Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  But he knew the answer, of course: he was, within his marriage to this paragon, very lonely. He could not talk properly to Venetia, he could only share a very few pleasures with her, she did not understand what he wanted to do, she had never shown any interest in helping him to find what that might be. Everyone thought Boy was a playboy, self-indulgent, self-seeking, but that was not quite true. He had been born to great wealth and yet to great emotional deprivation; his parents had never shown the slightest interest in him, or in helping him to develop intellectually or, indeed, in any way at all.

  He was extremely clever, and very artistic, he could have turned his talents to many things; but without guidance in his early years, his self-indulgent tendencies had overcome any more worthy ones, and his charm and his gift for friendship, his talent for attracting women, combined with his large personal fortune, had dispatched him straight into the role of playboy. And then at the age of twenty-three he had found himself trapped in a marriage he would probably not have chosen and was certainly not ready for.

  Boy’s enemies, or rather his detractors, he had very few enemies, would have mocked the notion of a desire to find himself and to do something useful or at least interesting with his life; Lady Celia Lytton, despite her early disapproval of him, was one of the few people to recognise that. She had been opposed to the marriage for many reasons, but one of the more potent was that she knew Venetia was in no way a satisfactory intellectual companion for him.

  She was saddened by Venetia’s distress and at the affair, but she was hardly surprised by it; indeed she was forced to admit that Abbie Clarence was a very compatible partner for Boy. It had been she who had encouraged him to open his auction house, she who had introduced him to several young artists for the gallery, she who had told him quite forcibly that a man of his intelligence and talents should not be spending his days on the golf course or at the races. She had been, in fact, and in many ways, more of a wife and certainly more of a companion, to him than Venetia had; and Celia found it hard not to feel at least some sympathy for him. She was not prepared to admit it to him; but she did, in the end, agree to ask Venetia to reconsider her demands for a divorce.

  ‘I’ve given Abbie up, of course, completely, I shall never see her again. I know it’s probably too late, but if you could only try to persuade Venetia that I do love her. In my own way. And I don’t want to lose her or the children.’

  Celia said she would do what she could, while thinking there was very little prospect of the marriage continuing, and then asked him if Barty had had any idea of the liaison. Boy said he was absolutely certain that she had not.

  ‘I’m so glad,’ she said later to Oliver. ‘I would really have hated to think she was party to it in any way. It would be so absolutely out of character.’

  Celia was right: Venetia was adamant. She wanted a divorce and as quickly as possible and she refused to consider any alternative.

  ‘If it wasn’t for the children, I would like never to see Boy again as long as I live. I certainly never want him in my house again. I can’t bear even to think about what’s been going on over the last four years. He’s an absolute brute and I hate him. I just want the marriage to be over. Fast.’

  Celia had thought this might drive Boy back to Abbie Clarence; but it did not. He remained true to his word. That relationship was over for him as well.

  ‘I feel desperately sorry for Venetia,’ Celia said to her mother as they lunched one day, ‘but I have to admit to a certain sympathy for Boy as well.’

  Lady Beckenham smiled at her: an odd, rather cool smile.

  ‘My dear Celia,’ she said, ‘I wouldn’t expect anything else. From you.’

  The night before they were due to leave for Ashingham, Izzie couldn’t sleep. It was too hot and she was too excited. Her case, carefully packed, was in the corner of her room; the clothes she was to wear for the journey lay on the chair. Kit had told her – tossing the almost unbearably exciting information at her casually – that she would be able to ride the twins’ old pony while they were at Ashingham, and Nanny had taken her to Daniel Neals and bought her some jodhpurs and jodhpur boots and some white cotton aertex shirts. She had also bought her some shorts, on Lady Beckenham’s instructions, and some wellington boots – ‘She needs to be able to muck about in streams and things, and her father will probably make a fuss if she spoils her nice things.’

