“Any thoughts?” Goelet asked.
Astor nodded. “Honestly, I think it went well.”
James couldn’t disagree. Their proposal to buy public lands in Manhattan to the north and west of the Central Park to develop into housing and businesses could only help the depressed economy.
“I can’t see why they wouldn’t approve the sale,” James said. “Even with the usual bureaucracy, we should be able to break ground by spring, I think.”
Astor stopped at the base of the stairs and turned to James with an open hand. James shook it firmly and Goelet’s as well.
Goelet nodded in agreement. “Summer at the latest. Couldn’t have worked it better.”
A recession had seized the American economy just before his arrival in the States two years past. Already, the government and businessmen trying to rebuild it with little more than toothpicks and mortar referred to it as the Panic of 1893.
It had happened in a flash. Some blamed agricultural failure in other parts of the world. Some, the Free Silver movement for falling short of its promise to invigorate the economy. Investors began to try to exchange silver notes for gold until the limits of the federal reserve were breached.
With US bank notes losing their ability to be redeemed for gold, the panic set in. Banks started to call in loans and mortgages in an attempt to build their own gold reserves. By the hundreds, banks failed and closed, and in the process, families lost their homes. Men, their jobs. By the end of the following year, unemployment rates had climbed to more than twenty percent as companies laid workers off to save their ready cash. Steel companies faltered, railroads dependent upon them like the Union Pacific, Philadelphia, and the Reading did the same.
The panic turned to depression.
Recently, the US Treasury’s gold reserves had fallen below one hundred million. Fear that the government meant to abandon the gold standard it’d held for so long sent investors into a frenzy trying to sell off their assets and convert them to gold. The government, under President Cleveland, had begun taking loans in gold totaling sixty-five million dollars from the Wall Street syndicates and wealthy bankers like Morgan to support the gold standard.
As foreclosures increased, real estate magnates like Astor and Goelet started buying up land in the city. Already working his own connections, James brought them together with his partners in banking like JP Morgan and Gould. Not only did they have the potential to make millions on their investments, but also to bolster the economy by creating jobs and housing.
Hopefully the state would agree to the sale, if for no other reason than the possibility of greater economic stability.
“I think we can comfortably settle back and toast to our assured success,” Goelet added, drawing his coat around him. “Let’s get out of this cold. Care to join me at the hotel for a drink?”
“I’m in as long as it’s more than one.” James nodded. “Mrs. Preston is expecting me home but I’m probably safer here.”
Astor dismissed the lawyers and turned toward the carriages awaiting them across the street. “How is my cousin doing, James?” Maggie was an Astor cousin some degrees removed. “I’ve not seen her about for more than a week or so now. I hope she’s not ill.”
“Nay, only feverishly plotting the end of my single days,” James jested, drawing chuckles from the men who might have once hoped to welcome him as an in-law of some sort but were well satisfied by a different sort of relationship.
“I’d wish her success, but I know her success would be your downfall.”
“Aye, sir. And a hard fall it would be.”
The men laughed again as a series of shouts from the street corner to the far end of the capitol carried on the breeze, drawing their attention.
With a frown, Astor turned back to James. “Mother is holding a card party tomorrow night. I know she sent Mrs. Preston an invitation. Join her, if you will.”
James winced. An evening of cards sounded safe enough, but one never knew. “I’ll consider it.”
“You can let me know all about how Evelyn is faring as well.” Jack smiled wistfully. “I do miss her being about.”
Reminded that Jack and his sister-in-law had once been close friends, James started to speak to the topic, but the yells and chanting of the large crowd as they moved into the street made it nearly impossible. Several dozen were marching toward the front of the capitol, waving picket signs in the air. Almost an equal number of policemen were circling them, trying to keep them at bay, but the mob, which looked to be made up of women, pressed forward.
“What’s going on there, I wonder?” Goelet mused. “Looks like a demonstration of some sort,” he added, as they made their way across the wide boulevard in front of the oncoming parade.
“There’s always a protest of some sort going on,” Astor grumbled. “Always something to disagree with the government about. Especially in days like these.”
Nodding his agreement, James waited patiently while the two other men stepped up into the carriage. Then he grasped the doorframe to pull himself up, casting a final glance back to the protestors.
Or it would have been his final glance if something hadn’t caught his eye. His gaze snapped back. There was something familiar about the woman in the front row…
His eyes widened. Horror? A touch fascination?
It was.
The wee meek church mouse Primrose Eames, shouting with all her might as she raised her sign, waving it high in the air. Nose to nose with one of the many policemen, she spoke, of what he knew not, but it was a lengthy lecture.
“MacKintosh?” came the prompt from within the carriage, and he knew he should climb inside.
But he was too enthralled by the sight of Prim screeching like a harridan as two police caught her by each arm. They hauled her away, her heels dragging along the cobbles, looking indignant yet oddly triumphant.
A sign dropped at her feet reading, “VOTES FOR WOMEN.”
Layers, indeed.
Chapter 5
Ah, good conversation—there’s nothing like it, is there? The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.
