Something Dangerous

by Penny Vincenzi

  The publishing industry was becoming increasingly dependent on sales inducement; the Depression had hurt the book trade, people had less money to spend, bookshops, especially in the north, were suffering from rising rents and increased overheads. The book clubs, where people could obtain books at lower prices, and through instalment plans, the twopenny libraries, run through chains of tobacconists and stationers, the various book token schemes and the creation of the Readers Union, whereby readers were offered books in special editions at considerably reduced prices, all helped keep the public enjoying, and ultimately buying, books. It was Venetia who pushed through Lyttons’ involvement in the Union, pointing out to her father and to Giles, both firmly opposed to it, that they had enrolled 17,000 readers in the first year.

  Celia was fiercely proud of her, Oliver more grudgingly so, LM quietly pleased and Jay welcomed (as he put it) another positive Lytton ‘rather than people like your father and poor old Giles who spend their lives saying no’.

  But there was one person very unhappy with the set-up: Poor Old Giles.

  Helena was outraged, pacing the carpet all evening when he first told her about it, proclaiming the unfairness, the injustice of it, Celia’s autocracy within the firm, the complete lack of any true claim Venetia had to the job.

  ‘It’s monstrous, all she’s ever done is have children and give parties, what does your mother think she’s doing?’

  ‘God knows,’ said Giles wearily, ‘showing me she’s boss, I suppose, and less than happy with what I do. It’s my area, it could be argued, that Venetia’s moving into. But she’s had all this trouble with Boy and—’

  ‘I fail to see what that’s got to do with it.’

  ‘Well – she’s got this wretched divorce, and I suppose Mother thought this would distract her—’

  ‘I had thought Lyttons was a business, not an emotional convalescent home,’ said Helena savagely.

  Giles looked at her and, even in his misery, half smiled.

  ‘That’s awfully good,’ he said, ‘you ought to write something yourself, Helena.’

  ‘Oh, indeed. And what a good chance I’d have of it being published!’ said Helena.

  ‘You could go to another publisher.’

  ‘Giles, I don’t want to write a book. Thank you. The very thought sickens me. Have you told your father how unhappy you are about Venetia’s arrival?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Giles, ‘and he simply said that he thought I had too much on my plate and that the educational side, which I am at least fully responsible for, needs developing further. He has a point, there’s a fearfully nice woman called Una Dillon who’s opening a bookshop for university students and lecturers in Bloomsbury. I think we can do a lot with her – providing it lasts, of course.’

  Helena made the sound that meant she could stand the conversation no longer and went upstairs to the small room where increasingly these days she slept alone.

  Not again . . . oh, no, not again.

  Adele heaved herself out of bed and made the bathroom just in time. Five minutes later, she got wearily back into bed and collapsed on to the pillows. Three mornings running now: it had to be quite conclusive. God, it wasn’t fair. Just when everything was getting a bit better, when she was managing to do a little freelance work for Cedric and other photographers, leaving Noni with kind Mme André the concierge. It helped pay the bills and she enjoyed it, the release from the near drudgery of caring for a baby as well as Luc, on a budget in a small third-floor apartment that didn’t have central heating. Sometimes she looked back on her life at Cheyne Walk, with servants to attend to her every need, meals served in the dining room without any effort whatsoever, a chauffeur to drive her about if she didn’t want to use her own car, her own maid to see to her clothes, and found it hard to believe in any of it. Of course she wouldn’t have admitted it to anyone, that she found it so hard, and Luc thought she ought to be perfectly happy and of course she was, but he was out all day, doing his glamorous job for Constantine, lunching authors, meeting with editors, coming home exhausted to his très chère famille as he called them. While she had spent the day cleaning the apartment, shopping, cooking on the tiny stove, and of course caring for the small Oenone, washing her nappies with the help, or rather hindrance, of the evil geyser, sieving her food through the mouli légumes, pushing her in her perambulator through the Luxembourg Gardens.

  ‘Of course I’m madly happy,’ she said to Venetia firmly on a flying visit to London, the month-old Noni in a raffia carrycot, ‘and Luc is quite marvellous, but it is – hard. Very hard. I do get terribly tired. And a bit of help would be awfully welcome.’

