>
>
His legacy would span more than 50 years, and pass into modern legend.
Maximillian Thornton had enough ambition to win back an empire… at the cost of everything he loved.
Lust and Ambition
By Anne Spackman
Nothing but money is sweeter than honey. –Benjamin Franklin
Chapter One
The Thorntons were the richest family in the world—and completely dysfunctional.
At the time, they lived in a large brownstone house at 159 Fifth Avenue, only a short walk from the Broadway offices of Edward Cornelius Thornton, the head of the Thornton family. There were few people in the world who had not heard of the Thorntons, living symbols of the American dream. Edward Cornelius had always lived in Manhattan, a city which drew thousands of fortune-seekers to American shores, a city where dreams were born—and where they so often went to die.
“Does Harkley know anything about it?” The industrial magnate wondered one morning.
“I doubt it,” Edward’s eldest son Raymond said. “He’s been in Oklahoma since the spring.”
“You mean he’s not back yet?”
“We never recalled him, father.”
“I’ll send a wire then. I’ll need him here soon enough. We are not going to have a repeat of the Ohio ruling.”
“You really think Washington can do it to us, father? We can’t let a bunch of dirty politicians break up United Oil. Why, we’re practically a national institution!”
“And I fully intend to keep it that way.” Edward said.
“How much did we really lose, though?” Raymond asked. “Ohio Oil was just a minor branch of the company. It shouldn’t pose any serious competition to us outside the state.”
“Yet.” Edward said sharply. “Not unless Washington decides to break up United Oil one piece at a time. We may not have lost much money with Ohio, Raymond, but our company’s position of strength has been compromised. I’ve no doubt those Sherman crusaders think they’ve taken the first step to splitting up United Oil. Ohio just whet their appetites for more bloodshed—of that we can be sure.” Raymond’s eyes widened. “You mean—we could lose United Oil state by state.”
Edward nodded. “If it’s a fight they want, then that’s exactly what we’ll give them. We’ll have every Sherman crusader swimming in so much legal paperwork it’ll take them years to get their heads clear.”
“You think it’s such a good idea to set Harkley loose on Washington? He’s a bit hard to control.” Raymond said, repeating something he had heard at the last stockholders’ meeting.
“Which makes him indispensable.” Edward paused. “Where are the morning papers?”
“Right away, sir,” the maitre domo, Henderson, replied. He turned with a commanding gesture to the house servant, Jenkins.
Edward nodded curtly and turned back to the breakfast.
Meanwhile, Jenkins slipped into the hallway, then involuntarily glanced up.
If people only knew what went on behind these closed doors! They’d know Edward Thornton isn’t half the man his father was. If the Old Conqueror were here, why, he’d have fought off that pack of wolves and never made no bother talking it over first! Jenkins blinked away an affectionate tear. A portrait of the indomitable Cornelius Thornton presided over the Thornton house from above the middle of the hall staircase, above the gallery. Though twenty years had passed since the old robber-barron’s death, his legacy continued to rule the lives of the Thornton family. Jenkins was probably one of the few who regretted the passing of the old man.
The Thornton family certainly hadn’t. At least, not after the will was read, leaving most of the fortune to Edward Cornelius, Cornelius’ eldest son.
In all, Cornelius had sired seven children—as well as an enormous fortune in the oil industry which he had expanded by investing in steel and in railroads. Cornelius “the Conqueror” the world had called him. And the title fit. Cornelius had been vigorous and overbearing, crude but honest, tough, and strangely charming—everything his stern and stoical son Edward Cornelius was not.
A fine figure “The Conqueror” had been: big and robust, with strong, fine features, a broad forehead, sharp blue eyes, and a crown of thick white hair. No one would have guessed he was born a pauper in rural Ohio. He had left the world as one of its richest industrialists. Yet the somber Edward, stubbornly resisting his father’s hopes to the contrary, showed no sign of the divine greed, or ruthless, obsessive, burning ambition that had launched the family out of poverty and obscurity to wealth and luxury. Like many of the richest men in New York City, Edward Cornelius Thornton had earned his money the time-honored way: he had inherited it. But Edward was no fool, and he would fight for what belonged to him. He had already managed to fight off his siblings. Of course, he fully understood that he would never be able to rival the unimaginable success of the empire his father had built from nothing. But there was no need for him to do anything but maintain the family business. This Edward meant to do to the best of his ability. And, under his careful, conservative management, the Conqueror’s empire had grown to an unprecedented and unimaginable size. No one would ever guess that the reigning Thornton family might one day lose everything.
While Edward toiled away in his Manhattan offices, his wife and children lived lives of indolence, privilege, and luxury, spending their summers at the resort “cottages” of Newport or at Bar Harbor, playing lawn tennis and croquet, and wintering in New York City. They traveled by train, by yacht, and by steamship to the continent, making the rounds of London society, then on to Paris and Rome. They attended parties and cotillions held in their honor, presided over society events, flaunted their wealth and exerted their power however it suited them. But the summer “season”—as it was known among the rich—was now over, and Edward’s wife Regina, and his children Raymond, Maximillian, and little Victoria, had returned to the city to stay for the rest of the year. Half of Manhattan was still asleep on that early Sunday morning in late September. The sky was an indefinite gray of low, vaporous clouds, and the air tasted dank and moldy. Jenkins, a lean, haggard man of fifty, scuttled outside to collect the morning papers, then hurried indoors. He appeared some time later in the large breakfast room inside the Thornton residence and brought the newspapers to Edward.
