The Last Days of Yesteryear: Chapter 12
It is a failure of imagination to assume that all criminals are poor. While it makes a crude sense — why be a criminal if you don’t need the money? — it fails to account for the fact that any criminal worth their shackles will not remain poor for very long.
It is therefore far more logical to assume that the majority of criminals are rich; indeed, their criminal enterprises were undoubtedly what provided their fortune.
This perfectly rational state-of-affairs means, inevitably, that whenever there is profit to be made, there is value to be stolen. With these opportunities, the rich criminals of society will pay — often handsomely — to steal even more wealth out from under another person’s nose.
In the entrepreneurial spirit of the age, wealth came in many forms. The invention of futures markets meant that knowledge had become as profitable as gold, and oftentimes more so. Legal Proof of Ownership was as valuable as the asset itself, and anything that could be owned could be sold, coveted, and eventually stolen.
Where there is a will there is a way, and petty theft had blossomed into creative and inspirational heights. Niches were found for the most obscure and outlandish of thieves, and it was into this world that Ore-Man Jack first swung his trusty, and occasionally bloody, pickaxe.
He had a spine that was curved like a fish-hook and eyes that spread wide in the dim gas-light. His hair was black and spiky, his chin absent, and his nose was long, giving his face the look of a very intense hedgehog.
Edmund stared at him. Ore-Man Jack stared back.
“Well?” Edmund asked. “Can you do it?”
“Can oi do it?” The man’s twisted mouth jumped about like a fish, his gravelly voice rattling like dice in a skull. He looked down at the map of the mines, where Edmund had drawn several circles, crosses, and lines to mark where the vein of bauxite lay. “Aye. Oi can do it. ’s Easy, this is. Not even another team to worry about.”
“Another team?” Edmund asked.
“See,” Ore-Man Jack leaned forward in a marvelous display of angular motion, “toffs ‘oire me and moi team to dig out the ore, roight? Only there’s usually another team, ‘oired by the toff’s brot’er, or in-law, or fat’er, or what-‘ave-you, doing a legal digging. We ‘as to dig quoiet-like, from t’e soide, or underneath. Get out t’e ore ‘afore we gets noticed. Now t’is is the foirst time I e’er been ‘oired to steal ore from a moine what don’t ‘ave anot’er team. We can walk in t’e bloody front!”
“Nevertheless.” Edmund let the word hang.
“Oh, aye, no need to worry. Me and moi men, we’re de best, we is. We’ll get your ore out ‘o your moine as quoiet as a shadow, no matter ‘oo’s listenin’. No one’ll know we’s diggin’, or moi name ain’t Ore-Man Jack.”
Edmund knew his name wasn’t really Ore-Man Jack, but he appreciated the confidence, so he let the nom-de-plume go unremarked on. “Good. I think we can do business, Mister Ore-Man.”
“Just Jack’ll do aloight,” the man’s head bobbed, his spiky hair rattling as it moved. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a greasy piece of paper. “‘Ere’s t’e contract. Soign ’ere, please.”
Edmund pulled out his pen, and signed as he read. “I notice you don’t have a standard no-competing-bid clause?” Edmund mentioned as he crossed the ’t’ in Patron. “What is to stop someone from paying you more money to steal the ore from me?”
“’the proice, gov!” Ore-Man Jack smiled wickedly. “You pay me and moi men enough, an’ no one’ll be able t’match it.”
“I see,” Edmund nodded. “I think I’ve agreed to pay you handsomely?” Perhaps more than was prudent. His accounts were starting to look thin…
“More’n ‘andsomely,” Ore-Man Jack nodded. “Oi dare say no-one’d ever pay us more…” he tapped his nose, “which make me t’ink t’is is some mighty important ore. Enough t’at someone else’ll be along soon to try and hoire us out from under you.”
“I suspect so,” Edmund nodded, studying the man’s concerned face. “And I don’t doubt you’ll stop by to tell me when someone has, just to see if I’ll pay you more to stay loyal?”
“Now, gov, what do you take me for?” Ore-Man Jack frowned in sincere offence. “It’s more t’an moi reputation’s wort’ to be dishonest wit’ moi employer. You’ll not ’ere a peep from me and moi men, unless t’eres somet’in’ serious goin’ on.”
