A Dangerous Fortune (42 page)

“Don’t you know me, April?” said Maisie; and at once April shrieked with delight and jumped up and threw her arms around her.

When they had embraced and kissed, April turned to the other women in the kitchen and said: “Girls, this is the woman who did what we all dream of. Formerly Miriam Rabinowicz, later Maisie Robinson, she is now Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne!”

The women all cheered as if Maisie were some kind of hero. She felt bashful: she had not anticipated that April would give such a frank account of her story—especially in front of Emily Pilaster—but it was too late now.

“Let’s have a gin to celebrate,” April said. They sat
down and one of the women produced a bottle and some glasses and poured them drinks. Maisie had never enjoyed gin, and now that she was accustomed to the best champagne she liked it even less, but she knocked it back to be companionable. She saw Emily sip hers and grimace. Their glasses were immediately recharged.

“Well, what brings you here?” April said.

“A marital problem,” Maisie said. “My friend here has an impotent husband.”

“Bring him here, my love,” April said to Emily. “We’ll sort him out.”

“He’s already a customer, I suspect,” Maisie said.

“What’s his name?”

“Edward Pilaster.”

April was startled. “My God.” She stared hard at Emily. “So you’re Emily. You poor cow.”

“You know my name,” Emily said. She looked mortified. “That means he speaks to you about me.” She drank some more gin.

One of the other women said: “Edward’s not impotent.”

Emily blushed.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “Only he usually asks for me.” She was a tall girl with dark hair and a deep bosom. Maisie thought she did not look very impressive in her grubby robe, smoking a cigarette like a man; but perhaps she was attractive when she was dressed up.

Emily recovered her composure. “It’s so strange,” she said. “He’s my husband, but you know more about him than I do. And I don’t even know your name.”

“Lily.”

There was a moment of awkward silence. Maisie sipped her drink: the second gin tasted better than the first. This was a very bizarre scene: the kitchen, the women in
déshabillé
, the cigarettes and gin, and Emily, who an hour ago had not been sure what sexual intercourse
consisted of, discussing her husband’s impotence with his favorite whore.

“Well,” April said briskly, “now you know the answer to the question. Why is Edward impotent with his wife? Because Micky’s not around. He can never get hard if he’s alone with a woman.”

“Micky?” said Emily incredulously. “Micky Miranda? The Cordovan Minister?”

April nodded. “They do everything together, especially here. Once or twice Edward has come in on his own but it never works.”

Emily was looking bewildered. Maisie asked the obvious question: “What, exactly, do they do?”

It was Lily who answered. “Nothing very complicated. Over the years they’ve tried several variations. At the moment what they like is, the two of them go to bed with one girl, usually me or Muriel.”

Maisie said: “But Edward really does it, properly, does he? I mean, he gets hard, and everything?”

Lily nodded. “No question of that.”

“Do you think that’s the only way he could ever manage it?”

Lily frowned. “I don’t think it matters much exactly what happens, how many girls and so on. If Micky is there, it works, and if he’s not, it doesn’t.”

Maisie said: “Almost as if Micky is the one Edward really loves.”

Emily said faintly: “I feel as if I’m in a dream, or something.” She took a long swallow of gin. “Can all this be true? Do these things really go on?”

April said: “If you but knew. Edward and Micky are tame by comparison with some of our customers.”

Even Maisie was startled. The thought of Edward and Micky in bed together with a woman was so odd it made her want to laugh out loud, and she had to make an effort to suppress the chuckle that bubbled up in her throat.

She recalled the night Edward had discovered her and Hugh making love. Edward had been uncontrollably aroused, she remembered; and she had felt intuitively that what inflamed him was the idea of fucking her immediately after Hugh. “A buttered bun!” she said.

Some of the women giggled.

“That’s right,” April laughed.

Emily smiled and looked puzzled. “I don’t understand.”

April said: “Some men like a buttered bun.” The whores laughed louder. “It means a woman who’s just been fucked by another man.”

Emily started to giggle, and in a moment they were all laughing hysterically. It was a combination of the gin, the weird situation, and the talk of men’s peculiar sexual preferences, Maisie thought. Her use of the vulgar phrase had released the tension. Every time the laughter eased one of them would say “A buttered bun!” and they would all collapse into giggles again.

