Page 69 of The Affairs of Ashmore Castle (Ashmore Castle #2)

Cowling seemed relieved to be rescued. ‘Aye, brass tacks, that’s the ticket!

Well now, it seems Harvey’s jam is doing very well – a thriving business, though I should have to make a trip out to the factory and see for myself, have a look over the ground plans, and the books.

And talk to this Charles Logan of yours.

Vogel thinks he’s a sound chap, energetic and full of ideas.

As to the basic plan, it seems a good ’un.

Jam in cans for the export market. I like the scope it opens up – the army, the navy, the colonies.

Army barracks in India. Hospitals. Big schools.

Local government. The sky’s the limit, lad, that’s what I like about it.

Think big! And get in first! You want the name Harvey’s to spring to mind whenever anyone mentions jam.

And that’s anywhere in the world, mind you!

Think of a rancher in South America or an explorer in darkest Africa going to buy jam for their trip: you want ’em to be saying, “And I’ll have a tin of Harvey’s to take with me,” Not jam, note, but Harvey’s. ’

He spoke with such enthusiasm that for a moment Giles was seduced, and found himself feeling excited about the prospects.

Expand all over the world! Harvey’s jam everywhere!

The sailors on a British warship eyeing the Harvey’s tin with affection as it was opened for breakfast!

Indian clerks in a Bombay government office spreading Harvey’s strawberry on their canteen toast!

A tin of Harvey’s in the covered wagon rattling behind the cowboys driving herds across America!

And why stop at jam? They did mincemeat – why not Christmas puddings?

They did lemonade – why not ginger beer?

Cakes, biscuits, tinned food of all sorts – there was no limit to what they could sell, and where.

‘By Jove!’ he exclaimed.

‘Aye, you see it now,’ Cowling said, smiling.

‘Vogel’s a good chap, but not inspirational – not that you’d want that in a banker.

But now you’ve seen it, you’ll be thinking twice about letting anyone else in on it.

I couldn’t understand why you didn’t want to use your own capital, and keep all the profits to yourself.

But I’ll tell you what, lad – my lord, I should say – if you want to change your mind now, there’ll be no hard feelings, our wives being best of friends and all that.

I shan’t hold it against you, though I think it’s a grand opportunity. ’

The excitement faded. Of course, it was the idea of the wide world that had fired him up: geography, not commerce. The question of whether the world got its jam from him or someone else interested him not at all.

‘I haven’t changed my mind,’ he said. ‘I understand that it’s a good investment, in business terms, but I can’t commit my capital when I need it for other things – things that are closer to my heart.

And frankly, Mr Cowling, I would like to have your expertise and enthusiasm behind it.

You are the sort of man who would get things moving and make a success of them.

And if you make a handsome profit in the process – well, that’s only fair. ’

Cowling was eyeing him during this speech as if trying to get to the bottom of his character.

‘Well,’ he said, after a pause for thought, ‘let’s put things in train and see where we get.

Financial details I can discuss with Vogel – he’ll see you straight.

But I’m known throughout the land for fair dealing, so you needn’t hold back from trusting me.

And you’ve come to the right man. I don’t know if Nina’s mentioned it, but I’ve been involved in building an extension to the factory in Market Harborough, all new machinery for making art-silk socks.

So I know a bit about setting up for a new product, getting the machinery in, training the workers, sorting out the market and the transport and so on. ’

‘No, Nina didn’t mention it,’ he said painfully. ‘But I’ve hardly spoken to her.’

In Berkeley Square, Kitty and Nina were also talking about jam. ‘Giles thinks there’s no one better to approach than your Mr Cowling,’ said Kitty. ‘And if he does decide to go along with it, it will bring our two families closer. I’d love that.’

‘He’s a very good businessman,’ Nina said. ‘Everyone says so.’

‘And if it all goes as Vogel seems to think it will, it will make us very rich. That will be nice. I should like Giles to be able to do all the things about the estate he wants to do. Not that Harvey’s isn’t doing very well already.

I was surprised at how much money it makes.

I’m glad,’ she added, ‘that I’ve been able to do that for him – bring him my money.

