London (157 page)

“Though of course you will have to ask my father,” she had reminded him. He was still not quite sure, as he made his way along now, whether he would be seeing the father or the daughter first.

Either way, he had felt so cheerful, had so positively told himself he really liked the girl a lot, that he had paused to buy himself a present.

There were many picture dealers in London, but his favourite was a Frenchman, Monsieur Durand-Ruel whose gallery lay in New Bond Street. The earl had been collecting pictures of the Thames recently; he had no idea why he should have felt so drawn to the river, but he was. He had bought one by the American, Whistler, who lived in London, but Whistler’s prices, at over a hundred guineas, were too stiff. For less, at Durand-Ruel’s he could purchase the work of an unfashionable but wonderful French artist, Claude Monet, who often came to stay in London to paint the river. And he had just agreed to buy a new Monet, for a very modest price, before he set out for his rendezvous.

His route from New Bond Street took him westwards along Oxford Street. The old Roman approach road from Marble Arch to Holborn was turning into a shopping street nowadays. He paused once or twice to glance at drapers’ windows, crossed Regent Street, continued on to the bottom of Tottenham Court Road and then came down through Seven Dials and Covent Garden until he reached his destination on the Strand.

Both his wife and his daughter had noticed that Gorham Dogget seemed preoccupied since yesterday. He had been out on business twice and now, as he waited in the lobby, it appeared that the dry Bostonian was uncharacteristically nervous. It was certainly strange, for he was in his favourite place in all London.

There was nothing perhaps in all Europe quite like the Savoy Hotel on the Strand. The brainchild of D’Oyly Carte, the manager of the Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, the recently opened hotel, built on the site of the old Savoy Palace where John of Gaunt had lived and Chaucer been a frequent guest, had imported an up-to-date level of American comfort, mixed it with European grandeur, and created a masterpiece. Instead of the usual walk to a bathroom, which was routine in even the best hotels, the lavish suites of the Savoy each had their own. The chef was none other than the great Escoffier; the manager, probably the finest who ever lived, César Ritz. Ritz – entrepreneur, discreet confidant, the ultimate arranger of everything.

Dogget seemed pleased, even relieved to see the earl, and invited him to a quiet corner where they could talk. Smiling pleasantly, he explained that his wife and daughter would be down in a little while and asked whether, in the meantime, there was anything St James wished to discuss. The signal being clear, the earl politely asked for his daughter’s hand.

“I can’t answer for her,” the Bostonian replied, “but you seem, Lord St James, to be a fine man to me. As her father though, I have to ask a few questions. I assume you can support her?”

The earl had thought carefully about how to answer this. “Our wealth has been much reduced, Mr Dogget. The income from the land is small, though I have other interests. But the house and the Bocton estate are all in good order, and there are things like the family jewels. . . .” He was too well-bred to add the other obvious item – the title.

“You’ve enough to live on, though?”

“Oh, yes.” It was true, for the time being.

“And you sincerely love my daughter, for herself? I have to tell you I believe in that, Lord St James. I believe in it strongly. For richer for poorer, as they say.”

“Absolutely.” A downright lie, the earl reminded himself, was not a lie when it meant being gallant towards a lady.

“That’s good. Of course, I dare say one day Nancy will have something of her own,” the Bostonian cautiously allowed, and was only prevented from expanding further by the unusual sight of Mr César Ritz, that most discreet of managers, hovering when he was not wanted.

“Excuse me, sir,” he quietly interrupted, and handed Dogget a slip of paper, at which the American glanced irritably.

“Not now, Mr Ritz!”

“I’m sorry, sir.” The manager did not move.

“I said later,” Dogget growled.

“You said the matter would be dealt with this morning, sir,” Ritz reminded him. “We had understood that as soon as you arrived. . . .” Dogget was glowering at him now but it seemed to make no difference. “Your wife and daughter have been here for weeks, sir. This cannot go on.”

“You know perfectly well there’s no problem.”

“We have received a reply to an enquiry we made to your bankers in Boston, sir.”

At this Dogget went pale. It seemed to St James that the American aged visibly before him. He crumpled. Then he replied gruffly: “I still have a house in Boston, Mr Ritz. The Savoy will be paid; you may just have to wait a little while. I’m due to leave in a day or two anyway.” He glanced at St James in some embarrassment. “Some bad investments I’m afraid, Lord St James. Seems my fortune’s gone. But, as I was saying, I still hope to do something for Nancy in due course. I’m not too old. I made a fortune once so I dare say I can do it again. Maybe you’ll come along for the ride,” he suggested, with a hint of family warmth.

But the Earl of St James, whether out of embarrassment or some other pressing reason, was excusing himself and beating a hasty retreat.

Mr Dogget was silent, shaking his head sadly for some moments after St James had left. Then he glanced up at César Ritz.

“Thank you, Mr Ritz.”

“Was that all right, sir?”

“Oh yes. I think we smoked him out.”

The letter was written in a beautiful hand – neat and scholarly but also very manly. Violet was in the room when Mary Anne opened it.

“It’s from Colonel Meredith!” she said, before she had time to think.

“Oh mama!” The girl gave her a knowing look that Mary Anne considered most unsuitable. “What does he say?”

“That he is to give a reading from his Persian poems in two weeks’ time, at Hatchards. Anyone may attend but he thought to let us know in case it would amuse us, as he puts it, to come.” And how cleverly done, she thought. An invitation to a rendezvous, yet perfectly innocent if it should happen to be seen by anyone else. It was not even necessary to respond. No commitment. She could go with Violet, or she could go alone. Or, of course, as she knew very well that she should, she could stay away and not go at all. Whatever she decided to do, she wished that she had not blurted it out to the girl.

“Will you go, mama?”

