“Lionel … and Jason, I believe,” she said pleasantly. Though a heavy drinker of good whiskey, she did not possess the deep and husky voice of cheaper women. Jason might appear at this moment as a lout, and Lionel might seem apprehensive, and stood in the background, but Clementine was not perturbed. She could see under appearances. That Jason was excited and agitated also excited her, for solid men were not easily made excitable. One had to beware of such as Lionel, who were very temperamental at times, and hasty. They were optimists, and Clementine did rarely trust optimists. They usually cost one money in the long run.
“Well, what’s all this?” demanded Mr. Mulligan, trying to make his voice irascible.
Jason pulled a wide slim book from under his arm, a book Lionel had not noticed before. “I want to talk to you, Mr. Mulligan. Now. It can’t wait.” It was as if he and Mr. Mulligan were entirely alone, though Lionel was acutely conscious of Loraine and Elsa, and their shirtwaists.
Mr. Mulligan slowly seated himself, but he continued to stare at Jason. He, too, was now aware of something unusual. He said, “I’m among friends, Jase. Say what you will.”
For the first time Jason became fully aware of others at the table. Two were … bankers. There was also Mrs. Lindon, whom he liked in spite of his knowledge of her. He ignored the girls, who eyed him favorably. They were too accustomed to effete men, whom they described in a less elegant term never used in polite society. Jason exuded masculinity, and a certain roughness. Both girls had had one encounter with Lionel, whom they designated to each other as “strange,” with very naughty giggles and some disapproval.
“You might as well sit down,” said Mr. Mulligan. “Pull up a chair, Jase.” He hesitated. Then he filled one of the glasses with good wine and pushed it across the table. “You need calming down,” he said. “Drink it up.” He glanced at Lionel. “Reckon we don’t need you, Lionel.”
Jason drank impatiently. He hardly tasted the wine. “Yes!” he said. “I want Lionel here. It’ll be his business, too.”
Clementine fixed her light hazel eyes with some compassion on Jason. Here was another innocent, always looking after a friend’s interest. Well, he’d learn, God help him. Lionel, all fox’s ears now, stood deferentially in the doorway, his dancer’s feet vibrating to the music from downstairs.
Jason produced Mr. Schultz’ card and gave it to Mr. Mulligan, who stared at it in perplexity. But when he passed it on to the bankers, they became immediately tense and alert. They gave the card ceremoniously to Mrs. Lindon, then exchanged long glances. But they said nothing.
“What’s it all about?” asked Mr. Mulligan. “What’s Schultz got to do with you, Jase?”
Jason kept his voice quiet but strong. “You know the Shoulder, Mr. Mulligan? Yes. I own fourteen acres of it, smack in the middle of the other eighteen acres. The best part.”
“Oh,” said Mr. Mulligan, at sea.
“Mr. Schultz wants to buy them from me, to build, he said, a resort hotel for us yokels here in Belleville. I don’t believe him for a minute.”
Mr. Sunderland said, “I know of Mr. Schultz. He owns very fine hotels, which he built in Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. I also believe he owns family-resort hotels in others places in the Poconos. Farmhouse types, all clapboard and porches, which are full of children in the summer, and dogs and such. And croquet for the ladies, and tennis for the gentlemen, and ponds nearby for rowing. Very … rural.”
Mr. Rumpell coughed. “Mr. Schultz, I believe, was looking for you, Jason. He came into the bank. We, by the way, hold nine of the acres on one side of your … property—estate dealings, I believe, and—”
Mrs. Lindon said, “And I own the other nine acres on the other side of your property, Jason.”
“Good God!” said Mr. Mulligan. “Why did you buy them, Clem?”
Mrs. Lindon lowered her eyelids. “I did think of an elegant establishment on the Shoulder, Pat. Fine food. Entertainment. But there were those fourteen acres right in the middle. I didn’t know who owned them. Your deed offices in Belleville are very slack, Patrick. And there is no decent road up to the property.”
Mr. Sunderland gave Jason an understanding smile. “So, your land stands in the way of Mr. Schultz. Did he offer anything for them?”
