Chapter One

Theo Hossbach lay on a cot in a military hospital in Cambrai. All of him was fine except for the last two joints on the ring finger of his left hand. He wouldn't see those again until and unless what the Resurrection of the Flesh preachers liked to talk about turned out to be the straight goods. Theo doubted it--Theo doubted almost everything people in authority said--but you never could tell.

One thing Theo didn't doubt was that he was lucky to be there, or anywhere. Along with the commander and driver, he'd bailed out of a burning Panzer II. They'd all run for some bushes a couple of hundred meters away. He'd made it. Ludwig and Fritz hadn't. It was about that simple.

The bullet that amputated those last two joints came later. He didn't know whether it was aimed at him in particular or just one of the random bullets always flying around a battlefield. The one by Beauvais seemed to have had more of them than most. Theo might have been prejudiced; he'd never had to bail out of a panzer before.

Or he might not have been. The French and English had stopped the Wehrmacht's drive at Beauvais, and it hadn't got started again. This made two wars in a row where the Schlieffen Plan didn't quite work. Hitler's generals came closer to pulling it off than the Kaiser's had, but what was that worth?

A nurse came by. She took his temperature. "Normal. Very good," she said as she wrote it down. "Do you need another pain pill?"

"Yes, please," he answered. Those two missing joints seemed to hurt worse than the stub he had left. Phantom pain, the doctor who cleaned up the wound called it. He could afford to dismiss it like that; it wasn't his hand.

"Here." The nurse gave Theo the pill, watched while he swallowed it, and wrote that down, too. He figured it was codeine; it made him a little woozy, and it constipated him. It also left him less interested in the nurse, who wasn't bad looking, than he would have been if he weren't taking them every four to six hours. But it pushed away the pain, both real and phantom.

Most of the soldiers in the ward with him had nastier wounds. Most, but not all: the fellow two beds down wore a cast on his ankle because he'd tripped over his own feet and broken it. "I wasn't even drunk," he complained to anyone who'd listen. "Just fucking clumsy."

Woozy turned to drowsy. Theo was dozing when hearing his own name brought him back to himself. The nurse was leading a captain over to his cot. The pink Waffenfarbe on the man's Totenkopf collar patches and edging his shoulder straps said he was a panzer man, too. "You are, uh, Theodor Hossbach?" he said.

"Theodosios Hossbach, sir," Theo said resignedly. How was he supposed to explain that his father had been slogging through a translation of Gibbon's The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at just the wrong time?

He got the panzer captain's attention, anyhow. "Theodosios? Well, well. No wonder you go by Theo."

"No wonder at all, sir," Theo agreed.

"You are a radio operator. You are familiar with the operation of the Fu5 radio set?"

"Yes, sir." Theo knew he still sounded resigned. Every panzer in the Wehrmacht used the Fu5 except commanders' vehicles, which carried the longer-range Fu10. If he was a panzer radioman, he'd damn well better know how to use the standard set. A pfennig's worth of thought . . . was evidently too much to hope for.

Then the captain got to the point: "Can you return to duty? A radio operator in a Panzer II is not required to do...

Chapter One

Alone, with Norah Jones whispering through the iPod, Laurel transformed a panel of fondant into a swatch of elegant, edible lace. She didn’t hear the music, used it more to fill the air than as entertainment while she painstakingly pieced the completed panel onto the second tier of four.

She stepped back to eye the results, to circle, to search for flaws. Vows’ clients expected perfect, and that’s exactly what she intended to deliver. Satisfied, she nodded, and picked up a bottle of water to sip while she stretched her back.

“Two down, two to go.”

She glanced toward the board where she’d pinned various samples of antique lace, and the final sketched design for the cake Friday evening’s bride had approved.

She had three more designs to complete: two for Saturday, one for Sunday—but that was nothing new. June at Vows, the wedding and event business she ran with her friends, was prime time.

In a handful of years, they’d turned an idea into a thriving enterprise. Sometimes just a little too thriving, she mused, which was why she was making fondant lace at nearly one in the morning.

It was a very good thing, she decided. She loved the work.

They all had their passions. Emma had the flowers, Mac the photography, Parker the details. And she had the cakes. And the pastries, she thought, and the chocolates. But the cakes stood as the crowning touch.

She got back to it, began to roll out the next panel. Following habit, she’d clipped her sunny blond hair up and back out of her way. Cornstarch dusted the baker’s apron she wore over cotton pants and tee, and the slide-on kitchen shoes kept her feet as comfortable as possible after hours of standing. Her hands, strong from years of kneading, rolling, lifting, were capable and quick. As she began the next pattern, her sharp-featured, angular face set in serious lines.

Perfection wasn’t simply a goal when it came to her art. For Icing at Vows it was a necessity. The wedding cake was more than baking and piping, sugar paste and filling. Just as the wedding photos Mac took were more than pictures, and the arrangements and bouquets Emma created more than flowers. The details and schedules and wishes Parker put together were, in the end, bigger than the sum of their parts.

Together, the elements became a once-in-a-lifetime event, and the celebration of the journey two people chose to make together.

Romantic, certainly, and Laurel believed in romance. In theory, anyway. More, she believed in symbols and celebrations. And in a really fabulous cake.

Her expression softened into pleasure as she completed the third tier, and her deep blue eyes warmed as she glanced over to see Parker hovering in the doorway.

“Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Details.” Parker circled a finger over her own head. “Couldn’t settle. How long have you been at this tonight?”

“Awhile. I need to finish it so it can set overnight. Plus I have the two Saturday cakes to assemble and decorate tomorrow.”

“Want company?”

They knew each other well enough that it was understood if Laurel said no, there’d be no offense. And often, when deep in work, no was the answer.

“Sure.”

“I love the design.” Parker, as Laurel had, circled the cake. “The delicacy of the white on white, the interest of the different heights of each tier—and the intricacy of each. They really do look like different panels of lace. Old-fashioned, vintage, that’s our bride’s theme. You’ve nailed it with this.”

“We’re going to do pale blue ribbon around the pedestal,” Laurel said as she started on the next panel. “And Emma’s going to scatter white rose petals at the base. It’s going to be a winner.”

“The bride’s been good to work with.”

Comfortable in her pajamas, her long brown hair loose rather than in its work mode of sleek tail or smooth chignon, Parker put on the kettle for tea. One of the perks of running the business out of her home, and of having Laurel living there—with Emma and Parker right on the estate as well—were these late-night visits.

“She knows her mind,” Laurel commented, choosing a tool to scallop the edges of the panel. “But she’s open to suggestion, and so far hasn’t been insane. If she makes it through the next twenty-four that way, she’ll definitely earn Vows’ coveted Good Bride status.”

“They looked happy and relaxed tonight at rehearsal, and that’s a good sign.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Laurel continued the pattern with precisely placed eyelets and dots. “So, again, why aren’t you in bed?”

Parker sighed as she heated a little teapot. “I think I was having a moment. I was unwinding with a glass of wine out on my terrace. I could see Mac’s place, and Emma’s. The lights were on in both houses, and I could smell the gardens. It was so quiet, so pretty. The lights went off —Emma’s first, and a little while after, Mac’s. I thought how we’re planning Mac’s wedding, and that Emma just got engaged. And all the times we played Wedding Day, the four of us, when we were kids. Now it’s real. I sat there in the quiet and the dark, and found myself wishing my parents could be here to see it. To see what we’ve done here, and who we are now. I got stuck.” She paused to measure out tea. “Between being sad they’re gone and being happy because I know they’d be proud of me. Of us.”

“I think about them a lot. We all do.” Laurel continued to work. “Because they were such an essential part of our lives, and because there are so many memories of them here. So I know what you mean by being stuck.”

“They’d get a kick out of Mac and Carter, out of Emma and Jack, wouldn’t they?”

“Yeah, they would. And what we’ve done here, Parker? It rocks. They’d get a kick out of that, too.”

“I’m lucky you were up working.” Parker poured hot water into the pot. “You’ve settled me down.”

“Here to serve. I’ll tell you who else is lucky, and that’s Friday’s bride. Because this cake?” She blew stray hair out of her eyes as she nodded smugly. “It kicks major ass. And when I do the crown, angels will weep with joy.”

Parker set the pot aside to steep. “Really, Laurel, you need to take more pride in your work.”

Laurel grinned. “Screw the tea. I’m nearly done here. Pour me a glass of wine.”

* * *

In the morning, after a solid six hours’ sleep, Laurel got in a quick session at the gym before dressing for the workday. She’d be chained in her kitchen for the bulk of it, but before that routine began, there was the summit meeting that prefaced every event.

Laurel dashed downstairs from her third-floor wing to the main level of the sprawling house, and back to the family kitchen where Mrs. Grady was putting a fruit platter together.

“Morning, Mrs. G.”

Mrs. Grady arched her eyebrows. “You look feisty.”

“Feel feisty. Feel righteous.” Laurel fisted both hands, flexed her muscles. “Want coffee. Much.”

“Parker’s taken the coffee up already. You can take this fruit, and the pastries. Eat some of that fruit. A day shouldn’t start with a Danish.”

“Yes, ma’am. Anyone else here yet?”

“Not yet, but I saw Jack’s truck leave a bit ago, and I expect Carter will be along giving me the puppy eyes in hopes of a decent breakfast.”

“I’ll get out of the way.” Laurel grabbed the platters, balancing them with the expertise of the waitress she’d been once upon a time.

She carried them up to the library, which now served as Vows’ conference room. Parker sat at the big table, with the coffee service on the breakfront. Her BlackBerry, as always, remained at easy reach. The sleek ponytail left her face unframed, and the crisp white shirt transmitted business mode as she sipped coffee and studied data on her laptop with midnight blue eyes Laurel knew missed nothing.

“Provisions,” Laurel announced. She set the trays down, then tucked her chin-length swing of hair behind her ears before she obeyed Mrs. Grady and fixed herself a little bowl of berries. “Missed you in the gym this morning. What time did you get up?”

“Six, which was a good thing, since Saturday afternoon’s bride called just after seven. Her father tripped over the cat and may have broken his nose.”

“Uh-oh.”

“She’s worried about him, but nearly equally worried about how he’s going to look for the wedding, and in the photographs. I’m going to call the makeup artist to see what she thinks can be done.”

“Sorry about the FOB’s bad luck, but if that’s the biggest problem this weekend, we’re in good shape.”

Parker shot out a finger. “Don’t jinx it.”

Mac strolled in, long and lean in jeans and a black T-shirt. “Hello, pals of mine.”

Laurel squinted at her friend’s easy smile and slumberous green eyes. “You had morning sex.”

“I had stupendous morning sex, thank you.” Mac poured herself coffee, grabbed a muffin. “And you?”

“Bitch.”

With a laugh, Mac dropped down in her chair, stretched out her legs. “I’ll take my morning exercise over your treadmill and Bowflex.”

“Mean, nasty bitch,” Laurel said and popped a raspberry.

“I love summer when the love of my life doesn’t have to get up and out early to enlighten young minds.” She opened her own laptop. “Now I’m primed, in all possible ways, for business.”

“Saturday afternoon’s FOB may have broken his nose,” Parker told her.

