A Dangerous Fortune(68)
Finally, he had developed an expertise in the chaotic market for railway stocks, learning to tell which railroads would make fortunes and which would never get past the first mountain range. Uncle Joseph had been wary at first, remembering the New York crash of 1873; but Hugh had inherited the anxious conservatism of the Pilasters, and he had recommended only the good-quality shares, scrupulously avoiding anything that smacked of flashy speculation; and his judgment had proved sound. Now Pilasters was the world leader in the business of raising capital for the industrial development of North America. Hugh was being paid a thousand pounds a year, and he knew he was worth more.
When he docked at Liverpool he was met off the ship by the chief clerk of Pilasters’ local branch, a man with whom he had exchanged telegrams at least once a week ever since he went to Boston. They had never met, and when they identified each other the clerk said: “Goodness me, I didn’t know you were so young, sir!” This pleased Hugh, as he had found a silver hair in his otherwise jet-black head that very morning. He was twenty-six.
He went by train to Folkestone, not pausing in London. The partners of Pilasters Bank might have felt he should call on them before going to see his mother but he thought otherwise: he had given them the last six years of his life and he owed his mother at least a day.
He found her more serenely beautiful than ever but still wearing black in memory of his father. His sister Dotty, now twelve, hardly remembered him and was shy until he sat her on his knee and reminded her how badly she had folded his shirts.
He begged his mother to move to a bigger house: he could easily afford to pay the rent. She refused, and told him to save his money and build up his capital. However, he persuaded her to take on another servant to help Mrs. Builth, her aging housekeeper.
Next day he took the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and arrived in London at Holborn Viaduct Station. A vast new hotel had been built at the station by people who thought Holborn was going to become a busy stopover for Englishmen on their way to Nice or St. Petersburg. Hugh would not have put money into it: he guessed the station would be used mostly by City workers who lived in the expanding suburbs of southeast London.
It was a bright spring morning. He walked to Pilasters Bank. He had forgotten the smoky taste of London’s air, much worse than Boston or New York. He paused for a moment outside the bank, looking at its grandiose facade.
He had told the partners that he wanted to come home on furlough, to see his mother and sister and the old country. But he had another reason for returning to London.
He was about to drop a bombshell.
He had arrived with a proposal to merge Pilasters’ North American operation with the New York bank of Madler and Bell, forming a new partnership that would be called Madler, Bell and Pilaster. It would make a lot of money for the bank; it would crown his achievements in the United States; and it would allow him to return to London and graduate from scout to decision maker. It would mean the end of his period of exile.
He straightened his tie nervously and went in.
The banking hall, which years ago had so impressed him with its marble floors and ponderous walkers, now seemed merely staid. As he started up the stairs he met Jonas Mulberry, his former supervisor. Mulberry was startled and pleased to see him. “Mr. Hugh!” he said, shaking hands vigorously. “Are you back permanently?”
“I hope so. How is Mrs. Mulberry?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Give her my regards. And the three little ones?”
“Five, now. All in fine health, God be thanked.”
It occurred to Hugh that the Principal Clerk might know the answer to a question on Hugh’s mind. “Mulberry, were you here when Mr. Joseph was made a partner?”
“I was a new junior. That was twenty-five years ago come June.”
“So Mr. Joseph would have been …”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Thank you.”
Hugh went on up to the Partners’ Room, knocked on the door and went in. The four partners were there: Uncle Joseph, sitting at the Senior Partner’s desk, looking older and balder and more like old Seth; Aunt Madeleine’s husband, Major Hartshorn, his nose turning red to match the scar on his forehead, reading The Times beside the fire; Uncle Samuel, beautifully dressed as ever in a charcoal-gray double-breasted cutaway jacket with a pearl-gray waistcoat, frowning over a contract; and the newest partner, Young William, now thirty-one, sitting at his desk and writing in a notebook.
Samuel was the first to greet Hugh. “My dear boy!” he said, getting up and shaking hands. “How well you look!”
Hugh shook hands with all of them and accepted a glass of sherry. He looked around at the portraits of previous Senior Partners on the walls. “Six years ago in this room I sold Sir John Cammel a hundred thousand pounds’ worth of Russian government bonds,” he remembered.
“So you did,” said Samuel.
“Pilasters’ commission on that sale, at five percent, still amounts to more than I’ve been paid in the entire eight years I’ve worked for the bank,” he said with a smile.
Joseph said tetchily: “I hope you’re not asking for a rise in salary. You’re already the highest-paid employee in the entire firm.”
“Except the partners,” said Hugh.
“Naturally,” Joseph snapped.
Hugh perceived that he had got off to a bad start. Too eager, as always, he told himself. Slow down. “I’m not asking for a rise,” he said. “However, I do have a proposition to put to the partners.”