“I don’t think so,” said Mary Anne.

So many things had been happening lately, Esther Silversleeves could hardly remember when there had been more to think about.

Mr Gorham Dogget’s visit had certainly put things in such a whirl. Three days after Christmas, her son was summoned to the Savoy and given a great pile of legal documents to work on. As for Arnold, she had never seen him so busy. She hoped it was all right at his age, but he seemed very happy.

“These Americans have such bold dreams,” he told her. “I wish I could have worked for men like this one all my life.”

But the truly astounding thing was that the very next day, the Bostonian had asked her brother-in-law Penny if his son would like to accompany him and his family on their cruise.

“Just up sticks at the drop of a hat, take the boat from Southampton and be off for three months – down the Nile!” Harriet Penny had told her excitedly. “I do believe he means our son to keep his daughter company,” she added. “And he’s going!”

“Oh, my dear!” said Esther in awe. “We shall be getting quite above our station.”

Sadder, even a little worrying, was that just after the New Year the
Cutty Sark
had returned, beating all opposition easily while so far no word had come of the
Charlotte Rose
. “He’ll be all right,” her sister Charlotte had said of her husband when Esther had gone out to Camberwell to see her. “He always comes home.” But Esther could see that Charlotte was worried.

Least important, though strangest, had been the tiny incident that had taken place three days before. Though it fascinated him less than sewers and electric trains, Arnold Silversleeves had been delighted by the coming of the telephone in the last decade. In the capital, amongst the richer sort, the new invention had spread rapidly and Arnold had been eager to get one as soon as there was an exchange serving Hampstead. Many provincial cities could not be reached yet but, as he assured her, “it’s the thing of the future”.

But who, she wondered, could the strange female voice be who had called three days before:

“Mrs Silversleeves?”

“Yes?”

“Would you be the daughter of the late Mr Silas Dogget, of Blackheath?”

As soon as Esther answered yes, the caller had hung up. She was just wondering about it for the hundredth time when the doorbell rang, and a moment later, the maid announced: “There’s a Miss Lucy Dogget to see you, ma’am.”

Lucy had insisted that she could not state her business until they were alone. Esther had wondered if she should refuse to see her, but her curiosity got the better of her, and the quietly dressed old woman seemed harmless enough. Lucy had spent two days searching and borrowing enough clothes from the families she knew to make a respectable appearance. She had even borrowed a pair of boots from the vicar’s housekeeper – a size too small, so that she could almost weep with the pinching pain after walking a mile from the bus. But in her grey coat, black hat, simple black dress and clean brown stockings, she could have passed for a respectable housekeeper or lady’s maid in quiet retirement.

“I wanted to see you alone,” she explained, “because I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

She told her story simply and when she had finished Esther Silversleeves gazed at her in horrified silence. She did not doubt Lucy’s tale, but it opened up before her such a terrible abyss that she had to grip the arms of the chair.

“The rich relation, you mean, was. . . .”

“Up at Blackheath. Very fine gentleman he was, I must say. You must have been very proud of him.”

“Yes. But. . . .” Esther gazed at her with dread. “You said your little brother died on the river. . . .”

Just for a second Lucy looked into her eyes with perfect understanding before dropping her gaze to the floor. “That was ever such a long time ago,” she said softly. “Not sure I even remember it.”

The dark chasm was there: the faint splash of an oar in the fog, the dull thump of a body, things Esther had scarcely known, but always dreaded. A cold, damp nightmare, invading the respectable house by Hampstead Heath. Esther thought of Arnold, of her sons, of young Penny cruising the Nile, of the Bulls, of Lord St James. And of Silas the dredger. For a moment she lost her voice. At last, hoarsely, she asked: “Do you need money?”

Lucy shook her head. “No. I didn’t come to ask for money. I wouldn’t do that. No, it’s a decent place the girl needs. In service, you see. In a decent house, where she’ll be safe and looked after. I hoped perhaps you might know somewhere. That’s all. I didn’t come to ask for anything more than that.”

“How long is it since you came to see my father?” Esther asked at last.

“Thirty-eight years.”

“You must have known great hardship.”

“Yes, truly I have,” said Lucy. And then, taking herself completely by surprise, she suddenly broke down, and for a moment could do nothing except lean forward in her chair, her hands gripping her knees through her old black dress, and her body quietly shaking as she murmured: “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“She shall be safe. She shall come here,” said Esther Silversleeves, greatly to her own astonishment.

For a man who always looked immaculate, it had to be said that the Earl of St James did not look quite himself that day. He had pulled on a greatcoat with shoulder capes over his open shirt, crammed a bowler hat on his head and seized a red silk scarf which he absent-mindedly wound round his neck as he ran out of the door and hailed a hansom cab. He was in such a state he even forgot his keys. Barnikel and the
Charlotte Rose
had just arrived, three weeks late.

The last month had been grim for St James. There had been the embarrassing business of Nancy. A gentleman was not supposed to go back on his word, but the marriage, of course, could not have gone forward. He had written her a letter suggesting that something in his own past made it necessary – indeed, though he did not say what, he implied it was only decent – to withdraw. He could have said he was penniless, too, but he was so furious about the whole thing that he was damned if he would. He comforted himself with the reflection that, having lost his fortune, the Bostonian was unlikely to appear to embarrass him in London again. The only mystery had been a rumour, shortly afterwards, that Mr Dogget had gone to the Nile after all.

As the days passed he waited anxiously for news of the clippers. First had come the crushing blow that the
Cutty Sark
had been sighted coming up the coast of Kent; then her arrival in the Port of London, and the knowledge that he had lost his bet. Then, day after day, the wait without news when he wondered if he had lost the vessel and his friend Barnikel too.