~ Edith Wharton from The Age of Innocence
The residence of Mrs. Caroline Astor
5th Ave & 65th St.
Manhattan, New York
The following night
He might not have come, but the enigmatic curiosity that was Primrose Eames had proven too great a lure to ignore. Maggie had been stunned by his easy acquiescence to her suggestion that James accompany her to a night of cards. She hadn’t made the connection yet to her recital of who she expected to attend.
Finagling his way to become Mrs. Eames’s partner at a bridge table, James set forth to engage her in conversation. He veered away from normal topics such as the upcoming holiday, the yachting season for the following spring, and even Jack’s science fiction novel, which had been released the previous year. Instead, he’d brought up issues regarding the Cleveland presidency, searching as it were for a glimpse of the fire he’d seen her display in Albany, or at least a dose of the repartee she had hinted she might be capable of the previous week.
He’d intended to peel back the layers and discover the depths she clearly took care to keep under wraps. Even her conservative attire captivated him now. Her dinner dress of deep faun-colored velvet and cloth of gold collar, upon first sight, was drab and unremarkable, blending with little contrast to her dark hair. The plunging neckline of her outer bodice revealed only ivory lace inset that covered her bosom and crept right up her throat. A large cameo was pinned, further hiding any hint of her charms. The ivory and gold embroidering on the bodice seemed nothing more than the usual flora and fauna, but upon closer observation, he noted tiny figures peeking through the foliage.
Elves? Fairies? In either case, it only reaffirmed that Mrs. Eames was something more than the average society matron.
But what he’d gotten for his efforts was nothing. Nothing more than the tiniest of peeps when he tried to draw her out. A
nod or feeble shake of her head when he asked her a direct question and pure civility demanded she answer.
Or as play necessitated. “Two hearts.”
James checked his cards without much interest and reached for the tumbler of Scotch near his elbow.
Not even a glance from her direction. No, all those were reserved for a trio of men at the adjacent table. Two of them were playing Écarté. One, he recognized as the banker Declan Eames, who given the name and age, was her father-in-law. The other, as the dark-haired man who’d been at her side at the Gould affair. He bore enough of a resemblance to Prim to be a relation, perhaps one of the siblings she had mentioned at the museum. The third man was watching the game with an occasional glower for Prim. James didn’t recognize him, though he was a brutish and sour looking fellow with a small mouth and balding pate.
“Three spades.” This from Mrs. Astor who was seated to his right in the east position.
Prim only flicked at the corner of one of her cards then sipped from her tepid tea before making her play.
No, Prim was hardly the red-faced rabble rouser he’d spotted waving a sign demanding equal rights a mere day ago. In fact, there was such a disparity of personality between then and now, he was beginning to wonder if she had a twin.
Or was what he’d witnessed in Albany nothing more than a lark on her part?
“Two clubs.” James threw out his card, noting the twist of Prim’s lips and the look, irritated as it was, that she threw his way with some pleasure. Good. He shouldn’t be the only one disappointed by the other, should he?
Since the conversation he’d hoped for from her was unlikely to be forthcoming, he turned to Jack Astor to his left in the west position as the play continued. “Any news from the committee in Albany?”
“None, yet,” Astor answered, smoothing his full mustache down with a forefinger. “Patience, MacKintosh, these things take time. Four spades. ”
Aye, he knew it. “I’ve never gotten into the habit of cooling my heels.”
“It’s not as if you haven’t other things to occupy your time,” the real estate magnate said.
“Gentlemen, please.” Mrs. Astor’s protest wasn’t unexpected. She was of the firm opinion that business had its place. It wasn’t at her parties.
“Apologies, Mother,” Astor offered.
Mrs. Eames set her card tidily in the center of the table. “Four clubs.”
“My investments with Rockefeller and Flagler show tremendous return potential,” James said, as Mrs. Astor played her card. “He’s almost ninety percent of the market in petroleum now. New uses for oil being dreamt up every day. Three hearts.” He bid just to be contrary and was rewarded with another exasperated look from Mrs. Eames. “There are more than a hundred uses for it now. The industry is growing by leaps and bounds.”
A flash of amethyst, eyes wide with interest. Mrs. Eames’s lips parted slightly before she caught her lower lip between her teeth and worried it. Her gaze was once again cast downward but not before she darted another look to the men at the nearby table.
What was that about, James wondered. “It’s been a marvel, really,” he went on. “With the expansion of electric lighting and the reduced demand for kerosene, there was a radical slump in the industry, but looking at the future of automotives—”
“Mr. MacKintosh, if you please.”
James hid a grin. “My apologies, Mrs. Astor. I’m not one for long silences and we’ve already covered the opera season.”
“Don’t upset yourself over a bit of conversation, Mother,” Astor grumbled, unfolding his long legs and shifting in his chair. James didn’t blame him. The tiny chairs were bloody uncomfortable for men their size. “Got to talk about something if a gentleman’s expected to partake in such a dreary game.”
Glad someone was able to say what he was thinking, James hoisted his glass in silent toast to his friend. It took a brave man to stand up to a woman as formidable as Caroline Astor.
More of one to continue the conversation as well.
