Son of Fortune (12 page)

“Of course.” It was the biggest silver deposit ever discovered in the United States.

“It was different from the gold rush—a different sort of mining. You needed machinery, and most of all you needed financing. Father provided both. And here we are.” Christopher waved toward the elaborate estate. “But the point is, there is a real society now, not just some lucky gold diggers. There are about a hundred top families, give or take a few who are in scandal or bankruptcy or are just too dull. We have to maintain standards. So picnic girls are just for fun.”

“What if you fell in love with one?”

“Why would I?”

“Maybe she's beautiful and—nice. I don't know, maybe it just happens?”

“It isn't shameful to marry down a bit. But why? I mean, there are forty good ones available, so chances are that at least one will be all right for a wife. I'm in the top, oh, five, I suppose, of a dozen very rich young men—top three, if you count looks—so no one is likely to refuse me. I can take my pick.” He looked down at the last ounce of wine in his glass and swirled it around. “And even if all forty of them turn out to be bores, it's easy enough to ship some in from abroad. Chile is bursting with rich daughters, some of them royalty from Spain. I suspect with our fortune, I could easily get one from Europe if I wanted to. And she would speak a foreign language, so I wouldn't even have to listen to her!”

“You're an ass!” Aiden said before he could stop himself. Christopher's blithe candor was both appalling and wickedly funny.

“Oh yes!” Christopher laughed. “But I'm the emperor of asses! Now come see the monkeys.”

Later, as they came back into the conservatory from the zoo, the servant Christopher had called Mr. Butter approached them.

“Mr. Madison,” he said with a little bow to Aiden. “Mr. Worthington has requested to meet with you in his office.”

“Right now?” Christopher asked.

“If Mr. Madison would be so kind.”

“Oh. Well. He probably wants to hear some more about his bears,” Christopher said, quickly recovering his nonchalance. “Do go along—he hates to be kept waiting.”

Christopher had made his father sound like an old man pottering around his zoo all day, so when Aiden entered the office, he was completely unprepared for the actual person awaiting him. For one thing, his physical presence was startling. The rich men Aiden had seen about San Francisco, and indeed at this party, were all stout, soft men, most with elaborate whiskers and broad mannerisms—men who, even if they weren't actually tall or big, seemed to take up twice the space of ordinary men. But Mr. Worthington was a very small man—at least three inches shorter than Aiden—lean as the newsboys on Market Street and clean-shaven. He had a coiled alertness about him, like a falcon.

“I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Worthington,” Aiden said nervously. He had never been in a room so grand and sumptuous except on the day of the moving job. These carpets were even bigger and thicker, this furniture even heavier. It would take four strong Irishmen to lift that desk. The glass windows were taller than most houses. The yards of velvet in the draperies would make a hundred ball gowns.

“Welcome, Mr. Madison. And did you like the zoo? The polar bears are quite the attraction.”

“I am glad to see them well.”

“I would like to thank you personally for their care. Please sit.” He waved a small hand at the chairs facing his enormous desk. They were extravagantly carved of exotic wood and, Aiden quickly discovered, extremely uncomfortable to sit in. The seat was flat and shallow, forcing him to perch more than sit. The knobby carvings pressed against his back.

“I understand you were recently in the lumber business. In what capacity?” Mr. Worthington opened a rosewood box filled with cigars.

“Capacity?” Aiden said. “Well—chopping, sir.”

Mr. Worthington looked momentarily puzzled, and Aiden wondered what Christopher had told him.

“I cut down trees.”

“Oh, I see.” The old man sliced him up and down with a sharp, assessing gaze. “Cigar?” He offered the box to Aiden.

“No thank you.” Was it rude to refuse? He knew cigars were important, but he had tried smoking and hated it. This life was so hard to figure out. But Mr. Worthington didn't seem to care.

“And now you have come to San Francisco seeking your fortune.”

Aiden wasn't sure how to answer that, but he didn't really have to.

“Of course you have, lad, of course you have! Everyone does!” Mr. Worthington sat down behind his desk, his own chair creaking with plush leather. “Would you like some coffee? Some brandy or wine?”

