Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (29 page)

She had expected to feel better, having made her decision, but actually she felt worse. Irritable and depressed and absolutely exhausted. And frightened, terribly frightened of being quite alone again, of saying goodbye to what might be her last chance of happiness. But it had to be done.

Maybe, when she had told him, it would be better. Maybe that was the reason for her misery, having it hanging over her. It was going to be terribly difficult; from now on, until Jenna went to a different school. She had sounded Charlie out about Dana Hall and she was right, he couldn’t possibly afford it. Or rather, Cathy’s grandmother couldn’t possibly afford it. Well if there was one thing that would be an improvement, it would be the removal of Cathy from her life. Barty liked her less and less as she grew up. Her obsession with boys, with her nails and hair – even Jenna was a bit irritated by that – her tendency towards secrecy, Barty didn’t like any of it. Maybe she could send Jenna to Dana before next fall. It would certainly be more comfortable. She would make some enquiries; the thought of almost a year of having to see Charlie while she collected and delivered Cathy, of having Cathy with them at South Lodge throughout the next summer—

‘Barty, can I come in?’ It was Sebastian, standing in her office doorway; he smiled at her.

‘Oh, yes. Yes of course.’

‘I wondered if you’d like to have dinner with me.’

‘Oh – no, Sebastian, it’s awfully sweet of you, but I’m already booked for dinner.’

With Charlie. To tell him she wasn’t going to marry him.

‘Pity. Izzie and Kit are having dinner with the boys, as Izzie calls them. They asked me to join them, but I said I couldn’t. I thought I’d be a bit of a blight. Old chap, spectre at the feast.’

‘Sebastian, you should have gone.’

‘No, no, I’ll go home and have dinner with your daughter. Who are you dining with? Charlie?’

‘Well – yes. I’d ask you to join us but—’

‘I wouldn’t dream of playing gooseberry.’

‘Don’t be silly, Sebastian.’ Her voice was sharp. ‘You wouldn’t be. But I just want to talk to him, that’s all. About—’

‘You don’t have to tell me.’ He smiled at her. ‘I don’t want to hear, in fact.’

‘No, I’d like to tell you. I’ve decided – well, I’ve decided I’m not going to marry him.’

‘Oh God.’ He sat down abruptly in the chair opposite her desk. ‘I feel dreadfully responsible.’

‘Don’t. It’s not for any of the reasons you said. In fact, you almost swung it in the other direction. You’re so wrong about him, Sebastian. He isn’t lazy, and he’s totally to be trusted.’

‘Well then—’

‘No. It’s because he’s – well, he’s not Laurence.’

‘Now that’s silly.’

‘No. No, it isn’t. I mean it might sound silly, but it’s not. The point is, I loved Laurence so much, and I know that what I feel for Charlie just isn’t enough. It wouldn’t be fair. So I’m going to tell him tonight. Which will be awful. He’ll be so upset.’

‘Poor chap. Well – if you want to have a quick drink first? Get up some Dutch courage?’

Barty looked at him consideringly. It wasn’t such a bad idea. She had been going to meet Charlie for a drink straight from work, but somehow the idea of postponing that, even for an hour, was quite attractive. Cowardly maybe but still . . .

‘Yes,’ she said slowly. ‘Yes, maybe that would be nice. Can you wait, for half an hour or so? I have some letters to do.’

‘At this hour? Barty, it’s a quarter past six. Doesn’t your poor secretary ever go home?’

‘Yes,’ said Barty, irritability rising in her again, ‘of course she does. When I’ve finished doing my work. Now if you can’t wait, Sebastian, never mind.’

‘I can wait,’ he said mildly, pulling some papers out of his briefcase.

Barty’s stalwart secretary of almost nine years’ standing was away sick and a temporary was doing her job. She looked at Barty in horror when she said she had some letters to give her.

‘Can’t they wait till tomorrow, Miss Miller? I have a date and it’s already – ’ she looked at her watch ‘ – after six.’

