A Dangerous Fortune(19)

Papa shrugged. “Who is standing in our way?” he asked.

It was a simple question, but it had a deep meaning in the Miranda family. When they had an intractable problem, they asked Who is standing in our way? It really meant Whom do we have to kill to get this done? It brought back to Micky all the barbarism of life in Santamaria Province, all the grisly legends he preferred to forget: the story about how Papa had punished his mistress for being unfaithful to him by putting a rifle up her and pulling the trigger; the time a Jewish family opened a store next to his in the provincial capital, so he set fire to it and burned the man and his wife and children alive; the one about the dwarf who had dressed up to look like Papa during the carnival, and made everyone laugh by strutting up and down in a perfect imitation of Papa’s walk—until Papa calmly went up to the dwarf, drew a pistol, and blew his head off.

Even in Cordova this was not normal, but there Papa’s reckless brutality had made him a man to be feared. Here in England it would get him thrown in jail. “I don’t anticipate the need for drastic action,” Micky said, trying to cover his nervousness with an air of unconcern.

“For now, there is no hurry,” Papa said. “Winter is beginning at home. There will be no fighting until the summer.” He gave Micky a hard look. “But I must have the rifles by the end of October.”

That look made Micky feel weak at the knees. He leaned against the stone parapet of the bridge to steady himself. “I’ll see to it, Papa, don’t worry,” he said anxiously.

Papa nodded as if there could be no doubt about it. They were silent for a minute. Out of the blue, Papa said: “I want you to stay in London.”

Micky felt his shoulders slump with relief. It was what he had been hoping for. He must have done something right, then. “I think it might be a good idea, Papa,” he said, trying to hide his eagerness.

Then Papa dropped his bombshell. “But your allowance will stop.”

“What?”

“The family can’t keep you. You must support yourself.”

Micky was appalled. Papa’s meanness was as legendary as his violence, but still this was unexpected. The Mirandas were rich. Papa had thousands of head of cattle, monopolized all horse dealing over a huge territory, rented land to small farmers and owned most of the stores in Santamaria Province.

It was true that their money did not buy much in England. Back home a Cordovan silver dollar would get you a slap-up meal, a bottle of rum and a whore for the night; here it would hardly stretch to a cheap meal and a glass of weak beer. That had come as a blow to Micky when he went to Windfield School. He had managed to supplement his allowance by playing cards, but he had found it hard to make ends meet until he befriended Edward. Even now Edward paid for all the expensive entertainments they shared: the opera, visits to racecourses, hunting and whores. Still, Micky needed a basic income to pay his rent, tailor’s bills, subscriptions to the gentlemen’s clubs that were an essential element of London life, and tips to servants. How did Papa expect him to find that? Take a job? The idea was appalling. No member of the Miranda family worked for wages.

He was about to ask how he was expected to live on no money when Papa abruptly changed the subject and said: “I will now tell you what the rifles are for. We are going to take over the desert.”

Micky did not understand. The Miranda property covered a big area of Santamaria Province. Bordering their land was a smaller property owned by the Delabarca family. To the north of both was land so arid that neither Papa nor his neighbor had ever bothered to claim it. “What do we want the desert for?” Micky said.

“Beneath the dust there is a mineral called nitrate. It’s used as a fertilizer, much better than dung. It can be shipped all over the world and sold for high prices. The reason I want you to stay in London is to take charge of selling it.”

“How do we know this stuff is there?”

“Delabarca has started mining it. It has made his family rich.”

Micky felt excited. This could transform the family’s future. Not instantly, of course; not soon enough to solve the problem of how he would live with no allowance. But in the long term …

“We have to act fast,” Papa said. “Wealth is power, and the Delabarca family will soon be stronger than we are. Before that happens, we have to destroy them.”





CHAPTER TWO


JUNE





1

Whitehaven House

Kensington Gore

London, S.W.

June 2nd, 1873

My dear Florence,

Where are you? I hoped to see you at Mrs Bridewell’s ball, then at Richmond, then at the Muncasters’ on Saturday … but you weren’t at any of them! Write me a line and say you’re still alive.

Affectionately yours,

Hugh Pilaster.

*

23, Park Lane

London, W.

June 3rd, 1873

To Hugh Pilaster, Esq.

Sir:

You will oblige me by not communicating with my daughter under any circumstances whatsoever henceforth.

Stalworthy.

*

Whitehaven House

Kensington Gore

London, S.W.

June 6th, 1873

Dearest Florence,

At last I have found a confidential messenger to smuggle a note to you. Why have you been hidden away from me? Have I offended your parents? Or—which heaven forbid—you? Your cousin Jane will bring your reply to me. Write it quickly!