Into Temptation (Spoils of Time 03) (60 page)

‘I don’t have to come back early, do I?’

‘No, you don’t. In fact you can stay a couple of days more.’

‘Oh great! Why?’

‘I have to go back to New York early. Trouble at Lyttons. Sorry, darling. But you can fly back with Cathy next week. Is that all right?’

‘Of course. I’m having such fun, we’ve done some riding, I can milk really well, and tomorrow Billy’s going to let me have a go on the tractor—’

‘Well be careful, Jenna. Don’t—’

‘I won’t. Fuss, fuss. Love you, Mother. See you next week.’

‘I love you too, Jenna. ’Bye, my darling.’

She put the phone down feeling oddly bereft; saying goodbye to everybody so soon was unsettling. And yet she felt she had to do it, tie up all the loose ends. There were visits she hadn’t even made, people she’d hardly talked to . . .

She rang Sebastian; told him where she was going – and why.

‘Oh my darling, I’m so sorry. What a filthy thing. I won’t ask you what you’re going to do about it, but if I can help in any way—’

‘Dear Sebastian, you can’t. Except go on listening to me. Thank you for all your listening, in fact. I should have taken more notice in the beginning.’

‘Nonsense. No one can tell anyone what to do in this life, I learned that very early on. It’s been lovely having you here, darling, thank you for coming. It meant such a lot to Kit, you know, he’s so fond of you—’

‘As if I’d have missed it. Not for the world. The whole thing has been wonderful. And Jenna’s loved it.’

‘She’s a sweetheart. Lot of sense in that fiery little head of hers. You should be very proud of her, Barty. Very proud indeed.’

She laughed. ‘Everyone says that. And I am. She seems – so far – to have got all the best of Laurence and me.’

‘Well it’s a pretty good result. Now, darling, you take care of yourself and come and see us again soon—’

‘I will. And the same to you. You’ve been so – so good to me, Sebastian. Always. Thank you.’

Now why had she said that? Suddenly?

‘You’ve been pretty good to us,’ he said gruffly. ‘Funny to think what might have happened if Celia hadn’t snatched you up that day. We’d all have lost a great deal, in my view. Goodbye, my darling. God bless you.’

He hardly ever said anything like that: he was a fierce atheist. He must be mellowing in his old age. She smiled into the phone.

‘Goodbye, Sebastian. God bless you too.’

She was so tired; so terribly tired. And she hadn’t even begun to think what she was going to do about Charlie. What a mess. Well, there was a long flight ahead of her; she would address the problem then. She phoned Giles; she had hardly seen him except in the office and felt bad about it. The anxious little boy who had been her only friend in the nursery might have become a defensive, rather curmudgeonly middle-aged man, but she still loved him.

‘Giles, I’m sorry we’ve had no time together.’

‘That’s all right. More important people than me to spend your time with.’

‘Not really. I’d have loved to talk about the old days.’

‘Well, Helena was planning to invite you to dinner on Saturday. Are you free?’

‘No, sadly I’m not. I’ve got to go back to New York early, problems in the office. That old thing.’

‘Oh. Right.’ She could hear him digesting this, wondering what the problems could be, whether she was going to tell him about them. She didn’t.

‘So – it’ll have to be next time, I’m afraid. Or of course you could come to New York.’

‘I don’t have time for trips to America. Someone has to keep the home fires burning.’ His voice changed, suddenly. ‘Well it’s been lovely to see you, Barty. I’ve – missed you.’

What an extraordinary thing to say: Giles, who never expressed any kind of emotion.

‘I miss you too, Giles. It’s been too long.’

‘Yes. Well – goodbye, then. Jenna’s a nice little thing, I must say. Turned out very well.’

‘Thank you. I think so, obviously. ’Bye, Giles. Don’t leave it too long.’

The last call she made was to Celia who was at Cheyne Walk.

Barty had planned to go and see her that evening, to tell her about what she had done and why, but there was no time now. It could wait.

‘Sorry it’s so late. I hope you weren’t asleep.’

‘Asleep!’ said Celia. ‘Of course I wasn’t asleep. It’s only half past ten. Bunny’s gone up to Glennings, that’s why I’m here. I’m working in my study, as a matter of fact.’

Barty smiled, thinking of her in that study, her favourite room in the world, she always said. It overlooked the river and the street, she said the quiet at the back distracted her.

‘I was thinking about you,’ said Celia, ‘thinking of that night when Jay was so ill, remember? And you heard the phone ringing while we were all asleep, got me up, got us over to the hospital.’

‘Of course I remember,’ said Barty. ‘It was one of the first times I—’ she stopped. She didn’t want to upset Celia.

‘You what?’

‘I – I felt really part of the family.’

