Death of a Robber Baron (13 page)

C
HAPTER
22

 

O
n Sunday, Lydia and Pamela went to Trinity Church. To their surprise, they met Prescott at the door. He sat with them through the service, respectful though apparently not inwardly engaged. Afterward at lunch in the Curtis Hotel he described Jennings's latest romance in New York with a young opera singer, speaking hesitantly out of concern for Lydia.

She waved a dismissive hand. “Your report hurts but it doesn't surprise me, Prescott. I'd much rather hear it from you than from a gossipmonger.” She hesitated, then asked, “Would you come to the cottage with us? I may need you.”

He nodded. “Your servant, madam.”

At Broadmore they discovered Jennings had arrived an hour earlier in his private railway car. After lunch and a short nap, he had gone to his study. Lydia sent a note asking to see him there.

He agreed in a curt reply.

As they entered the study, he was at his desk wearing his signature diamond lapel pin. He seemed to be in pain; the embroidered pillow supported his back. Lydia had announced her coming “on a serious matter.” He glared at Pamela and Prescott, then turned to his wife.

“Why did you bring your companion and your lawyer?”

“They'll add to what I have to say, Henry. May we sit down?”

“If you must,” he replied irritably.

Prescott pulled chairs up to the desk for himself and the two women. They acknowledged his courteous gesture and sat down, Pamela and Prescott to Lydia's right side.

“So what's on your mind?” Jennings's voice was cool and unfriendly. He irritably fingered the diamond.

“Your steward Wilson is a rascal and a thief,” Lydia replied. “Here's the evidence.” She handed him the secret account book. “He has embezzled your money and wasted it on whoring and gambling. Your accountant has failed to detect this. You might want to hire another.”

“How did you come by this evidence?” Jennings's eyes were darkening, a sign that anger was building up.

Lydia appeared to sense the approaching storm. Nonetheless she spoke calmly. “Wilson's behavior troubled me. So I asked Mrs. Thompson to investigate. She discovered that Wilson leads a double life: At Broadmore he is seemingly a meticulous manager of your money and supervisor of the staff. In New York he frequents expensive brothels and gambling dens. His losses and other expenses are far greater than his income.” She deferred to Prescott with a gesture.

He explained, “At your wife's request, and aided by Mrs. Thompson, I secured Wilson's secret account book—we knew that he must have had one hidden away in his office. A brief comparison with the official audit revealed large discrepancies.”

Lydia then remarked to her husband, “I'm sure you are disappointed that Wilson betrayed you, but you should be grateful that Mrs. Thompson and Mr. Prescott have brought you the evidence to deal severely with him. He returned to Broadmore late yesterday and may not yet realize that he has been exposed.”

Jennings glowered at the three persons facing him and addressed his wife. “You could have come to me first, before ordering these private detectives to break into my steward's office. I had not given my consent.”

“When the issue came up, Henry, you weren't here. So I acted on my own. After all, Wilson's criminal behavior is my concern as well as yours.”

His face grew pinched. “Lydia, you have deliberately set out to humiliate me. I promise that you'll regret it. Now leave me. I'll deal with Wilson first thing tomorrow.”

 

That evening, Lydia summoned Wilson to her study. She had also asked Pamela to be present for safety's sake.

As he entered, he appeared confident and calm, unaware of the storm he was soon to face. He noticed Pamela and nodded politely. He had probably grown accustomed to her presence at Mrs. Jennings's side.

She left him standing and questioned him concerning his trip to New York. With an expression of self-satisfaction, he described the errands he had run.

“Thank you, Wilson. Mr. Jennings will probably want to hear your report. Now I'll address an issue that's been on my mind for weeks.” She paused for a moment to gain his attention, then asked, “Would you please explain what you meant by this note?” She handed him the one that said she was being betrayed.

Wilson scanned the note with mounting disbelief. Finally, he stammered, “I'm dumbstruck, madam. What must you think? While trying to disguise my identity, I didn't express myself correctly. I meant well.”

