The Revenge of Captain Paine pm-2

by Andrew Pepper

  Morris had greeted Emily and Felix warmly and told them he hoped they wouldn’t be too uncomfortable in his rickety old carriage. In fact there was more than enough room for all of them and when the carriage came to a halt at the front steps of Morris’s Palladian mansion, Felix was first out of the door, closely followed by Jo. Pyke and Morris alighted last and Pyke looked up towards the portico, where Marguerite had gathered Felix up into her arms. Next to her, an older man, whom Pyke presumed was Gore, smiled amiably and patted Felix gently on the head. When Pyke and Morris joined the party in the entrance hall, Marguerite had already introduced herself to Emily and only reluctantly passed Felix on to Jo. ‘He’s such a sweet, delightful boy,’ Pyke heard her gush to Emily. He was uncomfortable about the whole idea of Emily meeting and perhaps even befriending his old flame, and vice versa. While Emily was formally introduced to Abraham Gore, Pyke took a moment to compare the two women in his mind. With her tall, slim figure and clear, unblemished skin, Emily was unquestionably beautiful, but in a natural way that stood in contrast with Marguerite’s preened sophistication. And while Emily’s preference for Empire waistlines and simple, loose-fitting dresses made her seem wilfully anachronistic, Marguerite’s pale pink dress, laced tightly around the waist to accentuate her figure, reflected the very latest Parisian fashion.

  When it was his turn, Pyke shook Marguerite’s outstretched hand, neither of them meeting the other’s eye, and then greeted Gore, who took both of his hands and squeezed them as though they were old friends. Gore’s ruddy cheeks and beaming smile put Pyke in mind of his uncle, and he had something of Godfrey’s warmth. The main difference between the men was that Gore’s shiny head was apparently almost devoid of hair and, perhaps to conceal or indeed to compensate for this, he wore a black top hat even inside the house. It matched his black frock-coat and black trousers. He looked even more like a banker than Pyke’s partner, William Blackwood.

  From the entrance hall, Morris led them into the drawing room, where a fire was burning in the grate and a collection of china cups and saucers had already been laid out on the polished mahogany table. Marguerite and Emily complimented each other on their dresses, while Morris, Gore and Pyke hovered at the threshold of the room. Felix, in the meantime, had raced up the main staircase and was being carried back down by Jo, trying to free himself from her grip. ‘A spirited lad,’ Gore said, smiling. ‘I like to see young lads with spirit.’

  ‘Your dress is so lovely and… simple,’ Marguerite was saying to Emily.

  Taking Morris to one side, Pyke asked him very quietly whether everything was all right.

  ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?’ Morris said, glaring.

  ‘You left my bank this afternoon with ten thousand pounds. Perhaps I have a right to be nervous.’

  Morris gave him a hard stare and whispered, ‘It ceased being your money when I signed those documents.’ His look told Pyke he didn’t want to discuss the matter any further and they both rejoined the group.

  ‘Why are you wearing a hat inside the house?’ Felix had just asked Gore, once Jo had put him down.

  Laughing, Gore removed the hat and self-consciously arranged his few strands of hair. He handed it to Felix, who tried to put it on his own head, only to discover it was too large. Morris joined in the laughter and Felix, enjoying the attention, proceeded to repeat the trick.

  Emily went across to rescue Gore from the attention of their son. As she did so, Pyke shared a brief glance with Marguerite and wondered whether she would let anything slip about their shared past. He also wondered why he hadn’t said anything to Emily and whether Marguerite might exploit his silence in this regard, to try to embarrass him. He wondered, too, whether she had said anything to Morris about their past, deciding that she probably wouldn’t have, and probably wouldn’t allude to their liaison. Morris seemed to think she had fallen in love with the house and estate on their own merits and Marguerite wouldn’t want to disabuse him of this notion. No, he was safe for the time being, but this thought didn’t make him feel any more comfortable about the prospect of the next hour or two.

  ‘Who would have thought it, eh?’ Marguerite whispered, beside Pyke. ‘The two of us taking afternoon tea and pretending to behave like members of the aristocracy.’