  Two whole weeks with Kit: in the country. She could hardly bear it, it was such a wonderful prospect. Playing outside, all the time, allowed to make a noise, and she would meet Billy, Barty’s brother. Barty had told her all about Billy, he only had one leg but he could ride even the wildest horses. And one of the weekends Jay had promised to come down and see them. She loved Jay, he was such fun, and he’d promised to give her riding lessons too.

  ‘And I’ll show you how to drive a tractor. Only don’t tell my mother.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  They were to be driven down by Daniels, ‘but when we get there I’m going to do some driving,’ said Kit casually to Izzie, ‘just around the estate. Grandmama says it’s high time I learned. She’s going to give me a couple of lessons. Only don’t tell mother.’

  ‘Of course I won’t.’

  Heaven itself could surely not be as wonderful as the two weeks that lay ahead of her.

  That afternoon her father had come to visit her in the nursery while she ate her tea.

  ‘I hope you’ll behave yourself at Ashingham,’ he said abruptly.

  ‘I will, Father.’

  ‘Do exactly what Lady Beckenham tells you. And Kit of course.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And don’t go falling out of any trees.’

  ‘No. I won’t.’

  This was the first time he had shown the slightest concern over anything she did; she felt encouraged.

  ‘Thank you very much again for letting me go, Father,’ she said, ‘I’m so looking forward to it.’

  ‘That’s perfectly all right, Isabella,’ he said, and walked out of the room.

  She looked now at the clock: the small hand was only at two. It was a very long time till morning; how was she going to get through it? She had once tried reading when she couldn’t sleep, but Nanny had been terribly cross and told her she would ruin her eyes and she’d tell her father if it happened again. It was too much of a risk, they might even now stop her going if they were cross with her.

  But she was so so thirsty. She would just have to get a drink. The water in the nursery bathroom was a bit warm, but it was better than nothing. Cautiously, she crept out of bed and opened her door; the house was in darkness and very still. She went into the bathroom: there was no cup there, not even a tooth mug. She tried drinking out of the tap but it was very unsatisfactory. Surely no one would mind if she went downstairs and got a cup from the kitchen?

  There was a full moon; she could see easily on the wide staircase. She walked down it very quietly; and then in the hall stopped. There it was: the awful, dreadful noise. Her father. Crying. Quite quietly, but on and on. She stood there not knowing what to do. She couldn’t go in to him, he would be so angry. But – it was so dreadful. Such an awful, sad noise. And then – it got worse. He said something. Aloud. Maybe there was someone in there with him. Maybe he had a friend after all. No one ever came to the house usually, no grown-ups, anyway, except Lady Celia, of course; but maybe they came at night. When she was asleep.

  She stood there, hardly breathing, terrified to move; and then he spoke again, through the crying.

  ‘Oh Pandora,’ he said, ‘whatever would you make of me now?’

  Not a friend, then: he was talking to her mother. Her mother, who had died when she was born. And then he started the crying again.

  This was terrible. Awful. Izzie felt her own eyes fill with tears; sorrow for her father was suddenly stronger than her fear. Quickly, before she could lose courage, she ran across the hall, tapped on the study door.

  ‘Who’s that?’ T
he voice was angry, rough.

  ‘It’s me, Father.’

  ‘Go back to bed at once. What on earth are you doing up?’

  ‘I was thirsty.’ Another surge of courage; she pushed open the door. He was sitting at his desk, his arms folded in front of him. She could see he had been crying a lot; his face was streaked and his eyes looked red and sore. There was a glass half full of something, some grown-up drink on the desk in front of him and a bottle beside it, in front of the photograph of her mother. She knew it was her mother although her father had never told her, of course, had never ever mentioned her; but Kit had, and Barty had shown her pictures of the person, the beautiful person who she had never known and who they had told her she so exactly looked like and would have liked to have known so much.

  ‘I said go back to bed.’

  ‘I – heard you crying.’

  ‘Oh you did?’ He was scowling at her.

  ‘Yes. And I was sorry for you.’

  ‘Indeed? Well—’

  ‘And I heard you talking to – to my mother.’

