"Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" ~ Lewis Carroll
In Beacon Hill, overlooking the Commons, Back Bay and the hills west, sat the Union Club of Boston. Ironically, it was the Civil War which caused Scott to stand in front of this particular tall red brick building on this frigid day at precisely ten minutes past the hour of noon.
A short walk from the Union Club was Somerset, another prominent organization - known to be the center of the New England elite. Membership in the Somerset Club had been a tradition with the male Garrett lineage since 1826. However, this was tossed aside in 1863 when developments in the Civil War were not favoring the preservation of the Union by sympathizers with the secessionist states. Members of the Somerset split along political lines resulting in the defectors forming the Union Club, which demanded unqualified loyalty to the constitution and the Union of our United States.
Harlan Garrett chose to be among those defecting. It was one of the few gestures Scott ever received from his grandfather which indicated the man’s support and pride for his grandson’s commitment to enlist. To break from tradition was difficult for Harlan - parting ways with several of his conservative closed-minded business associates even harder. Having prominent Union Club members such as Edward Everett, a past Harvard president, helped ease the pain.
Passing through the club’s front door, Scott’s line of sight moved up the vestibule steps to rest on the downward gaze of his grandfather - a gaze reeking of disappointment.
“You’re late.”
“I'm ten minutes late.”
“Two minutes. Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. It doesn't matter. Late is late.”
Climbing the steps, Scott had to make a recurring decision when confronting his grandfather. ‘Is this a battle worth fighting for the ground I may die on?’ Today the answer was ‘no’. Bigger skirmishes ahead would require a ‘yes’.
Reaching the top step, Scott offered a sincere apology, hoping for a speedy recovery from his grandfather's displeasure. “Yes, sir. Late is indeed late. Carelessness on my part -”
“And your absence at breakfast was not appreciated.”
“Permit me to add thoughtlessness to my apology.” Scott detected a slight twitch in the corner of his grandfather's mouth signaling a possible turn of the tide.
“I see you’ve chosen to dress appropriately and no longer appear to be off branding cattle.”
Scott kept most of his “eastern” attire neatly stored and waiting in his old room for his return stays in Boston. “Well, sir, perhaps I should visit the Somerset. I hear they enjoy branding.” After the turbulent split over political views, many of Somerset's Copperheads “branded” the Union Club members as traitors and deserters. Scott’s reference was not lost on his grandfather.
“Scotty.” A smile broke through and warmed the old man’s face. “Why can’t I stay angry?”
“You have every right to be angry. Let me make it up to you. Tomorrow morning we’ll visit this corner bakery, which I hear has the best coffee in town.”
The luncheon was typical of others Scott had attended. Important men eating opulent food, smoking imported cigars and drinking expensive bourbon while discussing current events in government. However, all conversations eventually led to one topic - business. Today would be no exception as the few gentlemen Harlan had seated at their table followed Scott and his grandfather to the club’s large drawing room.
“So, Mr. Lancer, Harlan tells us you've convinced him to join forces as leaders in the California wine industry.”
Scott was caught off guard by the statement. He selected a cigar from a mother-of-pearl inlaid teak box before responding to Mr...Pendleton? Pendergrass? Scott had not met his grandfather's luncheon companions until today. And now, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the man’s name.
“Sir.” Cigars were lit. “We are entertaining the prospect of said leadership.”
Pendleton Perhaps Pendergrass smiled. “You and your grandfather as business partners. A force to be reckoned with.” Nods of approval circulated through the cluster of old men.
Clearly, his grandfather had failed to mention Kinsey’s role in the possible vineyard investment. Clearing his throat, Scott blessed Harlan with a sideways glance sporting a raised eyebrow and proceeded cautiously. “Three partners, actually. Miss Kinsey Furlong is also considering the opportunity and she, gentlemen, will be the force to reckon with.”
“Miss Kinsey Furlong?”
Scott thought the inquirer’s name was Mr. Everett. “Yes, sir. Fletcher Garrett’s granddaughter.”
“That bastard had a granddaughter? Harlan, forgive me for speaking ill of the dead, but your brother was a pain in the ass as far back as our boarding school days.”
Scott immediately liked “Honest Everett.”
Harlan held up his hand. “An apology isn’t necessary. Your opinion is quite accurate.”
“Well, now.” Pendleton Perhaps Pendergrass sipped his bourbon. “Fletcher Garrett’s granddaughter joining the ranks of the Garrett businessmen. Intriguing.”
