PART III
1890
CHAPTER ONE
SEPTEMBER
1
JOSEPH PILASTER DIED in September 1890, having been Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank for seventeen years. During that period Britain had grown steadily richer, and so had the Pilasters. They were now almost as rich as the Greenbournes. Joseph’s estate came to more than two million pounds, including his collection of sixty-five antique jeweled snuffboxes—one for each year of his life—which was worth a hundred thousand pounds on its own, and which he left to his son Edward.
All the family kept all their capital invested in the business, which paid them an infallible five percent interest when ordinary depositors were getting about one and a half percent on their money most of the time. The partners got even more. As well as five percent on their invested capital they shared out the profits between them, according to complicated formulas. After a decade of such profit shares, Hugh was halfway to being a millionaire.
On the morning of the funeral Hugh inspected his face in his shaving mirror, looking for signs of mortality. He was thirty-seven years old. His hair was going gray, but the stubble he was scraping off his face was still black. Curly moustaches were fashionable and he wondered whether he should grow one to make himself look younger.
Uncle Joseph had been lucky, Hugh thought. During his tenure as Senior Partner the financial world had been stable. There had been only two minor crises: the failure of the City of Glasgow Bank in 1878 and the crash of the French bank Union Générate in 1882. In both cases the Bank of England had contained the crisis by raising interest rates briefly to six percent, which was still a long way below panic level. In Hugh’s opinion, Uncle Joseph had committed the bank much too heavily to investment in South America—but the crash which Hugh constantly feared had not come, and as far as Uncle Joseph was concerned it now never would. However, having risky investments was like owning a tumbledown house and renting it to tenants: the rent would keep coming in until the very end, but when the house finally fell down there would be no more rent and no more house either. Now that Joseph was gone Hugh wanted to put the bank on a sounder footing by selling or repairing some of those tumbledown South American investments.
When he had washed and shaved he put on his dressing gown and went into Nora’s room. She was expecting him: they always made love on Friday mornings. He had long ago accepted her once-a-week rule. She had become very plump, and her face was rounder than ever, but as a result she had very few lines, and she still looked pretty.
All the same, as he made love to her he closed his eyes and imagined he was with Maisie.
Sometimes he felt like giving up altogether. But these Friday-morning sessions had so far given him three sons whom he loved to distraction: Tobias, named for Hugh’s father; Samuel, for his uncle; and Solomon, for Solly Greenbourne. Toby, the eldest, would start at Windfield School next year. Nora produced babies with little difficulty but once they were born she lost interest in them, and Hugh gave them a lot of attention to compensate for their mother’s coldness.
Hugh’s secret child, Maisie’s son Bertie, now sixteen, had been at Windfield for years, and was a prizewinning scholar and star of the cricket team. Hugh paid his fees, visited the school on Speech Day, and generally acted like a godfather. Perhaps this led a few cynical people to suspect that he was Bertie’s real father. But he had been Solly’s friend, and everyone knew that Solly’s father refused to support the boy, so most people assumed he was simply being generously faithful to the memory of Solly.
As he rolled off Nora she said: “What time is the ceremony?”
“Eleven o’clock at Kensington Methodist Hall. And lunch afterwards at Whitehaven House.”
Hugh and Nora still lived in Kensington, but they had moved to a bigger house when the boys started coming. Hugh had left the choice to Nora, and she had picked a big house in the same ornate, vaguely Flemish style as Augusta’s—a style that had become the height of fashion, or at any rate the height of suburban fashion, since Augusta built her place.
Augusta had never been satisfied with Whitehaven House. She wanted a Piccadilly palace like the Greenbournes. But there was still a measure of Methodist puritanism in the Pilasters, and Joseph had insisted that Whitehaven House was enough luxury for anyone, no matter how rich. Now the house belonged to Edward. Perhaps Augusta would persuade him to sell it and buy her something grander.
When Hugh went down to breakfast his mother was already there. She and Dotty had come up from Folkestone yesterday. Hugh kissed his mother and sat down, and she said without preamble: “Do you think he really loves her, Hugh?”
Hugh did not have to ask whom she was talking about. Dotty, now twenty-three, was engaged to Lord Ipswich, eldest son of the duke of Norwich. Nick Ipswich was heir to a bankrupt dukedom, and Mama was afraid he only wanted Dotty for her money, or rather her brother’s money.
Hugh looked fondly at his mother. She still wore black, twenty-four years after the death of his father. Her hair was now white, but in his eyes she was as beautiful as ever. “He loves her, Mama,” he said.
As Dotty did not have a father, Nick had come to Hugh to ask formal permission to marry her. In such cases it was usual for the lawyers on both sides to draw up the marriage settlement before the engagement was confirmed, but Nick had insisted on doing things the other way around. “I’ve told Miss Pilaster that I’m a poor man,” he had said to Hugh. “She says she has known both affluence and poverty, and she thinks happiness comes from the people you are with, not the money you have.” It was all very idealistic, and Hugh would certainly give his sister a generous dowry; but he was happy to know that Nick genuinely loved her for richer or poorer.
Augusta was enraged that Dotty was marrying so well. When Nick’s father died, Dotty would be a duchess, which was far superior to a countess.
