Bart glared at the lawyer. “We have now in our dock and under construction for the Kent Line, one of the largest iron ships ever on our stays. I secured this order against competition from America and from Scotland. We won the bid, gentlemen, and if we launch this vessel successfully, there would be the ordering of many more from the same company.”
Donald was on his feet quickly. “I would like to make some slight comments. Our bid was so low on this ship we are bound to lose money on its construction. The figures in so far bear me out. You need only consult them. Second, the Kent Line is itself in such poor financial shape that only a few firms around the world were willing to bid for their work.”
Mr. Wilowby spoke up in his dry voice again, “In the words of another of the smaller shareholders, desperation is the word to cover our position.”
Bart scowled at him. “Even if we are desperate, we cannot switch to steel construction. We have neither the capital nor the physical means for such a change.”
From the end of the table Davy Brown spoke up in his deep voice, “I believe, Mr. Woods, that is where I come in. I personally own the steel company of which I speak. I am willing to exchange stock with your company and merge our two firms. I am further willing to advance needed working capital for the changes required in the shipyard, and I will be content to have the company continue under its present management, which includes Mr. Donald Woods.”
Mr. Wilowby’s wrinkled face took on a brighter look as he said, “You are so certain of the success of the project, sir?”
“I am,” Davy said firmly. “I will bring with me a number of contracts from Australian shipping companies with which I’m associated.”
“I am not interested, Mr. Brown,” Bart said cuttingly. “And so we may accept that the company is not interested.”
Mr. Wilowby jumped up and lost his pince-nez and busily had to retrieve them. With them balanced on his thin nose, he said sharply, “Out of order! Speaking for the few shares I represent we are wholly for the merger.”
Bart snapped, “The few shares you represent do not count. That makes you the one out of order!” Mr. Wilowby sat down with an angry exclamation.
Donald glanced nervously at his father and then at her. He rose and said, “I must take my stand. I have a certain lot of personal shares left me by my grandfather. I go on record as joining them with the minor shareholders.” There was applause at the table from Mr. Wilowby and his assistant, and dead silence on the part of Bart.
As Donald sat down, Becky rose. She ignored the look of alarm on Bart’s haggard face and the pleading in his eyes. She said, “I suppose it seems odd for a woman to express her opinion at such a meeting. But after all, our England is ruled over by a Queen!”
“Hear! Hear!” Mr. Wilowby said, still stinging from Bart’s reproach.
Becky managed a small smile. “I have right to vote all the share owned by my late husband, Mark Gregg. I know how much he wished this company to prosper and grow. It was a matter dear to his heart. One might say his life was dedicated to it. But when the time came, he gave way to the opinions of Mr. Woods, who saw the value of iron plates for ships, and my late husband turned his voting stock over to Mr. Woods in a statement signed on his sick bed, knowing that he would die and wishing to assure that this firm would live.”
She glanced for a moment at Bart and saw that his mouth had gaped open a little. She went on, “I now feel impelled to carry out the same action. This time against Mr. Woods and for his son Donald, and our new partner, Mr. Brown. I assign my voting stock to the cause of steel, and that leaves Mr. Bart Woods in a minority position.”
She sat down to murmurs of approbation. Davy’s eyes were shining with delight, and Mr. Wilowby leaned over and personally congratulated her. “A fine address, madam!”
“Thank you,” she whispered.
There was silence and then Bart Woods spoke up bitterly. “I see how cleverly this was planned. And I admit to a minority position. So the firm of Gregg, Kerr, and Brown will come into being. My name has never been on the masthead of our notepaper, nor on the building. But I believe, nevertheless, that I have made a mark in the shipbuilding history of my time.”
“None will argue about that, sir,” Mr. Wilowby said.
“Thank you,” Bart said with sarcasm. “I will continue as managing-director until the Kent Line ship is off the stays. Then I will turn the office over tomy son, Donald Woods, whom I’m sure you will all support.”
There was applause at this point, and then a motion that the meeting be adjourned. The formality of the meeting ended, and the lawyers chatted amoing themselves before preparing to leave.
