The rickshaw carrying Horace Barter rumbled over the cobbles of the clean, paved streets of Greatbridge Hills toward the Barter family estate. He passed by the ornate gates, the well-tended shrubbery, and a gardener raking leaves with equal disinterest. His mind focused on the upcoming meeting with his older sister. He would need to be especially careful. She possessed an astute mind. They might not see eye to eye on some important things, and he could not risk any interference.
The rickshaw came to a smooth stop at the front door of a large but not ostentatious house. He told the runner to wait and handed him a silver piece. A painted white door with a shiny brass handle opened noiselessly before he could knock. A man wearing formal attire and a practiced neutral expression stood at the entrance framed by a pair of white marble pillars.
“Good morning, sir,” the majordomo said. “Your sister is expecting you. Please come in.”
Horace Barter offered no pleasantries in reply. He handed the household servant his cape, gloves, and hat, and then followed him to his sister’s private office. He stood waiting while the man discreetly rapped on the dark, highly polished wood door and then stepped inside.
“Thank you, Willard,” he heard her say. “That will be all.”
Horace entered his sister’s office, a tasteful collection of dark wood and blue fabric. Dried flowers, vases, statues, souvenirs and other nick-knacks she had collected over the years, decorated the shelves and cabinet tops. Her brother knew all held some special meaning for her; most were probably gifts. Such displays often suggest clutter but not here. In this room, they simply added to the feeling of visiting a very personal space heavy with years, memories, and experience. He could stop by, briefly, but his welcome came with a time limit.
In her youth some men found Constance Barter stunning, some men found her infuriating, but none found her forgettable. The years failed to change this, although she fast approached her seventh decade. Her dark eyes, now lined with experience, still held a certain mystery and unimaginable depth. Her long silver hair, brushed straight in a style more common with younger women, reflected the morning sun entering from the large window behind her.
“Come in, Horace,” she said in a voice that could have easily belonged to a woman half her age.
He fought the feeling of inferiority, which often attacked him in his sister’s presence, and he tried to make himself comfortable in an overstuffed chair of dark blue velvet.
“We see each other so seldom now,” she began.
“Yes,” he agreed. “It is difficult to find the time. We each have our obligations.”
“Pish! We could pass those obligations on to others at any time, and we both know it. We do what we do because we enjoy it. It is the challenge, you know. Neither of us sees the attraction in rest and relaxation. We need those obstacles to overcome to keep us going. Sometimes I envy the people who can just sit back and happily watch the clouds go by.”
“Neither of us are quite ready, I think, to live a life of leisure just yet,” he commented carefully.
“Perhaps not. I am not sure that is in the best interests of the Family, though. It may be time to pass the cup to the next generation, little brother.”
Is she making a suggestion? “Perhaps soon,” he said. “But not just yet. I think our experience would best serve the Family for a while longer, considering the current situation.”
“You’re talking about the mobilization, of course.”
“Yes.”
He wondered about what she knew and what she suspected. She could command or acquire excellent sources of information, but he felt quite certain his own security provisions would prove more than adequate if the need arose.
“What’s behind it?” she asked.
Horace anticipated the question and decided it would be best to say as little as possible.
“The king perceives a threat. I really cannot say much more than that. I’m sure you understand.”
She looked at him carefully, closely, skeptically. She peered deep into his cold dark eyes and bore into his frosty soul where ice collected in dirty clumps in the gutters of his neglected conscience.
He hated how she could do this so well, how she could make him feel like she could examine his innermost being almost at will. Her skill at this kind of thing exceeded even his. He respected and resented her for it because he held his secrets close and wanted them kept hidden.
“All right,” she said after a few more moments of discomforting observation, which he suspected she intended to make him pay for his evasive response. “Do you think it will lead to war?”
“It very well could.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“True, but it could mean big opportunities for the Family.”
A brief close of her eyes and a slight shake of her head provided the only clues to her disappointment, but he read them clearly. “There are always opportunities, Horace. You are a very clever man, but you have always been a bit short on imagination. You do not need a war to create opportunities for the Family. You just need to be able to see more than what is right in front of you.”
A prudent cough announced Willard’s reappearance.
