Unfortunately, Seth’s arms were outside the bedclothes, and now his hands grasped Micky’s forearms with surprising strength. Micky stared in horror at the aged talons clamped to his coat sleeves, but he held on with all his might. Seth clawed desperately at Micky’s arms but the younger man was stronger.
When that failed Seth began to kick his legs and squirm. He could not escape from Micky’s grasp, but Hugh’s old bed squeaked, and Micky was terrified that the nurse might hear and come in to investigate. The only way he could think of to keep the old man still was to lie on top of him. Still holding the pillow over Seth’s face, Micky got on the bed and lay on the writhing body. It was grotesquely reminiscent of sex with an unwilling woman, Micky thought crazily, and he suppressed the hysterical laughter that bubbled to his lips. Seth continued to struggle but his movements were restrained by Micky’s weight and the bed ceased to squeak. Micky held on grimly.
At last all movement ceased. Micky remained in place as long as he dared, to make sure; then he cautiously removed the pillow and stared at the white, still face. The eyes were closed but the features were still. The old man looked dead. Micky had to check for a heartbeat. Slowly and fearfully, he lowered his head to Seth’s chest.
Suddenly the old man’s eyes opened wide and he took a huge, dragging breath.
Micky almost cried aloud with horror. A moment later he regained his wits and shoved the pillow over Seth’s face again. He felt himself shaking weakly with fear and disgust as he held it down; but there was no more resistance.
He knew he should keep it there for several minutes, to be sure the old man really was dead this time; but he was worried about the nurse. She might notice the silence. He had to speak, for a pretense of normality. But he could not think what to say to a dead man. Say anything, he told himself, it doesn’t matter so long as she hears the murmur of conversation. “I’m pretty well,” he mumbled desperately. “Pretty well, pretty well. And how are you? Well, well. I’m glad to hear you’re feeling better. Splendid, Mr. Pilaster. I’m very glad to see you looking so well, so splendid, so much better, oh dear God I can’t keep this up, very well, splendid, splendid …”
He could stand it no longer. He took his weight off the pillow. Grimacing with distaste, he put his hand on Seth’s chest where he imagined the heart would be. There were sparse white hairs on the old man’s pale skin. The body was warm beneath the nightshirt, but there was no heartbeat. Are you really dead this time? he thought. And then he seemed to hear Papa’s voice, angry and impatient, saying Yes, you fool, he’s dead, now get out of there! Leaving the pillow over the face, he rolled off the corpse and stood up.
A wave of nausea engulfed him. He felt weak and faint, and he grabbed the bedpost to steady himself. I killed him, he thought. I killed him.
There was a voice on the landing.
Micky looked at the body on the bed. The pillow was still over Seth’s face. He snatched it up. Seth’s dead eyes were open and staring.
The door opened.
Augusta walked in.
She stood in the doorway, looking at the rumpled bed, the still face of Seth with its staring eyes, and the pillow in Micky’s hands. The blood drained from her cheeks.
Micky stared at her, silent and helpless, waiting for her to speak.
She stood there, looking from Seth to Micky and back again, for a long moment.
Then, slowly and quietly, she closed the door.
She took the pillow from Micky. She lifted Seth’s lifeless head and replaced the pillow, then she straightened the sheets. She picked up The Economist from the floor, placed it on his chest, and folded his hands over it, so that he looked as if he had fallen asleep reading it.
Then she closed his eyes.
She came to Micky. “You’re shaking,” she said. She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth.
For a moment he was too stunned to react. Then he went from terror to desire in a flash. He put his arms around her and embraced her, feeling her bosom against his chest. She opened her mouth and their tongues met. Micky grasped her breasts in both hands and squeezed them hard. She gasped. His erection came immediately. Augusta began to grind her pelvis against his, rubbing herself on his stiff penis. They were both breathing hard. Augusta took his hand, put it in her mouth, and bit down, to stop herself crying out. Her eyes closed tight, and she shuddered. He realized she was having an orgasm and he was so inflamed that he, too, reached a climax.
It had taken only a few moments. Afterwards they clung together, panting, for a little longer. Micky was too bewildered to think.
When Augusta had caught her breath she broke the embrace. “I’m going to my room,” she said quietly. “You should leave the house immediately.”
