No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (20 page)

Brunson greeted him, took his coat and his luggage. ‘Lady Celia and Mr Lytton are both out, sir. At the publishing company.’ He always referred to it as the publishing company, as if it were a rather surprising place for them to be.

‘Yes, I thought they would be. I told them I wouldn’t be here until dinner time. Never mind. Could I have a whisky and soda, Brunson? I’m a bit travel weary.’

‘Certainly, sir. I’ll bring it into the drawing-room.’

‘Any of the children about?’

‘They’re all out with Nanny, sir. For a walk. They should be back shortly.’

‘Good. I can’t wait to see them. The twins were babies last time; well it was the christening. Giles must be quite a big chap by now.’

‘He is indeed, sir. going off to school in September.’

‘Poor little bugger,’ said Jack cheerfully.

Brunson looked at him doubtfully and disappeared into the pantry, only to reappear with the whisky tray.

‘Perhaps, Sir, you might prefer this in your room.’

‘Yes, that might be better, 1 – oh hallo hallo. You’re all back. Know who I am?’

The children had come into the hall; they stood staring at him.

‘You know me, Giles, surely. I’m your Uncle Jack. Don’t you remember me?’

‘I think so,’ said Giles uncertainly, and then, holding out his hand.

‘How do you do, sir.’

‘I do, I do,’ said Venetia.

‘So do I,’ said Adele.

‘You don’t,’ said Giles, ‘you were only babies. He was at your christening.’

‘We do remember. Don’t we Adele?’

‘Yes we do.’

‘Well it’s very good news if you do. Do I get a kiss?’

The twins flung themselves at him; he stood up, laughing, one on each arm. They were very jolly little things. Pretty too. Extraordinarily pretty. Like their mother. Gorgeous girl, Celia. He could never quite work out how dull old Oliver had managed to nab her. She should have waited for him. He noticed Barty, standing politely quiet at the bottom of the stairs and grinned at her.

‘Hallo. You’re Barty aren’t you? You’ve grown a bit, too. Can you give me a kiss?’

He bent down, released the twins; Barty came forward, kissed him dutifully on the cheek. She was quite pretty too. Wonderful hair. Funny little thing she’d been, he’d thought at the christening. Terribly shy and quiet. Hardly surprising of course. Jack was not an imaginative person, but even he could see that finding yourself, at the age of three, dumped down with a lot of strangers and told you were going to have to live with them from now on, must be a bit difficult. He’d sort of understood from Oliver that it was intended as a temporary arrangement; it seemed to have become permanent.

‘How old are you?’ he asked her.

She fixed him with her large, hazel eyes and said, ‘Seven.’

‘My goodness, that is grown up. And what’s it like, living with this lot? Murder, I should think.’

Barty flushed, looked at the twins nervously. They were watching her, their dark eyes sharp.

‘It’s – very nice,’ she said quickly.

So that was how it was; a bit difficult. The others probably resented her like mad.

‘We like living with her,’ said Giles firmly.

‘I’m sure you do.’

The twins exchanged glances and started running up the stairs, giggling, their dark heads together.

‘They’re so silly,’ said Giles, giving Barty a quick smile and then, ‘how long are you here for, Uncle Jack?’

‘Only a week. Planning to make the most of it, though.’

That night at dinner, he outlined his plans for making the most of it. ‘I hope you won’t mind, but I shan’t be around much. Got some friends to catch up on. See a few shows, that sort of thing.’

‘We won’t mind at all,’ said Oliver.

But Celia said, her eyes dancing with mild malice, ‘and why shouldn’t we want to see some shows too?’

‘My darling Celia,’ his blue eyes, darker than Oliver’s, but exactly the same almond shape, with exactly the same almost girlishly long lashes, moved over her face, ‘You can come to a show with me any time.’

‘Good. Then I shall. What do you fancy most?’

‘Oh, you’ll have to tell me. I’m dreadfully out of touch. The music hall, I suppose. I long to see the Gibson Girls. Oliver, what suggestions do you have?’

‘Now let me see,’ said Oliver looking at him, his expression absolutely deadpan. ‘There’s a new production of
Othello
I’d rather like to see. I could take you to that. And perhaps
Rigoletto
at Covent Garden. How would you like that?’

