by Fay Weldon
Except, Arthur realized, he did not particularly want to be off the hook. The idea of marrying Minnie seemed increasingly attractive. He should by rights be lamenting the loss of Flora, yet he was not. One should keep company only where one liked and admired, and he had never really liked Flora and and he no longer admired Redbreast. Minnie, however, he liked, respected and admired. But it was too late. How could he face her now, make it up? Soon he was to be a convicted criminal. Billy O’Brien would hardly come up with the money even if his daughter forgave and forgot.
Arthur told Rosina the family’s financial plight seemed to have risen once more to danger level, and she shrugged and said that was hardly news. More interesting surely was the whereabouts of their father. According to Lily, her new little maid, his Lordship had left home, gone away for good, driven into another’s arms by her Ladyship’s refusal to let his Lordship into her bed. All men were like that, according to Lily. They couldn’t help themselves. Would Arthur say that was true?
Arthur, enraged, told Rosina she was a fool to believe servants’ gossip, he had his own problems, and gave an account of the morning’s police raid. Rosina’s only reaction was to say, ‘Well, they took their time. I told them ages ago.’
He had surmised it, but could hardly believe it. She was his sister. He asked her why on earth she had done it – and found his voice was coming out quavery, as it had when he was her little brother and trying not to cry at her unkindness, because his mother said boys didn’t cry, especially if they were a Peer of the Realm. Indignation took over the from self-pity. His voice steadied, deepened. Did Rosina really hate him so much, he demanded? What was her grievance? That he had gone to Eton and she not? That she was three years older than he, yet he inherited everything? Because he was to be a Dilberne and she would stay a mere Hedleigh? These were things that had never been aired between them. It was time they were.
‘Good heavens,’ she said. ‘Nothing like that!’ She had done it for the greater good, and for his sake, she said, to save him from the threat of Minnie despoiling the Hedleigh name. Imagine having Tessa to family dinner, and heaven forfend, Billy O’Brien, meat baron and gangster. And the law was the law anyway and he had broken it. ‘And we must be able to universalize our actions, as Mr Mills said, and if all men married for money where would it end?’
‘With a lot of rich men,’ he said. Rosina was standing straight for once and topped him by two inches. He felt sorry for her, as well as angry. It was not her fault that she had grown so tall, and with every extra inch the more wronged and miserable.
Because of what she had done, he told her, his life was ruined. Minnie could hardly put up with a convicted pimp, nor did he expect her to, and she would go back to the States, and the Hedleighs be disgraced by a bankruptcy. And it wasn’t just about the money. He loved Minnie. He did not want to live without her. Even as Arthur said it he knew it was true.
Rosina just said he shouldn’t worry; she didn’t think Vine Street had taken her seriously. They had just thought she was loopy. He said in that case then they were right, and left the room.
Mr Baum Makes His Move
6 p.m. Tuesday, 5th December 1899
Evening had fallen by the time Eric Baum came up the steps of No. 17. He was made no more welcome than he had been at the end of October. The servants kept him waiting at the door, forgot to take his coat, and in general behaved as if he should by rights have gone round to the servant’s entrance. Well, they would learn. He could, and might well, one day quite soon, buy the lot of them three times over.
Her Ladyship, when he was finally shown in to her presence, made no bones about her requirements. She wanted to borrow money, but when he asked what security she had to offer she looked vague, and offended, and said her good name, of course. Given time, she would of course pay him back – there was land, property; he surely knew their circumstances well enough – plus the disgraceful rate of interest he no doubt required.
Eric said he would prefer to discuss matters such as this with her husband the Earl, but she said the bills were a matter of urgency and he said bills always were, in his experience. Her husband, alas, it seemed, had not been quite frank with him and his colleague Mr Courtney about the scale of the sums his Lordship owed, but now they had been brought to his attention by her Ladyship, a new and unfortunate light was shone upon existing arrangements. He feared several ongoing projects could be put in jeopardy.
‘In other words,’ she said, ‘you’re thinking of calling in our existing debt?’