“Bummer.” Mac’s brow creased. “I can do a lot with Photoshop if they want me to—but it’s kind of a cheat. What is, is—and it makes an amusing memory. In my opinion.”

“We’ll see what the bride’s opinion is once he gets back from the doctor.” Parker glanced over as Emma rushed in.

“I’m not late. There are twenty seconds left.” Black curls bouncing, she scooted to the coffee station. “I fell back to sleep. After.”

“Oh, I hate you, too,” Laurel muttered. “We need a new rule. No bragging about sex at business meetings when half of us aren’t getting any.”

“Seconded,” Parker said immediately.

“Aww.” Laughing, Emma scooped some fruit into a bowl.

“Saturday afternoon’s FOB may have a broken nose.”

“Aww,” Emma repeated, with genuine concern at Mac’s announcement.

“We’ll deal with it when we have more details, but however it turns out, it really falls to Mac and me. I’ll keep you updated,” Parker said to Mac. “Tonight’s event. All out-of-town attendants, relatives, and guests have arrived. The bride, the MOB, and the attendants are due here at three for hair and makeup. The MOG has her own salon date and is due by four, with the FOG. FOB will arrive with his daughter. We’ll keep him happy and occupied until it’s time for the formal shots that include him. Mac?”

“The bride’s dress is a beaut. Vintage romance. I’ll be playing that up.”

As Mac outlined her plans and timetable, Laurel rose for a second cup of coffee. She made notes here and there, continued to do so when Emma took over. As the bulk of Laurel’s job was complete, she’d fill in when and where she was needed.

It was a routine they’d perfected since Vows had gone from concept to reality.

“Laurel,” Parker said.

“The cake’s finished—and a wowzer. It’s heavy, so I’ll need help from the subs transferring it to reception, but the design doesn’t require any on-site assembly. I’ll need you to do the ribbon and white rose petals, Emma, once it’s transferred, but that’s it until it’s time to serve. They opted against a groom’s cake, and went for a selection of mini pastries and heart-shaped chocolates. They’re done, too, and we’ll serve them on white china lined with lace doilies to mirror the design of the cake. The cake table linen is pale blue, eyelet lace. Cake knife and server, provided by the B and G. They were her grandmother’s so we’ll keep our eye on them.

“I’m going to be working on Saturday’s cakes most of today, but should be freed up by four if anyone needs me. During the last set, the subs will put leftover cake in the take-away boxes and tie them with blue ribbon we’ve had engraved with the B and G’s names, and the date. Same goes if there are any leftover chocolates or pastries. Mac, I’d like a picture of the cake for my files. I haven’t done this design before.”

“Check.”

“And Emma, I need the flowers for Saturday night’s cake. Can you drop them off to me when you come to dress today’s event?”

“No problem.”

“On the personal front?” Mac lifted a hand for attention. “No one’s mentioned that my mother’s latest wedding is tomorrow, in Italy. Which is, thankfully, many, many miles away from our happy home here in Greenwich, Connecticut. I got a call from her just after five this morning, as Linda doesn’t get the concept of time zones—and, well, let’s face it, doesn’t give a shit anyway.”

“Why didn’t you just let it ring?” Laurel demanded, even as Emma reached over to rub Mac’s leg in sympathy.

“Because she’d just keep calling back—and I’m trying to deal with her. On my terms for a change.” Mac raked her fingers through the bold red of her gamine cap of hair. “There were, as expected, tears and recriminations, as she’s decided she wants me there. As opposed to a week ago, when she didn’t. Since I have no intention of hopping on a plane, particularly when I have an event tonight, two tomorrow, and another on Sunday, to see her get married for the fourth time, she’s not speaking to me.”

“If only it would last.”

“Laurel,” Parker murmured.

“I mean it. You got to give her a piece of your mind,” she reminded Parker. “I didn’t. I can only let it fester.”

“Which I appreciate,” Mac said. “Sincerely. But as you can see, I’m not in a funk, I’m not swimming in guilt or even marginally pissed off . I think there’s an advantage to finding a guy who’s sensible, loving, and just really solid. An advantage over and above really terrific morning sex. Every one of you has been on my side when I’ve had to deal with Linda, you’ve tried to help me through her demands and basic insanity. I guess Carter just helped tip the scales, and now I can deal with it. I wanted to tell you.”

“I’d have morning sex with him myself, just for that.”

“Hands off , McBane. But I appreciate the sentiment. So.” She rose. “I want to get some work done before I need to focus on today’s event. I’ll swing by and get some shots of the cake.”

“Hang on, I’ll go with you.” Emma pushed up. “I’ll be back with the team shortly—and I’ll drop the flowers off for you, Laurel.”

When they’d gone, Laurel sat another moment. “She really meant it.”

“Yes, she really did.”

“And she’s right.” Laurel took a last moment to sit back and relax with her coffee. “Carter’s the one who turned the key in the lock. I wonder what it’s like to have a man who can do that, can help that way without pushing. Who can love you that way. I guess when it comes down to it, I envy her that even more than the sex.”

Shrugging, Laurel rose. “I’d better get to work.”

* * *

Laurel didn’t have time to think about men over the next couple of days. She didn’t have the time or the energy to think about love and romance. She might have been neck-deep in weddings, but that was business—and the business of weddings demanded focus and precision.

Her Antique Lace cake, which had taken her nearly three days to create, had its moment in the spotlight—before being disassembled and devoured. Saturday afternoon featured her whimsical Pastel Petals with its hundreds of embossed, gum-paste rose petals, and Saturday evening her Rose Garden, where tiers of bold red roses layered with tiers of vanilla-bean cake with silky buttercream frosting.

For Sunday afternoon’s smaller, more casual event, the bride had chosen Summer Berries. Laurel had done the baking, the filling, the assembly, and the basket-weave frosting. Now, even as the bride and groom exchanged vows on the terrace outside, Laurel completed the project by arranging the fresh fruit and mint leaves on the tiers.

Behind her, the subs completed table decorations for the wedding brunch. She wore a baker’s apron over a suit nearly the same color as the raspberries she selected.

Stepping back, she studied the lines and balance, then chose a bunch of champagne grapes to drape over a tier.

“Looks tasty.”

Her eyebrows drew together as she grouped stemmed cherries. Interruptions while she worked were common—but that didn’t mean she had to like them. Added to it, she hadn’t expected Parker’s brother to drop by during an event.

Then again, she reminded herself, he came and went as he pleased.

But when she spotted his hand reaching for one of her containers, she slapped it smartly away.

“Hands off .”

“Like you’re going to miss a couple blackberries.”

“I don’t know where your hands have been.” She set a trio of mint leaves, and didn’t bother—yet—to spare him a glance. “What do you want? We’re working.”

“Me, too. More or less. Lawyer capacity. I had some paperwork to drop off .”

He handled all their legal dealings, both individually and as a business. She knew, very well, he put in long hours on their behalf, and often on his own time. But if she didn’t jab at him, she’d break long-standing tradition.

“And timed it so you could mooch from catering.”

“There ought to be some perks. Brunch deal?”

She gave in and turned. His choice of jeans and a T-shirt didn’t make him less of an Ivy League lawyer—not to her mind. Delaney Brown of the Connecticut Browns, she thought. Tall, appealingly rangy, his dense brown hair just a smidgen longer than lawyerly fashion might dictate.

Did he do that on purpose? She imagined so, as he was a man who always had a plan. He shared those deep, midnight blue eyes with Parker, but though she’d known him all her life, she could rarely read what was behind them.

He was, in her opinion, too handsome for his own good, too smooth for anyone else’s. He was also unflinchingly loyal, quietly generous—and annoyingly overprotective.

He smiled at her now, quick and easy with a disarming fl ash of humor she imagined served as a lethal weapon in court. Or the bedroom.

“Cold poached salmon, mini chicken florentine, grilled summer vegetables, potato pancakes, a variety of quiches, caviar with full accompaniment, assorted pastries and breads, along with a fruit and cheese display, followed by the poppy-seed cake with orange marmalade filling and Grand Marnier buttercream frosting, topped with fresh fruit.”

“Sign me up.”

“I expect you can sweet-talk the caterers,” she said. She rolled her shoulders, circled her head on her neck as she chose the next berries.

“Something hurt?”

“The basket weave’s a killer on the neck and shoulders.”

His hands lifted, then retreated to his pockets. “Are Jack and Carter around?”

“Somewhere. I haven’t seen them today.”

“Maybe I’ll go hunt them down.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

But he wandered across the room to the windows and looked down at the flower-decked terrace, the white slippered chairs, the pretty bride turned toward the smiling groom.

“They’re doing the ring thing,” Del called out.

“So Parker just told me.” Laurel tapped her headset. “I’m set. Emma, the cake’s ready for you.”

She balanced the top layer with an off set stem loaded with blackberries. “Five-minute warning,” she announced, and began loading her bin with the remaining fruit. “Let’s get the champagne poured, the Bloody Marys and mimosas mixed. Light the candles, please.” She started to lift the bin, but Del beat her to it.

“I’ll carry it.”

She shrugged, and moved over to hit the switch for the background music that would play until the orchestra took over.

They started down the back stairs, passing uniformed waitstaff on their way up with hors d’oeuvres for the brief cocktail mixer designed to keep guests happy while Mac took the formals of the bride and groom, the wedding party and family.

She swung into her kitchen where the caterers ran full steam. Used to the chaos, Laurel slid through, got a small bowl and scooped out fruit. She passed it to Del.

“Thanks.”

“Just stay out of the way. Yes, they’re ready,” she said to Parker through the headset. “Yeah, in thirty. In place.” She glanced over at the caterers. “On schedule. Oh, Del’s here. Uh-huh.”

Leaning on the counter and eating berries, he watched her as she stripped off her apron. “Okay, heading out now.”

Del pushed off the counter to follow her as she headed through the mudroom that would soon be transformed into her extra cooler and storage area. She pulled the clip out of her hair, tossed it aside, and shook her hair into place as she stepped outside.

“Where are we going?”

“I’m going to help escort guests inside. You’re going away, somewhere.”

“I like it here.”

It was her turn to smile. “Parker said to get rid of you until it’s time to clean up. Go fi nd your little friends, Del, and if you’re good boys you’ll be fed later.”

“Fine, but if I get roped into cleanup, I want some of that cake.”

They separated, him strolling toward the remodeled pool house that served as Mac’s studio and home, her striding toward the terrace, where the bride and groom exchanged their first married kiss.

Laurel glanced back once—just once. She’d known him all her life—that was fate, she supposed. But it was her own fault, and her own problem, that she’d been in love with him nearly as long.

She allowed herself one sigh before fixing a bright, professional smile on her face to lend a hand herding the celebrants into Reception.

May, 1873

When Micky Miranda was twenty-three his father came to London to buy rifles.

Senor Carlos Raul Xavier Miranda, known always as Papa, was a short man with massive shoulders. His tanned face was carved in lines of aggression and brutality. In leather chaps and a broad-brimmed hat, seated on a chestnut stallion, he could make a graceful, commanding figure; but here in Hyde Park, wearing a frock-coat and a top hat, he felt foolish, and that made him dangerously bad-tempered.

