by Ken Follett
Their eyes met across the room. Maisie read a silent appeal in his look. Slowly she got up and went to him. Standing beside his chair, she took his head in her hands and cradled it on her bosom, stroking his hair. Tentatively he put his arm around her waist, touching her gingerly at first, then hugging her to him hard. And then, at last, he began to cry.
When Hugh had gone Maisie made a tour of the wards. Now she saw everything with new eyes: the walls they had painted themselves, the beds they had bought in junk shops, the pretty curtains Rachel's mother had sewn. She remembered the superhuman efforts that had been required of her and Rachel to get the hospital opened: their battles with the medical establishment and the local council, the tireless charm they had used on the respectable householders and censorious clergy of the neighborhood, the sheer dogged persistence that had enabled them to pull through. She consoled herself with the thought that they had, after all, been victorious, and the hospital had been open for eleven years and had given comfort to hundreds of women. But she had wanted to make a permanent change. She had seen this as the first of dozens of Female Hospitals all over the country. In that she had failed.
She spoke to each of the women who had given birth today. The only one she was worried about was Miss Nobody. She was a slight figure and her baby had been very small. Maisie guessed she had been starving herself to help conceal her pregnancy from her family. Maisie was always astonished that girls managed to do this--she herself had ballooned when pregnant and could not have hidden it after five months--but she knew from experience that it happened all the time.
She sat down on the edge of Miss Nobody's bed. The new mother was nursing her child, a girl. "Isn't she beautiful?" she said.
Maisie nodded. "She's got black hair, just like yours."
"My mother has the same hair."
Maisie reached out and stroked the tiny head. Like all babies, this one looked like Solly. In fact--
Maisie was jolted by a sudden revelation.
"Oh my God, I know who you are," she said.
The girl stared at her.
"You're Ben Greenbourne's granddaughter Rebecca, aren't you? You kept your pregnancy secret as long as you could, then ran away to have the baby."
The girl's eyes widened. "How did you know? You haven't seen me since I was two years old!"
"But I knew your mother so well. I was married to her brother, after all." Kate had not been as snobbish as the rest of the Greenbournes and had been kind to Maisie when the rest were not around. "And I remember when you were born. You had black hair, just like your daughter."
Rebecca was scared. "Promise you won't tell them?"
"I promise I won't do anything without your consent. But I think you ought to send word to your family. Your grandfather is distraught."
"He's the one I'm frightened of."
Maisie nodded. "I can understand why. He's a hardhearted old curmudgeon, as I know from personal experience. But if you let me talk to him I think I can make him see sense."
"Would you?" said Rebecca in a voice full of youthful optimism. "Would you do that?"
"Of course," Maisie said. "But I won't tell him where you are unless he promises to be kind."
Rebecca looked down. Her baby's eyes had closed and she had stopped sucking. "She's asleep," Rebecca said.
Maisie smiled. "Have you chosen a name for her yet?"
"Oh, yes," Rebecca said. "I'm going to call her Maisie."
Ben Greenbourne's face was wet with tears as he came out of the ward. "I've left her with Kate for a while," he said in a choked voice. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed ineffectually at his cheeks. Maisie had never seen her father-in-law lose his self-possession. He made a rather pathetic sight, but she felt it would do him a lot of good.
"Come to my room," she said. "I'll make you a cup of tea."
"Thank you."
She led him to her room and told him to sit down. He was the second man to weep in that chair this evening, she thought.
"All those young women," the old man said. "Are they all in the same position as Rebecca?"
"Not all," Maisie said. "Some are widows. Some have been abandoned by their husbands. Quite a lot have run away from men who beat them. A woman will suffer a lot of pain, and stay with a husband even if he injures her; but when she gets pregnant she worries that his blows will damage the child, and that's when she leaves. But most of our women are like Rebecca, girls who have simply made a stupid mistake."
"I didn't think life had much more to teach me," he said. "Now I find I have been foolish and ignorant."
Maisie handed him a cup of tea. "Thank you," he said. "You're very kind. I was never kind to you."
"We all make mistakes," she said briskly.
"What a good thing you are here," he said to her. "Otherwise where would these poor girls go?"
"They would have their babies in ditches and alleyways," Maisie said.
"To think that might have happened to Rebecca."
"Unfortunately the hospital has to close," Maisie said.
"Why is that?"
She looked him in the eye. "All our money was in Pilasters Bank," she said. "Now we are penniless."
"Is that so?" he said, and he looked very thoughtful.
Hugh undressed for bed but he felt far from sleepy, so he sat up in his dressing gown, staring into the fire, brooding. He went over and over the bank's situation in his mind, but he could think of no way to ameliorate it. Yet he could not stop thinking.
At midnight he heard a loud, determined knocking at the front door. He went downstairs in his nightclothes to answer it. There was a carriage at the curb and a liveried footman on the doorstep. The man said: "I beg pardon for knocking so late, sir, but the message is urgent." He handed over an envelope and left.
As Hugh closed the door his butler came down the stairs. "Is everything all right, sir?" he said worriedly.
"Just a message," Hugh said. "You can go back to bed."