‘I have thought about it,’ he said, then adding ‘there are, however, some other considerations – an invitation for my wife, perhaps, to the dinner at which the Prince of Wales will be present.’
He could hardly be more direct. She raised her perfect eyebrows in amused and somehow insolent surprise.
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘No. That is out of the question. In my world invitations are offered, not demanded.’
It occurred to Eric that if he demanded that her Ladyship spent the night with him, she might object to that less than she would a coerced invitation to her dinner table. Any normal woman, he thought, in the kind of dire circumstances in which Lady Isobel now found herself, with a feckless husband, a wasted inheritance, faced by shame, social disgrace and actual bankruptcy, and wholly in his power, would be hopelessly distraught, quite likely throwing herself upon him, even offering him favours in return for his protection. It had happened to him before, but, thank God, he had resisted the immoral temptation. He played his next card.
He said, ‘I have been asked by the police at Vine Street for details of the property rented by the Viscount in Mayfair. I have fended them off so far. But it could become quite awkward for the boy. The last thing we want is a scandal, and your son convicted for keeping a bawdyhouse.’
That got a response. Her nostrils quivered and dilated, and her fingers tightened slightly on the desk. She was a very handsome woman. Supposing he asked? Supposing she said yes?
‘Are you trying to blackmail me, Mr Baum? I suspect you have a very persistent little wife tucked away there somewhere on the hills of North London. The answer is still no.’
He could scarcely believe it. It was mad but it was magnificent. She would pull the whole temple down upon herself, her husband, her children, like a female Samson, rather than change her mind. Did that make him Delilah? The thought was amusing, but he couldn’t bring himself to laugh.
‘Believe me, it is not personal,’ she said kindly. ‘It is simply a matter of principle. Good day, Mr Baum. Please don’t let me detain you.’ She went back to her papers and Mr Baum had no option but to leave.
The Return of His Lordship
6.30 p.m. Tuesday, 5th December 1899
Dismissed, he was already through the front door, held open grudgingly for him by Mr Neville, only to meet his Lordship loping towards him up the wide steps. He was carrying a leather suitcase. The Earl was exuberant, his face exuded delight. Mr Neville took the suitcase. The Earl seized Eric’s hand and pumped it vigorously up and down. It was out of character. What was the matter with the man?
‘Oh… Baum,’ his Lordship cried. ‘Have you been visiting my wife?’
‘We talked of business in your absence, my Lord,’ said Mr Baum. He felt the need to explain himself in case his Lordship could read his thoughts. What, Eric Baum from Golders Green in bed with Lady Isobel, Countess of Dilberne, she of the perfect eyebrows? How could he even have dreamt of it?
‘Excellent, excellent,’ said his Lordship. ‘Come back in, won’t you old chap, and we’ll share a toddy.’
Mr Baum, mesmerized, followed him meekly. How did you deflate so much confidence? But he would. He would have a word with Sir Ernest and it would be done. The bankruptcy courts loomed for the Earl. It had all gone too far. Dilberne might go to law later as he found others benefitting from the one simple, great idea he had handed over to Baum and Courtney for a plethora of unromantic metal ore mines across Southern Africa, maki
ng secure the rare ones that glittered. But the Earl would have the devil of a job proving it.
‘Where have you been?’ her Ladyship asked crossly when Robert bounced into the room followed by Mr Neville with the suitcase, and a hesitant Mr Baum behind. She was like any wife, half-anxious, half-annoyed, thought Mr Baum, just as Mrs Baum would be when her husband finally got home safe, but late, after some minor misbehaviour. She added ‘my dearest’ as if to soften the question. His Lordship pecked her on her cheek in what seemed to add up to an apology on his part and forgiveness on hers.
‘Big day at Newbury. Steeplechase. Didn’t tell you I was going? Sorry about that. Spoke to Agripin’s trainer; the beast had bone, he reckoned, they were bringing him on as a jumper. Didn’t have much of a chance, he said, only four weeks in training but you never knew. But I knew, in my water. That was the St Anthony’s Cup, the last race. I had my Yankee, didn’t I? Started with two hundred quid and ended up with this lot. Most exciting day of my life. Open it up, Mr Neville.’
