The following morning Cal woke at seven thirty. He had neglected to close the curtains the night before and the sun poured in through the windows, striking the glass with a prism of pale colors. Spring - insistent, excitable - had brought out the morning glories on the trellises just outside the windows. Cal looked at them for a long time, watching their bright purple heads bobbing in the mild, early-morning wind. Finally he slid out of bed, feeling a little ill and clammy with sweat. He called for a bath, relieved that Miriam wasn't hovering outside the door when he did.
Philip, their butler's son, arrived at the door with coffee and an armful of fluffy towels. Cal sat in the window seat in his shorts drinking the strong, black coffee. He didn't care if it made Philip uncomfortable; he wanted to feel the sunshine on his skin. The young man didn't seem to notice Cal's unseemly behavior, and instead went about preparing the bath. He was a fresh-faced boy, still pink in the cheeks, with ivory Irish skin and a wild crop of reddish brown curls. Thin and gangled, he was nonetheless efficient. Cal didn't recognize Philip at first; the boy was replacing an older servant that had drawn Cal's bath and brought him his breakfast for years.
"Where's Williams?" Cal asked casually, sipping his coffee.
"Williams is ill, Mr. Hockley, sir," Philip replied quickly, his face even redder from the steam of the bath. "Might just be the change in weather, but he's been abed for the last week, sir."
Cal nodded, watching the young man fuss over the temperature of the bath. Clearly, someone had given Philip explicit instructions on how Mr. Hockley preferred his water. The coffee was good too, accompanied on the saucer with a soft biscuit smothered in marmalade. The jam had almost made a mush of the biscuit and Cal chewed it easily. It was his first bite of harder food in many days and he gladly licked the sweet crumbs from his fingertips.
"Are you seeing anyone?"
Philip froze, his right hand clutching a bar of soap. He was squeezing it so hard now that Cal was certain it would fly out of his hand and land in the bathwater. Perhaps the servants had been told Cal could not or would not use his voice. It was raw, certainly, but Cal could use it. The young man straightened up, slowly turning to face Cal with a pained expression.
"I beg your pardon, sir?"
"You know, are you courting anyone? A girl?"
"Sir… I…"
Cal waved his hesitation away, impatient, irritated. "Forget I asked," he muttered, finishing his coffee. The young servant carefully set down the soap on the edge of the tub and glanced around, nervous now that his services were no longer needed. He approached Cal slowly, as if the man might lunge at him and bite, and took the saucer and coffee cup with trembling hands. Philip turned to go, but stopped midway across the room. He looked at Cal over his shoulder, his big brown eyes flicking bashfully from his employer to the floor.
"There's a girl who brings the firewood round every other day," Philip murmured, his cheeks deeply flushed. Cal had the distinct impression that Philip was indulging him, but he didn't mind. "Her name's Daisy, sir, Daisy Langford."
"I see," Cal replied, still reclined on the window seat. "Thank you, Philip. That will be all."
"Sir."
Philip bowed out of the room, the door shutting softly behind him. Cal grinned, standing and shucking his shorts and lowering himself into the bath with a relieved sigh. The water was hot, scalding, and Philip had left a bar of his favorite vanilla soap. The boy couldn't be older than fifteen and Daisy was probably his first love. He tried to picture the young girl – she was probably tall, slender, with big handfuls of coiling blonde hair that she would keep tied back with a pink ribbon. Perhaps she had freckles sprinkled across her pert, upturned nose. Cal tried to remember that age, the single-minded, breathless sprint of adolescence. He had been shy at boarding school, awkwardly tall for his age, uncertain around girls. It wasn't until his final two years of school that he learned to socialize with women, learned to flatter them and stand up tall so they would take notice. With the help of swimming and polo and boxing he had grown into his height, filling out in the shoulders, becoming popular among his peers and among girls.
Cal frowned. It must have been around seventeen or eighteen when he learned to use his body, his looks, as a weapon. At fifteen he had been sweet and shy and by eighteen he was a menace; that sneering confidence had never gone away. How strange, that one could change horribly and irrevocably in just a few short years. Unfortunately, there was no way to pinpoint the moment at which he had changed. Perhaps knowing the root of his dark bitterness would make it easier to tear it out, like a poisonous weed growing secretly in a tangled wood. Cal almost wished he could warn Philip, but for propriety's sake he would have to let the boy find out for himself.
After he had finished his bath and scoured his skin until it was raw, he dried off and discovered that Philip had left behind a fresh set of clothes. Cal dressed in the flannel trousers, crisp white cotton shirt and a lightweight beige vest. He had no intention of going out and left his suit coat lying on the bed.
The house was already bustling with activity. Downstairs, Jeffrey directed the servants as they aired out the house, changing over the curtains and wardrobes for spring. All of the doors in the house had been flung open, a cool wind streaming unimpeded through the halls and rooms. The smell of wet grass rushed in through the windows and doors, filling the house with a fresh, fragrant energy. Outside, a couple of old women in crisp aprons beat the rugs with wicker canes while their younger counterparts hung up the laundry to dry. Cal wove in and out of their way almost unseen. Did this happen every year? He couldn't remember it. The whole house felt lighter, refreshed, as if the grime and cold of winter was being beat away, back into memories.
