City of Glory (23 page)

“Quite true.” Blakeman wore boots and satin breeches, as on the previous evening, with a ruffled shirt and a hat with an outsize brim. He had removed his hat when Vionne let him in. Now he leaned forward, putting his face directly in the glow of the small oil lamp the goldsmith had lit. “Here, get a good look at me. Am I such an unpleasant prospect as a son-in-law?”

A jutting chin, glittering eyes. Not handsome exactly and not young, but the look of a man who would always get what he wanted. Vionne glanced at the entrance to the private part of the house. He’d wager his last pearl necklace Manon was standing a few feet away, ear pressed to the door and listening to every word. She would have heard the ruckus Blakeman made trying to get in and come downstairs. Vionne swallowed hard. Dear God, if only her mother were here…“I would not expect my Manon to marry a man, any man, purely on my say-so.” Too bad she had to hear that. It would make her all the more impossible to manage. Gornt Blakeman was not a man to be trifled with. “You must return at a more regular hour, sir. And perhaps—”

“She’s a virgin, isn’t she? I told you last night she was the finest gold in your possession. A treasure to be guarded.” They’d been the last words he whispered to the goldsmith as he left, and only half in jest. But that he might marry the goldsmith’s daughter and do good for himself while doing ill to Joyful Turner—that hadn’t occurred to him until Delight Higgins mentioned the girl’s name. In fact, the idea came to him in the mulatto’s bed. “As long as you can guarantee she’s untouched, I will require no dowry.” Blakeman paused, waited for a response. Instead, Vionne kept looking at the door to the private part of the house. Must be he thought the girl to be listening—a bad habit and one he’d have to break. “I want sons, sir. I require them. Huguenot women are known to be good breeders. Have you sons, Mr. Vionne? Does she come from good stock?”

“My wife, God bless her memory, gave me three sons, Mr. Blakeman. All born healthy and alive. Unfortunately, two were lost to the cholera, and one was trampled by a runaway horse.”

“That’s all right then. Come, goldsmith, you should be smiling. Have you had a better offer for your goods? I can support her, as you know. And my connections…” Blakeman waved an expansive hand. The shop was deep in shadow, but they both knew what exquisite and expensive trinkets lined the shelves. “It will be no bad thing to be my father-in-law, sir. Speak to your daughter. Then arrange the banns.”

Blakeman turned and left the shop. Vionne stared after him, then went to the door to the private quarters and pulled it open. There was no sign of Manon and no evidence she’d been there listening, but she would not have remained demurely in her room.
Tighten your grip on her, Maurice.
Almost the final words his wife spoke as she lay dying.
Take Manon in hand, otherwise she’ll take you.

Vionne sighed, closed the door, and turned back to the shop to lock the street door and extinguish the oil lamp, but for a moment he let his glance rove over the lustrous gold and silver creations he had so long labored to produce. What would it mean to an artisan like himself to be connected to a man like Gornt Blakeman? A little shudder traveled from his spine to his scalp—the tall-dream shivers, his dear dead wife used to call such feelings.
You’re a fine man for dreaming, Maurice Vionne. Good thing I’m the practical one.
And Manon? She was a blend of them both. Might she be practical enough to find the notion of marriage to a man like Gornt Blakeman more intriguing than she apparently did the suit of Monsieur DeFane’s nephew?

Upper Broadway, 11
P.M.

Back in Germany, Jacob Astor had been the son of a village butcher. He was rich as Croesus now, and in America a quarter of a century, but he still spoke English with a thick, guttural accent and a foreigner’s syntax. “So, you come by me very late, Dr. Turner. Usually, I am by now in my bed.”

“But you were willing to keep the appointment, sir.” The note Joyful passed Astor at the sale said he would call at 11
P.M
. and that it was in Astor’s best interest to see him. It also gave the address of Joyful’s boardinghouse, in case Astor wanted to put him off. He’d sent no such word.

“
Ja,
very willing,” Astor admitted. “Curious I was.”

