But when she walked past it several hours later, on her way out to her evening shift, it was still there. Elise sighed; she felt very responsible, having signed for it. She picked it up and looked at it, half tempted to open it: only that would hardly do any good. Maybe she should just push it under Barty’s door and try to forget about it. And then she saw a car she recognised, a large black Packard parked in the small street below the house. It belonged to Barty’s gentleman-friend, the one she was so unforthcoming about: Elise had often seen the car (and its stable-mate a white Studebaker), driven sometimes by a uniformed chauffeur, sometimes by an incredibly handsome man with reddish blond hair, had often watched Barty jumping into it, giving the young man a kiss, had occasionally arrived home from the factory at the same time as it dropped Barty off. There was no mistaking it, or indeed that day the handsome man: far better to give the cable to him than leave it to lie unseen in the house.
Laurence responded rather reluctantly to the tapping on his window. He had seen her before, a rather wispy, tired little woman in old-fashioned clothes; Barty had said she was sweet and occasionally chatted to her. Yet another irritating claim on her time and attention.
‘Yes?’ he said, winding down the window.
‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘but I recognised the car, I’ve seen it before. You’re a friend of Barty Miller’s, aren’t you?’
Laurence nodded.
‘I’m Elise Curtis. I live in the house too. This came for her.’ The woman produced a cable from her bag. ‘I signed for it this morning. I just wanted to make sure she got it, I’m away now for a couple of days and there’s no one else in the house and I don’t like to leave it lying around. Could you be sure to give it to her, it just has to be important.’
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ said Laurence impatiently, ‘just give it to me and run along.’
He often spoke to people he considered his inferiors as if they were children.
When Elise had gone, he sat looking at the cable. It must be important; people didn’t send cables in order to comment on the weather. He wondered if it was seriously bad news, if perhaps her adoptive mother or whatever Celia Lytton was, had died or was even extremely ill. If she was, it would mean he would lose Barty for several weeks. She would go rushing off to England on the first boat; at best she would be anxious all weekend, distracted, wondering whether she should have gone, asking him constantly what he thought she should do. It would spoil the whole weekend; the precious, important weekend.
After a few minutes, Laurence, with infinite care and using a paper knife that he kept in the car, eased the envelope open. It was easy; these envelopes were not designed for close sealing.
He was half relieved at the message it contained: ‘Wol in hospital after stroke. Not fatal, but please cable back. Cable also sent to Lyttons NY. Love Giles.’
Not so serious; not a death, not even a fatal illness. Oliver would almost certainly recover from the stroke. And even if he didn’t make a full recovery, then he was clearly not going to die. So there was plenty of time for Barty to decide what she wanted to do. But – just the same. It would spoil the weekend. Laurence sat looking at the cable and thinking; until Barty appeared, smiling and flushed, tapping on the window.
‘Still nothing from Barty?’ said Celia as Giles came into Oliver’s room. ‘I don’t understand it. Maybe she didn’t get your cable. Where did you send it?’
‘I sent two. To Lyttons and to her private address,’ said Giles.
‘Well she must have got it. How extraordinary. Maybe she’s away.’
‘How could she be away? It’s a working day in New York.’
He was almost relieved at Barty’s apparently uncaring behaviour; his mother was clearly upset by it. Perfect Barty, behaving badly: relieving him of his role as the only villain of the piece.
He pulled himself together, shocked at himself: his father was what mattered, not his mother’s attitude to him.
‘How is Father?’ he asked.
‘There’s no change,’ said Celia. She sounded exhausted, but absolutely calm. She appeared not to have moved, she was still sitting by Oliver, holding his hand.
‘Would you like a rest, Mother?’ said Giles. ‘Would you like to go home perhaps, for a while. I can stay here—’
Celia looked at him as if he had suggested she took a long vacation while Oliver lay in his coma.
‘Of course I don’t want to go home. I shall stay here until your father recovers consciousness. However long that may be. You could ask for some more tea for me, Giles, if you like.’
