A Dangerous Fortune(121)
“What the devil are you talking about?” said Edward.
“Look around you,” Micky said. “This place is exactly like your home, or mine. Expensive furniture, servants everywhere, boring food and unlimited drink. We can eat all our meals here, get our mail, read the newspapers, take a nap, and if we get too drunk to fall into a cab we can even get a bed for the night. The only difference between an Englishman’s club and his home is that there are no women in his club.”
“Don’t you have clubs in Cordova, then?”
“Certainly not. No one would join. If a Cordovan man wants to get drunk, play cards, hear political gossip, talk about his whores, smoke and belch and fart in comfort he does it in his own home; and if his wife is foolish enough to object he slaps her until she sees reason. But an English gentleman is so frightened of his wife that he has to leave the house to enjoy himself. That’s why there are clubs.”
“You don’t seem to be frightened of Rachel. You’ve got rid of her, haven’t you?”
“Sent her back to her mother,” Micky said airily. It had not happened quite that way but he was not going to tell Edward the truth.
“People must notice that she doesn’t appear at ministry functions anymore. Don’t they comment?”
“I tell them she’s in poor health.”
“But everyone knows she’s trying to start a hospital for unmarried women to have babies. It’s a public scandal.”
“It doesn’t matter. People sympathize with me for having a difficult wife.”
“Will you divorce her?”
“No. That would be a real scandal. A diplomat can’t be divorced. I’m stuck with her as long as I’m the Cordovan Minister, I’m afraid. Thank God she didn’t get pregnant before she left.” It was a miracle she hadn’t, he thought. Perhaps she was infertile. He waved at a waiter and ordered brandy. “Speaking of wives,” he said tentatively, “what about Emily?”
Edward looked embarrassed. “I see as little of her as you see of Rachel,” he said. “You know I bought a country house in Leicestershire a while ago—she spends all her time there.”
“So, we’re both bachelors again.”
Edward grinned. “We were never anything else, really, were we?”
Micky glanced across the empty room and saw the bulky form of Solly Greenbourne in the doorway. For some reason the sight of him made Micky feel nervous—which was odd, because Solly was the most harmless man in London. “Here comes another friend to congratulate you,” Micky said to Edward as Solly approached.
When Solly was closer Micky realized he was not wearing his usual amiable smile. In fact he looked positively angry. That was rare. Micky felt intuitively that there was some problem with the Santamaria railroad deal. He told himself that he was worrying like an old woman. But Solly was never angry….
Anxiety made Micky fatuously amicable. “Hello, Solly, old boy—how’s the genius of the Square Mile?”
Solly was not interested in Micky, however. Without even acknowledging the greeting, he rudely turned his vast back on Micky and faced Edward. “Pilaster, you’re a damned cad,” he said.
Micky was astonished and horrified. Solly and Edward were on the point of signing the deal. This was very grave—Solly never quarreled with people. What on earth had brought it about?
Edward was equally mystified. “What the devil are you talking about, Greenbourne?”
Solly reddened and he could hardly speak. “I’ve discovered that you and that witch you call Mother are behind those filthy articles in The Forum.”
“Oh, no!” Micky said to himself in dismay. This was a catastrophe. He had suspected Augusta’s involvement, although he had no evidence—but how on earth had Solly found out?
The same question occurred to Edward. “Who’s been filling your fat head with such rot?”
“One of your mother’s cronies is a lady-in-waiting to the queen,” Solly replied. Micky guessed he was speaking of Harriet Morte: Augusta seemed to have some kind of hold over her. Solly went on: “She let the cat out of the bag—she told the Prince of Wales. I’ve just been with him.”
Solly must be practically insane with anger to speak so indiscreetly about a private conversation with royalty, Micky thought. It was a case of a gentle soul being pushed too far. He could not see how a quarrel such as this could possibly be patched up—certainly not in time for the signing of the contract tomorrow.
He tried desperately to cool the temperature. “Solly, old man, you can’t be sure this story is true—”
Solly rounded on him. His eyes were bulging and he was perspiring. “Can’t I? When I read in today’s newspaper that Joseph Pilaster has got the peerage that was expected to go to Ben Greenbourne?”
“All the same—”
“Can you imagine what this means to my father?”
Micky began to understand how the armor of Solly’s amiability had been breached. It was not for himself that he was angry, but for his father. Ben Greenbourne’s grandfather had arrived in London with a bale of Russian furs, a five-pound note and a hole in his boot. For Ben to take a seat in the House of Lords would be the ultimate badge of acceptance into English society. No doubt Joseph too would like to crown his career with a peerage—his family had also risen by their own efforts—but it would be much more of an achievement for a Jew. Greenbourne’s peerage would have been a triumph not just for himself and his family but for the entire Jewish community in Britain.