Death at Whitechapel (2 page)

“I can wait,” Jennie said. “War is not my favorite subject—although of course, dear boy, I am all for anything you write, as you well know.” She patted his hand with a proud smile. “Your dispatches for Borthwick in the
Morning Post
have caught everyone's eye, although I daresay General Kitchener is mightily miffed at your having written them. Your story of
The Malakand Field Force
has sold six thousand copies and is still strong, especially in India, where Lady Curzon says it is read by all the officers. Your agent, Mr. Watt, has sent you an accounting—it appears that you have already earned over three hundred pounds in royalties.”

“Three hundred pounds!” Winston's smile was rueful. “That's more than I would receive in four years as a subaltern, and the writing was done in a few weeks. As for Kitchener, I don't care a fig for what he thinks of the Post dispatches. The glorious victory at Omdurman was disgraced by the slaughter of the wounded, for which he alone must be held to account. He may be a general, but never a gentleman.” The smile became a grumbling laugh. “In that direction lies my future, Mama—not in the sword, but in pen and in politics, speaking the truth as frankly and fully as is possible.”

“I don't know about the truth,” Jennie said, “but I have no doubt about your political future. You have heard me say many times how anxious I am to see you in the Commons, taking up where your father left off.”

She paused, thinking of Randolph and what had gone into the envelope, and how much it cost her to defend him, not for his sake, certainly—she would not have lifted a finger to save her dead husband's reputation—but for Winston's. She would stop at nothing—
nothing
!—to enable Winston to fulfill the promise of leadership she knew he possessed. He knew this, but he also needed to know that she counted on him to help.

“I am very glad to see you earning something by your writing,” she said quietly. “I don't suppose it's necessary to remind you that every shilling is wanted. I fear that we are in dire straits.”

There was a moment's silence. Winston bit his lip, while Jennie reflected on the grim truth of her words. Randolph had died nearly three years before, leaving an estate of some seventy-five thousand pounds. After his debts were paid, the remainder was put in trust for the boys, Winston and Jack. Although Jennie had been Randolph's wife for twenty years, she had received precious little—only the horses, the household goods, and a meager five hundred pounds a year. It was all she would ever get of the Marlborough millions, for the old duchess would leave no more than a token to Jennie, whose American forthrightness she had never appreciated, or Jennie's boys, of whom she was none too fond. Randolph's slim legacy, added to the annual ten thousand dollars Jennie received from the rental of her father's Manhattan mansion, was her entire income. For a woman in upper-class British society with two sons to support, it was not nearly enough to keep up appearances, much less do the other things Jennie wanted to do.

But Jennie was determined that no one—except her solicitor Lumley, and Winston, of course—should know the extent of her financial woes. She had taken a house in Great Cumberland Place, only a few blocks from Hyde Park, a fine seven-story house of Georgian design, albeit on the wrong side of Oxford Street, which somewhat reduced the cost. She had planned to economize on the furnishings and refurbishments, but the whole thing had needed painting, and hot water and electric light, the cost of which was appalling. Equally appalling was the cost of the multitude of servants required to staff the place and manage the dinner parties for which she had always been famous. And then there had been that deplorable business with Cruikshank, the fraud who had swindled her and her sisters out of more than four thousand pounds. The miserable wretch had been sent off to jail—eight years at hard labor—but not before he had spent all the money on fine living, making recovery impossible.

Jennie's financial situation was so precarious that she had not even been able to pay Winston's allowance into the bank, and several of his checks had been dishonored. But of course he was as careless of his finances as she was of hers. In India he had lived far beyond the five hundred pounds he got from her and the fourteen shillings a day the Army paid him, and visited the native moneylenders on a quite regular basis.

Winston pushed his lips in and out. “I did hope,” he said, after a long silence, “that the loan Lumley arranged should have made things more comfortable for you.” He spoke carefully, not quite looking at her.

Jennie felt herself tense. At the beginning of the year, she had been forced to take out a loan for seventeen thousand pounds. Seventeen thousand! The size of the debt, and the impossibility of repaying even a small portion of it—still filled her with enormous anxiety. But equally hard was the rift the thing had caused between her and Winston. She had told him she needed the money to repay her many smaller notes and to settle some urgent dressmaker's and jeweler's bills—almost the whole truth, but not quite. He had taken the matter quite hard, for Lumley had unfortunately arranged the business so that Winston was required to guarantee seven hundred a year. The unfavorable contract wasn't Lumley's fault, of course. Her credit with the banks was so
very
bad, and she had already borrowed what she could from her friends.

Now Winston turned his head to look directly at her, and she saw that his pale eyes were hard as marbles. They reminded her, unhappily, of his father's eyes. “I hoped,” he repeated, “that the loan should have made you more comfortable, Mama.”

Jennie's hands fluttered and she clasped them in her lap. “Oh, it has,” she said quickly. Now was the time to tell him about the photograph and those miserable letters, before he distracted himself with the many projects he had arranged to undertake on his return. “But I am afraid that something has arisen that I could not have anticipated when I—”

“Are you speaking of
Maggie?”
Winston asked in a cautionary tone. “You should not consider the magazine
your
financial obligation, you know. You are to be the editor, not an investor. Not a penny of your money should go into it.”
Maggie
was the sobriquet that one of Jennie's friends had given to her latest undertaking—a quarterly literary journal.

“No, not of
Maggie,”
Jennie said. “I have hired a managing editor who is raising the necessary funds. No, there is something else.” She cleared her throat nervously. “I'm afraid I must tell you that—”

“Listen to me, Mama.” Winston spoke in a firm, measured tone. “You and I are both spendthrift and extravagant and neither of us pays the proper sort of attention to money. But—and I say this in all sympathy, my darling, and not at all in anger—in comparison to your follies, my own are quite trifling. I may squander a few hundred on a pony, or rare books, or a dozen bottles of fine Scotch. But you are utterly suicidal in your expenditures. You must have lost a thousand pounds or more at the races at Goodwood.”

