Ken Follett - A Dangerous Fortune

Hugh groaned inwardly. Rachel Bodwin was a tall, intellectual girl of radical opinions. She was not pretty — she had dull brown hair and light eyes set rather close together — but she was lively and interesting, full of subversive ideas, and Hugh had liked her a lot when he first came to London to work at the bank. But Augusta had decided he should marry Rachel, and that had ruined the relationship. Before that they had argued fiercely and freely about divorce, religion, poverty and votes for women. Since Augusta had begun her campaign to bring them together, they just stood and exchanged awkward chitchat.

“How lovely you look, Miss Bodwin,” he said automatically.

“You’re very kind,” she replied in a bored tone.

Augusta was turning away when she caught sight of Hugh’s tie. “Heavens!” she exclaimed. “What is that? You look like an innkeeper!”

Hugh blushed crimson. If he could have thought of a sharp rejoinder he would have risked it, but nothing came to mind, and all he could do was mutter: “It’s just a new tie. It’s called an ascot.”

“You shall give it to the bootboy tomorrow,” she said, and she turned away.

Resentment flared in Hugh’s breast against the fate that forced him to live with his overbearing aunt. “Women ought not to comment on a man’s clothes,” he said moodily. “It’s not ladylike.”

Rachel said: “I think women should comment on anything that interests them, so I shall say that I like your tie, and that it matches your eyes.”

Hugh smiled at her, feeling better. She was very nice, after all. However, it was not her niceness that caused Augusta to want him to marry her. Rachel was the daughter of a lawyer specializing in commercial contracts. Her family had no money other than her father’s professional income, and on the social ladder they were several rungs below the Pilasters; indeed they would not be at this party at all except that Mr. Bodwin had done useful work for the bank. Rachel was a girl in a low station in life, and by marrying her Hugh would confirm his status as a lesser breed of Pilaster; and that was what Augusta wanted.

He was not completely averse to the thought of proposing to Rachel. Augusta had hinted that she would give him a generous wedding present if he married her choice. But it was not the wedding present that tempted him, it was the thought that every night he would be able to get into bed with a woman, and lift her nightdress up, past her ankles and her knees, past her thighs—

“Don’t look at me that way,” Rachel said shrewdly. “I only said I liked your tie.”

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, Señor 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.”