3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  When Laurence gave her directions to the Red Lion, Rhia had almost asked him if he would like to accompany her. But he was already dressed for a night on the town, or rather, he had oiled his hair and looked vaguely less dishevelled than usual.

  The tavern was along one of the alleyways off the square, and smelt of woodsmoke and mulled wine. Rhia stopped inside the low door for a moment to allow her eyes to become accustomed to candlelight. A branch of mistletoe hung on a string from a low ceiling beam and an enormous plum cake sat in a bed of holly behind the bar. A blazing fire cast flickering shadows, and the room was rowdy and merry. Judging by the noise, the Red Lion was a trade workers’ alehouse. It was the second time Rhia had entered a tavern on her own since leaving Dublin. Her father would despair.

  Sid beckoned Rhia over from a snug by the fire. Judging by the angle of his hat and the glint in his eye, he was something of a libertine – but he had a kind smile, in spite of his teeth. ‘Won’t you sit down, Miss Mahoney, and let me fetch you a beverage. Will you have some sherry, or a negus?’

  ‘I’d prefer a glass of stout, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Mind? Why, I’m pleased to see a lady take a proper jar.’

  Grace giggled nervously as he left them alone. ‘Don’t mind Sid, he’s just fresh. But he’s a good heart.’

  ‘I can see that he has.’ The girl’s temper seemed vastly improved by the contents of the empty glasses on the table, but she still eyed Rhia warily.

  ‘I hope you don’t think me bold, but don’t you think … isn’t it unlikely that Mr Montgomery would want to employ … someone such as yourself?’

  ‘Such as myself?’ Rhia wondered where the conversation was leading.

  ‘I mean, for a woman. Well. How will you marry, if you have a trade?’

  ‘Perhaps I won’t. I wouldn’t mind.’ Rhia shrugged as nonchalantly as she could. ‘I don’t really think of it.’ This was only partly true, in that she hadn’t thought of it lately. She must just get used to the idea that she wasn’t the kind of woman men liked. She wasn’t convinced that marriage was of any real benefit to a woman anyway.

  ‘But, you cannot have a family unless you are married.’

  ‘It is physically possible.’

  Miss Elliot blushed.

  Rhia was no expert on less-than-immaculate conception. She and Thomas had discussed it as children, piecing together what little each of them knew or suspected. They had concluded that the entire business was unfeasible and had not, that day in the forest, managed to prove or disprove their theory. She could hardly imagine the kind of love that might lead to an act of such momentous intimacy. It all came back to love, of course, the greatest problem of all.

  Before Rhia could think of anything to say to help cool down Miss Elliot’s burning cheeks, Sid returned with a glass of stout and a slice of plum cake for each of them.

  ‘Christmas cheer to us all,’ he said as he lifted his glass.

  ‘Christmas cheer!’ they chorused.

  ‘And it will be the first Christmas I’ve not spent in Change Alley for a good number of years.’

  ‘Where is Change Alley?’ Rhia asked.

  ‘Well, the truth is, Miss Mahoney, the actual place don’t exist, not any more. There was a fire that got the better of the alley, fifty years back, but my pa still remembers it from when he was a lad. My granddaddy was a jobber, like me. It all happens at the Royal Exchange now.’

  ‘What all happens, and what is a jobber?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions, for a lady.’ Sid grinned and Rhia could tell that he was pleased to be the expert at the table. ‘A jobber is a stock jobber, and its punters like me give advice to the traders and financiers and the bankers who have more silver than they know what to do with. Jobbers know what’s going on in the market – what’s good to buy shares and stocks of, and what’s good to sell for a profit. You’d know a little about the marketplace if you’re from the linen trade, Miss Mahoney.’

  ‘Almost nothing. I know that shares in Irish linen have fallen very steeply.’

  ‘That’d be because English linen is cheaper.’

  ‘But only because England can afford bigger factories and better machines!’

  Sid shrugged. ‘That’s the thing – there’s always somebody going to do it better and cheaper.’

  ‘Perhaps cheaper, not better.’

