Samuel said: "You've obviously talked this over with them."
"Yes. Madler is very keen, and so is his partner, John James Bell."
Young William said: "And you would supervise the joint venture from London."
Hugh saw that William regarded him as a rival who was much less dangerous three thousand miles away. "Why not?" he said. "After all, London is where the money is raised."
"And what would your status be?"
It was a question Hugh would have preferred not to answer so soon. William had shrewdly raised it to embarrass him. Now he had to bite the bullet. "I think Mr. Madler and Mr. Bell would expect to deal with a partner."
"You're too young to be a partner," Joseph said immediately.
"I'm twenty-six, Uncle," Hugh said. "You were made a partner when you were twenty-nine."
"Three years is a long time."
"And fifty thousand pounds is a lot of money." Hugh realized he was sounding cocky--a fault he was prone to--and he backed off quickly. He knew that if he pushed them into a corner they would turn him down just out of conservatism. "But there is much to be weighed up. I know you'll want to talk it over. Perhaps I should leave you?" Samuel nodded discreetly and Hugh went to the door.
Samuel said: "Whether this works out or not, Hugh, you're to be congratulated on a jolly enterprising proposition--I'm sure we all agree on that."
He looked inquiringly at his partners and they all nodded assent. Uncle Joseph murmured: "Quite so, quite so."
Hugh did not know whether to be frustrated, because they had not agreed to his plan, or pleased that they had not turned it down flat. He had a dispiriting sense of anticlimax. But there was no more he could do. "Thank you," he said, and he went out.
At four o'clock that afternoon he stood outside Augusta's enormous, elaborate house in Kensington Gore.
Six years of London soot had darkened the red brick and smudged the white stone, but it still had the statues of birds and beasts on the stepped gable, with the ship in full sail at the apex of the roof. And they say Americans are ostentatious! thought Hugh.
He knew from his mother's letters that Joseph and Augusta had spent some of their ever-growing wealth on two other homes, a castle in Scotland and a country mansion in Buckinghamshire. Augusta had wanted to sell the Kensington house and buy a mansion in Mayfair, but Joseph had put his foot down: he liked it here.
The place had been relatively new when Hugh left, but still it was a house full of memories for him. Here he had suffered Augusta's persecution, courted Florence Stalworthy, punched Edward's nose, and made love to Maisie Robinson. The recollection of Maisie was the most poignant. It was not the humiliation and disgrace he recalled so much as the passion and the thrill. He had not seen or heard anything of Maisie since that night but he still thought about her every day of his life.
The family would remember the scandal as retailed by Augusta: how Tobias Pilaster's depraved son had brought a whore into the house and then, on being caught, had viciously attacked poor blameless Edward. So be it. They could think what they liked, but they had to acknowledge him as a Pilaster and a banker, and soon, with luck, they would have to make him a partner.
He wondered how much the family had changed in six years. Hugh's mother had kept him abreast of domestic events in monthly letters. His cousin Clementine was engaged to be married; Edward was not, despite Augusta's efforts; Young William and Beatrice had a baby girl. But Mother had not told him the underlying changes. Did Uncle Samuel still live with his "secretary"? Was Augusta as ruthless as ever, or had she mellowed with age? Had Edward sobered up and settled down? Had Micky Miranda finally married one of the flock of girls who fell in love with him every season?
It was time to face them all. He crossed the street and knocked on the door.
It was opened by Hastead, Augusta's oily butler. He did not appear to have changed: his eyes still looked in different directions. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hugh," he said, but his Welsh voice was frosty, which indicated that Hugh was still out of favor in this house. Hastead's welcome could always be relied upon to reflect what Augusta was feeling.
He passed through the entrance lobby and into the hall. There like a reception committee stood the three harridans of the Pilaster family: Augusta, her sister-in-law Madeleine, and her daughter Clementine. Augusta at forty-seven was as striking-looking as ever: she still had a classic face with dark eyebrows and a proud look, and if she was a little heavier than six years ago she had the height to carry it. Clementine was a slimmer edition of the same book, but she did not have the indomitable air of her mother and she missed being beautiful. Aunt Madeleine was every inch a Pilaster, from the curved nose down the thin, angular figure to the expensive lace trim around the hem of her ice-blue dress.
