A Dangerous Fortune (1994)

by Ken Follett

  Micky approached one of the "walkers" and said: "Be good enough to tell Mr. Edward Pilaster that Mr. Miranda has called."

  "Very good, sir."

  Here more than anywhere Micky envied the Pilasters. Their wealth and power was proclaimed by every detail: the polished marble floor, the rich paneling, the hushed voices, the scratch of pens in ledgers, and perhaps most of all by the overfed, overdressed messengers. All this space and all these people were basically employed in counting the Pilaster family's money. No one here raised cattle, mined nitrate or built railroads: the work was done by others far away. The Pilasters just watched the money multiply. To Micky it seemed the best possible way to live now that slavery had been abolished.

  There was also something false about the atmosphere here. It was solemn and dignified, like a church, or the court of a president, or a museum. They were moneylenders, but they acted as if charging interest were a noble calling, like the priesthood.

  After a few minutes Edward appeared--with a bruised nose and a black eye. Micky raised his eyebrows. "My dear fellow, what happened to you?"

  "I had a fight with Hugh."

  "What about?"

  "I told him off for bringing a whore into the house and he lost his temper."

  It occurred to Micky that this might have given Augusta the opportunity she had been seeking to get rid of Hugh. "What happened to Hugh?"

  "You won't see him again for a long time. He's been sent to Boston."

  Well done, Augusta, thought Micky. It would be neat if both Hugh and Tonio could be dealt with on the same day. He said: "You look as if you might benefit from a bottle of champagne and some lunch."

  "Splendid idea."

  They left the bank and headed west. There was no point in getting into a hansom here because the streets were blocked by the sheep and the cabs were all held up in the traffic. They passed the meat market which was the destination of the sheep. The stench from the slaughterhouses was unbearably disgusting. The sheep were thrown from the street through a trapdoor down into the underground abattoir. The fall was sufficient to break their legs, which rendered them motionless until the slaughterer was ready to cut their throats. "It's enough to put you off mutton for life," Edward said as they covered their faces with handkerchiefs. Micky thought it would take a lot more than that to put Edward off his lunch.

  Once out of the City they hailed a hansom and directed it to Pall Mall. As soon as they were on their way, Micky began his prepared speech. He started by saying: "I hate a chap who spreads reports about another chap's bad behavior."

  "Yes," Edward said vaguely.

  "But when it affects a chap's friends, a chap is more or less obliged to say something."

  "Mmm." Edward clearly had no idea what Micky was talking about.

  "And I'd hate you to think I kept quiet about it just because he was a countryman of mine."

  There was a moment's silence, then Edward said: "I'm not quite sure I follow you."

  "I'm talking about Tonio Silva."

  "Ah, yes. I suppose he can't afford to pay what he owes me."

  "Utter nonsense. I know his family. They're almost as rich as yours." Micky was not afraid to tell this outrageous lie: people in London had no idea how wealthy South American families might be.

  Edward was surprised. "Good Lord. I thought the opposite."

  "Not at all. He can afford it easily. That makes it worse."

  "What? Makes what worse?"

  Micky gave a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid he has no intention of paying you. And he's been going around boasting about it, saying you aren't man enough to make him pay."

  Edward reddened. "Has he, by the devil! Not man enough! We'll see about that."

  "I warned him not to underestimate you. I told him I was afraid you might not stand to be made a fool of. But he chose to ignore my advice."

  "The scoundrel. Well, if he won't listen to wise counsel he may have to find out the truth the hard way."

  "It's a shame," said Micky.

  Edward fumed in silence.

  Micky fretted impatiently while the hansom crawled along the Strand. Tonio should be at the club by now. Edward was in just the right mood to quarrel. Everything was working out.

  At last the cab pulled up outside the club. Micky waited while Edward paid the driver. They went inside. In the cloakroom, in a knot of people hanging up their hats, they met Tonio.

  Micky tensed. He had put everything in place: now he could only cross his fingers and hope that the drama he had envisioned would play itself out as planned.

