Beyond the Wild River Page 2

  She still felt shaken half an hour later when she was handed up out of the launch onto the deck of the Morgan-le-Fey, flinching as the last of the rockets blazed above her. They were amongst the last guests to arrive, doubtless gaining some mysterious advantage thereby, and the deck of the yacht was already thronged with people. The party goers were stylish, sleek and burnished like their vessels, and were putting on a fine show. Few of them were under forty, Evelyn decided, as she watched them mingling beneath the swaying shadows cast by rows of Chinese lanterns strung between mastheads, accepting drinks and exotic delicacies from servants who glided along the decks to serve them. And in the midst of them all a tall, broad-shouldered man was holding court. He caught sight of their party and beckoned them forward with a lordly gesture.

  So this was the Wizard—

  His real name was Jeremiah Merlin and he ran a powerful banking empire, Mr Larsen had explained to her. ‘A financial wizard of legendary status.’

  ‘Ha!’ her father had retorted. ‘As Beelzebub is legendary, I suppose. And his name’s a travesty.’

  ‘How so?’ she had asked.

  ‘The merlin is known as the dove falcon, my dear, but Jeb is more of a vulture, picking over the carcasses.’

  Larsen had laughed. ‘You’ll keep that view to yourself tonight, my friend.’

  ‘If I must.’

  And so it had been all civility and good breeding as their host greeted them. ‘Your first trip to America?’ he asked her, touching her hand briefly and turning back to her father before she could reply. ‘I hear your name mentioned a great deal these days, Mr Ballantyre—’ He let the sentence hang there, to become a question. ‘There are rumours—’ he prompted, his eyes, heavy lidded, shifting between the two men. Her father blandly remarked on the splendour of the yacht by way of response, a deflection which clearly displeased their host.

  ‘Rumours, Niels?’ she heard him murmur as they moved away, their place taken swiftly by a thin, anxious-looking man.

  ‘There are always rumours, my friend.’ Mr Larsen took her arm and guided them to a space beside the rail where a dark-skinned servant brought them drinks. Evelyn looked about her, at the almost theatrical swirl of people and lights, and he smiled at her expression. ‘Extraordinary, isn’t it? Two hundred and ten feet of white pine deck, mahogany fittings and yards of gleaming brass. Schooner rigged, of course’ – he glanced up at the masts – ‘although I’ve yet to see her under sail for more than half an hour; Jeb prefers a twelve-knot cruising speed and knows his engine can outstrip us all. Ten staterooms, I’m told, six bathrooms, a billiard room, a music room, library, and a deck large enough to hold a small orchestra, and still have room for dancing.’ He raised his cocktail glass to the light and showed her the etched design of a magician’s wand under an arc of stars, above the shield of the New York Yacht Club. He took a slow drink, looking at her father over the rim. ‘You’ll have to watch him, Charles.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Not a grain of compassion.’

  ‘I’m rather depending upon that.’ Evelyn looked up at his quiet words and saw that he was watching Mr Merlin, who had brushed aside the supplicant who had taken their place, and was shaking another’s hand. ‘His father was a butcher from Carlisle. Did you know?’ And he turned back to lean over the rail in contemplation of the lake water.

  The rest of the evening was a deadening succession of polite encounters with business associates of Mr Larsen’s. To her surprise, many of them knew her father, or at least recognised his name, and she was impressed by the deference and respect they showed him, while he, urbane and assured as ever, politely introduced her to them, his hand under her elbow. And with the same fixed smile she repeated the same answers to the same questions, and found them almost invariably ignored.

  At one point a small round man shot across the deck to join them. ‘Ballantyre! What the devil brings you here?’ A large diamond on his little finger caught the lantern light.

  ‘Fraser. Your servant,’ he said, and presented the man to Evelyn as another business associate, originally from Perth, with whom he shared common interests on both sides of the Atlantic.

  Evelyn found herself briefly under scrutiny, before being asked again if this was her first visit to America, then he too turned back to her father. ‘What did you say brings you here, Charles?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  The little man chuckled, looking shrewdly at Mr Larsen, then back at her father. ‘There are rumours, you know.’

