Greta’s heart hammered with exhilaration; she had not been frightened at the time, but now she felt the swoosh of blood in her ears. The sound of three thousand bees had awoken some primitive instinct buried deep within her cultured self. She unfastened her gloves, tipping several bees out of them.
‘You’ve been stung,’ said Albert.
Glancing down at her hands, she saw that he was right. A few red welts were swelling on her wrists, the stings still protruding from her skin. She was too excited to feel the pain.
‘Carry on,’ he said to the gardeners, signalling to them to continue planting the trees. ‘Come,’ he said to Greta, and led her back through the gardens and up to the house.
When they reached Fontmell, it was approaching dusk and the carpenters had gone. The house was empty and swathed in gloom. There were no servants as yet, and Albert opened the door himself into the bare hall. There were no pictures and all the furniture was yet to be delivered. Only a large Jacobean mirror too big to be moved hung over the stone mantelpiece. When the roof had been restored and thatched, Greta had asked the architect to design a cupola made of glass, so that light could spill down onto the galleried landing and the great hall far below. Now, as she looked up in the darkness, Greta could see a wedge of moon and the silver flare of the North Star. The hall echoed emptily, their footsteps clattering noisily on the flags, and yet it smelled pleasantly of polish and lavender and new wood. Albert searched for the light switch. He had insisted on the modernity of electricity in the house – on that point he’d been intractable. He found it, and a converted chandelier illuminated the room with spinning and diffracting light.
‘Sit,’ he said, motioning to a carpenter’s bench that had been left there for the night.
Greta sat and Albert moved beside her, taking her wrist in his hand.
‘I don’t have tweezers,’ he said, raising her wrist to his mouth. He started to pull out the stings with his teeth. It was painful, but took only a moment.
‘I hope this hasn’t put you off bees,’ he said.
‘It hasn’t.’
They sat, suddenly awkward, aware of the absolute stillness of the house and the fact that they were quite alone. Greta could still hear the tick of her heart, the dwindling thrill from her encounter with the bees. Her cheeks were aglow. On the other hand, Albert sat stiffly upright, his hair unruffled from his mask, his waistcoat and jacket perfectly fastened, his moustache neatly combed and symmetrical. Even the white carnation in his buttonhole remained uncrushed. On impulse, Greta reached out and ran her fingers through his hair, rumpling it. Then she tugged his cravat askew. He stared at her for a moment and then reached over and pulled out the pin from her hair. It spilled onto her shoulders. Albert gathered a rope of it and twisted it around his wrist, tugging her uneasily forward so that it almost hurt. He drew her towards him, closer and closer, until his lips were nearly brushing her forehead. She could feel his breath on her skin.
‘Thank you for your help with the bees,’ he said and released her.
She looked at him, a cool disappointment settling in her belly. She had thought he was going to kiss her. Working together with a common purpose had been unexpectedly satisfying, and now she felt herself sinking back towards the usual caution she maintained with him. He was studying her intently, a small smile at the corner of his mouth.
‘Were you hoping for more than a thank you?’ he asked, apparently amused.
Greta looked away, for once shy.
‘If you want me to kiss you, I’m afraid you’re going to have to ask,’ he said, yawning and closing his eyes.
‘That’s not the usual way between a lady and a gentleman,’ objected Greta, irritated.
‘Ah yes,’ said Albert, stretching out his legs, ‘but we did agree that you needed to be quite sure. Excuse me for removing any semblance of doubt. But you do keep on changing your mind.’
Greta knew that he was teasing her. She supposed she deserved it. She considered walking out and returning to Temple Court, but it was cold outside and the motor car might not be waiting. And, she realised, she was worn out from loneliness. Now that she’d enjoyed a brief respite she did not want it to end.
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘You can kiss me, if you like.’
He leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her cheek, gentle as a butterfly wing.
She opened her eyes and frowned. ‘That didn’t really seem worth the prelude.’
Albert laughed, unoffended. ‘If you want me to kiss you somewhere more interesting, I’m afraid you’re going to have to ask.’
Greta sighed and rolled her eyes. ‘For goodness’ sake! Kiss me properly, Albert. On the mouth.’