  Tonio caught Edward's eye, looked awkward, and said: "By Jove ... Good morning, you two."

  Micky looked at Edward. His face turned pink and his eyes bulged, and he said: "See here, Silva."

  Tonio stared at him fearfully. "What is it, Pilaster?"

  Edward said loudly: "About that hundred pounds."

  The room went suddenly quiet. Several people looked around and two men on their way out stopped in the doorway and turned to see. It was bad behavior to talk about money, and a gentleman would do so only in extreme circumstances. Everyone knew that Edward Pilaster had more money than he knew what to do with, so it was obvious he had some other motive for publicly mentioning Tonio's debt. Bystanders sensed a scandal.

  Tonio went white. "Yes?"

  Edward said brutally: "You can let me have it today, if it would suit your convenience."

  A challenge had been issued. Plenty of people knew the debt was real, so there was no point in arguing about it. As a gentleman, Tonio had only one option. He had to say By all means. If it's important, you shall have your money right away. Let's go upstairs, and I'll write you a cheque--or shall we step around the corner to my bank? If he did not do that, everyone would know he could not pay, and he would be ostracized.

  Micky watched with horrid fascination. At first a look of panic came over Tonio's face, and for a moment Micky wondered whether he would do something crazy. Then fear gave way to anger, and he opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. Instead he spread his hands in a pleading gesture; but he quickly abandoned that, too. Finally his face crumpled like the face of a child about to cry. At that point he turned and ran. The two men in the doorway dodged out of his way, and he dashed through the lobby and out into the street without his hat.

  Micky was elated: it had all gone perfectly.

  The men in the cloakroom all coughed and fidgeted to disguise their embarrassment. An older member muttered: "That was a bit hard, Pilaster."

  Micky said quickly: "He deserved it."

  "No doubt, no doubt," said the older man.

  Edward said: "I need a drink."

  Micky said: "Order a brandy for me, would you? I'd better go after Silva and make sure he doesn't throw himself under the wheels of a horse bus." He dashed out.

  This was the most subtle part of his plan: he now had to convince the man he had ruined that he was his best friend.

  Tonio was hurrying along in the direction of St. James's, not looking where he was going, bumping into people. Micky ran and caught up with him. "I say, Silva, I'm dreadfully sorry," he said.

  Tonio stopped. There were tears on his cheeks. "I'm finished," he said. "It's all over."

  "Pilaster turned me down flat," Micky said. "I did my best...."

  "I know. Thank you."

  "Don't thank me. I failed."

  "But you tried. I wish there was something I could do to show my appreciation."

  Micky hesitated, thinking: Do I dare to ask him for his job, right now? He decided to be bold. "As a matter of fact there is--but we should talk about it another time."

  "No, tell me now."

  "I'd feel bad. Let's leave it until another day."

  "I don't know how many more days I'll be here. What is it?"

  "Well ..." Micky feigned embarrassment. "I suppose the Cordovan Minister will eventually be looking for someone to replace you."

  "He'll need someone right away." Comprehension showed on Tonio's t
ear-stained face. "Of course--you should have the job! You'd be perfect!"

  "If you could put in a word...."

  "I'll do more than that. I'll tell him what a help you've been, and how you tried to get me out of the mess I got myself into. I'm sure he'll want to appoint you."

  "I wish I weren't benefiting from your troubles," Micky said. "I feel I'm behaving like a rat."

  "Not at all." Tonio took Micky's hand in both of his. "You're a true friend."

  Chapter FIVE

  SEPTEMBER

  Section 1

  HUGH'S SIX-YEAR-OLD SISTER Dorothy was folding his shirts and packing them into his trunk. He knew that as soon as she went to bed he would have to take them all out and do them again, because her folding was hopelessly untidy; but he pretended she was very good at it, and encouraged her.

  "Tell me about America again," she said.

  "America is so far away that in the morning the sun takes four hours to get there."

  "Do they stay in bed all morning?"

  "Yes--then they get up at lunchtime and have breakfast!"

  She giggled. "They're lazy."