“The Times is wet.” Edward remarked disagreeably.
“Very sorry, sir.”
“Henderson—”
“Yes, sir?”
“What’s this?! Didn’t I make it clear that I have no further interest in receiving The Journal?”
“I will make a note of it, sir.”
“Very good.”
“But, dearest, you do seem to enjoy scoffing at it.” Regina observed gaily.
Edward frowned, rattled the paper, and then buried his head in The Journal. Henderson stepped back and stood at attention beside Jenkins. The housekeeper, Mrs. Bentley, appeared from the drawing room, carefully bringing in a decanter of fresh orange juice and the tea service from the kitchens so as not to spill anything on the rather priceless rug under her feet.
The Thornton brownstone was exquisitely furnished. Edward Cornelius had seen to that. He even boasted a collection of art to rival J.P. Morgan’s. A few years before, Edward had invested a large sum of capital with J.P. Morgan, the famous financier, who often remarked that he “felt quite at home,” when he came to visit the Thorntons—smugly flattered that Edward had arranged the coincidence deliberately. After all, Edward was by no means a visionary. Notoriously uncreative, in fact—but he didn’t like to be outdone by anyone. No expense had been spared on the Thornton home—Oriental rugs and sheer, muslin curtains, silver and gold ornaments and baubles in the “state” ballroom, marble pillars, and heavy, ornate dark wood furniture. The Thorntons might have lived in a museum for all of the rare antiquities in the display cases. A silence held sway over the breakfast table. The conversation had been dead for a while when Raymond suddenly cast a reproving glance at his younger, eight year-old half-brother Maximillian. The tiny, blond-headed cherub in question seemed dangerously on the verge of falling asleep over his toast and tea.
“Wake up, you little slouch,” Raymond whispered. And he kicked Maximillian’s legs under the table sharply.
Maximillian looked up very slowly and deliberately at Raymond. His bright blue eyes, which seemed always on guard, glared at Raymond with a secret hatred.
Then, at once suddenly fearful, Maximillian cast a quick, nervous glance at his father. Edward had not stirred from reading through the morning papers on account of his sons’ quiet battle. With invisible relief, Maximillian suppressed his inward rebellion to slouch further and instead sat up straight, but he continued to stare steadily, perhaps resentfully, at the seventeen year-old Raymond for quite some time.
“Ah, there’s a cretin for you!” Edward emitted forcefully, slapping down the paper. He got up and walked to the window with an irritated air. Then he glanced out at the bleak sky with a feeling of sick disgust.
“What is the matter, my darling?” Regina asked, but without any real interest. Her voice was like the loud, empty echo one heard in a ballroom.
“Hearst!” Edward replied and stalked back to the table. He picked up The Journal and rustled it disdainfully. “Hearst, hang him! He’s turned this newspaper into a cheap theatrical.”
“Do sit down, dearest, and have some tea.” Regina suggested soothingly.
Edward complied, though he remained in a state of mental distraction.
“Mr. Hearst—doesn’t he run The World?” asked Regina with a teasing smile, hoping to brighten the conversation. She was the sort of woman who tried to find some form of amusement in everything she heard.
“Not yet, though I’m sure that’s his ambition.” Raymond laughed deeply at his own bad joke. “Pulitzer runs The World. Hearst has to make do with just a Journal.”
“Yes, well The World is getting every bit as bad!” Edward added in contempt. “Gossip, scandal, fires—honestly, what passes for news these days!“ he bellowed and picked up the damp pages of The New York Times with a mild gesture of eagerness and reverence.
“I am certain Mr. Hearst does a fine job—of entertaining the mob.” Regina commented.
“Well, so does P. T. Barnum.” Edward agreed disdainfully. “The public has no taste for quality journalism.” He sighed. “And Hearst is worse than a cretin. He’s immoral. He sells lies and cheap thrills for a profit.”
“You really don’t like Mr. Hearst, do you, father?” Raymond observed dryly.
“I’ve never met him, but that’s beside the point. I don’t trust him,” Edward corrected. “And he’s misquoted me over the Ohio court ruling. ‘Hang the world! This country couldn’t survive without United Oil.’—Hogwash! I never said that!”
“Father, what’s a cretin?” Maximillian interrupted in a small voice. Everyone looked at the little boy, whose rosy cheeks grew inflamed under all of the attention.
For a moment, Edward appeared to hesitate to respond, as though deliberating how to make his answer comprehensible to an eight-year old.
“An imbecile. Or in this case, a man without taste or character—a thoroughly undesirable sort of fellow,” Edward supplied resentfully. Regina, secret possessor of untold stores of Attic salt, glanced knowingly at Edward and narrowed her eyes, but the subtle gesture passed unnoticed. As though Edward knew anything about taste! She thought. But, in a moment, she had restored the smiling mask over her features.
“Oh come now, Edward,” Regina broke in gaily, “ought we to expose the boys to such beastly talk? The weather is foul enough, must we spoil the day, too?”
“The boys need to know the nature of the world and be prepared to make their way in it.” Edward explained, with genuine gravity. “I won’t have them fall prey to flatterers or treasure-seekers who might entice them to squander their money. They must know how the world operates if they are to play an important role in society. Our wealth is a great responsibility.”
Regina affected a delicate, bored yawn. “Yes, Dearest,” she said agreeably and sported a vivid smile that waylaid any further comments from being directed at her.
