‘You can’t, I’m afraid. No one can save anyone from life. She is the dearest girl, though. My children absolutely adore her. I suppose she’s doing terribly well at school?’
‘Terribly well,’ said Sebastian, ‘and that’s another thing, she’s terribly ambitious. Always a danger, especially in a woman. It leads inevitably to trouble in my observation.’
‘What does she want to do?’
‘Oh—all sorts of desperate things. Run her own publishing company. Have her own school in the slums of London, bringing joy and enlightenment to deprived children. Write Nobel-prize-winning novels...’
‘It all sounds quite harmless to me,’ said Adele laughing. ‘Goodness, she and Kit adore each other. I mean she’s always loved him, but it’s certainly mutual these days. They spent absolutely hours, days on end, in the holidays, just talking and laughing, going for long walks, and she reads to him endlessly. I’d say you might have trouble on your hands there in a year or two, Sebastian.’
‘Oh nonsense,’ he said lightly, ‘it’s just a brother and sister thing, for heaven’s sake.’
‘We-ell. Yes, of course, at the moment. But I’d say there’s a case of puppy love developing in a big way. Kit’s very young for his age, don’t forget. He’s only had one important girlfriend ever and I’m sure he’s never slept with anyone. Sorry, Sebastian, it’s this lovely wine talking. You look quite shocked.’
He did for a moment: drawn and startled. Then, ‘No, no,’ he said, smiling easily at her again. ‘No, Adele, nothing can shock me. Now then, have another glass of the lovely wine, and then I’ll run you home. I presume you’re staying at Cheyne Walk? Your mother will be wondering what’s happened to you.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Adele laughing, ‘she’ll just assume I’m working at my job, you can practically hear the inverted commas when she uses the word, she disapproves of it so much.’
‘She’s a very silly woman at times,’ said Sebastian, ‘dearly as I love her.’
‘Brave words!’ said Adele.
‘Come along, darling. Let’s go. And don’t think too harshly of Barty. I would hate to see a family feud developing.’
‘Oh, of course there won’t be,’ said Adele. ‘You need something dangerous in a family’s history surely, to create a feud. We may all be a bit – mad in our different ways, but there are no dark secrets to rise up and divide us.’
‘Well that’s good to know,’ said Sebastian lightly.
CHAPTER 41
‘Bad news, I’m afraid. He’s died.’
The voice was so brisk, so matter of fact, that Celia could not relate it to a human tragedy.
‘Who’s died, Mama?’
‘Beckenham, of course. Who did you think I meant?’
How dreadful in that first pre-grief shock to want to laugh; to say she had thought it must be a horse or a dog.
She did in fact smile; then felt her mouth start to quiver, felt the tears rise into her eyes, sat down suddenly, dizzy and disorientated. Her father: dead. Her immortal father, so old, so brave, so sadly deprived of the final glory of his life, an invasion of Ashingham. Her fine, good-looking, sweet-natured, badly behaved father. A lifetime of courage and hard work and loyalty to king and country and pursuit of pretty women finally over.
‘Oh Mama,’ she said, ‘Mama, I’m so sorry. When, how, I mean—’
‘Oh, just about an hour ago,’ said Lady Beckenham, in the same brisk tone. ‘Silly old fool, it was his own fault. Went out to check the defences last night. I told him not to, it was pouring with rain, and he slipped and fell, knocked himself out. Shepard brought him in, God knows how he managed it, I thought he was going to die as well. Anyway, your father never recovered consciousness. We got the doctor of course, severe concussion followed by a stroke, he said. He wanted to take him to hospital, I said he was doing no such thing, I wasn’t going to have Beckenham dying in some horrible place surrounded by a lot of ghastly people. He had a heart attack in the early hours and—well, that was that.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be, nothing wrong with me.’ The voice was sterner still. ‘All for the best, really, and it’s what he would have most liked, short of the invasion. He had his sword with him, and he looks really perfectly fine. Anyway, come down if you can.’