There was a silence; then Celia said, ‘Oh dear. I never realised, you know, when you were small, how hard it was for you. I suppose I should have done.’

‘It was,’ said Barty, deciding that having started she should go on, ‘very hard. But infinitely worth it, in the end. I know what a lot you did for me, Celia. I’ll never forget it, I promise you.’

‘Well’ – the brisk voice softened suddenly – ‘you did a lot for us as well.’ Then, more herself, ‘Jenna all right?’

‘Absolutely. Down with Billy, happy as a—’

‘A pig in muck,’ said Celia interrupting her, laughing. ‘She’s a remarkable child, Barty. Really remarkable. You’ve done a very good job.’

‘The raw material was pretty good, I think,’ said Barty, ‘but thank you. Goodbye, Celia. Thank you for everything.’

Barty lay in bed, thinking not about Charlie, as she had feared, but about Jenna and how proud of her she was, as everyone had told her she must be. Laurence would have been too, she knew; she had done well for him. It was a good feeling. She fell asleep easily, oddly happy. Her trip had done her good. She was so very pleased she had come.

Giles was working at his desk next morning when Helena phoned. She never disturbed him at the office; she sounded very strained.

‘Giles – Giles, have you heard the news?’

‘Of course I haven’t heard the news,’ he said irritably, ‘we don’t sit here listening to the wireless all day, you know.’

‘No. No, of course not.’ She was silent, then said, ‘Giles something’s happened. At least—’

‘Yes? Helena, you’re not making any sense. What’s happened?

‘A plane has crashed. Come down into the Atlantic. A BOAC plane, bound for New York. I think – wasn’t that – wasn’t Barty on it?’

CHAPTER 31

‘Get out! Get out of here. Get out of this room. At once!’

‘Jenna—’

‘I said get out. This was my mother’s room, you have no right to be in it.’

‘But we need it—’

‘You do not need it. I need it. You can’t use it. Please, please just go away—’

Charlie threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender and left. She stared after him, then got up from where she was sitting on the bed, shut the door firmly and locked it. Then she slid open the great sheet of window and sat on the wooden floor of the balcony, her arms hugging her knees, looking out at the ocean. God, she felt a mess. Such a mess. And so confused. One minute she needed Charlie, loved him, trusted him, the next she hated him, wanted him out of her life. Finding him in her mother’s room at South Lodge with Mrs Mills, directing her to change the linen, had definitely been the latter.

She sometimes wondered if her mother had felt the same way about him. She would like to ask her. She would like to ask her a lot of things. But she couldn’t. She could never ask her anything again. She was on her own, and she had to manage. She had learned that early, in the days following her mother’s death.

It had been Joan who told her; she had come down to the paddock after lunch, where Jenna was riding Florian, Elspeth’s horse, looking what Jenna could only describe to herself as fearful. Very white, her round face somehow narrower, drawn in, her eyes suspiciously large and dark-ringed.

‘Jenna,’ she called, and her voice was odd too, a bit shaky, ‘Jenna, my lovely, come into the house, would you? I – I want to talk to you.’

She had known it was something: something serious, something big, that someone was ill, or angry, or terribly upset, and, rather slowly, instinctively frightened herself, she’d dismounted, tied Florian to the rail and followed Joan into the kitchen. Billy was there too, his own face heavy, his eyes redrimmed.

‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’ and then Joan said, ‘Jenna, dear, it’s – it’s your mother. It’s Barty.’

‘What?’ she had said stupidly, ‘what’s the matter, is she ill?’ And Joan had said very quietly and calmly, ‘No Jenna, she’s not ill. She’s – well, she’s dead, I’m afraid. Her plane crashed. I’m so, so sorry.’

She had sat down and held out her arms to Jenna; and, big girl that she was, she went to her, went into her arms, sat there on her lap, her head buried on Joan’s shoulder, so shocked and shaken she had no idea what she was doing, not crying, not saying anything, hardly able to breathe.

‘Oh Jenna,’ Billy said, ‘Jenna, I’m so sorry. It’s terrible, dreadful—’

He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose, wiped his eyes.

‘She was so good,’ he said, almost irrelevantly, ‘such a good girl. Mum was so proud of her.’

Jenna looked at Joan. ‘Are we sure? Are we quite sure? Sometimes they find people, where did it happen? Maybe—’

‘We’re quite sure,’ said Joan, ‘I’m afraid. It was over the sea. No survivors, that’s what it said. There, there, my lovely, you have a good cry—’

The tears didn’t really start then; just a few, rolling rather slowly down her face. It was all too awful to absorb, the thought of her mother falling into the sea, dying in the sea, her mother, who only last night had told her she loved her, to be careful on the tractor, her mother who she would never see or hear from again, as long as she lived.