Regina Grace Schuyler Thornton—Gina—was Edward’s second wife. Edward’s first wife Alice, Raymond’s mother, had died in childbirth fifteen years before, giving him a second son who outlived his mother by only a few weeks. At twenty-nine, Gina was charming and exuberant. She was also haughty, mainly because she came from an Old New York Dutch aristocratic family.
There was a natural zest in Regina’s sweeping movements that caught the eye. If she seemed a bit childish at times, she had nonetheless a very great talent for winning admirers with a combination of subtle wit and a disarming, perhaps even cultivated, beauty. She was in fact highly intelligent, though easily bored and largely undereducated, for all her youthful European expeditions. In proof of the strength of her charms, it had taken only weeks for her to secure Edward Thornton for life.
Maximillian winced. To his mother, everyone was “Dearest” or “Darling”, but he wasn’t fooled at all. Gina’s charms were completely lost on her son. For she wove spells of hopeful fantasy and light promises that she invariably forgot. She drew in her listeners almost against their will—she had a rare talent for making everyone feel the most important person in her life. And her strange aura of confiding candor drew loyal friends to her, though she seldom proved as trustworthy an ally in return. That didn’t seem to matter, though. Regina was the kind of woman who was never held accountable for her oversights or mistakes, and she had a kind of petty vanity that people tolerated because she was beautiful.
“The Van Allens are having a dinner party this Friday.” Gina mentioned after a moment, with elaborate carelessness.
“I do remember.” Edward mumbled.
“The Van Cortlandts will be there, the Beekmans, and the Fishes—“ Gina said, a wisp of a smile curving her lips.
“Yes, yes.” Edward said, his thin, bony fingers absently turning the pages of the Times.
“And—I hear the Barclays will be there.”
At once, Edward Cornelius stiffened. He put down the paper slowly and carefully, and swallowed convulsively. Gina watched him, her smile vanishing entirely.
“Who are the Bar—“ Raymond began to interrupt, but his voice broke off into a surprised silence. Edward’s eyes had hardened into a stony expression Raymond didn’t understand, but if he knew better, he would have said his father’s look was one of affronted horror, disgust—and bitterness. The grandfather clock behind Edward struck nine. Nine solid, ringing tones that chilled the air.
“Miranda tells me that it was an oversight that they were invited, but everyone knows she owes the Barclays money.” Gina laughed.
“The Barclays aren’t fit to be seen in decent society.” Edward said in a low voice, his eyes and cheeks reddening with a contained fury.
“I know, Darling. But we don’t need to speak to them, after all.”
“I have no intention of ever speaking to Arthur Barclay again.” Edward declared in a hard, cold voice.
Raymond and Maximillian stared at each other, as though seeking an explanation for this most unusual exchange.
“No, I didn’t think you would,” Gina said softly.
“We are still going to the dinner, aren’t we?” Raymond broke the uncomfortable silence a moment later. He had a keen interest in seeing the lovely Miss Adele Van Allen there and didn’t relish the idea of being disappointed.
“Yes we are, Raymond.” Edward said sternly. “We have no reason not to. What the Barclays do or do not do is not my concern.”
Maximillian shrugged. One way or the other he didn’t care about a dinner party, or about the Barclays. He had already begun to tear the crusts off his toast. “Miranda says that Teddy Roosevelt might even be there.” Gina commented with the affected calmness of a strategist. She enjoyed directing conversation whenever she had the opportunity—it kept her the center of attention.
But the comment didn’t rouse anyone so much as Maximillian. He gasped, once—and a rare flicker of intense interest passed through his sharp blue eyes. He turned to his mother, not daring to believe her. Was it true? Was the great war hero really going to be there?
So far, Regina’s mothering had already left indelible scars on young Maximillian. He had been disappointed by her on countless occasions, but each new broken promise, each new disappointment still had the power to shock him—such was the power of her spells. Maximillian was only gradually becoming immune to her in a way he sensed his father never would be. Edward considered his wife to be his single greatest luxury, and was glad to have the Schuyler name forever linked to his own.
Young Maximillian was, in some respects, an American Prince, the product of a merger between Old New York and the successful but “new rich” American entrepeneur. The Thorntons may have originally come from peasant stock, but the Schuyler family was one of the old, privileged Knickerbocker families. Half of New York had envied the young prince Maximillian when the papers announced his arrival in the world, proclaiming him, perhaps incorrectly, the “world’s richest baby”. But, for all the Thornton family riches, by the time young Maximilian was eight years old, he had learned a most valuable lesson, one he never forgot: the rich could not afford to love. Gina was not wholly an unaffectionate mother. She had done her duty and borne Thorntons for her husband, and she did try in her way to see about Maximillian’s education and proper upbringing, as well as that of Victoria, her six-year old daughter, a fragile, sickly, angelic creature who required the constant attendance of several nurses. Little Torrie seldom descended from her rooms upstairs. She remained a victim of the family’s hope that isolation would keep her safe from illnesses associated with bad air and exposure. Gina didn’t have the patience or resilience to deal with a sickly child, and though it may have been assumed that she loved Victoria, she had been known to lose her temper when informed at an inopportune moment of another of Torrie’s endless illnesses.
“Roosevelt’s attending? Roosevelt—that patriotic lunatic jingo!” Edward Cornelius exclaimed presently, with a heavy, irritable sigh.
“They say he’ll be Governor of New York by the end of the year,” Raymond commented, liking this morning’s entertainment.
“And we would all be better off if he had stayed Commissioner of the New York Police.” Edward declared derisively.
