“Oh, Charles!” she cried. “You never mentioned—”
“I’ll go fetch her,” he said. “I think you’ll like her.”
It was totally irrational, there was no reason, no explanation for it, but after he had left the apartment to fetch this Cecilia Richardson, Essie’s heart was pounding with—what was it?—a kind of rage, almost, a kind of fury. It made no sense, she told herself. Charles had every right—every right in the world—to marry any woman he wanted. And yet he had no right. She felt betrayed. How could he commit this sort of treachery? Charles belonged to her, to them, she told herself, even though she knew, in the sense of a sane and ordinary world, that he did not. But she had discovered him. If she had not happened to be seated next to him on a train in 1913, none of what had come about would be. How could he do this to her, to Jake—bring this woman into the established pattern of their lives? And with another flush of anger she realized that, no doubt, Jake already knew about Cecilia Richardson, this uninvited intruder. She sat, arms pressed tightly to her sides, on the sofa in her elegant suite at the Palmer House, dumbfounded at the extent of her feelings, appalled and ashamed of herself for the feelings at the same time, trying to control herself, to bring the world that seemed to have toppled down upon her back into some sort of sane and rational perspective.
When Charles ushered Cecilia Richardson into the room, Essie felt her face still hot with anger, and she rose a little unsteadily from the sofa to greet his fiancée.
“Mrs. Auerbach,” the young woman said, extending her hand. “I’ve heard so much about you from Charles. It’s so nice to meet you.”
“Yes,” Essie said awkwardly, disliking Cecilia Richardson instantly, and for no good reason, but knowing that she must at least be civil.
“We wanted you to be among the first to know,” Cecilia Richardson said. “To Charles, you and your husband are like a second family.”
“Yes,” said Essie again, and she could not avoid noticing how bright and proud and happy Charles was looking, watching Cecilia’s every move with an expression that was—well, quite obviously, adoring. Cecilia Richardson reminded Essie of a younger version of Lily Auerbach—tall, slender, blonde and cool.
“What a lovely apartment,” Cecilia Richardson said.
“Well,” said Essie, “would you like a cup of tea?”
“I’d adore that,” said Cecilia Richardson.
It was in the summer of 1916 that Jake Auerbach’s worst fears were realized, and the apartment swarmed with uniformed policemen and plainclothesmen. The note had been delivered in the mail that morning:
Mr. Jacob Auerbach:
You a big rich man, but I think you like your little son a lot. You not want him bad hurt or killed, I think. But that he will be if you don’t give us $$ we ask.
Do not call police and wait for next instructone.
“The writer of the note has deliberately written it in a childish handwriting, in order to disguise it,” said the brisk young lieutenant in charge of the case. “The postmark is Chicago, but of course we don’t know what part of town. Mr. Auerbach, we’d like to place a plainclothes detective here in the apartment, to monitor any incoming telephone calls and wait for the kidnapper’s next message. Meanwhile, we’ll take the note back to the lab, dust it for fingerprints, and see if we can trace where the paper was purchased.…”
“Prince is to be taken out of his school,” Jake said. “From now on he will be tutored here. He is not to leave this apartment for any reason.…”
New dead-bolt locks and chains were placed on both the front and back doors of the apartment. Though the weather was hot, all the windows were ordered locked and bolted, on the unlikely chance that the kidnapper could scale the walls of the hotel to the eighth floor. A very blurred fingerprint was found on the letter, but it could not be identified. A detective, changed on eight-hour shifts, remained in the apartment for three weeks, but there were no further communications from the would-be kidnapper.
“Of course we must face the possibility that this was a hoax,” the young lieutenant said at last.
And it was not until several weeks after the detectives had been dismissed that Essie Auerbach, who had been just as frightened and shaken as her husband, had a sudden insight. She stepped into Joan’s bedroom, where Fräulein Kroger was reading to her. “Fräulein, I’d like to speak to Joan alone,” she said, and when Fräulein had left, Essie closed the door and leaned against it, trembling. “Joan, did you write that note?” she asked.
Joan burst into tears. “Please don’t tell Papa!” she cried.
