One
The sun swept over the spires and steeples of the city, casting its golden shimmer on the dirty window panes and stagnant puddles of greasy water. The rumble of a million feet—both man and beast—shook the pavement like a pulse beneath London's skin.
Soaring above the crowd, pale and immovable, rose the mighty pillars of the Bank. Men scurried like mice in it's shadow, their dark coats specks of black against the light colored stone.
One was headed away from the massive building, his head low as he bulled his way through the press of people trying to get home for the evening. Hailing a hansom cab, he climbed in and leaned back against the seat, closing his eyes. Images of bank notes floated up behind his eyelids, hundreds and hundred of them.
He was a fashionable man, though not extravagant like the dandies he'd viewed from his office that afternoon. His clothes were dark and sensible, perfectly tailored to fit his tall frame. He wore a beard tidily trimmed and the only items of ornamentation about him were the gold chain connected to the watch in his pocket and the gilded head of his cane.
The hansom rolled up to the house a quarter past six. It was a fine looking brick building with a dark red door, intimately close to it's neighbors on either side. After paying the driver, the man exited the cab and went up to the house, taking the steps two at a time.
A footman met him inside the door, taking his hat and coat. A staircase wrapped around the side of the entryway, leading up to the gallery of the first floor. The sound of running feet could be heard from up there, and within moments a small blond head appeared over the railing, two blue eyes magnified by the spectacles in front of them.
"Daddy!" cried the little girl, rushing down the stairs.
"There she is!" said the man, walking forward to meet her. He picked her up and swung her around, making her laugh.
"I've got something for you," she said when he placed her back on the floor. She held out a fistfull of yelow daffodils and buttercups, just slightly wilted from being clenched by the warm little hand of their mistress.
"Oh darling, they're lovely." He bent down and sniffed the flowers. "They smell good too."
"Aren't they nice? They look like they're made out of gold."
"Too bad they aren't. Then they'd be even more beautiful," he said, rising to his feet again. He took her hand and they walked further into the house.
"I don't think they'd be more beautiful if they were gold," said the little girl.
"Oh?"
"If they were gold, then they wouldn't smell nice."
"Well no," said her father. "But really Marigold, there are many flowers in the world that smell nice, but there aren't many that are made of gold. And gold flowers never die."
Marigold seemed to consider that. "I suppose. But I still like them, even if they aren't gold."
"I do too," he said, stroking her hair.
"Is that you, Midas?" called a voice from the drawing room.
"It is," said the man. He and Marigold walked into the room where a woman was sitting doing needlework. Pausing her work, she smiled at them.
"Marigold has been waiting to give you those all day. She'd better go put them in water though, before they start dying."
Taking the hint, the little girl rushed down to the kitchen, calling for the butler to give her a vase.
Midas sank into an armchair.
"How was your day, my love?" asked his wife. Lillian Leeford was as fine a woman as any in England. She had a good figure, average height, and a face that struck envy in the hearts of women ten years her junior. Beyond that though, she was a kind woman with good, strong commonsense.
Her husband told her about his day, about bonds and loans and the money matters of Britain. He had a good position at the Bank, and knew the ins and outs of that world better than most men knew the house they lived in.
"Someday, my love," he said. "We are going to make it. I'll be out of my little dingy office and running the greatest financial institution in the Empire."
His wife listened to him, her needle going in and out of the cloth in her lap."I don't think your office is dingy," she said.
"You've never seen Baring's office, then. I'm going to be a director, Lil."
"I know you are. You'll be wonderful." Lillian secured her needle and put her work aside. "Midas, about Gregory . . ."
"What happened?"
"There was another explosion today. Simmons can't take much more."
Midas sighed. His brother was an eccentric, brilliant, young man who spent far too much time poking through old books. At fifteen he'd stumbled upon an old alchemist text and had been obsessed with the archaic sciences ever since. Now he spent most of his time down in the cellar trying to turn lead into gold.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Talk to him? Tell him he's mad? I've done that, Lil."
