Something Dangerous (Spoils of Time 02) (16 page)

‘I wonder if Pandora’s—’

‘I know. That’s exactly what I thought.’

‘How lovely.’

‘Absolutely lovely. Should we—’

‘Not sure. Probably—’

‘No, probably not.’

‘Lady Celia, I have Mr Brooke on the phone—’

‘Mrs Gould, I’ve told you already, I’m not taking any calls today from anyone.’

‘But—’

‘Mrs Gould, please—’

‘Celia, this is Pandora, could I just—’

‘Pandora, I’m sorry, but I really don’t have time to talk at the moment. I’m extremely busy, a fact which both you and your husband seem to have difficulty understanding.’

‘Giles, in the name of heaven, what are you doing with the promotional plans for your extremely modest list? Translating them into Arabic? I’ve been waiting for them for days. Just bring them in here, and if they’re not complete I’ll simply have to do it myself.’

‘Celia—’

‘LM, not now. I would have thought you of all people might have some grasp of how desperately busy I am. Why is it that not a single person in this company is able to do anything for themselves?’

‘Aunt Celia—’

‘Barty, I sometimes wonder if you listen to a word I say. I told you, I don’t want to be disturbed. Now either you can deal with those authors’ corrections on your own, as you assured me, rather too firmly, I thought, that you could, or you need help with them. Please make up your mind, and if you can’t manage, give them to LM. Stop taking up my time with them. I would have expected better of you, I must say.’

‘Celia, I wish you would talk to me about this matter.’

‘Oliver, there is nothing to talk about. Absolutely nothing. And if there was, you are hardly in a position to make a contribution.’

‘I beg leave to doubt that, my dear.’

‘You can beg leave all you like, Oliver, it is nothing to do with you. Nothing whatsoever.’

‘Oh, Abbie, it’s terrible at Lyttons these days. She—’

‘Who?’

‘Aunt Celia. Who else? She’s in a permanently dreadful temper, won’t talk to anyone, shouts at everyone, and Giles says it’s just the same at home. Poor old Wol, he really gets the worst of it. And he never fights back, it’s so unfair. So terribly, terribly unfair.’

‘Celia, I’m thinking of going over to New York, sailing with Robert and Maud next week. I could do with a change and Lyttons New York will, hopefully, benefit from my presence. I’m booking on to the
Mauretania
unless you have any objection, which I can hardly imagine you do.’

‘Adele, Mummy’s crying again. She won’t talk to me about it. I really hate it, what can I do?’

‘Nothing, Kit. There’s nothing any of us can do. We just have to wait till something changes. It usually does. Want to come and see Venetia with me?’

‘Oh – yes, all right. I’ll bring my book, in case it gets really boring.’

‘Fine. What book is it?’

‘One of ours. The Buchanans. I love them. Much better than the Forsytes.’

‘Don’t tell Mummy. I heard her shouting down the phone at poor Guy Worsley, telling him the latest book was nothing like up to his usual standard. She’s making him rewrite the whole of the first six chapters.’

Celia was sitting at the desk in her study early one evening when her mother arrived at the house.

‘I was told you were at home. You’re not ill, are you?’

‘No. No, of course not. I’m never ill, you know that, Mama.’

‘Not strictly true, but near enough. You look dreadful. What on earth is the matter with you?’

‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

‘That’s not what I’ve heard.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Venetia says you’re upset, Kit says you’re always crying, even Oliver, soul of discretion that he is, says you’re not quite yourself.’

‘I seem to have a lot of spies in the house reporting to you.’

‘Just as well, it seems. Come along, you’d better tell me. You’re not going to feel better until you do. Although I can perfectly well work it out for myself. It’s this baby, of course.’

‘Of course it’s not.’

‘Celia, I’m not a complete fool. And I would also like to say that it’s hardly surprising. That you should feel as you do. Very difficult for you. And I’m sorry. But there’s nothing to be done about it and you have to pull yourself together, you can’t go on like this.’

