“All right,” Teddy said, riffling through more papers until he found the documents he wanted. “You’ll need to tell me whether you want the fund as it is, with its current investments intact, or whether you want to liquefy it and have the sterling wired to your bank.”
“Liquefy it,” Fiona said, massaging her temples again. She was irritable and impatient to be done.
“Are you certain? It may be easier to get Elgin to give up shares rather than a lump sum of cash. As I recall, there are some good earners here and one rather large dud. Let’s see … Abingdon Publishers … Amalgamated Steel, that’s a good one … Beaton, Wickes Manufacturers … Brighton Mills … Oh, here’s the bad apple! It’s a tea company, Fiona. Burton Tea. Christ, why did Elgin buy so much of it? And why did he hang on to it? It’s lost two-thirds of its purchase value.”
Fiona stopped rubbing her temples. “Teddy, what did you say?” she whispered.
“Um … Burton Tea?”
“How many shares exactly?” she asked, scrabbling for a pen and paper.
Teddy ran his finger down a column. “Quite a lot, actually.”
“Teddy, how many?”
“Four hundred and fifty thousand.”
Fiona caught her breath. Teddy looked up at her. She looked back at him with eyes as wide as saucers. “That’s how he did it,” she said. “The lying, cheating bastard! I never understood how he retained fifty-one percent of his shares when he was so deep in debt. That’s exactly how he did it.”
“Did what, Fiona?”
She didn’t answer him. Instead, she yanked open a desk drawer and pulled out a folder. She opened it, consulted the documents inside, and scribbled figures. “Fifty-two percent!” she said, her voice quavering. “I’ve got fifty-bloody-two percent!”
“Of what?”
“Of Burton Tea, Teddy. Let me see those,” Fiona said, reaching for the statements.
He handed them to her. The most recent records were on top. She paged backward quarter by quarter until she found what she was looking for: the Burton Tea purchase. It had been added to Nick’s fund in March of 1894. Elgin had paid nearly three pounds – about fifteen dollars – per share. The total of Burton Tea stock, plus Nick’s other stocks – which had appreciated by then to just over one hundred and sixty thousand pounds – made the account worth about one and half million pounds, a staggering sum of money. She quickly fished out her own statements for the same quarter and found that she had paid between eighteen and twenty-one dollars a share for Burton Tea. Nick’s shares had been acquired at a discount.
Next, she compared Nick’s March ’94 statement to his most recent statement – March of ’98. Teddy was right: Everything but Burton Tea had made gains, and the Burton Tea losses had been so severe, that even with the other stocks’ growth, the account had lost over half its ’94 value. Nick’s four hundred and fifty thousand shares of Burton Tea were currently worth just under five hundred thousand pounds.
The dates, the difference in share prices, the losses – they were all clicking into place.
“Teddy, get me Nick’s fund. Intact,” Fiona said, looking up from the statements. “No matter what it takes, do you understand me? I must have those stocks. Start tonight. Send a letter to Albion … no, a telegram …” Panic suddenly gripped her. “Elgin can’t sell the stocks, can he?” she asked anxiously.
“Of course not. Nick’s assets were frozen while the will went through probate here in New York. Now they legally belong to his next of kin. That’s you.”
“Good. Good. Inform Elgin of my wishes immediately.” She stood up and started pacing. “Get the telegram out tonight, Teddy. Tonight. Can someone in your office do that? I want him to know first thing tomorrow morning. Go on, Teddy, leave now. My driver will take you. You’ll just have time to stop by your office before you have to be at the courthouse.”
Wearing an expression of utter confusion, Teddy was hustled out of Fiona’s office and into her carriage. She made him swear that he would get the telegram fired off, then barked at her driver to take him to his office posthaste.
Back in her own office, Fiona sat down in her chair again, dumbfounded. She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. The Burton Tea shares she’d so desperately needed had been in her own husband’s investment account all along. Thirty percent of the one and a half million issued. Right in Nick’s hands.
It all made perfect sense. Burton would have needed money in ’94 to finance his entry into the American market. He’d already borrowed three hundred thousand pounds from Albion by then. His shareholders knew it and – according to various newspaper articles Fiona had read – were uneasy about it.