  ‘Is that all this is to you? A pretence?’ Pyke muttered, without turning to face her.

  ‘Why? Are you worried I’ll say something out of turn?’

  ‘It’s not the time and place for this conversation,’ he said, still not looking around at her.

  ‘Doesn’t your wife know that we used to fuck?’

  ‘Her name’s Emily.’

  ‘A nice, proper, wholesome name.’

  ‘And if Morris found out you had another motive for wanting this particular house and estate,’ Pyke whispered, ‘would he be so understanding?’

  ‘Don’t flatter yourself, Pyke.’ Briefly Marguerite turned her head in his direction. ‘I had other reasons for wanting to move here.’

  Emily had gathered Felix up in her arms and was giving him an exaggerated kiss, the kind that unfailingly made him squeal and giggle, and for a moment they all watched the performance, Pyke feeling a brief moment of pride that he was Emily’s husband and Felix’s father. He glanced across at Marguerite and noticed that her eyes were fixed on Emily and Felix with a peculiar intensity and that her fists were tightened into small round balls. Having put Felix down, Emily started to chase after him and, squealing with delight, for this was one of his favourite games, he hared across the room, straight into Marguerite’s arms. She tried to scoop him up and offer the boy the same kiss that Emily had given him, although with rather less success. In the process of trying to free himself from her grip his little fist accidentally caught her in the mouth and she let go of him. Felix landed awkwardly on the marble floor. For a moment, Pyke was certain the lad would burst into tears, and went to try to comfort him, but after a stunned silence Felix stood up a little gingerly and looked up at Marguerite, who was still trying to recover from the inadvertent punch she’d received. ‘I’m sorry,’ Felix said, almost in a whisper. ‘Did I hurt you?’ That was enough to take the sting out of the situation and Marguerite bent down, gave Felix a hug and said of course he hadn’t hurt her. Soon Felix was running around the room, pursued by an out-of-breath, laughing Marguerite. By this point Emily was chatting with Morris and Gore and Pyke couldn’t tell how she felt about being usurped, in their son’s eyes at least, by another woman.

  ‘I was just teasing Eddy here that, as a natural-born aristocrat, he can never quite know the extent of the pleasure that one experiences as a self-made man.’ Gore turned to Pyke and gave him a good-natured wink. ‘Perhaps you know a little of what I mean, sir.’ They were standing in a semicircle around the blazing log fire.

  ‘I’m always telling Emily that she doesn’t know the value of money because she’s never been without it.’ Pyke had meant it as a joke but saw her thunderous expression and realised, too late, that he had revealed too much.

  ‘I understand only too well the value that some men attach to the contents of their bank accounts.’ Emily’s tone was light and breezy but there was an edge to it as well.

  ‘You disapprove of such a state of affairs?’ Gore asked her, his eyebrows raised, a note of scepticism in his voice.

  ‘I disapprove of excessive wealth being hoarded away in dusty old vaults by the lucky few while ordinary men and women barely have enough to feed and clothe their families.’

  ‘Admirable sentiments but what might you consider to be… excessive? A hundred pounds? A thousand or perhaps even ten thousand pounds?’ Gore asked, with a smile.

  This time she turned to face him. ‘If I told you I consider the wealth that one class derives from the toils of another to be parasitic in nature, you might be able to guess my answer.’

  Morris chuckled, more from nerves, Pyke sensed, than because he found what she had just said amusing. ‘Surely you can’t object to the basic principle of r
isk and reward? The more a man risks, the more he deserves to be rewarded.’

  Emily turned to him. ‘Perhaps you’ll agree that the most a man can risk is his own life.’

  ‘Of course,’ Morris said, quickly.

  ‘Then what of the men who risk their lives every day to dig the tunnels through which the London-to-Birmingham trains will eventually run?’ Emily looked over at Gore and folded her arms.

  Silently Pyke kicked himself for not having remembered, until that moment, that Abraham Gore was also the chairman of the London and Birmingham Railway. Evidently, Emily had not been as slow on the uptake: from the first moment they’d been introduced, she had known who Gore was and what he did. Briefly he wondered how she’d known it and whether this knowledge had anything to do with her dealings with Julian Jackman.

