Episode 16: Stella Insists on a True Account, and Mr. Rockwell Grudgingly Goes to Philadelphia

Chapter 30

At ten o’clock in the morning Stella crept to Agnes’s room and put her ear to the door. Hearing nothing, she rapped softly, then again. A muffled voice told her to come in, so she opened and stepped into the sunny room. Agnes was pulling herself up in bed with the filmy look of one who has just awoken. A warm breeze lazily swelled the open drapes.

            “Did I wake you up?” asked Stella, approaching softly.

            “Yes, but that’s all right.”

            “I couldn’t wait any longer to hear about last night.” Stella perched on a velvety chair beside the bed.

            Agnes stared at her niece for a moment, then let a smile creep across her face. Stella sprang to the rumpled bed. “What happened? Oh, you must tell me everything!” she ordered, grabbing Agnes’s hands.

            “My dear, everything feels new this morning,” Agnes said slowly. “I know this is the same room I woke up in yesterday and that’s the same sun outside the window, but it’s all different.”

            “Did he kiss you?”

            “Stella!”

            “He did, didn’t he? I hope you kissed him back. I think it’s silly to play the coquette when a man makes his intentions clear. So tell me!”

            Agnes straightened against her pillows and sighed. “Well, we took a walk through the garden. I don’t remember when I was last in the garden at night. It felt positively magical. The air was warm and heavy. All the little creatures were croaking and singing and everything felt alive. I felt alive—almost too alive, do you know? Anyway, we walked and chatted and then sat on my bench beyond the hedge.”

            “Oh, you are wild! Did Fettles come looking for you and try to spoil everything?”

            “For once he left me alone. He must like Lord Phillip.”

            “And then what happened?”

            “All right, yes, he kissed me. And don’t worry, I did not push him away.”

            Stella threw her arms around her aunt and squeezed hard. “I am so happy for you. How long were you out?”

            “It felt like half an hour, but when I got back in I saw that two hours had passed.”

            “He seems like a wonderful man, Aunt Agnes. You deserve this.”

            “Do I? Well, I don’t want to rush into something willy nilly. Mother always said, ‘The right match is not a summer bloom; let it wait a season to see if it lasts.’ But this is so exciting, Stella, I can’t lie.” Agnes looked intently at her niece. “I am afraid that I am going to run headlong into this and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself.”

            Stella slid off the bed and stood with her chin in the air, her hands gently clasped. “A lady maintains her decorum. A lady does not show her hand. A lady bides her time and controls her passion, if she has any, giving the gentleman ample time to appreciate her character before any demonstration of affection is exchanged.”

            “Well spoken,” Agnes cheered. “But too late. Anyway—” she threw back the sheet and sprang out of bed, “I had better put myself together and get downstairs before Fettles thinks I caught pneumonia in the night air. I don’t know if you know, but the dear man worries more than three old women put together.”

            Just then Marie entered with coffee on a tray. Together the three ladies worked merrily to prepare Agnes for a new day.

Chapter 31

Abram Rockwell was getting stiff. The train for Philadelphia arrived late to pick up its passengers in New York, which meant that he had sat an extra hour on a hard wooden bench in Grand Central Depot before boarding. He resented this trip anyway. If people conducted their affairs properly, everything ran smoothly and details could be handled by correspondence. Poor judgment and procrastination led to a great deal of bother for people who should not be inconvenienced but inevitably were in order to get the job done. If Benjamin Somerset were alive, none of this would be necessary. He had a way of handling his family, even those not in his household. But with his death the rope began to fray in various directions, and Mr. Rockwell could not keep his eye on everyone.

