by John Pearson
In every Parliament there is a handful of experienced, unassertive, essentially decent men on both sides of the House, men who speak rarely and who play no part in policy or great decisions, but who are generally accepted as the collective conscience of the House. Richard was one of these and as such had his importance. Ministers would make a point of informally discussing things with him when they felt the need to know “what the ordinary back-bencher thinks,” and in this way he did not merely make his mark on the ever shifting map of politics but also got to know most of the major politicians rather well.
As a result, he was able to enliven Southwold’s convalescence with exactly the sort of gossip the old man loved. More than that, the two talked of politics and before long Lord Southwold had begun to reminisce about the past—the great politicians he had known, the parliamentary battles he had fought, the hopes and pleasures of his youth.
Years later, when Richard was appointed Southwold’s official biographer, he would draw on these anecdotes. But at the time they simply served to bring the two men closer. Every evening after dinner Richard would take his brandy to Lord Southwold’s room, and while the fire burned low, the talk went on and on.
Lord Southwold stayed a month at Eaton Place, and when he left, it was Richard and Elizabeth, far more than Marjorie, who missed him. Shortly before his departure, he summoned Dillon to his bedside and then called Richard.
“Richard,” he said, “I realise that we’ve not always seen quite eye to eye, but recently I’ve been feeling guilty.”
“Guilty, sir?” said Richard. “I’m sure you’ve no need for that.”
“I said guilty, and I mean guilty,” he said crustily.
“Dillon,” he went on, “as you know just as well as I, Richard has suffered some injustices at my hands over that wretched stipend. I promised it to him and he should have had it.”
“Really, sir,” Richard said. “That was long ago. It scarcely matters now.”
“To me it matters. You’ve been extremely good to me over these last few weeks, and I can see now that you’ve made Marjorie happy. I’ve no intention of being in your debt a moment longer than I can help. What do you suggest we might do, Dillon?”
The lawyer sniffed, then in his dusty voice said, “Under the present circumstances there seems to be no way in which the Southwold estates could possibly incur more expense.”
“Expense, expense. That’s all you ever think of, Dillon. And anyhow, who said that I was thinking of paying Richard any money? If he’s the man I think he is, he wouldn’t accept it, would you, Richard?”
“No,” he replied uncertainly.
“There. You see, Dillon. Not everybody thinks like you. No, what I propose is this. At present this house is leased to you in Marjorie’s name. I want that altered. I think that you should have it, Richard. As a gift when I die. I know Marjorie agrees. I’ve talked to her about it. So, Dillon, would you please arrange a special codicil to my will ensuring that it happens. I take it you know how to do it, Dillon?”
“I think I ought to,” said Dillon blandly.
1903
11. A Junior Minister
Whatever the Galsworthys of this world imply about the upper middle classes, Richard Bellamy really was not much concerned with money. On the contrary, he was quite other-worldly, almost to a fault. Nor was he much impressed by money for its own unpleasant sake. True, he had known and mixed with quite a lot of rich men in his time. His father-in-law, Lord Southwold, had been very rich (and still, despite his illness and his losses, managed to act as if he were). Some of the politicians he knew—men like Devonshire and Rosebery and Manchester—were undeniably immensely wealthy. Then there were other rich men with whom he happened to get on, men like Sir Ernest Cassels (for years banker and crony of the Prince of Wales) and Baron Ferdinand de Rothschild. But with all the Edwardian millionaires Richard Bellamy maintained a splendid unawareness of their wealth. He enjoyed Cassels’ company because they shared a taste for salmon fishing: he was genuinely surprised when that latter-day Maecenas suddenly invited him and Marjorie to spend part of August at his distinctly sumptuous villa outside Biarritz. Similarly, his friendship with the Rothschilds really started more from his desire to show his dislike of the fashionable anti-Semitism of the time than from any passion for the Rothschild millions.