‘Mama, of course I’ll come down. And I’ll bring Oliver and Venetia. When—I mean—I don’t suppose you’ve thought of it yet—’
‘The funeral? Friday. Eleven. All right with you?’
‘Perfectly all right,’ said Celia, ‘of course. We’ll be there this afternoon.’
‘Jolly good.’
She had laid him out herself. He lay in the great bed they had shared for nearly seventy years dressed in his infantry uniform, his medals pinned to his chest, his sword at his side, oddly docile as he had never been in life.
Celia stood there, staring not at him but at her mother, so indomitably controlled, her own great age brought suddenly into focus by this lifeshifting event. She had never quite known how old her mother was: but she must be in her late eighties.
Lady Beckenham smiled at her quickly. ‘I know what you’re thinking. What am I going to do now? Same as I’ve always done. Only with no housemaids to worry about. Only worry is James, of course. We never got on, and I certainly don’t like that wife of his. Still, we’ll work something out, no doubt. I’ll leave you with him for a bit, shall I? Then we can have a drink.’
It was proof of how much everyone had loved Lord Beckenham that they all came to the funeral: they stood in the chapel, a great mass of Lyttons and honorary Lyttons, all grieving, even Helena, even George and Mary. Many of the children were in tears, and not only the grandchildren and greatgrandchildren, but the small boys at the school, who had been so fond of him, and who had sat in small phalanxes at his feet on the terrace as he told them his unsuitable stories of battle and death and gore, and drilled earnestly with him whenever they were allowed. ‘You can’t start too early,’ he had said, ‘you’ll do far better in the corps when you get to your public schools if you’ve some idea about drill.’
Sebastian was grim-faced, Kit ashen, Izzie between them, holding both their hands.
Billy and Joan Miller stood behind the Lyttons, Billy fierce with grief, Joan weeping openly, and next to her was Shepard, who had joined Lord Beckenham as his valet just before the First World War and had risen to the position of butler in the twenties, his white head bowed throughout, clasping Lord Beckenham’s sword.
Oliver, in his wheelchair in the aisle, was close to tears himself; Celia looking at him, knew what he was thinking, of the first time he had stood in this chapel with Lord Beckenham, the unsuitable bridegroom for his daughter but treated with courtesy and kindness nonetheless. Remembering those things herself on that difficult, joyful day she smiled at him and, understanding, he smiled back.
Barty was there, granted compassionate leave, pale and very thin; Boy had asked her if she would like to sit with them and to her great surprise, as the tears rose in a flood and she fought to control them, she felt him take her hand and squeeze it.
Jay and Gordon had come together, both pale and clearly shaken by this new loss, and little Noni, so close and beloved a companion to Lord Beckenham, in the absence of her own father and grandfather, was sobbing silently as she clung to her mother’s hand. The twins were both weeping, so much in fact that Lady Beckenham frowned at them in disapproval: the frown was enough to instantly stop their tears. She herself was dry-eyed, absolutely controlled; her frequent assertion that public displays of emotion were ill-bred and uncalled for had never been so forcibly demonstrated.
As the prayers ended, Kit stood up, was helped forward by Sebastian; he stood there, a pale, courageous figure, and began to speak.
‘I know you all loved Lord Beckenham and I am also aware that some of you may wonder why it is I standing here, not one of his sons. The answer is that I was asked to by Lady Beckenham, as she felt I h
ad spent more time with him than anyone else over the past few years, and could best speak of the man he had become, as well as the man he was. The simple answer is that I do believe those two men were the same: he was indeed very old, but he was still sharp, amusing, brave, vigorous—and above all, optimistic. That was the lesson he taught me. In my darkest hours, it was Lord Beckenham who made me laugh, dared to challenge my depression, to speak of what I had lost with simplicity and frankness and to show me that I still had much to be grateful for. It was he, indeed, who inspired my books, he who was responsible for driving me to write them. When the news came that my first book was a success, he reminded me quite forcibly, and with some selfsatisfaction, that if it had not been for him, I would never have written it. Indeed, he became quite pressing about taking a share in the profits’—a few reluctant smiles, even a murmur of laughter, went round the chapel at this—‘and it is with some shame that I tell you that, despite my good intentions, I never quite got around to making the necessary arrangements with my father.
