London - Edward Rutherfurd [493]
Eugene was just about to thank him politely for this information when Fleming, with a look of immense satisfaction, continued: “I have some news for you now, Eugene. Thanks to an old friend of mine, I have been able to secure you a position.” He paused for what was, to him, a delicious moment. “A position, Eugene, in the Bank of England.”
“The Bank?”
“Yes.” He smiled happily. “The Bank itself.” He even laughed with delight at what he had been able to do for his godson. “Security for life, Eugene!”
Eugene had to think quickly what he should say. He was not a brilliant young man, but he was quite ambitious and, like his Huguenot forebears, very persistent. He had sensed quickly that his godfather’s idea of a good position and his own were not the same. “If I joined the Bank of England,” he asked cautiously, “how well could I do?”
“Oh, quite well. As a senior man you could live . . .” Fleming spread his hands to indicate that his own circumstances were not to be sneezed at.
“The trouble is, sir,” Eugene gently began, “I had something else in mind. I have come to make my fortune.”
“Your fortune, Penny? You are sure of this?”
“Yes. I am.”
“Ah.” Jeremy Fleming fell silent for a time.
As they walked home, Eugene was afraid that Fleming had been offended, but that evening, over a supper of pickled herrings, the older man calmly enquired: “Was it stockbroking, or one of the private banks you had in mind?”
What followed surprised Eugene even more. In his quiet way, Fleming seemed almost pleased by his godson’s initiative, and a new look, quite a sharp one, came into his eyes as he discussed the merits and drawbacks of the various firms.
“Amongst the stockbrokers, on the whole, I think the Quaker houses are the soundest, but I don’t suppose you’d care to become a Quaker. As for the private banks, there’s Baring’s of course – very grand, but as you’ve no great connections that mightn’t do. Rothschild’s all family. What I really think you need is a go-ahead little house, active in all the new markets.” He tapped his fingers on the table thoughtfully. “Give me a day or two to ask around. In the meantime, young man,” he remarked with a briskness that was entirely new, “no offence, but you don’t know much.”
Fleming taught Eugene all the following day; and the next, and the one after. He explained the operation of the markets, the politics of the City and its conventions. Spicing his conversation with all the liveliest gossip of the last forty years, he outlined the financial virtues to be cultivated and described in detail all the meanest of the dealers’ tricks with a quiet relish. At the end of the third day, Eugene ventured to say: “I’m surprised, godfather, that you never went into business for yourself.”
Fleming gave a little smile. “I dreamed of it once, Eugene.”
“But you did not do so?”
“No.” And here Fleming sighed. “Want of courage, Eugene,” he confessed regretfully. Then he brightened. “By the way, you have an interview tomorrow.”
Meredith’s Bank was a tall brick house set in a narrow courtyard, reached by a little lane off Cornhill. It was typical of many small city firms of its day in that while the building itself was severely Georgian, the arrangements within it were still essentially medieval. On the ground floor was the counting-house, a large room, fitted with a counter and several desks and high stools for the clerks. Above this level lived not only Mr Meredith and his family, but the junior clerks, just like apprentices. In a comfortable parlour off the first landing Eugene found himself sitting opposite a handsome gentleman in his thirties, who introduced himself as Mr Meredith, and a much older gentleman in a wing chair, who seemed to be watching the proceedings as if it were some kind of sporting event.
Meredith was careful to put Eugene at his ease, talking pleasantly about his business before he asked about his family and name. When Penny explained