Lady of Fortune (15 page)

‘Mr Dougal Watson and Miss Effie Watson,' called the footman.

Mrs Cockburn came hurrying across, both hands raised like flustering doves. ‘Dougal, Effie, you both look
wonderful!
Effie, what a
charming
gown! Now, you must come and meet some people! You know Malcolm, of course! Now here's someone! Henry, my dear, I want you to meet Dougal and Effie Watson, just arrived from the frozen North! Effie, this is Henry Baeklander.'

Henry Baeklander stood among the chattering, screaming crowd as tall and as spare and as silent as a utility pole. He was almost forty, with a face that had been careworn into looking at least five years older. He reminded Effie of Abraham Lincoln, because of his heavy eyebrows, and his deepset, liquid eyes, and that kind of ugly-attractive jawline,
and full lips. His tail-coat hung on him like a nun's habit thrown to dry over a clothes-horse. His black hair was wiry, and thick, and streaked with fraying grey.

‘Miss Watson,' he said, in a deep Minnesota accent, I'm honoured to know you. Mr Watson, how do you. You must be the daughter and son, respectively, of Mr Thomas Watson, of Scotland. He never told me he had such fine-looking children.'

Dougal said,'Hardly children any more, Mr Beaklumber.'

‘Baeklander. I'm the chairman of the Baeklander Trust.'

‘Och,
that
Baeklander,' said Dougal, slapping his forehead. I'm sorry, I should have guessed. Well, Mr Baeklander, I'm impressed. You've had some good fortune this year, haven't you, by all reports.'

‘I've made a bit of money,' Henry Baeklander admitted. His eyes followed the progress across the reception room of a pretty brunette with a five-strand pearl choker around her neck, and an evening gown of peach-pink satin cut low at the front, and trimmed with a whole froth of lace and white velvet ribbon. Effie, glancing at the girl, felt suddenly overdressed and dowdy in her primrose-coloured gown, especially when another elegant woman glided past, with a deep scented cleavage in which a single huge ruby pendant nestled.

But Henry Baeklander turned back to Effie, and said, ‘You look as fresh as a spring flower, Miss Watson, if you'll permit me to make you a compliment. The first snowdrop, amidst the winter-worn landscape.'

Effie blushed, confused by Henry Baeklander's directness. Dougal, with all the protective fluster of a good Scottish fier, said, ‘You're quite the poet, Mr Baeklander. That's rare in a banker.'

‘It's rare to find such an unspoiled young girl in such surroundings,' said Henry Baeklander, his thick lips twisting into the slightest smile. ‘It's a great pity there's no dancing today, Miss Watson; because if there were, I'd insist on being first on your card.'

Dougal said, ‘My sister is only visiting London for a short while. Then she's going to Putney.'

‘In that case,' said Henry Baeklander, ‘we must take advantage of every hour that you're here, mustn't we, Miss Watson? Tell me, how's your father keeping these days? I haven't seen him in six years.'

‘He's well, thank you, Mr Baeklander.'

‘You must call me Henry. Do you mind if I call you Effie? That's a very pretty name. My grandmama was called Effie, although her real name was Minnie. She was a tyrant; and apart from that, she had more bric-à-brac and gimcracks in her living-room than anyone I ever knew. You couldn't turn around in Grandmama Effie's house without knocking over some china pug or some clock or other. Mind you, it was fashionable then, in Minnesota.'

Dougal frowned, but Effie couldn't help laughing. She had never met anyone like Henry Baeklander before. He seemed so odd, and yet so much at ease; although when she considered that he was probably one of the wealthiest men in the room, that really wasn't very surprising. She had heard that he owned a steam yacht even bigger than the 256-foot
North Star
, owned by the Vanderbilts. The Baeklander yacht was called
Excelsior
, and carried a crew of ninety-three men, as well as the onetime head chef from the Paris Ritz, August Noustens.

Effie said, ‘You know my father, Mr Baeklander? I mean, Henry?'

‘I know him very well, my dear. I admire him, too. Good solid investment sense, that's what made your father what he is today. And he's not an ostentatious spender, either, which I admire. In America, it's almost impossible to keep up appearances unless you have a boat, and a Rhine castle on Fifth Avenue, opposite the Albert C. Bostwicks or the Levi P. Mortons, and a cottage in Newport, with Corinthian pillars and ten bathrooms. You can spend half a million dollars a season on dinners and dances alone.'

