20

Margritte didn’t want to go back to Hampton Court ever again but there seemed to be no other locations suitable for meeting Catherine. As Duchess it was unreasonable for her to be expected to leave Londinium and they needed a private place to keep the gossips at bay. She didn’t expect any threat to her personal safety but she still wanted to feel secure.

She picked a room they seldom used when Bartholomew was alive and went in through the servants’ entrance for fear of triggering memories that would leave her incapable of keeping a clear head. There was only a skeletal staff in residence and the palace felt horribly empty but she managed to keep her composure whilst waiting for Catherine to arrive. She had to keep her mind focused on what she wanted: a meeting with William in person, away from the Court.

The sound of a carriage on the driveway brought back memories of waiting for dinner-party guests to arrive. She looked down at her black dress, trying to remind herself that it was different now and there was no need to keep thinking of the past. Instead she tried to work out why Catherine had requested a meeting. Was it a strange sense of guilt for being the cause of William’s actions without being responsible for them? Was it simple concern for someone who was becoming a friend before everything went so horribly wrong? There was the possibility that William had sent her to determine whether she intended to cause any more trouble. No doubt he knew of her attempt to lure residents away by now; Georgiana had told her that those she’d written to were the first to receive their stolen goods back.

“Her Grace, the Duchess of Londinium, Catherine Reticulata-Iris,” announced the footman and Margritte readied herself, still uncertain how to play it when Catherine entered.

She looked well and was dressed in a deep burgundy dress with a high collar and the narrow line of the late Victorian period. She also looked as nervous as a debutante at her first ball.

“Your Grace,” Margritte said and curtsied deeply, as Georgiana had to her that night she’d briefly been Duchess.

“Margritte, thank you so much for agreeing to see me.”

“Would you care to sit down?”

Catherine did so and Margritte gave the nod for tea to be brought. She hadn’t entertained formally since the bereavement and she was a little uncomfortable. It felt too soon, and therefore disrespectful.

“How are you finding your new role?” she asked and Catherine squirmed.

“Umm… oh, God, this is awkward.”

Margritte almost smiled. She’d forgotten how open the girl was.

“I asked to see you because we need to talk,” Catherine said, her words slow and carefully chosen. “But before I get to that, I wanted to say how sorry I am about… what happened. It was such a shock.” She grimaced. “It must have been so much worse for you, I don’t want to sound like… oh, for the love of…”

“I understand, and thank you.” Margritte wanted to make her feel more comfortable. She wanted her to let down the flimsy guard.

“Are you… coping? That didn’t come out right. I mean, are you all right? No, of course you’re not all right, I mean…” She released a long breath. “I’m so sorry, I’m making a complete mess of this.”

“Bereavement is difficult for everyone,” Margritte said. “One never knows what to say.”

“Exactly!” Catherine smiled. “It’s just that Bartholomew was such a wonderful man and you were both so very kind to me and I…”

Margritte clenched her teeth at the sound of his name. And she was right; they had been so kind to her – and William – yet it had meant nothing. She used the arrival of the tea to mask her anger.

Catherine fell silent as she watched it being poured. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“No, I’ve been spending some time with my eldest son in Oxenford.”

Cathy knew of the reflected city but had never been there. She said as much, adding, “Is it nice?”

“It’s a beautiful city.” She handed over the cup of tea. “Now, you said there was something you wanted to tell me. Is it about who attacked you?”

Catherine’s cup rattled in the saucer and she set it on her lap so quickly that some of the tea slopped over. “No.”

“Have you fully recovered?”

“Almost.”

“I understand you were very badly hurt. Did your husband catch the perpetrator?”

Catherine just stared at her, a terrible flush rising up her face from her throat. How, Margritte wondered, could this girl be a Duchess?

“It’s all… in the past now. All of it.”

“But it’s left scars. On both of us.”

“Will didn’t–” She looked down at the spilt tea. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”

Margritte watched Catherine attempt to compose herself. It was clear she was hiding something, but what? Did she know who had really sent an assassin? Or perhaps she’d discovered the man behind the attempt was her husband, or even the Sorcerer of Wessex, creating the perfect excuse to attack Bartholomew. She decided to let it go until the girl had settled down.

“I… wanted to see you to talk about the group that meets at Mr B’s.”

