by Ken Follett
"I can bring it up in conversation. I'm not sure it will be enough to effect your purpose."
Augusta thought hard. "Is there anything we can do to make the whole question a matter of more concern to Her Majesty?"
"If there were to be some public protest--questions in Parliament, perhaps, or articles in the press ..."
"The press," Augusta said. She thought of Arnold Hobbes. "Yes!" she said. "I think that could be arranged."
Hobbes was splendidly discombobulated by Augusta's presence in his cramped, inky office. He could not make up his mind whether to tidy up, attend to her or get rid of her. Consequently he did all three in a hysterical muddle: he moved sheets of paper and bundles of proofs from the floor to the table and back again; he fetched her a chair, a glass of sherry and a plate of biscuits; and at the same time he proposed that they go elsewhere to talk. She let him run wild for a minute or two then said: "Mr. Hobbes, please sit down and listen to me."
"Of course, of course," he said, and he subsided into a chair and peered at her through his grimy spectacles.
She told him in a few crisp sentences about Ben Greenbourne's peerage.
"Most regrettable, most regrettable," he blabbered nervously. "However, I don't think The Forum could be accused of lack of enthusiasm in promoting the cause which you so kindly suggested to me."
And in exchange for which you got two lucrative directorships of companies controlled by my husband, Augusta thought. "I know it's not your fault," she said irritably. "The point is, what can you do about it?"
"My journal is in a difficult position," he said worriedly. "Having campaigned so vociferously for a banker to get a peerage, it's hard for us to turn around and protest when it actually happens."
"But you never intended for a Jew to be so honored."
"True, true, although so many bankers are Jews."
"Couldn't you write that there are enough Christian bankers for the prime minister to choose from?"
He remained reluctant. "We might...."
"Then do so!"
"Excuse me, Mrs. Pilaster, but it's not quite enough."
"I don't understand you," she said impatiently.
"A professional consideration, but I need what we journalists call a slant. For instance, we could accuse Disraeli--or Lord Beaconsfield, as he now is--of partiality to members of his own race. Now that would be a slant. However, he is in general a man so upright that that particular charge might not stick."
Augusta hated dithering, but she reined in her impatience because she could see there was a genuine problem here. She thought for a moment and was struck by an idea. "When Disraeli took his seat in the House of Lords, was the ceremony normal?"
"In every way, I believe."
"He took the oath of loyalty on a Christian Bible?"
"Indeed."
"Old and New Testament?"
"I begin to see your drift, Mrs. Pilaster. Would Ben Greenbourne swear on a Christian Bible? From what I know of him, I doubt it."
Augusta shook her head dubiously. "He might, though, if nothing were said about it. He's not a man to look for a confrontation. But he's very stiff-necked when challenged. If there were to be a noisy public demand for him to swear the same way as everyone else he might well rebel. He wouldn't let people say he had been pushed into anything."
"A noisy public demand," Hobbes mused. "Yes ..."
"Could you create that?"
Hobbes warmed to the idea. "I see it already," he said excitedly. "'Blasphemy in the House of Lords.' Now that, Mrs. Pilaster, is what we call a slant. You're quite brilliant. You ought to be a journalist yourself!"
"How flattering," she said. The sarcasm was lost on him.
Hobbes suddenly looked pensive. "Mr. Greenbourne is a very powerful man."
"So is Mr. Pilaster."
"Of course, of course."
"Then I may rely on you?"
Hobbes rapidly weighed the risks and decided to back the Pilaster cause. "Leave everything to me."
Augusta nodded. She was beginning to feel better. Lady Morte would turn the queen against Greenbourne, Hobbes would make an issue of it in the press, and Fortescue was standing by to whisper into the ear of the prime minister the name of a blameless alternative: Joseph. Once again the prospects looked good.
She stood up to go, but Hobbes had more to say. "If I might venture a question on another topic?"
"By all means."
