The Four Hundred

by Stephen Sheppard

  "George" came a whisper from upstairs. Damn the woman, he thought. He locked the door and was about to leave, worried now about his lady in the cab outside, negotiating the small streets in a circular route as he had instructed, when the thought occurred to him of the other key the landlady had upstairs. Without a doubt she would be inquisitive if Mac was truly absent for a week.

  If he could get that other key whilst Mac was away!

  Damn Mac. He might well jeopardize the whole plan, especially if he, George, was going to Paris. With Austin away, no one would be around; Ed was not known to them here. George looked up the stairs and saw the soft, warm red light glowing onto the first landing. Perhaps he could say Mac had lost his own key and needed the master—something; or, as Mac had said—anything.

  George took a quick look around at the front door and thought of Ellen. He decided then and there that one of these women would have to wait. George cursed Mac again. Now he was in a real quandary. He began to mount the stairs slowly. He could at least take Ellen with him to Paris.

  George climbed into bed in November and eased himself out, two hours later, in December. He put back on what clothes he had taken off and, lifting his topcoat from the hall stand, quietly left 7 St. James's Place. The cab was directly outside the large house. The cabbie had fallen asleep up top, as had Ellen beneath the rugs in the cab itself. The two empty gin bottles and a half smile on both faces told its own story.

  The snow had stopped, and the night sky had been cleared of cloud by a warmer equatorial wind that was now blowing.

  Suddenly George's spirits rose despite the soporific effect of a considerable amount of port and lemon.

  He slapped the cabbie's boot to wake the man and climbed into the hansom beside the still-sleeping woman. If Paris went as well as the last two hours, he'd have little problem even with Rothschilds'. He felt both keys in his palm. At least they were safeguarded for a week, thought George. All he needed now was luck for—as Mac had said—"intimate relations."

  Winter

  1872

  Off the Rails

  RAILWAY expansion divided the nineteenth century into two different worlds. In one generation, English life and landscape were transformed.

  The canal system of Britain had been dug by laborers known as navigators; this word became corrupted to "navvy" and was applied to the individuals who worked on the expanding railroads. Well paid and largely unskilled, these men—rough, tough, often drunk, always at odds with either each other, their employers or the elements—dug the cuts, created embankments and excavated tunnels that allowed access to most parts of the country.

  Thirty miles an hour by coach and three pairs of horses had been fast until the railway. By the middle of the century, a mile a minute was the standard for an express. But people did not immediately realize the dangers of speed. They fell out of and off the carriages; they jumped down to retrieve hats or lost lace and constantly attempted to board the train whilst it was moving, oblivious of the consequences. If the increase in population was, as one wit put it, to be attributed to the invention of the bicycle, then it was a truth that the railway prepared people's minds for the idea of the journey.

  By the early 1870s, over five million passengers were being transported by the railways of England, and rail transport gave to everyone who could afford the basic fare what now became a magic word: travel. To which was added a new Victorian invention, initiated by a few, catering to the masses now on the move, replacing the old, more personal coaching inns. At first there was a reluctance to see them go, a part of English tradition—but they were soon forgotten as comfort and good cuisine became synonymous with the new edifices (largely financed by the new railway companies) called hotels.

  George Bidwell (as Mr. Wilson) had moved to the Terminus Hotel, London Bridge, to make sure all went smoothly when the several checks arrived from Mr. Warren for Mr. Horton, who was also registered there. Mr. Horton's clerk, Mr. Noyes, the receptionist noted, was always courteous and charming when he arrived to collect the odd letter that came for his employer. Mr. C. J. Horton's rooms, although paid for, were nearly always unoccupied. In fact, Austin only occasionally showed himself to allay suspicion and create the impression that business kept him on the move, especially abroad.