  "Not really. You see, it doesn't get dark until midnight, so they have to work all evening."

  "And they go to bed late! I like going to bed late. I'd like America. Why can't we go with you?"

  "I wish you could, Dotty." Hugh felt rather wistful: he would not see his baby sister again for years. She would be changed when he returned. She would understand time zones.

  September rain drummed on the windows, and down in the bay the wind lashed the waves, but here there was a coal fire and a soft hearth-rug. Hugh packed a handful of books: Modern Business Methods, The Successful Commercial Clerk, The Wealth of Nations, Robinson Crusoe. The older clerks at Pilasters Bank were contemptuous of what they called "book-learning," and were fond of saying that experience was the best teacher, but they were wrong: Hugh had been able to understand the workings of the different departments much more quickly because he had studied the theory beforehand.

  He was going to America at a time of crisis. In the early 1870s several of the banks had made large loans on the security of speculative railway stocks, and when railway construction ran into trouble in the middle of 1873 the banks started to look shaky. A few days ago Jay Cooke & Co., the agents of the American government, had gone bust, dragging the First National Bank of Washington down with them; and the news had reached London the same day via the transatlantic telegraph cable. Now five New York banks had suspended business, including the Union Trust Company--a major bank--and the old-established Mechanics' Banking Association. The Stock Exchange had closed its doors. Businesses would fall, thousands of people would be thrown out of work, trade would suffer, and Pilasters' American operation would get smaller and more cautious--so that it would be harder for Hugh to make his mark.

  So far the crisis had had little impact in London. The bank rate had gone up a point, to four percent, and a small London bank with close American links had failed, but there was no panic. All the same, old Seth insisted there was trouble ahead. He was quite weak now. He had moved into Augusta's house and spent most days in bed. But he stubbornly refused to resign until he had steered Pilasters through the storm.

  Hugh began to fold his clothes. The bank had paid for two new suits: he had a suspicion his mother had persuaded his grandfather to authorize that. Old Seth was as tight-fisted as the rest of the Pilasters but he had a soft spot for Hugh's mother; in fact it was the small allowance Seth gave her that she had been living on all these years.

  Mother had also insisted Hugh be allowed a few weeks off before leaving, to give him more time to get ready and say his good-byes. She had not seen much of him since he had gone to work at the bank--he could not afford the train fare to Folkestone very often--and she wanted to have some time with him before he left the country. They had spent most of August here, at the seaside, while Augusta and her family had been on holiday in Scotland. Now the holidays were over and it was time to leave, and Hugh was saying good-bye to his mother.

  While he was thinking about her she came into the room. She was in her eighth year of widowhood but she still wore black. She did not seem to want to marry again, although she easily could have--she was still beautiful, with serene gray eyes and thick blond hair.

  He knew she was sad that she would not see him for years. But she had not spoken of her sadness: rather, she shared his excitement and trepidation at the challenge of a new country.

  "It's almost bedtime, Dorothy," she said. "Go and put on your nightdress." As soon as Dotty was out of the room, Mother began to refold Hugh's shirts.

  He wanted to talk to her about Maisie, but he felt shy. Augusta had written to her, he knew. She might also have heard from other family members, or even seen them on one of her rare shopping trips to London. The story she had heard might be a long way from the truth. After a moment he said: "Mother ..."

  "What is it, dear?"

  "Aunt Augusta doesn't always say quite what is true."

  "No need to be so polite," she said with a bitter smile. "Augusta has been telling lies about your father for years."

  Hugh was startled by her frankness. "Do you think it was she who told Florence Stalworthy's parents that he was a gambler?"

  "I'm quite sure of it, unfortunately."

  "Why is she this way?"

  His mother put down the shirt she was folding and thought for a minute. "Augusta was a very beautiful girl," she said. "Her family worshiped at Kensington Methodist Hall, which is how we knew them. She was an only child, willful and spoiled. Her parents were nothing special: her father was a shop assistant who had started his own business and ended up with three little grocery stores in the west London suburbs. But Augusta was clearly destined for higher things."