  ‘I’ve just been told there are always rumours,’ her father replied.

  The little man searched his face again and then turned back to Evelyn. ‘I last saw your papa in an Edinburgh boardroom, young lady, with a bunch of hardened Calvinists who believe that the abuse and neglect of orphans achieve their redemption.’ He swung back to her father. ‘How did that matter resolve itself in the end? Did the governors suspend the warden?’

  ‘He’ll stand trial for the boy’s murder.’

  Her father’s face had hardened and the little man whistled. ‘Will he, by God! I thought they’d find a way to cover the whole thing up.’

  ‘They tried.’

  Evelyn looked across at her father and felt that familiar flutter of confusion and pain. The world thought well of Charles Ballantyre, seeing in him a man of unshakeable integrity, a champion of penal reform, a generous benefactor who used his money and his influence to further just causes. This much she knew.

  She dropped her eyes to avoid his.

  Once, she too had thought well of him—

  Things used to be so different between them, easy with understanding, and bound by an unquestioning love. As a child she would kneel on the cushioned seat in the window of the music room at Ballantyre House, palms pressed to breath-steamed glass, and watch for him on days when he was due back. And seeing him, she would run out onto the gravelled drive, curls a-tumble, and he would dismount to sweep her off her feet, crushing her to him, or better still, he would lift her up in front of him, her short legs straddling Zeus, the great black stallion, as he held her tight. Later they would quarter the estate, stopping to talk to the lodge keepers or to the farmers, who would answer his enquiries in tones of respect and liking. And later still they would stroll together along the riverbank, through the scented evening, she skipping ahead or walking beside him, her hand in his. They would stop to watch the fish rise to kiss the water’s surface, and his eye would gleam in anticipation of the next day’s sport, pointing out the riffles which might hold promise. And as the heron lifted from the reeds to flap slowly homeward he would talk to her – describing how other children lived, how many went to bed hungry, had no schooling, no chance in the world, explaining that money and influence were a privilege and should be used to bring hope, and she would listen and nod, striving to understand the complexities of a world from which his devotion protected her.

  And sometimes she would ask him about James Douglas—

  The little Scotsman soon made his excuses, and as they watched him stroll off down the deck and inveigle himself into another group of guests, Mr Larsen quietly remarked, ‘Testing the water,’ and her father nodded.

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, frustrated by their habit of communicating by glances and cryptic phrases, which left her in ignorance.

  ‘Not now, my dear,’ her father murmured and turned aside, tapping his cigar into an ashtray marked with the yacht’s insignia. Mr Larsen did not hear him, however, and explained in a low voice that there had been a strike at the factory Fraser owned in upper New York state, and several strikers had been badly beaten. One subsequently died, and the incident had caused a political furore; Fraser’s inhuman work practises had been exposed, and his handling of the matter was widely condemned.

  She watched as the little man successfully infiltrated himself into the centre of the group. ‘He seems to have been forgiven,’ she remarked.

  ‘Appearances deceive, my dear,’ her father murmured, following the
direction of her gaze. ‘And memories are long.’

  ‘Could he not have prevented it?’ The man was now slapping another on the back and laughing rather loudly.

  ‘He was in Leith receiving honours for his work in the slums,’ he replied, his tone dry.

  ‘And returned here to newspapers crying hypocrite,’ Mr Larsen added.

  The word crackled in the air and she caught her father’s swift glance at her before dropping her eyes to her lap, and she began playing with her buttoned glove. But it hung there between them like a poison gas, evoking that dreadful scene in her father’s study back in Edinburgh.

  A month earlier

  ‘And who was the woman you were with?’ Pink-faced, she had tried attack as a means of defence.

  ‘That does not concern you.’

  ‘Not someone you’d think of bringing home to tea?’

  ‘No, shrew.’ His eye had gleamed momentarily. ‘But then I’m not a nineteen-year-old girl with a reputation to lose, prey to any sort of chancer. And it isn’t my conduct …’

  ‘A chancer? Patrick was not after money!’

  ‘He was, my dear. One way or another.’

