Year of Folly Page 9

  Morgan was a forward-thinker? It didn’t seem possible.

  Chapter Eight

  Emma waited until everyone had left the breakfast table but Will and Morgan. The men always lingered over the newspapers in the morning.

  “Will, I need to go into Inverness, today. Can you take me? I presume my confinement is still in effect?”

  “I’ve not heard anything more from Jasper,” Will admitted. He lowered the newspaper. “Where do you need to go in Inverness?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I have business at the port. If my way passes your destination, I can take you.”

  Emma could feel her cheeks heating. “I have…a note I would like to…to cash.”

  Will’s frown cleared. “In that case, give Morgan the cheque. He will deposit it in the business account and give you the cash.” He paused. “Is your allowance not arriving as it should, Emma?”

  “No, it’s not that.” Her cheeks grew hotter and her throat prickled. “Someone—a…a friend, sent me a cheque. I didn’t wish to bother anyone with it, that is all.”

  “It’s of no bother,” Will said dismissively. “Correct, Morgan?”

  Morgan considered Emma for a moment. “I can take you to the bank,” he said quietly.

  Relief touched her.

  Will shook his head. “Keep a sharp eye out, then.” He turned back to his newspaper, the matter already forgotten.

  THEY WERE IN THE BROUGHAM and heading for Inverness when Morgan said, “Which bank do you require?”

  “I…don’t entirely know,” Emma admitted. “Does it matter?”

  “The matter is simpler if one presents a cheque drawn against an account from the same bank,” Morgan said.

  Emma hesitated.

  Morgan lifted his brow. “Or I could simply cash the cheque for you,” he suggested, his tone neutral.

  Emma gave a small hiss of frustration. “You know very well it isn’t that simple.”

  “I do?”

  Emma took the folded, stiff slip of paper from her reticule and thrust it toward him. “Lilly sent me a cheque. I know why, and so do you. Only, how do I explain it to Will, or any man who demands to know my business?”

  Morgan unfolded the cheque. “Bank of England,” he murmured and handed it back to her. “The Bank of Scotland will cash English cheques,” he assured her. “I deposit them every week without issue.”

  Emma shook her head. “And what about the next cheque? And the one after that?”

  Morgan considered her. “What is it you are not saying?”

  “I would like to write a cheque of my own. There is someone to whom I wish to send funds.”

  He looked amused. “Who on earth would you want to send money to? Every merchant in Inverness is happy to send bills to Kirkaldy.”

  She hesitated. “If you must know—”

  “I do, if I am to help you.”

  “I want to send ten pounds to Miss Lydia Becker.”

  “Ah…” Morgan sat back. “You could not simply give her a ten-pound note?”

  “She has returned to Manchester,” Emma said coldly. “And as I am not allowed to stray from the estate, please explain to me how I go about acquiring a ten-pound note?”

  Morgan’s brow lifted again. “I see your problem,” he said softly.

  “I think…I believe the solution is for me to open my own bank account,” Emma went on. “It will help me keep my…my affairs private. Do you see?”

  Morgan didn’t answer. He watched the trees slide past the window.

  “Am I wrong, Morgan? Would having my own bank account not resolve these problems?”

  “Oh, it would,” he said easily. “I can talk to the bank manager for you, and—”

  “No, I wish to speak to him myself.”

  Morgan hesitated on the verge of replying. She could tell by the way he grew still.

  “What is it you do not say?” she demanded.

  “I do not think you will find it as easy as you believe it should be to open an account,” Morgan said.

  “Single women are permitted to have their own accounts,” Emma shot back. “I consulted a book in the library and it assured me this was so.”

  Morgan’s gaze swung back to her and his eyes narrowed. “The codices?” he said sharply.

  “The volumes marked with numbers and last year’s dates,” she replied.

  “Yes, I am familiar with them. They are mine. You read them?”

  “I wanted to know if there was some silly law or other which states I could not open a bank account. A friend—my friend Helen, if you must know—insisted it was against the law. I thought she was wrong. And she is wrong on that. An unmarried lady or a widow can hold bank accounts in their own name.”

  “Opening a bank account is a completely different matter from merely having one,” Morgan replied.

  “That is ridiculous. If I can have a bank account, why can I not open one?”

  He considered her. “You could have simply asked me about the laws. I would have given you a swifter answer.”

  “You’re changing the subject. Why can I not open a bank account?”

  “There is no law which says you cannot,” Morgan said, his tone precise, his words clipped. “Are you sure you do not want me to speak to the manager for you, Emma?”

  “Thank you, but no. I wish to do this for myself.”

  Again, she sensed Morgan was containing himself. Holding words back. Then he reached for her satchel, which had flapped open. “I thought that was Malthus you were reading, last night.” He picked up the dun-colored volume.

  “Do you know Malthus?”

  “Quite well, yes. He has some interesting ideas.”

  “That you do not agree with in the slightest,” Emma guessed. Most men were either appalled or angry at Malthus’ conjecture that England’s large families would ruin the economy. The man came perilously close to suggesting that controlling how many children a wife bore was a solution, which had outraged the church and politicians.