“Augusta—”
“Call me Mrs. Pilaster!”
“All right—”
“This never happened,” she said in a fierce whisper. “Do you understand me? None of it ever happened!”
“All right,” he said again.
She smoothed the front of her dress and patted her hair. He watched helplessly, immobilized by the force of her will. She turned and went to the door. Automatically, he opened it for her. He followed her out.
The nurse looked an inquiry at them. Augusta put her finger to her lips in a hushing gesture. “He’s just dropped off to sleep,” she said quietly.
Micky was amazed and appalled by her coolness.
“Best thing for him,” said the nurse. “I’ll leave him in peace for an hour or so.”
Augusta nodded agreement. “I should, if I were you. Believe me, he’s quite comfortable now.”
HUGH RETURNED TO LONDON after six years.
In that period the Pilasters had doubled their wealth — and Hugh was partly responsible.
He had done extraordinarily well in Boston, better than he could have dreamed. Transatlantic trade was booming as the United States recovered from the Civil War, and Hugh had made sure Pilasters Bank was financing a healthy chunk of that business.
Then he had guided the partners into a series of lucrative issues of North American stocks and bonds. After the war, government and business needed cash, and Pilasters Bank raised the money.
Finally, he had developed an expertise in the chaotic market for railway stocks, learning to tell which railroads would make fortunes and which would never get past the first mountain range. Uncle Joseph had been wary at first, remembering the New York crash of 1873; but Hugh had inherited the anxious conservatism of the Pilasters, and he had recommended only the good-quality shares, scrupulously avoiding anything that smacked of flashy speculation; and his judgment had proved sound. Now Pilasters was the world leader in the business of raising capital for the industrial development of North America. Hugh was being paid a thousand pounds a year, and he knew he was worth more.
When he docked at Liverpool he was met off the ship by the chief clerk of Pilasters’ local branch, a man with whom he had exchanged telegrams at least once a week ever since he went to Boston. They had never met, and when they identified each other the clerk said: “Goodness me, I didn’t know you were so young, sir!” This pleased Hugh, as he had found a silver hair in his otherwise jet-black head that very morning. He was twenty-six.
He went by train to Folkestone, not pausing in London. The partners of Pilasters Bank might have felt he should call on them before going to see his mother but he thought otherwise: he had given them the last six years of his life and he owed his mother at least a day.
He found her more serenely beautiful than ever but still wearing black in memory of his father. His sister Dotty, now twelve, hardly remembered him and was shy until he sat her on his knee and reminded her how badly she had folded his shirts.
He begged his mother to move to a bigger house: he could easily afford to pay the rent. She refused, and told him to save his money and build up his capital. However, he persuaded her to take on another servant to help Mrs. Builth, her aging housekeeper.
Next day he took the London, Chatham and Dover Railway and arrived in London at Holborn Viaduct Station. A vast new hotel had been built at the station by people who thought Holborn was going to become a busy stopover for Englishmen on their way to Nice or St. Petersburg. Hugh would not have put money into it: he guessed the station would be used mostly by City workers who lived in the expanding suburbs of southeast London.
It was a bright spring morning. He walked to Pilasters Bank. He had forgotten the smoky taste of London’s air, much worse than Boston or New York. He paused for a moment outside the bank, looking at its grandiose facade.
He had told the partners that he wanted to come home on furlough, to see his mother and sister and the old country. But he had another reason for returning to London.
He was about to drop a bombshell.
He had arrived with a proposal to merge Pilasters’ North American operation with the New York bank of Madler and Bell, forming a new partnership that would be called Madler, Bell and Pilaster. It would make a lot of money for the bank; it would crown his achievements in the United States; and it would allow him to return to London and graduate from scout to decision maker. It would mean the end of his period of exile.
He straightened his tie nervously and went in.
The banking hall, which years ago had so impressed him with its marble floors and ponderous walkers, now seemed merely staid. As he started up the stairs he met Jonas Mulberry, his former supervisor. Mulberry was startled and pleased to see him. “Mr. Hugh!” he said, shaking hands vigorously. “Are you back permanently?”
“I hope so. How is Mrs. Mulberry?”