CHAPTER 6 AIR
The next day, they were in his office. With all the other staff around them, they could hardly indulge in or reveal any attraction or chemistry or change in the 'air'
between them. They tried to keep the work atmosphere strictly platonic and professional. However, there were looks they shared. There was palpable chemistry and
tension between them. Being that she was his personal secretary with numerous responsibilities and tasks, she was kept busy enough to work with him and ignore
her feelings for him for a while. She would often retreat to her own office to finish any correspondence, research or letters there. She often had stacks of books on her
desk with titles about tax law, accounting principles, and statistical analysis. Her office was as well-equipped his – he had made sure of it. He was an arms
manufacturer, inventor, patent holder, machinist – among so many other hats he could and did wear. He owned factories and entire segments of industries. He was
strong, but he knew he was only as strong as his weakest business, manager, manufacturer. He worried about it all. He was all too consumed at times, his empire
being vast and commanding almost endless attention, he often buried his stress in isolation. He found it easier than having to deal with people, or confrontation, or
anything emotionally unpleasant. Lately, however, he had been allowing himself to have a little 'slack' when she was in his presence. He was only a human man, not a
god-like being. He could hardly resist the temptation of his secret muse. Did it matter so very much that at the very moment he should have been returning calls to
the President or to the Ambassador of France, that he was instead finding it easier and easier to slow the pace of his office, his world, just a little – just to take an
extra moment to study her face, or take in what she was wearing that day, just to take her in, catch glimpses of her blue eyes. He liked to watch her as she wrote her
notes, he watched her expressions change, he watched her mouth as she bit on a pencil. When she would stand next to him with a rough draft to edit, he would take
his time for the singular reason of having the curve of her hip next to his shoulder for a minute, for the chance that their hands would brush together when
exchanging a document. He breathed her in when she was close to him, and she was drawn like a moth to a flame to do the same. It was all intentional and only
added to the longing. There was a tension between them that was genuine – and inescapable. They forced themselves through the work because there was no other
choice, they had to get it done, but it was nerve wracking and energy consuming for the two of them and little did they know, everyone else. Other staffers started to
tip toe around them during those times, almost afraid to interrupt. Naturally people picked up on their nervous energy and body language, even when they thought
they were being successful at hiding it. Using the formal "Mr." or "Miss" in their official salutations to one another, they barely looked at each other when they were
not alone. Each feared that the people in the same room would pick up on the attraction, see the eye contact, make assumptions, gossip, all of that rot. He had good
instincts, though, because that is exactly what was happening with certain members of staff – like Mrs. Greer, Mrs. Pugh, Punjab and the Asp – however, there was no
idle or malicious gossip, but they knew - which meant that others at the estate did, too. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to make any kind of judgement.
Especially about her. Defensively, he thought: "They can say what they want about me, but not one syllable about her will I tolerate." His mind was made up. She was
sacred and staff better get used to it. All of his consternation about it was moot; it was a fact that a few of the older staff members did notice their subtle chemistry
and how they purposefully avoided eye contact, or how they suddenly got awkwardly formal around others. "Oh yes", Mrs. Greer said privately in a hushed tone to
Mrs. Pugh: "those two have it bad. I don't think they know it yet, though!" and they suppressed a good hearted laugh about the situation, each knowing that when a
person falls in love, there is no way to stop it. They had both seen what her presence had done for the estate and for him. He was calmer. He was a lot nicer to be
around. Well, most of the time. Since she had come on board, staff had been given raises, holiday dinners – either at the estate or for their own family, they had a
staff lunch every day, and the return of the staff Christmas dinner and gift exchange was celebrated and appreciated. She also managed to rearrange scheduling to
accommodate rotating weekends off for staff, and other perks. Grace Farrell was very good at her job, and having worked in a family business, she knew the value of
excellent morale. Mrs. Greer and Mrs. Pugh kept their insightful opinions about "Miss Farrell and Mr. Warbucks" strictly between themselves, and if any gossip did arise
at the staff tables, one or both of them would shut it down and forbid it. "We do not gossip about our employer or a fellow staff member, especially a senior staff
member! I do not want to hear that kind of talk again." Mrs. Greer would admonish. Later in the day, though, she and Mrs. Pugh would have a private conversation
and a laugh over their afternoon tea.
Oliver had an epiphany. He suddenly had the realization that it did not matter – none of it – because he knew that this was real. He suddenly thought to himself:
"Who the hell cares what anyone thinks? It's none of anyone's business." He had never in his now forty-odd years of living felt about someone the way he felt about
Grace. He realized that he had never really ever been in love before. Until Grace. Now, his head spun. He was intoxicated by her if she walked into the same room.
