City of Glory (12 page)

“Not for long.”

“What does that mean? Are you planning to be less cheeky sometime soon?”

“No. It means the house won’t be yours for much longer. It will go on the block with all your other assets once Gornt Blakeman squeezes the last drop of life out of Devrey Shipping. As, I trust, you are well aware.”

Silence for a few seconds, then, “Come over here, Joyful Patrick. So I can get a good look at you.”

He did as he was asked, and took a good look in his turn. Bastard was sweating profusely, his face was bright scarlet, and his eyes were puffy with drink, maybe tears. He squinted up at Joyful, then leaned forward and squinted some more. “Truth, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“That we’re all redheads descended from Red Bess.”

“My mother was also a redhead.”

“The beautiful Roisin. Yes, so I heard. I remember now, you’re a bastard as well. Christ, what a history.”

Joyful shrugged. “My parents married soon after I was born, but it doesn’t make any difference. We’re not responsible for the past, Cousin. Only the present. And maybe the future.”

“My future, as you so generously pointed out, is a bucket of steaming manure. The whole town has the stench in its nostrils. So why should I go on talking to you, Joyful Patrick? This house is still mine, whatever may happen next week or next month.” He flailed an arm in the air. “Get the bloody hell out or I’ll whip you out.”

There was a horse whip hanging on the wall beside the fireplace. Joyful had no idea what it was doing there, and not much fear of Bastard carrying out his threat. “You’re in no condition to do any such thing, and I’m not leaving quite yet. No, don’t protest. Hear me out. It’s in your best interest.

“What you want is to salvage as much as you can from this disaster. But you don’t know how, so you’re sitting here on what may well have been the worst day of your life drinking yourself into oblivion. And since I warrant tomorrow has worse in store, you’ll likely be doing the same for some days to come. And sooner rather than later the sheriff will come to read you into bankruptcy. Then it will be too late.”

“Too late for what?”

In spite of himself, Bastard was sobering up, Joyful noted. Give a man a genuine life-or-death choice, and even the fog of alcohol could lift. “Too late for me to help you wriggle out of the mess you’re in.”

“And how might you do that? Presuming I act before it’s too late.”

Joyful stretched out his foot and hooked another of the heavy mahogany armchairs closer to Bastard’s. He sat down. “It’s simple. First you give me a ship; a fast sloop such as the
Lisbetta
will serve very well. Then you make over to me a large part of Devrey Shipping.”

A few seconds of silence, then Bastard made a sound between a snort and a chortle. “Well, no reason this family shouldn’t finally produce a madman to go along with everything else. No, wait! The crazy old Jew Solomon DaSilva, he was your grandfather. A whoremaster turned gunrunner who nearly burned the city. That explains it. Now get out.”

“Solomon set alight my father’s privateer, the
Fanciful Maiden,
while she was lying in harbor. But the old reprobate had made a huge fortune for himself before the Huron captured him and tortured him into insanity. And yes, he was Morgan Turner’s father and my grandfather. And my grandmother was Squaw DaSilva, who took over her husband’s affairs and increased his wealth fourfold. They were a pair of business people as clever as this city’s ever seen. My forebears are reasons for you to listen to me, Cousin, not send me away.”

Bastard’s glass was empty. He waved it in Joyful’s direction. “Get me another. You’re daft, but I’ll listen as long as it takes me to drink it. Then you leave or be horsewhipped.”

Joyful poured them both generous refills of the Madeira. “The plan is simple, and that’s its greatest virtue. You make over forty-nine percent of Devrey Shipping to me, and keep eleven percent for yourself. That way there’s only a small portion of the company can be taken to repay your debts. Whatever happens, the business is safe.”

“Jesus God Almighty. You’ve balls of brass, I’ll say that for you, Joyful Patrick Turner. Do you think I care more for the company than my own skin? You’ve old DaSilva’s canniness, all right, and none of his brains. Worse, you’ve caused me to come sober.” Bastard tossed back the drink Joyful had brought him, then lumbered out of the chair and headed for the decanter.

