Master was nearly seventy-three years old. You wouldn’t have thought it to look at him—most people took him to be ten years younger. His hair was thin, and his mustache was white, but he was still a strong, good-looking man, and rather proud of it. He went to his counting house every day. And if, now and then, he felt a slight twinge of pain, or sense of tightness in the chest, he shrugged it off. If he was getting old, he didn’t want to know it.
But he enjoyed the respectability that his age and long career had earned him. His fortune was considerable, and he could easily augment it without taking unnecessary risks. He had his grandchildren to think of now. And Gabriel Love had just as good as told him that something dishonest was afoot. He started to rise.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “I’m too old to go to jail.”
But Sean O’Donnell’s restraining hand was on his arm.
“Wait, Frank—for my sake—just hear what it is that Mr. Love proposes.”
It was a week later that Lily de Chantal set out in her carriage, from the distant north-western territory of the United States, to drive down to Gramercy Park.
Dakota Territory. Still not a state: a vast, wild wilderness. But when, a couple of years ago, Mr. Edward Clark the developer had built a huge, isolated apartment building on the west side of Central Park—all the way up at Seventy-second Street—he had decided to call it the Dakota. It seemed Mr. Clark had a fascination for Indian names. He’d already built another apartment house called the Wyoming, and had hoped to name one of the West Side boulevards Idaho Avenue. In its splendid isolation, with neighboring blocks empty except for a few small stores and shanties, the mighty Dakota might just as well have been in some remote territory, as far as the fashionable world was concerned.
“Nobody lives up there, for heaven’s sake,” they said. “And anyway, who lives in apartments?”
The answer to that question was simple. Until some years ago, only poor people lived in apartments—houses split up by floors—or in tenements, where even the floors were subdivided. Splendid apartments might be a feature of great European capitals like Vienna and Paris. But not New York. The people you knew lived in houses.
Yet there were signs of change. Other apartment buildings had appeared in the city, though none as grand as the Dakota. The building, a somewhat barn-like version of the French Renaissance, stared rather bleakly across Central Park and the pond where people skated in winter. But, it had to be confessed, it had its points.
Aside from the monumental Indian motifs with which Mr. Clark had decorated the building, the apartments were huge, with plenty of servants’ quarters. With their soaring ceilings, the reception rooms in the largest apartments were quite as big as those in many mansions. And soon people noticed something else. These apartments were rather convenient. If you wanted to go to your country house for the summer months, for instance, you could safely lock your door without even leaving a housekeeper to mind the place. Before long people were even saying: “Oh, I know someone who lives there.”
Lily de Chantal, now in her fifties, had decided to give the Dakota a try. Today, she declared, she wouldn’t think of living anywhere else. She’d rented out the house she owned, invested her other savings, and was able to live quietly and pleasantly at the Dakota with a small staff. Her style of life was made all the more comfortable by the fact that Frank Master, discreetly, paid half the rent.
This afternoon, however, in answer to a note she’d received the day before, she was on her way to take tea, not with Frank, but with Hetty. And understandably, she was a little nervous.
She wondered what Hetty wanted.
March had only just started, but the day was surprisingly warm. As she passed along the south side of Central Park, she saw banks of daffodils. Only as she crossed the top of Sixth Avenue did she frown.
She had never reconciled herself to the long, ugly line of the raised railway that ran down Sixth these days. The El, they called it—the elevated railroads, whose puffing, sooty steam engines rushed their noisy carriages over the heads of ordinary mortals, twenty feet above the street. There were other lines on Second, Third and Ninth avenues, though the one on Ninth gave no trouble to the Dakota, she was glad to say. They were clearly necessary, since they carried over thirty million passengers a year. But for Lily, they represented the ugly side of the city’s huge progress that she didn’t want to see.
The sight of the El was soon past, and a long block later, at the corner of the park, she was turning into the pleasant environs of Fifth Avenue.
