Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (47 page)

Much of the time she felt hostile, resentful, and depressed. And worse than any of it, a terrible frustration that Charlie was completely unable to understand why she felt it.

But it was the best she could do for now, and the best thing for the girls. And of course much the best thing for Charlie.

Jenna suddenly appeared, breathless and flushed; she hugged Barty.

‘Hi Mother. Sorry, have you been waiting ages?’

‘Only because I’m phobic about being late for things. How are you, darling? You look wonderful.’

‘Yes, I’m fine. School’s great, I love it there. I miss you – and Charlie of course, but it’s so good there, I’m playing sport all the time, riding a lot, and the other girls are really nice.’

‘And Cathy?’

‘Oh – yes. She loves it too.’

She sounded odd; not quite herself. Barty wondered what it was.

‘I thought we’d just get a cab from here. Out to Idlewild. Rather than bother Clarke.’

‘Sure. Good idea. What time is our flight?’

‘Four.’

‘Any more news of Celia?’

‘No. No more news. Which could mean anything, really.’

‘I guess so.’

They sat in the cab, moving down Manhattan; Jenna looked out of the window, smiling occasionally at her mother. She was a little quiet; there was definitely something on her mind.

‘Are you all right?’ Barty asked.

‘Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Mother, don’t fuss.’

She would tell her sooner or later. Meanwhile, Barty would have to wait. Jenna was increasingly Laurence’s daughter: infinitely capable of keeping her own counsel, resenting any intrusion into it.

The plane was delayed: by an hour. Barty and Jenna, settled in the firstclass lounge, ordered coffee and sandwiches, opened magazines.

‘This is fun at least,’ said Barty, testing her out, ‘just being the two of us, I mean.’

‘Yes,’ said Jenna, ‘yes it is. But I wouldn’t like it always. Not any more. I’m really, really happy with Charlie.’

So she had done the right thing.

A voice came over the tannoy. ‘Could Mrs Patterson come to the desk please. Mrs Charles Patterson. Travelling to London, Pan American Flight Zero Seven . . . Could Mrs Patterson come to the desk.’

‘Oh God,’ said Barty, clutching Jenna’s hand briefly, standing up, her heart tight and cold with terror, ‘it must be Celia. She must have died.’

CHAPTER 25

‘Darling! Not more flowers! You’re spoiling me. They’re beautiful, red and white roses and – Bunny, go and get them put in water, would you? And perhaps you might like a little walk, you look awfully pale and fed up. Darling, come and give me a kiss. See you later. Don’t hurry back, I’m absolutely fine. In fact, why not have dinner at your club tonight, come back in the morning. Do be careful, you nearly knocked that tray over. There really isn’t room for more than one visitor at a time.’

‘Right oh,’ said Lord Arden. He looked relieved.

‘No really, don’t go,’ said Kit half-heartedly.

‘Oh Kit, don’t be absurd, he’s been here for hours. Far better for him to have a break. Isn’t it, Bunny?’

‘Yes, probably,’ said Lord Arden. ‘But I’ll come back later, Celia.’

‘Oh please don’t bother. The girls are coming in the early evening and then I’ll be exhausted. Kit, settle down and stop fidgeting, there’s a good boy. Nurse, my husband is leaving now, and could you bring some tea for my son? Thank you so much.’

Lord Arden left, looking sheepish. Celia frowned as he closed the door.

‘So irritating,’ she said, ‘he just sits and sits, no gossip, nothing at all. I find it quite trying.’

‘Mother I’d forgotten how dreadful you are,’ said Kit.

‘Of course I’m not dreadful. I need amusing, not being bored almost to death. Oh, darling, it’s so lovely to keep seeing you. I missed you so terribly.’

‘It’s lovely to see you too,’ said Kit. He smiled at her awkwardly. He still felt rather strange in her presence; the long period of absence from her, followed by the shock of hearing she might actually die, had left him oddly ill at ease with her.

He was ashamed, too, of his initial reluctance to believe the reports, convinced she had, at worst, a bad cold, that this was just another tactic of hers to get him to her bedside; but when Lord Arden had rung him personally, his voice shaken and low, to say she was asking for him constantly, that the doctor had said she was really extremely ill, with pneumonia in both lungs, that she was in an oxygen tent, fighting for her life, he had finally, reluctantly, agreed to go to visit her.

He had remained suspicious, even as Venetia led him up to the room where Celia lay; it was only when the nurse said she had been moved to intensive care that he allowed himself to believe it. And then he felt ashamed of himself; and something else, too. Absolute terror that she would indeed die. It was a revelation, that terror. A revelation of how much he loved her; how much he had missed her; and of how unbearable life would actually be without her. It was one thing to say he never wanted to see her again, when the choice was his; another to have the option taken from him.