‘Oliver’s going to New York,’ said Celia, pulling viciously at a thread on her dress, ‘and I can’t blame him, I know. But it’s the last – the last straw. I don’t know, Mama, it seems so incredible I still – still—’

‘There, there,’ said Lady Beckenham, taking her daughter in her arms and patting her rather awkwardly on the head, ‘of course you still do. And the best thing you can do is recognise the fact. One of your greatest virtues, facing facts. You’re turning your back on this one as far as I can see, that’s the trouble. Out of character. That’s what’s upskittling you.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Of course. It’s perfectly obvious to me. You’re running away from yourself.’

‘But – oh, I don’t know. I feel so – so pathetic.’

‘Well that’s the last thing you are, Celia. You could claim all sorts of vices, but being pathetic is not one of them. Now you have a good cry, it’ll do you good. And then you can come to Curzon Street and have dinner with Beckenham and me. You look as if you haven’t eaten for weeks.’

‘I haven’t,’ said Celia, blowing her nose.

‘There you are. Very foolish. You do too much. And Oliver probably shouldn’t go to New York just now, leave you to cope with everything. I should ask him not to, if I were you. He’ll be pleased.’

‘He won’t,’ said Celia, with a shaky smile, ‘you’ve no idea how vile I’ve been.’

‘Then be a bit less vile. Come on, blow your nose and go and wash your face. You look like one of the servants, all blotchy like that. Beckenham will be delighted to see you. He’s working very hard on his letters for that book of yours. Given him a new lease of life. Not sure I’m entirely pleased about that,’ she added, and smiled at Celia. Celia smiled back.

‘Of course you are. You love him really.’

‘Yes, I suppose I do,’ said Lady Beckenham, sounding mildly surprised. ‘Well there you are. You’ll feel the same one day.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Of course I do. Otherwise why should you mind so much Oliver going to New York?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ said Celia wearily.

‘Goodbye, dear Maud and darling Uncle Robert,’ said Adele. ‘It’s been so lovely having you. Come again, won’t you? I wish you the glassiest of seas, Uncle Robert. And Maud, good luck at Vassar. I’m sure you’ll love it.’

‘I hope so,’ said Maud. ‘I’ll write you and tell you all about it. Come on, Daddy, we’ll miss the boat.’

‘That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,’ said Robert. ‘Still sorry you’re not coming with us, Oliver. Don’t make it too long, will you. And Celia, please do come too next time. I’m sure Giles can hold the fort.’

‘Maybe,’ said Celia. She smiled. She looked tired, but very beautiful, Robert thought. She was an amazing woman. Not comfortable to be married to, he didn’t envy his brother; but still, well – amazing.

They were standing on the steps of the Cheyne Walk house, together with Adele, Kit and Giles; the hansom cab had just arrived to take him to his appointment with misery on the high seas. He wasn’t sure if he could face coming again. It really did cast such a blight over everything, being so ill.

‘Now next time,’ Adele said, ‘bring Jamie with you. I’d adore to see him again. And even the wicked Laurence.’

‘Laurence isn’t exactly wicked – I don’t think,’ said Maud, ‘just difficult.’

‘So, what is your view of the situation now, sir?’ said Laurence. He always called Duke Carlisle ‘sir’, he responded well to such flattery. He looked at Duke now, so distinguished, so old money, with his white hair and his long patrician nose; in some ways he seemed to sit rather uneasily in New York with all its brashness and energy. Leila suited it better; not that she was brash, rather the reverse, she had great class and immaculate taste. But – she liked to show it off; and there was no better place in the world for showing off than New York.

Duke smiled at him. ‘Did you move your money out?’ he asked.

‘Yes. Most of it’s gone.’

‘Good. God knows when this thing is going to explode, but the very fact that it’s all so volatile makes it ever more likely. There are certainly alarm bells sounding in more than a few breasts. The banks are borrowing heavily from the Federal reserve to carry the speculation. Just last week the borrowing increased by $64 million. Well, you’ll know that of course. That’s the kind of information that – well, let us say disturbs people. And look at that advertisement in the papers today. I expect you’ve seen it.’

‘You mean “Overstaying a bull market?” Of course. Very bold, I thought.’

