Betina Krahn (23 page)

“The first item will be amendment of the agenda, which is on the top of your meeting notes,” Beatrice began, ignoring their discourteous behavior. “Under new business, we will consider the proposal Miss Henry is now distributing to you.”

Scowls appeared and murmurs arose as the title of the proposal and the identity of the sponsor were noted.

“What is this, madam president?” Archibald Lynch asked as he took his copy from Alice and continued to stand behind his seat. He was joined instantly by Harry Winthrop. “Why weren’t we sent copies of this with the agenda?”

“I realize this may seem a bit irregular,” she said with a confident smile, “but I have worked with our own accountants and banking experts to develop a proposal that warrants special consideration. And there is a time factor to be considered. The state committee that approves applications for charters will meet in two days’ time. Now … if you gentlemen will be seated, we will hear a motion for approval of the minutes of the last meeting and move on.…”

There were a few, barely perceptible shrugs and silent sighs. Lynch tossed the proposal onto the table and sat
down, and Winthrop followed. There was the “first concession” she had been looking for.

Her smile broadened.

Old business, including the presentation of a very favorable quarterly earnings report, went smoothly and quickly. Beatrice took pains to point out the exceptional large cash balance being maintained in the corporate coffers and the other directors, even Lynch and Winthrop, seemed pleased. By the time new business and her proposal were introduced, the directors were primed to consider ways to invest that sizable amount of ready cash.

“Funding a chartered bank would clearly be in line with our investment strategy. We have spoken numerous times about having a pool of reserves for development. This bank would serve that purpose as well as provide interest income from loans.”

“But we’ve always gotten whatever capital we needed and done our company business through Chase-Darlington,” old Augustine said.

“And Chase-Darlington has charged us enough to give themselves a fat twelve percent profit margin. Twelve percent that we could be saving.”

“But initially, there would be more cost than profit,” vice president Wilberforce Graham said, generating considerable agreement. “Why would we want to venture into this area? There are already plenty of banks out there.”

“Not for everyone,” somehow slipped past her own internal censors. She waited breathlessly, and sure enough, it caused a general reaction.

“Another bit of social
reform
in the making, Mrs. Von Furstenberg?” Winthrop demanded irritably, sitting forward. “What is it this time?”

“This is a simple business matter, gentlemen. There is money out there”—she pointed to the windows and the world beyond—“that is not working for its owners. Money stuffed in hatboxes, under mattresses, and in cracker tins. Money that many small investors do not have a place to deposit.”

“I don’t know of any bank that would refuse to take money on deposit,” Lynch declared.

“Well, I do,” Beatrice said, turning to Alice, who looked suddenly like a rabbit caught in a circle of hounds. “My secretary, Alice Henry, has an account at the Chase-Darlington and recently tried to make a deposit. They all but refused to take her money.”

“Well,” Harry Winthrop said with a smirk, “she is a woman, after all. How many women have bank accounts?”

“Precisely,” Beatrice said tartly, folding her arms. “Women are a huge, untapped source of investment income.”

“They’re also a huge, untapped source of
headaches,”
Winthrop declared.

“Pennies and nickels … we’d spend a damned fortune on counting clerks,” declared old Ben Haffleck.

“Women in the bank all the time, clogging up the teller windows,” William Afton grumbled. “Have you ever seen a woman in a bank? You have to explain every little—”

“You admit it would be a small return,” secretary Wright broke in, “and yet you insist we incur the expense and tie up a great deal of our liquid capital.”

“There will be large accounts as well, beginning with mine,” she said. “And there are other men and women of substance willing to invest.”

“Name one,” Lynch demanded hotly. After a heartbeat’s pause, he produced a fierce smile and stood. “You
cannot, and for good reason. You’d have a damned time getting anyone with half a brain to deposit money in a
woman’s bank
.” He turned to his fellow board members. “That’s what this is about—you see that don’t you? She’s trying to coerce us into backing her ‘women’s rights’ nonsense. She’s using Consolidated as if it were her own change purse … and us as if we were her political shills.” He turned on her. “What next Mrs. Von Furstenberg? A
children’s stock exchange?
”

“One thing at a time, Mr. Lynch,” she retorted, feeling her blood heating. “If we take care of the women,
they’ll
take care of the children.”

