by Ken Follett
"I don't suppose you could ride him, now, could you?"
"Ride him? Yes, I could ride him, without a saddle, and stand upright on his back, too. Is he yours?"
The man made a small bow and said: "George Sammles, at your service, ladies; proprietor, as it says there." He pointed to where his name was painted over the door.
Maisie said: "I shouldn't boast, Mr. Sammles, but I've spent the last four years in a circus, so I can probably ride anything you have in your stables."
"Is that a fact?" he said thoughtfully. "Well, well."
April put in: "What's on your mind, Mr. Sammles?"
He hesitated. "This may seem a mite sudden, but I was asking myself whether this lady might be interested in a business proposition."
Maisie wondered what was coming next. Until this moment she had thought the conversation was no more than idle banter. "Go on."
April said suggestively: "We're always interested in business propositions." But Maisie had a feeling Sammles was not after what April had in mind.
"You see, Redboy's for sale," the man began. "But you don't sell horses by keeping them indoors. Whereas, if you was to ride him around the park for an hour or so, a lady such as yourself, looking, if I may be so bold, as pretty as a pitcher, you'd attract a deal of attention, and chances are that sooner or later someone would ask you how much you wanted for the horse."
Was there money in this, Maisie wondered? Did it offer her a way of paying the rent without selling her body or her soul? But she did not ask the question that was on her mind. Instead she said: "And then I'd tell the person: 'Away and see Mr. Sammles in the Curzon Mews, for the nag's his.' Is that what you mean?"
"Exackly so, except that, rather than call Redboy a nag, you might term him 'this magnificent creature,' or 'this fine specimen of horseflesh,' or such."
"Maybe," said Maisie, thinking to herself that she would use her own words, not Sammles's. "Now then, to business." She could no longer pretend to be casual about the money. "How much would you pay?"
"What do you think it's worth?"
Maisie picked a ridiculous sum. "A pound a day."
"Too much," he said promptly. "I'll give you half that."
She could hardly believe her luck. Ten shillings a day was an enormous wage: girls of her age who worked as housemaids were lucky to get a shilling a day. Her heart beat faster. "Done," she said quickly, afraid he might change his mind. "When do I start?"
"Come tomorrow at half-past ten."
"I'll be here."
They shook hands and the girls moved off. Sammles called after her: "Mind you wear the dress you've got on today--it's fetching."
"Have no fear," Maisie said. It was the only one she had. But she did not tell Sammles that.
3
TRAFFIC IN THE PARK
TO THE EDITOR OF THE TIMES
Sir,--There has been noted in Hyde Park, in recent days, at about half-past eleven o'clock each morning, a jamb of carriages, so large, that there has been no getting forward for up to an hour. Numerous explanations have been suggested; as, that too many Country residents come up to Town for the Season; or, that the prosperity of London is now such that even tradesmen's wives keep carriages and drive in the Park; but the real truth has nowhere been mentioned. The fault lies with a lady, whose name is unknown, but whom men term "The Lioness," doubtless on account of the tawny colour of her hair; a charming creature, beautifully dressed, who rides, with ease and spirit, horses that would daunt many males; and drives, with equal facility, a carriage, drawn by perfectly matched pairs. The fame of her beauty and equestrian daring is such that all London migrates to the Park at the hour when she is expected; and, once there, finds it cannot move. Could not you, sir, whose business it is to know everything and everyone, and who possibly, therefore, may know the true identity of The Lioness, prevail upon her to desist, so that the Park may return to its normal state of quiet decorum and ease of passage?
I am, Sir, your obedient servant,
AN OBSERVER.
The letter had to be a joke, Hugh thought as he put down the newspaper. The Lioness was real enough--he had heard the clerks at the bank talking about her--but she was not the cause of carriage congestion. All the same he was intrigued. He gazed through the leaded windows of Whitehaven House to the park. Today was a holiday. The sun was shining and there were already lots of people walking, riding and driving carriages. Hugh thought he might just go to the park in the hope of seeing what the fuss was all about.