‘No,’ said Barty sharply, ‘they can’t. They’re important. Now, the sooner you get on with them, the sooner you can leave. Get your pad and bring it in to my office.’

‘Yes, Miss Miller.’

It was three-quarters of an hour before the letters were typed; Barty signed them, and told the secretary to get them in the post.

‘Now, I must just go and tidy up a bit,’ she said to Sebastian, ‘and then I’ll be with you. Sorry I’ve been so long.’

‘That’s OK. I’ve been reading Kit’s new synopsis. It’s awfully good.’

‘Well, I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Barty tartly, ‘how nice for Wesley that they’re being allowed to publish it.’

‘Barty! That doesn’t sound like you. It’s not my fault Kit left Lyttons.’

‘No,’ she said, suddenly remorseful, ‘no, I know it isn’t. It’s just that – oh, Sebastian, I’m awfully tired. And fed up. And dreading this evening.’

‘Of course you are,’ he said, standing up, holding out his arms to her, ‘I feel very sorry for you. Come and have a cuddle.’

‘No, I’m – Sebastian, I do hope I’m doing the right thing. I’m awfully scared.’

She went over to him and stood there with his arms round her, trying not to cry, her face buried in his chest, and failed to notice the temporary secretary glance in through the half open door.

Cathy heard her father come in and quickly slid the magazine she was reading –
Hollywood Secrets
– under her homework. He didn’t like her obsession with film stars and their private lives. She need not have worried; he hadn’t realised she was there. Well, she wouldn’t have been normally, but her piano lesson had been cancelled, her teacher wasn’t well. Or so she had said; she seemed perfectly all right to Cathy. Old witch. She hated her anyway; she’d be really glad not to have any more lessons.

She heard Charlie go into the room where he worked; he had given up his office on Third Avenue a few weeks ago. She wasn’t supposed to tell Jenna that. She had, of course, but had sworn Jenna to secrecy.

She decided to make him a cup of tea; he always liked that when he came in. He said it reminded him of when her mother had done it for him.

Sometimes Cathy wished she could remember her mother more clearly; but she was only three when she died and of course she had been a pretty hazy memory for the year before that. She’d been at the clinic, and Cathy had never been allowed to go there and visit her. She’d accepted it at the time, but now she quite often wondered why not. Surely if you were very ill, if you were going to die, you’d like to see your little daughter. That whole period was a bit hazy, of course. Whenever her mother came home from the clinic, she’d looked pretty well all right. And then when she’d actually died, it had been terribly sudden. She’d just gone, gone from the house in an ambulance, Cathy did remember that. She also dimly remembered her mother lying on the floor in the hall while they waited for it to come and two days later her father told her her mother had gone to be with the angels.

Everything Cathy had read since she had been able to understand such things, told her that when people died of cancer they suffered horribly, were in terrible pain for a long time. Her mother didn’t seem to go through that. When she was home she seemed fine. So she’d obviously been lucky.

Cathy did remember how pretty she had been; and how she’d played with her, taken her to the park, combed her hair endlessly and put pretty ribbons in it. Except when she was ill, of course; those days she just lay in her room and Cathy wasn’t allowed near her. Her father had to stay home and look after her. But it didn’t usually last too long.

Cathy went out into the hall quite quietly; she’d surprise her father, give him a piece of the cake she and Jenna had baked at the weekend. His study door was open; he was sitting at the desk, dialling a number. She tiptoed past, went into the kitchen, boiled the kettle, made some tea in the small pot and laid out the cake and some cookies on a tray for him, even put a lace cloth on the tray to make it special. Then she opened the kitchen door; she could hear his voice. He sounded upset; she wondered what the matter was. He’d been looking very tired lately, and worried, and he was always on the phone.

As she got nearer the study, she could hear him more clearly.