  ‘No!’

  He had stood opposite her, the oak desk dividing them, grim faced and sardonic, but resentment had made her reckless. ‘And I suppose your friend was not? After money.’ His eyebrows had shot up and she had sensed an advantage. ‘It’s the hypocrisy, Papa.’

  It was as if she had struck him. He had blanched, his face rigid, and there had followed an awful silence while they stared at each other across an abyss that was wider than either wanted to acknowledge. Then his features had twisted in an odd expression. ‘Yes, but I’m beyond redemption. You, child, are not.’

  The evening on the yacht ended with a concert held, she decided, so that Mr Merlin could substantiate the claim that his deck could accommodate an orchestra. She said as much in low tones to Mr Larsen, who chuckled and squeezed her hand while the voluptuous strains of a Strauss waltz filled the air. Some couples were dancing – how extraordinary, she thought, that these expensive-looking people could dance and laugh while, if what Mr Larsen had told her was true, their fortunes were vanishing into smoke. Was it all a charade, and, if so, to what purpose? Defiance or delusion? Or did they feel protected against disaster, here at the Wizard’s court?

  Her father had abandoned them some time ago but she glimpsed him now, in the shadows of a bulkhead, talking to their host. He was half-hidden from view, and so did not see the manservant who approached, bearing a silver salver. He addressed Mr Larsen.

  ‘A telegram, sir, for Mr Ballantyre, sent over from the Valkyrie.’

  Her father rejoined them a moment later, and Mr Larsen gestured to the telegram. He took it up, read it, frowned, and then passed it to Mr Larsen, who absorbed the contents and silently passed it back.

  She felt a quiver of fear as their eyes met and held. ‘What is it, Papa?’

  ‘Just business, my dear,’ he replied softly, before reading it again, and then folding it thoughtfully, sharpening the crease between forefinger and thumb, his gaze unfocussed. A moment later, when the music stopped, he leant forward to address Mr Larsen. ‘We must find the man before someone else does. There’s too much at stake.’

  ‘But where to look—?’

  ‘Kershaw will find him, if anyone can.’

  ‘And you trust him?’

  ‘Best agent I ever had.’

  Evelyn listened as they began to discuss contracts and agreements, mineral rights, and claim registration – understanding not a word of it.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ her father concluded, his face hawkish and grim. ‘And I smell a swindle.’

  And so the evening was ruined, and all Evelyn could do was listen in dismay as they arranged matters between them. Business, man’s work. And on the launch back to the Valkyrie she knew she had been forgotten. There was an early train, she heard Mr Larsen tell her father, which would take Charles to a port from where he could pick up a lake steamer and arrive in Port Arthur a few days ahead of the yacht in order to assess for himself how matters stood.

  She stepped out of the launch, tight lipped, and turned to go below, and only then did her father seem to become aware of her. He caught her arm, pulling her round to face him, and lifted her chin with a forefinger.

  ‘It can’t be helped, my dear,’ he said, demanding eye contact.

  ‘Can’t it?’

  He pulled a wry face. ‘No—’

  Mr Larsen looked on sympathetically. ‘We’ll manage just as well without him, I promise you, and I can spoil you without fear of paternal censure. And besides, your friends arrive in the morning.’

  ‘And once Clementina is here you won’t care a bit—’ She gave him a smile that was not a smile, released her arm from his grip, and went below.

  Chapter 2

  Closing the cabin door behind her, Evelyn leant against it a moment, and stared at her turned-down bed. A weary-looking girl rose from the chair, awaiting instruction, and Evelyn let her unhook the fastenings of the unfamiliar New York gown, and then dismissed her with a brief smile.

  Surely she could undress herself—

  Mr Larsen’s yacht was not as large or splendid as Mr Merlin’s, but he had seen to it that she had been provided with every luxury. Her cabin had a fitted dressing table, a neat affair of walnut with gleaming brass cockleshell handles, and she sat at it now and began pulling the pins from her hair and stared at herself. A pinched and petulant face stared back, and she ran her fingers through her hair, shaking it free, then began to brush, ignoring the stinging hotness behind her eyes, blaming the tears on the tangles.