‘I think I probably wouldn’t, thanks very much all the same,’ said Jack, ‘I can’t seem to quite get the hang of Shakespeare. I remember you getting terribly excited about something by him, saying it had changed your life. I thought you’d gone a bit bonkers.’

‘He probably had,’ said Celia, ‘now, I’ll tell you what we should see, and I promise, Jack, I won’t interfere with the rest of your leave at all, it’s the first full length colour film. It sounds madly exciting.
The World, the Flesh and the Devil
it’s called. There now, you can take me to that.’

‘With the greatest of pleasure. Sounds very exciting. Does that appeal to you, Oliver?’

‘No, I think I’ll duck out, if you don’t mind,’ said Oliver. ‘Now tell us about India, Jack, have you enjoyed it?’

‘Absolutely loved it. Bit of action, lot of fun. Ended with a staff job you know, stayed behind as ADC to the Viceroy when the regiment went out to South Africa. Did I tell you that?’

‘No,’ said Celia smiling at him. Modesty was one of his most endearing characteristics. But she could see exactly why he should have earned such a prize: he had charm, he had social grace, and he was by all accounts a brilliant soldier.

‘Yes, well, I did enjoy it. I tell you what was marvellous, the Durbar. The Coronation out there, you know in 1911. Magnificent. Fifty thousand troops, at the ceremony in Delhi. Bloody – beg your pardon Celia – absolutely fantastic. The viceroy led the Indian princes into the ceremony of homage, dozens of ’em, and the king emperor’s train was carried by six pages, all either maharajas themselves or the sons of maharajas. Say what you will, they know how to put on a good show out there. The king and queen both looked wonderful, the king had a special crown created, you know. The people went mad, of course. Did a lot for increasing their enthusiasm. Not always as grateful as they should be, I’m afraid.’

‘And have you done all those exciting things, big game hunting and so on?’ asked Celia.

‘I have indeed. Got rather good at it, as a matter of fact. Bagged quite a few tigers in my time. You go on elephant back, you know. Jolly exciting.’

‘I’m afraid London will be rather dull for you after that.’

‘Oh – I don’t have any fears about dullness’, said Jack, ‘I intend to have a great deal of fun, and then it’s off to France to deal with the Hun. Shouldn’t take long. You’re not worried about it, Oliver, I hope?’

‘Oh – just a bit,’ said Oliver.

‘Well I’m going,’ said Jago. ‘Try and stop me.’

LM stared at him and felt terror literally churn in her stomach; she thought she was about to vomit. She clutched the arms of her chair so tightly that she could see the knuckles white when she looked down.

‘You mean you’ve volunteered?’

‘I certainly have. Today. Went with the lads.’

‘What lads?’

‘The brickies. You must have heard about the pals’ battalions. Lord Kitchener’s just given the nod to them. Volunteer together, serve together. That’s the promise. You haven’t been reading the right papers, Meg. Twenty thousand men in Manchester all volunteered together, formed fifteen battalions. City Tramways in Glasgow, that’s another one, whole battalion in just sixteen hours, Boys’ Brigade—’

‘The Boys’ Brigade?’ said LM faintly. ‘Boys?’

‘Yes, well obviously only the ones old enough. It’s a great idea. All together going out there, doing your bit for king and country. Anyway, so down we went to the town hall, lunchtime, three dozen or so of us. Off for training in a week or two, they said. Do you know, even the Australians are sending a force. Defending their empire. You can’t help but be moved by that, Meg.’

‘Oh Jago,’ said LM, and her iron self-discipline deserted her, so fast that it surprised even herself. ‘Oh Jago, I don’t want you to go.’ Fear and misery reduced her to helpless tears; she sat there staring at him, sobbing quietly. He looked at her, first almost amused, then concerned. He went over to her, knelt in front of her, took her face in his hands.

‘Hey now. Don’t be silly, Meg. This isn’t like you. I’ll be all right. Course I will. I can’t not go, let the old country down. You wouldn’t want that, would you, feeling ashamed of me and all?’

‘I’d rather be ashamed of you, than be without you,’ said LM quietly.

‘Well, you won’t be without me for long. It’ll be over by Christmas. Then we’ll be back, right as rain. You see. Oh, Meg, don’t, don’t cry like that. Please don’t.’

He took her in his arms, felt the sobs shaking her body, felt moved to tears himself.

‘Hey,’ he said, ‘come on. You’ve got to be brave too, you know. Not just me. That’s how I’ll get through.’

