‘That is Mr Cameron’s problem. He has got us into this dreadful situation. He will now have to get us out of it. But I have warned him, Augusta, that I must have an establishment in keeping with a lady’s needs. And I insist, absolutely insist on two things. One, a personal maid. It is quite ridiculous having Cook look after me. She is not trained as a lady’s maid and anyway she is far too old. She cannot even fulfil her duties as cook any more. Two, a parlour maid. Just look at the dreadful state of this room, Augusta.’
‘If I could just speak to Papa and find out what plans he has made then I would know better how I might help. But I have not time today. I have to meet my husband at the stage and I want to go down to the kitchen for a few words with Cook before I go.’
‘Oh, my dear, must you go?’
‘I will try to come back again soon, Mama. But it will depend when my husband has business in Glasgow. He will not allow me to travel up on my own. But I will keep in touch by letter until I can visit you again.’
Felicity kissed her with much affection. ‘I am so glad we have found each other again. I’m sure everything will be all right now. We were always so happy together, were we not?’
‘Yes, Mama.’
‘Oh, my dear Augusta, how beautiful you look and how elegant. I do like your gown.’
‘Thank you, Mama. Now I must hurry.’
They kissed again before Augusta made her way across the hall and downstairs to the kitchen. Despite her distress over the dreadful happenings to her mother and father, at the same time she felt quite elated. It was most peculiar. She realised of course that her gladness had been stimulated by her reconciliation with her mother. And she was confident that the next time she saw her father she would be reconciled to him too.
The kitchen was a sad place in comparison with what it had once been.
The fire was a poor imitation of its former glory, a feeble smoky affair unable, it seemed, to produce either a glimmer of heat or light.
Cook hirpled shakily up from her chair.
‘No, sit down, Cook,’ Augusta said.
‘I’m sorry about the fire, Miss Augusta. We’ve so little coal these days, you see.’
‘Where is your husband?’
‘He’s at the Black Bull, Miss Augusta. He was worried about your papa. This is the day of the sale you see.’
‘Yes, I know. Have either of you been paid any wages recently?’
The old woman’s face worked about in distress and she avoided Augusta’s eyes. ‘As long as we get a bite to eat and a roof over our heads . . . .’
‘Take this.’ Augusta placed some money on the table. ‘It is all I have with me. I will do my best to send you something else as soon as I can. I must hurry away now. No, there is no need to see me out. I can manage perfectly well by myself. Enjoy your rest. You deserve it.’
Once outside and away from the upheaval of the square she began to feel optimistic as well as happy. After her parents were settled in another, smaller house they would be all right. Her mother, with persuasion and help, would adapt eventually to a more modest standard of living.
By the time she was approaching the waiting stage-coach Augusta had a spring in her step and a smile on her lips. Then she remembered Luther, and caution tempered her newfound joy.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘You’ve come a long way since that first navvy job I put you on to, Gunnet.’
‘And I’ve a long way still to go, McLure,’ Luther grinned. ‘I look forward to it. I’ve always been a travelling man.’
The Railway Company director and Luther were enjoying a drink together in the Tontine. The last section of the line had now been completed and Luther had negotiated with the directors of the company a contract for the maintenance of the complete railway for a period of seven years. That contract had now been signed.
‘You must be making money hand over fist,’ said McLure.
‘Don’t forget that in the course of my work I’ve acquired enormous stocks of plant and material. My capital’s so tied up with that I’ve got to keep looking for new opportunities for using it.’
‘You don’t need to tell me what the next opportunity is. The Glasgow to Edinburgh. Right?’
‘Right. Then after that it’s all the way to London.’
McLure laughed. ‘Come now . . . .’
‘There’s already been a meeting—chaired by the Most Noble Marquis of Queensberry, no less, to discuss the possibility of having a Parliamentary survey.’
‘Yes, I know but . . . .’
‘But first it’s got to be the Glasgow to Edinburgh.’
‘I take it you’re putting in a tender for one of the contracts that has been advertised.’
‘For both of them.’
McLure slid him a sceptical look as he lit up a cigar.
‘You’d have to put up ten per cent for each tender. That would work out at a very large sum of money.’
‘True.’
After a minute or two, McLure shook his head. ‘You’re biting off more than you can chew here, Gunnet. Quite apart from the ten per cent, think of the plant needed, think of the labour involved. And this is going to prove a more difficult line than any of the others. Edinburgh’s sited at a higher altitude than Glasgow, that’s the main problem. But the damned proprietors of the Forth and Clyde Canal have really messed us about by refusing to allow a bridge across the Glasgow branch of the canal.’
‘I’m well aware of the difficulties, including a hell of a long tunnel and a drop from Cowlairs.’
‘Too steep for any locomotive to master. They just don’t have the power or the brakes.’
‘I’ve worked out a method to overcome that. A simple and inexpensive method.’
‘Maybe so. But the tunnel . . . .’
‘I’ve built tunnels before.’
‘But the complications . . . .’
‘Every railway has difficulties and complications.’
‘Not with complications like this.’
‘McLure, I thrive on challenges.’
‘It goes without saying you want me to put my weight behind your tender.’
