Lady of Fortune

by Graham Masterton

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Henry Baeklander stood on the after-deck of the Excelsior in a sombre and exquisitely-cut black overcoat, his astrakhan collar turned up to protect the stiff right side of his neck against the damp wind which blew across the silver-green curve of the Thames from the north-west, and from the Essex marshes. It was a quarter past eleven in the morning, and the yacht’s boilers had been keeping up a full head of steam since nine. The safety-valves sizzled and sang like kettles, and brown coal smoke rolled ceaselessly from the yellow funnel. Another half-hour, and they would have to cast off, or they would miss the tide. Henry sniffed, and coughed, and brought out his Fabergé pocket-watch yet again, even though he could see Big Ben from where he was standing, and only a few minutes ago he had heard it strike the quarter-hour. His eyes watered and his breath smoked as he looked down at the needle-sharp hands. Eleven-seventeen, and still no sign of Effie.

  Mr Outcault came out on the deck and saluted him. ‘Begging your pardon, Mr Baeklander, but we have to cast off soon, or we’ll be delayed until the next tide.’

  Henry could easily have afforded to wait in London for two or three more days. But he knew that if Effie wasn’t going to come this morning, she would never come. He would rather sail away alone than be humiliated by her any longer. No, that wasn’t true. He would accept any humiliation she cared to give him. But he would have to leave London sooner or later, and sooner was as good as later. He took out a small cigar, and Mr Outcault stepped forward and lit it for him. ‘Damned damp place, London,’ he said, and Mr Outcault nodded. ‘Yes, sir. Known for it.’

  At half past eleven a cab drew up on the embankment. Henry Baeklander said, ‘Sawyer, can you see who that is?’ and Sawyer, from the upper deck, replied, ‘A gentleman, sir, with a trunk.’

  ‘No lady?’

  There was a pause, and then Sawyer said, ‘No, sir. No lady.’

  Henry watched as the iron gate from the embankment was opened, and Dougal appeared, heaving a large brass-bound trunk. Dougal gave Henry a half-hearted wave, but instead of sending one of his crew up to assist him, Henry stood where he was, watching as Dougal struggled with his luggage down the steps of the pier towards the yacht.

  At last Dougal managed to wrestle his trunk on board. A minute or two later he appeared on the after-deck from the promenade deck, breathing hard, in his green tweed overcoat and his Coke hat. He was tugging off his hand-knitted woollen gloves, one of which had been frayed by the studs on the side of his suitcase, and his mouth was pursed in a silent whistle. ‘Well, Mr Baeklander,’ he said, ‘you certainly have yourself well set up here. A floating palace.’

  Henry said, throatily, ‘Where’s Effie? Is she going to be late?’

  ‘Effie?’ blinked Dougal. ‘Och, no, Effie’s never late. Well, only if there’s a reason. And she’s not late today.’

  ‘Then where is she? We have to sail in ten minutes.’

  Dougal flushed. ‘I think you’d better read this, sir,’ he said, reaching into his coat. He took out a blue foolscap envelope, sealed with blue wax.

  ‘She’s not coming?’ Henry demanded. ‘Is that what this says?’

  ‘I’m afraid I haven’t read it, Mr Baeklander.’

  Henry walked across to the rail, holding the letter in his left hand, his right hand pressing his fur collar against his stiff neck. He stood in silence for a short while, and then he turned around, and handed the letter back to Dougal.

  ‘You open it, Mr Watson. You read it to me.’

  ‘But Effie did say –’

  ‘Open it, Mr Watson!’

  Dougal took the letter, broke the seal with his thumb-nail, and unfolded it. He scanned it quickly, and then glanced up at Henry Baeklander with great uncertainty.

  ‘Read it,’ insisted Henry, in a sharp voice.

  ‘Very well,’ said Dougal. ‘It says, “My dearest Henry, It is with the utmost regret that I cannot leave with you today on the Excelsior. You alone will understand how torn I am; and how much I wish that this did not have to be so. But the decision has been forced on me by the sudden illness of my dear mother (I received the telegram from Edinburgh not three hours ago). I must go to Edinburgh and see to her, and until she is well I am deeply sorry to say that I shall have to remain in Scotland.”’

