An Embarrassment of Riches

by Margaret Pemberton

  For the next few minutes she could hardly hear herself speak. Rosie O’Hara and her husband and child were the fellow tenants about whom Patrick had been speaking.

  ‘Peader O’Hara is out looking for work and Rosie and the child are out seeking a breath of fresh air,’ a woman with a baby at her breast said informatively.

  There was a murmur of regret that there couldn’t be a grand reunion between the O’Haras and Kieron’s fine friend.

  Maura’s delight at having so easily found the O’Haras was tempered by horror at the numbers living and sleeping in the small, airless room.

  Reading her mind, Kieron said: ‘The fault lies with the landlords. They don’t care about sanitation, they never carry out repairs, and they squeeze as many people as possible into as few rooms as possible.’

  In the corner of the room Katy had been brewing a weak mash of tea and half a dozen chipped and steaming mugs were handed around. As visitors Kieron and Maura were accorded the privilege of having a mug each, but the O’Farrells and their friends shared, drinking a little and passing the mug to the person standing or sitting next to them.

  Katy and her sisters could hardly keep their eyes from Maura’s gleaming hair and her silk dress and elegantly shod feet. There was no jealousy in their eyes only admiration and curiosity.

  It was a curiosity that Kieron did not satisfy. Never once did he make mention of the marriage that had so transformed Maura’s fortunes.

  It took all of Maura’s stamina to survive the remainder of their visit. The September heat was overpowering, the airless room stifling. When, at last, they took their leave and were once again outside in the garbage-filled alley, she took a great gulp of air, uncaring of how it stank.

  ‘That was hideous! Horrible!’ Despite her considerable self-control her voice was unsteady.

  ‘It’s no different from conditions in the other tenements,’ Kieron said grimly. ‘In many respects the O’Farrells are lucky. They’re not reduced to renting a cellar-room and they’re not in a house that’s been fastened on to the back of an existing house. There’s plenty of those, built in order to gain even more rents per square foot and providing even less ventilation and light than the O’Farrells enjoy.’

  ‘How can it be allowed?’ She was walking so quickly in her haste to be amid clean, open streets, that she was almost running. ‘How can babies and children thrive in such conditions? Who on earth is responsible?’

  He strode at her side. ‘Patrick tells me their landlord’s name is Belzell,’ he said, easily keeping pace with her.

  ‘He should be prosecuted. He should be made to make improvements. How can he be allowed to get away with such negligence?’

  ‘His position isn’t quite as straightforward as it may seem. He built the tenement, but he doesn’t own the land it stands on, nor does he own the tenement outright. When Belzell’s short-term lease expires, the land-owner has the right to purchase any building at their estimated value.’

  She slowed her step, her brow furrowing in concentration. ‘But if that’s the case, if the property is never his outright, Belzell doesn’t have any incentive to make improvements. The person who really gains from the horror is the land-owner.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  She came to a halt as another realization struck her. ‘How much land does Belzell’s landlord own? He could be responsible for dozens of tenements. Scores of them!’

  ‘Oh, he is,’ Kieron agreed almost off-handedly, halting and looking down at her.

  She stood very still. There was the same odd expression in his eyes that had been there earlier.

  ‘And does Patrick know the name of the land-owner?’ she asked, the blood drumming in her ears.

  He nodded, the late afternoon sun burnishing his thick tangle of hair to a dull gold. ‘Until his death it was Victor Karolyis. Now it’s Alexander.’

  Chapter Sixteen

  Looking up into his strong almost apologetic face, she knew that somewhere deep inside herself she had known all along. The horror she felt was not mixed with surprise. Every wealthy family she had ever heard of in New York had either gained their wealth via real estate or had enhanced their wealth through real estate. That Victor Karolyis had done so, and in the most morally reprehensible of ways, did not surprise her in the least.

  She said steadily, her eyes holding his: ‘Alexander may be the legal land-owner, but he isn’t responsible for the conditions in the tenements. It is his father who was responsible, and the sub-landlords that he leased to.’