She said she would like to go to her room and she lay there, on the bed, the same bed she had shared with her mother, just a week before, snuggled up, trying to keep warm, talking in whispers about how cold it was, giggling because they couldn’t keep their coats from falling on to the floor. Now she was alone in the bed, alone in the room, alone in the world; it seemed absolutely impossible.

She knew she would feel better if she cried, anything would be better than this fierce, tight pain which seemed to be slowly spreading right through her body, needing to be let out; but she couldn’t. She lay there for a long time, hardly thinking, icy cold; she could hear Florian whickering in the paddock, could hear Joan’s voice talking quietly to Joe and Michael when they came in, heard the telephone ringing again and again.

Joan came up every now and again, to ask her if she’d like to speak to Celia, to Cathy, to Izzie, to Sebastian; she kept shaking her head, just staring at Joan, as if she was having trouble understanding what she said.

It got darker and still she lay there, growing colder, frozen with the pain and the fear of what lay ahead of her, a whole life without her mother; wondering how she could manage it, how she could carry on, without her to talk to and laugh with and be cross with and argue with and look up to – and love; and it seemed unthinkably hard.

It was Joe who released the tears for her; he came up and knocked at her door. She called to him to come in, and he stood there in the doorway, his hands twisting together, his dark eyes filled not with tears but with anguish for her.

‘I’m so – sorry,’ he said, speaking with obvious difficulty. ‘I don’t know what to say, not really, no more than that, I’m so sorry, Jenna.’

‘That’s all right,’ she said, feeling a sob rising now in her throat, ‘thank you. Thank you, Joe. Would you – would you come and sit on the bed for a bit?’

‘Course,’ he said, ‘course I will.’ And she could see he was terrified of it, of having to witness her grief, of not being able to find any of the right words, and his courage touched her deeply.

He sat down at the end of her bed, and just looked at her; then he sighed and said, ‘She was a lovely lady, your mum. It doesn’t seem right, she’s not here no more.’

‘It doesn’t, does it?’ said Jenna, her voice quite bright and calm. ‘Not right at all. She should be here, right here, in the house, downstairs, I need her, Joe, I need her so much—’

‘We’ll do what we can,’ he said simply, ‘all of us. I will, any rate, I promise you that.’

And then he reached for her hand and took it, very awkwardly, and sat looking at it, as if he didn’t quite know what to do next. Jenna tried to smile at him but found she couldn’t, that it was quite impossible, and she started to cry. A great wave of pain, she could feel it, rose higher and higher, knocking her, tossing her, dragging her in its wake; Joe moved forward and put his arm around her and just sat there, letting her cry, not saying anything, anything at all. And when Joan came up, an hour or so later, he was still sitting there; they had hardly moved but Jenna had stopped crying, was leaning against him with her eyes closed, and the front of his shirt was dark with her tears.

‘It’s all right, Mum,’ he said, very quietly. ‘Just leave us be. That’d be best, just leave us be.’

The next day Izzie arrived with Celia; Jenna was glad, they were two of the people she liked best, could best cope with in this strange, sad new country she had found herself in. Celia was very quiet, clearly shocked, her voice frail with crushed tears. Izzie, like Joe, said very little, but what she did say was exactly right.

She hugged Jenna to her for a long time, sitting on the lumpy sofa in what Joan called the best room, just letting her cry; finally, she said, ‘I know you must feel so alone, Jenna. But you’re not. You’ve got us, you’ve got all of us. We’ll look after you, as very best we can.’

‘Thank you,’ Jenna said, trying to smile at her. ‘Thank you very much. But—’

‘I know,’ said Izzie, ‘I know exactly. It won’t be anything like the same, ever again, but we’ll be there for you, whatever happens. You mustn’t be afraid.’

Afraid was what she was, of course: afraid of being alone, without her mother, without anyone, anyone she could think of as hers. Of course there was Charlie, and there were all the Lyttons and there was Joe and Joan and Billy; they would be kind and do their best for her, but they all had other people of their own, they did not belong to her as her mother had, any more than she did to them.

‘I’ll – I’ll try not to be,’ she said, without believing it was possible; and Izzie hugged her tighter and said she knew how it was to be without a mother.

‘Of course it wasn’t so bad for me because I never had one. But I have always so longed for one, I’ve thought about having one so much, what we could do together, how we would be together. So I know about that sort of – blank in your life.’

‘Yes, but you had a father,’ said Jenna, ‘a father who loved you. I haven’t got that either. I’m just me, all alone. It feels terribly – bad. And I loved her so much. Who do I love now, Izzie, who?’

