Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (87 page)

‘I’m waiting for Tory. My fiancée,’ he added with a slightly embarrassed grin. ‘She’s always late. Worth waiting for, though.’

‘I hear she’s an absolute corker,’ said Boy, ‘according to my eldest son, that is. I didn’t know you were actually engaged, Jay.’

‘Pretty recent development, actually. Yes, she is a corker, Henry’s quite right. He’s grown up a bit, hasn’t he, since you left? It must be awfully sad, not seeing them all grow up.’

‘It is.’

‘It’s so good to see you, Boy. I hear you’ve been having no end of a caper in the desert. Pretty good show at El Alamein, though. Is Monty as good a chap as everyone says?’

‘Marvellous,’ said Boy, ‘quite marvellous. He has a sort of magnetism about him, hard to explain—anyway, how are you, Jay? What have you been up to? I’m so very sorry about your mother. You must have been very upset.’

‘I was. I had no idea she was so ill you know, she wouldn’t let anyone tell me. And then I nearly didn’t get there in time, you know.’ His eyes were heavy; he sighed, looked into his glass.

‘I’m so sorry,’ said Boy again.

‘Well—at least she wasn’t in any pain. I do miss her, though. She was a remarkable old bird. And we were always pretty close. Still . . . I suppose that’s life. Or rather death.’ He sighed, drained his glass, waved at the waiter for another. ‘Poor old Gordon’s pretty cut up. But I’ve tried to spend some time with him, we’re building a new train layout and we’ve done a bit of bird watching and so on. And Tory is very good with him, he likes her a lot. How’s Venetia?’

‘I – don’t know yet,’ said Boy shortly. ‘I’m waiting for her now. She’s terribly late.’

‘Everyone’s always late at the moment, Boy. There’s a war on, you know. Anyway, she’s looking marvellous and going great guns at Lyttons. More or less doing my mother’s old job.’

‘Really?’ said Boy, surprised.

‘Yes. Frightfully good at the whole thing. Of course Lyttons have moved, you know that, don’t you? Bombed into extinction, the old place, Venetia almost had her baby there that night, only got out just in time, I expect she told you all about it.’

‘No,’ said Boy shortly, ‘she didn’t.’

‘Really? I’m surprised. If it hadn’t been for Celia, God knows what would have happened to her. Anyway, you must be looking forward to seeing her. And Fergal, nice little chap, you’ll approve, I’m sure. We were all – darling! Hallo. You look marvellous as always. Boy, this is Victoria Halifax. Tory for short. Tory, Boy Warwick, my—what are you, Boy, cousin by marriage I suppose—anyway, Venetia’s husband, you know.’

‘Ex-husband,’ said Boy lightly. ‘How do you do, Miss Halifax.’

‘Call me Tory, please.’

She smiled at him, an enchanting smile, sat down; her short Wrens’ skirt revealing astonishingly good legs. Henry had been right: she was a corker. But then Jay would get a girl like this: it was all part of his famous luck.

‘It’s marvellous to meet you,’ said Victoria. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes. And all your heavenly children. I think—’

‘Boy, hallo.’ It was Venetia; breathless, flushed, looking—well, looking beautiful, he thought, he had forgotten quite how lovely she was. She looked as chic as always in a perfectly cut jacket and skirt, her hair longer than he had ever seen it, almost on her collar—it suited her—her dark eyes brilliant.

‘Hallo,’ he said. He stood up, leaned forward, kissed her briefly, formally.

‘I’m so sorry I’m late, I – hallo, Jay! and Tory. How lovely. What a nice surprise.’

‘Hallo, darling,’ said Jay. ‘How funny we should all be here. The last time you and I were here, Venetia, was that night we had dinner and danced, remember? Got a bit carried away, I’m afraid, Boy. Very cheekto-cheek, weren’t we, Venetia?’

‘Very,’ said Venetia quickly.

‘Now hang on,’ said Tory, ‘I’m not sure I like this. You mean you’ve been dancing with another woman, Jay?’

