House of Gold

by Natasha Solomons

  Greta did not ask whether she was similarly reconciled to her husband.

  Lady Goldbaum glanced at her watch. ‘Blast! It’s after six. We’d better hurry.’

  They returned to Temple Court, walking quickly and in silence. As they reached the driveway, Greta realised she hadn’t thanked her.

  ‘No need. And for goodness’ sake, call me Adelheid.’

  ‘Thank you, Adelheid,’ said Greta, unsure if she was thankful or daunted.

  Lady Goldbaum waved aside her gratitude.

  ‘Don’t pursue happiness. Don’t pursue anything except your garden.’

  HAMPSHIRE, AUGUST

  Everyone agreed that the season had been a disaster. The hostilities between the House of Lords and House of Commons, suspended for the coronation, were resumed the day afterwards with renewed vigour, as though the baronets, lords and dukes, on donning their robes, found that their wrath had been warmed by the ermine. Each weekend the Shadow Cabinet gathered at Temple Court and raged at the treachery of the government, the despicable conduct of Herbert Henry Asquith, Winston Churchill and David Lloyd George, the cobbler’s son. But it was Churchill they most despised. He, who was supposed to be Blenheim-minded, was the greatest traitor to his class. The ladies withdrew after dinner with some considerable relief and left the men to their cigars, brandy and outrage, which continued well into the night.

  When Lord Goldbaum spoke, his voice cracked with anger. ‘David Lloyd George is a demagogue. He promises the working man the impossible, simply to gain power. And he will use that power to destroy England and all she stands for. He holds nothing dear. England has had two Houses of Parliament since the fourteenth century. How dare he seek to change that?’

  ‘They are not seeking to abolish the House of Lords, merely curtail its power,’ said Albert softly. ‘You would no longer be able to block money bills.’

  The others turned to look at him in profound distaste, while the Marquis of Salisbury, several brandies to the good, scrambled to his feet. ‘The Lords is all that is saving the nation from that man and his band of duplicitous cranks. He doesn’t want reform and improvement for the working man. He wants bloody revolution. And we, my friends, are the last bastion against that revolution.’

  ‘I do not like revolution,’ said Lord Goldbaum grimly. ‘My family survived two in France. I would not like to take my chances on a third.’

  Albert surveyed the flushed and gloomy faces of his father and his acquaintance. They wore the expressions of generals who knew that the war had long been lost, but sat plotting the next battle with dreary inevitability in the shadow of the grave. The warmth of the dining room was insufferable; for once the curtains had not been drawn and, even though the windows were open, there was no fresh air to be had. The only cool faces were those of the bare-bosomed Watteau beauties, whose nakedness seemed sensible rather than erotic.

  Albert continued, ‘We can’t be seen as the party who are happy to pay for armaments, but not pensions for the poor.’

  ‘It’s not that bloody simple, Albert,’ objected his father. His younger son was starting to form his own opinions, a habit both admirable and irritating.

  ‘No, of course it isn’t, but they make it out to be so in the press.’

  Lord Goldbaum watched his son in silence for a few moments, apparently taken aback by his candour.

  ‘This wave of strikes will only get worse,’ continued Albert. ‘Perhaps, gentlemen, you ought to give an inch. If you think that revolution is indeed possible, then accept a modest reform to the Upper House as the lesser of two evils.’

  His father grunted, and signalled for the butler to send the port and Madeira round again. Albert took this as permission to press his point.

  ‘You are making enemies in government, Father. You asked Lord Grey to speak to the Russian Ambassador about the pogroms. Has he done so?’

  ‘He wrote a letter.’

  ‘A good one?’

  ‘Feeble.’

  ‘Well, there you have it. This fight is costing us dearly.’

  Albert glanced between his father and his brother. Despite Lord Goldbaum’s rank, they remained outsiders, with more to lose than the other grand men in the room. The Goldbaums were invited to donate to high society’s charities and attend their balls, but not to marry their daughters. And the joining of great families, Albert understood, was how power amongst the top five hundred was maintained. The Goldbaum family’s strength and vulnerability lay in their separateness.