"Thank you, sir."
Hugh opened the envelope and saw the neat, old-fashioned writing of a fussy elderly man. The words made his heart leap with joy.
12, Piccadilly
London, S.W.
November 23rd, 1890
Dear Pilaster,
On further reflection I have decided to consent to your proposal. Yours, etc.
B. Greenbourne.
He looked up from the letter and grinned at the empty hall. "Well, I'll be blowed," he said delightedly. "I wonder what made the old man change his mind?"
Section 4
AUGUSTA SAT IN THE BACK ROOM of the best jeweler's shop in Bond Street. Bright gaslights flared, making the jewelry glitter in the glass cases. The room was full of mirrors. An obsequious assistant padded across the room and placed in front of her a black velvet cloth bearing a diamond necklace.
The manager of the shop was standing beside her. "How much?" she asked him.
"Nine thousand pounds, Lady Whitehaven." He breathed the price piously, like a prayer.
The necklace was simple and stark, just a plain row of identical large square-cut diamonds set in gold. It would look very striking against her black widow's gowns, she thought. But she was not buying it to wear.
"It's a wonderful piece, my lady; quite the loveliest thing we have in the shop."
"Don't rush me, I'm thinking," she replied.
This was her last desperate attempt to raise money. She had tried going openly to the bank and demanding a hundred pounds in gold sovereigns: the clerk, an insolent dog called Mulberry, had refused her. She had tried to have the house transferred from Edward's name into her own, but that had not worked either: the deeds were in the safe of old Bodwin, the bank's lawyer, and he had been got at by Hugh. Now she was going to try to buy diamonds on credit and sell them for cash.
Edward had at first been her ally, but now even he refused to help her. "What Hugh is doing is for the best," he had said stupidly. "If word gets around that family members are trying to grab
what they can, the syndicate could fall apart. They've been persuaded to put up money to avert a financial crisis, not to keep the Pilaster family in luxury." It was a long speech for Edward. A year ago it would have shaken her to the core to have her son go against her, but since his rebellion over the annulment he was no longer the sweet, biddable boy she loved. Clementine had turned against her too, supporting Hugh's plans to turn them all into paupers. It made her shake with rage when she thought about it. But they would not get away with it.
She looked up at the shop manager. "I'll take it," she said decisively.
"A wise choice, I have no doubt, Lady Whitehaven," he said.
"Send the bill to the bank."
"Very good, my lady. We will deliver the necklace to Whitehaven House."
"I'll take it with me," Augusta said. "I want to wear it tonight."
The manager looked as if he were in pain. "You put me in an impossible position, my lady."
"What on earth are you talking about? Wrap it up!"
"I fear I cannot release the jewelry until payment has been received."
"Don't be ridiculous. Do you know who I am?"
"Yes--but the newspapers say the bank has closed its doors."
"This is an insult."
"I am very, very sorry."
Augusta stood up and picked up the necklace. "I refuse to listen to this nonsense. I shall take it with me."
Perspiring, the manager moved between her and the door. "I beg you not to," he said.
She moved toward him but he stood his ground. "Get out of my way!" she blazed.
"I shall have to have the shop door locked and send for the police," he said.
It dawned on Augusta that although the man was practically gibbering with terror he had not conceded one inch. He was afraid of her, but he was more frightened of losing nine thousand pounds' worth of diamonds. She realized she was defeated. Enraged, she threw the necklace on the floor. The man scooped it up with no attempt at dignity. Augusta opened the door herself, stalked through the shop, and went out to where her carriage waited.
She held her head high but she was mortified. The man had practically accused her of stealing. A small voice in the back of her mind said that stealing was exactly what she had been trying to do, but she stifled it. She rode home in a rage.
As she entered the house Hastead tried to detain her, but she had no patience for domestic trivia at this moment, and she silenced him, saying: "Bring me a glass of warm milk." She had a pain in her stomach.
She went to her room. She sat at her dressing table and opened her jewelry box. There was very little in it. What she had was worth only a few hundred pounds. She pulled out the bottom tray, took out a piece of folded silk and unwrapped it to reveal the serpent-shaped gold ring that Strang had given her. As always, she slipped it on her finger and brushed the jeweled head against her lips. She would never sell this. How different everything would have been if she had been allowed to marry Strang. For a moment she felt like crying.
Then she heard strange voices outside her bedroom door. A man ... two men, perhaps ... and a woman. They did not sound like servants and anyway her staff would not have the temerity to stand around conversing on the landing. She stepped outside.
The door to her late husband's room was open and the voices came from in there. When she went in Augusta saw a young man, obviously a clerk, and an older, well-dressed couple of her own class. She had never set eyes on any of them before. She said: "In heaven's name who are you?"
The clerk said deferentially: "Stoddart, from the agents, my lady. Mr. and Mrs. de Graaf are very interested in buying your beautiful house--"
"Get out!" she said.
The clerk's voice rose to a squeak. "We have received instructions to put the house on the market--"
"Get out this minute! My house is not for sale!"