‘’Fraid so, darling.’

‘He spent the whole evening talking about you,’ said Venetia laughing, ‘showing me your picture and absolutely drooling over you. Except when we were dancing.’

‘That bloke was there too, wasn’t he?’ said Jay. ‘Someone from Boy’s regiment. We had to hide behind our menus, remember?’

‘No, not really—oh—oh, yes, I do. Mike Willoughby-Clarke, it was, Boy; how is he?’

‘He’s—he was killed,’ said Boy. He spoke very slowly, his voice strained.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Venetia.

‘Yes. Bit of a shock.’ He was absolutely silent, staring at her as if he had never seen her before. They all looked at him, unnerved by the silence.

‘Well,’ said Tory finally, ‘shall we all have lunch together?’

‘That’d be fun,’ said Jay.

‘Er—no, I don’t think so,’ said Boy, still in the same, strained voice. Jay laughed awkwardly then shrugged.

‘Well—that’s fine by us. I suppose you two have a lot to talk about.’

‘Yes, we do rather,’ said Boy, ‘an awful lot.’

‘What on earth is going on?’ said Tory, ‘they seemed rather—odd.’

‘Well, they haven’t seen each other for over two years. And they are supposed to be divorced, although she’s had that baby. But anyway—yes, I agree, a bit odd. Anyway, darling, let’s go in, I’m starving.’

In between enjoying their lunch and planning their afternoon and evening, much of which was to be spent in bed, Tory and Jay watched Venetia and Boy: watched them, clearly hostile at first, talking fiercely, almost angrily; then leaning forward across the table, listening to one another with immense attention; then visibly beginning to relax, and to smile; and finally starting to laugh: and then they saw Venetia reach into her bag and produce some photographs, observed Boy leafing through them, smiling, asking questions, and then suddenly reaching out and touching her face, stroking it gently. And watched Venetia slowly and very gently, her eyes fixed on his, take his hand, and kiss it.

‘I would suggest,’ said Tory thoughtfully, ‘they might be spending the afternoon a little bit as we plan to. What would you say, Jay?’

‘I’d say I don’t really care what they’re going to do,’ said Jay, ‘I’d just like you to finish that disgusting-looking trifle so I can get you out of here and out of that uniform. I know it’s awfully smart, but you do look a whole lot better without it.’

‘What a very impertinent observation,’ said Tory.

‘So Daddy and I are going to get married again,’ said Venetia, ‘and after the war we’ll all go back to our house together.’

‘I never thought you weren’t married,’ said Elspeth.

‘Nor did I,’ said Amy.

‘But we told you, we explained—’

‘I know, all that stuff about liking each other but not being able to live together,’ said Roo. ‘It seemed pretty silly to us, specially as you had Fergal. You must have lived together for a bit to get him.’

‘Roo, really!’ said Venetia.

‘Oh, Mother, I know about all that, Henry told me. He said I needed to before I went to Eton.’

‘Oh I see,’ said Venetia weakly.

‘Anyway, you’re quite right,’ said Boy. He was sitting on a sofa in the library, with Fergal on his knee and the girls on either side of him. ‘We do still like each other quite a lot, and we think we can live together after all.’

‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘It will certainly make life much simpler. I do think though,’ he added, ‘if you don’t mind my saying so, five children is probably enough. I mean Fergal’s quite jolly, but I don’t really fancy another baby now, yelling all the time. None of the other chaps at school seem to have babies in their families.’

‘It’s true,’ said Roo, ‘it’s a bit embarrassing.’

‘All right,’ said Venetia meekly, ‘no more babies. If that’s what you want. Now listen,’ she added with visible relief, ‘there’s the lunch gong. Why don’t you go and see if you can help GGM.’

Boy smiled at her over Fergal’s head when they had all gone.

‘I never thought I’d have to listen to a lecture on birth control from my own children,’ he said. ‘It’s clearly time we grew up and became a bit more sensible and responsible.’

