by Diana Norman
The house near Hatton Garden had a dusty front door behind which was a spartan office. Both were deceptive. Makepeace had to stand in the street until the clerk identified her through the door’s grille.
She was welcomed and led up a tiny, creaking flight of stairs hidden behind a cupboard to a room warm with the wealth that a man of Mr Franco’s race and occupation dare not display to the outside world. Its hangings came from Arras, the carpets from Isfahan and the excellent coffee was served in cups of frail, blue-green porcelain. The place had a dry, oriental scent which Makepeace, having never seen one, associated with the desert. Its plump, middle-aged owner, on the other hand, was dressed as if for the Stock Exchange, though such jobbing as he did there was conducted under the colonnade known as ‘Jew’s Walk’ and without a licence.
‘How is Miss Susan?’ asked Mr Franco.
‘Very well.’
‘The hat trade, that goes well too?’
‘You won’t believe this, Mr Franco, but we’re now selling to Russia.’
Mr Franco pretended to hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘I should not have let the Leghorns go, no, no, nor Miss Susan should I have let go. But what can a poor man do against you? If there were more women of business such as yourself, we men would have to stay home and suckle our children.’
Makepeace smiled at him. ‘You’re not doing so badly, Mr Franco.’
‘Not badly, no. But I am not Raby coal, I cannot even burn Raby coal in my poor hearth, only His Majesty can afford it.’ He laced his ten fingers and waggled them at her. ‘When may I invest my few shekels?’
‘We’re over-subscribed at the moment, Mr Franco, but I do bear you in mind, I promise.’ It was a ritual; they’d held virtually the same opening conversation for months—they both enjoyed it.
Mr Franco heaved himself up and went to a bell pull. A clerk came up from the depths like a genie from a bottle, bringing a file of papers. ‘Yes, yes, I was summoned to Grosvenor Square again, Mrs Burke.’
‘Good. How much this time?’
Mr Franco waited until his clerk had gone downstairs. ‘Fourteen thousand?’ He scanned a page; he was summoned to lots of houses. ‘Yes, fourteen thousand. I gather the lady and gentleman in question have been once more unlucky at Mr Almack’s gaming tables.’
Makepeace shook her head. ‘Why do they do it?’ She could never get over the fact that they made things so easy for her.
Mr Franco reached out and pulled aside a curtain on the wall near him. Behind it were eight cheap prints, superbly framed, of The Rake’s Progress.
‘Every day I show those pictures to my son,’ said Mr Franco. ‘ “Regard the last two and pay your bills on time,” I tell him, “for here is what happens to men who do not.” Mr Hogarth painted from life, I tell him. “Sir Thomas Lowther, Lord Hoby, the King of Corsica, great men in their day, you are looking at them all.”
‘It is so with your friends,’ Mr Franco went on, ‘it is the usual thing. They chase the rainbow and think it can be pocketed. They invest in bubbles that promise a return of two thousand per cent, they mortgage their homes against a win at the tables which never comes, they dress well and keep fine horseflesh because the further they drop the less it must appear that they are falling.’
‘What security did they offer this time?’ she asked.
‘Some forest in Kent.’ Mr Franco consulted his papers again. ‘Yes, yes, Barton Wood. Five hundred and forty-two acres of prime oak. Good security—the navy is always eager for oak.’
‘Barton Wood? Are you sure?’
‘Yes, yes. Here is the valuation. As always, I temporize. I must consult my hard-hearted associate before I can advance more, I tell them. They appreciate such things, it confirms their opinion that I am a perfidious Jew wishing only to keep them on the rack.’
Mr Franco was of the Sephardim: he knew about racking; he still had relatives locked in the Spanish cells of the Inquisition. ‘The Major called me a reptile in his light-hearted way. Do you agree the loan?’
‘Not this time, no. May I borrow that valuation?’
Mr Franco raised his thick eyebrows. ‘You know something? Very well. Then they are nearly done. Unless they have a friend rich enough, or unwise enough, to cover such a debt you should soon be in a position to execute a warrant for their arrest.’