At last they were too exhausted to laugh anymore. When they quietened down, Maisie said: “But where does this leave Emily? She wants to have a baby. She can hardly invite Micky to bed with her and her husband.”

Emily looked miserable.

April caught her eye and held it. “How determined are you, Emily?” she said.

“I’ll do anything,” said Emily. “Really, anything in the world.”

“If you mean that,” said April slowly, “there is something we could try.”

4

JOSEPH PILASTER FINISHED OFF
a large plate of grilled lamb’s kidneys and scrambled eggs, and began to butter a slice of toast. Augusta often wondered whether the customary
bad temper of middle-aged men had to do with the amount of meat they ate. The thought of kidneys for breakfast made her feel quite ill.

“Sidney Madler has come to London,” he said. “I have to see him this morning.”

For a moment Augusta was not sure who he was talking about. “Madler?”

“From New York. He’s angry about Hugh’s not being a partner.”

“What is it to do with him?” Augusta said. “The insolence!” She spoke superciliously but she was bothered.

“I know what he’ll say,” Joseph said. “When we formed our joint enterprise with Madler and Bell there was an implicit understanding that the London end of the operation would be run by Hugh. Now Hugh has resigned, as you know.”

“But you did not wish Hugh to resign.”

“No, but I could keep him by offering him a partnership.”

There was some risk of Joseph’s weakening, Augusta could see. The thought scared her. She had to stiffen his nerve. “I trust you won’t allow outsiders to decide who shall and who shall not be a partner in Pilasters Bank.”

“Indeed I won’t.”

A thought occurred to Augusta. “Can Mr. Madler terminate the joint enterprise?”

“He could, though he hasn’t threatened to, so far.”

“Is it worth a lot money?”

“It was. But when Hugh goes to work at Greenbournes he’s likely to take most of the business with him.”

“So it really makes very little difference what Mr. Madler thinks.”

“Perhaps not. But I’ll have to tell him something. He’s come all the way from New York just to make a fuss about this.”

“Tell him Hugh has married an impossible wife. He can hardly fail to understand that.”

“Of course.” Joseph stood up. “Good-bye, dear.”

Augusta stood up and kissed her husband on the lips. “Don’t be bullied, Joseph,” she said.

His shoulders straightened and his mouth set in a stubborn line. “I shan’t.”

When he had gone she sat at the table sipping coffee for a while, wondering how serious this threat was. She had tried to bolster Joseph’s resistance but there was a limit to how much she could do. She would have to keep a very close eye on that situation.

She was surprised to hear that Hugh’s departure would cost the bank a lot of money. It had not occurred to her that in promoting Edward and undermining Hugh she was also losing money. For a moment she wondered whether she might be endangering the bank that was the foundation of all her hopes and schemes. But that was ridiculous. Pilasters Bank was hugely wealthy: nothing she could do would threaten it.

While she was finishing her breakfast Hastead sidled in to tell her that Mr. Fortescue had called. She immediately put Sidney Madler out of her mind. This was much more important. Her heart beat faster.

Michael Fortescue was her tame politician. Having won the Deaconridge by-election with financial help from Joseph, he was now a member of Parliament, and indebted to Augusta. She had made it very clear how he could repay that debt: by helping her to get a peerage for Joseph. The by-election had cost five thousand pounds, enough to buy the finest house in London, but that was a cheap price to pay for a title. The afternoon was the time for calls, so morning visitors generally had urgent business. She felt sure Fortescue would not have called so early unless he had news of the peerage, and her heart beat faster. “Put Mr. Fortescue in the lookout,” she told
the butler. “I shall be with him directly.” She sat still for a few moments, trying to make herself calm.

Her campaign had gone according to plan so far. Arnold Hobbes had published a series of articles in his journal
The Forum
calling for peerages for commercial men. Lady Morte had talked to the queen about it, and had sung Joseph’s praises; and she said Her Majesty had seemed impressed. And Fortescue had told Prime Minister Disraeli that there was a groundswell of public opinion in favor of the idea. Now perhaps the whole effort was about to bear fruit.