  “I agree with Malthus in principle,” Morgan replied, flipping through the pages of the book. “The number of middle-class people in England has climbed sharply just in the last fifty years. What he does not account for, though, is human morals and sensibilities.”

  “What have they to do with it?” Emma asked curiously.

  Morgan lowered the volume. “He extrapolates human behavior on the assumption than people act purely on instinct. Only, humans rarely act on instinct. They are driven by emotions. Sometimes they actually make choices based on morals and their personal values, whether those choices benefit them or not.”

  Emma frowned.

  Morgan handed the book back to her. “Consider war,” he said. “If humans always acted out of self-interest and instinct, then no man would ever march to war to defend his country. Why would he? He stands a good chance of dying in that service. Yet a great many men march to war and die on the battlefield.”

  “Selfless choices,” Emma murmured.

  “Exactly.” Morgan grimaced. “Although, in the future, fewer and fewer men will consider the selfless choice at all. The military will have to find far stronger persuasions to fill their ranks.”

  Emma stared at him. “What gentleman would not go to war if it was asked of him? That is…why it is dishonorable!”

  “In society, it is. Dishonor among the upper class is a terrible stain. The upper class will all but disappear, eventually, and the middle-class are not as driven by social pressure. If the wage earner of the family is not there to provide for them, the rest of the family may perish. It puts the average middle-class man in a moral dilemma, and he will most often elect to preserve his family, over his country.”

  This was what Bridget had meant, about Morgan’s ability to peer into the future. “Society is disappearing?” she whispered.

  “Not altogether. The peerage system and the lords of the land will lose most of their influence over society, though.”

  “Then who
will lead us?” Emma asked, with an awful fascination.

  “If you and Mrs. Campbell and Miss Becker have your way, women will lead us one day,” Morgan said, his tone grave.

  Emma rolled her eyes at him. “I fear it is not something which will come to pass in my life. It is far too complex a matter…and are you teasing me?”

  “Not at all,” Morgan said, his tone urbane. “Although I suspect you might be right about the time scale, Emma.” He glanced out the window and reached up and knocked on the roof. “Here will do, thank you, Jenkins!”

  The carriage swerved to the left

  “Why do you think I am right?” Emma asked.

  “There is far too much resistance to the idea of ladies voting for themselves for it to happen quickly…as you are about to find out.”

  The brougham halted.

  “The Bank of England,” Morgan announced. He got out and held the door for her, before she could ask him to explain himself.

  MORGAN DID NOT ACCOMPANY EMMA to the tall desk where the clerk bent over his ledgers. “I will wait for you over here,” he said, settling on the hard bench by the door.

  Emma’s worry increased. Morgan was being too cooperative. His concern in the carriage had flooded her with wariness. Now she wondered what it was Morgan knew that she did not.

  However, there was nothing for it but to go through with her intention. Her life would be considerably more convenient if she could manage her own money. It would allow her to avoid disclosing her association with Lilly, which would only raise questions she could not answer.

  Emma took out Lilly’s cheque, which was signed by Jasper, she noted, and moved up to the high desk. It made her crane her neck to speak to the clerk. She cleared her throat as he looked at her quizzically, his eye through the pince nez appearing much larger than the other, and less friendly, too.

  “I would like to open a bank account, please.”

  “What’s that?” he said loudly, bringing his hand to his ear.

  Emma glanced around the tall room. There were two other clerks behind desks, and no customers, for the bank had only just opened. Morgan was the only other person in front of the desks. He surely must have heard the query.

  Emma cleared her throat again and raised her voice. “I said, I would like to open a bank account, please.”

  The other two clerks peered at her, their eyes widening.

  The clerk she was dealing with put his pen in the inkpot and crossed his arms. “Ladies are not permitted to open bank accounts,” he said primly.

  “Actually, ladies are allowed to own bank accounts according to the laws of England, of which Scotland is subject…and this is a branch of the Bank of England,” she pointed out. “I would like to cash a cheque and write cheques of my own. I would like you to open an account for me.”

  He considered her through the thick pince nez. “Why do you want one?”

  Emma could feel her cheeks beginning to glow once more. “That, sir, is none of your business.”

  “It is if you want to open an account, miss,” he said grimly.

  “You just said I could not, so why must you know such a personal detail?”

  “What seems to be the problem here?” The man who stepped up behind the clerk wore striped pants and tails and had a carnation in his lapel. His mustache was thin and precisely clipped. He looked down his nose at Emma.

  A manager of some sort, Emma guessed, by his manner. She could feel herself wanting to shrink and back away, to take back her request. Only it would not serve her, in the end.

  What was the next bite, then?

  “Sir, I have asked to open a bank account, to which your clerk replied that I am not permitted. I have pointed out that the laws of England do permit me to have a bank account and renewed my request for one. Can you manage this matter for me?”

  The manager’s mouth turned down. “You are quite correct. The laws do allow a single lady or a widow to own a bank account. However, it is the bank’s policy to decline to offer this service.”

  Emma swallowed. The need to turn and hurry away from these two judgmental men was powerful. She gripped her reticule. “May I know why such a policy is upheld?”

