No Angel (Spoils of Time 01) (15 page)

‘Good God,’ said Celia, ‘that is extraordinary. Just out of the blue – or had you mentioned anything to Robert?’

‘I talked about it when they were over here. You may remember. But certainly never since. I wonder why – well it’s a most interesting notion. I would certainly like to have an office over there. It would be marvellous. On the other hand, I don’t know that taking her money—’

‘If I read Jeanette right,’ said Celia briskly, ‘there would be no question of taking her money. It would need to get back to her, increased, many times over. But – well I think it’s a very interesting idea. Personally.’

‘Do you? I think it would worry me.’

‘I can see why it might worry you having Jeanette involved,’ said Celia, ‘which of course she would be. But not about the money. She is immensely rich. Croesus looks quite impoverished by comparison. She can afford to invest a great deal, and lose it.’

‘You think she’d want to be involved do you?’

‘Well of course. Why else should she be doing it?’

‘I have no idea,’ said Oliver.

Celia was right. Jeanette’s sole motivation was self-interest. To begin with, she was an intellectual snob: although a genuinely cultivated one. She liked the idea of having a publishing company she could call at least partly her own and partly to Jeanette meant a great deal more than half. She was intrigued by the notion of a new career in her mid-forties; by new contacts, new interests, new concerns. And then she was bored; her children, even the small Maud, only absorbed so much of her time. Her role at Elliotts was limited; she felt ready for new challenges. And Lyttons would provide them, she could see. A letter from Oliver, indicating at least a strong interest in her proposal, had both pleased and encouraged her. She could hardly wait for his arrival in New York. To Robert’s clear unhappiness with the whole thing she gave hardly a moment’s consideration.

CHAPTER 8

‘Lady Celia, Miss Adele isn’t very well. I think perhaps we should call the doctor.’

‘What sort of not well?’

‘Well, it’s that cold Master Giles had, I’d say, only worse. She’s hot. Temperature up a bit, just over a hundred. And she’s got a cough, Very wheezy. I’ve been putting embrocations on her chest all day, but it hasn’t really done much good.’

‘Oh dear.’ Celia hesitated. She had come home from the office to see the children quickly and change for an evening at the theatre. She’d been longing for it, Sarah Bernhardt in what was supposed to be one of her greatest roles, Lady Macbeth. And before she went, she’d planned to do some packing. She had an awful lot to do: only two weeks now before they sailed.

‘I’ll come up and have a look at her, of course,’ she said after a brief struggle with herself. ‘See what I think.’

‘She’d like that, Lady Celia. She’s very fretful.’

Adele was indeed fretful: flushed, restless, clearly uncomfortable. She wailed as soon as she saw her mother, and held out her arms to be picked up. Celia sat down, took her on to her knee, then nodded at Nanny over the small dark head.

‘Yes, I think we should call the doctor. Tell Brunson to get him on the telephone.’

The doctor came within half an hour; he spent a long time listening to Adele’s small chest through his stethoscope, looking inside her mouth and at her throat.

‘You were right to call me,’ he said finally, ‘her chest sounds very congested. She must be kept in bed, of course. Carry on with the embrocations, Nanny, and she must inhale as well. And get this for her,’ he scribbled out a prescription ‘first thing in the morning. It should loosen the cough, ease her lungs. We don’t want croup developing.’

‘No indeed,’ said Celia. ‘You don’t think it’s dangerous, what she has?’

‘Oh no,’ he said, carefully hearty, ‘not dangerous. But it could be unpleasant. She’s very small.’

‘Yes, of course. Oh, dear. Poor angel.’ She dropped a kiss on Adele’s head. ‘How – how long would you expect it to continue, Dr Perring?’

‘Impossible to say. Sometimes children throw this sort of thing off in hours, sometimes it can go on for days. There’s no real danger, but she does need careful nursing. Ideally by her mother, of course,’ he added, smiling just slightly heavily at Celia: ‘they always make the best nurses.’

Celia went downstairs to see him out and to telephone Oliver to let him know that she would not be at the theatre that evening.

In the morning Adele was better: tired and fractious, but her temperature down and the cough looser. Celia, weary herself from a night of nursing – for she had taken Dr Perring’s words seriously – went to the office for an important meeting with some booksellers, but promised to come home immediately if Adele took a turn for the worse.

‘Just telephone me, Nanny, I can be back in half an hour. Less, probably.’

Nanny didn’t phone; that evening, Adele was clearly well on the way back to her normal bouncy health. Celia started to pack. She’d been afraid even to contemplate what she might have had to do if Adele had been really ill. Of course, a mother’s place was with her child – her sick child. But not being on the
Titanic
! Missing the maiden voyage! it would have been the biggest disappointment of her entire life. Unbearable. Professionally, too, it was becoming important; she had already promised to give a talk about it at a literary evening at Hatchards, and had discussed with LM the possibility of a book, not only about the
Titanic
, but about the other luxury liners which were becoming so popular. She had to be on it; she simply had to.