  ‘As you say, I wouldn’t know about the quality of the cloth, I don’t need to, you see, since I’ve got my Gracey to advise me on it.’ He gave his fiancée a suggestive smile and for a fleeting moment Rhia ached for something that she didn’t know – had never known. Men liked women like Grace Elliot, with skin pale enough to blush and a fragility that made them feel strong.

  ‘It’s cheap goods most people want,’ Sid was saying. ‘Before the fire, Change Alley was where all the coffee houses were, and that’s where all the buying and selling went on. There’s only one or two coffee houses left in the banking district, down around Cornhill and Lombard Street. The main one’s the Jerusalem.’ Rhia was suddenly alert. The calling card she’d found on Ryan’s floor was from the Jerusalem Coffee House.

  To her astonishment, when she looked up from her glass she was met with the sight of Laurence and Mr Dillon entering the pub – as though in remembering that day at Ryan’s flat she had conjured them. Laurence was beaming. He had known she would be here. When they reached the snug, to her even greater surprise, Mr Dillon slapped Sid on the back. He greeted Rhia and Grace politely before disappearing to the bar. Laurence squeezed in next to Rhia while Sid and Grace cooed over each other.

  ‘You look smashing.’

  ‘And so do you,’ she said lightly. She found that it was easier to play along with Laurence’s harmless flirtations than to resist them. Besides, she liked him and even if she wouldn’t make him a good wife she didn’t mind being admired.

  ‘And I’ve not even asked you how you fared with the dragon,’ he added. Rhia darted a meaningful look at Grace and frowned at Laurence. He nodded and winked and put his finger to his lips conspiratorially. Grace was preoccupied with Sid, though, and had heard nothing

  ‘Miss Elliot works in the emporium,’ Rhia whispered.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ he whispered back.

  ‘Mr Montgomery seemed to like my designs, he said he’d think about it, and then he rushed off somewhere.’

  ‘These dragons are extremely busy creatures, you know.’

  ‘Speaking of dragons, I’ve been meaning to ask you, is Mr Dillon always so aloof, or is it just the effect I have on him?’

  Laurence looked taken aback. ‘I’d not noticed him being aloof!’

  Rhia laughed. ‘You wouldn’t notice if your own boot buttons were undone. But you’ve answered my question. It must be me.’

  Laurence looked towards the bar. ‘I suppose he does brood. You should have seen him when we were students, though. I used to wonder, on certain mornings, if I should call on him and make sure he hadn’t died, poetically, in the night. He’s a very level-headed chap though. He’s at his worst when he’s personally affronted by something, like this business in the Pearl River.’

  ‘But why is he personally affronted by it?’

  ‘His younger brother was a scholar who lived in Canton.’ Laurence trailed off as Dillon arrived and placed a jug of porter on the table and a glass of sherry for Grace who hadn’t touched her plum cake.

  ‘Oh good man,’ said Laurence. ‘Rhia was just asking about your piece on the war.’

  Dillon shot her a surprised look. ‘Do the economics of war interest you, Miss Mahoney?’

  His tone made her bristle. ‘We are all affected by economics. My father paid excessive duties to the Crown for the privilege of exporting his linen, so I am merely curious to know how the Crown is spending his taxes.’

  Mr Dillon’s eyes crinkled. Rhia almost fell off her chair – so he had a sense of humour after all. ‘A fair point, Miss Mahoney. In fact, it is something that is lately being called capitalism that
interests me. It is a relatively modern industry, and one that is killing people.

  Capitalism. The word sounded inauspicious.

  ‘Could we talk about something a little less profound please,’ said Laurence. ‘I have no affinity with numbers.’

  ‘Indeed you don’t, Blake – as your recent trip to Paris demonstrates.’ Mr Dillon looked at Rhia with a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. ‘Mr Blake has purchased a collection of daguerreotypes from a Paris dealer I am convinced is a thief.’

  Laurence laughed. ‘Come, Dillon, you’ve already bored Miss Mahoney with talk of the City.’