They were not alike. Micky was tall and slim, with regular features, and he got his way by smiling rather than frowning. He was deeply attached to the refinements of London life: beautiful clothes, polite manners, linen sheets and indoor plumbing. His great fear was that Papa would want to take him back to Cordova. He could not bear to return to days in the saddle and nights sleeping on the hard ground. Even worse was the prospect of being under the thumb of his older brother Paulo, who was a replica of Papa. Perhaps Micky would go home one day, but it would be as an important man in his own right, not as the younger son of Papa Miranda. Meanwhile he had to persuade his father that he was more useful here in London than he would be at home in Cordova.

They were walking along South Carriage Drive on a sunny Saturday afternoon. The park was thronged with well-dressed Londoners on foot, on horseback or in open carriages, enjoying the warm weather. But Papa was not enjoying himself. 'I must have those rifles!' he muttered to himself in Spanish. He said it twice.

Micky spoke in the same language. 'You could buy them back home,' he said tentatively.

'Two thousand of them?' Papa said. 'Perhaps I could. But it would be such a big purchase that everyone would know about it..

So he wanted to keep it secret. Micky had no idea what Papa was up to. Paying for two thousand guns, and the ammunition to go with them, would probably take all the family's reserves of cash. Why did Papa suddenly need so much ordnance? There had been no war in Cordova since the now-legendary March of the Cowboys, when Papa had led his men across the Andes to liberate Santamaria Province from its Spanish overlords. Who were the guns for? If you added up Papa's cowboys, relatives, place men and hangers-on it would come to fewer than a thousand men. Papa had to be planning to recruit more. Whom would they be fighting? Papa had not volunteered the information and Micky was afraid to ask.

Instead he said: 'Anyway, you probably couldn't get such high-quality weapons at home..

'That's true,' said Papa. 'The Westley~Richards is the finest rifle I've ever seen..

Micky had been able to help Papa with his choice of rifles. Micky had always been fascinated by weapons of all kinds, and he kept up with the latest technical developments. Papa needed short-barrelled rifles that would not be too cumbersome for men on horseback. Micky had taken Papa to a factory in BirmingJ1am and shown him the Westley-Richards carbine with the breech-loading action, nicknamed the Monkey tail because of its curly lever.

'And they make them so fast,' Micky said.

'I expected to wait six months for the guns to be manufactured. But they can do it in a few days!.

'It's the American machinery they use.' In the old days, when guns had been made by blacksmiths who fitted the parts together by trial and error, it would indeed have taken six months to make two thousand rifles; but modern machinery was so precise that the parts of any gun would fit any other gun of the same pattern, and a well-equipped factory could turn out hundreds of identical rifles a day, like pins.

'And the machine that makes two hundred thousand cartridges a day!' Papa said, and he shook his head in wonderment. Then his mood switched again and he said grimly: 'But how can they ask for the money before the rifles are delivered?.

Papa knew nothing about international trade, and he had assumed the manufacturer would deliver the rifles in Cordova and accept payment there. On the contrary, the payment was required before the weapons left the Birmingham factory.

But Papa was reluctant to ship silver coins across the Atlantic Ocean in barrels. Worse still, he could not hand over the entire family fortune before the arms were safely delivered.

'Go over it again,' Papa said. 'I want to make sure I understand. this.

Micky was pleased to be able to explain something to Papa. 'The bank will pay the manufacturer in Birmingham. It will arrange for the guns to be shipped to Cordova, and insure them on the voyage. When they arrive, the bank will accept payment from you at their office in Cordova..

'But then they have to ship the silver to England..

'Not necessarily. They may use it to pay for a cargo of salt beef coming from Cordova to London..

'How do they make a living?.

'They take a cut of everything. They will pay the rifle manufacturer a discounted price, take a commission on the shipping and insurance, and charge you extra for the guns.

Papa nodded. He was trying not to show it, but he was impressed, and that made Micky happy.

They left the park and walked along Kensington Gore to the home of Joseph and Augusta Pilaster.

In the seven years since Peter Middleton drowned, Micky had spent every vacation with the Pilasters. After school he had toured Europe with Edward for a year, and he had roomed with Edward during the three years they had spent at Oxford University,. drinking and gambling and raising Cain, making only the barest pretence of being students.

Micky had never again kissed Augusta. He would have liked to. He wanted to do more than just kiss her. And he sensed that she might let him. Underneath that veneer of frozen arrogance there was the hot heart of a passionate and sensual woman, he was sure. But he had held back out of prudence. He had achieved something priceless by being accepted almost as a son in one of the richest families in England, and it would be insane to jeopardize that cherished position by seducing Joseph's wife. All the same he could not help daydreaming about it.

Edward's parents had recently moved into a new house. Kensington Gore, which not so long ago had been a country road leading from Mayfair through the fields to the village of Kensington, was now lined, along its south side, by splendid mansions. On the north side of the street were Hyde Park and the gardens of Kensington Palace. It was the perfect location for the home of a rich commercial family.

Micky was not so sure about the style of architecture. It was certainly striking. It was of red brick and white stone, with big leaded windows on the ground and first floors. Above the first floor was a huge gable, its triangular shape enclosing three rows of windows – six, then four, then two at the apex: bedrooms, presumably, for innumerable relatives, guests and servants. The sides of the gable were stepped, and on the steps were perched stone animals – lions and dragons and monkeys. At the very top was a ship in full sail. Perhaps it represented the slave ship which, according to family legend, was the foundation of the Pilasters' wealth.

'I'm sure there's' not another house like this in London,' Micky said as he and his father stood outside staring at it.

Papa replied in Spanish. 'No doubt that is what the lady intended.'

Micky nodded. Papa had not met Augusta, but he had her measure already.

The house also had a big basement. A bridge crossed the basement area and.led to the entrance porch. The door was open, and they went in.

Augusta was having a drum, an afternoon tea-party, to show off her house. The oak-panelled hall was jammed with people and servants. Micky and his father handed their hats to a footman then pushed through the crowd to the vast drawing-room at the back of the house. The french windows were open, and the party spilled out on to a flagged terrace and a long garden.

Micky had deliberately chosen to introduce his father at a crowded occasion, for Papa's manners were not always up to London standards, and it was better that the Pilasters should get to know him gradually. Even by Cordovan standards he paid little attention to social niceties, and escorting him around London was like having a lion on a leash. He insisted on carrying his pistol beneath his coat at all times.

Papa did not need Micky to point Augusta out to him.

She stood in the centre of the room, draped in a royal blue silk dress with a low square neckline that revealed the swell of her breasts. As Papa shook her hand she gazed at him with her hypnotic dark eyes and said in a low, velvet voice: 'Senor Miranda – what a pleasure to meet you at last.' .

Papa was immediately entranced. He bowed low over her hand. 'I can never repay your kindness to Miguel,' he said in halting English.

Micky studied her as she cast her spell over his father. She had changed very little since the day he had kissed her in the chapel at Windfield School. The extra line or two around her eyes only made them more fascinating; the touch of silver in her hair enhanced the blackness of the rest; and if she was a little heavier than she had been it made her body more voluptuous.

'Micky has often told me of your splendid ranch,' she was saying to Papa.

Papa lowered his voice. 'You must come and visit us one day..

God forbid, Micky thought. Augusta in Cordova would be as ouit of place as a flamingo in a coal mine. 'Perhaps I shall,' Augusta said. 'How far is it?' 'With the new fast ships, only a month..

He still had hold of her hand, Micky noticed. And his voice had gone furry. He had fallen for her already. Micky felt a stab of jealousy. If anyone was going to flirt with Augusta it should be Micky, not Papa.

'I hear Cordova is a beautiful country,' Augusta said. Micky prayed Papa would not do anything embarrassing. However, he could be charming when it suited him, and he was now playing the role of romantic South American grandee for Augusta's benefit. 'I can promise you that we would welcome you like the queen you are,' he said in a low voice; and now it was obvious that he was making up to her.

But Augusta was a match for him. 'What an 'extraordinarily tempting prospect,' she said with a shameless insincerity that went right over Papa's head. Withdrawing her hand from his without missing,a beat, she looked over his shoulder and cried: 'Why, Captain Tillotson, how kind of you to come!' And she turned away to greet the latest arrival.

Papa was bereft. It took him a moment to regain his composure. Then he said abruptly: 'Take me to the head of the bank.'

'Certainly,' Micky said nervously. He looked around for Old Seth. The entire Pilaster clan was here, including maiden aunts, nephews and nieces, in-laws and second cousins. He recognized a couple of Members of Parliament and a sprinkling oflesser nobility. Most of the other guests were business connections, Micky judged – and rivals, too, he thought as he saw the thin, upright figure of Ben Greenbourne, head of Greenbournes Bank, said to be the richest man in the world. Ben was the father of Solomon, the boy Micky had always known as Fatty Greenbourne. They had lost touch since school: Fatty had not studied at a university or done a European tour, but had gone straight into his father's business.

The aristocracy generally thought it vulgar to talk about money, but this group had no such inhibitions, and Micky kept hearing the word 'crash'. In the newspapers it was sometimes spelt 'Krach' because it had started in Austria. Share prices were down and the Bank Rate was up, according to Edward, who had recently started work at the family bank. Some people were alarmed, but the Pilasters felt confident that London would not be pulled down with Vienna.

Micky took Papa out through the french windows on to the paved terrace, where wooden benches were placed in the shade of striped awnings. There they found Old Seth, sitting with a rug over his knees despite the warm spring weather. He was weak from some unspecified illness, and he looked as frail as an eggshell, but he had the Pilaster nose, a big curved blade that made him formidable still.

Another guest was gushing over the old man, saying: 'What a shame you aren't well enough to go to the royal levee, Mr Pilaster!'

Micky could have told the woman this was the wrong thing to say to a Pilaster.

'On the contrary, I'm glad of the excuse,' Seth harrumphed. 'I don't see why I should bow the knee to people who have never earned a penny in their lives.'

'But the Prince of Wales – such an honour!'

Seth was in no mood to be argued with – indeed he rarely was – and he now said: 'Young lady, the name of Pilaster is an accepted guarantee of honest dealing in corners of the globe where they've never heard of the Prince of Wales.'

'But Mr Pilaster, you almost sound as if you disapprove of the royal family!' the woman persisted, with a strained attempt at a playful tone.

Seth had not been playful for seventy years. 'I disapprove of idleness,' he said. 'The Bible says, “If any would not work, neither should he eat.” St Paul wrote that, in Second Thessalonians, chapter three, verse ten, and he conspicuously omitted to say that royalty were an exception to the rule.'

The woman retired in confusion. Suppressing a grin, Micky said: 'Mr Pilaster, may I present my father, Senor Carlos Miranda, who is over from Cordova for a visit.'

Seth shook Papa's hand. 'Cordova, eh? My bank has an office in your capital city, Palma.'

'I go to the capital very little,' Papa said. 'I have a ranch in Santamaria Province.'

'So you're in the beef business.'

'Yes.'

'Look into refrigeration.'

Papa was baffled. Micky explained: 'Someone has invented a machine for keeping meat cold. If they can find a way to install it in ships, we will be able to send fresh meat all over the world without salting it.'

Papa frowned. 'This could be bad for us. I have a big salting plant.'

