Unrivaled (15 page)

I decided to get to the bottom of my father’s dispute with Lucy’s father. I might have asked Augusta, but I didn’t quite trust her to tell me the whole truth. So I did what I’d done in Chicago when I needed to find something out. I went to the streets. On Grand Avenue I bought a newspaper off a newsie, tucking it under an arm. And then I reached into my pocket and brought out a Royal Taffy. “I’m looking for some information.”

The boy eyed the candy. “Could be I have some.”

“It would need to be the truthful sort.”

“That might cost extra.”

My opinion of St. Louis improved as I added another Royal Taffy to the first.

The boy looked up the street and down. Then he snatched the candy from my hand, hiding it in a pocket of his grimy, moth-eaten coat. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything about Standard Manufacturing. And City Confectionery.”

A look of suspicion crossed his face. “Is that it?”

“Why? Don’t you know anything about them?” I held out a hand. I wasn’t going to give away two perfectly good Royal Taffies for nothing.

“I know everything about them! And so does everyone else. You’re not from around here, are you, mister?”

“Tell me.”

“They were partners, some years back.” The boy could only have been eight or nine years old, but he said it with the straightest of faces.

“That part, I know.”

He shrugged. “That’s it. You know it all, then.”

“But what happened? Why aren’t they partners anymore?”

“Mr. Clarke was hired by Mr. Kendall to help with the factory and before Mr. Kendall could even blink, Clarke stole the company from him and kicked him out the door.”

“Stole? I don’t think he actually
stole
the factory.”

“All those rich people got some fancy way of explaining it, but in the end, Mr. Clarke had everything and Mr. Kendall had nothing. Not even the candy he used to make. What would you call it?”

“I heard it was all done legally.”

“Legal?” He sneered. “Might have been legal, but that doesn’t mean it was right.”

Put that way, it did sound an awful lot like stealing. “But . . . doesn’t Mr. Kendall still make candy?”

“He vowed he’d come up with something better than Royal Taffy, but he never has.” He patted his pocket as he spoke.

“And what about . . .” What about Lucy? What about me? “What about their families?”

“There’s a Mrs. Clarke, but she’s never had children. They say Mr. Clarke used to have a family somewhere up north. There’s
some son come to live with them. They say he’s going to take over the factory when Mr. Clarke dies.”

“They do, do they? A handsome fellow, is he?”

He looked at me in a squinty-eyed way. “Not to my way of thinking.”

I handed him another Royal Taffy.

“On second thought, I seem to recall people saying he’s real handsome.”

That was better. “Tell me about the others. The Kendall family.”

“The mother’s got the money, and she waves it under Mr. Kendall’s nose every now and then just to remind him that it’s all hers. Only the old man had a heart attack, and he’s laid up at home trying to die.”

“Wait—what?”

“Word is Mr. Kendall’s bound to die soon.”

Lucy’s father? The one she said she’d made candy with?

“And there’s a daughter. Went away to Europe for a while. Just got back.”

“What’s she like?”

He shrugged. “She’s the VP Queen. Her mother’s decided to marry her off. That’s what they say, anyway.”

“To anyone in particular?”

He shrugged again. “The Minard kid is going to make a play for her, but the smart money is on the Arthur son.”

“Arthur son . . . ?”

“You know: the electricity company Arthurs. But he’s so old he could practically be her father.” The newsie had begun to walk away.

“Is there anyone else?”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself? Go to all those fancy parties. You’re the Clarke son, after all, aren’t you?”

Scamp.

I left the newsie and walked on down to the factory. I had to find some way to let Lucy know that I hadn’t meant any harm. That I was only trying to . . . destroy her father’s company.

As I walked along, I passed a wall I had covered with Royal Taffy posters. Not seeing the Fancy Crunch posters beneath them didn’t mean I couldn’t feel badly about having covered them all up. I cursed myself. Things were supposed to have gotten less complicated in St. Louis, not more.

The dinging of a streetcar bell warned me to get off the tracks. I stepped onto the sidewalk and read an advertisement as it passed:
Give the Queen of Your Heart a Royal Taffy
.

The queen of my heart would probably throw it back into my face.

I had to at least talk to Lucy. Let her know that . . . what? Why would she want to hear any more from me than she already had?