Jason told him, and Mr. Sunderland nodded. “Are you considering selling them?”
“No, Mr. Sunderland. I have other ideas.”
Mrs. Lindon leaned her great bosom on the table. “What do you want for your land, Jason?”
His gray eyes studied her. “I’m not selling, Mrs. Lindon.”
She smiled at him. She was so acute that she comprehended, and her regard for Jason increased. “I know,” she said. Her bosom heaved with excitement, and her mind with visions.
“Why would anyone want to build a resort of any kind on the Shoulder?” asked Mr. Mulligan. “Nothing here in Belleville to attract wealthy people.”
“The view,” said Jason. “A marvelous view. I go there often, and I can see it. I even go in the winter. Beautiful. Secluded. Quiet.” He hesitated. “I’ve been reading about skiing.”
“Skiing?” asked Mr. Mulligan, now completely perplexed. “Isn’t that a Swiss sport or something? Nobody would be interested in this country.”
When Clementine spoke, everyone paid attention. “A magnificent exclusive year-round hotel! Summer sports. Dancing. Gowns. Jewels. Pretty, entertaining young … ladies. Shops, such as they have in Paris. Boutiques …”
“Shops, in a hotel?” asked Mr. Mulligan, floundering.
“Indeed, Pat. An exquisite restaurant. Wine cellars. Promenades, with a view. Tennis courts. Entertainers from New York. Hairdressers. Fashions. Oh, I see it all! Pennsylvania never had such a thing before! A whole center in itself! Who would need a city nearby? And, of course, the elite in Belleville and the surrounding towns and country would be lured there also. And people would come from New York, as well as Pittsburgh and Philadelphia. And even from Virginia. Just as they go down to Palm Beach. Flager did a wonderful job there, Pat. Built in the very middle of a jungle and marshes. People laughed at him. Now they are laughing on the other side of their faces. They could have bought the land. One must use one’s intelligence …”
She saw the hotel she had in mind in a glorious fantasy. Four or five stories high, gorgeous suites, a ballroom, an arcade filled with expensive shops, soft green grass and gardens and grottoes and fountains, discreet dining rooms, luscious food, moonlight dancing, elegance, a small theater, a pool for swimming, tennis courts, rooms for gaming, a gracious European atmosphere. There were ten acres beyond the Shoulder. She would speak to Mr. Sunderland tonight. A golf course. Golf was becoming fashionable.
Mrs. Lindon was too pragmatic to be entranced by mere visions. She had it all laid out in her practical mind. It only needed financing. And experience. She looked fondly at Mr. Mulligan.
“No children,” she said. “A resort hotel such as I have in mind would be no place for children. Children do dirty up beauty and elegance. And the people who would come would not like the presence of screechers.”
“But resort hotels always mention they are good for children,” said Mr. Mulligan, who felt he was quite out of his depth. What would a summer resort be without children?
“Does it ever occur to you, Dear Pat,” said Clementine, “that not all people want the presence of children? No children are admitted to Delmonico’s in New York, or other famous establishments. They belong in nurseries and schools, not the sort of resort hotel I have in mind.” She coughed delicately. “And the gentlemen. They are often in flight from wives and children. They would be guests of the hotel.”
Oh, no, thought Mr. Mulligan. Not a gilded brothel!
“The fine wives of New York, and their husbands, would find such a hotel a lovely escape from city life and families,” said Clementine. Mr. Mulligan felt appeased, but still was uneasy.
“We could invite French designers,” said Clementine. “To show their offerings.”
They had forgotten Jason. He said, “I own those acres right in the middle, Mrs. Lindon.”
Mrs. Lindon regarded him. “So you do, Jason. Would you consider fifty dollars an acre?”
Jason looked at her long and coldly. “No. I want to be part of this.” He pushed his book toward her. “My grandfather, who lived in England for a time, bought this book.”
Clementine slowly inspected it. “Um,” she said. She had forgotten exteriors and furnishings. Slowly she turned pages, while the gentlemen, fascinated and mute, stared at her intently. Elsa surreptitiously fondled Jason’s knee, and he was oblivious. Loraine widened her blue eyes at him, and he did not see them. They were very perspicacious young ladies. They thought of their savings.