            He did not dismiss Agnes’s concerns about Wilbur as easily as he pretended upon leaving Brookside. He had kept his ear to the ground and made discrete inquiries regarding Wilbur and Eleanor’s acquaintances in Philadelphia. He did not like what he heard. Most of all, he was alarmed to see the balance of Grandma Brown’s accounts as he proceeded with the disposition of her property according to her will. Repeated letters to Wilbur had gone unanswered until he received one that claimed the situation was complicated and would require Mr. Rockwell’s presence to fully explain. Convinced that Wilbur was using this as a dodge, thinking the venerable accountant would not make the trip, Mr. Rockwell fired back a telegraph to let Wilbur know of his arrival in two days’ time. He received in answer two cryptic lines, “Will meet in town. Carriage on Market.”

            The train pulled into the Philadelphia station in a driving rain. Mr. Rockwell stood up and stretched his aching back, looking up and down the railway car. Never a porter when you need one, he reflected. He pulled his one bag down from the luggage rack with some difficulty, he being a small man, the rack being high, and his bag being over packed by a careful wife. He set it on the seat and pulled out a small umbrella, settled his hat firmly on his head, and stepped from the car.

            The late-July afternoon was suffocating, and the new Broad Street Station roared with the hiss of steam and flocks of damp people hurrying left and right. Smartly dressed travelers wove between confused huddles of foreigners and ragged boys running with boxes on their backs, tied together as were their shoes with lengths of string. Mothers patted their crying babies, and young men in cheap suits leapt aboard westbound trains to find their fortune in Denver or San Francisco. Vendors added to the din, shouting out their offerings of candy, lemonade, newspapers, and shoe shines.

            Mr. Rockwell caught the attention of a porter who shouldered his bag and led him nimbly to the great doors of the Market Street exit. The rain had slackened but not stopped. Black carriages waited in a long row up and down the street and, beyond them, trolleys trundled along the steaming pavement. A hungry-looking man in a sodden cap ran up to them and asked in a thick Irish accent if the gentleman might be Mr. Abraham Rockell, which was close enough to convince the accountant to have his bag handed over and follow the lean driver to a nearby carriage. Mr. Rockwell was happy to pull himself into the cab and settle into the soft, burgundy cushion. The cab picked its way through the hubbub of Market Street for two blocks, then turned north. Mr. Rockwell had never visited Wilbur’s offices and hoped they were not far off. He badly wanted a stationary seat, a sandwich, and a cup of coffee.

            He opened his bag and took out a notebook. Absently he reviewed the numbers he had already checked three times. For years Grandma Brown’s estate had been worth some six million dollars. It had grown to nearly eight recently when an investment he had made on her behalf had returned a handsome profit. But that was in February, and he knew of no activity on her accounts since then. Naturally he was shocked to find three weeks ago that her accounts held just under one million. After assuring himself that the banks had made no errors, he turned to Wilbur, who had thrown up a wall of silence. Mr. Rockwell had said nothing yet to Agnes. He wanted to know the whole story before making any report to her. And if there was some explanation, why disturb the woman unnecessarily?

            Looking out the window, he noticed that they were in a very select end of town. Tidy brick buildings with black shutters and shiny hardware lined the street. The cab pulled up in front of one, well situated on a corner, displaying beside the door a brass plate inscribed with Brown and Associates, Ltd. The driver helped Mr. Rockwell down and handed him his bag. The sun was pushing its way through the clouds, pulling up waves of hot vapor from the cobbled street. Mr. Rockwell took a labored breath, stepped up to the freshly painted door, and pulled at the handle. To his surprise, he found it locked, so he knocked smartly.

            In Mr. Rockwell’s many years of travel in and out of hundreds of offices, those of lawyers and accountants and merchants in both low and high stations, he had never laid eyes on a less desirable specimen of an employee than the one that opened the door to him now. A lad of not more than 14 years, small-eyed and smudged in dirty dungarees and ill-fitting shoes, stood squinting at him reproachfully. His vest was too small by several sizes and kept itself closed through the heroic work of two cracked buttons. His hair gave Mr. Rockwell the impression of having been cut in the dark of night and had not enjoyed the benefit of a bucket of water for a very long time. As unfortunate as the young man’s appearance was, it impressed the visitor less than did his attitude, which fell somewhere between extreme apathy and hostility.