Jennie frowned. She loved her son dearly, but when he climbed onto his high horse and began to lecture her, he was really quite insufferable. “This is not the time for you to preach to me on extravagance, Winston,” she replied sharply. “The current difficulty is not of my making, and it has enormous consequences for you.”

Winston did not appear to have heard her. “I am sorry to be so blunt, Mama, but someone must say it. You have brought us to the brink. If this constant financial drain continues, we will surely be ruined, and our peace and contentment will be ended forever.”

Then, his mouth relaxing, smiling the shy, boyish smile that always charmed Jennie, he added, “But the soldiers are home from the wars, dearest, and this should be a day of celebration! We shall put this wretched business aside and amuse ourselves. Is Jack in town? Is there a small dinner party somewhere tonight where I might pick up a few shreds of political gossip? I am speaking again at Bradford in a few days, and I should very much like to appear in the know.” His smile became wistful. “How I wish, oh how I wish, Mama, that dear Papa could have heard me speak there in July. I was listened to with the greatest of attention for over an hour, and there was really a very great deal of enthusiasm, people mounting their chairs and applauding me. It was enormously gratifying.”

Jennie sat back, thinking. Perhaps this was not the time to tell him about the bank notes in the envelope, or where they were going, or why. Perhaps it was not fair to seek her son's help in resolving this ugly business. He was so full of political ambitions and his plans for another book, so aglow with the promise of his future. No, he was not the person to help her think how to put a stop to this dreadful affair.

But then who? Certainly not dear Jack—he was too young, and just beginning to find his feet. But the burden was so great that she could not bear it alone much longer. Perhaps, shameful as the matter was, she should share it with the Prince. The connection between Randolph and HRH had been strong to the end. Indeed, Bertie supported Winston's ambitions and had promised to help him in every way possible. The thought of it gave her a new hope. Yes, she would talk with the Prince, and save Winston the trauma of knowing her secret—at least for now.

She smiled tightly. “Your brother has gone off with Ernest Cassel on some sort of business. But the Sheridans are in town and have invited a very small group to Sibley House for dinner. Lord Charles will be glad to hear your reports. He asked me about you just the other day.”

“Sheridan? Ah, that great anomaly, a liberal lord.” Winston smiled a worldly smile and put his hand on his hip, his elbow jutting out in the style he had copied from his father. “I heard that he was in the Sudan in the eighties—had quite a time there, in fact—so we can exchange reminiscences. Did you know that his wife is the pen behind those pseudonymous Bardwell stories you fancy? A female Conan Doyle, or so she is being called.”

“It is a well-deserved compliment,” Jennie said. “Lady Charles and I are discussing the possibility of her writing something for
Maggie'
s first issue. A story from her is sure to attract readers.”

“Well, then.” Winston stood. “I'll just go and see if Walden has finished unpacking my gear. I have one or two little presents for you.”

“And I shall send Lady Charles a note and let her know that you will be coming,” Jennie said, making up her mind. “She won't object—she is delightfully informal.” She glanced at Winston out of the corner of her eye. “George Cornwallis-West is escorting me, since of course I had no idea when you would manage to get home.”

Winston paused on his way to the door. “George, heh?” Jennie could tell that he was making an effort, albeit not a very successful one, to screen the disapproval from his voice. “Since you hadn't mentioned him recently in your letters, I thought that perhaps the two of you were no longer...” His lips tightened.

Jennie, who did not intend to let her son tell her who she might take as a lover, let the silence lengthen. “Winston, my dear,” she said at last, “you can't possibly suppose that I tell you
everything
that is happening in my life?”

 

K
ate Sheridan hurriedly wrote a few lines, folded and sealed the note, and handed it to the footman.

“To Lady Randolph,” she said. “In Number 35 Great Cumberland Place. And ask Parsons to lay another place, please. We will be seven at dinner.”

As the footman went off, Charles looked up from his newspaper. They were in the library, in Kate's opinion the only habitable room in Sibley House, the grand Mayfair mansion that was part of Charles's ancestral heritage. Kate much preferred her own home, Bishop's Keep, and spent as much time there as possible, coming to London—and to Sibley House—only when it was necessary.

“So young Churchill is back from the wars,” Charles remarked. “I suppose he is already writing a new book to tell us all about Omdurman. I quite enjoyed his report on the Indian campaign, though. He is a precocious boy.”

“He's hardly a boy,” Kate objected. She picked up a book containing one of Wilkie Collins's mysteries and went to sit by the fire. A damp, chill fog, thick with the coal smoke of London chimney pots, had settled into the streets. She was glad they were leaving the next day for East Anglia, where the sun shone and a few roses still bloomed in her garden. She settled into her chair, thinking of Winston and of the relief Lady Randolph must feel now that her son was safely home from the Egyptian campaign. “That young man has been in some quite deadly battles.”

“To hear him tell it, at least,” Charles said dryly. He grinned. “But his adventures will be popular with the Tory working men, which I suppose is what he has in mind by writing those letters for the
Morning Post.
One suspects that he is already in the running for a seat in the Commons.”

“Charles,” Kate said, in some surprise. “I thought you admired Winston.”

“So I do, more or less,” Charles replied. “He has zeal and ambition and a great future—although I can't agree with his Conservative politics. But why does he have to be in such an infernal hurry to make a name for himself?” Answering his own question, he said, “It's his mother's American blood, I suppose, that gives him that indomitable spirit.” He raised his paper and from behind it, added, “You have the same fire. That's what so infuriates Mama, you know. If you gave in now and then, you might win the old lady over.”