The book concerned Hadley Hall, near Ipswich, and was luminously illustrated by drawings, hand-painted, of its appearance and interior. Built in the latter part of the eighteenth century, it was constructed of a very pale yellow brick and stucco, the center retracted between two large wings. It was two and a half stories high, with latticed windows and a great bronze door in the center, and a red-tiled roof and huge brick chimneys. It was definitely Georgian, but still had a light and airy atmosphere, strong yet not ponderous. Masses of enormous trees were gathered at the side of the wings and reared from the back, though the facade was clear and bright and open. A long straight driveway marched between clipped lawns and flowerbeds.
Clementine turned the pages to the gardens. “Ah,” she said, musing wistfully over red brick paths, grottoes, statues, fountains, flowerbeds of celestial color and beauty and form, topiary trees clipped in whimsical designs, and flowering hedges, and pools in which was reflected the tranquil foliage.
“Yes,” said Clementine very slowly, “I’ve seen this for myself. It’s even more charming. I visited there for nearly two weeks.” No one thought to question her about this, which was just as well, because it was not true. She looked at the others with a sweet smile and passed the book to the gentlemen, who looked on it together, murmuring under their breath in appreciation.
They came upon drawings of the many rooms, some very massively furnished with invaluable antiques, enormous carved staircases, or moldings of silver and gold, painted ceilings, floors like brown mirrors, wideplanked and satiny, pillared doorways with cornices of blue or white or green marble, azure walls or walls of the purest white or the most sanguine red or minty green or pale sapphire, imposing fireplaces with brass andirons, Oriental rugs of subtle and delightful shadings and designs, draperies heavy with tassels and hung over filmy pale silk, portraits and landscapes and seascapes or serene mountains and valleys decorating every free space on the walls, candelabra of glittering silver and chandeliers dripping with prismatic light. There were a library, ballroom, and music room, faultlessly designed and equipped.
“Must have cost millions, millions,” said Mr. Rumpell in a reverent voice. “Of pounds, that is.”
Clementine leaned over to examine a page of text, and her swift eye read it all. “Well, no,” she said. “Five hundred thousand pounds in 1788, which even now would be only four million dollars.”
“Four million dollars,” Mr. Sunderland breathed, even more reverential than Mr. Rumpell.
Mrs. Lindon slapped her jeweled hand loudly on the book. “We can build it for not much less than that on those thirty-two acres on the Shoulder.”
Jason did not hear this. He was dreaming, and his gray eyes were fixed on his dream. For over two years now he had pored over this book, studying the pictures of every room, the garden, the house itself. He thought of great bedrooms, silks, velvets, laces, canopies, commodes, carpets, carved doors, ornate glass lamps, marble bathrooms, a vast dining room with crimson damask walls and a yellow marble fireplace and round tables with gleaming linen and cutlery. He had thought of this, vaguely, but it had not come alive as a possibility until today. Now he looked at the others with passionate eagerness, and Lionel leaned from the doorway, his yellow eyes sparkling.
“There is nothing like it in all of Pennsylvania, perhaps not in all the rest of the country,” said Mrs. Lindon. “Why, presidents could be entertained there! Ambassadors! We could call it …”—she glanced at the text again—“Ipswich House.”
Mr. Sunderland cleared his throat. “There is the matter of money,” he suggested, and wet very red lips under a white mustache.
“And this mansion was built over one hundred and eighteen years ago,” said Mr. Rumpell. “The cost today would be nearer seven million dollars.”
“The Dow Jones averages are going down in the stock market these days,” said the other banker. “Everyone is prophesying a monetary crisis in 1907.”
“Pish,” said Clementine with a large wave of her hand, superbly dismissing the crass talk of money and panics. “You must take the spacious view, gentlemen.” She smiled kindly at Mr. Mulligan, whose mouth had fallen open. “How much can you borrow, Pat?”
“Me?” Mr. Mulligan stuttered. “Five hundred thousand at the most, and that’d include all my assets, I’m thinking. Everything.”
