“Gold?”
“Zev. Not gold. But good as gold. He found for me a syndicate. A syndicate making big money in the stock market. And you know what? It makes for the investor ten percent a week. I put all the interest back in and can you imagine what is happening? In the three weeks, me, I made almost thirty dollars on my investment.”
“Thirty dollars? A fortune!” That was as much as Zev used to make in an entire year in the old country. Zev locked onto the numbers and instantly realized Solly would have had to have invested the fantastic amount of almost one hundred dollars to make that kind of interest. It was an astounding story. “Good for you to be so lucky. Must be a big risk to make that kind of money.”
Solly stopped for a moment as though hoping to learn something from Zev and then angled closer to draw him into his secret. Max was right. Hard working, struggling immigrants like Zev would sell the investment scheme for him if he played it right.
“Zev. You are smart with money. You could be rich on this.”
“What are you saying? Rich?” Zev laughed. “Solly, a man like me has only the money he can earn with his own hands. I don’t have that kind of luck that is given special to people like you.”
“Zev, this is not luck. This is good business. It is called the Franklin Syndicate. It is advertised in the newspapers. My brother found the place and he looked into it. He’s careful, my brother. Very good in business. So, Max learns this very smart young man named Miller runs it. Max invested, he made good money and he says it is legitimate. He told me and now I am telling you. You should try. I only tell you because I know you have plans to move to your own house and to bring your niece to Canada. Zev. Think about this. You could be owning your own house, completely paid, in no time. And now, you know what Max tells me? People are making so much money in New York they are selling their businesses and retiring. Imagine that!”
Solly turned his attention to his drink to let Zev absorb the dream. Then he raised his eyes and looked into Zev’s flushed face. “Zev. Here’s what I am going to do for you. I will connect you with the syndicate as a special favor, only to accept just a small fee for my service for this. What do you say?”
Zev laughed.
Solly held his hands wide and appeared insulted. “You laugh? You pass on ten percent?”
“Ten percent a week?” Zev shook his head. “Who pays ten percent a week?”
“Yes. I know it sounds like crazy talk. But I have the money to prove it is true. Minimum investment is ten dollars.”
“That is a lot of money for me to invest, Solly.” Zev hunched his bony shoulders into his neck and looked about to see who might be listening.
Solly breathed deeply and spread his arms wide on the table. “Why should it be only the big shots in New York like that Carnegie and J.P. Morgan and Rockefeller that make the money? Why not the boys in Winnipeg, too, Zev? You think about it. I only mention this to you because I like you. You are a good peddler and always fair with me. I appreciate it when you find me deals when I need something. This time, I can find for you a deal. But, I understand. Maybe your missus is not so happy to have money invested. Still, you think about it. I am wiring again my money to New York next week. You let me know.” Solly’s large hand patted Zev’s knobby shoulder as he left the table.
The bait found its mark. Excitement built in Zev as he ate his herring and toyed with the idea. By the time he returned to the steam for his second sweat, his mind was swirling with the thought of the money he could make. Numbers ran in his head as he calculated what ten percent a week would make for him over just a few weeks. He picked up the pail of cold water and dumped it on his head. It could be a small investment. Then again, a bigger amount would perhaps make a year’s wages in just a few months. But, there was risk. All investment had risk. Hannah would never approve. It was ridiculous to even think about it, and he shoved it from his mind.
Zev wasn’t the only one who had been taken into a whispered conversation with Solly. Very soon, people at the steam bath started bragging about overnight riches they had made through Solly’s connections in New York. This was the golden land they had been promised and gold was landing on people all around Zev. He was tormented every time he thought about it. But it was only when that zhlub Zonigbaum boasted that he had made seventy dollars that Zev made up his mind to get into the game.
What was there to lose? Should Zev Zigman be the only one not to benefit from the riches that came without work?
He worried about what Hannah would think and was immediately reminded of Solly’s biting comment. Could he not make a decision without his wife’s involvement? His mind was made up.
