The Only Gold (3 page)

The
lift of Reid’s brows betrayed surprise. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. No simple thing, to come into an established business and upset the status quo. I’m sure you have ideas of your own—”

“No need to worry, Mr. Hylliard. You may be sure I am in favor of those innovations which will benefit the bank.”

That measuring look again, in contrast with the easy bloom of his smile. “It’s Reid. And I’m pleased to see we’re thinking along the same lines. Thank you, Jo.”

There was only so much presumption one could overlook.
“Jonah. If you don’t mind.”

A rueful humor flattened Reid’s smile, and he began to nose through the drawers. “Impressive,” he murmured after a moment. “Up to date, organized, not a scrap of paper out of place.”

“This is a bank.”

“Yes.” Reid blew out a breath and straightened. “Your office is nearby?”

“One door down. I’ve used this office in the last month.”

Reid glanced around. “I’m sorry to steal it from you,” he said, with a nod toward the cabinet full of books and the armchair beside the radiator. “It’s a comfortable spot.”

“The chair and books belonged to Mr. Crowe.” It seemed a lonely spot, with Mr. Crowe no longer hunched over his shawl-covered knees, paging through the ledgers. “He was in a fragile state during his last weeks.”

“So I understand. I’m sorry.” Reid’s attention continued to roam the reaches of the office, finally seeming to settle beyond the partition glass to where the morning lull was giving way to activity. “Excellent view of the lobby. Probably discourages staff idleness.”

“Our staff is not idle—”

Reid laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ve got nothing against an idle moment now and then.” His glance dropped to the books Simon had left in the desk chair. “You’re going to catch me up this morning?”

Presumptuous altogether.
“I expect it will take a little longer than that.” Jonah scooped up the books. “We have been in business thirty years, after all, and our old practices have gotten us pretty well along in the matter of keeping the public trust. I know you intend to implement new practices—”

“Depends. Some banks hold on to outdated practices till they’re smelling like week-old mackerel. I’ll need a few weeks to see how fragrant the air is here.” Reid followed that with a grin he no doubt imagined quite disarming.

Jonah smiled politely back. “We’ll start with the correspondence. I’m sure you’ve handled your share of it.” He laid the books on the desk and shifted out the pile of letters stuck between them. “We’ve the usual applications for discounts, requests for opinions, proposals, stock and bond orders—”

“Complaints?”

“All banks will have those.” Jonah pulled out the main copy book and his own. “Here are the correspondence books. I think if you observe while I attend each letter, it will familiarize you with some of our depositors as well as our practices. Our receiving teller, Matthew Falk, will bring you the newspapers and letters as soon as you feel ready to receive them—”

“Beginning tomorrow will be fine.”

Jonah hid his exasperation but not his surprise. “There’s no cause for haste. As you said, it will take some weeks to acquaint yourself with the workings of our bank.”

“I know how to answer letters.” The humor in Reid’s voice did not mask an apparently obdurate nature. “If I need help in the particulars, you’re just next door.”

Jonah bit back an argument. To clash with Reid at this early point would only make him appear resentful in the eyes of Mr. Grandborough and the directors. He sat at the desk and unstopped the ink stand. “We’ll begin with John Darlington,” he said, as Reid removed a begonia that had taken over a straight-backed chair and pulled the chair beside Jonah’s. “Mr. Darlington has been a depositor in excellent standing for more than twenty years. When he is next in the bank, I will introduce you—”

“Eighty-eight.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The date. You wrote eighty-seven.” Reid sat back, fishing around in his coat pocket. “I guess everyone’s allowed a little room for error around the first of the year.” He held out a small white paper bag. “Taffy?”

Jonah eyed the bag, at a loss. “Mr. Hylliard, there is a time and place—”

“For taffy?” Reid’s grin came back, gentler, with its own touch of exasperation. “I believe I extended an invitation for you to address me by my given name.”

Jonah laid down the pen. “Are you familiar with the expression that he who is intimate on short acquaintance is sure to be—”

“Short on intimate acquaintance. Clever but not necessarily true.” Reid straightened in his chair and tucked the bag in his coat pocket. “Can we work together or should I ask Mr. Falk or Mr. Campbell to assist me for the time being?”

Jonah crumpled the paper and drew another sheet. He could not meet Reid’s gaze. Instead, he pushed back his shirt cuffs and with his neatest script wrote in the correct date. “You’ll want to be sure the clerks are preparing the exchanges. Or I would be pleased to do it, if you wish.”

Reid stayed quiet, perhaps pondering if a word with the directors was in order. Jonah found himself welcoming it as a chance to formally protest the board’s decision, but one glance at Reid told him it would not be thought of. Jonah saw it in the curve of his lips, the gleam in his eyes—confidence that he could handle anyone, even a disagreeable assistant cashier.

With sudden energy, Reid was out of the chair. “I’ll take care of the exchanges. The letters are yours. For today.”

When the door closed soundly, Jonah pelted the crumpled sheet at the wastepaper basket. If Reid continued in such a capricious manner, he would swiftly gain the board’s disfavor. And while that possibility troubled Jonah not at all, he did not like to think of the damage to the bank’s reputation.