'Knock it down,' said Seth. 'Go in for refrigeration.'

Papa did not like people telling him what to do, and Micky felt a little anxious. Out of the corner of his eye he spotted Edward. 'Papa, I want to introduce you to my best friend,' he said. He managed to ease his father away from Seth. 'Allow me to present Edward Pilaster.'

Papa examined Edward with a cold, clear-eyed gaze. Edward was not good-looking – he took after his father, not his mother – but he looked like a healthy farm boy.

muscular and fair-skinned. Late nights and quantities of wine had not taken their toll- not yet, anyway. Papa shook his hand and said: 'You two have been friends for many years.'

'Soul mates,' Edward said.

Papa frowned, not understanding.

Micky said: 'May we talk business for a moment?'

They stepped off the terrace and on to the newly-laid lawn. The borders were freshly planted, all raw earth and tiny shrubs. 'Papa has been making some large purchases here, and he needs to arrange shipping and finance,' Micky went on. 'It could be the first small piece of business you bring into your family bank.'

Edward looked keen. 'I'll be glad to handle that for you,' he said to Papa. 'Would you like to come into the bank tomorrow morning, so that we can make all the necessary arrangements?'

'I will,' said Papa.

Micky said: 'Tell me something. What if the ship sinks. Who loses – us, or the bank?'

'Neither,' Edward said smugly. 'The cargo will be insured at Lloyd's. We would simply collect the insurance money and ship a new consignment to you. You don't pay until you get your goods. What is the cargo, by the way?'

'Rifles.'

Edward's face fell. 'Oh. Then we can't help you.' Micky was mystified. 'Why?'

'Because of Old Seth. He's a Methodist, you know. Well, the whole family is, but he's rather more devout than most. Anyway, he won't finance arms sales, and as he's Senior Partner, that's bank policy.'

'The devil it is,' Micky cursed. He shot a fearful look at his father. Fortunately, Papa had not understood the conversation. Micky had a sinking feeling in his stomach. Surely his scheme could not founder on something as stupid as Seth's religion? 'The damned old hypocrite is practically dead, why should he interfere?'

'He is about to retire,' Edward pointed out. 'But I think Uncle Samuel will take over, and he's the same, you know.'

Worse and worse. Samuel was Seth's bachelor son, fifty-three years old and in perfect health. 'We'll just have to go to another merchant bank,' Micky said.

Edward said: 'That should be straightforward, provided you can give a couple of sound business references.'

'References? Why?'

'Well, a bank always takes the risk that the buyer will renege on the deal, leaving them with a cargo of unwanted merchandise on the far side of the globe. They just need some assurance that they're dealing with a respectable businessman.'

What Edward did not realize was that the concept of a respectable businessman did not yet exist in South America. Papa was a caudillo, a provincial landowner with a hundred thousand acres of pampas and a workforce of cowboys that doubled as his private army. He wielded power in a way the British had not known since the Middle Ages. It was like asking William the Conqueror for references.

Micky pretended to be unperturbed. 'No doubt we can provide something,' he said. In fact he was stumped. But if he was going to stay in London he had to bring this deal off.'

They turned and strolled back towards the crowded terrace, Micky hiding his anxiety. Papa did not yet understand that they had encountered a serious difficulty, but Micky would have to explain it later – and then there would be trouble. Papa had no patience with failure, and his anger was terrifying.

Augusta appeared on the terrace and spoke to Edward. 'Find Hastead for me, Teddy darling,' she said. Hastead was her obsequious Welsh butler. 'There's no cordial left and the wretched man has disappeared.' Edward went off. She favoured Papa with a warm, intimate smile. 'Are you enjoying our little gathering, Senor Miranda?'

'Very well, thank you,' said Papa.

'You must have some tea, or a glass of cordial.'

Papa would have preferred tequila, Micky knew, but alcoholic drink was not served at Methodist tea-parties.

Augusta looked at Micky. Always quick to sense other people's moods, she said: 'I can see that you're not enjoying the party. What's the matter?'

He did not hesitate to confide in her. 'I was hoping Papa could help Edward by bringing new business to the bank, but it involves guns and ammunition, and Edward has just explained that Uncle Seth won't finance weapons.'

'Seth won't be Senior Partner much longer,' Augusta said.

'Apparently Samuel feels the same as his father.'

'Does he?' Augusta said, and her tone was arch. 'And who says that Samuel is to be the next Senior Partner?'

Hugh Pilaster was wearing a new sky-blue ascot style cravat, slightly puffed at the neckline and held in place with a pin. He really should have been wearing a new coat, but he earned only £68 a year, so he had to brighten up his old clothes with a new tie. The ascot was the latest fashion, and sky-blue was a daring colour choice; but when he spied his reflection in the huge mirror over the mantelpiece in Aunt Augusta's drawing-room he saw that the blue tie and black suit looked rather fetching with his blue eyes and black hair, and he hoped the ascot gave him an attractively rakish air. Perhaps Florence Stalworthy would think so, anyway. He had started to take an interest in clothes since he met her.

It was a bit embarrassing, living with Augusta and being so poor; but there was a tradition at Pilasters Bank that men were paid what they were worth, regardless of whether they were family members. Another tradition was that everyone started at the bottom. Hugh had been a star pupil at school, and would have been head boy if he had not got into trouble so much; but his education counted for little at the bank, and he was doing the work of an apprentice clerk – and was paid accordingly. His aunt and uncle never offered to help him out financially, so they had to put up with his looking a little shabby.

He did not much care what they thought about his appearance, of course. It was Florence Stalworthy he was worried about. She was a pale, pretty girl, the daughter of the Earl of Stalworthy; but the most important thing about her was that she was interested in Hugh Pilaster. The truth was that Hugh could be fascinated by any girl who would talk to him. This bothered him, because it surely meant that his feelings were shallow; but he could not help it. If a girl touched him accidentally it was enough to make his mouth go dry. He was tormented by curiosity about what their legs looked like under all those layers of skirt and petticoat. There were times when his desire hurt like a wound. He was twenty years old, he had felt like this since he was fifteen, and in those five years he had never kissed anyone except his mother.

A party such as this drum of Augusta's was exquisite torture. Because it was a party, everyone went out of their way to be pleasant, find things to talk about, and show an interest in one another. The girls looked lovely and smiled and sometimes, discreetly, flirted. So many people were crowded into the house that inevitably some of the girls would brush up against Hugh, bump into him as they turned around, touch his arm, or even press their breasts against his back as they squeezed by. He would have a week of restless nights afterwards.

Many of the people here were his relations, inevitably. His father, Tobias, and Edward's father, Joseph, had been brothers. But Hugh's father had withdrawn his capital from the family business, started his own enterprise, gone bankrupt, and killed himself. That was why Hugh had left the expensive Wind field boarding school and become a day-boy at the Folkestone Academy for the Sons of Gentlemen; it was why he started work at nineteen instead of doing a 'European tour' and wasting a few years at a university; it was why he lived with his aunt; and it was why he did not have new clothes to wear to the party. He was a relation, but a poor one; an embarrassment to a family whose pride, confidence and social standing were based on its wealth.

It would never have occurred to any of them to solve the problem by giving him money. Poverty was the punishment for doing business badly, and if you started to ease the pain for failures, why, there would be no incentive to do well. 'You might as well put feather-beds in prison cells,' they would say whenever someone suggested helping life's losers.

His father had been the victim of a financial crisis, but that made no difference. He had failed on 11 May 1866, a date known to bankers as Black Friday. On that day a billbroker called Ovcrend and Gurney Ltd had gone bankrupt for five million pounds, and many firms were dragged down, including the London Joint Stock Bank and Sir Samuel Peto's building company, as well as Tobias Pilaster and Co. But there were no excuses in business, according to the Pilaster philosophy. Just at present there was a financial crisis, and no doubt one or two firms would fail before it was over; but the Pilasters were vigorously protecting themselves, shedding their weaker clients, tightening credit, and ruthlessly turning down all but the most unquestionably secure new business. Self-preservation was the highest duty of the banker, they believed.

Well, I'm a Pilaster, too, Hugh thought. I may not have the Pilaster nose, but I understand about self-preservation. There was a rage that boiled in his heart sometimes when he brooded about what had happened to his father, and it made him all the more determined to become the richest and most respected of the whole damn crew. His cheap day school had taught him useful arithmetic and science while his better-off cousin Edward was struggling with Latin and Greek; and not going to university had given him an early start in the business. He was never tempted to follow a different way of life, become a painter or a Member of Parliament or a clergyman. Finance was in his blood. He could give the current Bank Rate quicker th;m he could say whether it was raining. He was determined he would never be as smug and hypocritical as his older relatives, but all the same he was going to be a banker.

However, he did not think about it much. Most of the time he thought about girls.

He stepped out of the drawing-room on to the terrace and saw Augusta bearing down on him with a girl in tow.

'Dear Hugh,' she said, 'here's your friend Miss Bodwin.' Hugh groaned inwardly., Rachel Bodwin was a tall, intellectual girl of radical opinions. She was not pretty she had dull brown hair and light eyes set rather close together – but she was lively and interesting, full of subversive ideas, and Hugh had liked her a lot when he 'first came to London to work at the bank. But Augusta had decided he should marry Rachel, and that had ruined the relationship. Before that they had argued fiercely and freely about divorce, religion, poverty and votes for women. Since Augusta had begun her campaign to bring them together, they just stood and exchanged awkward chit-chat.

'How lovely you look, Miss Bodwin,' he said automatically.

'You're very kind,' she replied in a bored tone.

Augusta was turning away when she caught sight of Hugh's tie. 'Heavens!' she exclaimed. 'What is that? You look like an innkeeper!'

Hugh blushed crimson. If he could have thought of a sharp rejoinder he would have risked it, but nothing came to mind, and all he could do was mutter: 'It's just a new tie. It's called an ascot.'

'You shall give it to the boot-boy tomorrow,' she said, and she turned away.

Resentment flared in Hugh's breast against the fate that forced him to live with his overbearing aunt. 'Women ought not to comment on a man's clothes,' he said moodily. 'It's not ladylike.'

Rachel said: 'I think women should comment on anything that interests them, so I shall say that I like your tie, and that it matches your eyes..

Hugh smiled at her, feeling better. She was very nice, after all. However, it was not her niceness that caused Augusta to want him to marry her. Rachel was the daughter of a lawyer specializing in commercial contracts. Her family had no money other than her father's professional income, and on the social ladder they were several rungs below the Pilasters; indeed they would not be at this party at all except that Mr Bodwin had done useful work for the bank. Rachel was a girl in a low station in life, and by marrying her Hugh would confirm his status as a lesser breed of Pilaster; and that was what Augusta wanted.

He was not completely averse to the thought of proposing to Rachel. Augusta had hinted that she would give him a generous wedding present if he married her choice. But it was not the wedding present that tempted him, it was the thought that every night he would be able to get into bed with a woman, and lift her nightdress up, past her ankles and her knees, past her thighs.

'Don't look at me that way,' Rachel said shrewdly. 'I only said I liked your tie.'