‘Another meeting?’ LM raised her eyebrows.

‘Another meeting,’ said Jago. He crossed his fingers in his pockets. Which wasn’t necessary. It was quite true. He was going to another meeting. It just happened to be a small one; just him and Violet and Betty Carstairs, the treasurer. And why not? All right, it was in the small house where Violet lived with her widowed mother – conveniently out for the evening – but he wasn’t going to be unfaithful to LM, just spend the time listing names and subscriptions, and sticking stamps on envelopes containing letters to sympathisers and supporters.

And he’d told Violet he had some news. Which he did. LM had told him that Lyttons were proposing to do a book about Mrs Pankhurst and her daughter. Of couse they weren’t members of the NUWSS, but it was wonderful publicity for the cause. And it would undoubtedly mention the NUWSS, LM had said so. They would be so excited. And he would gain a lot of prestige in their eyes. Violet would probably be very impressed. He liked the thought of that. Impressing LM was virtually impossible. Of course there was a drawback, once they discovered he knew someone connected with a publishing house, they’d be looking for money, for donations from it as well. They were very demanding when it came to their cause, turned the tiniest pebble over and over again. LM had given twenty pounds, but that was all. She’d got quite difficult when he’d suggested a proper, formal subscription from Lyttons.

‘I really don’t want to be that involved,’ she said, ‘it simply isn’t the sort of thing I feel Lyttons should be doing.’

When he asked why not, she hedged for a bit and then said slightly reluctantly that many of their customers were unsympathetic to the suffragettes, indeed actually hostile to them. ‘It could do us a great deal of harm, Jago, you must see that.’

Jago said he didn’t see that at all, and she said well, that was unfortunate, but it didn’t alter the situation.

‘I think doing the book will be far more useful in the long run. And Celia has also expressed an interest in publishing a work of fiction based around the movement, indeed one of our editors has been briefed to look for a writer. That will be extremely valuable as well. So please don’t try and imply, Jago, that Lyttons or I don’t have the interests of the suffragettes at heart.’

Jago, sensing danger, said he wasn’t trying to imply anything of the sort.

‘Venetia isn’t so well this evening, Lady Celia. The same thing I’m afraid.’ Celia laid down the sets of lace-trimmed negligees she had just bought from Woollands and was folding gently in tissue paper ready for packing, and sighed.

‘Oh, Nanny. Is she as bad as Adele?’

‘Worse, I’d say. Very nasty cough.’

‘I’ll come up.’

It was exactly the same story; the doctor was summoned, he prescribed the same treatment and care, and departed. This time they had to call him back in the morning. Venetia, always the more delicate of the twins, was clearly worse, her temperature soaring almost to a hundred and two, her little chest rising and falling rapidly, her cough rasping. A second night of anxiety followed the first; at midnight, as she lay in her small bed, coughing endlessly, the inhalations and embrocations apparently impotent against the endless painful cough, Celia looked up at Oliver who had come up to sit with her as well, and said, ‘At this rate, Oliver, I may not be on the
Titanic
. I can’t leave her if she is as ill as this. I wouldn’t know a moment’s peace. It’s dreadful but – well anyway, of course you must still go.’

At which, Nanny, coming in with a fresh bowl of steaming inhalation, was touched to see him bend down and kiss the top of Celia’s head with great tenderness.

‘My darling,’ he said, ‘if you don’t go, then neither shall I.’

‘Oliver! You’ve been looking forward to it so much.’

‘Of course I have. But I wouldn’t enjoy it in the least without you. And I have to tell you, my darling, that I am deeply touched by your devotion to our children. I know what missing the voyage would mean to you.’

‘Oliver really!’ She said, smiling at him wearily. ‘Any mother would do the same.’

‘Not so,’ he said, ‘I can think of a great many mothers who would do nothing of the sort.’

Nanny, who had heard a great many horror stories about other mothers while sitting on the nanny benches in Kensington Gardens, felt bound to agree with Oliver.

However, two days later, Venetia was better, pale and rather hollow-eyed, but still with enough energy and strength to make her small presence felt strongly once more in the nursery. The Lyttons’ presence on the
Titanic
seemed guaranteed again.

‘This is Sarah Parker,’ said Violet. ‘She’s come to help this evening. You ought to introduce your publishing friend to her, Jago, she could tell her a few stories. Just out of prison, aren’t you Sarah? Sarah, this is Jago Ford. He may be a man but he’s harmless. Well, better than harmless, matter of fact. Got friends in high places, he has, getting a book published about Mrs P.’

‘Really?’ Sarah Parker smiled at Jago. She was a tall woman, very thin and pale, with a rather misleading air of exhaustion; her voice was deep and well-educated, her presence authoritative. ‘Which publishing house is that, Mr Ford?’

‘Call me Jago. Place called Lyttons.’

