Lady of Fortune (49 page)

With that one gesture, Effie had broken the spell of his hopeless love, and yet allowed him to keep not only his admiration for her; but his own dignity. She knew, as she reached out her hand to him so that he could help her up, that she was not at all like the mother she had just buried, and never would be, and the relief and satisfaction of that gave her even more strength for the evening.

Señor Marilia and Señor Lacaze, however, did not expect such strength in a woman, nor enjoy it in the least. For a woman to be strong was either an aberration of nature or a deliberate and slighting suggestion that they, as men, were weak. They arrived for dinner at Charlotte Square twenty minutes late (they had heard about British protocol), carrying armfuls of tasteless gifts (a gaudy bracelet for Effie of gold and rubies and emeralds, an oil-painting for Robert of the Serra do Roncador, in Central Brazil, by an artist who had a fatal weakness for bright purple). Señor Marilia, the President of the Banco de Recife, wore a black evening coat, a heavy black moustache, and a dress-kilt of the McDonalds, usually worn by women. His plump legs were bulging out of thick Shetland socks. Señor Lacaze, of the Brazilian Emerald Bureau, looked as if he had been already dressed for an afternoon's hog-sticking when the call came to go to dinner. He was an unusually
smooth
man, with black brushed-back hair, perfect black eyelashes, and an almond-shaped head. He had a monocle which continually dropped from his eye, and swung on a green silk cord. He spoke hardly any English at all.

Over a dinner of crimped Scotch salmon and caper sauce, curried lobster, roast beef, turkey poult, and raspberry cream (Mrs McNab always believing that a dinner was only magnificent if it was weighty), Señor Marilia talked about the threat of war, and Brazil, and the movement of money. He had a way of adjusting his cutlery with each point he made. ‘If war should break out, Misdair Watson, and in banking circies
we are all aware how closs that possibility is …' (fish-fork moved upwards a quarter of an inch) ‘… there are bound to be difficulties and restrictions on the movement of money, and also some countries may sick the opportunity to welsh on their bonds …' (butter-knife moved slightly to the right, and downwards) ‘… I am thinking in particular of Russia, and Turkey, and Griss.'

At the beginning of the meal, Effie had little idea what kind of business Robert was doing with these Brazilians. Sitting next to Señor Lacaze, who kept smiling at her with a kind of lunatic leer, and dropping his monocle, it was difficult for her to follow the undertones of Señor Marilia's conversation. But halfway through the roast beef, she suddenly understood what it was that Robert was trying to arrange.

She said, sharply, ‘Robert?'

Robert had his mouth full of kale. ‘Effie?' he asked her. Then, turning bulgy-cheeked to Señor Marilia, ‘You'll have to excuse my sister. She's the black ewe of the family.'

Señor Marilia laughed, and repeated the remark in Portuguese to Señor Lacaze, who dropped his monocle again, and banged the table to show his approval.

Effie said, in a gentle voice, ‘If you make one more remark like that, Robert, my dearie, I shall pick up that dish of potatoes and empty it over your big fat head.'

It took Señor Marilia a moment or two mentally to translate what Effie had said. When he realised what it was, he stared at Effie in utter surprise and then at Robert, and then said ‘
Que ela disse?
'

Robert pulled a face. ‘She is making a joke. You know what a joke is?'

Effie said, ‘I can't make jokes about lending money to Germany. That's what you're doing with Señor Marilia, isn't it? Sending money to Brazil, on the pretext of financing their emerald mining, and then sending it on the Germany, to finance the Kaiser's military expansion.'

‘I thought you approved of Germany,' Robert said caustically. He sipped his wine, and gave Señor Marilia a look over the rim of his glass which obviously meant, don't worry about her, she's only an hysterical female. Señor Marilia picked up his glass, raised it to Effie in a silent toast, and chuckled.

‘Effie, my love,' said Robert, leaning towards her, ‘the
tangled state of international politics is nothing to do with me and nothing to do with you. We are responsible only to the bank. If we can turn a modest profit by lending money to Germany, then we shall lend money to Germany. I might also remind you that we are lending considerably
more
money to the British government, for the development of turbine engines for the Navy.'

‘But what if we have to go to war with Germany?' Effie demanded.

