Redemption. - Redemption. Part 35
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Redemption. Part 35

Now here was where the trust came in. As part of the arrangement, Swan left a handwritten memoir of his black deals with Roger Hubble. The authorship was certified in the presence of an impeccable quorum of his peers who witnessed his signature but did not read the contents of the document.

The book was placed in the hands of Sir Frederick and Caroline Hubble. Swan's risk was not all that great. After all, if either Caroline or Weed exposed the contents, Swan had a few hundred other pages on his exploits for Sir Frederick.

Trusting thieves will out. Caroline had her little nest egg, the biggest of all Orange cards, to assure that she alone would draw the final boundaries and settle the accounts favorably. Swan rotted away early in his retirement and was set down with stunning military honors but left behind him his little book of horrors, as if to say his pervasive spirit was still rankling around.

The disengagement of the Weed-Hubble combine was not a simple matter. They were welded together all over the province. Roger sat on the Weed Ship & Iron board and the two had numerous joint investments and partnerships, supplied one another and, until Swan's departure, attended to a lot of covert affairs together.

While Roger's earldom was a thin ha' penny alongside Sir Frederick's worldwide enterprises, Roger's ancient title had a mystical hold on Weed. Roger was still the master of Londonderry, endemic to a British Ulster. Londonderry had been Roger's original Orange card. Now, he had two more of them, Christopher and Jeremy.

Jeremy was let go by his mother for his cowardly behavior toward Molly O'Rafferty and his unborn child. Although Freddie adored Jeremy as a harmless playboy, he had become resigned to the fact that Jeremy would not amount to much in the future of Weed Ship & Iron.

Sir Frederick had ceded Jeremy to Londonderry, to Hubble Manor, and to the Earldom of Foyle, where he could acquit himself as a functionary at charities, horse shows, and snoozing in the House of Lords. Jeremy was to be a ceremonial figurehead much as had been his grandfather, poor stuttering Arthur.

For the moment Jeremy was not up to even these most menial duties. After he had caved in and let her go, his joy and raffish behavior fled him.

Roger issued Jeremy orders. Caroline scarcely spoke to him, and then only in a perfunctory manner on public occasions. His grandfather, while still having a soft spot, grew weary of Jeremy's lack of steel.

Roger tried energetically to push him into a marriage, but so long as Molly's disappearance remained a mystery, he refused as though he were hanging on to his last shred of manhood and decency. Jeremy drank heavily, attended the races and horse shows, played rugby with Catholic thugs in the lower counties, and haunted the areas of Dublin around Trinity College and the river Liffey.

Now, Christopher Hubble was quite another matter. It seems that his first steps were out of the marching manual of the Coldstream Guards. Roger bemoaned the bloody fate that would deny Christopher the earldom. Denied it by birth but showing exceptional business skills, one would have thought he was heading straight for the top at Weed Ship & Iron. Only problem was that Sir Frederick thought his second grandson was a stiffassed bore.

No doubt, Weed thought, Christopher had the inclination to run the earldom's croppy labor with a whip hand in Londonderry's archaic industries. However, and this was a tremendous however, between Christopher and his grandfather, Christopher did not have the gist of the Belfast atmosphere and the latitude and smarts to deal with ten thousand working people.

During his apprenticeships at the yard, Christopher behaved toward the proud shipwrights and steelmakers as an overlord to his serfs. Likewise, department managers and foremen found him frustratingly priggish and overbearing.

See now, the entrepreneurs of Belfast and particularly his grandfather were rough and tumble bully boys, not the fastidiously clipped, moustached, hands-behind-the-back, slapping-the-old-riding-crop-on-the-breeches guardians of the Crown.

So be it. Roger Hubble had both his sons.

As Roger felt the remoteness grow, he put on a few moves of his own. Jeremy was snatched off the racetrack and ordered into the family regiment. The Coleraine Rifles first went into business three centuries earlier hanging croppy heads on pikes for Oliver Cromwell.

Thus, the Viscount of Coleraine went into the Coleraines as a subaltern and would stay there until he agreed to take a wife. Jeremy, fearing his father's tirades less all the time, showed little interest in rising above subaltern or anything other than amusing himself and making his forays into Dublin. Because of Lord Roger's influence in the Rifles, Jeremy was kept in meaningless positions, lest he become an embarrassment.

