Duke looked at Laurence and smiled; it was a rather ugly smile that Laurence had not seen before, almost a smirk, it sat ill on the handsome face. He was like an old buzzard, he thought, circling around, surveying the potential catastrophe below him, planning when and where to find the best pickings – and then to soar off, well-sated, with ample time to find new and better-stocked pastures.
‘I have advised them in two directions at once. Naturally I have felt the only wise thing to do was to express caution at the state of the market, to urge restraint. They deserve that. And they will remember it.’ He looked at Laurence, refilled his glass. ‘But at the same time, I am a stockbroker. My business is trading; I make money out of buying and selling. If a client chooses to ignore my advice, given in good faith, that is of course up to him. I must act on his instruction. If he asks me my prognosis for a certain stock, I must answer truthfully. Steel reached 262 last week, General Electric was 396. Who am I to dissuade my clients from benefiting from such facts and figures?’
The smile came again. He reached out and patted Laurence’s hand.
‘I’m only telling you all this, my boy, because I like you, and I liked and admired your father.’
‘Well, I’m grateful,’ said Laurence, ‘for your advice. Thank you. We must continue to talk.’
‘Indeed we must. But only behind closed doors. Not in the bars and dining clubs of Wall Street. We don’t want to precipitate panic, do we?’
Laurence agreed that they did not.
The Atlantic was blessedly calm as Robert and Maud crossed it; Robert was able to join Maud in her five laps around the ship every morning that made up a mile a day, to play quoits and deck tennis with her, to sit on a deck chair in the autumn sunshine, a blanket round his legs, reading all the books Oliver had given him (like Kit, he enjoyed the Buchanans more than the Forsytes), and even to enjoy the magnificent food.
And after dinner, when Maud had gone with this or that young man to the ballroom, to talk to other passengers. There was much talk of the financial situation; of Roger Babson’s address to the National Business Conference about an imminent and terrific crash; of the absurdity of that statement, notwithstanding the slightly ragged state of the market now, of still-rising dividends, of the foolishness of panic, of the great financial base and prosperity that America had created for herself and which would ensure, as the chairman of a Boston investment trust had recently prophesied, that if there was a downfall, then incorporated investors would ‘land on a cushion’. God was in his heaven above America and all was right in the brave new world. That was Friday, 11 October.
On Saturday 19th, the secretary of commerce was finding it difficult to find the money necessary to pay for the upkeep of the yacht Corsair, presented to the government by Mr J. P. Morgan of the bank of the same name. The papers were full of stories of a weak market, with trading in decline; by the end of Saturday three and a half million shares had been sold. On the Sunday, The Times was reporting a wave of selling.
Next day, six million shares were sold; then at the end of the day the market rallied. Tuesday was altogether better; ‘There, you see,’ people were saying, ‘just another of those setbacks. It’ll be all right.’
On Wednesday, there were more heavy losses; in one hour, two and a half million shares were sold at ever-lower prices. Blue-chip stock was going down like a plumb line; on Thursday, almost thirteen million shares went down. By eleven o’clock, there was absolute pandemonium on the Exchange; sheer blind panic set in. Even the famous Jesse Livermore, observed in happier days riding around New York in one of his several Rolls Royce cars and known on Wall Street as ‘the best man on stock-market speculation the world has ever known’ was selling; such demonstrations increased the escalating panic. A crowd formed in Broad Street outside the Exchange and the police were dispatched to deal with it. At twelve-thirty the Exchange closed.
At midday, several of God’s henchmen, in the form of the most important bankers in America, had met to agree to shore up the market. The panic eased; and the vice president of the Exchange appeared on the floor and began buying hard. Other more ordinary mortals followed; prices went into reverse and boomed upward.