“So am I. This afternoon, Mr. Astor, at Blakeman’s sale, when I passed you the note, you seemed to expect it. How was that possible, sir? Are you possessed of some extraordinary mystical power? Is that the secret to such magnificence?” Joyful waved a hand to indicate everything around them.

The rest of the country accused all New Yorkers of excessive spending and ostentation, but nowhere in the city—probably not in the nation—could there be another man who lived like Jacob Astor. His mansion in this countrified northern end of town was staffed by Chinese servants, the only persons of their race in New York as far as Joyful knew. Astor had brought them over on one of his merchantmen before the war. The butler who let Joyful in had the flat features of a
nongmin,
a Han peasant, but his employer had dressed him in the elaborately embroidered black satin gown and crimson silk trousers of a prosperous hong merchant.

For Joyful, seeing the butler was like having a window on his past suddenly opened.
“Chi le fan meiyou?”
he spoke the traditional greeting in proper Mandarin. Have you eaten rice today?

“Chi le. Chi le.”
The butler said. Eaten. Eaten. The words repeated twice for emphasis in the Chinese manner, and always the answer, even if the speaker were a half-starved rickshaw driver. In this case, however, it looked to be true. The man was plump and round, and beaming at Joyful.
“Nin guixing?”
May I know the honorable gentleman’s honorable name?

Joyful would wager ten hot dinners and his cue stick that Astor must have told him who and what to expect, else the butler would have been shocked to have a New York
yang gwei zih,
a foreign devil, address him in his own language. Instead he was smiling and entirely self-possessed. “
Wo xing
Turner,” Joyful said, giving his surname first, because that was the way it was done in China: “Turner Joyful Patrick.”

“
Wo xing
Wong.
Wo xing
Ah Wong.”

Ah was a diminutive, used in China for only the most trusted servants. The man was indicating his high standing in the Astor household.

“Ah Wong,” Joyful said with another bow.

The butler bowed back. “Prease forrow me,” he said, obviously proud of his English. He turned to lead the way, and Joyful saw that his queue, his braid, had been extended with silk to hang halfway down his back. Jacob Astor’s Chinese butler was as splendid as everything else in the place.

The entryway was vast, with a marble floor and gilt columns and walls lined with mirrors. It had proved to be a proper prelude to the study where Astor and Joyful now sat: large enough to be a ballroom, two stories high, and decorated with elaborate frescoes depicting hunting scenes. The tables were made to look like elephant ears or boar tusks—for all Joyful knew, they
were
elephant ears and boar tusks—and the chairs were carved to resemble lions and tigers. His host was seated across from him, in a chair carved to look like a snarling tiger, with the fearsome beast’s head forming a canopy over Astor’s. The tiger’s mouth was open and the great teeth seemed ready at any moment to snap shut on a victim. Magnificence indeed.

“All this,” Astor waved an arm to indicate the room and everything beyond it, “from much hard work it comes. And a little good fortune. And also, Dr. Turner, the power of seeing. Observation.” Astor tapped his temple to indicate his eyes. “With these only.”

“Observation?”

“
Ja.
Nothing else.”

“Forgive me, sir. I don’t believe it.”

“But it’s true. Let me explain. You can no longer be a doctor or a surgeon,” he gestured toward Joyful’s missing hand, “but nothing else you do yet. You have been seen frequently at the docks. When I am told this, I think about your father. I know he was many things, but he finished his life in the Canton trade. His son was raised in China. I too am a trader. I trade in many things. Property, here in New York, you know that, no?” Joyful nodded. Everyone knew that Jacob Astor spent hours prowling the edges of the city, buying what seemed unlikely plots of land that always turned out to be the next place every New Yorker wanted to live. “And furs I trade,” Astor continued. “Many furs. First they came. But now, also the silks and porcelains and tea of Canton. Everyone knows these things. You as well, Dr. Turner. So, when like me you appear at Blakeman’s sale, but you buy nothing, I observe that we are both there for curiosity only. After a time you come beside me. A little, what shall I say…stealthy. It must be that you intend to speak to me, or to pass me a note. Speaking would attract attention, which already you have tried to avoid. I decide it is to be a note. And because I remain curious, I put out my hand.”

