Gollantz and Partners (The Gollantz Family Saga Book 7) Read online

  Gollantz and Partners

  The Gollantz Family Saga Book 7

  Naomi Jacob

  Copyright © The Estate of Naomi Jacob 2016

  This edition published 2018 by Wyndham Books

  (Wyndham Media Ltd)

  27, Old Gloucester Street, London WC1N 3AX

  First published 1958

  www.wyndhambooks.com/naomi-jacob

  The author has asserted her right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, organisations and events are a product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, organisations and events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. This ebook is licensed for the enjoyment of the purchaser only. To share this ebook you must purchase an additional copy per recipient. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher.

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  The Gollantz Family Saga series

  by Naomi Jacob

  published by Wyndham Books

  The Founder of the House

  That Wild Lie …

  Young Emmanuel

  Four Generations

  Private Gollantz

  Gollantz: London, Paris, Milan

  Gollantz and Partners

  Wyndham Books: Timeless bestsellers for today’s readers

  Wyndham Books publishes the first ebook editions of bestselling works by some of the most popular authors of the twentieth century, including Lucilla Andrews, Ursula Bloom, Catherine Gaskin and Naomi Jacob. Enjoy our Historical, Family Saga, Regency, Romance and Medical fiction and non-fiction.

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  To

  EVELYN

  (Mrs Eustace Benn)

  in affection and admiration

  MICKIE

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Preview: Sara Dane by Catherine Gaskin

  Preview: Lily’s Daughter by Diana Raymond

  Preview: Hardacre by C. L. Skelton

  Chapter 1

  Emmanuel leaned back in his chair and sighed, a sigh of contentment. On his desk ‒ that desk which had once belonged to Disraeli ‒ lay the marked catalogues of the Cathcart sales, one which would take place in London, the other at the family place in Hertfordshire. Emmanuel had expected that the family would have to sell their wonderful old pictures, their china, silver and books. The old earl had died only six years ago, his son who inherited had lived only eighteen months, and the estate could not stand the drain of two lots of death duty.

  Hard luck just the same! He hated to think of these collections of lovely things being broken up and dispersed. Well, he would buy some of the pictures, and possibly some of the more exquisite pieces of furniture in London; Simeon could go down to Selton and bid for silver, any rare books ‒ though they hung fire in these days ‒ china and the like.

  Simeon was distinctly sound. His father remembered the day he had told him that he wished to come into the firm, and that he had bought Chaffers’ book on silver marks! Since then the boy had studied, and gathered knowledge at every opportunity. Emmanuel doubted if even old Arbuthnot could question any decision of Simeon’s.

  How old was he now? Emmanuel Gollantz had never found it easy to remember dates except when it came to dealing with pictures. What a long time ago it seemed since he stood in his flat in Milan and imagined that a cat had got into Juliet’s bedroom; how angry he had felt that apparently neither the doctor nor the nurse had the sense to turn it out. The thin cry proved to be Simeon announcing his entrance to a world which he apparently disliked.

  What a queer life his had been, Emmanuel reflected. First his ‒ virtual ‒ banishment from England, when he had accepted it to save his mother distress because he adored her and Bernstein had said that she must be spared all worry. He remembered his first little shop in Milan, when he had engaged Guido Moroni as his assistant; Guido who was now his partner, who ran the gallery in Milan so admirably; Guido who used to clean his nails with an old dagger, who was inclined to breathe garlic over you, and who now was one of the most fastidious men imaginable.

  Juliet had come there, looking for old wallpapers for her villa at Como. His ‘Lovely Juliet’ who had captured his heart, who would always remain in her special niche in his memory, aloof and apart. He had begged her to marry him, and she had refused. Not because ‒ he knew that now ‒ she had not loved him, but because she was the wife of Vernon Seyre who refused to divorce her, and had been the mistress of the dead Leon Hast. So she had turned Emmanuel away and he had gone back to England.