Dotty came down a few minutes later. She had grown up in a way Hugh would never have expected. The shy, giggly little girl had become a sultry woman, dark-haired and sensual, strong-willed and quick-tempered. Hugh guessed that quite a lot of young men were intimidated by her, which was probably why she had reached the age of twenty-three without getting married. But Nick Ipswich had a quiet strength that did not need the prop of a compliant wife. Hugh thought they would have a passionate, quarrelsome marriage, quite the opposite of his own.
Nick called, by appointment, at ten, while they were still sitting around the breakfast table. Hugh had asked him to come. Nick sat next to Dotty and took a cup of coffee. He was an intelligent young man, twenty-two years old, just down from Oxford where, unlike most young aristocrats, he had actually sat examinations and got a degree. He had typically English good looks, fair hair and blue eyes and regular features, and Dotty looked at him as if she wanted to eat him with a spoon. Hugh envied their simple, lustful love.
Hugh felt too young to be playing the role of head of the family, but he had asked for this meeting, so he plunged right in. “Dotty, your fiance and I have had several long discussions about money.”
Mama got up to leave, but Hugh stopped her. “Women are supposed to understand money nowadays, Mama—it’s the modern way.” She smiled at him as if he were being a foolish boy, but she sat down again.
Hugh went on: “As you all know, Nick had been planning a professional career, and thinking of reading for the bar, as the dukedom no longer provides a living.” As a banker Hugh understood exactly how Nick’s father had lost everything. The duke had been a progressive landowner, and in the agricultural boom of the midcentury he had borrowed money to finance improvements: drainage schemes, the grubbing up of miles of hedges, and expensive steam-powered machinery for threshing, mowing and reaping. Then in the 1870s had come the great agricultural depression which was still going on now in 1890. The price of farmland had slumped and the duke’s lands were worth less than the mortgages he had taken on them.
“However, if Nick could get rid of the mortgages that hang around his neck, and rationalize the dukedom, it could still generate a very considerable income. It just needs to be managed well, like any enterprise.”
Nick added: “I’m going to sell quite a lot of outlying farms and miscellaneous property, and concentrate on making the most of what’s left. And I’m going to build houses on the land we own at Sydenham in south London.”
Hugh said: “We’ve worked out that the finances of the dukedom can be transformed, permanently, with about a hundred thousand pounds. So that is what I’m going to give you as a dowry.”
Dotty gasped, and Mama burst into tears. Nick, who had known the figure in advance, said: “It is remarkably generous of you.” Dotty threw her arms around her fiance and kissed him, then came around the table and kissed Hugh. Hugh felt a little awkward, but all the same he was glad to be able to make them so happy. And he was confident that Nick would use the money well and provide a secure home for Dotty.
Nora came down dressed for the funeral in purple-and-black bombazine. She had taken breakfast in her room, as always. “Where are those boys?” she said irritably, looking at the clock. “I told that wretched governess to have them ready—”
She was interrupted by the arrival of the governess and the children: eleven-year-old Toby; Sam, who was six; and Sol, four. They were all in black morning coats and black ties and carried miniature top hats. Hugh felt a glow of pride. “My little soldiers,” he said. “What was the Bank of England’s discount rate last night, Toby?”
“Unchanged at two and a half percent, sir,” said Tobias, who had to look it up in The Times every morning.
Sam, the middle one, was bursting with news. “Mamma, I’ve got a pet,” he said excitedly.
The governess looked anxious. “You didn’t tell me….”
Sam took a matchbox from his pocket, held it out to his mother, and opened it. “Bill the spider!” he said proudly.
Nora screamed, knocked the box from his hand, and jumped away. “Horrible boy!” she yelled.
Sam scrabbled on the floor for the box. “Bill’s gone!” he cried, and burst into tears.
Nora turned on the governess. “How could you let him do such a thing!” she yelled.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know—”
Hugh intervened. “There’s no harm done,” he said, trying to cool the temperature. He put an arm around Nora’s shoulders. “You were taken by surprise, that’s all.” He ushered her out into the hall. “Come on, everyone, it’s time to leave.”
As they left the house he put a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Now, Sam, I hope you’ve learned that you must always take care not to frighten ladies.”
“I lost my pet,” Sam said miserably.
“Spiders don’t really like living in matchboxes anyway. Perhaps you should have a different kind of pet. What about a canary?”
He brightened immediately. “Could I?”
“You’d have to make sure it was fed and watered regularly, or it would die.”
“I would, I would!”
“Then we’ll look for one tomorrow.”
“Hooray!”
They drove to Kensington Methodist Hall in closed carriages. It was pouring rain. The boys had never been to a funeral. Toby, who was a rather solemn child, said: “Are we expected to cry?”
Nora said: “Don’t be so stupid.”
Hugh wished she could be more affectionate with the boys. She had been a baby when her own mother died, and he guessed that was why she found it so difficult to mother her own children: she had never learned how. All the same she might try harder, he thought. He said to Toby: “But you can cry if you feel like it. It’s allowed at funerals.”
“I don’t think I shall. I didn’t love Uncle Joseph very much.”
Sam said: “I loved Bill the spider.”
Sol, the youngest, said: “I’m too big to cry.”