  Dougal paused here, but Henry, who had raised his hand so that it covered his face, and was now watching Dougal through the gaps between his fingers, said croakily, ‘Go on.’

  Dougal said, ‘Erm – “Perhaps in one way this decision has been pressed on to me by Fate, as I will now have the opportunity to consult my father and mother fully before going away with you. I was so excited by the idea of an elopement to the Mediterranean, but alas! it seems that it is not to be. My dear Henry, I know you will understand, and I know that you will be in touch with me constantly, so that one day (one day very soon, I trust!) we can be together.”’

  ‘Is that it?’ asked Henry.

  Dougal said, ‘No, there’s one more thing.’

  ‘Well, read it, will you?’ demanded Henry.

  Dougal looked unhappy, but then he read out, haltingly, ‘“You will, of course, honour the agreement that we signed yesterday, appointing my brother Dougal to the Baeklander Trust. He is a talented and clever banker, and I know that you will give him every opportunity to prove himself to you.”’

  ‘That’s all?’ asked Henry.

  ‘That’s all,’ said Dougal.

  Henry paced around the deck in an odd-shaped pattern, the way a lion paces its cage at a zoo. Then he said, ‘How old is your sister?’

  ‘Effie? Seventeen, sir. And a half.’

  ‘Seventeen and a half. My God. And she’s outwitted us all.’

  Mr Baeklander?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘Your sister will either become a goddess or a Gorgon. Well, perhaps she’ll become a little bit of both. But to do what she did today, at seventeen and a half … You’ve got yourself some dangerous competition there, Dougal, my boy. A sister who can run rings around both of us, without even trying.’

  Dougal stood facing Henry Baeklander, not quite sure what to say. He asked, at last, ‘Do you still want me to come with you? I won’t take this job if you’re simply giving it to me for Effie’s sake.’

  Henry laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You come with me, Mr Watson. Come and enjoy the Mediterranean sun; and then come to New York and make your fortune. You can be my hostage, against the day when I want Effie back. You understand me? I’m not obliging you. But from what I’ve heard of you, you’ve got a talent for banking, and I could use you on Broad Street, no doubt about it. I’ll have the staff unpack your trunk.’

  Henry walked off towards the promenade deck. Dougal said, ‘Mr Baeklander?’

  Henry paused, without turning around.

  ‘Mr Baeklander, I just want to say that I’m sorry.’

  Henry said nothing for a moment or two, but eventually whispered, ‘Yes, thank you,’ and went back to his stateroom. Dougal thought he saw tears in his eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The London train chuffed and clattered into Waverley Station at nine o’clock in the morning, under a clear crisp Edinburgh sky as blue as a child’s tea-plate. Effie sat by the window, in a sealskin coat and a pale blue velvet suit with a high lace collar and trimmings of navy-blue braid, and an extravagant white hat on which two stuffed bluebirds dived amongst five white ostrich plumes.

  It was hot in the first-class compartment in which she sat; but she shivered involuntarily as the train passed into the shadow of the rock. The railway lines ran between the castle and the New Town, in a gorge that had once been the Nor’ Loch, and had been drained. For a moment, Effie felt as if she were travelling under its absent but icy waters.

  Her mother was waiting for her by the ticket barrier, with Russell, the coachman, standing a few feet behind her in his uniform and his green top hat. Her mother, in a beige tweed suit, looked unexpectedly old, and very provincial, but Effie rushed into her a
rms and held her very close, feeling the warmth of her, smelling the familiar cologne, touching with her fingertips the gold-and-agate drop earrings which swung from her ears.

  ‘Effie, you’ve changed so!’ declared her mother. ‘You’re quite the London lady!’

  ‘Oh, mother, you’re as beautiful as ever.’

  They walked arm-in-arm to the station concourse, while Russell carried Effie’s hatboxes, and directed the porter with the trunks. At last they were outside, on Princes Street, and Effie took a deep breath of sharp Scottish air. But after London, Princes Street seemed to have shrunk, and become oddly dowdy, and Effie found herself staring at the old-fashioned tweed skirts and the heather-mixture coats with as much surprise and disdain as a real Londoner might have done. And the hats! So lumpy and shapeless, with scarcely a ribbon on them! She knew then that she could not stay here for long.