  ‘But I’m not bored at all,’ Rhia assured him. She was beginning to see that there was a whole side of trade that she knew little about. In effect, people bought and sold goods without even laying eyes on them, and it wasn’t even because they particularly wanted the commodity, but because they wanted to build their own little empires in trading with them. As if one wasn’t enough. ‘In fact, Mr Dillon, I would appreciate it if you would explain to me why I should have no faith in banknotes.’

  He was immediately serious. ‘It is more a question of the actual capital represented by the paper money, Miss Mahoney. The Bank of England is really only a holding house for a limited amount of coin and bullion, and when a major trade route such as the South China Sea ceases to operate, there is a domino effect. The balance of capital and debit topples and the vaults are emptied very quickly.’

  ‘Do you mean if I deposited my silver in a bank and then wrote a note of credit, it does not represent an actual transaction?’

  ‘Precisely. Your silver ceases to exist once it is deposited in a bank.’

  ‘But then banking is a charade!’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dillon coolly, as though it was something everyone knew. ‘I suggest you make payments with actual coin rather than notes of credit until the silver reserves are replenished. The vaults aren’t entirely empty, don’t worry,’ he said when Rhia widened her eyes. ‘Quantities of silver enter London daily from the Calcutta exchange; opium money mostly, but it is only here to be laundered so that the Crown can honestly say that the revenue from opium is not being used outright to purchase tea.’

  ‘But there’s silver coming in from the colonies too,’ said Sid. ‘Land is fetching a good price on the eastern shoreline of Australia, and the wheat and wool markets are attracting investors. The Calcutta exchange sees plenty of revenue from Sydney, but maybe some punter is just robbing the wealthy squatters in New South Wales!’

  Rhia was piecing all of this together. ‘But I thought the emperor of China declared the opium trade unlawful.’

  Dillon shook his head in disgust. ‘It makes no difference. The transactions just take place offshore. The black gold, as it is called, is taken to a depot ship anchored at Lintin Island in the Gulf of Canton. The ships are large, with crews of fighting men. The Chinese silver that pays for the opium is deposited on an armed ship, and then transferred to a barque or a clipper and taken to Calcutta.’

  Rhia shook her head. ‘And what happens to the silver in Calcutta?’

  ‘Most commonly, bills of exchange are issued; paper money that can be redeemed in England or in India.’

  ‘But what if there isn’t enough silver to redeem a bill of exchange?’

  Dillon shrugged. ‘Then there will be a run on the banks. As you know, there’s an embargo on all legitimate trade with China, so no cotton, wool or English piece goods can be exported, and neither can we import tea, silk, rice, porcelain and so on. The silver from the sale of opium is always used to purchase tea, because silver is the only currency the emperor of China will trade in.’

  Rhia frowned. ‘So China provides our substance and we provide theirs. I expect the black market trade off Lintin Island is thriving.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ Dillon agreed, looking at her intently. ‘Then you read the papers, Miss Mahoney.’

  ‘I enjoy that vulgar activity, yes.’ Now she had made him smile twice in one night. He took a long draught of porter.

  ‘This is all very dull,’ Grace complained, looking bored.

  ‘It isn’t though, my love,’ Sid assured her. ‘It’s no different to watching lads play with their marbles in the street. They swap whichever they have too many of, for what they most desire.’

  Mr Dillon put down his empty glass. ‘A more deadly game than marbles, Sid. One nation is being poisoned by another and the governments of Britain and India have sanctioned it.’

  Sid leaned across Grace and lowered his voice to say something to Dillon that Rhia strained to hear.

  ‘Speaking of India, I’ve only just heard something that might be of interest.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Dillon was instantly sober. He stood up, excused himself and beckoned Sid to follow him. They went to stand a short distance away by the fire. Neither Laurence nor Grace took any notice. Laurence refilled his glass and leaned back into the snug contentedly, and Grace became preoccupied with her fingernails.

  Rhia strained to hear what Sid and Dillon were discussing, but they had their backs to her and the tavern was noisy. She edged closer to the fire until she could hear their conversation.

  ‘Of course I remember Josiah Blake’s accident,’ Dillon was saying.

  ‘One of the brokers who has a Quaker client doesn’t think it was an accident,’ said Sid.