  His face was grave as his thoughts were reflected in his expression. How terribly unhappy he had been; then he had married Viva Heriot. Viva was, and always would be, wonderful. They had been very happy, at first, until he immersed himself too much in his work ‒ because the thought of Juliet Forbes came so often to his mind, because he grew apprehensive, and found that only by working until he was tired to death could he close his eyes without seeing Juliet’s lovely face.

  Then she had come to England, and he had heard her sing, he had met her again, and knew that nothing had changed. Viva had been wonderful about it, and Emmanuel went back to Milan. It was there that Viva had come to see him, and told him that she wanted him to let her divorce him ‒ she wanted to marry Toby Tatten.

  Emmanuel liked Tatten; admittedly he was ‒ to put it mildly ‒ limited in his outlook, in his interests, but he was a good fellow and he and Viva married and were very happy. Seyre had divorced Juliet, and married someone else, an American, Emmanuel thought.

  He and Juliet were married by the British Consul in Milan. A year was granted to them ‒ Emmanuel’s ‘perfect year’. He had never known that such happiness was possible. Simeon was born, Juliet recovered, went to Paris to sing and returned with a cold. She had said. ‘Paris is never lucky for me. I always catch cold there. This is nothing, in two days I shall be well.’

  In four days she was dead, and Emmanuel’s life, that perfect life which he had loved, was over. How kind people had been, trying to help him, and to lift him out of the ghastly depression which overwhelmed him.

  As his mind wandered back, his handsome face lost its look of contentment. That particular wound had gone too deep; all through his life, however well the scar might seem to have healed, memories stabbed it into life again. He clenched his hands ‒ those fine hands with their sensitive fingers, with the ring which old Emmanuel had from his father in Vienna, which he in his turn had given to his son Max, and Max had handed on to his elder son, Emmanuel.

  Emmanuel looked suddenly a little older, his hair seemed to have become more silvered at the temples, his mouth ‒ that well-cut, but rather full mouth which was part of the legacy from his Jewish ancestors ‒ drooped at the corners.

  His grandfather, old Emmanuel, who had become a figure which was almost legendary, had once said to him, ‘Ve are Jews, my dear poy. Very veil, I d
on’t believe t’at you or your brudder hev effer been to shule in your lives, but you remain Jews. T’isn’t shule makes Jews, it is blood.

  ‘Remember Jews are sed people, melancholy people. One moment t’ay laugh, the next a leetle cloud comes over the sun, and they ‒ sigh, and allow depression to take possession of t’em. It is part of t’eir ’eritage. Part of t’eir history, t’eir memories are too long, too vivid.

  ‘English people ‒ and ’ow much I like t’em ‒ seeng “Look, if you please for the silver lining!” Jews look, but t’ey don’t find it! Ah, veil, my dear poy, we must accept eet. Maybe it is why we Jews sometimes turn to material t’ings. Maybe put too much trust in ‒ veil, in chust ‒ t’ings. T’ings ve can handle, t’ings ve can place upon a value, no? Beauty ‒ ah, ve are ver’ sensitive to t’at. No metter if it is pictures, furniture, or even’ ‒ his grandson remembered how he had smiled ‒ ‘loffley vimmen. Not in bed vays, in cheneral decent Jews don’t like ‒ vat do you call t’em? ‒ harlots. I am a ver’ old man, I hev loffed my life, but neffer hev I found it possible to pay money for one, two, three ‒ even more ‒ hours of vot is called ‒ loff!

  ‘Oh, I hev seen beautiful vimmen, hev admired t’em, yes, hev even had the chance to go and climb into their beds ‒ for a price.’ He shuddered. ‘The price was alvays too high! “T’ank you,” I hev said, “and now ‒ good night.” My poy, I hev neffer liked to use the toot’brush of some odder person!’

  The sudden ache had subsided, and he forced his memory to move forward. He had married Viva ‒ for the second time ‒ after a decent interval when Toby Tatten had been killed in a riding accident. It had been a wonderful success. He had loved her dearly, he admired her, found her stimulating, she was a wonderful companion, and interested in his affairs without ever attempting to direct him. No, Viva was a splendid and wonderful woman, a great companion to any man, and he was profoundly grateful.

