“You may enjoy yourself in America,” Robert hazarded.
“I have never had any wish to see America,” Lord Harleston replied. “Although some Americans we have met are good company and the women very attractive, I have always felt that Europe was more likely to be my spiritual home than the Wild West.”
“You never know,” Robert answered, “and don’t forget when you reach New York to call on the Vanderbilts. When they were over here last year, they pressed you, rather over-effusively I thought, to stay with them, but your answer was very evasive.”
“I will certainly call on them,” Lord Harleston replied, “but I am not certain that I wish to be the guest of anybody until I have looked around.”
Robert smiled.
He knew that Lord Harleston was not only fastidious in the choice of his intimate friends but also he took great care not to be too friendly with those he had no affinity with.
At the same time he personally liked William Henry Vanderbilt, the son of Cornelius, who had died three years ago.
It was William Henry Vanderbilt whose remark, ‘the public be damned!’ had been quoted and requoted, who was now President of the New York Central Railroad and the richest man in the world.
Robert had enjoyed being in his company on his last visit to England, although he had said somewhat cynically,
“The trouble with rich men is that their golden aura seldom rubs off on those they associate with.”
“I think you will find,” Robert went on now, “that you will know quite a lot of people when you do arrive in New York, but don’t forget that you have decided to go to Colorado. I want to hear your opinion of it and I only wish I was coming with you.”
“If I cannot stand being alone,” Lord Harleston replied rather haughtily, “then I will send for you.”
“There is nothing I would like better,” Robert answered, “but you know I cannot leave my father. The doctors say he might die at any moment.”
“I am sorry,” Lord Harleston nodded sympathetically.
“Actually it would be the best thing that could happen. Half the time he has no idea about what is happening and the other half he is in pain.”
“I only hope that never happens to me,” Lord Harleston exclaimed. “I would prefer to die cleanly and quickly from a bullet!”
“I feel the same,” Robert agreed.
Because everything was organised for him so efficiently, Lord Harleston had only to change into his travelling clothes and step into the carriage that was waiting outside the front door for him.
Mr. Watson accompanied him to the Station and handed him over, as if he was a very precious parcel, to the Stationmaster resplendent in top hat and gold braid.
A compartment had been engaged for him on the Express that was to carry him up to Liverpool at what was considered an astronomical speed.
When he had said ‘goodbye’ to his secretary, Lord Harleston settled down to make himself as comfortable as possible.
Every published newspaper and every magazine of any interest was provided for him in his compartment and there was also a hamper of food in the preparation of which his chef had excelled himself as well as several bottles of wine.
Had there been time Lord Harleston would ordinarily have had his own private coach attached to the train.
But as it was, he had to make do with a reserved carriage to himself with the comforting thought that his valet and his luggage were in another one adjoining it.
Because he was tired, having stayed awake most of the night before worrying, Lord Harleston spent part of the journey sleeping.
He arrived in Liverpool to find the Stationmaster waiting for him with two carriages to convey him to the docks where he would board The Etruria.
There he was welcomed aboard as if he was Royalty.
The Cunard Company had instilled into all their employees the importance of making the public feel that they were welcome, especially those who were titled.
They were also determined to make the passage across the Atlantic very different from the days of the first Cunarders, which were profoundly uncomfortable.
When their ships had been no more than the size of seaside resort Steamers, the paddlewheels and machinery took up all the space amidships so that the passengers’ quarters were fore and aft where they felt the worst of the movement of the sea.
Lord Harleston found himself remembering Charles Dickens’s description of the tiny cabin that he and his wife had occupied during their first American tour.
When Dickens entered, he found two berths one above the other, the upper being an almost inaccessible shelf which he derided,
‘Nothing smaller for sleeping in was ever made than a coffin.’
One thing certainly not to be found on The Etruria was what had been on Dickens’s ship, a special deckhouse with padded sides to shelter the ship’s cow whose milk was reserved for women, children and invalids.
Lord Harleston’s valet, Portman, who was well used to travelling with him, soon had everything ‘shipshape’ as he appropriately called it.
His Lordship’s trunks were unpacked with those ‘not wanted on voyage’ stowed away below and in the sitting cabin there appeared as if by magic two decanters containing his Lordship’s sherry and brandy and in an ice bucket a bottle of his favourite champagne.
There were also books provided by Mr. Watson that Lord Harleston was amused to note included a popular Guide to America.
Finally there was even a vase of Malmaison carnations, which unfortunately reminded him of Dolly, from his own greenhouses in the country.
“Will you be dinin’ below, my Lord?” Portman asked.
Lord Harleston considered for a moment.
“I think I will have dinner in my own sitting room this evening, Portman,” he said, “and tomorrow I will take a look at the Dining Saloon.”
Although he had never been to America before, Lord Harleston had travelled frequently on the P. & O. ships that sailed to the East and knew that the first night at sea was always something of a scramble.
It was traditional that ladies did not wear evening dress on the first night at sea and it was, Lord Harleston knew, a mistake to be in a hurry to choose a place at one of the tables in the Saloon that afterwards he might regret.