Lydia nodded for him to continue.

“I wanted to warn you that Mr. Jennings and Mrs. Allen were having an affair that could lead to disaster for all involved, including Broadmore Hall itself.”

“Unfortunately, Wilson, your note has troubled me. I grant that the scandal may be as threatening as you claim. A month ago, I sensed as much. Consequently, I engaged Mrs. Thompson to investigate. Unfortunately for you, the cat is out of the bag, as they say. Your secret life in New York's brothels and gambling dens is exposed. Mr. Jennings has also learned that your account books are out of order. You will soon hear from him.”

By this time, the steward was gasping for breath and swaying dangerously on his feet. Lydia nodded to Pamela. She rushed up to him, sat him in a chair, and patted perspiration from his brow.

When he had sufficiently recovered, Lydia told Pamela to take him to his rooms. When she returned, Lydia said, “Wilson's character is weak, but he doesn't seem malicious.”

Pamela hesitated to agree. “He appears well intentioned toward you. But I suspect that Mr. Jennings will be harsh and pitiless. That could inspire very hostile feelings in Wilson. He may act on them.”

Lydia looked doubtful. “His character is so weak. What serious harm can he do to as powerful a man as Henry?”

Pamela replied, “Wilson is cunning and angry. That's enough. He doesn't need much strength or courage to stab your husband in the back—in a manner of speaking.”

 

Early the next morning, Pamela drove Prescott to the station. He would return to New York for a few days to look after his business, consult with Harry Miller, and be back before the Fourth of July.

She reported on Lydia's conversation with Mr. Wilson. “I pity him.”

Prescott nodded. “When Jennings finishes with him, he'll be a desperate man. Keep watch on him.”

At breakfast, Pamela learned that Jennings had just called Wilson into his office. She hurried down the hallway to the room next to Jennings's study. She couldn't hear what was said between the two men, but she could imagine that Jennings accused the steward of betraying his trust and threatened to dismiss him. She opened the door a crack to observe the hallway.

When Wilson left the study ten minutes later, he seemed crestfallen. He glanced about and, seeing no one, began to weep. A few moments later, he dabbed the tears from his cheeks, straightened up, and tried unsuccessfully to regain his usual dignified expression.

Unobserved, Pamela followed him outside into the garden. He began to sob again.

She approached him, showing concern. “How are you, Wilson? You appear distressed.”

He looked up, sad faced. “Since you know so much of my story, I may as well tell you that Mr. Jennings has ordered me to train my clerk to serve as a temporary steward. At the same time, I'll have to continue preparations for the festive celebration of the Fourth of July. Mr. Jennings said if I cooperated fully, he might be lenient.”

“Well, isn't that encouraging?”

“Not really.” Wilson was now dry-eyed, his expression bitter. “Mr. Jennings is a heartless liar. He will wring a few more days of hard work out of me and then destroy me.”

 

The next afternoon, Jennings's accountant, a Mr. Carter, arrived by train from New York and was brought immediately to Broadmore. Standing in for Lydia, Pamela received him at the door. A small, thin, sallow-faced man in a dark suit, Carter looked anxious and grim. Pamela imagined the message that Jennings must have telegraphed to him: “Fool! I've been embezzled. Drop everything; come immediately.”

Pamela showed the accountant into Jennings's study. She lingered outside the door and heard Jennings at the top of his voice berate the man for failing to detect Wilson's fraud. Carter could not leave the cottage until he had produced a complete and accurate audit.

When he emerged, shaken, she took him to Wilson's office. The disgraced steward surrendered the keys to him and retreated to his private room. Carter was to live in the office. The housekeeper had arranged for a cot and other basic conveniences. His meals would be brought in.

“This is like being in prison,” the accountant muttered. But he had no choice. If he didn't comply, Jennings would put him out of business.

