Saints (16 page)

“He worked and saved, Robert, and started small, not with a railroad, not with manufacturing train engines. Take my advice and forget it for now.”

Take his advice indeed! Charlie, a mere boy, only sixteen years old even if he was taller than Robert by now. “For now? And in five years, maybe I’ve saved thirty pounds—what good will
that
do?”

“To start a shop, it’s good enough.”

“A shop!” Robert said the words with contempt.

“Father was a shopkeeper, after all.”

“And look what good care he took of his family! I’m not going to be a shopkeeper, Charlie. You watch—in five years I’ll be your precious company’s biggest client. You’ll be doing my books for me, Charlie, and giving me credit, and watching me walk into offices where you can’t even get an appointment.”

Charlie went stiff and formal. “You may think that way if it pleases you, Robert. I’m sorry if you resent my moderate success. I’ve had the wisdom to plan for things within my reach, and I’m doing well. If you hope to succeed in life, you’ll not waste any more time dreaming of great wealth. That’s what Father did, and Father never found it.”

“How do you know what Father did and what Father thought? He was gone before you were old enough to keep your pants dry.”

“Be that as it may, Robert. I’d help you if I could, but I can’t do that.”

“You mean you won’t.”

They were in front of the cottage where Anna would be waiting for Charlie’s return. Charlie stopped at the door and faced his brother. Robert was keenly aware, was sharply annoyed by the way Charlie looked downward at him from his greater height, as if by conferring a few more inches God also gave a man more authority.

“Yes, Robert, I mean I won’t. I mean that your dreams are fine for you, but why should I risk my own reputation in business by trying to promote my working-class brother in his mad schemes for getting rich without labor?”

If Robert had not such perfect self-control, he might have struck Charlie for that—but supercilious as the boy was, he had not said anything crude, there was no reason to strike him except that Robert feared that he was right, that his ideas were worthless after all. It stung him deeply to have his own brother characterize his plans as madness. “I’m not afraid of labor, Charlie. I think I’ve proved that to anyone’s satisfaction.”

Charlie shook his head. “You misunderstood me.”

“No. I understood you well enough. When I speak to Hulme—and I damned well
will
speak to him—I’ll make it very plain to him that you told me I shouldn’t. That way he’ll know that the madness is all my own, and you by God know better.”

At that moment the door opened, and Anna peered out with a worried look on her face. “Boys,” she said. “Are you quarreling?”

“No,” they both said quickly.

“I just walked Charlie home,” Robert added.

“I listened at the door before I opened it,” Anna said. “I’m not deaf. I wish you wouldn’t argue.”

“I’m sorry, Mother,” Charlie said, but he never took his gaze from Robert’s face.

“I’m not,” Robert answered. “Charlie’s such a fool he can’t recognize opportunity when it comes to him.”

“He’s your brother, Robert,” Anna said.

“That’s your own damned fault, Mother, don’t try to blame
that
one on me.”

“I also wish you wouldn’t swear so much,” Anna said.

Robert looked at her in silent consternation. She insisted on bringing irrelevancies into the discussion, like family relationships and polite language, instead of arguing to the point. He turned away and walked down the street, making a point of saying, and not softly, “God’s bloody wounds! Jesus’ bleeding feet!” Let the cocky little prig look down on me, let him call my dreams crazy. I may be a lunatic, but by God I’ll be a rich one.

He walked by an empty cart standing at a curb and shoved it with the heel of his palm, pushed so hard that the cart rocked on its wheels and clattered noisily on the cobblestones. No one will cheat me out of my future, Robert insisted to himself. I will believe no lies. And whoever agrees to finance me,
he’ll
be the one who’s lucky to have such a partnership, not me.