You had to say, Fifth was getting better and better. If the El was the necessary engine of New York’s burgeoning wealth, Fifth Avenue was becoming the stately apex. The avenue of palaces, the valley of kings. She’d only gone a short way when she passed what had once been the solitary mansion of the wicked Madame Restell. Solitary no longer. That notorious lady herself was no more, and across the street, now, the Vanderbilts had built their mighty mansions.
She passed the Cathedral of St. Patrick, all complete now, and soaring in Irish Catholic triumph over even those Vanderbilt mansions.
But despite the pace of advance, she was glad that only St. Patrick’s, and Trinity, Wall Street, and a handful of other church spires rose into the sky above the city. The great residential mansions were still only five stories high; indeed, the largest commercial structures, using cast-iron beams, were seldom more than ten.
Moreover, even the most lavish of the newer palaces, whose opulent decorations might have seemed overdone, vulgar, in fact, to the Federal generation, even these plutocratic treasure houses still relied upon the basic motifs of the classical world, as did their cast-iron counterparts. There was tradition, and craftsmanship, and humanity in them, every one.
The city might be vast, but it still retained its grace. And perhaps because she was getting older herself, this was important to her.
She passed the reservoir at Forty-second Street. In the Thirties came the mansions of the Astors. And then she was turning into Gramercy Park.
It was just the two of them, herself and Hetty Master. When she was ushered into the sitting room, Hetty welcomed her with a smile.
“I’m so glad you’ve come, Lily,” she said, and indicated that she wished Lily to sit on the sofa beside her.
You had to say, Lily considered, Hetty Master had worn very well. Her hair was gray. But then so would mine be, Lily thought, if I let it. Her bosom was matronly, but she had by no means let herself go, and her face was still handsome. Any sensible man of seventy should be proud of having such a wife.
But then, what man of any age was sensible?
During the last two decades, she supposed they must have met several times every year, at the opera, or in other people’s houses. And on these occasions, Hetty had always been polite and even friendly to her. Once, about fifteen years ago, after a recital she had given—which Frank had financed, of course—Hetty had actually asked her some quite intelligent questions about the music. They had been in a big house with a music room, so Lily had taken her to a piano, and shown her which parts were the most difficult to sing, and why. They’d had quite a long talk, and by the end of it, she could tell that, whatever else her feelings might be, Hetty had genuinely respected her professionally.
But had Hetty guessed that Frank was her lover? There had never been any indication that she did. Lily had no idea what Hetty might have done if she had known, and, as she had no wish to cause Hetty pain, Lily hoped she didn’t. She and Frank had always been discreet, and Frank was forever telling her: “Hetty has no idea.”
Now Hetty poured the tea. She waited until the maid had left the room, however, before she began.
“I asked you to come round, because I need your help,” she said calmly.
“If I can,” said Lily, a little uncertainly.
“I’m worried about Frank,” Hetty continued. She gave Lily a quick look. “Aren’t you?”
“I?”
“Yes,” Hetty said, in a business
like fashion. “I’m worried about this girl. Have you met her?”
Lily was silent for a moment. “I think you have the advantage of me,” she said cautiously.
“Have I?” Hetty smiled. “I’ve known that you were Frank’s mistress for a long time, you know.”
“Oh,” said Lily. She paused. “How long?”
“Twenty years.”
Lily looked down at her hands. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.
“If it was going to be somebody,” said Hetty, “I suppose I’d just as soon it was you.”
Lily didn’t reply.
“You were quite discreet,” Hetty continued. “I was glad of that.”
Lily still didn’t reply.
“It was partly my fault, I can quite see that now. I drove him away, so he sought comfort elsewhere.” Hetty sighed. “If I had my life again, I’d act differently. It’s hard for a man if he thinks his wife doesn’t respect him.”
“You’re very philosophical.”
“One has to be at my age. Yours too, if you’ll forgive my saying so. In any case, I’d rather be the wife than the mistress.” Lily nodded. “You still have your marriage.”