For the next three days, the accountant remained hidden away in Wilson's office, occasionally meeting with the clerk, who guided him through the estate's records. At noon on Saturday, Carter told Pamela that he would be leaving. He had finished the final draft of his report and had given a clean copy to Mr. Jennings. She passed the information on to Lydia. Upset, she hurried to the office with Pamela in tow and demanded to see the results of the investigation. Pamela stayed in the background, observing.

Carter balked. “Mr. Jennings would prefer to keep that information between him and me.”

Lydia bristled. “I'm not surprised. If this scandal got out, it could damage his reputation for business skill. But I own this house. Anything that's likely to hurt it concerns me.”

Her outburst had its intended effect. The accountant gave her a copy of the audit and explained how Wilson had embezzled over a thousand dollars and lost it all in gambling. Mr. Jennings intended to fire him after the Fourth of July festivities and eject him from Broadmore without pension or recommendation. Wilson would be kept in the dark until then.

After Carter left, Pamela reported on her garden conversation with Wilson. “He realizes that Mr. Jennings intends to ruin him.”

Lydia nodded. “Perhaps Henry is tempting fate. His crimes and weaknesses are familiar to Wilson and offer many opportunities for revenge.”

C
HAPTER
23

 

T
he next evening, Pamela drove one of the estate's light, open coaches to the railroad station. Prescott was supposed to return to Lenox. She needed to tell him about Carter's audit of Broadmore's books, the financial scandal he had uncovered, and Wilson's dire prospects. The train arrived on schedule, and Prescott waved from a window. But he descended painfully to the platform.

Pamela was struck by his haggard appearance. “You look ill. What's happened?”

He replied in a weak, halting voice. “Young men at the club celebrated the thirtieth anniversary of the battle of Gettysburg. They had no idea of the slaughter—they were infants at the time. They drank and sang as if our side had won a football match. That distressed me. I called them insensitive clods. They called me weak-kneed and gutless. While we argued, images from the battle surged into my mind. I tried to describe how dreadful it was, and I worked myself into frenzy. By the time I went to bed, the anguish was almost unbearable. A glass of whiskey at the club had made matters worse. During the night, the most ghastly experiences of the war crowded into my mind. I hardly slept a wink.

“Today, I went to my office, couldn't concentrate on work, just sat at the desk all morning, my heart pounding, my head throbbing. Things just got worse on the train. That's my story.”

By the time they reached his cabin, he could barely sit up. She helped him from the coach. He leaned on her as they made their way into the cabin. They staggered to the sleeping alcove, and he collapsed on the bed.

“Shall I call a doctor?” she asked anxiously.

He shook his head. “These spells happen occasionally. There's nothing doctors can do. They claim I lack moral fiber. ‘Be a man,' they say. ‘Thousands of other soldiers came out of the shock of battle mentally sound.' ”

Pamela sat by his side. “Your doctors should learn from my mother, a wise and compassionate woman. During the war, she nursed hundreds of wounded soldiers, read and wrote letters for them, listened to their stories. Often as badly wounded in mind as in body, they confided things to her that they couldn't tell to another man.”

“Did she share her views with doctors?”

“She tried, but they refused to take her seriously, because she was a civilian and a woman. She suspected that some of the doctors really didn't want to know the truth. It was more convenient and patriotic to blame the victim's character.”

His expression remained skeptical. “What do you recommend for me that doctors haven't already tried?”

“Compassionate, careful listening and a serious, open-minded effort to understand. Speaking about wartime experiences might work like a catharsis and expel them from your mind, or at least bring them to the surface, where you could confront them. I'm willing to listen. You won't shock me after the horrors I've witnessed in the tenements of New York.”

He had begun to sweat profusely. His breathing was labored. But his eyes expressed interest and a ray of hope.

She fetched towels from a chest of drawers and patted the sweat away.

“May I take off your boots and brew you an infusion?”

He gave her a weak smile of assent and let her loosen his collar as well.

