An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  Victor’s mouth had tightened into a thin line when he had read his son’s impassioned declaration that unless he received a letter soon he would return home. ‘Over my dead body,’ he had muttered grimly. With narrowed eyes he reflected that both Alexander and Genevre were proving to be far more tenacious than he had anticipated. Further action needed to be taken in order to terminate the affair once and for all. In Ireland Alexander would be staying with Lord Powerscourt and Powerscourt had three highly eligible daughters whose family tree stretched back to King John of England and made the Schermerhorns, Brevoorts and Roosevelts look like parvenus. Any one of them would be more than satisfactory as a daughter-in-law.

  He was still pondering on the problem of what further action he should take in order to put Genevre Hudson out of Alexander’s mind, when he received a telegraph message from Powerscourt, REGRET TO INFORM YOU ALEXANDER SERIOUSLY INJURED FALL FROM HORSE WHILST HUNTING LETTER FOLLOWING.

  His first reaction had been overwhelming concern for Alexander. A welter of telegraph messages had been issued demanding to know further details. He was informed that Alexander’s horse had rolled on him, crushing muscles and tendons, and that it would be many months before he could once again walk. His second reaction, once he had ascertained that there was no reason to fear that Alexander was permanently crippled, was that fate had played him a winning card. If he chose to lie about Alexander’s reason for remaining in Waterford, then he could do so without fear of Alexander arriving home in outraged fury. And by the time Alexander did arrive home, the lies told would perhaps be appreciated by him. Or forgotten.

  ‘And so I thought it only fair to break the news to you myself,’ he said gravely to an outraged William Hudson.

  ‘Engaged!’ William bellowed. ‘Engaged! You are as well aware as I am that your son and my daughter have a long-term understanding, sir! Only your own inexplicable objections have prevented their already marrying. I will not believe in any engagement elsewhere until I receive news from Alexander himself.’

  With great difficulty Victor assumed an expression of deep embarrassment. ‘If my son had any intention of communicating with either yourself or Miss Hudson he would have done so already. As it is, he has left me to be the bearer of his news. The wedding is to take place almost immediately and Alexander and his bride will be remaining in Ireland indefinitely.’

  William forgot that he had latterly come to the conclusion that Genevre’s relationship with Alexander Karolyis was not, after all, in her best interests. He forgot that it was a relationship he himself had intended somehow severing. As a footman showed his unwelcome visitor from the house all he remembered was the number of people who knew of Alexander’s intention of one day marrying Genevre. And now he was jilting her. His eyes bulged and his face burned. Both for himself and Genevre, it was complete and utter humiliation. By sanctioning the relationship when Victor Karolyis had not done so, he had been made to look a fool. At the thought of the gossip and the laughter that would now be taking place in polite New York drawing-rooms he took the stairs to Genevre’s room two at a time.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Genevre said steadfastly, her face ashen. ‘It’s a lie … it has to be a lie!’

  ‘It’s the truth!’ William roared, his rage increasing by the moment as he thought of the gossip that would be taking place around high-society dinner-tables. ‘You’ve been publicly jilted! The whole of New York knew what your hopes were!’ He slammed a closed fist into an open palm. ‘We’re not staying here to be sniggered at by every Tom, Dick and Harry! We’re going back to Yorkshire, where a man knows where he stands. We’re going back immediately!’

  ‘I can’t, Papa. I can’t leave New York.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ her father said, seething at his own idiocy. Why on earth had he supposed that a marriage would eventually take place? Victor Karolyis had made his opposition quite clear right from the first. How could he have been so blind as not to see that he and Genevre were being publicly slighted? Men like August Belmont and Leonard Jerome had befriended him, but Belmont and Jerome were not Old Guard New York society. By dint of his marriage to a Schermerhorn, Karolyis was, and he had made it quite clear that Mr William Hudson of Yorkshire was in no way his social equal.

