A Dangerous Fortune (43 page)

Lady Morte came in, saying distantly: “What a lovely surprise to see you at this time of day!” It was a reproof to Augusta for calling before lunch. Lady Morte’s iron-gray hair looked hastily combed, and Augusta guessed she had not been fully dressed.

But you had to receive me, didn’t you? thought Augusta. You were afraid I might be calling about your bank account, so you had no choice.

However, she spoke in a subservient tone that would flatter the woman. “I’ve come to ask your advice over something urgent.”

“Anything I can do …”

“The prime minister has agreed to give a peerage to a banker.”

“Splendid! I mentioned it to Her Majesty, as you know. Doubtless that had its effect.”

“Unfortunately, he wants to give it to Ben Greenbourne.”

“Oh, dear. That is unfortunate.”

Augusta could tell that Harriet Morte was secretly pleased by this news. She hated Augusta. “It’s more than unfortunate,” Augusta said. “I’ve expended a good deal of effort over this and now its seems the benefits will go to my husband’s greatest rival!”

“I do see that.”

“I wish we could prevent it happening.”

“I’m not sure what we can do.”

Augusta pretended to be thinking aloud. “Peerages have to be approved by the queen, don’t they?”

“Yes, indeed. Technically it is she who grants them.”

“Then she could do something, if you asked her.”

Lady Morte gave a little laugh. “My dear Mrs. Pilaster, you overestimate my power.” Augusta held her tongue and ignored the condescending tone. Lady Morte went on: “Her Majesty is not likely to take my advice over that of the prime minister. Besides, what would be my grounds of objection?”

“Greenbourne is a Jew.”

Lady Morte nodded. “There was a time when that would have finished it. I remember when Gladstone wanted to make Lionel Rothschild a peer: the queen refused point-blank. But that was ten years ago. Since then we have had Disraeli.”

“But Disraeli is a Christian. Greenbourne is a practicing Jew.”

“I wonder if that would make a difference,” Lady Morte mused. “It might, you know. And she’s constantly criticizing the Prince of Wales for having so many Jews among his friends.”

“Then if you were to mention to her that the prime minister is proposing to ennoble one of them …”

“I can bring it up in conversation. I’m not sure it will be enough to effect your purpose.”

Augusta thought hard. “Is there anything we can do to make the whole question a matter of more concern to Her Majesty?”

“If there were to be some public protest—questions in Parliament, perhaps, or articles in the press …”

“The press,” Augusta said. She thought of Arnold Hobbes. “Yes!” she said. “I think that could be arranged.”

Hobbes was splendidly discombobulated by Augusta’s presence in his cramped, inky office. He could not make up his mind whether to tidy up, attend to her or get rid of her. Consequently he did all three in a hysterical muddle:
he moved sheets of paper and bundles of proofs from the floor to the table and back again; he fetched her a chair, a glass of sherry and a plate of biscuits; and at the same time he proposed that they go elsewhere to talk. She let him run wild for a minute or two then said: “Mr. Hobbes, please sit down and listen to me.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, and he subsided into a chair and peered at her through his grimy spectacles.

She told him in a few crisp sentences about Ben Greenbourne’s peerage.

“Most regrettable, most regrettable,” he blabbered nervously. “However, I don’t think
The Forum
could be accused of lack of enthusiasm in promoting the cause which you so kindly suggested to me.”

And in exchange for which you got two lucrative directorships of companies controlled by my husband, Augusta thought. “I know it’s not your fault,” she said irritably. “The point is, what can you do about it?”

“My journal is in a difficult position,” he said worriedly. “Having campaigned so vociferously for a banker to get a peerage, it’s hard for us to turn around and protest when it actually happens.”

“But you never intended for a Jew to be so honored.”

“True, true, although so many bankers are Jews.”

“Couldn’t you write that there are enough Christian bankers for the prime minister to choose from?”

He remained reluctant. “We might….”

“Then do so!”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Pilaster, but it’s not quite enough.”

“I don’t understand you,” she said impatiently.

“A professional consideration, but I need what we journalists call a slant. For instance, we could accuse Disraeli—or Lord Beaconsfield, as he now is—of partiality to members of his own race. Now that would be a slant.
However, he is in general a man so upright that that particular charge might not stick.”

