‘Promise.’
Henry nodded. ‘All right,’ he said.
‘All right what?’ she persisted.
‘All right, I’ll never leave you. Now, please.’
She lifted her face to him, and it was clear she expected him to kiss her. That big, pale face, wet with tears. He closed his eyes and did as she demanded, although it was like nothing more than bending forward at table and pressing his face into a cold white blancmange. Then he moved her away from him, and said, ‘Why don’t you change...put on that pink gown I bought you in Denver...then we can go to the Grand for something to eat...you know—and Mr Dunkley here can tell us what ideas he has in mind for a house.’
‘You promised,’ she reminded him.
‘Yes,’ he said, and gave her a smile that was actually painful to put on. She curtseyed with an off-balance tilt to Josiah Dunkley and said, ‘Excuse me,’ and left the room as if nothing had happened at all; as if she were still the mistress of the house; and still in charge of her husband’s heart.
Josiah Dunkley raised his eyebrows at Henry but made no remark. He had built dozens of houses before for the newly wealthy, and with each commission he had seen yet another example of how a huge and sudden influx of riches could break apart a marriage which poverty and dedication had for years kept together. The greatest and most dangerous freedom which wealth brought with it was freedom of emotional expression.
‘Mr Cook’s waiting for you in the store,’ he said; and then let out a little ‘ha!’ which might have been nothing more than a cough, or an explosive clearing of the throat.
Henry said, ‘Thank you,’ and went through; but when he came out from behind the counter it was not Mr Cook who was standing in the dusty sunlight but Mr Hook; in a large black bearskin coat; holding a rifle. His face looked drained and mean and bemused. He could have been a lunatic Russian count, or the owner of a large and dangerous travelling-circus.
‘I came looking for you,’ he said, in a high, accusing contralto.
‘Well, I’m here now,’ Henry told him.
‘But you ran away before, when August was killed.’
‘I didn’t run away, George; I was called to Denver on business.’
‘You ran away, Mr Roberts. You ran away because you were guilty.’
Henry walked into the centre of the floor and stood facing George Hook with his hands in his pockets, his chin confidently tilted upwards. George Hook took one step back, but then remained where he was, staring balefully. He kept the rifle pointed towards the floor, but Henry was in no doubt that if he were to be provoked enough, he would use it. No man went to settle an argument in Leadville, Colorado, carrying a gun: not unless he seriously meant to shoot somebody. It was a wild, raucous, ridiculously wealthy city; and more men and women were killed there in one night than in the rest of the state of Colorado in a month. That was why, when you took your gun with you, you were generally considered to mean business; and you could only expect business in return.
‘It’s my opinion that August was killed on puppus,’ said George. ‘It’s my opinion that he was blowed up deliberate, by you; and by that snake-in-the-grass R.P. Grover.’
‘I hope you realize the gravity of what you’re suggesting,’ said Henry.
‘Oh, you don’t have to talk to me about gravity,’ warned George. He raised his rifle at last, and waved the muzzle about two inches in front of Henry’s nose. ‘Don’t you talk to me about gravity. I’m a prospector, Mr Roberts, and I know all about gravity. Gravity adhesive, gravity specific, and gravity grave. And I know too that what R.P. Grover had to say about August was damned lies and that’s all, on account of August being the least incautious man that ever was, and determined to live to one hundred.’
Henry reached out and grasped the muzzle of the rifle, and directed it away from his face. ‘George,’ he said, quietly, ‘however incautious August was, or wasn’t, the fact remains that he took a risk and blew himself up. Now I’m as sorry as you are; and as grieved as you are; and remember it was me who found his body first, what there was of it. But it was still an accident, whatever you say, and although I stood to gain if August died, believe me I would rather have lost a ninety percent share in the Little Pittsburgh, than lose August; and that’s the whole truth of it.’