“I am impressed, sir.”

Astor smiled. “
Ja,
a little, so am I. What is your scheme, Dr. Turner? You must have one or you would not be here.”

Careful now, Joyful reminded himself. It was like playing cards with the midshipmen. You mustn’t show all your cards at once, but you have to make it seem as if that’s exactly what you’re doing. “I believe in simplicity, Mr. Astor, so I will come straight to the point. I am now the majority holder of Devrey Shipping scrip, and thus, de facto, the owner of the company. I wish to make common cause with the most powerful trader in the nation.”

Astor’s tone was mild. “A sick dog, Devrey Shipping is, full of fleas and disease and a long time taking to die. But it is my competition, so if you speak the truth, you are my enemy.” Joyful started to say something and Astor held up a hand to forestall him. “I think you have come here because you do not want me to think of you or your company as my enemy. And I think perhaps it is true and you are not. But am I sure? No, Dr. Turner, sure I am not. Please, convince me.”

“Two words should be enough. Gornt Blakeman.” Joyful thought he saw a flash of interest in the other man’s eyes.

“So. A great victory he has had, a great day. I congratulate him. But fear him I do not, Dr. Turner. My best information says only one merchantman he has, the
Canton Star.
I have a fleet.”

“So have I, now.”

“You, or Devrey’s, I should say, have eight merchantmen. All are rotting in the roads. One East Indiaman too. Apparently, still she is captive in Canton. As for me…I own four ships meant for the China trade. Two are idle. The other two are”—he hesitated—“gainfully they are employed.”

“As privateers, I warrant.”

The older man shrugged. “I am a loyal American, and I wish to help my country in her time of need. Attacking the enemy’s shipping is a good way. As good as sailing with the navy”—he nodded again toward Joyful’s missing hand—“and much more profitable. Come,” he stood up. “Let me show you something, Dr. Turner. Please, over here.”

Astor led his guest to an almost life-size bronze statue of the Greek god Atlas, holding up a globe of the world. The globe was made of ivory-colored parchment stretched over an iron frame, the continents etched in position in dark sepia tones. The globe was discreetly pierced, and lit from within with some kind of lantern. Jacob Astor extended one finger and set the contraption spinning. Joyful could not look away. Shafts of light appeared to fly from the earth’s interior toward the great beasts that populated the study. His host touched the globe a second time and it stopped turning. They were looking at North America. “So, here is our United States,” Astor said. “Much bigger now that President Jefferson bought the French Louisiana, no?”

“Very much bigger.”

“And here is what President Jefferson wrote to me about that bigger country.” Astor took a letter from a nearby shelf and handed it to Joyful.

The letter was dated April 11, 1808.
All beyond the Mississippi is ours exclusively, and it will be in our power to give our own traders great advantages over their foreign competitors.
Joyful stopped reading and skipped to the signature.
Thomas Jefferson,
it said,
President of the United States.

“Here I have a trading colony.” Astor tapped the western edge of the North American continent. “Astoria. A year ago I sent men to find a better route between Astoria and here.” His finger rested on St. Louis in the Missouri Territory.

“And did they find it?”

“
Ja,
Dr. Turner. I think they did. A pass through these mountains”—his short, stubby finger had moved to the Rockies—“where wagons can go without so hard a journey. So after this miserable war is over, many can travel from here to here.” The finger traveled from New York through the Oregon Territory to the colony he’d named Astoria. “And Astor’s ships will trade with ease, everywhere.” Once more the globe spun at Jacob Astor’s touch and shafts of dancing light illuminated the surroundings. “Everywhere,” he repeated. “And from Astoria my merchantmen will not have to go around Cape Horn.” Astor’s pointing finger dropped to the southernmost tip of South America. “They can go straight across the Pacific Ocean to China.”