City of Light (27 page)

He chuckled good-naturedly. “Yes, yes, I have daughters myself. I know what fun they have with anything out of the ordinary.”

“Yes, they do.”

“My dear Miss Barrett.” He leaned toward me appealingly Almost apologetically. “I’m here for the reason everyone knows I’m here: I’m Mr. Morgan’s man and proud of it, and I’m looking out for his interests wherever they lead me.”

“What are his interests?”

“Oh, he has many interests, Miss Barrett.” He leaned back, smirking, puffed up with vicarious glory. “More than any of us can ever imagine. But he manages to keep track of everything, I can tell you. That’s why I’m here. Just think: If you’d invested a fortune to build a hydroelectric power station five hundred miles from your home, and you’d encouraged your friends to do the same, wouldn’t you want someone on hand to look after your interests?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Suddenly there was an edge to his voice. He regarded me with narrowed eyes. “So … you met with Mr. Albright himself today.”

He let the statement float between us, and I wondered at what point he had begun to watch me.

“Mr. Albright’s on your school board, isn’t he?” Krakauer asked rhetorically. “You must have a great deal to discuss,” he added, inviting me to confession.

“Yes, indeed,” I said, creating a story and feigning enthusiasm for it. “Mr. Albright and I share an interest in butterflies. He had some specimens to show me. It is my fervent hope that one day Mr. Albright will donate his butterfly collection to Macaulay.”

Mr. Krakauer gazed at me quizzically, apparently unsure whether to believe me. “Did you enjoy seeing the steel mill?” he inquired accusingly.

“Enjoy is not precisely the word I would use.”

“Ha ha,” he guffawed, slapping his knee. “I understand what you mean. Good for you.” His reaction, so at odds with my expectations, made me even more cautious.

Carefully I said, “What is Mr. Morgan’s interest in the steel mill?”

He looked taken aback. “Forgive me, Miss Barrett, but I’m surprised at you. A person like yourself, asking a question like that. Why anyone who reads the newspapers …”

No doubt it was for the best, that he think me stupid. Finally he added, “It’s a delicate dance we do here, Miss Barrett. A delicate dance.” He raised his eyebrows, as if challenging me to ask him to go on.

“Yes?”

Unexpectedly he shrugged, then he shifted on the seat, leaning forward elbows-on-knees to speak confidentially. “We’ve had so much success with the hydroelectric power project, you know. Sinclair’s got a gift for bringing in business. Graphite, abrasives, aluminum, you name it. That old Irish charm, eh? Nobody can resist him. The investors are already seeing a return! Isn’t that extraordinary? Especially considering that work is still in progress. Well Mr. Morgan certainly is perspicacious, and I’m certainly proud to be his man.”

“Quite so, Mr. Krakauer. Hearing you talk makes me wish
I
could be Mr. Morgan’s man!”

“Oh, my dear lady, that would be impossible.” He looked aghast.

“I know, Mr. Krakauer.” I patted his sleeve. “I’m only joking.”

“Oh,” he said, discomfited but not displeased. “Anyway, it’s been an education to me, learning about these new businesses, finding out how the power station works. Learning about turbines and penstocks and generators. A real education. You know who taught me the most? Poor old Karl Speyer.” Krakauer regarded me frankly. “Poor fellow. Some people say he was murdered. Yes, murdered,” he assured me disingenuously. “Forced at gunpoint to walk across the ice to a weak spot where he fell in and was left to die.” Seeing the scene through Krakauer’s eyes, suddenly I visualized
him
being the one to force Speyer on this death walk. Yet what would J. P. Morgan gain from Speyer’s death? I couldn’t imagine. And besides, surely there were easier ways to kill a man than forcing him to walk across a frozen lake—especially a man who journeyed regularly to Niagara Falls, where sudden death—accidental or otherwise—was a common occurrence. “Falling through the ice,” Krakauer mused. “It’s the sort of accident that could happen to any of us, isn’t it?”

“I hope not, Mr. Krakauer. What a horrible way to die.”

“I don’t suppose any way is easy,” he replied with the matter-of-fact confidence of someone in a position to know.