‘He was, quite simply, an inspiration to all who knew him: as a fine soldier, as a successful and compassionate landowner and as a family man, a marvellous husband, a devoted father and a deservedly beloved grandfather and great-grandfather. The world will be the poorer without him; but we must not let him go. We must continue with all he taught us. It is more necessary than ever in these difficult times to be as he was: brave, hopeful, compassionate, open-minded and, above all, merry-hearted.
‘I wish him farewell, as must we all; but in the knowledge that we are the better for having known him. Thank you.’
‘Oh Kit,’ said Barty later, linking arms with him as they walked back from the graveside, ‘that was so lovely. So very lovely. It couldn’t have been done better by anyone.’
‘I hope so. I didn’t want to let Grandmama down.’
‘You didn’t. Do you know she even had to blow her nose after that? I thought for a moment she was actually going to cry.’
‘So common,’ said Izzie, who was walking with them, in an exact replication of Lady Beckenham’s voice, and they all laughed; she looked round nervously. ‘Is it all right to laugh at a funeral?’
‘It’s absolutely all right,’ said Barty firmly, ‘in fact it’s the best thing to do sometimes. Think how pleased Lord Beckenham would be, he wouldn’t have wanted everyone crying: “Lot of snivelling,” he’d have said, “can’t stand women who snivel.”’
‘Unless they were very pretty,’ said Izzie, and she giggled again.
It was after tea that things went wrong.
They were sitting round the large dining table, in the awkward, postfuneral cheerfulness. Clearly exhausted by the day, and by the strain of remaining in control, Lady Beckenham asked them to excuse her while she went down to the stables.
‘Surely not necessary, Mama,’ James said, ‘Miller can see to that for you.’
‘James,’ said Celia in the voice which chilled the hearts of all the Lyttons, ‘James, Mama wants to go.’
James’s heart remained patently unchilled: ‘But Celia—’
‘James—’ she said again. This time he was silenced.
‘Well,’ said Jay, into that silence, ‘we should be getting back. I’ve got to report first thing in the morning. And—’
‘Where are you based now?’ asked Venetia.
‘Oh—up in Scotland,’ he said vaguely, ‘training, you know.’
‘Still with the gliders?’
‘Yup.’
‘I’m off early too,’ said Boy, clearly grateful for this opportunity to escape gracefully, ‘so perhaps we should—’
‘Could I beg a lift, Jay?’ said Barty. ‘Or if you haven’t got room—’
‘Oh we’ve got room. For a little ’un. Haven’t we, Gordon?’
‘Of course. You’re certainly very thin, Barty. I hope you’re eating enough.’
‘Of course,’ said Barty.
‘I mean there you are, in the front line, marvellous, I think it is, for a girl, slip of a thing like you—’
‘Well—I’m not the only one,’ said Barty, aware she was sounding foolish, anxious to deflect attention from herself.
‘Yes, of course. There’s young Victoria as well. Marvellous girl. But you’re the only lady fighter amongst us today, that’s why I mentioned it. Jolly good, jolly brave.’
Something snapped in Adele; bloody Barty, getting the praise again, doing it right, as always. The distress of the day, her sadness at losing her grandfather, rekindling other loss, other grief, made her reckless, careless of what she said.
‘Oh, Barty’s absolutely wonderful, aren’t you, Barty? Practically winning the war single-handed. We all admire her so much.’
‘Adele,’ said Sebastian gently. She ignored him.
‘How is John getting on out there in Italy, Barty? He’s all right, is he? You must be missing him quite dreadfully.’
Barty looked at her; she was very white, and her eyes were wary.
‘Of course I am,’ she said, ‘yes.’
‘Or perhaps you haven’t heard from him lately. That’s terrible, not hearing from people. I know that myself of course. Even though I’m not in the front line.’
‘Yes, of course it is,’ said Barty.
‘You imagine the worst, all the time. And you get so lonely, that’s the thing, isn’t it? Although I suppose you have all the other girls’ company. I don’t have that.’
