“The Virginians are worse,” said Drome. “The tobacco planters never pay their debts.”
“Don’t I know it,” said Sir George. “I’ve just had a planter default—leaving me with a bankrupt plantation on my hands. A place called Mockjack Hall.”
Robert said: “Thank God there’s no import duty on convicts.”
There was a general murmur of agreement. The most profitable part of the Jamisson shipping business was transporting convicted criminals to America. Every year the courts sentenced several hundred people to transportation—it was an alternative to hanging as punishment for crimes such as stealing—and the government paid five pounds per head to the shipper. Nine out of ten transportees crossed the Atlantic on a Jamisson vessel. But the government payment was not the only way money was made. On the other side the convicts were obliged to do seven years’ unpaid labor, which meant they could be sold as seven-year slaves. Men fetched ten to fifteen pounds, women eight or nine, children less. With 130 or 140 convicts packed into the hold shoulder to shoulder like fish in a basket, Robert could show a profit of two thousand pounds—the purchase price of the ship—in a single voyage. It was a lucrative trade.
“Aye,” said Father, and he drained his goblet. “But even that would stop if the colonists had their way.”
The colonists complained about it constantly. Although they continued to buy the convicts—such was the shortage of cheap labor out there—they resented the mother country dumping its riffraff on them, and blamed the convicts for increasing crime.
“At least the coal mines are reliable,” Sir George said. “They’re the only thing we can count on these days. That’s why McAsh has to be crushed.”
Everyone had opinions about McAsh, and several different conversations broke out at once. Sir George seemed to have had enough of the subject, however. He turned to Robert. Adopting a jocular tone he said: “What about the Hallim girl, then, eh? A little jewel, if you ask me.”
“Elizabeth is very spirited,” Robert said dubiously.
“That’s true,” Father said with a laugh. “I remember when we shot the last wolf in this part of Scotland, eight or ten years ago, and she insisted on raising the cubs herself. She used to walk around with two little wolves on a leash. You’ve never seen anything like it in your life! The gamekeepers were outraged, said the cubs would escape and become a menace—but they died, fortunately.”
“She may make a troublesome wife,” Robert said.
“Nothing like a mettlesome mare,” Sir George said. “Besides, a husband always has the upper hand, no matter what. You could do a lot worse.” He lowered his voice. “Lady Hallim holds the estate in trust until Elizabeth marries. Since a woman’s property belongs to her husband, the whole place will become her bridegroom’s on her wedding day.”
“I know,” Robert said.
Jay had not known, but he was not surprised: few men would be happy to bequeath a sizable estate to a woman.
Sir George went on: “There must be a million tons of coal under High Glen—all the seams run in that direction. The girl is sitting on a fortune, pardon the vulgarity.” He chortled.
Robert was characteristically dour. “I’m not sure how much she likes me.”
“What is there to dislike? You’re young, you’re going to be rich, and when I die you’ll be a baronet—what more could a girl want?”
“Romance?” Robert answered. He pronounced the word with distaste, as if it were an unfamiliar coin offered by a foreign merchant.
“Miss Hallim can’t afford romance.”
“I don’t know,” Robert said. “Lady Hallim has been living in debt since I can remember. Why should she not go on like that forever?”
“I’ll tell you a secret,” Sir George said. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure he was not overheard. “You know she has mortgaged the entire estate?”
“Everyone knows that.”
“I happen to know that her creditor is not willing to renew.”
Robert said: “But surely she could raise the money from another lender, and pay him off.”
“Probably,” Sir George said. “But she doesn’t know it. And her financial adviser won’t tell her—I’ve made sure of that.”
Jay wondered what bribe or threat his father had used to suborn Lady Hallim’s adviser.
Sir George chuckled. “So, you see, Robert, young Elizabeth can’t afford to turn you down.”
At that moment Henry Drome broke away from his conversation and came over to the three Jamisson men. “Before we go in to dinner, George, there’s something I have to ask you. I may speak freely in front of your sons, I know.”
“Of course.”
“The American troubles have hit me quite hard—planters who can’t pay their debts, and so on—and I fear I can’t meet my obligations to you this quarter.”
Sir George had obviously loaned money to Henry. Normally Father was brutally practical with debtors: they paid, or they went to jail. Now, however, he said: “I understand, Henry. Times are hard. Pay me when you can.”
Jay’s jaw dropped, but a moment later he realized why his father was being so soft. Drome was a relative of Robert’s mother, Olive, and Father was being easy on Henry for her sake. Jay was so disgusted he walked away.
The ladies came back. Jay’s mother wore a suppressed smile, as if she had an amusing secret. Before he could ask her what it was another guest arrived, a stranger in clerical gray. Alicia spoke to the man then took him to Sir George. “This is Mr. Cheshire,” she said. “He’s come in place of the pastor.”
The newcomer was a pockmarked young man with spectacles and an old-fashioned curly wig. Although Sir George and the older men still wore wigs, younger men did so rarely, and Jay never did. “Reverend Mr. York sends his apologies,” said Mr. Cheshire.
“Not at all, not at all,” said Sir George, turning away: he was not interested in obscure young clergymen.
They went in to dinner. The smell of food mingled with a damp odor that came from the heavy old curtains. The long table was laid with an elaborate spread: joints of venison, beef, and ham; a whole roast salmon; and several different pies. But Jay could hardly eat. Would Father give him the Barbados property? If not, what else? It was hard to sit still and eat venison when your entire future was about to be decided.
In some ways he hardly knew his father. Although they lived together, at the family house in Grosvenor Square, Sir George was always at the warehouse with Robert. Jay spent the day with his regiment. They sometimes met briefly at breakfast, and occasionally at supper—but Sir George often ate supper in his study while looking over some papers. Jay could not guess what his father would do. So he toyed with his food and waited.
Mr. Cheshire proved mildly embarrassing. He belched loudly two or three times and spilled his claret, and Jay noticed him staring rather obviously into the cleavage of the woman sitting next to him.
They had sat down at three o’clock and, by the time the ladies withdrew, the winter afternoon was darkening into evening. As soon as they had gone Sir George shifted on his seat and farted volcanically. “That’s better,” he said.
A servant brought a bottle of port, a drum of tobacco and a box of clay pipes. The young clergyman filled a pipe and said: “Lady Jamisson’s a damn fine woman, Sir George, if I may say so. Damn fine.”
He seemed drunk, but even so such a remark could not be allowed to pass. Jay came to his mother’s defense. “I’ll thank you to say no more about Lady Jamisson, sir,” he said frostily.
The clergyman put a taper to his pipe, inhaled, and began to cough. He had obviously never smoked before. Tears came to his eyes, and he gasped and spluttered and coughed again. The coughs shook him so hard that his wig and spectacles fell off—and Jay saw immediately that this was no clergyman.
He began to laugh. The others looked at him curiously. They had not seen it yet. “Look!” he said. “Don’t you see who it is?”
Robert was the first to realize. “Good God, it’s Miss Hallim in disguise!” he said.
There was a moment of startled silence. Then Sir George began to laugh. The other men, seeing that he was going to take it as a joke, laughed too.