There was a groan from old Ben Haffleck. “Not that again. It’s poor children this and starving urchins that. We’ve lost more deals because of your stand on children in factories …”

“And women … and ten-hour work days … and safety guards on machines … and union rights,” thick-lipped William Afton said with clear disgust. “Everything’s a big moral issue.”

“Exactly!” Winthrop bolted to his feet, shoulder-to-shoulder with Lynch. “And we cannot permit this board to become a vehicle for the political agenda of one person, no matter how powerful.”

Beatrice was taken aback. This was by far the most direct and serious challenge she had faced in years. She looked around the table, growing alarmed that not one pair of eyes met hers.

“It has always been our policy—not to mention a point of pride—that Consolidated does not acquire companies that misuse workers or maintain unsafe working conditions.”

“A policy that has cost us dearly,” Winthrop declared, starting for the head of the table. “We lost out on the
Reynolds buyout, the Watersea Textiles acquisition, the Dandridge Knitting Mills purchase.…” Then he struck the personal blow she sensed was coming. “We can no longer afford such sentimentality … not in our policies or in our
board president
.”

“You call making decisions not to exploit women and children sentimentality?” Righteous fire spread through her. “I call it taking a moral stand … against abuse and injustice … against turning ourselves into profit-hungry vultures.”

“Ah, yes,” Lynch said, joining his partner near the head of the table. “The high moral ground. Our president would like us all to believe she is a permanent resident of that territory. That she never leaves it.” He leveled a fierce look on her. “Not even for a side trip to … say … the
palaces
of the
Orient.
”

It was such an odd turn of phrase that it took a minute for his insinuating sneer and the impact of his words to register. The palaces of the—Orient—the—
Oriental Palace?

She blinked, unable to believe it. He knew about the Oriental Palace? How could he?

“Notice that she makes no rebuttal,” Lynch continued with a vicious smile. “Because it is impossible for her to deny that she is interested in the
bottom
line. In spite of her prim ways, she takes great pride in her
attractive bottom
line.”

She felt the color draining from her face, felt her hands going icy. They
knew.
She looked down the table at Winthrop’s lidded eyes and sharklike grin. They knew she had been at the Oriental Palace. Lord, they knew about Punjab’s humiliating treatment of her! But, how could they?

“What do you say, madam board president?” Lynch
inched closer. “Doesn’t our common interest in a
very fine bottom line
change your mind about your
female bank
proposal?”

She was being blackmailed in front of her entire board of directors and every lawyer on her staff. She struggled to remain outwardly calm. If Lynch and Winthrop succeeded, if she gave way to their bullying, she would be handing control of Consolidated over to them, and the company would lose every vestige of decency and social responsibility she had worked so hard to instill in it. She looked from the silent herald of victory dawning in Lynch’s face to the fierce glow of pleasure in Winthrop’s.

It struck her like a nine-pound hammer: She had played right into their hands. They had used her proposal to rouse slumbering resentment of her policies and leadership. What could she do? Her stubborn pragmatism asserted itself. She could
never
give them power over herself or her companies.

“No,” she declared, her hands curling into fists, “it does not change my mind. Consolidated Industries has a responsibility to the world it profits from. We will conduct this company’s business ethically and responsibly as long as I am president of this board.”

The sparks in Lynch’s gaze ignited to a full flame.

“Well, that condition may be easily changed.” He wheeled on his fellow board members. “I call for a vote of ‘no confidence’ in the current president and for her
removal
from office!”

There was a moment of shock before the lawyers shot to their feet.

“Point of order!” one lawyer yelled above the confusion breaking loose.

“There are procedures to be followed!” another admonished,
brandishing an open set of bylaws. “Section two, paragraph nine, point seven …”

After a few minutes, she grabbed her gavel and pounded the table.

As the noise subsided, Lynch echoed her action with his fist, stealing the floor.