“Excuse me, Miss Barter,” the majordomo said.
The form of address was not an affectation. She preferred the title Miss because it suited her for its implied independence. She also claimed it hindered undue assumptions the way a title like ‘chairwoman’ or ‘president’ might. Misses was right out of the question. Husbands provided little advantage, she always said when asked why she never married, and functioned mainly as an unnecessary hindrance.
“Your son Clarence is here. You asked that I announce him as soon as he arrived.”
“Yes, of course. Please show him in.”
She turned to her brother. “I hope you don’t mind if Clarence joins us. He prepared a report for me on Family financial interests and I asked him to bring it by as soon as he could.”
“No, of course not. In fact, I’m eager to hear what he has to say.”
Clarence Barter, Clark to almost everyone other than his mother and uncle, entered the room.
“Good morning, Mother. Uncle,” he said, nodding at each politely. “I have the report you requested.” He handed the woman a stiff, brown folder.
He waited by her desk with self-conscious formality. His uncle sat in the only guest chair.
The young man looked more like his uncle than he did his mother—physically, that is. They shared the same hooked nose, thin lips and dark hair. The way he held himself and the look in his eyes more closely resembled those same characteristics in his mother and reflected her tutelage.
“Thank you, Clarence. I will look at this in a little while. I don’t want to keep you, but can you give us a short summary of your findings?”
He nodded. “Of course, Mother. Well, without going into any details, business is good. The only negative figures you will find in there are from our interests in redfruit jam and wine production due to the dry summer. Those are somewhat mitigated by an increase in price due to the reduction in supply, though.
“All other family businesses and investments are benefiting from the military mobilization the king has ordered. Demand from our foundries for armor and weapons is up significantly, and we are turning a fair profit there, even with the increase in the price for raw materials. We’re also getting very good returns from financing a variety of smaller businesses with military contracts through their respective guilds.”
“Who have you put in charge of overseeing the loans we’re making.”
“I’m taking care of that myself, Mother, although I am working with Hidwell and Company for the clerical and accounting aspects of it.”
“Very good. You know I have every confidence in you.”
“Thank you, Mother.” He made to leave.
“Stay a moment, Clarence,” Horace interjected. “It appears the Family is benefiting nicely from the military mobilization, wouldn’t you say?”
“
We are in a position to do so, yes.”
“So would you say the Family businesses would continue to benefit in the event of war with Gotrox?”
“They may, but I sincerely hope it does not come to this, Uncle. A war with Gotrox would not be good for Westgrove.”
“What’s good for the Family is good for Westgrove, young man.”
“I can’t say I agree, sir. I have no problem at all benefiting from the king’s decisions. If he decides war is necessary, then the family business will support his decision and no doubt profit nicely. However, this does not alter the fact that I would rather a war not occur. Even if the balance sheet when all is said and done indicates a profit, which I seriously question for the country as a whole, war can’t be judged on the basis of a cost benefit analysis.”
“So you would rather avoid a war but you don’t mind benefiting from it. Isn’t that just a little hypocritical?”
“I don’t see it so. Exploiting an opportunity is simply good business. There is nothing wrong with that. It’s not as if we’re creating the opportunity. We’re just taking advantage of it like we would any other situation that presents itself.”
Horace looked at him appraisingly for a moment and simply said, “I see.”
“Will that be all, mother?” the young man asked.
“Yes, thank you, Clarence. You may go.”
“He’s a good boy,” Constance said when the sound of the front door announced her son’s departure.
“Yes, he seems to be a very hard worker, but he still has a lot to learn.”
“Really?” One well-groomed eyebrow arched in inquiry. “Such as?”
“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.”
She shrugged. “If you say so. Would you like to stay for lunch? I’m having a few people over from the Chicken Fanciers Club. It’s such an interesting hobby. I never imagined there were so many different varieties of the birds. You’re quite welcome to join us.”
“Thank you, but no. I really should get back to the castle and my work. There is much that needs tending to.”
“Yes, I’m sure there is. Good day, Horace. Do try to keep me informed of anything that might affect the Family.”
He gave a small, noncommittal nod and bid his sister a good day as he left.
On the ride back, he considered the possible hidden meanings behind her last statement.