  ‘To your mother? Did you now? Well, sadly not, Isabella, I would have been talking to her in person, if it wasn’t—’ He stopped.

  ‘If it wasn’t what?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said with a sigh, ‘no, I won’t say it. You wouldn’t understand. Go back to bed, Isabella, please.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I said go back to bed.’

  She knew she was defeated. But she stood her ground. ‘I’m very sorry, Father. That you’re so unhappy.’

  ‘Well – thank you for that,’ he said politely.

  Encouraged, she decided to go on: to say something that might please him, make him feel better.

  ‘I do love the books,’ she said, ‘your books.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Kit reads them to me. They’re so exciting and so special. And I love all the creatures.’

  He was silent.

  ‘The special creatures, I mean. The swimming cows I like best, and the flying fish. I wish I could see them really.’

  Still no answer. But he was looking at her less angrily now; she went on.

  ‘I was thinking, what if they came to this land. Just for a day. And met ordinary cows? How special that would be.’

  ‘What did you say?’ he said, and although he was still scowling at her, he didn’t sound quite so angry.

  ‘I said,’ she said, only half aware that this was the first proper conversation she had ever had with him, ‘I said how good it would be if your creatures came to England, and to our time, for just a day. And our cows saw your cows swimming. What they would think. If our cows would try to swim—’

  He said nothing; she decided to go on.

  ‘And the flying fish. What swimming fish would think of them. And then the two sorts of time, ours and theirs, I thought what if they got mixed up—’

  There was a long silence; she felt quite frightened. Had she made him so angry he’d never speak to her again? She should have left at once, when he first told her and—

  ‘Please go to bed,’ he said finally. ‘I need peace and quiet to work, not a lot of silly nonsense from you.’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, Father,’ she said and turned to the door; and then, because she felt she had become just a little closer to him, and because he had been so very upset, and although it seemed unlikely that might be the reason for it, she said, ‘Father, if you really don’t want me to go to the country, I will stay here.’

  He looked at her in complete silence, not moving; she stood there, meeting his gaze very steadily. And seeing it all fading away, the wonderful holiday, the two weeks with Kit and the pony riding and the streams and the blackberry picking and helping on the farm, all gone from her. She looked at it, and at him, rather helplessly, not knowing what to do, wondering what he was going to say, if the words ‘yes, I want you to stay here’ were going to come, and how bad it would be for her, if she had to hear them.

  But ‘Of course I want you to go,’ he said, and even through the flood of her relief she felt a twinge of disappointment that what he really wanted was to be rid of her, that he didn’t want her with him, ‘what on earth would be the point of your staying here?’

  ‘I don’t know, Father. I just thought—’

  ‘Well you can stop thinking. Now run along to bed. It’s very late.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I know. It’s about two o’clock.’

  ‘You can tell the time?’

  ‘Only half of it,’ she said, ‘only the little hand.’

  ‘What a lot I don’t know about you,’ he said quite quietly, and then sat staring at her and she could see he wasn’t seeing her, he was looking past her into some sad, difficult place.

  ‘Good night, Father.’

  ‘Good night, Isabella.’

  She went back to bed and lay awake for a while, thinking about him, about how unhappy he was and how angry and worrying that she must be the cause of it; and if there was anything at all she could do to make him forgive her. And finally deciding that there was not.

  CHAPTER 21

  She kept crying: on and on. She just couldn’t stop. It was unlike her. Unexpected. She didn’t usually cry at all. Certainly not uncontrollably, like this. She supposed it must be—

  ‘Adele, what is it?’

  Damn. Her mother. The last person she would have wanted with her, the last person whose advice she would welcome.

  ‘It’s – nothing,’ she said, sitting up, blowing her nose hard. ‘Nothing important. Go back to bed, Mummy, I’m sorry I woke you.’

  ‘You didn’t. I was seeing to your father. Now come along, we’d better discuss this. Are you going to tell me about it or not?’