Donald was in consultation with Mr. Wilowby and Davy Brown came straight to her. “You were a champion, lass. You have a firm head on those pretty shoulders.”
“I’m sorry it had to come to this,” she said, turning to where Bart still sat alone at the head of the table. He was staring at his papers, he was either too shocked or weary to move.
Davy Brown at once advanced to him and in what seemed a generous gesture said, “Let us shake hands! In a way, you were the one who started me on the road to power and wealth.”
Bart looked up at him, his haggard face a grim mask of defeat. “That was not my intention, sir, so I cannot accept your hand.”
Davy sighed and dropped his hand. “As you wish! But I hold you no ill will. The account is settled.”
Bart nodded. “Yes. I would say you settled it today and well!”
Davy turned from him and came back to her. He said, “You heard him. There is no hope of any friendship.”
“Give him time,” she said quietly. “This had been a terrible reverse for him. This shipyard is his life, and you have taken it from him.”
“His own fault,” Davy said.
“True,” she agreed. “But still hard for him to bear.” She paused, then added, “I think it would be best if you and your lawyers went. He may have something to say to me.”
Davy looked worried. “Don’t let him flog you with harsh words, Becky. You only did what was right.”
“I hope so,” she said.
“Then I’ll be going on,” he said. “Me and my fine team of lawyers. They consider themselves the pride of the Victorian Industrial Revolution, and they can’t put a candle up to you!”
Davy went on to say good day to Donald, and then he and all the lawyers left. Donald stood for a moment at the far end of the table and regarded his seated father and her uncertainly. She gave the young man a nod to go, and he nodded back. He left with the giant file of papers under his arm.
Now they were alone! The bright light shone mercilessly into the room! She advanced down the length of the table with uncertainty. She halted by him.
“I’m sorry, Bart,” she said.
He raised his eyes to her. “Do you know why I didn’t get up?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Had I done so, I’d have become sick. “That’s the sort of shell of a man I’ve become!”
“You have a right to feel badly,” she said. “But it is for the best.”
“Yes,” he said with a a deep sigh. “It is always for the best, isn’t it? Whatever we really want to do!”
“I didn’t want to go against you.”
His eyes met hers and there was pain in them. “I didn’t think you would, even when I saw you here. And you knowing all I have done! All I’ve been guilty of! I still had no thought you might betray me!”
“Why did you think I had come?”
“To observe. Perhaps, in my desperation, I fancied you would back me.”
Softly, she said, “I wish I could have.”
“I lost you today, Becky. I’ve really lost you!” He seemed to sob out the last words.
Tears blurred his eyes. “No, Bart. I love you. I told Davy Brown that. I will always be at your side!”
“Not after today,” he said sadly. “You may think you feel love for me. What you feel is sympathy, and I don’t deserve that!”
“Bart!” It was an agonized plea. She bent and put an arm around him and kissed him.
Patiently he pushed her away. “I want to be alone here for a little,” he said. “It has been the scene of my greatest triumphs and now my most total disaster. I have many things to think about.”
“Very well,” she said. “You know where I am, and you know I will be waiting.”
He said nothing, but the expression on his worn face told her that it was truly the end for them. To hide the tears that rushed to her eyes again she turned and ran from the room.
Donald met her downstairs and anxiously asked, “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said. “I shall manage. I have my carriage.”
“What about him?” he asked.
“He’s at a low ebb.”
“I know.”
“Don’t intrude on him,” she said with a sigh. “Give him time to somehow come to terms with it all. Then he’ll be all right. Whatever else he may have been, or is today, there is a wondrous strength in Bart.”
Donald said, “I’ll vouch for that. Depend on it. I’ll not disturb him.”
Becky’s prediction proved correct. Once Bart Woods had recovered from the shock of the meeting, he went about his duties at the shipyard as usual. He worked hard for the completion of the last, great iron vessel the line would be building. He treated Donald like a business associate, but not like a son. He was polite, but in no way warm or understanding.