‘More than that.’
McLure raised a brow and Luther said, ‘That ten per cent. . . .’
‘Ah! You want me to put money into it.’
‘Well, you’re a gambling man and you’ve gambled on me before. You know I won’t let you down.’
McLure savoured his cigar for a few seconds. ‘What’s your proposition?’
‘I can raise the money for the one section. If you stake me for the other section I’ll guarantee you a good return for your money.’
‘What sort of return?’
‘I’ll double your stake when the job’s finished.’
‘What if you don’t finish the job?’
‘That’s the gamble.’
‘You think you can do it?’
‘You asked me that once before. And the answer’s the same. I don’t know but I’m desperate enough to make one hell of a try.’
McLure laughed. ‘That’s good enough for me. But before we get down to exact figures, what’s this idea of yours for the drop of Cowlairs to George Square?’
Luther brought a piece of paper from his pocket and spread it on the table between them.
‘This is Cowlairs here. We build an engine house and install a winding engine and haul the train up with a continuous rope.’
‘How would you attach the rope to the locomotive?’
‘By attaching a messenger rope to an inverted hook on the locomotive. This would drop off once the speed of the locomotive exceeded that of the rope.’
‘Yes, that sounds feasible. How about descending the slope? The brakes wouldn’t hold.’
‘At Cowlairs the locomotive would be taken off the front and put at the back. Specially constructed brake wagons could be attached to the front with expert brakesmen in charge.’
‘Have you considered the cost of this and included it in your tender?’
‘Of course.’
‘Well, if I back you with cash no one must know.’
Luther gave a small smile. ‘Oh, I realise that.’
‘How much do you need?’
Luther scribbled a figure on the paper. McLure read it and nodded. Then he said:
‘There’s no guarantee, of course, that they’ll all accept it but with my weight behind it you’ve got the advantage.’
‘That’s all I want.’
McLure laughed. ‘When you build your London line, Gunnet, I hope you’ll remember to include me in on it.’
‘Let’s drink to that,’ Luther said.
He knew that he was taking a risk with this new venture. He was stretching his resources to their limits. If his tenders were accepted—and he was as confident as he could be that they would be accepted—the resulting contracts would be a tough challenge in more ways than one. McLure was right in his concern about the particular difficulties of the Glasgow to Edinburgh line. It was these very difficulties, however, that gave zest to the whole idea as far as Luther was concerned. He needed something against which to continuously test his wits and harden his muscles.
He could hardly contain his jubilation when the tenders proved successful. The enormity of what he had taken on afforded a thrill with which not even the most passionate lovemaking could ever compete.
The first thing he did was to organise a base in Glasgow. This meant finding a house and an office in the town. He settled for an office in George Square which was handy for the workings. Then he proceeded to train Billy in the administration side of the business and did him the honour of giving him an office room of his own. From Luther’s window he could see not only the diggings but Cameron House—now a veritable slum of a place. The satisfaction it gave him to stare out of that window was well worth a lifetime of difficulties and hard work.
The fashionable part of the city was now on Blythswood Hill, and there he secured a handsome three-storied terrace house in Blythswood Square, overlooking the leafy private gardens to which each householder had a key. But most of his time was spent at his office or inspecting the diggings.
At all times, however, he made sure that he was expensively and fashionably dressed. In his coaching days he had revelled in being a dandy and he had never lost his taste for clothes. Now he could afford to indulge it and was fast gaining the reputation of being the smartest man in Glasgow, and in more ways than one.
He tried to encourage Augusta to match his enthusiasm and panache.
‘Order furs. Keep up with the very latest fashion. Money is no object. I don’t care what it costs,’ he would tell her grandly.
But with that ladylike gentility that he always found infuriating she would politely decline. Not that he could ever fault her in elegance. But there was always this reticence, this subtle holding back. It was as if every time she were silently accusing him of vulgarity.
The only time he could cut her down to size was when he had her in bed without any clothes on at all. And not always in bed. Sometimes he really scattered her wits and her sense of propriety by taking her in the drawing-room on the elegant new sofa or rolling about on the floor on their expensive Axminster carpet.
On these occasions she came near to disintegrating into complete hysteria. She babbled on about how Billy might come in, or the maid, or a caller might discover them, or how it was shocking, wicked, in bad taste, not the done thing, of how she loathed and despised and hated him, of how he was worse than any animal. But gradually her outraged babblings merged into equally uncontrolled and uncontrollable sounds of passion. Sometimes he thought that lust was a more appropriate word because she gave few other signs of being a passionate-natured woman. He often wondered how she felt about the depths to which her dear father had sunk. Only the other day while standing near the diggings smoking a cigar and talking to the engineer and one of the Railway Company directors, he had noticed from the corner of his eye Cameron coming shuffling along. The man looked no better than a tramp, unshaven, with grubby linen and stooping figure almost lost in a suit two sizes too big for him. Suddenly Luther realised Cameron was faced with a dilemma. He and his friends were blocking the entrance to Cameron House. Ignoring his father-in-law Luther continued to puff nonchalantly at his cigar. Cameron hesitated for a moment then hastened furtively round the corner on to West George Street, obviously to enter the house by the back door.