When she returned with the tea, he was under the covers, his clothes piled onto a chair. She propped him up with pillows and served the tea. He sipped it thoughtfully, then said, “Many dreadful scenes of battle have haunted me, but I'll tell you about one that comes back frequently. It actually happened at Antietam in September of '62, the year before Gettysburg. A little after dawn, we were advancing in close formation on the Confederates. The fighting became intense. Cannon balls came at us thick as a hailstorm. The screams of wounded and dying men filled the air. Suddenly, a ball smashed my comrade's head. He fell against me and almost knocked me over. His blood soaked my uniform; his brains spattered me from top to toe. I laid him down and joined the others. The battle raged through the day, but I felt numb, as if my mind had left my body. That night, still covered with my comrade's blood, I had my first spell. His image came back more hideous than ever. My heart began to race. Soon I was weeping out of control. I hid from the others. They'd have thought I was a coward. I forced myself to go back into battle, then and many times thereafter. I've occasionally suffered similar attacks ever since.”

“Think of your ailment this way,” Pamela began. “It has nothing to do with your character—you're as courageous, as morally upright as any man I know. We don't understand exactly how mind and body affect each other. But common sense tells us they are closely connected. In that battle, your brain received a powerful blow. It still makes your heart palpitate and causes other symptoms. Think of it as an honorable wound, as worthy of respect as losing an arm or a leg in battle.”

He gazed at her for a long moment. “Thank you, Pamela. Now I must try to rest. Tomorrow, I should feel better.” He took her hand and kissed it and slid back beneath the covers. She continued to towel beads of perspiration from his forehead. In a few minutes he was asleep. She tiptoed from the room and returned to Broadmore.

 

Pamela awoke from a troubled sleep. In her dreams Prescott had lain feverish in bed. She had watched helplessly as he turned from side to side, seeking relief. She shook the dream from her mind, wondering if she should visit the cabin later in the morning. He might need medical attention. But she was loath to invade his privacy. Unless he was desperately ill, he would prefer to take care of himself.

Pamela finished breakfast in her room and walked out onto a porch. She sensed nervous excitement in the air. The final, hectic preparations for the next day's festival had begun already at dawn. The resources of this huge estate would be stretched to their limits.

When she returned to her room, Brenda was dressed, lines of anxiety on her brow. “Do you think tomorrow will be a disaster? There's so much to do.”

“Don't worry. We'll be ready. For ten years, Wilson has arranged this event, and it has always run like clockwork. It'll be a great birthday party for our nation.”

Brenda looked skeptical. “The Jenningses have invited more than a hundred guests, plus servants and children. How will they get here and where will they stay?”

“Many will come by train. Mr. Jennings has rented parlor coaches for them. A bus will ferry them from the train to the Curtis Hotel in the village. A large block of rooms is set aside for them. Cabs will move them to and from Broadmore. A select few will come directly to Broadmore and settle in the guest rooms on the first and second floors. Their servants will stay in the attic or the basement or above the stables. Tents have been erected for children and young college men. Many neighbors will come in just for the day. We must find space to park their coaches.”

A bell rang in their room. “That's Lydia,” Pamela said. “I'll see what she wants.”

 

As Pamela entered the room, the remains of breakfast lay on the table by the window. Lydia seemed indisposed and irritated. “Neither Wilson nor my husband will keep me informed. ‘Everything is going as planned,' they say. I realize they are very busy, and I'm not fit to run around the estate. So I'd like you to observe the preparations and occasionally give me a report.”

Pamela agreed and was about to leave the room when Lydia called her back.

“What's wrong with Mr. Prescott?” she asked. “Last night, one of my guests from New York saw him on the train. He appeared to be ill. I was counting on him.”

“I met him at the station,” Pamela replied. “A wound from the war is afflicting him. He should be better today.”

“I hope so,” said Lydia. She hesitated slightly, then asked, “Would you go to his cabin? If he's well, tell him to watch out for tramps, confidence men, and other troublemakers today during the preparation and tomorrow during the celebration. The estate is going to be crowded and hectic, ripe for serious mischief. Think of what happened to you a month ago in the woods. Tramps are becoming increasingly insolent and violent.”