  They had gone to live at Ordingly, the big house which old Emmanuel had bought outside London. Angela ‒ his beloved mother ‒ had lived there with them. She and Viva were very close, and when Angela was taken ill, Viva had been marvellous to her.

  Emmanuel’s face clouded again. He remembered so well when his mother first became ill. Meyer Bernstein, who had been their doctor ‒ although he was now a famous physician he was still willing to drive out to Ordingly to attend any of the Gollantz for whatever ailment ‒ had seen her, and afterwards talked to Emmanuel.

  ‘What illness? ‒ No illness to which I can put a name,’ he said. ‘She is tired, yes, and I think lonely without your father, the good Max. She has no pain, she has no suffering ‒ and shall have none, I promise.’

  ‘But my mother is not old,’ Emmanuel protested.

  Bernstein smiled. ‘Old, what is old? Angela is seventy-t’ree. Women live to be a hundred, and get a kind telegram from the Queen, congratulating them. Perhaps some of them have lived like cows, calmly, eating and sleeping. Angela has lived. She has crowded so much into each year, she has suffered, she has carried the burdens of other people, old Emmanuel, then Max, later your dear Juliet ‒ ah, she suffered over that, I can tell you! Your ‒ accident, and Julian going to America.’

  Emmanuel said, ‘She adored Julian!’

  ‘When you adore someone, make an idol of them and then find their clay feet ‒ that hurts badly, Emmanuel. Poor old Bill Masters ‒ who had been in love with her for years and years ‒ she misses him. No, the life of Angela has not been an easy one. If she is tired, then, my dear boy, let her rest.’

  Angela had been content to lie in her big bed, with the wide window which looked over the big trees of Ordingly, which she loved and which Max had loved also, and just allow life to slip away.

  ‘I’m not ill,’ she had told Viva, ‘I’m tired. I want to rest ‒ sometimes I think that it is the longest rest possible that I am waiting for. I don’t really mind a great deal ‒ I don’t mind at all. You’ll take care of my dear Emmanuel, Julian is a rich man in these days, and Bill is content with his work and his wife ‒ oh, dear! Viva, I do find her so dull! No, my small flock are quite safe. I’ve known such splendid people ‒ it’s nice to lie here and watch the pageant pass ‒ some of them such swaggering people like Leon Hast ‒ how I disliked him ‒ some of them magnificent, like my dear old Emmanuel, some straight and upright like Max, some kind and rather heavy in hand like Bill Masters ‒ so many of them. There, I shall go to sleep, and see my pageant go past. Good night, Viva.’

  She slept and never woke, and to Emmanuel it was like the end of the world. He had always known that his brother Julian was her favourite son, that was why he had shielded Julian so often, taken the blame for things which he had not done ‒ simply to preserve Angela’s illusions about Julian.

  He remembered how for the third time he had seen a long procession of cars move slowly away from the big porch at Ordingly. The day had been beautiful, the kind of day which used to make Angela say ‘It’s good to be alive!’

  So many of his father’s relatives had come. They had all liked Angela, many of them had loved her. They had flown from Austria, from Germany ‒ older and thinner, and perhaps less prosperous than he remembered them, bearing marks of suffering on their faces. Louis Lara and his wife, the almost fabulous Olympia, had come from Paris; Paoli Mancini with his magnificent wife, Iva Alfano, and little Guido Moroni from Milano; little Gilbert ‒ who had been Juliet’s accompanist, white haired, and stooping ‒ so many people who had held their places in Angela’s life. Her own families ‒ from the shires ‒ Drews, Wilmots and the rest.

  At the last moment a young man had arrived. Tall, slim, the replica of his father years ago ‒ Julian’s son, Max, who had flown from America. His manners were good, and the boyish charm which Emmanuel remembered from an earlier visit had developed into an urbane self-assurance. But Emmanuel’s old memories of all that he had suffered at Julian’s hands were so strong that he found it difficult to accept the young man without some feeling of repugnance.

