A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [100]
“But you’ve made matters worse!”
“No, I haven’t.” Augusta sighed. “Sometimes your generous outlook prevents you from seeing what is going on. Your papa may believe that he has taken a firm stand, but if you think about what he said you’ll realize that he has promised to settle a large sum on you and make you a partner as soon as you get married.”
“Goodness, I suppose he has,” Edward said in surprise. “I didn’t look at it that way.”
“That’s your trouble, dear. You’re not sly, like Hugh.”
“Hugh was very lucky in America.”
“Of course he was. You would like to get married, wouldn’t you?”
He sat beside her and took her hand. “Why should I, when I have you to take care of me?”
“But who will you have when I’m gone? Did you like that little Emily Maple? I thought she was charming.”
“She told me that hunting is cruel to the fox,” Edward said in a tone of disdain.
“Your father will settle at least a hundred thousand on you—perhaps more, perhaps a quarter of a million.”
Edward was not impressed. “I have everything I want, and I like living with you,” he said.
“And I like having you near me. But I want to see you happily married, with a lovely wife and your own fortune and a partnership at the bank. Say you’ll think about it.”
“I’ll think about it.” He kissed her cheek. “And now I really must go, Mama. I promised to meet some fellows half an hour ago.”
“Go on, then.”
He got up and went to the door. “Good night, Mama.”
“Good night,” she said. “Think about Emily!”
3
KINGSBRIDGE MANOR was one of the largest houses in England. Maisie had stayed there three or four times and she still had not seen half of it. The house had twenty principal bedrooms, not counting the rooms of the fifty or so servants. It was heated by coal fires and lit by candles, and it had only one bathroom, but what it lacked in modern conveniences it made up for in old-fashioned luxury: four-poster beds curtained with heavy silk, delicious old wines from the vast underground cellars, horses and guns and books and games without end.
The young duke of Kingsbridge had once owned a hundred thousand acres of best Wiltshire farmland, but on Solly’s advice he had sold half of it and bought a big chunk of South Kensington with the proceeds. Consequently the agricultural depression that had impoverished many great families had left “Kingo” untouched, and he was still able to entertain his friends in the grand style.
The Prince of Wales had been with them for the first week. Solly and Kingo and the prince shared a taste for boisterous fun, and Maisie had helped to provide it. She had substituted soapsuds for whipped cream on Kingo’s dessert; she had unbuttoned Solly’s braces while he dozed in the library, so that his trousers fell down when he stood up; and she had glued together the pages of The Times so that it could not be opened. By hazard the prince himself had been the first to pick up the newspaper, and as he fumbled with the pages there had been a moment of suspense when everyone wondered how he would take it—for though the heir to the throne loved practical jokes, he was never the victim—but then he began to chuckle as he realized what had happened, and the others all laughed uproariously, from relief as much as amusement.
The prince had left, and Hugh Pilaster had arrived; and then the trouble had started.
It was Solly’s idea to get Hugh invited here. Solly liked Hugh. Maisie could not think of a plausible reason to object. It had been Solly who asked Hugh to dinner in London, too.
He had recovered his composure quickly enough, that evening, and had proved himself a perfectly eligible dinner guest. Perhaps his manners were not quite as refined as they might have been if he had spent the last six years in London drawing rooms instead of Boston warehouses, but his natural charm made up for any shortcomings. In the two days he had been at Kingsbridge he had entertained them all with tales of life in America, a place none of them had visited.
It was ironic that she should find Hugh’s manners a little rough. Six years