Kensington Methodist Hall expressed in stone the ambivalent feelings of prosperous Methodists, who believed in religious simplicity but secretly longed to display their wealth. Although it was called a hall, it was as ornate as any Anglican or Catholic church. There was no altar, but there was a magnificent organ. Pictures and statues were banned, but the architecture was baroque, the moldings were extravagant and the decor was elaborate.
This morning the hall was packed to the galleries, with people standing in the aisles and at the back. The employees of the bank had been given the day off to attend, and representatives had come from every important financial institution in the City. Hugh nodded to the governor of the Bank of England, the First Lord of the Treasury, and Ben Greenbourne, more than seventy years old but still as straight-backed as a young guardsman.
The family were ushered to reserved seats in the front row. Hugh sat next to his uncle Samuel, who was as immaculate as ever in a black frock coat, a wing collar and a fashionably knotted silk tie. Like Greenbourne, Samuel was in his seventies, and he too was alert and fit.
Samuel was the obvious choice as Senior Partner, now that Joseph was dead. He was the oldest and most experienced of the partners. However, Augusta and Samuel hated each other, and she would oppose him fiercely. She would probably back Joseph’s brother Young William, now forty-two years old.
Among the other partners, two would not be considered because they did not bear the Pilaster name: Major Hartshorn and Sir Harry Tonks, husband of Joseph’s daughter Clementine. The remaining partners were Hugh and Edward.
Hugh wanted to be Senior Partner—he wanted it with all his heart. Although he was the youngest of the partners, he was the ablest banker of them all. He knew he could make the bank bigger and stronger than it had ever been and at the same time reduce its exposure to the risky kind of loans Joseph had relied on. However, Augusta would oppose him even more bitterly than she would oppose Samuel. But he could not bear to wait until Augusta was old, or dead, before he took control. She was only fifty-eight: she could easily be around in another fifteen years, as vigorous and spiteful as ever.
The other partner was Edward. He was sitting next to Augusta in the front row. He was heavy and red-faced in middle age, and he had recently developed some kind of skin rash which was very unsightly. He was neither intelligent nor hardworking and in seventeen years he had managed to learn very little about banking. He arrived at work after ten and left for lunch around noon, and he quite often failed to return at all in the afternoon. He drank sherry for breakfast and was never quite sober all day, and he relied on his clerk, Simon Oliver, to keep him out of trouble. The idea of his being Senior Partner was unthinkable.
Edward’s wife was sitting next to him, which was a rare event. They led quite separate lives. He lived at Whitehaven House with his mother, and Emily spent all her time at their country house, coming to London only for ceremonial occasions such as funerals. Emily had once been very pretty, with big blue eyes and a childlike smile, but over the years her face had set in lines of disappointment. They had no children and it seemed to Hugh that they hated each other.
Next to Emily was Micky Miranda, fiendishly debonair in a gray coat with a black mink collar. Ever since finding out that Micky had murdered Peter Middleton, Hugh had been frightened of him. Edward and Micky were still as thick as thieves. Micky was involved in many of the South American investments the bank had backed over the last ten years.
The service was long and tedious, then the procession from the hall to the cemetery, in the relentless September rain, took more than an hour, because of the hundreds of carriages following the hearse.
Hugh studied Augusta as her husband’s coffin was lowered into the ground. She stood under a big umbrella held by Edward. Her hair was all silver, and she looked magnificent in a huge black hat. Surely now, when she had lost the companion of a lifetime, she would seem human and pitiable? But her proud face was carved in stern lines, like a marble sculpture of a Roman senator, and she showed no grief.
After the burial there was a lunch at Whitehaven House for the whole Pilaster extended family, including all the partners with their wives and children, plus close business associates and long-time hangers-on such as Micky Miranda. So that they could all eat together Augusta had put two dining tables end-to-end in the long drawing room.
Hugh had not been inside the house for a year or two, and since his last visit it had been redecorated yet again, this time in the newly fashionable Arab style. Moorish arches had been inserted in the doorways, all the furniture featured carved fretwork, the upholstery was in colorful abstract Islamic designs, and here in the drawing room were a Cairo screen and a Koran stand.
Augusta sat Edward in his father’s chair. Hugh thought that was a bit tactless. Putting him at the head of the table cruelly emphasized how incapable he was of filling his father’s shoes. Joseph had been an erratic leader but he had not been a fool.
However, Augusta had a purpose as always. Toward the end of the meal she said, with her customary abruptness: “There must be a new Senior Partner as soon as possible, and obviously it will be Edward.”
Hugh was horrified. Augusta had always had a blind spot about her son, but all the same this was totally unexpected. He felt sure she could not possibly get her way, but it was unnerving that she should even make the suggestion.
There was a silence, and he realized that everyone was waiting for him to speak. He was regarded by the family as the opposition to Augusta.
He hesitated while he considered how best to handle it. He decided to try for a standoff. “I think the partners should discuss the question tomorrow,” he said.
Augusta was not going to let him off that easily. She said: “I’ll thank you not to tell me what I may and may not discuss in my own house, young Hugh.”
“If you insist.” He collected his thoughts rapidly. “There’s nothing obvious about the decision, although you, dear Aunt, clearly don’t understand the subtleties of the question, perhaps because you have never worked at the bank, or indeed worked at all—”
“How dare you—”
He raised his voice and overrode her. “The oldest surviving partner is Uncle Samuel,” he said. He realized he was sounding too aggressive and he softened his voice again. “I’m sure we would all agree that he would be a wise choice, mature and experienced and highly acceptable to the financial community.”