There was a rush of relief; bankers and stockbrokers continued to assure people that the market was fundamentally sound, the great industrialists spoke complacently of stability and prosperity, and in church that Sunday, many sermons suggested that people should learn from the crisis of the past few days, now happily over, and recover a sense of spiritual values. There, people said, there you see, it’s all right, it was just a panic, just a storm in a teacup. Laurence Elliott, who knew, with all the other grandees, that it was nothing of the sort, moved various pieces about the well-ordered chessboard that was his company, and waited in a state of odd excitement.
On the following Monday, flying in the face of all such optimism, even the bargains endured another disastrous fall; and on the Tuesday, there was a tidal wave of selling which broke uselessly on the beach of a Wall Street empty of anyone with the ability to buy.
In the Elliott mansion on Fifth Avenue, only a little shaken by the speed of events, Laurence Elliott and Duke Carlisle raised their glasses to Duke’s prescience and their own personal salvations.
CHAPTER 7
He could, at that moment, have committed murder. Murder: how appropriate under the circumstances. He could never remember being so angry. And with Barty, of all people, Barty who – well, whom he would have thought a great deal better of. It was not entirely her fault: his mother – of course – had more than a little to do with it. But still . . .
‘Giles, hallo,’ she said, looking up from her desk, smiling at him, ‘whatever’s the matter, you look awfully cross.’
‘I am, awfully – cross,’ he said, ‘actually.’
‘Why?’ Her voice sounded less confident now.
‘I’ll tell you why, Barty. Because you went to my mother, privately, and put a proposition to her, an editorial proposition, not in a meeting, not through the conventional company channels, accepted procedures—’
‘Goodness me! What is this?’ She clearly still thought he was joking. ‘I didn’t know about any conventional company channels or accepted procedures.’
‘Well, perhaps you should. They do exist.’
‘But—’
‘And without talking to anyone else in the company, she in her turn tells you to go ahead and start working on it. Your own list, more or less, as far as I can make out—’
‘Oh dear!’ She was flushed now, her large eyes brilliant. ‘Giles, you’ve got it all wrong—’
‘Have I really? Got it all wrong? I don’t think so. Did you, or did you not, suggest a crime series?’
‘Yes, I did. For the simple reason, as you very well know, that crime novels are doing so well. Agatha Christie is selling like I don’t know what and now Gollancz are launching a crime list, it seemed like a good idea to me.’
‘Oh, it did? And what about asking the rest of us, Henry, my father, LM, me, for that matter, what we thought? Well, I suppose you thought it really would be useless, asking me. Kiss of death, I am, to any idea in this bloody company.’
‘Giles, please! It wasn’t like that. It really, really wasn’t. You’ve got to believe me. I was just – just talking about it. As an idea.’
‘Oh, really? Just as an idea. Just a little editorial idea, putting it to my mother, who makes the first and last decision on every editorial matter in this place.’
‘Yes. Exactly that.’
‘And she didn’t suggest discussing it with the other editors?’
‘Well – no. I mean, it’s such early days, she simply told me to go and do some work on it, line up some possible authors, work out costings and so on, work out how many and how often we might do them, nothing more—’
‘Nothing more. Just plan out a complete editorial schedule, that’s all. Without further recourse to anyone.’
‘Giles, this is ridiculous. You’re—’
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‘I’m what? What am I, Barty?’
‘You’re just upset.’
‘Don’t talk to me as if I was a child, please. As if I was Kit. I have quite enough of that from everyone else around here.’
She said nothing, looked at her hands, started fiddling with the papers on her desk.
‘And what’s that?’ he asked. ‘Working on it already, are you? On your idea? On your – your list?’
‘Giles, it is not my list, as you call it.’
‘Well, it looks that way to me,’ he said, and then, misery driving him stupidly on, ‘the others aren’t going to like this, you know, Barty. Edgar, Henry, they’re going to see this for what it is.’
‘And what is it, exactly?’ she said, her voice cooller now, with an interesting edge to it that reminded him horribly, absurdly, of his mother. ‘Do tell me.’