It was the last thing Margritte expected her to say. “I beg your pardon?”

“The one started by Miss Rainer. She was my governess and I found her again and she managed to tell me about the group. And I know you and Bartholomew were members.”

Margritte set her cup down with a loud chink. “Where is she? We looked everywhere!”

“She’s in a household near Kew Gardens. She’s a scullery maid. The Agency did something terrible to her. And Charlotte too – I think that was her husband. I’m tracking down where they took the others, the ones who dared to speak out.”

“You’re… you’re one of us?”

Catherine’s face transformed with the most beautiful smile. “Yes! And it’s just eating me up that you and Bartholomew would have been perfect to change everything – that’s what you were going to do, wasn’t it?”

Margritte nodded, struggling to adapt to the new course the conversation was taking. “Is William a progressive?”

“Not yet. But I think he will be. He’s gentle and thoughtful and–” She stopped and the usual awkwardness resurfaced. “You must think he’s a monster but he really isn’t. He wouldn’t have done that if… he wouldn’t have normally…”

Catherine’s eyes were filled with the need to tell the truth. “Your Grace, everyone believes that my husband sent another to kill you. They think he’s a base creature who obtained the throne by attacking his competitor’s wife. Do you realise how hard that is to live with?” Catherine nodded silently. “You know it couldn’t possibly have been Bartholomew. You spent hours talking to him, you know he was a good man, now you know just how remarkable he was. Surely William must be told to look elsewhere for the villain behind this terrible affair?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Is it? It seems very simple to me. Bartholomew’s name must be cleared. We’ve lost everything, and the least William can do is restore his honour.”

Catherine was blinking rapidly, unable to look her in the eye. “I don’t think I can speak for Will. I wanted to ask you if you’d help me with the cause. If we worked together…”

Margritte stiffened. “You want me to be your adviser in Londinium when I cannot even show my face in the Court?”

“What I’m trying to say is that we need to try and salvage what we can.”

“I’m trying to salvage my entire life! You come here, wife of the man who murdered my husband, to talk about changing Society for the good of women and you can’t even offer me the most basic reassurance that my family’s name will be cleared?”

Catherine was shaking. “I can understand how angry you are. I shouldn’t have… I should have given you more time. It was selfish of me to think you’d be able to help, I’m sorry.”

Margritte forced herself to calm down. She’d pushed Catherine too far. “I’m sorry too. It wasn’t your fault. And I’m truly… heartened that you see the need for change in Society. But it will come to nothing unless William can be brought onside. The Patroons will dismiss anything we do, but they won’t be able to ignore the Duke of Londinium.”

Catherine nodded, crushed. “You’re right. But it’s not going to stop me trying. The men and women who’ve been silenced need my help and it will carry on happening if we don’t actively strive for change. I’m not asking you to forget your husband – nor what Will did – and I’m not asking you to come back to the Court and act as if nothing happened. But is there nothing I can do to convince you to help our cause? This is a difficult time for Will but I’m certain he’ll come round. The more I can achieve before then, the better, and you’re the perfect person to help.”

Margritte felt the briefest sadness at Catherine’s earnest plea. If she abandoned her need for justice and took up the position in Oxenford she would be free to help her and the others in the secret group. She knew it was the noble thing to do. But, as she took a breath to agree, the thought of William Iris keeping the throne made it catch in her throat. Of course he would never clear Bartholomew’s name; he didn’t want to risk his own reputation. He would live a long, long life and because of his barbarity she was forced to live without the man she loved. She had to at least try to restore her husband’s honour, otherwise she would never forgive herself. “How can I help when all I can think about is the injustice committed against my husband?”

“But… surely you see how hard it would be for Will to say anything about what happened?”

Margritte nodded, seeing the way to get what she wanted opening up before her. “I do. He needs to preserve his own reputation, I understand that. But if he truly is the gentle man you believe him to be, surely he feels some remorse?”

“Oh, he does!” Catherine seemed convinced at least.

“Then would it be possible to ask him to express that remorse to me – in private – and offer his personal regret? If he could do that, my heart would be eased and the Duke of Londinium would no longer be monstrous to me.”

“I…”

“It would also offer proof that he could indeed be persuaded to support our struggle. I would have hope for the future once more.”

