A Dangerous Fortune (8 page)

“Of course.”

Lady Stalworthy headed rapidly for the garden.

Augusta felt relieved. She had carried off another delicate conversation. Lady Stalworthy was suspicious of Hugh now, and once a mother began to feel uneasy about a suitor she rarely came to favor him in the end.

She looked around and spotted Beatrice Pilaster, another sister-in-law. Joseph had had two brothers: one was Tobias, Hugh’s father, and the other was William, always called Young William because he was born twenty-three years after Joseph. William was now twenty-five and not yet a partner in the bank. Beatrice was his wife. She was like a large puppy, happy and clumsy and eager to be everyone’s friend. Augusta decided to speak to her about Samuel and his secretary. She went over to her and said: “Beatrice, dear, would you like to see my bedroom?”

4

MICKY AND HIS FATHER
left the party and set out to walk back to their lodgings. Their route lay entirely through parks—first Hyde Park, then Green Park, and St. James’s Park—until they reached the river. They stopped in the middle of Westminster Bridge to rest for a spell and look at the view.

On the north shore of the river was the greatest city in the world. Upstream were the Houses of Parliament, built in a modern imitation of the neighboring thirteenth-century Westminster Abbey. Downstream they could see the gardens of Whitehall, the duke of Buccleuch’s palace, and the vast brick edifice of the new Charing Cross Railway Station.

The docks were out of sight, and no big ships came this far up, but the river was busy with small boats and barges and pleasure cruisers, a pretty sight in the evening sun.

The southern shore might have been in a different country. It was the site of the Lambeth potteries, and there, in mud fields dotted with ramshackle workshops, crowds of gray-faced men and ragged women were still at work boiling bones, sorting rubbish, firing kilns and pouring paste into molds to make the drainpipes and chimney pots needed by the fast-expanding city. The smell was strong even here on the bridge, a quarter-mile away. The squat hovels in which they lived were crowded around the walls of Lambeth Palace, the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury, like the filth left by high tide on the muddy foreshore. Despite the nearness of the archbishop’s palace the neighborhood was known as the Devil’s Acre, presumably because the fires and the smoke, the shuffling workers and the awful smell made people think of Hell.

Micky’s lodgings were in Camberwell, a respectable
suburb beyond the potteries; but he and his father hesitated on the bridge, reluctant to plunge into the Devil’s Acre. Micky was still cursing the scrupulous Methodist conscience of old Seth Pilaster for frustrating his plans. “We will solve this problem about shipping the rifles, Papa,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Papa shrugged. “Who is standing in our way?” he asked.

It was a simple question, but it had a deep meaning in the Miranda family. When they had an intractable problem, they asked
Who is standing in our way
? It really meant
Whom do we have to kill to get this done
? It brought back to Micky all the barbarism of life in Santamaria Province, all the grisly legends he preferred to forget: the story about how Papa had punished his mistress for being unfaithful to him by putting a rifle up her and pulling the trigger; the time a Jewish family opened a store next to his in the provincial capital, so he set fire to it and burned the man and his wife and children alive; the one about the dwarf who had dressed up to look like Papa during the carnival, and made everyone laugh by strutting up and down in a perfect imitation of Papa’s walk—until Papa calmly went up to the dwarf, drew a pistol, and blew his head off.

Even in Cordova this was not normal, but there Papa’s reckless brutality had made him a man to be feared. Here in England it would get him thrown in jail. “I don’t anticipate the need for drastic action,” Micky said, trying to cover his nervousness with an air of unconcern.

“For now, there is no hurry,” Papa said. “Winter is beginning at home. There will be no fighting until the summer.” He gave Micky a hard look. “But I
must
have the rifles by the end of October.”

That look made Micky feel weak at the knees. He leaned against the stone parapet of the bridge to steady
himself. “I’ll see to it, Papa, don’t worry,” he said anxiously.

Papa nodded as if there could be no doubt about it. They were silent for a minute. Out of the blue, Papa said: “I want you to stay in London.”

Micky felt his shoulders slump with relief. It was what he had been hoping for. He must have done something right, then. “I think it might be a good idea, Papa,” he said, trying to hide his eagerness.

Then Papa dropped his bombshell. “But your allowance will stop.”

“What?”

“The family can’t keep you. You must support yourself.”

Micky was appalled. Papa’s meanness was as legendary as his violence, but still this was unexpected. The Mirandas were rich. Papa had thousands of head of cattle, monopolized all horse dealing over a huge territory, rented land to small farmers and owned most of the stores in Santamaria Province.

It was true that their money did not buy much in England. Back home a Cordovan silver dollar would get you a slap-up meal, a bottle of rum and a whore for the night; here it would hardly stretch to a cheap meal and a glass of weak beer. That had come as a blow to Micky when he went to Windfield School. He had managed to supplement his allowance by playing cards, but he had found it hard to make ends meet until he befriended Edward. Even now Edward paid for all the expensive entertainments they shared: the opera, visits to racecourses, hunting and whores. Still, Micky needed a basic income to pay his rent, tailor’s bills, subscriptions to the gentlemen’s clubs that were an essential element of London life, and tips to servants. How did Papa expect him to find that? Take a job? The idea was appalling. No member of the Miranda family worked for wages.

He was about to ask how he was expected to live on
no money when Papa abruptly changed the subject and said: “I will now tell you what the rifles are for. We are going to take over the desert.”