Joyful watched his cousin stagger back to his place beside the empty fireplace, clutching the supply of Madeira to his heart. “It’s your skin I’m talking about,” he said when Bastard was again settled. “Your life. Good Portuguese wine, not Spanish piss. A home up on Broadway, and—”

“Already have that. Started building it three years past. Before Madison’s damned war.”

“Yes, but you can’t afford to finish it. I’m offering you the chance to change that and take back your rightful place in society.”

“On eleven percent of a company whose ships are putrefying in harbor, and will remain so as long as the blockade’s in place?”

“On eleven percent, plus a silent partner’s interest in my forty-nine percent share. Together we can outvote Gornt Blakeman, but he won’t know that until it’s too late. It will be a private arrangement and remain so until we decide otherwise.”

“You’re a madman. What in all Hades do you know about the shipping business? Gornt Blakeman will chew you up and spit you out.”

“No,” Joyful said quietly, “he won’t. You seem to forget, Cousin, that I was raised in Canton. Blakeman’s made his fortune in coaching here. He knows nothing of the China trade.”

“That’s what I thought. As of today I know better. All New York knows better.”

“Blakeman was fortunate in his choice of ship’s captain who was contracted through a comprador. Gornt Blakeman gambled and won one toss. That doesn’t make him a trader of Astor’s skill. Or mine.”

“You and John Jacob Astor in the same breath. Sweet Christ but you fancy yourself, Joyful Turner.”

Joyful stretched out his long legs and crossed them at the ankles, a man prepared to sit awhile. “Allow me to tell you a story. Our cousin Andrew Turner taught me everything I know about surgery. He’s a genius with a knife, as I’m sure you know, and when I had two hands, so was I. Not as good as Andrew, but definitely the next-best thing. The cutting trade’s about making connections—knowing what will happen when your knife goes in, how to accomplish the task you’ve set yourself, and get out clean, without severing arteries you can’t tie off, or cutting ligaments you never intended to touch. Trade’s about connections as well. I speak Mandarin and Cantonese. Time was, I knew every hong merchant by name. These days their sons will have taken over, and I played with most of them when we were boys together. Gornt Blakeman is an outsider who had to hire an independent comprador to find a cargo and a captain for his ship. I will choose a comprador tied so tight to me he’ll see my interests as his own. Canton works on loyalty and family ties. I can claim both. What can Gornt Blakeman match against that?”

Bastard took a swig of Madeira directly from the decanter and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Money,” he said, swallowing a soft belch. “And after tomorrow’s sale he’ll have considerably more. I warrant, Joyful Patrick Turner, that you don’t have two coppers to rub together. Otherwise you’d have found other allies to help you come after me.”

It was a belief that played into Joyful’s plan. “Give me the sloop
Lisbetta
and I’ll have a healthy stake. You and I, cousin, together we’ll make a run on Blakeman’s scrip, just as he did on yours.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“I’m not. Besides, what other choice do you have?” Joyful reached into his pocket and withdrew a sheaf of papers. “I have the agreements right here. All you have to do is sign them.”

Bastard said nothing. Joyful stood up and went to the writing table, where a quill and an inkpot waited. After a few moments Bastard joined him. There was one moment, holding the pen, when he thought of his son in Canton waiting for the war to end so he could come home, thought of the lad’s expectations. Then he signed with a flourish. Expectations be damned. His as well as young Samuel’s. The bird in the hand was the only possibility since, as far as he could see, there were none in the bush.

Maiden Lane, 9
P.M.

“Marry me.”

“I cannot. Not yet.”

“You love me. I know you do.” Manon reached up and clasped her hands behind Joyful’s head. “I can feel the love you have for me. Take me away now, this very night, and marry me.” “You have no shame,” Joyful said. They were both whispering because they were standing in the shadows at the rear of the Vionne shop, not far from the door that led to the private part of the house, and Maurice Vionne and his special visitor were in a room above their heads. “I am in love with the most shameless female in New York.”

“In all of these United States, more likely,” Manon agreed happily. “Now kiss me.” He did. “You burn with love for me,” she said when the kiss ended. “And I for you. So why—”

“I have every intention of marrying you, Manon Vionne, and teaching you that you do not know everything you think you do. But not yet.” Joyful used his one good hand to disengage her arms from round his neck and stepped away.

