Episode 21: Rockwell, Swank & Babbidge Dive to the Bottom of Things

Chapter 40

Phillip stood distractedly smoothing the child’s silken hair, uncertain what to do next. Turning, he saw that Agnes and Stella had joined his father, and all three stood staring at him. Behind them the crowd began slowly to disperse. Some guests returned to the ballroom, some called immediately for their carriages. Agnes and her friends withdrew from the now busy drive to the edge of the circle of torches, where she examined the child, looking from his round face to Phillip’s and back again. This was a mixed baby, clearly the product of one fair parent and one dark. His large eyes, rimmed in thick lashes, shone hazel, and his hair and tiny eyebrows were deep brown. His skin was the gentle color of tea with too much cream.

            “He is not mine, Agnes.” Phillip’s voice was decisive, but she did not know what to say.

            The Duke, with a face of stone, declared simply, “It’s time to go home.”

            No one suggested they say goodnight to their hostess. They found their coach and rode to Brookside in silence except for the baby who, once tired of playing with Phillip’s shirtfront, whimpered and squirmed in his lap. A thousand questions collided in Agnes’s mind, but none managed its way to her lips. As they pulled up to her home, she chose hurriedly to ask one.

            “What do you plan to do with him? He’ll have to be fed, you know.”

            “And he must be soaking by now,” put in Stella.

            “Mrs. Morgan will know what to do,” replied the Duke gravely. His housekeeper, a no-nonsense Irish woman, had been with the family since their early days in England. And the Duke knew her well enough to know that she would not quietly accept a baby suddenly falling into her basket of responsibilities.

            Agnes put a hand on Phillip’s as the Duke helped her down. “Now we know the purpose for the ball, don’t we?”

            Phillip raised his eyes to hers. In that moment, the shipwreck that Mrs. Thorne had engineered became clear to him. Their promise to each other, their shining future, had been dashed against the rocks in a single, violent surge. Agnes stroked his cheek once with her gloved hand and said no more, disappearing inside the dark house with Stella.

            Phillip and his father sat numb as the carriage rolled toward home. The crying child made the ride three times its normal length. Upon arriving, the Duke got Mrs. Morgan out of bed and gave her a short description of their situation. The head housekeeper grudgingly took the now sleeping child from Phillip and woke the youngest servant girl. She sent her to the old nursery to get it ready for a new occupant while she herself shuffled to the kitchen to find something to feed the child.

            Phillip and his father faced each other. Phillip could hardly look at the deep disappointment in his father’s face. “We will talk tomorrow,” said the Duke. And the two repaired to their rooms to spend what remained of the terrible night.

            * * *

            After kissing Stella goodnight, Agnes stole through the garden to her secret bench and sat stricken, looking blindly out at the dark fields. Over and over she replayed the night’s scenes: the costumes, the gay walzes, the snake, the Seven Wonders, a grinning Claudia. But mostly she watched again a desperate man tumble out of a carriage and accuse her beloved of seducing his daughter, then handing him the baby that proved it.

            One moment she and Stella were enjoying a splendid evening with two charming men and the next—scandal. And in front of dozens of society’s very best, who would spread the word to dozens more before a day went by. No respectable woman would have anything to do with the Duke’s family now. They were ruined socially, just like Dhanesh’s family, unless Phillip could somehow undo this ugly knot. And what on earth were they to do with this baby? To keep it would mean Phillip fathered it. To abandon it to an orphanage would be despicable.

            So here she was again, deceived. How could she have been so thoroughly wrong about Phillip? She thought she had gotten smarter since M. He said the child was not his, but everything pointed to him. What if it were his son and he had lied to everyone, including her—could she still love him? If she forgave him, could she brave the world’s scorn and stay by his side? Even if he had told her the truth, who else would believe it? They would be alone in the world.

