The Eden Passion (73 page)

Suddenly he looked up as though amazed to find others in the room with him. "We're not going to sell, Andrew," he announced. "We're not going to sell so much as a parcel of it."

"Then you won't make a penny. You might as well place the deeds back in your father's trunk for all the good—"

"We're not selling, Andrew," John repeated.

How often Andrew had seen that look before, and now braced himself for his next question. "Then . . . what do you intend to do?" he asked cautiously.

"Develop!" John replied without hesitation.

Standing opposite him, Andrew returned his stare, struggling to keep from smiling. "Develop . . . what?" he managed.

"Whatever the various areas need," John replied, at last raising up with a broad gesture that encompassed all the deeds. "Or," he added slyly, "what I tell them they need."

Andrew continued to gape at him, aware of the tension building in the room. There were so many arguments whirling through his mind that he did well to say, "You're . . . joking, of course."

"I've never been more serious in my life."

"John," Andrew commenced delicately, "forgive me, but you know nothing of general contracting."

"I can learn."

"It's a highly speculative business. Men work a lifetime and—"

"I intend to work a lifetime."

"Have you any conception of the hazards involved?"

Instead of being angered by Andrew's rapid-fire questions, John seemed to delight in them, as though unwittingly Andrew was filling his proper role. "I know some of the hazards." John smiled. "I did learn a few things from Brassey. And together we can learn the rest."

"We?" Andrew inquired,

"Of course, we." John grinned. "I'll need your help. I'll need everyone's help."

Slowly Andrew returned to the table, unable to believe what he was hearing. "John," Andrew began kindly, not looking at anyone, lest he falter. "Private speculation is the worst sort of gamble, an organized and highly risky business. Believe me, no one profits."

"Someone must."

"Oh, yes, the large contractors with a million pounds of government contracts in their portfolio, like Brassey."

"Any others?"

"An individual has about one chance in five hundred of succeeding. The subcontractors make it impossible."

"Then what if . . ." John started to speak, his fingers tapping the edge of the table in a short staccato rhythm. "Then what if one went around the subcontractors? What if a man erected his own workshop, purchased horses, carts and materials and engaged his own crews of carpenters, smiths, glaziers, bricklayers and other workers? Do you see what I'm getting at, Andrew? A large-scale building firm, employing men from all the old separate trades on a continuous-wage basis?"

Great God! Andrew closed his eyes to rest them from the excited face hovering near. "It's never been done," he said flatly.

"Never?" John repeated, suspicious.

Caught in his own excess, it was Andrew now who felt the need for a chair. He walked wearily to the sideboard and sat in a straight-backed chair against the wall. "There have been one or two successful master builders," he confessed. "Cubitt, and perhaps Burton."

He looked up, ready to qualify his last words, only to see a new light in John's face.

"Master builder," John repeated. "I like that. Master builder."

"Oh, my God, John," Andrew groaned. "Do you have any conception of what you would need to maintain an establishment as expensive as your own workshop?"

Without waiting for the reply, which he felt certain would be less

than satisfactory, he rushed on, leaving his chair in the process as though drawn forward by his own urgency. "You would need an uninterrupted sequence of work, and an equally uninterrupted flow of capital."

Suddenly it dawned on him. Capital! What was he arguing for? He was confronting a man who by his own admission was without funds. "Capital," Andrew repeated, as though at last he'd put an end to the madness. "Where is your capital, John? You can't plunge one shovel into one square of earth without capital."

He was looking at John, expecting a response from that quarter, and thus was in no way prepared for Elizabeth's voice coming to him from across the table. "He has capital." She smiled. "Six thousand pounds from his father, and I have more if he needs it, investments up to and including this property."

Even then Andrew did not look at her, did not take his eyes off John, whose expression had softened. "I can't let you—" he began, and that's all he had a chance to say.

"Nonsense," Elizabeth cut in. "I have friends who have taken my limited assets and converted me into a fairly rich woman. I have no need of the money. It's rightfully yours."

The two gazed at each other, some form of silent communication taking place.