He reached behind her head, gathering her hair up again and splitting it into two braids, then used it to tug her towards him and kissed her. He tasted of tobacco and fresh air. Her skin grew warm. Greta wondered if perhaps it was because it was many hours since luncheon, but her head was starting to swim. His fingers tugged interestingly at her coat buttons. When he finally pulled away, Greta noted with satisfaction that he no longer had the same air of self-control.
‘Would you like me to kiss you again?’ he asked, feigning nonchalance. ‘If you do, you must tell me where.’
Greta stared at him, wondering if she dared. However, once she had started a game, she simply had to win. She wanted desperately to shock him, and to startle them both out of the impasse that had developed between them. She knew he was trying to embarrass her, but she would not let him. He might be older and more experienced in matters of the flesh, but Greta liked to think of herself as intrepid in all new adventures. Slowly she lifted her skirt to reveal an ankle, then leisurely raised it higher to display a well-turned calf, then a soft white thigh. She hesitated and then pulled it up again above her chemise, until she was sitting on the cold bench in her finest cambric knickers. She unfastened the ribbons and stifled a shiver that was partly from cold, partly from something else, then slowly slid them down over her boots.
‘I’m afraid I only know the word in Latin, will that do?’ she said, with a boldness that she wasn’t quite sure she felt.
‘Say it in whichever language you prefer, and I promise I’ll kiss it,’ said Albert, meeting her eye.
She leaned forward and whispered it in his ear.
The following morning Anna bustled into Greta’s room at a quarter to eight balancing a breakfast tray, threw open the curtains and turned to her mistress’s bed to bid her a good morning, only to be greeted by the sight of Mr Albert Goldbaum’s bare buttocks. She apologised profusely and withdrew, banging the door behind her in her hurry. Greta pulled the sheet up to her chin and laughed.
‘Poor Anna, I think she’d rather given up on us.’
‘I’m sure she’ll recover from the shock,’ said Albert, still not bothering to move.
The night before, Greta had experienced pleasure and joy, all the keener for being unexpected. This morning, she felt mostly relief. At last it was now a marriage in all regards. The fact that it had taken more than a year to consummate was a secret that no one else ever need know. She understood that most women were expected to be ashamed or revolted after their first experience of marital relations, but for Greta the shame had been in celibacy rather than intimacy. She was euphoric at her sense of release.
She slid out of bed, retrieved the breakfast tray and, placing it down on the blanket, nudged Albert in the ribs.
‘Move up. There isn’t room.’
Grumbling, he heaved himself upright.
‘You don’t have enough pillows.’
‘Well, if you’re going to become a regular visitor, I shall get some more.’
‘Am I going to be a regular visitor?’ he asked, watching her closely.
‘Yes,’ said Greta. ‘But we need to agree on some rules.’
‘Oh?’ said Albert with cautious interest.
‘First, coffee,’ said Greta. ‘I’m afraid we’re going to have to share a cup.’
Sh
e took a sip and passed him the cup; he dutifully sipped and handed it back. ‘I think you ought to know that in the mornings I’m more of a tea chap.’
‘Well, I suppose, you are an Englishman.’
He leaned against the headboard, eyeing her a trifle warily.
‘What are your terms, Greta?’
‘I don’t want children.’ She held up a hand before he could interrupt. ‘Not yet. One day, of course. But, Albert, let’s be us for a while longer. This thing between us is new and fragile. I’m only just starting to get used to you. Heaven knows how I’d feel about your children.’
Albert considered her with some gravity.
‘All right,’ he said at last. ‘I agree. No children for a while. At least, not on purpose. A man can only do what he is able to, in these matters.’
Greta smiled. ‘Of course. And thank you.’
‘Anything else?’
‘You’re going to have to learn to laugh at my jokes.’
‘I’m not renowned for my sense of humour.’
‘I know, darling. But it is important. How on earth will we manage when we annoy each other, unless we can laugh? We’ll start with a dirty limerick and work our way up.’
‘Dear God,’ said Albert, burying himself under the pillows. ‘I had a choice of at least three Goldbaum women.’
