She turned and stared at the bureau desk with the papers on top. “Really, sometimes I don’t know what to think. You test the limits of respect and friendship.”
Caden considered their heated conversation and looked away for a few moments. He resented this insufferable McGowan braggart’s ability to distract Gabrielle so easily. Caden lifted his gaze. He approached Gabrielle and touched her on the shoulder. “Time is coming when every man will have to take a new account of women and I, for one . . .” He took her hand in his. “. . . will be the first one in line to shake each lady’s hand when that day comes.”
Gabrielle parted her red lips, her smile radiating brightly from her pearl white teeth. “Why thank you, Caden. You encourage me to think that not all men will remain stuck in the mud of the previous centuries.”
She raised her eyebrow at Bret and smirked. “There’s hope an intelligent woman may find a free thinking gentleman after all.” She withdrew her hand from his and pressed down a pleat in her skirt.
Caden stepped forward. “I take it that the suffrage movement was a common topic of discussion on the continent, Mr. McGowan,” Caden said, concentrating to keep the thin smile on his face.
Bret turned to face him. “One of many, Doctor. It’s inconceivable that civilized nations should tolerate this injustice much longer. It’s one of the many things that must change if the world is to advance in the next century.” He withdrew a gold watch on a chain from his vest pocket and glanced down at it.
Caden could barely contain his unbounded contempt for such physical and moral weakness. The sheer failure of old-world liberalism with its appalling inability to stem the tide, fused in him the condemnation of all self-indulgence and the absolute vanity of its naïve sensual notions. “Then we have much in common, Mr. McGowan.” Caden offered a polite nod to the younger man. “And I assure you, sir, I, for one, am dedicated to the advancement of mankind . . . and the price that must be paid for doing so.”
Bret glared at him. “When I was a boy, before the war, I remember hearing men speak the same way.”
Caden paused and studied his solemn rival. And what else do you remember, Bret McGowan? Not much I think . . . or is this some game you wish to play? Very well, let us strike a wager and see whom the odds favor.
He motioned toward the Society papers on the bureau desk. “I am certain we have both learned many hard lessons since those dark years, sir. You have only to peruse our Society’s journals and articles to ascertain the strength and sincerity of our convictions.”
Caden turned to his new, striking lady friend. “Good day, Gabrielle, I hope that we shall meet again . . . under more favorable circumstances. Please, thank your father again for his time and generosity.”
“My, so much serious talk on such a light summer’s day,” said Gabrielle, seeming to hasten both men out of the parlor with her quick steps. “Verna and I will have to take a stroll along the boardwalk just to clear my mind so I can even think about everything we’ve talked about.”
Standing in the hall, Caden nodded and glanced at the visitor once more. “And good day to you, Mr. McGowan.” Gabrielle’s grave friend remained silent behind the Caden’s back, but he felt the cold bore of the younger man’s stare pricking at his skin as he walked out. One man may forget much of when he was a child. But another man who was a younger man then still remembers all.
Bret took a deep breath as he watched Gabrielle bid good day to Doctor Hellreich at the front door. And good riddance too, hopefully. How could he allow a stranger to affect him in such a disturbing way? Bret shook his head and loosened his shoulders.
Gabrielle turned but did not close the door. She stood immobile by the polished brass handle, hands folded in the front of her skirt as if expecting him to leave momentarily.
Bret smiled. “I guarantee your father will be more than satisfied with the dessert table tonight. I respect a man who goes against the grain and prefers the finer things first.”
Gabrielle glanced outside. “Don’t put yourself out on our account. He hasn’t made up his mind yet.”
Bret stepped closer. “And you?”
Gabrielle ignored the question as she watched a brown mare pulling a red-fringed surrey drive by. “It doesn’t matter what Verna or I prepare for him. These days all he can say is; ‘Your mother would never have served that,’ or ‘Your mother knew the way I liked my poached fish.’” She turned back toward him. “You remember the way he used to eat? Now it’s all cakes and truffles washed down with bourbon and scotch.”
