Cheating Death Page 10

  “Just tell me when, okay?”

  Ringo’s eyes finally met mine. “I’d like to see ‘er when it’s all done – when I’m ready to go ‘ome.”

  I nodded and ignored the sharp pain in my heart at the idea that he would ever be ready to leave. It was too selfish to say out loud, but the little voice in my head whimpered, I don’t want you to go.

  “So, should I just draw a spiral here in your flat and Clock us back to 1889 then?” I changed the subject so I wouldn’t dwell.

  “So ready to see me gone?” Ringo smiled sadly, but I stared at him in shock.

  “No! I don’t want you to go at all. I meant should we go back to find Tom.” I felt sick at the idea that he had misunderstood me.

  He met my eyes, and though he still smiled, I could see the seriousness. “I’m glad. I realized I’d never actually asked ye if ye wanted me with ye.”

  “Right by my side.”

  His eyes glittered and he scrubbed his fingers through his hair as he leaned back in his chair. Finally, he exhaled loudly and said, “To be honest, I’m not so excited at the idea of a spiral ‘ere.”

  “What, you don’t want Doran popping by for tea?” I scoffed. “No worries, the London Bridge is close enough. The question is, do we go see Tom first, or do we dig for answers on George Walters?”

  “Either way, I need to find a job for a few days. I figure a couple of days of clearin’ rubble, even though money’s tight with the war, will feed us better than a month of work with Gosford in 1889.”

  “Why you? Why not both of us?”

  He scowled. “I don’t want one of yer lectures about men and women bein’ equal. I know ‘em all by ‘eart, and I believe ‘em too. But look at the times, Saira. Women are only just getting’ paid for jobs they’ve been doin’ all along, and the only ones with any real money married it or inherited it.”

  I set my empty mug down with a thunk and stared at him. “That’s it. You’re a genius,” I said as I got up from the table. Ringo watched me with an amused look.

  “‘Course I am, but what made ye just now notice?”

  I held my left hand out to him, palm down. “Archer’s ring. He said it’s all I need to access his money. He’s not on this timeline, so he’ll never need his fortune in this future. I can use it to finance us until we figure out how to fix time, and since that means the bomb won’t explode and cause the split, I won’t have actually ever spent the money.”

  Ringo’s eyes narrowed as he processed what I’d just said. He watched me for a long moment before he finally spoke. “I don’t like usin’ yer money when I ‘ave two perfectly good ‘ands and a strong back.”

  I exhaled sharply. “I knew you’d say that. So I’ll say to you what Archer would – what good is having money if we don’t use it when we need to? And frankly, I don’t want to scramble for a couple of days of work when the job we have to do is so much bigger than just keeping us fed. So, I’m going to register your protest, and then I’m going to ignore it. Are you cool with that?”

  “I’ll pay you back,” he finally said. It was ridiculous, and we both knew it, but his pride wouldn’t let him off the hook.

  “Fine. Then I’m paying for your college.”

  “What? No ye’re not.”

  “Then shut up.” I scowled at him for exactly thirty seconds before the grin broke through my self-control, and when his mouth quirked I took his face in my hands and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Now we just have to figure out which bank he kept his money in,” I said as I gathered my satchel.

  “Rothschild’s,” Ringo said decisively.

  I looked up in surprise. “How do you know?”

  “He said ye gave ‘im the idea the first night ye met. Ye knew Rothschild as a bankin’ family, which meant they’d survived to modern times, so ‘e took ‘is shares of the family ‘oldin and moved them into Rothschild’s bank.”

  “When did he tell you all this?”

  Ringo shrugged. “Before we went to Bletchley Park. ‘E said to make sure ye knew to go there if we needed anythin’.”

  “Well, now we need something. Do you know where it is?”

  He nodded. “It’s close. Up on St. Swithin’s Lane.”

  I brushed the dust off my trousers and buttoned my coat up to cover the t-shirt I was wearing while my 1940s blouse dried. Clean clothes were a luxury I indulged in whenever we had plans to stay any place more than a day, and the radiator was currently sporting a colorful display of my underwear. Ringo very pointedly stayed on the other side of the room. “Well, this is as good as it gets. Hopefully my ring will get us in the door, because I don’t think my wardrobe is quite up to the standards of a Rothschild client.”