Five weeks later, with a newly delivered wad of cash in his pocket, he went to the Busy Bee dry goods store on Main Street. When Hannah saw her husband and sons unloading her new cook stove, months earlier than the date she had circled on her calendar, she cried for joy and showered Zev with kisses.
He almost told her about the syndicate, but decided the time wasn’t right. At the rate he was investing, by the end of the year, he would have enough to pay for Malka’s ticket to Winnipeg, and he could soon start thinking of building a house on Selkirk Avenue.
The Zigmans were on the path to a wealthy future.
Chapter Sixteen
The Invitation
November 9, 1899
Beth was deep in concentration, scrutinizing a list of names as she wandered into the front hall and came upon Mr. Chadwick.
“Mr. Chadwick, has Mr. Willows returned from his appointment?”
“Yes, madam. He is in the library. I believe he is engaged on the telephone,” answered the butler.
“Oh, dear. That dratted invention is going to ruin our lives. Well, please do tell him I need a few minutes of his time in the drawing room when he has finished his conversation. I must make arrangements for our upcoming dinner party, and I cannot do a single thing until he confirms the guest list.”
“Of course, madam.”
“Oh, and would you please tell Mrs. Butterfield to send in my tea. No crumpets, today, thank you.”
“Right away, Mrs. Willows.”
Beth shook her head in dismay. She could hardly keep up with her obligations, with her husband’s demanding social calendar. One dinner party after another seemed to be on their schedule. And what benefit had they reaped for all their trouble? Had the favors been returned? Had Mrs. Willows ever been invited to the Lieutenant Governor’s home to drink tea with the society divas? On how many guest lists did the name Willows appear? Did Lady Ashbury even know her name, let alone consider adding it to her social registry?
Lady Ashbury was the most influential of the society women in Winnipeg. Her Blue List, as it was called, was the only one that mattered. To be named to the list was seen as the golden key to all the society functions in Winnipeg. For Beth, however, the celebrated doyenne was impossible. She had turned down three invitations from the Willows in the past eighteen months and Beth knew there was no point in punishing herself further. The name Ashbury was off the list at the Willows home.
It didn’t matter what Rupert said about it. Two years of building up their social circle one invitation at a time and they had yet to break through to the Ashbury blue list. You would think that their efforts would have at least yielded the coveted invitation to join the Board of Trade that Rupert was so determined to have. What on earth were they doing wrong?
“Mrs. Willows, will you care for anything other than the tea?” Mrs. Butterfield carefully placed the tray with the pot of tea and china cup and saucer on the table near the window as Beth looked up from her embroidery.
“Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Butterfield. I am afraid I won’t be able to get into my ball gowns when we sail to London. I do so enjoy your pastries. Too much, I am afraid.” As she was about to turn back to her lists, a thought suddenly occurred to Beth. “Mrs. Butterfield, may I have a moment of your time?”
“Certainly, ma’am.” Mrs. Butterfield felt her cheeks flushing. Wha
t fresh trouble could this be?
“With all the entertaining Mr. Willows intends to do in the New Year—the new century, as he keeps reminding me—I think we may find ourselves inadequately prepared for larger parties, and I am wondering if you think there might be a maid or two that we should add to our staff. Only the best qualified, you understand. They must have had excellent training, preferably in London, of course. I’ve heard that our neighbor, Mrs. MacDonald, is moving back to Toronto. Do you think any of her girls are worth bringing here?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Butterfield answered more quickly than necessary, still shamed that she had lied about her own credentials. “Yes, ma’am. There are two girls who come to mind. Shall I arrange to have them come by?”
“Yes. But please do be exceedingly discreet. I would like Mr. Chadwick to speak with them on your recommendation to be sure they would be a proper fit in our house, of course.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“That will be all.”
There was a light knocking, and Mr. Chadwick arrived carrying his silver tray.