            She thought of her mother. What would she say if she were here? Of course, Mother would never have considered Phillip a serious suitor for her daughter. She would have found him amusing and in some ways admirable, but never a candidate to join the Somerset family. Father probably would have understood more, but Phillip’s doleful employment history would have eliminated him from any possibility with Father.

            And so the afflicted woman sat for hours, clenching and unclenching her skirt, looking for answers in the starry sky, too stunned to even cry, which might have given some relief. The sky lightened, and the horizon turned pink, then pale blue. Agnes saw another day coming up whether she was ready or not. She forced herself to her feet and walked slowly back to the awakening house, where she lay down on her bed without undressing and fell asleep.

* * *

Down the road at Beaujour, the day was also dawning. Most of Claudia’s servants were sleeping later than usual, having been up into the wee hours assisting guests, extinguishing lamps, and storing away the remaining food. Their mistress slept far into the morning, enjoying that deep, dreamless rest of one who has accomplished a long-sought goal. She had gone to bed with a smile on her magnificent lips shortly after the last guest left, after agreeing with everyone that it was a terrible shock how the Indian had disrupted her ball and so very strange that he had caught up with Lord Phillip tonight of all nights, and how damaging this must prove for the Duke’s family, who were such very nice people, really.

            Of course no one should ever find out how she had herself meticulously built the night’s climax. Her connection to remnants of the East India Company was not well known, and her good fortune—finding that her man in Bombay was back in New York City, that he knew the whole story, and that Dhanesh was already careening around the state searching for the runaway father—could hardly be believed. It had required so little to bring the whole beautiful tragedy together. It would take Claudia some time to grasp that she had succeeded in trampling her foe, and quite brilliantly (she could just hug herself) by way of the foolish man poor Agnes was so fond of.

Chapter 41

Misfortunes travel in groups, or so it is said; if one wanders in, his companions are not far behind. Agnes’s life was forming itself into a testament to this truth. Grandma had been buried only a few weeks ago, followed by the debacle in Claudia’s front yard. And now, a third catastrophe was quickening its steps toward Brookside.

            It was lunchtime on the day following Abram Rockwell’s trip to Philadelphia. He had by now assembled the replies to his office’s inquires of the previous evening, and he had to face the shocking picture of what remained of Grandma Brown’s millions. At the Bank of Philadelphia: seven dollars. At the First National Bank of the East: twenty-two dollars. At the First Union Bank: fourteen dollars. Even her interest in the railroad and several smaller but thriving companies had been liquidated. Abram sat at his desk with his head in his hands, staring dumbly at the telegrams spread before him. Two old associates stood in the room, lost in thought, their brows contracted in a mighty effort to find some way around the financial carnage piled before them.

            At length one of them spoke, turning partially from his position at the window. He was a short, wide man, fastidiously dressed, with a few remnants of hair carefully oiled and combed behind his ears. “There’s no way around going to court. Especially if what the wife says is true. It all smacks of outright theft, not investment—not even bad investment.”

            “Of course,” put in his colleague from across the room where he had been leaning against a very full set of bookshelves and absently stroking an unlit pipe. “If it were invested he would have had something to show you. Receipts don’t go traveling, we know that. It’s a bad business, Abram, and the sooner you file the better. You’ll surely get no more information from that villain or his mysterious wife.”

            Mr. Rockwell raised his eyes in a dull stare. “You’re absolutely right, both of you. And I blame myself. How could I not?”

            The two men disagreed strongly. One exclaimed that no one could have foreseen such conduct, and the other pointed out that an embezzler could strike like a snake, and if he’s clever enough, rob a millionaire blind in a matter of days.

            “The essential thing is to get a lien on that house of his immediately,” urged the wide man.

            “Quite right,” said the other.

            Mr. Rockwell, like one emerging from a strongman’s hold, pushed himself to his feet and reached for his hat. He gathered the papers together and added them to his bag. “Gentlemen, there is no time to lose. Mr. Swank”—he turned to the wide man—“would you be willing to accompany me to our legal counsel? I find myself in such a daze, as though I’d had a boxcar dropped on me. I need someone to make sure I am talking sense to our lawyer. Babbidge,” he continued, putting a hand on the arm of the man with the pipe, “Get in touch with our people in Philadelphia and find out anything you can. Make sure they know that I am willing to pay for information.”