  In all the years of the Goldbaum Bank, the partners had worked with the government and dined quietly with the opposition. When His Majesty’s Government inevitably became His Majesty’s Opposition, the Goldbaums made little adjustments, but the principle did not alter. Enemies are expensive and bad for business. Yet ever since his ennoblement, Lord Goldbaum had become partisan. He liked Arthur Balfour and he made an enemy of the Prime Minister, and bated Lloyd George in the press. He would not dine with him. Albert had confessed to Clement that it appeared to him as if, after a lifetime of knocking on the door of the country’s most exclusive club and gaining admittance, the club was suddenly facing closure and their father couldn’t bear to surrender his membership so soon.

  He also understood something that his father and Arthur Balfour utterly failed to convey in public: that they did not oppose reform because it was in their interest to do so; rightly or wrongly, they believed that the House of Lords existed to protect England from party interest, from the selfishness of politicians and the sinister influence of socialism. The great estates leaked money like vast and holey wellington boots. Albert knew that the farm labourers, as well as the servants, gardeners and village schools, were subsidised by funds from the Goldbaum financial interests, and Lord Goldbaum believed it his moral duty to do so. His father considered that a man must support those less fortunate through charity and philanthropy. He complained vociferously that it was not the role of government to compel an Englishman to do the right thing through taxation. Lord Goldbaum was proud of Temple Court and her park and model estate of fifty well-maintained farms, as it proclaimed him to be something greater than even a peer of the realm and a man of money or influence; it revealed him to be a gentleman. To threaten the system of the English squire and its ideals of benevolent responsibility was to risk the honour of England herself.

  Sometimes his father’s conviction gave Albert pause: was the country lurching towards revolution? When he ambled amongst the seas of wheat studded with poppies as the skylarks trilled above, it all seemed terribly unlikely. The only pitchforks here were busy with the harvest. Yet a little further west the army had been called in to keep the peace. Mines were closing. Tempers were short and dangerous.

  Lord Goldbaum heaved himself to his feet. ‘I’m going to bed.’

  Most of the gentlemen followed him upstairs, attended by a dozen valets who’d been waiting below for the footman’s signal; only Albert, Clement and Arthur Balfour ventured into the Chinese Salon, where a chess table had been prepared. Albert liked to watch his brother play. Upon the chequered board he was as nimble as a March hare. Clement gave an easy smile. He offered Arthur the first move.

  ‘Accept, Arthur. You need all the help you can get,’ said Albert with a low laugh.

  ‘Very well. I accept.’

  Albert watched with satisfaction as, in twenty minutes, Clement took Arthur’s bishop, his knights and shot Albert a look, as if to enquire whether it was impolite to place the former Prime Minister and leader of their party in check so soon. Albert wished that the game could go on a little longer, and the moment when he must ascend the staircase to his and his wife’s suite of rooms could be delayed. He resolved that, as he passed her closed door, he would not give it a glance. He would not think of the woman lying behind it and wonder whether she slept or tossed restlessly in the dark. A familiar sensation of anger and dread rose through his veins like heat.

  They breakfasted late. Trays of beef sausages, eggs (fried, poached, scrambled,
baked and devilled), rows of fat smoked kippers, kedgeree, kidneys and roasted tomatoes had been set out on the sideboard in the morning room, alongside silver dishes of strawberries picked from the garden, still damp with dew. All the newspapers – half a dozen copies of each – had been ironed and laid out ready. Coffee and tea waited in flasks beside jugs of milk and cream (labelled ‘Jersey’, ‘Guernsey’ or ‘Red Poll’, according to which championship herd on the estate the milk had been sourced from). Albert sat quietly before a plate of kedgeree, made with smoked trout as he preferred, and hid behind a copy of The Times, which he did not read, but used as a buffer so that the other fellows at the table would not attempt conversation. Although, he acknowledged with relief, for the most part his father’s friends viewed discussions over breakfast – especially ones regarding politics – as horribly gauche. A gentleman serves himself at breakfast, in silence.

