Lady of Fortune (22 page)

Effie felt her chest constrict. She felt like screaming at Alisdair Snetterton, and throwing one of her flustery tantrums, but she knew that she was doing real business now, in London, and that she couldn't behave as if this were a family argument in Edinburgh. Her cheeks were spotted with red, she could feel how red they were, and she felt so hot and flustered that she could have burst into ridiculous tears. But she managed to swallow, and hold back her tears, and say in a voice that was only slightly shaky, ‘I
met
Lord Rethesdale, on Saturday, at Greenwich.

Dougal put in, quickly ‘She met a young man who
claimed
he was Lord Rethesdale.'

‘Why should he
claim
he was Lord Rethesdale, if he wasn't?' Effie demanded. ‘What possible good could it have done him? He was a cripple; and a pauper. He lives in Greenwich now, under the care of a nursing-home. He can't even afford his own medical treatment, let alone the underwriting of a million-pound railway.'

Dougal looked towards Alisdair Snetterton. ‘I think that deserves some reply, Mr Snetterton,' he said, in his calm Edinburgh accent. ‘For all that it may be folly, or mistaken identity, or fraud, I do think it deserves some reply.'

But now it was George Plant's turn to stand up. He eased his great shiny-trousered bottom out of his office chair, and circled his desk with his hands in his pockets. After a moment or two, he stopped, and smiled widely at Dougal and Effie, and slowly rested his chin so deeply into his neck that it looked as if his head were moulded out of wax, and was melting into his collar in thick, paraffin-yellow rolls.

‘The thing is,' he said, ‘that Alisdair and I were very successful out in East Africa. Knew the lingo, knew the food, made friends with all of the blackies. Even entertained some of the tribal ladies, if you get my gist. Get my gist, Mr Cutting?
We were respected out there, and still are. But the trouble with success is that it also generates envy; and there are plenty of rival concerns who would do anything to stop us building this railway. Anything at all, even murder! So my bet is that when you met Lord Rethesdale in Greenwich Park, Miss Watson, you weren't talking to Lord Rethesdale at all, but a clever imposter. A hireling from the Nairobi Land & Plantation Company, I shouldn't wonder. Or perhaps from the Colonial Office itself. There are millions of pounds at stake here, Miss Watson, and the world can be a very odd place when there are millions of pounds at stake. Morals go by the board. Reality goes out of the window, feet-first.'

‘May I ask one question?' Effie interrupted him.

George Plant spread his fat hands wide. ‘Anything you wish,' he said. ‘anything you wish.'

‘Would it be possible, before the loan documents are signed, for us to meet Lord Rethesdale?'

George Plant's smile never wavered. ‘I'm sorry,' he said, happily. ‘Won't be possible. Lord Rethesdale is in Florence at the moment, on holiday. Likes Florence, I'm told, although the Lord knows why. Can't stand anywhere but East Africa, myself. Born for it.'

Effie said, ‘How did he give his consent to underwrite this loan, if he was in Florence?'

‘Did it just before he went,' said George Plant. He opened a drawer in his desk, then another drawer, and at last produced a letter written on House of Lords notepaper. Effie took it, and read it, although she knew that it proved nothing at all. Anyone could steal sheets of House of Lords note-paper. She handed it to Dougal, who didn't look at it, and Dougal handed it straight back to George Plant.

Alisdair Snetterton said, ‘Do you think we might get on with our business, after these amateur theatricals?'

Jack Cutting said, ‘Dougal?'

Dougal raised his hand to Effie, and touched her elbow. ‘Come on, Effie,' he told her. ‘Enough is enough. Banking is always dependent on trust, and I think we've seen sufficient evidence from Mr Snetterton to trust him.'

Effie sat down. She knew, she absolutely
knew
, that Snetterton and Plant were deceiving Dougal, and that Jack Cutting was in league with them, or in their pay. Her instinctive feelings were so strong that she couldn't imagine how
Dougal could let himself be led so easily, and how he could agree to lend them a million pounds without exhaustively examining their railway and their personal backgrounds, and in particular the existence or non-existence of Lord Rethesdale's house and fortune.