“Excuse me, Mrs. Willows,” he spoke softly. “A letter has arrived from Redwood House to your attention.”
Beth picked up the envelope and smiled.
“Thank you, Mr. Chadwick.” She looked at the clock again. “Please, do go find out when my husband expects to be able to see me.”
Alone, she turned the letter over and saw the elegant seal. It was larger than a thank you note, so could it be an invitation? She reached for her letter opener and gently broke through the red wax. Her eyes opened wide and she raised a dainty hand to her mouth, suddenly filled with delight. She started to giggle.
She heard Rupert before she saw him. Bellowing his way through the door, he strode impatiently toward her.
“Beth, I don’t know why you think every matter regarding every party has to be approved by me. I have a business to run, you are aware.”
She jumped out of her chair and threw her arms around him. “Oh, Rupert, I’m so sorry to be such a bother.”
Puzzled at her gleeful welcome, he reigned in his temper. Feeling a wee bit churlish for having been so quick to shout at her, he responded, “Do pardon my rudeness, darling. Now, what it is it?”
“Care for tea?” Her eyes twinkled with happiness.
“Brandy.”
“I’ll ring.”
“No, Beth, let me do it.”
“Oh, please let me ring for him. It’s my turn.” Beth enjoyed the secret game Rupert had created. To amuse himself and his guests, Rupert had worked out a code in ringing for Chadwick so that the butler would know what beverage to bring and how many to serve. The buttons were hidden in strategic locations throughout the house and the bells rang below stairs, never to be heard by the guests. It became utterly complicated when Mr. Chadwick was not within hearing range of the bells, for it set off an awkward chain of communication. Rupert had been known to laugh uproariously at the sight of a kitchen maid dashing through the main corridor in search of the butler.
Chadwick detested the ringing game. Aside from the inconvenience, he thought the little pretense so boorishly American he could hardly bear it. But, if that’s what his master wanted, that is what he would have, though it made the butler cringe at being treated like an organ grinder’s monkey every time he heard the bells ring out their cheery little tunes.
Comfortably seated with his brandy, Rupert gave his full attention to his wife. “Now what could possibly so brighten your mood on a gloomy, icy November day?”
“A party. A party to celebrate the ringing in of the New Year. You will never guess who is hosting it.”
“The Ashburys?”
“Don’t be silly. They’ll be in New York. Guess again.”
“The Queen of England?”
“Oh, Rupert, don’t be ridiculous. The invitation is from Redwood House! Can you imagine? We’ve finally been invited to be guests of the Drewrys.”
Rupert was enormously pleased. “Well, how positively splendid. That will be quite an event, I can assure you. I’ve heard stories at the club about his wonderful parties and stunning guest list.”
“It’s very unusual, Rupert. Not only have we been invited, but the invitation has been extended to our children! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
“Edward Drewry is a very unusual man, and an excellent member of City Council. He could care less about doing what everyone else does. He makes his own social rules and from what I hear, his entertainments and celebrations are second to none. Why, the debutante balls he has hosted have been noted as being the most lively and extravagant events in town.”
Beth laughed. “Oh, Rupert, do you still read those society columns?”
“Well, certainly I do, my sweet lady. As to why our children have been invited, just consider this for a moment. We have very attractive children,” he said, thinking of his own good looks. “I think Drewry and his wife believe there is great worth in bringing the young people together to meet each other at such a celebratory social occasion. To do this when the parents are about gives everyone an opportunity to see what matches might be made in the future. You see? Our sons will no doubt add to the atmosphere of the party. Alfred and James are soon going to be of marriageable age. Alfred is doing well in the business, and James will be a doctor in some years. Elliot is clearly the best looking of the three, though still a bit young for the matrons to take seriously for their marriageable daughters. I daresay it is likely because of our sons that we have been invited at all, don’t you see?”
“Hmm. I see what you mean. They’ve even made special mention of Emma. Don’t you find that odd?”
