A Dangerous Fortune

by Ken Follett

April looked disappointed. "You might have inherited money from a long-lost relation."

  "I might be the Queen of Mongolia, but I'll not walk all the way to Gray's Inn on the off-chance." She was managing to sound flippant, but her heart ached. She thought about Hugh every day and every night, and she was miserable. She hardly knew him, but it was impossible to forget him.

  Nevertheless she was determined to try. She knew he had been searching for her. He had been at the Argyll Rooms every night, he had badgered Sammles the stable owner, and he had inquired for her at half the cheap lodging houses in London. Then the inquiries had ceased, and Maisie assumed he had given up. Now it seemed he had merely changed his tactics, and was trying to reach her with newspaper advertisements. It was very hard to continue to avoid him when he was searching so persistently for her and she wanted so badly to see him again. But she had made her decision. She loved him too much to ruin him.

  She put her arms into her corset. "Help me with my stays," she said to April.

  April began pulling the laces. "I've never had my name in the paper," she said enviously. "You have twice, now, if you count 'The Lioness' as a name."

  "And how much good has it done me? By God, I'm getting fat."

  April tied the laces and helped her into her gown. They were going out tonight. April had a new lover, a middle-aged magazine editor with a wife and six children in Clapham. This evening he and a friend were taking April and Maisie to a music hall.

  Between now and then they would walk along Bond Street and stare into the windows of fashionable shops. They would not buy anything. In order to hide from Hugh, Maisie had been obliged to give up working for Sammles--much to Sammles's regret, for she had sold five horses and a pony-and-trap--and the money she had saved was rapidly running out. But they had to go out, regardless of the weather: it was too depressing to stay in the room.

  Maisie's gown was tight across her breasts and she winced as April did it up. April gave her a curious look and said: "Are your nipples sore?"

  "Yes, they are--I wonder why?"

  "Maisie," said April in a worried tone, "when did you last have the curse?"

  "I never keep count." Maisie thought for a moment, and a chill descended on her. "Oh, dear God," she said.

  "When?"

  "I think it was before we went to the races at Goodwood. Do you think I'm pregnant?"

  "Your waist is bigger and your nipples hurt and you haven't had the curse for two months--yes, you're pregnant," April said in an exasperated voice. "I can't believe you've been so stupid. Who was it?"

  "Hugh, of course. But we only did it once. How can you get pregnant from one fuck?"

  "You always get pregnant from one fuck."

  "Oh, my God." Maisie felt as if she had been hit by a train. Shocked, bewildered and frightened, she sat down on the bed and began to cry. "What am I going to do?" she said helplessly.

  "We could go to that lawyer's office, for a start."

  Suddenly everything was different.

  At first Maisie was scared and angry. Then she realized that she was now obliged to get in touch with Hugh, for the sake of the child inside her. And when she admitted this to herself she felt more glad than frightened. She was longing to see him again. She had convinced herself that it would be wrong to. But the baby made everything different. Now it was her duty to contact Hugh, and the prospect made her weak with relief.

  All the same she was nervous as she and April climbed the steep staircase to the lawyer's rooms at Gray's Inn. The advertisement might not have been placed by Hugh. It would hardly be surprising if he had given up the search for her. She had been as discouraging as a girl could, and no man would carry the torch forever. The advertisement might be something to do with her parents, if they were still alive. Perhaps things had begun to go well for them at last, and they had the money to search for her. She was not sure how she felt about that. There had been many times when she had longed to see Mama and Papa again, but she was afraid they would be ashamed of her way of life.

  They reached the top of the stairs and entered the outer office. The lawyer's clerk was a young man wearing a mustard-colored waistcoat and a condescending smile. The girls were wet and bedraggled, but all the same he was disposed to flirt. "Ladies!" he said. "How could two such goddesses have need of the services of Messrs. Goldman and Jay? What could I possibly do for you?"

  April rose to the occasion. "You could take off that waistcoat, it's hurting my eyes," she said.

  Maisie had no patience with gallantry today. "My name is Maisie Robinson," she said.

  "Aha! The advertisement. By a happy chance, the gentleman in question is with Mr. Jay at this very minute."