Luther reckoned that it would probably be the first time Cameron had ever used his own back door. The Cameron back door had always been strictly for the lower orders. Luther also reckoned that this was one of the most deliriously happy moments of his life. Revenge was sweet all right. Nobody would ever convince him that it was anything different.
And success was sweet. He began to really enjoy it. He even told Augusta that she could organize a small dinner party as part of the celebrations for Queen Victoria’s marriage to Prince Albert.
The engineer and his wife were invited and McLure and his wife and Drummond the banker and Mrs Drummond. The evening proved a great success. He had to give credit to Augusta. She was a superb hostess, dignified, attentive, correct. Yet her delicate-boned face and blue eyes, the creamy curve at the nape of her neck revealed by her pinned-up hair, the cluster of ringlets dangling over her temples gave her a vulnerable look. She had also been successful at entertaining Miss Hester, the young lady Billy was courting, and Miss Hester’s wealthy parents.
The only social occasion which had been a failure, although there was nothing specific that he could level at Augusta, was when Tibs had married the farmer’s son. It had been a quiet affair—both Tibs and Geordy Geddes had wanted it that way. However he had insisted that Augusta should give a reception in Blythswood Square for the newlyweds. A luncheon had been arranged and the bridegroom’s father and mother and sister had attended and of course Billy was there.
The food had been excellent and Augusta’s manners impeccable. Yet somehow Augusta cast a blight on the whole proceedings, and he was sure that Tibs and her new family of broadspoken farmer-folk were much relieved to escape back to their farm kitchen. They had been completely overwhelmed by Augusta and there was a horrible moment while they were bidding their goodbyes when Mrs Geddes actually bobbed a curtsy to her.
‘They are family. Family!’ he angrily reminded Augusta afterwards. ‘And in future I wish them treated as such.’
‘I treated them with the utmost politeness,’ she protested indignantly.
‘You snooty little bitch. At best you were bloody patronising.’
He was tempted to put the knife in by comparing the rough and ready but respectable and well-doing farmer Geddes to her own seedy, down-at-heel failure of a father. But as long as she never mentioned her family he refrained from doing so. He never even thought of them unless something forced them upon this attention, like the other day when he had met Sid Cruickshanks in Argyle Street. The old man had been tottering feebly along leaning on a stick.
‘How’s Nessie, Sid?’ Luther asked over a drink in the Tontine. Sid’s hands trembled so much he could hardly lift the glass of whisky Luther had treated him to. Eventually he managed to tip the liquid down his throat and when Luther filled his glass again he gratefully drank. Then taking his time he answered,
‘You wouldn’t know her, Luther. No, you wouldn’t know her.’
‘Has she been ill? Is there anything I can do?’
Sid shook his head and stared morosely at his empty glass until Luther took the hint and gave him yet another refill.
‘I’ll have to send you home in a carriage, old man. Then what’ll Nessie say?’
‘She’ll be too distracted trying to keep up with all the work to even notice me. Nessie’s a good cook, Luther. I say, my Nessie’s a good cook.’ His voice had begun to slur and this time he reached for the bottle himself and refilled his glass, spilling some and nearly crashing it over in the process. Luther rescued both glass and bottle.
‘Your Nessie’s a good cook,’ he agreed
.
‘That’s what she was trained for.’
‘True.’
‘I may be wrong, Luther, but I don’t think I am.’
‘About what?’
‘Nessie shouldn’t be carrying up water for baths, and struggling to tie the mistress’s corsets and put on her clothes and do her hair and run up and downstairs, and in my lady’s parlour doing a thousand jobs a day she’s not been trained for.’
‘Christ,’ Luther said in disgust.
‘Nessie weeps all the time now. The mistress keeps saying she can’t do anything right. But I tell Nessie it’s just that she hasn’t been trained for these jobs. You can’t learn an old dog new tricks. Nessie’s as old as me, Luther. I think that woman’s a marvel for her age. I see to the fires and do what I can but I’m not able to run about the way she does even though I haven’t got her bad legs.’
He slid his empty glass across the table. ‘My wife’s the best cook in Glasgow, and don’t you forget it!’
‘You’ll have to get out of there, Sid, before that selfish parasite’s the death of the pair of you.’
‘No, no. I won’t have that and neither will Nessie. You mustn’t speak disrespectfully of the mistress. She is our mistress and there is such a thing as loyalty. You can’t change that.’
‘Balls!’
‘You don’t understand, Luther. Anyway where would Nessie and I go?’
‘I’ll soon get you a place. And there’s no need to worry. I’ll see that you don’t starve.’
Sid shook his head ‘The master and mistress have given us a home for all these years. We owe them . . . .’
‘You owe them fuck all!’
The very next day he sent a cart and four Irish navvies to the Cameron back door with the order to lift the old couple’s belongings and the old couple if necessary, and take them to a cosy room and kitchen he’d rented for them up near the college gardens. He warned the men to listen to no objections.
‘Just go in,’ he said, ‘and get the poor old sods out of there.’
And there wasn’t an Irish navvy in Scotland who would disobey his orders.
The Dark Side of Pleasure Page 21