  Adele was silent, wiping her eyes, feeling the tears begin again, unstoppable.

  ‘Very well,’ said Celia. ‘I’d better begin, I think. You’re pregnant, aren’t you?’

  Adele stared at her, her sobs halted. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, Adele, really.’ Celia sat down on the bed, took one of Adele’s hands. ‘Do credit me with a little sense. Did you really think I wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t know? I’m your mother. Not a very maternal one, perhaps, but still your mother. And I have been pregnant a few times myself.’ She sighed. ‘I don’t know quite where I’ve gone wrong. Both of you so unhappy. Not just one, but two of you getting pregnant out of wedlock.’

  ‘Mummy’ – Adele managed to half smile at her – ‘we do know about you, remember.’

  Celia ignored her. ‘Anyway, what is to be done? I presume it’s Mr Lieberman’s?’

  ‘Of course. And what’s to be done is this. I’m going to Switzerland tomorrow. Not Paris, that was a lie. Sorry, Mummy. Anyway, it’s to – to get rid of it.’

  ‘I see,’ said Celia quietly. ‘And what does he have to say about that?’

  ‘He doesn’t know.’

  ‘He doesn’t know? Does he know you’re pregnant?’

  ‘Yes, and he was vile about it. Furious, no concern for me or the baby, just – horrible.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ said Celia.

  ‘Oh Mummy! That’s a bit harsh. Why do you say that? Just because he’s foreign, I suppose. And – and Jewish.’

  ‘Adele, that is most unfair. I have absolutely no prejudice against either foreigners or Jews. I don’t know where this – this idea came from.’

  ‘Things you’ve said, I imagine,’ said Adele briefly.

  ‘Then you misunderstood me. Seriously. The only quarrel I have with Luc Lieberman, and it is a serious one, is his treatment of you. He has taken advantage of you in the most appalling way; he’s much older than you, I imagine he is your first lover’ – she looked at Adele quizzically; she nodded – ‘so he seduced you. And then did nothing for you. Nothing at all. Just allowed you to squander your youth and talent on him, in return for a bit of sex. Which no doubt was extremely pleasurable.’

  ‘Mummy, really—’

  ‘Oh, come al
ong, Adele. This is an adult conversation we are having. And an important one. Nevertheless, I cannot tell you how wrong I consider it for you to get rid of this child without his knowledge.’

  ‘But why? He doesn’t want it.’

  ‘He doesn’t think he wants it. He was no doubt immensely shocked. It’s always a shock for any man, they never expect it, it’s extraordinary. Your father was always absolutely astonished when I told him I was pregnant.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. But – however badly Lieberman has behaved, he does deserve to know what you are going to do.’

  ‘He won’t care.’

  ‘Adele, he almost certainly will. The paternal instinct is surprisingly strong. The urge to protect the female and care for the young.’

  ‘I saw very little sign of it in Luc,’ said Adele and she started to cry again. Celia leaned forward and pushed back her hair, wiped her tears away. Adele, absolutely unused to any kind of tenderness from her mother smiled at her rather uncertainly.

  ‘I told you,’ said Celia. ‘He was shocked. Whatever he felt when you told him, it will have changed. He will be feeling quite differently now.’

  Adele was silent; then she said, ‘But Mummy, he can’t marry me. He won’t marry me. I know that. He’s told me so many times. And I don’t want to have to bring up a baby on my own. It’s not fair on anyone, least of all the baby.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. And if he really continues to display a lack of concern and interest, then I might well advise you to have this termination.’

  ‘You would?’

  ‘I said I might. I have no moral objections to it. It’s certainly the sensible thing to do. But I would warn you, Adele, you will be dreadfully unhappy. For a long time. And you will carry the guilt for the rest of your life. It’s a very harsh thing for a woman to do, you know, to have an abortion. It’s not a simple operation, not like taking out an appendix. That’s a child you’ve got there. Don’t think you’ll feel fine when it’s all over, that you can put it behind you, forget about it. You can’t.’