New York_ The Novel - Edward Rutherfurd [273]
“Did you ever know me to talk?”
“No,” said Sean, approvingly, “I can’t say I did.”
An hour later, Mary informed Hetty Master: “He’s taking her with him upriver on Sunday. And he calls her Clipper.”
“Good,” said Hetty. “That’ll do nicely.”
Frank Master had hesitated, but finally, on the following Wednesday, he made up his mind. Leaving his house late in the morning, he went eastward along Fourteenth until he came to the station, climbed up the open staircase of the El, and came out onto the platform.
As he climbed the stairs, he felt a faint twinge of discomfort, but it seemed to pass, so he took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, congratulated himself that he was still pretty damn fit, and lit a cigar.
It being quite late in the morning, there weren’t many people about on the platform. He walked along it and gazed down at the clusters of telegraph lines strung between their poles, and the slate roofs of the small houses across the street. The rooftops were grimy with the soot from the El trains that passed above them, and they usually looked sad and depressed at this time of the spring. But the weather this March was so warm that they seemed dirty but cheerful in the morning sun.
Frank didn’t have to wait long before a series of puffs and rattles announced that the El train was nosing its way along the high rails toward him. All the same, as the train carried him downtown, Frank wished he wasn’t on it. For two reasons. First, he was going to see his son. Second, that meant a trip into Wall Street.
It was a couple of weeks since he’d last seen Tom. He loved his son, of course, yet there was always a faint tension in the air when they met. Not that Tom ever said anything—that wasn’t his way—but ever since that day at the start of the Draft Riots, he’d had the feeling that Tom didn’t approve of him. Something in his look seemed to say: You deserted my mother, and we both know it. Well, maybe. But that had been a long while ago—long enough to forgive and forget. True, he’d been seeing Lily de Chantal for most of the intervening time, but he was pretty sure Tom didn’t know that. So there was no excuse.
However, Tom had his uses. And it seemed to Frank, as the train carried him downtown, that he needed Tom just now.
He got out at Fulton and walked into Wall Street.
Why did he feel uncomfortable in Wall Street? He used to like it well enough. Trinity Church was still there, presiding over the street’s western end, in all its solemn splendor—a comforting sight. Wasn’t Trinity the very soul of Wall Street’s tradition? Hadn’t the Master family belonged to Trinity, members of the vestry more often than not, for generations? Wall Street should have felt like home. But it didn’t.
The place was busy as usual. Fellows in dark coats, rushing in and out of the Exchange with orders stuck into the bands of their high hats. Clerks hastening to their high stools and their desks. Messenger boys, street vendors, cabs delivering merchant gentlemen like himself. It was the old New York, wasn’t it?
No. Not really. Not any more.
He passed a stern and bulky building. Number 23. The House of Drexel, Morgan. And as he passed, it was all he could do not to bow the head. Yes he, one of the Masters, friends to Stuyvesants and Roosevelts, Astors and Vanderbilts, must experience a trembling of awe as he passed the offices of Morgan. That was the trouble. That was why he didn’t belong here any more.
But his son Tom did. And a few moments later, he came to his door.
“Father. An unexpected pleasure.” Tom pushed his big chair back from his roll-top desk. His tailcoat was hanging on a stand. But his gray waistcoat was as spotless as his white shirt, his silk cravat and the pearl pin that held it in place. Everything about him told you: this man does not handle goods, he only handles money. Tom was not a mere merchant like his ancestors; he was a banker.
“Got a moment?” said his father.
“For you, of course.” Tom didn’t need to say he was busy. The gold watch chain across his waistcoat told you his time was valuable.
“I need