Enter Christopher, his brother's keeper. When Chris joined the Coleraines, Roger and Colonel Brodhead, an old Ulster hand, connived to allow Christopher to keep an eye on Jeremy.

Roger feared that Jeremy might bring some sort of humiliation to the earldom in one of his drunken stupors. Not that he cared for Jeremy very much, but Roger feared that if anything happened to Jeremy, Caroline and Freddie would take him out of the Belfast industries forever.

This charming family had splintered into a human patchwork of who was speaking to whom, how loudly, who was speaking behind whose back, and who was wishing whom well or unwell.

There was an absurd molecule in the family mix as Caroline and Freddie aligned against Roger and Christopher, with Jeremy dangling in limbo.

From the very beginning, Sir Frederick and Lord Roger were cemented together to defeat Irish Home Rule, each anchoring a geographical corner of the province. With all the splintering of family fortunes, the two were still cemented together on the Home Rule issue and remained bedfellows in illegally importing tens of thousands of weapons to the Ulster Militia.

Roger saw himself eased out of the Weed Ship & Iron as Sir Frederick made a remarkable recovery from his stroke and tutored his daughter on the company's future. One always finds bits of undercurrents in Ulster. Everyone seems to get mixed up with everyone somehow-a Catholic midwife assists in the birth of an aristocrat, a Methodist deacon sits elbow-to-elbow at the pub with the paddies-so many signs of normalcy.

No matter who does what to whom, all good Protestants are utterly united on two matters: allegiance to the Crown and the belief that all good Catholics are republicans.

So Roger and Freddie, despite the crumbling of their houses, treated one another as blood brothers in Militia and Unionist party matters.

Roger was not blind to the way Caroline was taking dead aim at the helm of Weed Ship & Iron. Despite Jeremy's watery obedience to his father, Roger could not shake the young man into a new marriage. It was as though Jeremy was caught up in some sort of Irish faerie's web and could not let go of it. The echoed sound of "Molly" came to him twenty times a day. Sometimes it faded on its own. Sometimes it had to be cast out by drink. Whatever this last defiance be, Roger could not crack it, so Jeremy stayed out of everyone's way in the Coleraine Rifles.

Lieutenant Christopher Hubble, amenable to all things good for the earldom, took one step, front and center, and set forth, forthrightly, on a short but sweeping courtship of Hester Glyn Gobbins, daughter of Baron and Baroness Hugh Gobbins. Roger was delighted.

Brother Jeremy, on exemplary behavior, whipped the saber from his scabbard to lead an archway of swords for the couple to sweep through on their way to the altar.

Chris and Hester were extremely close replicas of a fine English aristocratic pair and Gweedloe House's hedges were as clipped, its roses aburst, bannered, and butlered, the show was as close to perfect as it would have been across the sea on the main island.

On the receiving line, Christopher's lips parted and teeth revealed a kind smile as Hester offered her cheek to be bussed and said a sincere, "Mmmmugh" to all who kissed her. "Mmmmugh"..."mmmmugh." The "mmmm" came on contact and the "ugh" on the break..."mmmmugh."

Because Weed and Roger continued to appear often in public there was very little prattle about Caroline's departure from Londonderry. Since neither lover nor mistress appeared, one was given to think that the Countess was taking particularly close care of her father.

After the lawn party, the crowd of guests dissolved and the lads of the brigade invaded the township's pubs. Caroline retired to her apartment at Gweedloe House only to find Roger already there.

"Sorry about this," Roger said, "there's a manservant's room behind the pantry. It will do me quite well."

"We'll manage," Caroline said. "Actually we have a number of things that have been on hold. This might be a good time for it."

"Except for the chance rally or dinner, it's been two years. I think you've done a remarkable job with old Freddie. I say, he appears to be pleased with the marriage."

"Chris and Hester appear to be well suited to what they were bred and cultivated to do, like good horses. I hope Hester has the hips for it," Caroline said.

Roger grunted. Humor, however dark, was welcomed. "Colonel Brodhead is very happy with Christopher's progress in the Rifles."

"Chris has been a splendid officer since he was three years old," she retorted.