Mr Franco didn’t smile but he breathed in satisfaction like incense. His charge of forty per cent—lower than many of his colleagues’—had not covered all the names Major Conyers had seen fit to call him.
‘There are promissory notes as well,’ he said. ‘Most bills find their way to us reptiles sooner or later. Yes, yes, here they are. These as well?’
‘If you please, Mr Franco.’
‘Also, you remember, you asked me to keep an eye open for those of other ladies and gentlemen. Now, where . . . ? Ah here, yes, yes.’
The column of names on the page he handed over was a long one and might have been culled from a list of the peerage. Half the English gentry was exposed on it as being in debt to greater or lesser extent.
Again, wonderingly, Makepeace shook her head. ‘How can they?’
‘Mrs Burke, do not question it. Where would we poor money-lenders be if it were not for the British aristocracy?’
Before he showed her out, Mr Franco asked: ‘You are well guarded as you go abroad, Mrs Burke?’
‘Why?’
Mr Franco shrugged. ‘Major Conyers is a good soldier and therefore a bad man. He does not know of your . . . interest . . . in his affairs, of course, but the word among my people is that your presence in Town annoys him.’
While she waited for Robert in the upstairs room of The Spaniards, Makepeace asked for paper, ink and pen.
Dear Mr Hackbutt [she wrote],
Today a money-lender showed me this valuation (enclosed) on a property in Kent offered to him as security on a loan by Major Conyers now I know it is not part of the Dapifer estate and I believe it to be part of the inheritance of Ld Ffoulkes and therefore Major Conyers is using land that is not his but belongs to his ward. Andrew is travelling in Italy and cannot have given his permission. You will know what to do send it to Lord Ffoulkes’ lawyers and tell them what is toward.
Yrs respctfly, Makepeace Dapifer
There was a quick triple knock on the door and then two slower ones. Makepeace sighed. ‘Come in.’
A muffled figure slouched in. ‘You should’ve asked who it was, you naughty thing.’
‘I knew who it was.’
‘Well, I think we ought to have a password.’ Robert crossed to the window and pulled the shutters to. His cloak covered the lower part of his face. He’s probably got a dagger as well, Makepeace thought.
She’d ordered a meal for him: one of The Spaniards’s famous hams, some pickles and a bottle of wine; he didn’t like ale. He could have come to her home and eaten there—they were very close to her house—but he liked to believe he was being followed. It cost little enough to indulge his affection for subterfuge in return for his information. In any case life was becoming harder for him as his employers’ debts mounted and more and more servants left them.
But these sessions made her uneasy; Robert could evoke a scene between Conyers and Catty so exactly that it was like eavesdropping.
But how the hell else can I know what they’re up to?
Robert ate ravenously. ‘No food at home,’ he said, ‘nothing to eat it off, neither. Our bootmaker finally lost his patience and sent in the bums. They took the silver plate in payment.’
Philippa’s silver plate.
‘And the grocer’s took the epergne. And what we’ll pawn next I don’t know because the place is empty, completely stripped. We’d like to sell the Hertfordshire manor but it’s mortgaged to the hilt.’
‘I know,’ Makepeace said.
Robert eyed her over his plate. ‘Oh-ho, you’ve got it, have you, little sly-boots?’
‘What do they plan to do?’
‘Well, if I were us,
I’d flee the country, but we still think we can recoup with a lucky win at the tables.’
It astounded her that both her enemies could look to gambling, which had been their downfall, for their salvation. A disease, she could only suppose, that they had recognized in each other and, instead of repelling, had bonded them together in a desperate form of mutual suicide.
‘Why Macall puts up with it, I can’t think,’ Robert said. ‘We must owe him thousands. I suppose he’s afraid the Major will run him through if he excludes us. She’s going to Almack’s again tonight, some little do of Lady Brandon’s.’
‘I know. Macall told me.’ The Scotsman was now one of her investors.
Robert was quick. ‘Are you planning something?’
‘I might be.’
‘You be careful. I know you think I’ve got a bee in my bonnet, but you’re haunting them and that’s dangerous. He was at his window the other morning and heard the coalman whistling “Playing with Fire” as he delivered to the other side of the square. Well, out comes the riding whip, out comes the Major—still in his nightcap, my dear—and gives the poor fellow such a lashing as I feared would kill him. The blood . . .’ Robert shook his head. ‘I wish you’d make your move, I really do, and put us out of our misery.’