            And so two of the senior accountants at Rockwell, Swank, and Babbidge set off for the law offices of Gray, Heinrich, Stubbins to start the ugly process of declaring a possible crime and taking measures to safeguard any of the perpetrator’s goods that they might lay claim to. Two questions haunted the men as they made their way to the attorneys’ offices situated in the bustling streets around city hall: Was this indeed a crime if Wilbur had done everything legally, and had his house already been surrendered to other creditors?

            By evening of the following day, the men had their answers, thanks to the excellent work of Mr. Babbidge and the arrival of a small package by special delivery. The package came in the late afternoon, wrapped in brown paper and addressed to Mr. Rockwell. It bore no return address and looked like something hastily assembled. The address was written in a large, hurried hand, probably female. As soon as the office boy delivered it into Mr. Rockwell’s hands, the old gentleman suspected somehow that it must relate to the case. Taking it to his desk, followed closely by Messrs. Swank and Babbidge, he took a sharp scissors to one end and carefully cut it open. Reaching inside, he pulled out the contents.

            In his hand were a stack of what appeared to be receipts, some formal, others just scribbled notes. As the accountants spread them out, they realized that they were not looking at receipts but rather promises of payment. Some bore the stamp of casinos as far away as Geneva. Others were scrawled reminders from individuals of debts owed. Some included the name of the debtor: Wilbur Brown. Mr. Rockwell stared at the collage of papers with uncomprehending eyes. He looked back in the packing to see if he had missed anything and extracted a single sheet of fine stationery, written in the same urgent hand as the address. He read aloud in a low voice:

                                                                        August 188__

            Mr. Rockwell,

            You must be told the truth now or else waste a great deal of time and effort in finding it out yourself.

            There are no investments. There was one, of a very unsavory nature, that I shall not reveal, but as my husband was dealing with unscrupulous foreigners in that venture, it is not surprising that they took his portion and disappeared.

            Again, I had nothing to do with that or what you see before you now. W. developed a taste for gambling in France, and for a while he was able to cover his debts. Then he managed to hold his creditors at bay as only he can. However, several months ago he was obliged to start paying them to avoid outright scandal, which would have been unfortunate for the family, as I am sure you would agree. His debts had grown so large that [here the writer had crossed out a word and started again] steps had to be taken.

            As far as I know, all of Grandma’s money is gone, and the house as well. If I believed in God, I would pray for forgiveness for my husband and wish some sort of providential care for the family. As it is, I can simply send you and Agnes my regrets that things turned out as they did.

                                                                                    E. B.

            Mr. Swank hurried to a side cabinet and poured a tall glass of brandy and water for his colleague, who was sinking into his chair. Babbidge spoke first.

            “Abram, I was just going to tell you when I was interrupted by the arrival of this parcel. I received a telegram from one of my people in Philadelphia not an hour ago. The Brown’s house is now the property of First National. It was signed over only two weeks ago for payment of debt. Moreover, the Wilbur Browns seem to have sailed for other shores yesterday afternoon. Someone was dispatched to the house to check the story, and it was true. The servants said they had packed and loaded several trunks into a carriage and the two brigands left, telling no one where they were headed. I’m told they left without paying the staff their wages due, and our man saw several of them putting silver into bags and carrying away paintings. It was chaos.” Mr. Babbidge paused for his friend to absorb this news. He wished there was some way to soften it, to make something better of it. Instead he could only conclude, “It seems they have gotten away, Abram.”

            Mr. Rockwell looked up. “And their lawyer? Their accountant?”

            “One and the same, and he has disappeared as well.”

            “They could be headed anywhere,” reflected Mr. Swank. “Europe, South America, even India. They must have kept enough cash on hand to pay for steamer tickets and living expenses. Might even be traveling under assumed names. They’re needles in a haystack now.”

