The meeting was held with the utmost decorum—no mention of the pet names they had for one another: “Bent” Dent, Jardine, “the Iron-Headed Old Rat” (a name he was proud of since it was Empress Dowager Cixi’s descriptor for him), which carried over to the current taipan, James Matheson, “Opium” Russell for Walter David Russell, “Viking Princess” for Alexandra, and “The Hair Man” for her father. There was too much at stake to give minor offense that could rise to divisive retaliation among the thin-skinned group of ego-maniacal introverts and narcissists.
By mutual consent, Patrick Queensbury spoke first. His British East India Company controlled fully half of China’s foreign trade—land and sea—mostly owing to his fleet of fast and elegant tea clippers and his dominance of the tea trade.
“Ladies and gentlemen, competitors, opponents, I speak for myself and for the East India Company officially. I hardly need to tell you that we face serious competition, and–more than that–real opposition. The competition comes in the form of trading companies sprouting up like weeds everywhere and all the time. The opposition is almost upon us. Most of you are aware that ships and traders are already here in Hong Kong and Shanghai to break our monopoly–the Canton system—mainly the East India monopoly. We know of the Netherlands, Denmark, Imperial Russia, the upstart United States of America, and free-trader groups from Great Britain itself. The Chinese oppose us on several grounds; they consider it to be in their best interests to trade with many countries and interests; and they steadfastly oppose our opium trade. They have gone so far as to say that opium is a poison for the user and for China itself. Furthermore, they have established the co-hong combination of Chinese commercial companies which receives preferences, even over most preferred nations such as Great Britain.
“The governing board of the British East India Company has studied the situation with great care and at considerable depth. The conclusions reached include that Queen Victoria’s government is adamant about opening up commerce here; it is lukewarm at best about the opium trade; and they have already sent a Royal Navy Fleet on its way under the command of Admiral Sir William Heartcliff-Weatherby. The crown now favors Chinese hongs, Hudson’s Bay Company, thirteen factories not under our control, Japan, Korea, and Germany; and they are all determined to break our monopoly.
“We meet here today to determine what we must do. Speaking for the British East India Company, we must form our own co-hong and work together; or this time next year, none of our businesses will be still functioning. Let us hear from each of you. What will you do? Will you join our new venture? Will you join the co-hongs of the Chinese or the organizations of the British? Will you try and go it alone? Or will you sell out your holdings to the new co-hong?”
The taipan spoke next with his usual brevity and brusqueness.
“You all know how much I hate the East India Company. Why wuld Aye even think ‘o joinin’ with those scoundrels? It’s simple; Jardine-Matheson will unite with Patrick Queensbury and the accursed East India because it’s the only way to survive. ‘Tis the worst of options except for all the rest. Aye am hopin’ it’ll be temporary.”
Mandarin Wáng, “Opium” Russell, Yury Golocrispin for the Empire of Russia, and “Bent” Dent, all gave brief statements agreeing that they would join the co-hong in order to survive. Alexandra stated simply that she would not enter into the compact; Hou Eadric similarly refused—in his case because he knew that the rest of the partners would vote against him joining because of his infamous reputation as a criminal; and Wŭ Guóyíng of the Ewo Hong politely declined because his government would not allow his co-hong to do so.
A month later, the new co-hong was in place, still dominated by the British East India and Jardine-Matheson as a close second. The London Times reported that the Chinese Merchant Fleet had been sold to Russell and Company for three million dollars. Russell brought the fleet under the banner of the new co-hong for four million U.S. dollars in order to stave off bankruptcy because of it’s three-million-dollar indebtedness. Once again, Alexandra made the decision that saved her and the Wáng Family Tong from financial disaster. The co-hong eventually failed because the separate members could not get along. The British East India and Jardine-Matheson Companies survived and went their own ways. Great Britain herself suffered a serious deflation because it had been forced to go back to a gold standard and had an enormous trade deficit.
Mandarin Wáng allowed Alexandra to sell her fleet—now twelve steamers—back to the family tong for a small profit. He believed in the new co-hong, but she was adamant that it was in her best interests to leave the co-hong and, moreover, the shipping business. She privately believed that the shipping business was in for serious decline because of the excess number of companies now involved. It turned out that she was correct. The capricious Chinese empress vetoed further access to the Chinese market causing the crash. Alexandra turned her sell-out into other investments which made millions, and the other attendees at the meeting eventually lost millions. Hou Eadric was hanged from the gates of Hong Kong city a year later for his crimes associated with the financial manipulations of the Empress’s funds.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
APPROACHING A NEW WORLD, A NEW LIFE
Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes. Don’t resist them–that only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.
—Lao Tzu
“Stepping onto a brand-new path is difficult, but not more difficult than remaining in a situation, which is not nurturing to the whole woman.”