  Ringo shook his head. “Ye don’t know men if ye think they’ll even notice what ye’re wearin’.”

  I stuck my tongue out at him as we headed down the ladder and out of the loft flat. It was a business day, but the accountants who currently occupied the main floor of the building were all fighting the war, so the office was shuttered.

  There was life on the streets though – older men and young boys working side by side to clear the rubble of a bomb site on one side of the street, while a mother sat on the stoop of her flat, a book in one hand and a sleeping baby on her lap. She caught me smiling at her baby, and gave me a tired wave in return. She didn’t look too much older than me, but there were deep circles under her eyes. The baby was probably only about six months old, and I wondered about its father. Was he fighting in Europe somewhere? Was he even still alive? The stories I could make up about her life made ‘new mother’ just one of many possible reasons for her sleeplessness.

  The Rothschild building was an imposing Victorian brick thing that dominated a whole side of St. Swithin’s Lane – an ancient, ten-foot-wide alley. We were ushered inside by an expressionless doorman and directed to the front desk.

  “May I help you?” The receptionist was probably about fifty, with perfectly coiffed hair as stiff as her sharp upper-crust accent. She noticed my clothes but had the good taste not to cringe.

  “My name is Saira Devereux,” I began. My hands were sweating, and I stumbled over my last name. “My husband has an account here, and I’d like to access it.” I stumbled over ‘husband’ too, and the first hint of scorn tinged her expressionless face.

  “Where is your husband?” she sniffed. The woman was handsome rather than attractive, and with her haughty superiority, she reminded me of old photos of Wallis Simpson, the woman King Edward abdicated his throne to marry. I dubbed her Wally just to take her down a notch in my mind.

  “He’s not … here,” I said lamely. Despite the nickname, Wally intimidated me.

  “We do not grant access to our clients’ accounts without proper authorization, arranged with the account-holder in person, in advance. It is for the protection of our clients against fraudulent claims from opportunists and thieves, so unless you have the proper paperwork with you, you will need to return with your husband.”

  Tears sprang to my eyes so suddenly I couldn’t clamp down on the pain. If Archer were able to return with me, there would be no need to be here at all. I opened my mouth to respond, but Ringo beat me to it. “Lady Devereux would like to see Mr. Rothschild, please.”

  Wally started. “Lady—” She clearly hadn’t expected the title, and her eyes narrowed. “Do you have proof of your identity, madam?”

  Her imperious tone finally startled me out of my meekness and arrogance hit my voice. “Of course I do. And I’ll be showing it to Mr. Rothschild, not to his receptionist.”

  Her gaze was imperious, but I’d surprised her, and I sensed she was weighing her options with me –

  back down and take the possible wrath of her boss if I turned out to be false, or stand her ground and guarantee the wrath of Rothschild when I complained about her. She finally lifted the telephone and plugged in a switch.

  “A Lady Devereux is here to see Mr. Rothschild,” she said into the receiver. Her eyes o
pened fractionally wider and she looked at me. “Your husband’s first name?”

  “Archer.”

  Wally paled and spoke quickly into the phone. “Yes sir. I’ll send her right up, sir.”

  She replaced the phone in its cradle carefully and took a breath. When she finally met my eyes again I almost cringed from the fear in them. “Forgive me, Lady Devereux. I hope I did not offend.”

  Ringo spoke before I could. “Ye did, but she won’t ‘old it against ye.”

  Wally’s expression froze. “I do apologize,” she said as she stood and directed us to a gilt cage that housed the elevator. “Jones will take you up to Mr. Rothschild’s office.”

  Jones, the elevator operator, smiled brightly as we entered the cage. “Sure thing, Mrs. Blackburn.” His smile was infectious and wiped the sourness off my mood. I looked at Wally from behind the cage doors and gave her a nod. It was enough to change the expression on her face from fearful to thankful.

