William’s anxiety on his mother’s behalf proved to have been well-founded. It was impossible to know whether what happened was the result of Georgiana cooling herself too abruptly on the terrace after the exertion of dancing, or whether the dangerous moment had come earlier in the evening, when she left the boudoir to whose warmth she was accustomed, wearing a dress very much lower in cut than usual. Whatever the cause, the effect was that within twenty-four hours of the ball she was complaining of a chill.
Later on, every member of the family was to feel guilty that Georgiana’s first murmurs of complaint were not taken seriously. She had spent too many years suffering from illnesses which seemed to have no name for anyone to realize at once that this situation was different. She kept to her room - but that was her custom. She took to her bed -but it was assumed at first that this was no more than a reaction against the activity of the previous weeks, with their preparations for the dinner and ball.
William had of course returned to his own home with Sophie. Ralph had thrown himself into a frenzy of prayer and study ever since the day of Claudine’s departure for France. John Junius was more than usually absorbed in the affairs of the bank, and spent his evenings in the tower room frowning over pages of figures. Margaret, in the days immediately following the ball, took it for granted that she should be the one to receive the courtesy calls of their dinner guests. There were calls of congratulation on her engagement too; and calls of her own to be made in return. Each time she went to her mother’s door Marie-Claire greeted her with the news that Madame was resting, but there seemed no cause for alarm and she was too occupied with her own affairs to be worried. By ill fortune it happened that Dr Scott was spending a month in the country with his sister, and did not make his regular weekly call. Georgiana could, of course, have sent for his locum, but the selfish petulance with which she usually kept Dr Scott running to her call had been replaced by lethargy.
For all these reasons several days passed before Margaret, carrying in a silver bowl filled with roses from the garden, was horrified to see her mother, pale and lank-haired, fighting for breath as she lay propped up in bed by half a dozen pillows. A brief touch of hands was enough to tell Margaret, who had seen too many women lying ill in damp basements, that the condition was dangerous. Wasting no time in bedside talk, she beckoned the maid to follow her out of the room. Once the door was closed, she intended to express her anger that Marie-Claire had allowed her mistress’s condition to deteriorate in such a way, but for once the Frenchwoman was frightened rather than assertive.
‘There has been no fever until today,’ she said. ‘This morning for the first time Madame would not allow me to do her hair. She said she was too tired. I did not like to leave her, but I have rung for a footman to call a doctor.’
Nathaniel arrived at that moment to prove the truth of what she said, and Margaret sent him off at once to fetch the nearest doctor.
It was Dr Scott’s locum who came. After a long examination he applied a blister over the right lung. He sent for blankets and coals to sweat out the fever and prescribed doses of antimony mixed with syrup of poppies, promising to send round some laudanum so that his patient might have a restful night. Margaret watched with a feeling of helplessness, and was disturbed by the sickness which the antimony caused. As soon as her father returned that evening, Dr Scott was summoned from the country for a visit which for once was not a waste of his time. He did not actually criticize his own replacement, but withdrew the antimony and administered instead a medicine containing ammonia and ipecacuanha. A mustard poultice was placed over Georgiana’s other lung: her weakness increased.
The days passed with no improvement in her condition. It seemed impossible that a woman who was only in middle life, with all the medical care that money could buy, should succumb to an illness which had so slight a cause and which seemed to develop so slowly. And yet, as days and weeks went by, Margaret noticed Dr Scott’s face becoming more and more grim. He spoke to John Junius of a crisis, a low point to which his patient must now descend before any recovery could be hoped for. Margaret sat by the bedside every day and much of every night, but no miracle visited Brinsley House. Little by little the painful gasping of breath first quickened and then quietened. Before September ended, Georgiana Lorimer was dead.
She had never played any great part in her children’s lives, leaving their upbringing to the care of nurses, governesses and tutors, but they mourned her sincerely now. She had hardly seen her grandchildren, for the shrill voices of small boys and the crying of babies gave her headaches, but Matthew wept at the news as though his heart would break. The servants had no reason to love their mistress, for she rarely spoke to them except to scold, and only Marie-Claire need fear to lose her place, but cook and kitchenmaid alike were to be seen with red eyes. She had long ago ceased to give John Junius the company of a wife, but even he seemed struck into silence by grief, or perhaps by the fact that such a change in his life should occur without his instructions and against his wishes. By marrying a wife so much younger than himself he must have thought himself safe from being a widower.
He shut himself away all day in either the tower room or else the library. When he appeared for a meal he had nothing to say to his children. As he sat in silence, finding no fault and giving no instructions, Margaret realized for the first time that her father was an old man. He signed an order to the undertaker, but it was Margaret who had to send out invitations and order seed cake and Madeira wine. Even a funeral was a social activity. Mourning rings and black kid gloves must be provided for the friends who would come. Black dresses and shawls and bonnets must be bought for the female servants, with armbands or hat ribbons for the men. For Margaret herself, who had been only a child when the death of the last baby occurred, a dressmaker had to be summoned from the Mourning Warehouse to supply what appeared to be a complete new wardrobe. It was bewildering to become involved in so much domestic activity at a time which should have been one of quiet grief.