Hugh blushed again. Surely she could not guess what had been in his mind? His thoughts about girls were so grossly physical that he felt ashamed of himself much of the time. 'Sorry,' he mumbled.

'What a lot of Pilasters there are,' she said brightly, looking around. 'How do you cope with them all?'

Hugh looked around too, and saw Florence Stalworthy come in. She was extraordinarily pretty, with her fair curls falling over her delicate shoulders, a pink dress trimmed with lace and silk ribbons, and ostrich feathers in her hat. She met Hugh's eye and smiled at him across the room.

'I can see I've lost your attention,' Rachel said with characteristic bluntness.

'I'm most awfully sorry,' Hugh said.

Rachel touched his arm. 'Hugh, dear, listen to me for a moment. I like you. You're one of the few people in London society who aren't unspeakably dull. But I don't love you and I will never marry you, no matter how often your aunt throws us together.'

Hugh was startled. 'I say –' he began.

But she had not finished. 'And I know you feel much the same about me, so please don't pretend to be heartbroken.'

After a stunned moment, Hugh grinned. This directness was what he liked about her. But he supposed she was right: liking was not loving. He was not sure what love was, but she seemed to know. 'Does this mean we can go back to quarrelling about women's suffrage?' he said cheerfully.

'Yes, but not today. I'm going to talk to your old school friend, Senor Miranda.'

Hugh frowned. 'Micky couldn't spell “suffrage” let alone tell you what it means.'

'All the same, half the debutantes in London are swooning over him.'

'I can't imagine why.'

'He's a male Florence Stalworthy,' Rachel said, and with that she left him.

Hugh frowned, thinking about that. Micky knew Hugh was a poor relation and he treated him accordingly, so it was difficult for Hugh to be objective about him. He was very personable, and always beautifully dressed. He reminded Hugh of a cat, sleek and sensual with glossy fur. It was not quite the thing to be so carefully groomed, and men said he was not very manly, but women did not seem to care about that.

Hugh followed Rachel with his eyes as she crossed the room to where Micky stood with his father, talking to Edward's sister Clementine, Aunt Madeleine, and young Aunt Beatrice. Now Micky turned to Rachel, giving her his full attention as he shook her hand and said something that made her laugh. He was always talking to three or four women, Hugh realized.

All the same Hugh disliked the suggestion that Florence was somehow like Micky. She was attractive and popular, as he was, but Micky was something of a cad, Hugh thought.

He made his way to Florence's side, feeling thrilled but nervous. 'Lady Florence, how are you?'

She smiled dazzlingly. 'What an extraordinary house!' 'Do you like it?'

'I'm not sure.'

'That's what most people say.'

She laughed as if he had made a witty remark, and he felt inordinately pleased.

He went on: 'It's very modern, you know. There are five bathrooms! And a huge boiler in the basement warms the whole place with hot-water pipes.'

'Perhaps the stone ship on top of the gable is a little too much.'

Hugh lowered his voice. 'I think so too. It reminds me of the cow's head outside a butcher's shop.'

She giggled again. Hugh was pleased that he could make her laugh. He decided it would be nice to get her away from the crowd. 'Come and see the garden,' he said.

'How lovely.'

It was not lovely, having only just been planted, but that did not matter in the least. He led her out of the drawingroom on to the terrace but there he was waylaid by Augusta, who shot him a look of reproof and said: 'Lady Florence, how kind of you to come. Edward will show you the garden.' She grabbed Edward, who was standing nearby, and ushered the two of them away before Hugh could say a word. He clenched his teeth in frustration and vowed he would not let her get away with this. 'Hugh, dear, I know you want to talk to Rachel,' she said. She took Hugh's arm and moved him back inside, and there was nothing he could do to resist her, short of snatching his arm away and making a scene. Rachel was standing with Micky Miranda and his father. 'Micky, I want your father to meet my brother-in-law, Mr Samuel Pilaster.' She detached Micky and his father and took them off, leaving Hugh with Rachel again.

Rachel was laughing. 'You can't argue with her.'

'It would be like arguing with a dashed railway train.'

Hugh fumed. Through the window he could see the bustle of Florence's dress as it swayed down the garden beside Edward.

Rachel followed his eyes and said: 'Go after her.' He grinned. 'Thanks.'

He hurried down the garden. As he caught up, a wicked idea occurred to him. Why should he not play his aunt's game and detach Edward from Florence? Augusta would be spitting mad when she found out – but it would be worth it for the sake of a few minutes alone in the garden with Florence. To hell with it, he thought. 'Oh, Edward,' he said. 'Your mother asked me to send you to her. She's in the hall.'

Edward did not question this: he was used to sudden changes of mind by his mother. He said: 'Please excuse me, Lady Florence.' He left them and went into the house.

Florence said: 'Did she really send for him?' 'No.'

'You're so bad!' she said, but she was smiling.

He looked into her eyes, basking in the sunshine of her approval. There would be hell to pay later, but he would suffer much worse for the sake of a smile like that. 'Come and see the orchard,' he said

Augusta was amused by Papa Miranda. Such a squat peasant of a man! He was so different from his lithe, elegant son. Augusta was very fond of Micky Miranda. She always felt more of a woman when she' was with him, even though he was so young. He ,had a way of looking at her as if she were the most desirable thing he had ever seen. There were times when she wished he would do more than just look. It was a foolish, wish, of course, but all the same she felt it now and again.

She had been alarmed by their conversation about Seth. Micky assumed that when Old Seth died or retired, his son Samuel would take over as Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank. Micky would not have made that assumption on his own: he must have picked it up from the family. Augusta did not want Samuel to take over. She wanted the job for her husband Joseph, who was Seth's nephew.

She glanced through the drawing-room window and saw the four partners in Pilasters Bank together on the terrace. Three were Pilasters: Seth, Samuel and Joseph – the early nineteenth-century Methodists had favoured Biblical names. Old Seth looked like the invalid he was, sitting with a blanket over his knees, outliving his usefulness. Beside him was his son. Samuel was not as distinguished-looking as his father. He had the same beak-like nose, but below it was a rather soft mouth with bad teeth. Tradition would favour him to succeed because he was the eldest of the partners after Seth. Augusta's husband Joseph was speaking, making a point to his uncle and his cousin with short jabbing movements of his hand, a characteristically impatient gesture. He, too, had the Pilaster nose, but the rest of his features were rather irregular and he was losing his hair. The fourth partner was standing back, listening with his arms folded. He was Major George Hartshorn, husband of Joseph's sister Madeleine. A former army officer, he had a prominent scar on his forehead from a wound received twenty years ago in the Crimean War. He was no hero, however: his horse had been frightened by a steam-traction engine and he had fallen and banged his head on the wheel of a kitchen wagon. He had retired from the army and joined the bank when he married Madeleine. An amiable man who foll~wed where others led, he was not clever enough to run the bank, and anyway they had never had a Senior Partner whose name was not Pilaster. The only serious candidates were Samuel and Joseph.

Technically, the decision was made by a vote of the partners. By tradition the family generally reached a consensus. In reality, Augusta was determined to have her way. But it would not be easy.

The Senior Partner of Pilasters Bank was one of the most important people in the world. His decision to grant a loan could save a monarch; his refusal could start a revolution. Along with a handful of others – J. P. Morgan, the Rothschilds, Ben Greenbourne – he held the prosperity of nations in his hands. He was flattered by heads of state, consulted by prime ministers, and courted by diplomats; and his wife was fawned upon by them all.

Joseph wanted the job, but he had no subtlety. Augusta was terrified that he would let the opportunity slip through his fingers. Left to himself he might say bluntly that he would like to be considered, then simply allow the family to decide. I t might not occur to him that there were other things he should do to make sure he won the contest. For instance, he would never do anything to discredit his rival.

Augusta would have to find ways to do that for him. She had no trouble identifying Samuel's weakness. At the age of fifty-three he was a bachelor, and lived with a young man who was blithely referred to as his 'secretary'. Until now the family had paid no attention to Samuel's domestic arrangements, but Augusta was wondering if she could change all that.

Samuel had to be handled carefully. He was a fussy, finicky man, the kind who would change his entire outfit of clothes because a drop of wine had fallen on the knee of his trousers; but he was not weak, and could not be intimidated. A frontal assault was not the way to attack him.

She would have no regrets about injuring him. She had never liked him. He sometimes acted as if he found her amusing, and he had a way of refusing to take her at face value that she found deeply annoying.

As she moved among her guests, she put out of her mind the irritating reluctance of her nephew Hugh to pay court to a perfectly suitable young girl. That branch of the family had always been troublesome and she was not going to let it distract her from the more important problem that Micky had alerted her to, the threat of Samuel.

She spotted her sister-in-law, Madeleine Hartshorn, in the hall. Poor Madeleine, you could tell she was Joseph's sister, for she had the Pilaster nose. On some of the men it looked distinguished, but no woman could look anything but plain with a great beak like that.

Madeleine and Augusta had once been rivals. Years ago, when Augusta first married Joseph, Madeleine had resented the way the family began to centre around Augusta – even though Madeleine never had the magnetism or the energy to do what Augusta did, arranging weddings and funerals, matchmaking, patching up quarrels, and organizing support for the sick, the pregnant and the bereaved. Madeleine's attitude had come close to causing a rift within the family. Then she had delivered a weapon into Augusta's hands. One afternoon Augusta had stepped into an exclusive Bond Street silverware shop just in' time to see Madeleine slipping into the back of the store. Augusta had lingered for a while, pretending to hesitate over a toast rack, until she saw a handsome young man follow the same route. She had heard that the rooms above such stores were sometimes used for romantic rendezvous, and she was now almost certain that Madeleine was having a love affair. A five pound note had persuaded the proprietress ofthe shop, a Mrs Baxter, to divulge the name of the young man, Viscount Tremain.

Augusta had been genuinely shocked, but the first thought that had occurred to her was that what Madeleine could do with Viscount Tremain, Augusta could do with Micky Miranda. But that was out of the question, of course. Besides, if Madeleine could be found out, the same could happen to Augusta.

It could have ruined Madeleine socially. A man who had a love affair was considered wicked but romantic; a woman who did the same was a whore. If her secret got out she would be shunned by society and her family would be ashamed of her. Augusta's first thought was to use the secret to control Madeleine, holding over her head the threat of exposure. But that would make Madeleine forever hostile. It was foolish to multiply enemies unnecessarily. There had to be a way she could disarm Madeleine and at the same time make an ally of her. After much thought she had evolved a strategy. Instead of intimidating Madeleine with the information, she pretended to be on her side. 'A word to the wise, dear Madeleine,' she had whispered. 'Mrs Baxter cannot be trusted. Tell your viscount to find a more discreet rendezvous.' Madeleine had begged her to keep the secret and had been pathetically grateful when Augusta willingly promised eternal silence. Since then there had been no rivalry between them.

Now Augusta took Madeleine's arm, saying: 'Come and see my room – I think you'll like it.'

On the first floor of the house were her bedroom and dressing-room, Joseph's bedroom and dressing-room, and a study. She led Madeleine into her bedroom, closed the door, and waited for her reaction.

She had furnished the room in the latest Japanese style, with fretwork chairs, peacock-feather wallpaper and a display of porcelain over the mantelpiece. There was an immense wardrobe painted with Japanese motifs, and the window-seat in the bay was partly concealed by dragonfly curtains.