  The elevator cracked to a stop on the third floor, and Jones opened the cage door with a cheerful smile at the young woman who waited for us. “There ye go, Aeris. Safe and sound.”

  Aeris seemed nervous, so I held my hand out to her. “Hi Aeris, I love your name. I’m Saira Devereux, and this is Ringo.”

  My friendliness seemed to surprise her, but she recovered quickly and shook our hands. “Thank you. This way, please. Mr. Rothschild is waiting for you.”

  For the first time, I wondered if the bank and wine families of Rothschild were at all related to the Monger Family I knew in my own time. The name was spelled differently, and as far as I knew, none of the Monger Rothchilds were Jewish, so it seemed unlikely. But I braced myself for Monger-gut anyway.

  Aeris tapped twice on the closed door at the end of the hallway, then opened it to usher us in. The office had a view down the narrow alley of St. Swithin’s Lane, which, from three stories up, looked like a small stream running through London. It was paneled in beautiful, golden wood, and the Persian carpet on the floor was almost as big as the huge room. Mr. Rothschild stood from his chair upon our entrance, and he came around the desk with his hand outstretched and a welcoming smile on his face.

  “Lady Devereux?” He lifted my hand to kiss the back of it. Most people would have missed the tiny glance down at my left hand in the elegance of his greeting. I caught it because I was looking for it, and I met Ringo’s eyes with a small smile. This guy was good, and had class in spades.

  “Mr. Rothschild, it’s an honor to meet you, sir,” I said with a friendly smile. “This is our family friend, Ringo.” Rothschild shook his hand and then directed us to some chairs by the window.

  “Please, come and sit. Aeris, if you would bring us some tea, I’d be most grateful.” He turned to me. “I consider your husband to be a personal friend. It is an honor to meet you, madam.” His smile was genuine, and it gave me confidence I hadn’t felt earlier.

  The door closed behind Aeris as Ringo and I sat in the big club chairs across from Mr. Rothschild. “Thank you for taking me at my word. When we were married, Archer said his ring would allow me access to his resources. I now find I need those resources to find him and make sure he’s safe.”

  The smile was instantly replaced with concern. “Lady Devereux … it is Saira, is it not?”

  That shocked me. “Yes. How did you know?”

  “Archer described you to me when I assumed managing control of the bank after my father. He said I should give you anything you ask, and I find I am compelled to offer whatever additional resources the bank has at its disposal if it will help you ensure the safety of your husband.”

  Tears prickled at my eyes, but a deep breath helped keep them from falling. “Archer is very lucky to have such a generous friend in you, Mr. Rothschild. I hope I have the chance to know you personally as well.”

  Just then, Aeris returned with a tray full of tea things, which she set down on the table between us. She took an envelope from the tray and handed it to Mr. Rothschild. “As you requested, sir,” she said.

  “Thank you, Aeris.” He turned his gaze back to me as she left the room. “Archer asked me to keep this letter for you. He gave it to me just after the war began and said you may never come to claim it, but if you did, I should deliver it to you immediately.”

  I took the letter from him with a shaking hand and shot Ringo a worried glance. His answering expression was calm and supportive, and it gave me the strength to open the wax seal that was imprinted with the crowned heart from my ring.

  I read silently to myself while Mr. Rothschild chatted politely with Ringo about the state of the London streets since the Blitz. My Dearest Saira, I find I am overwhelmed with the hope that you will one day read this letter, because that would mean my deepest desire has been realized – to marry you. Thank you for trusting me with your heart, and for believing in me despite the challenges we’ll face.

  My heart utterly galloped in my chest with every word he’d written.

  Now, to practical matters (I can see your smirk and it makes me smile)—

  I did smirk, and my heartbeat slowed to something manageable.

  I’ve converted much of my fortune into gemstones. They’ll be easiest to carry and simplest to return to currency wherever you go. Consider finding Ringo to make the deals. I believe he could charm a fortune from the King of England if he set his mind to it.