Roger contained his ire. Caroline lifted the phone and was put through to her father's room. Good, he was taking his rest. For a moment she was afraid he might have tippled just a bit too much and could have been off to the races. "He's like a little boy," she said.

"Caroline," Roger blurted. "I feel terribly awkward. Might I relax?"

"Yes, of course."

He unbuttoned his vest, doffed his shoes, and settled into a chair near her. Roger was immersed in deep concern and his face showed some hurt, she thought. Or was Roger doing up a little game? They had waited for this encounter for a long time. It came suddenly, but certainly each had rehearsed the lines and also rehearsed the other's answers...but the answers were never as one thought they ought to be.

"As soon as you realized," she said, "that Jeremy was going to make Jeremy's Last Stand, you drew up a short list, blindfolded Chris, and let him pick a name from a hat-a Coleraine Rifle dress hat-and the winner is Hester Glyn Gobbins."

"Guilty," Roger answered.

"And in the next chapter we shall see how sweet and innocent Hester Glyn Gobbins deals with the ghosts of Hubble Manor."

"Hubble Manor is a tomb, not for its lack of magnificence, but for the lack of its mistress. I'm having Ballystorrs redone for them."

"Well, it's nice to know one is appreciated," Caroline said. "Did it ever occur to you that both a mistress and an heir might be alive and wandering about out there someplace?"

"Yes."

"I've never stopped looking for them," Caroline said abruptly.

Roger almost came to the point of making an inquiry. Was Molly yet alive? Did she have a son or daughter? Any clues as to where they may be? He did not ask and, in not asking, Roger answered all the questions she did not ask. Bedrock.

The oriel window with its aged thick beveled glass allowed in a sudden rainbow of elongated dots. She studied Roger in his slouch and for an instant seemed to be taken with pity.

"Old Jolly Roger is still old Jolly Roger," he said in monotone. "The monster of Foyle, installed in me at my birth, is still alive and well, thank you. You look surprised, Caroline."

"Actually, I am."

"I've known the monster was there from the beginning and it never performed so well as when I put my father on the dole and took what was mine. We've done right well together, the monster and I. When I came to realize that the monster was going to make all my decisions for me, I said to myself, 'Well, this is what good monsters do.' I never have to choose between right and wrong. Wrong is what is bad for the earldom. There is no evil; I'm powerless. What is right for the earldom are profits, power, and continuity. Oh yes, I have despised and wondered about my heartlessness all my life, but when one accepts that the monster knows best, one learns to live with it. I cannot control what controls me."

"What game are you playing, Roger? At the moment you appear to control all the functioning cocks in the family, although I wouldn't count old Freddie out. So, you want Jeremy to give up the ghost and sire a future earl...but the monster tells you to cover your bet and have Chris and Hester get cracking on their duties. Then why don't you ask me for a divorce as well? I'd put my money on you making a couple of beautiful little monsters of your own."

"Your side of the table is the one that needs the heirs, Caroline."

"I'm sure you are aware that you have been cut back to the boundaries of the earldom. I love both my sons dearly. I would give what is left of my life to see Jeremy make amends for what he has done. Having said that, neither Chris nor Jeremy have any meaningful future in Weed Ship & Iron. They will inherit well, but they will never set foot in Belfast."

"I don't sail off into the sunset that easily, Caroline. No man, no matter how demented, gives his empire away to a daughter gone barren. Nor will you find that illegitimate child and bring him up as the Vatican's gift to Ulster."

"Good on you, Roger. You're sounding like your old self again."

"You and Freddie, no matter how powerful your seal, can't break the human order of family. Family is older than the earldom, older than the Celts, older than the Normans, older than the Angles and the Saxons...older than mankind...a hand-me-down from the apes and before them, family was stands of trees and dinosaurs-ever see two colonies of lichen on a rock moving toward each other? They don't join-strong family devours the weak one. Freddie and I are up to here in some rather interesting deals with each other. We are going to work out an accommodation."

The moment had arrived. Yet Caroline saw no pleasure in it.

"Roger, kindly ask your monster if that was a blackmail threat."

"Try me," he hissed, coming to his feet.

"Sit down, Roger," she commanded.

"Are you telling me to-"

"Sit down and listen very, very carefully. The accommodation you seek has already been worked out. You are to resign from the board of Weed Ship & Iron. Freddie and I will put to you the choice of buying or selling all joint ventures. You will have your earldom and your sons."