We stared at each other. Krakauer had a slight smile on his face. Trying to change the subject, I asked, “Mr. Krakauer, do you think it will be necessary—I mean, some people say that the power station will have to take all the water from Niagara to meet the demand.” I fought an urge to avert my eyes. “Do you think that’s true?”

He waited a long time before answering. “Well now, ‘all’ is a relative term, Miss Barrett,” he said thoughtfully.

“It is?” I asked, wide-eyed.

“Yes, indeed. ‘All’ is a relative term. That’s what Mr. Morgan believes. He told me so himself.” Krakauer gazed out the window with intense concentration, remembering, I felt certain, the day that J. P. Morgan, in the shadows of his library, had passed along this precious bit of information.

“Then it must be true—I mean, that ‘all’ is a relative term,” I said, and I wasn’t teasing, for if Morgan had said it, then for all practical purposes it was true. “Mr. Krakauer, I may be wrong on this—and you know best”—how was that for wheedling?—“but I thought there were some kind of state controls on the water. From the state of New York, I mean. That companies had to rent the water or option it, they couldn’t just take as much as they wanted.”

He bestirred himself. “Yes, yes; true, true. There are state controls, it’s all very strictly supervised. Mr. Morgan insists on very strict attention to details like that.”

Then his manner shifted once again. He seemed to be trying to appear blasé, slouching back in his seat, but in fact his eyes were intent upon mine. “Miss Barrett, how well do you know Thomas Sinclair?”

I was uncomfortable in Krakauer’s stare and felt myself blushing. I looked away. “His wife was my best friend. She died last year.”

“I know. I’m sorry for you. Tell me about her.”

I didn’t dare conceal information from Frederick Krakauer. I must choose carefully, what to tell and how to tell it. I must tell him only what he surely knew already. “Well … she attended Macaulay. That’s how I met her. Mr. Sinclair has supported the school generously in her name.”

“So I’ve heard. He’s an extraordinary character. A man of force and integrity.”

“Yes.”

“Understands the power station like … well, like nobody else. Some of the boys know a little of this, a little of that; but Sinclair, he knows the whole shebang. He’s got the whole thing in his head.” Krakauer tapped his temple. “Anything happened to him, the rest of us’d be in big trouble.” Krakauer made this sound like a joke.

“Yes.”

“He’s self-made, as you probably know. Worked in a factory as a boy. Extraordinary, how far he’s come. Mr. Morgan finds it—well, extraordinary. But that’s America for you, isn’t it? That’s America all over.”

“Yes.”

“The only place in the world like it. I mean, here I am, never even finished school, and I’m Mr. Morgan’s man.”

“Yes. It’s an honor.”

“So it is.” He paused, for too long a time. He cleared his throat. “I wonder if Thomas Sinclair ever … remembers”—Krakauer gave the word intense meaning—“those days. In the factory, I mean. The people he knew … his fellow workers, you’d have to call them. His peers, compatriots, comrades, may we say? Of course he was just a boy. But I do wonder if he ever thinks of them. If he’s ever in contact with them. No telling where they are now. What their …” He searched for the word. “What their … inclinations might be.”

I sensed the crumpled Debs flyer in my pocket. I couldn’t meet Krakauer’s gaze. “I wouldn’t know.”

He sat up, spreading a hand on each tweed-covered knee. “No, of course not. How could you possibly know.” He was silent for a moment. Then, abruptly, “It’s hard to believe, but Thomas Sinclair actually gives every single one of his workers a ham for Easter! Pays out of his own pocket. A ham! Now, I ask you, Miss Barrett, what does your average Serb or Croat want with a ham for Easter?”

“Well, I guess that’s America for you, Mr. Krakauer.”

“Mmm.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Right you are there, Miss Barrett.”

Tentatively I said, “If you’re wondering about Mr. Sinclair’s old friends, maybe you should ask him.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, but it’s not the sort of question a man in Sinclair’s position would take well to, now, is it?” There was a harsh undertone in his voice. “That’s why I was asking you.”

All at once I was truly frightened of him. Irrationally, wildly frightened. My heart was racing. I fought the urge to fist my hands together. “Truly, Mr. Krakauer,” I said quietly, in a tone I knew sounded like pleading but that I couldn’t control. “I don’t know.”