Uncle Samuel inclined his head in acknowledgment of the compliment but did not say anything.
Nobody contradicted Hugh—but nobody supported him either. He supposed they did not want to antagonize Augusta: the cowards preferred that he do it on their behalf, he thought cynically.
So be it. He went on: “However, Uncle Samuel has declined the honor once before. If he should do so again, the eldest Pilaster would be Young William, who is also widely respected in the City.”
Augusta said impatiently: “It is not the City that has to make the choice—it is the Pilaster family.”
“The Pilaster partners, to be exact,” Hugh corrected her. “But just as the partners need the confidence of the rest of the family, so the bank needs to be trusted by the wider financial community. If we lose that trust we are finished.”
Augusta seemed to be getting angry. “We have the right to choose whom we like!”
Hugh shook his head vigorously. Nothing annoyed him more than this kind of irresponsible talk. “We have no rights, only duties,” he said emphatically. “We’re entrusted with millions of pounds of other people’s money. We can’t do what we like: we have to do what we must.”
Augusta tried another tack. “Edward is the son and heir.”
“It’s not a hereditary title!” Hugh said indignantly. “It goes to the most able.”
It was Augusta’s turn to be indignant. “Edward is as good as anyone!”
Hugh looked around the table, dramatically holding the gaze of each man for a moment before moving on. “Is there anyone here who will put his hand on his heart and say that Edward is the most able banker among us?”
No one spoke for a long minute.
Augusta said: “Edward’s South American bonds have made a fortune for the bank.”
Hugh nodded. “It’s true that we have sold many millions of pounds’ worth of South American bonds in the last ten years, and Edward has handled all that business. But it’s dangerous money. People bought the bonds because they trust Pilasters. If one of those governments should default on interest payments, the price of all South American bonds will go through the floor—and Pilasters will be blamed. Because of Edward’s success in selling South American bonds our reputation, which is our most precious asset, is now in the hands of a set of brutish despots and generals who can’t read.” Hugh found himself becoming emotional as he said this. He had helped to build up the reputation of the bank by his own brains and hard work, and it made him angry that Augusta was willing to jeopardize it.
“You sell North American bonds,” Augusta said. “There’s always a risk. That’s what banking is about.” She spoke triumphantly, as if she had caught him out.
“The United States of America has a modern democratic government, vast natural wealth and no enemies. Now that they’ve abolished slavery, there’s no reason why the country shouldn’t be stable for a hundred years. By contrast, South America is a collection of warring dictatorships that may not be the same for the next ten days. There is a risk in both cases, but in the north it’s much smaller. Banking is about calculating risk.”
“You’re just envious of Edward—you always were,” she said.
Hugh wondered why the other partners were so silent. As soon as he asked himself the question, he realized that Augusta must have spoken to them beforehand. But surely she could not have persuaded them to accept Edward as Senior Partner? He began to feel seriously worried.
“What has she said to you?” he said abruptly. He looked at each of them in turn. “William? George? Harry? Come on, out with it. You’ve discussed this earlier and Augusta has nobbled you.”
They all looked a little foolish. Finally William said; “Nobody has been nobbled, Hugh. But Augusta and Edward have made it clear that unless Edward becomes Senior Partner, they …” He seemed embarrassed.
“Out with it,” Hugh said.
“They will withdraw their capital from the business.”
“What?” Hugh was stunned. Withdrawing your capital was a cardinal sin in this family: his own father had done it and had never been forgiven. That Augusta should be willing even to threaten such a step was astonishing—and showed that she was deadly serious.
Between them, she and Edward controlled about forty percent of the bank’s capital, over two million pounds. If they withdrew the money at the end of the financial year, as they were legally entitled to do, the bank would be crippled.
It was startling that Augusta should make such a threat—and even worse that the partners were ready to give in to her. “You’re surrendering all authority to her!” he said. “If you let her get away with it this time she’ll do it again. Anytime she wants something she can just threaten to withdraw her capital and you’ll cave in. You might as well make her Senior Partner.”
Edward blustered: “Don’t you dare speak of my mother like that—mind your manners!”
“Manners be damned,” Hugh said rudely. He knew he was doing his cause no good by losing his temper, but he was too angry to stop. “You’re about to ruin a great bank. Augusta’s blind, Edward is stupid and the rest of you are too cowardly to stop them.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table like a challenge. “Well, here’s one person who won’t be bullied.”
He stopped and took a breath, realizing he was about to say something that would change the course of the rest of his life. Around the table they all stared at him. He had no alternative. “I resign,” he said.
As he turned from the table he caught Augusta’s eye, and saw on her face a victorious smile.
Uncle Samuel came to see him that evening.
Samuel was an old man now, but no less vain than he had been twenty years ago. He still lived with Stephen Caine, his “secretary.” Hugh was the only Pilaster who ever went to their home, which was a house in raffish Chelsea, decorated in the fashionable aesthetic style and full of cats. Once, when they were halfway down a bottle of port, Stephen had said he was the only Pilaster wife who was not a harridan.
When Samuel called, Hugh was in his library, where he generally retired after dinner. He had a book on his knee but had not been reading it. Instead he had been staring into the fire, thinking about the future. He had plenty of money, enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life without working, but he would never be Senior Partner now.
