Hers the Kingdom (54 page)

     The only small stain on that contented summer was put there by Thad. On the surface, he seemed the same. But there were times when his mood would darken, when he would stop in mid-phrase and walk away without a word, and not come back for the whole of a day.

     Soong told me of an incident that made me shudder. "I was called to mediate an argument," he began. In itself, this was not unusual; that he would tell me about it was. "A young Chinese was mowing in the lower pasture," he went on. "One of the family pets—a partridge—got under the blades in some way, and was killed. Young Mr. Reade happened to be on hand. He took a whip to the Chinese."

     "Dear God," I could not help but say.

     "By the time I got there, he had lashed the Chinese a dozen times. I think he couldn't stop by himself, he seemed so totally within the rage."

     "Did no one stop him?" I whispered.

     "The Mexicans were glad to see it, I think, and the Chinese would never raise a hand against the young master."

     "You did."

     He looked at me, carefully. "I'm not totally Chinese, after all. My position here is . . . unique. I think that is generally acknowledged."

     "Is that dangerous for you—for us?"

     "Not unless the young masters take over. After today, I doubt that Thad will bear me much good will."

     "But you saved him from . . . he could have killed the Chinese . . ."

     "He won't look at it that way."

     And Soong was right. Thad did not forgive him.

And now the boys were returning, Thad having graduated from St. Paul's and Wen having finished at Harvard, an undistinguished career, at best. Joseph Brennan had been dispatched twice to extricate Wen from entanglements. Had it not been for Joseph's good nature, his willingness to help Wen, I sometimes thought that Willa would have given up on her eldest son. According to Joseph, Wen was only sowing wild oats. Sara, who spent time with the boys whenever she was in Boston, was less sanguine. She said Wen was insensitive and a snob—which is to say, like most of the other young men who fancy themselves superior to the rest of the world, for no other reason than that they have gone to Harvard. According to Sara, Thad was the loneliest boy she had ever known.

     It hurt when she said it. I felt responsible. I knew it was wrong to send Thad away after Owen's death. He had, in one day, lost the father he adored and the only friend he had ever known, Pablito having been sent away to live with relatives in Mexico. Innocent victims, the two boys. It should not have happened, they should not have been hurt.

     For a while I couldn't tell if the noise—the strange buzzing— was inside my head, or out. It was so steady and low that I wasn't
sure if I heard it or not. I rose and walked over to where Willa was standing. She, too, was listening.

     "Do you hear that?" she asked.

     Before I could answer, the noise, a peculiar grinding sound, grew louder.

     "That's why they're so late," Willa exploded, moving quickly down the walk, "I might have known Wen would have to buy himself a motorcar. The young fop!"

     We saw it moving up the avenue of palms, a long plume of dust following in its wake; it was bright red, an open two-seater.

     "I'm glad Trinidad is away," I said, "motorcars frighten her so." We could see the figures in the front seat now, at a distance.

     "I'm glad she is gone, too," Willa said, grimly.

     The car pulled to a stop in a whirlwind of dust, the dogs yelping crazily at the noisy monster and at the two creatures in goggles and dusters who disembarked. Thad leaped out first, all smiles, and embraced his mother. All trace of irritation had vanished from Willa's face. She was smiling, her arms were out, her pleasure at seeing her sons genuine. I felt hope stir within me; maybe, just maybe, things could be set right.

     Wen, at twenty, was thickset, and new sidewhiskers gave him a stolid appearance. He kissed his mother formally, on both cheeks, holding her hand in both of his.

     Words bounced out of us all. Explanations on lateness, admiration of the car, questions went unanswered, in the way of hellos.

     "Wen had the fast-tourer shipped out on our train, but it didn't respond to the California climate right away. We had to hire a mechanic to get it going, and none of them had ever seen a Mercedes Sixty before. They spent all their time admiring it," Thad explained.

     "Your brother buys a dandy new motorcar, and you're wearing last year's shirts," I said, jokingly running my finger around his frayed cuff.

     "Oh, well," Thad went on in the same good-natured vein. "Wen's so in debt to me that one of these days I'm going to call all his notes due and take it all—motorcar, Cambridge rooms, English menswear, everything."

     "My suits won't fit you," Wen sniffed, trying to match Thad's teasing tone.

     "You know what Mr. Woodrow Wilson says about motorcars?" Willa put in. "He says they are a picture of the arrogance of wealth; he also says nothing has spread socialistic feelings more than the use of these machines."

     "What would you expect of a Princeton man?" Thad said facetiously, and we all laughed.

     "The place hasn't changed much," Wen offered when it was quiet again. "It looks greener, somehow, than I remembered."

     "That's right," I put in, anxious to get it out in the open, "you haven't been here in five years. There's lots that has changed."

     "Since Papa's death," Thad said.

     I squeezed his hand and made him smile at me. "Come see what Wing Soong has done with the pergola you started last summer," I said, not wanting Thad's good homecoming mood to slip away.

Willa was at her desk in the front parlor early the next morning. She had sensed, from the rather formal way Wen had asked for a private meeting, that he had something on his mind. She was giving herself the advantage of being there first, taking her chair behind the desk.