“Maximillian doesn’t think so. He thinks the world of Roosevelt.” Raymond offered with a sly grin. “He wants to be a Rough Rider someday.”
“Does he now?” Edward turned to his younger son. “So, Maximillian, you agree with Hearst then, do you?”
Maximillian sat quiet, confused, and afraid to agree or disagree.
Then, Edward slowly frowned—it was no secret he didn’t like Theodore Roosevelt. While Edward Cornelius was cultured, self-possessed, unsmiling, Roosevelt was a temperamental warmonger. Edward was tall and thin, with the air and presence of a gentleman. Roosevelt was a short, stocky man who always wore pince-nez glasses, who had famously enormous white teeth, like ivory dominoes, and a red meaty face that grew redder as he pounded his fist into his hand to punctuate his arguments.
This was one of the reasons Edward disliked the New York Journal—Hearst was using every resource he had to turn the repugnant Roosevelt into a national hero. And The Journal, a sensationalist, uneducated, everyman’s paper, now soared in popularity, making Mr. William Randolph Hearst the king of “yellow” news—scandals and high drama masquerading as journalism. The man had no shame, Edward often thought. Hearst had literally sold war to the American public—the Spanish American War that had recently ended in August. And he had sold Roosevelt and the Rough Riders to the American public—all to increase his paper’s circulation and profits. Edward thoroughly despised the whole business.
It didn’t matter to him that the war had made a victorious America one of the world’s great powers for the first time in history—if it had made a national hero out of Roosevelt! Edward Thornton already had all the power and influence and wealth that he would ever need. He didn’t care that America had gained Puerto Rico, Hawaii, and the Philippines from Spain. That in less than a year, America had won an empire. The idea of Roosevelt as the next emperor made Edward want to vomit. He licked his lips distastefully.
Meanwhile, Maximillian glared hotly at Raymond for betraying his secret.
“Teddy Roosevelt is a hero,” Maximillian said defiantly. To Maximillian’s young mind, wars and battleships and Rough Riders were the stuff of fairy tales. And Roosevelt was the greatest war hero of them all.
“And did you know that Roosevelt would like to destroy United Oil?” Edward demanded sternly.
“Edward—” Gina said, trying to keep the peace.
“Did you know,” Edward continued, “that I’ve been tied up in court for three years fighting men like him who want to see United Oil broken up and taken away from us?”
Maximillian stared at his father without altering his expression, with his usual reluctance to believe anything.
“No matter,” Edward said dismissively, with the voice that instantly made Maximillian feel small and insignificant. “You’ll learn your lessons, Maximillian—the hard way, if you must.”
Chapter Two
In the late evening that Friday in September, a short, vigorous man stepped from a corner building into Wall Street and made his way briskly across the street to a waiting carriage.
“Where to, Sir?”
“23rd and 7th Ave.” “Been working late, sir? Stock market closed hours ago.”
“Hang it, man! I didn’t ask for your conversation.”
“No, sir. Sorry, sir.” The driver said. “23rd and 7th—Ain’t that—”
“The Van Allen house. I’m late for a dinner engagement, so if you’ll just hurry.”
“Yes, sir.”
Arthur Barclay sat for a while trying to muster the appropriate mood for his upcoming engagement at the Van Allens’. It took but a moment for him to shed the day’s anxieties. His ego began to swell with the sense of his impending triumph. Had it been ten years? Almost. Almost ten since he had been invited anywhere. No very great loss, relative to what he had gained. The second largest fortune in Manhattan, and the third largest fortune in the world. But his wife Amelia would be glad to find herself in society’s good graces again. Time had blunted the hatred Barclay’s peers once harbored against him, and at last, the Barclays were being socially accepted once more. New York society, or at least the Van Allens, were willing to embrace them once again into the fold. Embrace them, but never trust them.
They knew Arthur Barclay had absolutely no scruples. His name was synonymous with greed and corruption.
“The rules were made for fools,” Barclay was fond of reminding his sons. His eldest son, Gerald, named after his wife’s father, was cut from the self-same cloth. A wolf that knew how to lust, how to take, how to get what he wanted at any cost. Then there was Arthur, a disappointing namesake thus far, and Robert, by far the cleverest of the three. His daughter Sophia fell between Arthur and Robert. How old was Sophia… twelve or thirteen? Arthur strained a moment. He had a way of forgetting his daughter when she was not actually present. She was not going to inherit his legacy.
By the time he reached the Van Allens’, Arthur Barclay had worked himself into a state of delicious anticipation. He was happiest when he was making money, second happiest when he had someone to impress, people to buy. And nearly every man could be bought if the price was right. Arthur Barclay could buy and sell half of the men in the city if he wanted to. And this was his first opportunity to appraise the merchandise.
The Barclays had lived in exile, but it hardly seemed so as Arthur Barclay entered the Van Allen house. He was greeted at the door by a jovial Mr.Van Allen, a shuffling stooped man of fifty-six and a harmless gentleman with manners decidedly old-fashioned. Gordon Van Allen left it to his wife to snub or flatter on the family’s behalf and kept out of social politics himself. Fortunately for the Barclays, Mrs. Van Allen had a gambling habit, and Gordon Van Allen had no skill in making sound investments. This had led to a renewed acquaintance with Arthur Barclay at the coaching club, and from there, a discreet friendship based on need, and Arthur Barclay’s willingness to lend money to indebted blue bloods.