  ‘I cannot imagine how you can possibly manage,’ said Venetia, ‘I remember needing a nanny and a maternity nurse even with Henry—’

  ‘Yes, well, I suppose you need what you can have,’ said Adele wearily. ‘Luckily Noni is very good, otherwise I’d go mad. At least I get some sleep at night.’

  ‘Poor angel. Come and stay with me for a few days, let Nanny take her over.’

  ‘I can’t this time. I might later on. I’ve come to cadge some stuff, some old cot sheets and things. I tell you, Venetia, my life now doesn’t seem to have much to do with le grand amour Luc was always talking about.’

  ‘Are you really hard up?’ She didn’t really need to ask this; she had seen the apartment, and even before Noni it had seemed unimaginably small.

  ‘Quite. Well you see, he still has to support his wife so there isn’t much over and—’

  ‘What about your allowance?’

  ‘Luc won’t let me touch it. We had quite a row about it.’

  ‘Bit old-fashioned. Especially if he can’t provide you with what you need.’

  ‘He can provide me with what I need,’ said Adele, ‘just not what I’d like. But I do sympathise really. He’s very proud and he wants to feel he’s supporting me and Noni.’

  ‘That’s such a sweet name.’

  ‘Isn’t it? He wanted French, I wanted English, so we compromised on Greek. Only of course then I found out there’s a character in Phedre, the nurse, called Oenone, so it’s more French than I’d hoped. Sometimes I wish I was a bit better read. Barty would have known that, wouldn’t she? Now I must fly, I promised Mummy I’d be at the house by six and she’s gone home specially. I’m longing to see her, she was really marvellous, you know, when Noni was born, shouted at the French doctors at the Clinique Sainte Félicité, made them let her stay with me, and then made them give me gas. They said it wasn’t necessary, that in France it was not the thing, and she said she didn’t care about France, in England it was very much the thing, and that I was to have it. You do have to admit that when you really need her, she’s always there.’

  ‘True,’ said Venetia.

  But it was on that visit that Adele quarrelled, almost fatally, with her mother.

  ‘Tell me, how is Luc, and how is his career? I believe Constantine are very pleased with him.’

  ‘They are, he should be promoted to the board soon. He is extremely clever, you know.’

  ‘I do know. I was always most impressed with him professionally. Is he getting on with the divorce yet?’

  ‘He can’t divorce his wife, Mummy, she’s a Catholic.’

  ‘Of course, I always forget, extraordinary really.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, that someone so passionately Jewish should marry a Catholic.’

  ‘I suppose it is a bit. But in a way the two religions work rather well, both very strict in their teaching, you’d be surprised. I like the Jewish faith, I must say, what I know of it, and their way of life, I’ve sometimes thought of converting.’

  ‘Oh darling, I shouldn’t do that. I believe it’s horribly complicated and you have to do all sorts of unpleasant things like fasting and not using electric light on Fridays.’

  ‘Mummy, you don’t know anything about it,’ said Adele laughing. ‘Luc isn’t an Orthodox Jew. But he does want Noni brought up one. He says one of th
e most important things about Judaism is that it exists, centres even, you could say, around the family.’

  ‘Most religions do that,’ said Celia, ‘the Church of England is very family-oriented.’

  ‘Mummy, it isn’t. The Friday meal, the shabbat dinner, when everyone gathers together and says prayers, that’s very special. I’ve been to Luc’s mother’s house for it, it’s wonderful. And there’s a special bond between all Jews, Luc says it’s the shared history of persecution—’

  ‘Oh no, not that again,’ said Celia with a sigh. ‘I hope he’s not still obsessed with the Germans and their persecution of the Jews—’

  ‘He’s not obsessed with it, it’s a fact,’ said Adele. She could feel herself growing hot. ‘I don’t see how you can deny it. It’s there, the facts are there.’

  ‘Adele, you forget, friends of mine went to the Olympic Games in Berlin. They said there was no sign whatsoever of any anti-semitism. Sixteen Jewish athletes won medals, in fact. It’s an absurd distortion of things. I do wish you would listen to me.’