'Augusta, how daring!' said Madeleine.

'Thank you.' Augusta was almost completely happy with the effect. 'There was a better curtain material I wanted but Liberty's had sold out of it. Come and see Joseph's room.'

She took Madeleine through the communicating door. Joseph's bedroom was furnished in a more moderate version of the same style, with dark leather-paper on the walls and brocade curtains. Augusta was especially proud of a lacquered display cabinet that held his collection of jewelled snuff-boxes.

'Joseph is so eccentric,' said Madeleine, looking at the snuff-boxes.

Augusta smiled. Her husband was not in the least eccentric, generally speaking, but it was odd for a hardheaded Methodist businessman to collect something so frivolous and exquisite, and the whole family found it amusing. 'He says they're an investment,' she said. A diamond necklace for her would have been an equally good investment, but he never bought her such things, for Methodists considered jewellery to be a needless extravagance.

'A man should have a hobby,' Madeleine said. 'It keeps him out of trouble.'

Out of whorehouses was what she meant. The implied reference to men's peccadilloes reminded Augusta of her purpose. Softly, softly, she said to herself. 'Madeleine, dear, what are we going to do about cousin Samuel and his “secretary”?'

Madeleine looked puzzled. 'Oughi'we to do something?' 'If Samuel is to become Senior Partner, we must.'

'Why?'

'My dear, the Senior Partner of Pilasters has to meet ambassadors, heads of state, even royalty – he must be quite, quite irreproachable in his private life.'

Comprehension dawned, and Madeleine flushed. 'Surely you're not suggesting that Samuel is in some way ... depraved?'

That was exactly what Augusta was suggesting, but she did not want to say it outright, for fear of provoking Madeleine to defend her cousin. 'I trust that I shall never know,' she said evasively. 'The important thing is what people think.'

Madeleine was unconvinced. 'Do you really suppose people think. . . that?'

Augusta forced herself to have patience with Madeleine's delicacy. 'My dear, we are both married women, and we know what men are like. They have animal appetites. The world assumes that a single man of fifty-three living with a pretty boy is vicious, and heaven knows, in most cases the world is probably right.'

Madeleine frowned, looking worried. Before she could say anything else there was a knock at the door and Edward came in. 'What is it, mother?' he asked.

Augusta was annoyed by the interruption and she had no idea what the boy was talking about. 'What do you mean?'

'You sent for me.'

'I most certainly did not. I told you to show Lady Florence around the garden.'

Edward looked hurt. 'Hugh said you wanted to see me!' Augusta understood. 'Did he? And I suppose he is showing Lady Florence the garden now?'

Edward saw what she was getting at. 'I do believe he is,' he said, looking wounded. 'Don't be cross with me, Mother, please.'

Augusta melted instantly. 'Don't worry, Teddy dear,' she said. 'Hugh is such a sly boy.' But if he thought he could outwit his Aunt Augusta he was also foolish.

This distraction had irritated her, but on reflection she thought she had said enough to Madeleine about Cousin Samuel. At this stage all she wanted was to plant the seed of doubt: anything more might be too heavy-handed. She decided to leave well enough alone. She ushered her sisterin-law and her son out of the room, saying: 'Now I must return to my guests.'

They went downstairs. The party was going well, to judge by the cacophony of talk, laughter, and a hundred silver teaspoons clinking in bone china saucers. Augusta briefly checked the dining-room where the servants were dispensing lobster salad, fruit cake and iced drinks. She moved through the hall, speaking a word or two to each guest who caught her eye, but looking for a particular one – Florence's mother, Lady Stalworthy.

She was worried by the possibility that Hugh might marry Florence. Hugh was already doing far too well at the bank. He had the quick commercial brain of a barrow-boy and the engaging manners of a card-sharp. Even Joseph spoke approvingly of him, oblivious of the threat to their own son. Marriage to the daughter of an earl would give Hugh social status to add to his native talents, and then he would be a dangerous rival to Edward. Dear Teddy did not have Hugh's superficial charm or his head for figures, so he needed all the help Augusta could give him.

She found Lady Stalworthy standing in the bay window of the drawing-room. She was a pretty middle-aged woman in a pink dress and a little straw hat with silk flowers all over it. Augusta wondered anxiously how she would feel about Hugh and Florence. Hugh was no great catch, but from Lady Stalworthy's point of view he was not a disaster. Florence was the youngest of three daughters, and the other two had married well, so Lady Stalworthy might be' indulgent. Augusta had to prevent that. But how.

She stood at Lady Stalworthy's side and saw that she was watching Hugh and Florence in the garden. Hugh was eXplaining something, and Florence's eyes sparkled with pleasure as she looked at him and listened. 'The careless happiness of youth,' said Augusta.

'Hugh seems a nice boy,' Lady Stalworthy said.

Augusta looked hard at her for a moment. Lady Stalworthy had a dreamy smile on her face. She had once been as pretty as her daughter, Augusta guessed. Now she was remembering her own girlhood. She needed to be brought down to earth with a thump, Augusta decided. 'How quickly they pass, those carefree days..

'But so idyllic while they last.'

It was time for the poison. 'Hugh's father died, as you know,' Augusta said. 'And his mother lives very quietly at Folkestone, so Joseph and I feel an obligation to take a parental interest.' She paused. 'It is hardly necessary for me to say that an alliance with your family would be a remarkable triumph for Hugh.'

'How kind of you to say that,' said Lady Stalworthy, as if she had been paid a pretty compliment. 'The Pilasters themselves are a family of distinction.'

'Thank you. If Hugh works hard he will one day earn a comfortable living.'

Lady Stalworthy looked a little taken aback. 'His father left nothing at all, then?'

'No.' Augusta needed to let her know that Hugh would get no money from his uncles when he married. She said: 'He will have to work his way up in the bank, living on his salary .'

'Ah, yes,' said Lady Stalworthy, and her face showed a hint of disappointment. 'Florence has a small independence, happily.'

Augusta's heart sank. So Florence had money of her own. That was bad news. Augusta wondered how much it was. The Stalworthys were not as rich as the Pilasters – few people were – but they were comfortable, Augusta believed. At any rate, Hugh's poverty was not enough to turn Lady Stalworthy against him. Augusta would have to use stronger measures. 'Dear Florence would be such a help to Hugh. . . a stabilizing influence, I feel sure.'

'Yes,' said Lady Stalworthy vaguely, and then she frowned. 'Stabilizing?'

Augusta hesitated. This kind of thing was dangerous, but the risk had to be taken. 'I never listen to gossip, and I'm sure you don't either,' she said. 'Tobias was quite unfortunate, of that there is no doubt, but Hugh shows hardly any sign of having inherited the weakness.'

'Good,' said Lady Stalworthy, but her face showed deep anxiety.

'All the same, Joseph and I would be very happy to see him married to such a sensible girl as Florence. One feels she would be firm with him, if. . .' Augusta trailed off.

'I ...' Lady Stalworthy swallowed. 'I don't seem to recall just what his father's weakness was.'

'Well, it wasn't true, really.'

'Strictly between you and me, of course.'

'Perhaps I shouldn't have raised it.'

'But I must know everything, for my daughter's sake. I'm sure you understand.'

'Gambling,' Augusta said in a lowered voice. She did not want to be overheard: there were people here who would know she was lying. 'It was what led him to take his own life. The shame, you know.' Pray heaven the Stalworthys don't bother to check the truth of this, she thought fervently.

'I thought his business failed.'

'That, too.'

'How tragic.'

'Admittedly, Joseph has had to pay Hugh's debts once or twice, but he has spoken very firmly to the boy, and we feel sure it will not happen again.'

'That's reassuring,' said Lady Stalworthy, but her face told a different story.

Augusta felt she had probably said enough. The pretence that she was in favour of the match was wearing dangerously thin. She glanced out of the window again. Florence was laughing at something Hugh was saying, throwing her head back and showing her teeth in a way that was rather. . . unseemly. He was practically eating her up with his eyes. Everyone at the party could see they were' attracted to one another. 'I judge it won't be long before matters come to a head,' Augusta said.

'Perhaps they have talked enough for one day,' Lady Stalworthy said with a troubled look. 'I had better intervene. Do excuse me.'

'Of course.'

Lady Stalworthy headed rapidly for the garden.

Augusta felt relieved. She had carried off another delicate conversation. Lady Stalworthy was suspicious of Hugh now, and once a mother began to feel uneasy about a suitor she rarely came to favour him in the end.

She looked around and spotted Beatrice Pilaster, another sister-in-law. Joseph had had two brothers: one was Tobias, Hugh's father, and the other was William, always called Young William because he was born twenty-three years after Joseph. William was now twenty-five and not yet a partner in the bank. Beatrice was his wife. She was like a large puppy, happy and clumsy and eager to be everyone's friend. Augusta decided to speak to her about Samuel and his secretary. She went over to her and said: 'Beatrice, dear, would you like to see my bedroom?'

Micky and his father left the party and set out to walk back to their Iodgings in Camberwell. Their route lay entirely through parks – first Hyde Park, then Green Park, and St James's Park – until they reached the river. They stopped in the middle of Westminster Bridge to rest for a spell and look at the view.

On the north shore of the river was the greatest city iq the world. Upstream were the Houses of Parliament, built, in a modern imitation of the neighbouring thirteenth century Westminster Abbey. Downstream they could see the gardens of Whitehall, the Duke of Buccleuch's palace, and the vast brick edifice of the new Charing Cross Railway Station.

The docks were out of sight, and no big ships came this far up, but the river was busy with small boats and barges and pleasure-cruisers, a pretty sight in the evening sun.

The southern shore might have been in a different country. It was the site of the Lambeth potteries, and there, in mud fields dotted with ramshackle workshops, crowds of grey-faced men and ragged women were still at work boiling bones, sorting rubbish, firing kilns and pouring paste into moulds to make the drain-pipes and chimneypots needed by the fast-expanding city. The smell was strong even here on the bridge, a quarter of a mile away. The squat hovels in which the workers lived were crowded around the walls of Lambeth Palace, the London home of the Archbishop of Canterbury, like the filth left by high tide on the muddy foreshore. Despite the nearness of the archbishop's palace the neighbourhood was known as the Devil's Acre, presumably because the fires and the smoke, the shuffling workers and the awful smell made people think of Hell.

Micky's lodgings were in Camberwell, a respectable suburb beyond the potteries; but he and his father hesitated on the bridge, reluctant to plunge into the Devil's Acre. Micky was still cursing the scrupulous Methodist conscience of Old Seth Pilaster for frustrating his plans. 'We will solve this problem about shipping the rifles, Papa,' he said. 'Don't worry about it.'

Papa shrugged. 'Who is standing in our way?' he asked. It was a simple question, but it had a deep meaning in the Miranda family. When they had an intractable problem, they asked: Who is standing in our way? It really meant: Who do we have to kill to get this done? It brought back to Micky all the barbarism of life in Santamaria Province, all the grisly legends he preferred to forget: the story about how Papa had punished his mistress for being unfaithful to him by putting a rifle up her and pulling the trigger; the time a Jewish family opened a store next to his in the provincial capital, so he set fire to it and burned the man and his wife and children alive; the one about the dwarf who had dressed up to look like Papa during the carnival, and made everyone laugh by strutting up and down in a perfect imitation of Papa's walk – until Papa calmly went up to the dwarf, drew a pistol, and blew his head off.