‘It’s bloody nepotism,’ he said, ‘favouritism. She’s always favoured you, always held you up as an example to the twins, to me, telling us how wonderful you were, how hard you worked at school. And now what a good editor you’ll be, how creative and efficient you are, and I’ll tell you why she says that as well, it’s because she wants to prove how right she was, how clever, that it wasn’t a mistake, like so many people said, taking you in, it was—’
He stopped, finally hearing himself, finally realising what he had said. He looked at her; she was white-faced, her eyes enormous, her lips trembling.
‘Get out,’ she said, ‘just get out of here. Now.’
‘Barty, I—’
‘Get out.’
Giles got out; he turned just as he was shutting the door, and saw her bury her head in her arms, her tawny hair falling across the desk. She looked suddenly like a small, unhappy child; he felt a pang of remorse so terrible it hurt him physically. He walked down the corridor to his own office and locked the door, wondering not only what he done, but how he could possibly have done it.
‘Venetia? Listen, I’ve just had the most marvellous phone call.’
‘From? A new lover?’
‘Sadly not. He’s a fairy. At least, I think so. But he was at the party.’
‘Drusilla’s?’
‘Yes. He’s a photographer. Name of Cedric, Cedric Russell. Such fun, you know how wonderful they are to chat to, lots of gossip. Anyway, I said I thought we might have our hair done like Drusilla’s and he said he was sure we’d look divine. And now he says he wants to photograph us. With our new hair. If we have it done, that is.’
‘What for, Vogue?’
‘Yes. Such fun. You will do it, won’t you? Yes, of course you will. I won’t let you not.’
‘Dell, I do feel terrible. Sick and so terribly tired, and I’m getting fat again already.’
‘Oh, Venetia, you’re not. You looked wonderful the other night. And it might take your mind off it. Please do it, please.’
A roar of rage boomed up the stairs, then a long diatribe, clearly accusatory in nature, punctuated by an occasional silence during which the accused was clearly endeavouring to defend himself. Or at least to speak. And then a loudly slammed door and then – blessedly – silence.
Pandora heaved herself over on to her side, and closed her eyes in relief. It was short-lived; the bedroom door opened and Sebastian came in.
‘Stupid, moronic, incompetent man. And to think I’m paying him. Paying him! It’s an outrage—’
‘Sebastian,’ said Pandora mildly, ‘Sebastian, that is no way to increase my faith in my obstetrician.’
‘I do assure you he’s not your obstetrician. Not for a moment longer. Man ought to be struck off. I’ve told him so, in no uncertain terms.’
‘Sebastian, that is outrageous of you.’
‘Why?’
‘I like Mr Cavanagh. I have developed a considerable faith in him. I think he’s extremely – gentle. And reassuring. And he’s very highly qualified, and has seen countless nervous ladies through difficult deliveries. And I want him to see me through mine. Don’t you understand that? It’s you who are being moronic, if you ask me.’
‘I don’t. And it’s precisely because you are nervous that I have dismissed him. Why tell you it’s going to be difficult? Why make things worse?’
‘It doesn’t make it worse. It makes it better,’ said Pandora severely. ‘I am nervous, naturally. Most women are—’
‘Oh, darling—’ Sebastian sat down on the bed, ‘nervous of what? Of the pain? Because—’
‘Well – yes, partly, I suppose. Although, Mr Cavanagh tells me there’s a lot that can be done about that these days, he has some wonderful gas machine that more or less takes it away. No, it’s much more about the baby. How safe it will be, whether things will go wrong. And I like the fact that he’s been honest with me. I would prefer to know now that it’s going to be a difficult delivery, because it’s such a big baby and I’m so small. And that he may want to try and deliver it a little early, because of my high blood pressure. And that therefore he wants me to be in hospital for the birth. Even that I might have to have a Caesarian section. I would rather understand all that than be kept in some kind of absurd and patronising ignorance, thank you. It makes me much less nervous, not more. I respect Mr Cavanagh’s knowledge and his skills. And I would be extremely grateful if you would telephone him immediately and apologise for what you said and ask him, beg him if necessary, to continue as my obstetrician. Sebastian, we’ve moved to London so I can be delivered by him. It’s utterly ridiculous to change now, with only two months to go.’