  Kieron cupped her elbow in his hand and began once again to guide her in the direction of Fifth Avenue.

  ‘And what do you think he’ll be doing when you tell him of what you’ve seen?’ he queried as an ice-cart rattled past them.

  ‘He’ll make improvements. He’ll see that all tenants have unrestricted access to water-pumps. That there is adequate sanitation. He’ll alter the length of leases to the sub-landlords and he’ll forbid them to let out cellars for human habitation. He’ll have windows inserted into every room and he’ll make sure that houses are no longer tacked on to the rear of existing houses, blocking out the light.’

  They crossed out of one street and into another. The pot-holes were less deep and frequent and there was an occasional phaeton or brougham among the carts and drays.

  ‘If he does as you say he’ll be making a fine start, but there’s far more needs to be done,’ Kieron said, his hand still protectively beneath her elbow. ‘The entire area needs razing to the ground. New tenements need to be built, this time at a decent interval apart so that air can circulate. There needs to be schools, perhaps even a Children’s Aid Society …’

  They were once again in Fifth Avenue. Four elegant chestnuts cantered past, drawing a barouche complete with postilions. She stood still again, looking up the avenue at golden-stone mansions replete with medieval turrets and fairy-tale pinnacles; at the distant Karolyis mansion. It was going to be all so easy. All that was needed was money, and Alexander had money beyond measure.

  She turned towards him with a confident smile. ‘When I left Ireland I didn’t know what I would find to do in New York. Now I know and I can’t wait to start. We’ll need to talk to architects and builders …’

  He looked down at her no longer fierce as he had been the whole time he had been talking of the tenements. The old, familiar dance of laughter was in his eyes. His jacket was still slung over one shoulder, hooked by his thumb, and he shifted it slightly, saying in amusement, ‘You’ll need to be talking to your husband first, sweetheart.’

  ‘I know.’ Her smile deepened. It was late afternoon now and in all probability Alexander would have returned from his meeting with Lyall Kingston and would be wondering where on earth she was. Despite her pleasure at being with Kieron again she was suddenly overcome by longing. She wanted to be with Alexander. She wanted to be with him more than anything else in the world.

  ‘I’m going home now,’ she said, and it didn’t seem strange to be referring to the mausoleum-like Karolyis mansion as home. Not when Alexander was waiting for her there.

  ‘You’ll keep in touch?’

  His words were careless but there was nothing careless about the expression in his gold-flecked eyes.

  ‘Yes.’

  It hadn’t been a question that he had needed to ask and both of them knew it. However distant the relationship between them they were family as well as friends. They shared the same roots and the same history and they understood each other in a way that no-one else had ever been able to do. Not Lord Clanmar. Not even Isabel.

  Through the throng of traffic plunging up and down the avenue she glimpsed the unmistakable blue-and-gold livery. Raising her lace-gloved hand she waved towards the coachman who had set her down at East 48th Street and was rewarded by seeing an expression of vast relief sweep his face.

  With a pang of guilt she waited for him to make his way towards her. When she had taken her leave of him earlier in the afternoon she had told him not to
wait for her. Obviously he had not been able to believe such a request and had spent the afternoon patrolling the avenue in order to be on hand when she required him again.

  As horses and landau came to a halt beside them Kieron stared in disbelief. Maura knew exactly how he felt. It was one thing to be intellectually aware that great wealth and good taste did not necessarily go hand in hand. It was quite another to be confronted with proof of it.

  The Karolyis landau’s squabs were covered in pale blue silk and edged in gold braid. Large pale blue velvet ribbons decorated every corner. The two liveried postilions were two small black boys complete with powdered wigs. The hypothetical coat of arms on the carriage door was embellished with a riot of gold curlicues and would have done credit to an emperor.

  ‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph,’ Kieron said beneath his breath, pushing his cap even further back on his unruly curls. ‘Has no-one told the Karolyises the difference between a private and a state occasion?’