"Good morning, sir," Jeffrey greeted him. The butler was busy rearranging the vases of flowers in the anteroom.
"Jeffrey," Cal said, testing his hoarse voice again, "You can have those thrown away."
"Yes, sir," Jeffrey replied. At once, a young boy appeared and began gathering up the flowers in his slender arms. "And the cards, sir?"
"Get rid of them."
Jeffrey nodded, indicating to the boy to take the cards as well.
"Is Mrs. Hockley having breakfast?" Cal asked, watching as the flowers and cards were carried away, probably to be tossed away and the vases repurposed or stolen by the servants. He didn't care. He never wanted to see the damned things again.
"I'm afraid not, sir," Jeffrey said with a little hesitation, "She's gone out."
"Out?" Cal asked. "Out where?"
"I believe she went to call on Mrs. Rutherford."
Cal nodded with a grim smile. Mrs. Rutherford was, in fact, Mr. Rutherford, a young banker with a good build but one very unfortunate lazy eye. He was one of Miriam's usual flings. Cal was only momentarily surprised by Miriam's brazenness; he had been back less than a day and already she was seeking solace in the arms of one of her many lovers. Jeffrey knew this too, thus the hesitation.
"I'll be in the study," Cal said, striding away.
The servants airing out the study scuttled out of Cal's way as he entered, their eyes glued to the ground as they shut the door and disappeared silently down the hall. This was Cal's favorite room in the house, a quiet, still place where he could be alone to think. He spent most of his mornings and evenings there, conducting business or reading the paper or simply sitting in thoughtful silence. The walls were almost entirely obscured by bookshelves, shelves cluttered with almanacs, encyclopedias and books he had collected in college and over the years as gifts from coworkers and acquaintances. He walked to the nearest shelf, the rich mahogany of the wood had recently been polished and it shone red and gold in the spring sunlight. Cal ran his fingers over the stiff bindings of the books, letting his fingernails catch on the little ridges of their spines. He couldn't recall the last time he had read a book for pleasure; his time was too valuable, his business too imperiled.
Nothing on his desk had been disturbed. His last will and testament was kept in the safe upstairs in the bedroom and nobody had bothered to look through his things in this room. Cal had half-expected to see indications of panic, traces of concern. Perhaps he had thought Miriam would riffle through his possessions in some attempt to capture the man she had lost. But she hadn't lost him, not really, or if she had it had happened years and years ago.
Cal sat at his desk tapping a pen against his chin. He hadn't bothered to put the bandages back on. Idly, he realized he hadn't shaved. That was alright, he could do it later if he wanted. He swiveled around in his chair, drawn to the chatter of birds outside the window. Vines were beginning to climb up and over the glass, peeking their tapered green noses into the study. There was a knock at the door before Jeffrey entered, bringing with him a silver tray laden with breakfast food.
"Thank you, Jeffrey," Cal said deliberately, reaching for a steaming English muffin.
"Of course, sir, you're welcome. Your father called earlier. He said to expect him before noon," Jeffrey replied.
"Alright. Send him in when he arrives."
"Sir."
Cal turned to his breakfast, a little miffed that his usual eggs and toast had been replaced with a bowl of porridge. Miriam, he thought, poking her nose into his business. What else had she told the servants to do? How else was he to be coddled?
Cal ate the porridge with a grimace, too put out to call for more brown sugar. He drank his second cup of coffee sullenly, staring out the window and watching the young girls pin bed skirts to a line. They were beautiful, those girls. Absentmindedly, he entertained the idea of seducing one of them. They wouldn't refuse him. After all, he was their employer. But there was something horrible about the thought, something disgusting and shocking. Cal felt his invisible self, the quiet, sad self rise up in indignation. Those young women were naïve, spotlessly innocent and they were only to be appreciated from afar. He thought of Rose without meaning to. She had come to him a virgin but she wasn't sweet and simple like these laundry girls. Rose had been spoiled, indulged and it had led to her undoing. Or perhaps that was wrong, he thought with a frown, perhaps that wild, reckless streak lived in each and every girl and only escaped to run amuck in some.
A sharp bang on the door roused Cal from his idle thoughts. His father stormed in, pushing Jeffrey aside before the butler could come in to announce him.
"He damn well knows who I am," Nathan grunted, slamming the door in Jeffrey's face.
Cal turned in his chair to look at his father. He didn't stand. He sipped his coffee and waited for Nathan to begin his lecture. There was nothing new about his father's foul mood, it was undoubtedly the norm.
"Enjoying yourself?" Nathan wheezed, lumbering over to the desk. He dropped into the chair across from Cal and rearranged his bulky waistcoat. Cal nodded by way of answer, eyeing his father over the glossy white rim of the coffee cup.