The tension was almost too much for her, and she felt a little breathless as she hurried up the stairs, her head full of the phrases she hoped soon to hear:
Lady Whitehaven … the earl and countess Whitehaven … very good, m’lady … as your ladyship pleases
….

The lookout was a curious room. It was over the front lobby, and was reached by a door halfway up the stairs. It had a bay window over the street, but that was not what gave the room its name. What was unusual about it was an interior window that looked down into the main hall. People in the hall did not suspect they were observed, and over the years Augusta had seen some strange sights from that vantage point. The room was informal, small and cozy, with a low ceiling and a fireplace. Augusta received visitors there in the morning.

Fortescue looked a little tense. Augusta sat close to him on the window seat and gave him a warm, reassuring smile.

“I’ve just been with the prime minister,” he said.

Augusta could hardly speak. “Did you talk about peerages?”

“We did indeed. I’ve managed to convince him that it is time the banking industry was represented in the House of Lords, and he’s now minded to grant a peerage to a City man.”

“Wonderful!” said Augusta. But Fortescue had an
uncomfortable expression, not at all like the bringer of glad tidings. “So why do you look so glum?” she said uneasily.

“There’s also bad news,” Fortescue said, and suddenly he looked a little frightened.

“What?”

“I’m afraid he wants to give the peerage to Ben Greenbourne.”

“No!” Augusta felt as if she had been punched. “How can that be?”

Fortescue became defensive. “I suppose he can give peerages to whomever he pleases. He is the prime minister.”

“But I didn’t go to all this trouble for the benefit of Ben Greenbourne!”

“I agree it’s ironic,” Fortescue said languidly. “But I did my best.”

“Don’t be so smug,” she snapped. “Not if you want my help in future elections.”

Rebellion flashed in his eyes, and for a moment she thought she had lost him, thought he was going to say that he had repaid the debt and now he no longer needed her; but then he dropped his gaze and said: “I assure you I’m devastated by this news—”

“Be quiet, let me think,” she said, and she began to pace up and down the little room. “We must find a way to change the prime minister’s mind…. We must make it into a scandal. What are Ben Greenbourne’s weaknesses? His son is married to a guttersnipe, but that’s not really enough….” It occurred to her that if Greenbourne got a title it would be inherited by his son Solly, which would mean that Maisie would eventually be a countess. The thought was sickening. “What are Greenbourne’s politics?”

“None known.”

She looked at the young man and saw that he was sulking. She had spoken too harshly to him. She sat down
beside him and took one of his big hands in both her own. “Your political instincts are remarkable, in fact that’s what first made me notice you. Tell me what your guess would be.”

Fortescue melted immediately, as men generally did when she took the trouble to be nice to them. “If pressed he would probably be Liberal. Most businessmen are Liberal, and so are most Jews. But as he has never expressed any opinion publicly, it will be hard to make him out to be an enemy of the Conservative government—”

“He’s a Jew,” Augusta said. “That’s the key.”

Fortescue looked dubious. “The prime minister himself is a Jew by birth, and he has now been made Lord Beaconsfield.”

“I know, but he’s a practicing Christian. Besides …”

Fortescue raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“I have instincts too,” Augusta said. “Mine tell me that Ben Greenbourne’s Jewishness is the key to it all.”

“If there is anything I can do …”

“You’ve been wonderful. There’s nothing for the moment. But when the prime minister begins to have doubts about Ben Greenbourne, just remind him that there is a safe alternative in Joseph Pilaster.”

“Rely on me, Mrs. Pilaster.”

Lady Morte lived in a house in Curzon Street which her husband could not afford. The door was opened by a liveried footman in a powdered wig. Augusta was shown into a morning room crowded with costly knickknacks from Bond Street shops: gold candelabra, silver picture-frames, porcelain ornaments, crystal vases, and an exquisite antique jeweled inkstand that must have cost as much as a young racehorse. Augusta despised Harriet Morte for her weakness in spending money she did not have; but at the same time she was reassured by these signs that the woman was as extravagant as ever.

She paced up and down the room as she waited. A feeling of panic grew over her every time she faced the prospect that Ben Greenbourne would get the honor instead of Joseph. She did not think she could mount a campaign like this a second time. And it made her squirm to think that the result of all her efforts might be that the title of countess would eventually go to that little sewer rat Maisie Greenbourne….