She made him weak, and strong, and vulnerable and powerful at the same time. Nothing mattered but her, even though his heart was safely concealed under the
demands of work. He also knew in his heart that her love for him was real, and that if she did love him, she truly loved him for for being himself. "Whatever that
might be…." He thought. He still could not see what she saw in him. He knew she did not need or want his money. She was a woman of 'independent means' - she
was simple in her lifestyle - not a flashy person, or materialistic - her wealth was her brain and her love. She simply did not think o f him the way the rest of the
world thought about him. He was a man - plain and simple, and she could not stop thinking about him. He could lose it all the next day, and she would throw her
arms around him even still. He knew that she was far above being that kind of person – to be a gold digger – instinctually, he knew that she would simply not be able
to do something so horrible to someone else, or, to herself. It was not at all the type of person she was; her intellectual curiosity, her mind and accomplishments - all
made the very idea of taking someone for their money was not only foreign to her, but obscene. Abhorrent. His mind took inventory of all the reasons why she should
not love him but perhaps did anyway. He never saw himself as handsome. He would describe himself a 'Scouser' if really pressed. He had white scars of an ancient
injury on his left hand. He was completely bald by choice – he preferred to be bald and clean shaven – he had discovered that being bald aboard a ship lowered one's
chances of getting lice. He was a no-nonsense kind of man. Lice need hair to live? Oliver will shave his damned head. He accepted it and enjoyed the freedom from
that particular pest. As the years went by and he got older, he found that his being bald fit his persona in business and lent to the 'eccentric' moniker he had been
given. He adopted his habit of dressing well as a huge middle finger to all of the people who told him he would fail, or, who tried to sabotage his success. However,
when he looked in the mirror, or especially when he thought of himself, in his mind's eye he would see a poor boy dressed in rags, underweight and struggling to get
rid of ever-present itchy pests in his hair, a rope burn on his hand, a boy very much afraid, but damned sure he would make his own way. Inside the man of Oliver
Warbucks, that little boy was alive and well, and sometimes held onto the steering wheel in Oliver's brain. Oliver thought to himself after one particularly unkind self
reflection: "How could she want that?" He continued his thoughts of self-doubt: "I am loud. I get cantankerous. I get grumpy. I like to be left alone. I am old. I am 43
this year. She is 30 and in her prime. She should be with a younger man with hair. Hmmmm." His mind rolled these musings over and over again. He brooded. He
isolated himself, he took lone walks on the estate to think a problem through, or more than likely to be alone with himself. He lived a solitary and lonely life – all self-
imposed and done as a protective act – in his vast manse and estate. He was always solitary, everywhere he went. He kept his heart closed off for years. The last
woman he had any kind of long-term relationship with was a woman he met in Monte Carlo in the early 1920s. Charlotte. They saw each other for six years, on and
off. Charlotte Laurent. She was a socialite about eight years his senior who had been shopping Monte Carlo for years for the right wealthy man. He was young. He
thought he loved her. She loved his money. She wanted to wrangle him in and become Mrs. Warbucks – in a loveless, separate-countries marriage. He said "no." at
the last minute. Not at any alter, but at the time he was expected to produce a very expensive diamond ring and a show of a 'romantic' and of course, lavish proposal.
He showed up. He promptly broke it off. Her crocodile tears and curses in French filled his ears as he stepped back into his car, telling his driver: "Back where we
came from, if you please." The entire episode made him a skeptic about love. He doubted that love was even real until he started working with the only woman he
had ever met who had been authentic and honest with him. She was not afraid to speak her mind with him. She was calm, self-sufficient, not after his money. She
was patient during his brooding absences, she was always direct with him, always arming him with information that mattered to him personally or professionally, and
was not at all put off by his ire. If she disagreed with the wording in a letter, or his tone to a foreign diplomat, she would quietly give him critical and professional
feedback. During their early days of working together, after a few instances of him taking her feedback personally and getting defensive, she asked him to come to
her office. Behind her closed office door, she spoke to him as a colleague and an equal – explaining that her advice and feedback was based on years of education,
practical knowledge and experience with damned near every walk of life in her father's transport business. She had put her hands on her hips and used the words
"damned near". She asked: "Could you please let me do my job?". This was the closest to a display of anger or annoyance he had ever seen from her. She asked him
to trust her, to be aware that every time he argued with her, it cost them time. Time was money, "was it not?"
He had sat listening – a little surprised at her candor and assertiveness – but filled with respect. He had no choice but to respect her. Where had he heard those words
before? He knew. He remembered: William Gayle. He was humbled by her, but not resentful. He decided that she was right. He was not allowing her to be productive
in the way that worked best for her, and for his estate and his empire - he knew he was wrong. He spoke when she had finished: "Miss Farrell, you are right. I have
been difficult for no other reason than fear of….losing control. I know I need to stop swimming up stream against the current." He said, softer now: "I am truly not
trying to put a fight in place every time you change one of my letters. I just want to be effective in my way. I am not used to your way yet, Miss Farrell. I will strive to
improve upon this and I will trust your expertise. I give you my word." He was sincere and speaking at a normal volume, his tone a bit sheepish.
She had expected a fight, but now she smiled as she sat down behind her desk. "I appreciate that you are willing to trust my judgement, sir." She let those words
settle between them. Quietly, she continurs, saying: "You should be aware that I take my job seriously, and that I only have your best interests in mind." She looked
directly at him, her hands folded on her desk.