Bret put his hand on her arm. He could see her struggling to fight back the tears and he knew the sad truth of what she was saying. When his mother was older she was always on about his father.
Near the end it was as if she had brought her dear William back to life and all she had to do was get out of bed and take his outstretched hand. “Don’t worry yourself, darlin’,” he answered. “I understand. You’re doing the best you can. You always have. Just don’t begrudge your old daddy his only other comforts in life.”
Gabrielle wiped back a tear and brought back the lost sparkle to her eyes he hadn’t seen in years. “Please, Bret, you should go.”
“Will I see you tonight?”
Gabrielle only sighed and looked outside again.
Bret reached into his valise. “As you wish, but next week I’ll be traveling to Boston to meet my partners and talk with investors there. Unfortunately, Lucas and Higgins won’t be attending my party so I will leave the prospectus with you until then.”
“There’s no need.”
Bret stopped and turned to her. “This is the last thing I’ll ever ask of you, Gabrielle. At least open the cover and glance at the first page. These are the best estimates I have to complete the drilling.” He took out the prospectus.
Gabrielle stared at him with a look he might have called pity, if not for the lingering doubt that she was no longer even willing to offer that to him. She folded her arms and seemed to settle into a detached scrutiny of him. “You are your father’s son and you will do as you’ve always done. I no longer have the patience or interest to care either way.”
Bret was silent, without noticeable emotion or gesture, but within there was a shattering force threatening to break apart his restrained appearance at any moment.
He stepped over to the small rosewood desk and dropped the prospectus on top of the latest Theogenesis Society monthly journal. He felt himself slump. More than the loss of Gabrielle’s trust was the inexpressible conviction of being besieged on all sides by the same merciless power of fate. In her effort to preserve propriety, she had been gracious enough to refrain from wailing accusations at him, but her tense, unnatural expression appeared that it might break at any moment from the strain.
“Please take your time,” Bret said. “You can return it to me tonight at the party if you wish.”
Gabrielle remained silent, her gaze seeming to remain fixed on the old carpet beneath his new shoes.
Bret turned, and with an uncontrolled spurt, hurried his way through the front door without looking back.
CHAPTER 11
The unhurried moon untangled itself from the luxuriant vines behind Bret’s house and soared with increasing brilliancy, bathing both land and water in its flawless shimmer. He was thankful this Friday evening was the loveliest Galveston had ever allowed him.
Colonel Elijah Hayes snatched another shot glass of scotch from the passing tray carried by one of the catering boys.
“I am of the opinion,” he declared, trying to make himself heard above the lively conversations and music on all sides, “that Bret McGowan has outdone himself.” He faltered and brushed beside Bret.
The Colonel’s stout body seemed that it might topple under its own weight at any moment. “And in doing so put all of Galveston society to shame. Sir, how do you expect any of us to top this?” The long retired colonel wrinkled his chubby face up into such a smile that he raised his gold frame spectacles off the bridge of his cherry-r
ed nose.
Hadlee Foster and Liam Dawson glanced at each other and grinned.
Bret smiled. “Thank you for the kind words, Colonel, and if you listen to my advice, each one of you will have enough money to throw a party like this every night if you wish, instead of once a year . . . if you’re lucky.”
He winked and swept his arm toward the gala of revelers enjoying themselves on the white marble floor of his huge, open ballroom.
Every sophisticated young lady and cranky old matron was dressed like a belle of the ball; they were flirting and laughing with their suitors regardless of age, clinking long neck crystal goblets and drinking French wine like water flowing free from a fountain.
“And you won’t have to hire the help for only special occasions,” Bret added. “You’ll be able to employ a full time house staff if you want.”
The colored waiters moved nimbly through the crowd, bearing trays covered with delicious, freshly cut fruit wedges, seafood hors d’oeuvres, and cheese and meat canapés. Others served glasses of scotch, bourbon, and whiskey, or poured wine from the bottle for the ladies.