  After all, it was not unusual, in Victorian England, for a gentleman to have "rooms" where what he did was no one's business. Money could not quell curiosity, but it could buy a knowing smile and loyal silence. To the receptionist of the Terminus Hotel, Austin was an attractive young man in this category. George had been the same, in her mind, bearing some resemblance to her "Mr. Horton," although the two were clearly not acquainted. Now her vague idea of making an introduction, one to the other, was dispelled. "Mr. Wilson" had found a woman. Ellen moved into the large suite, registered in the name of Wilson, and they had shown themselves, even in the dining room, as the receptionist had noted, to be obvious lovers.

  No longer did George and the receptionist, pink-cheeked and red-haired, exchange the same twinkle of the eye. Now, for the receptionist, when George was with the dark-haired, admittedly (she would sigh to herself in honest moments) beautiful "other woman," as she liked to privately refer to Ellen, it was back to "key on the counter" and "proper talk."

  Ellen was possessive in love and clearly suspected most women whom George encountered. She was not yet, but might easily become, a shrew. Her anger at the long night in St. James's dissipated with George's announcement of the Paris trip. What this Mr. Wilson of her affection did, Ellen knew vaguely, had something to do with business. What she saw, appreciated and spent without question was his money. An American, no less, and "hers," she would remind herself with pleasure—"for now," thought the receptionist each time the two of them, arm in arm, left the hotel.

  Ellen was equally aware of the "for now" aspect of the relationship she had with George, but knew him to be in love, and this strengthened her resolve to make of the man a permanent fixture.

  Ellen and George ate a leisurely early dinner before proceeding, unhurriedly, into the foyer of the Terminus Hotel and out to a waiting brougham, hired for the occasion to take them along the river-embankment roadway to Victoria Station, which served all points south and the Continent.

  §

  Mr. Williams stuck the pin into his cravat, gazed a moment longer into the mirror, took a last look around his small lodgings (a single room in Kensington), picked up his traveling bag and briefcase, then crossed to the door beside which, on a chair, lay his hat and cherished cane.

  The young tailor's assistant was on his way to Berlin, via Paris—on business. It was his second such trip, and he blessed the day God had given Mr. Green rheumatics. Williams had risen to a place of some trust and thus was sent on such errands as now: a fitting for the British Consul in Berlin and two members of the British Arbitration Council in Paris. Very important business, he reflected. If only he could be seen to be a very important person. Williams sighed, then locked the door of room number 8 and descended three flights of stairs to the street and an omnibus that would take him to Victoria Station.

  §

  To Ellen the night station was most impressive: smoke, steam and the noise of bustling crowds, greased pistons and grinding wheels carried upward into the huge space above, enclosed by girders, and glass. To George it was familiar. Their luggage was piled high and trailed behind them on a trolley, pushed by a porter. Ellen, staring all about her at this great innovation of the century, walked along the platform with "her" George until they reached the first-class section and selected a compartment.

  "Paris, madame?" inquired the ticket inspector who approached this imposing entourage with haste.

  Ellen, playing the lady (as she did at every opportunity), said nothing, but gave the man a superior look as ladies did—in the music hall. The inspector had her measure immediately, but the gentleman was different. He turned to George Bidwell as Ellen climbed aboard.

  "Mr. Warren, sir?*' he asked, looking at his r
eservation list.

  "Yes," George replied quickly.

  "Oh!" the inspector went on, "then that'll be Mrs., will it?"

  "See that the luggage is boarded," said George, and gave the inspector a sovereign, effectively curtailing any further exchange.

  George climbed aboard the carriage after his "wife."

  The reason for the name was simply that for George to succeed in his attempt on Rothschilds', it was essential that all bills issued be made payable to the respected customer of "the Old Lady"—Mr. Warren.

  Since Austin was already traveling in Europe under the name Horton, George felt (as Mac had suggested) that the temporary—and most necessary—assumption of his brother's alias was without danger. As the authorities could well check back on George's exit from England, should Rothschild "accept" him, he (ever cautious) had begun as he intended to continue—yet instinct did not allow him to relax his constant vigilance. In a word, he was, although it did not show, uncomfortable.