Hugh gritted his teeth and kissed them all.
Augusta said: "Well, Hugh, I trust your foreign experiences have made you a wiser young man than you were?"
She was not going to let anyone forget that he had left under a cloud. Hugh replied: "I trust we all grow wiser as we age, dear Aunt," and he had the satisfaction of seeing her face darken with anger.
"Indeed!" she said frostily.
Clementine said: "Hugh, allow me to present my fiance, Sir Harry Tonks."
Hugh shook hands. Harry was too young to have a knighthood, so the "sir" must mean he was a baronet, a kind of second-class aristocrat. Hugh did not envy him marriage to Clementine. She was not as bad as her mother, but she had always had a mean streak.
Harry asked Hugh: "How was your crossing?"
"Very quick," said Hugh. "I came in one of the new screw steamers. It only took seven days."
"By Jove! Marvelous, marvelous."
"What part of England are you from, Sir Harry?" Hugh asked, probing into the man's background.
"I've a place in Dorsetshire. Most of my tenants grow hops."
Landed gentry, Hugh concluded; if he has any sense he will sell his farms and put the money into Pilasters Bank. In fact Harry did not seem very bright, but he might be biddable. The Pilaster women liked to marry men who would do as they were told, and Harry was a younger version of Madeleine's husband George. As they grew older they became grumpy and resentful but they rarely rebelled.
"Come into the drawing room," Augusta commanded. "Everyone's waiting to see you."
He followed her in, but stopped short in the doorway. The familiar wide room, with its big fireplaces at either end and the French windows leading to the long garden, had been quite transformed. All the Japanese furniture and fabrics had gone, and the room had been redecorated in a profusion of bold, richly colored patterns. Looking more closely, Hugh saw that they were all flowers: big yellow daisies in the carpet, red roses climbing a trellis in the wallpaper, poppies in the curtains, and pink chrysanthemums in the silk that draped chair legs, mirrors, occasional tables and the piano. "You've changed this room, Aunt," he said superfluously.
Clementine said: "It all comes from William Morris's new shop in Oxford Street--it's the latest thing."
Augusta said: "The carpet has to be changed, though. It's not the right color."
She was never satisfied, Hugh recalled.
Most of the Pilaster family were here. They were all curious about Hugh, naturally. He had gone away in disgrace and they may have thought they would never see him again--but they had underestimated him, and he had returned a conquering hero. Now they were all keen to take a second look.
The first person he shook hands with was his cousin Edward. He was twenty-nine but he looked older: he was already becoming stout and his face had the flushed look of a glutton. "So, you're back," he said. He tried a smile but it turned into a resentful sneer. Hugh could hardly blame him. The two cousins had always been compared to each other. Now Hugh's success drew attention to Edward's lack of achievement at the bank.
Micky Miranda stood next to Edward. Still handsome and immaculately dressed, Micky seemed even more sleek and self-assured. Hugh said: "Hullo, Miranda, are you still
working for the Cordovan Minister?"
"I am the Cordovan Minister," Micky replied.
Somehow Hugh was not surprised.
He was pleased to see his old friend Rachel Bodwin. "Hullo, Rachel, how are you?" he said. She had never been a pretty girl but she was turning into a handsome woman, he realized. The angular features and close-set eyes that he thought plain six years ago were now oddly intriguing. "What are you doing with yourself these days?"
"Campaigning to reform the law on women's property," she said. Then she grinned and added: "Much to the embarrassment of my parents, who would prefer me to campaign for a husband."
She had always been alarmingly candid, Hugh recalled. He found her interesting on that account, but he could imagine that many eligible bachelors would be intimidated by her. Men liked women to be a little shy and not too clever.