  Laughter bubbled up in Maura’s throat, overcoming embarrassment. She allowed the footman to hand her into the carriage, determining to speak to Alexander about the ridiculous-looking powdered wigs and at least to have the velvet ribbons removed before she had need of the landau again.

  Kieron grinned at her from the sidewalk. ‘If only old Ned Murphy could see you now,’ he called wickedly, uncaring of the strange glances he was attracting from both pedestrians and the occupants of passing carriages.

  Maura was equally uncaring of how strange a couple they must look, she in her silk and lace finery and seated in the distinctive Karolyis landau, Kieron in his open-necked faded blue shirt, a working cap perched jauntily on the back of his head.

  ‘Eejit,’ she retorted, lapsing affectionately into the patois of childhood.

  Kieron shouted with laughter. A passer-by stared after her carriage in dazed disbelief. Then they were both lost to view and she was again in the middle of Fifth Avenue’s choking equestrian throng.

  ‘You’ve been where?’ Alexander asked incredulously.

  ‘To the Bowery.’ She took off her gloves and laid them on a small ormolu and porcelain mounted table. From one of the bathrooms adjoining the vast bedroom there came the sound of running water. Teal was obviously preparing Alexander’s early evening bath.

  ‘Where?’ Alexander asked again, hoping to God that he’d misheard.

  ‘The Bowery.’ She began to take the pins out of her chignon. ‘I went with Kieron. He has friends there and …’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ The blood fled from his finely chiselled features. ‘I told you yesterday I didn’t want you having truck with any Irish!’ His horror was deep and sincere. ‘What the devil do you think people are going to say when word gets round that you’ve been to the Bowery for Christ’s sake?’

  They stared across the room at each other, aware that they had plunged into a hideous re-enactment of the scene that had taken place the previous night.

  She said carefully, knowing that it was her fault, knowing that she should have spoken with more care, been more circumspect: ‘Kieron is my distant family, just as Charlie is your distant family. I have to be able to see him occasionally. I have to know that he’s all right.’

  There was no answering anger in her voice, only sweet reason. Her hair had tumbled down around her shoulders. She looked extremely beautiful and unbearably desirable.

  He ran a hand through his hair, torn by a half a dozen conflicting emotions. Fury, because she had so blatantly disregarded what he had said to her the previous day; horror at the thought of her being seen entering such an area; grudging admiration for her nerve in having done so; sick dismay at the thought of the fresh gossip her action could give rise to; reluctant amusement at the thought of the reception she must have received; and a longing to make love to her that was almost crucifying intensity.

  The last emotion overrode all the others. He reached out for her, drawing her close saying in loving exasperation, ‘It isn’t your fault that you don’t understand yet what is acceptable and what isn’t, although how you could have ventured into that pit of pestilence without realizing it was the last place on earth you should be, is beyond my imagination.’

  She slid her arms around his waist, hugging him tight, grateful for the effort he was making to avoid a quarrel. ‘That’s exactly what it is,’ she said thickly, ‘a pit of pestilence.’

  She eased herself away from him a little so that she could look up into his face. ‘Have you ever been there? Have you any idea of what it is like?’

  The idea was so ludicrous that he found himself laughing. ‘No,’ he said, breaking free of her and striding towards the bathroom so that he could dismiss Teal, ‘I haven’t.’

  She waited where she was until she heard Teal leave the bathroom via the door leading directly on to the corridor, and until Alexander stepped back into the room.

  ‘You should,’ she said quietly, her eyes holding his with burning intensity. ‘It’s terrible. Far more terrible than can possibly be imagined.’

  He hadn’t dismissed Teal and postponed taking his bath in order that they could talk about conditions in the slums and he pulled her close, saying pacifyingly, ‘You shouldn’t have gone. I’m not surprised it distressed you.’

  His voice had thickened and he was pressing her in towards him. She could feel his hardness through the silk folds of her skirt and answering desire flared through her. She wanted him so much that she could barely stand, but first she had to talk to him about the tenements. She had to tell him that they were a part of his inheritance; that he was now responsible for them.