Even in Cordova this was not normal, but there Papa's reckless brutality had made him a man to be feared. Here in England it would get him thrown in jail. 'I don't anticipate the need for drastic action,' Micky said, trying to cover his nervousness with an air of unconcern.

'For now, there is no hurry,' Papa said. 'Winter is beginning at home. There will be no fighting until the summer.' He gave Micky a hard look. 'But I must have the rifles by the end of October.'

That look made Micky feel weak at the knees. He leaned against the stone parapet of the bridge to steady himself. 'I'll see to it, Papa, don't worry,' he said anxiously.

Papa nodded as if there could be no doubt about it. They were silent for a minute. Out of the blue, Papa said: 'I want you to stay in London.'

Micky felt his shoulders slump with relief. It was what he had been hoping for. He must have done something right, then. 'I think it might be a good idea, Papa,' he said, trying to hide his eagerness.

Then Papa dropped his bombshell. 'But your allowance will stop.'

'What?'

'The family can't keep you. You must support yourself..

Micky was appalled. Papa's meanness was as legendary as his violence, but still this was unexpected. The Mirandas were rich. Papa had thousands of head of cattle, monopolized all horse-dealing over a huge territory, rented land to small farmers and owned most of the stores in Santamaria Province.

It was true that their money did not buy much in England. Back home a Cordovan silver dollar would get you a slap-up meal, a bottle of rum and a whore for the night; here it would hardly stretch to a cheap meal and a glass of weak beer. That had come as a blow to Micky when he went to Windfield School. He had managed to supplement his allowance by playing cards, but he had found it hard to make ends meet until he befriended Edward. Even now Edward paid for all the expensive entertainments they shared: the opera, visits to racecourses, hunting and whores. Still, Micky needed a basic income to pay his rent, tailor's bills, subscriptions to the gentlemen's clubs that were an essential element of London life, and tips to servants~ How did Papa expect him to find that? Take a job? The idea was appalling. No member of the Miranda family worked for wages.

He was about to ask how he was expected to live on no money when Papa abruptly changed the subject and said: 'I will now tell you what the rifles are for. We are going to take over the desert.'

Micky did not understand. The Miranda property covered a big area of Santamaria Province. Bordering their land was a smaller property owned by the Delabarca family. To the north of both was land so arid that neither Papa nor his neighbour had ever bothered to claim it. 'What do we want the desert for?' Micky said.

'Beneath the dust there is a mineral called nitrate. It's used as a fertilizer, much better than dung. It can be shipped all over the world and sold for high prices. The reason I want you to stay in London is to take charge of selling it.'

'How do we know this stuff is there?.

'Delabarca has started mining it. It has made his family rich.'

Micky felt excited. This could transform the family's future. Not instantly, of course; not soon enough to solve the problem of how he would live with no allowance. But in the long term...

'We have to act fast,' Papa said. 'Wealth is power, and the Delabarca family will soon be stronger than we are. Before that happens, we have to destroy them.'

Justin822 Lima Street, Summer 2005

Chapter 1
Pharmacy

For many years Henry Kitteridge was a pharmacist in the next town over, driving every morning on snowy roads, or rainy roads, or summertime roads, when the wild raspberries shot their new growth in brambles along the last section of town before he turned off to where the wider road led to the pharmacy. Retired now, he still wakes early and remembers how mornings used to be his favorite, as though the world were his secret, tires rumbling softly beneath him and the light emerging through the early fog, the brief sight of the bay off to his right, then the pines, tall and slender, and almost always he rode with the window partly open because he loved the smell of the pines and the heavy salt air, and in the winter he loved the smell of the cold. The pharmacy was a small two-story building attached to another building that housed separately a hardware store and a small grocery. Each morning Henry parked in the back by the large metal bins, and then entered the pharmacy's back door, and went about switching on the lights, turning up the thermostat, or, if it was summer, getting the fans going. He would open the safe, put money in the register, unlock the front door, wash his hands, put on his white lab coat. The ritual was pleasing, as though the old store--with its shelves of toothpaste, vitamins, cosmetics, hair adornments, even sewing needles and greeting cards, as well as red rubber hot water bottles, enema pumps--was a person altogether steady and steadfast. And any unpleasantness that may have occurred back in his home, any uneasiness at the way his wife often left their bed to wander through their home in the night's dark hours--all this receded like a shoreline as he walked through the safety of his pharmacy. Standing in the back, with the drawers and rows of pills, Henry was cheerful when the phone began to ring, cheerful when Mrs. Merriman came for her blood pressure medicine, or old Cliff Mott arrived for his digitalis, cheerful when he prepared the Valium for Rachel Jones, whose husband ran off the night their baby was born. It was Henry's nature to listen, and many times during the week he would say, "Gosh, I'm awful sorry to hear that," or "Say, isn't that something?" Inwardly, he suffered the quiet trepidations of a man who had witnessed twice in childhood the nervous breakdowns of a mother who had otherwise cared for him with stridency. And so if, as rarely happened, a customer was distressed over a price, or irritated by the quality of an Ace bandage or ice pack, Henry did what he could to rectify things quickly. For many years Mrs. Granger worked for him; her husband was a lobster fisherman, and she seemed to carry with her the cold breeze of the open water, not so eager to please a wary customer. He had to listen with half an ear as he filled prescriptions, to make sure she was not at the cash register dismissing a complaint. More than once he was reminded of that same sensation in watching to see that his wife, Olive, did not bear down too hard on Christopher over a homework assignment or a chore left undone; that sense of his attention hovering--the need to keep everyone content. When he heard a briskness in Mrs. Granger's voice, he would step down from his back post, moving toward the center of the store to talk with the customer himself. Otherwise, Mrs. Granger did her job well. He appreciated that she was not chatty, kept perfect inventory, and almost never called in sick. That she died in her sleep one night astonished him, and left him with some feeling of responsibility, as though he had missed, working alongside her for years, whatever symptom might have shown itself that he, handling his pills and syrups and syringes, could...

PrologueThe Mansion on the River

It was my father who called the city the Mansion on the River.
He was talking about Charleston, South Carolina, and he was a native son, peacock proud of a town so pretty it makes your eyes ache with pleasure just to walk down its spellbinding, narrow streets. Charleston was my father's ministry, his hobbyhorse, his quiet obsession, and the great love of his life. His bloodstream lit up my own with a passion for the city that I've never lost nor ever will. I'm Charleston-born, and bred. The city's two rivers, the Ashley and the Cooper, have flooded and shaped all the days of my life on this storied peninsula.
I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula-shaped and sun-hardened and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness each day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St. Michael's calling cadence in the cicada-�lled trees along Meeting Street. Deep in my bones, I knew early that I was one of those incorrigible creatures known as Charlestonians. It comes to me as a surprising form of knowledge that my time in the city is more vocation than gift; it is my destiny, not my choice. I consider it a high privilege to be a native of one of the loveliest American cities, not a high-kicking, glossy, or lipsticked city, not a city with bells on its �ngers or brightly painted toenails, but a ruffled, low-slung city, understated and tolerant of nothing mismade or ostentatious. Though Charleston feels a seersuckered, tuxedoed view of itself, it approves of restraint far more than vainglory.
As a boy, in my own backyard I could catch a basket of blue crabs, a string of flounder, a dozen red�sh, or a net full of white shrimp. All this I could do in a city enchanting enough to charm cobras out of baskets, one so corniced and �ligreed and elaborate that it leaves strangers awed and natives self-satis�ed. In its shadows you can �nd metalwork as delicate as lace and spiral staircases as elaborate as yachts. In the secrecy of its gardens you can discover jasmine and camellias and hundreds of other plants that look embroidered and stolen from the Garden of Eden for the sheer love of richness and the joy of stealing from the gods. In its kitchens, the stoves are lit up in happiness as the lamb is marinating in red wine sauce, vinaigrette is prepared for the salad, crabmeat is anointed with sherry, custards are baked in the oven, and buttermilk biscuits cool on the counter.
Because of its devotional, graceful attraction to food and gardens and architecture, Charleston stands for all the principles that make living well both a civic virtue and a standard. It is a rapturous, de�ning place to grow up. Everything I reveal to you now will be Charleston-shaped and Charleston-governed, and sometimes even Charleston-ruined. But it is my fault and not the city's that it came close to destroying me. Not everyone responds to beauty in the same way. Though Charleston can do much, it can't always improve on the strangeness of human behavior. But Charleston has a high tolerance for eccentricity and bemusement. There is a tastefulness in its gentility that comes from the knowledge that Charleston is a permanent dimple in the understated skyline, while the rest of us are only visitors.
My father was an immensely gifted science teacher who...

Chapter One

Abbie, Lily, and Emma, Sort of

subject:HELP!

from:Lily

date:June 5, 2009

to:Abbie

Oh, Crabapple, I hate it when I can't reach you by phone. Where are you? Why isn't your cell phone on? Would you please please email me right away? We're all in a mess here and we need you to come home.

subject:But don't panic.

from:Lily

date:June 5, 2009

to:Abbie

Disregard that last email. Well, don't disregard it completely, but no one is dead or anything. It's just that Dad's in financial trouble, plus a sexy woman's after him, and Emma lost her job AND Duncan broke off their engagement. Emma came home from Boston and just lies on her bed, crying all day long. She's so thin, I'm kind of scared for her. I'm trying to keep up with the house and everything, but my crazy busy season's started with the magazine. And I guess you'd better not call me, because you're six hours ahead or behind or whatever and I probably can't talk when you can plus I know you hate the expense of a transatlantic call. Just please, please, come home.

subject:Help

from:Abbie

date:June 5, 2009

to:Lily

I'll email Emma today. But honey, isn't it about time Dad had a girlfriend? Mom's been gone for fifteen years. He's probably lonely. And maybe you're overestimating Dad's money problems. I mean, everyone's having trouble this year. Has he told you he's worried about money?

from:Abbie

date:June 5, 2009

to:Emma

Hi, Emma, what's going on? Lily tells me you're back home. God, you must be desperate. I Email me, let me know you're okay, okay?

subject:The Playhouse

from:Lily

date:June 5, 2009

to:Abbie

Dad hasn't said he's worried, but he acts worried, and he's rented the Playhouse (to that woman, wait till you see her!), plus he said he might put the boat up for sale. And I know a lot of the people who'd hired him to renovate their houses have canceled. I can see with my own eyes how little work there is for him this summer. I think if you were here, he'd talk about it. I know he thinks I'm still a baby.

subject:Please

from:Abbie

date:June 7, 2009

to:Emma

Just send me one little email, okay? You don't even have to say anything. Just hit reply!

subject:I'm coming home.

from:Abbie

date:June 8, 2009

to:Lily

I've got a reservation on British Air. I'll be home tomorrow. Probably around three, if my connections go smoothly.