He replied: "I know that. I have to remind myself that not everyone…." He paused "…that I hired you for a reason. Thank you for letting me know, Miss Farrell, and for
being truthful and standing your ground. Nobody talks to me like a real person. Nobody speaks up." He was staring at the floor in front of her desk.
She looked at him, as she measured her words. "Can I be very honest about that? Since we are talking about being direct." He nodded to her to continue.
"It's because they are afraid of you." she said, very gently and quietly. She watched his face, and he had a second of hurt but mostly surprise.
He sat quietly, taking in this information. He asked her: "Is that true?" He stared at her, his eyes wide and his brow arched in query: "They fear me?...Oh my Lord…."
She replied: "Well, yes. A lot of your employees are young people, people who have had a lot of struggles. They know that working for a big house like yours during
this awful Depression is an opportunity for them to actually have good wages, save up for their own dreams, sir. They fear you because they fear losing their job
here. Not everyone is like me and unafraid – or, situated where they have the luxury of being fearless." She was referring to herself and her own financial situation.
She continued: "However, you are generous to all who work here, and their gratitude is real. They consider you to be exceedingly busy and try to stay out of your
way." Here, she was being diplomatic. She smiled at him and said: "Not everyone who works here works with you and knows you. . . the way I do."
He mulled this over further, finding himself irritated: "Hmmmph. I am a businessman – I am not here to make friends with staff."
She interjected: "There is a difference."
"What do you mean, Miss Farrell?"
She said: "Well, it is true that you are not here to make friends with staff. However, friendships or personal relationships with staff is a far cry from being difficult to
work with."
He gasped slightly and said a bit louder: "Of being what? Difficult? I don't think I am difficult…" She looked at him across her desk, she had a knowing grin. He looked
at her grin and asked: "What is so amusing, Miss Farrell?"
A small laugh escaped her as she said: "We are sitting here right now…" - he cut her off, interjecting:
"Because I am difficult. Oh my Heavens." He did a mental inventory of his behavior just that morning. He had barked at one of the hall boys for having a door
unlocked and open – not knowing that the hall boy was told to do so to accommodate a delivery for the kitchen that morning. He was cross with one of the
housemaids at breakfast, he was grouchy and terse to office staff, and he further realized that he had been 100% nit-picking about her edits to his stupid letter. He
realized he was being a difficult bully. He realized that he was going to do a complete turnaround and stop being that person. He said to Grace:
"Miss Farrell, I had no idea until now. I had no idea, I got so used to just bullying my way around." She was happy that he had said that word and she didn't.
He asked her, looking very defeated – a look she had not seen on him before: "What should I do, Miss Farrell?" She was thoughtful, "I think you are going to have to
choose your battles. Yell about the important things, other details…maybe you can let them go to others…delegate when overwhelmed, instead of yelling." She gauged
his demeanor at this feedback. He was quiet, looking at her, mouth closed, clearly he was a bit embarrassed. She had no intention of allowing him to be embarrassed
or shamed. She truly cared that he felt good about himself as a manager, and she did believe he was open to change. She continued: "Sir, I believe you are a man
with the means to afford the luxury of being calm. Or calmer. Try small things and then see how you feel. You deserve calm and you should not be putting yourself in
such a state all the time, every day. It is not healthy for you or anyone. Give yourself that gift." She looked at him with a genuine and caring smile. He put his hands
on his knees and stood up from her chair. "Thank you, Miss Farrell. I promise you, I will try." Walking out, he nodded to her, and paused. He said: "The small things,
huh?...I am not sure what I would consider to be in that category." She said in reply: "Well, any of the household issues you could leave to staff. Honestly, you cannot
control every aspect of every part of this estate. There is a reason you have staff, and maybe start with some small things like trusting in them." She smiled. He said
"I do trust them all. It is why they work for me."
"Well, sir, I think that is a good place to start. Your staff is very loyal to you, sir. They enjoy working here and they want to do their jobs well." He looked at her and
asked: "And?" She replied: "They could do their jobs better and be happier about doing it if perhaps you didn't yell at them so much, and if you would not assume
they are harming you in some method that you do not recognize or understand." He knew she was talking about his very reflections of his interactions with staff from
just that morning. Realization set in that not only was she right, but he had better reel himself in with his staff before loyalty turned to resentment. As a former ship
captain, he should have known this and he felt really dumb in the moment of his enlightenment. He looked at her, his face serious. He said to her: "Again, you are
correct Miss Farrell. I should have recognized this in myself before now. I apologize, Miss Farrell. I will be more judicious in picking my battles." He smiled as he
turned to leave, and closed her door quietly.
He was surprised by the feedback he had gotten, and the way she had delivered it. She was direct and honest, pulled no punches, was professional, not emotional or
judgmental. She never raised her voice, and had in fact, used a quieter than normal tone. It made him listen more and speak less. She had closed her door to give
them privacy, and to protect his dignity. He was quietly thinking over all she had said to him, about giving himself the "luxury" of being calm. She was right. Calmness
was a luxury, and he was a man who enjoyed nice things. He made up his mind to be calmer and to choose his battles wisely. He also made up his mind to not take
out his angst on his staff. This conversation between Grace and Oliver happened about 8 months into her first year of working at the estate for him.