Sons of Fortune

by Malcolm Macdonald

  The article! And Mrs. Jarrett—nasty, suspicious old harridan.

  “I’ll tell her,” he said. “You come back inside with me.”

  At first she would not but, in the end, he persuaded her she could not stay out in the cold. He took her into the drawing room and sent a footman for Mrs. Jarrett.

  “Sit down,” he told Mary, pointing to a seat behind him, against the wall.

  “No!” She shook her head in fear.

  “Do as I say,” he commanded. “When she comes in she’ll tell you to stand up. I will agree with her and speak sharply to you. We don’t want her to think there is”—he fanned his fingers—“between us.”

  Smiling, she sat.

  “Get up, you baggage!” Mrs. Jarrett said the moment she entered the room.

  Guiltily Caspar rose, looking with a mixture of fear and surprise at the housekeeper. She at once became flustered. “Goodness, Master Caspar—I didn’t mean to address you.”

  Caspar looked behind him. “Oh! Quite so—how dare you, Coen!” He sat and faced Mrs. Jarrett, who remained standing. “Now, Mrs. Jarrett,” he said. “I understand you have accused this woman of writing some article in…”

  “Not writing, sir. I don’t suppose she can write.”

  “I can so,” Mary said.

  “Be silent, woman!” Caspar barked, not looking around.

  “But she must have spoken to that Abercrombie person.”

  “Why ‘must have’?”

  Mrs. Jarrett smiled the smile of the supremely confident. “Because, sir, no other servant knew that bed was there. They were all busy in servants’ hall. She carried it up alone.”

  “You knew it, though.”

  She drew angry breath. “You are not, I trust, suggesting, sir…”

  “And I knew it.”

  “Or that…” Doubts assailed her.

  “Quite so, Mrs. Jarrett. It was, in fact, I who wrote that article. And the one back in October.”

  “But I don’t understand.”

  He had been too clever. He should have said it straight away, humbly begged her pardon, and smoothed the whole thing over. It might just have worked. But he had humiliated her, and she was not going to forgive it. He was now in the position of a raw subaltern who had tried to use his theoretically senior rank against the regimental sergeant major. He would be lucky to escape intact himself. There was no hope left of saving Mary.

  He saw Mrs. Jarrett’s face harden.

  “So you will, of course, reinstate Coen,” he said quickly. “You were right to suspect her. And to dismiss her. Not one breath of criticism can be levelled at you—and certainly no apology is called for.”

  It was a good rearguard action but it was too late. He had done the damage already.

  “I will not reinstate her, sir.”

  “But I think you must.”

  “And if you are wise, sir, you will not press it.”

  What could Caspar do but—with sinking heart—insist on knowing her reason?

  “I happen to know, sir, where she spent last night.”

  Caspar knew his own face betrayed nothing, but he heard Mary’s gasp from behind him.

  “And,” she went on, “knowing that, I have the strongest of suspicions about the previous night, too.”

  Caspar made his mind up at once. Of course, he could not continue to sit there and bandy words with the woman. “That will be all,” he told her. “Kindly see that a coach is brought to the door in fifteen minutes.”

  She smiled in thin-lipped triumph. “Certainly, sir. I trust I shall hear no more of Coen.”

  “You shall,” Caspar said vehemently. “By God, you shall. You leave me no alternative but to take Coen to my mother now and explain it all.”

  “No!” Mary called out.

  Mrs. Jarrett looked not the least worried. “And ask her to choose between a son—a mere boy, who debauches servants and writes scurrilous articles about her—and a housekeeper who has given nearly twenty years’ faithful service and managed this most difficult house, without causing complaint, for five? I think not, sir! I think not. The contest is too uneven.”

  It was bluff and counterbluff. Caspar smiled with an assurance he did not by any means feel. But that fact made him wonder if Mrs. J. was as confident as she seemed. “That is not quite the choice my mother faces. Coen, as you know, enjoys Lord Stevenson’s most zealous protection. Lady Stevenson will have to balance his anger against your act of injustice. An even contest, would you say, Mrs. Jarrett?”

  It threw her off balance. He pressed home the advantage, thinking he could see her next point. “You may object on the grounds that my mother is not widely noted for her fear of Lord Stevenson. But she does not like to have the battleground and weapons forced upon her.”