            Mr. Babbidge sat down across from his beleaguered colleague. “To make this tragedy complete,” he went on quietly, “our attorneys have determined that the documents Wilbur used to extract money from his grandmother are quite legal—dastardly but legal. We probably have no recourse there.”

            The gentlemen were silent. On the mantle a very old clock ticked away the seconds. From down on the street, floating into the still room from an open window, the clatter of horses and shouts from rowdy cabbies seemed part of another world entirely.

            “Who could have imagined?” sighed Mr. Rockwell, sitting back in his softly creaking chair. He took a slow sip of the ruddy brandy and raised his eyebrows as though about to make an observation, but only stared mutely at his littered desktop.

            Close by, the great bell of St. Martin’s tolled six. The dolorous sound spoke of more than the hour to the three men, who heard in it a reminder of the timeless struggle between virtue and vice. Deep in its solemn voice the bell spoke also of that final day of victory, which to these defeated men, felt very far away.

* * *

            Mrs. Rockwell took in the news of the Somerset family’s financial ruin like a Buddha, her face immutable, her figure motionless on the velvet divan. In all matters, she was her husband’s most respected councilor, but he had put her off for two days before sharing the tale. He wanted to get it all out at once, not just one ugly piece at a time. Tonight, he had come home and asked to delay dinner. He led his wife into the parlor saying that he had a story to tell, which he recounted in a clear and dispassionate manner. But the hunch in his shoulders, his slow pacing back and forth as the words came out, the fixed expression of wonder in his eyes, betrayed that he was at the very limit of what he knew how to bear. When he had told everything, including a description of the packet from Eleanor followed by Babbidge’s news that all of Wilbur’s crimes were done within the law, his voice stopped, but he continued to walk absently about the room.

            Mrs. Rockwell sat quietly for a few moments, her hands folded across her generous lap. One could almost hear her mentally cataloguing the facts, considering the repercussions, and arranging in order of practicality the possibilities for action. When she was satisfied, she put a hand on the cushion beside her and asked, “My dear, can you sit?”

            Abram Rockwell sat down beside his wife. She rested a hand on his leg and asked, “What do you intend to do?”

            Mr. Rockwell sighed deeply, his gaze resting on the dark fire grate across from them. “I must go to Brookside and tell Agnes in person. Immediately. First I’ll check what remains in her own accounts so I can give her a full report all around. But we both know that she needed Irene Brown’s money. It was she who paid the taxes on the estate each year. They come due next month. That alone will wipe out much of Agnes’s reserve. Even if Agnes trims her staff to a minimum, there will be enough left to keep the house running for, at best, six months—maybe less.”

            “She will have to sell?”

            “I see no other course.”

            Mrs. Rockwell frowned and considered. Then she straightened her shoulders and announced, “I am going with you. She will need a woman at a time like this. We will tell her together, then you can arrange the legal matters. I might stay a few days to help her think. And we should bring Vera along, if the woman isn’t off exploring the western frontier.”

            Abram turned his eyes directly on his wife for the first time that evening. “You are a singular woman,” he observed with a touch of amazement in his voice. “I know you will be a great help to her.” His gaze shifted and his eyes welled up. “I feel this is my fault, Doris. I should have noticed somehow, taken more precautions, checked more frequently—”

            “Abram!” Doris Rockwell took her husband’s face in her hands. “You are a competent and conscientious man. This is Wilbur’s fault, and Eleanor’s. They did the thieving. Don’t let me hear you say that again.”

            Abram Rockwell slumped against his wife, who enclosed him in the protection of her arms, and they remained that way as the room darkened into evening. At last a servant tapped gently on the parlor door and, hearing nothing, carefully opened it to inquire if they would be wanting dinner. Mrs. Rockwell asked that a plate of food be brought up to their rooms and stated that they would be leaving the next day for Brookside.

To be continued . . .