A Dangerous Fortune (29 page)

Hobbes was in a curious position. He was powerful, because his journal was widely read and respected; yet he was poor, for he did not make much money out of it. The combination was awkward for him—and perfectly suited to Augusta’s purpose. He had the power to help her and he might be bought.

There was just one possible snag. She hoped he did not have high principles: that would destroy his usefulness. But if she had judged him aright he was corruptible.

She felt nervous and jittery. She stood outside the drawing room door for a moment, saying to herself
Relax, Mrs. Pilaster, you’re good at this
. After a moment she felt calmer, and she went in.

He stood up eagerly to greet her. He was a nervous, quick-witted man, birdlike in his movements. His dress suit was at least ten years old, Augusta thought. She led him to the window seat, to give their conversation a feeling of intimacy even though they were not old friends. “Tell me what mischief you have been at today,” she said playfully. “Trouncing Mr. Gladstone? Undermining our India policy? Persecuting Catholics?”

He peered at her through smeared spectacles. “I’ve been writing about the City of Glasgow Bank,” he said.

Augusta frowned. “This is the bank that failed a little while ago.”

“Exactly. Many of the Scottish trade unions have been ruined, you know.”

“I seem to remember hearing talk of it,” she said. “My husband said the City of Glasgow had been known for years to be unsound.”

“I don’t understand this,” he said excitedly. “People know a bank is no good, yet it is allowed to continue in business until it crashes, and thousands of people lose their life savings!”

Augusta did not understand it either. She knew next
to nothing about business. But she now saw a chance to lead the conversation in the direction she wanted. “Perhaps the worlds of commerce and government are too widely separated,” she said.

“It must be so. Better communication between businessmen and statesmen might prevent such catastrophes.”

“I wonder….” Augusta hesitated as if considering an idea that had just struck her. “I wonder whether someone such as yourself would consider becoming a director of one or two companies.”

He was surprised. “Indeed, I might.”

“You see … some firsthand experience of participating in the direction of a business enterprise might help you when you comment, in your journal, on the world of commerce.”

“I’ve no doubt it would.”

“The rewards are not great—a hundred or two a year, at best.” She saw his eyes light up: that was a lot of money to him. “But the obligations are small.”

“A most interesting thought,” he said. He was working hard to conceal his excitement, she could tell.

“My husband could arrange it, if you were interested. He has constantly to recommend directors for the boards of enterprises in which he has some interest. Do think it over and tell me if you would like me to mention it.”

“Very well, I shall.”

So far, so good, Augusta thought. But showing him the bait was the easy part. Now she had to get him on the hook. She said thoughtfully: “And the world of commerce should reciprocate, of course. More businessmen should serve their country in the House of Lords, I feel.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, and she guessed that his quick mind was beginning to understand the bargain he was being offered. “No doubt,” he said noncommittally.

Augusta developed her theme. “Both Houses of Parliament
would benefit from the knowledge and wisdom of senior businessmen, especially when debating the nation’s finances. Yet there is a curious prejudice against a businessman’s being elevated to the peerage.”

“There is, and it is quite irrational,” Hobbes admitted. “Our merchants, manufacturers and bankers are responsible for the nation’s prosperity, much more so than landowners and clergymen; yet it is the latter who are ennobled for their services to the nation, while the men who really make and do things are overlooked.”

“You should write an article about the question. It is the kind of cause for which your journal has campaigned in the past—the modernization of our ancient institutions.” She gave him her warmest smile. Her cards were on the table now. He could hardly fail to see that this campaign was the price he had to pay for the company directorships she was offering. Would he stiffen, look offended, and beg to differ? Would he walk out in a huff? Would he smile and turn her down gracefully? If he did any of those things she would have to start all over again with someone else.

There was a long pause, then he said: “Perhaps you’re right.”

Augusta relaxed.

“Perhaps we should take this up,” he went on. “Closer links between commerce and government.”

“Peerages for businessmen,” Augusta said.

“And company directorships for journalists,” he added.