  ‘People are living fifteen and twenty to a room,’ she said unsteadily. ‘There are hardly any water-pumps and the only privies are untended boxes in the yards. There is no air, no light, no …’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, they’re slums,’ he said in amusement. ‘What do you expect to find there? Red carpets and silver spoons?’

  ‘I expected to find better living conditions for the poor than those I left behind in Ireland,’ she retorted, the Irish lilt in her voice thickening. ‘I didn’t expect that in one of the richest cities in the world there would be tenements far worse than any that exist in Dublin!’

  He curbed his rising exasperation, saying dismissively, ‘Dublin, New York, what does it matter? They’re nothing to do with us. They’re not our responsibility …’

  ‘But they are!’ Her heart was being fast and light. ‘The landlord of the tenement I visited is a man named Belzell …’

  Her breast had begun to rise and fall tantalizingly. Her hair was heavy and satiny on his hands and smelled faintly of roses. He didn’t care what the man was called and he didn’t want to hear another thing about landlords or tenements. He lowered his head, his mouth brushing her hairline, her temple, the corner of her mouth.

  ‘And he squeezes every cent he can get from his tenants because the land doesn’t belong to him and he only has a short-term lease on the property …’

  He wanted her so much it was a physical pain. He wanted to feel the softness of her breasts against his chest; he wanted to feel her legs sliding sensuously against and around his.

  Her breathing was becoming increasingly unsteady. Exercizing every ounce of self-control that she possessed she pressed her hands restrainingly against his chest and moved her face away from his mouth, saying urgently, ‘Alexander, please listen to me! The man Belzell leased from was your father. He now leases from you. You are the landlord with ultimate responsibility for the tenement I visited today. You are the person who can change everything for the people living there!’

  His mouth had been on the erotic curve of her throat. He lifted his head, checking his raging desire with difficulty.

  ‘How in God’s name can you know that I’m the landowner?’ he asked in genuine bewilderment. ‘I’ve never even heard the name Belzell before, I …’

  One of the tenants told me. His name is Patrick O’Farrell and …’

  Alexander had been patient for lon
g enough. He had endured a tediously long morning listening to Lyall Kingston enumerating the finer details of his father’s will and he had spent an equally tedious afternoon cooped up with half a dozen of his father’s financial advisers. He had come home eager to be with his wife and he was horny as hell.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, what does it matter?’ he exploded exasperatedly. ‘I must own hundreds of properties in the Bowery. For all I know I probably own all of them. What’s so special about this one? If your friends don’t like where they’re living tell them to move out.’

  She stepped away from him trying to curb her rising nausea and failing. ‘You sound like one of Ireland’s English landlords! They don’t care about their properties either. They let factors collect the rents for them, and they let factors turn those who cannot pay out into the wind and rain. When decent men tell them they must take more responsibility for those dependent upon them, they, too, say that if their tenants do not like the conditions they live under then they are at liberty to live elsewhere. Only they cannot do so. The poor cannot move away from the very little they have. The O’Farrells and those that live with them cannot move out, because there is nowhere for them to move to that they can afford!’

  ‘Then they should find work as other people have had to find work,’ he said with answering temper. ‘My grandfather was just as poor as any O’Farrell or Shaughnessy, only he didn’t sit on his backside whining about it. He went out and he worked and he made a fortune. Just as your Irish friends could do if only they’d stop feeling sorry for themselves and stay off the bottle!’

  This time she didn’t slap his face. It would have been too trivial a reaction. She said, white-lipped, ‘You have no understanding whatsoever. You don’t know the first thing about being poor. If you were in the O’Farrells’or Shaughnessys’situation you wouldn’t find it so easy to go out and earn yourself a fortune. I doubt if any of the people I visited today are drinkers, but if they are, who are you to criticize? You wouldn’t find it so easy to stay off the bottle if it was the only comfort in life that you had.’