All those years, when Mama kept telling me I was an heiress, I never really thought what it meant.

And of course, I never had the spending of it.

Now it’s all Giles’s. It makes me happy to think that I’ve helped him. ’

She was staring away across the gardens as she spoke, and Nina looked at her, detecting a hint of wistfulness in the tone. ‘You are happy, aren’t you?’ she asked at last. ‘It’s what you wanted – to be married to Giles, and have a child.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Kitty, eyes on the horizon.

‘Of course I’m happy. It’s just – it’s not what we imagined, is it?

I suppose it never is. We tell ourselves stories .

. . What exactly does “happy ever after” mean, anyway?

’ After a pause, she added, ‘You’re happy too, aren’t you?

With – your Joseph.’ She made herself use the name, though Nina never seemed to.

Nina thought of the terrible row over riding cross-saddle, and the question mark that still hung over whether she’d be allowed to ride again, or hunt.

Getting away had pushed the problem aside, and Mr Cowling had been genial and kind in London, and hadn’t so much as hinted at the past upset. What would happen when they went home?

Kitty might think the jam scheme would bring their families closer, but they were still separated by distance both literal and social.

Day by day, they could not be friends, as Nina had been with Bobby Wharfedale.

She found she could not tell Kitty about the quarrel. She wanted to, but she couldn’t.

She glanced down into the pram, at little Louis, who had woken up, but was still drowsy, gazing up contentedly at the fringe of the hood as it shook with their movement.

If she had a baby, everything might be different.

But there was no baby – and what if there never was?

She would have to find something else to occupy her mind.

Keeping house and giving dinners would not be enough.

If Kitty lived as close as Bobby Wharfedale, she might have been able to talk to her about it all, but she could not unburden to a long-distance friend.

In another week, they would be back to writing letters.

‘Yes, I’m happy,’ she said. ‘As you said, it’s not what we expected. But, then, I’m not sure I expected anything in particular.’

Except that if Giles had not needed money, they might have married, and lived a life of travel and adventure.

He would not have wanted to stay in England, she knew that.

Digging in Egypt, first off – but what else?

Africa? India? It wouldn’t have mattered where, because they would have been together, sharing minds . . .

But she mustn’t think like that, especially with Kitty walking right beside her. She shook the thoughts from her mind, angry with herself. ‘It’s lovely that you brought your baby to London with you,’ she said, for something to say.

‘I couldn’t bear to be parted from him,’ Kitty said. ‘I can’t understand how Linda can care so little for hers. She never minds leaving them. I think she’s almost glad to.’

‘Some people are not motherly by nature,’ Nina offered.

They had reached the gate, and passed through onto the pavement. Nina looked round vaguely for Trump and saw him a little way off, nose deep in a tuft of grass.

‘And they do have terrible money troubles, Linda and Gerald. I don’t know if you knew, but Giles’s father used to pay her an allowance, which stopped when he died.

She keeps asking Giles to restore it, but he feels it’s her husband’s duty to support her.

He has to find dowries for Rachel and Alice, and that’s worry enough, on top of bringing the estate back into order. ’

They had to cross the road to get back to the house, and it was busy with traffic. They paused at the kerb. Trump caught them up and stood at Nina’s heel. ‘Oh, look,’ she said, ‘there’s another motor-car. That’s the third one I’ve seen this week.’

‘They’re dreadfully noisy,’ Kitty said. ‘And the smell is horrid.’

‘But it must be fun to ride in one. I’d like to try.’

‘Every time I see one, I think about poor Richard’s accident. He almost died, you know. And it changed him.’

‘Has he—?’ Nina began. But at that moment, the motor-car they were watching made a tremendous noise – back-firing, she thought it was called.

At any rate, it was a noise like a gun shot, or a firework exploding, made just as it was passing a horse-drawn gig.

The horse was so startled, it went up in the air on its hind legs, and then, in a panic to get away, dragged the gig round and mounted the pavement.

The motor-car backfired again: the horse, checked by its driver, and blocked by the perambulator, reared again in terror.