“Good,” Edmund handed the paper back. “When will your team start work?”
“‘S best you don’t know, beggin’-your-pardon,” Ore-Man Jack shrugged. “Safer t’at way, gov. You just keep an eye on —” he glanced back at the small map Edmund had used to explain the job. “T’at spot t’ere, under t’e elevator. We’ll poile ’t’all t’ere, and it’ll be up to you to hoide it. ’ere…” the man leaned closer, “Oi ‘ate to arsk, but moi boys, we…well…Oi look out for me boys, see? You couldn’t give us a ’eds up, eh? ‘Oo are we ‘idin’ from?”
“It’s best you don’t know.”
Ore-Man Jack gave a slow nod, and with a swift tug at his forelock, he swung his pick-axe onto his shoulder and stepped out of the room with a gait better suited to scuttling down tunnels.
There. He hated to do it; relying on the efforts of a common thief instead of the more appropriate kinds of aristocratic subterfuge…it felt like cheating. But what other choice did he have?
None. He had spent five hours last night exploring every possibility just to make sure.
If Ore-Man Jack was true to his word, then the ore could be mined, shipped to South Dunkin, processed, and sold before Edmund was even married. Once the little pantomime with Lady Brocklehurt was played out, no one would doubt for a second that the Moulde Family was back, deserving of their spot as one of the Nine Founding Families.
They’d see Edmund with new eyes. They’d see him.
He was going to win!
Edmund relished in the idea for a moment before ringing for Enga. “We are going to hold a ball,” Edmund said, as soon as she appeared. “Next month.”
“Patron?”
“A grand ball,” Edmund continued, standing up from his desk. “At least a hundred guests, with food, drink, and music.”
“Very good, sir. This will be the announcement ball, then?”
“No,” Edmund snapped. “I want to make that quite clear. This is not the announcement ball. That will come later. This is an entirely different ball, for entirely different reasons.”
“Of course, sir. What reasons are those?”
Edmund paused. He hadn’t thought that far yet. “I will handle the arrangements. The invitations and such. I will have a guest list for you in an hour.”
“Very good, sir.” A pause. “Begging your pardon, sir, but will payment come through the banks, or will —”
“I will supply the money,” Edmund waved a hand dismissively. “I will write out any promissory notes you need.”
“Very good sir.”
Edmund exhaled after Enga closed the door behind her. It was important to work quickly. If he had to go further into debt, well…that was a small price to pay.
Sitting down again at his desk, Edmund began to design the perfect ball.
He had done something similar in his youth; a slight-of-hand that suggested to the untrained eye that the Mouldes were far richer than they had ever been. Now, he needed to do the same; a lavish ball that would convince the peerage of Britannia that the Moulde Family was wealthy, no matter how empty their coffers. The music would have to be unparalleled, the food exquisite, the drink…well, the drink merely needed to be abundant. Few peers were connoisseurs, and those that were tended to be lushes as well. A single crate of expensive wine would be more than enough to fool them into thinking the night had been full of nothing but the highest quality vintage.
But even this would only be the beginning. Spreading rumors of the Moulde’s prosperity would only serve to pique the interest of the upper-class; what decided the success of a ball was not the trappings, but the productivity.
Pulling out Lady Vexillough’s Families of Europe,1 Edmund flipped through the pages, filling in and crossing out names in his notebook until he had found the proper balance of guests. There was an art to it, practiced extensively by every attentive host. Each family unit might send any number of guests, depending on what other families were invited, and whom they might send.
This became even more complicated when he considered the topics of conversation that would be considered appropriate when surrounded by certain people. Regardless of propriety, there were occasions where it was simply impossible to discuss certain established and high-ranking nobles.2
But there were certain people he needed to invite. There was information he needed to impart that could not be communicated through simple letters, or they might not pay attention if they didn’t hear it through a specific rumor-monger.
And this was all before even considering clothing. Every costume piece conveyed a message, whether mood, purpose, or identity.