He expected by right that he would be placed at the Captain’s table, but, if he thought that did not suit him, he could always demand a table for himself.
Anyway it was clearly better to wait and see what turned up.
The food that he was provided with in his cabin was good and the service supervised by Portman was excellent.
Yet, as soon as he was alone and his valet had retired for the night, Lord Harleston began to feel lonely and, as he had told himself with a twist of his lips, homesick for England.
Although he had been bored last night at Marlborough House, the picture that remained in his mind was of the beautiful women dancing beneath the crystal chandeliers and the men laughing at some witty saying by the Marquis de Soveral.
It now seemed infinitely preferable to setting off on what was an unwelcome adventure simply because he had been forced into it.
It was all Dolly’s fault and he thought that he would never forgive her for making so much trouble with Princess Alexandra.
“Damn all women!” he swore aloud. “I shall become a misogynist.”
He knew as he spoke that this was very unlikely.
At the same time he hoped that it would be a very long time before he would become interested, let alone infatuated, with another woman however alluring or attractive she might be.
He forced himself to think about his horses.
Then, almost as if his conscience was being arraigned in the dock, he found himself thinking back over the women who had been a part of his life in the last five years.
There was an uncomfortably large number of them and he found it extraordinary that none of them had made any deep imprint even on his memory.
They had,
of course, all been beautiful and amusing and at times he had found them irresistibly desirable and had risked both their reputations and his own to make love to them.
But now he kept remembering the cynical Frenchman who had said, ‘in the dark all cats are grey’ and thinking it over he had to admit that it was indeed true.
‘I shall never marry,’ he decided yet again.
Then he knew that this was a decision that he would have to change.
Of course some time he had to marry. It was absolutely essential that he should have a son to carry on not only his title, which was comparatively unimportant to him, but the long tradition of Harles who had lived in the great mansion in Buckinghamshire since the time of King Charles II.
Many of them had served their country in a manner that ensured the family name was repeated again and again in every history book.
‘Damn it, I am proud of my blood!’ Lord Harleston reflected almost defiantly.
But it meant that sooner or later he must succumb, as other men had before him, and marry if only to have sons and grandsons before his life ended.
Anyway there was plenty of time, he decided finally and, as he was both disgruntled and tired, he moved into his other cabin and climbed to bed.
Surprisingly he slept well and awoke to find that they had run into a turbulent sea.
This meant, Lord Harleston thought with some satisfaction, that most of the passengers would stay below, which would leave the deck comparatively empty when he took his exercise.
He had always proved himself to be a good sailor, despite having encountered tempests in the Bay of Biscay, mistrals in the Mediterranean and once a very unpleasant typhoon in the South China Sea.
But whatever the weather, Lord Harleston was determined to have his exercise, which was something he never missed wherever he might be.
In London, as in the country, he rode every morning. He hunted strenuously in the winter and played an extremely good game of polo at Hurlingham Club during the summer.
Besides this he employed professionals he could play tennis and racquets with and, having found during his years in the Army that he was quite a good pugilist, he often had a bout or two with the Army champions at Waterloo Barracks.
After breakfast, which Portman had brought him early, he went walking round the deck despite the fact that the waves were breaking threateningly over the bow.
As he had expected, there were very few other passengers brave enough to face such unpleasant conditions.
After an hour’s exercise Lord Harleston went back to his cabin to read some of the books that Mr. Watson had provided him with.
They fortunately held his attention and, when he went down to the Saloon for luncheon, he looked round hopefully, thinking that it would be pleasant if he could find one congenial soul who he could strike up an acquaintance with.
He was, however, disappointed.
A large number of the men looked to him like commercial travellers or businessmen and there were two or three excessively plain women and no one he had any wish to have a conversation with.
Lord Harleston was not the sort of man who liked drinking with strangers in the smoking room and he was far too astute to think of playing cards or any other game of chance on board a ship.
As if the solicitous Cunard Company had realised that the only thing they could not guarantee to provide for the enjoyment of the passengers was congenial company, they made up for it by providing what was often described as ‘ten meals a day’ for their First Class passengers.
The day began with grapes and melons. Then breakfast the first meal was described as being ‘able to provide anything on earth’. At eleven o’clock there was a cup of bouillon and at noon sandwiches were carried round the decks.
During the rest of the day, interspersed between luncheon, tea and dinner, there were trays of ices, coffee and sweets and the gastronomic marathon ended at nine o’clock with supper.
As Lord Harleston was a small eater, because he liked to keep his weight down for racing his own racehorses, the idea of eating ‘right through his ticket’ did not appeal to him.
As there was little else on board to look forward to, he was heartily glad when the ship reached New York and he had his first sight of the Statue of Liberty, which was under construction.
Despite his rather casual response to Robert’s suggestion that he should call on the Vanderbilts, he had instructed Mr. Watson to send them a cable announcing his arrival.