George Hook stared at him for a long time, and then at last lowered the rifle. ‘The poor dog died, too, you know. Pined for August, and wouldn’t eat. Then died, that’s all. Within two days, keeled over and died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Henry. He began to feel as if he was going to be saying ‘sorry’ forever, for everything. But all those accusing faces, Augusta’s and George’s and Josiah Dunkley’s and Murray Holman’s and Annabel’s and Edward McLowery’s; all the way back to Mr Paterson, and Doris. How could he have done so little, and yet have to apologize for so much? All he had wanted, really, was to have a quiet life, and a reasonably pretty wife, and enough money to play poker.
George Hook said, ‘You mark my words, Mr Roberts; and mark them good. I’m going to find out the truth of this, whether you killed August or not, whether you knew that he was going to die. And if I find out that you did, then you can also mark my promise that you’re going to suffer; and when I say suffer I mean suffer real bad, the way that August did.’
He said no more; but turned and walked out of the store, leaving the door open behind him. Henry stood where he was for a very long time, but then at last stepped forward and closed the door in much the same quiet, proprietorial way that any shopkeeper would have done. But then he rested his back against the door, and stood there with his hand covering the lower part of his face, and neither moved nor spoke for nearly a minute, his eyes clouded with indecision, and guilt, and perplexity that this should all have happened to him.
Josiah Dunkley was standing not far away, eating roasted peanuts.
‘These are fine,’ he remarked when Henry turned and caught him with his mouth full.
‘You go ahead and take as many as you want,’ said Henry, without even hearing himself. ‘Right now, I’m going to get changed for dinner. I want you to tell Augusta everything you told me about the house.’
‘You mean Roberts Lodge, Mr Roberts?’
Henry came over and slapped him quite hard on the back. Josiah wheezed, but then smiled. ‘Please don’t do that again,’ he said. ‘It always brings on my coughing.’ Henry resisted the urge to say ‘I’m sorry,’ but simply grimaced. ‘We all have afflictions, Mr Dunkley. If you ask me, they’re sent down by God, in order to make us better people.’
‘I’d still prefer it, sir, if you wouldn’t slap me on the back.’
Henry didn’t know what to say to that, but grasped Josiah Dunkley’s fat padded shoulder, and squeezed it in what he hoped what would be taken as a gesture of professional intimacy. ‘Tempt her with it, won’t you?’ he urged. ‘Make it sound grand, but practical. She’s not the kind of woman who holds with anything lavish. Tell her how modest it’s going to be, compared with the Phipps’ house; or Sam Hallett’s place. Talk about taste, and discretion. She’s a plain woman, Mr Dunkley.’
‘Yes,’ replied Josiah Dunkley. ‘I see that.’
Henry pursed his lips uneasily, and then said, ‘I still haven’t found you a whiskey, have I?’
Josiah Dunkley said nothing, but crushed another peanut shell between finger and thumb, and regarded Henry with suspicious steadiness.
‘There’s, umh, a bottle around here someplace,’ said Henry.
The three of them dined that evening at the Grand Hotel on Chestnut Street; and while Augusta prissily filleted a sole, and Henry toyed with a steak that he hadn’t wanted to begin with, Josiah Dunkley dismantled a brace of squab with one greasy hand while with the other hand he shuffled through the sketches and plans which he had prepared for the eventual creation of Roberts Lodge. ‘Or Roberts Hall, or Trebizond, or whatever you wish to call it.’
Although the underlying theme of the house was strongly Versailles, Dunkley had gr
atuitously introduced an eclectic assembly of parapets and porticoes and cupolas to embellish it; and the result was so thickly over-decorated that even Henry sat back in his seat and examined it with growing disquiet. Hadn’t Fenchurch always advised him to be ‘sober, and modest, and tasteful if you can’? But here was a house that shouted ‘money’ through a megaphone. To display his wealth with a huge diamond ring was one thing (and he had guiltily taken the precaution of concealing his ring in his valise before his arrival back in Leadville, in case of upsetting Augusta); but to build a mansion like this was beyond any extravagance that he could ever have dreamed of. It was probably a bargain, at an estimated cost of $276,000, especially since it included a galleried library, an orangery, a ballroom, a summer and winter kitchen, and a master bedroom which stretched for over 100 feet, with a balcony outside wide enough to accommodate an orchestra; and especially since the price would also provide for a fully-landscaped garden with orchards, and tiers of marble steps, and rose-bowers, and stone gryphons spouting water, and a fair-sized artificial lake (kidney-shaped, of course) with Venetian bridge. But Henry, for all of his love of showy jewellery and well-cut coats, was still a plain man from Carmington, Vermont, who had never known money; and he couldn’t help feeling unsettled by the blatancy of Josiah Dunkley’s designs. To build this place would be one thing; but to live in it, that would be something else; to step outside each morning into a fantasy of statues and fountains, of topiary and flowers, and to turn and see behind him a palace of gargoyles and urns and sweeping stairs and a thousand glittering windows....
