Lady of Fortune

by Graham Masterton

  ‘How will you protect your crop from birds?’ Effie asked him. ‘And what will you do about insurance, in case the crop fails, or it rains all summer? And what about the grey mould?’

  The strawberry-grower looked to Robert in bewilderment. Robert, pleased, sat back so that his chins folded over his collar. ‘Go on, then, Mr Graeme, answer if you please. What about the grey mould?’

  On the way back to Edinburgh, as they drove through Blairadam Forest, with the clouds above them low and moist and as grey as mother-of-pearl, Robert burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Effie asked him.

  ‘Yon fellow’s face when you asked him about the grey mould! There he was, trying to chuck you under the chin, and you knew just as much about growing strawberries as he did! Och, I loved it!’

  ‘I looked it up in the encyclopaedia last night,’ said Effie. ‘Strawberries suffer from all kinds of diseases, and they get eaten by slugs, but grey mould’s the worst.’

  Robert took out a briar pipe. Effie had never seen him smoke before. He pushed tobacco into the pipe with one plump thumb, and then clenched it tightly between his teeth. ‘I’ve an idea,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you come to work at the bank for me, as my assistant? You’re clever, you are; and you like to work with money. It would keep you out of trouble until you meet the man you’re going to marry.’

  ‘I don’t think I’ll every marry,’ said Effie.

  ‘Whoof! Don’t give me the blether. A London swankie like you!’

  Effie laughed. But she didn’t laugh for very long. She thought of Henry Baeklander, kissing her lips, touching her breast. It was a sweet sad warmth she felt for Henry now, that was all; but it was all she had left. He would never know what it had taken for her to send Dougal off on the Excelsior, instead of going herself. But the Excelsior had been like a test of her strength, a tempting trap to prevent her from doing what she really desperately wanted to do.

  If she had been a little older, and a little more experienced with men, she might have gone. But Henry had underestimated her innocence, and her tight Edinburgh upbringing. In his world, morality was only circumscribed by how much money you had. In Effie’s, it was decreed by the Bible, and the Kirk, and by her own inexperience. Besides, she was still very conscious of how an early marriage had brought nothing but despair to her mother; and discontent to the whole Watson family. Only Robert seemed happy. Happy and unflappable, and pleased with life.

  ‘Will you marry, yourself?’ she asked him. ‘It seems time, at twenty-nine. You’ll be an old man soon, with no wife to look after you.’

  Robert lit his pipe, and tossed the match out of the motorcar. They were approaching the Hill of Beath now, and the Albion’s two-cylinder engine was beginning to labour. An old woman in a grey shawl shouted something at them as they rattled by. It could have been ‘Mahoun!’ which meant ‘Satan!’, but whatever it was, the Albion answered by backfiring loudly at her, and sending her running away down the road with her basket flying.

  ‘I’ll marry in good time,’ Robert said, folding his hands over his rounded belly. He winked at Effie, and then he added, ‘I just have to find myself a lady who’s as sharp as you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  It was Christmas Eve when she arrived on the doorstep of 14 Charlotte Square, and it was snowing. The square had taken on the appearance of a sparkling Christmas-card, and there was a smell of coal-smoke and roasting chestnuts in the air. The bells rang from the churches high up on the rock, and in Queen Street you could hear children singing Once In Royal David’s City. A magical, traditional time, of whisky and pudding and good friends and overwhelming sentiment.

  Mrs McNab opened the door. She said, ‘Yes?’ but her question was scarcely necessary. There could only be one reason why a pretty girl should appear at the door of any prosperous house the night before Christmas, carrying in the folds of her long dark blue velvet cape a tiny baby wrapped in a woollen shawl. The baby was wide awake, and crying.

  ‘I’m Prudence Cutting,’ the girl said, a little hoarsely. ‘I’m looking for Mr Dougal Watson.’

  ‘Come in, come in,’ fussed Mrs McNab. She ushered Prudence into the hallway, and dragged in her large carpet-bag from the step. Then she closed the door firmly against the snow, and pushed back the thick woollen draught-excluder.

  ‘Haith, you shouldn’t be wandering about on the night before Christmas, with your baby in your arms!’ exclaimed Mrs McNab, ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘London, I arrived on the seven o’clock train.’