Micky did not understand. The Miranda property covered a big area of Santamaria Province. Bordering their land was a smaller property owned by the Delabarca family. To the north of both was land so arid that neither Papa nor his neighbor had ever bothered to claim it. “What do we want the desert for?” Micky said.

“Beneath the dust there is a mineral called nitrate. It’s used as a fertilizer, much better than dung. It can be shipped all over the world and sold for high prices. The reason I want you to stay in London is to take charge of selling it.”

“How do we know this stuff is there?”

“Delabarca has started mining it. It has made his family rich.”

Micky felt excited. This could transform the family’s future. Not instantly, of course; not soon enough to solve the problem of how he would live with no allowance. But in the long term …

“We have to act fast,” Papa said. “Wealth is power, and the Delabarca family will soon be stronger than we are. Before that happens, we have to destroy them.”

 CHAPTER TWO

JUNE  

1

Whitehaven House
Kensington Gore
London, S.W.
June 2nd, 1873

My dear Florence
,

Where are you? I hoped to see you at Mrs Bridewell’s ball, then at Richmond, then at the Muncasters’ on Saturday … but you weren’t at any of them! Write me a line and say you’re still alive
.

Affectionately yours
,
    
Hugh Pilaster
.

*

23, Park Lane
London, W.
June 3rd, 1873

To Hugh Pilaster, Esq.
Sir
:

You will oblige me by not communicating with my daughter under any circumstances whatsoever henceforth
.

Stalworthy
.

*

Whitehaven House
Kensington Gore
London, S.W.
June 6th, 1873

Dearest Florence
,

At last I have found a confidential messenger to smuggle a note to you. Why have you been hidden away from me? Have I offended your parents? Or—which heaven forbid—you? Your cousin Jane will bring your reply to me. Write it quickly
!

With fond regards
,
    
Hugh
.

*

Stalworthy Manor
Stalworthy
Buckinghamshire
June 7th, 1873

Dear Hugh
,

I am forbidden to see you because you are a gambler like your father. I am truly sorry but I must believe that my parents know what is best for me
.

Sorrowfully
,
    
Florence
.

*

Whitehaven House
Kensington Gore
London, S.W.
June 8th, 1873

Dear Mother
,

A young lady has just rejected me because my father was a gambler. Is it true? Please answer right away. I must know
!

Your loving son
,
    
Hugh
.

*

2, Wellington Villas
Folkestone
Kent
June 9th, 1873

My dear son
,

I never knew your father to gamble. I cannot imagine who would say such a wicked thing about him. He lost his money in a business collapse, as you have always been told. There was no other cause
.

I hope you are well and happy, my dear, and that your beloved will accept you. I continue much the same. Your sister Dorothy sends her best love, as does
,

Your Mother
.

*

Whitehaven House
Kensington Gore
London, S.W.
June 10th, 1873

Dear Florence
,

I believe someone may have told you a wrong thing about my father. His business failed, it is true. It was no fault of his own: a large firm called Overend & Gurney went bankrupt for five millions of pounds, and many of their creditors were destroyed. He took his own life the same day. But he never gambled; and nor do I
.

If you explain this to the noble earl your father, I believe all will be well
.

Fondly yours
,
    
Hugh
.

*

Stalworthy Manor
Stalworthy
Buckinghamshire
June 11th, 1873

Hugh
,

Writing falsehoods to me will do no good. I now know for sure that my parents’ advice to me is right, and I must forget you
.

Florence
.

*

Whitehaven House
Kensington Gore
London, S.W.
June 12th, 1873

Dear Florence
,

You must believe me! It is possible that I have not been told the truth about my father—although I cannot in all sincerity doubt my mother’s word—but in my own case I
know
the truth! When I was fourteen years old I put a shilling on the Derby and lost it, and since then I have never seen the point of gambling. When I see you I will swear an oath
.

In hope
—
    
Hugh
.

*

Foljambe & Merriwether, Solicitors
Gray’s Inn
London, W.C.
June 13th, 1873

To Hugh Pilaster, Esq.
Sir
:

We are instructed by our client, the earl of Stalworthy, to require you to desist from communication with his daughter
.

Please be informed that the noble earl will take any and all necessary steps, including a High Court injunction, to enforce his will in this matter, unless you refrain immediately
.

For Messrs. Foljambe & Merriwether
,
    
Albert C. Merriwether
.

*

Hugh
—

She showed your last letter to my aunt, her mother. They have taken her to Paris until the end of the London Season, and then they go to Yorkshire. It is no good—she no longer cares for you. Sorry
—

Jane
.

2

THE ARGYLL ROOMS
were the most popular place of entertainment in London, but Hugh had never been there. It would never have occurred to Hugh to visit such a place: although not actually a brothel, it had a low reputation. However, a few days after Florence Stalworthy finally rejected him, Edward casually invited him to join him and Micky for an evening’s debauchery, and he accepted.

Hugh did not spend much time with his cousin. Edward had always been spoiled rotten, a bully and a slacker who got others to do his work. Hugh had long ago been cast in the role of black sheep of the family, following in his father’s footsteps. Edward and he had little in common. But despite that Hugh decided to try the pleasures of dissipation. Low dives and loose women were a way of life for thousands of upper-class Englishmen. Perhaps they knew best: perhaps this, rather than true love, was the way to happiness.