The Van Allens needed financial help, and Arthur Barclay needed an alliance with the Van Allens’ impeccable name to sanctify his unsavory reputation. The Barclays did not come from aristocratic blood. They were strictly plebian, possibly even proletarian. In former days the favor of the patrician elite of Old New York could not be bought. But times had changed, and Mrs. Van Allen was nothing if not a pragmatist when it came to her family’s survival. Of course, the rest of society would follow the Van Allen’s lead, gradually. The Barclays would be unavoidably welcome again nearly anywhere after this night.
As it turned out, the evening party had gathered in the ballroom and in the drawing room but hadn’t sat down for dinner yet. Arthur’s wife Amelia was engaged in conversation with the young Miss Adele Van Allen in the ballroom, near the Renoir. Adele was a bright-eyed woman with skin pure as milk, and eyes like clear water. At sixteen she had made her debut in society. Adele was remarkably beautiful, tall, and willowy. She took her duty of being pleasant to one and all seriously, and had been skilled in the art of making trite but titillating conversation. Poor Amelia, whose personality was kind, artless, and undemandingly agreeable, nodded occasionally. She met Arthur’s eyes and smiled briefly.
Arthur gave a gesture that she didn’t need to break away to greet him and began to make a tour of the ballroom himself. The slow-minded Van Renselaars were seated just inside the ballroom. His eye passed over them to the Beekmans, on their left.
Frederick Beekman was living a lie. At first glance, he seemed above-board, solid, a gentleman of the highest sensibilities—incorruptible. Frederick Beekman had been born to a family of impeccable blood lines, but over the years the family had lost much of their fortune in bad investments. Frederick’s wife, Emily, came from an old family with equally dwindling finances. And though they were among the most respectable of Old New York society, the strain of a secret poverty weighed heavily upon them. Emily, trained to be polite, was courteous on the surface, but seldom smiled. Frederick had few real friends and could rely on none of them for financial support. Their son Nelson was a notorious womanizer, and their eighteen year old daughter Rosamund was having difficulty catching a husband.
With an unfailing instinct to profit from other people’s weaknesses, Arthur Barclay headed towards them, slowly. First he stopped on the way to make conversation with one of the Van Renselaars.
“Good to see you again, Lionel.” Barclay hailed the old gentleman loudly.
“Ah… Barclay.” Lionel Van Renselaar said, scratching his scalp as he turned around. “I heard you were back in town.”
“Yes,” Barclay said. “I was hardly away long.”
“You spent some years in London I heard.”
“Yes.” Barclay agreed, stealing a quick glance over at the Beekmans. “But business always draws me back to New York. I hear you had the best-looking yacht in Newport this year.”
“The Utopia,” Lionel agreed, his eyes lighting in private delight that Barclay had touched upon his favorite subject. “I’ve been meaning to take her to the continent. She’s a grand vessel—”
“The very best, I’ll wager.” Barclay said agreeably. “Fish will have to content himself with second best a while, or retire the Lysistrata.” “Yes,” Van Renselaar said, smiling.
“Well, best of luck to you at the races this year.”
Arthur Barclay smiled, but his smile was unfriendly. Van Renselaar didn’t notice.
“Yes.” He returned, clasping Barcay’s outstretched hand pleasantly.
Arthur Barclay nodded, and as Van Renselaar turned back to his prior conversation, Barclay took a glass of champagne off a tray held high by a passing servant. He took a sip delicately, feigning aloofness to his surroundings. But Barclay was alive to every movement, every conversation, every activity in the room.
Evil people might be more dangerous if they had some good in them—that is to say, a man’s redeeming virtues might camouflage or balance his evil actions. This could not be said of Arthur Barclay. He had little good in him. But, he was also a chameleon, a master of the art of deception. And that made him dangerous. He had, however, a serious flaw: he was proud. So of course, he craved adulation, which made him vulnerable to flattery. He also knew how to flatter and entice. He was charming, in a vulgar sort of way. Agreeable, but incapable of any real compassion. A friend to no one, as his friends learned the hard way. But, he was likeable. If he hadn’t been so likeable, he would never have become so powerful.
Frederick Beekman seemed content enough, even jovial, as Arthur Barclay eyed him critically from a distance. But Barclay wasn’t fooled by the act. The richest of society had no idea what it meant to be poor, or how the bleak reality of poverty might affect a man’s psychology, but Arthur Barclay had not been born rich, and he knew. How he knew. A poor man, especially a blue blood who could not reduce himself to the honest toil of working-class life, was useless in the real world. And therefore a desperate human being. Desperate human beings always made a good bargain.
Beekman wasn’t a conversationalist. He was an exceptionally intelligent man who disliked other people in general and who therefore despised having to win friends because he needed them for financial help, and because society required him to be sociable. Moreover, he hated having to resort to politeness and flattery to win friends. If he had owned a large fortune, he would have had social immunity, he could have acted as he pleased. That is, he could have been rude or dismissive and people would still have liked him. However, expediency was a great motivator. Against his own true nature, Beekman had been obliged to be friendly and pleasant for so long that no one questioned his sincerity. But Barclay wasn’t blind. Arthur Barclay had once read that all men put on a personality and an outward appearance to look like what each wanted to be thought. And he believed it. Society was entirely made up of such false, assumed personalities. These were, of course, completely distinct from each man’s personal life. Who knew what went on in the undercurrents beneath these façades? Well, Barclay had sought to find out on several different occasions. He was not above making investigations into people’s private affairs if the information could be used to his own advantage. Scandals and intrigue waited just below the clean, surface life. And, knowing that a private world went on underneath the superficial reality of it, Arthur Barclay was careful to conceal his own private affairs and dealings. For example, he had had no real interest in Van Renselaar or his yacht. But he could not directly seek out the company of the Beekmans. He had no wish for his own motives to be obvious.