  ‘London! What a night to be travelling! And look at your wee babbie! A tiny one, isn’t it? It’s a boy? It’s got the lungs of a boy!’

  Prudence put back the hood of her cape. She was very pale, and there were dark smudges of tiredness under her eyes. ‘Is Dougal here?’ she asked. ‘This is the right address, isn’t it? The Watsons?’

  ‘Aye, the Watsons,’ said Mrs McNab. ‘But Dougal’s not here. He’s been in America these good eleven months.’

  ‘America?’ asked Prudence, faintly.

  ‘Och, here,’ said Mrs McNab. ‘Sit down for a moment. Let me take the babbie. It’s a boy, isn’t it? What’s his name?’

  Prudence held on to the baby, but gratefully sat down on the straight-backed Jacobean chair next to the hall table. She unwound the baby’s shawl a little, so that Mrs McNab could see its fine blond curls, and she also set free one small chubby arm, which excitedly thrashed at the air. ‘His name’s William Albert,’ she said. Then she looked up, her eyes filled with tears. ‘I couldn’t think what else to call him.’

  ‘Come now,’ said Mrs McNab. ‘Let me see if Mrs Watson’s down yet. You’ll find her very sympathetic. Just sit here for one moment, and I’ll find out what’s what.’

  But at that moment, Robert came down the stairs, cantering heavily down the uncarpeted oak. ‘What’s this?’ he asked Mrs McNab, as he reached the hallway. He tugged at his cuffs to straighten them. ‘Visitors, on Christmas Eve?’

  ‘She came to see Mr Dougal,’ explained Mrs McNab. ‘I told her that he was in America, and I was just going to fetch down your mother.’

  ‘Well, now,’ said Robert, advancing on Prudence across the hallway. ‘Who are you, if you don’t mind my asking?’

  Prudence glanced anxiously at Mrs McNab, but Mrs McNab smiled and nodded to reassure her that everything was all right. ‘My name’s Prudence Cutting, sir. This is my baby.’

  ‘You’re English,’ said Robert.

  Prudence nodded. ‘I came up from London today. I was hoping to find Dougal.’

  ‘Ah, you were, were you? Well, I’m Dougals’s brother Robert. Older brother, of course. More sensible of the pair! And who’s this wee chappie?’

  ‘He’s my baby.’

  ‘Well, I can see that,’ said Robert, with the sort of knowing smile that a music-hall comedian reserves for the slower members of his audience. ‘But why have you brought your baby four hundred miles on Christmas Eve, my dear, just to see Dougal? Isn’t that odd of you, or am I missing something?’

  The baby was clinging on to Prudence’s finger. She said, ‘His name’s William Albert.’

  ‘William after William the Conqueror, and Albert after Albert?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Prudence, covering the baby’s head again.

  Robert paced around the hallway, his patent-leather evening pumps clicking on the bare boards, and silent on the rugs. Prudence followed him with her eyes, while Mrs McNab nervously twisted her apron. This kind of suspense was something that Robert was very good at. It was quite obvious why Prudence had come here, tonight of all nights, and yet Robert was making her suffer before he made her confess to the truth. ‘Other people’s guilt is nothing to do with me,’ he always used to say, and yet he had a talent for making his employees feel guilty, and for exploiting, that guilt to the utmost. One of his clerks had gone through three days of desperate anxiety because he had been using company notepaper to write to his mother in Fi
fe.

  At last, Robert leaned over Prudence, and said, ‘You’ll not get any money out of this family, my dear. Nothing. I think I should make that quite clear from the start.’

  Prudence, unhappily, swallowed. Robert stood up straight again, and beamed. ‘You’ll be wanting milk for the babbie, I presume?’

  ‘I feed him myself, sir.’

  ‘Ah, you feed him yourself. Suckle him,’ he added, with noticeable relish. ‘Well, I’ve always approved of suckling. Mrs McNab will find you a spare room in which you can suckle to your heart’s content. I presume that you’re trying to claim that this babbie is Dougal’s?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Robert frowned at her. He had taken a glass of old port before dressing, and the combined effect of that and an extremely hot bath had reddened his face to the colour of a Lochfyneside kipper.

  ‘Dougal’s,’ he repeated, pointing at the baby. ‘You’re trying to say that he’s Dougals’s.’