Later they sat in the kitchen, and Celia started talking about Barty; briefly at first, about what she had been like when she was a little girl. ‘She was tiny, you know, so thin, but terribly strong, and so brave. She had a very difficult time with us in those early days, I didn’t fully realise it, I’m afraid, and she missed her own mother dreadfully, but she managed, she won through in the end.’

And then, because it was so good to hear about her, Jenna asked Celia to go on. She talked for many hours, about Barty, about all the things she had done, how she had read Sebastian’s first book to Jay all through one night in hospital, when he had nearly died, how she had done so well at school, won scholarships, worked so hard; how she had been Oliver’s nurse when he came home from the war, reading to him for hours, and playing the piano to him, how she had fed him his first proper meal of soup, how proud she had been; how happy she and Giles had been together, best friends – ‘He needed one, you know, with those dreadful twins lined up against him’ – and about how brave she had been when her father had died, in the war, how she had kept Billy’s spirits up when he had lost his leg. ‘It was she who persuaded my mother to go and visit him in hospital, and that was the beginning of a very long story.’ She told them about how Barty had been so good to Izzie – ‘and I needed her,’ Izzie said, ‘Father didn’t want to have anything to do with me, you know, for years.’

‘Why?’ asked Jenna curiously.

‘Because I was responsible for my mother’s death. As he saw it. By being born. He couldn’t help it and, as you know, he came to love me in the end. But Barty was so good to me, came to visit me so often, I loved her very, very much.’

Celia told Jenna how Barty had done so well at Oxford, how proud she had been of her first flat, ‘I couldn’t understand it, I was quite cross at the time. She had a perfectly good home with us. Why go and live in some dreadful place where she had to share a lavatory? But of course I can see it now, and she was right, she needed to make her own way, she had a hugely independent streak.’

‘And when – when her mother died,’ said Jenna, ‘who looked after her then?’

‘I – did my best,’ said Celia, ‘and she was very brave, but so unhappy. Like – ’ she hesitated, then said, very steadily ‘ – like you, she felt quite alone. Even though she had Oliver and me. They were very close, you know, she and Wol, as she called him. I think she felt he understood her better than I did, that he was less frightening.’

‘She said she found you frightening when she was little. I didn’t.’

Celia smiled at her. ‘That’s very good to know. I take it as a compliment.’

On and on they talked, until it was dark outside and Billy came in to light the fire; Celia was exhausted, but she talked on, undaunted by Jenna’s relentless questioning and curiosity. She knew what she was doing; she was bringing Barty back for Jenna, bringing her alive again, not just as the strong, clever, loving adult Jenna had known, but the brave, stalwart child, who had lost her own mother not once, but twice, first when she had been taken away from her by Celia, and then when Sylvia had died, the child who had been lonely and frightened herself, but who had survived.

No one had quite known what to do about a funeral, what form it could possibly take. It was Sebastian who suggested a service of remembrance.

‘And have it down at Ashingham, in the chapel. Jenna loves it there, feels safe, everyone will like that. It’s important to say some formal goodbyes.’

And so they did; everyone came. The Lyttons arrived in great force, great numbers of them right across the generations.

Jenna, sitting in the front pew between Celia and Charlie, who had arrived two days earlier, was awed by the way they filled the little church; used as she was to her own tiny family. And the others too, of course, Sebastian, Izzie, the Millers, Celia’s eldest brother Lord Beckenham and his family: all come to say goodbye to Barty, who they had loved so much.

The church was filled with flowers; but there was a dreadful emptiness at its heart; the coffin, in all its stolid poignancy, was not there, only an awful awareness of how completely Barty was lost to them.

It was a very simple service: Barty’s favourite hymn since she was a little girl, ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, just one lesson, read by Jay and chosen by Jenna, from the Sermon on the Mount, a few prayers, and then Sebastian rose to speak.

‘We have come here today,’ he said, his great voice filling the little church, ‘to say goodbye to Barty, who we loved. All of us. It was her gift, to inspire love. We all have Barty stories, we could tell them until nightfall. I would like to tell you only one of my own. When I first met her, she was a little girl of nine or ten, I suppose; already a part of this great Lytton clan and yet still very much a Miller. I remember seeing her at the Lytton house in Cheyne Walk; Celia had the proofs of
Meridian
and had allowed her to read them.

‘I had met her a few times, and had already come to admire her. She was always beautifully mannered, rather grown up for her age: old-fashioned, was the adjective I applied to her. I asked if she had read
Meridian
, a little nervously, I must admit. It was my first book, and authors are notoriously anxious. She looked at me solemnly and said that yes, she liked it very much, she thought it was very good and I was just breathing a sigh of relief, when she added, clearly feeling she must be absolutely honest, that it was almost but not quite as good as
Little Women
, which she advised me to read if I had not already done so. Suitably chastened, I left.