"I've been offered a printing press rather cheaply. At present, you know, we use outside printers. If we had our own press it would reduce our costs, and we could perhaps make a little extra by printing other publications as a service."
"Obviously," Augusta said impatiently.
"I was wondering whether Pilasters Bank might be persuaded into a commercial loan."
It was the price of his continuing support. "How much?"
"A hundred and sixty pounds."
It was a peppercorn. And if he campaigned against peerages for Jews with as much energy and bile as he had brought to his campaign in favor of peerages for bankers, it would be well worth it.
He said: "A bargain, I assure--"
"I'll speak to Mr. Pilaster." He would assent, but she did not want to let Hobbes have it too easily. He would value it more highly if it was granted reluctantly.
"Thank you. Always a pleasure to meet with you, Mrs. Pilaster."
"Doubtless," she said, and she went out.
CHAPTER FOUR
JUNE
1
THE CORDOVAN MINISTRY was quiet. The offices on the first floor were empty, the three clerks having gone home hours ago. Micky and Rachel had given a dinner party in the second-floor dining room for a small group--Sir Peter Mountjoy, an under-secretary at the Foreign Office, and his wife; the Danish Minister; and the Chevalier Michele from the Italian embassy--but the guests had left and the domestic staff had cleared away. Micky was about to go out.
The novelty of being married was beginning to wear off. He had tried and failed to shock or disgust his sexually inexperienced wife. Her unfailing enthusiasm for whatever perversion he proposed was beginning to unnerve him. She had decided that whatever he wanted was all right with her, and when she made a decision like that there was no moving her. He had never met a woman who could be so implacably logical.
She would do anything he asked in bed, but she believed that outside the bedroom a woman should not be a slave to her husband, and she was equally rigid about both rules. Consequently they were always fighting about domestic issues. Sometimes Micky could turn one situation into the other. In the middle of a row about servants or money he would say: "Lift up your dress and lie on the floor," and the quarrel would end in a passionate embrace. But that no longer worked every time: sometimes she would recommence the argument as soon as he rolled off her.
Lately he and Edward had been spending more and more evenings in their old haunts. Tonight was Mask Night at Nellie's brothel. This was one of April's innovations: all the women would be wearing masks. April claimed that sexually frustrated high-society ladies came in and mingled with the regular girls on Mask Nights. Certainly some of the women were not regulars, but Micky suspected the strangers were in fact middle-class women in desperate financial straits, rather than bored aristocrats in search of degenerate thrills. Whatever the truth of the matter, Mask Night never failed to be interesting.
He combed his hair and filled his cigar case, then he went downstairs. To his surprise, Rachel was standing in the hall, barring the way to the door. Her arms were folded and she wore a determined expression. Micky braced himself for a fight.
"It's eleven o'clock in the evening," she said. "Where are you going?"
"To the devil," he replied. "Get out of my way." He picked up his hat and cane.
"Are you going to a brothel called Nellie's?"
He was startled enough to be silenced for a moment.
"I see you are," she said.
"Who have you been talking to?" he said.
; She hesitated, then said: "Emily Pilaster. She told me that you and Edward go there regularly."
"You shouldn't listen to women's gossip."
Her face was white. She was scared. That was unusual. Perhaps this fight would be different.
"You must stop going there," she said.
"I've told you, don't try to give orders to your master."
"It's not an order. It's an ultimatum."
"Don't be silly. Get out of my way."
"Unless you promise not to go there anymore, I shall leave you. I'll go away from this house tonight and never come back."
She meant it, he saw. That was why she looked scared. She even had her outdoor shoes on, ready. "You're not leaving," he said. "I shall lock you in your room."
"You'll find that difficult. I've collected all the room keys and thrown them away. There isn't a single room in this house that can be locked."
That was clever of her. It seemed this was going to be one of their more interesting contests. He grinned at her and said: "Take off your knickers."
"That won't work tonight, Micky," she said. "I used to think it meant you loved me. Now I've realized sex is just your way of controlling people. I doubt whether you even enjoy it."