  There was a shout of dismay. Albert, Clement and a handful of the others lowered their newspapers in alarm. Lord Goldbaum was staring aghast at the paper in his own hands. Albert gently took it from him and saw a piece reporting Lloyd George’s latest speech:

  Now, really, I should like to know, is Lord Goldbaum the dictator of this country? Are we really to have all ways of reform, financial and social, blocked simply because of a notice board? ‘No thoroughfare. By order of Lord Goldbaum’? This country won’t have its policies dictated by great financiers.

  He noticed some of those around the table quietly avoiding his gaze. If not at present, he was sure that one or two of them had harboured such an opinion in the past.

  ‘The man is odious and offensive,’ said Arthur Balfour softly from the other end of the table. ‘But I’m afraid Mr Lloyd George is also effective. There is nothing more to be done. He has cast us as hypocrites. We must vote for reform.’

  Lord Goldbaum surveyed his friend, aghast.

  The Marquis of Salisbury shook his head and thumped his hand on the table, making his scrambled eggs jump. ‘Never, Arthur. You are the leader of my party, but I will resist this until the last bloody ditch.’

  Arthur poured himself another cup of coffee. ‘As you wish.’ He turned to Lord Goldbaum. ‘Robert? Will you vote with us or are you in the ditch?’

  ‘Father, please don’t vote in anger and haste,’ said Albert quietly. ‘You are the only Jewish peer. More eyes look to you.’

  Albert watched his father. Lord Goldbaum sighed and rubbed his eyes, which were faintly bloodshot, the skin beneath heavily pouched. For the first time Albert realised that his father was starting to look old.

  Greta’s sitting room was piled high with gardening books, none of which she had read. She felt instinctively that her garden must complement the new house, but this was rather difficult, as the design of the house was supposed to be agreed with Albert, and it was impossible to agree anything with someone who would not speak to her. On the other hand, Greta wondered whether she could turn this to her advantage. She would quietly resolve upon what she wished to do and, when she presented her plans to Albert, she suspected he would agree quickly and without complaint, to escape conversation.

  She’d thought Albert humourless, but then she discovered that he did laugh, just not with her. Walking in the kitchen gardens with Stokes, who had been commissioned by Lady Goldbaum to educate her, she discovered Albert in the arboretum glasshouse balancing on a stepladder held aloft by two under-gardeners, wielding a butterfly net. He craned forward to catch a small white butterfly on the edge of a palm leaf and, leaning an inch too far, tipped off the stepladder and landed on his backside on a pile of compost. On his descent, he deposited the net over the head of the younger of the two gardeners, a spotty-necked youth of about seventeen, who stood there open-mouthed, the net perched on his head like a frilly bathing cap. Albert saw the dismayed face of the young man, threw his head back and laughed.

  ‘Well, I don’t have a Greater-Spotted Bernard Jones in my collection.’

  For a second, young Bernard looked anxious and then grinned, until he too began to laugh. Albert’s amusement swelled, until he was laughing too hard to be helped up, so he remained sitting in the compost, shoulders shaking.

  Then he caught sight of Greta, and his smile was instantly replaced by his customary expression of fixed seriousness. He stood and brushed himself down.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said, the last of his humour shrivelling.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Greta.

  Albert had a yellow leaf sticking up jauntily in his hair. She longed to pluck it away, but knew he would flinch at such intimacy. The last time she had seen him this unkempt was when they had almost… well, Greta steered her thoughts away. Albert retrieved his net from Bernard and, with a nod to her, quitted the arboretum. She was as disregarded as the white butterfly, which now rested on a glass pane, high out of reach.

  Stokes turned back to Greta. ‘Is there anything else that I can tell you about the arboretum, madam?’

  Greta sighed and wished she had something sensible to ask. She was to spend an entire week with the inscrutable Stokes.

  The arboretum glasshouse was a wonder: it was a nursery for trees and a miniature map of the world and of the interests of the Goldbaums. Greta observed that the problems of Europe were reflected here in the glasshouses and shrubbery. Stokes explained the dilemma: ought they to group specimens according to the country where they were to be found, or according to species? It made Greta think of the empires of Europe, those loosely arranged collectives of countries and peoples that threatened to break down, as their subjects asserted a desire for devolution and new nations re-formed along ethnic and religious lines. Stokes and Lady Goldbaum experienced the same difficulty with plant groupings within the arboretum and beyond. But at least the plants were unlikely to express revolutionary intent.