“That’s a good start,” said Clementine briskly. “I can borrow a million or so.” They all knew she was rich, but only the bankers knew of the several lavish and prosperous brothels she owned in Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York, and Washington. Only the bankers knew that judges had respectfully suggested she remove her colorful presence from those cities, in lieu of onerous incarceration. She had left her properties in the very competent—and honest—hands of a gentleman rogue who was wanted in various other cities for some peculations and embezzlements, and whose history only she possessed.
The stout bankers leaned back in their chairs and waited. Clementine turned to them. “Gordon? Edward? What do you say? How much can your banks lend Pat and me? With good interest, of course. Or, you could become partners, using your own money.”
“Clementine …” said Mr. Sunderland, as if she had used a vulgar phrase.
She shrugged. “Well. We can do it, one way or another. We don’t need the whole sum. Dear me. You’ll have to figure those odious things out for yourself.”
Mr. Rumpell wore a glazed expression, and he sweated rather noticeably. “Clementine, dearest, you must be mad.”
“So are the Rockefellers, then, and the Morgans and the Belmonts. Faint hearts never made fortunes, and this could make us incredibly wealthy. Only the best people. The best prices. Discretion guaranteed.”
Mr. Sunderland lifted a meaty palm. “Clementine. This wouldn’t be a … a …” He glanced at the avid young ladies. “Not what you have in mind, my dear. Discreet, yes. Secluded, yes. Refined and cultured, yes. Distinguished, yes.”
“I’m happy to hear some yeses,” said Mrs. Lindon merrily. “How much, Gordon, Edward?”
Mr. Mulligan came to himself. He looked at his two employees. “Jason, Lionel. I think it’s time for you to leave. The Sunday guests will be arriving in about half an hour.” He looked with disapproval first at his watch, then at the young men. “Jason. I’ll forgive your blundering in here in that … cowshed attire, if you leave at once.”
“I think,” said Jason in his firm strong voice, “that you have all forgotten something.”
“And what is that, my lad,” said Mr. Rumpell with condescension.
“I own fourteen acres of land right in the middle of your site. Without my land, all this will come to nothing.”
The bankers glanced quickly at each other. “Very well,” said Mr. Sunderland after a very long and silent pause. “I’ll make you an offer for them. Fifty dollars an acre. A fortune.”
“No,” said Jason. Lionel took a step closer to him.
“Good God, what impudence,” said Mr. Rumpell. “Don’t you realize, young man, that we’ve offered you a lot of money, more money than you’ve ever seen before?”
Jason’s cheeks colored and his gray eyes became like polished stone. “I realize,” he said. “I also realize that nothing can be done up there without my acres. Mr. Schultz knows that. H
e wants my land.” Jason lifted his book. “I’ll let him see this. And I thank you for your interest, and for what I’ve heard you say. You’ve filled in spots I wasn’t certain of, so thank you again.”
The bankers clenched their hands on their knees. “How much, then?”
“I want to be a partner. I want to manage it—under Mr. Mulligan, of course. And I want a chance for Lionel up there, too, as manager of the dining room and kitchens. All under Mr. Mulligan, of course.” He smiled at the confounded Mr. Mulligan like a son.
“Dear me,” said Clementine, whose mind had been going like fireworks and whose thoughts had been as colorful. “Jason does have a point. And I know how competent he is, and how trustworthy, and I know all about Lionel, too. They may be young, but they are sharp. And with Pat managing everything … why, it could be wonderful!”
Mr. Sunderland leaned toward Jason and deliberately let his eyes wander over his oafish clothing, his scoured hands, his dusty workman’s boots, his soiled blue shirt. “I think the less we have to say to this bumpkin, the better,” he said.
“Now, see here,” said Mr. Mulligan. “He’s like a son to me, Jason. You can’t insult the lad like that, in front of me, even though you’re a friend. Jason’s got a damned fine mind, and a lot of character.” He paused, for he was scarlet with anger. “And Lionel, here. You couldn’t get a better boy in any of your fancy cities, to do what he does.” His brogue had thickened.
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