‘I know, I know, for God’s sake,’ he was saying, ‘but she still hasn’t made up her damn mind. What? Yes, I’m still hopeful, of course I am, I wouldn’t have taken out that last loan if I wasn’t, but I can’t get any more out of them. No, I can’t do that, she’d—’

And then he saw Cathy and slammed the phone down.

‘I’ve told you before,’ he said and his face was more strained and harsh than she had ever seen it, ‘you are not to listen to my phone calls. And I don’t want any cake just now. Leave it in the kitchen, I’ll help myself when I’m ready.’

Cathy went back into her room, feeling very upset.

Barty went along the corridor to the ladies’ room. Sebastian was waiting for her downstairs, she had promised to be very quick. Both cubicles were shut; she started brushing her hair and inspecting her face, wishing she didn’t look so tired and – well, so old. What had happened to the Barty who had first come to New York, who Laurence had fallen in love with, the Barty he had said was so beautiful, the Barty who he had loved so much, with the lion’s mane of hair, with her tall, strong body, her joyous energy. She was gone, leaving behind this white-faced, thin, worn-looking woman, staring at her with haunted eyes. Maybe some more lipstick – or would that make her look even more raddled, paler still? She—

‘Old witch,’ came a voice from one of the cubicles. ‘She is just such a slave driver. I had to do five long letters before she’d let me go.’

It was her temporary secretary; Barty stood there, ice-cold, afraid even to move.

‘Well, I suppose she doesn’t have much of a life,’ came another voice, less familiar. ‘Her husband’s supposed to have been killed in the war, but that’s kind of a neat excuse, isn’t it? I mean, he could just as easily have walked out on her.’

‘She’s got that old man from England here. I saw them just now, smooching in her office.’

‘What! You didn’t! At their age? How gross.’

‘I know. Well, I suppose if you’re both old, you don’t notice the other person’s wrinkles and so on. He must be older than her, though.’

‘Maybe a bit. Well certainly no one younger’d want her, I mean would they? Sad really. It must be really lonely for her, bringing up that child all on her own—’

‘Serves her right, if you ask me. It’s the kid I feel really sorry for, mom with a temper like that. The other day—’

There was the sound of a lavatory flushing; Barty fled, silently, ran into her office, slammed the door shut, stood leaning against it, breathing hard, fighting down the panic and the tears.

Two hours later, she sat in the Four Seasons and told Charlie Patterson she would like to marry him, very much, if he would still have her.

Part Two

CHAPTER 15

‘Ladies and Gentlemen, a toast! The bride and groom.’

The champagne glasses were raised; a murmur of ‘the bride and groom’ went round the room; the bride smiled radiantly, the groom just slightly awkwardly.

She kissed him; he kissed her back and then rose to his feet, looking rather serious.

He was very handsome, Venetia thought; and very sexy too. She had always been able to see the attraction. It was all that rather violent, suppressed energy. And he was immensely clever; her mother kept pointing it out. She knew it was partly to annoy her; Celia was taking a perverse pleasure in the whole thing. But he was. There was just no doubt about it. Completely wasted in his chosen career. Still—

‘So I would just like to thank Mr and Mrs Warwick for welcoming me to the family and to assure you I will do everything in my power to take care of Elspeth.’

Pity he hadn’t done a bit more four months earlier, Venetia thought savagely; she was finding this very hard.

‘And I would also like to thank my own parents for all they have done for me, and the sacrifices they have made. I propose a toast to them: my parents, Dora and Robert Brown.’

There was a momentary awkward silence; then ‘Dora and Robert! Congratulations. Jolly well done.’

It was Lord Arden’s voice, cutting into that silence, saving the mood just in time. Celia, looking at him across the table, remembered sharply, for the first time in several months, why she had wanted to marry him. Or at least why she had thought she wanted to marry him. She rose to her own feet, smiling first at him and then at the Browns.