Marjorie, one must admit, was different. Aristocrat though she was, in this one respect she could almost have been a parvenue. A true Edwardian in this, she never could resist the magnetism of a fortune—and it was for Marjorie’s sake that Richard reluctantly accepted the invitation that arrived from Alex Steiner.
Who was Alex Steiner? Nobody knew for sure—which of course made him appear even more exciting than your run-of-the-mill millionaire. Not that there was any lack of theories on this intriguing gentleman and his origins. One had it that he was an illegitimate son of the Emperor of Austria and had resourcefully gained his capital by blackmailing his august father. Another story was he owned a string of brothels and had tied up that tender trade from Beirut to the Bosphorus. Others hinted—but who cares what others hinted? Steiner was not alone in the rumours he attracted, for this was a period when high financiers were still regarded (generally with reason) as a romantic species of the international adventure. But Alex Steiner also looked the part, with his strange, twisted face and heavy-lidded eyes. The Marqués de Soveral had christened him “the money lizard,” which was no bad name for him, with his reptilian manner and his sharp, thrusting nose for wealth.
Where he was different from other grand financiers of his time was in his ostentation. Men like the Rothschilds, and the Hirsches, Casselses and Barings of this world tended to be discreet. Steiner was a showman. It was Steiner who sent a pair of cheetahs to Sarah Bernhardt’s dressing room when she appeared in London, and it was Steiner whose enormous Park Lane mansion had become a meeting place for almost anybody in the news. The receptions there were brash, extravagant and vulgar, but on an ordinary night of any ordinary week you could be sure of seeing several members of the government, a royal mistress or two, the latest fashionable divorcée, writers and journalists and portrait painters, actors and editors and visiting or exiled foreign royalty. The only qualification Steiner demanded of his guests was that they be somebody—and even Richard understood that this invitation meant that he had finally arrived.
As it happened, Steiner was for once a little late. Richard had “arrived” some nine months earlier. During the government reshuffle which had followed Salisbury’s departure from the premiership, Balfour had appointed him one of his few new junior ministers. On the face of it, his appointment as Parliamentary Undersecretary at the Admiralty was no great recompense for sixteen years of devoted service on the Conservative back benches. Marjorie was disappointed. “I thought Arthur Balfour was your friend,” she sniffed. “Fine friend, I must say.” Lord Southwold even went so far as to advise Richard to refuse. But for once Richard didn’t pay too much attention to his family, and for once he was right.
Someone has said that the real division in the House of Commons isn’t between the parties but between the members of the government and the rest. Richard discovered this now for himself. There were the small perquisites of power: the extra deference it won him in the Commons, the contact with the other ministers, the sense of being in the know. But there was more to it than that. The Admiralty was what Balfour called “a working ministry,” the nerve centre of the new Prime Minister’s own ambitious plans for imperial defence. The Dreadnought Plan, to keep the British fleet ahead of all competitors, Germany included, had just begun. And Richard, from his small office in the old Admiralty building, found himself, as he described it, “in at the deep end from the start.”
It was unusual for an untried minister of his rank to have quite the responsibility (and quite the work) which Richard faced. There were the dockyards to be visited, the secret sea trials to attend, the vital decisions (about such fascinating things as turbines, guns and armour p
lating) to be made. Not that he did this on his own account. There was a horde of civil servants, admirals, advisers—all of whom had ideas and most of whom could put them very forcefully. Richard was generally the man to whom they put them, and he acted as the link between them and the politicians, both in Parliament and in the influential Committee for Imperial Defence. In the committee he was sitting with the small group of generals and admirals and cabinet ministers who had the real responsibility for rearming Britain and the Empire. Balfour was usually the chairman. Lugubrious General Kitchener attended for the army, and the small, squeaky-voiced Admiral of the Fleet, Lord “Jackie” Fisher, for the navy. In any argument this formidable little sailor had, as Richard said one night to Marjorie, “the power and tact of one of his own eighteen-pounders.” More often than was good for his own comfort, Richard found himself having to stand up against him.