‘That doesn't sound very prudent,' said Dougal, sourly.

‘Oh, but it sounds fun!' said Effie. ‘Do you know the Vanderbilts, Henry?'

‘I had dinner with William K. Vanderbilt Junior at Sherry's, the night before I sailed from New York. An oaf, but I like him.'

‘An oaf?' giggled Effie. ‘I've never heard a Vanderbilt called that before.'

‘I've heard them called worse than that,' said Dougal.

Henry Baeklander, without attracting Dougal's attention, subtly beckoned across the room to a stately young brunette in a green chiffon velvet gown. The girl immediately left the circle in which she was engaged in conversation, and came
gliding over. Henry Baeklander took Dougal's arm, and gently turned him around so that he could meet this vision of society loveliness as she arrived.

‘Mr Watson,' said Henry, ‘I thought you'd like to meet Miss Emily Prescott. She is the daughter of Colonel and Mrs Herbert Prescott, of Oxfordshire. She is staying in London at present, with her aunt. Isn't that so, Emily?'

Emily Prescott curtsied and blushed a little. Dougal took her hand, and stammered, ‘I'm delighted to meet you, Miss Prescott.'

‘Oh, you're a
Scotsman
!' Emily Prescott smiled. ‘How romantic!'

Dougal bulged his eyes in Effie's direction in a mute appeal for help, but Effie simply shrugged, and laughed, and turned back to Henry Baeklander.

‘I adore Robert Burns,' said Emily Prescott. She had one of those breathy, mannered voices which made you feel as if she were permanently sighing for love, or for the scent of roses, or that her foundation garments might be laced up too tight. ‘“Wee sleekit, keekit, tremblin' beastie!”'

Dougal coughed. ‘Actually, it's “Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie,”' he corrected her.

Emily pressed the palms of her hands together and closed her eyes in apparent ecstasy. ‘Oh, just to hear you say that in
the right
voice! Oh, Mr Wilson, you've transported me!'

‘Watson,' said Dougal, as gently as he could.

‘What?' asked Emily, blinking open her eyes.

Henry Baeklander smiled to himself again, and quietly guided Effie away to the far side of the room, by the marble Adam fireplace, where a large Italian mirror reflected the bright faces and elegant clothes of an assembly who knew they were living the life of privilege and fame, and relished it more than champagne. ‘To be rich,' Effie's father had once remarked, ‘is to be permanently intoxicated.'

‘Poor Dougal,' said Effie, glancing back at her brother's struggles to amuse Emily Prescott.

‘Don't worry about him. He'll manage. Emily's one of the most charming unattached girls in town these days; even if she is one of the silliest.'

‘Are you staying in London long?' Effie asked him.

‘Just for another two weeks. Then I'm sailing south to the Mediterranean for a month's sunshine. After that, it's back
to New York, and business.'

A servant came up with a silver tray, on which there were two tall engraved glasses of champagne. Henry took them both, and handed one of them to Effie. As he did so, he caught her gaze, and held it; and although it was her first reaction to turn away, she thought to herself, I won't, I'll meet this man head-on, directly, and so she stared back at him until a gradual look of amusement broke across his face, and his eyes twinkled with appreciation.

‘I want to drink your health,' he said, raising his glass. ‘You're not only pretty, and fresh, but you've got a will of your own, too.'

‘I'll drink to good fortune,' said Effie, and very softly they touched the rims of their glasses together.

‘Good fortune,' said Henry, warmly.

The champagne was crisp and cold and extremely dry. Effie had only drunk champagne once before, at Sophie Macfarlane's wedding in Cramond. It tickled her lips, and gave her the feeling that she was being very sophisticated and grown-up. Henry Baeklander gave her that feeling, too; but there was something about the way he looked at her and the way he spoke to her that moved her insides around, as if her pancreas and her liver and her heart had all decided to play General Post within the confines of her corset, and she wasn't sure if this sensation was sophisticated or not. She felt as if she were yearning for something, but she didn't know what it was that she was yearning for. It was almost irritating, and yet it was exciting, too. She felt that if anybody touched her bare skin, she would shudder, and yet the thought of someone touching her bare skin disturbed and aroused her.