  ‘We sail on the first available ship,’ he said, aware for the first time of what a fool he must have often made of himself. ‘The sooner we leave this snob-ridden city behind, the better!’

  Genevre had been sitting at her writing-desk. Now she rose and faced him, her face bloodless. ‘I can’t, Papa. Not without hearing from Alexander.’

  ‘You can and you will,’ her father said flatly. He had indulged her too much and too often, and the result had been social annihilation. Much as he loved her, he hadn’t the slightest intention of indulging her any further where Alexander Karolyis was concerned.

  Genevre wondered fleetingly if she was going to die. Certainly it felt as if she was about to die. The blood was singing in her ears and there was an iron band around her chest so tight that it was impossible for her to draw breath. She knew that when she next spoke she was going to destroy everything there had ever been between them. She would never be his kitten, his dear little love, ever again.

  ‘I’m having a baby, Papa,’ she said, and wondered how she could have ever thought the news wonderful.

  Five days later they left New York aboard the Collins steamship Adriatic. William Hudson did not stand on deck as the ship eased its way out of New York Bay towards the Narrows. He remained in his cabin, aged and heartsick. Genevre’s words had nearly killed him. When the first, crucifying shock had receded he had been certain of one thing. No-one in New York would ever know. Certainly Victor Karolyis would never know. There would be no gossip. Not in America or in England. Genevre would enter a convent until the baby was born and he would live unobtrusively in a small town in Sussex or Hampshire. Not until the child was suitably disposed of would he make it known to friends and relatives that he and Genevre were once again in the country.

  As the ship neared open sea he passed his hand across his eyes. Whatever the future held for them, it would never be the same again. Alexander Karolyis had destroyed both their lives and he prayed with all his heart and soul that one day he would suffer for his actions – suffer as he and Genevre were suffering.

  Genevre stood at the deck-rails, holding on to them tightly with her kid-gloved hands to prevent herself from falling. It was all over. She would never see Alexander again. Never be his wife. Never live with him at Tarna. But she would have his baby. Her hands tightened on the freezing rails. No matter what plans her father was making to the contrary, she would have Alexander’s baby and she would keep it.

  ‘No-one will ever take you away from me,’ she whispered fiercely to her unborn child as the snow-covered spires of New York’s many churches began to recede into the distance. ‘No matter what happens we are never going to be separated. Not ever!’

  Alexander struggled to consciousness against an almost unbearable barrier of pain. There were things he had to do. Letters he had to write.

  ‘Must write to Charlie,’ he said thickly to the tall, dark-clad, distinguished figure standing by his bedside.

  ‘You’re not in a condition to write to anyone,’ his host said practically. ‘I’ve written fully to your father and a letter has already arrived for you from him. Shall I read it to you?’

  Alexander tried to shake his head and pain screamed down into his nerve-ends. ‘No,’ he gasped, not remotely interested in anything his father had to say. ‘Must write to Charlie.’ Now, more than ever, he needed to be in touch with Genevre. There was something funny going on in New York. Something he was being too dumb to work out. But Charlie would sort it for him. Charlie would discover why Genevre was unable to write. Charlie would tell her about his accident and of how he was longing for her every minute of every day.

  ‘I’ll have my secretary sit with you for a while and you can dictate whatever letters are necessary
,’ Lord Powerscourt said, not wishing Alexander to distress or over-excite himself. ‘Your father has arranged for Sir Ralph Fiennes-Bourton to be in permanent attendance and he is expected to arrive early tomorrow morning. He is a London specialist and his reputation is formidable. You can have every confidence in him.’

  Alexander was glad to hear it. The Dublin doctors, who had been frantically summoned in the hours following his fall, had all expressed the opinion that with proper care there would be no permanent paralysis. But they were not specialists. Any specialist engaged by his father would be a world-renowned figure whose word could be implicitly trusted. He refused to think of what his reactions would be if the specialist’s prognosis differed from that already given. It would be unspeakable. Unthinkable. But he would have Genevre. Whatever happened to him, he would always have Genevre. Focusing his thoughts fiercely on her, he said to Powerscourt, ‘Could your secretary sit with me now, sir? This letter to Charlie Schermerhorn really is most powerfully urgent.’

