2
HUGH WENT TO SEE MAISIE two days after Solly died.
He found her alone, sitting quiet and still on a sofa, neatly dressed in a black gown, looking small and insignificant in the splendor of the drawing room at the palatial Piccadilly house. Her face was lined with grief and she looked as if she had not slept. His heart ached for her.
She threw herself into his arms and said: “Oh, Hugh, he was the best of us!”
When she said that, Hugh himself could not keep the tears back. Until this moment he had been too stunned to cry. It was a dreadful fate to die as Solly had, and he deserved it less than any man Hugh could name. “There was no malice in him,” he said. “He seemed incapable of it. I knew him for fifteen years and I can’t remember a single time when he was unkind to someone.”
“Why do such things happen?” Maisie said miserably.
Hugh hesitated. Just a few days ago he had learned, from Tonio Silva, that Micky Miranda had killed Peter Middleton all those years ago. Because of that, Hugh could not help wondering whether Micky had had something to do with the death of Solly. The police were looking for a well-dressed man who had been arguing with Solly just before he was run over. Hugh had seen Micky entering the Cowes Club at around the time Solly died, so he had certainly been in the neighborhood.
But there was no motive: quite the reverse. Solly had been on the point of closing the Santamaria railroad deal that was so close to Micky’s heart. Why would he kill his benefactor? Hugh decided to say nothing to Maisie about his unfounded suspicions. “It seems to have been a tragic accident,” he said.
“The coachman thinks Solly was pushed. Why would the witness run away if he wasn’t guilty?”
“He may have been attempting to rob Solly. That’s what the newspapers are saying, anyway.” The papers were full of the story. It was a sensational case: the grisly death of a prominent banker, one of the richest men in the world.
“Do thieves wear evening dress?”
“It was almost dark. The coachman may have been mistaken about the man’s clothing.”
Maisie detached herself from Hugh and sat down again. “And if you had only waited a little longer you could have married me instead of Nora,” she said.
Hugh was startled by her frankness. The same thought had come to him within seconds of hearing the news—but he was ashamed of it. It was typical of Maisie to come right out and say what they were both thinking. He was not sure how to respond, so he made a foolish joke. “If a Pilaster married a Greenbourne, it would be not so much a wedding as a merger.”
She shook her head. “I’m not a Greenbourne. Solly’s family never really accepted me.”
“You must have inherited a big chunk of the bank, though.”
“I’ve inherited nothing, Hugh.”
“But that’s impossible!”
“It’s true. Solly had no money of his own. His father gave him a huge monthly allowance, but he never settled any capital on him, because of me. Even this house is rented. I own my clothes, furniture and jewelry, so I’ll never starve. But I’m not the heir to the bank—and neither is little Bertie.”
Hugh was astonished—and angry that anyone should be so mean to Maisie. “The old man won’t even provide for your son?”
“Not a penny. I saw my father-in-law this morning.”
It was a shabby way to treat her, and Hugh as her friend felt personally affronted. “It’s disgraceful,” he said.
“Not really,” Maisie said. “I gave Solly five years of happiness, and in return I had five years of the high life. I can go back to normal. I’ll sell my jewelry, invest the money and live quietly on the income.”
It was hard to take in. “Will you go and live with your parents?”
“In Manchester? No, I don’t think I can go quite that far back. I’ll stay in London. Rachel Bodwin is opening a hospital for unmarried mothers: I might work with her.”
“There’s a lot of fuss about Rachel’s hospital. People think it’s scandalous.”
“Then it should suit me very well!”
Hugh was still hurt and worried by Ben Greenbourne’s ill-treatment of his daughter-in-law. He decided he would have a word with Greenbourne and try to change the man’s mind. He would not mention it to Maisie beforehand, though. He did not want to raise her hopes and then disappoint them. “Don’t make any sudden decisions, will you?” he counseled.
“Such as?”
“Don’t move out of the house, for example. Greenbourne might try to confiscate your furniture.”
“I won’t.”
“And you need a lawyer of your own, to represent your interests.”
She shook her head. “I no longer belong to the class of people who call in a lawyer the way they summon a footman. I have to count the cost. I shan’t see a lawyer unless I feel sure I’m being cheated. And I don’t think that will happen. Ben Greenbourne isn’t dishonest. He’s just hard: as hard as iron, and as cold. It’s amazing that he fathered someone as warmhearted as Solly.”
“You’re very philosophical,” Hugh said. He admired her courage.
Maisie shrugged. “I’ve had an amazing life, Hugh. I was destitute at eleven and fabulously wealthy at nineteen.” She touched a ring on her finger. “This diamond is probably worth more money than my mother has ever seen. I gave the best parties in London; I met everyone who was anyone; I danced with the Prince of Wales. I’ve no regrets. Except that you married Nora.”
“I’m very fond of her,” he said unconvincingly.
