Lady of Fortune (11 page)

His short legs scurrying, Nathan Cohen led them rapidly through the crowds, the railway-porter trundling speedily behind them with their suitcases on a trolley, and almost catching up with their heels. Effie was stunned by the noise of roaring steam-locomotives, by the echoing of shunted carriages, and by the cacophony of hundreds of voices and whistles and cries and shouts. Everybody seemed to be in such a grim tearing hurry; and she glimpsed with amazement a man snatching a copy of the
Evening Standard
from the bookstall, and tossing his penny at the newsvendor behind the counter. She had never seen money
thrown
before.

A boy in a damp cap and a dirty apron was screeching, ‘Pape-ear, pape-ear! Lord Kitchener wivdraws! Getcha pape-ear!' and the accents of everyone around Effie sounded peculiarly flat and clipped. It was like listening to a roomful of people cutting up paper with small, sharp scissors.

‘This way! We've a carriage waiting!' called Nathan Cohen, without looking around once to see if they were following. Dougal and Effie hurried after him to the station
forecourt, which was crowded with a chaotic tangle of hansom cabs, mail carts, closed carriages, motor-cars, and barrows. The sleet fell through the yellowish gaslight like discarded sparks from some filthy celestial furnace; and there was such a reek of coal-smoke and horses' urine that Effie had to cover her mouth with her handkerchief. It was eleven o'clock in the morning, but it could have been midnight.

Nathan Cohen, after darting this way and that, at last found their carriage, a black closed landau with a rain-bespeckled hood. Effie climbed gratefully inside, and settled herself in the far corner while Nathan paid off the porter, and while their trunks and bags were noisily loaded on to the back, and strapped up.

‘Well, now!' said Nathan Cohen, climbing into the carriage himself, and tugging off his wet gloves. ‘We're going to take you first to Mr Cockburn's house, at Eaton Square, and then we'll see about some lunch!'

‘It's so
riotous
here,' said Effie.

‘Riotous! Is it? Well, I suppose it is! But that's the metropolis for you! I suppose Edinburgh's quite docile, by comparison! Is this your first time south?'

‘Aye,' said Effie, feeling suddenly very inexperienced and provincial. ‘But I expect I can quickly get used to it.'

‘You're going on to Putney, aren't you?' asked Nathan Cohen. ‘Well, you'll find it quiet enough at Putney! It's a little place on the other side of the river. Transpontine, don't you know. That's what we call it, anyway. Almost bucolic!'

Effie wiped away the condensation from the window with the back of her glove, and peered out at the horse-drawn omnibuses which cluttered Marylebone High Road. Every one of them was emblazoned with posters for Nestles Milk, Colmans Mustard, Mellins Food, and Frys Pure Concentrated Cocoa. In fact, Effie could almost have believed that London was actually owned by a partnership of Nestles Milk and Frys Cocoa (in conjunction with Liptons Tea), because there were so many scores of posters for them.

‘I don't think I've ever seen so many omnibuses in my whole life,' she remarked.

‘Not as many as there were a few years ago,' said Nathan Cohen, crossing his plump little legs. ‘Last of an era, these are. The electric trams are all over the place now. Much
faster, you see, and they don't need feeding! You take a look at those omnibuses, you won't see them around for very much longer.'

They arrived after forty minutes at Eaton Square, only a quarter of a mile from the walls of Buckingham Palace. Here in London, the sadness of Queen Victoria's death last week seemed to have a far more personal meaning; and Effie saw several gentlemen on the streets with black armbands, and some with black scarves tied around their hats. London, after all, was the hub of the great British Empire, and her empress had just passed on to higher service.

There was a laurel wreath on the door of Mr Cockburn's spacious and elegant Georgian house; and in the hallway, a portrait of Her late Majesty had been festooned with black ribbons and rosettes.

Mrs Cockburn, however, a tall and brusque lady in her mid-forties, had already begun to acquire the distinctive bearing of an Edwardian. Her vividly brown hair was swept up, and embellished with pearls, and she wore a narrow-waisted morning-dress of dark russet velvet, which swept the carpets with a cultivated whisper, She carried her sharpened nose as high as she could conveniently manage, and smiled often, although rarely in amusement. The Cockburns had been in India for fifteen years, with the Crown Commissioners, and later with the Delhi Bank; and Mrs Cockburn's extended isolation from fashion had made her acutely sensitive to every changing nuance in dress and behaviour.