‘No, it must be very—difficult.’
‘Oh, not difficult exactly. I wouldn’t say that. Just lonely.’
‘Yes.’
‘Or have you found anyone to make you feel better? Anyone who can really cheer you up?’
‘Dell—’ said Venetia. ‘Dell, why don’t we—’
‘Because I haven’t,’ said Adele, ignoring her, ‘no one at all. And I wouldn’t. Wouldn’t want to, while Luc was alive. I think it’s pretty awful, what some women are doing, betraying their husbands, or their fiancés of course. What do you think about that, Barty?’
‘Adele, can we not have this conversation now?’ said Barty. ‘It isn’t the best time or place.’
‘Well what would be? Somewhere quiet and private, I suppose. Where you could tell me about it and nobody else would hear? Or know? Would you prefer that?’
‘Adele,’ said Boy. ‘Adele, darling, please—’
‘Adele, darling what? Shut up, not upset Barty, not let people know about her, that she’s not the perfect person we all think—’
‘Adele!’ Celia’s voice was cold, absolutely authoritative. ‘Adele, stop this at once. It is outrageous to behave so badly at such a time. I have no idea what you’re talking about but—’
‘Well I’ll tell you,’ said Adele, her brilliant, tear-stained eyes turning to her mother, ‘I’ll tell you all about it. About your beloved Barty, and—’
‘No, Adele, you will not. You will be quiet. If you want to talk to me then you can do it in privacy. I am going to my room, I don’t want to endure any more of this. You may join me there, if you wish.’
‘I don’t wish,’ cried Adele, starting to sob, ‘I don’t wish anything. Anything at all. Except to have Luc back. And to know he’s safe.’
‘Come along, darling.’ It was Sebastian; gentle, firm. ‘Come for a walk with me. It’s been a funny old day, we could all do with some fresh air. Isabella, would you like to take Noni and Lucas down to the stream.’
It was more an order than a question; Izzie, trained to absolute obedience, stood up at once.
‘Of course. Come on, you two. I’ll show you how to build a dam.’
‘Sebastian—’ It was Kit. ‘I wonder if you’d be good enough to take me to my room. I’m a bit tired.’
‘Of course. Here, take my arm.’
‘So who else knows?’ said Barty. Her voice was heavy, exhausted.
‘Oh—only the twins,’ said Sebastian. ‘And Boy, I believe. Adele told me about it. She was very upset.’
Barty ignored this. ‘
And—how do they know?’
‘Adele saw you. With this fellow, whoever he is.’
She was silent. Sebastian looked at her.
‘Is it—’
‘Yes. It’s him. Laurence Elliott.’
‘Ah.’
She started to cry; then hauled herself back under control. ‘It’s so dreadful, Sebastian, so awful. I just don’t know what to do. I feel so ashamed, so terrible about John and yet I can’t, can’t—’
‘Help it?’ His voice was gentle, his eyes, as he looked at her, almost amused.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘I mean no. That’s exactly it. I can’t help it.’
‘One can’t,’ he said simply, and sat down on a tree trunk, patted it. ‘Sit down. Come on.’
She shook her head, stood staring down at him. ‘You seem to know what it’s like.’
‘Of course I do. I’ve led quite a dissolute life, Barty. I’ve lived though most of life’s dilemmas.’
‘I see. So who, when—’
‘Oh, this is not the moment for chapter and verse from me. It’s you we’re talking about. Worrying about what you can do.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said, and she started to cry again. ‘That’s the worst thing, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Well, let’s look at the options. Give this fellow up?’
‘I just don’t—don’t seem able to.’
‘So you—love him?’
‘So much, Sebastian. So very much. And he’s so—so wrong for me in so many ways. He’s quite—dangerous in his own way. Obsessive. Even a little mad. You know all the things he’s done, bad things, frightening things, I’ve told you.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘But—he’s all I want, I’m afraid. He’s not good like John, not gentle like John, I don’t share things with him like I do with John. But he makes me—’
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