I stepped off the sidewalk and tipped my hat at two ladies who were walking by. Continuing on my way, I saw a box of Royal Taffy on display in a five-and-ten-cent store window. The city was one big advertisement for my betrayal. What could I possibly say that could change her mind about me?

You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen?

I want you to know you’re the perfect VP Queen?

When I found out about your father, I felt pretty mean?

Listen to me! I was thinking in poetry. But I had a feeling Lucy Kendall wouldn’t want to hear any of it. The only thing she’d want from me is a promise that her father’s company was safe. And that would require betraying my own father, just when I’d finally found him again. Just when I’d been offered a second chance at life. Which would just about serve him right. Except that . . . I couldn’t. Lucy seemed to want the one thing I couldn’t give her.

Mr. Mundt pointed to my father’s office door when I arrived. I went in and sat in the chair across from him.

“I’ve seen your posters, Charles. A fine job you’ve done.”

I found myself straightening. “Thank you.” Had he really stolen the company or had he done it like he’d said? Did it really matter if the result was the same? And how did I feel about calling myself the son of a man who prided himself on taking advantage of others?

“But I’ve been told it’s time now for more aggressive measures. We need to do something more immediate.”

More
aggressive? Than plastering over all the Fancy Crunch posters in the city?

“City Confectionery is still making candies. I’m working on getting their candy off the shelves, but in the meantime, we need to get them to stop production.”

“Why?” Why did Lucy have to be a Kendall? Why couldn’t she be a Miller or a Jones or a—a Smith? And why did my father have to be so set on shutting down her father’s company? “What did he do to you?”

“Who?”

“Mr. Kendall.”

“It really has nothing at all to do with him. I wish I could tell you more, but I can’t. It was part of the agreement. Just know that my hands are tied.”

His hands were tied? Then how was it that he was making plans, having me put up posters, and talking about taking immediate and aggressive action?

“I owe someone a favor, and there’s really nothing more to say about it.”

“Are you sure this person you owe the favor to is . . . aboveboard?”

He chuckled. “You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“Frankly, that’s the one thing that’s never been easy for me to do.” No. That was wrong. I’d trusted him without question as a child. But I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to do it again.

“You can’t believe I would ever do anything illegal!”

No. Just dishonorable and spineless and cowardly.

“I’m your father, Charles. And I would never ask you to do something I wouldn’t do myself.”

What was it that I wanted from him? He’d given me a job, he’d welcomed me into his home, he’d said he was sorry . . . but somehow, it wasn’t enough. “I just don’t think anybody’s going to thank us for destroying a dying man’s company. A dying man’s
candy
company.”

“You’ve got to learn to think with your head, Charles, not your heart. I can’t tell you it didn’t make me a little queasy to agree to do this. But in the end I think, like me, you’ll see that it’s the right thing to do.”

“I was quite disappointed in the president. I would have thought he would refuse the ride.” Mr. Arthur was all but wagging his finger like some old spinster maid.

I nearly laughed. He expected President Roosevelt to decline a ride on an air machine? When had the former president not taken a risk? Or a dare?

“Now every young boy will want to be just like him. If God had meant for man to fly, He would have given us wings.”

“But . . . didn’t you at least find it rather exhilarating?” I had a difficult time not smiling when I thought of those men soaring through the air like birds.

“No. But why should we speak of it? I’m sure you were only there because of your duties.” He looked at me expectantly.

I had been, hadn’t I? But something willful and perverse within me wanted to insist that I had not. Probably due to the influence of Charlie Clarke. I ought to have scratched his eyes out instead of held his hand. “Of course I was.”

He nodded to himself as if he had checked off an important point on some list. “Please don’t think me a boor if I say that St. Louis could not have picked a better Queen of Love and Beauty.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mr. Arthur.”

“No more kind than you have been to me. And I insist that you call me Alfred.”

Mother beamed from the corner where she had joined us some while before.