In order to obtain the additional funds he needed without his investors finding out, Burton had probably offered to sell Elgin himself – not the bank – a chunk of his personal shares. And he’d offered them at a significantly discounted price, as Fiona had seen in the statements. Burton knew Elgin would keep the shares safe, for he’d undoubtedly convinced him that as Burton Tea established itself in America – a huge country with a growing population – their value would increase. When that happened, Burton would use his American-made profits to buy his shares back at the higher price and Elgin would make a killing.
Since the sale was to be kept quiet, Elgin would not have been able to use Albion’s money. Albion was now a publicly held bank and its records were subject to its shareholders’ scrutiny. So Elgin had used his own money and tucked the shares into a private account, Nick’s account. He likely had his personal secretary or some trusted senior clerk administer it. They would have been the only two people in the bank who even knew the account existed. Elgin would naturally assume that the shares would be safe and that no explanations to Nick would be needed. As he well knew, his son hated everything to do with Albion. He would never seek to claim the shares; he had no interest in his investments, only the income they produced. And Nick had been gravely ill. When he died – unmarried and heirless – the fund would simply revert back to his family.
Both men must have thought it a perfect arrangement: Burton would have the loan he needed, Elgin would eventually make a tidy sum of money, and no one would ever be the wiser.
But there were two things Elgin had not wagered on: first, that Burton’s expansion into America would fail, and that that disaster would render him incapable of buying his stock back; and second, that Nick wouldn’t die – that he’d marry and leave everything he owned, including his investment fund, to his wife.
Fiona took a deep breath and blew it out again. She stood up, unable to sit still from the shock of what she had learned. Her eyes fell on the photograph of Nick she kept on her credenza. If only she’d known, but how could she have? He never told her what was in that account. He didn’t know himself. He never even knew what he had in his wallet.
She picked up the photograph. For the first time since Nick had died, she felt him here with her. He was still protecting her, still watching over her. Though his body was gone, his spirit lived on in her heart. He was a part of her and always would be. Just as Michael had said.
A breeze blew into the room again and this time she didn’t shudder. This time she smiled, imagining that the breeze’s soft caress was Nick touching his hand to her cheek. She hugged the photograph to her chest, closed her eyes, and whispered “Thank you” to him, for this, his final gift.
Chapter 67
“And so, to my brother James, I offer my sincere congratulations,” Joe said, toasting at his brother’s wedding breakfast. “And to my new sister-in-law, Margaret …” He paused, feigned a look of regret, then said, “… my ’eartfelt condolences.”
There were whoops and catcalls from the guests, laughter from the bride and her sisters.
“That’s very funny, Joe,” Jimmy shouted over the din. “ ’Ope the fruit you sell is fresher than your jokes. Can we eat now?”
“To Jimmy and Meg!” Joe said, raising his glass. “Long life, ’ealth, wealth, and ’appiness!”
> “To Jimmy and Meg!” the company responded. Glasses were clinked, there were calls for the groom to kiss his bride and more catcalling as he did. As Joe looked around to make sure the waiters had started to serve, he felt a tug on his sleeve. It was his grandfather, who was seated next to him.
“There’s something wrong with this,” the old man said, pointing to his glass. “It’s the queerest lager I’ve ever tasted.”
“It’s champagne, Granddad. From France.”
“Frenchy beer? Too fancy by ’alf, if you ask me. What’s wrong with Fuller’s, lad?”
Joe stopped a waiter and instructed him to get his grandfather a pint of bitter from the kitchen. He told another one to open more champagne and get it poured. His guests had drained their glasses and were clamoring for more. He badgered a third to bring more bread. Then, for the first time that day, he sat down.
Joe was hosting his brother’s wedding breakfast at his home in Greenwich and he wanted everything to be perfect. It was his gift to the couple. He adored his new sister-in-law, a girl from a Whitechapel costering family, one without much money, and he wanted to give her a lovely day. The caterers and florist had arrived at dawn to decorate the ballroom of his Georgian mansion, but as soon as the sun was up and he saw that the day would be fair, he changed his mind and had them bring everything outside. The ballroom was nice, but nothing could top the beauty of his grounds.