Fisher would put the case for yet more and better fighting ships. Balfour would tug at his moustache and say that in theory he agreed, but there were practical arguments against. Then he would call on Richard to provide them. Richard was good at this. Not that he enjoyed having to damp down Fisher’s enthusiasm all the time. He admired him and frequently agreed with him, especially on the need for naval power. But he was also an experienced politician. He was practical, and by nature he was an excellent committee man. He knew his facts. His reputation grew.
It was an exciting time for Richard. Now for the first time since he had left the Foreign Service he was employing his intelligence and ability to the full. Balfour relied on him increasingly and made it clear that when the time came he would be promoted.
There was some irony in this, for at the moment Richard’s very real success was by its nature secret. He remained one of the unknown men of the administration, and all his promise still lay in the future.
It was ironic too that Marjorie, who had always coveted success for him, always longed for him to be a man of power, could not appreciate this power when it came. She had no way of knowing how important Richard really was. To her a junior minister was simply a junior minister, almost two-a-penny. There could be no reflected glamour for her here: on the contrary, Richard seemed always tied up with his dreary dockyards and depressing naval estimates.
She and Richard formally attended a couple of court levées. It was strange to see their one-time friend the Prince of Wales transformed into that forbidding monarch Edward VII. He looked extremely grand of course, but rather pompous, in a way his mother never was. And rather disappointingly for Marjorie, there was no sign of recognition in that once too ready royal eye.
Apart from these visits to the Palace, the Bellamys’ social life had actually declined since Richard’s elevation—chiefly because Richard never had the time. True, there had been dinner several times at Number Ten, but Marjorie didn’t care for Mr. Balfour—far too much abstract conversation for her taste, and she suspected that she bored him. (Just to make it worse, Balfour and her husband seemed to get on like a house afire, with all their talk of books, philosophy and, of course, the wretched naval estimates.)
Marjorie was frankly bored with life, and that summer there were several things to make her boredom worse. James was away at Sandhurst, so that she never seemed to see him now: when she did his talk was so full of parties, balls and hunts that he just added to her discontent. And young Elizabeth had left for Germany. This had of course been Richard’s bright idea. There were some distant Southwold cousins, the Von Eckensdorffs, living near Dresden. Richard for some time now had been concerned for Elizabeth’s education and Lord Southwold had suggested she might spend a year or two living with her cousins “and getting the sort of education that is impossible for well-brought-up young ladies in this country.” Marjorie had of course objected. What the girl needed was a good finishing school simply to give her what she lacked—a little charm and a few of the necessary social graces—then possibly six months in Florence. But philosophy, and German philosophy at that? Who ever heard of such nonsense? It would only lead to trouble.
But Elizabeth and Richard were a strong combination when they got together (particularly with Lord Southwold in the background), and despite Marjorie’s objections Elizabeth had gone, and the house seemed very empty without her.
“Steiner?” said Prudence Fairfax. “Not the Alex Steiner? My, we are becoming grand!”
Marjorie had told her of the invitation, and just for once Prudence had been agreeably impressed. Marjorie’s best friend knew everyone these days. Once it had been a different story, but a year ago a lifetime’s drinking and debauch had finally caught up with red-haired Major “Sandy” Fairfax, and Prudence had been left a rich and very merry widow.
During the major’s drunken and depressing lifetime Richard and Marjorie often wondered at Prudence’s loyalty. As far as anybody knew, she had been faithful to him, and certainly she never criticised him or complained of the way he treated her. But now that the major had consumed his final brandy-soda this side of Eternity, Prudence was making up for lost time and opportunities. She had a house in Thurloe Place, a mansion down in Sussex, and she had suddenly—and somewhat late in life—begun to bloom.
“But is this Steiner creature really quite as rich as everybody says?” asked Marjorie.
“As rich as Croesus, whoever Croesus was, or is,” said Prudence knowingly. “Come to think of it, my dear, he’s just the man we want to back St. Mildred’s Ball. Millionaires are just a little scarce this season.”