‘Oh, yes?’ The lovely voice swooped suddenly with interest and a touch of amusement. ‘Lady Celia Lytton’s empire.’

‘You know about her, do you?’

‘I do. Emmeline has dined with her. And Christabel, too, I believe. She’s a very interesting woman. Highly successful. Of course being married to Mr Lytton makes just a little difference.’

‘Yes?’ Jago was confused suddenly by this outsider’s view of the Lytton empire. Thus far in his life it had been only a shadowy background to his relationship with LM.

‘Of course. But I’m being unfair. She has had a great many clever ideas. So she’s doing a book about Emmeline is she? Well that will help a little, certainly. Violet, pass me those envelopes would you? I may as well make myself useful.’

As she sat sticking stamps on to envelopes, Jago noticed how thin and clawlike her hands were, how gaunt the lines of her jaw.

‘What’s it like in prison, then?’ he said abruptly. He knew it was a crass question, but he felt it was worse not to ask it at all.

‘Fairly dreadful,’ she said calmly. ‘The worst thing is the isolation. It’s hard to feel the power of the sisterhood when you’re with your own thoughts and fears twenty-four hours a day.’

‘Fears?’ said Jago.

‘Oh yes. Of the warders, their brutality. The hard labour is not exactly insupportable, but if a warden finds fault, say with the scrubbing you’ve done, you’re put on bread and water. And then the force-feeding is a dreadful experience. For the first time I understood, seeing my cell door open as they came for me, what it meant when people spoke of their bowels turning to water.’

Jago felt uncomfortable; he was not used to such conversation. Violet put her hand out and covered Sarah’s with it.

‘How often did they do it to you?’ she asked.

‘Half a dozen times. Then I became too ill, and I was admitted to the prison hospital. Your throat is lacerated, you see, with the feeding tube. It’s very wide, and it’s four feet in length, rammed down you with great force. And you vomit at the same time. I still can’t eat anything but the most sloppy food. My doctor says I probably never shall.’ She smiled cheerfully round the group. ‘But never mind. I’m not actually going to subject myself to it again. That’s why I’m throwing in my lot with you. It’s not really cowardice, I hope. I’ve become extremely doubtful about the good that all the violence does. The public sees our more militant members as troublemakers. Christabel and Emmeline don’t agree of course. I’m afraid they’re not very pleased with me.’

After Sarah Parker left, Violet looked at Jago thoughtfully. ‘So who is your friend? What’s – his name?’

‘It’s a her,’ said Jago, ‘and her name’s Margaret Lytton.’

‘Never! You’re kidding me. You know one of them, one of the Lyttons themselves?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well?’ The grey eyes were sharp now, sharp and piercing.

‘No,’ he said hastily, ‘no, not well. Not well at all.’

‘Oh come on. You wouldn’t have that sort of influence over someone if you didn’t know them well.’

He said nothing, looked down at the rather genteel cup, filled with weak tea which Violet’s mother had brought in.

‘Well who’d have thought it?’ said Violet. She looked at him, under her long lashes, and half smiled. ‘you’ve obviously got a lot to offer. Having a lady friend like that.’

‘She’s not a lady friend,’ said Jago, ‘not like you mean.’

‘She isn’t?’

‘Well no. Look I’ve got to be going now. It’s been really interesting meeting Mrs Parker and everything. But I’ve got to be up at five.’

‘Wasn’t it interesting being with me? No, I thought not. Knew it couldn’t be. Dead uninteresting I am.’

She looked dejected, her small shoulders drooping. Jago felt a pang of remorse.

‘I don’t think you’re uninteresting,’ he said, ‘not at all.’

‘Course you do. Most people do. I meet all them clever people through the cause, and I can see them all thinking oh, she’s just a bit of nothing. Oh dear, oh I’m sorry.’ She pulled out a lace handkerchief, blew her nose on it.

‘Violet—’ said Jago gently.

‘What?’

‘Violet, I don’t think you’re at all uninteresting. I think you’re very sweet. And—’ he cleared his throat, ‘very attractive. Very. And – well and – interesting.’

This was dangerous; he knew it. He had no illusions about Violet Brown. His sexual instincts were extremely acute. At the same time it was exciting. And it was a long time since he’d been in an exciting situation.

Mrs Brown suddenly appeared in the doorway: a fierce cottage loaf of a woman.

‘Violet, it’s getting late,’ she said, ‘time we was locking up.’

‘Yes, all right, Mum. The gentleman’s just going.’

On the doorstep, Jago turned, said, ‘Thank you for a very nice evening, Violet. And I really did enjoy talking to you. Not just to Sarah.’

Suddenly she leaned forward, just for a moment, her small body pressed against him; he could smell her perfume, cheap and cloying but still sweet and arousing, felt her lips move under his briefly, before she pulled back, hearing her mother in the hall.

‘There’s still a lot of work to be done,’ she said, ‘if you wanted to help us some more.’