“Oh, dear. That is unfortunate.”
Augusta could tell that Harriet Morte was secretly pleased by this news. She hated Augusta. “It’s more than unfortunate,” Augusta said. “I’ve expended a good deal of effort over this and now its seems the benefits will go to my husband’s greatest rival!”
“I do see that.”
“I wish we could prevent it happening.”
“I’m not sure what we can do.”
Augusta pretended to be thinking aloud. “Peerages have to be approved by the queen, don’t they?”
“Yes, indeed. Technically it is she who grants them.”
“Then she could do something, if you asked her.”
Lady Morte gave a little laugh. “My dear Mrs. Pilaster, you overestimate my power.” Augusta held her tongue and ignored the condescending tone. Lady Morte went on: “Her Majesty is not likely to take my advice over that of the prime minister. Besides, what would be my grounds of objection?”
“Greenbourne is a Jew.”
Lady Morte nodded. “There was a time when that would have finished it. I remember when Gladstone wanted to make Lionel Rothschild a peer: the queen refused point-blank. But that was ten years ago. Since then we have had Disraeli.”
“But Disraeli is a Christian. Greenbourne is a practicing Jew.”
“I wonder if that would make a difference,” Lady Morte mused. “It might, you know. And she’s constantly criticizing the Prince of Wales for having so many Jews among his friends.”
“Then if you were to mention to her that the prime minister is proposing to ennoble one of them …”
“I can bring it up in conversation. I’m not sure it will be enough to effect your purpose.”
Augusta thought hard. “Is there anything we can do to make the whole question a matter of more concern to Her Majesty?”
“If there were to be some public protest — questions in Parliament, perhaps, or articles in the press …”
“The press,” Augusta said. She thought of Arnold Hobbes. “Yes!” she said. “I think that could be arranged.”
Hobbes was splendidly discombobulated by Augusta’s presence in his cramped, inky office. He could not make up his mind whether to tidy up, attend to her or get rid of her. Consequently he did all three in a hysterical muddle: he moved sheets of paper and bundles of proofs from the floor to the table and back again; he fetched her a chair, a glass of sherry and a plate of biscuits; and at the same time he proposed that they go elsewhere to talk. She let him run wild for a minute or two then said: “Mr. Hobbes, please sit down and listen to me.”
“Of course, of course,” he said, and he subsided into a chair and peered at her through his grimy spectacles.
She told him in a few crisp sentences about Ben Greenbourne’s peerage.
“Most regrettable, most regrettable,” he blabbered nervously. “However, I don’t think The Forum could be accused of lack of enthusiasm in promoting the cause which you so kindly suggested to me.”
And in exchange for which you got two lucrative directorships of companies controlled by my husband, Augusta thought. “I know it’s not your fault,” she said irritably. “The point is, what can you do about it?”
“My journal is in a difficult position,” he said worriedly. “Having campaigned so vociferously for a banker to get a peerage, it’s hard for us to turn around and protest when it actually happens.”
“But you never intended for a Jew to be so honored.”
“True, true, although so many bankers are Jews.”
“Couldn’t you write that there are enough Christian bankers for the prime minister to choose from?”
He remained reluctant. “We might….”
“Then do so!”
“Excuse me, Mrs. Pilaster, but it’s not quite enough.”
“I don’t understand you,” she said impatiently.
“A professional consideration, but I need what we journalists call a slant. For instance, we could accuse Disraeli — or Lord Beaconsfield, as he now is — of partiality to members of his own race. Now that would be a slant. However, he is in general a man so upright that that particular charge might not stick.”
Augusta hated dithering, but she reined in her impatience because she could see there was a genuine problem here. She thought for a moment and was struck by an idea. “When Disraeli took his seat in the House of Lords, was the ceremony normal?”
“In every way, I believe.”
“He took the oath of loyalty on a Christian Bible?”
“Indeed.”
“Old and New Testament?”
“I begin to see your drift, Mrs. Pilaster. Would Ben Greenbourne swear on a Christian Bible? From what I know of him, I doubt it.”
Augusta shook her head dubiously. “He might, though, if nothing were said about it. He’s not a man to look for a confrontation. But he’s very stiff-necked when challenged. If there were to be a noisy public demand for him to swear the same way as everyone else he might well rebel. He wouldn’t let people say he had been pushed into anything.”
“A noisy public demand,” Hobbes mused. “Yes …”
“Could you create that?”
Hobbes warmed to the idea. “I see it already,” he said excitedly. “‘Blasphemy in the House of Lords.’ Now that, Mrs. Pilaster, is what we call a slant. You’re quite brilliant. You ought to be a journalist yourself!”
“How flattering,” she said. The sarcasm was lost on him.
Hobbes suddenly looked pensive. “Mr. Greenbourne is a very powerful man.”
“So is Mr. Pilaster.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Then I may rely on you?”
Hobbes rapidly weighed the risks and decided to back the Pilaster cause. “Leave everything to me.”
Augusta nodded. She was beginning to feel better. Lady Morte would turn the queen against Greenbourne, Hobbes would make an issue of it in the press, and Fortescue was standing by to whisper into the ear of the prime minister the name of a blameless alternative: Joseph. Once again the prospects looked good.