again. Anytime she wants something she can just threaten to withdraw her capital and you’ll cave in. You might as well make
Edward blustered: “Don’t you dare speak of my mother like that — mind your manners!”
“Manners be damned,” Hugh said rudely. He knew he was doing his cause no good by losing his temper, but he was too angry to stop. “You’re about to ruin a great bank. Augusta’s blind, Edward is stupid and the rest of you are too cowardly to stop them.” He pushed back his chair and stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table like a challenge. “Well, here’s one person who won’t be bullied.”
He stopped and took a breath, realizing he was about to say something that would change the course of the rest of his life. Around the table they all stared at him. He had no alternative. “I resign,” he said.
As he turned from the table he caught Augusta’s eye, and saw on her face a victorious smile.
Uncle Samuel came to see him that evening.
Samuel was an old man now, but no less vain than he had been twenty years ago. He still lived with Stephen Caine, his “secretary.” Hugh was the only Pilaster who ever went to their home, which was a house in raffish Chelsea, decorated in the fashionable aesthetic style and full of cats. Once, when they were halfway down a bottle of port, Stephen had said he was the only Pilaster wife who was not a harridan.
When Samuel called, Hugh was in his library, where he generally retired after dinner. He had a book on his knee but had not been reading it. Instead he had been staring into the fire, thinking about the future. He had plenty of money, enough to live comfortably for the rest of his life without working, but he would never be Senior Partner now.
Uncle Samuel looked weary and sad. “I was at odds with my cousin Joseph for most of his life,” he said. “I wish it had been otherwise.”
Hugh offered him a drink and he asked for port. Hugh called his butler and ordered a bottle decanted.
“How do you feel about it all?” Samuel asked.
“I was angry before, but now I’m just despondent,” Hugh replied. “Edward is so hopelessly unsuited to be Senior Partner, but there’s nothing to be done. How about you?”
“I feel as you do. I shall resign, too. I shan’t withdraw my capital, at least not right away, but I shall go at the end of the year. I told them so after you made your dramatic exit. I don’t know whether I should have spoken up earlier. It wouldn’t have made any difference.”
“What else did they say?”
“Well, that’s why I’m here, really, dear boy. I regret to say I’m a sort of messenger from the enemy. They asked me to persuade you not to resign.”
“Then they’re damn fools.”
“That they certainly are. However, there is one thing you ought to think about. If you resign immediately, everyone in the City will know why. People will say that if Hugh Pilaster believes Edward can’t run the bank he’s probably right. It could cause a loss of confidence.”
“Well, if the bank has weak leadership people ought to lose confidence in it. Otherwise they’ll lose their money.”
“But what if your resignation creates a financial crisis?”
Hugh had not thought of that. “Is it possible?”
“I think so.”
“I wouldn’t want to do that, needless to say.” A crisis might bring down other, perfectly sound businesses, the way the collapse of Overend Gurney had destroyed Hugh’s father’s firm in 1866.
“Perhaps you ought to stay until the end of the financial year, like me,” Samuel said. “It’s only a few months. By then Edward will have been in charge for a while and people will be used to it, and you can go with no fuss.”
The butler came back with the port. Hugh sipped it thoughtfully. He felt he had to agree to Samuel’s proposal, much as he disliked the idea. He had given them all a lecture about their duty to their depositors and the wider financial community, and he had to heed his own words. If he were to allow the bank to suffer just because of his own feelings, he would be no better than Augusta. Besides, the postponement would give him time to think about what to do with the rest of his life.
He sighed. “All right,” he said at last. “I’ll stay until the end of the year.”
Samuel nodded. “I thought you would,” he said. “It’s the right thing to do — and you always do the right thing, in the end.”
BEFORE MAISIE GREENBOURNE finally said goodbye to high society, eleven years before, she had gone to all her friends — who were many and rich — and persuaded them to give money to Rachel’s Southwark Female Hospital. Consequently, the hospital’s running costs were covered by the income from its investments.
The money was managed by Rachel’s father, the only man involved in the running of the hospital. At first Maisie had wanted to handle the investments herself, but she had found that bankers and stockbrokers refused to take her seriously. They would ignore her instructions, ask for authority from her husband, and withhold information from her. She might have fought them, but in setting up the hospital she and Rachel had too many other fights on their hands, and they had let Mr. Bodwin take over the finances.
Maisie was a widow, but Rachel was still married to Micky Miranda. Rachel never saw her husband but he would not divorce her. For ten years she had been carrying on a discreet affair with Maisie’s brother Dan Robinson, who was a member of Parliament. The three of them lived together in Maisie’s house in suburban Walworth.
The hospital was in a working-class area, in the heart of the city. They had taken a long lease on a row of four houses near Southwark Cathedral and had knocked internal doors through the walls on each level to make their hospital. Instead of rows of beds in cavernous wards they had small, comfortable rooms, each with only two or three beds.
Maisie’s office, a cozy sanctuary near the main entrance, had two comfortable chairs, flowers in a vase, a faded rug and bright curtains. On the wall was the framed poster of “The Amazing Maisie.” The desk was unobtrusive, and the ledgers in which she kept her records were stowed in a cupboard.
The woman sitting opposite her was barefoot, ragged and nine months pregnant. In her eyes was the wary, desperate look of a starving cat that walks into a strange house hoping to be fed. Maisie said: “What’s your name, dear?”
“Rose Porter, mum.”
They always called her “mum,” as if she were a grand lady. She had long ago given up trying to make them call her Maisie. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“Yes, please, mum.”
Maisie poured tea into a plain china cup and added milk and sugar. “You look tired.”
“I’ve walked all the way from Bath, mum.”
It was a hundred miles. “It must have taken you a week!” said Maisie. “You poor thing.”
Rose burst into tears.
This was normal, and Maisie was used to it. It was best to let them cry as long as they wanted to. She sat on the arm of Rose’s chair, put her arm around her shoulders and hugged her.
“I know I’ve been wicked.” Rose sobbed.
“You aren’t wicked,” Maisie said. “We’re all women here, and we understand. We don’t talk of wickedness. That’s for clergymen and politicians.”
After a while Rose calmed down and drank her tea. Maisie took the current ledger from the cupboard and sat at her writing table. She kept notes on every woman admitted to the hospital. The records were often useful. If some self-righteous Conservative got up in Parliament and said that most unmarried mothers were prostitutes, or that they all wanted to abandon their babies, or some such rot, she would refute him with a careful, polite, factual letter, and repeat the refutation in the speeches she made up and down the country.
“Tell me what happened,” she said to Rose. “How were you living, before you fell pregnant?”
“I was cook for a Mrs. Freeman in Bath.”
“And how did you meet your young man?”
“He came up and spoke to me in the street. It was my afternoon off, and I had a new yellow parasol. I looked a treat, I know I did. That yellow parasol was the undoing of me.”