She learned something that day, about men in general and about Dougal in particular. Men are afraid to ask questions, she decided, in case they appear to be foolish or over-critical. Men like to appear decisive and capable, even when they're unsure, and for that reason they make snap judgements on the slightest evidence. Men bristle at once if they are told what to do by a woman; and when they are, they will promptly do exactly the opposite, although they will usually worry later that they have made a grave mistake.

Lastly, and most importantly, she learned that a woman's opinion may be scorned, but it is never ignored. Whatever she says, a man will believe violently that she is wrong, and even though he may secretly hold the same opinion himself, he will actually change what he believes to
prove
that she is wrong.

Effie never forgot that afternoon in the offices of Snetterton, Plant & Beest in Star Yard. What she learned there was to sober her, sadden her, and help her for the rest of her life.

In the carriage on the way back to Eaton Square, Dougal said, ‘You made a fool of me there today. A real cuif! All that talk about Lord Rethesdale! Can you not see how genuine Snetterton and Plant really are? They may have the look of rief-randies, but that's how a man has to
be
to make good in East Africa. They're not bankers. They're not ministers. They're adventurers. The kind of men who can build a railway through jungle. Did you expect to meet the St Giles' Kirk choir?'

Effie sat well back in her seat, her face shadowed by her bonnet. ‘I still believe you're being foolhardy,' she said. ‘It
would only take a week or two to write to Lord Rethesdale in Florence, if he's really there. And what harm could there be in writing to Nairobi, and asking about Snetterton and Plant? Dougal, you only had to
talk
to them! I wouldn't lend them a plack, let alone a million! I'm so afeared!'

Dougal said nothing. Effie looked quickly across at him, and in a diagonal band of light that pivoted through the interior of the cab from a gaslight they were passing, she saw that he was biting his lip.

She said, ‘You're unsure, aren't you? You're still unsure. Dougal, think of what you're
doing
!'

Dougal clutched her hand, so tightly that her fingers were crushed together. ‘I've got to do it,' he said, more to himself than to her. ‘It's the best chance I'm going to get all year! East Africa, Effie! They've called that railway the Lunatic Line so far, but if Snetterton and Plant can finish it all the way to the other side of the lake, they'll be able to call it nothing but the Lucrative Line. That's what Snetterton said, and he's right. It's my very best chance!'

Effie said quietly, ‘You're doubtful though, aren't you?'

‘It's a risk, that's all,' Dougal argued. ‘It's a chance. But
all
banking's a chance. The value of money depends entirely on how much people believe in it.'

‘I can't prevent you then, can I?'

Dougal drummed his fingers on the crown of his Derby hat. ‘Listen, Effie,' he said, with great patience, ‘you're a lass of seventeen. A clever lass, and a bright one. But only a lass. And what you don't understand yet is that people have to be judged on experience. I've seen odder and rougher rogues than Snetterton and Plant before, and sometimes I've refused to lend them money because of their looks. But looks are not what count, and there's been many a time when I've regretted turning them down.'

Dougal alighted from the carriage at Hyde Park Corner. He had arranged to meet Prudence at six o'clock at her friend's apartments in Kensington High Street, and then to take both Prudence and her friend to supper at Williams, which was a fashionable restaurant in Holland Park for debutantes and actors and mashers. He closed the door of the carriage, and said to Effie, ‘You really shouldn't worry your head with all this business. Snetterton was right, you know. Business isn't for women. The best thing you can do is think about going
back to Edinburgh. Come on, Effie, you know I'm right. You shouldn't be wasting your sweet life away with old businessmen and bankers. You should be out dancing and enjoying yourself, and courting with boys.'

A heavy dray stacked with kegs of Reids Stout came lumbering past, drawn by four huge black drayhorses, and for a moment Dougal's words were drowned by the grinding of iron wheels on wooden blocks. As the dray turned the corner into Grosvenor Crescent, Effie just heard him say,‘… it's not difficult to fall in love, you know.'

Effie said, ‘Give my regards to Prudence,' and then knocked on the roof of the carriage to tell the driver that she was ready to go. Dougal stood in the street with his hands on his hips watching her turn into Grosvenor Crescent after the beer-waggon, and then he tugged the brim of his hat and started walking towards Knightsbridge. The sleet had turned to fine rain now, which prickled his face, but he didn't try to hail a cab. He felt like walking and thinking, and getting wet. There were times when discomfort could be salutary, and besides, he hadn't exercised for weeks.

