Unveiled (26 page)

“Remarkable,” Katie agreed, feeling something like a hypocrite.

“I think it’s given her new confidence among her friends. Girls are so competitive when it comes to womanly skills, you know. Whereas before Sara refused to sing at church, she now contributes, and quite loudly.”

Katie smiled, feeling sorry for the church members. “I’m so glad you’re happy. I know we haven’t discussed any permanent arrangements, but I think we should—”

“You are right,” Jane said eagerly, placing a fond hand on Katie’s shoulder. “Fan, I know you have other obligations. But I really want you to continue Sara’s lessons. It’s done so much for her, you really have no idea.”

“That’s fine.” Katie breathed a sigh of relief. It had taken Eunice some time to find this position, and it was perfect. Jane Witherspoon was something of a recluse; she didn’t attend the lunches, or the gatherings, or the charity groups that other women frequented. Instead she spent her time among her books, studying and dreaming, and with her daughter, whom she adored. As a result, very few people were even aware that Fan Pemberton was tutoring Sara, and those who were didn’t question it further.

“As for compensation, I know you don’t need the money. My word, as Mrs. Scott, you have enough for ten families!” Jane giggled while Katie felt a dread creeping over her. “So to give you money would be the height of bad taste and would no doubt insult all of you. Yet I can’t see you coming here so often without receiving some kind of benefit.”

She extended a wrapped package. Katie smiled uncertainly, then opened the gift. Inside were six white linen handkerchiefs, all carefully embroidered and trimmed with crocheted silk.

“Sara made them herself.” Jane grinned proudly. “She’s even embroidered your initials on the corners. See? F.S. for Fan Scott.”

Katie smoothed the cloths, then smiled at Jane Witherspoon. “They are just lovely.”

E
IGHTEEN

^“
…
A
nd
as a conservative, I deem investments as costly speculation. I think carriages are the answer. People will always need transportation, and horses are the best. Strong, stable carriage shops and horse goods are the answer.”

Bartholomew Meade sank back into the leather seat and puffed his cigar, tugging importantly on his waxed mustache. Charles Pepper exchanged a thoughtful look with Christopher, watching in amusement as Christopher opened a file and sifted through the paper. Satisfied, he closed the papers and fixed Bartholomew with a steady stare.

“I agree that carriages have been a good investment. And you’re right, people need transportation, and they’re likely to continue needing it. Look at what’s happening in the city.” Removing a map from his desk, Christopher spread the parchment out and indicated the city lines. “West Philadelphia is spreading out rapidly. Center city is developing as a center of commerce and offices. With the exception of the northeast mills, more and more workers are no longer living near their jobs. They will have to rely on transport to survive.”

“Then I’m right.” Bartholomew puffed.

Christopher smiled. “On that point, yes. However, I don’t agree that horses and carriages are the best long-term investment. There are too many people working on improvements in this area, and that is what I recommend you look at. Take this company, for example.”

Christopher displayed a data sheet for the City Streetcar Company. Bartholomew read the information with open skepticism. When he finished, he tossed the sheet down and shrugged.

“No one will want to ride in those.” He indicated a drawing of a streetcar. “I know there are a few operating in the city, but gentlemen would never—”

“What about the working class?” Charles interrupted, eager to make the point. “They don’t own horses and carriages and often can’t afford cab fare. A cab ride from West Philadelphia to center city costs twice as much as by streetcar. The reason is simple. Only one person rides in a cab at a time. By transporting a lot of people at once, the streetcars are extremely economical and provide a handsome profit. Look at the return on investment.”

Bartholomew examined the numbers and his face changed to show he was impressed. “They look good. But there isn’t much money here, or capital.”

“That’s why they’re selling shares,” Christopher said quietly. “The company has been privately held for years. They want to expand and own all of the streetcar lines in the city. There are several which are operating independently. If we can buy them up, this company will have a virtual monopoly on the only mass transportation available, at a time when people will need it the most.”

Bartholomew studied the figures, then looked back at the map. He noticed that the streetcar lines were marked with a pencil, indicating the routes. “There is some overlap,” he commented, though his voice was less sure. “Could the company make them more efficient?”

“That’s the first step,” Christopher said with assurance. “I’ve spoken to the owners and they are aware of the situation. By consolidating the lines under one company, not only do you increase capital, you can do it by the most efficient means. We can run more lines where needed, from the outskirts of the city where the people live to where they work. Within a few years we can streamline the whole process, then relax and make money. It’s foolproof.”

Bartholomew nodded, then reached for his checkbook. “I will trust you. You’ve already made me money on that other speculation…illuminating gas? And the chemical company, Smith, Klein and French, looks promising. Here’s the money.”

“You won’t regret it.” Charles stood up and patted the man’s round shoulders. “Christopher has an uncanny feel for these things. He hasn’t been wrong yet.”

“Call it a gambler’s instinct,” Christopher said dryly.

Bartholomew paused, then realized the joke and guffawed. “That’s a good one. Truthfully I don’t care where he gets it as long as he does.” Grinning, he turned to Christopher. “You’re going to make a lot of men rich. I suppose it’s easy when you have your own money. You’re not as cautious as the rest of us.”

Christopher kept a bland expression as Charles led the man from the office. When he returned, he closed the door and rubbed his hands together happily.

“Chris, you did it. And you’re perfectly right—the man will make a fortune. But without your investment skills and your selling ability, Meade would have continued to make a poor showing in his portfolio and would have blamed us. We were in danger of losing him, you know.”

“I heard.” Christopher replaced the man’s file, then indicated the map. “That’s the secret. Sometimes you have to see the trees in the forest, and people like Bartholomew have trouble doing that. They’re scared, and I don’t blame them. I know what it’s like to lose money in investments that are supposed to be foolproof. I won’t recommend anything without weighing all the factors and talking to the experts.”