John looked back at Andrew, that damnable grin still on his face. "Well, then," he beamed. "What next? We have our capital."

"Enough to commission an architect, hire a surveyor and perhaps fifty workmen? You need more," Andrew said bluntly, throwing diplomacy to the wind.

It was Elizabeth's turn again. "As I said, I have more," she repeated, "and many friends who are constantly looking for a place to invest a few pounds. A word from me and they—"

"A corporation!" John exclaimed, as though the simple idea had just dawned on him. "We'll sell stock."

"You still need a larger, more dependable flow of capital."

"We'll borrow."

"Banks are skeptical."

"Insurance companies."

Momentarily stymied, Andrew was forced to concede, "Perhaps . . ."

"Perhaps?" John laughed. "I'm not totally ignorant, Andrew. I'm perfectly capable of figuring five-percent interest on, say, a twenty-thousand-pound loan."

Andrew nodded, a recent statistic from the London Times surfacing through the doubt in his head. "The London Assurance lent one hundred and thirteen thousand pounds to speculative builders last year alone."

'Well, then?"

"You need collateral."

Again the answer came from Elizabeth. "He has it. This house," she announced. "I own it free and clear. It's quite valuable, according to Lord Kimbrough."

For the first time John said, "No."

"Why not?"

As the battlefield shifted to John and Elizabeth, Andrew stepped back from the table, amazed that the discussion had pressed this far. Yet for the first time, and with a feeling of amazement, Andrew was forced to admit that it might, with large portions of cunning and daring and luck, work.

As the argument continued behind him, Andrew paced as far as the arch which led into the drawing room, feeling a need for distance, for a clear perspective of the mad scheme.

He ran through in his mind all the pitfalls and hazards, and with complete astonishment found himself thinking again: It might work.

As his thoughts increased, growing more positive in nature, so did his excitement. By God, it might work. Of course, John would need a good solicitor, someone trained in the matter of drawing up agreements, leases, mortgages, bonds and all the other instruments of property which would become necessary throughout such complicated and intricate transactions.

Suddenly he was aware of a cessation of voices behind him. He looked back, amazed to find expressions of victory on both their faces. Collateral was no longer a problem.

"Well?" John said, as though they had wasted enough time on inconsequential matters. "Any more arguments, Andrew?"

Not quite able to believe what had happened, Andrew shook his head. "About a hundred," he said bleakly.

"Any with weight behind them?"

"If posed to a sane man, yes. To you, no."

John laughed, though the expression faded as rapidly as it had appeared. "As I said before, Andrew, I need help, most specifically yours. Do I have it?"

In spite of the urgency on John's face, Andrew withheld his answer. He knew John Murrey Eden too well to commit himself

lightly. He knew further that a firm commitment meant one of two things: they would either rise together to incredible heights, or fall to equally incredible depths. And he knew that he would have to abandon his own fledgling law practice.

"Well?" John prompted, his face reflecting the tension of the moment. Everyone else in the room was looking toward Andrew as well, not a sign of doubt on any of those faces. The man they adored had formed a plan. How could it possibly go wrong?

Stalling for an additional moment, Andrew turned away and tallied up a credit sheet which hopefully would match the debit ledger. There was this to be said. Those early years of apprenticeship under Thomas Brassey would now serve John well. Of all the clerks in the ofEce, John had been the brightest, the quickest to grasp the endless rows of statistics and figures concerning cost overruns, capital investments, stock percentages.

His steps took him as far as the drawing room, and he looked back, amazed that John was being so patient with him. In the continuing silence, Andrew glanced over the spread deeds scattered about the dining-room table. The primary assets for a master builder were land and materials. John possessed the first. In addition he certainly possessed the fool's daring necessary to any speculative venture. Of greatest importance, he possessed, perhaps to a damaging degree, the need to succeed. All he lacked were the sources for the enormous sums of capital needed to keep his enterprise going. But with Elizabeth's help, Andrew could foresee a way around even that.