‘I'm in such a tizzy,' she said, showing Dougal and Effie through to the drawing-room. ‘We were supposed to be going to Paris next week, and then Vienna, and then suddenly we're not, because of the funeral. Malcolm has to go, of course, because of the bank. But it's all quite tiresome.'

Dougal said, ‘It's very good of you to receive us.'

‘No trouble, I assure you,' said Mrs Cockburn. ‘Would you care for some tea? Or would you rather change first? It must be frightfully tedious, that train journey from Scotland. I've never attempted it myself. I get impatient if I have to sit still for ten minutes, let alone ten hours!'

She bustled out, leaving Dougal and Effie together, in a drawing-room of tall Regency mirrors, gilded Regency furniture, and hand-painted wallpaper with bamboo and birds. A gilded clock chimed the half-hour.

Effie said, ‘Do you think you made the right decision?'

‘Coming to London, you mean?' asked Dougal. He stood up, and walked around the room. He picked up a silver-framed photograph of Malcolm Cockburn resting his foot on the head of a slain Bengal tiger; and then he went across to the sat-inwood harpischord on the far side of the room and tinkled the keys. He played, badly,
The Bluebells of Scotland
.

‘Aye,' he said. ‘I think I'm going to like it.'

‘Even if you're stuck in the trust department.'

Effie said, innocently, ‘Father wouldn't know, you know, if you did a little speculative investment of your own. Just a few thousand here and there.'

‘Cockburn would tell him.'

Effie brushed her skirts straight. ‘Och, I doubt it. Cockburn's not going to upset you, is he, when he knows that in ten years' time you might inherit half the bank? Look at this house here. It must cost him a fortune to keep up. He's not going to risk losing it for the sake of a family quarrel. As long as you keep your head, and don't overspend, he'll let you do what you like.'

Dougal closed the lid over the keys of the harpsichord. ‘You've not met the man, and already you've got him weighed up?'

‘I did talk to mother about him, before I left.'

‘And what did she say?'

‘That Mr Cockburn's a good man, loyal, but likes his luxury. Not a rocker of boats, if you see what I mean. He prefers not to take risks, nor to upset people.'

‘Hmm,' said Dougal.

‘Well,
think
of it,' enthused Effie. ‘All the inventions and new businesses there must be in London! All crying out for investment, and financial support! You could take your pick.'

Dougal narrowed his eyes, and looked at his sister with mock-suspicion. ‘Listen,' he said, ‘who's the banker around here, you or me?'

‘You, of course. But you're not above taking a little advice, are you?'

‘No, I suppose not.'

Mrs Cockburn came sweeping back; followed by a pretty young blonde-haired maid carrying a tray of tea and homemade biscuits. The maid set down the tray on a side table, and blushed when Dougal smiled at her.

‘It really is too bad,' said Mrs Cockburn, perching herself on the far edge of the William Morris sofa. ‘You would think that royalty, of all people, could have chosen a more convenient time to pass on.'

‘I don't think any of us can choose the moment of our departure, Mrs Cockburn,' smiled Effie.

‘Oh, don't you?' Mrs Cockburn retorted. ‘Well, I have planned
exactly
when I shall pass away. It will be after lunch, on an August afternoon, and I shall be sleeping in the garden of our house in Buckinghamshire. I shall do nothing dramatic. I shall simply listen to the bees humming and the birds singing; and I shall not wake up for tea.'

‘That's a very specific requirement,' said Dougal. ‘I hope the Lord obliges you.'

‘After fifteen years in Bombay, my dear Mr Watson, the Lord owes me more favors than I can count. I once amputated my
masaul's
large toe with a dinner-knife, when he was bitten by a snake, and saved his life.'

‘Your
masaul
?'

‘That's Bombay for
khitmutgar
. My table-waiter. We had twenty-seven servants in Bombay, you know. I don't know how I manage with six.'

Effie said, ‘You keep a very fine house here, all the same.'

‘Thank you,' said Mrs Cockburn. ‘Malcolm and I both like it. It's so central, and yet so secluded.'

Effie accepted a cup of tea from the maid, and two lumps of sugar. Then she said, with an exaggerated sweetness that was only perceptible to Dougal, ‘Of course, you know why my brother's been sent down to London, don't you? The real purpose of his appointment?'

Mrs Cockburn's smile, already unamused, tightened a little. ‘I believe Malcolm said something about his taking over the trust department. Is that right, Mr Watson?'