Moving past the Beekmans, Barclay suddenly stopped and turned aside in feigned afterthought, his gaze still lingering ahead to the drawing room door as though he had intended to head in that direction.
“Ah, Mrs. Beekman, you are looking well.” Barclay said, in an off-handed manner.
“Thank you, Mr. Barclay. It has been some while, hasn’t it?” She remarked politely, with an undertone of unpleasantness.
“Yes, it has.” Barclay tried to smile. Frederick Beekman didn’t.
“Well,” Arthur said after a moment of silence. “I hear you made it to London last season.”
“Yes,” Emily Beekman said, tight-lipped.
“How did you find it?”
“An interesting city.” Emily said curtly. “The architecture is quite grand, but the air was stuffy and the rain never-ending. Of course, you would know better than us. You did spend several years there, I understand.” In exile, she might have added.
“Yes.”
“We did hear news of you there.”
“Did you?” Barclay feigned amusement.
“Of course. Though strangely, not a word of your American triumphs,” Emily said, with superficial sweetness, but with an ugly aftertaste.
Arthur Barclay smiled, nodding peaceably. Of course, he knew exactly what Emily was talking about, why she cleverly mocked him, and why her saintly husband continued to remain silent, in silent disapproval.
Arthur Barclay had masterminded a legendary financial coup fifteen years before. This coup had made him wealthy and the most hated man in New York City. Barclay and a few accomplices had gradually purchased stock in several companies, steadily driving the market for those shares upward. Then, using insider information, Barclay had discovered that several companies which seemed prosperous were actually on the verge of financial ruin. Profiting from this secret information, Barclay sold shares in those companies short. Some time later, everyone in on Barclay’s conspiracy suddenly decided to dump their valuable stock. The foundering companies, which had seemed so stable, went under overnight. Then Barclay bought back the shares at a minimal cost and gave the worthless stocks to the investors. Many fortunes were lost when the companies collapsed. But Barclay had become one of the world’s wealthiest men overnight.
Though manipulating stock prices was standard business practice on Wall Street, Barclay had done it on an unimaginable scale and many of his “friends” were among the biggest losers. Barclay’s tactics shocked New York society which promptly exiled him, despite his newfound wealth.
Arthur Barclay sighed, then downed his champagne. He could see it would take some time dealing with the Beekmans and getting on their good side. No doubt, they were still bitter about his coup. They hadn’t made a red cent in the venture and needed money now more than ever.
“A pleasure talking with you.” Barclay said to excuse himself and headed to the drawing room.
J. P. Morgan was leaning against the bookshelves in the drawing room, engaged in conversation with two young stock brokers and a Mr. Stuyvesant when Barclay sauntered in. Morgan was a tall, heavyset man with a large, round, bowl-shaped head, and piercing eyes. When the man got angry, he looked positively monstrous. Barclay had only seen him angry once. Morgan wasn’t likely to burn a bridge, however, with either Barclay or anyone else at the moment. He was a businessman, and not above resorting to unscrupulous tactics on occasion. So he could hardly condemn Barclay.
Somewhere among the crowd was George Griffiths, an independent banker originally from Boston, who had come to New York for the first time that summer, straight from Harvard business school. Also present was Harold Woodward, a steel magnate and friend of Edward Thornton. His wife was there, too, perched at his shoulder where she had stood half the evening. Mrs. Woodward was a diminutive creature of forty, with birdlike arms, shriveled skin, and a tiny, bobbing head. Barclay recognized few of the others.
“Well well, Arthur Barclay,” Morgan said, in his gruff appraising voice.
“The very devil himself,” Woodward remarked in an undertone few in the room failed not to hear. Barclay didn’t seem offended by the comment. If anything, flattered. He approached Morgan confidently.
“Rumor has it that Thornton wants to buy shares in US Steel.” Barclay said.
“You may get the chance to ask him yourself, old man.” Morgan said gruffly, gesturing to the door.
Edward Thornton had just appeared in the doorway. He stopped mid-step as his eye caught the site of Arthur Barclay. His eye twitched, settling into a wide, horrified stare. His mouth opened involuntarily. He said nothing. Barclay said nothing. They merely looked at each other from across the room, as the electricity sparking between them seized the rest of the company and put all conversations to an abrupt end. Every man waited to see what would happen. Each was remembering a time, fifteen and more years ago, when the Thorntons and Barclays had been on the best of terms.
Then there came a murmur from the other room, announcing the arrival of Theodore Roosevelt. A moment later, Adele Van Allen popped her light head through the drawing room doorway, announcing the dinner.
J. P. Morgan calmly extinguished his cigar and headed for the dining room.
“Thornton, I hear you’ve gone and beat me to another Rembrandt.” He laughed in a pleasant tone as he passed by. “I see I’ll have to stop offering you tips on that subject if I’m to keep an art collection.”
Thornton had recomposed himself, and with one final, impassive glance at Barclay, turned away with creditable indifference. As Edward headed to the dining room, he suppressed a wave of red hatred. An image of Barclay blazed in his mind, fresh as ever. How he hated Barclay’s little feral smile. Hated the man’s curly top of black hair. Hated his pearly teeth and short, stocky, pugilistic frame so much stronger than his own. Barclay hadn’t changed a bit. Nor had Thornton. He loathed Arthur Barclay as intensely as he had on the day when he learned his best friend had betrayed him. One-third of Thornton’s fortune had been lost on a single afternoon. But, while his finances had recovered, his faith never had.