  It almost convinced her. If Mary had not been there…if he had smiled just a little…if…if…But she gathered herself together and breathed deeply with decision. “I would happily explain to Lord Stevenson my reason. A man of his moral rectitude would not, I think, be amused at his son’s cavorting with this slut of a woman. I believe his protection would wither on the spot.” She turned, unwilling to argue more. “I want her out of this house in five minutes.”

  “At least give her the wages due,” Caspar said. It was an admission of defeat.

  She neither paused nor hesitated in her progress to the door. “Not a farthing!”

  Caspar turned, expecting to see Mary dissolve again in tears. But she was smiling broadly.

  “Aren’t you worried?” he asked. “She’s got us, you know.”

  “She thinks she has. But Lord Stevenson’d understand. He’d not be too hard on you.”

  Caspar pulled a face of ultimate incredulity. “He’d murder me!”

  Still she smiled. “Why would he do that—and him with a woman of his own up the other Hamilton Place? Sure he’d pat you on the back and buy you a drink! Fierce pleased he’d be.”

  Caspar stared, open-mouthed. “What are you saying?”

  “The truth!” And she told him what had happened when Mrs. Thornton had brought her back here, and how Lady Stevenson had been so interested in the other Hamilton Place it had started her thinking, and how, one afternoon off, she had consulted a map, gone to the other house, spoken with one of the servants, and had all her suspicions confirmed.

  To Caspar it was an extraordinary mixture of worldly wisdom (the suspicion and its confirmation) and naïveté (her idea of Lord Stevenson’s response). He questioned her minutely then, to be sure there was no other explanation.

  “Does my mother know?” he asked at length.

  “She left this house that day looking fierce like a lady who’s bent on finding out,” Mary said. “Or she’d never have started me thinking.”

  A footman came in—the one whose day suit Caspar had bought—and told him the carriage was ready. Caspar asked him to go up to the bedroom and bring down the small leather bag beside the bed. It contained, in fact, his working-class outfit, day suit and all. When the man came hack, Mrs. Jarrett came into the drawing room behind him.

  “Ah, Bowles,” Caspar said to the footman. “I’d be most obliged if, as a favour to me, you’d carry Miss Coen’s bag down to the carriage. I’d be most awfully grateful, don’t you know.”

  The man gritted his teeth and nodded. “As you ask it so particular, sir,” he said, picking up Mary’s bag.

  Caspar was amazed that a million-volt spark did not leap from Mrs. Jarrett and frizzle up himself and Mary as they swept past her into the hall. She looked as if she had easily generated such a charge.

  “A petty triumph, I’m afraid,” Caspar told Mary, still in Mrs. Jarrett’s hearing. “She won every other round.”

  He did not know why he added these conciliatory words. Certainly he still felt bitter toward the woman. But, somehow, his concessi
on seemed to make this stupendous new secret about his father just a little bit safer from anybody’s penetration.

  “Drive up to the Marble Arch,” he told the coachman.

  As soon as they were inside, she turned and kissed him. “God love you,” she said. “You’re a real man, so you are. D’you know that?”

  “Why on earth? A man would be some help to you in a situation like this. What are you going to do now?”

  Could he tell her about his hope of keeping her one day? Wait! It didn’t have to be “one day.” If he made enough money on this bed business, or selling his mother’s friends, couldn’t he offer to keep her at once? What did it cost to keep a woman? He was twitching with excitement. She needn’t ever leave him now! He needn’t fear losing her. He would never have believed that was such a magical thought, but it was.

  “Sure I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll go now to the Catholic Girls’ Night Refuge and I’ll start worrying tomorrow.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “In Seymour Place, up near the Marble Arch—didn’t I think that’s what you were meaning?”

  “No. I was just going up to Avian’s, the furniture place. I wonder, do they shut at ten? Or would it be nine tonight?”

  “Sure, I don’t know. Ten, I would think, if they’re like the other shops.”

  “Never mind. Either way I’ve got plenty of time.” His mind was now refocussed on the business of the evening. He decided to tell her nothing for now. Make a bit of money first. Show her. Nothing to convince a person like the sight of real coin.

  “Furniture?” she said. “Would that be anything to do with them articles you wrote?”