Dougal put down his cup and was about to say something, but Effie interrupted him. ‘Ostensibly, yes,' she said. ‘But then father thought it best for him to do something discreet. Some job in which he wouldn't attract too much attention.'

‘I'm not sure I follow,' said Mrs Cockburn, carefully.

‘Well, never mind, it's not important,' said Effie. ‘I'm sure that your husband has no fears about the way the London branch is being organised, in any case. Father's very impressed with him.'

Mrs Cockburn glanced uneasily at Dougal and then back at Effie. ‘You're trying to tell me that your brother is here to – well, to keep an eye on things?'

‘But you won't tell anyone I told you, will you?' Effie said hoarsely, putting the tip of her finger to her lips.

Mrs Cockburn sat up straight. ‘No, no, of course not. No. I hadn't realized. There's been no trouble has there? I mean, everything's quite in order?'

‘Oh, yes,' said Effie. ‘It's just Dougal's job to make sure that everything stays that way.'

Mrs Cockburn sipped her tea quickly and precisely, and then excused herself. The maid, whose name was Edwina, cheerfully showed Dougal and Effie up to the guest rooms, so that they could change for lunch. Their cases had already been unpacked, and their clothes had been hung in the wardrobes.

After a minute or two, Effie heard a knock on her door. It was Dougal. ‘Are you decent?' he asked her. She covered herself in her afternoon-wrap, and opened the door for him. He was still in his shirt-sleeves, with spring bands around his biceps to keep his cuffs up.

‘You're a trickie wee swankie,' he told her, in a low voice. ‘What was all that blether about my keeping an eye on the bank?'

‘Do you not see?' Effie asked him, unabashed, as she began to brush out her hair. ‘Mr Cockburn will let you do as you will, if he thinks you're there to spy on him. You'll be able to run your business as you want to; and I'll be able to help you.'

‘You? What do you know about banking?'

‘I'm Thomas Watson's daughter, that's what I know about banking.'

‘Och, Effie, away with you.'

‘Och, Effie, nothing. Do you think that I'm going to let you have all the fun? I came to London to mix with royalty, and rich folks; and I think it's time I made my own fortune.'

‘Effie,' Dougal insisted, ‘girls do not make their own fortunes. That is not the way of it.'

‘They can help, though.'

‘It's not a girl's place. You've had no training; nor should you. It's not for a woman to deal with stocks and bonds. Money is a man's business. If I'd had any notion at all that you wanted to, I'd never have agreed to bring you down here.
I thought it was high society you were interested in, a gay time! Not banking!'

‘And why shouldn't I be interested in banking? Look what I've done for you already, with Cockburn.'

Dougal blew out his cheeks. ‘Scared him off me for good and all, I shouldn't be surprised.'

‘That's nonsense, and you know it. As long as Cockburn believes that you're keeping an eye on him for father, he'll let you do whatever you wish.'

‘I'm not so sure.'

Effie reached up, and kissed him. ‘Be sure,' she told him. ‘Take your opportunity, and snatch it while you can. That's what mother taught me.'

‘That doesn't sound like mother.'

‘Aye, well, you don't know the half of it.'

After lunch at Duncan's, where they were served in one of the oak-panelled upstairs rooms with crab soup, roasted grouse, kidneys on toast, and sultana pudding, they emerged into the foggy three o'clock City to visit the Watson's Bank building in Cornhill. Effie could have happily gone back to Eaton Square and slept for the rest of the afternoon; but she was determined that she would keep pace with Dougal, and with Nathan Cohen, who sped ahead of them, chattering at the top of his voice and doffing his hat to everyone he knew.

The City of London in 1901 was the financial clearinghouse of the greatest Empire the world had ever seen. Around the sombre shoulders of the Bank of England, the ‘Old Lady of Threadneedle Street', were clustered the private banks and investment companies which annually financed the world-wide business of the British colonies, to the tune of more than a thousand million pounds. It was from here that money went to tea plantations in Ceylon, diamond diggings in South Africa, railways in India, and manganese mines in South America. The money flowed back here, too. Through Rothschilds, Coutts, Watsons, and Barings passed
the overwhelming profits of an Empire which now covered over a quarter of the populated globe; and it was on the skill of these banks that almost every imperial enterprise was dependent. Their power was not just financial, either. In the boardrooms of the City, in this foggy, murky metropolis of grandiose Victorian buildings, decisions were made which would affect the lives of scores of millions of people in China, Africa, and the Caribbean.