As he swung his cloak around him before setting out into the night, he said gently: ‘Don’t be too hard on them.’
She was incredulous. ‘Hard on them? Hard on them?’
‘I know.’ He tapped her cheek with his forefinger. ‘What they did . . . they’re awful, awful. But she’s deranged, oh completely. Did I tell you about the dog?’
‘That dog’s watching me, Siddy.’
‘Darling, how can she be? Poor Bracken’s blind as a mole, I ought to have her put down but she’s been a faithful old thing.’
‘She’s got the Squaw’s eyes, Siddy.’
‘No, my dear. The red-headed bitch has blue eyes, Bracken’s are brown.’
‘She’s watching me, Siddy.’
And two days later . . . ‘What the hell’s that noise?’
‘I think it’s the dog, Major. Madam’s got it in there with her.’
‘Catty. Open the door. Catty!’
‘I don’t know what she’d done to the poor creature, he wouldn’t let us see,’ Robert said, ‘but he buried it that afternoon.’
‘And you don’t want me to be hard on her? She’s evil.’
Robert shook his head. ‘Mad and getting madder. Sir Pip understood.’
As her carriage took her home, Makepeace nursed a headache and a longing for Newcastle, that smoke-grimed repository of everything clean. She must go up again soon—on business, of course. The Grand Alliance wanted to restrict production in order to put up the price again . . .
Oh God, she thought with an attack of honesty, I just want to be there.
‘We’re home, ma’am.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Sanders. I shall need you again tonight. The coach, I think.’ She was handed down from the carriage. Light flowed across the portico as a footman with a branched candlestick opened the door to her.
It was a nice house, in the highest and most prestigious part of Highgate, not modern but graceful, designed by Roger Pratt circa 1650, a comfortable version of English Palladian. She’d bought it, complete with furniture and servants, from Lord Braybourne’s widow after his death because it hadn’t needed alteration and its situation was healthy while still being close to London.
Lady Braybourne had returned to her native Ireland immediately after the sale so the other great advantage of the house was that Society had not yet become aware that Makepeace was living in it.
As she passed the footman, she said: ‘Tell Hildy to lay out the gold satin, if you please.’
‘Going out again, ma’am?’
‘Yes.’
She went through to the Grand Saloon.
Pip would approve of this room, she thought. Certainly, Aaron had: ‘This is more like it, ’Peace. A cut above the Roaring Meg, eh?’ Yet she felt no sense of ownership; it was to the Braybournes’ excellent taste she owed every piece of furniture within the rosesilk walls; theirs were the white wainscoting and doors, the marble fireplace, the delicate plaster ceiling.
Even the paintings had been picked for her—by young Josh: a Reynolds portrait of her and Philippa and Betty, a Gainsborough and a large, alarming ‘Raising of Lazarus’ by van Haarlem.
Susan and Betty sat by the window in a concentration of candles, Susan doing her embroidery, Betty knitting. ‘Is Philippa in bed?’
‘She got tired waitin’,’ Betty said. ‘Thought you’d be home afore this.’
‘There were things to do.’ The more she entangled Catty and Conyers in her web the less inclined she felt to talk about it. She added: ‘And I’ve got to go out again later on.’
Betty sucked her teeth.
Susan followed her up to her room and stood in the doorway, her hands pleating her skirt. ‘I think it’s time I went home to see Auntie, ’Peace.’
Makepeace looked up. ‘Boston, do you mean?’
‘Yes. She isn’t getting any younger and I can help with her business.’
‘You’re a help with mine.’ The export of Leghorns didn’t compare financially with the other pies Makepeace had her fingers in, but its purpose had been to provide Susan with a good income while working from the home they shared—which it did. Miss Brewer might well look shifty.
Oh damn, this was going to require manipulation. ‘My dear, what would I do without you? What would Philippa do without you?’