  ‘Are you suggesting that the navvy men are somehow unfairly rewarded for their labour?’ Gore asked carefully.

  ‘In comparison to the proprietors who have seen their investments quadruple in the last six months, yes, I am.’ Emily paused for breath. ‘I read in the newspaper that a tunnel near Watford collapsed last week. Ten men lost their lives.’ She turned to Morris. ‘Using your risk-reward model, and given the extreme risks these men faced, without complaint or fear, how much do you imagine they were rewarded?’

  For a moment no one spoke. Marguerite, Felix and Jo had disappeared to another part of the house. Around the fireplace, Gore and Morris exchanged an awkward look and Pyke both felt for their discomfort and admired the way in which Emily had turned their words against them.

  ‘Two shillings a day. Meanwhile, a moderately well-off clerk who has invested a small proportion of his savings, let’s say ten pounds, in London and Birmingham stock — someone whose risk is, in relative terms, quite small — would’ve seen, in the space of this last month, his ten-pound investment double in value. In other words he has made a profit of ten pounds for doing very little while the workers who continue to risk their lives make only a miserly two shillings a day. To me, that doesn’t seem fair. But perhaps I’ve missed something here that your more enlightened minds can put me right on?’

  Pyke couldn’t help but smile. She’d posed a question that couldn’t be answered, at least not without Gore revealing his rapaciousness or hypocrisy.

  Gore cleared his throat. ‘If I told you of the sleepless nights I’ve had since those poor men tragically lost their lives, would it make a difference?’ The sorrow and humility in his voice sounded genuine enough. ‘Or that I’ve done my very best to ensure that all of the dead men enjoy, though it’s probably the wrong word to use, proper funerals and that their families receive a full month of their wages?’ It was as good a response as he could have made in the circumstances.

  ‘I think you miss my point, sir,’ Emily said, gently. ‘I am not trying to berate you personally and I’m sure the arrangements you made were greatly appreciated.’

  ‘Your point was a more general one, then?’ Gore replied. ‘You, perhaps, believe labour should be the sole parent of wealth?’

  ‘I believe labour should receive its due reward and that workers have the right to the full product of their labours.’

  ‘Turning Ricardo, the economic philosopher of industrial capitalism, against his own, eh?’ Gore seemed to be enjoying the exchange now.

  ‘If Ricardo is happy to concede that capital is little more than accumulated labour, then who am I to argue?’

  Gore nodded, almost as though he agreed with the point. ‘Perhaps I could ask you another question, my dear. Do you think the railways that Eddy and I are trying to build are, per se, a bad thing?’

  Pyke could see where Gore intended to go with this and wondered whether Emily would be able to stand her ground.

  ‘Properly funded by the state, I don’t believe they would bring harm to the nation, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘So you believe they should be paid for out of general taxation?’

  Emily nodded, and glanced across at Pyke.

  ‘Then what should the exchequer sacrifice in order that we should be able to pay for the railways? Or perhaps taxes should be raised for everyone?’

  ‘If the well-off paid more, would that be such a terrible thing?’

  Gore shrugged. ‘Did you know that more than twenty million pounds has already been invested in the construction of a railway network in this country? That figure would represent almost a quarter of our government’s total yearly expenditure. Think of the cuts that would have to be made elsewhere to come up with that sum. I don’t believe the state can afford to pay for the railways. Which leaves us with a dilemma, because unless we can persuade private individuals to dip into their own pockets, then it stands to reason that we won’t have a railway. And to do this requires a system of inducements. To put it bluntly, my dear, without the risk-and-reward model Eddy mentioned a few moments ago, nothing at all would get built or manufactured. And we, as a country, would quickly return to the Stone Age.’

  ‘But you’re assuming, are you not, that railways, or anything else for that matter, are given life to by capital, when in fact these things, in reality, are created by the hands of men and women.’

