‘You look like a dream,’ Henry complimented her, holding out his hands as she reached the foot of the stairs. ‘Do you know what Thomas Otway wrote? “O woman, lovely woman! Nature made thee to temper man: we had been brutes without you; angels are painted fair, to look like you.”’
‘You’re very poetic,’ said Effie. ‘And you’re very flattering, too.’
‘I couldn’t flatter you if I tried,’ Henry told her, in a warm voice.
Vera Cockburn appeared from the living-room, in a low-cut black evening-dress, and a glittering array of diamonds. ‘Hello, Mr Baeklander,’ she said, with a smile that was as taut as a tuned viola string. ‘You won’t keep Miss Watson out too late tonight, will you? She has to come shopping with me tomorrow, and for shopping a girl needs all her concentration.’
‘I’ll bring her back by twelve,’ Henry assured her. ‘I have several lady guests on the Excelsior this evening, so you can be quite certain that Miss Watson will be safe.’
Jerome brought Effie’s fur-lined cloak. It was dark blue German brocade lined with silver fox. It had once been Vera’s, but Vera had grown ‘irritated’ with it, and given it to Effie, along with a beautifully-cut broad-cloth suit, and several feathery hats. Effie fastened the clasp, put on the large fur-trimmed hat that had been made by Mrs Cockburn’s milliner to match, and said, ‘I’m ready, Henry.’
Henry had a motor-car waiting for them outside, a 4 hp Alldays and Onions Traveller. There were two seats, one at the front for Effie, with a footboard, and a slightly higher one behind, for Henry. Henry helped Effie to step up into her seat, and covered her knees with a heavy woollen blanket. Then he went to the back of the motor-car, cranked the engine, and it started up, with four or five loud pops and a reverberation that made it shudder and jink on its leaf-springs. Three small urchins who had been standing under a street-light across the road, bothering passers-by for cigarette cards, hurried across to watch the sport.
‘Watch you don’t drop ‘er aht when you go rahnd a corner!’ one of them shouted to Henry.
‘Give us frippence, mister, and we’ll give yer a push!’
Effie had never travelled in a motor-car before; let alone in London, and at night, with a rich and ugly American financier. What made the experience even more unnerving was that she was sitting in front, unable to see Henry at all, and that the chugging and popping of the engine made talking impossible. Two oil-lamps flickered at the side of the motorcar, but they gave out very little illumination and a very pungent odour. She covered her face with the furry collar of her cape, and huddled in her seat, one hand clinging tightly to the arm-rest. The speed at which they were travelling, bumping and shaking over the cobbled surface of Victoria Street, was terrifying, and the gaslamps seemed to rush past them like a hundred torches hurled one by one down a dark well.
‘Eleven miles an hour!’ Henry cried, in her right ear. ‘Isn’t that something!’
It took them no time at all to reach the end of Victoria Street, and pass the ghostly white Gothic towers of Westminster Abbey. They puttered rapidly around Parliament Square, beneath the pale cream-coloured moon of Big Ben; and as they reached Westminster Embankment, the clock begin to strike eight-fifteen.
The river Thames was black; but the lights from the far side of the river were reflected in the water, dipping in the tidal swell like drowned planets. Effie’s breath smoked in the cold air as Henry piloted them with great speed towards Charing Cross, and there were haloes around the plane trees which lined the embankment. It was London in winter: foggy, damp, and sharp, with that particular submarine gloom which somehow made it seem all the more mysterious and romantic. Even the pie-stalls along the embankment seemed like stray wagons from some enchanted circus, their pressure-lamps blurring the night, their counters stacked high with Cornish pasties and beef pies and clusters of thick white cups.
Henry drew in the Alldays and Onions by Hungerford Bridge, and applied the brass-handled brake. Then he stepped down, and offered Effie his hand, to help her alight. ‘You weren’t frightened?’ he asked her. ‘This is quite a nifty little machine!’
‘No,’ she said, quietly. ‘I wasn’t frightened.’
They crossed the pavement to the stone steps which led down to the river. It was then that Effie had her first sight of the Excelsior.