“No thank you. I've enjoyed well and plenty of everything, sir.”

“Very good. I won't have my guests wanting.” Mr. Worthington leaned back in his chair and took out a cigar cutter and a silver box of matches. “So,” he said as he went about the complicated business of snipping and twirling and puffing the cigar. “Logging—a business I am also engaged in. In fact, I was recently offered a contract for advance guarantee of five hundred thousand board feet of lumber at eight dollars a thousand,” he said casually. “That is ten percent below current market rates. Shall I take it? Would you advise me so?”

Aiden hesitated. He had the feeling he was being tested, but he had no idea exactly how.

“No, sir. I wouldn't.”

“Why not?” Mr. Worthington looked surprised.

“There were some big snows this winter. That means, come spring, the rivers will be extra-high, able to float out a lot more logs. There are camps up in the far valleys, where I worked, with three years of logs ready to float out, just waiting for high water.”

“And you think that high water will come this spring?”

“Yes, sir. Also, with the snow, we dragged a lot of logs out of the woods to the riverbanks.”

Mr. Worthington's slender fingers tightened across his velvet waistcoat. “Can the mills handle all these extra trees?”

“Yes,” Aiden said. “I know mill workers who've come to be loggers because there wasn't enough work sawing boards.”

“The trees that will move on these high rivers—are they good?”

“The best, sir,” Aiden said enthusiastically. “Because logs are so hard to move in the high forests, we only cut the very best ones. They've been logging on the coast for a hundred years, so what they cut there now is second growth. Trees from the interior are older, so the wood is dense and very fine. Not wood for common framing, but beautiful wood for furniture and paneling.”

“So what should I offer? What price would you advise?”

Aiden thought of Napoleon Gilivrey, king of the high valley logging, in his fastidious little house, squeezing out his profit in overlooked pennies.

“If you could offer to buy the whole lot, and make your deal now, you might expect to pay seven dollars or less, depending on how you bargain.”

“I bargain well.” Mr. Worthington smiled. He leaned forward, uncapped a crystal inkwell, plucked an ivory-handled pen from a marble holder, opened a ledger to a blank page and quickly began scribbling. He finished his calculations with a slashing underline and turned the book around for Aiden to see.

“Do you have a thousand dollars to give away, Mr. Madison?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, that's what you just did!” Mr. Worthington tapped the ledger page. “Your information given just now will gain me an extra thousand dollars of profit and you not a penny. That isn't very good business for you.”

“Mr. Worthington, I didn't think we were conducting business. You simply asked me—”

“Everything is business, young sir,” Worthington interrupted. “Knowledge is a commodity as much as wheat or coal or iron. I've just earned a small fortune off your knowledge. Where is your profit?”

Aiden was used to the quick reversal in a fight, but this verbal switch took him by surprise.

“My profit, sir, is—is to know I have been helpful to those who, even if for a short time of acquaintance, I consider my friends.”

“Very honorable,” Worthington said. “And how well will you live off that honor, young Mr. Madison?”

The man was toying with him, probably insulting him in a dozen different ways, which made Aiden even more embarrassed because he wasn't really sure how.

“Well—honorably, sir,” he said. The stupid collar and tie were choking him; the world-renowned-tailor-of-royalty jacket was crushingly heavy. He didn't belong here. Maybe he was suited only to the knacker's yard, boiling dead horses into glue. His back was cramped from sitting in the rigid chair.

“Thank you for inviting me to your party, Mr. Worthington.” Aiden stood. “I will go now.” He turned and walked toward the office door.

“Wait, Mr. Madison. Please.”

Aiden paused, his hand already on the brass knob.

“I did not wish to offend you,” Mr. Worthington said. “I apologize. Please indulge an old man with a few more minutes of your time. Perhaps a little fresh air.” He crossed the room and unlatched a pair of glass doors to a little balcony that overlooked the garden. He gestured toward a pair of armchairs. “Please,” he said. “I have been harsh in my chastisement just now, and I am sorry. I have been in business so long I am like a fish that forgets how those above the sea draw breath. Will you forgive me?”

