Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (44 page)

Sebastian’s eyes as he looked at Celia were tender, anxious, filled with love.

‘Dear Celia, you must go home. You can’t do anything here.’

She turned to look at him, gaunt, somehow colourless in her exhaustion.

‘I will not go home,’ she said. ‘I have to stay.’

‘But – it could be days. Days more.’

‘Then I shall stay for days. If need be. Sebastian, I would have thought you of all people would have understood that.’

He sighed. He had been summoned by Adele for that very reason: ‘You, of all people, might be able to do something. She’s absolutely exhausted, she won’t even lie down. Apparently she fell off her chair in the night and the nurse was really frightened, thought she’d had a stroke as well. As if . . . not even LM can do anything with her. Please come, Sebastian, please.’

But he could do nothing; although she did agree to let him sit with Oliver for a few moments while she washed her face and did her hair.

‘She wouldn’t leave him with us even for that long. I think she doesn’t trust us,’ said Adele as he rejoined her later in the corridor, admitting failure.

‘It’s not that. It’s that in the state she’s in, she sees you as children, not adults. Where’s Venetia?’

‘She went home at about three. She was exhausted and worried about Amy. She’ll be back later.’

‘You look pretty exhausted yourself,’ he said, studying her.

‘I am. But I don’t have her responsibilities.’ She sighed.

‘Want a little walk? Fresh air might do you good.’

‘Yes. Yes, it might be nice.’ She slipped her arm through his. ‘It’s lovely to see you, Sebastian.’

‘It’s nice to see you too. London is not the same without you, you know.’

‘Oh Sebastian. If only. You look well.’

‘I am well, thank you.’

‘And – and how is Izzie?’

‘She’s perfectly well,’ he said, his tone suddenly heavy, colder.

‘I must come and see her. If that would be all right.’

‘As you wish.’

There was a silence; then, ‘And how is the dashing Frenchman?’ he said, clearly with something of an effort.

‘He’s – very well. Thank you.’

‘Will you be getting a flat in Paris?’

‘No,’ she said quickly, ‘no I’m not there enough for that. And besides—’

‘Yes?’

‘Oh – nothing.’

He knew what she meant; Luc Lieberman hadn’t suggested it, was keeping the relationship on an absolutely impermanent basis. As a good Frenchman would. Sebastian had initially liked him; looking at Adele’s pale face, hearing the sadness echoed in her voice, he felt only a violent hostility.

‘Well,’ he said cheerfully, ‘it’s probably not the best place to settle at the moment. France, I mean.’

‘Why? Oh, you mean Herr Hitler and all his little games.’

‘Yes. I’m very much afraid he means business.’

‘Luc thinks so too,’ said Adele soberly, ‘and of course he’s Jewish. Which makes him more anxious. And he says the Maginot Line might as well be built of cardboard for all the good it will do. You know about it, do you?’

‘Of course I do,’ said Sebastian, amused. The ignorance of the twins on almost everything that did not concern them never failed to astonish him. They were both so clever, and yet their sharp little brains were like unexercised dogs, growing slack and useless.

‘I suppose you would. Anyway, yes, all this re-arming of Germany, it is quite scary. But Mummy says it’s all just part of Hitler wanting to make it strong and efficient and—’

‘Yes, I have heard your mother’s views on the matter,’ said Sebastian drily. ‘I imagine Luc would not share them.’

She sighed. ‘No, I’m afraid they’ve fallen out quite badly. I can’t bear those people she’s so keen on, myself. Lord Arden is dreadfully creepy, in spite of being so handsome and charming. Smarming, Venetia calls it. Mummy’s talking of going out there, you know, to the Olympic Games. She keeps saying they’re just wonderful theatre. And that she might actually meet Hitler. Anyway – ’ there was a long silence ‘ – she won’t be going now. Not for a long time.’

‘No, I imagine not.’

‘It’s so weird about Barty not being in touch. I can’t understand it. She adores Daddy, we used to be jealous of her when he first came home, because she was closer to him than we were. She was always reading to him and playing the piano—’

‘Maybe she hasn’t heard.’