“My father intends to fob me off on a nephew of Pierre DeFane. He’s a widower from Virginia, and he’s looking for a wife. Papa will insist I marry him if you don’t speak first.”

“Manon, I—” He broke off.

“What? You’ve a secret, Joyful. I can see it in your eyes. Tell me.”

“I can’t, not yet.” The agreements Bastard had signed were in the inside pocket of his cutaway, next to his heart; they felt like fire next to his skin, but they represented a paper claim on a nearly bankrupt company. From being ostensibly without resources he’d become a man with a mountain of debt. He might be the only man who could oppose Gornt Blakeman—for sheer volume of tonnage Devrey’s had no rival—but there was yet nothing to brag about to Manon. “Later,” he promised. “When I’ve sorted a few more things.”

“But if—”

“Hush.” Joyful put a finger over her lips. The sound of a scraping chair and footsteps could be heard in the room above their heads. “I must go. And as for this Virginian widower, I will take a scalpel to the most precious part of his anatomy if he so much as looks at you.” He loved seeing her blush. It was one of the many things he loved about her, the pairing of boldness and innocence.

Manon went with him to the door. “I will see you tomorrow,” she whispered. “In the usual place. And I’ll tell you everything I’ve been able to find out.”

She watched at the door while Joyful slipped into the street, then hurried back to the stool behind the counter. Moments later her father’s visitor appeared. He wore a cloak over a ruffled shirt, satin breeches, and a broad-brimmed hat that shadowed his face, despite the fact that it was summer and such clothes were impractical, as well as long out of style.

He swept through the small shop, past the wooden counter and the glass cases displaying Papa’s exquisite work. The pierced silver baskets, the intricate rococo cruet stands worked in gold, the candlesticks and coffee jugs in both precious metals—none of them appeared to catch his eye. Papa hurried behind him, then dashed ahead to open the door, bowing the man out. The visitor started to leave, then swiftly turned, his cloak flaring out around his knees, and stared straight at Manon.

She could not keep herself from staring back, at least for a moment. Papa’s visitor was Gornt Blakeman, the man the whole town had been buzzing about since morning. Joyful told her he’d followed Blakeman to Maiden Lane and almost danced a jig with pleasure when, of all the shops he might have visited, he had entered the Vionne premises. “I thought he would, I told you so earlier today, but I couldn’t be sure he’d choose your father.”

“I was sure,” she’d said. “If this Mr. Blakeman is as clever as you say, where else would he go but to the finest jewel merchant in the city?”

“Still, it was wonderful joss.”

“Our joss,” she said. “It’s our fate to be together. How did you know he was coming to Maiden Lane?”

“I didn’t. The captain of Blakeman’s
Canton Star
is an old friend; he served with my father in the War for Independency. He told me he thought he’d carried a fortune in jewels to New York.”

“If it’s a fortune, Papa will not be able to buy them all. We are not rich, Joyful Turner. And you are entirely mistaken if you believe I cannot be a happy wife unless my husband has chests of gold.”

“Nonetheless, chests of gold you shall have. But first you must help me discover exactly what Gornt Blakeman is discussing with your father.”

That’s when she had changed the subject by proposing to him. As she had done at least a dozen times in the last month.

Manon had not always been so forward. They had been meeting two or three times a week for half a year. The first encounter was in March, a chance meeting at an ironmonger’s shop on Front Street. Then there was a second, also unplanned, in the Fly Market. And a few more after that. At first they kept up the pretense that they saw each other accidentally, but by the time Joyful stood beside her on the Battery on the Fourth of July holiday, listening to the reading of the Declaration of Independence that always marked the day, both knew they had contrived their coming together. The crush of the crowd allowed him to take her hand in the one of his that remained, and he’d held it for nearly five minutes. Soon after, he explained that he could not ask for her hand officially, much as he wanted to, because although he had prospects, he no longer had a secure way to earn a living. That was when Manon became the aggressor. She knew Joyful loved her the more for her eagerness, and she took it as a sign of that strength she had always looked for in a man and not found until now.