“What a wicked, wicked thing to do!”
“Don’t tell Papa!”
“I certainly shall!” Essie said. Then she immediately reversed herself. “No, I certainly won’t. And don’t you ever tell him, either! Do you realize how furious he’d be if he knew what a fool you’d made of all of us? Don’t you dare tell him. You are a wicked, wicked little girl.” She pulled open the door. “Fräulein!” she called. “Joan is to remain locked in her room, alone, for the rest of the afternoon. And she is to have no supper. She has been a very, very naughty girl.”
Then, it was in December of that year when so much seemed to be happening in fast succession, that the invitation had come from President and Mrs. Wilson for dinner at the White House. The date coincided with the date Charles and Cecilia had planned for their wedding, and so the wedding was postponed a week so that Jake and Essie could attend. For days, Jake rehearsed her on the etiquette of the White House dinner.
“The President is to be addressed as ‘Mr. President,’” Jake said. “When you meet him, merely shake his hand. Do not bow or curtsy. Mrs. Wilson is to be addressed as ‘Mrs. Wilson,’ and again, a simple handshake. The dinner, I gather, will be kept quite small because of the situation in Europe. There will be the President and Mrs. Wilson, the President’s three daughters, Eleanor, Margaret, and Jessie—who, you remember, are the President’s daughters by his first marriage, and therefore not Mrs. Wilson’s daughters—General and Mrs. John Pershing, and yourself and me.”
At the dinner, Edith Wilson had complimented Essie on her jewels, which Jake had bought for the occasion. “Those are very pretty emeralds,” Mrs. Wilson said. “I imagine green is your color—with your eyes.”
“All except once,” Essie said. “When I wore a green dress to meet my future mother-in-law, whose parlor is all done in red damask.”
“I know good stones,” Mrs. Wilson said. “My first husband, Mr. Galt, had a jewelry store here in Washington.”
“My mother runs a little store,” Essie said. “Newspapers and candy—on the Lower East Side.”
“Really?” Edith Wilson said with a warm smile. “How charming. We’re just a nation of shopkeepers, aren’t we, under it all?”
President Wilson had turned his attention to Jake Auerbach. “Mr. Auerbach,” he said, “I’ve read with much interest of how you’ve utilized Mr. Henry Ford’s production-line techniques in the manufacture of dry goods and other merchandise.”
“It works as well for dry goods as for automobiles, Mr. President,” Jake said.
“Tell me something,” said the President. “A year ago, I was being praised for keeping this country out of the European war. Now I’m being criticized, by the same people, for not getting us into it fast enough. In a matter of weeks, we may have no choice. We have reason to believe that Germany may soon announce unrestricted submarine warfare in the Atlantic. We can’t have U-boats steaming into New York harbor. If that happens, war is the only course. And so my question to you is this: in the event of war, how quickly could you turn your plants into, say, the manufacture of military uniforms and other war materiel? Soldiers’ mess kits, cots for military barracks, blankets, that sort of thing.”
“Mr. President,” said Jacob Auerbach, “it would not take us so much as twenty-four hours.”
President Wilson nodded approvingly.
“Do you realize what this means?” Jake asked her in the
limousine that was taking them back to their Washington hotel. “This means wartime contracts. This means not just millions of dollars. It means tens of millions of dollars, hundreds of millions!”
“Oh, Jake—but it means war.”
“Hundreds of millions,” he repeated. Then, quickly, “From now on, we drink and order no more German wines. From now on, Fräulein Kroger will be Miss Kroger. Do you understand?”
In the darkness beside him in the car, Essie nodded, and the car turned into Connecticut Avenue.
“And Essie, why, for sweet God’s sake, did you have to tell Mrs. Wilson about your mother running a candy store? For sweet God’s sake—why?”
Despite herself, tears sprang to her eyes. “She told me it was—charming,” she said at last. “She didn’t say you were charming!”
They continued toward the hotel in silence.