“With every glass of this fine single malt, your proposition sounds more interesting,” the colonel said. He downed his scotch with one gulp. “You do make risky business sound enticing, but—”
“Praise be to the apostle Bret,” said Liam, raising his glass. “Still trying to convert the unbelievers to salvation from below!” Hadlee and Liam broke into strident laughter.
Colonel Hayes put his drink down on a table beside the purple, brocaded Turkish couch. “I appreciate your offer, Bret; to be sure,” he replied. “Taking me and all of us into your confidence like this.” He scooped up a fresh oyster in the half shell from the silver tray on the table. “But young Dawson is right, for once. A man should only trust what he can see, touch, or taste.”
The colonel opened his wet, corpulent lips and tilted back his head. “Cotton and cattle on land.” He brought the oyster to his lips, sucked the meat out of the shell, and swallowed. “Or cargo and ships on the water.” The colonel smacked his lips and belched.
Bret swirled his drink in the glass. “I’ll admit there have been unforeseen delays at Spindletop that we didn’t expect.” He took a quick sip, then another. “But Lucas and Higgins are certain there are natural reservoirs of petroleum in those elevated mounds around Beaumont.” He took a step closer to the Colonel. “If you could just see your way clear, Colonel Hayes, to investing a few thou—”
“Bret.” The older man put his fleshy hand on Bret’s shoulder. “Remember what side of the Mason-Dixon line you’re on.” He pressed his bulky fingers into Bret’s sinewy flesh. “This is Texas, not Pennsylvania. Just because the Yankees have had some luck up north doesn’t mean every fool has to go full chisel and tear up perfectly good cotton and cattle fields looking for something that isn’t there.”
Bret gestured toward the bay window. “How can you say that, Colonel? What about Corsicana?
Colonel Hayes shrugged. “What about it? Less than fifty barrels a day from what I’ve been told. In my book that’s no return on investment. That’s a loss.”
The other men nodded and murmured in agreement.
“Yes sir,” the colonel continued. “So it’s not hard to see why those pushy Pennsylvania oil ‘experts’ have already sold their stake and headed back east.”
The colonel picked up another oyster shell from the next tray. “Texas has an abundance of many things, Bret, but oil just isn’t one of them. Higgins has already tried this fool notion of his in ’93 and what did it get him?”
“It’s the drilling rig, Colonel. They’re not right for our sand and clay. With new investment we can purchase a newer, heavier rotary rig and hire an expert crew to use it.”
The Colonel stared at him for a few moments as guests wove around them. “Son, I don’t know anything about dirt and rocks except they’re best left in the ground where God put them.”
“I hope that’s not your final opinion of the matter, Colonel.” Bret glanced back at the front foyer. There was still no sign of Gabrielle or her father.
The colonel patted his lips with a napkin. “All I’m saying, Bret, is that you need more than black dirt to convince a man there’s black gold under there. Show me something I can fill a barrel with and sell and then we’ll talk some more.”
“But since when,” Hadlee cut in, “should we be listening to foreigners tell us what to do in our own backyard?”
Liam pointed his glass at Bret. “Hadlee’s right. The paper says this Higgins is a one-armed mechanic and self-taught geologist. More like a one-armed bandit and self-taught conman if you ask me.”
Bret looked away as his guests snickered at Liam’s drunken wit. Recovering his composure, he turned to his younger friend. “None of us has to look too far back for the name of a ship that brought our forefathers over.”
“Ahh. But at least they could pronounce the ship’s name in English,” Hadlee said.
The other men chuckled and clinked their glasses.
Bret leaned closer. “Captain Anthony Lucas is the United States expert on salt dome formations. He’s as patriotic and American as you or—”
“Sure he is,” Liam interrupted. “With a name like Luchick, Luchich, or something like that. I read in the paper that’s what his original name was before his family immigrated here. Sounds like another damn Jew or worse.”
He downed half his shot of scotch. “A no account, thievin’ gypsy bastard. The kind the government is lettin’ swarm in like flies.” Liam threw back the last of his drink and puckered his brow. “Before you left I trusted you in all our business matters, but I have to draw the line here, old friend. Are those the kind of people you want us to be giving our money to?”