They had been told to go home, that there was no point waiting to see her, it would be at least twelve hours before they knew whether or not she would recover, but Kit insisted, and sat bolt-upright in a waiting room all night, as close to praying as it was possible for a committed atheist to be, and when at half past five a nurse came in to say that Lady Arden was just a little better, he stood up and, in a voice that shook with relief and fear at the same time, begged to be allowed to go in to her immediately.

‘It was very sweet really,’ the nurse reported to her colleagues over breakfast, ‘I led him in, he’s blind you know, and sat him down by her bed and said “Lady Arden, your son is here.” She just sighed and turned her head away, and then he said, “It’s Kit, Mother”, and picked up her hand and kissed it and she opened her eyes and just stared at him, and almost shouted his name and then clung to him crying and laughing at the same time and kissed his hand, and his arm, and his face and although I had to ask him to leave after a couple of minutes, she just looked so much better. Honestly, you’d have thought he was her lover, not her son. Didn’t seem nearly so keen to see her husband, when he was shown in an hour later,’ she added.

Three weeks later, Celia had almost recovered; still in the hospital – ‘Simply because I don’t trust you to rest and not to smoke and, quite possibly, not even to go shooting again,’ Dr Peebles told her severely – and very easily tired, but able to read and chat and receive the apparently ceaseless flow of visitors who called at the hospital day after day.

The medical staff said, of course, that it was the penicillin that had cured her; she knew better. It had been the sight of Kit, his face drawn with love and fear, his hand tenderly reaching out for hers, that had done it. She knew in that moment that she would get better because she had to: simply to experience the sweet, pure joy of having Kit in her life once more.

They had not talked much at first; she lacked the strength and any exertion made her cough. He came for frequent short visits; as she recovered, he became less easy with her, his hostility revived. She sensed it, despite his efforts to hide it.

‘Kit,’ she said one afternoon, ‘we must talk.’

‘We’ve done quite a bit of that, surely,’ he said, his voice carefully light, fiddling with his signet ring as he always did when he was uncomfortable.

‘No, I mean really talk. I know—’

‘Mother—’

‘No. We have to.’

‘I would really rather not,’ he said firmly.

‘Rather not what?’

‘Discuss it.’

‘Discuss what?’

‘Your – that is, what you’ve done.’

‘My marriage, you mean?’

‘Well – yes. I think it’s best left. I am happy we’ve become – friends again. But I can’t – obviously – accept your marriage. I just can’t. No matter what you say. So is there really any point?’

‘I think so, yes,’ she said.

‘Well I don’t. And I find the subject so painful—’

‘You think I’ve been disloyal to your father?’

‘Yes,’ he said simply, ‘to both of them. Very disloyal indeed.’

She was silent. Then, ‘Sebastian has forgiven me.’

‘I know. I don’t understand it.’

‘I wish you’d let me try to explain, Kit, please—’

He had stood up and seemed about to leave; then abruptly sat down again.

‘All right. But I can’t imagine it will help.’

‘Let me try.’

He sat there while she tried; and when she had finished, something a little like a smile passed over his face. Then he sighed.

‘It’s a piece of wonderful double-think, Mother. That only you are capable of.’

‘But, can you begin to understand? Just begin?’

‘I – I’m not sure. It’s very – hard, you know.’

‘I do know. Of course. But – I was terribly lonely. So lonely. I missed Oliver so much.’

‘I know you did. But – it still seems so wrong. You don’t even love him.’

‘Kit,’ she said, ‘Kit, you haven’t understood at all. That’s the whole point.’

Jenna was very disappointed not to be going to London after all. She was glad that Celia was better, of course; but she had been longing to see them all, the twins, and Noni, who she had specially liked, even the slightly weird Lucas, as well as Lucy and Fergal Warwick who were about her age, and of course she wanted to go down to the farm again and see Billy and Joan and her cousins. And ride Lord B again, without falling off. That most of all.

The wedding had been postponed. There was now no question of it happening without Celia’s presence; and as she was still in hospital a week before the agreed date, it would clearly have to wait.

Clementine said this was a very small price to pay for her happiness and relief at being able to include Celia in her plans; ‘It’s not as if we’re leading separate lives exactly, darling,’ she said severely to Kit as he fretted over the delay. ‘What difference does a few weeks make? And I’d like to make it early March rather than January or February, which are such beastly cold, bleak months. A spring wedding, how lovely that will be. It’s what I always wanted really. And it means we can have the house completely ready. Much better.’

They had bought a house in Oxford: a charming villa on the edge of the city. Kit had wanted a town house, but Clementine said they needed somewhere larger, with a garden. ‘I intend to have lots of children, and that means lots of room.’

