After some minutes she sat down on one of the sofas after pouring herself a large glass of brandy. She was meeting some of her girlfriends at the Copley Plaza Hotel for lunch the next day and they’d planned to spend the afternoon at Long Island. She had to have her story straight by then as to the absence of her engagement ring because they would notice it was gone in the first moment.
A discreet knock at the door and her ‘Yes, what is it?’ brought Hutton into the room, and as she stared at the old retainer who had been with the family from the first days of her parents’ marriage and whom she knew to be utterly loyal to them all, she said flatly, ‘How much did you hear?’
Hutton cleared his throat. ‘Enough, Miss Verity.’
‘I could kill him.’ She swigged back the brandy, and as Hutton coughed and said, ‘Shall I get you more coffee, miss?’ she said sharply, ‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, Hutton. Not tonight. Sit down, I need your advice.’
Neither of them thought it strange that she was confiding in him before speaking to her parents. Hutton had always been the glue that held the establishment together, and from a little girl she had known this. As he bent and retrieved the engagement ring and then sat down, she stood up and fetched another glass, pouring a brandy and handing it to him before she resumed her seat. ‘What shall I do?’ she asked simply.
Art Hutton took a sip of his drink before replying. He was aware of his unique position in the household, which long ago had exceeded that of a servant. He knew everything there was to know about ‘his’ family as he thought of them, and he also understood Verity probably better than she understood herself. She had never treated him as she did the other staff, and he in turn was devoted to her in spite of her many failings. Quietly, he said, ‘You have broken the engagement with Mr Forsythe because certain things have come to light regarding his business ethics which you are, of course, not at liberty to discuss.’
Verity stared at him, her eyes widening.
‘Disappointed and sad as you are, personal happiness has to be put aside when such circumstances present themselves.’ He took another sip of brandy. ‘Of course, you will be brave and dignified in your distress and refuse to discuss the matter further. Insinuation, hints, nothing that could be held up in a court of law while you maintain a loyal and composed silence.’
Verity breathed out slowly. ‘Hutton, you’re diabolical,’ she said reverently.
‘A reputation is a fragile thing,’ Hutton went on, ‘and your father has influence in many quarters. It is often more what is not said that sows seeds of doubt. I think by the end of the year the gentleman in question might well return to England like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs. If that is what you want?’ he added.
‘It is.’
Hutton nodded. From the beginning he had been of the opinion that Miss Verity had been dazzled by the young Englishman’s good looks and ancestry, beguiled by the thought of a member of the British aristocracy dancing to her tune. In spite of all the Kingstons’ wealth and influence and their power in America’s high society, she’d regarded Edward Forsythe as a feather in her cap, which he found strange.
‘Will you have a word with your father in the morning before he leaves the house and acquaint him with the facts?’ he asked in his stiff way.
Verity nodded. ‘Father will be furious with him.’
Hutton knew what she was saying. Where Miss Verity was concerned, Mr Kingston could well act first and think later.
‘I’ll make sure Mr Kingston sees the wisdom of following through on what we have discussed, and I would suggest it would be wise if your mother and brother were not told the details of what happened tonight?’
‘I agree. Mother can never hold her tongue about anything and Randolph’s hopeless when he’s had a few drinks. We’ll keep it between Father and you and me, Hutton.’ Verity stretched like a sleek cat. The thought of her friends and everyone knowing she had been thrown over had been unbearable, but now she could see she’d emerge from this with her status as the most sought-after catch in society intact – which was all that mattered. And Edward had become a little tedious lately, like tonight with his covert disapproval when she had teased the Harrisons’ niece.
Jumping up, she said, ‘I’m going to bed,’ and before he could rise she dropped a kiss on the top of his balding head, took the ring that he held up to her and danced out of the room.
She hadn’t thanked him, and nor had Art Hutton expected her to, but the momentary show of affection was worth more to him than anything she could have said. He had denied himself a wife and children for the sake of the Kingston family, knowing that he could not have given them his all if he had distractions in his private life. His was a somewhat solitary existence, but ever since she had been a little girl Miss Verity had made it all worthwhile, like tonight. The other members of the family he served with dedication and faithfulness, but Miss Verity he loved and adored with a father’s heart and he knew that in her own careless and self-centred way she loved him too.
He drained the last of his brandy and stood up, placing his glass and Verity’s on the coffee tray; he didn’t immediately carry it through to the kitchen but stood staring at the huge, practically life-size family portrait that hung over the ornate marble fireplace. Josiah Kingston and his wife were seated with their two children standing behind them, Randolph looking more cheerful than he ever did in real life and Verity laughing down at her father who was half-turned in his chair to look up at her.
Art stared at the portrait for a long time, and when he eventually turned away it was with a brief stab of pity for the young man who had left the house a short while ago. Edward Forsythe had no idea what he had done in spurning Miss Verity, he thought to himself as he left the room. But he would soon find out.
As it happened, a catastrophe that far exceeded the wrath of Josiah Kingston and his daughter brought Edward to his knees just a few weeks later. On a day that would become known as Black Thursday, Wall Street – the beating heart of America’s financial stability – crashed.