He reached out and grasped her breast. It was warm and heavy in his hand, despite the layers of clothing. He caressed it, watching her face, but her expression did not change. She was not going to give in to passion tonight. He squeezed hard, hurting her, then let go. "What's got into you?" he said with genuine curiosity.
"Men catch infectious diseases at places such as Nellie's."
"The girls there are very clean--"
"Please, Micky--don't pretend to be stupid."
She was right. There was no such thing as a clean prostitute. In fact he had been very lucky: he had only caught one mild case of the pox during many years of visiting brothels. "All right," he conceded. "I might catch an infectious disease."
"And give it to me."
He shrugged. "It's one of the hazards of being a wife. I might give you the measles, too, if I catch it."
"But syphilis can be hereditary."
"What are you driving at?"
"I might give it to our children, if we have any. And that is what I am not willing to do. I will not bring a child into the world with such a dreadful disease." She was breathing in short gasps, a sign of severe tension. She means it, he thought. She finished: "So I'm going to leave you, unless you agree to cease all contact with prostitutes."
There was no point in further discussion. "We'll see whether you can leave with a broken nose," he said, and he raised his cane to strike her.
She was ready for him. She dodged the blow and ran to the door. To Micky's surprise it was ajar--she must have opened it earlier, in anticipation of violence, he thought--and she slipped outside in a flash.
Micky went after her. Another surprise awaited him outside: there was a carriage at the curb. Rachel jumped into it. Micky was amazed at how meticulously she had planned everything. He was about to leap into the carriage after her when his way was blocked by a large figure in a top hat. It was her father, Mr. Bodwin, the lawyer.
"I take it you refuse to mend your ways," he said.
"Are you abducting my wife?" Micky replied. He was angry at having been outmaneuvered.
"She's leaving of her own free will." Bodwin's voice was a little shaky, but he stood his ground. "She will return to you whenever you agree to give up your vicious habits. Subject of course to a satisfactory medical examination."
For a moment Micky was tempted to strike him--but only for a moment. Anyway, the lawyer would undoubtedly charge him with assault, and such a scandal could blight a diplomatic career. Rachel was not worth that.
It was a standoff. What am I fighting for? he asked himself. "You can keep her," he said. "I've finished with her." He went back into the house and slammed the door.
He heard the carriage drive away. To his surprise he found himself regretting Rachel's departure. He had married her purely for convenience, of course--it had been a way of persuading Edward to marry--and it some respects life would be simpler without her. But in a curious way he had enjoyed the daily clash of wits. He had never had that with a woman. However, it was often tiresome too, and he told himself that on balance he would be better off alone.
When he had caught his breath, he put on his hat and went out. It was a mild summer night with a clear sky and bright stars. London's air always tasted better in summer, when people did not need to burn coal to warm their houses.
As he walked down Regent Street he turned his mind to business. Since he had had Tonio Silva beaten up a month ago he had heard no more of his article about the nitrate mines. Tonio was probably still recovering from his wounds. Micky had sent Papa a coded telegram with the names and addresses of the witnesses who had signed Tonio's affidavits, and they were probably dead by now. Hugh had been made to look foolish, for having started an unnecessary scare, and Edward was delighted.
Meanwhile, Edward had got Solly Greenbourne to agree in principle to float the Santamaria railroad bonds jointly with Pilasters. It had not been easy: Solly was as suspicious of South America as most investors were. Edward had been obliged to offer a higher commission and take a share in a speculative scheme of Solly's before the deal could be closed. Edward had also played on the fact that they were old school friends, and Micky suspected it was Solly's softheartedness that had tipped the balance in the end.
Now they were drawing up contracts. It was a painfully slow business. What made life difficult for Micky was that Papa could not understand why these things could not be done in a few hours. He was demanding the money right away.