Aunt Augusta was also planning to go into the park. Her barouche was drawn up in front of the house. The coachman was wearing his wig and the liveried footman was ready to ride behind. She drove in the park at this time most mornings, as did all upper-class women and idle men. They said they did it for fresh air and exercise, but more importantly it was a place to see and be seen. The real cause of congestion was people stopping their carriages to gossip, and blocking the road.
Hugh heard his aunt's voice. He got up from the breakfast table and went into the hall. As usual, Aunt Augusta was beautifully dressed. Today she wore a purple day gown with a tight jacket bodice and yards of ruffles below. The hat was a mistake, though: it was a miniature straw boater, no more than three inches across, perched on top of her coiffure at the front. It was the latest fashion, and on pretty girls it was sweet; but Augusta was anything but sweet, and on her it was ludicrous. She did not often make such errors, but when she did it was usually because she was following fashion too faithfully.
She was talking to Uncle Joseph. He had the harassed air he often wore when Augusta was talking to him. He stood in front of her, half turning away, stroking his bushy side-whiskers impatiently. Hugh wondered whether there was any affection between them. There must have been at one time, he supposed, for they had conceived Edward and Clementine. They rarely showed fondness, but every now and again, Hugh reflected, Augusta would do something thoughtful for Joseph. Yes, he thought they probably still loved each other.
Augusta carried on speaking as if Hugh were not there, which was her usual way. "The whole family is worried," she was saying insistently, as if Uncle Joseph had suggested the opposite. "There could be a scandal."
"But the situation--whatever it may be--has been going on for years, and no one has ever thought it scandalous."
"Because Samuel is not the Senior Partner. An ordinary person can do many things without attracting notice. But the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank is a public figure."
"Well, the matter may not be urgent. Uncle Seth is still alive and shows every sign of hanging on indefinitely."
"I know," Augusta said, and there was a telling note of frustration in her voice. "I sometimes wish...." She stopped before revealing herself too much. "Sooner or later he will hand over the reins. It could happen tomorrow. Cousin Samuel cannot pretend there is nothing to worry about."
"Perhaps," said Joseph. "But if he does so pretend, I'm not sure what can be done."
"Seth may have to be told about the problem."
Hugh wondered how much old Seth knew about his son's life. In his heart he probably knew the truth, but perhaps he never admitted it, even to himself.
Joseph looked uneasy. "Heaven forbid."
"It would certainly be unfortunate," Augusta said with brisk hypocrisy. "But you must make Samuel understand that unless he gives way his father will have to be brought in, and if that happens Seth must have all the facts."
Hugh could not help admiring her cunning and ruthlessness. She was sending Samuel a message: Give up your secretary or we'll force your father to confront the reality that his son is more or less married to a man.
In truth she did not care a straw about Samuel and his secretary. She just wanted to make it impossible for him to become Senior Partner--so that the mantle would fall on her husband. It was pretty low, and Hugh wondered whether Joseph fully understood what Augusta was doing.
Now Joseph said uneasily: "I should like to resolve matters without such drastic action."<
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Augusta lowered her voice to an intimate murmur. When she did this, Hugh always thought, she was transparently insincere, like a dragon trying to purr. "I'm quite sure you'll find a way to do just that," she said. She smiled beseechingly. "Will you drive with me today? I should so like your company."
He shook his head. "I must go to the bank."
"What a shame, to be shut up in a dusty office on a beautiful day like this."
"There has been a panic in Bologna."
Hugh was intrigued. Since the Vienna "Krach" there had been several bank failures and company liquidations in different parts of Europe, but this was the first "panic." London had escaped damage, so far. In June the bank rate, the thermometer of the financial world, had risen to seven percent--not quite fever level--and it had already dropped back to six percent. However, there might be some excitement today
Augusta said: "I trust the panic won't affect us."
"So long as we take care, no," said Joseph.
"But it's a holiday today--there will be no one at the bank to make your tea!"
"I daresay I shall survive half a day without tea."