  It was an admirable response and one that left Gore struggling for something more to say. In the end, he started to laugh, a great, booming laugh that carried across the room, and said, ‘My God, you’re a formidable woman. Formidable. You’ve more than met your match here I’d wager,’ he added, looking at Pyke. When no one rushed in to say anything, he continued, ‘But isn’t this exactly what makes this country so great? That we can freely and without fear of repercussion air our differences?’

  ‘You believe we should be able to say what we like about whoever we like?’ Pyke asked.

  ‘Within reason. I mean, if someone deliberately set out to cause offence to someone else, that person’s rights would have to be protected too.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ve heard of my uncle, the publisher Godfrey Bond?’

  Gore scratched his chin and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t believe I have. What kind of things does he publish?’

  ‘A scandal sheet and an unstamped newspaper. He’s currently being hounded by the law because, and I’m guessing here, he poses a threat to the reputations of the upper classes.’

  ‘Ah.’ Gore’s eyes narrowed slightly. He glanced across at Morris and wetted his lips.

  ‘Not the kind of free speech you’d be comfortable defending?’

  That appeared to offend Gore. ‘You jump to the wrong conclusion, sir. I wouldn’t rush to celebrate such low publications, but I would always defend their right to exist in the first place.’

  ‘And a worker’s right to form a union and take oaths of allegiance to that union?’ Emily asked quickly.

  That brought a lid down on the conversation and, for a short while, no one seemed to know what to say.

  ‘Tea, anyone?’ Morris interrupted.

  ‘That would be splendid,’ Gore said, evidently relieved that someone had changed the subject.

  ‘And I was going to say,’ Morris added, while he poured out the tea, ‘I’m hosting a charity ball at the Colosseum in Regent’s Park in honour of Marguerite’s birthday tomorrow evening. I know it’s short notice, but I’d love it if all of you could be there to celebrate with us.’

  He looked at Pyke and Gore but it was Emily who answered him first. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be away from the capital.’ She hesitated and looked at Gore. ‘There’s an event I have to attend in Birmingham.’

  Gore remained silent but Morris piped up, ‘Really, my dear? What kind of event?’

  ‘To speak at a meeting organised by the GNCTU.’

  ‘Eh?’ Morris handed her a cup of tea, not having really heard what she’d said.

  ‘The Grand National Consolidated Trades Union of Great Britain and Ireland.’

  ‘You actually speak at such events?’ Gore asked, apparently surprised, a note of caution in his tone.

  ‘I heard her address a si
milar meeting in the East End,’ Pyke said. ‘She had the men cheering on their feet.’ Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Emily blush with gratitude and felt his pride swell further. A pulse of desire rose within him and he fought to keep his expression neutral.

  ‘And the men don’t mind, being addressed by a…?’

  ‘A woman?’ Emily offered. ‘The daughter of an aristocrat? ’

  Gore smiled at her remark and asked them all to excuse him for a few moments, while he visited the necessary house.

  They talked about inconsequential matters while they took their tea, but when after a further ten minutes there was still no sign of Marguerite, Jo and Felix, Emily proposed that, since it was nearing Felix’s bedtime and it would take them a good half-hour to ride back to Hambledon, someone should perhaps go and find them. She volunteered herself but Morris wouldn’t hear of it and assured her he would retrieve them at once. But when he returned five minutes later, a look of unease on his face, saying that he hadn’t managed to locate them as yet, Pyke and Emily exchanged a worried glance, Pyke saying he would look for them outside, Emily that she would join Morris in searching for them inside the house. For his part, Morris seemed embarrassed more than worried, that Marguerite had disappeared for such a long time, and taken two of their guests. As he put on his coat and headed into the garden, Pyke thought about the scene he’d witnessed a few weeks earlier, the burial, and wondered again just how stable Marguerite was. But he didn’t believe, for a moment, that she would try to harm their son.

  He didn’t find them in the garden, though, and didn’t think Marguerite would have taken them farther afield into the estate. Not with Jo there, too. Jo knew that Felix wasn’t dressed for such a venture.

  Back in the house, Pyke traced his path to the drawing room, where a now clearly agitated Emily was pacing up and down while Morris and Gore tried to reassure her that the women and the boy would appear from some ‘nook’ or ‘cranny’ at any minute.