‘Well, of course it’s a gimmick, it’s been put in by an investment service. But it will contribute to the faint sense of unease; the pack of cards will be given a tiny push. Now at the end, when – not if – the crash comes, all the usual things will happen; there will be bankers’ pools, as there was when your father so successfully stood against the tide, there will be foolish reassurances, there will be a rush to sell, there will be exhortations not to do so. People will be bombarded with advice, instruction, God and the President will be called upon to intervene, but the fact is that there is far too much stock out there worth far too little and the end result will undoubtedly be financial disaster on a huge scale.’

Laurence looked at him. ‘What have you been advising your clients to do?’

Duke looked at Laurence and smiled; it was a rather ugly smile that Laurence had not seen before, almost a smirk, it sat ill on the handsome face. He was like an old buzzard, he thought, circling around, surveying the potential catastrophe below him, planning when and where to find the best pickings – and then to soar off, well-sated, with ample time to find new and better-stocked pastures.

‘I have advised them in two directions at once. Naturally I have felt the only wise thing to do was to express caution at the state of the market, to urge restraint. They deserve that. And they will remember it.’ He looked at Laurence, refilled his glass. ‘But at the same time, I am a stockbroker. My business is trading; I make money out of buying and selling. If a client chooses to ignore my advice, given in good faith, that is of course up to him. I must act on his instruction. If he asks me my prognosis for a certain stock, I must answer truthfully. Steel reached 262 last week, General Electric was 396. Who am I to dissuade my clients from benefiting from such facts and figures?’

The smile came again. He reached out and patted Laurence’s hand.

‘I’m only telling you all this, my boy, because I like you, and I liked and admired your father.’

‘Well, I’m grateful,’ said Laurence, ‘for your advice. Thank you. We must continue to talk.’

‘Indeed we must. But only behind closed doors. Not in the bars and dining clubs of Wall Street. We don’t want to precipitate panic, do we?’

Laurence agreed that they did not.

The Atlantic was blessedly calm as Robert and Maud crossed it; Robert was able to join Maud in her five laps around the ship every morning that made up a mile a day, to play quoits and deck tennis with her, to sit on a deck chair in the autumn sunshine, a blanket round his legs, reading all the books Oliver had given him (like Kit, he enjoyed the Buchanans more than the Forsytes), and even to enjoy the magnificent food.

And after dinner, when Maud had gone with this or that young man to the ballroom, to talk to other passengers. There was much talk of the financial situation; of Roger Babson’s address to the National Business Conference about an imminent and terrific crash; of the absurdity of that statement, notwithstanding the slightly ragged state of the market now, of still-rising dividends, of the foolishness of panic, of the great financial base and prosperity that America had created for herself and which would ensure, as the chairman of a Boston investment trust had recently prophesied, that if there was a downfall, then incorporated investors would ‘land on a cushion’. God was in his heaven above America and all was right in the brave new world. That was Friday, 11 October.

On Saturday 19th, the secretary of commerce was finding it difficult to find the money necessary to pay for the upkeep of the yacht
Corsair
, presented to the government by Mr J. P. Morgan of the bank of the same name. The papers were full of stories of a weak market, with trading in decline; by the end of Saturday three and a half million shares had been sold. On the Sunday,
The Times
was reporting a wave of selling.

Next day, six million shares were sold; then at the end of the day the market rallied. Tuesday was altogether better; ‘There, you see,’ people were saying, ‘just another of those setbacks. It’ll be all right.’

On Wednesday, there were more heavy losses; in one hour, two and a half million shares were sold at ever-lower prices. Blue-chip stock was going down like a plumb line; on Thursday, almost thirteen million shares went down. By eleven o’clock, there was absolute pandemonium on the Exchange; sheer blind panic set in. Even the famous Jesse Livermore, observed in happier days riding around New York in one of his several Rolls Royce cars and known on Wall Street as ‘the best man on stock-market speculation the world has ever known’ was selling; such demonstrations increased the escalating panic. A crowd formed in Broad Street outside the Exchange and the police were dispatched to deal with it. At twelve-thirty the Exchange closed.

At midday, several of God’s henchmen, in the form of the most important bankers in America, had met to agree to shore up the market. The panic eased; and the vice president of the Exchange appeared on the floor and began buying hard. Other more ordinary mortals followed; prices went into reverse and boomed upward.