‘Yes, of course. Where’s Venetia?’
‘She’s had to go home briefly, to see to Amy. She’s running a temperature, Nanny was worried. She’ll be back shortly. And she’s going to bring Kit with her. Poor chap, he’ll be so upset. And Adele should be here by about ten.’
‘Helena sent her – best wishes,’ said Giles awkwardly. He found it difficult even to mention Helena to his mother, when she had been – albeit unknowingly – responsible for the row that had brought about his father’s collapse.
‘How very kind,’ said Celia.
‘She would have come of course. To see Father. But I thought it better not.’
‘Very much better. Yes indeed.’
‘Can I get you a cushion or something? Make you more comfortable?’
‘I’m perfectly comfortable, thank you. Giles, do go and order that tea. I’m extremely thirsty. And then settle down and stop fidgeting for heaven’s sake.’
Giles sighed. It was going to be a long night.
Despite her fear about her father, Adele found the flight home from Paris fascinating enough to distract her. It was the first time she had been in a plane and she was enchanted by the whole experience, she felt she was taking part in some film: the walk across the runway and up the steps into the plane, being ushered to her seat, the close resemblance of the interior to a railway carriage, complete with open meshwork luggage racks and white linen headrests, the apparent magic of the take-off, the effortless rise into the sky, watching the ground disappearing below her, the shrinking trees and houses, the roads converted into toy tracks carrying toy cars; and then the wonder and beauty of the great landscape of clouds they rode through. It all seemed to her rather surreal, and still more so when a waiter, dressed in short white jacket and black trousers, offered her a meal from a trolley, covered in silver salvers that would have been more at home in the Savoy or the Ritz than hundreds of feet up in the air. She shook her head, at once too excited and too distressed to eat, but took a glass of rather warm champagne and then wished she hadn’t, for by the time they were landing – more disturbing, less magical than the take-off – she had a headache and felt sick.
The plane had landed in Croydon, the airfield that supplied London; she was standing rather dejectedly in the arrival hall, wondering quite how to get to central London, how much a taxi might cost and whether she had anything like enough money, when she heard Boy’s voice.
‘Adele, darling, hallo. Lovely to see you. Come along, this way. I’ve got my car.’
‘Oh Boy, how sweet of you. Such a long way—’
‘Well, there wasn’t an awful lot I could do. Getting you to your father seemed rather more useful than standing around in a hospital corridor.’
‘You’re an angel.’
‘I’m afraid not,’ he said and his voice was surprisingly heavy; Adele looked at him curiously, but he smiled at her quickly. ‘Come on. It’s a bit of a journey, we’d better get going.’
‘How – how is Daddy?’
‘No change, I’m afraid. But they’re hopeful.’
‘I just couldn’t bear it if—’ said Adele, and burst into tears for the first time since she had got the telephone call.
‘Darling, don’t. He’ll be all right, he’s very strong, beneath that frail exterior. He hasn’t survived over thirty years of living with your mother for nothing.’
Adele smiled, blew her nose, followed him obedi
ently to the car.
‘Any news from Barty?’
‘No, none, apparently. It’s so unlike her, and apparently she’s bound to have got the cable. Everyone is very surprised.’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at all surprised,’ said Maud. She was clearly upset, pacing up and down Felicity’s drawing room. ‘She is just not the person she used to be. And who could wonder at it. With his influence. I simply don’t understand. What can we all do? Daddy, are you going to go over to London?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Robert, ‘it’s so difficult to say. I did manage to get through to the house, but I only spoke to the butler, there was no one else there. Celia was at the hospital and so was Kit. He, Brunson that is, said there was no change. Oh, dear, it’s so difficult. It’s such a long journey, and by the time I get there, he may be quite recovered. Or—’
‘No, not or,’ said Maud, ‘don’t look like that, Daddy. Wol is very strong, he’ll be all right. I think we should both go. But – perhaps we should wait for some kind of news. Before – yes, Gina?’