Augusta hated dithering, but she reined in her impatience because she could see there was a genuine problem here. She thought for a moment and was struck by an idea. “When Disraeli took his seat in the House of Lords, was the ceremony normal?”

“In every way, I believe.”

“He took the oath of loyalty on a Christian Bible?”

“Indeed.”

“Old and New Testament?”

“I begin to see your drift, Mrs. Pilaster. Would Ben Greenbourne swear on a Christian Bible? From what I know of him, I doubt it.”

Augusta shook her head dubiously. “He might, though, if nothing were said about it. He’s not a man to look for a confrontation. But he’s very stiff-necked when challenged. If there were to be a noisy public demand for him to swear the same way as everyone else he might well rebel. He wouldn’t let people say he had been pushed into anything.”

“A noisy public demand,” Hobbes mused. “Yes …”

“Could you create that?”

Hobbes warmed to the idea. “I see it already,” he said excitedly. “‘Blasphemy in the House of Lords.’ Now that, Mrs. Pilaster, is what we call a slant. You’re quite brilliant. You ought to be a journalist yourself!”

“How flattering,” she said. The sarcasm was lost on him.

Hobbes suddenly looked pensive. “Mr. Greenbourne is a very powerful man.”

“So is Mr. Pilaster.”

“Of course, of course.”

“Then I may rely on you?”

Hobbes rapidly weighed the risks and decided to back the Pilaster cause. “Leave everything to me.”

Augusta nodded. She was beginning to feel better. Lady Morte would turn the queen against Greenbourne, Hobbes would make an issue of it in the press, and Fortescue was standing by to whisper into the ear of the prime minister the name of a blameless alternative: Joseph. Once again the prospects looked good.

She stood up to go, but Hobbes had more to say. “If I might venture a question on another topic?”

“By all means.”

“I’ve been offered a printing press rather cheaply. At present, you know, we use outside printers. If we had our own press it would reduce our costs, and we could perhaps make a little extra by printing other publications as a service.”

“Obviously,” Augusta said impatiently.

“I was wondering whether Pilasters Bank might be persuaded into a commercial loan.”

It was the price of his continuing support. “How much?”

“A hundred and sixty pounds.”

It was a peppercorn. And if he campaigned against peerages for Jews with as much energy and bile as he had brought to his campaign in favor of peerages for bankers, it would be well worth it.

He said: “A bargain, I assure—”

“I’ll speak to Mr. Pilaster.” He would assent, but she did not want to let Hobbes have it too easily. He would value it more highly if it was granted reluctantly.

“Thank you. Always a pleasure to meet with you, Mrs. Pilaster.”

“Doubtless,” she said, and she went out.

 CHAPTER FOUR

JUNE  

1

THE CORDOVAN MINISTRY
was quiet. The offices on the first floor were empty, the three clerks having gone home hours ago. Micky and Rachel had given a dinner party in the second-floor dining room for a small group—Sir Peter Mountjoy, an under-secretary at the Foreign Office, and his wife; the Danish Minister; and the Chevalier Michele from the Italian embassy—but the guests had left and the domestic staff had cleared away. Micky was about to go out.

The novelty of being married was beginning to wear off. He had tried and failed to shock or disgust his sexually inexperienced wife. Her unfailing enthusiasm for whatever perversion he proposed was beginning to unnerve him. She had decided that whatever he wanted was all right with her, and when she made a decision like that there was no moving her. He had never met a woman who could be so implacably logical.

She would do anything he asked in bed, but she believed that outside the bedroom a woman should not be a slave to her husband, and she was equally rigid about both rules. Consequently they were always fighting about domestic issues. Sometimes Micky could turn one situation into the other. In the middle of a row about servants or money he would say: “Lift up your dress and lie on the floor,” and the quarrel would end in a passionate embrace.
But that no longer worked every time: sometimes she would recommence the argument as soon as he rolled off her.