Joe’s home was an old manor house whose softly rolling hills and fertile fruit orchards ended at the Thames’s south bank. Ancient oak trees dotted the landscape, as well as cherry trees, dogwoods, and climbing roses. Formal flower gardens were laid out behind the house. Joe had had the tables set up just beyond them. From where they were seated, his guests could see his flowering apple, pear, and quince trees in the distance, and beyond them, the river.
As he looked around, mindless of the food that had been put in front of him, concerned only with his guests’ enjoyment, he had to smile. His father was eating a piece of lovely coral-colored salmon and talking to his neighbor, a fishmonger, about the merits of Scottish smoking methods versus Norwegian. His sister Ellen, whose husband was a wholesaler at the Smithfield meat market, was nodding approvingly at the bacon. Another neighbor from Montague Street, a Mrs. Walsh who made her living selling flowers outside the West End theaters, was admiring the table arrangements. Joe’s Cockney family and their friends were more demanding at table, more exacting in their tastes, than any earl or duke could ever hope to be. Costers all, every man and woman present had strong opinions as to who grew a better potato – Jersey or Kentish farmers – what type of feed made for a better gammon steak, and who produced the superior strawberry – the English or the French. They argued as vociferously over which butcher turned out a better banger and who fried up a better piece of cod as their titled counterparts did over whose club served the best beef Wellington.
“Uncle Joe! Uncle Joe!”
Joe turned around. Ellen’s children, three tow-headed moppets, descended upon him.
“Mum says there’s a cake,” Emma, the youngest, said. “A pretty one with flowers on it!”
“There is, pet. Would you like to see it?” All three children nodded. “It’s in the pantry. Go take a peek.” They started off. “And, Robbie …”
“Yes, Uncle Joe?” the eldest said, turning back.
“I’ll take that fork, thank you.”
Robbie marched back and surrendered the fork he’d tucked into his back pocket, then dashed off giggling.
“ ’Ooligans, them three,” his grandfather said. “Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?”
“I will, Granddad; I ’ave a bit of business to attend to first, though. Be right back.”
Joe walked over to Jimmy and Meg. “Everything all right?” he asked them.
“Joe, luv, everything’s wonderful!” Meg said, taking his hand. “Thank you!” A freckle-faced redhead, she had chosen a high-necked organdy dress in a warm off-white. Jimmy had given her a pair of pearl eardrops for a wedding gift and her mother had tucked white roses into the neat coiled braid at the nape of her neck. Joe had always thought her a pretty girl, but the flush in her cheeks, and the radiant softness in her eyes every time she looked at her new husband, made her beautiful.
“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Do you think I could borrow your ’usband? I’ll only keep ’im a minute.”
Meg said she wouldn’t mind and Jimmy followed Joe toward the house.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“Got a wedding gift for you.”
“Another one? Joe, it’s too much –”
“No, it isn’t. Come on.” He took his brother into his study, closed the door behind them, and motioned to a large flat box on his desk. “Open it,” he said.
Jimmy lifted the top off and pulled back a piece of soft green flannel. A large rectangle of brass flashed back at him. He read the inscription: BRISTOW’S OF COVENT GARDEN WHOLESALE PRODUCE, JOS. AND JAS. BRISTOW, PROPRIETORS, then looked at his brother, stunned.
“Jesus, Joe …”
Joe took his hand and shook it. “Partners,” he said.
“I never expected this. Why did you do it? It’s your business, you started it …”
“And I never could’ve made a success out of it without you. It’s your business, too. Just thought we ought to formalize things. The solicitors are doing the paperwork. Ought to be finished next week. Between your new salary and ’alf of the assets of London’s biggest produce wholesaler, you shouldn’t ’ave any trouble buying Meg that ’ouse in Islington she likes.”
“I … I don’t even know what to say. Thank you.” Overcome, he grabbed his brother and pounded him on the back. Then he picked up the plaque and tore out of the study to tell his bride of their good fortune.