Chapter Two

Marina

So here she was, on Nantucket. In a small rented cottage in the middle of an enchanted island. At least she hoped it was enchanted. She was waking to another day without family or love or plans for the future.

Still, she felt just a bit better.

Lying curled in her bed, she forced herself to name just five things for which she was grateful. It was an exercise Christie had advised her to perform first thing in the morning and last thing at night. If nothing else, Christie had told her, it will give you a little bit of structure, one tidy line to start the morning and end the day to make you feel enclosed and on task.

All right...

Chapter One
Major Pettigrew was still upset about the phone call from his brother's wife and so he answered the doorbell without thinking. On the damp bricks of the path stood Mrs. Ali from the village shop. She gave only the faintest of starts, the merest arch of an eyebrow. A quick rush of embarrassment flooded to the Major's cheeks and he smoothed helplessly at the lap of his crimson, clematis-covered housecoat with hands that felt like spades.

"Ah," he said.

"Major?"

"Mrs. Ali?" There was a pause that seemed to expand slowly, like the universe, which, he had just read, was pushing itself apart as it aged. "Senescence," they had called it in the Sunday paper.

"I came for the newspaper money. The paper boy is sick," said Mrs. Ali, drawing up her short frame to its greatest height and assuming a brisk tone, so different from the low, accented roundness of her voice when it was quiet in the shop and they could discuss the texture and perfume of the teas she blended specially for him.

"Of course, I'm awfully sorry." He had forgotten to put the week's money in an envelope under the outside doormat. He started fumbling for the pockets of his trousers, which were somewhere under the clematis. He felt his eyes watering. His pockets were inaccessible unless he hoisted the hem of the housecoat. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Oh, not to worry," she said, backing away. "You can drop it in at the shop later--sometime more convenient." She was already turning away when he was seized with an urgent need to explain.

"My brother died," he said. She turned back. "My brother died," he repeated. "I got the call this morning. I didn't have time." The dawn chorus had still been chattering in the giant yew against the west wall of his cottage, the sky pink, when the telephone rang. The Major, who had been up early to do his weekly housecleaning, now realized he had been sitting in a daze ever since. He gestured helplessly at his strange outfit and wiped a hand across his face. Quite suddenly his knees felt loose and he could sense the blood leaving his head. He felt his shoulder meet the doorpost unexpectedly and Mrs. Ali, quicker than his eye could follow, was somehow at his side propping him upright.

"I think we'd better get you indoors and sitting down," she said, her voice soft with concern. "If you will allow me, I will fetch you some water." Since most of the feeling seemed to have left his extremities, the Major had no choice but to comply. Mrs. Ali guided him across the narrow, uneven stone floor of the hallway and deposited him in the wing chair tucked just inside the door of the bright, book-lined living room. It was his least favorite chair, lumpy cushioned and with a hard ridge of wood at just the wrong place on the back of his head, but he was in no position to complain.

"I found the glass on the draining board," said Mrs. Ali, presenting him with the thick tumbler in which he soaked his partial bridgework at night. The faint hint of spearmint made him gag. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, much better," he said, his eyes swimming with tears. "It's very kind of you.?.?.?."

"May I prepare you some tea?" Her offer made him feel frail and pitiful.

"Thank you," he said. Anything to get her out of the room while he recovered some semblance of vigor and got rid of the housecoat.

It was strange, he thought, to listen again to a woman clattering teacups in the kitchen. On the mantelpiece his wife, Nancy, smiled from her photo, her wavy brown hair tousled, and her...

Chapter One

It is a truth universally acknowledged that zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains. Never was this truth more plain than during the recent attacks at Netherfield Park, in which a household of eighteen was slaughtered and consumed by a horde of the living dead.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is occupied again?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not and went about his morning business of dagger sharpening and musket polishing—for attacks by the unmentionables had grown alarmingly frequent in recent weeks.

"But it is," returned she.

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"Woman, I am attending to my musket. Prattle on if you must, but leave me to the defense of my estate!"

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune; that he escaped London in a chaise and four just as the strange plague broke through the Manchester line."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley. A single man of four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

"How so? Can he train them in the ways of swordsmanship and musketry?"

"How can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

"Marriage? In times such as these? Surely this Bingley has no such designs."

"Designs! Nonsense, how can you talk so! It is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes."

"I see no occasion for that. And besides, we mustn't busy the roads more than is absolutely necessary, lest we lose more horses and carriages to the unfortunate scourge that has so troubled our beloved Hertfordshire of late."

"But consider your daughters!"

"I am considering them, silly woman! I would much prefer their minds be engaged in the deadly arts than clouded with dreams of marriage and fortune, as your own so clearly is! Go and see this Bingley if you must, though I warn you that none of our girls has much to recommend them; they are all silly and ignorant like their mother, the exception being Lizzy, who has something more of the killer instinct than her sisters."

"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."

"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard of little else these last twenty years at least."

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and self-discipline, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. Her mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. And when she was nervous—as she was nearly all the time since the first outbreak of the strange plague in her youth—she sought solace in the comfort of the traditions which now seemed mere trifles to others.

The business of Mr. Bennet's life was to keep his daughters alive. The business of Mrs. Bennet's was to get them married.

Chapter One
An Interrupted Conversation

The dog sensed them first. Dark as it was, Ian Murray felt rather than saw Rollo's head lift suddenly near his thigh, ears pricking. He put a hand on the dog's neck, and felt the hair there ridged with warning.

So attuned as they were to each other, he did not even think consciously, "Men," but put his other hand to his knife and lay still, breathing. Listening.

The forest was quiet. It was hours 'til dawn and the air was still as that in a church, with a mist like incense rising slowly up from the ground. He had lain down to rest on the fallen trunk of a giant tulip tree, preferring the tickle of wood-lice to seeping damp. He kept his hand on the dog, waiting.

Rollo was growling, a low, constant rumble that Ian could barely hear but felt easily, the vibration of it traveling up his arm, arousing all the nerves of his body. He hadn't been asleep--he rarely slept at night anymore--but had been quiet, looking up into the vault of the sky, engrossed in his usual argument with God. Quietness had vanished with Rollo's movement. He sat up slowly, swinging his legs over the side of the half-rotted log, heart beating fast now.

Rollo's warning hadn't changed, but the great head swiveled, following something unseen. It was a moonless night; Ian could see the faint silhouettes of trees and the moving shadows of the night, but nothing more.

Then he heard them. Sounds of passage. A good distance away, but coming nearer by the moment. He stood and stepped softly into the pool of black under a balsam fir. A click of the tongue, and Rollo left off his growling and followed, silent as the wolf who had been his father.

Ian's resting-place overlooked a game trail. The men who followed it were not hunting. White men. Now that was odd, and more than odd. He couldn't see them, but didn't need to; the noise they made was unmistakable. Indians traveling were not silent, and many of the Highlanders he lived among could move like ghosts in the wood--but he had no doubt whatever. Metal, that was it. He was hearing the jingle of harness, the clink of buttons and buckles--and gun barrels.

A lot of them. So close, he began to smell them. He leaned forward a little, eyes closed, the better to snuff up what clue he could.They carried pelts; now he picked up the dried-blood cold-fur smell that had probably waked Rollo--but not trappers, surely; too many. Trappers moved in ones and twos.Poor men, and dirty. Not trappers, and not hunters. Game was easy to come by at this season, but they smelled of hunger. And the sweat of bad drink.

Close by now, perhaps ten feet from the place where he stood. Rollo made a tiny snorting sound, and Ian closed his hand once more on the dog's ruff, but the men made too much noise to hear it. He counted the passing footsteps, the bumping of canteens and bullet boxes, foot-sore grunts and sighs of weariness.

Twenty-three men, he made it, and there was a mule--no, two mules with them; he could hear the creak of laden panniers and that querulous heavy breathing, the way a loaded mule did, always on the verge of complaint.

The men would never have detected them, but some freak of the air bore Rollo's scent to the mules. A deafening bray shattered the dark, and the forest erupted in front of him with a clishmaclaver of crashing and startled shouts. Ian was already running when pistol shots crashed behind him.

"A Dhia!" Something struck him in the head and he fell headlong. Was he killed?

No. Rollo was...

Chapter One

Dorothy Shauman Ledbetter Shauman is standing in front of the bathroom mirror in her black half-slip and black push-up bra, auditioning a look. Her fortieth high school reunion, the last one, is one week away, and she's trying to decide whether or not to draw a beauty mark above her lip for the occasion. It wouldn't be entirely false; she does have a mole there, but it's faint, hard to see. She just wants to enhance what already exists, nothing wrong with that; it's de rigueur if you're a woman, and it's becoming more common in men, too. Wrong as that is. Dorothy would never have anything to do with a man who wore makeup or dyed his hair or carried a purse or wore support hose or cried or did any of those womanly things men are appropriating as though it's their god-given right. No. She prefers an all-American, red-blooded male who is not a jerk. They're hard to find, but she holds out hope that she will have some sort of meaningful relationship with one before she's six feet under.

She regards herself in the mirror, tilts her head this way and that. Yes, a beauty mark would be fun, kind of playful. She pencils in the mark gingerly, then steps back to regard herself. Not bad. Not bad at all. Sexy. Just like she wanted. Helloooo, Marilyn. She pictures Pete Decker looking up from his table full of jocks when she walks into the hotel ballroom and saying, Va va va voom! And then, Dorothy? Dorothy Shauman?

"Uh-huh," she will say, lightly, musically, and walk right past him. Though she will walk close enough to him for him to smell her perfume. Also new. One hundred and ten smackeroos. She got perfume, not cologne, even though her personal belief is that there is no difference. She'd asked the counter woman about that. She'd leaned in confidentially and said, "Now, come on. Tell me, really. If you were my best friend, would you tell me to get the perfume over the cologne?" And the woman had looked her right in the eye and said, "Yes." Dorothy was a little miffed, because the woman had acted as though Dorothy had affronted her dignity or questioned her ethics or something. Like the time Dr. Strickland was telling Dorothy to get a certain ($418!!!) blood test and she'd said, "Would you tell your wife to get it?" And Dr. Strickland had drawn himself up and quietly said, "I would." Dorothy had been all set to give him an affectionate little punch and say, "Oh, come on, now; don't be so prissy," but then Dr. Strickland had added, "If she were still alive," and that had just ruined everything. It wasn't her fault the woman had died! Dorothy had been going to refuse the test no matter what, but when he said his wife was dead, well, then she had to get it. Those dead people had more power than they thought.

Dorothy has never gone to a high school reunion. She'd been married when they had them before, and who wanted to bring that to a reunion. Now she is divorced, plus she saw that movie about saying yes to life. She steps closer to the mirror and raises her chin so her turkey neck disappears. She'll hold her head like this when she walks by Pete Decker. Later, when they're making out in his car, it will be dark, and she won't have to be so vigilant. Oh, she hopes he drives to the reunion; she happens to know he lives a mere three and a half hours away. She knows his exact address, in fact; and she Google-Earthed him, which was very exciting.

In high school, Pete had a four-on-the-floor, metallic green GTO, and Dorothy always wanted to make out with him in that car. But she never even got to sit in it. She bets he has something like a red Lexus coupe now. And she bets that at the reunion he'll watch her for a...