  The manager’s mouth twisted even farther downward. “Women belong in the domestic sphere. They have no head for mathematics and will only get themselves into a financial quandary, if left to their own devices. The Bank of England prefers to not encourage the unsexing of women.”

  Emma wanted to be outraged, because these were words and phrases and ideas she had been reading about for days, now. They were the commonly held beliefs of men in power everywhere.

  Only it was completely unnerving to have a man actually tell her such things, as if he truly believed she was a lesser creature. His disdain made her feel small and silly for trying to challenge the might of the Bank of England itself. Who was she to insist upon this?

  The temptation to apologize was strong. She held her teeth together. It was pure habit which made her want to say she was sorry for disturbing the way things had always been. She had spent her life trying to fit in. That was why she cringed now.

  A hand pressed lightly against the back of her shoulder.

  “Is there an issue, Foggarty?” Morgan asked, his tone reasonable and pleasant.

  Emma was dismayed she felt relief that Morgan was stepping in on her behalf. If she was truly a progressive woman, then she should resent that he was coming to her rescue. Only, she was trembling at this simple confrontation and wanted to run and hide.

  The manager drew himself upright. “Mr. Davies, I do apologize. I didn’t see you there. Is this young lady known to you?”

  “Miss Wardell is my cousin, and is living at Kirkaldy,” Morgan said.

  Foggarty looked relieved. “Oh, I see. Well, that does simplify matters. We can open the young miss an account under your signature—”

  “No!” Emma cried, and was astonished to hear Morgan repeat the word, just as firmly.

  Foggarty and the clerk looked at each other, both startled.

  Foggarty smoothed down his tie. “Then, you do not wish to stand as guarantor for the lady?”

  “I am happy to swear by her character and trustworthiness, only if you open the account under her own name, and make her the sole owner of the account,” Morgan replied.

  Foggarty licked his lips, his gaze flitting around the room, at the two other clerks who watched with open curiosity.

  “Come along, Foggarty,” Morgan said. “You know very well the law is not on your side. So does Miss Wardell. Open the account for her as she wishes, and I will say nothing more about your impediment.”

  Foggarty’s face lost a little of its color. When he spoke, his voice was high and hoarse. “I am afraid it is bank policy, Mr. Davies, and set by higher authorities than myself. If it was within my discretion, I would not hesitate. If you would only agree to co-sign, then everyone would be satisfied…” He trailed off.

  Emma watched Morgan’s face, fascinated. He had used that blank stare upon her before—many times in the past, when she had been smaller and quite possibly an annoying little cousin tripping him up and irritating him. Now he used the look upon Foggarty. No wonder the man seemed ill.

  Then Morgan stirred and turned to her. “You have a choice, Emma.” He spoke in a normal voice, as if he cared not that the clerk and Foggarty both listened, and the other two clerks, as well. “You can open the account if I co-sign, which will give you the facility to write your own cheques as you wished. Or you can refuse to accept a compromise which removes the control you wish to have over your own money. Instead, we can stop off at Inverness Courier newspaper office on our way home and converse with the editor about this.”

  “Now, see here—” Foggarty began.

  “Or I can step behind the counter and speak to Lord Askewth,” Morgan added. His gaze didn’t move from Emma’s face. “I can see him sitting behind his desk, watching us through the open door of his office, right now.”

 
Emma suspected that if the moment had not been so tense, she might have smiled at Morgan’s manipulations. Instead, she felt ill with the pressure. “If I must choose between convenience and principal, I believe I will choose principal,” Emma said. She put Lilly’s cheque back in her reticule and snapped it closed. “Perhaps we could stop at the Bank of Scotland, Morgan? You said they would cash my cheque?”

  “They will,” Morgan confirmed. He nodded at Foggarty. “Gentlemen.” He lifted his arm for Emma to take. They moved out of the bank, down the broad stone steps, to the pavement where the brougham waited.

  Morgan helped her up into the carriage and settled beside her and dogged the door. “Bank or newspaper, Emma?”

  “You were serious?” she breathed.

  “I would not bluff about something like that. I heard what Foggarty told you.” He waited.

  Emma put her hand to her belly. “Oh, lord, I just want to go home and lie down,” she confessed. “Does Lydia Becker feel this way every time someone calls out a challenge from the audience?”

  Morgan knocked on the roof and leaned out the window. “Back to Kirkaldy for now.”

  “Right ye are, guv!”

  The brougham rocked into motion as Morgan settled back on the bench. “If you persist in following this path, you will have many more moments like this to deal with. Although I suspect they will become easier to manage as you grow accustomed to confrontation.”

  Emma leaned back into the corner, feeling weak. “Foggarty truly believes what he said! When I read all that nonsense in the books and the magazines—lord, even Mrs. Beeton spouts it!—I thought it was simply…”

  “Rhetoric?” Morgan asked. “You have been absorbing those beliefs and accepting them all your life. Everything you do is shaped by them. Until you had your eyes opened a few weeks ago, you had no idea of the forces directing your days. Do you think Foggarty is any less blind than you were?”

  “You are not,” Emma said softly.