As he exchanged small talk with her, he wondered whether Augusta still wanted to make a match between the two of them. It hardly mattered: the only man Rachel had ever shown any real interest in was Micky Miranda. Even now she was taking care to include Micky in the conversation with Hugh. He had never understood why girls found Micky irresistible, and Rachel surprised him more than most, for she was intelligent enough to realize that Micky was a rotter; yet it was almost as if he fascinated them more on that account.
He moved on and shook hands with Young William and his wife. Beatrice greeted Hugh warmly, and he concluded that she was not as much under Augusta's influence as the other Pilaster women.
Hastead interrupted them to give Hugh an envelope. "This just arrived by messenger," he said.
It contained a note in what looked to Hugh like a secretary's handwriting:
123, Piccadilly
London, W.
Tuesday
Mrs Solomon Greenbourne requests the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight
Below, in a familiar scrawl, was written:
Welcome home!--Solly.
He was pleased. Solly was always amiable and easygoing. Why could the Pilasters not be as relaxed, he wondered? Were Methodists naturally more tense than Jews? But perhaps there were tensions he did not know about in the Greenbourne family.
Hastead said: "The messenger is waiting for a reply, Mr. Hugh."
Hugh said: "My compliments to Mrs. Greenbourne, and I shall be delighted to join them for dinner."
Hastead bowed and withdrew. Beatrice said: "My goodness, are you dining with the Solomon Greenbournes? How marvelous!"
Hugh was surprised. "I don't expect it to be marvelous," he said. "I was at school with Solly and I've always liked him, but an invitation to dine with him was never a coveted privilege."
"It is now," said Beatrice.
"Solly married a fireball," William explained. "Mrs. Greenbourne loves to entertain, and her parties are the best in London."
"They're part of the Marlborough Set," Beatrice said reverently. "They're friends with the Prince of Wales."
Clementine's fiance, Harry, overheard this and said in a resentful tone: "I don't know what English society is coming to, when the heir to the throne prefers Jews to Christians."
"Really?" said Hugh. "I must say I've never understood why people dislike Jews."
"Can't stand 'em, myself," Harry said.
"Well, you're marrying into a banking family, so you're going to meet an awful lot more of them in the future."
Harry looked mildly offended.
William said: "Augusta disapproves of the entire Marlborough Set, Jews and others. Apparently their morals aren't what they should be."
Hugh said: "And I bet they don't invite Augusta to their parties."
Beatrice giggled at the thought and William said: "Certainly not!"
"Well," said Hugh, "I can't wait to meet Mrs. Greenbourne."
Piccadilly was a street of palaces. At eight o'clock on a chilly January evening it was busy, the wide road hectic with carriages and cabs, the gas-lit pavements thronged by men dressed like Hugh in white tie and tails, women in velvet cloaks and fur collars, and painted prostitutes of both sexes.
Hugh walked along deep in thought. Augusta was as implacably hostile to him as ever. He had cherished a secret faint hope that she might have mellowed, but she had not. And she was still the matriarch, so to have her as enemy was to be at odds with the family.
The situation at the bank was better. The business obliged the men to be more objective. Inevitably Augusta would try to block his advancement there, but he had more chance to defend himself on that territory. She knew how to manipulate people but she was hopelessly ignorant about banking.
On balance the day had not gone badly and now he looked forward to a relaxing evening with friends.
When Hugh left for America, Solly Greenbourne had been living with his father, Ben, in a vast house overlooking Green Park. Now Solly had a house of his own, just down the street from his father's place and not much smaller. Hugh passed through an imposing doorway into a vast hall lined with green marble, and stopped to stare at the extravagant sweep of a black-and-orange marble staircase. Mrs. Greenbourne had something in common with Augusta Pilaster: neither woman believed in understatement.
A butler and two footmen were in the hall. The butler took Hugh's hat, only to hand it to a footman; then the second footman led him up the staircase. On the landing he glanced through an open door and saw the bare polished floor of a ballroom with a long sweep of curtained windows, then he was led into a drawing room.