Kit enquired slightly tartly if she had considered whether he might want lots of children and she said if he didn’t she had no wish to marry him.

Sebastian was a little sad that they would be gone from London; but so happy in his relief over Celia and Kit that it seemed relatively unimportant.

‘It was worth nearly losing you, to have this happen,’ he said to Celia one day over tea in Cheyne Walk, where she had decided to convalesce – ‘So much warmer and more comfortable than Bunny’s house.’

‘I think so. And I am so excited about the wedding. I’ve promised Clementine not to interfere, even the tiniest bit, although I do think “Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring” is a little hackneyed and I really don’t think sweetheart roses for her bouquet. Maybe for the bridesmaids, what do you think? And I did wonder, why Brown’s for the reception? So impersonal! I mean, since Clementine’s parents have both died, why not here? It’s the perfect place—’

‘Celia,’ said Sebastian firmly, ‘if you’re not careful you’ll find yourself uninvited once more. Leave them alone, for God’s sake.’

‘Oh – very well,’ she said.

He looked at her in surprise; she must still be feeling very far from strong.

Jenna sat in bed, hugging her knees, looking at Cathy. She didn’t look any different. But she was; she really was.

Cathy had made her promise not to tell anyone: and of course she never would. Just the same – not a virgin any more. And sleeping with the school gardener . . .

She didn’t know how Cathy could have done such a thing; the gardener seemed pretty gross to her. Old – about thirty, certainly twenty-five at least – and sort of leery. But Cathy said he was really sexy.

The whole thing was beyond Jenna; even if Marlon Brando had turned up, complete with motorbike and leather jacket, and gone down on bended knee, she wouldn’t have risked her future in the way Cathy had. He would just have had to wait. Life and its hurdles that had to be cleared were surely more important than the gratification of some peculiar feelings. She still couldn’t quite imagine those feelings anyway, wanting to do it, even with someone really gorgeous. How could it actually be anything other than – well, embarrassing? Kissing was fine, it was great, she had kissed a few boys that summer, proper tongue kissing and, except for Tony Hardman, who had had the most disgusting breath and acne, it had felt pretty good. But – the other, having a penis put into you – well, no thanks. Not yet, anyway. Maybe if you really loved someone, which was what her mother said made all the difference, but Cathy certainly didn’t really love the gardener. She couldn’t.

Slowly, very slowly, Jenna was beginning to like Cathy a little less. It had taken a long time, and it was a bit unfortunate, when they were together all the time, and no doubt she’d get over it again, but Cathy really didn’t have much to talk about these days. Apart from boys and make-up and crooners. She wasn’t doing too well at school; she was clever enough, but she was lazy. Jenna didn’t exactly like doing her prep, but she did it. Cathy ducked it, made excuses, said she hadn’t felt well, borrowed other people’s and copied it, including Jenna’s. That annoyed Jenna. She knew it was probably mean of her, but she felt that if she’d worked on an essay for two hours, it was hers, and she didn’t see why Cathy should copy the best bits into her own in twenty minutes.

She’d said so once or twice, but Cathy had just told her she was mean and selfish.

‘I can’t help it if I’m not as clever as you are. I’d have thought you’d have wanted to help me out, not shit on me like that.’

‘Cathy, you’re just as clever as me, you just don’t do the work.’

‘Oh listen to you, Miss Goody Goody. You sound like one of the professors. I’d never have thought you’d turn all pi on me Jenna Elliott. What’s got into you all of a sudden? Have you been talking to your mother? Because you sound like her, banging on and on about how wonderful and important hard work is.’

‘No,’ said Jenna stoutly. ‘And don’t talk about my mother banging on.’

‘Well, she does. She’s always doing it. Have you done your practice, have you tidied your room, have you read that wonderful book yet? I get really sick of it.’

‘Oh shut up,’ said Jenna, and went out of the room and slammed the door.

‘Oh God,’ wailed Izzie, ‘Oh, God, oh God. Nick, now what am I going to do? My father’s asked me to go home for Christmas. I can’t, I simply can’t . . .’

‘Why not, sweetheart?’

‘You know why not.’

The boys had become her confidants, having demanded an explanation for her distress and distraction at the end of that first dreadful week. They were prepared to put up with her crying all the time, although it wasn’t much fun, but it was making her ineffective and that was something quite different.

‘We depend on you. Besides, you’re a partner in this firm. If it goes down, you go down. You can’t afford it. And neither can we.’

They had been absolutely sweet to her as she slowly and painfully told them the story, had sat one on each side of her in Chumleys bar, plying her with bourbon, for which she was learning to develop a taste, and telling her she had nothing to reproach herself with.