A Dangerous Fortune (24 page)

“I wish I weren’t benefiting from your troubles,” Micky said. “I feel I’m behaving like a rat.”

“Not at all.” Tonio took Micky’s hand in both of his. “You’re a true friend.”

 CHAPTER FIVE

SEPTEMBER  

1

HUGH’S SIX-YEAR-OLD SISTER
Dorothy was folding his shirts and packing them into his trunk. He knew that as soon as she went to bed he would have to take them all out and do them again, because her folding was hopelessly untidy; but he pretended she was very good at it, and encouraged her.

“Tell me about America again,” she said.

“America is so far away that in the morning the sun takes four hours to get there.”

“Do they stay in bed all morning?”

“Yes—then they get up at lunchtime and have breakfast!”

She giggled. “They’re lazy.”

“Not really. You see, it doesn’t get dark until midnight, so they have to work all evening.”

“And they go to bed late! I like going to bed late. I’d like America. Why can’t we go with you?”

“I wish you could, Dotty.” Hugh felt rather wistful: he would not see his baby sister again for years. She would be changed when he returned. She would understand time zones.

September rain drummed on the windows, and down in the bay the wind lashed the waves, but here there was a coal fire and a soft hearth-rug. Hugh packed a handful of books:
Modern Business Methods, The Successful Commercial Clerk, The Wealth of Nations, Robinson Crusoe
. The older clerks at Pilasters Bank were contemptuous of what they called “book-learning,” and were fond of saying that experience was the best teacher, but they were wrong: Hugh had been able to understand the workings of the different departments much more quickly because he had studied the theory beforehand.

He was going to America at a time of crisis. In the early 1870s several of the banks had made large loans on the security of speculative railway stocks, and when railway construction ran into trouble in the middle of 1873 the banks started to look shaky. A few days ago Jay Cooke & Co., the agents of the American government, had gone bust, dragging the First National Bank of Washington down with them; and the news had reached London the same day via the transatlantic telegraph cable. Now five New York banks had suspended business, including the Union Trust Company—a major bank—and the old-established Mechanics’ Banking Association. The Stock Exchange had closed its doors. Businesses would fall, thousands of people would be thrown out of work, trade would suffer, and Pilasters’ American operation would get smaller and more cautious—so that it would be harder for Hugh to make his mark.

So far the crisis had had little impact in London. The bank rate had gone up a point, to four percent, and a small London bank with close American links had failed, but there was no panic. All the same, old Seth insisted there was trouble ahead. He was quite weak now. He had moved into Augusta’s house and spent most days in bed. But he stubbornly refused to resign until he had steered Pilasters through the storm.

Hugh began to fold his clothes. The bank had paid for two new suits: he had a suspicion his mother had persuaded his grandfather to authorize that. Old Seth was as tight-fisted as the rest of the Pilasters but he had a soft spot for Hugh’s mother; in fact it was the small allowance
Seth gave her that she had been living on all these years.

Mother had also insisted Hugh be allowed a few weeks off before leaving, to give him more time to get ready and say his good-byes. She had not seen much of him since he had gone to work at the bank—he could not afford the train fare to Folkestone very often—and she wanted to have some time with him before he left the country. They had spent most of August here, at the seaside, while Augusta and her family had been on holiday in Scotland. Now the holidays were over and it was time to leave, and Hugh was saying good-bye to his mother.

While he was thinking about her she came into the room. She was in her eighth year of widowhood but she still wore black. She did not seem to want to marry again, although she easily could have—she was still beautiful, with serene gray eyes and thick blond hair.

He knew she was sad that she would not see him for years. But she had not spoken of her sadness: rather, she shared his excitement and trepidation at the challenge of a new country.

“It’s almost bedtime, Dorothy,” she said. “Go and put on your nightdress.” As soon as Dotty was out of the room, Mother began to refold Hugh’s shirts.

He wanted to talk to her about Maisie, but he felt shy. Augusta had written to her, he knew. She might also have heard from other family members, or even seen them on one of her rare shopping trips to London. The story she had heard might be a long way from the truth. After a moment he said: “Mother …”

“What is it, dear?”

