A Dangerous Fortune (35 page)

He followed Nora into the parlor. The furniture was old and worn, but Nora had brightened the room with things they had bought together: gay cushions, a colorful rug and a painting of Balmoral Castle. She lit a candle and drew the curtains.

Hugh stood in the middle of the room, not knowing what to do with himself, until she put him out of his misery by saying: “See if you can get the fire going.” There were a few embers in the hearth, and Hugh put on kindling and blew the fire back to life with a small bellows.

When he was done he turned around to see her sitting on the sofa with her hat off and her hair let down. She patted the cushion beside her and he sat down obediently.
Blackie glared jealously at him, and he wondered how soon he could get the dog out of the room.

They held hands and looked into the fire. Hugh felt at peace. He could not imagine wanting to do anything else for the rest of his life. After a while he kissed her again. Tentatively he touched her breast. It was firm, and filled his hand. He squeezed it gently, and she sighed heavily. Hugh had not felt this good for years, but he wanted more. He kissed her harder, still touching her breasts.

By degrees she leaned back until Hugh was half lying on her. They both began to breathe hard. He was sure she must be able to feel his prick pressing against her plump thigh. In the back of his mind the voice of conscience told him he was taking advantage of a young girl in her father’s absence, but it was a faint voice and could not prevail against the desire that welled up inside him like a volcano.

He longed to touch her most intimate places. He put his hand between her legs. She stiffened immediately, and the dog barked, sensing the tension. Hugh pulled away a little and said: “Let’s put the dog outside.”

Nora looked troubled. “Perhaps we should stop.”

Hugh could not bear the thought of stopping. However, the word “perhaps” encouraged him. “I can’t stop now,” he said. “Put the dog out.”

“But … we’re not even engaged, or anything.”

“We could get engaged,” he said without thinking. She went slightly pale. “Do you mean it?”

He asked himself the same question. From the start he had thought of this as a dalliance, not a serious courtship; yet only a few moments ago he had been thinking how much he would like to spend the rest of his life holding hands with Nora in front of a fire. Did he really want to marry her? He realized that he did, in fact there was nothing he would like better. There would be trouble, of course. The family would say he was marrying
beneath him. They could go to the devil. He was twenty-six years old, he earned a thousand pounds a year, and he was about to be made a partner in one of the most prestigious banks in the world: he could marry who the hell he liked. His mother would be troubled but supportive: she would worry, but she would be glad to see her son happy. And the rest of them could say what they pleased. They had never done anything for him.

He looked at Nora, pink and pretty and lovable, lying back on the old sofa with her hair around her bare shoulders. He wanted her badly, now, quickly. He had been alone too long. Maisie was thoroughly settled with Solly: she would never be his. It was time he had someone warm and soft to share his bed and his life. Why not Nora?

He snapped his fingers at the dog. “Come here, Blackie.” It approached him warily. He stroked its head then grabbed the ribbon around its neck. “Come and guard the hall,” he said, and he put the dog outside and closed the door. It barked twice and subsided into silence.

He sat beside Nora and took her hand. She looked wary. He said: “Nora, will you marry me?”

She flushed red. “Yes, I will.”

He kissed her. She opened her mouth and kissed him back passionately. He touched her knee. She took his hand and guided it beneath the skirts of her dress, up between her legs to the fork of her thighs. Through the flannelette of her underwear he could feel the rough hair and soft flesh of her mound. Her lips tracked across his cheek to his ear, and she whispered: “Hugh, darling, make me yours, tonight, now.”

“I will,” he said hoarsely. “I will.”

2

THE DUCHESS OF TENBIGH’S COSTUME BALL
was the first great event of the 1879 London season. Everyone was talking about it weeks in advance. Fortunes were spent on fancy dress, and people would go to any length to get an invitation.

Augusta and Joseph Pilaster were not invited. That was hardly surprising: they did not belong in the very highest echelon of London society. But Augusta wanted to go, and she made up her mind she would be there.

As soon as she heard about the ball she mentioned it to Harriet Morte, who responded by looking embarrassed and saying nothing. As a lady-in-waiting to the Queen, Lady Morte had great social power; and on top of that she was a distant cousin of the duchess of Tenbigh. But she did not offer to get Augusta invited.