Edward Cornelius Thornton, born to a life of power and privilege, had never imagined that Arthur Barclay would teach him anything. Least of all, how to hate.
Chapter Three
Wednesday, June 15, 1904
Maximillian Thornton was on all fours, polishing the banister in the hallway when Jenkins passed him.
“What are you doing, young sir?” Jenkins asked to announce his presence. He was not really surprised.
“Polishing the banister.”
“Yes, but might I ask why?”
“Father.” Maximillian stopped and shrugged.
“Ah, yes. But surely he didn’t mean for you to do the entire task by yourself.” Jenkins paused, then whispered, “do let me call one of the maids to help you.”
“No, don’t,” Maximillian whispered back. Then he broke into a charming little smile. “Father would have me do it over again. He’ll send Mrs. Henderson by to check on me.”
“I suppose so,” Jenkins agreed, not liking it. “I have a letter for you from your mother,” Jenkins said, brightening.
Maximillian’s pleasant smile slowly turned down.
“I’m busy now.” He said evenly and got down again on all fours.
Jenkins shrugged and resumed his way upstairs, pausing only a moment as his eye strayed to the portrait hanging behind the boy.
“Maximillian?”
“Yes?” The thirteen year-old boy looked up slowly. Jenkins’ eyes narrowed upon him in scrutiny, noting the boy’s sharp blue eyes, strong, handsome features, and thick brown hair. For a moment, Jenkins’ eyes flicked upward to the portrait of the Old Conqueror.
“Nothing.” Jenkins said and shook his head affectionately. “I’ll just bring Mrs. Thorntons’ letters up to Mr. Thornton.”
As usual, Regina had left for the continent alone in late spring, this time leaving behind Maximillian, who had been enrolled in a rigorous preparatory school the previous fall. Maximillian didn’t get along with his mother at any rate and was glad to stay in New York. His disillusionment in his own mother was already such that he was afraid to trust or rely upon anyone’s word. More than that, he believed that women would be the downfall and weakness of any man foolish enough to put any faith in them.
Edward Cornelius, however, didn’t see the need to compensate for Regina’s prolonged distance from her son with any great display of generosity towards him. On the contrary, Edward had always been staunchly set against spoiling his children. He had always felt it his duty to undo the damage of Regina’s pampering whenever he could.
A great believer in discipline and duty, Edward took his position as the family patriarch seriously. His attitude was still somewhat plebian, one of few traits inherited from the Old Conqueror. Determined to build strong, self-reliant sons, Edward had his children do all of their own and some of the household chores, including laundry and even some gardening, and gave them only small allowances. Edward discouraged them from playing childish games, and soundly interrupted any “schemes” they might concoct, even in fun. They had, in consequence, learned their place soon enough. However it might seem, Edward was not a cruel man. He humbled his children in order to protect them from men who would try to appeal to their vanity. Men such as Arthur Barclay.
If Edward’s methods were cruel, they did achieve what he desired: the new generation of Thorntons did for themselves. Edward did not permit rebellion. He could even be cold, and ruthlessly crushed any opinion or proposed action—even those of his children—that did not conform to his own set of principles and beliefs. Nor would Edward be contradicted. Only his wife escaped his discipline, because she was ungovernable. Gina’s was the world of high society, and it occupied most of her time and energy. In the typical manner of her class, the aristocratic set, she regarded all matters—whether politics, war, or a card game—as trivial. This of course excluded the weighty matter of society and its events. Every year she gave a resplendent party. Deservedly so, her guests were known as the “fortunate four hundred”—no expense was ever spared from making Gina’s society occasions anything less than unforgettable.
Even the often awkward Raymond, who had just finished his final year at Yale, had learned to play bridge, drink, and smoke cigars at Gina’s parties with felicitous abandon, as much as any other distinguished young gentleman his age. Raymond was considered a solid enough young fellow by many people, moral, and easy-going. There was some truth to this assessment of the youth, and in fact he liked to believe these things of himself. But he was also narrow-minded and unobservant. There was an innate smallness to him. Of course, he was himself largely oblivious of this, for Raymond was very much aware that he was a Thornton.
“Letters, sir.” Jenkins announced, now standing outside Edward’s study.
“Thank you, Jenkins,” Edward said, inviting the old servant in. Jenkins handed over several bundles of paper.
“Anything else, sir?”
“No. That will be all.” Jenkins nodded and turned away.
“You won’t be finished by suppertime at your rate, young master.” Jenkins said as he passed by Maximillian on his way back down the stairs. The boy jumped up in surprise.
“Oh, Jenkins.” Maximillian said in relief. “When I heard you coming, I thought you might be father.”
“Your father is reading his letters.”
“Mother’s won’t take long,” Maximillian observed dryly.
“There was one from Raymond as well. It was postmarked from Boston.”
“Oh,” Maximillian said, stiffening. “He’s already been at the Gordons’ for two weeks. When is he coming home?”
“I couldn’t rightly say,” Jenkins said. “I didn’t ask your father anything. In the next few weeks, I expect.”
Maximillian shrugged. “That should make father happy. He’s been in an awful state since Barclay bought MacMillan Steel. Father had been negotiating to buy it, you know. No one’s figured out how Barclay got wind of the deal and beat us to it.”