  He chuckled. “You’re quick, Mary. I’m going to make a little fortune out of it. That’s what. And then…”

  “What?” she asked, fired by his excitement.

  “You’ll see.”

  He gave her a pound and left her off at the Night Refuge, saying he’d call for her again tomorrow and she was to do nothing until she had seen him again. Then he sent the coach back home; he wanted no tale carried to Mrs. Jarrett of where he had gone.

  He took a cab out to Holloway, found his farming neighbour—now quite sober and not nearly such good company—and took him to the barn to load up three or four beds. While at the barn, too, he changed into Yorkshire Tyke. The farmer demanded an extortionate four shillings but Caspar was in no mood to argue. This was his big night. All the way out he had thought—pleasurably, comfortably—of Mary, and all the things he would be able to tell her and share with her once she was securely his. But she did not even cross his mind on the way back. He was full of the two dozen ways he was going to make the sale of sales to Mr. Vane.

  Arrived at the back entrance to Avian’s, he sent in his trade card, on which he had written Aloysius Abercrombie. From the speed with which Mr. Vane responded Caspar knew the Companion article had already made its mark at the shop.

  It was dark enough in the street for Caspar to be identified by his clothes rather than his face and voice. “I’ve a crow to pick with you an’ all,” Vane said in an accent quite unlike the one Caspar had heard him use before. “Aloysius Abercrombie!” Vane spoke the name with pedantic scorn, making Caspar think his disguise had already been penetrated. But it had not, for Vane added, “I s’pose she’s your aunt.”

  “Aye,” Caspar said, thrilled at sounding so Yorkshire and un-Honourable. “As a matter of fact she is. But it wasn’t ’er sent me ’ere. It were Lady What-d’ye-call-’er…Stevenson.”

  Vane paused, uncertain. “She sent you?”

  “Aye. I should ’ave bin ’ere yesterday and all, but I only ’ad five beds then, and she snapped up the lot. But they’ve let this new lot through customs. I’ve bin badgering them all day…”

  “Wait now, wait,” Vane said; it was overwhelming him. “Your aunt is Mrs. Abercrombie? And Lady Stevenson sent…”

  “Was.”

  “Was what?”

  “Was my auntie. She died yesterday. But that’s got naught to do with this. You wait till you see these beds of yours, Mr. Vane.” He deliberately slowed to a hushed reverence. “They are something very special. Where d’you want them?” Caspar skipped to the cart through the flood of light from the open door—but not quick enough.

  Vane suddenly sprang after him, caught him by the shoulder and spun him round. “Well, I’m a Dutchman!” he said and burst into laughter.

  Caspar had to remind himself that this was no childish let’s-pretend; come what may, he was Aloysius Abercrombie. He could not fly for refuge back to the Hon. Caspar. He stared at Vane in puzzled good humour.

  “These beds,” Vane said, laughing. “They wouldn’t have lapped corner posts made of old gas pipe, by any chance?”

  Caspar looked puzzled. “D’ye mean the famous Shoreditch Four Hundred?” he chuckled in disbelief. “Do you know about them? Nay! Surely no one ’ad the neck to offer them up West?”

  Vane, still amused, nodded. “One young fool did,” he said.

  “’E’d have to be more’n a fool,” Caspar said.

  “Ah! But I think he’s learned a lot since then.” Vane laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “Did anybody ever tell you,” he asked tendentiously, “what a truly remarkable resemblance you bear to the Honourable Caspar Stevenson?”

  Caspar’s jaw dropped. He looked for justice from the surrounding night. “I’m a bit out of concert with that young man,” he grumbled. “You’re the second person who’s said that today. And the first, believe it or not, was…”

  “Oh, I’m going to believe it!” Vane promised with a huge wink.

  “…was that young gentleman’s mother. She kept turning me around like a baked potato and saving ‘Incredible!’ and ‘I don’t believe it!’ Here!” He brightened. “Do I really look like him? I mean close enough to gull his tailor?” He looked down disparagingly at his threadbare suit. “I could just fancy a nice new outfit. You don’t know who his tailor is, do ye?”

  That sent Vane off into another paroxysm of laughter. But he obviously understood nothing was going to shake Caspar from his Yorkshire pose, so he pretended to play along: He rubbed his hands, he patted Caspar on the back, he guffawed—he was Second Citizen wanting to play Hamlet.