  Maisie felt faint with trepidation. "Tell me something," she said hesitantly. "The gentleman in question ... Is he by any chance Mr. Hugh Pilaster?" She looked pleadingly at the clerk.

  He failed to notice her look and replied in his ebullient tone: "Good Lord, no!"

  Maisie's hopes collapsed again. She sat down on a hard wooden bench by the door, fighting back tears. "Not him," she said.

  "No," said the clerk. "As a matter of fact, I know Hugh Pilaster--we were at school together in Folkestone. He's gone to America."

  Maisie rocked back as if she had been punched. "America?" she whispered.

  "Boston, Massachusetts. Took ship a couple of weeks ago. You know him, then?"

  Maisie ignored the question. Her heart felt like a stone, heavy and cold. Gone to America. And she had his child inside her. She was too horrified to cry.

  April said aggressively: "Who is it, then?"

  The clerk began to feel out of his depth. He lost his superior air and said nervously: "I'd better let him tell you himself. Excuse me for a moment." He disappeared through an inner door.

  Maisie stared blankly at the boxes of papers stacked against the wall, reading the titles marked on the sides: Blenkinsop Estate, Regina versus Wiltshire Flour Millers, Great Southern Railway, Mrs. Stanley Evans (deceased). Everything that happened in this office was a tragedy for someone, she reflected: death, bankruptcy, divorce, prosecution.

  When the door opened again, a different man came out, a man of striking appearance. Not much older than Maisie, he had the face of a biblical prophet, with dark eyes staring out from under black eyebrows, a big nose with flaring nostrils, and a bushy beard. He looked familiar, and after a moment she decided he reminded her a little of her father, although Papa had never looked so fierce.

  "Maisie?" he said. "Maisie Robinson?"

  His clothes were a little odd, as if they had been bought in a foreign country, and his accent was American. "Yes, I'm Maisie Robinson," she said. "Who the devil are you?"

  "Don't you recognize me?"

  Suddenly she remembered a wire-thin boy, ragged and barefoot, with the first shadow of a moustache on his lip and a do-or-die look in his eye. "Oh, my God!" she yelped. "Danny!" For a moment she forgot her troubles as she ran to his arms. "Danny, is it really you?"

  He hugged her so hard it hurt. "Sure it's me," he said.

  "Who?" April was saying. "Who is he?"

  "My brother!" Maisie said. "The one that ran away to America! He came back!"

  Danny broke their embrace to stare at her. "How did you get to be beautiful?" he said. "You used to be a skinny little runt!"

  She touched his beard. "I might have known you without all this fur round your gob."

  There was a discreet cough from behind Danny, and Maisie looked up to see an elderly man standing in the doorway looking faintly disdainful. "Apparently we have been successful," he said.

  Danny said: "Mr. Jay, may I present my sister, Miss Robinson."

  "Your servant, Miss Robinson. If I may make a suggestion ... ?"

  "Why not?" said Danny.

  "There is a coffeehouse in Theobald's Road, just a few steps away. You must have a lot to talk about."

  He obviously wanted them out of his office, but Danny did not seem to care what Mr. Jay wanted. Whatever else might ha
ve happened he had not learned to be deferential. "What do you say, girls? Would you like to talk here, or shall we go and drink coffee?"

  "Let's go," Maisie said.

  Mr. Jay added: "And perhaps you might come back to settle your account a little later, Mr. Robinson?"

  "I won't forget. Come on, girls."

  They left the office and went down the stairs. Maisie was bursting with questions, but controlled her curiosity with an effort while they found the coffeehouse and settled themselves at a table. At last she said: "What have you been doing for the last seven years?"

  "Building railways," he said. "It so happened that I arrived at a good time. The war between the states had just ended and the railway boom was beginning. They were so desperate for workers that they were shipping them over from Europe. Even a skinny thirteen-year-old could get a job. I worked on the first-ever steel bridge, over the Mississippi at St Louis; then I got a job building the Union Pacific Railroad in Utah. I was a ganger by the time I was nineteen--it's young men's work. And I joined the trade union and led a strike."