—Maya Angelou
Number 8, Chapel Street, Victoria Colony, Melbourne, Australia, January 23, 1896
Because of the success in divesting herself of her shipping interests in a period of maritime business chaos and falling profits, Alexandra kept one of the steamships as a personal yacht—an unlikely bit of vanity for her—and re-christened it, The Alexandra, with no apology or hypocrisy of false modesty. There was still the nagging problem of being unable to buy or sell anything in Australia without a husband. Telling the truth about her marriage to Prince Boris Yusupov would put the kibosh on any further effort to marry successfully in Australia. She had long ago determined not to do anything so foolish; so, she began plotting a way to marry, to remain independent, and to avoid any complications of a new relationship all at the same time—a conundrum with no easy solution in sight.
No one came courting, and no one was expected. When something finally did transpire, Alexandra put it down to serendipity. Her house on Chapel Street in Melbourne had fallen into a fair measure of seediness since she had not been able to keep up with the maintenance, repairs, and the need for additions while living in Sydney. Correcting the bit of unsightliness in the middle of the block in Melbourne became her vocation and her avocation during the preceding six months.
Alexandra met the foreman for her project at a job fair in the city. He was minding an exhibit for one of the large development construction companies and was singing The Bastard from the Bush, a distinctly bawdy ballad not fit for polite society. Alexandra began to laugh and realized it had been a long time since she had done so. He took a glancing look at her and continued his impromptu performance as if he was completely unaware of his audience by singing Go the Shears, The Old Bullock Dray, and Euabalong Ball. Finally, as a tribute to his virtuoso impromptu performance, she laughed so hard she had to sit down.
When she regained control, “Hello, she said.
“G’day,” he responded.
“Tell me, please–besides doing opera–do you do repairs, remodeling, or other rather small projects?”
“Well, M’am, it’s not grand opera—just Australian ditties; and no, M’am, I only work on large developments. You are not likely to find someone looking for a small kind of a job, what with the boom in housing these days.”
She looked disappointed.
“Thank you for your time, Sir.” She said, “I wish you well in your pursuits.�
��
“Pardon me; where are my manners? My name is Kyle Dewit Herman Bradshaw.”
“Pleased to meet you, Sir. I am Alexandra Yusupov.”
“Thank you. I think you are the only person who has even bothered to speak to me today. Truth be known, I am a builder looking for work; and this idleness is nearly driving me out of my mind. I’m no bludger. I tell you, I’m right fair dinkum. Can you tell me about your project?”
“First, are you as good a builder as you are an operatic divo?”
“Better,” he said, “and I can prove it.”
“References?”
“Better than that. Give me half an afternoon; and I’ll take you to see my work; it will be living proof.”
“You have piqued my interest. Not a bludger, not on the dole; and you look reasonably presentable. When will you be available?”
“Not to be impertinent; M’am, but I have a question of my own. Do you have the money for a bang-up job?”
“I do.”
“What man owns the property?”
“It is owned by the Wáng Family Tong of which I am a ranking member.”
“Well, aren’t you one with surprises, Mrs. Yusupov? I would have bet the farm—but maybe not quite the house yet—that you were Irish or Scottish. I never would have guessed that you were a Chinee.”
“You would have lost the bet on my ethnicity. We all have our secrets, Mr. Bradshaw.”
“Please call me Kyle.”
“All right, Kyle. Let’s get down to a little business; all right with you? And, I’m Alexandra Yusupov.”
For the next three-quarters of an hour they traded information and developed an early and tenuous level of trust. She relented and asked him to call her Alexandra. They agreed to meet the following day at Alexandra’s property on Chapel Street.
The day began early.
“Let’s have a Captain Cook,” Kyle said.
She nodded in agreement that they needed to have a look, as much as she dreaded having anyone look at her run-down property.
Kyle picked up Alexandra in his “vintage”—as he described it, but “seedy” as Alexandra viewed it—forty-year-old curricle. It was a two-wheel open carriage fashionable and popular with the young sporty set of that now bygone era. The two horses were beautiful matching bays, sleek and eager. They first drove to No. 8 Chapel Street and stopped in front of Alexandra’s house. In the stark light of the cloudless morning, she was instantly aware that the place was dilapidated and in need of more than repair or even serious renovation. Kyle was gentleman enough not to say anything right off. They took a tour of the grounds which were strewn with trash and garbage, the leavings of hobos who had taken the place over several years ago during the bust. The backyard’s vegetation was entirely weeds and stood almost six feet high. Lean-to board huts lay in shambles or had fallen over with the winds of winter. Alexandra felt like she might cry.
The tour of the house itself was worse. Inside and out, mold had infested the walls and decorations. There was termite damage in the supports and joists above the concrete foundation, and parts of the floor and ceilings had caved in. There were several areas where the transients had started fires using Alexandra’s expensive furniture as kindling, and destroying parts of walls, floors, and ceilings in addition. Rats–dead and alive–were the only long-term occupants. The fixtures of the kitchen and the fireplaces had been torn away by vandals, and would-be artists had painted crude, vividly colored, drawings on the walls and in the stairwells, most of which were anatomically accurate pornography. Kyle quickly escorted Alexandra away from the sordid gallery and the decrepit interior.
“Say it, Kyle,” Alexandra said somberly.
“The truth?”
“As bluntly as necessary.”