To say that upper-class society was complex was a terrible mis-characterization. It was labyrinthine. To navigate it properly took a mind not only of consummate skill and education, but also uncommon construction; the winding pathways of the social thicket were far more resolute than the patchwork hedge-maze at the bottom of Haggard Hill.
His mind churning, Edmund placed his pen to paper once more…
Mr. Shobbinton’s monocle dislodged.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I am quite certain I spoke clearly, Mr. Shobbinton.”
The solicitor picked up his monocle and wiped it on his sleeve. “Patron…I cannot find the appropriate words to express my concern at your suggestion.”
“It wasn’t a suggestion,” Edmund leaned back in his chair. “I have already signed several letters, receipts, and promissory notes.”
The monocle slipped from Shobbinton’s grasp. “Patron…” He caught his breath. “I must urge you not to let the windfall of Mister Kolb’s gold go to your head. There are a good many debts that this good-fortune should go to alleviating. Once the exchanges have been made, you may find yourself with far less financial capital than you expected.”
“How much has the gold brought in?”
“I’m afraid the situation is not ideal. Master Kolb was not the only soldier to have returned from the war with golden plunder. The price has dropped significantly.”
“Three stone is still quite a lot,” Edmund reminded him.
“Which presents its own problem: To sell so much gold without drawing attention requires patience and subtlety, which both allow the market price to drop further. You might acquire a better price if you were to sell it all at once.”
“No,” Edmund’s jaw was firm. “It must be secret.”
“Then perhaps you should consider your recent investments with a more cautious eye. Considering the potential costs of your investment in South Dunkin, a ball of such extravagance at this moment is, to say the least, imprudent.”
“Any news from Kolb?” Edmund asked, sidestepping the subject with the grace of a dancer.
“According to his latest telegram, Mr. Popomus has found a suitable foreman and appropriate labor for the construction of your factory in South Dunkin, but there are…competing bids. Expensive ones.”
That would mean delays, which he could not afford. Not now. “Double our offer and have the contract signed at once,” Edmund picked up his pen again.
“Preposterous! I will not!”
The temperature in the room, already chilly for a spring day, dropped even further. Edmund watched as Mr. Shobbinton’s befuddled confusion solidified into a steel-clad resistance.
“Mr. Shobbinton, please explain.”
“A professional,” Mr. Shobbinton began, “need never explain themself. They are simple in their needs, effective in their actions, and invisible in their influence. I am a professional, Patron Moulde, and I will not debase myself by offering something so pedestrian as an explanation.”
Edmund didn’t answer. He didn’t even nod. He had learned that people tended to expect silence to be filled; if he didn’t reply, and instead stared at whomever last spoke, they’d inevitably oblige.
Sure enough, Mr. Shobbinton was already adjusting his clothing in clear discomfort. “If I were forced to answer,” he finally said, as he adjusted his spectacles on his nose, “I would have to say that the management of the Moulde Family finances is a delicate art. Given the amount of capital you own at the moment, the risk you are taking with this ball, this factory —”
“If Matron made the demands I am now asking of you, would you have refused her?”
“Certainly not. Matron and I established our optimum praxi years ago.”
“Matron is dead.”
The solicitor stared at Edmund, his mouth working furiously, like a sweet had been stuck in his teeth. “Yes, Patron. And it is the least I can do to ensure that the estate and legacy she left behind is not destroyed by a reckless and risk-minded Patron.”
Edmund stared. Mr. Shobbinton stared back. So this was it, his last chance to back out. If he was going to move forward, he needed the freedom to do so without Mr. Shobbinton and his clever mind and shiny monocle looking over his shoulder.
Like a General preparing to display his master strategy, Edmund set aside the stack of papers on his desk. Clearing his throat, he leaned back in his chair.
“Mr. Shobbinton,” he began, “you have given great service to the Moulde Family, and you have surpassed all expectations given to you. It is with similarly great expectation, and equal regret, that I must discharge you from our service.”
Mr. Shobbinton gaped. Edmund could imagine the searing protests that swirled about in his mind, but the shock had torn all breath from his throat. He finally croaked: “I…am discharged?”
