Barbara Taylor Bradford - Master of His Fate

‘I have no appetite at all. I think I’d just like to rest here, maybe doze off again. Sleep is the best thing for me right now.’

‘Dad’s downstairs, Maude. He came to see you.’

‘Oh, that’s nice of him. Tell him to come up.’

‘I will. And I’ll get supper going, although I think Rossi has started doing that already.’

A faint smile touched Maude’s face. ‘No doubt.’

A moment later, Philip Falconer was seated in the bedside chair. His love for Maude was reflected in his eyes; he could only hope and pray that his two other sons, Harry and George, would be lucky enough to marry women like her. ‘I felt I had to come by to see you for myself, Maude. Naturally, I trust Dr Robertson’s diagnosis and Esther’s opinion. On the other hand, I do worry about the entire family. And I just can’t help being concerned about you, after that terrible bout of bronchitis you had last year.’

‘I know that, Dad,’ she answered, using the name she had called him since her marriage to Matthew. ‘This time it is just a bad chill. I’ll be better in a few days.’

‘Do you promise?’

‘I do.’ She smiled at him, her face ringed with affection.

‘Then I shall walk home with a lighter heart. And I know you’re in good hands with Matthew and the children to take care of you.’

When he went downstairs, his grandchildren begged him to stay for supper with them. He told them he couldn’t, explaining that their grandmother was waiting for him.

‘Why didn’t Maw come with you?’ Eddie asked. He had never been able to say grandmother. Only Maw came out of his mouth as a small child, and that she had been ever since.

‘Maw is busy working on that rag rug she’s making for you,’ Philip said. Kissing the three of them and walking over to his son, he took Matthew’s arm, and led him into the hall.

‘Maude will be all right, Matt, just make sure she gets plenty of liquids, and don’t let her leave that bed for a few days. Oh, and keep the room cool, as you have it now.’

‘I will,’ Matthew replied, and gave his father a questioning look. ‘Is there something special in that raspberry vinegar Mum takes?’

Philip couldn’t help laughing. ‘No. Just cherry juice, as I told James.’ He eyed his son, amusement still flickering on his face. ‘Fancy you asking me that at the age of thirty-seven. Has anybody in this family ever died after drinking it?’

Matthew joined in his laughter. ‘Oh, Dad, you are a card. There’s nobody like you.’

Philip drew his son closer and gave him a bear hug. ‘Have a good night, son,’ he murmured and left, closing the door quietly behind him.

It was a nice evening and Philip decided to walk back to Regent’s Park.

His thoughts lingered on Maude. His lovely daughter-in-law was more frail than she looked, and had a tendency to catch cold easily. Bronchitis had felled her last winter, and in consequence they fussed over her – perhaps too much. Also, a sick member of a family was a drain on everyone. Fortunately, he and Esther could afford to pay for a doctor, but most of the Falconers’ street couldn’t, which was why staying healthy was so important. They all tried to protect themselves from germs as best they could.

He was reassured by the doctor’s opinion. He did not want his son a widower or his grandchildren motherless. It was all too common and with heartbreaking results.

He knew how lucky he was in so many different ways. He had been blessed with kind, loving, good-hearted parents, who had set him on the best course when they encouraged him to go into service.

His father, Edward Falconer, had owned a small grocery shop in Rochester, Kent. His parents, his brother Tom, and he had lived in a flat above it. Being rather crowded never ever bothered them, since they were a loving family and enjoyed each other’s company.

It was his mother, Olive, who had recognized he would make a good butler if he had the correct training. She knew he was efficient, well organized, had good manners, charm and a special way with people.

It was she who had suggested he visit Fountains Manor nearby to seek employment. He had done so, and had been taken on immediately by the Honourable Arthur Montague, who was struck by his politeness, pleasant voice and good looks. He had risen through the ranks with ease and rapidity, learning about wine, food and clothing in order to improve himself.

Philip had always thought that his eldest, Matthew, took after his own father in wanting to be a salesman, and had rented stalls. Now James was following in their footsteps. But his dream was not of a little shop in a country town or stalls in a market, but a grand emporium like Fortnum and Mason – catering to the rich.

Hearing James’s plan today had given Philip genuine pleasure, and Esther as well. There was no doubt in their minds that their grandson had a prodigious intelligence; he was clever, smart, had enormous ambition and drive. These two particular characteristics were essential to success. Anyone aiming high who did not own them was doomed to failure. Whether he could achieve such a lofty dream was another matter, though.

As Philip walked along, striding out at a brisk pace, he decided he would select some of his books on the red wines of Provence for James to read. That was how he would begin to teach his grandson – lead him into the wonderful world of vintage wines.

After a while Philip had to slow his pace. There were too many people on the streets tonight. Men and women hurrying home after a long workday; couples were strolling along in a more leisurely fashion, obviously out for an evening of entertainment at a restaurant or the music hall.

Philip loved London, thought of it as the capital of the world. They had a Queen-Empress in Victoria, the aging widow, and Britain was the richest and greatest nation on the planet. Yet he hated the fact that this age of Victoria, momentous in so many ways, was also a hungry and deprived age. Millions of its citizens went to bed with empty bellies.

Gladstone, Disraeli and Salisbury – politicians all – raged and argued in Parliament about the terrible conditions, but did nothing positive to change the game as far as he could see. Certainly there was nothing much he could do either, except to help a friend in need from time to time. And this he did whenever he was asked. His conscience ruled his head and his heart. And at night he prayed for better days ahead for the common people of England.

That night James found it hard to go to sleep. He felt calmer about his mother and knew the doctor had been correct. She had caught cold, and it was nothing worse. What kept him awake was the sudden worry about his father – how would he react when James told him about his dream? Now he had confided in his grandparents, he thought he would have to explain to Matthew that he did not want to work on the stalls at the Malvern forever. He had ambitions of his own … of being a merchant prince. Even his grandmother had brought that matter up to him as they had been driving over to Camden Town in the hansom cab. He didn’t want to upset his father, but he knew within himself that he would have to follow his dream. It was like a burning flame inside him.

Knowing his father the way he did, understanding that he was a fair man, one who saw everyone’s point of view, James was sure he would not object to his leaving the stalls.

Not yet, of course. He would have to be seventeen or eighteen before he could think of moving on. Could his father manage without him? Would he use Eddie? He would need help. Perhaps he could hire somebody.

He tossed and turned in his bed, his mind whirling with dire thoughts. How would he approach Mr Henry Malvern? The owner of the Malvern Market was a pleasant man; he usually came over to speak to his father, and always had a word for him. But James was smart enough to know that this didn’t mean a thing. Mr Malvern was pleased at how well his father ran their stalls, had made a success of them, but that didn’t mean Mr Malvern would give him a job at the Piccadilly office just like that. Why would he? Why should he?