‘Ah well, it’s too late for that now,’ said Greta cheerfully. ‘Besides, they might have been worse. Helena is awfully nice, but she’s rather fat.’
‘I’d have taken her.’
Greta took the spoon from the marmalade jar and flicked a round glob of sticky orange at him. It landed in the middle of Albert’s forehead.
LONDON, DECEMBER
The white Portland-stone façades on Park Lane and Regent Street trickled soot-stained tears. The puddles were black with a thin crust of filthy ice. Otto’s coat was damp the moment he stepped outside, and although it was carefully dried beside the fire in the airing room, the Goldbaum residence at Number One, Park Lane smelled vaguely and permanently of wet wool. He’d had a cold for a fortnight. Lord Goldbaum’s was even worse. He honked constantly, his nose swollen and raw from blowing. During partners’ meetings, Otto found himself transfixed by the drip on the end of Lord Goldbaum’s nose, wondering precisely when it would fall.
It was barely three o’clock, but the fog was thick and yellow – Otto suspected the sun itself was in bed with a streaming cold and had quite given up – and the first of the lamplighters was busy in the street outside the Goldbaum offices on Temple Court Lane. Lord Goldbaum placed a copy of the morning’s Times on the table and grunted approvingly at Otto and his sons.
‘Your wife did well,’ he said to Albert, before starting to read. ‘“The question is one of humanity, civilisation and truth. The ‘Blood Accusation’ is a relic of the days of Witchcraft and Black Magic, a cruel and baseless libel on Judaism, an insult to Western culture.” And blow me if, as well as H.G. Wells and Mr Shaw, she didn’t get all the archbishops to sign.’
Albert smiled. ‘My wife can be persuasive.’
‘Reuters news agency is to circulate the letter in the United States,’ said Otto. ‘I hope that, with international pressure, the poor fellow will be acquitted.’
‘We can’t allow the man to hang,’ said Albert. ‘The prosecutor keeps invoking our name like a profanity. We’re in the middle of this abhorrent mess. Blast them for calling you as a witness, Otto.’
Lord Goldbaum was silent for a moment. ‘I shall speak to the Duke of Norfolk – see if, as the country’s most prominent Catholic, he can’t persuade the Pope to issue a bull denouncing the whole business.’
Otto cleared his throat. ‘There have already been two papal bulls: “those accusing the Jews of drinking the blood of children are blinded by avarice, and only want to rob their money”. The duke need only ask the Pope to state the authenticity of the earlier bulls.’
The others surveyed him with some surprise.
Otto shrugged. ‘I was called as a witness. I might have chosen to ignore the summons, but I like to be prepared.’
While for the others the sorry business of the blood-libel trial was a distant horror at the edge of a foreign empire, for Otto it was an offence at home and he felt it keenly and personally. It made him ashamed of his own countrymen, and reminded him that while he and his co-religionists might be citizens, the veneer of acceptance was brittle. The sadness lodged in his chest.
Albert began to read the summaries from a variety of companies with which the House of Goldbaum held an interest, and which were seeking to spread significant risks: a cargo shipment of lamb from New Zealand, insured for a hundred and ten thousand pounds. Clement sat rigid in his chair, while Lord Goldbaum listened with his eyes half-closed, head resting on his fingertips, snoozing to all outward appearances. They all knew that he was not. Albert read the risk for a new Scottish railway line, at seventy-five thousand pounds, and then he hesitated. Lord Goldbaum looked up, alert, a dragon awakened by a thief.
‘Go on,’ he said.
‘I’m quite sure it is a mistake,’ replied Albert.
‘Then we shall have it corrected.’
‘There’s no need for me to read a mistake, Father.’
‘You’re trying my patience, Albert. Read the lists.’
Albert sighed and then continued with great reluctance. ‘First on the Alliance Assurance list is an insurance policy taken out upon the life of Lord Robert George Moses Goldbaum, contracted by Mr Clement Robert George Goldbaum for two hundred thousand pounds at four per cent.’
Here Albert stopped and looked desperately at his brother, who sat bolt upright, his eyes wide and terrified.
‘It is simply a mistake, isn’t it, Clement? Some error.’