Then what stood in the way of giving an answer? Nothing. After murmuring a prayer in the direction of the ceiling, he stepped toward John, extended his hand and smiled. "I'm with you."

At first, John seemed too stunned to respond. Slowly he received Andrew's outstretched hand and drew him close into a warm embrace and heard him whisper, "Thank you."

Then the quiet moment was over and he turned energetically to the table, calling, "Come, Andrew, let me tell you my plan."

As Andrew drew near the table, he saw John shuffling through the deeds, searching for one. "There!" he exclaimed finally, flattening one deed atop the others. "We'll start there."

Andrew leaned close. It was the Paddington property, near the new railway station. As John unfurled the map of London, Andrew peered closer, feeling another objection forming. "Not a very good place for houses, John. The traffic and noise—"

"I don't intend to put houses there." He beamed. "Look at the area, Andrew. Can't you see the need?"

Andrew looked again. Opposite him he was aware of Elizabeth drawing close, attracted to the puzzle. She too bent over the flattened map, one hand playing distractedly with the strand of pearls about her neck. All at once she looked up. "A hotel," she exclaimed. "There's not a decent hotel of any size in the area."

"Precisely." John smiled. "A hotel, Andrew. Can't you see?"

He could now, and nodded, though still he warned, "It's an ambitious undertaking for the first—"

"Then all the more reason to do it," John said. "Let's call attention to ourselves right off, shall we? And no simple medium-priced place, this, Andrew," he went on. "You said it yourself. Money follows money. I intend it to be the grandest hotel in all of London, first class, for the bloody aristocrats and landed gentry and anyone else who can afford the tariff."

He grew expansive, encircling the table, stopping once to kiss Dhari's hand, though not missing a beat in what he was saying. "The finest materials, Andrew, the finest artisans, the most modern kitchen, and of course we will hire the chef from Europe."

"You will need an architect," Andrew said.

"I have design ideas of my own," he protested, coming around the table.

"You are not a draftsman," Andrew reminded him.

"Then we'll hire one," John conceded, "but he will take direction from me." He continued filling the air with his glorious description of the new structure, standing beside Elizabeth, one arm about her shoulder, his voice lifting as he announced, "And we shall call it, 'the Elizabeth.'"

"No," she protested.

"Yes," and apparently suffering an irrepressible surge of joy, he lifted her into the air.

Amidst her faint protest, he lowered her to her feet and confronted Andrew with a direct question. "Where shall we work?"

"You'll need an office."

"You'll work here," Elizabeth said, straightening herself. "In the drawing room. It's never used."

"It would save money at first," John agreed.

Andrew nodded. "Then the drawing room it is, though I warn you, it will be quite disruptive."

"Dhari and I will stay out of the way, won't we?" Elizabeth

smiled, retreating to where the young woman sat. "Unless, of course, we're needed."

Dhari looked as though she wanted to speak. Elizabeth hugged her.

If John saw the little drama, he gave no indication of it. Instead he continued to hover over the scattered deeds and map of London, his mind clearly moving ahead to other projects. Without looking up, he said, "Why are you standing about, Andrew? There's work to be done. How long will it take you to draw up instruments of corporation?"

Andrew faltered. "About a week," he murmured. "And the deeds must be brought up-to-date as well, the taxes paid." He smiled. "I wonder how many times in the last few years other builders have searched for the owner of those lost deeds?"

John seemed to relax. "Well, we're found now, aren't we?"

"We are indeed," Andrew agreed, then added, "I have a few cases I must finish first, before I can—"

"Finish them quickly," John urged.

"I will. In the meantime, I'll compile dossiers on all the practicing architects for you."

"And bring me everything you can find on the financial structure of Cubitt, and who was the other?"

"Burton." Andrew smiled, seeing the intention behind John's request. He would be an apt student, but he needed a body of knowledge, and how better to learn than from the mistakes and accomplishments of those two great master builders?

Then Andrew saw a look of fatigue on John's face, as though the expenditure of energy during the last hour had drained him. He leaned against the table and cast a final glance over the scattered deeds. "It will work," he murmured. "We'll make it work."