The Bellamys’ appearance at the big affair which Alex Steiner gave a few days later was more than a success—it was an overnight sensation. Marjorie had dressed to kill, and after Prudence’s advice was quite determined to be as charming as she knew to Alex Steiner. Richard too, for Marjorie’s sake, was quite prepared to be as affable as possible. But this was nothing to the treatment they received from Steiner.
There were various celebrities for dinner at that big resplendent house—d’Alembert, the French ambassador, Marie Corelli, Lord Lansdowne, both the Keppels and Miss Ellen Terry. But in some strange way Steiner managed to imply that it was the Bellamys who were the unofficial guests of honour. He was a foreigner, of course, and foreigners, as Marjorie knew, do tend to be effusive, but even so there was no denying the extraordinary fuss he made over them. Marjorie was seated on his right, and during dinner she was subjected to such charm and flattery that, as she said to Prudence later, “had I been ten years younger, I’d not have been responsible for what occurred.” For Alex Steiner was one of those very ugly little men who, like d’Annunzio, possess such magic that ten minutes is enough for them to captivate any woman they choose. But Steiner’s conversation was not mere idle flattery. Clearly he knew a lot about the Bellamys. He asked about Lord Southwold’s health (“delighted he is so much better”), James’s recent posting to the Life Guards (“you must be proud of such a handsome son”) and how Elizabeth was faring out in Germany (“I have some friends that she must visit”).
But there was one small area where he appeared to know even more about the Bellamys than Marjorie, and this was Richard’s work.
“What I admire about your husband is his modesty,” the little man exclaimed. “Look at him now, so very English and so self-effacing. Who would guess, who didn’t know the truth, how much that man was doing for his country? What do you call such people—unsung heroes? What a good job that just a few of us know what he is and so can honour him as he deserves.”
Steiner did back St. Mildred’s Ball, and far more lavishly than even Prudence hoped. His presence that night at Londonderry House served as a guarantee of its success. The Queen was there—looking, as usual, younger and lovelier than anyone imagined. And all polite society danced and drank champagne and paid their guineas (some of which finally did find their way to Prudence’s pet charity, the St. Mildred’s Homes for the Unfortunate Daughters of the Gently Born).
But once again the whole event seemed to glorify the Bellamys. Steiner paid graceful tribute to “the lovely L
ady Marjorie” in his short speech announcing he was doubling the take. He was quite effusive when Marjorie introduced him to Lilianne and Hugo, and he talked amiably to James, self-conscious and resplendent in his new uniform as ensign in the Life Guards.
“Take care,” said Prudence later. “Your tame little millionaire has got his eye on you.”
And so Marjorie thought herself. But although Alex Steiner would probably not have found the lady too unwilling for a discreet flirtation (those afternoons and evenings on her own were hideously boring), the pass—as Prudence would have called it—never came. There were orchids from him, certainly, and scent and a little something set with diamonds from Cartier which arrived at 165 on the day after the ball. But there were also brandy and cigars for Richard and some expensive tickets for Drury Lane for James.
Indeed, it soon looked as if the millionaire was not in love with Marjorie but with the Bellamys, every one of them.
Richard was far too busy to take much notice for some time. He quite enjoyed Steiner’s company and even suggested to Marjorie that he should come to dinner.
“We seem to owe him rather a lot of hospitality, my dear.”
But once Alex Steiner entered 165 he never seemed to leave it. There was something strangely inescapable about him now. Marjorie was quite a regular at his receptions and, with Richard, spent a brief weekend at the big house near Ryde which Steiner had taken during Cowes Week. James too was frequently invited to the Park Lane House. Even Hugo—spendthrift, footloose Hugo—felt the spell of Steiner’s curious benevolence: it was around this time that he accepted Steiner’s offer of a directorship of one of his financial subsidiaries. (Hugo was never sure quite what the firm did or what the job involved, but since it paid three thousand pounds a year he cheerfully allowed his name to go on the company’s official writing paper.)