Answer as a Man

by Taylor Caldwell

  Jason turned his head and saw that his sister, who was next to him, was amusedly watching Patricia, and the amusement was not kind. Jason became angry. He glared at Joan, and feeling his look, she turned to him with a smooth inquiring face. He looked away. His glass was miraculously filled again, and he lifted it. Then he felt a cold warning in himself, and he put the glass down. He turned his eyes to Chauncey and Anita. They were too urbane, too easy, too casual—weren’t they? Jason pushed his glass of whiskey farther away. What had Chauncey Schofield to do with Lionel? He was not a man to waste time, Jason had judged. “Enterprises!”

  Jason caught Chauncey’s attention. “Just what are ‘enterprises’?” he asked. Chauncey looked politely surprised. He said, smiling his charming and seductive smile, “Everything. Finance. Managing the investments of others. Investing in property for myself and others. Politics. Development of land.” He waved an elegant hand. “Everything.”

  “In Belleville?” Jason’s smile was dour.

  “Not quite, though there are possibilities here. I was a guest a short time ago at Ipswich House. I was much impressed. Wonderful. An innovation. I hear you arranged it all … Jason.”

  Jason said nothing to that, and his stare became more piercing. “What possibilities?” he asked.

  Chauncey looked down the table. “Well, I must confess something. I stopped at Ipswich House three years ago on the way South. Very much impressed. So I brought Anita here for another few days. We didn’t see you then … Jason. She was so delighted, she fell in love with Belleville. Rural, in a way, and she was brought up on a large farm near Boston. Quaint, she said, and wanted to live here, away from the noise and bustle of the city. A sort of refuge for her and Elizabeth. Once we moved, I began to think Belleville did have possibilities.”

  “Such as what?”

  Chauncey involuntarily glanced again at Lionel, who kept his face without expression. Then he shrugged. “I get ‘feelings.’ Sometimes they’re right, sometimes they are wrong. We’ll see. In the meantime, we are enjoying living here. At least Anita and Elizabeth enjoy it; I do, too, on visits. I have my main offices in New York and Philadelphia and just … dabble here, for my own amusement.”

  Jason took up his glass of whiskey and drank it swiftly. He became aware that everyone was watching him now and not speaking.

  “Dabble … in what?” said Jason.

  “Nature.” Chauncey laughed. “I like to hunt and fish and boat on the river and watch the people. So simple, so without complications. So … sincere.”

  “What makes you think they are?”

  “Jason,” said Patricia in a quelling tone; her eyes were glazed the way they often were, lately, especially after her luncheons.

  “I’m a city boy,” said Chauncey. “Perhaps I’m imagining simplicity and honesty here.”

  “You are,” said Jason. His tone was heavy. “Small towns are quite as vicious as the cities.”

  “How do you know that?” cried Patricia, and her intoxication made her voice too loud, almost fierce. “You almost never go to Philadelphia or New York! You imprison me here in this awful town, with nothing worthwhile to do!”

  “Patricia,” said Jason.

  She glowered at him. “No opera here, no concerts, no symphonies! Nothing. Only dull, stupid people. No class, no style, no fashion. Dull, dull, dull!” She hit the table with a clenched fist. “I hate it.”

  “Patricia,” he said again, and this time—and for the first time ever with Patricia—his tone was formidable. She looked at him in half-drunken stupefaction, then turned to Lionel as if for protection. But he kept his face averted, thoughtful. Joan was watching; a Mona Lisa smile curled her mouth, and it was cruel.

  Lionel thought it time to direct the conversation. “Among other things, Jase, Chauncey is becoming interested in the hotel business. After seeing Ipswich House.”

  Chauncey looked eager and boyish. “Yes! Since seeing your hotel, Jason, I’ve bought over one thousand acres in the Poconos, nearer to New York by eighteen miles or so.”

  “To build your own hotel?” One thousand acres!

  “I’ve thought of it. A different kind of hotel. I can get the financing from New York. A grand hotel, such as they have in Europe. If it works out, I am going to call it Honeymoon Haven.”

  “Marvelous!” exclaimed Mrs. Schofield, and clapped her hands. “Chauncey, dearest, you never told me about that!”