  ‘I am listening and I can’t believe I’m hearing it,’ said Adele. ‘That was a very clever piece of propaganda on Hitler’s part—’

  ‘You’re not listening, Adele. The German people are very grateful to Hitler. I do not believe he intends anyone any harm. He has a huge following from decent, normal people who want their country to return to its pre-war glory. He’s a superb orator—’

  ‘Have you heard him?’ said Adele incredulously.

  ‘I have, yes,’ said Celia briefly.

  ‘You didn’t say—’

  ‘I – that is, your father would have been very unhappy about it. I would still prefer that he didn’t know of it. But yes, I was honoured to be invited once. It was marvellous, Adele, there were vast numbers of people there, and I cannot tell you how impressed I was with him. He speaks with passion about the love of their country living in the hearts of the people. What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘A lot,’ said Adele, ‘an awful lot. Haven’t you heard the things he says about the Jews? That they are a disease. That disabled and mentally ill people should be – well, murdered is the only word for it. Can’t you see what those floodlit rallies are that you admire so much, they’re mass-brainwashing. People carried away on a tide of emotion. It’s hideous.’

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ said Celia. ‘Tom Mosley says—’

  ‘Oh, spare me Tom Mosley. What about that fight in London at the end of last year, with the blackshirts and the police at each other’s throats—’

  ‘You’ve been listening to the wrong people as usual. It was the Jews and the Communists who created the disorder—’

  ‘The Jews! Mummy, there you go again. I can’t listen to this any longer, I’m sorry. In fact I don’t think I can stay here. Your granddaughter is half Jewish, I would remind you of that. When you extol Herr Hitler and his hideous carrying on, you’re extolling the man who would have your granddaughter removed.’

  She was crying now; Celia went over to her.

  ‘Adele—’

  ‘No, don’t. I really mean it, I find all this truly offensive. I think I’ll go back to Venetia for the night. Goodbye, Mummy. Please let me know when you change your mind about all this.’

  But that was a long way in the future.

  And now she was pregnant again.

  They were to have a rare treat that night: Mme André was babysitting, and they were going to a ballet at l’Opera, and then out to supper. It didn’t happen very often: Luc, who was out a great deal, taking authors to restaurants and cafés and even to the opera, liked to be quiet in the evening, couldn’t understand her desire to go out and see people. But tonight he had acquired some tickets to see Serge Lifar and Solange Schwarz dance La Sylphide; she had been longing for it for weeks. It was a pity she’d be feeling sick, of course but . . . and Luc would be in a good mood, he should take the news well . . .

  ‘Pregnant! But that is impossible!’

  ‘Luc, of course it’s not. We haven’t exactly been – abstaining—’

  ‘But – you are always so careful!’

  Her carefulness irritated him sometimes, he would complain that it destroyed spontaneity, that she could not possibly be as eager as he.

  ‘Well – not careful enough. Luc, don’t look like that, it’s supposed to be good news—’

  She smiled at him bravely: she didn’t feel that herself, but—

  ‘It is not good news, Adele. We have enough problems, Noni is only one year old, we don’t have very much money—’

  ‘Not my fault, Luc,’ Adele could feel herself growing angry, tearful, ‘anyway, if you’d only let me spend my allowance—’

  ‘Don’t mention that to me.’

  ‘But why not? When it would make all the difference.’

  ‘I will not have help from your father. It is an insult.’

  ‘Of course it’s not an insult. It’s just your absurd male pride.’

  ‘I am sorry that you should find me absurd.’

  ‘Oh Luc,’ said Adele wearily, ‘this isn’t doing us any good. I’m pregnant, we’re hard up, it’s not the end of the world, not the first time it’s happened. Aren’t you at all pleased?’

  ‘Are you?’

  She hesitated. He pounced.

  ‘There, you see. It is not a good thing. For any of us.’