"Midas, this isn't healthy. He keeps himself locked up in that room, breathing in those vapors all day. He can't keep this up."
"I know my brother. Discouraging him doesn't work, it just makes him more determined. Let him alone, Lil, eventually he'll give up on his own. Simmons will just have to be patient like the rest of us. Besides, if he manages to start turning things into gold we'll be able to start making him pay Simmons rent for taking over his cellar."
"I don't think it's very funny."
"I wasn't joking. If anybody could manage turning lead into gold it'd be Greg."
"As you say, darling," Lillian said, choosing to let it rest for now.
Midas picked up a newspaper and flipped to the finance pages. Marigold came back to sit with them, holding her vase of flowers. She placed them on the side table next to her father. Kneeling beside his chair, she played on the floor with her dolls. Lillian watched her family, smiling to herself. Father and daughter looked so alike with their tall, distinguished builds and their big blue eyes. Only their hair was different; Midas's was dark and beginning to gray near the temples, while her's was honey-gold.
The butler, Mr. Simmons, came to tell them dinner was ready.
"I'm almost there, I can feel it."
They were all seated around the dining room table, listening to Gregory talk about his experiments. His face was smudged with soot, and his dark hair needed combed. His clothes looked like they'd been slept in.
"How do you know?" asked Midas.
"I just do."
Behind them, standing against the wall, Simmons made a disgruntled noise. Ignoring him, Midas took another helping of vegetables.
"Well let me know if anything happens. I'm could always use a few extra guineas in my pocket."
"If things keep up at this rate you'll have a lot more than a few extra guineas."
"If things keep up at this rate I won't have a house. What are you doing down there all day? Shooting off fireworks?"
Gregory looked abashed. "It was just a little sulfur. Just enough to make a noise, nothing too dangerous."
"Greg!" exclaimed Lillian. "You have got to be more careful!"
"It was intentional, Lil. I had everything under control."
"Don't blow anything else up, Greg," said Midas.
"Why are you trying to make gold?" asked Marigold. Her parents glanced over at her in disapproval. They allowed their daughter to eat with them instead of in the nursery, but under the condition that she mind her manners. Children should be seen and not heard.
Gregory didn't mind. "Because I'm going to make us rich, sweetling."
"Are we poor?" she wondered, looking at her mother.
"No dearest, we aren't poor,"
"Then why do we need more money?"
"Because," answered Midas. "If we had more money we could do more of the things we wanted. I could take your mama out to restaurants and to the theatre every evening, and we could have a house in the country, and we could get you a little pony to ride. Money helps a person get further along in life, that's why Uncle Gregory is doing this." Midas smiled at his daughter, trying to hide his doubts about Greg's mission.
"I'd like a pony."
"All right, gentlemen, enough about money," said Lillian. "Marigold, if you don't finish your food there won't be any dessert."
Marigold screwed up her face and poked at her carrots in disgust.
After dinner the family parted ways for the night, Greg going back to his cellar as the rest of the family went up to the first floor. Midas dropped his daughter off in the care of the nursery maid, giving her a goodnight kiss on the forehead. Then he went to his own bedroom.
"I wish you wouldn't talk about money to Marigold, Midas. She takes these things too seriously," Lillian told him when he came in.
"Gold makes the world go round. The sooner she figures that out the better off she'll be."
"There are more important things in the world than gold, my love."
Midas turned to look at her. She was sitting at her vanity mirror, hair loose and curling around her shoulders. He frowned at her.
"You sound like my father. He'd always be saying that and then go out and ruin us with his extravagance. But that didn't matter because 'gold isn't everything.' Soon enough I had to leave school and try to get employment or we would have lost our home. I kept us out of the poorhouse. So don't tell me to that gold isn't everything because we'd be nothing without it."
Lillian watched him, her face expressionless. "I didn't mean to offend you," she said.
Midas was a little ashamed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have been so harsh."
"Don't be sorry. Good night." And with that, she blew out the candles next to her, casting the room into darkness.