“Aunt Augusta doesn’t always say quite what is true.”

“No need to be so polite,” she said with a bitter smile. “Augusta has been telling lies about your father for years.”

Hugh was startled by her frankness. “Do you think it
was she who told Florence Stalworthy’s parents that he was a gambler?”

“I’m quite sure of it, unfortunately.”

“Why is she this way?”

His mother put down the shirt she was folding and thought for a minute. “Augusta was a very beautiful girl,” she said. “Her family worshiped at Kensington Methodist Hall, which is how we knew them. She was an only child, willful and spoiled. Her parents were nothing special: her father was a shop assistant who had started his own business and ended up with three little grocery stores in the west London suburbs. But Augusta was clearly destined for higher things.”

She went to the rainy window and looked out, seeing not the stormy English Channel but the past. “When she was seventeen the earl of Strang fell for her. He was a lovely boy—comely, kind, high-born and rich. Naturally his parents were horrified at the prospect that he should marry a grocer’s daughter. However, she was very beautiful, and even then, though she was young, she had a dignified air that could carry her through most social situations.”

“Did they become engaged?” Hugh asked.

“Not formally. But everyone assumed it was a foregone conclusion. Then there was a dreadful scandal. Her father was accused of systematically giving short weight in his shops. An employee he had sacked reported him to the Board of Trade. It was said that he had even cheated the church, which bought tea from him for the Tuesday evening Bible study groups and so on. There was a chance he would go to jail. He denied everything vehemently, and in the end nothing came of it. But Strang dropped Augusta.”

“She must have been heartbroken.”

“No,” Mother said. “Not heartbroken. She was wild with rage. All her life she had been able to have her own
way, Now she wanted Strang more than she had ever wanted anything—and she couldn’t have him.”

“And she married Uncle Joseph on the rebound, as they say.”

“I’d say she married him in a fit of temper. He was older than she by seven years, which is a lot when you’re seventeen; and he wasn’t much better-looking then than he is now; but he was very rich, even richer than Strang. To give her credit, she has done all she can to be a good wife to him. But he will never be Strang, and she is still angry about that.”

“What happened to Strang?”

“He married a French countess and died in a hunting accident.”

“I almost feel sorry for Augusta.”

“No matter what she has, she always wants more: more money, a more important job for her husband, a higher social position for herself. The reason she is so ambitious—for herself, for Joseph and for Edward—is that she still yearns for what Strang could have given her: the title, the ancestral home, the life of endless leisure, wealth without work. But that isn’t what Strang offered her, in truth. He offered her love. That’s what she’s really lost. And nothing will ever make up for it.”

Hugh had never had such an intimate conversation with his mother. He felt encouraged to open his heart to her. “Mother,” he began. “About Maisie …”

She looked puzzled. “Maisie?”

“The girl … all the trouble is about. Maisie Robinson.”

Her face cleared. “Augusta never told anyone her name.”

He hesitated, then blurted out: “She’s not an ‘unfortunate’ woman.”

Mother was embarrassed: men never mentioned such things as prostitution to their mothers. “I see,” she said, looking away.

Hugh plowed on. “She is lower class, that much is right. And Jewish.” He looked at her face and saw that she was startled, but not horrified. “She’s nothing worse than that. In fact …” He hesitated.

Mother looked at him. “Go on.”

“In fact, she was a maiden.”

Mother blushed.

“I’m sorry to speak of such things, Mother,” he said. “But if I don’t you’ll only know Aunt Augusta’s version of the story.”

Mother swallowed. “Were you fond of her, Hugh?”

“Rather.” He felt tears come to his eyes. “I don’t understand why she disappeared. I’ve no idea where she went. I never knew her address. I’ve inquired at the livery stables she worked for, and at the Argyll Rooms where I met her. Solly Greenbourne was fond of her too, and he’s as baffled as I am. Tonio Silva knew her friend April, but Tonio has gone back to South America and I can’t find April.”

“How mysterious.”

“I’m sure Aunt Augusta arranged this somehow.”