Venetia giggled. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘I suppose we can try. I just can’t help thinking it was a bit more fun the other way.’

CHAPTER 40

She had written to him and told him.

That she had made a mistake, that she was desperately sorry, that she didn’t think, after all, they should get married, that she wasn’t good enough for him, that it couldn’t possibly work, that she would always love him, that she would never forget him . . .

And then imagined his grief and pain as he read it, grief that he would carry into battle with him, perhaps die with—and so she had torn it up and thrown it away.

She had done that four times now.

She longed for someone to talk to about it; and yet couldn’t think who that person might be. The thought of confessing to any of the Lyttons that she was betraying John—John, who was so good and kind and whom they all loved so much, was horrific; it meant she had to confront her own bad behaviour, and, what was more, confront them with it, say look at me, I am not the good, loyal, intensely moral person you imagined, I am bad, duplicitous, unscrupulous, self-serving.

She almost hoped they would find out, that one of them would see her with Laurence; it was quite likely after all, she had had a long-overdue fortnight’s leave, had been in London, they had been out a lot together, as Laurence wanted to see London, wanted to experience what it had to offer. But each night, as they entered the Berkeley or the Ritz or the Mirabelle, the theatre or even the cinema—Laurence had a childlike passion for the cinema, and insisted on seeing
Dangerous Moonlight
four times and
Mrs Miniver
five—she would look round half fearfully, half hopefully, for a familiar face—and find none. You’ll get no help from me, fate seemed to be saying, you’ll have to do your own dirty work; only of course she couldn’t, she lacked the courage. Lacked the courage! She, who had always been so unhesitatingly, so determinedly, brave.

Parfitt did guess that something was up, had observed her hollow-eyed exhaustion, her jumpiness, and said, with a knowing grin, a tap on the side of her nose and a certain admiration in her voice, ‘You’ve been up to no good, haven’t you, Miller, you dirty devil.’

But she didn’t understand. She thought Barty had simply been out dancing or even to supper and then for a smooch, as she put it, with someone else, she had no idea, and indeed how could she, of the violent, dreadful betrayal which was taking place, and her advice was rough, ready, absolutely pragmatic.

‘You don’t want to worry too much,’ she said. ‘You have to take your pleasure where you can. There’s a war on, you know. And what the eye don’t see the heart don’t grieve over.’

Thinking of how John’s heart would grieve if his eye had got the faintest glimpse of what was going on, Barty could only smile at her feebly and say nothing.

Laurence, patient, by his standards, for a few weeks was pressing her now for a marriage date.

‘I simply don’t understand you. It will be wonderful. And we may not get the chance again for a long time. I have the licence, look, here in my notecase, all ready.’ And indeed he had, and all she had to do, he said, was follow him into a registry office and do what she was told.

‘But Laurence, I can’t, not yet, you don’t understand, I have to tell John and—’

‘Barty, how long does that take? Five minutes. It can be a perfectly nice letter after all, just telling him you’re going to marry me instead of him—’

‘I don’t know how you can be so—so stupid,’ she said, crying and laughing at the same time at this sublime insensitivity, ‘think how desperately hurt he’ll be, what it will do to him.’

‘You did it to me.’

‘That was quite different.’

‘Why?’

‘Well—because you’d done something terribly wrong, I had a good reason.’

‘Not terribly wrong,’ he said, and his genuine indignation frightened her, it was such a clear indication of his blindness about himself, ‘misguided, of course, I grant you that, but no more; I said I was sorry and—’

‘Laurence, please!’ cried Barty. ‘Please, please try to understand.’

‘I am trying,’ he said and clearly he was, his expression an absurd mixture of anxiety and bewilderment. ‘I’m trying very hard. I just don’t see why he’ll be so upset.’

‘Because he loves me.’

‘Not really,’ he said, playing with some tendrils of her hair, twining them round his fingers, ‘he doesn’t love you as I do. He’s not consumed by you, you are not his entire life. He’ll be a little upset, of course, I can understand that, but then he’ll recover and find someone else. And be much happier. You could never go back to him now, after all. That would be really dishonest.’