“It’s a dog’s breakfast. There is nothing salvageable about it. The house is uninhabitable and unfixable. The city building code would never grant a certificate of occupancy no matter how much we—I mean, you—put into it. The raw property is worth more that the house and the property as they now stand. Sorry to say it, Alexandra. You would be better off to tear it down; plow up the ground; and start again from scratch. I know a little something about this town. The neighborhood is no longer the best and might not even be really safe for a fine lady like yourself. Maybe it would be best to get another plot of land and start over again.”
He looked at Alexandra with sympathy.
She said, “Another victim of the gold and land busts. I’ve seen plenty of them. However, my friend, I have another option.”
Alexandra had purchased a Collins Street property during the hey-day of “Marvelous Melbourne”–the gold boom era–as the site of her future permanent home. She now had the resources to make that happen. Kyle D.H. Bradshaw was a long-time resident of Melbourne and seasoned builder during the booms and busts of Melbourne’s turbulent history; so, he was suitably impressed with the location.
He expressed that impression by citing the old saw that the three most important things in real estate are, “location, location, and location. And, this, Alexandra, is a location!”
Collins street was laid out in 1837 in Mornington Peninsula–south of Melbourne proper–and became the city’s main street soon thereafter. At the western end of the street was Batman’s Hill, named for the Tasmanian adventurer and grazier–a person who rears or fattens cattle or sheep for market—named John Batman. In 1896, when Alexandra and Kyle were planning to build, it was still a major street in center of Melbourne, even more important than it was in the early nineteenth century. Alexandra’s property—two city blocks on Collins Street beginning from the intersection with Elizabeth Street in fashionable East Melbourne–had never had a building on it, unlike the rest of eastern Collins Street which was becoming known for its grand Victorian home architecture. The eastern end of Collins Street was known locally as the ‘Paris End’ due to its slavish copying of French architecture and the affectations of the inhabitants.
“I know a construction company that would buy your Chapel Street property, Alexandra. Would you like me to contact them?” Kyle asked.
“I guess I will have a big loss selling the place now and in its present condition.”
“I’m afraid so—maybe fifty percent off what it cost you to build it.”
Alexandra shook her head, then said, “Go ahead, Kyle. Give it your best try.”
“I will. I still have contacts and am owed a few favors. I’ll see if I can call in a marker or two. No worries, mate, she’ll be right.”
“That would be helpful, and I would be grateful.”
“What are mates for?” he asked, making a presumption.
She responded, “Indeed, I think it is accurate that we are becoming friends. I have a pattern of being a good friend, and I seldom am on the receiving end. It will take some getting used to, Kyle.”
He gave her a toothsome smile and patted her back, the first time he had touched her. She smiled back and patted his hand as he withdrew it.
They spent the afternoon looking at other properties, none of which were the least bit enticing. It was evening before they decided to call it a day.
Kyle said, “Well, Boss Lady, I think we know which property we want to build on. Think we should apply for a building permit tomorrow?”
“I do. I am too tired to think anymore today.”
“And, I’m hungry,” Kyle said, “Would you be my guest for dinner at the Middle Park Hotel in Port Phillip? They’ve got pretty good tucker there.”
Alexandra hesitated a moment. She scanned his face and decided that this was a business dinner, or, at worst, a gesture of friendship.
“How bad could that be?” she thought.
“All right. I’m famished. If you would be so kind as to take me back to the hotel; so, I can freshen up. I won’t take but a minute.”
“Take all the time you want. I have a change of clothes in the back of the carriage. I will pop into the hotel’s dressing room and wash up a bit and change into fanc
ier clothes.”
They were both somewhat excited and anxious. Was this a date, or just having a meal with a new friend at the end of a long day? Alexandra was not sure what to wear, whether to offer to pay—as in a Dutch treat—or what obligations she might be incurring. She realized that–despite her years in Australia–she was not sure of where she fitted in or about what passed for etiquette in this strange country. She decided that Kyle Bradshaw was a nice enough man, and an honest one. She would just be forthright and ask him what was appropriate in the place the Aussies called “down under”.
True to her promise, Alexandra dressed in a simple evening dress and no jewelry and hurried down the large curving hotel staircase. Kyle was waiting, and he was dressed in a long-sleeve patterned shirt, no tie, and a pair of clean khaki slacks. He had slicked back his thick unruly brown hair which still glistened with water. His face was strong and bore lines of too much time in the sun. Unlike many of the Australians she had encountered–especially men–his broad smile revealed a full set of big white teeth. He was clean shaven, an improvement over his appearance during the day. He had a large square jaw with a striking butt chin–which–along with his strong hazel eyes, were his most striking features.
Kyle helped her into the curricle; and they drove across town to Canterbury Road in Middle Park, Port Phillip. He stopped in front of the attractive Middle Park Hotel and had a valet park the carriage and feed the horses. He took her arm, and they walked into the hotel and met the maître d who escorted them to their seats in the grand dining room.
The head waiter was at Kyle’s side as soon as the maître d left them, “My name is Gerard,” he said, “would you care for an appetizer?”
The Mysterious Alexandra Tarasova-Yusupov Page 39