“I have no doubt of it. I can’t imagine how, but she is appallingly devious. However, you must look to the future now, Hugh. Boston will be such an opportunity for you. You must work hard and conscientiously.”

“She really is an extraordinary girl, Mother.”

Mother did not believe him, he could tell. She said: “But you’ll forget her.”

“I wonder if I ever shall.”

Mother kissed his forehead. “You will. I promise.”

2

THERE WAS ONLY ONE PICTURE ON THE WALL
in the attic room Maisie shared with April. It was a garish circus poster showing Maisie, in spangled tights, standing on the back
of a galloping horse. Underneath, in red letters, were the words “The Amazing Maisie.” The picture was not very true to life, for the circus had not actually had any white horses, and Maisie’s legs had never been that long. All the same she cherished the poster. It was her only souvenir of those days.

Otherwise the room contained only a narrow bed, a washstand, one chair and a three-legged stool. The girls’ clothes hung from nails banged into the wall. The dirt on the window served instead of curtains. They tried to keep the place clean but it was impossible. Soot fell down the chimney, mice came up through the cracks in the floorboards, and dirt and insects crept in through the gaps between the window frame and the surrounding brickwork. Today it was raining, and water dripped from the windowsill and from a crack in the ceiling.

Maisie was getting dressed. It was Rosh Hashanah, when the Book of Life was open, and at this time of year she always wondered what was being written for her. She never actually prayed, but she did sort of hope, in a solemn kind of way, that something good was going on her page of the Book.

April had gone to make tea in the communal kitchen, but now she came back, bursting into the room with a newspaper in her hand. “It’s you, Maisie, it’s you!” she said.

“What?”

“In the
Lloyd’s Weekly News
. Listen to this. ‘Miss Maisie Robinson, formerly Miriam Rabinowicz. If Miss Robinson will contact Messrs. Goldman and Jay, Solicitors, at Gray’s Inn, she will learn something to her advantage.’ It must be you!”

Maisie’s heart beat faster, but she made her expression stern and her voice cold. “It’s Hugh,” she said. “I’ll not go.”

April looked disappointed. “You might have inherited money from a long-lost relation.”

“I might be the Queen of Mongolia, but I’ll not walk all the way to Gray’s Inn on the off-chance.” She was managing to sound flippant, but her heart ached. She thought about Hugh every day and every night, and she was miserable. She hardly knew him, but it was impossible to forget him.

Nevertheless she was determined to try. She knew he had been searching for her. He had been at the Argyll Rooms every night, he had badgered Sammles the stable owner, and he had inquired for her at half the cheap lodging houses in London. Then the inquiries had ceased, and Maisie assumed he had given up. Now it seemed he had merely changed his tactics, and was trying to reach her with newspaper advertisements. It was very hard to continue to avoid him when he was searching so persistently for her and she wanted so badly to see him again. But she had made her decision. She loved him too much to ruin him.

She put her arms into her corset. “Help me with my stays,” she said to April.

April began pulling the laces. “I’ve never had my name in the paper,” she said enviously. “You have twice, now, if you count ‘The Lioness’ as a name.”

“And how much good has it done me? By God, I’m getting fat.”

April tied the laces and helped her into her gown. They were going out tonight. April had a new lover, a middle-aged magazine editor with a wife and six children in Clapham. This evening he and a friend were taking April and Maisie to a music hall.

Between now and then they would walk along Bond Street and stare into the windows of fashionable shops. They would not buy anything. In order to hide from Hugh, Maisie had been obliged to give up working for Sammles—much to Sammles’s regret, for she had sold five horses and a pony-and-trap—and the money she had saved was rapidly running out. But they had to go out,
regardless of the weather: it was too depressing to stay in the room.

Maisie’s gown was tight across her breasts and she winced as April did it up. April gave her a curious look and said: “Are your nipples sore?”

“Yes, they are—I wonder why?”

“Maisie,” said April in a worried tone, “when did you last have the curse?”

“I never keep count.” Maisie thought for a moment, and a chill descended on her. “Oh, dear God,” she said.

“When?”

“I think it was before we went to the races at Goodwood. Do you think I’m pregnant?”