Betina Krahn (25 page)

She looked out at the darkening countryside passing by the window and tried not to think about what the real reason might be that she had agreed to come.

Some time later, the funding documents he had been reviewing slid from the seat beside him onto the floor. She bent to pick them up, just as he leaned forward to retrieve them. They bumped heads and she grabbed her hat and looked up to find his face a mere inch from hers.

She knew she was in trouble when she didn’t straighten instantly and slide back into her seat with a sniff of indignation. If he kissed her, she was going to kiss him back; that much was clear. And it was only going to complicate things even more.

She heard Alice stir on the seat beside her and shoved the papers into his hand. He tucked them securely on the seat beside him. For the rest of the train ride, he wore a small, annoying smile that said he knew how susceptible she was to the idea of kissing him.

They arrived at the train station quite late. The hotel, the finest in Albany, was unable to offer them more than mediocre accommodations since the legislature was in session and business was brisk. It was late and they were exhausted, so they gladly accepted two rooms at the rear of the hotel’s third floor, overlooking a public livery. Beatrice and Alice were required to share a room, though not a bed, and they all had to use the common bathing room at the end of the hall. Beatrice wasn’t pleased with the arrangements, but told herself as she slipped between clean sheets that night and felt every bone in her body ache with gratitude, that it would help procure her bank charter.

She was considerably less appreciative the next morning, as she stood in a line with other hotel guests wrapped in robes and dressing gowns, waiting for a turn in the bathing room. And she became downright annoyed when she heard Connor’s voice in her ear bidding her a good morning, and found he had worked his way up the line to stand directly behind her. She pulled her dressing gown together at the neck and refused to look at his tousled hair, sultry, sleep-softened eyes, or his bare chest, with its dark hair, visible beneath his half-opened shirt.

At least she and Alice were able to breakfast in peace; Connor declared he had an early meeting with someone from the legislature and disappeared.

The charter committee met in an office building near the capitol, which housed several governmental departments and bureaus. The air in the paneled room was close and the aged wooden furnishings gave off a faintly vinegary smell. That odor combined with the heavy must of uncirculated air made them decide to wait in the
hallway. Stationed by the door, they could watch for the committee’s arrival and for Connor, who was supposed to join them.

Promptly at two o’clock, the committee members filed in to take seats at a long table on a low dais. Beatrice winced as she peered through the doorway at them. Connor was right; not one of them looked a day under seventy. With their dark clothes, bent shoulders, and bowed necks, they reminded her of aged vultures.

As they sank into their seats, the room filled with a dry rustle, like the sound of leather brushing leather. Beatrice swallowed hard as she eyed the smaller table set before the dais, where petitioners pleaded their cases. She imagined a huge pile of bones beside that table and …

Alice pulled on her sleeve. Connor was coming down the hallway toward them with a firm step and a determined expression.

“Where have you been?” Beatrice demanded in a loud whisper as he took her by the elbow and ushered her through the door.

“Doing my job,” he whispered back … then stopped dead, staring at the committee members.

His face drained of color. She followed his gaze to the dark, beady eyes of a black-clad old fellow with white hair and a formidable scowl.

An instant later, Connor turned and strode straight back out the door. Beatrice ordered Alice to save them seats and followed him.

“What’s gotten into you?” she demanded when she caught up with him.

“My grandfather,” he said as if the words inflicted pain.

“Your grand—where?” Then she knew. “You mean, on the committee?” Putting together his grim expression
and the gossip she’d heard about his break with the old man alarmed her. “You think he would try to make it difficult for us? To block our charter?”

“He’s waited ten years for this very opportunity,” he ground out. “Of course he’ll make it difficult.”

There was a sinking sensation in her stomach. She had been so sure that Connor was what she needed to get them past the committee and through the legislature. Now it seemed he might be their greatest obstacle!

“Perhaps if I went in alone,” she said.