  ‘It’s not just your clothes that have changed,’ said Fiona Watson, guiding her daughter towards the family carriage. ‘It’s your face, too. You’ve suddenly blossomed. You’re suddenly pretty! I can scarcely get over it!’

  ‘I think it’s what London does for you, mother. If you’re not sonsie, you’ll not make your way.’

  They climbed into the carriage. Russell spread their knees with plaid blankets, then put up the window, tipped the railway porter, and climbed up on to his box.

  ‘I suppose London was quite a sad place to be, because of the late Queen,’ said Effie’s mother.

  ‘Och, no. I mean, there was sadness, and a great deal of public mourning. But I think that everybody’s pleased about Edward taking the throne. It’s about time.’

  Fiona Watson nodded, absent-mindedly. Effie said, ‘There’s nothing wrong, is there? You’ve not had trouble with Jamie McFarlane?’

  Her mother smiled at her tightly, and took her hand. ‘You have, haven’t you?’ asked Effie, ‘You’ve had trouble! He’s not broken it off, has he? Don’t tell me that.’

  ‘No,’ said Fiona Watson, ‘he hasn’t broken it off. But, he may have to.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Effie, distressed.

  ‘Well, it’s a long story, and not meant for your ears,’ said her mother.

  ‘But you have to tell me! How can I help you if you won’t tell me?’

  Fiona Watson took out a small lace handkerchief and delicately wiped at her nose. ‘Effie,’ she said, ‘it’s nothing that you can do anything about. I know how much you enjoy meddling in other people’s affairs. But this can only be solved by Jamie and myself, and nobody else. We were aware of the risks we were taking when we first started walking out together, and now we have to face up to what we’ve done.’

  She lowered her head. The sun, brimming from a half-open window on the corner of Lothian Road, blurred the silhouette of her face, and glittered in the agates that depended from her earrings as if they were crystallised tears. Effie suddenly realised how quiet it was, here in Edinburgh, with nothing but the grating of the carriage-wheels, and the brisk clipping of the horses.

  ‘Father’s not found out?’ asked Effie.

  ‘No, but that’s the threat. It’s young Gavin McFee. You remember the boy we met when you went visiting with me and Jamie to the Lands? Yes, that crowlin’ billie. Well, he’s been threatening to tell your father, unless he’s paid a pound every week, and he warns that it soon may be two.’

  ‘But that’s blackmail,’ said Effie. ‘Surely you can have him arrested?’

  ‘And have to reveal my liaison with Jamie McFarlane to everybody in Edinburgh society? I couldn’t do it. Not to myself, not to your father, not to you. We may get rid of Gavin McFee, but at what a price! Your father’s bank would probably collapse, and Jamie would lose his job, and none of my friends would ever speak to me again.’

  ‘You care so much for those things?’ asked Effie. ‘Even more than you care for yourself?’

  Fiona stroked her daughter’s hair. ‘When I was your age, and unattached, I might not have cared at all, either about money or about myself. Of course, when you’re so young, you can never tell what love is really going to be like. You can start off by not caring for a boy in the slightest, and then suddenly find one morning that you wake up, and you can’t see enough of him, if there are twenty-five hours in the day. Jamie’s so different. He’s kind, and humorous, and bright. I should have married him, or somebody very much like him; but I didn’t, and what I have to do is to protect what I have, and those who depend on me. I’m in love, but I don’t want your father’s bank to collapse because of that love. Nor do I wish to see Jamie out on the street, looking for a job as a social worker. And most of all, I don’t want to lose my friends, which I most certainly would do if this affair were to be declared public.’

  There was a long silence between them as the coach turned into Charlotte Square. ‘Are you going to go on paying the money?’ asked Effie. ‘Surely, just by paying it, you’re admitting that you and Jamie –’

  ‘I had considered that,’ said Fiona. She brushed back a fraying strand of hair. ‘But the house is on a knife-edge at the moment. Father’s annoyed that Dougal has gone off to London, and is apparently making five different varieties of whoopee, without caring for the long-term prospects for the bank. He should be putting the trust department into order – not spending all day dreaming about one big coup, the way he usually does. Then there’s Robert, who seems to think he’s a Rothschild, thinking of building himself a huge local-stone mansion at Traquair. Then there’s you gone for so long, and not in Putney, either. Things are difficult.’