Mr Neville found a side table and opened the suitcase in front of Isobel to disclose pile upon pile of large crisp white banknotes. Ten, twenty thousand? More? Mr Neville, eyes slightly goggling, bowed and left.
‘I had to go to the bank with the bookie. I cleared the poor man out.’ His Lordship closed the case and pushed it away with a careless foot. Then he turned to Mr Baum.
‘You well, Mr Baum? How’s the wife? Looking forward to the royal dinner?’
He did not wait for an answer and Mr Baum gave none. The more exhilarated his Lordship showed himself to be, the more despondent Mr Baum became. No matter how good his cards were, how well he played them, Mr Baum could see he would never win. Nobody won on an accumulator like that. So many horses to get in the right order. These people had luck on their side, and against luck there was no defence. Their gold mine could be flooded but everything would turn out all right. The Israelites might be God’s chosen people but God was clearly an Englishman.
‘What’s all this nonsense here?’ the Earl asked, nodding at Lady Isobel’s folders and jotted figures. ‘Why are you worrying your head with all this? I deal with money matters, not you. Your purpose in life is to be beautiful.’
Her Ladyship raised her perfect eyebrows a fraction, smiled sweetly and began to tidy away the documents.
‘Let’s have that whisky, Baum,’ said the Earl, beaming.
‘I have to get back to help Mrs Baum, sir’, said Eric. ‘The children aren’t well.’
‘Sorry to hear that, Baum,’ said his Lordship amiably, but didn’t argue. Her Ladyship for her part simply nodded towards the door for Baum to leave. So she would have nodded at a servant. He marvelled at how, once again, and without saying a word, she made it clear she no longer needed him, and never really had.
‘Only money, Baum, only money,’ said his Lordship to Baum as he left.
Only money! It had been said to aggravate him and had succeeded. It was too bad. Some people worked hard, tried hard, made money, saved money: others romped through life, and somehow got away with it. Everything came so easily to those who had everything already. He had lost all will to be revenged. Better to just go along with it. The mine would strike a seam of, say, copper: all would profit, no one would lose, but heaven knew what he would tell Naomi.
On the way out he passed the young Viscount, who was looking remarkably down in the mouth. The lad was right to be worried; he had been playing with fire. Eric had no reason whatsoever to be nice to him, on the contrary; there had been jibes about Shylock, and so forth, and Eric would not forget them, but some sense of a male brotherhood moved him to put the boy out of his misery.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘the police were on to me this morning about your Mayfair place. But you’re in the clear. Only yesterday the Honourable Mr Robin cancelled his cheque towards the rent. No way they can get you now.’
The lad had inherited his father’s good looks and his luck too. There was no justice. Why people bothered looking for it in this life he could not imagine.
‘Good-oh,’ said the boy. And then, ‘Thank you for your help, Mr Baum.’
Then when Mr Baum was almost at the foot of the steps Elsie came running after him with a large square envelope. He opened it. Inside was a truly handsome invitation for Mr and Mrs Eric Baum. Their presence was requested for dinner on December 17th, in the presence of his Royal Highness the Prince of Wales.
‘Her Ladyship asked me to give you this,’ the maid said, ‘and she looks forward to seeing you on the seventeenth.’ She smiled respectfully. Mr Baum supposed he could now be accepted in Belgrave Square as a guest and not a servant. The question was whether he wanted to be. On the envelope was scrawled So sorry this was late. An oversight! and the initials, ‘ID’. Isobel Dilberne. Naomi would smile again. But he, Eric Baum, would never understand the English upper classes.