Augusta sensed that they had gone as far as they could in the direction of frankness, and it was time to pull back. If it were admitted that she was bribing him he might be humiliated and refuse. She was well satisfied with what she had achieved, and she was about to change the subject when more guests arrived and she was saved the trouble.

The rest of the party arrived in a bunch, and Joseph
appeared at the same time. A few moments later Hastead came in and said: “Dinner is served, sir,” and Augusta longed to hear him say
my lord
instead of
sir
.

They walked from the drawing room through the hall to the dining room. The rather short procession bothered Augusta. In aristocratic houses there was often a long and very elegant walk to the dining room, and it was a high point of the dinner-party ritual. The Pilasters traditionally scorned to copy upper-class manners, but Augusta felt differently. To her this house seemed irredeemably suburban. But she had failed to persuade Joseph to move.

Tonight she had arranged for Edward to walk in to dinner with Emily Maple, a shy, pretty girl of nineteen who was with her father, a Methodist minister, and her mother. They were plainly overwhelmed by the house and the company, and hardly fitted in, but Augusta was getting desperate in her search for a suitable bride for Edward. The boy was now twenty-nine years old and he had never shown a spark of interest in any eligible girl, to his mother’s frustration. He could hardly fail to find Emily attractive: she had big blue eyes and a sweet smile. The parents would be thrilled by such a match. As for the girl, she would have to do as she was told. But Edward might need to be pushed. The trouble was, he saw no reason to marry. He enjoyed his life with his male friends, going to his club and so on, and settling down to married life had little appeal. For a while she had blithely assumed this was just a normal phase in a young man’s life, but it had gone on too long, and lately she had begun to worry whether he would ever come out of it. She would have to put pressure on him.

On her left at the table Augusta placed Michael Fortescue, a personable young man with political aspirations. He was said to be close to the prime minister, Benjamin Disraeli, who had been ennobled and was now Lord Beaconsfield. Fortescue was the second of the three
people Augusta needed to help her get Joseph a peerage. He was not as clever as Hobbes but he was more sophisticated and self-assured. Augusta had been able to overawe Hobbes, but she would have to seduce Fortescue.

Deacon Maple said grace and Hastead poured wine. Neither Joseph nor Augusta would drink wine, but they offered it to their guests. As the consommé was served Augusta smiled warmly at Fortescue and said in a low, intimate voice: “When are we going to see you in Parliament?”

“I wish I knew,” he said.

“Everyone speaks of you as a brilliant young man, as you must know.”

He was pleased but embarrassed by her flattery. “I’m not sure I do know.”

“And you’re so good-looking, too—that never hurts.”

He looked rather startled. He had not expected her to flirt—but he was not averse to it.

“You shouldn’t wait for a general election,” she went on. “Why don’t you stand in a by-election? It should be easy enough to arrange—people say you have the ear of the prime minister.”

“You’re very kind—but by-elections are expensive, Mrs. Pilaster.”

It was the response she had been hoping for, but she did not let him know that. “Are they?” she said.

“And I am not a wealthy man.”

“I didn’t know that,” she lied. “You should find a sponsor, then.”

“A banker, perhaps?” he said in a tone that was half playful, half wistful.

“It’s not impossible. Mr. Pilaster is keen to take a more active part in the government of the nation.” He would be, if a peerage were offered. “And he doesn’t see why commercial men should feel obliged to be Liberals.
Between you and me, he often finds himself more in agreement with the younger Conservatives.”

Her confidential tone encouraged him to be frank—as she intended—and now he said directly: “In what way would Mr. Pilaster like to serve the nation—other than by sponsoring a by-election candidate?”

This was a challenge. Should she answer his question, or continue to be indirect? Augusta decided to match his frankness, “Perhaps in the House of Lords. Do you think it is possible?” She was enjoying this—and so was he.

“Possible? Certainly. Whether it is likely, is another question. Shall I inquire?”

This was more straightforward than Augusta had anticipated. “Could you do so discreetly?”

He hesitated. “I believe I could.”

“It would be most kind,” she said with satisfaction. She had turned him into a co-conspirator,

“I shall let you know what I find out.”