  … as far as my fall is concerned, there should be no permanent damage (unless Pa’s specialist says differently), but I’m going to have to remain in Ireland for the next few months and certainly won’t now be continuing on to the rest of Europe. You must contact Ginnie for me. I’ve had no letters from her at all. Find out if she’s ill, or if William Hudson has had a change of heart and is now opposed to our marrying and is refusing to let her write. Tell her I’ll be returning to New York just as soon as I can. Tell her I love her, and tell her to write. If she’s having difficulties doing so direct, tell her to write via yourself. It really is most desperately urgent that I hear from her. Thanks a million. Alex.

  Lord Powerscourt’s gentleman secretary handed it to him to sign with a rather dazed expression. In all his years of employment he had never been called upon to pen such an extraordinary letter. He wondered if the young lady in question would respond via Charlie Schermerhorn IV and if so, if he would soon find himself in the extraordinary position of penning love-letters at Mr Karolyis’s dictation.

  Sir Ralph Fiennes-Bourton was not accustomed to devoting himself solely to one patient, unless the patient in question was royalty. The fee he had been offered, however, was royal in the extreme and Powerscourt’s estate offered excellent fishing. His time there would serve as a sabbatical and give him the opportunity to write a long intended monograph. Highly pleased by the convenience of the arrangement he stood by the side of Alexander’s bed, his portly physique and trim white beard giving him a remarkable resemblance to the Prince of Wales.

  ‘Complete immobility is needed to allow the nerves and tendons to heal,’ he said, wondering whether to fish that afternoon on the Suir or the Blackwater. ‘Recovery will be a slow process …’

  Alexander’s eyes glittered. He already knew that. What he wanted to know was if he would ever walk again.

  ‘Will I regain the use of my legs?’ he asked tautly.

  ‘In due time. There is no reason to fear permanent paralysis …’

  ‘And ride?’

  Sir Ralph was not accustomed to being so summarily interrupted. He remembered his fee and the fishing and rose above the inconvenience. ‘And ride,’ he said magnanimously, wondering why on earth anyone so injured from riding should ever wish to mount a horse again.

  Alexander exhaled deeply. It was going to be all right. He wasn’t going to return to Genevre a cripple. All he had to do now was to find out what was happening to her in New York. To reassure her as to his own circumstances. And to tell her that he loved her with all his heart.

  Charlie looked down at Alexander’s letter in complete bewilderment. What the devil was Alex rambling on about? Why was he so anxious about Genevre when he was engaged to marry a member of the Anglo-Irish nobility? It didn’t make any sense. Brains were not Charlie’s strong point but even he managed to work out that something was very wrong. Even worse was the news of Alex’s accident. Being rolled on by a horse was no laughing matter. He wondered what injuries the horse had sustained and hoped it hadn’t been shot. Then he wondered about Genevre again.

  ‘Everyone knows Alexander is engaged to the daughter of some Anglo-Irish earl,’ his Uncle Henry said to him testily when he showed him the letter. ‘Karolyis has been spreading the news all over town. Especially in William Hudson’s hearing.’

  They were in the centre of a snow-bound Fifth Avenue. Henry was muffled to the chin in an astrakhan coat with a heavy beaver collar, his top hat crammed as low on his head as he could possibly get it. Charlie was half-buried in an ankle-length wolf coat that lent him a rather flamboyant air. He stamped his booted feet to keep his circulation moving. ‘Which would explain why Ginnie isn’t writing to him now, but not why she wasn’t writing to him before,’ he said, struggling for understanding.