‘Telephone, Miss Maud. It’s Mr Jamie.’
‘Oh – good. Jamie? Hallo, yes, thank you for calling. I wanted you to know that Wol – Daddy’s brother Oliver – has had a stroke. Yes, it is terribly upsetting. We don’t know quite how bad it is yet. What? Yes, of course Barty’s been notified. Only she hasn’t responded. What? Well of course she knows, she was sent two cables, one to Lyttons and one to her apartment. No, I haven’t tried telephoning her apartment, as a matter of fact. We’re not on the best of terms. I suppose she could be out of town but – what? Oh, I see. Well that is just – oh, for heaven’s sake. Why don’t we just write her off altogether, pretend she’s not even a member of this family. Which she isn’t, actually, after all. Yes of course I’ll tell Daddy.’
She put down the phone; she was very pale as she looked at her father.
‘Apparently darling Barty was lunching with Laurence today. At the Colony. Long after she would have got the news. Someone saw her there and told Jamie. Obviously she’s very upset indeed about Wol. Come on, Daddy, let’s see what we can find out about passages to England. That’ll give us something to do. If only, if only one could fly. They say next year it might be possible.’
Venetia was waiting for Adele in the reception area of the hospital; she threw her arms round her and hugged her.
‘I’m so so glad you’re here.’
‘Boy’s been so kind. Is there any—’
‘No, nothing yet.’
‘No improvement at all?’
‘None. But no worse. It’s time that’s the crucial thing, they say. The longer he’s unconscious, the worse it is.’
‘Is Mummy—’
‘Of course. Absolutely all the time. Hasn’t left him once.’
‘They’re extraordinary, aren’t they? Still so—’
‘I know. What would she do without—’
‘Don’t even think that,’ said Adele sharply, ‘it isn’t going to happen. Can I see him?’
‘Of course. The worst thing that will happen is Mummy getting cross with you. She’s been biting poor Giles’s head off.’
‘Is Helena—’
‘No, thank goodness. Poor Giles, he’s in a fearful state. Apparently he had a huge argument with both of them just before it happened. He thinks it’s all his fault—’
‘Poor Giles.’
‘However many times do we say that in a week?’ said Venetia and giggled weakly. She turned to Boy who was standing a few yards away, leafing through the paper.
‘Boy, you may as well go. There’s no point everyone being here. I’ll – I’ll call you if anything happens.’
‘Shall I take Kit back with me, do you think? He seems pretty upset, and he’s a bit young to be hanging around here all night.’
‘Yes, what a good idea. I’m sure he’ll go with you, he’s so fond of you. Yes, go and ask him, would you?’
He nodded, kissed her briefly; she returned the kiss then watched him walk away, her face oddly hard. Adele looked at her curiously.
‘Is anything – has anything—’
‘Oh – no,’ Venetia smiled at her quickly. ‘No, nothing. Just – just a bit of a feeling, that’s all.’
‘What, you mean—’
‘No, well, yes. That is – oh, I don’t know. Come on, let’s go and see Daddy. I’ll talk to you later. I’m afraid there’ll be lots of time.’
‘Oh, Laurence, it’s so beautiful here.’
Barty sighed with pleasure, looking out across the South Shore of Long Island at the great rolling breakers cutting into the white sand; the sun was dropping with dazzling splendour into the sea and behind them the stars were beginning to cut into the dark turquoise of the evening sky. ‘You must love it so much.’
‘I do. It’s the one place in the world where I feel properly safe.’
‘Oh Laurence,’ she said smiling, slipping her arm through his, reaching up to kiss him gently, ‘you are a poor tortured soul. How can you possibly not feel safe? You with all your money, all your success—’
‘Very easily. You probably can’t imagine what it’s like to have no one to love you.’