‘Oh, darling,’ Sebastian picked up her hand, kissed it tenderly. ‘I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m so afraid for you. I can’t bear to see you lying there, so uncomfortable—’
‘Only uncomfortable, Sebastian,’ said Pandora briskly, ‘not in mortal agony. And there are worse things than lying in bed all day, reading and being brought delicious meals. The new cook is awfully good.’
‘I’ve done something right, then.’
‘Lots of things,’ said Pandora, reaching up to kiss him.
‘And then I thought you wanted to have the baby at home. Here, in our bed. You said it was where you wanted its life to begin, surrounded with beautiful things, not in some sterile, ugly hospital ward—’
‘I did. Of course. But that was when I thought things were going to be easy, straightforward. Now I understand they may not be, and of course we should be, the baby and I, where it is easiest for us to be taken care of.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Sebastian, throwing back his head, ‘dear God, I wish I could have this baby for you.’
‘Yes, well that would be very nice, I do agree. Unfortunately, they haven’t advanced that far down the scientific road as yet. And in the meantime, what you can do, is telephone Mr Cavanagh at his rooms now, at once. He should be back. And tell him I refuse to have the baby without him. And I think I’d better write him a note as well and you can have it taken round. I just hope we won’t be too late, that’s all. He’s probably taking on another patient in my place even now.’
Barty had not appeared at the office that day; Giles, filled with remorse, walked constantly past her office, willing her each time to be there at the desk, giving him her quick smile as she looked up. The office remained stubbornly empty.
‘Miss Miller’s ill,’ Edgar Greene, the senior editor, said slightly irritably, as he saw him looking in for the tenth time that morning. ‘She has influenza, it seems. Very sudden, I am forced to say. She seemed perfectly all right yesterday.’
Giles said that he had heard that the influenza did strike very suddenly, and he went miserably into his own office, where he struggled to make sense of the overseas royalties for the rest of the morning. And failed miserably. After lunch, or rather after not eating what tasted like sawdust and what the Corner House called scrambled egg on toast, he went back to the office, spent an hour staring at the proofs of his logarithmic tables and then finally, at four o’clock, could bear it no longer and left for Russell Square.
Ade
le sat in the photographer’s dressing room, studying herself in the mirror while the hairdresser worked on her hair – the rows and rows of neat curls, exactly like the ones Drusilla Whittingstone had brought back on her chic blonde head from Antoine in Paris – listening carefully to the journalist from Vogue as she discussed exactly how she would like their make-up to be – ‘lots of powder and quite dark lipstick and some of this eyeshadow, please’ – wondering which of the white satin dresses that were hanging on a clothes rail in the corner she would most like to wear: and felt in some strange way she had come home. She and Venetia had been photographed a great many times right through their lives, and by some very well-known photographers; Cecil Beaton had taken a wonderful series of them when they were eighteen and doing the season; they had worn huge picture hats and looked a bit like a painting by Watteau. Lenare, the society photographer, had done some exquisite pictures of them in their court dresses, just before they left for the Palace to be presented to the King and Queen, and Dorothy Wilding had done a set of the two of them in their white dresses for Queen Charlotte’s ball and another taken the day of their own dance. And they had been snapped endlessly by the society photographers at various dances and parties; it was because they were twins, of course, as well as so pretty; it was an extra talking point.
But this was different, in that it felt serious, important, more like work, and the most important thing today was not them and whatever social function they might be going to, but their hair and making it look good for Fabrice who had styled it, and the beauty editor from Vogue who had commissioned the photographs for her pages, and Cedric, of course, who was supposed to be one of the most brilliant and revered photographers working in fashion magazines.
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