The butler knocked politely on the library door. Peter Hulme knew Terence’s knock—it had more confidence in it than would the knock of any other servant. Hulme set down his book and murmured for Terence to enter. He knew that even if he answered not at all, Terence would still enter, because even though he was a relatively young man, the butler had lost almost all his hearing and usually read lips. That made Hulme’s “enter” quite superfluous; but still he said it, because he could not leave it unsaid. It was the way of things with Hulme, and he knew it. He could not leave a morsel of food uneaten—that was how he came to fill chairs to overflowing until he had to order new furniture just to hold his bulk. He could not leave an acerbic remark unsaid—that was why he had no friends, except those who are friends to money regardless of the mannerisms of the money’s owner. If something
should
be done, and God only knew how Hulme decided which things were necessities—Hulme would do it or go mad with anxiety until he did. He called it his superstitious nature, sometimes; other times he blamed it on his father for inflicting on him a damnable sense of sin that plagued him whenever he did not do what ought to be done. It made him so predictable that Terence could be sure that no matter what else happened, when a door was knocked upon Peter Hulme would say, “Enter.”

The butler entered. “My apologies, sir.”

“Quite all right. The book was positively moribund. A man could damage his intellect trying to make sense of Rousseau.”

“There’s a young man to see you. He has no appointment.”

“Then send him away. Why do you bother me with such trivialities?” Again, Hulme only showed annoyance because he knew annoyance ought to be shown. Actually, he had been hoping for some sort of diversion or interruption. The duty of the rich was to serve the public, go to fine parties, and become educated. The parties were painful, the public had no gratitude or honor, and as for education—Hulme had no taste for the great writers. He missed his account books; he missed the bustle of business. But he was a rich man, and he was going to live the life of a man of leisure or die trying. That’s what money was
for
, and Peter Hulme would do his duty. “Is he someone I should know?”

“I think not. His name, he says, is Robert Kirkham.”

“Kirkham. I don’t suppose he’s a relative of the Mrs. Kirkham who used to be a part of our household.”

“He would have said so, I think, sir.”

“What does he want?”

“He has a business proposal.”

Hulme sighed. Nothing interesting, then. Just some other ambitious young fellow wanting to ally his young energy with Hulme’s aging fortune. They always had the same notions. Buy this, buy that, and watch the money pour in. As if Hulme were incapable of conducting his own investments wisely; as if the Hulme fortune were not already increasing at an excellent per centum every year.

“I told him you wouldn’t be interested.”

“You were quite correct.”

“But he said that you might be interested in hauling nails from Manchester to London at seven pence the ton.”

“Seven pence?”

“That’s what he said, sir.”

“Not seven shillings?”

“Pence, sir.”

“He’s a liar. Any man can make such numbers up. Seven pence! Send him up—I want to see such cheek before I have you throw him out on his arse.”

Terence smiled—smiled the exact half-inch wider in the lips that was protocol. Hulme nodded at him, and Terence left the room. Ah, how good to have a servant who knew how things ought to be, and kept them just so. How good—and how utterly dull.

The young man came in with several rolls of paper under his arm and a timid look about him. Not a promoter, then, not one of the young men who went into debt for a suit of clothes before they bothered with spending a shilling on a book to decorate their minds. More than that, Peter Hulme was sure he recognized the fellow. Had the look about him.

“Robert Kirkham,” Peter Hulme said. “Do I know your family?”

“I think not, sir,” the young man said stiffly.

Coincidence, then, Hulme decided; or perhaps hearing the Kirkham name had made him think there would be a resemblance. Well, then, he owed him no debt of courtesy.

The young man could not keep his eyes away from the two stories of shelves rising almost out of sight in the haze from Hulme’s pipe. “I’m glad you admire my library. However, I will not lend you any books. I’ll tell you right now, young man, that I need no help or advice in my business. I have retired from direct involvement and am inactively pursuing a life of leisure. Or rather, letting a life of leisure envelop me. You have interrupted my languor, and I resent it.”

Kirkham looked, if possible, even more stiff and awkward. Yet, to Hulme’s surprise, there was neither an immediate rush to the door—Hulme’s favorite outcome—nor the more common flood of asinine verbiage designed to convince Hulme that
this
was the chance of his lifetime. The young man only said, stiffly, “Sir, I ask only for five minutes of your attention.”

