A Dangerous Fortune(116)

Augusta turned on Joseph. “Count de Tokoly didn’t interfere?”

“He seems to have got over his fit of pique rather quickly,” Joseph said.

Augusta had to pretend to be pleased. “How fortunate,” she said, but her insincerity was transparent.

Madler said: “Financial need generally outweighs social prejudice in the end.”

“Yes,” said Joseph. “So it does. I think I may have been too hasty in denying Hugh a partnership.”

Augusta interrupted in a voice of deadly sweetness. “Joseph, what are you saying?”

“This is business, my dear—men’s talk,” he said firmly. “You need not concern yourself with it.” He turned to Hugh. “We certainly don’t want you working for Greenbournes.”

Hugh did not know what to say. He knew that Sidney Madler had made a fuss, and that Uncle Samuel had backed him—but it was almost unknown for Uncle Joseph to admit a mistake. And yet, he thought with mounting excitement, why else was Joseph raising the subject? “You know why I’m going to Greenbournes, Uncle,” he said.

“They’ll never make you a partner, you know,” Joseph said. “You have to be Jewish for that.”

“I’m well aware of it.”

“Given that, wouldn’t you rather work for the family?”

Hugh felt let down: after all, Joseph was only trying to talk him into staying on as an employee. “No, I wouldn’t rather work for the family,” he said indignantly. He saw that his uncle was taken aback by his strength of feeling. He went on: “To be quite honest, I’d prefer to work for the Greenbournes, where I would be free from family intrigues”—he darted a defiant glance at Augusta—“and where my responsibilities and rewards would depend on nothing but my ability as a banker.”

Augusta said in a scandalized tone: “You prefer Jews to your own family?”

“Keep out of this,” Joseph told her brusquely. “You know why I’m saying all this, Hugh. Mr. Madler feels that we have let him down, and all the partners are worried about your taking our North American business with you when you go.”

Hugh tried to steady his nerves. It was time to drive a hard bargain. “I wouldn’t come back if you doubled my salary,” he said, burning his boats. “There’s only one thing you can offer me that would make me change my mind, and that’s a partnership.”

Joseph sighed. “You’re the very devil to negotiate with.”

Madler put in: “As every good banker should be.”

“Very well,” Joseph said at last. “I’m offering you a partnership.”

Hugh felt weak. They’ve backed down, he thought. They’ve given in. I’ve won. He could hardly believe it had really happened.

He glanced at Augusta. Her face was a rigid mask of self-control, but she said nothing: she knew she had lost.

“In that case,” he said, and he hesitated, savoring the moment. He took a deep breath. “In that case, I accept.”

Augusta finally lost her composure. She turned red and her eyes seemed to bulge. “You’re going to regret this for the rest of your lives!” she spat. Then she stalked off.

She cut a swath through the crowd in the ballroom as she headed for the door. People stared at her and looked nervous. She realized her rage was showing on her face, and she wished she could hide her feelings, but she was too distraught. All the people she loathed and despised had triumphed. The guttersnipe Maisie, the underbred Hugh and the appalling Nora had thwarted her and got what they wanted. Her stomach was twisted in knots of frustration and she felt nauseated.

At last she reached the door and passed out onto the second-floor landing, where the crowd was thinner. She buttonholed a passing footman. “Call Mrs. Pilaster’s carriage instantly!” she commanded. He went off at a run. At least she could still intimidate footmen.

She left the party without speaking to anyone else. Her husband could go home in a hansom. She fumed all the way to Kensington.

When she got to the house her butler Hastead was waiting in the hall. “Mr. Hobbes is in the drawing room, ma’am,” he said sleepily. “I told him you might not be back until dawn, but he insisted on waiting.”

“What the dickens does he want?”

“He didn’t say.”

Augusta was in no mood to see the editor of The Forum. What was he doing here in the early hours of the morning? She was tempted to ignore him and go straight to her room, but then she thought of the peerage and decided she had better talk to him.

She went into the drawing room. Hobbes was asleep by the dying fire. “Good morning!” Augusta said loudly.

He started and sprang to his feet, peering at her through his smeared spectacles. “Mrs. Pilaster! Good—ah, yes, morning.”

“What brings you here so late?”

“I thought you would like to be the first to see this,” he said, and he handed her a journal.

It was the new number of The Forum, still smelling of the printing press. She opened it to the title page and read the headline over the leading article:

CAN A JEW BE A LORD?

Her spirits lifted. Tonight’s fiasco was only one defeat, she reminded herself. There were other battles to be fought.

She read the first few lines: