A Season of Secrets (38 page)

‘I did. They’re fervently anti-communist and, with the German economy in mind, that has to be a good thing. Herr Hitler has also said – and I have to agree with him –
that if Germany fell to the communists, we in Britain would have to look to our laurels.’

Zephiniah was on the verge of asking tartly how he felt about that, considering that he had a daughter who was as near to being a communist as made no difference. But, remembering how
desperately she wanted to be in Aix-les-Bains before the month was out, she bit back the words.

‘And now?’ she asked, as her maid finished zipping her into an emerald chiffon, ankle-swirling dress.

‘And now it’s not only the communists and the Versailles Peace Treaty that he’s blaming for Germany’s ills, it’s German Jews – and that sort of thing will
increase instability in Germany, not ease it.’

Zephiniah took a satisfying look at herself in her cheval-glass and dismissed her maid. Gilbert’s interest in Germany arose, she knew, because of his onetime involvement on a committee
that had sought to ease Germany’s war debt liabilities. To Zephiniah, committees and Germany were subjects just as boring as grouse-shooting and sheep, and the effort of feigning interest was
more than she could be bothered with.

Gilbert’s bow-tie was fastened now and, before he reached for his dinner jacket, she stepped towards him, sliding her arms up and around his neck.

‘The lack of sunshine this summer is affecting my health, Gillie. I’m sure it’s one of the reasons I’m having such difficulty in conceiving. Would you mind awfully,
darling, if I left next week for a week or two’s rest at Aix-les-Bains? It’s a bore for both of us, I know, but I do so want to conceive, and the doctors all suggest rest.’

She kissed the end of his nose and managed a smile that was both winning and regretful.

His shoulders slumped in bitter disappointment. ‘You’ve only been back less than a month, Zephiniah. Couldn’t you stay on here, at Gorton, when Parliament reconvenes? At least
then the two of us would be in the same country.’

She gave a light, dismissive laugh. ‘It’s a rest in sunshine I need, and I think I’ve little chance of finding sunshine in Yorkshire. So far the summer has been ghastly and it
looks as if it’s going to continue being so.’

After his soaking earlier in the day, it was a statement Gilbert couldn’t argue with.

He said sadly, but with wry humour, ‘Perhaps the doctors could take into account that you’re very unlikely to conceive if we’re constantly on opposite sides of the English
Channel.’

She lowered her arms and put them around his waist, hugging him tight, her cheek pressed close against his chest so that he was no longer looking into her eyes.

In Argentina a cervical cap had ensured that she’d never had to face a second, unwanted pregnancy. On her marriage to Gilbert she had jettisoned it as being obsolete. Now she realized she
was going to have to get herself fitted with a new one, for if she became pregnant by Roberto, she would never be able to pass the baby off as Gilbert’s. Like all redheads, Gilbert’s
skin was almost unnaturally pale, and Roberto, as well as having raven-black hair, was olive-complexioned.

When she was quite sure that none of her thoughts were showing in her eyes, she eased herself away from him. ‘Then, although it will break my heart to do so, I’ll leave Gorton for
Aix-les-Bains at the weekend – and every minute that I’m away I’ll be thinking of you.’

Without calling his valet back into the room, Gilbert eased himself into his dinner jacket.

As they were about to leave the room he paused at the door. Turning her towards him, he said gravely, ‘You do love me, don’t you, Zephiniah? You’re not unhappy with me, are
you? Because if you are—’

‘Of course I’m happy with you!’ The lie was off her lips as fast as light. The last thing she wanted to hear was any suggestion of what he might do if she wasn’t happy.
Divorce, once such a no-no, was becoming increasingly common, and she didn’t want to be divorced. Unless a better offer came along, she wanted to continue being Viscountess Fenton.

She slid her evening-gloved hand into the crook of his arm. ‘I’m deliriously,
passionately
, happy with you.’ And with her thoughts once again on Roberto and
Aix-les-Bains, she accompanied him along the corridor and down the grand curving staircase to where their weekend guests were waiting for them in the drawing room.