“That’s very kind . . . Alfred.” I felt as if I had stepped into a pot of taffy. As if my feet were stuck and I couldn’t free myself. I’d become accustomed to that feeling during my travels in Europe. It seemed every young man my aunt and uncle introduced me to had wanted to attach himself to my side, while all I wanted to do was look at the cathedrals and tour the museums. And visit the candy shops. In Europe I had always avoided those situations by pretending an endless fascination with our guides. Here, I had no such distraction. I smiled at Mr. Arthur as I clenched my folded hands.

“Tell me, Mr. Arthur, about the electricity business.”

His brows peaked beneath the near perfect wave of his honey-colored hair. “That would be far too tedious a topic for a girl like you, Miss Kendall.”

If I couldn’t talk about his work, then what else was there to talk about? Politics were forbidden. Religion was impolite. I hadn’t read the newspaper that morning, and he didn’t look like the sort of man who read novels. “Do you have any . . . any plans for . . . for . . .”

His brow lifted.

“For Christmas?”

“Christmas?”
He colored, moving his neck as if his collar had suddenly become uncomfortably tight. “That’s more than two months away, but I don’t mind saying that I hope so.”

Was there nothing he would speak of? “We generally pass a quiet day at home.”

Mother spoke up from her corner. “But of course we are happy to partake in new traditions.”

We were?

She was looking at me, a smile frozen on her lips.

“Um . . . yes!” I looked toward Mother, and she nodded. “We are always happy to partake in new traditions. In fact, in Italy fifers herald the Christmas season, and in many places children set out their shoes for St. Nicholas to fill instead of their stockings.”

He blinked.

“In some regions of France, there’s a man who’s believed to come around and give spankings to the naughty children. A sort of . . . opposite of Santa Claus.”

Mr. Arthur’s face had gone slack in horror. “I hardly think that sort of thing to be proper! Do you, Miss Kendall?”

I had thought it rather quaint and quite charming, but apparently I had misjudged his capacity for new traditions. “I suppose it must seem very different.”

“Indeed.” He ought to have clucked like an old hen. Instead, he rose. Bowing first at Mother and then at me, he said his good-byes and left.

Sam had gone before Mr. Arthur had taken his leave.

Drat!

Mother found me in the front hall, examining my sagging pompadour in the hallstand mirror. She stood behind me and poked at the place where my hair had begun to slide, pulling out a pin and then pushing it back in. “Nobody wants to hear about Europe, Lucy.”

Then why did she keep bringing it up? “I didn’t know what else
to say! Mr. Arthur didn’t provide much scope for conversation, and generally, we celebrate Christmas the same way every year.”

“I want you to know that I had a word with Mr. Blakely’s son.”

“With Sam?”

“Do you insist upon using his Christian name just to spite me?”

I looked at her from the mirror. “No. I insist upon using it because I grew up with him.” What was it she wanted me to call him?

“It isn’t decent that you address him so familiarly. He’ll scare away your suitors; they’ll think you’ve let him take advantage.”

“Of what?”

“Of your affections.”

“Sam?”

“Mr. Blakely.”

I turned around to face her. “What did you say to him?”

“I simply told him that his presence was doing you more harm than good, and if he cared at all about you, he would do what he knew was best.”

Which meant he probably hadn’t had the chance to snoop at all. “So he left?”

“He did.” Mother raised her chin as if daring me to protest.

“You’re the one who asked him to escort me to the airfield. I hardly think it’s fair to summon him one moment, then banish him the next.” Though she wouldn’t worry at all if she’d known about that handkerchief he kept in his pocket.

She simply continued staring at me until her gaze faltered as she sighed. I remembered then why it was she had stayed behind.

“What did the doctor say?”

Her mouth stretched tight. “There’s very little change.”

“So he hasn’t gotten any worse.” I felt my spirits lift.

Mother shook her head sadly. “He hasn’t gotten any better either.”

“Can I go see him?”

She looked at me for a long moment, then sighed. “What could be the harm?” She watched me as I walked up the stairs.

I tapped on my father’s door.

“Come in.”

He smiled when he saw me. “Sit down. Tell me what you’ve been doing. The doctor still won’t let me get up. I feel like the world’s gone on without me.”

“I went to the air meet today.”

“Did you see one of those flying machines?”

I nodded. “I saw the president too. President Roosevelt. He flew in one of them.”

“He didn’t!”

I told him all about it. Most of it. Everything except Charlie and holding his hand. And my inane hope that he would kiss me.