He didn’t respond. I wasn’t certain he’d even heard, for he had turned to the window and his gaze was unwavering. The squatters’ shacks had given way to South Park and its glass conservatory, which in turn gave way to the grain elevators. Now our rail line joined dozens of others in a band of tracks half a mile wide, leading to the vast coal trestles of the Lehigh Valley Railroad. Leading to the Buffalo Harbor—the greatest inland port in the history of America, people called it; the sixth busiest port in the world. There—so close—were our skyscrapers, dwarfing the church steeples, outlined against the fat white cumulus clouds that now swept the horizon. How beautiful was our city, how exquisite; it filled me with awe. And all the while, Frederick Krakauer stared out the window with that look of his, watchful but unfocused. Concealing and protecting the interests of Mr. J. Pierpont Morgan.

CHAPTER XV

G
reetings, all!”

On the first Monday evening in May, Elbert Hubbard arrived at my salon with a flourish of high spirits. Elbert was the founder of the Roycrofters, an artists’ community in the nearby village of East Aurora. He was decked out in his uniform of Stetson hat (long brown hair curling around its brim), farmer’s brogues, loose corduroys, flannel shirt, and flowing cravat.

With Elbert’s arrival, mail-order soap king John Larkin abruptly quit his conversation with board member John Scatcherd and left my house without a word to anyone, not even to me. Elbert’s sister was married to Larkin, and as a result Larkin was privy to certain private moral irregularities that Elbert himself shrugged off with a sheepish grin.

Once upon a time, Elbert had been the marketing genius behind the Larkin Soap Company, but in early 1893, with a hefty financial settlement, Elbert left the company to take on the mantle of “writer.” Now Elbert was famous throughout the country—throughout the world, he would say—as Fra Elbertus, the Inspector General of the Universe. His magazine,
The Philistine
(which was basically an advertisement for himself, filled with his homilies and fooleries), had one of the highest circulations in the country.

After everyone heard the front door slam behind the retreating Larkin, Elbert called to me across the crowded drawing room: “Miss Louie! A pleasure to see you, as always. And a pleasure to see how popular you’ve become!” Elbert beamed as staid businessmen excused themselves from conversations with several artists who’d come to Buffalo to work on the exposition and gathered round him instead, patting him on the back and asking after his health. The artists responded with stiff, chilled smiles. They knew Elbert was not of their ken. He was a master salesman who’d decided to put his talents to the cause of “art” as he defined it. They doubted the quality of the work produced by the Roycroft shops; more important, they could never forgive Elbert the work’s mass appeal. But businessmen adored Elbert, and he basked in their adulation. To date, Elbert’s greatest commercial achievement had been the publication of a little story called
A Message to Garcia
, a paean to the loyal and unquestioning worker (he who was becoming so rare in these days of labor unrest and unionism). This little story had sold millions of copies, especially in bulk orders from railroads and other industries, which passed it out among workers and clients alike as a kind of management-approved “inspiration.” It had even made its way into the military, where generals ordered it distributed to their troops.

“I am here to discuss the role of the Roycrofters at the Pan-American!” Elbert proclaimed to one and all. “We have much to offer the Pan-American, but—does the Pan-American have anything to offer us? Who will be the first to tell me?” He didn’t have to wait long for a response: John Milburn was already at his side.

Elbert’s community in East Aurora included a printing press and bookbindery, a furniture-making shop, and leather and metalworks. The colony was based on William Morris’s Arts and Crafts movement in England, which fostered individual craftsmanship as an antidote to industrial mass production. To the Arts and Crafts ideal, Hubbard added what he might have called a good dose of American ingenuity—i.e., commercialism. The Roycrofters sold their work far and wide, aided by a variety of bonus offers.

After his conversation with Milburn about possible Roycroft exhibition space at the Pan-Am, Elbert sought me out.

“Your ‘saloon’ is the best place in town to do business, Miss Louie, and I’m indebted to you,” he said loudly, giving me a welcome public endorsement. “Gentlemen, I’m off to a lecture at Lyric Hall on the evils of hydroelectric power development at the Falls. Anyone wish to join me?”