"I'll send Sara to you in an hour. She's made a cherry cake, your favorite--she shall bring you some, and make your tea."
Hugh saw an opportunity. "Shall I come with you, Uncle? You may want a clerk."
Joseph shook his head. "I shan't need you."
Augusta said: "You may want him to run errands, my dear."
Hugh said with a grin: "Or he may want to ask my advice."
Joseph did not appreciate the joke. "I shall just read the telegraph messages and decide what is to be done when the markets open again tomorrow morning."
Foolishly, Hugh persisted. "I should like to come, all the same--just out of interest."
It was always a mistake to badger Joseph. "I tell you I don't need you," he said irritably. "Drive in the park with your aunt, she needs an escort." He put his hat on his head and went out.
Augusta said: "You have a talent for needlessly annoying people, Hugh. Get your hat, I'm ready to go."
Hugh did not really want to drive with Augusta, but his uncle had commanded him to do so, and he was curious to see the Lioness, so he did not argue.
Augusta's daughter Clementine appeared, dressed to go out. Hugh had played with his cousin when they were children, and she had always been a telltale. At the age of seven she had asked Hugh to show her his doodle, and then told her mother what he had done, and Hugh had been thrashed. Now twenty years old, Clementine looked like her mother, but where Augusta was overbearing, Clementine was sly.
They all went out. The footman handed them up into the carriage. It was a new vehicle, painted bright blue and drawn by a superb pair of gray geldings--an equipage fit for the wife of a great banker. Augusta and Clementine sat facing forward, and Hugh settled himself opposite them. The top was down because of the brilliant sunshine, but the ladies opened their parasols. The coachman flicked his whip and they set off.
A few moments later they were on South Carriage Drive. It was as crowded as the writer of the letter to The Times had claimed. There were hundreds of horses ridden by top-hatted men and sidesaddle women; dozens of carriages of every type--open and closed, two-wheel and four-wheel; plus children on ponies, couples on foot, nurses with baby carriages and people with dogs. The carriages gleamed with new paint, the horses were brushed and combed, the men wore full morning dress and the women sported all the bright colors that the new chemical dyes could produce. Everyone moved slowly, the better to scrutinize horses and carriages, dresses and hats. Augusta talked to her daughter, and the conversation required no contribution from Hugh other than the occasional indication of agreement.
"There's Lady St. Ann in a Dolly Varden hat!" Clementine exclaimed.
"They went out of fashion a year ago," said Augusta.
"Well, well," said Hugh.
Another carriage pulled alongside, and Hugh saw his aunt Madeleine Hartshorn. If she had whiskers she'd look just like her brother Joseph, he thought. She was Augusta's closest crony within the family. Together they controlled the social life of the family. Augusta was the driving force, but Madeleine was her faithful acolyte.
Both carriages stopped, and the ladies exchanged greetings. They were obstructing the road, and two or three carriages pulled up behind them. Augusta said: "Take a turn with us, Madeleine, I want to talk to you." Madeleine's footman helped her down from her own carriage and into Augusta's and they drove off again.
"They're threatening to tell old Seth about Samuel's secretary," Augusta said.
"Oh, no!" said Madeleine. "They mustn't!"
"I've spoken to Joseph, but they won't be stopped," Augusta went on. Her tone of sincere concern took Hugh's breath away. How did she manage it? Perhaps she convinced herself that the truth was whatever it suited her to say at any moment.
"I shall speak to George," said Madeleine. "The shock could kill dear Uncle Seth."
Hugh toyed with the idea of reporting this conversation to his uncle Joseph. Surely, he thought, Joseph would be appalled to know how he and the other partners were being manipulated by their wives? But they would not believe Hugh. He was a nobody--and that was why Augusta did not care what she said in front of him.
Their carriage slowed almost to a halt. There was a knot of horses and vehicles up ahead. Augusta said irritably: "What's the cause of this?"
"It must be the Lioness," Clementine said excitedly.
Hugh scanned the crowd eagerly but could not see what was causing the holdup. There were several carriages of different kinds, nine or ten horses and some pedestrians.