‘She must have done. Giles sent two cables, one to Lyttons and one to her flat, so I don’t see how she couldn’t know.’

‘No one’s tried to telephone her?’

‘Well – I don’t think so. Maybe we should. Yesterday was such a nightmare, no one was thinking very clearly. Poor Giles is so upset, apparently he was having a row with Mummy and Daddy when he had the stroke. Maybe I should do that, book a call to her.’

‘I think it would be an idea. Or I could, if you like. Is she still seeing this Elliott fellow? Robert’s stepson?’

‘I suppose so. It’s all a bit of a mystery. She’s very vague in her letters, just says she’s met him and he’s not nearly as bad as everyone thinks. But Maud isn’t even speaking to Barty apparently, which seems a bit extreme. Uncle Robert hardly mentions it in his letters, I think he’s really embarrassed by it. I think it’s rather romantic, if it’s true.’

‘It sounds so extremely unlike Barty, to get mixed up with some wealthy ne’er do well,’ said Sebastian.

‘Well of course she’s much too sensible. That’s why I think they’re all over-reacting. I’m sure it’s all a storm in a teacup. I do wish she’d get in touch, though. That really is odd.’

Celia had resumed her vigil; she had no sense of being tired. Her emotions would not allow it; she had never experienced such guilt. And such fear.

For what no one knew, no one at all, was that when she had gone into Oliver’s office, after the ambulance had left, she found lying on his desk, removed from her own, the outline of her book about Goering, some preliminary notes she had made and an introduction she had written herself, lauding the achievements of the Third Reich and its leaders, and the schedule of appointments she had made for her forthcoming visit to Berlin. Including possibly an interview with Herr Hitler himself.

It now lay in a small safe in her office where she kept especially valuable documents; clearly its publication would be postponed indefinitely.

It was that, she knew, rather than any angry exchange of words with Giles, that was most likely to have caused his heart attack.

Barty woke very early. It was a glorious day; the sun was just rising on the milky pale sea and the air was soft and mistily still. Laurence would be annoyed, he wanted to take her sailing; he saw any kind of thwarting of his desires, even by Mother Nature, as a personal insult.

She slid out of bed, pulled on a robe and tiptoed downstairs; the house was very still, there was no one about. Well it was only half past five. Not even Laurence’s staff would be expected to be up that early.

Barty went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. She was still very English; she liked to start the day with a cup of tea.

She opened the kitchen door, walked across to what she had been told to call the deck and sat down on one of the wicker chairs, gazing out at the sea. The house was set, like most Southampton houses, quite high above the shoreline; the garden was level with the top of the dunes, and the view from the verandah, which ran round three sides of the house, was glorious. The walls of the lower storey were grey stone, Wiltshire stone, Laurence had told Barty proudly, shipped over from England, but the upper walls were clad in slate; a mass of wisteria and virginia creeper climbed to the first floor, the colours mingling against the grey. Most of the windows were full length, and all the floors inside the house were all palest ash; the whole place seemed filled with sunlight, even on grey days.

‘I told the architect I wanted to bring the shore into the house,’ said Laurence, ‘and I think we’ve succeeded.’

In another life, he told Barty, he would have liked to have been an architect himself.

The garden at the back of the house, was simple, lawns, trees, a tennis court, but no pool: ‘I don’t understand why people would want to swim in a pool when they have the ocean. And I didn’t want to disturb the view in any way.’ But the front was grander, a great curving drive, leading up from the road, a pillared front door, with walled gardens set on either side, and a separate garage block, looking almost like a guest house itself, built again with stone and covered with climbing shrubs.

But the best thing about it for Barty, was the seascape in all its wonderful blues and greys and greens, always changing and present in almost every room; her trip across the Atlantic, her first proper acquaintance with the sea, had been a crucial part of her love affair with New York, and to find it here, so important a part of Laurence’s house, had seemed to her oddly significant. She sighed with pleasure now, and raised her face to the already warming sun; it was obviously going to be a perfect weekend. In every way.