If Elbert was going, then of course everyone (except the artists) did wish to join him, myself included. Only a half hour before, my guests had been deriding this lecture, but Elbert was sure to make it fun and probably create some fireworks along the way.

There was a pleasant, misty drizzle outside. Several of the men had carriages, offering enough room for all of us. After everyone was settled, Elbert and I found ourselves in his carriage alone. As we set off—two misfits, unbound by the conventions that trapped our peers—a plan occurred to me.

About ten years earlier, Elbert had carried on a love affair with a schoolteacher in East Aurora named Alice Moore. This was a close-kept secret. Alice had moved to Boston and given birth to a daughter. Although there was talk of divorce, Elbert and his wife, Bertha, who had four children, patched things up. Bertha was a gifted miniaturist and took an active role in the artistic production at Roycroft, decorating books and porcelain; I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that Elbert had avoided divorce because he didn’t want to lose Bertha’s talents.

At any rate, this was the matter that had caused the rift between Elbert and his brother-in-law John Larkin. I knew the details because Elbert’s sister had confessed the story to me one day in a torrent of tears when she was in my office discussing the spring fund-raising fete. She and her husband sided with Bertha, she told me; her brother was selfish and self-indulgent. She and Mr. Larkin no longer wanted anything to do with him.

I liked Elbert and he liked me, and I saw no reason to change my opinion. I’d met Alice Moore once at a teachers’ conference before I knew of her relationship with Elbert, and I remembered her as being straitlaced and puritanical, even within the context of schoolmarms. She seemed an odd choice for Elbert, but who was I to say? I believed Elbert maintained some degree of contact with her; Alice had recently gone out West to teach after settling her daughter with her relatives in Buffalo (how different my life might have been, if only I’d had some family, somewhere, to help me). In his writings Elbert spoke in favor of equal rights for women, and he touted the virtue of following one’s heart—topics undoubtedly designed to please Alice, wherever she was reading them.

“Elbert,” I said, sidestepping into my plan, “you know how you’re always lauding the virtues of ‘free love’?”

“Why, Miss Barrett, is this a proposition? I always thought you went quite the other way. Won’t Miss Coatsworth be shocked? However, now that you mention it, I must say you have a radiance about you that I’ve always admired. Quite artistic. I do admire women of intensity. Of thoughtful intensity. Of probing intelligence. In short, I’ve always admired
you
, Louisa. Therefore your wish, my dear, is my command.” He placed a hand upon my knee.

Laughing, I returned his hand to his own knee, squeezing it to keep it there. “Thank you, Elbert, for your admiration. I must assure you that I do not ‘go the other way,’ as you so elegantly describe it, but Miss Coatsworth is an excellent foil, don’t you think? Her mere existence seems to answer so many questions about me, without answering them at all.”

“You’re a sly one, Louisa.” He regarded me with renewed respect. “Almost as sly as me.”

“Oh, that I could never be,” I assured him.

“Is there no chance for me, then?” he asked with mock regret.

Patting his leg, I said, “Not today, Elbert, dear,” although it was difficult for me to understand why, since he was most attractive, with his pouting brown eyes and smooth skin. He smelled pleasantly of woods and grass—undoubtedly a special scent he was developing to compete with his brother-in-law’s perfumed soaps. He was gentle, easygoing, and comforting. In short, he was everything against which my girls had no defense. Around him I felt none of the fear that beset me with other men. Loving him would be much too easy, and for that reason, probably, I felt no inclination to do so.

“May I inquire as to the origin of your unexpected though not unwelcome question?”

“One of my students has found herself …”—I searched for the words—“in an awkward position.” I raised my eyebrows meaningfully. “One of the results of free love that its proponents seldom address.”

“Yes, indeed,” he admitted wearily.

“At any rate, she’s a shy girl who stumbled into her difficulty more out of innocence than wickedness.”

“Or so she would have you believe.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” I acknowledged. “But no matter. The family has asked me to try to find some … solution for her. It occurs to me that Macaulay could sponsor a summer apprenticeship with the Roycrofters, and this girl could be the recipient of the first scholarship.”

“An interesting idea. Where would the money come from to support this apprenticeship?”