‘I can’t think why you didn’t talk to me about it,’ she said, ‘ask me how I felt.’

‘Because,’ he said, with simple logic, ‘whatever you felt I’d have had to go. Simple as that. Now then – upstairs? Now? Take your mind off things.’

‘You couldn’t,’ she said, ‘really you couldn’t.’

‘I’ll have a damn good try.’

They went upstairs; she lay in bed, naked, still crying. He got in beside her, took her in his arms.

‘I love you,’ he said, ‘I love you so much. Still. Much as ever. You know that don’t you?’

She nodded.

‘And you love me. Don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, I do.’

‘Well then. That’s all that matters.’

He started to kiss her. She felt his penis rising against her, sweetly familiar, felt the other familiar things, the urging within herself, the deep softening. She had thought it wouldn’t happen, that misery would dull her, but it seemed to have sharpened her, made her want him more. She drew him into her, urgently hungry, felt him filling her, felt love filling her too; and memory with it: all the times that had mattered. The wonderfully shocking first time, on the floor by the fire at her house, the first time he had said he loved her, that she was special, unlike anyone else, all the glorious Sunday mornings, their own particular time, the night she forgave him for Violet Brown, when he had been so gently, so abolutely and tenderly remorseful and she had been so angry, and somehow the two emotions had exploded into something so sensual she still felt the memory physically, felt her body tighten and tauten whenever she thought of it, in her office, at the dining table, even in church. And tonight, this was another special time; she felt herself beginning to climb, a hot, dark ascent, felt her body clenching and unclenching, loosen and tauten round him, felt not only her physical self but her emotions gathering, pulling her around her centre, felt the flaring out, the spreading, the fanning of her orgasm begin, pushed, fought into it, let herself fall, felt first the breaking, the fierce peaks of it, and then the circles, lapping out and out, bigger and brighter each one, and finally, resting on the edge of it, sweetly at peace, felt fear and love for him fill her in equal parts and began to weep once more.

‘I’m not going,’ said Robert.

‘I’m afraid you’ll have to,’ said Laurence.

‘I’ve told you, Laurence, I won’t.’

He was finding it hard even to sound strong. He still felt utterly shaken, by the discovery not only that Laurence was right, had, theoretically at least, the power to order him from the house, his house, but that Jeanette had not loved or trusted him sufficiently to change her will, the will that Jonathan had instructed her to make, had watched her sign, had had his lawyers file away.

Why, why had she not done so, why? He supposed – he hoped, he prayed – because she had thought it unnecessary, that they would live in the house together for a long, long time, until they were both old people and it would be right and proper for it to become Laurence’s. But he feared it was because, in the unlikely event of her dying earlier than him, she had not wanted him to have it. Had not wanted him living there, as master. Otherwise why pretend, why dissemble?

Looking back examining the conversations, he could see the assurances were all double-edged. Yes, my dearest, of course everything is in order; no, my darling, you have nothing to worry about. Never actually saying she had changed the will, made the house over to him. Made anything over to him. It was all still for Laurence.

He might never have entered her life, might never have married her, for all the record there was of him in her papers, her official affairs. So – had she from the very beginning seen him as an adventurer, after her money? It was a dreadful thought. His mind ranged endlessly over the conversations about money, the time she had refused him even a business loan, the time she had set aside his suggestion that they should buy a house in London so that he could see his brother and sister more frequently, the many, many times he had suggested joint purchases of shares, of stock, of works of art.

‘I will ask the trustees,’ she would say vaguely, ‘a wonderful idea, my dearest one,’ and that would be the last he would hear of it.

He felt grieved, saddened, angry even, the memory of her shadowed, his love for her – and it had indeed been love – tarnished.

‘Look, Laurence,’ he said now, struggling to sound reasonable, light-hearted even, ‘look, you can’t really want to live here alone.’

‘I won’t be alone, I shall have my brother.’

‘Your brother cannot possibly live here with you, without adult supervision. I simply can’t even countenance that.’

‘You have to countenance it,’ said Laurence, ‘I have the law on my side.’

‘But I’m your legal guardian, as your mother’s widower.’

‘I think I would dispute that as well. The trustees play that role.’

‘That is also open to legal argument,’ said Robert, his temper beginning to lash, ‘and I shall certainly pursue it.’