‘Of course I can. Don’t be absurd, you know—’
‘You always had your mother. You knew she loved you. And your Aunt Celia—’
‘Aunt Celia didn’t exactly love me. I don’t think so, anyway,’ said Barty carefully. ‘Wol did, he was my only friend really for years and years, so sweet and kind and gentle. And one night – well, I don’t know what I would have done without him—’
‘What night was that?’ asked Laurence curiously.
‘Oh – I’ll tell you another time. Maybe. When I know you much, much better—’
‘You do know me. Better than anyone ever has—’
‘Well it’s not enough,’ said Barty lightly, ‘not for that conversation. Come on let’s go in, I’m getting cold. Shall I make dinner? That’d be fun.’
‘Of course you can’t make dinner,’ said Laurence, ‘it’s been ready for hours. Don’t be absurd. When are you going to drop this poor little working girl act, Barty, and—’
‘It’s not an act,’ said Barty indignantly. ‘I am a working girl. Maybe not poor, but certainly not rich.’
‘Yes, all right, all right.’ His voice was clipped, almost ill-tempered.
‘Do you really want to make me happy?’ Barty said, turning to walk back across the great lawn towards the house.
He said nothing; she looked up at him, at his face, heavily brooding. She reached up and kissed him.
‘Dismiss the staff and let me cook dinner tomorrow night. Please. I’d so love it.’
‘You’re mad,’ he said, giving her one of his rare, reluctant smiles, ‘quite, quite mad. Yes, all right, if that’s what you want.’
‘It is. It really is. I’d like it more than anything.’
‘Anything?’ he said and his face wore the oddly intense expression that she had come to know: and to know its meaning.
She smiled and reached up to kiss him.
‘Not quite anything, no,’ she said.
They went upstairs quite soon after dinner, Laurence leading her by the hand, both of them equally impatient, longing to be in bed.
His room was huge, the full width of the great house: ‘Have you ever thought of maybe doing things on a slightly smaller scale?’ said Barty, looking round it in wonder, a great light space, with the bed set on a low platform at one side, the outside wall entirely glass, walls, curtains, linen, carpeting all white, the only colour some huge abstract canvases in blues and greens on the walls, echoing the colours of the sea. She went over to the window, looked out at the sea; Laurence followed her, slid one of the glass panels back and she stepped out on to the balcony. The moon was high now on the sea and there was a light wind, salty and sweet, and the sea grasses on the dunes sang and rustled through the silence: ‘It’s so beautiful,’ she said, ‘so lovely. If I were you I would never leave it.’
‘Yes you would,’ he said, and this time his voice was light, amused, ‘you’d be off to your wretched job the moment Monday dawned.’ There was a silence; then he said, ‘wait there’ and came back holding a package.
‘This is for you,’ he said, ‘to mark today, to mark your being here.’
Barty looked at him, looked down at the package and waited a moment, then slowly, almost thoughtfully opened it, pulled out the pearls and held them up in the moonlight.
‘How lovely they are,’ she said very quietly, ‘how perfectly lovely. Thank you, Laurence, so much. I love them. Will you put them on?’
‘On one condition,’ he said, his face very serious, ‘that I may take everything else off.’
It was this moment Barty loved: the intense anticipation of sex, when she was so hungry for him, so eager. She lay there in the great white bed watching him, waiting for him, her mind fierce, concentrated on him and the pleasure to come. She had been surprised, sweetly shocked, by how much she enjoyed making love with him, by the ferocious sensations, the sheer wanton greed of her responses. She had expected it to take time, to have to learn to respond, but it was as if he knew her body absolutely, every fragment and movement of it, as if he had been intimate with it always: the pure fierce joy he had evoked in her had been at once almost more than she could bear. But that night seemed somehow a new beginning and as she took him into herself she found new, dark, untravelled depths of sensation, opening, easing, ceasing, waiting, opening again for an endless time, and then the slow, sweet climb into a brightness and a brilliance and a great taut agony of pleasure and then, then the piercing, rippling, billowing pleasure, reaching through the brightness and into release.
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