It was time to face them all. He crossed the street and knocked on the door.
It was opened by Hastead, Augusta’s oily butler. He did not appear to have changed: his eyes still looked in different directions. “Good afternoon, Mr. Hugh,” he said, but his Welsh voice was frosty, which indicated that Hugh was still out of favor in this house. Hastead’s welcome could always be relied upon to reflect what Augusta was feeling.
He passed through the entrance lobby and into the hall. There like a reception committee stood the three harridans of the Pilaster family: Augusta, her sister-in-law Madeleine, and her daughter Clementine. Augusta at forty-seven was as striking-looking as ever: she still had a classic face with dark eyebrows and a proud look, and if she was a little heavier than six years ago she had the height to carry it. Clementine was a slimmer edition of the same book, but she did not have the indomitable air of her mother and she missed being beautiful. Aunt Madeleine was every inch a Pilaster, from the curved nose down the thin, angular figure to the expensive lace trim around the hem of her ice-blue dress.
Hugh gritted his teeth and kissed them all.
Augusta said: “Well, Hugh, I trust your foreign experiences have made you a wiser young man than you were?”
She was not going to let anyone forget that he had left under a cloud. Hugh replied: “I trust we all grow wiser as we age, dear Aunt,” and he had the satisfaction of seeing her face darken with anger.
“Indeed!” she said frostily.
Clementine said: “Hugh, allow me to present my fiance, Sir Harry Tonks.”
Hugh shook hands. Harry was too young to have a knighthood, so the “sir” must mean he was a baronet, a kind of second-class aristocrat. Hugh did not envy him marriage to Clementine. She was not as bad as her mother, but she had always had a mean streak.
Harry asked Hugh: “How was your crossing?”
“Very quick,” said Hugh. “I came in one of the new screw steamers. It only took seven days.”
“By Jove! Marvelous, marvelous.”
“What part of England are you from, Sir Harry?” Hugh asked, probing into the man’s background.
“I’ve a place in Dorsetshire. Most of my tenants grow hops.”
Landed gentry, Hugh concluded; if he has any sense he will sell his farms and put the money into Pilasters Bank. In fact Harry did not seem very bright, but he might be biddable. The Pilaster women liked to marry men who would do as they were told, and Harry was a younger version of Madeleine’s husband George. As they grew older they became grumpy and resentful but they rarely rebelled.
“Come into the drawing room,” Augusta commanded. “Everyone’s waiting to see you.”
He followed her in, but stopped short in the doorway. The familiar wide room, with its big fireplaces at either end and the French windows leading to the long garden, had been quite transformed. All the Japanese furniture and fabrics had gone, and the room had been redecorated in a profusion of bold, richly colored patterns. Looking more closely, Hugh saw that they were all flowers: big yellow daisies in the carpet, red roses climbing a trellis in the wallpaper, poppies in the curtains, and pink chrysanthemums in the silk that draped chair legs, mirrors, occasional tables and the piano. “You’ve changed this room, Aunt,” he said superfluously.
Clementine said: “It all comes from William Morris’s new shop in Oxford Street — it’s the latest thing.”
Augusta said: “The carpet has to be changed, though. It’s not the right color.”
She was never satisfied, Hugh recalled.
Most of the Pilaster family were here. They were all curious about Hugh, naturally. He had gone away in disgrace and they may have thought they would never see him again — but they had underestimated him, and he had returned a conquering hero. Now they were all keen to take a second look.
The first person he shook hands with was his cousin Edward. He was twenty-nine but he looked older: he was already becoming stout and his face had the flushed look of a glutton. “So, you’re back,” he said. He tried a smile but it turned into a resentful sneer. Hugh could hardly blame him. The two cousins had always been compared to each other. Now Hugh’s success drew attention to Edward’s lack of achievement at the bank.
Micky Miranda stood next to Edward. Still handsome and immaculately dressed, Micky seemed even more sleek and self-assured. Hugh said: “Hullo, Miranda, are you still working for the Cordovan Minister?”
“I am the Cordovan Minister,” Micky replied.
Somehow Hugh was not surprised.
He was pleased to see his old friend Rachel Bodwin. “Hullo, Rachel, how are you?” he said. She had never been a pretty girl but she was turning into a handsome woman, he realized. The angular features and close-set eyes that he thought plain six years ago were now oddly intriguing. “What are you doing with yourself these days?”
“Campaigning to reform the law on women’s property,” she said. Then she grinned and added: “Much to the embarrassment of my parents, who would prefer me to campaign for a husband.”
She had always been alarmingly candid, Hugh recalled. He found her interesting on that account, but he could imagine that many eligible bachelors would be intimidated by her. Men liked women to be a little shy and not too clever.
As he exchanged small talk with her, he wondered whether Augusta still wanted to make a match between the two of them. It hardly mattered: the only man Rachel had ever shown any real interest in was Micky Miranda. Even now she was taking care to include Micky in the conversation with Hugh. He had never understood why girls found Micky irresistible, and Rachel surprised him more than most, for she was intelligent enough to realize that Micky was a rotter; yet it was almost as if he fascinated them more on that account.
He moved on and shook hands with Young William and his wife. Beatrice greeted Hugh warmly, and he concluded that she was not as much under Augusta’s influence as the other Pilaster women.
Hastead interrupted them to give Hugh an envelope. “This just arrived by messenger,” he said.
It contained a note in what looked to Hugh like a secretary’s handwriting:
123, Piccadilly
London, W.Tuesday
Mrs Solomon Greenbourne requests the pleasure of your company at dinner tonight
Below, in a familiar scrawl, was written: Welcome home! — Solly.
He was pleased. Solly was always amiable and easygoing. Why could the Pilasters not be as relaxed, he wondered? Were Methodists naturally more tense than Jews? But perhaps there were tensions he did not know about in the Greenbourne family.
Hastead said: “The messenger is waiting for a reply, Mr. Hugh.”
Hugh said: “My compliments to Mrs. Greenbourne, and I shall be delighted to join them for dinner.”
Hastead bowed and withdrew. Beatrice said: “My goodness, are you dining with the Solomon Greenbournes? How marvelous!”
Hugh was surprised. “I don’t expect it to be marvelous,” he said. “I was at school with Solly and I’ve always liked him, but an invitation to dine with him was never a coveted privilege.”
“It is now,” said Beatrice.
“Solly married a fireball,” William explained. “Mrs. Greenbourne loves to entertain, and her parties are the best in London.”
“They’re part of the Marlborough Set,” Beatrice said reverently. “They’re friends with the Prince of Wales.”
Clementine’s fiance, Harry, overheard this and said in a resentful tone: “I don’t know what English society is coming to, when the heir to the throne prefers Jews to Christians.”
“Really?” said Hugh. “I must say I’ve never understood why people dislike Jews.”
“Can’t stand ’em, myself,” Harry said.
“Well, you’re marrying into a banking family, so you’re going to meet an awful lot more of them in the future.”
Harry looked mildly offended.