A Royal Dinner
Extract from ‘Fashion News’ in The Times, Monday, 18th December 1899
A newcomer on the scene at 17, Belgrave Square last Saturday night was Mrs Eric (Naomi) Baum, who wore a delightful dress in a heavy red silk, its topskirt looped away to show a rose embroidered underskirt, the bodice embellished with antique lace. Her perfect décolletage appeared to advantage, set off by a very pleasing diamond necklace given to her for the occasion by her husband, Mr Eric Baum the financier. She was seated next to the Prince, who was seen to be most taken by her. They were overheard discussing this year’s excellent production of the play David Garrick at the opulent new Wyndham’s Theatre in Charing Cross Road. Both were seen to laugh.
Our most gracious hostess, Isobel, Countess of Dilberne, wore a simple white satin gown with the new drooped sleeves, and was later seen in animated conversation with Mrs Baum. Mrs Tessa O’Brien wore a flowered pink ensemble with a ruby necklace and earrings, a gift from her husband Mr Billy O’Brien the philanthropist, sent over on a liner of the White Star Line for the occasion of this very special dinner. Miss Melinda O’Brien was as ever a delight to the eye in rustling pale green taffeta, well set off by a splendid antique emerald engagement ring on her left hand. Lady Rosina was not present, being indisposed. The Prince expressed his sympathy and disappointment.
Dinner was a great success and the Prince announced himself particularly taken by the crab patties, the pastry being, as he observed, pleasingly crisp and light.
The excitement of the evening was when the Earl stood to announce the engagement of his son Arthur, Viscount Hedleigh to Miss Melinda O’Brien, to take place at St Martin-in-the-Fields in June, 1900, in the presence of the Prince of Wales. We wish them very well in their future life together.
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Preview
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With London Society in a frenzy of anticipation for the coronation of King Edward VII, the Earl and Countess of Dilberne are caught up in lavish preparations. Yet Lady Isobel still has ample time to fret, and no wonder with a much longed-for heir on the way, an elopement, family tragedy, a runaway niece and a gaggle of fraudulent spiritualists to contend with…
Fay Weldon once again draws her readers into the lives and loves of the aristocratic Dilberne family, as they embrace not only a new century, but a new generation – a generation with somewhat radical views…
Long Live the King is available to buy here.
Adela Annoys Her Father
‘Will we be going to the Coronation, Father?’ asked Adela, in all innocence.
She should not have. He was now in a bad mood. Adela was hungry. She waited for her father to start his breakfast: no one could begin before he did. The last food she’d had was at six the previous evening. Supper had been a bowl of chicken soup (its fo
urth appearance at the table) and some bread and cheese, from which Ivy the maid had been obliged to scrape away so much mould there was precious little cheese left. The Rectory at Yatbury was an abstemious household, dedicated more to the pleasures of the spirit than the flesh.
‘We certainly will not,’ her father said. ‘I daresay your uncle and his brood will prance around in ermine robes with sealskin spots, but I will not be there to witness it, nor will any member of my household.’ He spoke of his elder brother Robert, the eighth Earl of Dilberne, whom he hated.
‘But Father—’ said Adela. Better if she had kept quiet. Her mother Elise, a princess of the Gotha-Zwiebrücken-Saxon line, known locally as the Hon. Rev.’s wife, kicked Adela under the table with the heel of a boot, scuffed and worn, but still capable of delivering a painful blow to the shins.
‘And I’ll have no further mention of this absurd business, Adela, until the whole event is over. The country is still at war and income tax has risen to one shilling in the pound and likely to go up tuppence more. And why? To pay not for the war but for a party. A pointless party for a monarch who is already accepted in law and by the people, in a vulgar display of purloined wealth,’ said Edwin. He was the Rector of the small parish of Yatbury, just south-east of the City of Bath in Somerset, and in speaking thus he spoke for many. ‘That wealth has been stolen for the most part by piracy; gold, diamonds and minerals wrenched from the native soil of unhappy peoples by virtue of secret treaties, then enforced by arms, intimidation and usurpation.’
The worst of it was that, though he had said grace and been about to crack open his boiled egg, Adela had spoken a moment too soon. Her father laid down his teaspoon the better to pursue his theme. All must now do likewise, since the habit of the house was that its head must be the first to eat.