“Good God, man, that’s more than I ever gave to my wife before she died.” Ah—there it was, not the look of horror that some got when he spoke that way, nor the forced laughter that the glad-hands always insulted him with. Instead the boy let a slow grin come to his face, which quickly faded. Peter Hulme was delighted. He knew a kindred mind when he saw one, even when it masked itself in the sort of costume that a workingman was likely to think appropriate for calling on a rich man. He began to like this Kirkham, a little.

“One minute,” Hulme said. “Renewable if you aren’t completely asinine.”

Kirkham nodded, and immediately untied one of the rolled up papers, letting the others drop to the floor, as if the library were a common shop. “Would you hold this end, sir?” Kirkham asked, and without waiting for an answer slipped the curling edge of the paper under Peter’s hand. Then he unrolled an unusually well-drawn engineering sketch of a train engine.

“Why are you showing me this?”

“It’s a steam engine, sir. To pull a train.”

“It’s identical to the locomotive that now provides the propulsion for the trains on my Manchester-Birmingham Railway. When I need pictures of my own possessions, I’ll order them done.”

This time the fellow
did
look shocked. “The Manchester-Birmingham is yours, sir?”

“I own more of it than anyone else, that pretty much makes it mine.” Hulme waited for the man to roll up his drawings and retreat, caught in his theft of another man’s engineering. Instead, young Kirkham only looked at him steadily and said, “So you own a railway already.”

“Why? Did you think to sell me another?”

“Perhaps you’d like to improve the one you have.”

“Improve it? Mr. Kirkham, I subscribed to the railroad project as my civic duty, so that Manchester would not be lacking in the latest toys for the public awe and titillation, and because the stock was ridiculously cheap. But I see no point in putting more money into a mode of transportation that can carry scarcely anything beyond the weight of its own fuel.”

“Exactly,” Robert said, and before Hulme could demur, he was unrolling another paper. This time the engine was unlike any Hulme had seen before.

“You have conceived of an even uglier locomotive, Mr. Kirkham. You have my congratulations.”

“My uglier locomotive can pull three times the load yours can, and twice as fast. Yet it’s lighter, and uses only a little more fuel than your engine, so that almost all the gain in power means more freight, and therefore more income compared to expense, and therefore lower prices per ton and more profit per pound of investment.”

“You speak as if your engine exists. Does it?”

“It could, at a cost of three hundred eight pounds. For the prototype, of course—later, the locomotives could be made more cheaply. And sold for a little less than you paid for the engines you’re using now, without depriving us of a decent profit.”

“In other words, these are all plans.”

“You can’t be making a profit on the trains you’re using
now
.”

“I can’t recall making my profits a matter of public record.”

“Mr. Hulme, look at this.” And now the young fellow opened a sheaf of drawings, showing details of his engine. He went over point after point, explaining how the design was improved, how it would cost less to make or work more efficiently or allow more capacity. He also pointed out relative drawbacks, but explained why they were unavoidable. At first Hulme was annoyed at being bored with details of engineering, a subject about which he knew little and cared less. He quickly noticed, however, how deftly Robert was explaining his points, never sounding condescending about having to clarify things for someone uninitiated in the rites of steam engineering, yet always making sure that Hulme could easily grasp the significance of the changes he had made. There was no effort to overawe Hulme with technical expertise; rather, Kirkham’s effort was all to explain, clarify, and persuade. An appeal to reason, and Hulme responded. He listened. And when after twenty-five minutes young Kirkham at last said, “There it is, and that’s why it’ll work,” Hulme felt he had just been taught a full course in a school of engineering. Now as he gazed at the overall drawing he appreciated the simplicity of Kirkham’s design and saw the awkwardness of the engines he now had in use. He also, to his own surprise, believed that Kirkham was the man to build his own designs. Kirkham spoke clearly and well, but so did many fools. The thing that most impressed Hulme was the man’s intense reasonableness, his determined yet unabrasive advocacy. It was precisely the mixture of deference and leadership that Hulme longed to find in the men who worked for him, and had never quite found.