“Why should I? Just look to her classmates at Havergal. There are benefits in having her enrolled in an exclusive school and this is one of them. It is certain that many of the school families will be invited as well. I think it’s going to be a very important evening.”
Beth smiled. “I have just the right dress to wear!” Beth smiled.
“Perhaps.” Rupert held his hand up to slow her pace. “I want a full inventory of every last stitch of clothing that you propose will be on each member of this family. Can you do that by next week?”
Beth twirled with excitement and threw her arms open. “Oh, Rupert, I do think we have finally arrived!”
Chapter Seventeen
The Franklin Syndicate
November 16, 1899
The hot summer had run too quickly into fall and the short weeks of autumn had disappeared; suddenly it was mid-November. An overnight snowfall announced that winter had arrived and intended to stay. The city was transformed into an expanse of white, with grey wooden houses in neat rows. Spindly dark trees, denuded of their summer splendor, poked out along the roadway.
Zev breathed in deeply, comforted by the quiet. He relished the still blue dawn as he loaded his wagon. This was honest work and he took solace in the fact he still had a taste for it. He was heading out to Gimli, a fishing village fifty miles north on Lake Winnipeg. He looked forward to the long ride ahead, badly needing some time alone to wrestle with his conscience.
In Gimli, he would meet Mr. Gislason, who would buy all of the household goods loaded on Zev’s wagon and in return would sell him a shipment of whitefish and pickerel, packed in ice, for Zev to bring back to the city. Throughout the winter, he had a standing appointment with the fisherman; he knew that if he was late, the fish would be sold to someone else.
He thought of Hannah and the restaurant. She would hardly miss him with all her work. In fact, she was probably happy he’d be out of the house for a few days, with the way things were at home.
Hannah was very pleased with her new stove and the ease it brought in cooking large quantities of food. Over the summer months, word had gone around about the tasty meals served by the lively Mrs. Zigman, and the café had a growing number of regular visitors. To Zev, the venture’s immediate value was the change it brought in his wife. Her dark spells had been pushed aside by her new en
terprise. She bustled through her long workday, bossing around both her children and her customers, seemingly energized by the praise for her hearty meals.
Her optimism was infectious. It had brightened the spirits of the entire family. When Mama was in a good mood, everyone was in a good mood. Hannah was already working on new ways to expand her business. Pestered with requests, she was now planning to make soups and bread for take-away customers who would bring their empty jars to the kitchen door for her to fill them.
They were a long way from being rich, but they were no longer as dirt poor as they had been in their early years.
Every week throughout the summer, Hannah made great ceremony of presenting her profits to Zev, stacking the neat piles of coins in front of her at their tiny kitchen table.
“I cook, you count the money!” she joked as she pushed the coins across to him, listening with pride to his reports of how much money they had put away. Then suddenly, the ritual stopped. Zev made excuses about time, but there was so much more to it. He had created a terrible problem and it was ruining him. Now, he was the one who carried the dark mood as 1899 was drawing to a close.
For the first time in all of his years with Hannah, he had allowed an odious secret to be wedged into their marriage. He had started lying to Hannah in the spring, about two weeks after Solly Silverstein had first told him of the Franklin Syndicate. He remembered the look in her eyes. There was a small question in her glance, but nothing more. With money hidden deep in his pocket, he told her he was going to the fishmonger. In fact, he was on his way to see Solly. His reason for lying was not complicated. He knew she wouldn’t like the idea of investing in Wall Street and he didn’t want to have to defend his decision. He wanted to make money, like everyone else was doing. According to Solly, immigrants all over North America were making money on the investment plan. As for his keeping it from Hannah, Zev rationalized that it wasn’t entirely a lie, just a deception. But he knew what she would say and how strongly she would object to it. This is what was eating at him. She would consider it gambling, plain and simple. Money came only from the hard work that passed through their hands, she would say. She didn’t trust banks, and she certainly was not going to have any confidence in the stock market.
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