‘Dora and Robert,’ she said firmly. The rest of the room followed, raising their glasses. The Browns sat looking proudly embarrassed, but smiling properly for the first time that day.

‘Bunny, that was very well done,’ Celia smiled at him across the drawing room. ‘We were all a bit slow on the uptake, I’m afraid.’

It was six o’clock, the bride and groom had departed for their honeymoon – a week in the Scottish Highlands – the Browns for the small hotel where they were spending the next two days with their two younger sons, in order to experience the wonders of London for the first time. Venetia had gone upstairs for a rest, to recover from the traumas of the day. Boy was dispensing drinks to the remaining guests.

‘What’s that, my dear?’ said Lord Arden. ‘Oh, the toast. Yes, well, they’re very sweet people. Very sweet. I particularly liked Dora. Very bright woman. We had a most interesting chat.’

‘What about?’ said Celia. ‘I was most intrigued, Bunny, I must say, you seemed to be getting on tremendously well.’

‘Suez.’

‘Suez?’ said Boy, astonished.

‘Yes. Our Dora is very well-informed. She says she has a lot of time to read the paper while there aren’t any customers in the shop. She thinks it’s a very good thing Nasser has nationalised the canal. I was very impressed, I can tell you.’

‘How extraordinary,’ said Boy.

‘Not at all,’ said Celia, ‘you’re so stupidly narrow-minded, Boy. I’m surprised at you. Why shouldn’t Dora Brown be intelligent? Keir’s brains must have come from somewhere. Just because someone is poor and illeducated doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Barty’s mother could hardly write and her father couldn’t even read, but look at Barty.’

‘Yes,’ said Boy, ‘just look at Barty.’

Barty’s announcement that she was going to get married again had caused considerable division in the family.

The romantics thought it was wonderful, that she deserved some happiness; the realists were deeply sceptical, given that her husband-to-be had no money, no job worth talking about, was younger than she was and had a daughter he was raising on his own.

Sebastian and Kit, who had congratulated Barty most heartily when she told them, and expressed huge pleasure at being the first to know (after the girls, who had gone into a state of stratospheric excitement), only discovered on the flight home how extremely uneasy they both were about it, and indeed about Charlie Patterson himself.

Izzie, on the other hand, being the leading romantic, and who pointed out, with perfect truth, that she knew Charlie better than any of them, said she thought it was absolutely lovely, that Charlie clearly loved Barty very much, and that it was absolute nonsense that he was marrying her for her money.

This unthinkable, unsayable thought was first expressed with great forcefulness by the boys.

‘Well he’s certainly a very smart guy,’ was all Nick Neill said; Mike Parker was more outspoken.

‘So he’s got no money, no job—’

‘He has got a job,’ said Izzie indignantly, cut off abruptly in her rhapsodising.

‘Oh pardon me. I forgot. A real estate business run during school hours with no secretary, OK, what you could call quite a modest job, and he’s marrying a woman who has millions? Nice work, Charlie. There’s one born every minute. Although I wouldn’t have thought Barty Miller was one of them.’

‘Mike, that is just so unfair. Charlie is the sweetest man—’

‘I never said he wasn’t sweet,’ said Mike, ‘I just expressed a view that he was smart.’

‘Anyway, Barty’s wealth is hugely exaggerated. She didn’t get much of her husband’s fortune and neither did Jenna, he died without knowing—’

‘Yeah, yeah, we know. Listen, a mansion in the Hamptons, a house in the Upper Eighties and a publishing company based in New York and London don’t come exactly cheap. Get real, Izzie. Now Charlie Patterson may be the sweetest man on God’s earth, he may be closely related to the angels, he may be standing right behind Billy Graham in God’s line-up, I certainly don’t know that he isn’t, but it don’t alter the fact that he’s got very, very lucky.’

‘I think you’re both horrid,’ said Izzie. ‘And I shall tell Barty to strike you off the post-wedding party guest list.’