“You’ve invested in Wharton’s nickel and coal mining efforts as well, haven’t you, MacKintosh?”
“I had but recently considered getting out of them. The laborers are unionizing, demanding better conditions. Unlike some others, I can’t say I blame them for protesting. They’ve reason.” James looked at Prim who was studying her cards intently, but she was listening just as attentively. He knew she was. “Don’t you agree, Mrs. Eames?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, lifting her gaze to settle somewhere south of his eyes.
“That there are reasons for the protests.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know a thing about it,” she said primly.
“Wouldn’t you?” he said, discovering a particular joy in taunting her. “You wouldn’t know a thing of reasons for protesting? For all sorts of protests? Demonstrations…marches even?”
To his immense satisfaction, Prim’s suddenly wide eyes met and held his for the first time that night.
* * *
Gracious heavenly Lord save her.
He knew.
How?
Not waiting for one of the gentlemen to hold her chair, Prim pushed it back and stood. Prickles of sweat dampened the back of her neck and the hollow between her breasts, and spots danced before her eyes.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Eames,” Mrs. Astor cried. “Are you quite all right?”
In a flash, Mr. MacKintosh was around the table and slipping an arm around her. “Steady on there,” his deep brogue whispered in her ear, supporting her as she righted herself. “Worry not, Mrs. Astor, I’m sure Mrs. Eames will rally in a moment. Won’t you? Rally, that is?”
Prim’s knees wobbled at the pun in his word play. He knew all right.
How? Or more importantly, who would he tell? What would he say?
“You are pale, Mrs. Eames,” Jack said. “Do you need to lie down? I can fetch Ava to assist you,” he added, referring to his wife.
Prim shook her head. “No, no. I’ll be fine.”
“Perhaps a bite to eat and a wee drink might be in order?” MacKintosh asked.
With few polite options available to her, Prim nodded.
“Allow me to accompany you to a more comfortable chair or chaise,” he offered solicitously, though there was laughter in his voice. No doubt baiting her amused him.
Mrs. Astor nodded. “Yes, do allow Mr. MacKintosh to support you.”
“Aye, I always love to support a good cause,” he teased softly. “How about you, lass?”
Blood rushed back into her face, hot and fast, just as quickly as it’d left her. Prim gritted her teeth and took his proffered arm.
“How did you know?”
“Call it an eyewitness account.”
Oh, God, who else had seen her? She’d always been so careful to keep her activities under cover before.
“Whose?”
“Never fear, it was only my own,” he assured her, no doubt sensing she was near panic. “Though Astor and Goelet were there as well, I don’t believe either of them witnessed your…um, shall we call it, defiant exit from the march?”
A low groan bubbled up in her throat. Would he say something to her brothers? Or worse, to Mrs. Astor?
“May I be of assistance, Mrs. Eames?”
The groan deepened into dismay as Mossman Leachman approached. He angled himself with the clear intention of blocking MacKintosh’s progress and reached for her arm. With a sigh, she tried to withdraw her arm from the Scot’s but he held on…firmly.
“Mrs. Eames isn’t feeling just the thing,” he said solicitously. “I was just escorting her to the drawing room so that she might recover herself.”
“I can do it.”
The pointed looks of both Declan and her brother told her they expected her to leave MacKintosh behind and take Leachman’s arm. Just as they were sure she’d see what they saw as common sense and marry the beast, even though it was the last thing she wanted to do.
“I a
m more than pleased to accompany Mrs. Eames myself,” MacKintosh said, low and firm.
Prim steeled herself for Leachman’s reaction. True to form, he threw back his shoulders and puffed out his barrel-like chest, looking for all the world like a rooster strutting about to frighten off others who thought they might settle in to roost.
He’d always been like that. A brute. A bully. Mr. Leachman used his size and booming voice to intimidate in business and his personal life. It was only one of the many reasons she didn’t want to marry him.
Not that she had any interest in remarrying at all, but with a glower like that, she wouldn’t have even had the option. He was the main reason she hadn’t had another suitor since her husband’s death. He’d frightened off every other man who’d come sniffing around. Fortune hunters and decent men alike. There were few men with the fortitude to stand up to such a cock of the walk.
Yet…Mr. MacKintosh wasn’t slinking off in defeat, nor did he look like he had any intention of backing down. Moreover, Leachman was eyeing Mr. MacKintosh with something bordering on caution. Even intimidation. Of course, he wouldn’t know what to do when his usual tactics failed.
Prim looked up at Mr. MacKintosh again. Far up. He was tall, several inches over six feet, and broad. Perhaps not quite as beefy and barrel-like as Leachman but large enough that he’d never be able to buy off-the-rack clothing with arms so brawny. Though handsome—yes, she could admit it. He bordered on beautiful—Mr. MacKintosh’s clean-shaven features were still rugged. The scowl currently gracing his features might be seen as downright menacing.
She’d noticed before that while ladies tended to sigh and cling to his muscular arms with a helplessness that humiliated her for the sake of all womankind, men tended to veer around him, eyeing him with respect and maybe a touch of fear.
All You Could Ask For Page 155