“I'll go immediately,” Pamela promised.

She found him outside the cabin, stripped to the waist, chopping wood and sweating profusely. As she approached, he looked up. “Excuse my appearance. I wasn't expecting visitors.” He laid down the ax and put on an old shirt.

He looked fit, though the pain from his illness seemed to linger in his eyes.

“You appear better today,” Pamela began. “I've come on an errand from Mrs. Jennings. She wants your help today and tomorrow and will pay an appropriate stipend, I'm sure. You're invited to lodge at Broadmore.” She described Lydia's fears and the vigilance she hoped from him.

He thought for a moment. “Her concerns are reasonable. Tell her that I'll assume my duties in an hour. At that time, you can give me the details I need to know.”

As she was about to leave, he gazed at her. The hurt in his eyes seemed to give way to a look of fondness.

“Thank you again, Pamela, for the care you gave me last night.”

She nodded. “I pray that one day you will enjoy peace of mind.” She lingered for a moment, meeting his gaze. “And now I must return to the cottage.”

 

Pamela found Lydia sitting on a porch in a light pink frock, observing the activity on the garden terrace below. A wide-brimmed straw hat protected her face from the midmorning sun. A glass of fruit juice was on the table at her side.

Pamela joined her. Lawn furniture had been brought out of storage or borrowed or rented and was being set up all over the estate. Men were putting up tents to cover the serving and dining areas, ensuring that the celebration would go on regardless of the weather. Inside the tents, men were hanging colorful Oriental lanterns.

“What do you have to report?” Lydia asked.

“Prescott seems to have recovered his health and should be here any minute.”

“And the preparations?”

“Moving ahead like clockwork, as Wilson repeatedly says. An orchestra from New York will arrive early this afternoon by rail and lodge at the Curtis. Later in the afternoon, they will practice in a special shed built for them. The chef and his staff came from New York a few days ago and have prepared a small mountain of food: meat for roasting, potatoes and various salads, fresh vegetables, and loaves of bread. Work has begun on the ice cream.”

Lydia took a sip of the fruit juice. “At breakfast, my maid said that a huge ‘birthday' cake will come from New York this evening. Its appearance is shrouded in secrecy, but I've been told that it will be spectacular.”

Pamela described a litany of preparations. “Crates of beer and ale and wine—enough for a small army—are stored in a cool basement room. Gallons of coffee and tea are ready to be served, either iced or hot. Ice is being cut in the icehouse and put into coolers. Serving tables have been cleaned and will soon be placed in the tents. The fireworks for tomorrow night are being set up on a large raft in Lily Pond.”

Pamela added that fresh sand had been hauled onto the pond's small beach for visitors who wished to bathe. The bathhouse there had been spruced up. The firing range, the tennis and croquet courts, and the exercise track had also been groomed.

Lydia seemed reassured that the celebration would be a success. She smiled wryly. “My husband lacks many of the attributes of a Christian and a gentleman. But he excels in organizing an enterprise, whether a copper company or a patriotic celebration. This event is the biggest and best of the Berkshire social season. It's the high point of his stay here and a thumb in the eyes of his critics in the social elite.”

“Who are his critics?” Pamela asked. “And why should they object?”

“Mrs. Astor and her select Four Hundred,” Lydia replied. “Henry resents their exclusiveness and mocks their pseudo pedigrees and their aping of British aristocratic customs and manners. He's an original American, a kind of simple democrat who believes that enterprise, hard work, and achievement should determine a person's social standing. It's an attitude that I've always appreciated.”

Pamela detected feelings in Lydia akin to affection for her husband, feelings still alive—barely—after ten years of marriage.

Lydia allowed herself a few moments of nostalgia. Then her lips tightened and her eyes darkened, revealing deep hatred for the man. “Pamela,” she said, “I would like you and Mr. Prescott to observe Henry and tell me what he's up to. I'm particularly curious about how he behaves toward Mrs. Allen.”