  He explained that his father would have come with him, but he was suffering from one of his periodic attacks of acute pain from his back. Emmanuel reflected that Julian had always suffered from ‘one of his periodic attacks’ when he was faced with doing something which he disliked. He also remembered his brother’s terrible fear of death, which almost amounted to an obsession. His face looked grim, his mouth set, as he said, ‘I think that we ought to be moving,’ and offered his arm to Viva.

  That night he felt that Ordingly was empty ‒ felt for the first time the complete realization that Angela had gone, and remembered the line ‘My house is left unto me desolate’.

  Viva had been very gentle, almost unexpectedly gentle, and understanding. He had tried to tell her how grateful he was to her, she had listened, a little tender smile on her lips, her eyes very kind as she watched him.

  ‘My dear, I can do so little,’ she said.

  ‘You do so much, Viva. I am so gr-rateful. I feel that I’ve been ver-ry ill, and sick people are tedious, no matter how much you love them.’

  ‘You have been ill,’ she agreed, ‘you’ve been a sick man. Now, you will begin to get better, stronger. That doesn’t mean that you forget; it means that you’ve adjusted yourself to things. Emmanuel, how much longer is Max going to stay here? He’s been here for over a month.’

  He looked at her sharply. ‘You don’t like him?’

  ‘I didn’t say so. He’s a modern product, I suppose. Everything moves round Max Gollantz. He’s sufficiently attractive, but he’s another Julian. Damned selfish, damned self-centred. He tells me that his father and grandfather ‒ how well I remember old Van der Hoyt! ‒ write telling him to look around, to get ideas. “We’re always going for new ideas at Van der Hoyt, Inc.,” he said. I can’t say that I’ve seen him doing much looking around since he came here.’

  She had gone on to say that she needed a holiday, that Emmanuel needed one, that they’d shut up Ordingly. ‘Keep on the servants, of course ‒ let them take th
eir holidays in rotation. I can arrange that with Mrs. Cowley. If Max wants to stay in England, let him take a small flat ‒ in London.’

  He had agreed, for he had found Max Gollantz’s presence something of a trial although he was a nice enough lad. His manners were good enough and he didn’t give much trouble, but it was obvious that he and Simeon disliked each other, and Bill ‒ easy-going Bill ‒ didn’t care for him.

  Bill said, ‘Oh, damn it, didn’t we have sufficient to go through with his pernicious father, without having this replica foisted on us!’

  Yet there was nothing definitely wrong with Max; Emmanuel mentally exhorted himself to be unprejudiced and fair. It was just that he brought back Julian too vividly. After all, you couldn’t blame the fellow for that!

  He and Viva had gone for their holiday. They had gone back to Lake Garda where they had spent their second honeymoon, and had stayed at the same hotel. He remembered how two little dogs had come and ‘made compliments’ to him; now there was only one, and she walked more slowly, and seemed to sleep a good deal. The peace of the lake, with the mountains in the distance, the soft air, all conspired to soothe him, and refresh him. Guido came over to see him and declared that when he retired ‒ ‘the which I shall never do!’ ‒ he would build himself a villa on the shores of the lake, and ‘like Catullus inscribe poetry of the most melancholy and of great beauty’.

  As they drove home, Viva said: ‘My Emmanuel, you’re better; much as I admire your interesting pallor, I am attracted by the faint tan which you have acquired. I shall get you some when we get to London, it’s made up by all the best chemists acting on the statement that “handsome men are slightly bronzed”.’

  Max had transferred himself to a small and expensive flat in King Street, St. James’s. Emmanuel flung himself into his work, feeling that once again he was charged with energy. Simeon said, ‘I say, you do look well!’ Hannah Rosenfelt nodded and beamed, ‘So! Again we have that man we know, eh? You will face work ‒ and there is much ‒ with a good, courageous heart, no?’