Uncle Samuel looked weary and sad. “I was at odds with my cousin Joseph for most of his life,” he said. “I wish it had been otherwise.”
Hugh offered him a drink and he asked for port. Hugh called his butler and ordered a bottle decanted.
“How do you feel about it all?” Samuel asked.
“I was angry before, but now I’m just despondent,” Hugh replied. “Edward is so hopelessly unsuited to be Senior Partner, but there’s nothing to be done. How about you?”
“I feel as you do. I shall resign, too. I shan’t withdraw my capital, at least not right away, but I shall go at the end of the year. I told them so after you made your dramatic exit. I don’t know whether I should have spoken up earlier. It wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“What else did they say?”
“Well, that’s why I’m here, really, dear boy. I regret to say I’m a sort of messenger from the enemy. They asked me to persuade you not to resign.”
“Then they’re damn fools.”
“That they certainly are. However, there is one thing you ought to think about. If you resign immediately, everyone in the City will know why. People will say that if Hugh Pilaster believes Edward can’t run the bank he’s probably right. It could cause a loss of confidence.”
“Well, if the bank has weak leadership people ought to lose confidence in it. Otherwise they’ll lose their money.”
“But what if your resignation creates a financial crisis?”
Hugh had not thought of that. “Is it possible?”
“I think so.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that, needless to say.” A crisis might bring down other, perfectly sound businesses, the way the collapse of Overend Gurney had destroyed Hugh’s father’s firm in 1866.
“Perhaps you ought to stay until the end of the financial year, like me,” Samuel said. “It’s only a few months. By then Edward will have been in charge for a while and people will be used to it, and you can go with no fuss.”
The butler came back with the port. Hugh sipped it thoughtfully. He felt he had to agree to Samuel’s proposal, much as he disliked the idea. He had given them all a lecture about their duty to their depositors and the wider financial community, and he had to heed his own words. If he were to allow the bank to suffer just because of his own feelings, he would be no better than Augusta. Besides, the postponement would give him time to think about what to do with the rest of his life.
He sighed. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll stay until the end of the year.”
Samuel nodded. “I thought you would,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do—and you always do the right thing, in the end.”
2
BEFORE MAISIE GREENBOURNE finally said good-bye to high society, eleven years before, she had gone to all her friends—who were many and rich—and persuaded them to give money to Rachel’s Southwark Female Hospital. Consequently, the hospital’s running costs were covered by the income from its investments.
The money was managed by Rachel’s father, the only man involved in the running of the hospital. At first Maisie had wanted to handle the investments herself, but she had found that bankers and stockbrokers refused to take her seriously. They would ignore her instructions, ask for authority from her husband, and withhold information from her. She might have fought them, but in setting up the hospital she and Rachel had too many other fights on their hands, and they had let Mr. Bodwin take over the finances.
Maisie was a widow, but Rachel was still married to Micky Miranda. Rachel never saw her husband but he would not divorce her. For ten years she had been carrying on a discreet affair with Maisie’s brother Dan Robinson, who was a member of Parliament. The three of them lived together in Maisie’s house in suburban Walworth.
The hospital was in a working-class area, in the heart of the city. They had taken a long lease on a row of four houses near Southwark Cathedral and had knocked internal doors through the walls on each level to make their hospital. Instead of rows of beds in cavernous wards they had small, comfortable rooms, each with only two or three beds.
Maisie’s office, a cozy sanctuary near the main entrance, had two comfortable chairs, flowers in a vase, a faded rug and bright curtains. On the wall was the framed poster of “The Amazing Maisie.” The desk was unobtrusive, and the ledgers in which she kept her records were stowed in a cupboard.
The woman sitting opposite her was barefoot, ragged and nine months pregnant. In her eyes was the wary, desperate look of a starving cat that walks into a strange house hoping to be fed. Maisie said: “What’s your name, dear?”
“Rose Porter, mum.”
They always called her “mum,” as if she were a grand lady. She had long ago given up trying to make them call her Maisie. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please, mum.”
Maisie poured tea into a plain china cup and added milk and sugar. “You look tired.”
“I’ve walked all the way from Bath, mum.”
It was a hundred miles. “It must have taken you a week!” said Maisie. “You poor thing.”
Rose burst into tears.
This was normal, and Maisie was used to it. It was best to let them cry as long as they wanted to. She sat on the arm of Rose’s chair, put her arm around her shoulders and hugged her.
“I know I’ve been wicked.” Rose sobbed.
“You aren’t wicked,” Maisie said. “We’re all women here, and we understand. We don’t talk of wickedness. That’s for clergymen and politicians.”
After a while Rose calmed down and drank her tea. Maisie took the current ledger from the cupboard and sat at her writing table. She kept notes on every woman admitted to the hospital. The records were often useful. If some self-righteous Conservative got up in Parliament and said that most unmarried mothers were prostitutes, or that they all wanted to abandon their babies, or some such rot, she would refute him with a careful, polite, factual letter, and repeat the refutation in the speeches she made up and down the country.
“Tell me what happened,” she said to Rose. “How were you living, before you fell pregnant?”
“I was cook for a Mrs. Freeman in Bath.”
“And how did you meet your young man?”