“Most regretfully,” Edmund folded his hands. “Of course, if I or any of my family require legal advice or expertise, you will be the first solicitor we contact. Unfortunately, the Moulde Family can no longer maintain a monopoly on your legal genius, when there are so many others who could use your savvy command of the law.”
“You are firing me?”
Edmund kept his gaze level. “Look at it as releasing you. Your abilities have long surpassed the requirements of a single Founding Family. I urge you to consider starting a law firm of your own. I have heard tell that a Mr. Downsly esq. has recently resigned from service for the Halfashams over in Bowslick. A young man, but with a possibly impressive future…”
“Go into business?” Mr. Shobbinton’s voice began to rise. “Like a…like one of a middle-class? I’ve worked for the Moulde Family for forty years!”
“Far too long.”
The warring emotions of fear and rage played out on Mr. Shobbinton’s face. “Have I ever failed you?” he finally demanded. “Have I ever cost you or your family a single penny more than I provided in financial loopholes or legal reimbursements? Have I not provided the most excellent legal council available in the country?”
Edmund didn’t concede the point. It was important he didn’t concede the point.
It was harder than he had expected. It should have been easy. He didn’t know Mr. Shobbinton well; he had always maintained the perfect professional distance. He was an employee. A tool, at best. Firing him should have been simple.
Instead, Edmund was feeling the weight of every word on his heart. He was firing a man who had worked with Matron to help secure the future of the family Edmund now led. His mind was sharp, a treasure trove of legal and financial proficiency.
Yet, he was an obstacle to Edmund’s plans and needed to be removed. Edmund tightened his jaw. Fine. Propriety be damned.
“I regret to say that, regardless of your previous efforts, it is my considered opinion that your continued employment as the Moulde Family solicitor will be detrimental to its future success.”
Mr. Shobbinton was quivering, whether through fear, sorrow, or anger Edmund could not tell.
“If,” Edmund spoke carefully, “you would take my advice…With advances in transport, communication, and industry, a great many merchants will soon find themselves able to reach across the world with their products. Professionals will need legal advice. Financial acumen. They will need people like you to show them the ins and outs of the peerage’s webs of fait accompli.”
“In fifty generations, the Shobbinton’s have never provided service to…to the neuveau riche.”
“And I would never dream of suggesting that was your place,” Edmund said in the carefully crafted tones that ensured Mr. Shobbinton would know exactly where Edmund saw his place. “If it makes you feel better, I suppose you could consider them…the ‘old poor’…except with money.” It wasn’t an absurd idea; after all, the upper-class rich often had little money, so it wasn’t much of a stretch to imagine the lower-class poor with large amounts of wealth.
Mr. Shobbinton’s gaze suddenly focused on Edmund’s. The quivering calmed as he stared deeply into Edmund’s eyes, finding only the deep and cold dispassion that Edmund had put there for him to find.
Mr. Shobbinton swallowed twice, hiccuped once, and picked up his papers. “I…regret that this is how our business must end.”
“I do as well.”
“It is with similar regret that I admit to great concern about the future of the Moulde Family without Matron Mander Moulde.” With his final words said, Mr. Shobbinton picked up his hat and his briefcase, sniffed deeply, walked out of the study, and vanished down the hallways of Moulde Hall.
There. It’s done. There is no turning back now. Edmund breathed a sigh of relief.
“Any tea, Patron, begging-your-pardon?”
Edmund turned to see Mrs. Kippling enter through the other door. “No, Mrs. Kippling, I’m fine.”
“Are you?”
Edmund waited for Mrs. Kippling to explain, which she eventually did. “You aren’t just firing people now, are you? Not-my-place, but first Kolb, now Mr. Shobbinton…not that I like either of them much begging-your-pardon, but it seems to me that you’re starting to push people away. Are you trying to protect them? Or yourself?”
Of all the possible responses Edmund could have given, he decided in the end to simply remain silent; return to his seat and sit calmly, waiting for Mrs. Kippling to recognize that no answer would be forthcoming. It was a response that had proved quite successful in the past.
