It’s been so lovely having you. Come again, won’t you? I wish you the glassiest of seas, Uncle Robert. And Maud, good luck at Vassar. I’m sure you’ll love it.’
‘I hope so,’ said Maud. ‘I’ll write you and tell you all about it. Come on, Daddy, we’ll miss the boat.’
‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,’ said Robert. ‘Still sorry you’re not coming with us, Oliver. Don’t make it too long, will you. And Celia, please do come too next time. I’m sure Giles can hold the fort.’
‘Maybe,’ said Celia. She smiled. She looked tired, but very beautiful, Robert thought. She was an amazing woman. Not comfortable to be married to, he didn’t envy his brother; but still, well – amazing.
They were standing on the steps of the Cheyne Walk house, together with Adele, Kit and Giles; the hansom cab had just arrived to take him to his appointment with misery on the high seas. He wasn’t sure if he could face coming again. It really did cast such a blight over everything, being so ill.
‘Now next time,’ Adele said, ‘bring Jamie with you. I’d adore to see him again. And even the wicked Laurence.’
‘Laurence isn’t exactly wicked – I don’t think,’ said Maud, ‘just difficult.’
‘So, what is your view of the situation now, sir?’ said Laurence. He always called Duke Carlisle ‘sir’, he responded well to such flattery. He looked at Duke now, so distinguished, so
old money, with his white hair and his long patrician nose; in some ways he seemed to sit rather uneasily in New York with all its brashness and energy. Leila suited it better; not that she was brash, rather the reverse, she had great class and immaculate taste. But – she liked to show it off; and there was no better place in the world for showing off than New York.
Duke smiled at him. ‘Did you move your money out?’ he asked.
‘Yes. Most of it’s gone.’
‘Good. God knows when this thing is going to explode, but the very fact that it’s all so volatile makes it ever more likely. There are certainly alarm bells sounding in more than a few breasts. The banks are borrowing heavily from the Federal reserve to carry the speculation. Just last week the borrowing increased by $64 million. Well, you’ll know that of course. That’s the kind of information that – well, let us say disturbs people. And look at that advertisement in the papers today. I expect you’ve seen it.’
‘You mean “Overstaying a bull market?” Of course. Very bold, I thought.’
‘Well, of course it’s a gimmick, it’s been put in by an investment service. But it will contribute to the faint sense of unease; the pack of cards will be given a tiny push. Now at the end, when – not if – the crash comes, all the usual things will happen; there will be bankers’ pools, as there was when your father so successfully stood against the tide, there will be foolish reassurances, there will be a rush to sell, there will be exhortations not to do so. People will be bombarded with advice, instruction, God and the President will be called upon to intervene, but the fact is that there is far too much stock out there worth far too little and the end result will undoubtedly be financial disaster on a huge scale.’
Laurence looked at him. ‘What have you been advising your clients to do?’
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