“And it’s working extremely well.” Charles beamed, obviously proud. “You’re making the bank rich and a lot of customers satisfied. And you’re putting in so many hours. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were enjoying yourself.”

“Forget that,” Christopher said dryly, although he admitted to himself that Charles touched on the truth. For so long he was considered the spoiled black sheep of the Scott family, unable to do anything of worth. And although the work was hard, it was challenging. It required thinking and research, and for Christopher, whose chief employment of the past few years had been chasing women and drinking, it was a pleasant change.

And it was like gambling. By reading the paper, working with businesses, and forecasting, he was able to predict which companies had growth potential and which did not. As Charles had said, he’d already been very successful, and that was gratifying.

But he had an image to keep up. Scowling, he tossed aside the map. “You know why I’m doing this, so let’s not pretend anything else. By the way, while we’re on the subject, you alone know why I need this job.” Seeing Charles’s affirming nod, Christopher asked the question that had plagued him for weeks. “So when do I get paid?”

Charles didn’t seem surprised at the question. He squirmed uncomfortably. “Chris, I know how much you need the money. But frankly my father is concerned about the outstanding debts, particularly those you owe me. He’s decided to withhold your salary until those debts are paid.”

“What?” Christopher was stunned. “But he can’t do that! I need the money now!”

“I know.” Charles looked upset. “Chris, I’ve tried to talk to him, but you know how he is. He was furious when he found out that I’d helped you. I did get him to agree to a small stipend until we’re even. It should help keep you going in the meantime.” Extending a small leather pouch, he let a few coins fall into Christopher’s hand.

Christopher stared with disbelief at the pittance that gleamed within his palm. “I can’t live on this.”

“Of course you can’t,” Charles agreed. “But at the rate you’re going, you’ll pay the debts off in no time and start with a clean slate. Please don’t give up. Within a few months you’ll be back in the black and able to hold your head up. My father feels we should give you that opportunity.”

Christopher pocketed the few coins and departed the office, his heart sinking. Outside, he stood beneath the street lamp, wondering what in the hell to do next. To reestablish himself elsewhere would take months, and he didn’t have the luxury of time. And he enjoyed this job. He knew he owed the Peppers money, but dammit! Couldn’t the old skinflint wait until he got on his feet?

Then he recalled Charles’s father, with his righteous expression, his tight lips, his bulging cash box. He would never understand his position, and would only care that his son was dutifully reimbursed. Christopher felt sorry for Charles as he envisioned the battle that must have ensued when his father delivered his ultimatum. Winston Pepper was an authoritarian, and his son surely suffered because of it.

There was nothing Christopher could do but wait. He swore to himself as he signaled to his driver. He couldn’t tell Katie the truth—she might leave, returning to her family, and he couldn’t bear that. Yet it wasn’t her fault that he’d gotten himself into this position. He couldn’t let her go, couldn’t admit defeat. He knew he could turn things around if…Somehow he had to get through the next few months.

And the next few hours.

The house was dark when he approached, and unusually quiet. Christopher removed his greatcoat, taking a package from the pocket and tucking it beneath his arm. He hung the coat on the nail, then ventured into the kitchen.

“You’re home.” Katie gave him a warm smile while Christopher stared about him in amazement. She’d covered the crate with a cloth so that it looked just like a table, and two candles flickered enticingly in the center, throwing a warm glow over the plates. The few remaining pieces of good china and crystal glittered on the gingham cloth, and late-summer flowers brightened the center. The aroma of game birds and potatoes filled the air, and there was even an inexpensive bottle of wine chilling in a bucket of ice.

“Eunice went to bed early,” Katie explained self-consciously as he stared at the makeshift table. “I know we haven’t spent much time together lately, so I thought we could…have dinner together.”

She suddenly seemed shy and unsure of herself, not at all like the practical joker and confident woman she’d always been. Grinning, he took a step closer and kissed her, breathing in the warm sweet scent of her.

“I was thinking the same thing.” Withdrawing the package from under his arm, he handed it to her. “Katie, I know it’s not much, but I was passing a pawnbroker’s today and thought you might like this.”

Eagerly she fumbled with the wrappings and broke open the brown parchment. “Oh, Christopher, it’s lovely.”

“It’s a music box.” He turned the polished ivory case in her hands, then opened the lid. Instantly the room was filled with a lilting song that seemed both sad and sweet.

“‘Greensleeves.’” Katie smiled, her heart aching.

He nodded, his voice thick with emotion. “I wish I could get you something nicer. My God, it’s humiliating to live like this! I barely see you, and when I do, we’re both tired and frustrated. There has got to be a better way.”

“We’re making it,” Katie said gently, placing a warm hand on his face. “It will just take time. We’re on the right track, but it won’t happen overnight.”

“I know.” Christopher took his seat at the table and waited for her to join him. “But I don’t know how to explain. All of my life I took money for granted. There was always enough of it for whatever I wanted, always enough for everyone. And now, when I want to give you something…” He glanced at the music box, his pain evident.

Katie smiled. “Christopher, the thought means everything. In all that time when you had money, I imagine you didn’t put much effort into finding a gift or giving one.” She picked up the box and held it lovingly. “This means much more because you did.”

His eyes met hers, and for a moment Katie thought he would say the words she longed to hear from him. Instead he looked away, then admired the succulent quail that she’d placed in the center of the cloth, along with the vegetables. “How did you do all this?”

“Mr. Armstrong, next door. He hunts for sport and asked if we enjoyed game. They look wonderful.”