  Henry shrugged. He had never understood Alexander’s desire to marry before he was scarcely out of the schoolroom. He personally hoped both marriages were off. But not if they were off because of Victor’s machinations. He clapped his gloved hands together in an effort to keep them warm, frowning deeply. Victor wouldn’t have wanted Alexander’s marital plans with the daughter of an earl to have gone awry, but he would certainly have wanted to see an end to Alexander’s plans to marry Genevre. That being so, he might very well have taken advantage of Alexander’s enforced absence to arrange matters to his satisfaction.

  His freezing hands refused to warm and he had no intention of catching pneumonia by prolonging the conversation. ‘Speak to Miss Hudson,’ he said, inclining his head and beginning to walk away. He had only gone a couple of yards when he paused, shouting back over his shoulder, ‘And if she’s been writing to Alexander all along, speak to Victor!’

  Having a word with Genevre was sensible advice and Charlie pulled his coat collar up around his ears and climbed into his waiting, snugly closed carriage. ‘The corner of West 24th Street,’ he instructed his exposed and perished coachman.

  Ten minutes later he was staring at the Hudson’s maid in bewilderment. ‘Gone?’ he said uncomprehendingly. ‘What do you mean, gone? Gone where?’

  ‘To England, sir,’ the maid said respectfully, recognizing quality when she saw it, however surprising its disguise.

  Charlie’s bafflement grew. ‘Is Mr Hudson’s secretary at home? Could I speak to him please?’

  ‘There is no-one at home. No-one is living here any longer. Mr Hudson and Miss Hudson have gone to England.’

  ‘Then I need to have their English address …’

  ‘There is no forwarding address, sir.’

  ‘But there must be!’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but there isn’t,’ the maid said emphatically, and closed the door.

  Charlie shook his head in an attempt to clear it, and slowly descended the massive flight of snow-covered steps leading from the front door to the courtyard. No-one in residence. No forwarding address. Alexander might be under the impression that his cavortings with his Irish host’s daughter were of no consequence, but clearly Genevre and her father felt very differently. He stood in the courtyard and gazed up at the house. Beneath its snow-blanketed, turreted roof blinds were drawn at every window. It was almost as if there had been a death. Glumly he climbed back into his carriage. What was he to do now? Simply write back to Alex telling him that Genevre had flown the coop? Speak to Victor and if so, what about? Henry’s remarks about letters Genevre may, or may not, have written, made no sense.

  As he bumped and swayed once more into Fifth Avenue his dilemma was solved for him. Standing outside the marble splendour of the Fifth Avenue Hotel was a carriage bearing the distinctive blue and grey coat of arms affected by Victor Karolyis.

  ‘Pull over,’ he called to his freezing coachman. If Victor was wining and dining in public it would be relatively easy to have a few casual words with him. The meeting would seem to be by accident. He could ask after Alexander and the young lady it was alleged Alexander was to marry. He stepped down from his carriage, wondering if Alex would have gone to as much
trouble on his behalf, and, stamping the snow from his boots, strode beneath the columned portico and into the grand entrance hall.

  Despite the harsh weather the hotel was thronged. All the entrance hall’s deep, plumply upholstered sofas were occupied, but none of them held Victor. He made his way towards the downstairs sitting-room where leading Republicans were often to be found, discussing the war and the strategy that needed to be taken in order to bring it to a satisfactory conclusion. Ever since it had become obvious that Lincoln was the man of the moment and that there was a fortune to be made out of the war, Victor had affected Republican sympathies. Today a Republican senator was holding the floor, but Victor was not one of the clique saying, ‘Amen’, to every one of his pronouncements.

  Leaving the politicians to their deliberations he took the elevator to the dining-room. Victor was seated at a corner table, dining alone. He looked like a man who had no wish to be disturbed. Charlie took a deep breath and crossed the thickly carpeted room towards him. He had never been able to fathom his exact family relationship to Victor, but as Alexander was his second cousin he assumed that Victor must be an uncle of sorts. Uncle seemed, anyway, to be the most respectful way of greeting him. ‘Good afternoon, Uncle Victor,’ he said with forced bonhomie. ‘Haven’t seen you in an age. How are you keeping?’