‘What do you think of her?’ asked Henry, with undisguised enthusiasm. He looked at Effie closely, to see how she really felt about it. ‘She’s all ready to sail. Polished, trimmed, and perfect! Just like you.’
The Excelsior was a long yacht, and sleek, her hull painted white with elaborate gold decorations. She was steam-powered: there was a single yellow funnel amidships. But she also sported two tall masts, which could carry sufficient sail to carry her all the way across the Atlantic in the event of an engine breakdown. Her decks were varnished, and every inch of rail glittered with polish. A canvas awning covered the after-deck, and this had been brightened to dazzling whiteness with a popular mixture of vinegar, fuller’s-earth, dried fowl’s-dung, and onions. The ship’s executive officer, with a huge brown beard and two rows of gold buttons, stood to attention by the gangplank as Henry and Effie came aboard.
‘Welcome aboard, Miss Watson,’ he said, in a brisk New England accent, saluting her.
Effie nodded, not sure if she should reply or not; but then Henry took her arm and led her across the deck to the main stairwell.
‘Cornelius Vanderbilt gnashed his teeth when he saw this vessel,’ Henry smiled, opening the door for Effie, and helping her to step over the high step into the upstairs lobby. ‘It’s longer than his, and it displaces more tonnage, and it’s much more luxurious. He has a false fireplace in the North Star, but I have a real one. And eleven staterooms to his nine. I tell you, he gnashed his teeth.’
The descended the companionway to a large pair of mahogany doors, inset with engraved glass, which led them through to the main drawing-room. This was decorated in the style of the great Louis XIV interiors, with painted panelling on the walls and the ceiling, and a fine pastel carpet, and 18th-century furniture that was gilded and upholstered in silks and silken braid. Three young girls were sitting here; one of them could only have been a little older than fourteen; and when Henry came in they all stood up together and curtseyed, like three painted dolls.
‘This, my dears, is Effie Watson,’ said Henry. ‘I’m pleased to be able to tell you that she will be joining me on my cruise to the Mediterranean, and that she will be returning to New York with me as my wife.’
Effie hadn’t realised, when Henry had told her that she would have female company tonight, that it would consist of nothing more than three bedraggled and under-age young prostitutes. Innocent as Effie still was, she had already seen young girls like these in their vivid rouge and their doubtful finery, parading up and down Piccadilly, and collecting hopefully around the theatres in the Haymarket, and she could recognise a London harlot when she saw one. They weren’t too different from the whores of Princes Street.
She said, anxiously, ‘Henry …’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Henry, taking her arm. ‘I didn’t expect you to sit down to dinner with ladies like these.’ He clapped his hands, like a ringmaster, and said, ‘You girls can go. You’ll get your money from Mr Outcault on the way out.’
The girls, silently trooped out, ostentatiously holding up their skirts. Effie turned away, to save their dignity and her own embarrassment, and looked out of the portholes on the opposite side of the drawing-room. The lights of a Thames barge passed them by, on its way to Gravesend, and by the time it had passed, the girls had gone. Effie heard the tapping of their shoes on the deck above.
‘Now,’ said Henry Baeklander, spreading his arms wide.
Effie said, ‘She’s a very fine ship, isn’t she?’
‘She cost me $300,000,’ said Henry, proudly ‘She was designed by the very best shipbuilders, and fitted out by the very best interior designers, with the very best materials and the very best furnit
ure. She costs $22,000 a year to run. Yes, She’s very fine. Very fine indeed.’
‘Well, I’m awfully impressed,’ said Effie.
‘Sit down,’ urged Henry. ‘Would you care for an aperitif before dinner. A sherry perhaps, or a chilled vermouth? I don’t know what Scottish people drink, apart from tea and whisky.’
‘A glass of sherry would do,’ said Effie, although she scarcely ever drank sherry, and she could feel herself flush as she asked for it.
‘Sherry? Well, of course.’ Henry pressed a brass button beside the fireplace. ‘I, er … well, I didn’t think I would hear from you! You certainly left it until the last minute. I was worried that you wouldn’t come at all.’