‘So – you’re going back to the hospital?’ Boy looked up as Venetia appeared in the doorway of the dining room. ‘Would you like me to come with you? Kit’s already gone, I sent him in the car. He’s so worried, poor little chap, I don’t think he’s slept at all.’

‘Poor Kit. No, I think it’s better you’re here with the children. Henry and Roo are upset anyway, they know Daddy’s ill.’

‘Very well.’

She hesitated, looked very steadily at him, then ‘Boy—’ she said.

‘Yes?’

‘I just wondered—’

‘Yes?’

Another pause.

‘What did you wonder, Venetia?’ His tone was light, but his eyes on her were thoughtful, almost over-attentive.

‘Well – I wondered whether you thought that that girl—’

‘What girl?’

‘Abbie Clarence, Barty’s friend.’

‘Oh yes.’

‘Whether you thought it was a good idea.’

‘If what was a good idea?’

‘Well, for her to teach Henry the piano.’

‘No,’ he said, and his tone was absolutely level, ‘no, I don’t think so. Since you ask.’

‘And – why? Why is that?’

‘I just didn’t like her very much.’

‘Really? Why not? I rather did.’

‘I think she’s probably rather – neurotic.’

‘Neurotic? How could you possibly know that?’

‘I don’t know it, Venetia. I said I thought it. She gives that impression.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ he said. ‘I can’t define it exactly. I can only tell you that on balance, I would prefer her not to teach Henry.’

‘But Boy—’

‘Look, Venetia, you asked me what I thought. I’ve told you. Can’t that be the end of the matter? Or do we have to spend the morning discussing my reasons endlessly?’

It was unlike him to be so irritable; one of Boy’s greatest virtues was his exceptionally good temper. Of course they were all tired; but—

‘No,’ she said quickly. ‘No, of course not. Well – that’s settled then. Look, I must go. I’ll telephone if there’s any news.’

‘Please do.’

Maybe she’d imagined it. The feeling of something – strange in the room. When Boy had walked in and seen Abigail Clarence. It had felt so strong just for a moment; and then of course she had heard about her father and – well, it was gone. Maybe it had just been Boy’s inevitable reaction to an attractive woman. Which Abigail was; in a clever, Barty-ish sort of way. Yes, that was it. Of course. Anyway, it was hardly important: not when set against what had happened to her father.

But – she might talk to Adele about it. Try to describe it. Whatever it had been. That would help. It always did.

When she got to the hospital, Kit was sitting in the reception area with Giles. Giles had his arm round him; he was crying.

‘I hate it so much. Seeing Father like that. It’s as if he wasn’t here already.’

‘What do you mean “already”?’ said Venetia gently.

‘As if he’s gone. Left us. Even though he’s still alive. As if he was on his way to – to not being.’

Venetia sat down on his other side, gave him a hug.

‘Kit, try not to worry too much. He’ll be all right. He’s—’

‘He’s having some more tests,’ said Kit, ‘the doctors are worried, aren’t they, Giles?’

‘Well, of course they’re worried, old chap,’ said Giles. He looked appalling, Venetia thought; worse than any of them. ‘But that doesn’t mean—’

‘Even Mummy was crying. She tried not to let me see, but she was. She looked frightened too. I’ve never seen Mummy frightened.’

‘No,’ said Venetia, soberly, ‘none of us has.’

Barty and Laurence were having breakfast on the deck when the housekeeper came out.

‘Telephone, Mr Elliott. It’s Mr James.’

‘James? Oh, very well. Barty, excuse me please.’

He was back in a moment; he looked at her oddly. Almost – she tried to define it – almost warily.

‘He wants to speak to you.’

‘To me? Why?’

‘I have no idea. You’d better go and find out, I suppose. Only don’t be long, I want to get over to the sailing club.’

‘Of course. Where shall I take it?’