"Well snap out of it," Nathan said, running his hand over his mustache, "Because if you think for one minute, one second, that I'm going to clean up this mess of yours then you're a bigger fool than I thought."
"I never thought that," Cal said mildly.
"Oh, so you can speak? What a shame. I was hoping to tell you this without having to argue," Nathan said, shaking his big, ruddy head from side to side. "You've put us in a damn spot, Cal, a real tight one. Do you know what it looks like when the owner of a company tries to off himself? Well? Do you? It looks bad, Cal, very, very bad. We're losing our credibility, bleeding out and it's your job to staunch the wound."
Cal waited, knowing his father wasn't done. He didn't care what Nathan wanted to propose; Cal would probably do it, or at least give the impression that he was along for the ride.
"Roger Sutton's wife is in town this week," Nathan pressed on, "And I've told her she can stay here."
"Sutton?" Cal repeated. "I've heard of him."
"Have you? Well I should hope so. He's only one of the richest ninnies in England," Nathan said, laughing darkly. "The man practically owns half of London and lucky for us, my boy, his old man owes me a favor. I gave him a deal on girders years back when they were first getting their feet wet."
"What does Sutton's wife have to do with any of this?" Cal asked, finishing his coffee.
"She's his charge d'affaires. You didn't know? Sutton's in a wheelchair, has been for years. Poor sot fell from his horse just a few months before his wedding. Hasn't seemed to slow him down, he's been accumulating property all over New York, California, even North Africa. While we stand around pissing ourselves and losing money, Sutton's throwing up developments as fast as he can. He's a shark, that one, and sharp as steel," Nathan explained. He pulled a cigar from his coat and lit it with a match, sighing into his first exhalation. "His wife does all their negotiations. It's too much of a bother for him to travel with the chair."
"So what's the scheme?" Cal asked wearily. He was already exhausted by his father's plotting.
"While she's in town I want all of her attention on Hockley Steel. We'll offer her a good price, but more than that, we'll make nice and show her a good time. Business isn't about the best man winning, Cal, you know that. It's about connections, relationships," Nathan said, gesturing broadly with his cigar, "And we need Mrs. Sutton to see us as the only option. She and Miriam will get along swimmingly; they'll be dear friends in no time. She'll write her husband, tell him what a lovely visit she's had and the next thing you know we'll be shipping twice the volume, triple."
"That's it?" Cal asked after a pause, suspicious. "You just want us to host her?"
"Host, yes. Charm her, Cal, throw her parties, show her what nice, quality people we are."
Cal couldn't help but snort in response. "Parties? Father, if you hadn't noticed we're in the middle of a depression."
"No," Nathan barked, his eyes narrowing as he nearly lunged across the desk. His face flamed, his upper lip snarling like a dog's. "I hadn't noticed, Caledon, and nor should you. Oh I noticed that we're losing money alright, and that we're just about belly-up, but nobody wants to hear about it. Nobody wants to be reminded of their own misery. Understand? Nobody. So you smile and put on a nice tuxedo and make Mrs. Sutton forget all about a depression or a recession or any of those pathetic, lower-class concerns. Do you understand me? This is your mess, son and you're going to sort it out."
Nathan stood, flustered, and stuck his cigar in the corner of his mouth. Cal glared up at him, watching the smoke coiling from the end of the cigar.
"What is she like, Mrs. Sutton?"
"British, upper crust, a real aristocrat, a snob born and bred – you know the type. Indulge her, smile at her, let her do as she pleases, but for heaven's sake don't take her seriously."
"And when does she arrive?"
"Wednesday, and she'll stay for a week if all goes well," Nathan said. He turned and stalked to the door, preparing to let himself out. Cal stayed in his chair. "I expect you to throw a soiree for her arrival that night – champagne, music, guests, food, all of it. The sooner we get the ball rolling the better."
Nathan left without another word. Cal leaned back hard in his chair, exhausted. The last thing he wanted was to spend the next week entertaining a horrible British shrew. Miriam would be no help at all; she was already throwing herself back into her dizzying lifestyle of affairs and secrets, and unless he could rouse her sympathy she would be furious at the idea of having a stranger tag along for a week. Cal would just have to convince her it was for the best, that if she wanted to go on with her carefree lifestyle she would simply have to sacrifice.
Cal felt his breakfast tumble around in his stomach, making him grimace and regret drinking so much strong coffee. If only he had the energy to stand up to Nathan, to say what was swimming around in his head. He could care less if they were headed for destitution, not because he wanted to be poor and homeless, but because keeping themselves a float required far too much effort.
He glanced outside. The girls had returned to pin up more bed linens. They were smiling, laughing and chatting to each other as their lean, young arms reached up to secure the corners of the bed sheets. What did they think about? he wondered, and what did they see when they looked at their employer? What went through their minds as they caught sight of him staring through the window, his face sickly and pale, his eyes dark and empty?