“Well, sir,” Robert said, rolling up the papers again, “I’ve taken thirty minutes when I asked for five. I’ll leave my address with your butler, in case you wish to send for me.”

“No.”

“Very well.”

“I mean no, I don’t want to see you
again
, I want to see you
now
. Half an hour? An afternoon yawns ahead of me, filled with sedate walks around the gardens and, later, visits from my bilious and loquacious acquaintances who, if they understood only half of the subjects on which they have opinions, would be able to replace whole faculties of colleges and lecture endlessly without notes.”

To his surprise, young Kirkham did not take it as a compliment. “I didn’t come to amuse you, sir,” he said. “I came to offer you a share in my engine.”

“Mr. Kirkham,” Peter said, “when a man is as rich as I am, even the prospect of fantastic profit is merely amusing. Don’t roll up your papers, don’t leave your address with Terence, stay here and agree on the terms of our partnership, so that I can have my solicitor draw up the papers and arrange for the line of credit that will begin the new company.”

Kirkham kept rolling up the papers; as he finished tying them, he said, “Aren’t you going to have the Manchester-Birmingham Railway do it?”

“The Manchester-Birmingham is a joint-stock company and I only own a third of the stock. I see no reason why we shouldn’t enter into partnership in a new firm, to build your engine. How much capital do you suppose it will take?”

“My best estimate is two thousand pounds, to build the prototype and set up a minimal shop to build more.”

“And if the shop is better than minimal?”

“With four thousand pounds, I could hire the best men in Manchester to work with me, and enough of them to build the engine quickly. Competitors are bound to come up with some of these improvements in the meantime, and the more quickly we produce a working engine—”

“
Five
thousand pounds, then, Mr. Kirkham, and you will have three locomotives in production by the time the prototype emerges for trial. As for the partnership, I’ll offer you one-tenth ownership and participation in profits.”

Kirkham’s answer was immediate. “No, sir.”

“One-fifteenth, then, but no more.”

“I want half. Equal partnership.”

Hulme laughed at the audacity of it. “You forget, Mr. Kirkham, that I am putting up all the money.”

“And I’m providing all the intelligence.”

An acid tongue, then, to go along with the rest of his wit. Hulme smiled. “If the company fails, Mr. Kirkham, you will still have your intelligence, but I will have lost all my money. Since I’m bearing the greater risk, I think it only fair I have the greater return.”

Kirkham began gathering up the papers and tucking them under his arm. Hulme was very surprised. The fellow had seemed so diffident when he first arrived, not at all the sort of person who would actually walk out on five thousand pounds of capital over the matter of shares of profit.

Kirkham paused at the door. “Thank you for your time, sir. Should I leave my address with the butler, in case you reconsider?”

“Name of heaven, young man. One-fifth for you. Anything more and you’ll go to hell for greed.”

Kirkham set his face in an expression that Hulme recognized. He had seen it before, yes, many times. Seen it on young Charlie Kirkham when he was arguing with the old man over some point of mathematics. Seen it on Mrs. Kirkham many a time in a dispute with one of the servants. Robert had lied about his family relationship. Pride, of course—but which kind? Was he too proud to use his family’s acquaintance as a means of gaining entry into Hulme’s house? Or too proud to admit he was related to a servant? The latter was impossible—he could not imagine this young man being ashamed of his family’s past suffering. He simply didn’t like to use influence. It made Hulme admire him all the more.

“Mr. Hulme,” Robert said, “I’ll work with you for twenty percent.”

“Good.”

“However, all the patents on my inventions will belong to me. I will charge our firm only a nominal royalty, but on a fixed lease. I will sell my next engine where I please, and I assure you, it will be better than this one.”

“Nonsense,” Hulme answered. “If this engine works as well as it looks like it will,
any
man would want to fund your next one.”

“Would
you
?”