  "Why did you come back?"

  "There's been a stock market crash. The railroads have run out of money, and the banks that were financing them have gone bust. There are thousands of men, hundreds of thousands, looking for work. I decided to come home and make a new start."

  "What will you do--build railroads here?"

  He shook his head. "I've got a new idea. You see, it's happened to me twice, that my life has been wrecked by a financial crash. The men who own banks are the stupidest people in the world. They never learn, so they make the same mistakes again and again. And it's the workingmen who suffer. Nobody ever helps them--nobody ever will. They have to help each other."

  April said: "People never help each other. It's everyone for himself in this world. You've got to be selfish."

  April often said that, Maisie recalled, even though in practice she was a generous person and would do anything for a friend.

  Danny said: "I'm going to start a kind of club for workingmen. They'll pay sixpence a week, and if they're thrown out of work through no fault of their own the club will pay them a pound a week while they look for a new job."

  Maisie stared at her brother in admiration. The plan was formidably ambitious--but she had thought the same when at the age of thirteen he had said There's a ship in the harbor that's bound for Boston on the morning tide--I'll shin up a rope tonight and hide on deck in one of the boats. He had done what he said then and he probably would now. He said he had led a strike. He seemed to have grown into the kind of person other men would follow.

  "But what about Papa and Mama?" he said. "Have you been in touch with them?"

  Maisie shook her head and then, surprising herself, she began to cry. Suddenly she felt the pain of losing her family, a pain she had refused to acknowledge all these years.

  Danny put a hand on her shoulder. "I'll go back up north and see if I can trace them."

  "I hope you find them," Maisie said. "I miss them so much." She caught the eye of April, who was staring at her in astonishment. "I'm so afraid they'll be ashamed of me."

  "And why should they?" he said.

  "I'm pregnant."

  His face reddened. "And not married?"

  "No."

  "Going to get married?"

  "No."

  Danny was angry. "Who is the swine?"

  Maisie raised her voice. "Spare me the outraged-brother act, will you?"

  "I'd like to break his neck--"

  "Shut up, Danny!" Maisie said angrily. "You left me alone seven years ago and you've no business to come back and act as if you own me." He looked abashed, and she went on in a quieter voice: "It doesn't matter. He would have married me, I expect, but I didn't want him to, so forget about him. Anyway, he's gone to America."

  Danny calmed down. "If I wasn't your brother I'd marry you myself. You're pretty enough! Anyway, you can have what little money I've got left."

  "I don't want it." She was sounding ungracious, but she could not help it. "There's no need for you to take care of me, Danny. Use your money for your workingmen's club. I'll look after myself. I managed when I was eleven years old, so I suppose I can now."

  3

  MICKY MIRANDA AND PAPA were in a small eating house in Soho, lunching off oyster stew--the cheapest dish on the menu--and strong beer. The restaurant was a few minutes from the Cordovan Ministry in Portland Place, where Micky now sat at a writing table every morning for an hour or two, dealing with the minister's mail. He was finished for the day and had met Papa for lunch. They sat opposite each other on hard wooden high-backed benches. There was sawdust on the floor and years of grease on the low ceiling. Micky hated eating in such places, but all the same he did it often, to save money. He ate at the Cowes Club only when Edward was paying. Besides, taking Papa to the club was a strain: Micky was constantly afraid the old man would start a fight, or pull a gun, or spit on the rug.

  Papa wiped his bowl with a chunk of bread and pushed it aside. "I must explain something to you," he said.

  Micky put down his spoon.

  Papa said: "I need rifles to fight the Delabarca family. When I have destroyed them I will take over their nitrate mines. The mines will make our family rich."

  Micky nodded silently. He had heard all this before but he would not dare to say so.

  "The nitrate mines are only the beginning, the first step," Papa went on. "When we have more money, we will buy more rifles. Different family members will become important people in the province."

  Micky's ears pricked up. This was a new line.

  "Your cousin Jorge will be a colonel in the army. Your brother Paulo will become chief of police in Santamaria Province."

  So that he can be a professional bully instead of an amateur, Micky thought.