Back at Eaton Square, Vera Cockburn was waiting for Effie in the living-room, in a straight-backed chair, dressed in a lavish afternoon dress of pale pink velvet, with a bodice that was sewn with a mesh of pearls and silver thread. In her hair she wore a ruby clasp with a huge white ostrich plume in it. She had been reading
Love and Friendship
by Jane Austen, and the small book with its marbled cover lay open on the wine-table next to her. She looked pale and displeased.

‘Your Mr Baeklander has been around here yet again,' she said. ‘He wanted to stay until you returned, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that I persuaded him to leave.'

‘I'm sorry,' said Effie, standing by the door. ‘I do nothing to encourage him.'

Vera Cockburn sighed and flapped feebly at her hair. ‘That's the whole trouble, my dear. You do nothing to encourage him. Yet you do nothing to
discourage
him, either. He's extremely rich, you know. He is one of the richest men in the entire world. You really should make up your mind if you're going to humour him or not. In my humble opinion, you should. He would set you up for the rest of your life! You would never have to lack for anything. Dresses, furs, jewellery, horses. And he works so
hard
, you would have plenty of time for, well,
outside pleasures
.'

Effie looked across to the mantelshelf, and sure enough, there was another note from Henry, propped up beside the clock. She crossed the room, took the letter down, and opened it up. It read, Two days left! Please favour me with your reply, so that I may prepare your room aboard the Excelsior!'

Vera Cockburn craned her neck around so that she could see what Henry had written. ‘You'd be a fool to let a chance like this slip past you.' she said. ‘I grant you he's not exactly
Apollo
, but then he isn't exactly
Caliban
, either. And I have heard from several very reliable sources that when he does come back from Wall Street, he's a most attentive lover.'

Effie blushed. There was no question that Henry had an
effect
on her, and that despite his greater age and his blunt looks, he was overtly masculine. But she was not avoiding him so much because she found him unattractive, or unpleasant. She was simply too frightened of the idea of marriage so soon, and of losing her cherished ambition of being great, and famous, and wealthy in her own right. Of course, she would be quite famous if she were to marry Henry Baeklander, and she would socialise with millionaires and princes. But it was not enough; it seemed wrong; and the difficulty was that she didn't know how to refuse him.

It was even more difficult because she was still awaking at night from dreams about him, and finding a guilty slip-periness between her thighs.

Vera Cockburn said, ‘You're going to have to do something, Effie, you know! I don't want him coming around here any more. It's neither seemly nor kind. Perhaps it's time you went on to stay with your aunt in Putney; or perhaps you feel like returning to Edinburgh.'

‘If you want me to leave, Mrs Cockburn, then I'll leave,' said Effie. ‘I have no wish to impose myself on you if I am no longer welcome.'

‘Well, of course you're
welcome
,' insisted Vera Cockburn. ‘It's just that we want to avoid embarrassment. Malcolm does have his
position
to think about.'

Effie read Henry's letter again, stroking her forehead absentmindedly with fingertips as she did so. First Dougal wanted her to go back to Edinburgh, and now Vera Cockburn wanted her to go on to Putney, to stay with her Aunt Maisie. She was beginning to feel young and silly again, just when she desperately wanted to be sophisticated and grown-up.
Hope and ambition and common sense were obviously not enough, not if she wanted to survive in the world of men and adults. She needed something more.

‘Perhaps I will go to Putney,' she said. ‘Do you mind if I stay until the end of the week?'

‘Of course not,' smiled Vera Cockburn, magnanimously, but then Vera Cockburn had a husband, and a lover, and all the dresses that a woman could desire. Magnanimity came easily to her, even though charity might not.

It took Dougal almost twenty minutes to walk from Knightsbridge to Kensington High Street, and by the time he arrived at Iverna Court, the ugly new blocks of red-brick apartments where Prudence's friend lived, his pumps were soaking, and the shoulders of his coat were stained dark with wet. He stood in the doorway, and shook the rain off his hat. He already had a cold, and now he would probably contract double pneumonia. He blew his nose on his damp hankerchief, and then rang the doorbell to be admitted.