“Yes. Marriage may not be a perfect state, but it is a protection, especially as we get older. And we are all getting older, my dear.” She glanced at Lily before going on. “I still have my home, my children and grandchildren. And a husband, too. Frank may have strayed, but he is still my husband.” She eyed Lily evenly. “In every way.”
Lily bowed her head. What could she say?
“I was hurt when Frank took a mistress, I won’t deny it, but I’d still rather be me than you. Especially now.”
“Now?”
“This young woman. The one who’s stolen him from you.”
“Oh.”
“What do you know about her?”
“Not a lot.”
“Well, I know a great deal.” She watched Lily for a moment. “Would you like to know?” And when Lily hesitated: “Miss Donna Clipp is a little witch. She’s digging for gold. Not only that—she was prosecuted for theft, in Philadelphia. I have proof.”
“I see.”
“I’ve had a lawyer investigate her. Frank paid for the lawyer, of course, though he doesn’t know it. He thought he was paying for curtains. She cares nothing for him. But she’s after his money.”
“I suppose you think that of me too,” said Lily sadly.
“Not at all, my dear. I’m sure he’s generous, but he can afford to be. Not that I think little Miss Clipp will succeed in getting much out of him. Frank’s not a fool when it comes to money, but she might kill him while she’s trying.” She sighed. “We both know my husband’s getting old. And he’s vain, like most men. She’s a young woman—she’s only thirty, you know—and I’m sure he wants to prove himself.”
“And you think it might be too much for his heart?”
“Don’t you?”
“Perhaps,” said Lily.
Hetty looked hard at her. “Do you love my husband?”
“I have grown very fond of him.”
“Then you’ll help me.”
“To do what?”
“Why, to get rid of this young woman, my dear. We have to get rid of Donna Clipp.”
When Mary O’Donnell had heard that Lily de Chantal was coming to tea with Mrs. Master, she had been surprised. She knew that the two women were only vaguely acquainted; she supposed Mrs. Master might be wanting the singer to perform at one of her charity events. When she was told that Mrs. Master wanted to see her as well, she couldn’t imagine why.
She found the two of them sitting quite easily together on a sofa.
“Now, Mary dear,” Mrs. Master announced with a smile, “we need your help.”
“Yes, Mrs. Master,” said Mary. Whatever could she want?
“We’ve known each other many years, Mary,” Mrs. Master continued, “and now I have to ask you to be very honest with me, and to keep a secret as well. Would you do that for me? Would you promise?”
After thirty-five years of kindness?
“Yes, Mrs. Master, I promise.”
“Well, then. I am worried about my husband. And so is Miss de Chantal. Miss de Chantal is a dear friend of my husband.” She smiled at Lily. “We are both worried about him, Mary, and we think that perhaps you can help.”
Mary stared at her. What was she saying? How much did she know?
“Your brother Sean has had dealings with my husband for many years, as you know, Mary. And Miss de Chantal tells me that your brother knows her too. What we need to know is, has your brother ever talked about Miss de Chantal?”
“About Miss de Chantal?”
“Yes. As a friend of my husband?”
“Why …” And Mary, despite her promise, was about to tell a lie. Except that she blushed. And Mrs. Master saw it.
“It’s all right, Mary,” said Hetty Master. “I’ve known for twenty years. How long have you known?”
“Ten,” said Mary, awkwardly.
“Sean told you?”
Mary nodded. He’d kept it to himself for a long time, you had to give him that, but in the end he’d told her.
“Good,” said Mrs. Master, “that might be helpful. And has he told you about Miss Donna Clipp?”
“Miss Clipp?” Mary hesitated. “I don’t know the name.” This was true. Two weeks ago, Sean had muttered that Master was making a fool of himself, and that at his age he’d better be careful. But that was all he’d said.
“Well, that’s her name. Now, Mary, we need your help. Mr. Master is not a young man, and we must protect him. When are you next seeing your brother?”