  George looked through the corridor window at the pompous railway employee gazing up at him, still fingering the sovereign; the man smiled. George nodded, then went into his compartment.

  The ticket inspector turned and, before moving briskly along the train, beckoned imperiously to the porter now lounging beside the trunks and cases. The man spat and slowly responded to the gesture.

  §

  The tip of a cane touched the porter's right arm just as he was about to make the dexterous movement of swinging a second portmanteau onto his shoulders. Had it been the Prime Minister himself, the porter's exasperation would have shown clearly and it was not Mr. Gladstone.

  "An' 'oo is the howner of this 'ere fair luggage?" asked the cane with a voice.

  The porter came out from under the portmanteau and stood straight. He saw the young buck standing beside a single traveling bag and briefcase—long coat, check trousers, cravat and pin, soiled shirt and rakishly tilted top hat.

  " 'Is business an* none o' yorn," said the porter emphatically. To his mind this "little nothing-very-much" looked like a tradesman's assistant.

  "The portmanteau a-comes from me own shop, my man!" exclaimed Mr. Williams sonorously.

  Arms akimbo, the porter faced off this so-called "gent."

  "Oh, really now—an' 'oo be you, then?" The sarcasm at the apparition before him playing the toff was concealed as badly as was the class difference between even Williams and this porter.

  "My name," said Williams, "is Mr. Williams."

  "Master, more like," said the porter quickly, sharp enough to see the double edge of the retort.

  "I am a tailor of Savile Row, you ruffian," said Williams, irritated by this inconsequential piece of humanity.

  "Then trade in your own name. It says 'ere quite clear marked, 'Green and Sons,' see!" the porter indicated. "Now g'orn—be off."

  Williams swallowed and was preparing a scathing explanation when the ticket inspector returned.

  "Come on, James," he said, "get Mr. Warren's luggage aboard—we're off in two shakes."

  "I wonder if you might help me . . ." began Williams pleasantly to the inspector.

  The man looked Williams up and down in a glance and hardly checked his stride as he began to walk to the rear. "Third class is at the back—this way." He pointed as he said it. "And be quick about it," he finished—then was gone.

  The porter was already at the carriage's open door with the portmanteau. The newly made corridors of these carriages made for more work, but in first class they did provide access to friends' compartments en route—and of course, a welcome innovation, an available toilet. Once on board, luggage (usually at the insistence of the owner) had to be lugged to the occupied compartment. In England, unlike the Continent, the windows were too small to allow baggage to be passed through.

  As the porter mounted the steps of the open door, Williams took his briefcase and traveling bag from the platform; the cane tucked under his arm, in a hurried, undignified manner he made his way back to the third-class compartments.

  §

  In Holborn, above the Red Lion, Mac lay in comfort on a chaise longue, looking out the window at the night sky. The day had been cloudless and calm, the temperature just below freezing, but in the early evening the wind, which had veered from northwest to south-southwest, rose steadily in gusts until—in London, at least—a moderate gale was blowing, accompanied by squalls; rain fell from clouds that scudded across the stars, massed a moment, then dispersed to leave again a clear, if wind-swept, night.

  The gas fire of the improvised dining room hissed steadily, filling the room with enough heat to have allowed Mac to lie back in only shirt sleeves and a waistcoat. Wind shook at the window, and the net curtains inside, responding to a draft, billowed slightly with each gust. Mac turned from the rainflecked glass and watched May go back into the small kitchen. The lounge-cum-dining area was candlelit, a table laid perfectly with an excess of new cutlery and glass. A delicious aroma from the kitchen described to Mac's sense of smell good plain cooking—a relief from the interminable over-sauced hotel table d'hote.

  The room pervaded love and care; flowers—from only God knew where, thought Mac—were in three vases around the room, blooming in the protective warmth, their colors muted by two very low gaslights on the wall and flickering candles. Mac smiled, then sighed deeply in utter contentment and drew long, once more, on his cheroot. May was humming a Jenny Lind song when she brought in the soup tureen, "all proper china," placed it in the middle of the table and looked at Mac affectionately.