“You were angry because I wouldn’t have an affair with you,” Maisie said brutally. “You were desperate for sexual release. And you picked Nora because she reminded you of me. But she’s not me, and now you’re unhappy.”
Hugh winced as if he had been struck. All this was painfully near to the truth. “You never liked her,” he said.
“And you may say I’m jealous, and you may be right, but I still say she never loved you and she married you for your money. I’ll bet you’ve found that to be true since the wedding, haven’t you?”
Hugh thought of how Nora refused to make love more than once a week, and how she changed her tune if he bought her gifts; and he felt miserable and looked away. “She’s always been deprived,” he said. “It’s not surprising that she became materialistic.”
“She was not as deprived as I was,” Maisie said scornfully. “Even you were taken out of school for want of money, Hugh. It’s no excuse for false values. The world is full of poor people who understand that love and friendship are more important than riches.”
Her scorn made Hugh defensive. “She’s not as bad as you make out.”
“All the same you’re not happy.”
Feeling confused, Hugh fell back on what he knew to be right. “Well, I’ve married her now, and I won’t leave her,” he said. “That’s what the vows mean.”
Maisie smiled tearfully. “I knew you would say that.”
Hugh had a sudden vision of Maisie naked, her round freckled breasts and the bush of red-gold hair at her groin, and he wished he could take back his high-principled words. Instead he stood up to go.
Maisie stood up too. “Thank you for coming, dear Hugh,” she said.
He intended to shake her hand but instead he bent to kiss her cheek; and then somehow he found himself kissing her lips. It was a soft, tender kiss that lingered for a long moment and almost destroyed Hugh’s resolve; but then at last he tore himself away and left the room without another word.
Ben Greenbourne’s house was another palace a few yards along Piccadilly. Hugh went straight there after seeing Maisie. He was glad to have something to do, some way of taking his mind off the turmoil in his heart. He asked for the old man. “Say it’s a matter of great urgency,” he told the butler. While he waited he noticed that the mirrors in the hall were covered, and he guessed this was part of the Jewish mourning ritual.
Maisie had thrown him off balance. When he saw her his heart had filled with love and longing. He knew he could never be truly happy without her. But Nora was his wife. She had brought warmth and affection into his life after Maisie rejected him, and that was why he had married her. What was the point of making promises in a wedding ceremony if you were going to change your mind later?
The butler showed Hugh into the library. Six or seven people were just going, leaving Ben Greenbourne alone. He had no shoes on and sat on a plain wooden stool. A table was piled with fruit and pastries for visitors.
Greenbourne was past sixty—Solly had been a late child—and he looked old and worn, but he showed no sign of tears. He stood up, straight-backed and formal as ever, and shook hands, then waved Hugh to another stool.
Greenbourne had an old letter in his hand. “Listen to this,” he said, and he began to read. “‘Dear Papa, We have a new Latin teacher, Reverend Green, and I am getting on much better, ten out of ten every day last week. Waterford caught a rat in the broom cupboard and he is trying to train it to eat out of his hand. The food here is too little, can you send me a cake? Your loving son, Solomon.’” He folded the letter. “He was fourteen when he wrote that.”
Hugh saw that Greenbourne was suffering despite his rigid self-control. “I remember that rat,” he said. “It bit Waterford’s forefinger off.”
“How I wish I could turn back the years,” Greenbourne said, and Hugh saw that the old man’s self-control was weakening.
“I must be one of Solly’s oldest friends,” Hugh said.
“Indeed. He always admired you, although you were younger.”
“I can’t think why. But he was always ready to think the best of people.”
“He was too soft.”
Hugh did not want the conversation to go that way. “I’ve come here not just as Solly’s friend, but as Maisie’s too.”
Greenbourne stiffened immediately. The sad look went from his face and he became the caricature of the upright Prussian again. Hugh wondered how anyone could so hate a woman as beautiful and full of fun as Maisie.
Hugh went on: “I met her soon after Solly did. I fell in love with her myself, but Solly won her.”
“He was richer.”
“Mr. Greenbourne, I hope you will allow me to be frank. Maisie was a penniless girl looking for a rich husband. But after she married Solly she kept her part of the bargain. She was a good wife to him.”
“And she has had her reward,” Greenbourne said. “She has enjoyed the life of a lady for five years.”
“Funnily enough, that’s what she said. But I don’t think it’s good enough. What about little Bertie? Surely you don’t want to leave your grandson destitute?”
“Grandson?” said Greenbourne. “Hubert is no relation to me.”
Hugh had an odd premonition that something momentous was about to happen. It was like a nightmare in which a frightening but nameless horror was about to strike. “I don’t understand,” he said to Greenbourne. “What do you mean?”
“That woman was already with child when she married my son.”
Hugh gasped.
“Solly knew it, and he knew the child was not his,” Greenbourne went on. “He took her all the same—against my will, I need hardly add. People generally don’t know this, of course: we went to great lengths to keep it secret, but there’s no need to any longer, how that—” He broke off, swallowed hard, and continued. “They went around the world after the wedding. The child was born in Switzerland; they gave out a false birth date; by the time they came home, having been away for almost two years, it was hard to tell that the baby was actually four months older than they said.”