“I often go to see him on Saturdays,” said Mary.
“That’s tomorrow,” said Hetty Master, with great satisfaction. “Could you see him then?”
“I could if you want.”
“Then here’s what we need you to do.”
There was no doubt, Sean thought, that Gabriel Love’s plan was a work of art. And part of the beauty of the thing was that it was not what you’d expect Daddy Love to do.
Daddy Love liked to sell short. If he sensed that the market was going down, or better yet, if he had private information that a stock was going to be in trouble, then he’d offer to sell you a parcel of shares, at a future date, for well under their present price. Like a fool, you’d suppose you had a bargain. And sure as fate, when the day arrived, the price of those shares would have dropped far further than you would have dreamed, and he’d buy them cheap himself, and you’d be obliged to take them off his hands at the higher price you’d agreed, leaving him with a handsome profit and yourself with a massive loss. And all he’d needed to do was make the bet—or, more precisely, stack the odds, since he’d certainly known something about those shares that you didn’t.
Only this time, Gabriel Love was going to do the opposite.
In any game there are winners and losers. In this game, the loser would be one Cyrus MacDuff.
“Cyrus MacDuff hates me,” Mr. Love had explained to Sean. “That’s his problem. He’s hated me for twenty years.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I once cheated him out of a boatload of money. But that’s no excuse. If Mr. MacDuff exercised Christian charity, if he knew how to forgive, then the awful fate that is about to befall him might be avoided. It will be his evil nature, I believe, that will blind him to reality, and which the Lord will punish.”
“Sounds good to me,” said Sean. “How is God’s will to be done?”
“Through the Hudson Ohio Railroad,” said Mr. Love.
There was only one thing, in the year 1888, that you could say with certainty about the railroad business. It was dirty.
With the opening of the great American West, the opportunity for carrying goods by rail was expanding hugely. Great fortunes were being made. And wherever there is money, there is competition. While the British developed their far-flung empire, and the powers of Europe rushed to colonize Af
rica, so the bold entrepreneurs of the East Coast scrambled to build railroads across the huge tracts of the American West.
Sometimes there would be a fight for control of a certain route, or of a company that already had a route sewn up. Two groups could be building railroads almost side by side to see who got there first. Trainloads of armed men from rival companies might even shoot it out—the West wasn’t called wild for nothing. Sometimes, however, the battles were subtler.
The Niagara line had been quite a modest affair. A nice little railroad that would bring wealth to a western farming region as soon as it was linked to one of the bigger railroads carrying goods across to the Hudson. Mr. Love had bought control of the Niagara three years ago, and believed he had a deal to link to the Hudson Ohio.
“And then, sir, that evil man, Mr. Cyrus MacDuff, took control of the Hudson Ohio, and blocked my way. Just to spite me. He was happy to lose the extra profits our Niagara traffic would have brought, just to see me burned. I invested heavily in the Niagara, but if I can’t join the Hudson Ohio line, then my Niagara shares are worthless. Is that,” Gabriel Love asked, “a Christian thing to do?”
“It isn’t,” said Sean. “So what do you propose?”
“I am going to bring light where there is darkness,” said Mr. Love, in a tone of reverence. “I shall buy control of the Hudson Ohio from under his nose, and join it to the Niagara.”
“That’s daring,” said Sean. “The Hudson Ohio’s a big line. Can you do it?”
“Maybe I can, and maybe I can’t. But I am going to make MacDuff think that I can. And belief,” said Gabriel Love, with the smile of an angel, “is a wonderful thing.”
It was only as Mr. Love outlined the rest of his plan that Sean came to see the remarkable beauty of his soul.
He had patience, for a start. Two years ago, he’d started quietly buying shares in the Hudson Ohio Railroad. Just a little at a time, always through intermediary companies. He’d done it with such skill that even the sharp eyes of Mr. MacDuff had not detected what was happening.