  ‘Who doesn’t?’ Dillon’s tone was sharp and Rhia held her breath.

  ‘The client. And there’s a rumour that Blake may have been discovered at something … un-Quakerly – something like opium – and couldn’t face the shame.’ Sid paused and lowered his voice. ‘There’s them that say he took his own life.’

  ‘Does your Quaker have a name?’

  ‘The broker wouldn’t tell me, so he’s either scared or he’s been paid, because I’ve never known him to keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘If you find out who he is, Sid, I’ll see to it that you become the favourite of the newspaper investors.’

  ‘You’ve got yourself a deal, mister.’ Sid drained his glass.

  Rhia could hardly believe what she’d heard. If both Ryan and Josiah had taken their own lives, did it mean they had both been involved in the opium trade? Was this why the journalist was so interested in Ryan’s affairs? She could not bear to think that her uncle had stooped so low. And what about Josiah Blake, with his spotless reputation? It was appalling to think that he, too, should be profiteering from such a filthy trade. Antonia would surely not bear it. She must never find out.

  Mr Dillon turned and their eyes met. He raised an eyebrow, she raised one back, and that was that.

  Sid retrieved Grace, and Laurence enquired politely after their plans to wed. Mr Dillon turned to Rhia and lowered his voice.

  ‘With regard to your uncle’s death, Miss Mahoney. The Yard have interviewed his solicitor and I’ve learnt that his estate has been frozen pending evidence contrary to suicide.’

  ‘Contrary to suicide?’

  ‘There is still a small chance his death was accidental. But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss it. At the very least, we must understand what drove him to it. Are you agreed?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rhia almost asked why he cared, and what he really thought of Ryan, but didn’t. She was too worried that she might not like what she heard.

  He bowed stiffly. ‘Then I shall wish you good night and Happy Christmas.’

  ‘And you. Thank you for—’ But he was walking away, as bad mannered as ever.

  Sid and Grace said goodnight, and Rhia found herself standing beneath the mistletoe with Laurence. He looked at it pointedly and then at her. She laughed, but then his expression became so sombre that she had to look away. When he offered her his arm instead, she was not sure if she felt more disappointed or relieved.

  Cashmere

  Rhia examined the address on the calling card. The Jerusalem was on Lombard Street. It was not far. The handwriting on the reverse was careful and elegant; definitely not her uncle’s, which was slo
ping and hasty. The Oriental character could mean something or nothing, and the numbers beside it were as puzzling as ever. She needed to do something to keep her mind from the fact that Mr Montgomery hadn’t been in touch.

  The streets were as damp and glum as they had looked from the morning room at Cloak Lane. When it started to properly rain, Rhia was easily lured into the closest shop, which happened to be Cutbush’s Curios. The sign was almost obscured by ivy, which was probably why she’d never noticed it before. Inside, the shop smelt of pipe tobacco and damp and was piled to the rafters with penny-arcade tin drums and sailors’ hats, copper pots and old Pears’ annuals. Mr Cutbush had an oversized moustache, yellowed by tobacco, and an oversized girth. It was a wonder he could move about without toppling any of his precariously stacked whatnots.

  The floor above the ground contained merchandise of a more specialised nature; a collector’s kingdom come. Here were thimbles and stamps and military regalia and monogrammed goblets and, in a fusty corner, a shelf of antiquated firearms. Rhia felt her heart lurch. How many dealers of antique pistols could there be in London?

  Mr Cutbush couldn’t remember if he had or hadn’t sold any pistols to an Irishman by the name of Ryan Mahoney, but he said that it was peculiar she should enquire, because there had been a Celtic gentleman in asking all manner of questions. ‘And quite ghoulish some of them, too,’ he added, with a nod that made his jowls wobble like aspic.

  Rhia cocked her head at him. ‘What do you mean, ghoulish?’

  ‘Well, the likes of, “what sort of wound would such and such a weapon make if it were fired at close range, as opposed to if it were fired at a distance?”’

  ‘And could you answer?’

  ‘Of course, madam. I do not hold any commodities that I don’t have a little knowledge of, and it is important to respect the perilous nature of gunpowder.’