“Yes, sir.” Aiden blushed even hotter. “Of course.”

“Then sit with me for a minute more and we will discuss other business.”

“I doubt I have any more useful—or profitable—knowledge to offer, sir.”

“I don't,” Mr. Worthington said in a kinder tone.

Aiden took a deep breath, came back into the room and sat down. This chair was soft, and the cold air felt good on his burning face.

“I test everyone—please do not take it personally. It was not an insult. It is part business and part sport—and wholly cruel, some would say—but as it turns out, it tells me much about a man's character. Now, in regard to the thousand dollars, I will offer that to you as salary.”

“Salary? For what job, sir?”

Mr. Worthington went to a nearby table and poured from a crystal decanter into two enormous round glasses. Aiden did know enough about rich men to recognize cognac as the mark of something important.

“I know that you rescued my son from harm last week,” he said as he handed Aiden a glass. “Very little goes on in this city that I do not hear of. I am grateful to you. Christopher is a smart boy, but often an idiot. He is the prince of San Francisco, but he is of the age and the mind to…rebel. He is welcome in every gentlemen's club but prefers to explore the seedier establishments. I would like him to stay alive long enough to have a chance to straighten himself out and make something of himself in this world. I had a man in my employ charged to be observant and available to assist my son as might be needed. Clearly, he failed. So, to that end, I wish you now to look after his well-being.”

“You want me to be a guard for him?”

“I want you to be a friend to him. And perhaps teach him something of the real world. Christopher and his friends were raised without challenge or want. And”—Worthington held up his hand—“I can anticipate all protestations of friendship without recompense, which I do respect. But I am paying for your time, not your devotion. If you work elsewhere, you will not be available in my household.”

“I don't think he'll have it, sir. All due respect—”

“Of course he won't have it! Coddled or not, he isn't a damn nancy boy. You will not be employed as his bodyguard, but as a tutor to my youngest son. He is a sickly boy and cannot go to school. That will bring you into residence here in my house and thereby make you available as a natural friend to Christopher.”

“I'm not a teacher, sir,” Aiden said. “I have no formal schooling myself.”

“He's eleven years old, and unfortunately, it appears his mind is also afflicted,” Worthington said, growing impatient. “You can certainly read ahead.”

“How do you know—” Aiden was so surprised that his voice caught in his throat and he had to swallow before he could speak. “How do you know you can trust me, sir? How do you know I'm not a robber or something?”

“If you robbed me, you wouldn't get very far.” Mr. Worthington smiled but could have been brandishing a dagger. “I am practiced at assessing men quickly. So I do not fear for my candlesticks. I have done business with Captain Neils for many years, and he spoke well of you.” He put his cognac down and sprang from the cushy chair with a single smooth motion, like a cat. “Perhaps I can sweeten the deal. Christopher said you like to read. Come here.”

He strode across the office and slid open a pair of twelve-foot-high mahogany doors, revealing the adjoining library. It was like walking into heaven. Every wall was covered with shelves from floor to twenty-foot ceiling, and every inch of every shelf was packed with books. In the center of the room were two tall, slanted reading desks, and upon each was a huge folio of maps.

“Will this coax you?”

Aiden was already thinking he would pretty much sell his soul to the devil for a single day in this library when a door at the other end of the room slid open and an angel appeared instead. She had silky gold curls that shimmered around a face that was smoother and more perfectly carved than any of the marble statues in the garden.

“Oh, hello, Father. Whatever are you doing here? I hope I'm not interrupting,” she said coyly. “But a question arose”—she gestured toward the atlas on one of the desks, but her eyes were fastened on Aiden—“about Patagonia.”

“Yes, that happens so often at parties,” Mr. Worthington said with a sigh.

“You must be Christopher's new friend!” she said, gliding toward them with a soft rustle of skirts and a trail of butterflies. Trumpets and harps sounded. The earth paused in its revolutions and tilted on its axis, tossing penguins from ice floes in the distant Antarctic.