“I remember Fletcher mentioning a granddaughter. The little girl lived in Australia.” Offering his knowledge on the discussion topic was a gentleman who answered to simply “Duncan” - be it his first or last name remained a mystery to Scott.
“Perhaps the Aborigines raised her.” Honest Everett considered himself witty. His friends’ guffaws confirmed his assumption.
“Not the Aborigines.” Scott’s serious tone demanded attention, causing his audience to lean in. “Miss Furlong was raised by a ruthless bunch known as…” He took a puff of his cigar. “Socialites.” Scott’s jab at his companions’ status and their surroundings was received with good humor.
“Where is this elusive Miss Furlong now?” Simply Duncan’s thirst to expand his knowledge regarding Fletcher Garrett’s granddaughter persisted. “We must meet her.”
Harlan entered the conversation. “She's in California staying at Scotty's ranch.”
Scott nearly choked on his bourbon. First, it was a major coup in the California wine industry. Now, Scotty’s ranch? This conversation needed to find a new direction and he knew exactly how to do it. “Miss Furlong would be here, gentlemen, but she had a prior commitment in San Francisco - a Lucy Stone lecture.”
The older gentlemen’s harmonious utterance of the women’s rights activist’s name would make the Church of Christ’s boys’ choir green with envy.
Victorious, Scott quietly sat back and blew smoke rings to drift above a discussion which had taken this gathering of minds down a new path.
By mid-afternoon, the Union Club drawing room had emptied, leaving Scott and his grandfather its sole occupants.
“Scotty’s ranch?” Roles reversed with the authoritative grandson confronting his elder who refused to make eye contact.
Harlan raised his hand in a gesture of forgiveness. “Can you deny an old man the right to brag about his grandson?”
“There’s a fine line between bragging and embellishing. Experience has taught me that line is easily crossed.” Scott briefly waited for a response he knew wouldn't be given. Sarcasm helped lower his frustration. “I'm curious. Why didn't you mention Kinsey as the evil mastermind in overthrowing and taking possession of the California wine industry?”
“It’s complicated." Harlan’s voice reflected annoyance.
“I've become quite the expert on complicated.” Hearing his grandfather’s explanation of this topic was worthy of Scott’s patience. “Please, sir, take your time.”
Harlan studied the last of his bourbon in his lead crystal glass. “Fletcher made liking him rather difficult.” A slight eye roll accompanied his grandfather’s final sip of liquor. “Correction. Not difficult - he made it impossible. Growing up, he had few friends. By the time his family moved to Philadelphia, he had none. Rekindling old friendships during his infrequent visits to Boston proved unsuccessful. You experienced today, Scotty, what reactions are fueled when his name is spoken in a conversation. I never mentioned Kinsey for that reason - she’s the granddaughter of Fletcher Garrett. Being his older brother, I heard quite often about the misery he created. I would defend him and then hate myself for doing so. However, he was my brother.”
“It’s what brothers do, sir.”
“Pardon?” His grandfather's voice, which had become distant, returned to the present.
“It’s what brothers do - stand up for each other.” Scott smiled. “Faults and all.”
“Yes, Scotty. Faults and all.”
Returning to the Boston brownstone, Harlan retired to the study to catch up on paperwork. Scott guessed catching up on forty winks was closer to the truth when the sound of snoring resonated from behind closed doors. How did his poor grandmother during her time here on earth get any sleep with that man?
Scott took the opportunity to stop by his room to check on Emerson. The book he'd placed in the middle of the bed earlier was now located on the writing desk. Two telegrams from San Francisco were under the front cover.
“It appears the good Lord continues to bless us today, Martin.”
Little guesswork was needed to immediately identify the author of the first correspondence he opened.
HOTEL BEAUTIFUL EXTRAORDINARY PEOPLE HANDSOME ESCORT THANK YOU FOR OPPORTUNITY
It was signed Freckles. Scott nodded. “You're most welcome, young lady.” It had been the right decision to let her go. Hopefully, Murdoch wouldn’t be kicking his oldest son in the backside a few days from now when Crusader Kinsey returned to Lancer.
Upon opening the second telegram, Scott began to laugh. Being a man of few words at times, Johnny’s cryptic phrasing embraced a telegram's format.
ARRIVED AT SF HOTEL FLOCKS OF MAGPIES MENDING FENCES CORRAL SECURE FILLY HAPPY J
Again, Scott was confident he’d made a good decision. “Keep an eye on her, little brother.” Staring at Johnny's words typed on the thin paper, he added. “Good luck with mending fences.”
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