“He came up and spoke to me in the street. It was my afternoon off, and I had a new yellow parasol. I looked a treat, I know I did. That yellow parasol was the undoing of me.”
Maisie coaxed the story out of her. It was typical. The man was an upholsterer, respectable and prosperous working class. He had courted her and they had talked of marriage. On warm evenings they had caressed each other, sitting in the park after dark, surrounded by other couples doing the same thing. Opportunities for sexual intercourse were few, but they had managed it four or five times, when her employer was away or his landlady was drunk. Then he had lost his job. He moved to another town, looking for work; wrote to her once or twice; and vanished out of her life. Then she found she was pregnant.
“We’ll try to get in touch with him,” Maisie said.
“I don’t think he loves me anymore.”
“Well see.” It was surprising how often such men were willing to marry the girl, in the end. Even if they had run away on learning she was pregnant, they might regret their panic. In Rose’s case the chances were high. The man had gone away because he had lost his job, not because he had fallen out of love with Rose; and he did not yet know he was going to be a father. Maisie always tried to get them to come to the hospital and see the mother and child. The sight of a helpless baby, their own flesh and blood, sometimes brought out the best in them.
Rose winced, and Maisie said: “What’s the matter?”
“My back hurts. It must be all the walking.”
Maisie smiled. “It’s not backache. Your baby’s coming. Let’s get you to a bed.”
She took Rose upstairs and handed her over to a nurse. “It’s going to be all right,” she said. “You’ll have a lovely bonny baby.”
She went into another room and stopped beside the bed of the woman they called Miss Nobody, who refused to give any details about herself, not even her name. She was a dark-haired girl of about eighteen. Her accent was upper-class and her underwear was expensive, and Maisie was fairly sure she was Jewish. “How do you feel, my dear?” Maisie asked her.
“I’m comfortable—and so grateful to you, Mrs. Greenbourne.”
She was as different from Rose as could be—they might have come from opposite ends of the earth—but they were both in the same predicament, and they would both give birth in the same painful, messy way.
When Maisie got back to her room she resumed the letter she had been writing to the editor of The Times.
The Female Hospital
Bridge Street
Southwark
London, S.E.
September 10th, 1890
To the Editor of The Times
Dear Sir,
I read with interest the letter from Dr Charles Wickham on the subject of women’s physical inferiority to men.
She had not been sure how to go on, but the arrival of Rose Porter had given her inspiration.
I have just admitted to this hospital a young woman in a certain condition who has walked here from Bath.
The editor would probably delete the words “in a certain condition” as being vulgar, but Maisie was not going to do his censoring for him.
I note that Dr Wickham writes from the Cowes Club, and I cannot help but wonder how many members of the club could walk from Bath to London?
Of course as a woman I have never been inside the club, but I often see its members on the steps, hailing hansom cabs to take them distances of a mile or less, and I am bound to say that most of them look as if they would find it difficult to walk from Piccadilly Circus to Parliament Square.
They certainly could not work a twelve-hour shift in an East End sweatshop, as thousands of Englishwomen do every day—
She was interrupted again by a knock at the door. “Come in,” she called.
The woman who entered was neither poor nor pregnant. She had big blue eyes and a girlish face, and she was richly dressed. She was Emily, the wife of Edward Pilaster.
Maisie got up and kissed her. Emily Pilaster was one of the hospital’s supporters. The group included a surprising diversity of women—Maisie’s old friend April Tilsley, now the owner of three London brothels, was a member. They gave cast-off clothes, old furniture, surplus food from their kitchens, and odd supplies such as paper and ink. They could sometimes find employment for the mothers after confinement. But most of all they gave moral support to Maisie and Rachel when they were vilified by the male establishment for not having compulsory prayers, hymn-singing and sermons on the wickedness of unmarried motherhood.
Maisie felt partly responsible for Emily’s disastrous visit to April’s brothel on Mask Night, when she had failed to seduce her own husband. Since then Emily and the loathsome Edward had led the discreetly separate lives of wealthy couples who hated each other.
This morning Emily was bright-eyed and excited. She sat down, then got up again and checked that the door was firmly shut. Then she said: “I’ve fallen in love.”
Maisie was not sure this was unqualified good news, but she said: “How wonderful! Who with?”
“Robert Charlesworth. He’s a poet and he writes articles about Italian art. He lives in Florence most of the year but he’s renting a cottage in our village; he likes England in September.”
It sounded to Maisie as if Robert Charlesworth had enough money to live well without doing any real work. “He sounds madly romantic,” she said.
“Oh, he is, he’s so soulful, you’d love him.”
“I’m sure I would,” Maisie said, although in fact she could not stand soulful poets with private incomes. However, she was happy for Emily, who had had more bad luck than she deserved. “Have you become his mistress?”
Emily blushed. “Oh, Maisie, you always ask the most embarrassing questions! Of course not!”
After what had happened on Mask Night, Maisie found it astonishing that Emily could be embarrassed about anything. However, experience had taught her that it was she, Maisie, who was peculiar in this respect. Most women were able to close their eyes to just about anything if they really wanted to. But Maisie had no patience with polite euphemisms and tactful phrases. If she wanted to know something she asked. “Well,” she said brusquely, “you can’t be his wife, can you?”
The answer took her by surprise. “That’s why I came to see you,” Emily said. “Do you know anything about getting a marriage annulled?”