Augusta checked Lord Morte’s account with Pilasters Bank and found that he had an overdraft of a thousand pounds. The next day he got a note asking him when he hoped to regularize the account.

Augusta called on Lady Morte the same day. She apologized, saying that the note had been an error and the clerk who sent it had been sacked. Then she mentioned the ball again.

Lady Morte’s normally impassive face was momentarily animated by a glare of pure hatred as she understood the bargain that was being offered. Augusta was unmoved. She had no wish to be liked by Lady Morte, she just wanted to use her. And Lady Morte was confronted with a simple choice: exert her influence to get Augusta invited to the ball, or find a thousand pounds to pay off her overdraft. She took the easier option, and the invitation cards arrived the following day.

Augusta was annoyed that Lady Morte had not helped her willingly. It was hurtful that Lady Morte had
to be coerced. Feeling spiteful, Augusta made her get Edward an invitation too.

Augusta was going as Queen Elizabeth and Joseph as the earl of Leicester. On the night of the ball they had dinner at home and changed afterwards. When she was dressed Augusta went into Joseph’s room to help him with his costume and talk to him about his nephew Hugh.

She was incensed that Hugh was to be made a partner in the bank at the same time as Edward. Worse still, everyone knew that Edward had been made a partner only because he had married and been given a £250,000 investment in the bank, whereas Hugh was being made a partner because he had brought off a spectacularly profitable deal with Madler and Bell of New York. People were already talking of Hugh as a potential Senior Partner. The thought made Augusta grind her teeth.

Their promotion was to take place at the end of April, when the annual partnership agreement was formally renewed. But earlier in the month, to Augusta’s delight, Hugh made the unbelievably foolish mistake of marrying a plump little working-class girl from Camden Town.

The Maisie episode six years ago had shown that he had a weakness for girls from the gutter, but Augusta had never dared to hope that he would marry one. He had done the deed quietly, in Folkestone, with just his mother and sister and the bride’s father in attendance, then he had presented the family with a fait accompli.

As Augusta adjusted Joseph’s Elizabethan ruff she said: “I presume you’ll have to think again about Hugh’s being made a partner, now that he’s married a housemaid.”

“She’s not a housemaid, she’s a corsetière. Or was. Now she’s Mrs. Pilaster.”

“All the same, a partner in Pilasters can hardly have a shopgirl as a wife.”

“I must say I think he can marry whom he likes.”

Augusta had been afraid he would take this line. “You wouldn’t say that if she were ugly, bony and sour,” she said acidly. “It’s only because she’s pretty and flirtatious that you’re so tolerant.”

“I just don’t see the problem.”

“A partner has to meet cabinet ministers, diplomats, leaders of great businesses. She won’t know how to act. She could embarrass him at any moment.”

“She can learn.” Joseph hesitated, then added: “I sometimes think you forget your own background, my dear.”

Augusta drew herself up to her full height. “My father had three shops!” she said vehemently. “How dare you compare me to that little trollop!”

He backed down instantly. “All right, I’m sorry.”

Augusta was outraged. “Furthermore, I never worked in my father’s shops,” she said. “I was brought up to be a lady.”

“I’ve apologized, let’s say no more about it. It’s time to go.”

Augusta clamped her mouth shut but inside she was seething.

Edward and Emily were waiting for them in the hall, dressed as Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine. Edward was having trouble with his gold braid cross-garters, and he said: “You go on, Mother, and send the carriage back for us.”

But Emily quickly put in: “Oh, no, I want to go now. Fix your garters on the way.”

Emily had big blue eyes and the pretty face of a little girl, and she was very fetching in the embroidered twelfth-century gown and cloak, with a long wimple on her head. However, Augusta had discovered that she was not as timid as she looked. During the preparations for the wedding it had become clear that Emily had a will of her own. She had been happy to let Augusta take over the wedding breakfast, but she had insisted, rather stubbornly,
on having her own way about her wedding dress and her bridesmaids.

As they got into their carriage and drove off, Augusta recalled vaguely that the marriage of Henry II and Eleanor had been stormy. She hoped Emily would not give Edward too much trouble. Since the wedding Edward had been bad-tempered, and Augusta suspected there was something wrong. She had tried to find out by questioning Edward delicately, but he would not say a word.