  “Honeymoon Haven?” said Jason, making a mouth. “What does that mean?”

  “Well, sir, something different. There are family hotels in Pennsylvania. And Ipswich House, which is unique.” Chauncey looked very disarming and earnest. “A refuge for tired businessmen. And their … wives. To renew their first … love.”

  “Ipswich House isn’t a family hotel, Mr. Schofield.”

  “I know that! That’s what interests me, that’s what inspired my idea! A grand hotel, very large, very luxurious, very sophisticated, and easy for New York men to reach. Ipswich House inspired me. But I thought on a far bigger scale. The railroad is already near my land. I intend a real palace!” He looked down for a moment. “I hope it doesn’t seriously interfere with Ipswich House, which, of course, is considerably farther from New York and more inconvenient to reach.”

  Ah, thought Jason. He said, “Do you know how much your hotel will cost?”

  Chauncey looked rueful. “I know, I know. It’ll be millions, at least twenty. I’ve raised eight.”

  “You don’t use your own money?”

  Chauncey laughed. “There are three classes of entrepreneurs who never use their own money—thieves, bankers, and private investors!”

  Jason wanted to ask him in which category he placed himself, but decided that was too rude. He returned to the subject of the new hotel. “Honeymoon Haven. Sounds like a cathouse to me.” He smiled. “A great big luxurious, stylish cathouse.”

  “Jase,” said Lionel. “Ladies present.”

  “Never mind, Lionel,” Chauncey said with humor. “We know what we are talking about, even if the ladies don’t. Jason, I hear Ipswich House isn’t entirely pure. I have friends who come here—with ladies of the moment. Very discreet.”

  “But you don’t intend to be discreet.”

  “Jason, this is a new era. We’ll advertise carefully. Come on. Men are men. You should know that. But there’ll be nothing vulgar about my hotel. Everything very elegant and very costly. Tired businessmen deserve that. It’ll be very expensive, very, to keep the lugs out.”

  “Men like Diamond Jim Brady, of course.”

  Chauncey showed all his white teeth. “If they can pay, who cares?”

  “Do you intend to recruit … the ladies too?”

  There was a silence. Lionel and Chauncey looked quickly at each other. Then Chauncey said, “Hardly. I don’t know what you’re thinking, Jason.”

  “Yes, you do. I think it’s disgusting.” He added, “You’ll never be, able to do that in Pennsylvania. We’re very moral here.”

  Chauncey gave his charming smile and rubbed his fingers together. “I have friends among the state senators who are all for progress.”

  “Progress to what?”

  “To admitting human nature.”

  “And confessing we are not above the beasts of the field?”

  “Well, are we?” Chauncey winked, and Jason wanted to hit him.

  He said, “I’ve heard about some of the big cities. The gentlemen see their wives safely to bed, and then they go out. To places where they have young girls, eight and ten years old, who are chloroformed so their screams of agony can’t be heard outside the bedrooms. Sold, like cattle, for money, by their parents. Ruined, even crippled, for life. Often they die of their injuries.…”

  “Do you really have to talk like that?” shouted Patricia, shuddering. “I don’t believe a word of it!”

  “Life is hard, Patricia,” said Jason. “My grandfather, may he rest in peace, told me much of this world, and the men in it. I thought, sometimes,
that he was exaggerating. I don’t now. Not since tonight.”

  “So unchristian!” wailed Patricia.

  “It always was, Patricia. Someone once said, ‘There was only one Christian, and he was crucified.’ Patricia, you don’t look well. Shall we excuse ourselves and go?”

  “I meant you were unchristian, Jason! So uncharitable. Misinterpreting what was said here.”

  “Shall we go?”

  “No,” she whimpered. “Let’s talk of something pleasant.”

  Joan exchanged a look with Lionel. Chauncey sighed. He said to Lionel, “Tell Jason, please.”

  Lionel said, his yellow eyes intent, “Jason, I’ve invested twenty thousand dollars in Chauncey’s new venture. He’s talked to the bankers here. They are willing to lend him two million. And the banks in Philadelphia and New York are negotiating. They think it is a very profitable idea.”

  “They would,” said Jason, and pushed back his chair.