  A slip of pink paper on a silver salver, that was all it had taken and he was away, leaving her behind, as incidental to his life here as she was at home, despite all his promises. She rose, washed quickly, and then climbed into the odd little box-bed and pulled the quilt up under her chin, but found there was little warmth in the silky fabric.

  After that afternoon in his Edinburgh study, he had forbidden her to leave the house unescorted. Alarmed by his manner, she had dared not disobey him while, behind the scenes, he had acted swiftly, not consulting her until all the arrangements had been in place.

  ‘You will accompany me to New York next month, my dear,’ he had announced over braised lamb a few days after the Incident, and she had looked up. ‘Once my business there is concluded we will travel by train and meet Mr Larsen in Chicago. He intends to join a flotilla of vessels going to the World Fair, and has invited us to stay on board his yacht. The world is going to Chicago, he tells me, and so we will go too.’ He had watched her as he refilled his glass, a hint of amusement playing around his lips as he registered her reaction, and he gestured to her neglected plate. ‘Not hungry?’

  She had begun cutting up her food, chewing it carefully, not meeting his eyes lest he saw the thrill of excitement running through her. At last, she would see something of the world beyond Ballantyre House and Edinburgh—

  And he was taking her with him, not leaving her behind. ‘When we have drunk our fill of those wonders,’ he continued, ‘we will sail north to Canada—’ She frowned, still chewing steadily. Her father had business interests in Canada, in the railways there, and so, she understood, did Mr Larsen.

  ‘— where we shall go fishing.’

  She had swallowed abruptly and stared at him. ‘Fishing?’

  ‘Fishing,’ he repeated, ‘in the world’s finest trout stream.’ His amusement was evident now as he returned her look, then reached out to spear a potato. ‘A fishing expedition, in fact. Tents, canoes, campfires and all. And if that sounds like dull stuff you will be able to complain about it to Clementina. She and George will join us in Chicago and sail north with us—’

  She looked back at him, aghast. ‘But – Clementina, in a tent?’

  For a second they had shared the thought of the elegant, and very feminine, Lady Clementina Melton living in a tent.

  He laughe
d. ‘George is at least thrilled at the prospect and has succeeded in convincing Clementina that she will enjoy herself. Her presence will not only give you company but will also lend you respectability – a commodity you apparently hold in some contempt.’ It was the closest he had come to mentioning the Incident again, and she had lifted her chin defiantly, encountering a look of grim humour. ‘If it’s excitement you were looking for, my dear, you’ll find more of it on the Nipigon than behind a hedge in the West Gardens.’

  After that it had been all bustle and haste to get prepared and she had hardly seen him. It had been a rough ocean crossing, marred for her by seasickness, but he had come to see her each day, and stood over her: ‘Poor child, no sea legs yet?’ and by the time she had gained them the skyline of New York had come into view.

  From there, they had come here.

  And tomorrow, he would be gone again—

  She clasped her hands behind her head and stared bleakly up at the plastered ceiling of her cabin. It seemed now that it had always been like that. Business had become king, and was an unforgiving ruler. It had been the same in New York where, upon arrival, she had found herself passed into the care of the wife of one of her father’s associates while he had disappeared to execute his business in the city. This had clearly been organised in advance, and the fact that he had omitted to tell her had fuelled her resentment.

  Her chaperone, a rather overblown woman of forty, had whisked her away, clucking with disapproval over her appearance, and taken her on a whirlwind shopping expedition to redress the shortcomings of her wardrobe. Evelyn had been agog as she surveyed the contents of the glittering emporia, the trim salesgirls and the elegant customers, and her companion had encouraged her to spend her father’s money but had done so with such a pushy, unwanted, familiarity that she had resisted from sheer perversity.

  Now she wished that she had been more reckless—

  Perhaps an outrageous bill would have secured his attention, as her altered appearance and increasing frustration clearly had not. Her newly styled hair and modish dress had done no more than elicit a ‘Very pretty, my dear’ – and he had remained quite oblivious to her, as he was to anything beyond his own world. A world of business. A man’s world.