This time was no different, save in one respect. While Edmund’s silence often drew apologies, this time Mrs. Kippling was not so concerned. “Just so you know,” she said over her shoulder as she bustled out of the room, “Not-my-place but if you ever try to discharge me or Ung, I’ll break your spindly little arms, begging-your-pardon.”
Patron Samsuel Vanndegaar did not reside at 929 Grabbingbill Road, the address of Vanndegaar Manse, ancient and ancestral estate of the Vanndegaars. It was a well known fact among all the landed gentry that the man despised Brackenburg with a loathing best described as foul.
His disgust was tolerated mostly because he was a Vanndegaar, and if there was one thing the wise never did, it was antagonize a Vanndegaar; especially if they were Samsuel.
Rather than reside less than five minutes from the center of Brackenburg, he lived in a large manor-house a half-day’s travel to the north. It was a relatively new manor, built with rural French and Germanic Historisism styles intermingling in a caustic alloy. Rough stone archways and sheer white walls lined the manor, while painted statuary and ornate neo-classic paintings broke through the simplicity with dazzling displays of color.
It was the type of home a huntsman or a woodcutter might build, if they had suddenly earned an Earldom.3
Samsuel himself had visibly aged in the ten years since Edmund had summoned him to Moulde Hall; his long brown hair now seasoned with gray, and his once lined face was now carved as with a chisel. His eyes were no dimmer, however, and his back was unbent, so when Edmund was ushered in to Samsuel’s private study and the man drew himself up to his full height, Edmund had to resist the urge to bow.
Instead, he held out his hand.
Samsuel stared at the hand for a moment before reluctantly taking it in his own steel grip.
“Thank you for seeing me,” Edmund recited.
“Don’t thank me,” Samsuel intoned with a voice more suited to proclaiming godly commandments from a distant pulpit. “You were expected to come. Every Patron and Matron must meet the other eight. It’s how we know who we’ll be running the country with for the foreseeable future. We learn about you, while you struggle to ascertain some meaningless trivia about us. Yes?”
“That is what I understood.”
“And have you learned anything about me?”
“I don’t know, yet,” Edmund lied.
“The Shobbinton family was suggested as solicitors for the Moulde Family by my great grandfather. Now, you’ve discharged him. Was this some sort of insult?”
“I have no desire to insult you,” Edmund said, wondering when he would get his hand back. “If I had, I should hope you would have no need to ask.”
Patron Vanndegaar nodded, and released Edmund’s hand. Striding over to the ornate fireplace, he grabbed a poker from the side and jabbed at the wooden logs, sending sparks flaring into the room in an angry shower. Edmund stood while the tall man stared into the flames for a moment before he turned again and gestured for Edmund to sit in a large plush chair set near the flames.
Edmund sat, and they both stared at each other.
“Well?”
Edmund opened his mouth, and then closed it again.
“Come along, I have better things to do than wait for you to screw up your courage. Speak.”
Edmund tried again. “I never thanked you for your witnessing the contract —”
“It was a business transaction, nothing more,” Samsuel jabbed once more at the fireplace. “Quit your dancing about.”
Edmund ran through his mind, searching for what the iron-jawed Patron might be referencing. He hadn’t come with an agenda, really. Samsuel had invited him for a drink, and that was it.
Ah, of course. A simple answer to a simple question. “Gin,” Edmund said.
Samsuel looked up from the flames, the bright red coloring his bronzed face and making him look like a swarthy blacksmith toiling at the forge. “What?”
“You invited me for a drink,” Edmund reminded him. “I’ll take gin.”
Samsuel bared his teeth in what, in a less intimidating man, could have been a smile. “I see.” With the speed of a cracked whip, Samsuel brought the wrought-iron poker up from the flames, scattering sparks through the air, and pointing it like a sword at the other side of the room. “There’s the cabinet.”
Eager to avoid any more potential sparks, Edmund stood up from his chair and walked over to the drinks-cabinet. Selecting the gin bottle, he poured himself a small glass. “Can I pour you anything?” he asked.
“You’re trying to ingratiate yourself into my confidence.” Samsuel said. “I am uninterested in that. ‘Could you pour me a drink?’ You could, if you wished.”
“If I wished,” Edmund said, trying to follow the man’s odd speech, “what would you accept?”