‘Now that’s really very mean. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

‘I would. If you go on talking like this. Now I’m going to do some work. I have to leave on time tonight.’

‘Ah. Do we have a hot date, Lady Isabella?’

This was their new name for her, ever since they had heard her father calling her Isabella.

‘No I don’t,’ said Izzie. ‘I’m looking at apartments, that’s all. And don’t call me that stupid name.’

‘I love you. So very, very much.’

‘And I – love you.’

She heard the hesitation herself; however slight, it was there. It always was. He smiled. If he did hear it, he was not acknowledging it, and he should certainly not mind. She had made it clear, that first evening, that it was vital they entered this marriage on clear, honest terms. She did not love Charlie as she had loved Laurence; that was impossible. But she cared for him very deeply, she loved being with him, she wanted to spend the rest of her life with him. It was very simple; he must understand that.

Charlie did. He said it was fine that way; that he was very, very happy to be cared for deeply, and that she should love being with him. He was going to make her happy; that was his only concern.

Reminding herself that whatever else Laurence had done, he had very seldom made her happy, she went to bed that night in Charlie’s arms, deeply content.

They told the girls first; they sat and listened, their eyes growing larger and starrier by the moment, clasping one another’s hands, looking alternately at their parents and at each other. Neither spoke for a long time; then Jenna said simply, ‘So now Cathy can be my sister. And come to Dana too.’

Charlie had looked at Barty quizzically, sweetly, and she had liked him for it, for reading her so well, as he always did, and had said, taking his hand, ‘Yes, of course she can,’ and had not felt anything but delight that she could do so much for both of them.

Then she told Sebastian and Kit; they had been wonderful, absolutely happy for her, had shaken Charlie by the hand, offered to buy them all lunch. Charlie had said that sounded great, but Barty said she had lunch with an agent which had taken her months to fix: ‘I can’t cancel it, I really can’t. Let’s all have dinner instead.’

It was only afterwards, sitting in the cab going downtown, that she realised she must have sounded exactly like Celia . . .

She sent a cable to Celia; she felt she must tell her as soon as possible, before there was any danger of her getting a whiff of the news from someone else. She wasn’t sure what reaction she might get; when it came, by way of a cable, it was of course totally predictable.

‘Delighted. Inform date of wedding soonest. Letter follows. Love Celia.’

No questions asked, no surprise expressed – Barty had never forgotten Celia’s mother, Lady Beckenham, saying it was common to appear shocked or surprised by anything – just an assumption that she would be at the wedding. Which of course she would have to be. Only...

‘It means I have to ask them all,’ she said to Charlie.

‘Why?’

‘You don’t understand. You don’t have just one Lytton, to anything.’

He was silent for a moment; then said, ‘You did want it small and private.’

‘Yes, I did. What about you?’

‘That’s what I wanted too.’ He hesitated. Then, ‘Suppose – suppose we just had mothers? And the girls and Izzie of course.’

‘Neither of us has a mother.’

‘No I know. But Lady Celia is the nearest you’ve got. And I could ask Meg’s mother. And with the girls, that’d be very neat. No awkwardness asking cousins and great-aunts and old college friends.’

She thought for a minute.

‘It’s a lovely idea. I really like it.’

‘Good. Now I have another idea. I don’t know how you’d feel about it.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Suppose I ask Jamie to be my supporter?’

‘Jamie!’

‘Yes. I thought it would be nice. He’s been so kind to me, and I just thought—’

‘Don’t you have a closer friend you’d want to ask?’ Barty asked, trying to give herself time to think, wondering how exactly Jamie had been so kind to Charlie. As far as she knew he’d done nothing to help him at all.

‘Not really. You know I lost touch with them all over the past few years. And I thought it would be nice for you, too. I know how fond of Jamie you are, how important he is to you.’