Back outside, Joe watched them – Jimmy beaming as Meg traced the letters of his name – with a wistful smile. Jimmy had done well for himself. He’d married a wonderful girl, a girl he truly loved. They’d have a family soon. And now, with the partnership, he’d have the means to keep his new wife and their future children comfortably.
Joe himself was a millionaire several times over. Even with giving half the wholesaling business to Jimmy, he still owned all the Montague shops and Montague’s lucrative door-to-door delivery business. And yet, watching his brother, he felt like a pauper. Out of the two of them, only Jimmy had what was really valuable.
Standing with his hands on his hips, Joe suddenly felt someone hook an arm through his.
“That was a nice thing you did, luv,” his mother said.
“No more than ’e deserved,” Joe said. “I should ’ave done it long ago.”
Rose was wearing a russet silk dress he’d bought her and a paisley shawl. Older, grayer now, she still looked pretty to him. Years ago, he had insisted that she and his father move out of the damp, drafty Montague Street house to a nice new terraced house in Finsbury. They stayed for a week, then, lonely for Whitechapel and their friends, they went back to the old place and refused to budge. Joe, conceding defeat, bought the house for them and had it fixed up. Though he’d settled a large amount of money on them, his father still sold at the market every day but Monday with his mother by his side. Their big splurges were a new barrow and frequent attendance at the music hall.
Rose looked at her son’s face. She followed his gaze to Jimmy and Meg. “Thinking about ’er, were you?”
“Who?”
Rose gave him a look. “It’s been ten years, luv.”
“I know how long it’s been, Mum, so stop before you start. I wasn’t thinking about anyone.”
“All right, I won’t say a word. It’s just that I worry, that’s all,” Rose said gently. “You’re nearly thirty years old. You should ’ave a wife. A family. ’Andsome, successful man like yourself. I know ten lasses who’d give their eyeteeth for one like you.”
Joe groaned, but there was no stopping his mother.
“All I want is for you to be ’appy, l
uv.”
“I am ’appy, Mum. Perfectly ’appy. My work keeps me very, very ’appy.”
“Oh, rubbish. You work as ’ard as you do so you never ’ave to stop and think about ’ow un’appy you really are.”
“Mum, I think Granddad needs some ’elp with ’is kipper. Why don’t you –”
“There you are!” a bright female voice exclaimed. It was Cathy. “Why on earth are you standing ’ere skulking, Joe, when you should be talking with your guests? Sally’s ’ere. She’s sweet on you. Thinks you’re a smasher.”
Joe laughed. “Sally Gordon? Your little school friend? She’s what … ten years old? She needs a nursemaid, not an ’usband. Is she even out of braids yet?”
“Yes, she is. You might actually notice ’ow pretty she’s become if you could bring yourself to stop mooning after a ghost.”
Joe looked away. That hurt. Cathy had gone right to the bone. As usual.
“That’s enough, lass,” Rose cautioned.
“Someone ’as to tell ’im ’e’s wasting ’is life, Mum,” she said defiantly. “Might as well be me.” She looked at her brother, lifting her chin as she spoke. “Fiona Finnegan’s a million miles away and she’s married to a toff and she’s not coming back and that’s that. Sally Gordon’s right ’ere and she’s in love with you. She can ’ave ’er pick of lads, but you’re all she talks about. God knows why. She’d change ’er mind right quick if she knew what a mopey old pickle you are!”
“I said that’s enough!” Rose snapped. Cathy flounced off.
“A mopey old pickle?” Joe said, laughing despite himself.
“That’s the one child out of all of you I could never control,” Rose fretted, scowling after her youngest. “I ’ope you know what you’re doing ’iring ’er to run the new shop.”
“I do. I wouldn’t ’ave anyone else.”
“She is a smart lass, I’ll give ’er that,” Rose said. “And good’earted in ’er way. And mad about you. She loves you, Joe. Wants the best for you, like we all do.” She squeezed his arm. “You know, you really should be talking to your guests. And it wouldn’t ’urt you to say ’ello to Sally. Just to be polite.”
The Tea Rose Page 61