As though one tragedy were not enough, another came hard on its heels. The funeral was to be on the Thursday after Georgiana’s death. On the evening before it William had come over from The Ivies to sit with his father, brother and sister. They talked in low tones together. William had spent the day on board his newest steamship, which had been undergoing sea trials before her first voyage across the Atlantic. He told them about the ship and described his hopes for her future. She was to be called Georgiana for his mother. The decision was discussed and approved, and then the conversation lapsed. The four of them sat without occupation in the drawing room. It was an hour when Margaret normally worked at her gros point, but this seemed too frivolous a task at such a time. The dull blackness of their clothes made the atmosphere heavy, and there was an awkwardness in the silence as though each of them wished to break it but could think of no suitable subject to introduce.
The uneasiness was interrupted by the entry of Ransome. He murmured quietly to William that a messenger had come from the shipyard asking to speak with him. William frowned in surprise and then excused himself to his father and went out to the hall. When he returned, his face was pale.
‘There has been an accident to the Georgiana,’ he announced. ‘An explosion in the engine room. You will forgive me, Father, if I go at once to the shipyard and see what has happened.’
‘Is anyone hurt?’ asked Margaret.
Her question was not answered, for her father asked one at the same time.
‘Is there much damage?’
‘The ship is on fire,’ said William. ‘It is too early to tell how much can be saved, but we must fear the worst.’
He turned to go, but his father called him back.
‘William! There is more at stake here than a single ship. Can the fact of the accident be concealed?’
William shook his head.
‘No. The man who brought the message was at home when he heard the explosion. The flames were visible while he was on his way. Many others w
ill certainly have heard or seen what has happened.’
‘Send me a message as soon as you arrive,’ said John Junius. He spoke with an unusual urgency. ‘And another when you have been able to assess the damage. Both must be completely confidential. Anyone who comes to the yard out of curiosity must be told that the accident is a minor one, of no importance.’
‘I understand, Father.’
John Junius followed him to the hall and called Ransome to have his own carriage brought round.
‘You are not going down to the yard yourself, Papa?’ asked Margaret anxiously.
‘No. Mr Gregson must be here when William’s message arrives. I am sending to fetch him.’
Margaret could not understand why David should be concerned with an accident to a ship, but she was glad of anything which would bring him to the house. He came an hour later, and from the troubled look on his face Margaret could guess that her father had sent a note with the carriage to acquaint him of the trouble. His step hesitated as he saw her, but Ransome was waiting with instructions to take him straight to the tower room and he was forced to hurry away.
She left the door of the drawing room open and waited for David to reappear. A considerable time passed, and when he did come, it was in her father’s company.
‘I can close the door of Lorimer’s for one day out of respect for my wife on the day of her funeral,’John Junius was saying. ‘Even those who disbelieve the excuse may not like to speak out. But one day is all we have. Pray God it may be enough.’
‘I will do all I can, sir.’ He looked longingly at Margaret as he spoke. John Junius intercepted the glance.
‘You may see Mr Gregson to the carriage, Margaret, but you must not delay him. He has business of great urgency.’
Outside the door Margaret clung to David’s arm and put the question which had been troubling her ever since the message came for William.
‘I understand that my brother’s affairs may now be in difficulty,’ she said. ‘But why is my father so perturbed? And why should you be expected to take action because of this?’
‘Your brother’s ships are built with Lorimer’s money,’ said David. ‘This is known throughout Bristol. It is our gold which is burning down in the yard. And when our depositors hear of it, they will want to reassure themselves that their own money is safe. They will come as soon as the bank opens, to take it back.’
‘But you have it there to give them.’
‘No bank keeps all its deposits locked up in a strong room,’ said David. ‘The money must go out to earn its living, in order that business may be financed and that the shareholders may be paid. In calm times this principle is well understood by depositors. But an accident like this can cause a panic, and the panic itself can bring disaster. Your father is right to be perturbed. For your brother this is an unfortunate accident. For Lorimer’s Bank it could be far worse than that. You will say nothing of this to anyone, of course.’
‘Of course not.’ She still did not understand why the bank was at such risk, but at least she could see the need to let David go. As she turned back into the house her expression was troubled. The thought was mere superstition, she told herself, but she could not rid herself of the idea that disasters came in threes.
11
The captains of slaving ships in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries were not as a general rule renowned for their piety. Brinsley Lorimer was not seen inside a church building of any sort between the day of his wedding and that of his funeral. But his wife was a devout Baptist and because of her husband’s long absences at sea was able both to continue her own Sunday observances and to ensure that her children were brought up in a Godfearing manner. Neither they nor her grandchildren could have been described as religious in their adult lives, but perhaps for this reason none of them felt strongly enough to desert the Baptist way of life. It was Samuel, his narrow-minded piety reinforced by a wish for social advancement, who moved the family out of the Baptist chapel and into the Anglican church. John Junius Lorimer, his grandson, had been christened into the Church of England and looked to it to provide any other ceremony of which he might be in need. The early Lorimers were buried in a humble position down by the river, but Georgiana’s place was in the family tomb in the churchyard adjoining the Downs.