“Anything.”
Edmund poured a second glass of gin, and brought it to Samsuel. The man didn’t turn, but simply held out his hand for Edmund to place the glass in it.
“That is your answer,” Samsuel said, as the cool glass touched his palm. “Anything.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You do,” Samsuel looked up, his eyes dark. “You will. Now you are sorting through the possible questions that answer may fit. I don’t have the time for that. Now ask.”
“Ask what?”
Samsuel’s eyes narrowed. “You didn’t come with a question? With a hundred questions, vying for dominance in your mind? You honestly believe that you are prepared for what will come? You are not seeking the wisdom of your now fellow Patron, who is much older and much wiser than you? Are you that hubritical?” He shook his head as he turned back to the fire. “And now you’re thinking of the best answer to keep me calm, and still get what you want,” he muttered as he drank.
“I will always accept wisdom,” Edmund returned to his seat, staring up at the coal-black eyes of his host.
“Give up,” came the immediate reply.
“Give…up?” Edmund blinked.
“You think we have not noticed what you are doing? Investments and financial deals, signing a land-lease from the Mayor’s office…You are wasting your time.” Samsuel took a sip of his gin. “You are far from the first Head who thought they actually had power, could guide the ship of society with their coin.”
“You think we can’t?” Edmund asked. It was an odd idea. Everyone outside the Founding Families certainly seemed to think they had more than their fair share of the power, if not all of it.
“I know you can’t,” Samsuel turned from the flames again, walking slowly to his own plush chair. “None of us can. The world is a river, full of little eddies and currents. The bigger you get, the more you sink, until you are a massive rock immune to the tide. I’ve lived long enough to watch peers and nobles rise and fall, each more inconsequential than the last. Spend all your money, or hoard it all. Marry the Brocklehurst girl, or your Googoltha. In a year, everyone will have forgotten you ever had a choice to make. In a decade, the choice you made will no longer matter. Now you are going to try and convince me otherwise.”
“Why do you keep saying what you think I’m going to do next?”
“Think? I know, boy. I have lived longer than you have and I know all the tricks. Everyone does. You’ve played out this conversation a million times in your head on the way up from Brackenburg. You must think that the world in your head has some power over the world outside it, but you are wrong. Play the game a million times, and you’ll only be playing against yourself. You’re putting on an act, my boy, because that’s all there is.”
Samsuel was, of course, correct, and Edmund was not panicked only because his seventy-sixth conversation in his head had gone very similarly. “Can you help me?”
“Help you?” the old man laughed, setting his drink aside and turning his gaze back to the flames. “What possible help do you need? It will make near to no difference in the end. Huh,” he sneered as he jabbed at the fires again. “You need proof? That Kolb boy. I heard he raised quite a fuss at that Nausica girl’s Debut ball. A pity, that. The rants of a madman are far more diverting than the usual pick and peck of high-society.”
“He was quite insulting,” Edmund felt the need to explain. “In his anger, he had attacked —”
“He spoke truth to power,” Samsuel shrugged. “He tilted at the windmills as forcefully as any madman, and I do not blame him for it. His words may have stung, scandalized the comfortable, but in the end they will wash away in the black rain. The truth of the Founding Families is this; there is no greater power than tradition. Even the maddest king will fight to maintain its grip. You will change Brackenburg, yes, you will build a new factory in South Dunkin, and everything will continue on as before. Try to change the world as you will, and all will return to normal.”
“I can change it,” Edmund said, indignance building in his stomach.
“Then do so,” Samsuel looked back at him. “Create something that will last, immune to the erosion of time and status quo. The Founding Families will not change. Britannia will not change. The British will not permit it. Change is irrational. Why change at all when what has worked is not broken? The nobility, the Crown, the Founding Families, we are all many things, but one thing we simply will never be is irrational.”
“Perhaps it is broken, and we cannot see the cracks?” Edmund asked.
“Cracked is not shattered, and bent is not broken. Glaciers shaped the land over centuries. Britannia grew over centuries. This world is the product of centuries. I promise you, Patron Moulde, no one, not even you, lives for centuries.”