  “Bankers are in business to make money. They’re not here to watch public morality.”

  “I know. Patricia?”

  But Lionel said, “We thought you might like to invest too, Jason.”

  Jason was incredulous. He stared at his brother-in-law. “I? Are you insane?”

  Chauncey lifted his hand placatingly. “All right. Jason doesn’t want to invest. He doesn’t want to be rich. He’s a simple man; no greed for money. Let it go at that.”

  There’s something else, thought Jason, and pulled up his chair again.

  “Well,” said Chauncey, “perhaps you don’t need to worry, Jason, and have your morality offended. But there is that one thousand acres we own. Next to it is another thousand, even more desirable. We need them.”

  Ah, thought Jason.

  “But we don’t know who owns them. We’ve tried to find out. They’re registered under the name of the Brothers Company. We can’t find out who the Brothers are. We thought perhaps that you might know.”

  Jason kept his face expressionless. He thought of what Patrick had bought. No one was to know. Of course, there was a large mortgage on it, but the lenders agreed to secrecy. Why Patrick had insisted on this, Jason had never learned. Had he known about Chauncey Schofield? Patrick had said, “You’ve a fine mind, Jason. I’ve left it all to you. Yes, it’s a risk, with all we own in Belleville. Kept it from the banks here. Don’t talk. But it’ll be yours, Jason, all of it, when I’m dead.”

  Jason said, “I don’t know who owns that property and I don’t care. And I couldn’t invest in your hotel, Mr. Schofield. I doubt I could raise a hundred thousand dollars. We owe everything and everybody.”

  “But you’re building a new hotel forty miles from here.”

  “Already heavily mortgaged.”

  “You’ve a reputation for hotel business, Jason. I’ve heard that all over.”

  So, they want me, too, for their rich whorehouse. Jason smiled, and it was a forbidding smile. “I’m glad to hear I have a good reputation. It is worth something in the banks—who own us at present. But not for long. Patricia?”

  “But there is dessert,” said Joan, speaking for the first time. “A special dessert. Patricia’s favorite.”

  “What is it, Joan?” Patricia was immediately absorbed.

  “English trifle.”

  Patricia threw up her hands. “Oh, good, good!”

  “Patricia?” said Jason, and his face was set.

  Mrs. Schofield leaned toward him. “Jason, dear, don’t deprive the dear girl of a treat. You businessmen are always in such a hurry. And I love trifle too.”

  Jason looked at the two men present. “I don’t,” he said, and stood up. “Patricia. We are leaving now.”

  He was dismayed. Did they suspect who owned those other thousand acres? If so, how had the information leaked? He must talk to Patrick immediately.

  19

  “I told you he was a man of principle and narrow prejudices,” said Lionel when he and Chauncey sat alone in the library.

  “I also told you he is exactly what we need. A man of principle. Who’d suspect anything then?”

  “Well, you aren’t going to get him, Chauncey.”

  Chauncey laughed. “There are … pressures. No one can resist the pressures. It’ll take some time. Perhaps years. But we’re young.” He lit a cigar. “And we’ll get that acreage, too.”

  “Are you sure about that land?”

  Chauncey reflected. “Pretty sure. My information was guaranteed authentic.”

  “He usually tells me everything,” said Lionel, hurt.

  Chauncey roared in laughter. “This time he didn’t!” He added, “Of course, I could be mistaken. It’ll take some time to investigate more thoroughly.”

  Later that night, in bed, after a rapturous half-hour, Joan said to Lionel, “We all know my brother. He should have been the priest, not Jack. What a fool Jason is! He sounded like a Christian Brother, and he doesn’t go to Mass.”

  “Well, Joan my love, an Irishman can take himself out of the Church, but you can’t take the Church out of an Irishman.”

  “You succeeded, my darling.”

  “But I’m different.” He ran his hands passionately over her small body, and she clung to him.

  “Thank something-or-other for that,” she said, and began to gasp.

  She had a breast like a white dove. Lionel nestled against it, moaning. Joan, Joan, he thought. For a while he forgot everything but his wife.

  “I have never seen or heard anything so rude in all my life,” Patricia sobbed on the way home.

  “You’re still young, old girl,” said Jason. “You’ll learn someday.”