“Gentlemen … I had hoped to spare the board and Mrs. Von Furstenberg the revelation of a tawdry and humiliating incident … had hoped to make this change of management as painless as possible. But her arrogant and intractable behavior forces my hand. I am left no choice but to reveal the sordid truth as Mr. Winthrop and I observed it.” A hush fell over the boardroom and every eye turned to Lynch.

Through a frantic jumble of emotion, she heard Lynch declaring that he had seen her enter the “notorious house of ill repute” known as the Oriental Palace.

“Shocked and dismayed, scarcely able to believe my own eyes, I was driven to follow her inside,” he proclaimed. “There, in that foul den of depravity, I was subjected to the spectacle of Mrs. Von Furstenberg”—he flung an accusing finger—“in shameless dishabille … upended over the shoulder of a giant of a man … being manhandled and put on display for the titillation of the drunken and depraved patrons!”

Beatrice watched in horror. How could she counter what he said? The truth would only sound preposterous and contrived; it was difficult enough for her to believe and she had lived through it!

Gasps and glowers were aimed at her from all around the table. But her dismay equaled theirs. She had worked with many of these men for a dozen years, but they were willing to accept at face value the story of a
man with an obvious ax to grind against her. Could they resent her leadership so much? Her humiliation began to turn to a deep and wounding sense of betrayal.

“My sense of outrage quickly gave way to distress,” Lynch continued. “In horror and revulsion, I was driven to send for Harry Winthrop. He joined me and also witnessed her degraded revels among the denizens of that den of iniquity.”

Winthrop stepped forward and nodded. “I must attest to every ugly and objectionable detail of this account. Mrs. Von Furstenberg was indeed there … cavorting with that monstrous giant … yelling, laughing, and baring herself …”

One by one, the directors turned to stare at her in horror and disgust … which only deepened as Lynch went on: “I assure you, gentlemen, her behavior was so notorious and so blatant, that there was quite an audience. It would be no problem to locate any number of men who would recognize her.”

Fighting the panic rising and constricting her throat, she suddenly realized in a desperate flash that for the moment it was their word against hers.

“I have never heard such vile and ridiculous slander in my life!” She shot to her feet. “If you truly intend to defame me, you could at least come up with better stories. Why not that I practice black magic? That I frequent opium dens? Or that I’m really a man in disguise?” She wheeled on the rest of the directors. “I have never,
ever
participated in ‘degraded revels.’”

“Of course she denies it,” Winthrop declared with great indignation.

“I have known for some time that you resented my leadership of this board”—she glared at her pair of accusers—“but
never in my wildest dreams did I suspect you would sink to such vicious personal attacks.”

“Every word is the truth,” Lynch insisted, his face now crimson.

“Every word is self-serving drivel,” she countered. “Where are these witnesses you claim exist? Why didn’t you bring them with you? Or didn’t you think you would need to bother with a little thing like
proof?

“Well, I demand to see this ‘proof’ of yours. Here and now.” She sat down with regal fury, her arms tightly tucked and her spine rigid. “Go on. Send for your witnesses.” When he made no move for the door, she looked up and down the table, seizing and holding each man’s gaze until he looked away. “While you are at it, perhaps you should invite a few of the women who ply their trade in that awful place … the unfortunates who are forced to serve the lusts of wealthy men. It would be most interesting to discover just who in this room
they
might recognize.” Her smile was suddenly fierce and her eyes sparked with defiant energy. “Perhaps they could even tell us just what Mr. Lynch and Mr. Winthrop were
truly
doing in such a place.”

She paused to let that sink in and scarcely drew a breath until, one by one, the directors began to squirm in their chairs. A few began to redden beneath their collars. One or two glanced angrily at each other.

“As Lynch told his story, did any of you question how he happened to be ‘passing by’ this Oriental Palace? How many of you, in your minds, translated ‘happened by’ into ‘was there for an evening’s sport’? Ask yourself … if I were a man, would such a story—even if it were entirely true—have been anything other than cause for a good laugh, told over a round of Scotch at the Pantheon Club?”