As for Becky, she found herself deserted by him. She knew this from the start. Bart Woods had a pride as large as his massive body. That pride had been badly punctured and he could not come to share his love with her ever again. She kept hoping that it would change, that one day his angry pride would pass and he would relent and make the journey to her door. But weeks went by and this didn’t happen.
Then Donald and Julia came to see her one evening. They were both clearly ill at ease, so she gave them some sherry and sat them in her small parlor and waited for them to tell her what was troubling them.
Julia’s lovely eyes were sad. She said, “Why don’t you come and visit us? Father is so lonely.”
Becky smiled. “I’m sorry. I’ll place you at the top of my list when I begin visiting again.”
“You must. It is stupid to shut yourself off from all of us, as you’ve been doing.”
Becky said, “I’ve had a lot of thinking to do.”
Donald frowned. “You’ve let that business at the office bother you too much. Father is better now. He’s working just as he used to.”
“Is he, really?” she said.
Donald looked uncomfortable. “Well, he’s not truly the same. But he does do his work. It’s at home he worries me most. He and mother rarely ever spoke. But now he mostly ignores me.”
“He is still angry?” Becky said.
“I think so,” he said. “I saw a letter on the desk in the hall, which was put out with the rest of the mail for the maid to take to the post office. In father’s handwriting, there was a letter addressed to Anne in Paris.”
Becky was surprised. “I’ve never known him to write her!”
“He asked me for her address one day,” Donald said. “That made me wonder. It must have been so he could send the letter.”
Quietly she said, “I suppose he feels Anne the only one who hasn’t betrayed him. It’s natural he should reach out for someone.”
“I think it’s sick and selfish that he should write to your daughter behind your back and probably try to turn her against you,” Donald said. “And against me as well.”
“I wouldn’t be afraid of that,” she told him. “I think you’ll find the letter has little to say about us. Your father always had a special feeling for Anne, and I think he’s sorely missed her lately.”
Donald frowned. “I don’t understand him. He’s a strange man!”
“We are all a little difficult to understand,” she said ruefully.
Julie complained, “Donald, you’ve talked about everything but why we are here!”
“I know,” he said, frowning.
“Go on,” the pretty dark girl urged him.
“I will,” he said. Then turning to Becky he continued, “I guess you’re not going to believe what we have to tell you.”
She smiled. “I think I know what it is.”
“What?” Julia asked.
“You and Donald are hoplessly in love and want to get married!” Becky said.
Julia blushed. “Is it so obvious?”
“I’m afraid so,” Becky said. And she went to the girl and hugged her. “I’m so happy for you both!”
Donald said, “What about Anne? I feel like a heel!”
She went to Donald and kissed him. Patting him on the arm, she said, “Anne will survive this all right. She has her Count André. And he’s really very nice. But you should write her a short note and tell her how you feel. Do it at once!”
“It’s hard to do,” Donald worried.
“It must be done,” Becky said firmly. “Let Julia help you with it.”
“If he likes,” Julia said willingly.
Becky asked her, “How does your father feel about the match?”
“He’s given us his blessing, but he doesn’t expect Donald’s father to show up at the wedding.”
Becky said, “You never can tell.”
As soon as Anne received Donald’s letter, she sent one to her mother. It was brief and said, “All is well! I’ve accepted André! We’re coming to see you next week. We must try and make England especially pleasant for him!”
Becky smiled and cried a little at the same time. So it was settled, and the two she loved so much need never know the truth. She wanted to have Bart with her so they could go over it all and laugh and talk. But there was no Bart. She was alone now.
According to Donald, his father had taken to long night walks. Sometimes he went as far as the docks. This was a dangerous practice with Bart in such a frail state, and the number of criminals prowling the docks. There were assault and robbery cases almost every night. But Bart subbornly had refused to listen to anyone and kept having these midnight strolls.
Becky had a frightening theory. She believed that he went out deliberately seeking danger, hoping to be attacked and perhaps killed. He was weary of life and so threw himself open to this needless danger.
Then Anne and her young count arrived. Becky was beside herself with joy at having two young people in the house for a while. She had been lonely, with only the occasional visit of Donald or Julia to cheer her up.