“And what happened after?”

“After . . . ?”

“The air meet. I’m not deaf. You spent a good hour down in the parlor talking with someone.”

Trying
to talk to someone. “It was Mr. Arthur. He was waiting for me here when I got home.”

“Arthur . . . ?”

“Of the electricity company. Mr. Alfred Arthur. Mother’s determined that I marry. Soon.”

Papa patted my hand. “You can’t be upset with her for that. She has only your best interests in mind.”

I smiled. “I’m not upset.” At least not about that.

“So what is he like?”

“Who?”

“The Arthur heir.”

“He’s pleasant.” Not at all like Charlie Clarke. I kissed Papa on the cheek. “But I’m to let you sleep.”

“I don’t understand how I can be so tired when I spend all my time doing nothing at all.” He smothered a yawn with his hand as he spoke.

“The doctor says we’re not to tax you.”

He smiled, but said nothing in protest. By the time I had reached the door, his breathing had deepened and his head had rolled to his chest.

Mother met me out in the hall. “We’ve an hour before supper. I’d like you to come help me with the accounts.”

I was about to protest when I realized it would suit my purposes exactly. I followed her down to her sitting room. I read her the bills as she noted them in her account book. She spent a minute adding up the figures, then turned the book around and passed it across the table to me. “See if I haven’t made a mistake.”

I checked her figures and then checked them again. Looking up, I saw her biting at her lip as she stared out the window. “This can’t be right.” I went through the bills again and verified that she had written them correctly. I added the column up once again.

Two hundred dollars.

That’s all that was left us.

I turned the book around and passed it to her. “You were right. There was no error.” A coil of fear was twisting in my stomach.

She looked up at me as if what I’d said was of no importance. “Do you see now why I have to sell the confectionery?”

“No.” I didn’t. “I think now is the time to try harder. To figure out how to sell more.” To beat that Charlie Clarke and his awful father at their own games.

Mother glanced down at the book and closed it with a firm hand. “No. Now is the time to face the truth and put an end to all of this while we still have the chance to do it.”

“But why? Why can’t you just believe, keep fighting like the rest of us?”

“Because I’m tired, Lucy! I’m tired of living from dream to dream. I’m tired of having to scrape and save. But most of all, it’s because I want to see you do better for yourself than I have. And I can only do that if we sell the company now.”

“You sound as if you hate this.”

“I don’t hate it. I despise it. I despise it for what it took from me. I gave this business all of my money, all of my dreams. And it’s returned to me nothing of value. It’s taken far more than it’s ever given in return . . . even when we still had Standard.”

“Nothing? You can’t say it’s given us nothing! Why—”

“You’ve seen the books. The machines themselves are worth more than the money that’s in our account. The sooner we sell, the better the wedding we can give you. If we wait too much longer, you’ll have nothing. That’s why I sent you to Europe. I saved for years to be able to do that, hiding the money from your father.”

“But I thought—I thought Aunt and Uncle paid—”

“They offered to, but I wouldn’t let them because I’d wanted to take you myself. I wanted us all to go on the same trip your grandfather had planned for me when I was your age.”

“Planned? What happened?”

“I met your father, that’s what happened! I was so blinded by his charm and that ready smile, so taken with his dreams that I gave up my own. And I’ve been giving them up ever since!” She took my hand in hers as tears shimmered in her eyes. “You see,
I
wanted to be the one to show you Paris and introduce you to the Alps. I wanted to visit Pompeii and Vienna. And if we still
had Standard, then maybe I would have. And maybe I would have been able to find you a husband worthy of the Clary name. That’s the real reason I sent you. And that’s why you came home with a trousseau.”

My mouth fell open as I remembered all the young men my aunt had introduced me to. All the gowns I’d brought home in my trunks. I had traipsed across the Continent admiring churches and paintings, devouring candies, and never once had I given any real thought to why I had been allowed to go. I pulled my hand from hers. “I see.”

“You hate me now too.”

“I just wish . . . did you
ever
like candy?”

Something close to a sob came from her mouth. “You’ve always been so single-minded, Lucy. Not everything is about candy. I wish you could see beyond yourself.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, pushed away from the table, and walked from the room.