Sixteen
Crusty little George Eaton, whose field of expertise was advertising, had always been given a fairly free rein in that department, with the only restraints being applied to Eaton’s tendency, from time to time, to exaggerate the splendor and value of certain products. Usually these curbs were applied good-naturedly. “George,” Jake or Charles might tell him, “you just can’t say that these coats for oversize women will make them look ‘thin as a reed.’ A fat woman in a heavy coat is just going to look fatter.” But now, at the April meeting of the board in 1917—two weeks after the United States had formally declared war on Germany—the discussion had taken a more serious turn. At issue was the advertising budget. Traditionally, the company had always spent between nine and thirteen percent of sales on advertising and promotion. Now, for the coming fiscal year, George Eaton wanted to raise the figure to seventeen percent. “Hell, we’ve got all these government contracts,” Eaton said. “We’d only be spending the government’s money.”
“I disagree,” Charles said, “on two counts. First of all, seventeen percent is just too much to make sense from a business standpoint. Second—and even more important—is the public-relations factor. All the talk in the papers is of shortages, of belt-tightening until the Allies win the war. I think Eaton and Cromwell’s first wartime catalogue should reflect this. Instead of an even fatter catalogue, I think we should present one that’s noticeably slimmed down. We want to say to the American public—maybe even say it on the cover—something to the effect of, ‘Look, we’re in this too. We know there are shortages, and that’s why this year’s catalogue is thinner than it’s been in years. Eaton and Cromwell is doing its part for the war effort, too.’ Or something like that. It would give us prestige in the public’s eyes.”
“I agree with Charles,” Jake said.
“Abe—how about you?”
“Agree,” said Abe Litsky.
“That leaves you, Cy,” said Charles.
Cyrus Cromwell, who never had much to say at these meetings, fidgeted in his chair. Finally, he said, “Damnit, seventeen percent is just too much. We stand to make a lot of money on this war. Why not keep the profits for ourselves? Why squander it on advertising? Yes, I agree.”
“Then,” said George Eaton, “I take it I am outvoted?”
“Afraid so, George.”
“Very well,” he said, rising a little stiffly from his chair, “in that case, I resign.” He turned and walked out of the room.
“How much will it take to buy him out?” Jake asked when he and Charles were alone again.
Charles scribbled some figures on a piece of paper. “Roughly, I’d say something in the neighborhood of ten million dollars,” he said.
“Christ. Where do we come up with that kind of money?”
Charles was smiling. “Actually,” he said, “this is a moment I’ve been waiting for. We raise the money by going public—a public offering of Eaton and Cromwell stock. We’re ready for it, Jake.”
“You think so?”
“Absolutely. And I don’t need to remind you, Jake, that with twenty-five percent of the stock in public hands, with another twenty-five percent in Cy Cromwell’s, you and Abe would own half the company. You’d be the dominant stockholders. You’d be absolutely in complete control.”
“That’s true,” said Jake, steepling his fingers and gazing far into space.
“As for me, I have only one request.”
“What’s that?”
“When the offering’s made, I’d like to buy a few hundred shares, at a discount from whatever the initial offering price may be. As a nest egg for Cecilia and me.”
“That’s not unreasonable, Charles,” Jake said. “That’s not unreasonable at all.”
“Good. Then, if you approve, I’ll handle the details.”
Jake nodded. “I approve.”
From the Wall Street Journal:
Chicago, May 5. Eaton & Cromwell & Co., the large mail-order retail-manufacturing firm, announced today its first public offering of stock. The offering will be underwritten by Goldman, Sachs, New York. The company, according to a Goldman, Sachs spokesman, posted pretax profits of $20,000,000 in fiscal 1916, and, as a result of recent Government contracts for the production of war-related goods, is expected to show an even brighter profit picture for fiscal 1917. The initial offering, of 500,000 shares, has not yet been priced but, according to Goldman, Sachs is expected to be offered in the $18 to $20 price-per-share range.
In a not unrelated development, Mr. George Eaton, one of the founders of the company, has announced his resignation as vice-president and Director of Advertising. It is expected that some of Mr. Eaton’s holdings in the company will go into the public offer.
Up until now, the company has been closely held by only four individuals: Mr. Eaton, co-founder Cyrus Cromwell, Jacob Auerbach, a member of New York’s retailing Rosenthal family, and Abraham Litsky. Mr. Litsky is Mr. Auerbach’s brother-in-law.