He was unwilling to leave the correspondence unfinished, but leaving Reid unattended seemed the more imminent disaster. Shutting the letters inside the desk, he went to the lobby to find Reid in conversation with Simon and Matthew at the counter, while Helen, Margaret, and several of the clerks listened in rapt interest from their desks. Jonah suspected the chatter had nothing to do with bank business.

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

A thorough fascination with whatever work they had at hand overtook everyone but Reid, who had the brass to turn Jonah’s dubious stare right back on him. “The letters?”

“I had a more pressing concern,” Jonah said. “The exchanges—”

“Finished. You have an efficient staff, Mr. Woolner.”

“Of course—”

“Shall we open?”

Jonah fished out his watch. “It lacks twelve minutes to the hour.”

“We don’t want to leave folks standing in the cold.”

“We’re ready, Mr. Woolner.” Matthew spoke up, a rare occurrence, and Reid flashed him a grin.

“Efficient and sensible. Please be so kind, Mr. Falk, as to open the bank.” He tossed the keys to Matthew, who did not seem insulted to be given the porter’s job. To the contrary, he passed through the wicket gate and marched across the lobby with a bold stride not at all like him. No doubt he was flattered to be singled out by the new cashier. Nevertheless, permitting Reid to upset the bank’s routine seemed unwarranted.

“Do understand that I don’t want to take issue with your every decision—”

Reid’s sidelong glance at him was amused. “No?”

“No. It’s just that Mr. Satterfield generally—”

“Mr. Satterfield’s been sweeping snow and ice off the sidewalk for the past twenty minutes. I sent him to the coffee shop across the road to warm himself up.”

“You… oh. Well. Very decent of you.”

From behind the counter came a muffled snicker. Jonah speared Simon with a glance, and Simon hastily returned to counting notes.

“Oh dear,” Margaret exclaimed suddenly and, Jonah sensed, deliberately. “It’s Mrs. Chickering.”

A groan went up among the clerks. Reid raised an eyebrow. “Elizabeth Chickering? Wife of W.H. Chickering?”

Margaret smiled. “You read the society pages, Mr. Hylliard?”

“No, ma’am. The financial pages. He’s worth ten million, isn’t he?”

“Most of it in silver,” Margaret said.

“The rest in diamonds.” Simon’s snide tone was directed at the display of wealth that adorned drooping earlobes, blue-veined hands, and the deep hollow of a throat partly concealed by Elizabeth Chickering’s fur collar. She made her way toward them with the aid of a jewel-encrusted cane, and when she was but a few feet from the counter, stopped to adjust a pair of spectacles on her thin nose. “Mr. Campbell.” It was said less in greeting, more in dismissive irritation. “I’ll have none of your nonsense today, sir. Fetch me the cashier.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Chickering.” Reid’s voice was soft and sincere, with the sort of respect a man might show his own mother. It caught Jonah by surprise and apparently Mrs. Chickering too.

“It’s morning, true enough. Whether it’s good I’ve yet to determine.” She squinted at him. “Who might you be?”

“Reid Hylliard, ma’am. I’ve just taken the position of cashier.”

“That so? Where’s Woolner? Dead?”

Simon and Helen attempted to smother their amusement. The same could not be said of Reid. “You’re thinking of Mr. Crowe, ma’am. I’m happy to report that Mr. Woolner is, at least for the time being, among the living.”

Her eyes shone with a sharper light than the diamonds weighing on her small frame. “You’ve an impudent smile, sir. However, I require drafts written up and want them done properly. I can’t say if you’ll suit, but I will have the cashier and no one else.”

Forgoing further ceremony, she proceeded to the office, and Reid followed. Jonah was desperate to join them. Mrs. Chickering required delicate handling, and impudence seemed as native to Reid’s disposition as Simon’s. Reid would surely provoke her into carrying out her oft-made threat to take her fortune elsewhere.

“You can’t dog his every step,” Margaret said as Jonah passed.

“It’s Mrs. Chickering, Margaret. He has no idea—”

“He will, given time.”

“Five minutes more and we will lose her.”

Margaret sighed. “I’m more concerned about losing you, my dear.”

Jonah stopped walking. “Margaret….” He turned to her. “I’m inviting disaster to leave him to it.”

She glanced around at the busy row of tellers, then beckoned Jonah nearer, where the end of the counter formed a sheltered nook Margaret referred to as her nest. Jonah pushed through the gate and took the chair she kept by her desk for weary tellers, confused depositors, and anyone else in search of direction or a kind word. Margaret set aside her bookkeeping.

“I’ve been here six years, my dear, and every decision you’ve made in that time has been for the sake of the bank. You must go on doing that. Mr. Hylliard strikes me as a restless sort who doesn’t stay long in one place. But even if he stays, your chance of promotion isn’t ended. Don’t let him drive you to quit Grandborough. Not after all the years you’ve invested.”

He was glad to know Margaret, at least, truly wanted him to stay. “I’ll admit their decision leaves me confounded. Mr. Grandborough seems quite taken with the notion of innovation. I’d rather thought our new designation and the government money entrusted to us would be evidence enough of our progress. No need for change—”