Lately he and Edward had been spending more and more evenings in their old haunts. Tonight was Mask Night at Nellie’s brothel. This was one of April’s innovations: all the women would be wearing masks. April claimed that sexually frustrated high-society ladies came in and mingled with the regular girls on Mask Nights. Certainly some of the women were not regulars, but Micky suspected the strangers were in fact middle-class women in desperate financial straits, rather than bored aristocrats in search of degenerate thrills. Whatever the truth of the matter, Mask Night never failed to be interesting.

He combed his hair and filled his cigar case, then he went downstairs. To his surprise, Rachel was standing in the hall, barring the way to the door. Her arms were folded and she wore a determined expression. Micky braced himself for a fight.

“It’s eleven o’clock in the evening,” she said. “Where are you going?”

“To the devil,” he replied. “Get out of my way.” He picked up his hat and cane.

“Are you going to a brothel called Nellie’s?”

He was startled enough to be silenced for a moment.

“I see you are,” she said.

“Who have you been talking to?” he said.

She hesitated, then said: “Emily Pilaster. She told me that you and Edward go there regularly.”

“You shouldn’t listen to women’s gossip.”

Her face was white. She was scared. That was unusual. Perhaps this fight would be different.

“You must stop going there,” she said.

“I’ve told you, don’t try to give orders to your master.”

“It’s not an order. It’s an ultimatum.”

“Don’t be silly. Get out of my way.”

“Unless you promise not to go there anymore, I shall leave you. I’ll go away from this house tonight and never come back.”

She meant it, he saw. That was why she looked scared. She even had her outdoor shoes on, ready. “You’re not leaving,” he said. “I shall lock you in your room.”

“You’ll find that difficult. I’ve collected all the room keys and thrown them away. There isn’t a single room in this house that can be locked.”

That was clever of her. It seemed this was going to be one of their more interesting contests. He grinned at her and said: “Take off your knickers.”

“That won’t work tonight, Micky,” she said. “I used to think it meant you loved me. Now I’ve realized sex is just your way of controlling people. I doubt whether you even enjoy it.”

He reached out and grasped her breast. It was warm and heavy in his hand, despite the layers of clothing. He caressed it, watching her face, but her expression did not change. She was not going to give in to passion tonight. He squeezed hard, hurting her, then let go. “What’s got into you?” he said with genuine curiosity.

“Men catch infectious diseases at places such as Nellie’s.”

“The girls there are very clean—”

“Please, Micky—don’t pretend to be stupid.”

She was right. There was no such thing as a clean prostitute. In fact he had been very lucky: he had only caught one mild case of the pox during many years of visiting brothels. “All right,” he conceded. “I might catch an infectious disease.”

“And give it to me.”

He shrugged. “It’s one of the hazards of being a wife. I might give you the measles, too, if I catch it.”

“But syphilis can be hereditary.”

“What are you driving at?”

“I might give it to our children, if we have any. And that is what I am not willing to do. I will not bring a child into the world with such a dreadful disease.” She was breathing in short gasps, a sign of severe tension. She means it, he thought. She finished: “So I’m going to leave you, unless you agree to cease all contact with prostitutes.”

There was no point in further discussion. “We’ll see whether you can leave with a broken nose,” he said, and he raised his cane to strike her.

She was ready for him. She dodged the blow and ran to the door. To Micky’s surprise it was ajar—she must have opened it earlier, in anticipation of violence, he thought—and she slipped outside in a flash.

Micky went after her. Another surprise awaited him outside: there was a carriage at the curb. Rachel jumped into it. Micky was amazed at how meticulously she had planned everything. He was about to leap into the carriage after her when his way was blocked by a large figure in a top hat. It was her father, Mr. Bodwin, the lawyer.

“I take it you refuse to mend your ways,” he said.

“Are you abducting my wife?” Micky replied. He was angry at having been outmaneuvered.

“She’s leaving of her own free will.” Bodwin’s voice was a little shaky, but he stood his ground. “She will return to you whenever you agree to give up your vicious habits. Subject of course to a satisfactory medical examination.”

For a moment Micky was tempted to strike him—but only for a moment. Anyway, the lawyer would undoubtedly charge him with assault, and such a scandal could blight a diplomatic career. Rachel was not worth that.