‘You're not really going on to Putney so soon, are you?' asked Henry.

‘Not really,' she admitted, lowering her eyes. ‘That was only Dougal being brotherly.'

‘Perhaps I could take you riding tomorrow. Do you ride?'

‘A little.'

‘Would you ride with me? Miss Prescott could come along as chaperone.'

‘I don't know. You must give me a litte time to think on it.'

Henry drank a little champagne, watching her over the rim of his glass.

‘Do you really need time to think?' he asked her. ‘You're not very flattering to me.'

‘I believe in my own independence, that's why.'

‘Your own independence? You don't look like a feminist.'

‘I'm not,' said Effie, ‘I'm an individualist.'

‘I see,' said Henry. She could tell that he was half-teasing her, coaxing her into saying something provocative. He asked her, ‘Does that mean that you will never marry, that you will never seek a husband to serve and oblige, that you will never rear children, or spend your days making your home as cozy a nest as you can?'

‘I will not marry unless I am in love.'

‘But when you do fall in love? Where will your individualism be then?

Effie said, ‘First and foremost, I want to be a banker. Then, when that is achieved, I will think about falling in love.'

She knew she was talking too hotly. The reception room was growing warm and noisy, and she seemed already to have drunk most of her glass of champagne.

Henry said, ‘I'm sorry?' His expression had changed from droll amusement to genuine perplexity.

‘I said, I want to be a banker,' said Effie, clearly.

Henry lifted his tail-coat on one side, and rested his hand on his hip. ‘Do you know,' he told her, ‘that's what I thought you said.'

‘Well, it's true. I'm Thomas Watson's daughter, and I think I could have a flair for it.'

Henry nodded. ‘I'll admit you
could
. But!'

‘But, what?'

‘But, my bold spring snowdrop, you're a girl. Girls are not bankers. Bankers are not girls. Banking is a profession conducted exclusively by, and for, men. When you say you want to be a banker, I don't even understand what you mean. Do you think that any man will do business with you? Do you think that any man will trust your financial judgement? You can't be admitted to any of the clubs where the day-to-day barter and wrangling of banking goes on. It's just a dream. It's fairyland.'

‘Some dreams come true,' said Effie.

‘Yes, they do,' agreed Henry. ‘But not many of them. And not dreams that fly in the face of plain reality. Now, if you'd told me that you wanted to try your hand at being a stenographer,
or a telephone operator, that would have been different. Some simple task in which you could have made yourself useful while you waited for your beau to come along …'

‘Mr Baeklander,' said Effie, ‘I have no intention of getting married until I have made my way as a banker, and I am rich in my own right.'

Henry took her hand, and squeezed it tight. ‘Effie, I love you. Marry me. Marry me next week. Save yourself the storms and the miseries of all this individualism, or feminism, or whatever it is you call it.'

‘You're making fun of me.'

He didn't release her hand. He raised his head a little, and looked at her with obvious seriousness. ‘Effie, I'm not.'

‘Well, you certainly don't mean to marry me.'

That's where you're quite wrong.'

Effie looked around at the people on each side of her. One, a small fiftyish woman with a huge ostrich-feather hat gave her an indulgent smile, and then turned back to the man she was talking to, and asked sharply, ‘Who is that gel? She reminds me so much of Lucy Jones-Radleigh I can't tell you.'

Henry said to Effie, ‘My wife died three years ago. I've been alone since then. I suppose I could have had any woman I set eyes on; but look at them. Hard, blasé, bitches in diamonds and pearls, if you'll forgive my language.'

‘Henry –' said Effie, but just then Vera Cockburn came up, with a smart young couple whose grins seemed to have been fixed into position with moustache wax.

‘Henry, you're monopolising Effie,' said Vera Cockburn. ‘Effie, you must meet the Clough Martins. Cyril and Amelia Clough Martin. They're frightfully thrilled because Anthony Clough Martin, that's Cyril's uncle, well, he's just been appointed deputy British Agent in Egypt, under Cromer.'

‘We're all
dying
to go out to Cairo and watch Tony licking the fella-hin into some sort of shape,' screamed Amelia Clough Martin. ‘He used to be captain of rowing at Cambridge, and you should have seen what he did to the poor oarsmen!'