  “There’s nothing I want to learn from you! Such a display of ill-breeding and crudeness, to say the least! And to important, superior people like the Schofields, who know everyone!” Her sobs grew louder and tears poured down her cheeks.

  Usually her reproaches would make Jason immediately contrite and he would exhaust himself begging her pardon over and over and calling himself a brute. But tonight he did not feel one twinge of regret or concern over offending her. He was startled at this, and hardly heard her continuing diatribes of shame, anger, and contempt. Something had caught his ear in her voice, and he wondered about it. He had heard this slurring before when they had gone out or after she had visited her friends for lunch, and he had thought it “mere nerves.” But—and it came to him like a cold shock—he had heard that blurring of words in taverns and in Mrs. Lindon’s house.

  It was the voice of drunkenness, stumbling over multi-syllabic words. He also recalled, again with shock, that Patricia’s face, after going out, would look quite bloated, her eyes glazed, her lips wet, and that her irritability, always so close to the surface at the best of times, would become more shrill, more emphatic. She would scream like a Fury then, insulting beyond reason, and her laughter, not merry, would be as ear-shattering as the ripping of metal.

  Patricia, drunk? What had she had? Only two little glasses of sherry and two glasses of wine at dinner. Not enough to make even a teetotaler tipsy. How often, he thought with a new coldness, had she been … like that? Too many times, and it had been getting worse lately. Surely not. Wasn’t she always making disdainful remarks about her father’s drinking? Didn’t she call “strong spirits” the drink of the unlettered and generally worthless? As for a woman who drank, such a person was not to be mentioned by ladies, since drink was probably the least of her sins. No lady “drank,” except for a small glass of sherry before dinner or a little wine with the dinner itself. Though gentlemen drank strong spirits … well, gentlemen were gentlemen—if they kept it all within bounds and did not become coarse in the presence of ladies. Even then, it was hardly admirable.

  Jason had never been particularly tactful; he was too honest for that. He said in an incredulous voice, “Patricia, have you … have you … been drinking whiskey?”

  “What?” she said, wiping her dripping eyes. “What did you say, interrupting me?”

  “Whisk
ey, Patricia. Did you have any whiskey tonight?” He was horrified at his very words.

  There was a sharp silence. Patricia’s wet eyes blinked. Of course she had not had any whiskey, for God’s sake! Two little sherries, one or two glasses of wine. Her affront made her speechless. Then, in more of a rage than she had ever felt, she clenched her thin hand into a fist and struck Jason on the arm, crying out in horror and insult, “How dare you, how dare you, you beast! Wait until I tell Dada!” She had turned to him on the seat of the car, and a wind whipped her breath to him. The unmistakable sour odor of whiskey.

  “Patricia,” he said, “you are lying.”

  She raised her hand to strike him again, and her white face was fiendish in the passing lamplight. “Oh, you monster!” she cried. He caught the hand flailing at his face and almost crushed it in his grip, for he was both enraged and terribly afraid. A drunken man was to be held in contempt. A drunken woman was to be both pitied and despised.

  Patricia’s screaming voice flew along the street in rattling echoes. “I never even tasted whiskey in all my life, except once when I was eight years old and had a toothache and Dada poured a spoonful of it on the tooth! Never before, never since! You … you …”

  Her breath struck him again, the sour effluvia assailed him, stronger than ever. Yet, there was verity in her voice. Patricia was a very poor liar; she lacked the imagination. Again Jason was jolted. But he could not understand. There was only one solution; someone had been giving it to her without her knowledge. Lionel. Why?

  This time the shock was physically as well as mentally painful. He was hurt enough at Lionel’s implied interest in the “rich whorehouse.” He had not once come to Jason’s aid, nor had he agreed with him tonight. He had only watched and listened, his yellow eyes jumping with secret hilarity. Jason had thought the hilarity was directed at Chauncey. No, he told himself now with increasing pain and a sense of awful bereavement. It was at me. My friend. He was making fun of me, in his mind. Jason’s grief was nearly as overwhelming as at Bernard’s death.

  He almost collided with a tree, and Patricia screamed, “It’s you who’s drunk, or mad! You just about killed us then! You’re insane.”