‘Yes,’ she said and now that the idea was settling, she found she liked it, that it reconciled the past with the future. She was indeed terribly fond of Jamie. And he was so different from Laurence, so easy, so sweet, there would be no – no what? She pushed the idea of exactly what aside.

‘Yes,’ she said, kissing Charlie. ‘Yes, I think it’s a really nice idea. Thank you. And he’ll love it.’

‘Good. Now – where?’

‘Not – not South Lodge,’ she said quickly, and then felt ashamed of herself.

‘Well, of course not,’ he said so gently, she felt even worse. ‘I would never, ever have thought of such a thing. No, no. The Waldorf ? The Plaza? My place?’

She kissed him, laughing.

‘Your place. No, let’s have it here. We can get married at the City Hall and then have just a family lunch. And a party later, maybe. How would that suit you?’

‘It’d suit me very well.’

‘Good. I can’t wait for you to meet Celia.’

‘I can’t wait to meet her. I hope she likes me.’

‘Now on that,’ said Barty, ‘all bets are off. She is a law absolutely unto herself. There is no logic to her likes and dislikes. Never has been.’

‘Will she bring the noble Lord?’

‘Who? Oh, Lord Arden. I shouldn’t think so. We can’t tell her not to. But Sebastian says he’s not allowed to go anywhere much with her these days.’

‘Can’t he insist?’

‘No he can’t,’ said Barty. ‘Believe me.’

‘Tell me—’ he said casually.

‘Yes?’

‘Celia and Sebastian – they seem to have a rather – close relationship.’

‘They’re great friends,’ she said carefully. ‘Lifelong friends.’

‘No more than that?’

‘Charlie, I don’t think I want to talk about it.’

‘Why not? It’s intriguing.’

‘It’s – off-limits,’ she said. ‘Sorry. Not my story to tell.’

‘So there is a story?’

‘Everyone has a story,’ she said with a stab of irritation. He had become more pressing since she had said she would marry him, she was noticing it more and more; only over small things, of course, but not letting subjects rest, asserting his choice over films they saw, restaurants they ate at. Well, that was probably good for her . . .

‘Yes, and this one is intriguing, I suspect.’

‘It’s one you’re not going to hear. Unless Sebastian or Celia tells you themselves. Which is hugely unlikely. Now let’s change the subject, shall we?’

He smiled at her, his most open, guileless smile. ‘Sorry. Now then, the only thing about this plan is, what about your nice brother? Shouldn’t he be invited?’

‘I very much doubt if he’ll come. He runs a farm. Not easy to get away. Oh dear, you’re right, he should be invited, though. He and Joan. Maybe we should have it in England. But then—’

‘No, let’s have it here. And then visit England.’

‘Yes, all right. But I do want you to meet Billy. You’d like him so much.’

They set the date for the wedding in January.

‘That will give Celia time to get over here. It seems silly to wait, when we could do it tomorrow. But—’

‘January’s only a month away. I can wait that long. To make you Mrs Patterson.’

She hadn’t thought of that. She felt a stab of alarm at no longer being Mrs Laurence Elliott. She called herself Barty Miller at work, but domestically, socially, she was Barty Elliott. It was important to her, linked her still to Laurence. But – she had to give something up, for God’s sake. And she had to move forward. It was a bit like South Lodge; she could no longer keep that for herself. And professionally, of course, she was still Barty Miller. That wasn’t going to change . . .

‘Noni, that was
Style
.’

‘Oh yes?’

‘They want you to do another job for them.’

Adele sounded slightly irritable; she would have preferred it to have been her. The pictures had been very good, she knew. Despite some rather grudging praise from Laura Proctor-Reid, they had had a very strong dramatic quality, and Noni had looked marvellous, no one would have known she wasn’t an experienced professional. She had a natural grace, in any case, and had immediately picked up the rather exaggerated angular poses
Style
wanted. And what Marella had insisted on calling her French look, her dark hair and eyes, her rather white skin, her narrow frame, had suited the clothes very well.