He scowled and rubbed his forehead. “He’s already seen me with you. I can’t back out now, or he’ll make it impossible for you. We both have to go back in.” He flexed his shoulders like a gladiator preparing for battle. “You’ll have to do the talking. Whatever you do, don’t talk about women and how they need this blasted bank. Keep it strictly business. Talk profit. That, they’ll understand.”

Profit. Her recent experience with Consolidated’s board came back to her. If the charter committee’s attitude was anything like her board’s, she had her work cut out for her.

The afternoon dragged on as proposals for charters, most made in absentia, were stripped to mere bones and cast aside. The old gargoyles went over every aspect of each proposal with an eye for weaknesses. And with each failure, Hurst Barrow glanced at Connor to see if that rejection sparked a reaction. He seemed to be searching for the matter that had brought him face-to-face with his rebellious grandson for the first time in years.

It wasn’t until late in the afternoon, almost five o’clock, that Beatrice’s charter request came before the committee.

She approached the table, motioning Alice and Connor to come with her. The clerk read “Proposed: the ‘Barrow State Bank’.” Old Hurst Barrow’s wiry eyebrows shot up and he sent his grandson a disgusted look. Connor’s objection to her use of his name on the future bank now took on an entirely different significance. It must seem to Hurst Barrow and the rest of the committee that they were using the name to curry favor.

Beatrice identified herself as the president of Consolidated Industries, in whose name the charter was sought. She was instructed to be seated.

“Von Furstenberg?” Hurst Barrow squinted and leaned forward to get a better look at her. “You mean to say you’re old Furstie’s widow?”

“Yes, I am Mercer Von Furstenberg’s widow,” she said, trying to read in his reaction whether that relationship counted for or against her.

“You run through all his money?” another of the old codgers demanded. “And now you’re lookin’ to get your hands on other peoples’?”

She tensed but felt Connor’s hand on her arm, beneath the table.

“I am supplying a good part of the initial capital for this bank myself,” she said calmly. “The rest of the reserve will be provided by a stock offering and by Consolidated Industries. The money has already been approved by the board of directors.”

There was a murmur as the committee conferred … resulting in a noise that might have been a rumble of either displeasure or gastric distress. When they resumed, Hurst Barrow took the lead.

“Who would run this bank?” he demanded, scrutinizing Beatrice. “You?”

“As has been the case with each of Consolidated’s other subsidiaries,” she said evenly, “we expect to hire well-qualified managers and officers, who will report directly to Consolidated’s board of directors.”

Hurst leveled a glower on Connor.

“And what’s
your
piece of this plum?”

It was her turn to seize Connor’s arm.

“I am here to offer Mrs. Von Furstenberg and Consolidated Industries legal counsel and political advice,” Connor declared.

Hurst snorted and turned to Beatrice. “If you get a charter … I hope you do a better job choosing bank personnel than you’ve done choosing legal help.”

She reddened and would have spoken, but Connor’s hand stopped her. She looked up to find his face frozen into a mask of composure.

“There are at least thirty different banks and savings associations already in New York,” another committee member declared. “What makes you think yours will make a go of it in that kind of competition? What makes your bank any different from the others?”

She was about to launch into a litany on innovative policies and underserved populations when Connor whispered into her ear: “Trick question. Bankers
hate
things that are different.”

“In the kinds of service offered and general banking procedures, there will be no difference. Only time-tested, tried-and-true business practices will be followed,” she announced instead. “There is throughout the Von Furstenberg companies, a deep respect for tradition and integrity … which combines effectively with a dynamic vision of the future and a quest for innovation. In that regard we plan to investigate new ways of—”

A hoot of rusty-sounding laughter stopped her. Old Hurst Eddington Barrow leaned forward and pointed at Connor.

“Did
he
tell you to say that?”

“
He
told me to be as forthright and sincere with the board as possible,” she said succinctly. “
He
said you would appreciate candor, competence, and brevity.”

“
He’s
always been full of horse manure,” Hurst declared.

“A family trait, it seems,” she said on impulse.