“And if a suitable by-election should be called …”

“You’re very good.”

She touched his arm. He was a very attractive young man, she thought. She enjoyed plotting with him. “I believe we understand one another perfectly,” she murmured. She noticed that he had unusually big hands. She held his arm a moment longer, looking into his eyes; then she turned away.

She was feeling good. She had dealt with two of the three key people and she had not yet slipped. Throughout the next course she talked to Lord Morte, who was sitting on her right. With him she made polite, pointless conversation: it was his wife she wanted to influence and for that she had to wait until after dinner.

The men stayed in the dining room to smoke and Augusta took the ladies upstairs to her bedroom. There she got Lady Morte alone for a few minutes. Fifteen years older than Augusta, Harriet Morte was a lady-in-waiting
to Queen Victoria. She had iron-gray hair and a superior manner. Like Arnold Hobbes and Michael Fortescue, she had influence; and Augusta hoped that, like them, she would be corruptible. Hobbes and Fortescue were vulnerable because they were poor. Lord and Lady Morte were not so much poor as improvident: they had plenty of money, but they spent more than they had. Lady Morte’s gowns were splendid and her jewelry was magnificent, and Lord Morte believed, against the evidence of forty years, that he had a good eye for a racehorse.

Augusta was more nervous about Lady Morte than she had been about the men. Women were more difficult. They would not take anything at face value and they knew when they were being manipulated. Thirty years as a courtier would have refined Lady Morte’s sensibility to the point where nothing could slip by her.

Augusta began by saying: “Mr. Pilaster and I are such admirers of the dear queen.”

Lady Morte nodded, as if to say
Of course
. However, there was no
of course
about it: Queen Victoria was disliked by much of the nation for being withdrawn, staid, remote and inflexible.

Augusta went on: “If there were ever anything we could do to help you with your noble duties, we would be thrilled.”

“How very kind.” Lady Morte looked a little puzzled. She hesitated, then decided to ask. “But what could you possibly do?”

“What do bankers do? They lend.” Augusta lowered her voice. “Court life must be cripplingly expensive, I imagine.”

Lady Morte stiffened. There was a taboo on talking about money in her class and Augusta was breaking it flagrantly.

But Augusta plowed on. “If you were to open an
account with Pilasters, there would never be any problems in that area….”

Lady Morte was offended, but on the other hand she was being offered the remarkable privilege of unlimited credit at one of the largest banks in the world. Her instincts told her to snub Augusta, but greed held her back: Augusta could read the conflict in her face.

Augusta did not give her time to think about it. “Please forgive my being so frightfully candid,” she went on. “It comes only from a wish to be of service.” Lady Morte would not believe that, but she would assume Augusta simply wanted to curry favor with royalty. She would not look for a more specific motive, and Augusta would give her no more clues tonight.

Lady Morte hesitated a moment longer, then said: “You’re very kind.”

Mrs. Maple, the mother of Emily, returned from the bathroom, and Lady Morte took her turn. She went out with an expression of mild embarrassment frozen to her face. Augusta knew that she and Lord Morte would agree, in the carriage going home, that commercial people were impossibly vulgar and ill-mannered; but one day soon he would lose a thousand guineas on a horse, and on the same day her dressmaker would demand payment of a six-month-old bill for three hundred pounds, and the two of them would remember Augusta’s offer, and they would decide that vulgar commercial people did after all have their uses.

Augusta had cleared the third hurdle. If she had assessed the woman correctly, Lady Morte would be hopelessly in debt to Pilasters Bank within six months. Then she would find out what Augusta wanted from her.

The ladies reconvened in the drawing room on the first floor and took coffee. Lady Morte was still distant, but stopped short of being rude. The men joined them a few minutes later. Joseph took Deacon Maple upstairs to show him his collection of snuffboxes. Augusta was
pleased: Joseph only did that when he liked someone. Emily played the piano. Mrs. Maple asked her to sing, but she said she had a cold, and stuck to her refusal with remarkable obstinacy despite her mother’s pleas, making Augusta think anxiously that she might not be as submissive as she looked.