"But I personally spoke--"
Mr. de Graaf touched Stoddart's arm and silenced him. "An embarrassing mistake, quite obviously, Mr. Stoddart," he said mildly. He turned to his wife. "Shall we leave, my dear?" The two of them walked out with a quiet dignity that made Augusta seethe, and Stoddart scurried after them, spilling apologies everywhere.
Hugh was responsible. Augusta did not have to make inquiries to establish that. The house was the property of the syndicate that had rescued the bank, he said, and they naturally wished to sell it. He had told Augusta to move out, but she had refused. His response was to send prospective buyers to view the place anyway.
She sat down in Joseph's chair. Her butler came in with her hot milk. She said: "You are not to admit any more such people, Hastead--the house is not for sale."
"Very good, my lady." He set down her drink and hovered.
"Is there something else?" she asked him.
"M'lady, the butcher called personally today about his bill."
"Tell him he will be paid at Lady Whitehaven's convenience, not his own."
"Very good, m'lady. And both the footmen left today."
"You mean they gave notice?"
"No, they just went."
"Wretched people."
"My lady, the rest of the staff are asking when they will get their wages."
"Anything else?"
He looked bewildered. "But what shall I tell them?"
"Tell them I did not answer your question."
"Very good." He hesitated, then said: "I beg to give notice that I shall be leaving at the end of the week."
"Why?"
"All the rest of the Pilasters have dismissed their staff. Mr. Hugh told us we would be paid up to last Friday, but no more, regardless of how long we stay on."
"Get out of my sight, you traitor."
"Very good, my lady."
Augusta told herself she would be glad to see the back of Hastead. She was well rid of the lot of them, rats leaving the sinking ship.
She sipped her milk but the pain in her stomach did not ease.
She looked around the room. Joseph had never let her redecorate it, so it was still done out in the style she had chosen back in 1873, with leather-paper on the walls and heavy brocade curtains, and Joseph's collection of jeweled snuffboxes in a lacquered display cabinet. The room seemed dead, as he was. She wished she could bring him back. None of this would have happened if he were still alive. She had a momentary vision of him standing by the bay window, holding one of his favorite snuffboxes, turning it this way and that to see the play of light on the precious stones. She felt an unfamiliar choking sensation in her throat; and she shook her head to make the vision go away.
Soon Mr. de Graaf or someone like him would move into this bedroom. No doubt he would tear down the curtains and the wallpaper and redecorate, probably in the currently fashionable arts-and-crafts style, with oak paneling and hard rustic chairs.
She would have to move out. She had accepted this, although she pretended otherwise. But she was not going to move to a cramped modern house in St. John's Wood or Clapham, as Madeleine and Clementine had. She could not bear to live in reduced circumstances in London, where she could be seen by people she had once looked down upon.
She was going to leave the country.
She was not sure where to go. Calais was cheap but too close to London. Paris was elegant, but she felt too old to begin a new social life in a strange city. She had heard people talk of a place called Nice, on the Mediterranean coast of France, where a big house and servants could be had for next to nothing, and there was a quiet community of foreigners, many her own age, enjoying the mild winters and the sea air.
But she could not live on nothing a year. She had to have enough for rent and staff wages, and although she was prepared to live frugally she could not manage without a carriage. She had very little cash, no more than fifty pounds. Hence her desperate attempt to buy diamonds. Nine thousand pounds was not really enough, but it might have sufficed for a few years.
She knew she was jeopardizing Hugh's plans. Edward had been right about that. The goodwill of the syndicat
e depended on the family's being serious about paying off their debts. A family member running off to the Continent with her luggage full of jewelry was just the thing to upset a fragile coalition. In a way, that made the prospect more attractive: she would be happy to trip up the self-righteous Hugh.
But she had to have a stake. The rest would be easy: she would pack a single trunk, go to the steamship office to book passage, call a cab early in the morning, and slip away to the railway station without warning. But what could she use for money?
Looking around her husband's room she noticed a small notebook. She opened it, idly curious, and saw that someone--presumably Stoddart, the agent's clerk--had been making an inventory of the house contents. It angered her to see her possessions listed in a clerk's notebook and casually valued: dining table PS9; Egyptian screen 30s; portrait of a woman by Joshua Reynolds, PS100. There must be a few thousand pounds' worth of paintings in the house, but she could not pack those in a trunk. She turned the page and read 65 snuffboxes--refer to jewelry department. She looked up. There in front of her, in the cabinet she had bought seventeen years ago, was the solution to her problem. Joseph's collection of jeweled snuffboxes was worth thousands, perhaps as much as a hundred thousand pounds. She could pack it into her luggage easily: the boxes themselves were tiny, designed to fit into a man's waistcoat pocket. They could be sold one by one, as money was needed.
Her heart beat faster. This could be the answer to her prayers.
She reached out to open the cabinet. It was locked.
She suffered a moment of panic. She was not sure she could break it open: the wood was stout, the panes of glass small and thick.
She calmed herself. Where would he keep the key? In the drawer of his writing table, probably. She went to the table and pulled open the drawer. In it was a book with the horrifying title of The Duchess of Sodom, which she hastily pushed to the back, and a small silver-colored key. She snatched up the key.