In the shocked pause that followed, something in the old boy’s testy manner and age-faded eyes triggered a memory of Mercer in a mood, and she responded the way she sometimes had to her aged husband—with a smart, saucy smile that was some part confidence, some part defiance, and some part invitation to return to reason.

Connor stared at her brazen, faintly flirtatious smile in horror. What the devil was she doing? Trying to charm the old boy? He could have told her, from long experience, that appealing to his grandfather’s heart was a lost cause. The old vulture didn’t
have
one!

“Perhaps, Mr. Barrow, the name of our proposed bank should be explained,” she continued.

He groaned softly. Not
that!
But she sat abruptly forward to prevent him from seizing her hand.

“It was chosen to honor the man who suggested its development … congressional candidate, Connor Barrow. He was visiting a settlement house with me and hearing the heartrending stories of the residents …”

Connor shrank inside from the horror of what was happening and twisted internally in silent agony. There was nothing that could rouse the old man’s contempt
faster than a sob story—especially one involving his wayward grandson.

“… said they didn’t need a vote, they needed a bank,” she continued. “And I had the good sense to realize he was right. It seemed only fitting to honor him in the bank’s name.”

The old boy scrutinized Beatrice with a look that he generally reserved for separating meat from bone. But to Connor’s amazement, she simply smiled back. He closed his eyes. She was halfway down the vulture’s throat and she didn’t even know it …

“And the fact that for three generations the name
Barrow
has been widely associated with banking in New York never crossed your mind,” he said.

Connor opened his eyes in alarm to find that her prim smile and air of confidence remained unshaken.

“Well, I am a businesswoman, after all.” Her smile broadened and her cheeks colored slightly. “And none of the Barrows themselves seemed inclined to use the name on an institution.”

For a moment Connor wasn’t certain whether his grandfather was choking or strangling. The noise was more of a gurgle than a laugh, but as it gained volume it became clear that it was indeed a venting of pleasure.

“Damn me if you don’t have more brass than a spittoon factory,” Hurst Eddington declared, his face settling into a wry expression.

Connor blinked, looking from the old man to Beatrice and back again.

“I learned from a master, sir,” she said simply. But there was a world of meaning in those words and Connor experienced a startling flash of insight into her life and her character. Had her husband been cut from the same cloth as his grandfather? If so, she had indeed learned
from a master. And her first and most powerful lesson had been in control. She soon confirmed his conclusion.

“It is my personal policy to leave as little to chance as possible. I assure you, this bank will be well funded, well structured, and well run. And I expect that this committee, composed as it is of legendary financiers and bankers”—she nodded to include the others—“will see the thoroughness of our care in planning and will give our proposal a fair and responsible hearing … untainted by personal considerations. I am also confident that this committee means to render its decision in a wise and impartial manner, with the welfare of the business community and the citizens of the state of New York in mind.”

It was such an unprecedented and ladylike affront to the committee’s authority, that the old boys were momentarily taken aback.

In the silence that followed, the rest of the committee looked to Hurst Barrow. Connor could feel his grandfather assessing the space between him and Beatrice. After a moment, a canny look spread over the old man’s gaunt but still powerful face. The old boy glanced briefly at Consolidated’s proposal, then with a sweep of the hand so casual it might in any other context have been deemed accidental, tipped it off the table and onto the floor beside the dais.

There was an audible gasp in the chamber. Every spectator present understood that the old man was telling her where he believed her proposal and her demands belonged. Connor’s gut tightened and he started up, but she pulled him back down into his seat. Without a perceptible change of mood or manner, she rose, retrieved
the proposal, and placed it firmly on top of the papers in front of Hurst Barrow.

“I believe you will need this.” Her voice was oddly devoid of injury or irritation. “The committee has not yet rendered a decision on it.”

His gaze locked with hers.

She returned to her seat, folded her hands on the tabletop, and waited patiently for Hurst Barrow’s response. Connor watched in disbelief as the old man picked up the proposal, considered it with an inscrutable expression, and then tucked it under his arm.