Catherine stood. “I’ll ask him. I’ll do all I can to try and change things for the better, for you and for all of us.”

Margritte kissed her on both cheeks, stifling the guilt rising in her chest. “Thank you, your Grace. We must all do what we feel is right.”

 

Ten minutes into the meeting and Sam was still there at the head of the table. No one had told him it was all an elaborate hoax. He’d been waiting for someone to tell him that for the last twenty-four hours, but it seemed he really was Lord Iron.

The problem lay in the fact that even though the suited lawyers, accountants and directors seated at the table treated him like their new billionaire boss, he still felt like an unemployed computer programmer from Bath. Now he truly understood those people who looked shell-shocked after a massive lottery win and why they said their lives wouldn’t be changed. It was simply impossible to grasp how different everything could be, so they clung to their old life out of terror, like it had been taken out of a bathtub and chucked into an ocean.

All of the things he used to worry about, from paying the bills to whether he could really justify getting a new games console, had been replaced by a whole set of new worries that he simply didn’t understand yet. The men and women seated around the table were showing him spreadsheets and pie charts and projections and statements as if they could mean something to him.

“… and if you continue with this program of expansion in this–”

Sam held up a hand and Susan, the woman giving the presentation, stopped speaking. “I’m sorry, I’d prefer it if you just left the materials with me to look at in my own time.”

“Of course, Mr Ferran.”

“And I want to use this time to ask a few questions.”

Pens were picked up, some activated tablets and laptops, all poised to take notes.

“All right… governments and international agencies have different laws about preventing environmental pollution. Some have laws that need clean-air tech installed as standard, for example. Am I right?”

Susan nodded. She had brown hair and hazel eyes and looked like an English teacher he’d had at secondary school, but dressed in a much more expensive suit. “That’s right, Mr Ferran. There are also differences in the amount of monitoring and the pressure to prove compliance.”

“Good.” Sam smiled at her, glad to have someone to focus on instead of the whole group. “So would it be possible for someone to write me a report…” He faltered. Did he really just ask that? “…on what the most stringent requirements are and how many of the mines and factories and things in the corporation adhere to them?”

Susan frowned. “Do you mean a report on which operations meet local compliance? If that’s the case there’s no need – all of our operations comply with local environmental code.”

“No, I mean, which ones comply with the strictest codes in the world. Not local ones. I want to know exactly what the most strict environmental protection measures are and I want all of the global operations to be measured against that standard. Does that make sense?”

The scrawling and touch-typing stopped before his last sentence did.

“It shouldn’t be too hard, should it?” Sam asked.

“It will take some time to compile,” she said. “CoFerrum Inc owns hundreds of operations around the world.”

“But there must be a central database containing information about them. If there isn’t, I’ll build one.”

They all laughed, then realised he wasn’t joking. “There is,” she replied as people fiddled with their pens and gadgets, “but I don’t think it necessarily contains detailed information on that sort of thing.”

“Why not?”

“It’s never been a priority.”

“Why not?”

A man with a large nose who looked a little bit like an American bald eagle raised a finger to get his attention. “Mr Ferran, you’ve made an interesting request and I’m sure it isn’t just a matter of curiosity. What do you plan to do with the report once it’s completed?”

Sam smiled, imagining Leanne seeing him now, able to actually do something about the things she’d been unearthing over all those years. “I want all of the places that aren’t using the very best anti-pollution technology to have it fitted as soon as possible.”

Looks were exchanged around the table. Susan was frowning at the tablet computer beneath her fingers as the Eagle stared at Sam.

“That would cost a huge amount of money,” he said. “And it’s not even necessary – we already comply with local code.”

“You’re telling me that clean-air technology isn’t necessary in the places where there’s the most pollution? Really? That doesn’t make any sense. And anyway, you told me right at the start of this meeting that this corporation makes billions in profit every year. Are you seriously telling me CoFerrum can’t afford to do this?”

“I have no idea how much it would cost,” the Eagle replied, “but CoFerrum’s continued success depends upon minimising costs to maintain those profits.”

“What for? So you all get massive bonuses? So I get to live like Amir did?”

He’d hit a nerve and every person around the table – with the exception of a jowly ginger-haired man at the far end – looked distinctly uncomfortable. Sam tried to remember what job that man did, but failed.