At length, however, it was his hatred of Augusta that decided him. For twenty minutes now, she had been picking at her fish; and what with that, and the bourbon, and the cigar smoke, Henry had been growing increasingly irritable. He leaned forward on the figured-damask tablecloth, and said ‘Mr Dunkley, your designs are choice. Loud, perhaps. But then Leadville herself is loud. A loud city, that deserves loud houses. All we have to remember is that Mrs Roberts here will have to run the house; and make sure that it’s tidy, and organized, and that the silver gets polished. Our present home, as far as I’m concerned, is hers. She cleans it, decorates it, keeps it; yes, and runs the business, too. So if we’re building a new house, one to replace it, then I think that hers should be the final word, don’t you?’
Josiah Dunkley frowned at Henry, and then turned to Augusta and gave her a watery smile. He couldn’t understand for the life of him why Henry was turning over the final decision on ‘Roberts Lodge’ to Augusta; especially after the weeping and the arguments that he had witnessed this afternoon. What he didn’t understand was that Henry was seeking any way in which he could openly split their marriage; any way in which he could show that Augusta failed to understand his ambitions and to appreciate his tastes. Henry knew that Augusta hated the plans for the house. He had lived with her for nearly twenty years, and whenever she looked at something out of the corner of her eyes, gave it that particular shifty sideways glance, she detested it; and she detested these designs. They were vulgar; they were pompous; they were absurdly arrogant. They were designs fit for a miner with too much money, and that miner’s wife.
Josiah Dunkley unhappily shuffled the principal elevations across the dinner-table so that Augusta could see them more clearly. ‘What do you say Mrs Roberts?’ he asked, without taking his worried eyes off Henry.
August slowly unwired her spectacles from around her ears, and peered at the drawings from two to three inches away, her eyes bulging and myopic. She sniffed once loudly, and wiped her nose on her napkin. Henry felt himself wince from his mouth all the way down to his toenails.
‘Well,’ she said, at length, peering unfocused at Henry and Josiah Dunkley, and sniffing again. Taking her glasses off always made her nose fill up. ‘I think the plans are rather pretty. Yes; if you like them, Henry, let’s build.’
Henry stared at Augusta and showed her by his rigid expression what he was thinking. You’re trying to keep me, Augusta; you’re trying to give yourself the false appearance of a broad-minded and agreeable wife, a wife in tune with her husband’s ambitions, just in case I try to make an issue of your insensitivity, and your selfishness. He could almost hear the words being spoken in the divorce court, even now; and he was quite sure that Augusta could, too. ‘Your honour—Mrs Roberts always bent over backwards to accommodate her husband’s tastes—in this case agreeing to the construction of a huge and ostentatious mansion—even though she secretly disliked it—in order to keep him happy.’
Josiah Dunkley slowly and precisely folded up his papers and restored them to his briefcase, switching his eyes first on to Augusta and then on to Henry.
‘Do I, unh, take it then, that—’
Henry nodded. ‘Go look around Leadville tomorrow; find us a suitable site; then build. If you want a contract, talk to David Moffat.’
Josiah Dunkley said, ‘This could do with a toast, don’t you think? A small celebration? What we’re going to see here is the finest mansion ever built between Denver and San Francisco, bar none.’
But Henry scarcely heard him. He waited for as long as he could; until the rushing noise inside his head seemed to have died down a little, and then he threw his napkin on the floor, and stood up, and walked away from the dinner-table without a word. Augusta hesitated, and then hurried after him. Josiah Dunkley pulled a face, looked around at his abandoned table, and then waved to the wine waiter to bring him a half-bottle of champagne.
