He removed his spectacles and slipped them in his frock coat pocket. “I’d have to look after your best interest, so—knowing your situation—I would invest your nest egg conservatively into something without much risk. I’d purchase interest-bearing Exchequer bonds that pay a fixed rate of three percent per annum upon which you might live.”
She balked at his plan. “Why would the Bank payme?”
“For the courtesy of allowing us to use your money whilst you’ve no need of it. It’s a mutually beneficial agreement, and quite commonplace.”
Commonplace?Investments and speculations were hazards reserved for the privileged few. Most folk scrimped, scrounged, and sacrificed to save their wages. He was naive if he believed differently.
“Only somebody who’s already rich has no need of money, Mark. Poor girls like me can’t afford to invest in anything when we need every penny in our purse.”
“But you are not poor, Eliza. You’ve fifteen hundred pounds to your name, and once we’re married, you shall want for nothing. I promise you’ll never be poor again.”
It was a comforting thought, yet she refused to put money into any scheme that supported the Boer War. She knew that raising funds for South Africa was currently an important part of Mark’s job, and she told him so. “I don’t agree with that.”
“You have such strong opinions for one so young,” he said without censure. They may not always agree, but they respected each other’s point of view.
“I’ve lived a long time in my twenty years, Mark. I have seen too much to stand aside and let the world go on as it has. When I’ve got something to say, I am going to say it.” She touched his sleeve, adding, “I will cause you no end of trouble, I fear.”
His large, fine fingers came to rest over hers. “That’s alright. I can bear a spot of trouble in exchange for your love.” They were silent for a beat until he said, “Warmongering isn’t my only function, mind you. The Court of Directors is responsible for managing the affairs of the Bank, maintaining monetary policy, and protecting the financial stability of the Empire. Fancy seeing the real fruits of my labors?”
She nodded, and he slid from his desktop. Mark’s vigor and excitement reminded her of their lovemaking, when he’d driven her to dizzying heights and joined her there, again and again. He had kept her up for half the night, and they’d even taken their pleasure before breakfast that morning!
He loved her, and he couldn’t get enough of her. He yearned to give and to show her everything, and Eliza delighted in sharing it all with him.
Mark escorted her down a lamplit, paneled corridor flanked by offices on each side. She spied white-whiskered toffs studying balance sheets or scribbling reports. One room held nothing but clerks counting out ‘gilt-edged’ bonds. Others recorded stock transfers. Some counted currency in the deepest, darkest backrooms of the Bank, and Eliza marveled at their deft hands thumbing over mounds of banknotes.
The Bank of England was a temple built for riches, and she couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “Cor blimey! All this for money?”
Mark laughed at her wide eyes and gaping mouth. “What you’ve seen is merely pocket change.” Hand-in-hand, they reached a spiraling flight of stairs that led below ground level. He gestured for her to descend. “The good stuff is kept in the vaults.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
In the subterranean tunnels below Threadneedle Street, bullion porters hauled trolleys of strongboxes filled with gold and silver. There were no windows. The low ceilings and narrow walls were nothing but whitewashed blocks of stone. Dim, bare bulbs flickered overhead to reveal no way in and no way out.
Only a fat tabby cat prowled the route hunting for vermin. He flipped his tail and licked his chops, yet allowed Mark and Eliza to pass unscathed, as he was employed to keep out the rabble.
These haunted warrens reminded her of the narrow, reeking alleys where she’d once lived and worked. The slums of Seven Dials were dank and grim, and she felt a hint of panic at the reminder of what she’d only barely survived.
“Are we allowed down here?” she asked, holding tighter to his hand.
“Not exactly,” Mark smiled in the dull light. “But who is to stop us? Besides, nothing will happen. I’m only going to give you a peek.”
“A peek at what?”
He walked onward mischievously. “‘You’ll see…”
Eventually, they heard voices—talking, laughing, and swearing. The cheery whistle of a workman echoed off the block walls, and Eliza recognized the tune from the old Cock & Pye, a pub she knew on Drury Lane. The food there was rubbish, but the entertainment was lively. She’d picked a few pockets of its stumbling, singing patrons a time or two.
Eliza trusted Mark. She kept her fingers laced with his as they passed through the last low arch and entered the bullion vaults of the Bank of England.
The whistling sentry stood at attention. “Alright, Sir Mark?”
He nodded. “Harry, this is Miss Summersby. We are to be married and I’d like to impress her. Might we have a wander ‘round?”
The man tipped his cap in deference to Eliza, and then stepped aside to allow them entry. “As ye wish, sir. And many congratulations to ye both!”
Before them stood a cavernous room with vaulted ceilings supported by thick, stone-block pillars that could withstand any assault. The stores could not be breached from the outside, nor could they be brought down from within. They appeared impermeable to fire and probably water, too.
From the ceiling, lamps hung at intervals to illuminate pallets of gold bars stacked in tidy towers. The fact that they did not collapse—or hadn’t sunk the foundations of the Bank into the soft London clay—was in itself a feat of engineering.