“Barclay’s really gone out of his way to make himself your father’s enemy, hasn’t he?” Jenkins sighed deeply.
Maximillian laughed. “I suppose. I’m just glad Adele Van Allen married a Barclay and not my brother.”
“But Raymond had a great regard for Miss Van Allen.”
“Exactly.” Maximillian laughed in delight, and though it was cruel to laugh at Raymond’s loss, Jenkins found it difficult not to be amused by Maximillian’s appealing smile.
It was no secret that Maximillian and Raymond disliked each other immensely. Theirs was the animosity of two very different breeds of men forcefully thrown together and expected to cooperate voluntarily for a prolonged period of time. But Maximillian was only thirteen, not yet a man, so he obeyed his father and brother, despite the streak of stubborn independence that ran to the core of his nature. It would have been foolish to resist their authority. Instead he harbored a private resentment against them and against the world in general. This in part accounted for his silence around his own family, and around everyone but his few friends. Which included Jenkins, oddly enough. Maximillian liked the honest, kindly Jenkins and felt a genuine affection towards him which was quietly mutual. Jenkins was also the only person Maximillian trusted entirely.
Maximillian was too afraid, too much in awe of his own father to trust or mistrust him. Instinctively, the boy internally bristled against authority. But he admired his father’s firmness and resolution. He wanted desperately to please his father, to win Edward Cornelius’ approval, which he never quite felt he had. To that end, young Maximillian had never given up on any single task his father set him, no matter how difficult or humiliating. It was this resolve that had in part won him Jenkins’ private approval. Maximillian was also a charming, precocious boy, though unrecognized as such by his immediate family.
“I’d best be getting back to my work, now,” Jenkins said. “And you, too, Maximillian—”
Jenkins broke off as the front bell chimed. Henderson hurried from the drawing room to answer the door. Maximillian stopped and dropped the oily polishing cloth, slapping his grimy hands together as they waited to see who had come to pay a call.
“Why, young Mr. Thornton, you’re home earlier than expected.” Henderson remarked in surprise as Raymond Thornton stepped into the house. At twenty-two, Raymond had reached his full height, and had taken to wearing dark brown bowler hats. “We thought you were staying a few more weeks with the Gordons,” Henderson added.
“So did I, until last night,” Raymond said, his face pale, as he removed his hat and combed his fingers through his thin, brown hair.
“Ah, you heard about the dreadful accident this morning then, Master Raymond?” Henderson asked, misreading Raymond’s troubled expression.
“What accident?” Raymond asked.
“Why, that the General Slocum caught on fire in the East River,” Henderson explained.
“General Slocum?” Raymond repeated in a distracted way as he handed his bag over to Henderson.
“A riverboat.” Henderson explained. “The whole city has been talking about it. The boat set out this morning with a thousand young children on board—from Weiss Garten.in the lower East Side. Heading off for a picnic or some such nonsense. Then the boat caught on fire and started burning to cinders! But the captain, what does he do? He keeps sailing up the river to try to reach North Brother Island—”
Henderson paused. Raymond seemed hardly to be listening.
“Pardon me, sir, but—is there something the matter?” Henderson asked gravely.
Jenkins and Maximillian tensed on the staircase.
Raymond glanced about, then took out a handkerchief from his waist pocket and wiped a trickle of sweat from his brow. His expression was extremely troubled. He looked drained and haggard, as though he had not slept at all the previous evening.
“I’m perfectly all right, Henderson. But I’m afraid I had another disturbing bit of news while I was staying at the Gordons’. Where is father?”
“Upstairs in his study, sir.”
Alarmed and intrigued by Raymond’s behavior, Jenkins and Maximillian came down the staircase. Raymond made eye contact with Maximillian, but there was something altogether disapproving of the younger boy in his glance.
“By the way, how did the boat catch fire?” Raymond asked in afterthought as he headed between Jenkins and his brother. “And why didn’t the captain pull into one of the wharves?”
“No one knows.” Henderson shook his head.
“The children—” Raymond paused.
“They all perished, sir,” Henderson replied soberly. “Oh,” Raymond sighed deeply, trying to collect himself. “That is a tragedy.”
“The greatest ever to affect this city, sir.”
“I suppose we should thank the Lord that we still have Maximillian, our little resident troublemaker.”
Raymond said, his gaze turning on his brother. “Been polishing the banister, eh? What did you do this time? Did you put chalk in the flour tin? Or grease the railings? Were you caught by the window with your ink-bombs?”
“No,” Maximillian returned hotly. And here’s ma in trouble again, What have you been doing now?
Nothing said defiantly. Jenkins sighed. He would never understand why Raymond insisted on goading his younger brother and why Maximillian let himself get so upset. Maximillian was not necessarily bad. He was the sort of boy who could work hard and well, when he wanted to, in particular when Raymond was away. Maximillian was happy when he was able to be competitive on equal terms—nothing pleased him so much as to learn and to excel at what he did. And he derived a very real pleasure out of doing things well. He could even be generous with his spoils, as though winning was more important to him than whatever he had won. But Maximillian had never won in any contest against Raymond, as many times as the two had fought.
“Never mind, it’s not important.” Raymond shook his head, his foot now on the first step. “Please excuse me, but I must speak with father right away.”
“It’s good to have you back, sir,” Jenkins called after him.
“Thank you, Jenkins. I only wish I had returned under better circumstances,” Raymond replied, and hurried up the stair without another word of explanation.
