Hugh blushed again. Surely she could not guess what had been in his mind? His thoughts about girls were so grossly physical that he felt ashamed of himself much of the time. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
“What a lot of Pilasters there are,” she said brightly, looking around. “How do you cope with them all?”
Hugh looked around too, and saw Florence Stalworthy come in. She was extraordinarily pretty, with her fair curls falling over her delicate shoulders, a pink dress trimmed with lace and silk ribbons, and ostrich feathers in her hat. She met Hugh’s eye and smiled at him across the room.
“I can see I’ve lost your attention,” Rachel said with characteristic bluntness.
“I’m most awfully sorry,” Hugh said.
Rachel touched his arm. “Hugh, dear, listen to me for a moment. I like you. You’re one of the few people in London society who aren’t unspeakably dull. But I don’t love you and I will never marry you, no matter how often your aunt throws us together.”
Hugh was startled. “I say—” he began.
But she had not finished. “And I know you feel much the same about me, so please don’t pretend to be heartbroken.”
After a stunned moment, Hugh grinned. This directness was what he liked about her. But he supposed she was right: liking was not loving. He was not sure what love was, but she seemed to know. “Does this mean we can go back to quarreling about women’s suffrage?” he said cheerfully.
“Yes, but not today. I’m going to talk to your old school friend, Senor Miranda.”
Hugh frowned. “Micky couldn’t spell ‘suffrage’ let alone tell you what it means.”
“All the same, half the debutantes in London are swooning over him.”
“I can’t imagine why.”
“He’s a male Florence Stalworthy,” Rachel said, and with that she left him.
Hugh frowned, thinking about that. Micky knew Hugh was a poor relation and he treated him accordingly, so it was difficult for Hugh to be objective about him. He was very personable, and always beautifully dressed. He reminded Hugh of a cat, sleek and sensual with glossy fur. It was not quite the thing to be so carefully groomed, and men said he was not very manly, but women did not seem to care about that.
Hugh followed Rachel with his eyes as she crossed the room to where Micky stood with his father, talking to Edward’s sister Clementine, Aunt Madeleine, and young Aunt Beatrice. Now Micky turned to Rachel, giving her his full attention as he shook her hand and said something that made her laugh. Micky was always talking to three or four women.
All the same Hugh disliked the suggestion that Florence was somehow like Micky. She was attractive and popular, as he was, but Micky was something of a cad, Hugh thought.
He made his way to Florence’s side, feeling thrilled but nervous. “Lady Florence, how are you?”
She smiled dazzlingly. “What an extraordinary house!”
“Do you like it?”
“I’m not sure.”
“That’s what most people say.”
She laughed as if he had made a witty remark, and he felt inordinately pleased.
He went on: “It’s very modern, you know. There are five bathrooms! And a huge boiler in the basement warms the whole place with hot-water pipes.”
“Perhaps the stone ship on top of the gable is a little too much.”
Hugh lowered his voice. “I think so too. It reminds me of the cow’s head outside a butcher’s shop.”
She giggled again. Hugh was pleased that he could make her laugh. He decided it would be nice to get her away from the crowd. “Come and see the garden,” he said.
“How lovely.”
It was not lovely, having only just been planted, but that did not matter in the least. He led her out of the drawing room onto the terrace but there he was waylaid by Augusta, who shot him a look of reproof and said: “Lady Florence, how kind of you to come. Edward will show you the garden.” She grabbed Edward, who was standing nearby, and ushered the two of them away before Hugh could say a word. He clenched his teeth in frustration and vowed he would not let her get away with this. “Hugh, dear, I know you want to talk to Rachel,” she said. She took Hugh’s arm and moved him back inside, and there was nothing he could do to resist her, short of snatching his arm away and making a scene. Rachel was standing with Micky Miranda and his father. “Micky, I want your father to meet my husband’s cousin, Mr. Samuel Pilaster.” She detached Micky and his father and took them off, leaving Hugh with Rachel again.
Rachel was laughing. “You can’t argue with her.”
“It would be like arguing with a dashed railway train,” Hugh fumed. Through the window he could see the bustle of Florence’s dress as it swayed down the garden beside Edward.
Rachel followed his eyes and said: “Go after her.”
He grinned. “Thanks.”
He hurried down the garden. As he caught up, a wicked idea occurred to him. Why should he not play his aunt’s game and detach Edward from Florence? Augusta would be spitting mad when she found out — but it would be worth it for the sake of a few minutes alone in the garden with Florence. To hell with it, he thought. “Oh, Edward,” he said. “Your mother asked me to send you to her. She’s in the hall.”
Edward did not question this: he was used to sudden changes of mind by his mother. He said: “Please excuse me, Lady Florence.” He left them and went into the house.
Florence said: “Did she really send for him?”
“No.”
“You’re so bad!” she said, but she was smiling.
He looked into her eyes, basking in the sunshine of her approval. There would be hell to pay later, but he would suffer much worse for the sake of a smile like that. “Come and see the orchard,” he said.
AUGUSTA WAS AMUSED by Papa Miranda. Such a squat peasant of a man! He was so different from his lithe, elegant son. Augusta was very fond of Micky Miranda. She always felt more of a woman when she was with him, even though he was so young. He had a way of looking at her as if she were the most desirable thing he had ever seen. There were times when she wished he would do more than just look. It was a foolish wish, of course, but all the same she felt it now and again.
She had been alarmed by their conversation about Seth. Micky assumed that when old Seth died or retired, his son Samuel would take over as Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank. Micky would not have made that assumption on his own: he must have picked it up from the family. Augusta did not want Samuel to take over. She wanted the job for her husband Joseph, who was Seth’s nephew.
She glanced through the drawing room window and saw the four partners in Pilasters Bank together on the terrace. Three were Pilasters: Seth, Samuel and Joseph — the early-nineteenth-century Methodists had favored biblical names. Old Seth looked like the invalid he was, sitting with a blanket over his knees, outliving his usefulness. Beside him was his son. Samuel was not as distinguished-looking as his father. He had the same beaklike nose, but below it was a rather soft mouth with bad teeth. Tradition would favor him to succeed because he was the eldest of the partners after Seth. Joseph was speaking, making a point to his uncle and his cousin with short jabbing movements of his hand, a characteristically impatient gesture. He, too, had the Pilaster nose, but the rest of his features were rather irregular and he was losing his hair. The fourth partner was standing back, listening with his arms folded. He was Major George Hartshorn, husband of Joseph’s sister Madeleine. A former army officer, he had a prominent scar on his forehead from a wound received twenty years ago in the Crimean War. He was no hero, however: his horse had been frightened by a steam-traction engine and he had fallen and banged his head on the wheel of a kitchen wagon. He had retired from the army and joined the bank when he married Madeleine. An amiable man who followed where others led, he was not clever enough to run the bank, and anyway they had never had a Senior Partner whose name was not Pilaster. The only serious candidates were Samuel and Joseph.
Technically, the decision was made by a vote of the partners. By tradition, the family generally reached a consensus. In reality, Augusta was determined to have her way. But it would not be easy.
The Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank was one of the most important people in the world. His decision to grant a loan could save a monarch; his refusal could start a revolution. Along with a handful of others — J. P.