However, the important thing was that he was married and a partner in the bank. He was settled. Everything else could be worked out.

The ball began at half-past ten and the Pilasters arrived on time. Lights blazed from every window of Tenbigh House. There was already a crowd of onlookers outside, and in Park Lane a line of carriages waited to enter the courtyard. The crowd applauded each costume as the guests descended from their vehicles and mounted the steps to the door. Looking ahead as she waited, Augusta saw Anthony and Cleopatra, several Roundheads and Cavaliers, two Greek goddesses and three Napoleons enter the house.

At last her carriage reached the door and they got out. Once inside the house there was another queue, from the hall up the curving staircase to the landing where the duke and duchess of Tenbigh, dressed as Solomon and Sheba, were greeting their guests. The hall was a mass of flowers and a band played to entertain them while they waited.

The Pilasters were followed in by Micky Miranda—invited because of his diplomatic status—and his new wife Rachel. Micky looked more dashing than ever in the red silk of a Cardinal Wolsey outfit, and for a moment the sight of him made Augusta’s heart flutter. She looked critically at his wife, who had chosen to come as a slave girl, rather surprisingly. Augusta had encouraged Micky
to marry but she could not suppress a stab of resentment toward the plain girl who had won his hand. Rachel returned Augusta’s stare coolly, and took Micky’s arm possessively after he kissed Augusta’s hand.

As they slowly mounted the stairs Micky said to Rachel: “The Spanish envoy is here—be sure to be nice to him.”

“You be nice to him,” Rachel said crisply. “I think he’s a slug.”

Micky frowned but said no more. With her extreme views and forceful manner, Rachel would have made a good wife for a campaigning journalist or a Radical member of Parliament. Micky deserved someone less eccentric and more beautiful, Augusta felt.

Up ahead of them Augusta spotted another pair of newlyweds, Hugh and Nora. Hugh was a member of the Marlborough Set, because of his friendship with the Greenbournes, and to Augusta’s chagrin he was invited to everything. He was dressed as an Indian rajah and Nora seemed to have come as a snake charmer, in a sequined gown cut away to reveal harem trousers. Artificial snakes were wound around her arms and legs, and one lay its papier-mâché head on her ample bosom. Augusta shuddered. “Hugh’s wife really is impossibly vulgar,” she murmured to Joseph.

He was inclined to be lenient. “It is a costume ball, after all.”

“Not one of the other women here has been so tasteless as to show her legs.”

“I don’t see any difference between loose trousers and a dress.”

He was probably enjoying the sight of Nora’s legs, Augusta thought with distaste. It was so easy for such a woman to befuddle men’s judgment. “I just don’t think she’s fit to be the wife of a partner in Pilasters Bank.”

“Nora won’t have to make any financial decisions.”

Augusta could have screamed with frustration. Evidently
it was not enough that Nora was a working-class girl. She would have to do something unforgivable before Joseph and his partners would turn against Hugh.

Now there was a thought.

Augusta’s anger died down as quickly as it had flared. Perhaps, she thought, there was a way she could get Nora into trouble. She looked up the stairs again and studied her prey.

Nora and Hugh were talking to the Hungarian attaché, Count de Tokoly, a man of doubtful morals who was appropriately dressed as Henry VIII. Nora was just the kind of girl the count would be charmed by, Augusta thought biliously. Respectable ladies would cross the room to avoid speaking to him, but all the same he had to be invited everywhere because he was a senior diplomat. There was no sign of disapproval on Hugh’s face as he watched his wife bat her eyelashes at the old roué. Indeed Hugh’s expression showed nothing but adoration. He was still too much in love to find fault. That would not last. “Nora is talking to de Tokoly,” Augusta murmured to Joseph. “She had better take care of her reputation.”

“Now, don’t you be rude to him,” Joseph replied brusquely. “We’re hoping to raise two million pounds for his government.”

Augusta did not care a straw for de Tokoly. She continued to brood about Nora. The girl was most vulnerable right now, when everything was unfamiliar and she had not had time to learn upper-class manners. If she could be brought to disgrace herself somehow tonight, preferably in front of the Prince of Wales …