In an unprecedented wave of fear and confusion and panic, nearly thirteen million shares changed hands on the New York Stock Exchange. Dazed brokers, wading through a sea of paper, clutched frightened investors’ orders to ‘sell at any price’. At the peak of the panic selling the market ceased to function and turned into a mad clamour of salesmen looking for non-existent buyers, with stocks being dumped for whatever they could bring. By midday, New York’s leading bankers held an emergency meeting and police riot squads were called to try and disperse the hysterical crowds gathering in Wall Street awaiting news.
Edward stood in the throng, as stunned and disbelieving as many around him, telling himself he should have cashed in his investments months ago. The incident in June the year before, when Wall Street share prices had plunged with some leading shares falling by as much as forty points, had been a warning of things to come. That fall had been triggered by massive selling of aircraft shares and panic selling had followed, even though no particularly bad economic or financial news had been issued during the day and stock-market experts were unable to provide any explanation of what had provoked the dramatic slump. He had felt in his gut then that he should sell up and go home to Britain, but he was heartsore about Ruby and had become involved with Verity by then. He had taken his eye off the ball. He nodded to the thought.
The bankers emerging from their hour-long discussion brought his attention back to the present, and as the mob surrounded them, desperate for some assurance, he listened to the bland statement that the situation was ‘technical rather than fundamental’ and that the market was essentially sound. He didn’t believe a word. For whatever reasons, the spree of easy money and overconfidence was now finished and the bear market had returned with a vengeance, crushing the dreams and aspirations of an army of small investors, some of whom – like him – had lost everything in just a few hours. The boom was well and truly over.
It was late evening by the time he walke
d back to his flat and although he’d had nothing to eat all day he wasn’t hungry or thirsty. He sat slumped in a chair hardly able to believe what had happened for most of the night, a hundred thoughts whirling around in his head. His father would just love this, he told himself bitterly. From the time he had put a tentative step into the business world of investments, his father had been predicting that his son’s ‘wheeling and dealing’ would end in disaster. His brothers, like the puppets they were, had followed suit, begrudging his success more and more as the years had gone by. Only Clarissa had believed in him, and it looked now as if her belief had been misguided all along. He had failed. Spectacularly. Verity had been right. He was a loser in every sense of the word. How she would love this.
He put his head in his hands, a blackness so profound there was no end to it enveloping him. He had nothing to live for now. Someone in the crowds still milling about Wall Street when he had left had said that a dozen or more speculators had committed suicide already, and he could understand that. He had always regarded suicide as the coward’s way out before this; how judgemental and arrogant was that?
He had been a fool to end fools, that was the truth of it. Even last month he had been aware that some investors had started selling shares in large numbers after a number of financial experts had warned that the American economy was slowing down, but he had let it roll over his head, more concerned with the rumours about him which he was sure were originating from the Kingstons. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The self-recrimination and bitter regrets went on and on until he started to feel he was losing his mind.
As a grey cold dawn began to break, he considered his options. A couple of days ago he had paid the rent on the flat until the end of November; after that he would have nowhere to stay. He had no prospects, virtually not a penny to his name, and since the Kingstons had been spreading their poison, no friends.
He brushed his hair back from his brow and was surprised to find he was sweating as his hand came back damp. He’d been feeling ill for a day or two and had wondered if he was going down with something; standing in the wind and drizzle of rain in Wall Street all day yesterday wouldn’t have done him much good. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered.
Standing up, he found that his head was swimming and his legs felt like lead. He stumbled into the small bedroom and threw himself down on top of the covers, too exhausted and nauseous to try and get undressed. He knew he probably ought to make himself a hot drink and have a couple of pills for the headache that was now beating a tattoo in his brain, but it was beyond him. Curling into a ball, he shut his eyes and fell into a troubled, restless doze.
Time ceased to have any meaning over the next days. He knew he was ill, more ill than he had ever been before, but the pains racking his body and the torment in his mind made rational thought impossible. Bouts of delirium made him sure at times that he was back in the apartment he had had in London before he had sold up and come to America. Sometimes Ruby was there, looking down at him with pity and sadness as she reiterated why they could never be together; once or twice Verity had stood over him, laughing as she had told him he was weak and useless and an excuse for a man and that everyone despised him. Of the two manifestations he preferred it when Verity was with him; the thought of Ruby knowing how far he had fallen made him sick to his stomach.
He had managed to stagger to the kitchen a few times and get himself a glass of water but he had eaten nothing – just the thought of food made him retch – and mostly he existed in nightmares of sweating and harrowing half-dreams, only to come briefly to himself and realize that reality was far worse than anything his subconscious could drag up. Verity had called him a dead weight and she was right; it would be better for everyone if he died, here and now, and if this influenza took him and saved him the job of killing himself then that was all to the good.
It was over a week or more when he became aware that the aches and pains that had been in every muscle and bone were now all centred in his chest. Every breath was painful like a fire burning inside him and the coughing that racked him constantly was agony. He had stopped drinking, his throat was too sore to swallow, and now he lay in damp, sweat-soaked sheets too exhausted to move.