After reading this item, Mr. Marshall Field put down his newspaper and buzzed for his secretary. “Get me Robert McCormick of the Tribune on the phone,” he said.
“Bertie,” he said when the publisher came on the line, “I want to ask a favor of you. Did you by any chance see the item in today’s Journal about Eaton and Cromwell?”
“S-sure did,” said Bertie McCormick, who had a slight stammering problem.
“I’m interested in this Abraham Litsky, who seems to be a large shareholder,” Field said, “I’d like you to assign a reporter to find out everything he can about Litsky—his background, his education, where he came from, everything.”
“B-but why, Marsh?” Bertie McCormick said. “Th-they’re not considered competitors of yours, are they? I m-mean they sell just ch-cheap stuff, don’t they? They’re not in a class with F-Field’s.”
“I know, Bertie. Let’s just say it’s personal. I’ve got an old score I’d like to settle. As a favor, Bertie. Everything you can find out about Litsky.”
Mr. Joseph Duveen was a small, immaculate, elegantly groomed man with a pencil-thin mustache, bright eyes, impeccable manners, wondrous enthusiasm, and a British accent that seemed as though it had been cultivated at Oxbridge, though his actual origins were somewhat more humble. Though he had not yet become Baron Duveen of Milbank, he seemed already in anticipation of the title, and he much preferred working with women than with their usually oafish husbands. Women, he had found, were much more susceptible to his impish charm and flattery, which were at the cornerstone of his extraordinary international career of selling art and other precious objects to the very rich.
“A magnificent dwelling,” he said to Essie as he accompanied her through the nearly finished rooms, “Designed for magnificent entertainments, on the grandest scale, by a hostess of magnificent accomplishment—as, Mrs. Auerbach, I can see you are. This house must be filled with magnificent objects, beautiful things, for a life cannot be beautiful unless it is surrounded by beauty, don’t you agree? Now here, in this room, I have recently acquired a number of Venetian pieces, which I think would be more than suitable. And on that wall, I think perhaps—yes,
a Titian. As luck would have it, I have just come upon a magnificent example which the owner, a French duke, is willing to sell at a ridiculously low price in order to pay off a bothersome mistress.…”
“I want to keep within some sort of budget, Mr. Duveen,” she said.
“Budget? Ah, dear lady, do not talk of money. Money is of no interest to me. Beauty cannot be bought by mere money. Beauty has no price. Beauty can be purchased for a farthing, or for a million dollars. The cost of beauty is of no consequence, and should not for one little moment be considered. Besides, dear lady, Mr. Auerbach has given us—you and me—carte blanche. We will create our beauty—your beauty, the beauty which will surround your life—together, with no thought of mundane matters. Beauty, of course, is in the eye of the beholder, but what is in the eye that the beholder beholds? If that be beauty too, then the union is complete—complete and harmonious and eternal as perfect marriage, the union between great art and a great collector, an indestructible union. Now here, in this room, I happen to have some fine Louis Quinze pieces.…”
“I don’t want the house to look pompous or formal.”
“Pompous? Formal? You have not yet seen what I have in mind, dear lady. These pieces were all especially designed for a château on the Loire, and here—here, instead of the Loire, you have your magnificent lake. No, definitely not pompous or formal. These pieces are light, airy, in a way whimsical, they are like soft chords of music—dainty and elegant. They will seem to sing to you in this room, in this wonderful north light. I will order them shipped to you tomorrow, for your inspection and approval, and you will see what I mean. And against that large wall—I think not a painting. I think, instead, a Gobelin tapestry which I have just chanced upon. A magnificent specimen. Its only rival hangs in Versailles, and that, entre nous, dear lady, I suspect of being a forgery. The one I have in mind, and will be shipping to you for your approval, has been completely authenticated. And now, for this little sitting room, this I want to be your special room, and I propose covering the walls with a watered green Chinese silk I have come across, very rare, and which perfectly matches the color of your eyes.”
The Auerbach Will Page 24
