To think that this had all stood for hundreds of years, and would likely stand for hundreds more!
Eliza spun ‘round in a stunned circle. She gawked at such wealth, which had been unimaginable to a poor girl from the streets. This was the might of the British Empire distilled into one room, the pinpoint of prosperity for the modern world. She could hardly believe her eyes!
Mark watched her take it all in. “Thrilling, isn’t it? I knew you’d enjoy seeing this.”
“What’s it all for?” she wondered. “Does every bank have one of these in its cellar?”
“Not quite. Most of our reserves are held on behalf of Her Majesty’s Treasury. The other is…working capital. You see, gold is a store of value,” he explained. “It has a finite supply, so whoever holds it, tries their best to keep it.”
She snorted. “Hoards it, you mean.”
He shrugged, for she wasn’t wrong. “Think of it like your stolen pound notes. You’ve only got so many fivers, tenners, and twenties in your wallet. You prefer to keep them handy and so does the Bank of England.”
“How much is all this worth?”
“Twenty million pounds or thereabouts.”
Eliza made a strangled sound in the back of her throat. “Twenty…million?”
It was an unfathomable figure.
She approached a pallet full of gold bars feeling a bit like Ali Baba who’d sneaked into the Forty Thieves’ den or Aladdin in the Sorcerer’s cave. Her wide-eyed reflection was distorted in the golden glow of the ingots. Against her better judgment, she asked, “Can I touch one?”
Mark laughed, “Not a chance! You’ll likely secret it away beneath your skirts.”
“I couldn’t lift one bar let alone carry the thing,” she argued. “It takes two of those burly blokes to haul a trolley of the stuff!”
If she could tuck one ingot into her corset, she’d leave the Bank a wealthy woman. Her fingers itched to try her luck, though it was always the greedy souls in the storybooks who never made it out of the treasure trove alive.
For all her pickpocketing, Eliza wanted to imagine herself pure of heart.
They traversed rows and rows of pallets stacked with bars. It was dizzying. Frightening, even. Deposits of bullion were received from exchanges, accepting houses, and the great hubs of commerce—New York, Hong Kong, and even Saint Petersburg. In return, shipments of goods and currencies were sent to the various ports of trade. One misstep and the global economy could splinter apart. The world as she knew it could deteriorate. Yet rational and responsible men like Sir Mark van Bergen did their best to prevent such a collapse.
“I hope you feel,” said he, leading her from the stores, “that the work I do is worthwhile.”
“Of course! I understand how important your career is to you. I know you’ve worked hard to get where you are, and I admire you for it.”
When they left the bullion vaults, Mark stopped to pass a few words with Harry, the sentry on duty. He had taken a risk to allow her down here, and she was grateful for the private showing of Britain’s gold reserves.
Eliza asked Harry, playfully, “Want to check my pockets? I might’ve nicked something…”
“No, miss,” laughed the fellow. “I can tell by the look o’ ye that ye’re a trusty soul. Why, I reckon yer only danger is in stealing a man’s heart!”
She blushed and Harry winked, and they all shared a good laugh.
Happily, she and Mark returned upstairs.
He showed her the parlours, weighing rooms, and pay halls that kept the financial world turning. In the various consol, stock, and bill offices, he introduced her to guards, clerks, superintendents, and cashiers with functions she could scarcely fathom.
Women were employed to sort and count banknotes. Some intrepid ladies were typists while others were coffee room attendants, but all of them retired after marriage. Male employees with wives and families were better paid to balance this fact, which didn’t seem fair to Eliza’s mind—but who was she to argue with the policies of the Bank of England?
She followed Mark as he guided her through the premises. She shook hands with everybody and tried to remember their names, but there were so many folk and all of them seemed eager to meet the future Lady van Bergen.
Eventually, her tour ended in the Garden Court, where rhododendrons bloomed, water features gurgled, and exotic ferns waved their particular fronds along the footpath. It was a far cry from the paved courtyard through which the public entered, for only special guests were permitted here.
Eliza had begun to realize that many of London’s most beautiful green spaces were kept under lock and key. A patch of grass was a privilege that few could afford. “This is lovely…”
“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” With her hand resting on his sleeve, Mark escorted her along the perimeter. “It is meant to encourage us overworked City men to see the sun once in a while.” His eyes crinkled with a smile. “To pause and count our blessings, I suppose.”