"You are being ridiculous, Caroline. Try this and I'll bring Weed Ship & Iron down."

"You're interrupting me, Roger."

He blinked and narrowed his eyes...so calm she was, so even.

"Sir Frederick Weed has passed ownership and control of Weed Ship & Iron to his barren daughter, Caroline. My father has borne the pain of forcing our marriage for decades. He absolutely despises you, despite your little joint gunrunning escapades. After his stroke Freddie wrote a diary and he initialed each page and signed it and it was certified before ten members of the House of Lords who, fortunately for you, do not know the rest of the book's content."

"That's blackmail! He can't bring me down without bringing himself down."

"Ah, you've never really known Freddie. He's a two-fisted gambler, my daddy. Freddie has had numerous small strokes since his first one. He's eighty-two years old now, and he and I decided jointly he goes out his way, at a big party. That is to say, Freddie doesn't give a big rat's ass if he is exposed or not....However, Roger, that old monster in you has to be telling you to tread carefully, what?"

"You are a devil," he rasped.

"Father's diary has a companion volume detailing your dealings with Maxwell Swan-"

"Shit!"

"Uncle Max, just before he died toasting the king with a strychnine grin on his face, covered the volume in orange and presented it to me in exchange for his living out his life in piety and luxury in Jamaica."

Caroline broke, voice quivering, "It's all here, the murder of Kevin O'Garvey, the cover-up of the factory fire, and a few other murders and bribes and broken legs and riots."

"All right...all right, let's get ourselves together. The truth of the matter is, Caroline, that when Freddie goes, you can't continue Weed Ship & Iron beyond your own lifetime."

"That's being taken care of, Roger. We're going public on the London Stock Exchange."

"You're mad! Freddie is mad!"

"Please Roger, the guests are napping."

"My God! Public ownership! Tax collectors crawling over your books like maggots...every little pissant solicitor in the British Isles reading your contracts...conspiracies on your board of directors...bribes...corruption...unions. A business, an earldom, a nation must be run by a single leader!"

"We sense that imperial man may be on the wane."

"Gawd! Now you hear me, Caroline-publish those dirty little diaries if you dare and I dare expose you and your paddy boy, Conor Larkin. When the Orange mob learns about you fucking your croppy in the barn, they'll have your guts on the pavement of Shipquay Street! See, madam, you're not all that clean!"

"I am guilty of a lot of things, Roger, extravagance beyond that of Marie Antoinette, blindness to a slave labor operation, guilty of a despicable arrogance in treating decent human beings as if they were dogs-all that-but I am not a criminal. Sorry to disappoint you, but I have been faithful to you. I didn't want it that way, but Conor Larkin had too much decency, despite his low breeding, for the likes of us...just as Molly O'Rafferty has too much decency for the likes of us. As for infidelity, the Brigadier also supplied me with your little black book...some of whom you've been paying exorbitant amounts."

Roger made a few disjointed gestures, cried, croaked, mumbled a plea. He was boxed in on every side. He slumped in defeat.

"Is the old monster back in its cage, Roger?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"You will report to Freddie's office promptly at three tomorrow afternoon. The papers are drawn up. Take your fucking earldom and piss off. In the future, I pray that a redemption is possible between me and our sons and that I can help them in worthwhile enterprises."

A knock on the door was followed by a trio of maids. "May we draw a bath for the Countess?"

"Yes, that would be lovely. By the bye, his Lordship is running a slight fever. Do you suppose he might have his own room and a doctor?"

When they had gone, Caroline started for her bath, then turned.

"Freddie was right," she said. "He said you've got too much blue blood to duke it out with a street fighter. When it came down to eyeball-to-eyeball, you'd cave in."

50.

Secret Files of Winston Churchill October 3, 1911 I have reached the first major crisis of my career, requiring me to make the most serious decision imaginable.

No one, and I repeat, no one fought more vigorously for the People's Budget of 1910, a signature event denoting the beginning of the era of the common man's right to a higher standard of living.

To pass this budget I led the fight to threaten the dissolution of the House of Lords and fight off the Conservatives whose mentality is deadened with rigor mortis. They still live in the memory of an exploiting empire and massive military budgets.