On the morning of the funeral John Junius conducted family prayers in the normal manner and took his usual place at the head of the breakfast table. William had arrived to join his brother and sister and support his father. Sophie, who was expecting her third child in seven weeks’ time, was unwell and could not leave her bed.
At ten o’clock the friends of the family began to assemble at the house. It was Margaret’s duty, as its mistress, to receive them and to apologize for her father, who did not appear in person to accept their condolences. She explained how deeply upset he was, although knowing that he was watching from an upstairs window for David’s arrival.
Time passed, and it seemed that David would not come. Margaret excused herself and slipped outside. The undertaker was waiting to show her that everything was in order. Covered with its pall of black velvet, the heavy lead and oak coffin had already been unobtrusively carried out of the house and placed in the glass-sided hearse. The two mourning coaches stood in readiness behind, each with four black horses tossing the plumes on their heads as they waited. The coachmen were already sitting on their boxes. The pages and feathermen and attendants who would carry the coffin into the church waited in a line for the family to appear.
David arrived in a cab at that moment and hurried into the house without seeing Margaret as she stood behind the coaches. By the time he had been admitted to the hall, John Junius was there to greet him. The chairman began his questioning without taking any notice of the fact that Margaret had followed inside and could hear their conversation.
‘Well?’
‘I have been successful in the smaller matter. All the banks in Bristol have agreed that they will honour Lorimer’s notes to a normal daily limit. I have arranged for this information to be spread amongst the managers of the principal shops, so that no anxiety should be caused by any refusal to accept our notes.’
‘And on the larger affair? The gold?’
David sighed.
‘There is goodwill towards us,’ he said. ‘All the banks are conscious of the danger to general credit if one of their number should fall. But none will act without the support of all the others. I have arranged a meeting of yourself and five other chairmen at the Old Bank at three o’clock this afternoon. All of them have reserves which they would be able to transfer temporarily, but only on condition that the matter could be kept secret. Naturally, they will all expect security for the transfers.’
There was a silence which seemed to Margaret more ominous than any words which had been spoken. It was not often that her father could think of nothing to say.
He braced himself at last to be encouraging.
‘We have been through all this before, Mr Gregson, and have survived,’ he said. ‘You would have been too young in 1866 to be aware of what happened when Gurney’s discount house in London stopped payment on debts of ten million pounds. Six banks failed within a week entirely because of the panic amongst depositors. Most of those banks were in any normal circumstances perfectly solvent; in fact, two of them were later able to resume business. We in Bristol weathered that storm, Mr Gregson, because we stood together to hold confidence. The lesson will not yet have been forgotten. We shall find the support we need.’
It was David’s turn to remain silent, as though he could not share this rosy view of the situation.
‘One thought did occur to me as I was on my way here,’ he said at last. ‘I assume that the Georgiana was insured. If Mr William Lorimer, perhaps with your help or mine, could persuade the insurance company to make at least a provisional settlement at once, this would be of great value.’
‘She was insured at Lloyd’s,’ said John Junius. ‘But the news will scarcely have reac
hed London yet. This class of business is so new that the insurers may well wish to send investigators to discover the cause of the damage. Undoubtedly they will meet their obligations in due course, but we can hardly expect them to consign a coffer of gold to the railway this evening.’
‘I was thinking of the security required by the other banks,’ David said. ‘A statement of intention to pay, if one could be obtained quickly, would assure its value in gold.’
‘A policy with Lloyd’s is sufficient security in itself,’ said John Junius. Margaret could see that he was pleased to have been reminded of it. ‘I will have a word with my son and bring the paper to the meeting.’
‘And I will return at once to the bank to see what figures I can prepare,’ said David; but John Junius shook his head.
‘Now that your engagement to Margaret has been announced, your presence will be expected at the funeral. I am anxious that nothing should happen today which could seem worthy of remark. An hour will make little difference.’
David bowed his acquiescence and came to stand by Margaret’s side.
‘After the service I must hurry away,’ he said to her. ‘I shall be very busy for the next few days. If I fail to visit you, it will not be from my own choice. Will you give me your forgiveness in advance?’
‘Of course. I know you will come as soon as you can.’
‘There is one other thing,’ said David. He hesitated, as though unsure whether he ought to say it. ‘If any great trouble should strike your family, you will remember, will you not, that I am anxious to make a home for you as soon as you are ready. Perhaps a humbler home than Lower Croft. I should be happy in any place where you are the mistress. Your mother’s illness prevented your father from naming a date for our wedding, as he had promised, and now I can see that her death must restrain you for a little while. But as soon as you are out of mourning and are ready to come, you will find me waiting.’
The Lorimer Line Page 13