Augusta said: "What's this about a lioness?"
"Oh, Mother, she's notorious!"
As Augusta's carriage drew nearer, a smart little victoria emerged from the ruck, pulled by a pair of high-stepping ponies and driven by a woman.
"It is the Lioness!" Clementine squealed.
Hugh looked at the woman driving the victoria and was astonished to recognize her.
It was Maisie Robinson.
She cracked a whip and the ponies picked up speed. She was wearing a brown merino costume with flounces of silk, and a mushroom-colored tie with a bow at her throat. On her head was a perky little top hat with a curly brim.
Hugh felt angry with her all over again for what she had said about his father. She knew nothing about finance and she had no right to accuse people of dishonesty in that casual way. But all the same he could not help thinking that she looked absolutely ravishing. There was something irresistibly charming about the set of that small, neat body in the driving seat, the tilt of the hat, even the way she held the whip and shook the reins.
So the Lioness was Maisie Robinson! But how come she suddenly had horses and carriages? Had she come into money? What was she up to?
While Hugh was still marveling, there was an accident.
A nervous thoroughbred trotted past Augusta's carriage and was startled by a small, noisy terrier. It reared up and the rider fell off into the road--right in front of Maisie's victoria.
Quickly she changed direction, showing impressive control of her vehicle, and pulled across the road. Her evasive action took her right in front of Augusta's horses, causing the coachman to haul on his reins and let out an oath.
She brought her carriage to an abrupt stop alongside. Everyone looked at the thrown rider. He appeared unhurt. He got to his feet unaided, dusted himself down, and walked off, cursing, to catch his horse.
Maisie recognized Hugh. "Hugh Pilaster, I do declare!" she cried.
Hugh blushed. "Good morning," he said, and had no idea what to do next.
He had made a serious error of etiquette. He ought not to have acknowledged Maisie while he was with his aunts, for he could not possibly introduce such a person to them. He should have snubbed her.
However, Maisie made no attempt to address the ladies. "How do you like these ponies?" she said. She seemed to have forgotten their quarrel.
Hugh was completely thrown by this beautiful, surprising woman, her skillful driving and her careless manners. "They're very fine," he said without looking at them.
"They're for sale."
Aunt Augusta said icily: "Hugh, kindly tell this person to let us pass!"
Maisie looked at Augusta for the first time. "Shut your gob, you old bitch," she said casually.
Clementine gasped and Aunt Madeleine gave a small scream of horror. Hugh's mouth dropped open. Maisie's gorgeous clothes and expensive equipage had made it easy to forget that she was an urchin from the slums. Her words were so splendidly vulgar that for a moment Augusta was too stunned to reply. Nobody ever dared to speak to her this way.
Maisie did not give her time to recover. Turning back to Hugh, she said: "Tell your cousin Edward he should buy my ponies!" Then she cracked her whip and drove away.
Augusta erupted. "How dare you expose me to such a person!" She boiled. "How dare you take off your hat to her!"
Hugh was staring after Maisie, watching her neat back and jaunty hat recede along the drive.
Aunt Madeleine joined in. "How can you possibly know her, Hugh?" she said. "No well-bred young man would be acquainted with that type! And it seems you have even introduced her to Edward!"
It was Edward who had introduced Maisie to Hugh, but Hugh was not going to try to put the blame on Edward. They would not have believed him anyway. "I don't actually know her very well," he said.
Clementine was intrigued. "Where on earth did you meet her?"
"A place called the Argyll Rooms."
Augusta frowned at Clementine and said: "I don't wish to know such things. Hugh, tell Baxter to drive home."
Hugh said: "I'm going to walk for a while." He opened the door of the carriage.
"You're going after that woman!" Augusta said. "I forbid it!"
"Drive on, Baxter," said Hugh as he stepped down. The coachman shook the reins, the wheels turned, and Hugh politely doffed his hat as his angry aunts were driven away.
He had not heard the last of this. There would be more trouble later. Uncle Joseph would be told, and soon all the partners would know that Hugh consorted with low women.