‘Couldn't be better,' said Robert. ‘Britain will want more money, and so will Germany. We‘ll make a killing on both sides.'

‘A killing? This afternoon I went out with John McDonald. If it comes to war, John will have to go and fight for his country. Do you think I could even half-heartedly condone a loan to Germany which might pay for the very bullet which stops his heart?'

Robert sighed, and rolled his eyes up. ‘You're being melodramatic again, Effie. Most of the money we lend to Germany will go into chemical factories and animal foodstuffs.'

Effie stood up. She was wearing a beautiful lemon-yellow evening gown, with dropping frills around the sleeves and waistline, and a deeply-cut V-shaped front, which showed off the curves of her small breasts. Her hair was swept up, and pinned with two curved combs of gold and yellow diamonds. Señor Lacaze put his monocle back into his eye, and looked up at her appreciatively.

‘Gentlemen,' said Effie, ‘I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I, too, own a large share of Watson's Bank. It's not a majority share, but it's enough – even before I receive the extra assets which my mother has passed on to me in her will – to veto this arrangement. Watson's Bank will lend no money to the Second Reich, however it is done. That is my final word. I hope you enjoy your dinner.'

She was about to turn to leave the table, when Señor Marilia shouted angrily at Robert, ‘What does this mean? Is this one more of your sister's jokes?'

‘I don't think so,' said Robert.

‘Then you must tell her what nonsense this is! I did not come four thousand miles to be dismissed by a girl! Misdair Watson!'

Robert ignored Señor Marilia, and said quietly, ‘Effie? This isn't being very practical, you know.'

‘No,' said Effie, ‘I realise that. But I'm sure you have the skill
to explain to Señor Marilia that banking is not always practical. Sometimes, it's honourable, and very occasionally, it's moral.'

Señor Lacaze frowned at Señor Marilia in complete bewilderment. He said something in rapid Portuguese which meant, ‘Does this mean I won't be able to take this woman to bed tonight?' Señor Marilia raised his hand, and said, irritably, ‘Sh.'

Robert threw down his napkin. ‘This little gesture of honour and morality, Effie, could cost us anything between £20-£30 million worth of loans.'

‘I know that,' said Effie. ‘I know exactly how keen the Kaiser is to borrow money, from whatever source; and I also know how keen you are to lend it to him. But, you're not going to. The honour and morality of Watson's Bank is priceless. It cannot be bought.'

Robert knew when it was time to withdraw without an argument. He had misjudged Effie badly. He had been so preoccupied with the loans that Watson's Bank had been making all over Europe, taking advantage of the hysterical fears that each country felt for its neighbour, that he had forgotten the prickliness of Effie's personality. Everything had been worked out: money would go from Watson's at Cornhill to Brazil, to finance emerald digging; emeralds from Brazil would be sold on the world market at a profit; and while the profit went back into the emerald mines, the capital would be transferred, as gold bullion, to Germany. Only £20 or £30 million: but enough for trucks and horses and machine-guns and bombs, and more bullets than one man could fire, even if he fired one every second, in his entire lifetime. To have forgotten Effie was an understandable but crucial oversight: but unlike Señor Marilia, who was now making a ridiculous scene about it, Robert preferred to hold back, and to bide his time. A family dinner party was an appropriate setting for agreements, but not for disagreements. He said to Señor Marilia, ‘Calm down, señor. My sister is quite right. We have to think of our honour.'

‘Your sister apparently leads you about by the noss,' said Señor Marilia, scornfully.

‘Perhaps so,' said Robert. All he wanted to do was get off the subject.

‘Then, you are as much of a woman as she is,' Señor Marilia told him, folding his arms in anger and defiance. ‘I
didn't come four thousand miles to speak to women.'

Robert lowered his head, and looked down at his roast beef. Then he looked up again, and his face was so white that it could have been rolled in flour. It was clear to Effie, who knew him, that he was so angry that he was unable to speak; but Señor Marilia was flaring his hairy nostrils, and going ‘
hmph
!' and ‘
hmph
!' and waiting for an answer.

