At this point Kingo interjected languidly: “The directors of the City of Glasgow Bank probably will go to jail, I hear; and the manager too.”
Hugh said: “So I believe.”
Maisie felt like screaming with frustration. “Then why have you been contradicting me?”
He grinned. “To see whether you could justify your attitude.”
Maisie remembered that Hugh had always had the power to do this to her, and she bit her tongue. Her spitfire personality was part of her appeal to the Marlborough Set, one of the reasons they accepted her despite her background; but they would get bored if she let her tantrums go on too long. Her mood changed in a flash. “Sir, you have insulted me!” she cried theatrically. “I challenge you to a duel!”
“What weapons do ladies duel with?” Hugh laughed.
“Crochet hooks at dawn!”
They all laughed at that, then a servant came in and announced dinner.
They were always eighteen or twenty around the long table. Maisie loved to see the crisp linen and fine china, the hundreds of candles reflected in the shining glassware, the immaculate black-and-white evening dress of the men and the gorgeous colors and priceless jewelry of the women. There was champagne every night, but it went straight to Maisie’s waist, so she allowed herself only a sip or two.
She found herself seated next to Hugh. The duchess normally put her next to Kingo, for Kingo liked pretty women and the duchess was tolerant; but tonight she had apparently decided to vary the formula. No one said grace, for in this set religion was kept for Sundays only. The soup was served and Maisie chatted brightly to the men on either side of her. However, her mind was on her brother. Poor Danny! So clever, so dedicated, such a great leader — and so unlucky. She wondered if he would succeed in his new ambition of becoming a member of Parliament. She hoped so. Papa would be so proud.
Today, unusually, her background had intruded visibly into her new life. It was surprising how little difference it made. Like her, Danny did not appear to belong to any particular class of society. He represented workingmen; his dress was middle class; yet he had the same confident, slightly arrogant manners as Kingo and his friends. They could not easily tell whether he was an upper-class boy who chose martyrdom among the workers or a working-class boy who had risen in life.
Something similar was true of Maisie. Anyone with the least instinct for class differences could tell she was not a born lady. However, she played the part so well, and she was so pretty and charming, that they could not quite bring themselves to believe the persistent rumor that Solly had picked her up in a dance parlor. If there had been any question of her acceptance by London society, it had been answered when the Prince of Wales, son of Queen Victoria — and future king — had confessed himself “captivated” by her and sent her a gold cigarette box with a diamond clasp.
As the meal progressed she felt the presence of Hugh by her side more and more. She made an effort to keep the conversation light, and took care to talk at least as much to the man on her other side; but the past seemed to stand at her shoulder, waiting to be acknowledged, like a weary, patient supplicant.
She and Hugh had met three or four times since his return to London, and now they had spent forty-eight hours in the same house, but they had never spoken, of what had happened six years ago. All Hugh knew was that she had disappeared without a trace, only to surface as Mrs. Solomon Greenbourne. Sooner or later she was going to have to give him some explanation. She was afraid that talking about it would bring back all the old feelings, in him as well as her. But it had to be done, and perhaps this was a good time, when Solly was away.
A moment came when several people around them were talking noisily. Maisie decided she should speak now. She turned to Hugh, and suddenly she was overcome with emotion. She began speaking three or four times and could not go on. Finally she managed to get a few words out. “I would have ruined your career, you know.” Then she had to make such an effort not to cry that she could say no more.
He understood right away what she was talking about. “Who told you that you would have ruined my career?”
If he had been sympathetic she might have broken down, but luckily he was aggressive, and that enabled her to reply. “Your aunt Augusta.”
“I suspected she was involved somehow.”
“But she was right.”
“I don’t believe that,” he said, getting angry very quickly. “You didn’t ruin Solly’s career.”
“Calm down. Solly wasn’t already the black sheep of the family. Even so, it was difficult enough. His family hates me still.”
“Even though you’re Jewish?”
“Yes. Jews can be as snobbish as anyone else.” He would never know the real reason — that Bertie was not Solly’s child.
“Why didn’t you simply tell me what you were doing, and why?”
“I couldn’t.” Remembering those awful days, she felt choked up again and had to take a deep breath to calm herself. “I found it very hard to cut myself off like that; it broke my heart. I couldn’t have done it at all if I’d had to justify myself to you as well.”
Still he would not let her off the hook. “You could have sent me a note.”
Maisie’s voice dropped almost to a whisper. “I couldn’t bring myself to write it.”
At last he seemed to relent. He took a gulp of his wine and averted his eyes from her. “It was awful, not understanding, not knowing if you were even alive.” He was speaking harshly, but now she could see the remembered pain in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said feebly. “I’m so soriy I hurt you. I didn’t want to. I wanted to save you from unhappiness. I did it for love.” As soon as she heard herself say the word “love” she regretted it.
He picked up on it. “Do you love Solly now?” he said abruptly.
“Yes.”
“The two of you seem very settled.”
“The way we live … it isn’t difficult to be contented.”
He had not finished being angry with her. “You’ve got what you always wanted.”
That was a bit hard, but she felt that perhaps she deserved it, so she just nodded.
“What happened to April?”
Maisie hesitated. This was going a bit too far. “You class me with April, then, do you?” she said, feeling hurt.
Somehow that deflated his anger. He smiled ruefully and said: “No, you were never like April. I know that. All the same I’d like to know what became of her. Do you still see her?”
“Yes — discreetly.” April was a neutral topic: talking about her would get them off this dangerously emotional ground. Maisie decided to satisfy his curiosity. “Do you know a place called Nellie’s?”
He lowered his voice. “It’s a brothel.”
She could not restrain herself from asking: “Did you ever go there?”
He looked embarrassed. “Yes, once. It was a fiasco.”
That did not surprise her: she remembered how naive and inexperienced the twenty-year-old Hugh had been. “Well, April now owns the place.”
“Goodness! How did that happen?”
“First she became the mistress of a famous novelist and lived in the prettiest little cottage in Clapham. He tired of her at about the time Nell was thinking about retirement. So April sold the cottage and bought Nell out.”
“Fancy that,” said Hugh. “I’ll never forget Nell. She was the fattest woman I’ve ever seen.”
The table had suddenly gone quiet, and his last sentence was heard by several people nearby. There was general laughter, and someone said: “Who was this fat lady?” Hugh just grinned and made no reply.
After that they stayed off dangerous topics, but Maisie felt subdued and somewhat fragile, as if she had suffered a fall and bruised herself.
When dinner was over and the men had smoked their cigars Kingo announced that he wanted to dance. The drawing room carpet was rolled up and a footman who could play polkas on the piano was summoned and set to work.