  ‘Well, thank you for that, Luc.’ Adele stood up, waving the plate of food the waiter was proffering away. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to just get rid of it, this – this bad thing. I think I’ll go back to the apartment. If you don’t mind. I don’t see any point sitting here talking like this. Please don’t make a noise when you come in, Noni is cutting a tooth. I don’t expect you to be troubled with such trivia, but if she cries all night it might disturb you, make you too tired to do your important work tomorrow.’

  She cried herself to sleep and when Noni woke her at three, crying with pain from her tooth, Luc had still not come home.

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘The glittering society wedding took place yesterday between Mr Laurence Elliott, of Elliott House, Fifth Avenue, New York, and Miss—’

  Barty hurled the paper into a corner of the room; she couldn’t bear to read any more. Of course she was meant to, meant to read all of them, it was in all the papers, all the dailies, and he had had them delivered in a large parcel marked personal and confidential to her at Lytton House, Third Avenue.

  Three months earlier, there had been the engagement announcements and he had had those delivered to her as well; not only the formal announcements in the papers, in the New York Times, and the Times Herald and even the Wall Street Journal, but the fuller stories in the social papers and columns, pictures of the radiant bride to be, beaming at her fiancé. In the Southampton Times the picture had been taken on the verandah of South Lodge, the happy couple dressed in white slacks and blazer, ‘about to leave the south shore for an afternoon on Mr Elliott’s yacht Jeanette, named after his late beloved mother’. The Social Spectator had shown them in the indoor courtyard of Elliott House, while the Gazette had photographed them in the ballroom, ‘where the happy couple have already hosted several dazzling parties’.

  Well, they were welcome to one another, the happy couple, Barty had told herself then, and well-suited too; what fool of a girl would agree to marry a man after a six-week courtship, who, except a man seriously emotionally disturbed, would ask her while professing himself still passionately in love with someone else?

  It had been one of the many nightmare conversations between them: the last, in fact, or so she had hoped and prayed: when he had told her he was going to propose to Annabel Charlton that night, ‘Unless of course you choose to stop me.’

  She had no intention of stopping him, she said, and would have hoped indeed it would not be possible; but ‘Of course you can stop it,’ he said, ‘any moment. Just tell me not to, and that will be that.’

  ‘Laurence,’ she said and it took every ounce of willpower s
he had, ‘I wouldn’t dream of telling you anything at all and certainly not what to do about your personal life. I hope that you and Annabel will be very happy. Good afternoon.’

  But it had not been the last conversation; there had been another, the night before the wedding.

  ‘I still love you, Barty. I will cancel this whole thing tomorrow if you say so. It’s you I want to marry.’

  She had put the phone down.

  She stared at the wedding photographs, at Laurence, superbly handsome in what the Americans called his cutaway – his morning dress – and Annabel, simpering in a tiered concoction of lace, a tiara – what would Celia have to say about that, Barty wondered with a stab of malice – in her dark hair. The ceremony had taken place at St Patricks – the bride was Catholic – and the reception at the bride’s home in Carnegie Hill had been a formal wedding breakfast for six hundred. The honeymoon was to take place in Venice.

  Venice: that hurt. Laurence had promised to take her there, it was to have been their first stop on the European tour they were to share. She felt her eyes sting. She must cling to the thought that she was extremely fortunate never to have married him. That she had realised the full extent of his instability, and that the original instinct which had told her that to marry him was dangerous and wrong for her, had been correct.

  But – it had all been very dreadful. Painful beyond anything she could have imagined.

  She had refused to give an answer to his proposal for several weeks; dazzled by love for him, and – and she would hardly have been human had this not been at least a factor, however small – and the prize he had offered her. A half share in Lyttons New York! Even as she lay awake that first night, tossing and turning, absolutely unable to sleep, she remembered his words, his theory about everyone having a price. Was she really so mercenary, so ambitious, that she would accept such a gift? Could she accept it, what would the Lyttons say, Celia and Wol – and Giles of course? How could she face them, having become at a stroke their equal, or at least something close to it, in a position of power, not through earning it, but through marrying someone rich and powerful? Becoming the kind of person she least approved of? And then as the dawn broke, she found her mind reflecting treacherously on the undoubted and wicked delight of that: of Barty, the foundling, the poor little girl from the slums, come to possess such power.