At the cloakroom, Augusta caught hold of Henry’s sleeve, and said, ‘Wait. I’m not going home on my own.’
Henry looked around him. He had drunk too much, and he kept seeing the hotel lobby in a succession of details. The potted plant with the cigar-like curved black leeches; the feet of diners passing by; the chipped beige paint on the architrave over the cloakroom door. And a babble of voices and noises, as if he were under water, drowning in tinkly bubbles and nonsense.
‘You promised.’
‘What?’
‘Henry, you promised. Take me home.’
His chin dropped down on to his starched shirtfront. His eyes closed. He might well have been dead. That would solve a few problems, wouldn’t it, to die here, in the lobby of the Grand Hotel, standing up, already attired for the grave in full evening dress, no smiles, no farewells, no flags, no kisses, no regrets? But he opened his eyes again and he was still alive, and Augusta was clutching his hand and staring at him through fish-eye lenses, concentrating on nothing but him, and his loyalty.
He took her home, and said nothing all the way west along Front Street, back to California Gulch, past the Engelbach Foundry and the James B. Grant smelter, with their red fires roaring in the night; past the desolate baseball diamond on which the moon shone with cold and kindly light, waiting for tomorrow’s children; and out to the store again, on the Malta Road, just past Washington, the low dark building in which they had spent so many years together, and to which they again returned; neither of them knowing which one was chained to which.
In the early hours of the morning, as the moon passed their bedroom window, he said, in a haunted voice, ‘You don’t really want that mansion, do you?’
There was a pause, during which she breathed loudly and regularly, not sure whether she ought to admit that she was awake or not. But at last she said, ‘I do. Yes. I like it very much.’
‘You don’t. You hate it. I saw it in your face.’
‘No,’ she said, evenly. ‘I like it.’
He propped himself up on one elbow. ‘You hate it. You don’t think that I’ve lived with you for twenty years without knowing when you hate something? And you hate that mansion. You really hate it.’
‘I do not hate it either. I like it. I think it has charm.’
‘Charm?’ roared Henry, throwing back the comforter and leaping out of bed in sheer frustrated fury. ‘How can you say it has charm? It has extravagance, yes, I’ll give you that. It has vulgarity. It has pomp. It has show. But charm? What are you tryi
ng to, do to me, Augusta? Charm? Charm! God Almighty!’
‘Don’t blaspheme.’
‘And don’t—for Christ’s sake—say that something has charm—when for Christ’s sake—it’s hideous! And you know it’s hideous! And I know it is! And the only reason it’s ever going to get built is because it’s the one way that we can show all the people round here in Leadville that we’re really rich. And it’s grotesque! And you have the face to lie there in bed and tell me it has charm!’
She said, tight-mouthed, ‘You’re drunk.’
He sat down on the edge of the bed, naked, middle-aged, grey-haired, grey pubic-haired, bulging around the waist, handsome but long past youth; skin thicker, touch coarser, rich but despairing. And too rich, really, to have to despair for too long. Because none of these arguments with Augusta were really necessary, except for the purely internal purpose of irrigating his guilt. He was already free, financially. All he had to do now was disentangle himself from his marriage. But he was discovering just how much harder it is to abandon the weak than it is to turn your back on the strong.
He said, ‘I wish you were dead.’
There was a silence as cold as an uncut tombstone; a grave-marker without any message on it. Then Augusta turned over in bed, and huddled herself up in her comforter, and pushed him away whenever he tried to put his arm around her, and covered her ears whenever he tried to speak.
At last he stood by the window watching the moon over the west side of Leadville; listening to the distant singing of drunken miners; and wishing to God that he was hot and close in the arms of Baby Doe. Eventually though, he eased himself back into bed, keeping well away from Augusta’s plump and chilly back, and slept; but soon after dawn he was woken up by someone pounding at the front door of the store, and yelling, ‘Mistah Roberts! Mistah Roberts! By Cracky you got to come quick! Mistah Roberts, you up there?’
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