“Goodness!” Maisie thought for a moment. “On the grounds that the marriage has never been consummated, I presume?”
“Yes.”
Maisie nodded. “I do know about it, yes.” It was no surprise that Emily had come to her for legal advice. There were no women lawyers, and a man would probably have gone straight to Edward and spilled the beans. Maisie was a campaigner for women’s rights and had studied the existing law on marriage and divorce. “You would have to go to the Probate, Divorce and Admiralty Division of the High Court,” she said. “And you would have to prove that Edward is impotent under all circumstances, not just with you.”
Emily’s face fell. “Oh, dear,” she said. “We know that’s not so.”
“Also, the fact that you’re not a virgin would be a major problem.”
“Then it’s hopeless,” Emily said miserably.
“The only way to do it would be to persuade Edward to cooperate. Do you think he would?”
Emily brightened. “He might.”
“If he would sign an affidavit saying that he was impotent, and agree not to contest the annulment, your evidence won’t be challenged.”
“Then I’ll find a way to make him sign.” Emily’s face took on a stubborn set and Maisie remembered how unexpectedly strong-willed the girl could be.
“Be discreet. It’s against the law for a husband and wife to conspire in this way, and there’s a man called the Queen’s Proctor who acts as a kind of divorce policeman.”
“Will I be able to marry Robert afterwards?”
“Yes. Nonconsummation is grounds for a full divorce under church law. It will take about a year for the case to come to court, and then there’s a waiting-period of six months before the divorce becomes final, but in the end you will be allowed to remarry.”
“Oh, I hope he’ll do it.”
“How does he feel about you?”
“He hates me.”
“Do you think he’d like to get rid of you?”
“I don’t think he cares, so long as I stay out of his way.”
“And if you didn’t stay out of his way?”
“You mean if I were to make a nuisance of myself?”
“That’s what I had in mind.”
“I suppose I could.”
Maisie was sure Emily could make an unbearable nuisance of herself once she put her mind to it.
“I’ll need a lawyer to write the letter for Edward to sign,” Emily said.
“I’ll ask Rachel’s father, he’s a lawyer.”
“Would you?”
“Certainly.” Maisie glanced at the clock. “I can’t see him today, it’s the first day of term at Windfield School and I have to take Bertie. But I’ll see him in the morning.”
Emily stood up. “Maisie, you’re the best friend a woman ever had.”
“I’ll tell you what, this is going to stir up the Pilaster family. Augusta will have a fit.”
“Augusta doesn’t scare me,” said Emily.
Maisie Greenbourne attracted a lot of attention at Windfield School. She always did. She was known to be the widow of the fabulously wealthy Solly Greenbourne, although she had very little money herself. She was also notorious as an “advanced” woman who believed in women’s rights and, it was said, encouraged parlormaids to have illegitimate babies. And then, when she brought Bertie to school, she was always accompanied by Hugh Pilaster, the handsome banker who paid her son’s fees: no doubt the more sophisticated among the other parents suspected that Hugh was Bertie’s real father. But the main reason, she thought, was that at thirty-five she was still pretty enough to turn men’s heads.
Today she was wearing a tomato-red outfit, a dress with a short jacket over it and a hat with a feather. She knew she looked pretty and carefree. In fact these visits to the school with Bertie and Hugh broke her heart.
It was seventeen years since she had spent a night with Hugh, and she loved him as much as ever. Most of the time she immersed herself in the troubles of the poor girls who came to her hospital, and forgot her own grief; but two or three times a year she had to see Hugh, and then the pain came back.
He had known for eleven years that he was Bertie’s real father. Ben Greenbourne had given him a hint, and he had confronted her with his suspicions. She told him the truth. Since then he had done everything he could for Bertie, short of acknowledging him as his son. Bertie believed his father was the late, lovable Solomon Greenbourne, and to tell him the truth would just cause unnecessary pain.
His name was Hubert, and calling him Bertie had been a sly compliment to the Prince of Wales, who was also a Bertie. Maisie never saw the prince now. She was no longer a society hostess and the wife of a millionaire: she was just a widow living in a modest house in the south London suburbs, and such women did not feature in the prince’s circle of friends.
She had chosen to call her son Hubert because the name sounded like Hugh, but she had quickly become embarrassed by the similarity, and that was another reason for calling the boy Bertie. She told her son that Hugh was his dead father’s best friend. Luckily there was no obvious likeness between Bertie and Hugh. In fact Bertie was like Maisie’s father, with soft dark hair and sad brown eyes. He was tall and strong, a good athlete and a hardworking student, and Maisie was so proud of him that she sometimes felt her heart would burst.
On these occasions Hugh was scrupulously polite to Maisie, playing the role of family friend, but she could tell that he felt the bittersweetness of the situation as painfully as she did.
Maisie knew, from Rachel’s father, that Hugh was considered a prodigy in the City. When he talked about the bank his eyes sparkled and he was interesting and amusing. She could tell that his work was challenging and fulfilling. But if ever their conversation strayed into the domestic field he became sour and uncommunicatiye. He did not like to talk about his house, his social life, or—least of all—his wife. The only aspect of his family life he told her about was his three sons, whom he loved to distraction. But there was a streak of regret even when he spoke of them, and Maisie had gathered that Nora was not a loving mother. Over the years she had watched him resign himself to a cold, sexually frustrating marriage.