When Clarissa first looked down at him he thought it was another of the apparitions that had come and gone since he had fallen ill. He was aware of his surroundings again now, and how could his sister be in New York? And so he had simply shut his eyes and refused to try to talk, drifting back into the semi-conscious state she had awoken him from. How much later it was when he came round to find a doctor examining him he didn’t know, nor was he really aware of being transported to hospital or being stabbed with needles and having drips set up over his bed. He coughed and slept, and coughed and slept, while the doctors and nurses in the private hospital Clarissa had had him rushed to battled against the pneumonia that had filled both lungs with pus and could even now take his life.
It was four days later when he opened his eyes one evening and looked at Clarissa fast asleep in a chair by the side of his bed. He had known she was around before this but had never been able to keep his eyes open long enough to speak, just managing to smile at her before drifting off again. Now, though, his mind was clear for the first time in two weeks, and he whispered her name. ‘Clarissa?’
Her eyes opened instantly and the next moment she was kneeling by the bed, tears spilling down her cheeks as she murmured, ‘Edward, oh, Edward. Thank God, thank God. I must call the nurse—’
‘No.’ He found he was too exhausted to even raise his hand. ‘First, how . . .’
She understood what he meant even though he was too tired to continue, saying, ‘When we heard about the crash, Godfrey managed to secure us a cabin on the Mauretania and we left almost immediately. Oh, darling boy, you’ve been so very ill.’
He didn’t know about ‘had been’. He still felt at death’s door. ‘Lost everything,’ he muttered, gasping as even the two words made him breathless.
‘I know, I know, but don’t think about that now. Just concentrate on getting well. Godfrey has been to see the Kingstons, by the way, and he put the fear of God in them by the end of the visit. They were trying to paint a picture of a man we didn’t know and Godfrey wasn’t having any of it. Your little Verity is a snake, isn’t she.’
‘Not – not mine.’
‘No, and I’m glad you came to your senses there. Now go to sleep, my darling. I’m here and I’m staying until you are well and then taking you home. Everything is under control and blue skies will come again one day, I promise you.’
Blue skies will come again one day. He went to sleep with the words ringing in his ears but not quite able to believe them.
It was a month later, and as was the custom for the big liners, the Mauretania was sailing at midnight from her North River pier after a farewell party that had continued to the last minute. As the huge ship eased out of her berth festooned with paper streamers her siren, pitched two octaves below Middle A, announced her departure from American shores back to the old world. The sound carried with it a whole history of departure and arrival, longing and loss, dreams hoped for and dreams smashed, but for Edward, as he sat on deck buried under the mountain of blankets Clarissa had insisted on bundling round him, the main feeling was one of resignation.
He was still recovering from the pneumonia that had been within a whisker of taking his life, and his doctors had told him that he would be low mentally as well as physically for some time, but he knew it was the fact that he had come to terms with his future that had gradually deadened his emotions. He had had nothing but time with his own thoughts over the last weeks, and he had realized that he would never have married Verity, or any other woman for that matter. He had allowed the American girl to bulldoze him into the engagement, but as for walking down the aisle and promising to be with her for the rest of his life – it would never have happened. Because, and here his thinking was particularly painful, his heart was so irrevocably Ruby’s that he wou
ld prefer to live life alone than suffer another woman in the role of his wife. And here was where he had told Clarissa they would have to agree to disagree.
He shifted slightly in his seat, trying to get comfortable. Not that the chair itself was uncomfortable; everything on the Mauretania and her sister ship, the Lusitania, had been made with their passengers in mind. The grand staircases were on the fifteenth-century Italian model; public rooms were treated either in the Italian or French Renaissance styles and the dining rooms were panelled in straw-coloured oak in the style of Francis I, each having a dome in cream and gold. The state rooms, the first-class lounges and even the lavatories were beautiful, and the smoking room had a fire basket and firedogs that had been reproduced from originals at the Palazzo Varesi, according to Godfrey who took a keen interest in such things. Edward had travelled on her before and had great respect for the speed with which the Mauretania cut through the Atlantic, the roughest and hardest of seas, especially in the winter months like now. The great ship could steam hard into a head sea and lift her bow sixty feet before dipping and burying it as she cleaved through the water, thrusting it to either side, but he wasn’t looking forward to what could be a choppy crossing. Though he had coped fairly well with seasickness in the past when he had been fit and well, he was neither now.
His musing brought his mind back to Ruby again, and the conversation he’d had with his sister about the girl he loved. Clarissa had told him that she knew Ruby cared for him – hadn’t Ruby herself told him that, and the reasons why she felt any permanent relationship between them was impossible?
‘It was all about you being so wealthy and moving in top circles and the lifestyle you had,’ Clarissa had said earnestly. ‘But that’s changed now. In fact, she is wealthier than you. The chasm between you has gone, along with your fortune, and you can meet as equals in Ruby’s eyes. It’s as if the way has been cleared at last. Don’t you see?’
One Snowy Night Page 32