  Prudence looked lost. ‘I’m not trying to say anything, sir. He is Dougals’s. He must be. I haven’t been familiar with anybody else.’

  ‘Oh, ho! Familiar!’ Robert expostulated. ‘Do you hear that, Mrs McNab? Familiar! Well, my dear, I’ve heard all about young ladies like you, and your familiarity! And you can take it from me, you’ll not get any money out of us! We’ll shelter you the night, and make sure your babbie’s well over Christmas, because we’re decent people. But on Boxing Day morning, my dear, you’ll be on that train back to London, where you and your babbie belong, and there won’t be any question about that!’

  Thomas Watson appeared from the library. He looked tired, and he was carrying a book on Turkey in his hand. Watson’s had been having trouble in Turkey, especially with the Deutsche Bank, and even with the Credit Lyonnais.

  ‘What’s all this commotion?’ he wanted to know. ‘Who’s this? Mrs McNab, is that a baby?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Watson,’ said Mrs McNab. ‘I think it would be better if I fetched the mistress.’

  Thomas Watson stood where he was, in the library doorway. He looked like a man who had forgotten something. Nothing important, but something that played on his mind from time to time, and woke him up in the middle of the night, to stare into the darkness and wonder why he had been born into this frightening and peculiar world, and what any of his life had meant. His father had been a bankrupt. He, out of fear, had become a millionaire. His mother had long ago fled from his memory like a ghost. He could remember her hanging up washing; the wooden pegs had reminded him of little men; iucky little men, he had always thought, for some reason. His wife, he knew, didn’t love him. She lay beside him sleeping while he lay awake. How could she sleep, not loving him? Every kiss that he gave her on her cheek she received as if it were a cold linseed poultice. Not loving, or arousing, but necessary to her continuing welfare. The week after Effie and Dougal had left for London he had looked into his dressing-room mirror and seen something in his face he couldn’t understand. A whiteness, as if he had been abruptly drained of blood. He was tired, he found it impossible to concentrate for very long, and almost impossible to laugh. When did I last laugh? he had asked the face in the mirror.

  Effie appeared from the sitting-room, her face bright, wearing a long white evening gown that was tied across the front with a spectacular sash of white organdie lilies. She had brushed her hair up in Gibson-girl style and decorated it with three more white lilies. She said, ‘Robert, you must come and see the tree! ‘We’ve lit up all the candles, and it looks wonderful!’

  Suddenly, as Robert stepped backwards, she caught sight of Prudence. ‘Miss Cutting!’ she said. ‘But what are you doing here?’

  ‘Oh, Miss Watson,’ said Prudence. ‘Thank goodness you’re here. I’ve been trying to find your brother.’

  Effie knelt down beside her, and touched her baby’s head. ‘Is this baby yours?

  ‘Mine and Dougal’s,’ nodded Prudence. ‘You know that we were lovers, in London. But then Dougal disappeared, and the bank wouldn’t tell me where he was; and Jack, of course, was in hospital first of all, and then he had to run away to Holland, because the police wanted him.’

  ‘Jack was in hospital?’

  ‘He was beaten by some men. I don’t know why. He didn’t even know himself. They made him deaf in one ear, and broke out all of his teeth. He limps, now.’

  ‘Dougal went to New York,’ explained Effie. ‘He was offered a job with the Baeklander Trust, and he took it. He writes quite regularly; and he did ask me to get in touch with you and tell you where he was, but I didn’t have your address. I sent a letter care of your brother at the bank; but I don’t suppose you got it.’

  ‘No,’ said Prudence. There wasn’t very much left of the arrogant young London girl who had complained about going to Greenwich; and about Dougal’s irritating sister. Though her clothes were still stylish and fashionable, she looked quite exhausted; with that endless tiredness that comes from waking three times a night and breast-feeding a baby with nobody to help and nobody to talk to.

  ‘What’s the baby’s name?’ asked Effie.

  ‘William Albert. Don’t you think he looks like Dougal? All that curly blond hair.’

  ‘You mean that –?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Prudence, tiredly but with unmistakable triumph. ‘This is your nephew.’

  Robert said, ‘You really believe this, Effie? You really think that this is Dougal’s son?’

  Effie stood up. ‘I’ve no reason to doubt it. Dougal was very attached to Miss Cutting when he was in London.’