And that was the only thing he said which was true, the only thing which was unarguable. She couldn’t go back to John now.

Giles had been awarded the Military Cross.

He had been home for almost two weeks now; the almost unrecognisable wraith who had come off the hospital ship, thin, exhausted with pain, and running a constant temperature as a result of the infection in his leg, was slowly becoming himself again, but the leg had stubbornly refused to heal. There was a fear of gangrene; they had given him the new wonder-drug penicillin and initially he had improved, but the pain and the infection had returned: ‘Must be something in there still, old chap,’ the surgeon had said, patting his arm encouragingly, ‘hoped they’d got it all out, but we’ll have to have another look.’

They had warned Helena that if they didn’t find the cause of the trouble, or indeed if they found indications of extensive tissue death and therefore a real risk of gangrene, the leg might have to come off.

But the leg had been saved; the surgeon had found some shrapnel buried deep in it and removed it and although there might be some wasting and muscle loss, he should make a very good recovery. Helena sat holding his hand as he lay, nauseated and groggy with anaesthetic, and told him that as soon as he felt better, his commanding officer wanted to come and see him.

The purpose of that visit proved to be the news of Giles’s decoration.

‘Who would ever have thought it,’ Celia said, reduced to tears by the news, ‘that Giles of all people—it’s so wonderful.’

Oliver said that he would have thought it of Giles of all people: ‘after all, he nearly got decorated after Dunkirk. And from the very beginning of the war he has shown extraordinary courage. Not least on insisting on enlisting in the ranks. I think we can both be very proud of him.’

‘I am,’ said Celia, ‘very, very proud.’

‘Venetia, you are never, ever going to believe this.’

‘Believe what?’

‘I was walking out of Cedric’s studio today, with my arms full of cabbages, don’t ask me why—’

‘Why?’

‘Don’t be annoying. When I saw Barty.’

‘What’s so astonishing about that? She’s been on leave. She came in the other day, to see Mummy and Daddy.’

‘It’s not that. She was—’ There was a long pause. ‘She was with someone.’

‘What, you mean—’

‘Yes. I do mean.’

‘Not—’

‘No, of course not, he’s in Italy, poor darling.’

‘My God. My God. But—I mean, are you sure she was—well, really with him?’

‘Of course I am. They were walking into a cinema.’

‘Well—’ Venetia’s mind roamed frantically round for an explanation, while not being sure why it wanted one ‘ – well maybe he was an army colleague or something.’

‘Venetia, what is the matter with you? He had his arm round her.’

‘Was he in uniform?’

‘Yes. Yes, he was.’

‘Well then—’

‘Oh for heaven’s sake.’ Adele’s voice was taut with exasperation. ‘It was an American uniform.’

‘Oh my God. Do you think it was—you know?’

‘Well—I don’t know. I’ve never seen a picture of him. But it seems possible. He was divinely handsome. Sort of reddy blond hair, quite tall, didn’t see much more. He looked rich, though.’

‘They all look rich,’ said Venetia, ‘I could quite fancy one of them myself.’

‘Me too. Anyway, he was terribly attractive, I can tell you. Clever old her.’

‘God,’ said Venetia again, ‘I can’t believe it. Saint Barty. With poor old John out there fighting for king and country.’

‘I know. And he’s married, isn’t he? If it is him.’

‘Worse and worse.’

‘Or better and better,’ said Adele. ‘It’s just so—unlikely. How can we find out, do you think?’

‘Goodness knows. She’d never tell. I feel so sorry for lovely John, don’t you?’

‘Terribly, terribly sorry. And him so perfect.’

‘Like her. Only she’s not at all. I absolutely must tell Boy. He was always a bit—cool about Barty. Said he knew she disapproved of him. He’ll be so shocked.’

They took him out for a drink to tell him; he was not shocked; but he was amused.