            The boy was just finishing pulling his sleeve across his pale nose when he opened, and looking at his guest without any trace of curiosity, demanded flatly whom he was there to see. He grudgingly admitted Mr. Rockwell, closed the door, and tromped to the back in search of his employer. Mr. Rockwell was left still holding his hat and umbrella in a spare but attractively furnished reception room. Various maps hung on the walls, and a mahogany bookcase held a few volumes of standard business texts. In a moment the dreary young man returned, the heels of his too-large shoes clattering against the bare floor.

            “Mr. Brown asks that you wait a bit as he’s engaged with a client.” The boy then held out his grimy hands for Mr. Rockwell’s things, hung them carelessly on a wall rack, and sat down to gaze glumly out the window. Mr. Rockwell took the liberty to sit down. His stomach reminded him that he had not eaten since breakfast, and he decided that he needed food one way or another.

            “Young man.” His voice echoed in the quiet room. The boy turned his head toward him. “What is your name?”

            “Jenkins.”

            “Mr. Jenkins, is there by chance an eatery nearby where you could pick up some lunch for me?”

            “There’s the Liberty, but it’s not very good. If you want to pay more, the Black Bell’s got good corned beef and chicken pie.”

            Impressed by the young man’s knowledge of nearby comestibles, Mr. Rockwell reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill. “Bring me back a chicken pie and coffee if they have it. And I’ll want a receipt and the change. If you return promptly I’ll make it worth your while.” Mr. Rockwell looked at the boy seriously, with no hint of smile beneath his heavy gray moustache. He knew better than to confuse the urchin with kindness.

            The boy sat in the window a moment as though considering whether or not to accept the assignment. Gradually he pulled himself to his feet, took the money, grabbed his limp cap from its hook, and left. He had not been gone a full minute when low voices approached from the back rooms, and Wilbur entered accompanied by a heavily starched man with a waxed moustache.

            Wilbur broke away from his client, extending a hand to Mr. Rockwell. “Abram! Thank you for coming. You picked a steamy day, didn’t you?”

            Mr. Rockwell bit his tongue. Coming was not my first choice, he thought, and would not have been necessary if someone knew how to conduct business properly. Instead he simply shook Wilbur’s hand silently. Wilbur made no introductions but began a hurried goodbye to the starched man. The gentleman gave every appearance of being thoroughly unhappy with the outcome of their meeting, and Wilbur propelled him out the door with assurances that they would talk again tomorrow.

            “An unhappy client?” asked Mr. Rockwell.

            “Oh,” replied Wilbur, creasing up his face, “a fellow who wanted to make some changes in investments. Doesn’t like the way the market’s going. Nervous sort. They’d be better off putting their money in an iron box under the bed.”

            “Sometimes that’s the wisest course,” concurred Mr. Rockwell.

            “You must be hungry. Let’s take you out for a bite of food. What do you think of our new station?”

            “It seems to serve the purpose. And I just sent your boy to get me a chicken pie, so that will do just fine. I’d like to get started immediately with the business at hand, Wilbur. I plan to take the night train back. Can’t sleep anymore if I’m not in my own bed. By the way, how did you come to hire such an unlikely office boy? You could do better, I’d think, and a well-groomed assistant would more respectably represent Brown and Associates, don’t you think?”

            “Oh, Jenkins, he’s a stray dog,” laughed Wilbur uneasily, leading his guest back to his office.

            “A stray dog?”

            “Yes, he’s always coming around sniffing for a tip. I let him get what he can. It’s all harmless.”

            “What you mean is that you don’t pay him.”

            “Of course not! Would you? But it keeps me from having to hire someone, which makes good sense to me. Well, where do you want to start with all this? Can I pour you a drink?”

            “No, thank you.”

            It was only 3:30 in the afternoon, but Wilbur poured himself a half-glass of bourbon from a handsome decanter, swallowed it, and poured another. Mr. Rockwell watched all of this frowning, and with deepening concern for whatever he was about to learn.

To be continued . . .