Papa shrugged. “There are no assurances in life. Banks have collapsed, and the price of steel increases. We can’t pay them what we don’t have, not if we intend to keep our profit margins stable. They can’t expect us to provide comfort”—he glanced down and read from the list—“food, medical care, death benefits. Our responsibility to them ends with their wages.”
“If that’s the case, then we’ve done a poor job keeping up our end of the responsibility.”
“We live in a market society.” Papa shrugged again and leaned forward to place the papers on the desk. “The costs of goods inflate and deflate to reflect that; the same goes for wages. It’s absurd that they expect them to stay constant in a world where everything changes.”
“Then why must we insist that profit margins stabilize? We could afford to cut into them briefly until the economy recovers.”
“And what if it doesn’t? What if we slowly eat away at ourselves until there’s nothing left. How will it help the workers if we have no factories, no enterprise left? It’s cannibalization, and it won’t help anyone in the long run, not the workers and certainly not us.”
“I said briefly. Besides, this is why August and I have been pushing so hard for auxiliary investments. They would allow us to diversify our assets, so we can help avoid these scenarios. The markets have an inevitable ebb and flow; diversifying can help keep our income stable. It’s why the dock is such an important opportunity. We cannot solely rely on railroads.”
Papa shrugged. “I have relented to the dock, have I not?”
Max couldn’t stop the glower that came over his face. “Ostensibly, as long as I do what you want.”
The man smiled a sly grin that Max found more irritating with age. “Have you not found favor with our good Helena?”
“It would appear so.” He was reluctant to discuss her with his father. His feelings for her and their arrangement were so complex that he didn’t yet understand them himself. There was no way he could adequately talk about them with Papa.
“When do you plan to ask her to marry you?”
Max felt seedy and irrationally angry to be forced into the ruse he had concocted. His parents should have no part of what went on between him and Helena, but his father’s demand had made it so. Also, Max didn’t like the reminder that he, too, was capable of intrigue and subterfuge to further his own agenda. “The house party.”
“She’d be a fool to turn you down.”
“She won’t.” He could guarantee it, but he didn’t say that, because he actually didn’t know where they stood anymore.
Five days had passed since Max had last talked to Helena. Every day he sent her a small token of his regard. One day it was a bouquet of lilies procured from a hothouse on the outskirts of London. On another day, a book from Hatchards. Today it had been one of the new stylographic pens that Violet raved about. They were all gifts ostensibly expected by Society and meant to reinforce their courtship, but to Max they had become small demonstrations of his growing affection. If only she would accept them as such.
Each one had received a short and prompt thank-you written on embossed cardstock in reply.
Not wanting to linger on the subject of his upcoming betrothal, Max said, “Unfortunately, it appears I won’t be able to stay through Christmas. I have to get back home to New York, which means I need to settle things here so that I can leave in a week or so.” Thank God everything had been arranged with Sir Phineas.
“What about Farthington’s house party and Lady Helena?” Papa’s eyes narrowed.
“Naturally, I’ll still go. I’ll bring my trunks so that I can leave from there a few days early.”
Papa nodded in agreement. “Yes, unfortunately, I agree that’s best. This rebellion needs to be squashed, with force if necessary.”
“I’ll handle it as I see fit.”
“You have the police involved if needed. We cannot allow a strike. I’ll telegram Tilden and have him authorize the National Guard—”
“I will deal with it, Papa.” Max rose to his feet, his voice rising slightly along with him. “Not you. You are to heal and concentrate your efforts here. You left me in charge for a reason. Do not telegram Tilden.”
“I left you in charge because I trusted you to deal with things.”
“Then you must let me.”
“Then you’ll force down this so-called strike, this attempt to organize against you in the very factory your own grandfather built from nothing?”
“It’s not a strike yet. I will do everything in my power to make certain it’s not elevated to such a crisis, but if it comes to it, I will defend our interests.”
Papa nodded and rose, much steadier on his feet after weeks of recovery than he had been when Max first arrived in London. “Good, make certain that you do. I’ll see you downstairs for dinner.”
Max let out a breath the moment his father left. It had become more apparent with every passing year how differently they each saw the direction of Crenshaw Iron. His father was a dictator who wanted to smite out any hint of insurrection at its first appearance. Max didn’t believe that an organization could survive for very long in the shadow of one man. An organization by its very definition became a sum of its parts with no one person able to claim sole responsibility for its success or failure.
Walking to the small bureau near the window, he poured himself a scotch and looked out at the gaslights lining the street as he took several calming breaths. Twilight was descending. He took a sip, savoring the smoky bite of the liquid as he swallowed. As often happened in his quiet moments, thoughts of Helena intruded. He could still feel the press of her soft body against him, and the sense of peace that came over him when he had her in his arms. If she were here now with a proper place in his life, she would spar with him over how to proceed with the threat facing Crenshaw Iron. She’d challenge him with the different way she considered things.
It was maddening that she was only a few streets over. The house party was in three days, which meant they had barely a week together.
Why was she so resolved to deny what was between them?
He walked over to the desk and picked up one of her cards from the stack on the corner. They were cream colored and preprinted with her name on one side in an elegant typeface. On the other side she had perfunctorily written Thank you and signed her name. He should consider himself lucky that she hadn’t sent the gifts back, but she was as committed to this ruse as he was, so perhaps that was why she kept them. It stung that she could so readily cast aside what they had found together.
The one thing he was understanding with more certainty every day was that he didn’t simply want another night or two with her. He wanted her and everything that came with her. He’d realized before that she was perfect for him, but after that night with her . . . There seemed to be no good reason why they shouldn’t make this courtship real. She could come to New York as his wife. There were people there who could use her help. She had admitted herself that she was lonely here. Her life was full, but it obviously wasn’t fulfilling. Not if she was lonesome. If they were together, then she would never be alone again. She’d spend her nights in his bed and her days any way she wished.