  Until he saw the bed.

  They carried it into the shop and set it up. And he fell silent. He looked at it. He walked away and looked at it. He came close up and looked at it and felt it. He ran his hands over the carving, felt the join, tested the surface with his thumb and fingertips, looked to see how it had been fitted, looked from above, looked from below.

  At last he looked at Caspar and for a moment Caspar knew the man genuinely doubted he was the Honourable gentleman.

  “Two quid,” Caspar said, striking while the admiration was hot.

  Vane sneered. “Do the screws a good turn, matey!” he said. “I grant they’re not rubbish any more, but I still couldn’t sell them above a pound. No—fourteen bob’s the highest I could go. But I’ll take half a dozen,” he added as a bright concession.

  For an instant Caspar glimpsed a wearisome vista of—what was four hundred divided by half a dozen?—seventy such visits to seventy shops in seventy towns until he was seventy-times-seventy screaming with boredom. Rigorously he closed his mind on the thought, looked at Vane, saw him as Fool, as Mortal Enemy, as Goldbag—as everything predatory man has ever despised or coveted. Then he knew he was going to win. Even Vane knew it—or so Caspar told himself as he looked into the man’s eyes.

  “Mr. Vane,” he said. “You don’t seem to have grasped what I’ve done for this shop.” He saw a lady approaching them, obviously interested in the bed. Vane had his back to her. Caspar—to Vane’s bewilderment—dropped whatever he had been about to say and began speaking, still to Vane, but entirely for the woman’s hearing. “Ye see, Mr. Vane, there will only ever be three hundred of
these beds.” (That was a fast decision, he thought, as he mentally sold off a hundred for scrap. Three hundred sounded ten times more exclusive than four hundred.) “The moulds for the iron have already been broken. The templates for this”—he fingered the wood lovingly—“are burned. I burned them meself. These beds can never be repeated. They are what we call a ‘limited edition.’ And look at that carving—that was done by a real artist in wood!”

  The woman was intensely interested. Caspar could see that without even looking at her directly. Vane drew breath to counterattack but she cut in: “Vane!”

  He spun around. “Why, Mrs. Trumpington! I do beg your pardon.”

  “Forgive me for wandering into these regions of your shop but—ah—that bed—is that the one people are talking about so suddenly? I have just come from Lady Fry’s, where it was all ‘Artistic Beds.’”

  Vane was now torn in half. He knew well enough that there might be a splendid market in these beds and he didn’t want to talk it down. But he didn’t want to talk it up in front of Caspar and certainly not before a price was set.

  “They are very new, madam,” he said defensively. “In fact, this is the first we’ve had in the shop.”

  She frowned. “But I thought—”

  Caspar cut in with a light laugh. “We keep getting forestalled, madam. People keep buying them at the back door, the minute they’re unloaded.”

  “People?”

  “Aye. Lady Stevenson’s housekeeper, a Mrs. Jarrett so I believe, took five!”

  “Hmm!” She advanced the last, vital two feet and touched the bed. She touched it in such a loving way that both Vane and Caspar knew—Vane by experience, Caspar by an instinct he was that night discovering—she was sold. “How much, might I inquire?”

  Vane made the fatal error of consulting Caspar with his eyes (meaning Be quiet) as he drew breath to say nineteen and eleven.

  “Three pounds, madam,” Caspar said, leaving Vane glad his own face was momentarily turned away from Mrs. Trumpington. He froze in fury.

  Caspar saw the lady wince. He put just a little hint of patronage in his voice as he added, “They are, after all, intended for a very select group of customers, madam. Perhaps madam should also know,” he added, inventing as he went along, “that my company—I represent the makers—have decided to sell these beds only through Avian’s, and, moreover, that every purchaser will also receive a certificate guaranteeing that the bed they bought is one of a limited edition of three hundred—which, I assure madam, is a mere handful in a market where even ten thousand is modest. So this bed is for people who will sleep happier in the knowledge that—er—there are only two hundred and ninety-nine others like them in the world. Of course…” He gave a disparaging laugh. “Mr. Vane and me—we’re very happy to sleep in a bed like ten thousand other beds. Glad to have a bed at all, Mr. Vane and me.”