‘You had no need to be worried, Henry,’ said Effie, in a soft voice, although she couldn’t look him in the face. Her mother had brought her up never to lie, no matter what the justification, and she doubted whether her mother would have considered this situation to be justification enough.
‘Your letter …’ said Henry, picking up the folded note from the marble-topped table beside him. ‘I must say that it threw me. I was all prepared to sail tomorrow without you.’
Effie smiled, and nodded, and sat with her hands demurely clasped in her lap. This was going to be much more difficult than she had expected. Yet she had to go through with it, for Dougal’s sake; and for the sake of Watson’s Bank. Henry Baeklander was the only man who could save both her brother and her father’s money, and for that, she hoped that she was prepared to do almost anything. She just prayed that Henry wouldn’t try to kiss her. Not tonight. She might hate it, and then again she might not. It would be worse, in a way, if she didn’t. To enjoy it would be sure and certain proof that she couldn’t trust herself any more than she could trust the rest of the world.
Henry read out loud, ‘You must forgive my procrastination … I needed to think deeply before committing myself to the care of one man … But tonight, on the eve of your departure, I know that it has to be you … I accept your offer … I accept it gladly … I will ask my parents for permission to marry as soon as practicable … and meanwhile …’
Henry put the letter down and gazed at Effie with an expression that was both ludicrous and tender. She lowered her eyes, and bit her lip to stop herself from laughing. Why is it that serious people, when they do eventually melt, always look so absurd? Is it because their faces have never had any practice at looking sentimental?
A steward came in, with a gold tray, and asked them what they would care to drink. When he had gone, Effie said, ‘You mustn’t think me forward. I wrote only because I knew that I had to make up my mind, and there was so little time …’
‘My dearest Effie,’ said Henry. ‘I don’t think anything of you except the highest possible thoughts. You kept me waiting, yes. But I understand why. I am honoured that at the end of my waiting, you have decided to take me up on my offer, and marry me.’
‘And employ Dougal,’ put in Effie.
‘Oh, sure,’ said Henry.
‘That was part of your offer, though, wasn’t it?’ asked Effie. ‘You offered to employ Dougal.’
‘Sure. Anything you like.’
‘Perhaps he could be an investment manager?’
Henry Baeklander shrugged. ‘Certainly. If that’s what you want him to be. All I care about is you, and the fact that you’re here. I feel like I’ve been rescued from a burning building, in the nick of time.’
Effie smiled. ‘You’re very dear to me, you know,’ she told him. ‘You have all the qualities of a fine husband, and a trustworthy friend.’
Henry shifted in his chair. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘I like to think so.’
Effie stood up, and went across to the Morocco-topped table in the middle of the room. In a tooled leather writing-case of the kind carried by British colonial officials, she found sheets of paper, ink, and pens.
‘Come on,’ said Henry, ‘we can deal with this later.’
But Effie sat herself down at the table and drew the paper towards her. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘If we are to make an agreement, then we must make an agreement. Then we will know that everything is legal, and binding.’
Henry leaned on the table and looked into her eyes. ‘You’ve really decided to become my wife?’
Effie smiled, a smile that cost her a great deal in courage and in deception. She dipped her pen into the pot of ink, and began to write: “I Henry Baeklander agree to employ Dougal Watson for as long as he shall he satisfactory, and in any case not fewer than five years, as an investment manager for Baeklander Trust, of New York.” She paused, and then she added, under a flourishing line, the words, “S’gd, Henry Baeklander.”
‘There,’ she said, sliding the paper across the table towards him. ‘That should settle everything.’
Henry read the paper, and while he read it, Effie touched the back of his hand, with her gloved fingers, stroking his knuckles, running along the length of his fingers. After a moment or two, Henry looked up, and held out his hand. ‘Pen?’ She gave it to him, and with a quick angular scribble, he signed.
‘Now you’re happy about your brother, perhaps you’d care for some dinner?’ he asked. ‘Auguste has been on excellent form since we’ve docked in London. He’s been able to get hold of crayfish, and oysters, and excellent beef. Tonight, we’re having woodcock, and duck.’