Today he had on a silver-gray tweed suit that matched his silver-streaked hair, and a bright blue tie the color of his eyes. He was heavier than he used to be but he still had a mischievous grin which appeared now and again. They made an attractive couple—but they were not a couple, and the fact that they looked and acted like one was what made her so sad. She took his arm as they walked into Windfield School, and she thought she would give her soul to be with him every day.
They helped Bertie unpack his trunk, then he made them tea in his study. Hugh had brought a cake which would probably feed the sixth form for a week. “My boy Toby will be coming here next half,” Hugh said as they drank their tea. “I wonder if you’d keep an eye on him for me?”
“I’ll be glad to,” Bertie said. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t go swimming in Bishop’s Wood.” Maisie frowned at him, and he said: “Sorry. Bad joke.”
“They still talk about that, do they?” Hugh said.
“Every year the head tells the story of how Peter Middleton drowned, to try and frighten chaps. But they still go swimming.”
After tea they said good-bye to Bertie, Maisie feeling tearful as always about leaving her little boy behind, even though he was now taller than she. They walked back into the town and took the train to London. They had a first-class compartment to themselves.
As they watched the scenery flash by, Hugh said: “Edward is going to be Senior Partner at the bank.”
Maisie was startled. “I didn’t think he had the brains!”
“He hasn’t. I shall resign at the end of the year.”
“Oh, Hugh!” Maisie knew how much he cared for that bank. All his hopes were tied up in it. “What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’m staying on until the end of the financial year, so I’ve got time to think about it.”
“Won’t the bank go to ruin under Edward?”
“I’m afraid it may.”
Maisie felt very sad for Hugh. He had had more bad luck than he deserved, while Edward had far too much good. “Edward is Lord Whitehaven, too. Do you realize that if the title had gone to Ben Greenbourne, as it should have, Bertie would be in line to inherit it now?”
“Yes.”
“But Augusta put a stop to all that.”
“Augusta?” said Hugh with a puzzled frown.
“Yes. She was behind all that rubbish in the newspapers about ‘Can a Jew be a peer?’ Do you remember?”
“I do, but how can you be so sure that Augusta was behind it?”
“The Prince of Wales told us.”
“Well, well.” Hugh shook his head. “Augusta never ceases to amaze me.”
“Anyway, poor Emily is Lady Whitehaven now.”
“At least she got something out of that wretched marriage.”
“I’m going to tell you a secret,” Maisie said. She lowered her voice even though there was no one within earshot. “Emily is about to ask Edward for an annulment.”
“Good for her! On the grounds of nonconsummation, I presume?”
“Yes. You don’t seem surprised.”
“You can tell. They never touch. They’re so awkward with each other, it’s hard to believe they’re man and wife.”
“She’s been leading a false life all these years and she’s decided to put an end to it.”
“She’ll have trouble with my family,” Hugh said.
“With Augusta, you mean.” That had been Maisie’s reaction too. “Emily knows that. But she’s got a streak of obstinacy that should serve her well.”
“Does she have a lover?”
“Yes. But she won’t become his mistress. I can’t think why she should be so scrupulous. Edward spends every night in a brothel.”
Hugh smiled at her, a sad, loving smile. “You were scrupulous, once.”
Maisie knew he was talking about the night at Kingsbridge Manor when she had locked her bedroom door against him. “I was married to a good man and you and I were about to betray him. Emily’s situation is quite different.”
Hugh nodded. “All the same I think I understand how she feels. It’s the lying that makes adultery shameful.”
Maisie disagreed. “People should grab happiness where they can. You only have one life.”
“But when you grab happiness you may let go of something even more valuable—your integrity.”
“Too abstract for me,” Maisie said dismissively.
“No doubt it was for me, that night at Kingo’s house, when I would have betrayed Solly’s trust willingly, if you had let me. But it’s become more concrete to me over the years. Now I think I value integrity more than anything else.”
“But what is it?”
“It means telling the truth, keeping promises, and taking responsibility for your mistakes. It’s the same in business as it is in everyday life. It’s a matter of being what you claim to be, doing what you say you’ll do. And a banker of all people can’t be a liar. After all, if his wife can’t trust him, who can?”
Maisie was getting angry with Hugh and she wondered why. She sat back in silence for a while, looking out of the window at the London suburbs in the dusk. Now that he was leaving the bank, what was there left in his life? He did not love his wife and his wife did not love their children. Why should he not find happiness in the arms of Maisie, the woman he had always loved?
At Paddington Station he escorted her to the cab stand and helped her into a hansom. As they said goodbye she held his hands and said: “Come home with me.”
He looked sad and shook his head.
“We love each other—we always have,” she pleaded. “Come with me, and to hell with the consequences.”
“But life is consequences, isn’t it?”
“Hugh! Please!”
He withdrew his hands and stepped back. “Goodbye, dear Maisie.”
She stared at him helplessly. Years of suppressed yearning caught up with her. If she had been strong enough she would have seized him and dragged him into the cab by force. She felt maddened by frustration.
She would have stayed there forever, but he nodded to the cabbie and said: “Drive on.”
The man touched the horse with his whip, and the wheels turned.
A moment later Hugh was gone from her sight.