A Dangerous Fortune(148)
Jonas Mulberry interjected a practical question. “What about our liquidity, Mr. Hugh? We’ll need a large deposit before the end of the week to meet routine withdrawals. We can’t sell the harbor bonds—it would depress the price.”
That was a thought. Hugh worried at the problem for a moment then said: “I’ll borrow a million from the Colonial Bank. Old Cunliffe will keep it quiet. That should tide us over.” He looked around at the others. “That takes care of the immediate emergency. However, the bank is dangerously weak. In the medium term we have to correct the position just as fast as we can.”
William said: “What about Edward?”
Hugh knew what Edward had to do: resign. But he wanted someone else to say it, so he remained silent.
Eventually Samuel said: “Edward must resign from the bank. None of us could ever trust him again.”
William said: “He may withdraw his capital.”
“He can’t,” Hugh said. “We haven’t got the cash. That threat has lost its power.”
“Of course,” William said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”
Sir Harry said: “Then who will be Senior Partner?”
There was a moment of silence. Samuel broke it by saying: “Oh, for goodness’ sake, can there be any question? Who uncovered Edward’s deceit? Who took charge in the crisis? Who have you all looked to for guidance? During the last hour all the decisions have been made by one person. The rest of you have just asked questions and looked helpless. You know who the new Senior Partner must be.”
Hugh was taken by surprise. His mind had been on the problems facing the bank, and he had not given a thought to his own position. Now he saw that Samuel was right. The others had all been more or less inert. Ever since he noticed the discrepancy in the weekly summary he had been acting as if he were the Senior Partner. And he knew he was the only one capable of steering the bank through the crisis.
Slowly it dawned on him that he was about to achieve his life’s ambition: he was going to be Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank. He looked at William, Harry and George. They all had a shamefaced air. They had brought about this disaster by allowing Edward to become Senior Partner. Now they knew Hugh had been right all along. They were wishing they had listened to him before, and they wanted to make up for their error. He could see in their faces that they wanted him to take over.
But they had to say it.
He looked at William, who was the most senior Pilaster after Samuel. “What do you think?”
He hesitated only for a second. “I think you should be Senior Partner, Hugh,” he said.
“Major Hartshorn?”
“I agree.”
“Sir Harry?”
“Certainly—and I hope you’ll accept.”
It was done. Hugh could hardly believe it.
He took a deep breath. “Thank you for your confidence. I will accept. I hope I can bring us all through this calamity with our reputation and our fortunes intact.”
At that moment Edward came in.
There was a dismayed silence. They had been discussing him almost as if he were dead, and it was a shock to see him in the room.
At first he did not notice the atmosphere. “This whole place is in turmoil,” he said. “Juniors running around, senior clerks whispering in the corridors, hardly anyone doing any work—what the devil is going on?”
Nobody spoke.
Consternation spread over his face, then a look of guilt. “What’s wrong?” he said, but his expression told Hugh that he could guess. “You’d better tell me why you’re all staring at me,” he persisted. “After ail, I am the Senior Partner.”
“No, you’re not,” said Hugh. “I am.”
CHAPTER THREE
NOVEMBER
1
MISS DOROTHY PILASTER married Viscount Nicholas Ipswich at Kensington Methodist Hall on a cold, bright morning in November. The service was simple though the sermon was long. Afterwards a lunch of hot consommé, Dover sole, roast grouse and peach sherbet was served to three hundred guests in a vast heated tent in the garden of Hugh’s house.
Hugh was very happy. His sister was radiantly beautiful and her new husband was charming to everyone. But the happiest person there was Hugh’s mother. Smiling beatifically, she sat beside the groom’s father, the duke of Norwich. For the first time in twenty-four years she was not wearing black: she had on a blue-gray cashmere outfit that set off her thick silver hair and calm gray eyes. Her life had been blighted by his father’s suicide, and she had suffered years of scrimping poverty, but now in her sixties she had everything she wanted. Her beautiful daughter was Viscountess Ipswich and would one day be the duchess of Norwich, and her son was rich and successful and the Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank. “I used to think I had been unlucky,” she murmured to Hugh in between courses. “I was wrong.” She put her hand on his arm in a gesture like a blessing. “I’m very fortunate.” It made Hugh want to cry.
Because none of the women wanted to wear white (for fear of competing with the bride) or black (because it was for funerals) the guests made a colorful splash. They seemed to have chosen hot colors to ward off the autumn chill: bright orange, deep yellow, raspberry-red and fuchsia-pink. The men were wearing black, white and gray, as always. Hugh had on a frock coat with velvet lapels and cuffs: it was black, but as usual he defied convention by wearing a bright blue silk tie, his only eccentricity. He was so respectable nowadays that he sometimes felt nostalgic for the time when he had been the black sheep of the family.