  Robert pulled back his coat-tails, and thrust his fists into his pockets, and looked down at William Albert thoughtfully. ‘He’s a strong bonny lad, I’ll say that for him.’

  Thomas Watson dropped his book, and Mrs McNab bustled to pick it up for him. ‘You must be tired, sir. You’ve been working terribly hard. Why don’t you come in and sit down by the tree, and I’ll bring you a hot drink? Some milk, and whisky, and nutmeg.’

  ‘Aye,’ said Thomas Watson. ‘But what are we going to do about this wean?’

  Robert took Prudence’s arm. ‘Don’t you worry, father. We can give Miss Cutting here the wee primrose room at the back, and Russell can fetch down the old crib. It’s the Christmas season, isn’t it? And Miss Cutting has come a long way. Mrs McNab, do you put on some hairst bree, and let’s feed Miss Cutting up. If this is Dougal’s son, then he’s welcome here; and so are you, Miss Cutting.’

  Prudence was a little confused by Robert’s sudden enthusiasm and generosity; but she was so tired that she allowed him to take her cape, and she handed the baby to Mrs McNab, so that she might be taken upstairs. ‘Thank you,’ she said to Thomas Watson. ‘It’s very kind of you to welcome me in.’

  Thomas Watson looked away, as if he hadn’t heard her. ‘Come along,’ said Mrs McNab. ‘I’ll show you where your room is. Effie, my dear, would you be kind enough to call Russell and tell him that we need him to fix up the wee fellow’s crib?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Effie.

  Robert stood in the hallway watching her go. He tugged at his cuffs, and then good-humouredly cleared his throat. ‘Well, father,’ he said, ‘this is a turn-up.’

  ‘And why are you so fidgin’-fain?’ asked his father. That was an old way of saying ‘tickled pink’.

  ‘Och, I always think that Christmas is the time for wee children,’ said Robert. ‘What’s Christmas without a wean in the house?’

  Thomas Watson took out his handkerchief and loudly blew his nose. ‘You’ve got something on your mind, Robert, my son. I don’t know what it is, but that girl has put some idea into your brain. I just hope for her sake that it’s a fair idea, and not one of your slee snicks.’

  Robert came over and put his arm around his father’s shoulders. ‘You don’t think I can be charitable, in the Christmas season?’

  Thomas Watson looked at his son, and thought, how unlikeable you are; but how like me. He said, ‘I don’t know. I don’t know about charity. It’s b
een a year, nearly, since the Queen died, and things have changed. Do you not sense how they’ve changed?’

  ‘We’ve made more profit this year,’ said Robert.

  They walked into the living-room. The fire was stacked high with logs, which spat and crackled. The fireplace and the picture-rails were decorated with red-berried holly and fern, and there were stars and baubles of coloured glass twinkling and sparkling from the ceiling. But most magnificent of all was the Christmas tree itself, fragrant with pine-sap, brilliant with twisted white candles, and glittering with silver tinsel. In the Watson household, it had become a tradition to hang the tree with heart-shaped pieces of taiblet, or Scottish toffee, flavoured with cloves, peppermint, lemon, ginger, and cinnamon.

  ‘Christmas,’ said Thomas Watson, in a strange tone, as if he had just discovered by accident what season it was. Then, pinching Robert’s sleeve between his finger and thumb, and leading him towards the fire, he said, very quietly, ‘Do you think your mother’s happy, Robert?’

  Robert looked back at him cautiously. ‘Happy, father?’

  ‘I haven’t seen anything about her to make me think otherwise,’ said Robert.

  ‘Hm,’ said his father, looking into the fire.

  Effie came in then, and said, ‘That little boy’s lovely! What a Christmas gift!’

  ‘Lovely or not,’ said Thomas Watson, ‘he wasn’t born in wedlock. He’s got no claims on us – even if he’s really Dougal’s child.’

  ‘Oh, come on, father, you’re being very stern,’ said Robert. ‘He’s only a wee small chappie. You mustn’t be too down on him. And you can’t criticize Dougal for his taste in young ladies, now can you?’

  There was something about the way Robert smiled at her then that gave Effie a quick shudder, a walking-over-the-grave sensation. Although he was nothing but smiles and good cheer, she had the smallest coldest feeling that he had already devised some intricate way in which he could turn Prudence’s arrival on their doorstep to his own personal gain.