“It’s all a question of return on investment,” the Eagle said.

“Correction.” Sam was getting into it now. “It used to be all about return on investment. That’s going to change now.”

The Eagle looked at Susan and so did several others. When she noticed she set the tablet down on the table and smiled at Sam. “Mr Ferran, CoFerrum is a huge global corporation composed of multiple subsidiary companies and interests. It’s like a fleet of aircraft carriers. You can’t just change course and take off in another direction as fast as you could if you were in a private yacht. Like that fleet, CoFerrum needs to be carefully coordinated in terms of its mid- to long-term direction and each part – each ship, if you will – needs to be given enough notice in order to be able to change direction without crashing into each other. It takes time to implement a radical change in priorities.”

“That’s just what corporates say to keep things the way they like them.”

She smiled, but it wasn’t to reassure him. “Mr Ferran, it really isn’t like that. There are multiple factors that need to be considered, not the least of which is the fact we’re halfway through the financial year and budgets for this one and the next have already been allocated.”

“Oh, come on, surely we can just change that!”

“No, we can’t. You have to understand that once budgets are set it enables multiple levels of management to allocate spending in accordance with their division’s needs. That involves procurement of services and products from hundreds of suppliers not owned by CoFerrum. If we suddenly withdrew millions of pounds and told the directors to spend them on different things it would create all sorts of contractual problems and destroy a lot of excellent working relationships.”

“But–”

“Not to mention a ripple effect that could cause the collapse of many SMEs who depend on the work we give them. Mr Ferran, please appreciate that the decisions you’re talking about have many, many ramifications that may not be immediately apparent. In effect, we’re not only responsible for the continued employment of the thousands of CoFerrum employees, but also for the companies we pay for goods and services.”

Sam tried to work out whether she was telling the truth or just being obstructive. He realised that it was probably both. The image of Leanne watching him with a proud smile on his face evaporated. “It doesn’t change the fact that I want things to be different.”

“Of course not,” Susan said smoothly. “It’s natural for you to want to put your own mark on the company. You may have to accept that it will take longer than you thought.”

“And you might have to accept that these environmental considerations aren’t in keeping with CoFerrum,” the Eagle said.

Sam wondered if he could sack him, then and there.

“I don’t know,” the ginger-haired man said. “I think Mr Ferran’s vision could prove immensely beneficial to the public image of the corporation.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Duncan,” the Eagle said, evidently reaching the end of his patience. “This isn’t PR fluff! A change in environmental compliance policy could cost the corporation millions and millions of pounds.”

Sam remembered Duncan was the head of PR, several levels above Neugent. “You’re right,” Duncan said to the Eagle. “It’s not fluff. It’s bold, it’s radical and it’s in tune with the public, who are more aware of these issues than ever before. I’ve had to lock down some serious incidents which could have cost the corporation millions of pounds, and that expenditure would have just been to get our arses out of the bear-trap with no other benefits whatsoever. If we repositioned CoFerrum as the world’s most socially and environmentally responsible corporation, it wouldn’t just be a PR exercise, it would make it easier to–”

“Why don’t we take this one step at a time,” Susan said. “Let’s get the report compiled for Mr Ferran and look at the costs involved. It may be that we could prioritise certain operations that would have the greatest PR impact whilst we look at the plausibility of a global change in policy.”

The Eagle and Duncan nodded and Susan looked back at Sam. “Is there anything else, Mr Ferran?”

“No,” he said, wanting to go to his local in Bath and have a beer or six with Dave. “That’s it for now.”

He slumped in the chair as they all packed up and left, the Eagle the first to leave. Duncan looked like he was heading towards Sam but Susan diverted his attention and they left together in close conference. Sam was left at the table with abandoned crystal glasses, a couple of jugs of water and the beginning of a headache.

“How did it go?”

He swivelled in the chair to see Mazzi in the doorway. “I have no idea. I thought it was going well at one point. I think I freaked them out.”

She smiled. “Probably not a bad thing to shake them up a bit. Drink?”

He stood and stretched. “God, yes.”

“Find one you want to sack?”

“Yeah,” he went over to her.

“That’s normal,” she said and rested a hand on his shoulder. “It will get easier. I promise.”

He didn’t believe her.