Hugh was no expert on decoration but he immediately recognized the gorgeous, extravagant style of Louis XVI. The ceiling was a riot of plaster molding, the walls had inset panels of flock wallpaper, and all the tables and chairs were perched on thin gilded legs that looked as if they might snap. The colors were yellow, orange-red, gold and green. Hugh could easily imagine prim people saying it was vulgar, concealing their envy beneath a pretense of distaste. In fact it was sensual. It was a room in which impossibly wealthy people did anything they pleased.
Several other guests had arrived already and stood around drinking champagne and smoking cigarettes. This was new to Hugh: he had never seen people smoking in a drawing room. Solly caught his eye and detached himself from a group of laughing people to come over. "Pilaster, how nice of you to come! How are you, for goodness' sake?"
Hugh perceived that Solly had become a little more extrovert. He was still fat and bespectacled, and there was already a stain of some kind on his white waistcoat, but he was jollier than ever and, Hugh immediately sensed, happier too.
"I'm very well, thanks, Greenbourne," Hugh said.
"I know it! I've been watching your progress. I wish our bank had someone like you in America. I hope the Pilasters are paying you a fortune--you deserve it."
"And you've become a socialite, they say."
"None of my doing. I got married, you know." He turned and tapped the bare white shoulder of a short woman in an eggshell-green dress. She was facing the other way but her back was oddly familiar, and a feeling of deja vu came over Hugh, making him unaccountably sad. Solly said to her: "My dear, do you remember my old friend Hugh Pilaster?"
She paused a moment longer, finishing what she was saying to her companions, and Hugh thought: Why do I feel breathless at the sight of her? Then she turned very slowly, like a door opening into the past, and Hugh's heart stopped as he saw her face.
"Of course I remember him," she said. "How are you, Mr. Pilaster?"
Hugh stared, speechless, at the woman who had become Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne.
It was Maisie.
2
AUGUSTA SAT AT HER DRESSING TABLE and put on the single row of pearls that she always wore at dinner parties. It was her most expensive piece of jewelry. Methodists did not believe in costly ornament, and her parsimonious husband Joseph used that as an excuse not to buy her jewelry. He would have liked to stop her redecorating the house so often, but she did it without asking him: if he had his way they might live no better than his clerks. He accepted the r
edecoration grumpily, insisting only that she leave his bedroom alone.
She took from her open jewelry box the ring Strang had given her thirty years ago. It was in the form of a gold serpent with a diamond head and ruby eyes. She put it on her finger and, as she had done a thousand times before, brushed the raised head against her lips, remembering.
Her mother had said: "Send back his ring, and try to forget him."
The seventeen-year-old Augusta had said: "I have sent it back already, and I will forget him," but it was a lie. She kept the ring concealed in the spine of her Bible, and she had never forgotten Strang. If she could not have his love, she vowed, all the other things he could have given her would be hers somehow, one day.
She would never be the countess of Strang, she had accepted that years ago. But she was determined to have a title. And since Joseph did not have one she would have to get him one.
She had brooded over the problem for years, studying the mechanisms by which men gained titles, and many sleepless nights of planning and longing had gone into her strategy. Now she was ready and the time was right.
She would begin her campaign tonight, over dinner. Among her guests were three people who would play a crucial part in having Joseph made an earl.
He might take the title earl of Whitehaven, she thought. Whitehaven was the port where the Pilaster family had begun in business, four generations ago. Joseph's great-grandfather Amos Pilaster had made his fortune with a legendary gamble, putting all his money in a slave ship. But then he had gone into a less chancy business, buying serge cloth and printed calico from Lancashire textile mills and shipping it to the Americas. Their London home was already called Whitehaven House in acknowledgment of the birthplace of the business. Augusta would be countess of Whitehaven if her plans worked out.
She imagined herself and Joseph entering a grand drawing room as a butler announced: "The earl and countess of Whitehaven," and the thought made her smile. She saw Joseph making his maiden speech in the House of Lords, on a topic connected with high finance, and the other peers listening with respectful attention. Shopkeepers would call her "Lady Whitehaven" in loud tones and people would look around to see who it was.