“At the moment I have some discretionary funds at my disposal.” I planned to ask the Rushmans to donate the money anonymously.

“Is the girl artistic?”

“Not that I’ve seen.”

“A fine opportunity, then, Louie, to instill some artistry in her. What makes you think her secret will be safe with us?”

“Because it will please your sense of righteous rebellion to keep it safe.”

“True enough.”

“She must live in your own house. Bertha will not object?”

“Bertha will understand the—uh—social significance of our action. The girl would be expected to work, however. Bertha could assign her various tasks in her room. Watercoloring borders, that kind of thing.”

“She is the type of girl who is only too happy to help.”

“Mmm,” he pondered, “I’ve met that type before. Quite irresistible.”

“In this case you’ll steel yourself against temptation.”

“Yes, yes, all right.” He gave me one of his bad-boy looks.

“Now then, this girl has a special love of butterflies; one might even say that butterflies have contributed to her current condition.” I regarded him wryly. “Perhaps Bertha could set her to painting butterflies. She understands them in all their permutations.”

He looked at me with bemusement. “Are you implying something?”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” I said, enjoying his confusion. “At any rate, she travels with her grandmother.”

“An immigrant grandmother?”

“Yes, in fact. German. From a farm, I believe.”

“Can she cook? Strudel? Sausage? How I love immigrant grandmothers.”

“I thought you would.”

“With the addition of the grandmother, I shall be more than happy to help you—I shall be grateful to help you!” With relish he rubbed his hands together. “Well, then, I leave the details to you. Just keep me informed.”

And with that he took the liberty of kissing me hard on the forehead, to seal our agreement.

Lyric Hall was already crowded when we arrived, for lectures were fashionable. Buffalo was a city that attracted lecturers: Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Lucy Stone, Matthew Arnold, all had graced Lyric Hall. Tonight we would hear Daniel Henry Bates, the man who’d led the protest at the power station on the day I visited with my seniors.

I knew Tom wouldn’t be there; he and Margaret had never attended public lectures. Over the weekend I’d seen him briefly at home when I’d dropped off Grace after having lunch with her at the club. He’d tacitly ignored the import of our conversation in the sleigh outside school—he’d made his point, of course, and didn’t need to repeat it. With some embarrassment I’d taken him aside and told him Albright’s message about the finger in the dike. I was completely disconcerted when he burst out laughing. “My friend certainly has his own inimitable sense of humor, doesn’t he?” Tom observed.

“But what does he mean?”

“Oh, he doesn’t mean anything.”

“But then why—”

“Albright likes to make little jokes. Please don’t give the matter another thought. Now then,” he said abruptly, “what am I to do with Grace this afternoon? There’s a problem that needs solving.”

Even as we resolved that they would play tennis, I couldn’t quite convince myself that Albright’s words were meaningless. Albright might be eccentric and his remark about the dike odd, but he wasn’t a fool—far from it: He was one of the city’s commercial geniuses, and he, like the other members of my board, undoubtedly had a strong monetary interest in the power station.

Tonight, as our group looked for seats at Lyric Hall, this remained a conundrum in my mind; but I had delivered the message and now Tom had to resolve the issue. Finally we sat three quarters of the way back, taking up a row opposite an oversized portrait of the Marquis de Lafayette, who had visited Buffalo in 1825. The marquis stood awkwardly on a grassy knoll, holding a top hat and walking stick and wearing what looked like extremely high-heeled boots. Such were our heroes.

Because of the rain, the gaslit hall smelled dank. Looking around, I spotted Francesca near the front. My student Maddie Fronczyk and her brother, Peter, sat halfway back. Franklin Fiske was near them, and he gave me a surreptitious salute. On the side aisle sat Frederick Krakauer, looking unusually awake (for him). When he saw me, he stood and waved, causing me intense embarrassment. I wanted him as an ally—or at least not an enemy—but I didn’t want him waving to me in public as if we were friends. Mercifully, no one seemed to notice or if they did, assumed Krakauer was waving at my companion: For here as everywhere, Elbert was the center of attention, people turning to stare at him, friends calling out their greetings, strangers coming to shake his hand, to all of which he responded with a never-flagging grin.