Bret stared at his guests without saying another word. The surface of the liquor in his glass trembled under the power of his constricting grip.
Sometimes friendship extended no further than the length of a signature on contract, beyond that it was blank, like the paper. He glanced once more at the front foyer. “Please, excuse me gentlemen, but my glass is almost empty. I seem to conduct better business when it’s full.” Bret turned and made his way through the mingling crowd toward the opposite side of the ballroom.
He paused for a moment and drew in his breath when he spotted Gabrielle and her father talking to some guests. Bret cursed himself for having missed their arrival during his unnecessary exchange with Liam.
Gabrielle glanced in his direction, her eyes like sparkling gems, and her red lips beckoning to be kissed.
Bret stood, transfixed by the sight of her in a black velvet evening dress. The sleek fabric sloped away from her lithe, slender neck and her hair, uncurled, fell in long, thick, dusky waves across her smooth, bare shoulders.
Remembering other parties together and seeing Gabrielle now at her most stunning made Bret forget himself and the reasons he had left. Good God, man. How could you have ever let her go? Somebody bumped into him breaking his reverie. Bret smiled his respects to Gabrielle and Arley nodded in return. For the moment, Gabrielle seemed more intent on speaking with Timothy DeRocha and the attendants taking their coats. Best to give her polite distance after yesterday’s conversation. Let them loosen up and enjoy your hospitality.
Bret sipped his bourbon and pocketed a longer look this time. Lord, she was still gorgeous in black. Not a woman here who could top her in looks and charm. Catching Gabrielle’s eye, he raised his glass in a friendly toast to welcome her. It was all a matter of polite timing. The colonel was still interested and if he could show him something . . . a sample, anything, he might convince Arley and the others to take the risk. And that better be soon, or he wouldn’t have a glass left to pick up.
Bret spotted Philip standing to the side of the band and gave him the signal to introduce the evening’s main entertainment.
Philip raised his hand and the band completed its song with a loud finale. His old friend grinned. “Most gracious ladies and
honorable gentlemen,” he called out loudly to the crowd. “May I have your attention, please.”
He pointed to a deep red velvet curtain hanging behind the buffet table at the rear of the ballroom. “Your generous host, Mister Bret McGowan—”
Polite clapping rose from the hands of the ladies. Philip gestured toward the curtain. “Is pleased to offer you tonight’s entertainment.”
Bret and his guests watched the cakewalk dancers appear from opposite ends of the curtain. The colored waiters, dressed in long-tailed tuxedos and starched white shirts, kicked up the heels of their black leather shoes as they walked around the right corner of the buffet table.
The waitresses, dressed in flowing, graceful evening gowns, walked around the left corner, joining up with their partners in front of the table. The waiters bowed to the waitresses, who curtsied in turn, each like a costumed actor playing the aristocracy in a popular farce.
The guests clapped at every wide-eyed, grinning caricature the couples made as they pranced in a line, one after the other, in exaggerated formality to the syncopated rhythm of ‘The Maple Leaf Rag.’
Bret turned away from the spectacle and made his way toward the liquor table to formally greet his new guests. “Arley, how are you? I’m so glad you could make it.”
“I cancelled my business trip to Dallas.” Arley wheezed. “Quite the heat wave they’re having.”
“And Gabrielle . . .” Bret bowed graciously. “I’m honored that you’ve decided to attend my modest and humble gathering.”
Gabrielle smirked. “And to think, Father, that I once actually found those two qualities to be a sign of character in a man.”
Bret tilted his head back and laughed. “Always a joy, my dear, to find you in good spirits. I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you feeling that way . . . all night.”
Gabrielle arched her eyebrow.
“Mmm,” Arley huffed as he patted his sweaty forehead with a white, monogrammed handkerchief. “I can’t stand any place when it’s like the devil’s backyard. Make sure you keep the windows and doors open. I can’t enjoy myself if I can’t breathe.”
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