  " 's almost ready," she said.

  "Where did you get the flowers?" asked Mac.

  "The Market," May replied. "I knows a number of 'em in Covent Garden, and now I've money I gets pretty well what I wants." She smiled at Mac, who was shaking his head.

  "If you take the S off your verbs, you'll be nearer to talking 'proper,' " he said.

  The lovely woman frowned.

  "I forgot."

  May had been seriously attempting a transformation for months. Beginning soon after meeting Mac, she had studiously attempted to improve her grasp of the spoken word. Her father's job as a newspaper compositor had given her a foundation, at least, to understand what she was about.

  New clothes and soap "used regular," now with the luxury of warm water had changed the woman into the beauty she really was—as Mac had seen that first night.

  " 'Fore we fell on 'ard—Aard," she corrected herself, "times, me mother taught me how to do it just sh-o," she finished with a giggle, the last word causing Mac to laugh loudly. "Oh, Mac," she said, and crossed into his open arms, "I knows they was alwus 'ard times, but I likes—like—to dream they wasn't—weren't, once," she finished softly, then looked down into Mac's eyes, warm and protective.

  "They ain't now," she whispered, and leaned toward Mac's face, her lips parted to give a kiss that would have sold a thousand times, at a circus fair, at a farthing a go. (With no other prospects, provincial Victorian beauties often found this a way to make a stake to go to "town.")

  "Is it alwus—always—goin' to be like this—now?" May asked Mac quietly, half-listening to the cold wind howling outside.

  "Perhaps," said Mac honestly, his expression sincere.

  May sank to her knees and leaned against Mac, .coking out at the night. She fell in with his mood.

  "What about dinner?" asked Mac eventually, reminded by the wafting aromas.

  May barely managed to withhold tears of sheer happiness when she looked up at Mac and said, with a touch of her old defiance, "There's more important things."

  No other sounds in the room added to the wind outside except gas hissing on the wall and the cooker perfecting what would be a late dinner, but the two people in each other's arms on the chaise longue shook with a shared laughter that was at once joyous and silent but also contained the fears all lovers have that what is most delicious is often most perishable.

  §

  Stepping into the corridor of their first-class carr
iage in Calais Station was a totally different experience for George's Ellen. The stormy late-night crossing to France had been made, from Dover with little consideration for the passengers of the paquet. In fact, the short, rough voyage had been attempted only because the ship's Captain was French and was to have a holiday the next day.

  The train waiting for the ferry had been held two hours, so it was at one in the morning that the exhausted group made their way from the docks to the harbor platform to board the French carriages. George watched Ellen shakily reach their assigned compartment.

  "Once more the unwilling victim," he began lightly. "Once more the fitful note of Triton's breathing shell," he finished, smiling.

  "George, I feel sick," said Ellen thickly.

  "My dear," said George, sitting beside her, "if you will attempt to eat a hearty supper in a gale, then 'alight on foreign soil amidst strange sounds and smells,' "—here George paused, embellishing his countenance with the wide-eyed look of an impassioned doctor—"it is not startling."

  "Do you think this is a good idea?" asked Ellen as she looked about her at the luggage and carefully stowed dark leather portmanteaux.

  "Going to Paris?" George suggested.

  "Together," Ellen said, implying that their relationship had already suffered through George's resilience to the waves' motion whilst she succumbed.

  "We'll know," replied George (an inkling of reality sinking home to him) "when we get back!"

  Ellen reclined into the wide, armless seat. George unfolded a newspaper. Whistles blew outside, and the train began to move away, southbound for Paris.

  §

  The usual third-class throng impeded Williams as he forced his way along a narrow central aisle toward the second-class carriages. At a first stop before Boulogne, he was able to step out onto the platform and jump several carriages before departure. At some speed the train began to sway; Williams, thrown from shoulder to shoulder against the corridor sides, squeezed past people with an "Excuse" or "Pardon" assuming all to be French.