  Like all the glasshouses, the indoor arboretum had its own stove to keep the tropical specimens warm in winter, while water was sloshed onto coals to preserve the humidity. The boiler was meticulously concealed in a cavernous underground cellar, so as not to despoil the beauty of the glasshouse. The exhaust pipes had been tunnelled beneath the lawns for three hundred feet to be properly concealed.

  A library had been built beside the glasshouse to house relevant books, as well as Lady Goldbaum’s correspondence with the various explorers, in order that the gardeners could readily avail themselves of all the information while tending to their charges. Whenever a plant failed, an inquest was held. Lady Goldbaum was informed, and the correspondence and notes relating to the specimen were re-filed in the library in a special envelope with black edges. When Stokes called on Lady Goldbaum during those ill-fated weeks, he was not offered his customary glass of Scotch.

  There were forty greenhouses in all. Greta tried to sketch a map in her head. Fifteen were required for the continuous cycle of bedding plants that were replaced at least twice each season: pansies, daisies, begonias, marigolds, geraniums, violas and asters for summer in a hundred different shades, while cyclamen, ivy and purple heather were planted out in the cooler months. Apparently, Stokes confided, Lady Goldbaum had wanted to try white-and-mauve ornamental cabbages, but to this her husband had objected. There could not be such a thing as an ornamental cabbage – it was too whimsical for a Goldbaum parterre. Greta made a note to herself to plant an entire bed with decorative mauve cabbages. She might even put them in a vase on the dinner table or send them in a bouquet to her mother-in-law.

  The remainder of the greenhouses were dedicated to the kitchen gardens. These were an industry within themselves and, if the arboretum and tropical glasshouses revealed the geographical influence of the Goldbaums, the kitchen glasshouses displayed their triumph over nature on a domestic scale. Two gardeners in brown leather aprons knelt on monogrammed cushions, trimming runners from strawberry plants.

  ‘Lord Goldbaum requires a continuous season of fruit for his table,’ explained Stokes. His forehead creased into a well-worn frown, like a piece of paper folded and refolded. ‘It was
a struggle, I’ll be quite honest with you, madam,’ he confided. ‘It took a good few years and a good many headaches until we managed it. The glasshouses must be kept warm, but at different temperatures, or else all the raspberries would be ready in March. And every glasshouse has its own hive of bees. It’s all very well to make the cherry trees flower in December, but if there aren’t any bees to pollinate them… well.’

  Greta glanced around her. Plumes of moisture licked the windowpanes, and steam buffeted the roof like smoke. She could hear the hum of the hothouse bees and, as she looked, saw that the air was thick with insects.

  ‘We produce more honey than even we can use,’ said Stokes. ‘The fruit trees don’t last long, being forced. All the kindling in the house is cherry and apple and pear. Apparently it lights better and smells delicious.’ He pointed to another glasshouse. ‘After the smaller plants are forced in the heat, we move them to the cool house and pass them through ether fumes to curb the rise of sap.’

  ‘Are you a gardener or an alchemist, Stokes?’ asked Greta with a smile.

  He gave a little bow, but Greta was not quite sure that she meant it as a compliment. She was used to excess, but there was something about the ambition of the gardens here that disconcerted her. It proclaimed the power of the Goldbaums over nature herself, on a scale even she had not glimpsed before. She appreciated that her own view of nature had been guided by the poets, but nonetheless she preferred the idea of a garden working with nature rather than against it. There was something uncanny about pear trees being tricked into blossoming at Christmas time.

  That afternoon Greta, Lady Goldbaum and Stokes conducted interviews for the position of Greta’s head gardener. After the last candidate had departed, they stayed behind in the small library in the west wing, the afternoon light sneaking beneath the half-drawn blinds. The two ladies sat on sofas opposite one another, cups of orange-infused tea resting on the ivory- and ebony-inlaid tables beside them. Arthur Stokes sat on an upright chair, his gardening boots meticulously cleaned, but his feet resting upon a neat square of brown paper nonetheless. A dish of almond sugar biscuits beside him remained untouched.