Robert slowly pushed back his chair, and stood up. Effie warningly said, ‘
Robert
' – but he ignored her, or didn't hear her, or didn't want to hear her. Señor Marilia and Señor Lacaze both half-rose to their feet too, but then nervously sat down again. Señor Marilia looked towards Effie, and said, ‘Señor Lacaze and I came four thousand miles. I don't understand.'

Robert, to Señor Marilia's utter astonishment, plunged both his hands up to his cuffs into the large white dish of stewed marrows in white sauce. The marrows had been standing on the table for five or ten minutes now, so they had cooled off a little; but they were still hot enough to steam.

‘Misdair Watson, I feel that –'

Without a word, Robert lifted up from the dish a huge double handful of dripping marrows, paused, and then pushed them into Señor Marilia's face, and all down his shirtfront. To add to the insult, he wiped the sauce off his fingers on the shoulders of Señor Marilia's black jacket.

Señor Marilia, his moustache clogged with sauce, stared at Robert in fright and disbelief. Nobody spoke. The only sound was Señor Lacaze, drumming his fingers madly on the table.

‘I hope, Señor Marilia, that you will accept my apolgies,' said Robert, in an uneven voice. ‘I am sure we can continue to do business together, and I can assure you that nothing like this will ever happen again. This is not a typical example of the hospitality you can expect in the Watson house, nor from the Watson Bank. But –' and here he beckoned to Cameron, the new footman, who had just put his head around the door to see if there was any wine to be poured or dishes to be cleared away – ‘you can always expect an insult of any kind to be met with
prompt
retaliation. It is my way. Cameron, will you show Señor Marilia to the bathroom, so that he can wash. Will you also lend him a clean shirt, and a kilt. Make sure that the kilt is
cath-dath
, the men's colour; and not like
the lady's kilt that he is wearing at the moment.'

Señor Marilia stalked from the room, his head held high, with stewed marrows dropping from his clothes. Señor Lacaze said, in what must have been the only English he knew, This is untoward,' and then defensively raised one hand, and blinked, in case unwittingly he too had insulted his host, and was the next in line for an embellishment of vegetables.

In a clear voice, Effie said to Robert, ‘You're as crude as ever, aren't you? As crude as father, only worse; because you should have grown up to know better.'

Robert testily looked away.

Effie said, ‘All that can possibly redeem you for what you just did to Señor Marilia is that it was one of the funniest things I have ever seen in my life. Goodnight, Robert.'

Two years later, in October 1916, Effie was staying at the house in Cheyne Walk in Chelsea, when Tessie came up one morning to say that she had an unannounced visitor, a gentleman. She pulled on her long white-ruffled bathrobe, and pattered downstairs in her silk slippers, to find a tall young man in a grey coat standing in the living-room, inspecting a photograph of herself which he had obviously just picked up from the mantelshelf.

The young man looked tired, and in need of a shave. But he managed to click his heels together smartly, and say, ‘Miss Watson? I am sorry to have disturbed you so early. You must forgive me.'

Tessie was hovering in the background, to make sure that her mistress was going to be safe. There were some odd characters around in London these days; ruffians and scavengers and shell-shocked soldiers. But this young man, although he appeared to be down-at-heel, seemed safe enough, and Effie waved Tessie away.

‘Would you care for some tea?' she asked him.

‘I have news for you,' he said. He had a slight foreign
accent which she found hard to place. ‘My name is Milós Raszboeni. Before the war, I was a close friend of the Count von Ahlbeck. We used to hunt together. Our fathers were friends, in the old days.'

‘You have news of the count?' asked Effie. The living-room seemed very still; the October light fell through it like the thin curtains of her memory. Outside, there was nothing but the photographic greyness of an early winter day in London.

Rodd, the butler, came limping majestically across the hallway. He had been a liaison officer with the Australians at Bapaume, and had been wounded in the shin. He still liked Effie to refer to him as ‘sergeant'.

‘Rodd, some tea, please,' said Effie, in a whisper.

Rodd sensed that she was tense. He looked across at Milós Raszboeni, and then back at Effie, and then nodded, and limped back to the kitchen. Usually he asked her if she wanted sand biscuits and wafers, and which particular blend of tea she preferred; but today it was obvious that Darjeeling would do, with plain tea-biscuits, and that the less intervention there was from servants, the better.