‘Well, well, well. How extremely intriguing. But I suppose we shouldn’t leap to conclusions.’

The twins looked at one another and raised their eyebrows.

‘Boy! You, of all people!’ said Venetia. ‘Of course we should. The blessed Barty is having an affair with one man, a frightfully rich and wicked man, if Maud is to be believed, while she’s engaged to another—’

‘Who? Oh, Maud. Well you really don’t know that it’s him. It might be some other American she’s met. There are an awful lot about, one and a half million, I believe.’

‘Well this is one in one and a half million,’ said Adele, ‘I saw him and he could have been Maud’s brother. Same colouring, same sort of—look.’

‘Well, time will tell,’ said Boy. ‘Is one of you fiends prepared to confront her with it?’

‘Of course not,’ said the twins in absolute unison.

Adele told Sebastian about Barty. She hadn’t meant to, but she did. The whole business had actually upset her; so absolutely faithful to Luc herself, so completely determined to wait for him, she found Barty’s perfidy shocking and distressing. It was another certainty destroyed for her in a world increasingly devoid of certainties: that Barty could behave so badly. Barty, who was so famously moral and good, betraying the man she was supposed to love and who most emphatically loved her. What was happening to the world she had once lived in, the world of love and fidelity, of promises kept and commitment absolute? Did war destroy ideals and integrity, along with everything else?

It brought home to her too, how little she had in her life that was certain, that she could actually wait for. Everything about her future, her past even, was under question, any cause for happiness infinitely frail, any reason for hope arguably foolish. Luc might have survived, he might be living in Paris safe and well—although the messages had stopped completely, for longer than at any time, over nine months now. But it seemed so very unlikely. A sense of failure had settled upon her; she felt increasingly abandoned, increasingly alone in the world.

If it hadn’t been for her work, she would have gone quite mad; even with it, even with her increasing success and satisfaction and the undoubted fun it brought her, she felt, beneath everything, depressed, a failure.

She had had offers from men, old friends home on leave, to take her out to dinner, to dance—even to go to bed. She had enjoyed the dining and the dancing, but had always refused the bed, despite considerable temptation at times; that was for Luc, as long as there was hope, any hope at all. She felt she must wait, until she knew. And so she remained lonely, and beneath her gaiety, her courage, her blithe determination not to give in, desperately sad.

And Barty’s behaviour had increased her sadness.

It was Sebastian who found her tearful one afternoon, sitting alone in the entrance hall of Curzon Street; she had arrived to see Venetia, to invite herself to dinner and had found her leaving for the day, going to meet Boy for the theatre and dinner.

‘He’s going off again soon,’ Venetia had said apologetically, adding, with a half-heartedness that even Adele could hear, ‘do come with us.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she had said brightly, ‘play gooseberry, me? No thanks! Have a lovely time.’

And had sat down to try and work out what to do with herself that evening; she found it so dispiriting that when Sehastian asked her if anything was the matter, she turned a quivering face to him and said yes, something was.

He was very good; he lent her a handkerchief. ‘I always used to have to keep your mother supplied with the things,’ he said, then gave her a cuddle and invited her to have supper with him at his house.

‘I’m lonely too, we can cry on one another’s shoulders. Come along, it’ll do you good.’

And sitting there, eating Mrs Conley’s excellent rabbit pie—far better than the rabbit pie at Cheyne Walk, she told him with a giggle—she did try, falteringly, to explain how bad she felt. He was so understanding, so patient, that she found herself telling him more and more. About her own remorse and sense of failure: and after that, and after he had told her how foolish that was, she had somehow—and she really hadn’t meant to—told him about Barty and how angry and resentful that had made her feel. He was very sweet, very reassuring, had promised to say nothing to anyone. More importantly, he had understood.

‘Nothing worse than seeing bad behaviour rewarded,’ he said, the old mischievous grin suddenly appearing. ‘Especially when one is struggling to be good. I’m surprised at Barty, I must say. Although knowing her, I’m sure she’s in torment.’