  Papa said: "Then I will become governor of the province."

  Governor! Micky had not realized that Papa's aspirations were so high.

  But he had not finished. "When we control the province, we will look to the nation. We will become fervent supporters of President Garcia. You will be his envoy in London. Your brother will become his minister of justice, perhaps. Your uncles will be generals. Your half-brother Dominic, the priest, will become archbishop of Palma."

  Micky was astonished: he never knew he had a half-brother. But he said nothing, for he did not want to interrupt.

  "And then," Papa said, "when the time is right, we will move the Garcia family aside and we will step in."

  "You mean we will take over the government?" Micky said, wide-eyed. He was bowled over by Papa's audacity and confidence.

  "Yes. In twenty years time, my son, either I will be president of Cordova ... or you will."

  Micky tried to take it in. Cordova had a constitution which provided for democratic elections, but none had ever been held. President Garcia had taken power in a coup ten years ago; previously he had been commander-in-chief of the armed forces under President Lopez, who had led the rebellion against the Spanish rule in which Papa and his cowboys had fought.

  Papa surprised Micky by the subtlety of his strategy: to become a fervent supporter of the current ruler and then betray him. But what was Micky's role? He should become the Cordovan Minister in London. He had already taken the first step by elbowing Tonio Silva aside and getting his job. He would have to find a way to do the same to the minister.

  And then what? If his father were president, Micky might be foreign minister, and travel the world as the representative of his country. But Papa had said Micky himself might be president--not Paulo, not Uncle Rico, but Micky Was it really possible?

  Why not? Micky was clever, ruthless and well connected: what more did he need? The prospect of ruling a whole country was intoxicating. Everyone would bow to him; the most beautiful women in the land would be his to take, whether they wished it or not; he would be as rich as the Pilasters.

  "President," he said dreamily. "I like it."

  Papa reached out c
asually and slapped his face.

  The old man had a powerful arm and a horny hand, and the slap rocked Micky. He cried out, shocked and hurt, and leaped to his feet. He tasted blood in his mouth. The place went quiet and everyone looked.

  "Sit down," Papa said.

  Slowly and reluctantly, Micky obeyed.

  Papa reached across the table with both hands and grabbed him by the lapels. In a voice full of scorn he said: "This entire plan has been put at risk because you have completely failed in the simple, small task allotted to you!"

  Micky was terrified of him in this mood. "Papa, you'll get your rifles!" he said.

  "In one more month it will be spring in Cordova. We have to take the Delabarca mines this season--next year will be too late. I have booked passage on a freighter bound for Panama. The captain has been bribed to put me and the weapons ashore on the Atlantic coast of Santamaria." Papa stood up, dragging Micky upright, tearing his shirt by the force of his grip. His face was suffused with anger. "The ship sails in five days time," he said in a voice that filled Micky with fear. "Now get out of here and buy me those guns!"

  Augusta Pilaster's servile butler, Hastead, took Micky's wet coat and hung it near the fire that blazed in the hall. Micky did not thank him. They disliked each other. Hastead was jealous of anyone Augusta favored, and Micky despised the man for fawning. Besides, Micky never knew which way Hastead's eyes were looking, and that unnerved him.

  Micky went into the drawing room and found Augusta alone. She looked pleased to see him. She held his hand in both of hers and said: "You're so cold."

  "I walked across the park."

  "Foolish boy, you should have taken a hansom." Micky could not afford hansom cabs, but Augusta did not know that. She pressed his hand to her bosom and smiled. It was like a sexual invitation, but she acted as if she were innocently warming his cold fingers.

  She did this kind of thing a lot when they were alone together, and normally Micky enjoyed it. She would hold his hand and touch his thigh, and he would touch her arm or her shoulder, and look into her eyes, and they would talk in low voices, like lovers, without ever acknowledging that they were flirting. He found it exciting, and so did she. But today he was too desperately worried to dally with her. "How is old Seth?" he asked, hoping to hear of a sudden relapse.

  She sensed his mood and let go of his hand without protest, although she looked disappointed. "Come close to the fire," she said. She sat on a sofa and patted the seat beside her. "Seth is much better."