  I inhaled sharply. How did he know? When this letter was written I’d known him only a few weeks in 1888, and yet he had planned for me to come, and he had anticipated what I’d need. Had he made this arrangement with every Rothschild banker since Victorian times?

  I blinked away my tears and continued reading. Take what you need, Saira. Take all of it. Everything I have belongs to you, and the only thing I want in this world is your security, safety, and happiness. You are my reason to smile, and my reason to rise every night and face all the unknowns that an endless future brings. Thank you for finding me, my love, for I am always and will forever be yours. ~Archer

  The men had moved to the window, and Mr. Rothschild was describing the histories of the various buildings to Ringo, but I knew it was really just to give me a minute of privacy.

  I needed it.

  My chest was like an aching black hole, and my throat burned with the sobs that threatened. I clamped a tight lid on the need to cry, because once I started I didn’t think I’d know how to stop. Archer had loved me so much more than I knew, and for so much longer than I realized. He’d told me his feelings, but I hadn’t understood until now.

  Now that he was gone.

  I shuddered and took a deep breath to force calm and peacefulness where there was virtually none left. I wanted to run so badly I twitched with the need, and I saw Ringo notice my agitation. He and Mr. Rothschild returned to their seats, and Ringo’s gaze held mine as if to make sure I was still able to function. I was, but barely.

  “Archer said—” I started, but had to clear my throat. “Archer said there are stones?”

  “Yes, Lady Devereux. I can have them brought to you here if you’d like, or I can take you to them.” Mr. Rothschild looked concerned, and I didn’t blame him. I probably looked like I warranted it.

  “Call me Saira, please. And if they could be brought here, that would be great. Thank you.”

  “Of course. Let me just go to the vaults myself.” Mr. Rothschild left us alone in his office, and I held the letter out to Ringo.

  He ignored it. “Are ye alright?”

  “I need to cry for about three days. Read the letter. You’re in it too.”

  His eyebrows rose at that and he took the paper warily. I practiced breathing while he read. I felt as if I’d forget how to unless I concentrated on each breath.

  Ringo exhaled deeply as he handed the letter back to me. “We’ll find ‘im again, Saira.” His voice held so much quiet conviction that I allowed a little hope back into my heart.

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak, and Ringo twined his fingers through mi
ne for a second – just long enough to squeeze the feeling back into them.

  “Rothschild is a good man,” Ringo said to change the subject.

  “He seems like it.”

  He got up and went to the window, where I joined him. “There’s a Christopher Wren church called St. Stephen Wallbrook just over there. It used to be the main focus of St. Swithin’s Lane.” Ringo pointed to something out of sight. “Rothschild wants to rebuild this place to bring the church and its graveyard back into view. ‘E appreciates the beauty of the place.”

  The office door opened and Mr. Rothschild returned carrying a large, flat black case, about the size of a briefcase, which he held in front of him like a tray. He set the case on his desk and invited me to sit in his chair. Then he opened the case, and it felt like the whole room gasped. Or maybe just my gasp was the loudest thing in my ears.

  The case was full of cut and uncut gemstones. Amethysts, tourmalines, garnets, and citrines were the biggest – some were twenty or thirty carats each. Rubies, sapphires, pearls, and the occasional emerald were somewhere in the five to ten carat range, and diamonds bigger than a carat were scattered everywhere among the colored stones. The whole tray glittered with spectacular stones, and when I could finally tear my eyes away from it, I stared at Mr. Rothschild.

  “How—?”

  Mr. Rothschild said calmly, “Lord Devereux has been investing with us since 1889.” He waited a moment for that to sink in, and when none of us reacted to that news with surprise, he gave a tiny nod of his head and continued. “He was a principal investor in the financing of the London Underground and the Rio Tinto copper mines in Spain, among other things. He has been using our Antwerp connections to convert the profits from his various investments into what you see before you. Lord Devereux has an instinct for the technologies that will become the biggest successes, and as you can see, he’s done very well.”

  I touched the tops of the stones lightly with the palm of my hand. “Wow,” I whispered. Then I looked at Ringo. “Could you pick out stones you can sell easily? Just enough to see us through …”