And, actually, what would you do without Philippa? she thought. It had been a happy arrangement to buy this house for them all and, while she was in Newcastle, to leave her daughter in the care of Susan and Betty. The child was the apple of Susan’s eye and she devoted a good deal more time in attending to Philippa than she did to creating hats; the embroidery downstairs was putting little stitched sea-shells onto one of Philippa’s dresses.
Miss Brewer looked shiftier, then squared her shoulders. ‘I was wondering, Makepeace . . . I wondered if you might allow Philippa to come with me—just for a visit. Cousin Bart has a large farm in Concorde, his children just run wild there—she’d love the freedom.’ At Makepeace’s look she said: ‘Well, sakes, she is half an American.’
Makepeace was astonished and amused. ‘Susan, it’s good of you, but I really think Philippa’s visit to the Americas must wait ’til I have time to go with her.’ She went back to her dressing.
‘When’s that going to be?’ It was a rhetorical question; Susan was already on her way downstairs.
Some members are paying their gambling bills even if Catty isn’t, Makepeace thought as she went up Almack’s staircase. The club looked even more luxurious than it had, with more chandeliers, more excellent hangings, deeper carpets. Macall was standing at the head of the stairs talking to the Earl of Orme. Catching sight of Makepeace he bowed, then excused himself and moved away—he was going to stay out of this. The Earl just stared. ‘Good God!’
She passed him with a nod.
As she went by the entrance to the gaming tables the scent of heated baize table-tops came out to her, the wink of dice and jewels, the almost tangible, sexual hush. They didn’t tempt her now; there were too many flushed young men in the room and they all resembled Headington.
She didn’t go in but proceeded on along the gallery to the open door of a smaller room in which other people were gathered around green tables. The footman on its threshold bowed. ‘May I announce you, ma’am?’
‘Lady Dapifer,’ Makepeace said.
He turned. ‘La-dee Dapifer.’
There was immediate silence. Every head in the room turned to her like a field of sunflowers. She let them look; she was in splendour and she knew it—gold suited her. I’m the ghost of your past come back to haunt you.
Then she thought: No, I’m the ghost of their future. I’m the new age, me and Hedley.
After a moment she heard Catty’
s voice break the silence: ‘It’s the Squaw, my dears. I thought it was dead but I see they’ve gilded it.’
Given the circumstances, Makepeace thought she did well.
Another footman came hurrying over, very flurried. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but Lady Brandon says this reception is by invitation only.’
‘I know,’ Makepeace said. She put a piece of paper in his hand. ‘This is my invitation.’
Lady Brandon advanced on her. ‘What does this mean?’
‘It’s a bill, madam, a note promising to pay, one of several signed by you which I have bought off those to whom you owe money. I can show the others to your husband if you’d prefer.’
Catty came dancing up. ‘Is it being a nuisance, Prissie? Dispose of it.’
The rouge on Lady Brandon’s cheeks formed garish circles against skin that had turned grey.
‘Prissie? What is it?’
Lady Brandon remained silent.
‘Prissie!’ Catty turned to Makepeace almost in appeal. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m being invited to play,’ Makepeace said. ‘Aren’t I, Lady Brandon?’
She watched Catty’s hands scrabble at her friend’s sleeve. Do you see them? Did you see my hands clawing at closed gates?
‘She’s got to go, Prissie. Send her away.’ It was a plea.
Lady Brandon opened her mouth, then closed it.
‘I see,’ Catty said. Makepeace was surprised at her sudden control—until she saw her eyes. ‘You will pay, you know.’
‘I already have.’
Lady Brandon’s hand came out as Catty swept past her out of the door, and then fell back to her side.
Makepeace waited until the sound of clicking heels had faded before she said: ‘Thank you, Lady Brandon, but I’m afraid I must refuse. I don’t gamble.’
On the way back to Highgate in the coach, she took in deep breaths of satisfaction. It had been a pleasure. The first hand-to-hand engagement of the war—petty, perhaps, even unchristian, but, whatever else happened, the memory of that little skirmish could be laid away with battle honours.
She was pleased to see that there was still light in the Grand Saloon. Betty had waited up for her. ‘Wait ’til I tell you—’ she said.