Effie stood up again, and watched while Henry blotted the paper. He held it up in front of her when it was dry, teasing her. ‘I like to see a girl who’s fond of her family,’ he grinned. ‘What would you do to lay your hands on this piece of paper?’
Effie reached for it, but he snatched it away, still smiling. ‘You’re a banker’s daughter! You know that you can’t ever have anything for nothing! Isn’t that the first lesson your father ever taught you?’
Effie tried to take the paper from him again, but he ducked away. ‘All you have to do is kiss me,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think that’s appropriate? A marriage agreement, sealed with a kiss?’
‘Of course,’ said Effie, with false brightness.
‘Well, then,’ said Henry.
Effie came closer to him, and raised her pale gloved hands so that they rested on his lapels. White, pearl-beaded fingers, resting on black silk facings. She could smell his Floris toilet-water, and she felt slightly delirious, as if she were sinking into a field of spices and flowers. She whispered, ‘You have a strange effect on me, Henry. You make me feel as if all the clocks in the world are turning backwards.’
‘For me, I think they are,’ murmured Henry. He lowered his head a little, and then brushed her lips with his.
He moved her; there was no doubt that he moved her. He was strong and he was ugly and he was fabulously rich. When he kissed her, there was nothing she could do to prevent herself from opening her mouth, so that his fierce tongue could penetrate her lips, and there was nothing she could do to resist his hands, as they caressed her back, and her waist, and at last came up and held her breasts.
She gasped, ‘Henry,’ as if he had abruptly thrown her overboard, and she was drenched in icy-cold water.
He released her, shrugging, disconcerted. ‘I’m sorry, Effie I’ve been too hasty. But I’ve always been that way. When I’ve seen something that I’ve really wanted, it’s always been difficult for me not to seize it at once.’
She said, blindly, ‘I’ve never met anyone like you before. Not ever.’
‘There aren’t many people like me, that’s why,’ he joked, trying to sound light-hearted. ‘I’m kind of unique. Rich financiers aren’t stamped out with cookie cutters. They have to make their own way in the kitchen.’
He was still holding the piece of paper with Dougal’s employment agreement on it. He waved it towards the oil-lamp, and said, ‘Shall I burn it?’
Effie stood where she was. ‘You can if you want to.’
Henry took out his handkerchief, perfumed with cologne, and used it to protect his hand while he unscrewed the frosted-glass globe from the lamp. Th
en he held the paper towards the naked, smoky flame, watching Effie as he did so to see how she would react. She stayed where she was, unblinking, one hand slightly raised across her left breast, the other holding the back of the Louis XIV chair.
There was a long pause. The Excelsior dipped and swayed slightly beneath their feet, as a large river-boat passed them by. The crystals of the chandelier jingled faintly, like Poe’s bells, ‘to the tintinnabulation that so musically swells,’ and then were silent again.
‘Very well,’ said Henry, handing Effie the paper. ‘Here. You have more nerve than I could have believed. You’re sincere, and that’s rare among the British. The British, Scottish and all, they’re a sneaky lot, mostly, but you, you’re not. You’ve been straight to me, Effie, even though you’ve kept me waiting, and I appreciate your straightness.’
Oh my dear Lord, thought Effie, please forgive me.
They went through to the dining-room, which had been designed to seat twenty. The large portholes were draped with dark rust-coloured velvet, embellished with yellow tassels, and the furniture was gilded and painted with cherubs and seraphs. Four servants were waiting for them, four negroes in starched white jackets with gilt buttons, and they seated Effie at one end of the table and Henry at the other. The table had already been laid with gold cutlery, gold service plates, gold napkin rings, and a gold and crystal cruet.
Henry shook out his napkin, ‘You’ve given me great pleasure, Effie, by deciding to come with me.’
She smiled, and lifted her hand to refuse a glass of hock from one of the stewards.
Henry said, ‘I don’t fall in love easily. I want you to know that. I’m not an easy person. But I fell in love with you the moment I saw you, and I’ll always treat you well.’
Lady of Fortune Page 19