Hugh felt as if his heart had stopped. There was a question he had to ask, but he was terrified of the answer. “Who—who was the father?”
“She would never say,” Greenbourne said. “Solly never knew.”
But Hugh did.
The child was his.
He stared at Ben Greenbourne, unable to speak.
He would talk to Maisie, and make her tell the truth, but he knew she would confirm his intuition. She had never been promiscuous, despite appearances. She had been a virgin when he seduced her. He had made her pregnant, on that first night. Then Augusta had contrived to split them up, and Maisie had married Solly.
She had even called the baby Hubert, a name closely similar to Hugh.
“It is appalling, of course,” Greenbourne said, seeing his consternation and misunderstanding the reason for it.
I have a child, Hugh thought. A son. Hubert. Called Bertie. The thought wrenched at his heart.
“However, I’m sure you now see why I don’t wish to have anything more to do with the woman or her child, now that my dear son has passed away.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Hugh said distractedly. “I’ll take care of them.”
“You?” Greenbourne said, mystified. “Why should it be any concern of yours?”
“Oh … well, I’m all they’ve got, now, I suppose,” Hugh said.
“Don’t get sucked in, young Pilaster,” Greenbourne said kindly. “You’ve got a wife of your own to worry about.”
Hugh did not want to explain and he was too dazed to make up a story. He had to get away. He stood up. “I must go. My deepest condolences, Mr. Greenbourne. Solly was the best man I ever knew.”
Greenbourne bowed his head. Hugh left him.
In the hall with the shrouded mirrors he took his hat from the footman and went out into the sunshine of Piccadilly. He walked west and entered Hyde Park, heading for his home in Kensington. He could have taken a hansom but he wanted time to think.
Everything was different now. Nora was his legal wife but Maisie was the mother of his son. Nora could look after herself—and so could Maisie, for that matter —but a child needed a father. Suddenly the question of what he was to do with the rest of his life was open again.
No doubt a clergyman would say that nothing had changed and he should stay with Nora, the woman he had married in church; but clergymen did not know much. The strict Methodism of the Pilasters had passed Hugh by: he had never been able to believe that the answer to every modern moral dilemma could be found in the Bible. Nora had seduced and married him for cold-hearted gain—Maisie was right about that—and all there was between them was a piece of paper. That was very little, weighed against a child—the child of a love so strong that it had persisted for many years and through many trials.
Am I just making excuses, he wondered? Is all this no more than a specious justification for giving in to a desire I know to be wrong?
He felt torn in two.
He tried to consider the practicalities. He had no grounds for divorce, but he felt sure that Nora would be willing to divorce him, if she were offered enough money. However, the Pilasters would ask him to resign from the bank: the social stigma of divorce was too great to allow him to continue as a partner. He could get another job but no respectable people in London would entertain him and Maisie as a couple even after they married. They would almost certainly have to go abroad. But that prospect attracted him and he felt it would appeal to Maisie too. He could return to Boston or, better still, go to New York. He might never be a millionaire but what was that balanced against the joy of being with the woman he had always loved?
He found himself outside his own house. It was part of an elegant new red-brick terrace in Kensington, half a mile from his aunt Augusta’s much more extravagant place at Kensington Gore. Nora would be in her overdecorated bedroom, dressing for lunch. What was to stop him walking in and announcing that he was leaving her?
That was what he wanted to do, he knew that now. But was it right?
It was the child that made the difference. It would be wrong to leave Nora for Maisie; but it was right to leave Nora for the sake of Bertie.
He wondered what Nora would say when he told her, and his imagination gave him the answer. He pictured her face set in lines of hard determination, and he heard the unpleasant edge to her voice, and he could guess the exact words she would use: “It will cost you every penny you’ve got.”
Oddly enough, that decided him. If he had pictured her bursting into tears of sadness he would have been unable to go through with it, but he knew his first intuition was right.
He went into the house and ran up the stairs.
She was in front of the mirror, putting on the pendant he had given her. It was a bitter reminder that he had to buy her jewelry to persuade her to make love.
She spoke before he did. “I’ve got some news,” she said.
“Never mind that now—”
But she would not be put off. She had an odd expression on her face: half triumphant, half sulky. “You’ll have to stay out of my bed for a while, anyway.”
He saw that he was hot going to be allowed to speak until she had had her say. “What on earth are you talking about?” he said impatiently.
“The inevitable has happened.”
Suddenly Hugh guessed. He felt as if he had been hit by a train. It was too late: he could never leave her now. He felt revulsion, and the pain of loss: loss of Maisie, loss of his son.
He looked into her eyes. There was defiance there, almost as if she had guessed what he had been planning. Perhaps she had.
He forced himself to smile. “The inevitable?”
Then she said it. “I’m going to have a baby.”