     For a time she sat quietly, contemplating the jacaranda outside the window. In the years since Owen's death she had learned quite a lot about dealing with men on matters of business. Most of all, she had learned to assume the initiative. She was not worried about handling Wen. He was a boy and, she knew, not exceedingly bright. Still, she wished Joseph were here. She smiled, thinking of
the part Joseph so often played . . . she would greet the business caller while Joseph prowled around the room in what seemed an interminable search for a tray for his cigar, playing the bumbler, listening all the time, always listening—never missing a change in tone, a nuance, a small matter of phraseology. Joseph was a master at the power game. Owen had been, too, she surmised, but it was Joseph who had taught her how to play. She had, she knew, been an apt pupil. She saw it sometimes in Joseph's eyes, a glint that was pure admiration.

     She knew now why Owen had respected Joseph, just as she knew that the motives of the two were different, quite different. In many ways, Owen had been the more traditional of the two. He had reached for financial success because it was what one did. A family and children, the ranch, all the trappings of respectability— they had been important to Owen, an end in themselves. It was what a man did . . . but Joseph, Joseph wanted something else, something more . . .

     Her thoughts were interrupted by Wen's clearing of his throat. When he entered, she had legal papers spread out before her. "Good morning," she greeted him, not looking up until she had finished making a notation. Then, her hands clasped to show him he had her full attention, she said, "Have you had a chance to see all that we have done on the ranch? The cattle pens . . ."

     "Yes, some . . ." he interrupted, wandering over to the window, his back to her and his hands clasped behind him. They were, she noticed, white and soft.

     At that moment the twins went running across the grass, following Wing Soong into the house orchard, each carrying a small bucket.

     Wen blurted, "Did you know that little Porter can speak Chinese?"

     Willa tried to manage a smile. "Yes, I had noticed," she answered, trying to be light in tone, "amazing, isn't it? Kit can too, you know—but she's too shy to speak in front of anyone but Porter.
I hear them in the nursery at night, chattering away in Mandarin."

     Wen turned, a frown on his face. "I should think that French would be more in keeping—or even Spanish. But Chinese is, well, a heathen language . . . I can't imagine you would condone it, Mother. And I wonder if it is wise that the twins spend so much time with the Chinese gardener. They do have a governess, I believe."

     Willa sighed. "Wen, let's speak plainly." She rose and stood so straight that, in her high-heeled boots, she was taller than he. "Since your return to the ranch yesterday, you have found much to complain about . . ." He started to interrupt but she raised her hand, "let me finish . . . You've graduated from Harvard and you plan to come into the family business. On that much, we agree. I am pleased, as your father would have been. I cannot say that your father would have been pleased about everything you've done since his death, but I am determined to assign that to the past, to put it behind us. What's done is done. I would like to think that we are making a beginning. Joseph and I have managed quite well together, but Joseph isn't going to want to carry such a heavy load forever. What I want to know—need to know—is just how do you see yourself fitting into the business?"

     Wen leaned against a chair, but could not seem to find a comfortable place for his hands, so he sat down and put them on his knees. He had an odd habit of looking obliquely at one, concentrating on an ear or a point just above the eyes, and only now and then letting his eyes flicker into the other's.

     "We are a very rich family, Mother. I wonder if you knew—if Father ever told you—just how much he was worth?"

     "Your father's
worth
has no relation to the size of the estate he left," she snapped, and was sorry immediately. She was determined not to lose her temper. "Let's not be delicate, your father left an estate worth sixty million. And yes, I was surprised at the magnitude of his accomplishments."

     "I thought as much," Wen said. "It is quite a lot for anyone to imagine, and I'm sure it must have been difficult for you, these
past five years, having to carry the burden of the business. I am sure that Father would mean for me to relieve you of that burden just as soon as I was able. And I am able now."

     Willa was stunned.

     Wen cleared his throat defensively. "I have, after all, spent four years at Harvard College preparing myself. I do believe I came away with some abilities," his eyes narrowed, "as well as excellent connections."

     "Excellent connections," Willa repeated, not able to keep the acid from her voice. "Yes, Joseph has told me about some of your excellent connections. And of course, we were able—your father and I, in the weeks before his death—to meet your excellent friend, Mr. Sayre."

     She had not meant to say it, she had promised she wouldn't and she had, already, broken the promise. She took a deep breath to calm herself.

     "I thought," Wen reprimanded her, "that my sowing of wild oats was to be in the past, I thought you were not going to bring that up again."

     "Wild oats? Is that what you call what you and Wallace Sayre did to Aleja? Have you no guilt at all?" Her voice was rising, quivering.

     Wen's eyes were dulled. He lay his head on the back of the chair and closed his eyes for an instant. Watching him, Willa felt chilled.

     "As I am sure you know," she said, fighting to keep her voice free of anger, "I am the principal beneficiary of the estate. Your father left me in complete control of everything except the trust funds set up long ago for you and Thad."

     ". . . and Aunt Lena," Wen put in.

     Willa paused, wondering how he had known about my trust, wondering why he would mention it. But she did not intend to be distracted, so she simply nodded. "To get to the point, I was left in control. But to underscore that it was his wish, your father left a letter in which he stated precisely that he wanted me to retain
Joseph Brennan as the executive officer of his many holdings, and that if Joseph would agree, Owen suggested we form a company that would bind together his many business holdings. He suggested that Joseph be named the executive officer of this company, and that I serve as chairman of the board. As you know, this was done. We formed the Reade Land Company. Do you, then, propose to take over my position?"