However, when Micky thought of the obstacles he had overcome he was quite pleased with himself. After Edward turned him down flat the task had seemed impossible. But with Augusta's help he had maneuvered Edward into marriage and a partnership in the bank. Then he had dealt with opposition from Hugh Pilaster and Tonio Silva. Now the fruits of all his efforts were about to fall into his hands. Back home the Santamaria railroad would always be Micky's railroad. Half a million pounds was a vast sum, greater than the military budget of the entire country. This one achievement would count for more than everything his brother Paulo had ever done.
A few minutes later he stepped into Nellie's. The party was in full swing: every table was occupied, the air was thick with cigar smoke, and ribald banter and raucous laughter could be heard over the sound of a small orchestra playing loud dance tunes. All the women wore masks. Some were simple dominoes but most were more elaborate, and a few were entire headdresses covering everything but the eyes and mouth.
Micky pushed his way through the crowd, nodding at acquaintances and kissing some of the girls. Edward was in the card room, but he got up as soon as Micky walked in. "April's got a virgin for us," he said thickly. It was late, and he had drunk a lot.
Virginity had never been Micky's particular obsession, but there was always something stimulating about a girl who was frightened, and he was titillated. "How old?"
"Seventeen."
Which probably meant twenty-three, Micky thought, knowing how April estimated the ages of her girls. Still, he was intrigued. "Have you seen her?"
"Yes. She's masked, of course."
"Of course." Micky wondered what her story was. She might be a provincial girl who had run away from home and found herself destitute in London; she might have been abducted from a farm; she might just be a housemaid fed up with slaving sixteen hours a day for six shillings a week.
A woman in a little black domino touched his arm. The mask was no more than a token, and he recognized April. "A genuine virgin," April said.
No doubt she was charging Edward a small fortune for the privilege of taking the girl's maidenhead. "Have you put your own hand up her, to feel her hymen?" Micky said skeptically.
April shook her head. "I don't need to. I know when a girl is telling the truth."
"If I don't feel
it pop you won't get paid," he said, even though they both knew Edward would be paying.
"Agreed."
"What's her story?"
"She's an orphan, brought up by an uncle. He was eager to get her off his hands as soon as possible, and arranged for her to marry an older man. When she refused he put her out on the street. I rescued her from a life of drudgery."
"You're an angel," Micky said sarcastically. He did not believe a word of it. Even though he could not read April's expression behind the mask he had the strongest feeling that she was up to something. He gave her a skeptical look. "Tell me the truth," he said.
"I have," April said. "If you don't want her, there are six other men here who'll pay just as much as you."
Edward said impatiently: "We want her. Stop arguing, Micky. Let's have a look at her."
"Room three," April said. "She's waiting for you."
Micky and Edward made their way up the stairs, which were littered with embracing couples, and went into room three.
The girl stood in the corner. She wore a simple muslin gown, and her entire head was covered with a hood, leaving only slits for the eyes and an opening for the mouth. Once again Micky was seized by suspicion. They could see nothing of her face and head: she might be hideously ugly, perhaps deformed. Was this some kind of prank?
He realized, as he stared at her, that she was trembling with fear, and he put his doubts aside as he felt a stirring of desire in his loins. To frighten her more he crossed the room quickly, pulled the neckline of her gown aside, and plunged his hand into her bosom. She flinched, and there was terror in her bright blue eyes, but she stood her ground. She had small, firm breasts.
Her fear made him want to be brutal. Normally he and Edward would toy with a woman for a while, but he decided to take this one suddenly. "Kneel on the bed," he told her.
She did as he said. He got behind her and pulled up her skirt. She gave a little cry of fright. She was wearing nothing underneath.
It was easier to penetrate her than he had expected: April must have given her some cream to lubricate herself. He felt the obstruction of her maidenhead. He grabbed her hips and pulled her roughly to him as he thrust deep inside her, and the membrane broke. She began to sob, and that excited him so much that he reached his climax immediately.
He withdrew to make way for Edward. There was blood on his prick. He felt dissatisfied, now that it was over, and he wished he had stayed at home and gone to bed with Rachel. Then he remembered that she had left him and he felt worse.