  She went to the rainy window and looked out, seeing not the stormy English Channel but the past. "When she was seventeen the earl of Strang fell for her. He was a lovely boy--comely, kind, high-born and rich. Naturally his parents were horrified at the prospect that he should marry a grocer's daughter. However, she was very beautiful, and even then, though she was young, she had a dignified air that could carry her through most social situations."

  "Did they become engaged?" Hugh asked.

  "Not formally. But everyone assumed it was a foregone conclusion. Then there was a dreadful scandal. Her father was accused of systematically giving short weight in his shops. An employee he had sacked reported him to the Board of Trade. It was said that he had even cheated the church, which bought tea from him for the Tuesday evening Bible study groups and so on. There was a chance he would go to jail. He denied everything vehemently, and in the end nothing came of it. But Strang dropped Augusta."

  "She must have been heartbroken."

  "No," Mother said. "Not heartbroken. She was wild with rage. All her life she had been able to have her own way, Now she wanted Strang more than she had ever wanted anything--and she couldn't have him."

  "And she married Uncle Joseph on the rebound, as they say."

  "I'd say she married him in a fit of temper. He was older than she by seven years, which is a lot when you're seventeen; and he wasn't much better-looking then than he is now; but he was very rich, even richer than Strang. To give her credit, she has done all she can to be a good wife to him. But he will never be Strang, and she is still angry about that."

  "What happened to Strang?"

  "He married a French countess and died in a hunting accident."

  "I almost feel sorry for Augusta."

  "No matter what she has, she always wants more: more money, a more important job for her husband, a higher social position for herself. The reason she is so ambitious--for herself, for Joseph and for Edward--is that she still yearns for what Strang could have given her: the title, the ancestral home, the life of endless leisure, wealth without work. But that isn't what Strang offered her, in truth. He offered her love. That's what she's really lost. And nothing will ever make up for it."


  Hugh had never had such an intimate conversation with his mother. He felt encouraged to open his heart to her. "Mother," he began. "About Maisie ..."

  She looked puzzled. "Maisie?"

  "The girl ... all the trouble is about. Maisie Robinson."

  Her face cleared. "Augusta never told anyone her name."

  He hesitated, then blurted out: "She's not an 'unfortunate' woman."

  Mother was embarrassed: men never mentioned such things as prostitution to their mothers. "I see," she said, looking away.

  Hugh plowed on. "She is lower class, that much is right. And Jewish." He looked at her face and saw that she was startled, but not horrified. "She's nothing worse than that. In fact ..." He hesitated.

  Mother looked at him. "Go on."

  "In fact, she was a maiden."

  Mother blushed.

  "I'm sorry to speak of such things, Mother," he said. "But if I don't you'll only know Aunt Augusta's version of the story."

  Mother swallowed. "Were you fond of her, Hugh?"

  "Rather." He felt tears come to his eyes. "I don't understand why she disappeared. I've no idea where she went. I never knew her address. I've inquired at the livery stables she worked for, and at the Argyll Rooms where I met her. Solly Greenbourne was fond of her too, and he's as baffled as I am. Tonio Silva knew her friend April, but Tonio has gone back to South America and I can't find April."

  "How mysterious."

  "I'm sure Aunt Augusta arranged this somehow."

  "I have no doubt of it. I can't imagine how, but she is appallingly devious. However, you must look to the future now, Hugh. Boston will be such an opportunity for you. You must work hard and conscientiously."

  "She really is an extraordinary girl, Mother."

  Mother did not believe him, he could tell. She said: "But you'll forget her."

  "I wonder if I ever shall."

  Mother kissed his forehead. "You will. I promise."

  Section 2

  THERE WAS ONLY ONE PICTURE ON THE WALL in the attic room Maisie shared with April. It was a garish circus poster showing Maisie, in spangled tights, standing on the back of a galloping horse. Underneath, in red letters, were the words "The Amazing Maisie." The picture was not very true to life, for the circus had not actually had any white horses, and Maisie's legs had never been that long. All the same she cherished the poster. It was her only souvenir of those days.