‘Well, Clement?’ said Lord Goldbaum, turning calmly to his eldest son. ‘The clerks are very careful fellows. I don’t expect it’s a mistake at all, is it?’
‘No,’ said Clement, his voice barely a whisper.
Lord Goldbaum reached across the table, took the list from Albert and read for a minute in silence.
‘You didn’t receive very good terms, Clement. You ought to have negotiated much better. But figures have never been your strongest suit.’
Otto wondered if he could quit the room. Lord Goldbaum sensed his objective and turned to him with cold fury.
‘Stay where you are, Otto. This will affect all the Houses and the partnership agreements. I don’t want any rumour or innuendo in this matter. From now on, we shall deal only with the truth.’
Otto remained where he was. Clement shifted under the gaze of three pairs of eyes: the fury of his father, the bewildered disappointment of his brother and the embarrassment of his cousin.
‘How much debt are you in, Clement?’ asked Lord Goldbaum. ‘It must be a very large sum for you to resort to such measures.’
Clement began to sweat. He muttered something inaudible.
‘I can’t hear you – speak up, man,’ snapped his father.
‘I don’t know,’ said Clement.
‘How can you not know your own debts? Did you simply pluck a number to put against my life?’ Lord Goldbaum regarded his son with amazement and disgust.
‘I insured my own life as well,’ mumbled Clement. ‘So that if something happened to me, you would not be saddled with my debts. The returns on my investments were not what I’d hoped.’
Lord Goldbaum rang a bell. Joseph Caplan, chief clerk, appeared moments later.
‘Joseph, it seems that my son has made poor investments. I would like you to go with him and start what, I fear, shall turn out to be a monumental task – to make a thorough inventory of all these ventures, with precise figures.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Joseph nodded. ‘Mr Goldbaum, sir, shall we go into the meeting room? There is a fire lit,’ he said, turning to Clement, who rose to his feet without a murmur.
Clement followed Joseph, a figure of utter dejection. He paused by the door and turned back to his father as if to speak a
nd then, changing his mind, quitted the room without another word.
That evening Lord Goldbaum did not return to Number One, Park Lane for dinner. Otto and Albert sat in the gilded dining room at seven-thirty, wondering whether Clement would join them. The footmen, in blue coats with golden buttons, waited poised behind their chairs.
‘Should we start without him?’ asked Otto.
‘I’ve never known him to miss a meal,’ said Albert.
‘He won’t have done anything…’ Otto prevaricated, ‘rash?’
Albert shook his head, but looked deeply troubled. ‘No. He wouldn’t do that. This is shame enough. Damn it. We should eat.’ He signalled to a footman. ‘Keep Mr Clement Goldbaum’s dinner warm. You may serve us.’
Neither Otto nor Albert was hungry. They were presented with grouse casseroled in sloes and port, but they mostly picked out shot, drinking an excellent 1889 claret rather than eating. Unable to face discussing the afternoon’s events, they resorted to silence. Clement arrived during the cheese course. He sat down in his place, offering no explanation or apology for his absence, merely serving himself a right-angle of Stilton and most of a Camembert, fondly stroking the downy rind with a large forefinger, before helping himself to a dozen Bath Oliver biscuits and a significant helping of port. Otto and Albert regarded him without comment for some time, before Albert finally exploded in a fit of uncharacteristic fury.
‘For pity’s sake, man, stop eating and speak. What in God’s name were you thinking? What kind of idiocy have you committed?’
Clement wiped his mouth on his napkin and waved at the footmen to leave the dining room.
‘I apologise, Albert. I realise my actions will have consequences for you. I think we can all agree that finance is not my forte.’
‘Yes, Clement, I think we can all agree on that,’ said Otto.
Clement turned to his brother, eyes wide and beseeching. ‘Albert, you must help me. Otto, you too.’
Clement’s lips were stained with port like blood, and his skin was bloated and very pale. Otto wanted to be angry with him – his cousin was guilty of utter stupidity. In the gilded dining room, beneath Van Dyck’s portrait of the ageing Cardinal Guido Bentivoglio in his crimson robes, Clement stared at Otto and Albert with weary hopelessness.
House of Gold Page 18