In a Kensington mansion flat Thea and Kyle lay entwined in a tangle of sheets, their skin warm and flushed, their hearts racing, pulses pounding. Thea lifted a hand to the
nape of Kyle’s neck and slid her fingers caressingly into his dark, silkily straight hair.

‘Wonderful,’ she said dreamily, every atom of her body in a state of heavenly sexual satisfaction. Then, in amusement, ‘Thank God for Marie Stopes and Whitfield
Street.’

Instead of grunting agreement, Kyle rolled off her and onto his side. Resting his weight on his elbow he said, looking down at her, ‘Why does the Whitfield Street clinic make such a
difference?’

‘Because, without the clinic, I wouldn’t be in bed with you. Or,’ she added teasingly, ‘with anyone else.’

Kyle let the ‘anyone else’ tease pass. Thea wasn’t promiscuous. He knew that unless Hal Crosby was taken into account, there wasn’t anyone else. And he also knew, without
a shadow of a doubt, that she wasn’t sleeping with Hal, rarely saw him and, when she did, it was only in passing.

He said reasonably, ‘If we were married you wouldn’t have to take precautions against becoming pregnant.’

She untangled her legs from the twisted sheet and pushed herself up against the pillows. ‘We’ve had this conversation before, Kyle. Why are we having it yet again?’

It was the middle of the day. His Hornton Street flat was a penthouse and neither of them had bothered to lower the blinds. Though the October sun wasn’t strong, as he got out of bed it
cast a gleam on the well-toned muscles of his arms and legs.

‘Because we might be having it for the last time,’ he said, yanking on a pair of trousers. ‘I’m thirty. You’re twenty-six. We’ve been in love for five years,
maybe six. We’re both single and I’ve been asking you to marry me for the last four years. What’s going to happen when I’m recalled to Washington, or when I’m posted
elsewhere? Is it going to be a case of “Thanks a lot, Kyle. It’s been nice. Look me up next time you have an odd couple of days in London?”’

‘You’re being childish!’ Crossly she swung her legs from the bed and reached for silk cami-knickers. Once she was wearing them she didn’t feel at quite such a
disadvantage in what was obviously going to be a serious argument. ‘I simply don’t see being a diplomat’s wife as part of my future,’ she said, as he began buttoning up a
shirt. ‘And just think what a hindrance I’d be to your career if we were married.’ She stepped into her skirt. ‘Can you imagine ever being offered an ambassadorship if you
had a British wife with a track record of left-wing political activism?’

‘You’ve never been arrested. You’re not a card-carrying communist.’

She put on her bra. ‘That’s not to say I might not be one in the future.’

He fastened his tie and slicked back his hair. Hot electric-blue eyes held hers. ‘Let’s not reduce this to a point-scoring slanging match, Thea. I sincerely want to know where the
two of us are going.’ The anger had gone from his voice. It was simply a flat, unhappy statement.

She pulled on a tawny-coloured jumper that emphasized the red lights in her hair.

With the fire now gone from her own voice she said, ‘Why can’t we just continue as we are? We’re happy together, aren’t we? We’re good together in bed. Being
married wouldn’t make it any better. It couldn’t. It would be impossible.’

His eyes continued to hold hers. ‘If we were married, we’d have children. And I want children, Thea. I want to be a reasonably young father, not an old one. I want to share in what
they do. I want to be able to play baseball and football with them.’

She was about to ask if he only intended fathering boys, and then knew the moment didn’t call for such a glib comment. The problem was she didn’t know what response to give him. Did
she want children now? The answer was that she didn’t. Would she want them in the future? How could she tell? Unlike Olivia, she simply couldn’t imagine having children; couldn’t
imagine being a mother.

Neither, though, could she imagine Kyle not being in her life. She needed him in order to endure her searing sense of loss where Hal was concerned. Common sense – and Roz – had told
her that she would, given time, get over him. She hadn’t. In the eight years since her coming-out ball she hadn’t got over him by as much as one jot.