He was therefore not surprised when he was greeted immediately the ship docked by one of Mr. Vanderbilt’s secretaries informing him that a carriage was waiting to carry him to their house on West Fifty Second Street.
Lord Harleston accepted the invitation gratefully, largely because he was by now considerably tired of his own company.
Travelling in the extremely comfortable carriage that had been opened so that he could appreciate his first view of the City, Lord Harleston learned from the secretary who accompanied him what had been happening in a place that had grown phenomenally quickly in the last few years.
He was obviously anxious to impress on Lord Harleston how civilised the Americans had become.
He informed him that Henry Irving and Ellen Terry had just made their New York debut and that the first New York Telephone Exchange had issued its first telephone directory with three hundred names.
“We have also grown very keen on photography, my Lord,” he continued, “and the stars of the new Metropolitan Opera House on Broadway are all having their photographs taken.”
Lord Harleston attempted to look impressed.
Then to his surprise, as if he was a greenhorn from the country, the secretary began to warn him against the ‘tricks and tracks’ in the great Metropolis that it was important for strangers, especially foreigners, to be aware of.
Lord Harleston, who was a very experienced traveller in other parts of the world, was amused as he listened to tales of gamblers who regularly worked the trains and how at a hotel a visitor should guard against being robbed by the owners of skeleton keys.
Watches were snatched in the street and railroads abounded with pickpockets, many of them women.
The secretary ended by advising his Lordship not to buy a belt advertised for five dollars that was guaranteed to make the wearer invisible!
Lord Harleston laughed.
“You are quite safe there. It is something I have no wish to be!”
“You have no idea, my Lord, of the crookedness and vice that is growing up in this City as well as the buildings,” the secretary informed him solemnly.
“I am very grateful to you for warning me,” Lord Harleton replied and was relieved when they reached the Vanderbilts’ residence.
It was after the death of his father, the Commodore, that William Henry Vanderbilt decided to build himself a Royal mansion.
His builders had urged him to use marble, the loftiest expression of power, but Mr. Vanderbilt was afraid of marble, thinking that in its cool shine there lurked an evil eye.
He had good reason for such a conviction because both William Backhouse Astor and another millionaire had died soon after their mansions of marble were completed.
Mr. Vanderbilt had therefore ordered instead three massive brownstone houses, one for himself and two for his daughters, employing several hundred American workers and fifty foreign craftsmen.
“The house is not yet complete,” the secretary informed Lord Harleston, “but I don’t think your Lordship will be uncomfortable and I am sure that you will enjoy Mr. Vanderbilt’s collection of paintings, which have been acclaimed as sensational by all who have viewed them.”
The whole house, Lord Harleston thought when he saw it, was not only sensational but had almost a nightmare quality about it.
The overwhelming doorways like triumphal arches, the gilded ceilings curved like sections of Egyptian mummy cases and the clutter of vases, lamps, figurines and rare books, made him feel that he must be seeing double after drin
king too much the night before.
There was no doubt of the warm welcome he received from Mr. Vanderbilt and, as his bedroom was the size of a ballroom, he could hardly complain of being cramped.
And it was Mr. Vanderbilt’s daughter-in-law, Mrs. William Kessain Vanderbilt, who welcomed Lord Harleston more effusively even than her father-in-law.
She had always been socially ambitious and the mere fact that she had a distinguished and rich English Nobleman in her hands made her start buzzing around him like an excited Queen Bee.
Lord Harleston was soon aware that unless he was careful he would find himself married not to Dolly but to some unfledged American girl, who was allowed no thoughts of her own being manipulated by her mother like a puppet on a string.
Mrs. William Kessain Vanderbilt, who had been Alva Smith of Mobile, produced young women like rabbits out of a hat for Lord Harleston’s approval.
It was difficult to explain that he had never at any time in his life been interested in girls, that he had no idea what to say to them and no intention, if he could help it, of dancing with one.
But, as night after night there was a dinner party given in his honour, followed by a dance afterwards, Lord Harleston quickly decided that he would move on.
What spurred his decision to take flight even more quickly was his learning that Alva Vanderbilt was planning a Fancy Dress Ball.
If there was one thing Lord Harleston really disliked and he was determined not to take any part in, it was a Fancy Dress Ball.
He always avoided them in England despite the fact that the Prince of Wales had almost gone on his knees to beg him to attend one that rivalled the extravagance of the splendid fêtes presided over by the Prince Regent at Carlton House eighty years earlier.
Sir Frederic Leighton, President of the Royal Academy, had been called in to supervise the decorations at Marlborough House where over one thousand four hundred guests had been invited to appear in fancy dress.
The Prince, who was sensationally garbed as King Charles I with a black felt, white plumed hat blazing with diamonds, opened the ball with a Venetian quadrille.
The music played on until dawn, supper was served in two enormous tapestry-hung scarlet marquees and even Mr. Benjamin Disraeli, who arrived late and not in fancy dress, having been at the Mansion House, described the whole affair as ‘gorgeous, brilliant, fantastic!’
Lucky in Love Page 3