A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [79]
He was going to America at a time of crisis. In the early 1870s several of the banks had made large loans on the security of speculative railway stocks, and when railway construction ran into trouble in the middle of 1873 the banks started to look shaky. A few days ago Jay Cooke & Co., the agents of the American government, had gone bust, dragging the First National Bank of Washington down with them; and the news had reached London the same day via the transatlantic telegraph cable. Now five New York banks had suspended business, including the Union Trust Company—a major bank—and the old-established Mechanics’ Banking Association. The Stock Exchange had closed its doors. Businesses would fall, thousands of people would be thrown out of work, trade would suffer, and Pilasters’ American operation would get smaller and more cautious—so that it would be harder for Hugh to make his mark.
So far the crisis had had little impact in London. The bank rate had gone up a point, to four percent, and a small London bank with close American links had failed, but there was no panic. All the same, old Seth insisted there was trouble ahead. He was quite weak now. He had moved into Augusta’s house and spent most days in bed. But he stubbornly refused to resign until he had steered Pilasters through the storm.
Hugh began to fold his clothes. The bank had paid for two new suits: he had a suspicion his mother had persuaded his grandfather to authorize that. Old Seth was as tight-fisted as the rest of the Pilasters but he had a soft spot for Hugh’s mother; in fact it was the small allowance Seth gave her that she had been living on all these years.
Mother had also insisted Hugh be allowed a few weeks off before leaving, to give him more time to get ready and say his good-byes. She had not seen much of him since he had gone to work at the bank—he could not afford the train fare to Folkestone very often—and she wanted to have some time with him before he left the country. They had spent most of August here, at the seaside, while Augusta and her family had been on holiday in Scotland. Now the holidays were over and it was time to leave, and Hugh was saying good-bye to his mother.
While he was thinking about her she came into the room. She was in her eighth year of widowhood but she still wore black. She did not seem to want to marry again, although she easily could have—she was still beautiful, with serene gray eyes and thick blond hair.
He knew she was sad that she would not see him for years. But she had not spoken of her sadness: rather, she shared his excitement and trepidation at the challenge of a new country.
“It’s almost bedtime, Dorothy,” she said. “Go and put on your nightdress.” As soon as Dotty was out of the room, Mother began to refold Hugh’s shirts.
He wanted to talk to her about Maisie, but he felt shy. Augusta had written to her, he knew. She might also have heard from other family members, or even seen them on one of her rare shopping trips to London. The story she had heard might be a long way from the truth. After a moment he said: “Mother …”
“What is it, dear?”
“Aunt Augusta doesn’t always say quite what is true.”
“No need to be so polite,” she said with a bitter smile. “Augusta has been telling lies about your father for years.”
Hugh was startled by her frankness. “Do you think it was she who told Florence Stalworthy’s parents that he was a gambler?”
“I’m quite sure of it, unfortunately.”
“Why is she this way?”
His mother put down the shirt she was folding and thought for a minute. “Augusta was a very beautiful girl,” she said. “Her family worshiped at Kensington Methodist Hall, which is how we knew them. She was an only child, willful and spoiled. Her parents were nothing special: her father was a shop assistant who had