Though she rarely saw Hal, she was aware of him all the time. She could tell at a glance what pieces in the
Evening News
had been written by him. Though she never asked directly for news
of him, Carrie, Olivia and Roz always updated her on their contacts with him.

It wasn’t only Carrie, Olivia and Roz that he kept in contact with. He kept in touch with her father and, via Olivia and Roz, he’d forged friendly contacts with Dieter and Max.
Sharing the occasional drink with them gave him a feel for what was going on behind the scenes in Westminster, Berlin and Washington. He was even on easy terms with Kyle, proof to Thea of his
uncanny ability to get on with everyone he came into contact with – if, of course, he wished to do so.

She dragged her thoughts back to the present tricky conversation.

‘I don’t want to lose you.’ Her eyes pleaded with him to accept their present relationship and not to spoil it by demanding more. ‘But I’m not ready for marriage
and children yet.’

‘You’re twenty-six,’ he repeated again, this time through gritted teeth. He ran a hand exasperatedly through his hair. ‘Land’s sakes, Thea. If you’re not
ready now, when are you going to be?’

Helplessly she said, ‘I don’t know, Kyle. I’m sorry.’

‘So am I.’ There was no sarcasm in his voice, only a deep weariness. He began putting on his socks. ‘Let’s leave it for now, shall we? I have to get back to the embassy.
I’m on a two-till-eight. What say we meet up for dinner at eight-thirty at the Savoy?’

She nodded and, as he slid his feet into his shoes, made no effort to put on her own shoes, or pick up her jacket or handbag. She didn’t want to leave the flat with him. She wanted a few
minutes on her own, to gather her thoughts.

‘I’ll tidy up here and let myself out.’

He nodded, put on his jacket and closed the distance between them. Gently putting his hands on her shoulders, he said thickly, ‘I love you, Thea. Let’s stop this nonsense. In your
heart of hearts, you know our getting married makes sense. It’s not too late for a Christmas wedding – or, at the very least, a Christmas engagement.’

She remained mute, not able to say what he wanted to hear.

He kissed her on the mouth and then, his black-lashed blue eyes looking bleakly unhappy, turned and left the room.

She waited until she heard first the entrance door to the apartment close behind him and then, seconds later, the hum of the cage-lift as it carried him down to the ground floor.

When she faintly heard the lift gates open and then close again, she forced herself into movement. She put on her shoes. Made the bed. Washed up their wine glasses, dried them and put them away.
Then she walked to the windows, looking out over a view of sky and rooftops and of nearby Kensington Palace.

The nearness of the palace emphasized to her the way Kyle would always live. Like Roz, he was rich on a grand scale, the heir to two generations of railroad and steel wealth. If he had wanted to
live in a house in Belgrave Square, as Olivia and Dieter did, then he could have done. He could live wherever he chose and, like tonight, dine wherever he chose. As a Democrat he was sufficiently
left-wing not to find her political views offensive, but appalled as he was by the unemployment destroying the lives of millions of Americans and causing unimaginable hardship in Britain, he would
never, as she did, march and protest on the streets – and not only because it would be the end of his career if he were to do so, but because it was simply beyond him to identify so
personally with abject poverty.

She picked up her suit jacket and slid her arms into the sleeves. Today workless men from all over the country were gathering in Trafalgar Square at a massive rally organized by the National
Unemployed Workers’ Movement. The rally was in protest at cuts to dole money and at the means test that had to be undergone when unemployment lasted for longer than six months. There had been
other national rallies, but this was going to be the biggest yet, and she had every intention of giving it her support.

The mansion block in Hornton Street sat corner-ways on to Kensington High Street and she had only yards to walk in order to catch a number nine bus heading for Trafalgar Square.

‘Though I doubt we’ll reach it,’ the conductor said cheerfully as he took her money and cranked out a ticket. ‘Not with the Hunger Marchers’ rally taking place
there. All roads around the square are jam-packed. Shouldn’t wonder if the nearest we get is the Haymarket.’