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….
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.