  Effie grasped her hand. ‘I’m sorry. We seem to be all such a burden to you. Your own children.’

  ‘I’m a grown-up lady, Effie. I can take care of myself if needs be.’

  They were crossing the west end of Charlotte Square now. Effie said, gently, ‘There’s something you have to know, before we get out of the carriage.’

  Fiona frowned at her. ‘Is it you? Is it anything – well, no man has touched you, has he, while you’ve been in London?’

  Effie said, ‘No, mother, it’s not that. It’s Dougal. He’s left Watson’s Bank; and he’s gone to America.’

  The carriage reached their house, and Russell applied the brake. He opened the door for them, and let down the steps, but Fiona stayed where she was, her mouth slightly open in shock, her blue eyes wide.

  ‘Effie,’ she said, ‘I don’t understand what you mean. He’s gone to America? Without even telling us? But why?’

  Effie looked away, and then she said, choosing her words carefully, ‘You must promise me that you won’t tell father; but there was some trouble at the bank. Dougal was an innocent party, but he was deceived into helping some of the other staff in a fraud that might have cost Watson’s more than a million pounds. Mr Cockburn dealt with everybody involved, as far as I know. I begged him not to report Dougal to the police. In the end, he agreed not to, as long as Dougal left Watson’s, and London, immediately. So that is what he did. He’s sailing to the Mediterranean with the American financier, Henry Baeklander. You’ve heard of him? Yes – and then he’s going to go to America to work for the Baeklander Trust.’

  Fiona Watson said nothing. She glanced out of the open door of the carriage, and saw that Russell was waiting patiently for them. She glanced back at Effie.

  ‘Did he write, before he left? Is there a message?’

  ‘There wasn’t time,’ said Effie. ‘In any event, I don’t think he would have known what to say.’

  Fiona Watson licked her lips. Her face was as pale as separated milk, and her freckles looked like a powdering of cinnamon. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘we’ll have to talk about this later,’ and then she gathered up her skirts, alighted from the carriage, and went up the steps to the front door.

  Effie followed her. She couldn’t think of a single reassuring thing to say, and so she simply walked behind her mother along the hallway, which still smelled of lavender-wax and dried-rose pot-pourri and paregoric. At the end of the hallway, though, Fiona Watso
n turned, and said, ‘He’s well, though?’ He’s not suffering from anything untoward?’

  ‘No,’ said Effie. She could picture Dougal’s face now, after she had woken him up on Tuesday evening. He had been lying on his back in his red-striped nightshirt, his mouth open, with a copy of The Economist spread open on his chest at an article headed, ‘Investment Opportunities After The Boxer Uprising – New Indemnities Will Encourage China To Seek Greater Loans Of Foreign Currency.’ She had shaken his shoulder gently, and he had opened his eyes and stared at her as if he couldn’t recognise her. Perhaps he had been dreaming of Prudence Cutting. But then he had said, ‘Effie – what’s wrong? What time is it?’

  ‘Nearly twelve,’ she had told him.

  ‘Is anything the matter? God, I feel terrible. I feel like I’ve been sleeping in a midden-hole.’

  ‘Dougal,’ she had whispered, ‘you’re going to have to leave London tomorrow.’

  ‘Leave London? What on earth are you talking about?’

  ‘Mr Cockburn’s found out about the East African Railway.’

  ‘Well, so? It’s too late now, the papers are all signed.’

  ‘Dougal, he’s going to call the police. He suspects this East African Railway might be nothing more than a fraud. A hoax, just to get money out of the bank.’

  Dougal had rubbed his eyes. ‘And how come you know so much about it.?’

  ‘He told me. He wanted me to warn you. He doesn’t want you to get mixed up in any arrests or trials, especially since you’re the son of the bank’s owner. It would reflect awfully badly if you did.’

  ‘But I don’t want to go back to Scotland yet,’ Dougal had protested. ‘I’ve only been here a week or two, and I’m just starting to get into my stride. I couldn’t bear to go back to Edinburgh.’

  ‘You won’t be. Henry Baeklander had offered you a job with the Baeklander Trust in New York. He sails tomorrow, on the first tide, whenever that is. You’ll have to find out, and make sure that you’re on that ship when it leaves.