Mortimer

Chapter 6

“You’d be wise to stay on his good side.”

“Thank you,” Neville managed.

The bartender turned away dismissively and Neville hurried to Mr. Ascariot’s booth, whiskey in hand.

“Took you long enough!” The large man snapped. “Take this list of applicants and review them, I expect them to be narrowed down to three or four by the end of the day, and interviews set up starting tomorrow.”

“Sir?”

“Nannies!” Mr. Ascariot’s face flushed cherry red. “We have had applicants from around the world. Most assuredly to live vicariously off of my financial teat.”

teat

“Teat?”

“But I shall not stand for a money-hungry nanny!” Thundered Mr. Ascariot. “Find someone with spunk. I require a well-qualified nanny. Someone with training in the social graces. She must exude academic aptitude and have the ability to train my child into a business maven. I am determined that it will be a son and that he shall carry the Ascariot name to even higher reaches of glory!”

At a loss for words, Neville nodded.

Mr. Ascariot finished the rest of his drink and narrowed his eyes. “And your name is?”

“Neville. Sir.”

“Any last name?”

“Blackstone.”

“Well then, Neville Blackstone. Seems that my last butler is now six feet under and I find myself in need of a new butler. You’re hired.”

Neville swallowed the lump in his throat. Nodded again. He had started at the Ascariot Mansion that same afternoon…

Unable to focus on his reading, Neville stood and went to the kettle. He selected a delicate teacup from the cupboard and poured himself some tea.

“How’s the business doing?” Seeing that her companion was restless, Mrs. Peabody took advantage of her company and tried to make conversation. “Is the Centennial doing well?”

Neville returned to his newspaper, silently.

“I do hope that Mortimer will begin his training with Mr. Wolfenstein soon.” She knew little about the status of the estate, except that it had been left unilaterally in the hands of Mortimer. According to Mr. Ascariot’s barrister, Mr. Aubright, the company was also going to be passed to the young squire as soon as Herberger Wolfenstein—the temporary president—determined that Mortimer had sufficiently passed the “training period.” This was highly clandestine as the shareholders were under the impression that Mortimer had already taken over in place of his father.

already

In Mrs. Peabody’s opinion, the new master of the Ascariot estate was ill equipped to manage an estate and a thriving multi-million-dollar company. Why, he was barely competent in the basic social graces that were so valuable in everyday life.

and

She knew, however, that if she mentioned any of this, she would earn a verbal thrashing from Neville, so instead she turned the heat on in the oven and tried a different approach.

“He’s got quite a passion for ships.” She nonchalantly dusted flour onto the counter.

“The Esquirer has been particularly inspiring for him.” Neville murmured, half listening as he flipped to the next page.

“I’m sure he is still desperately grieving after…well you know.” Mrs. Peabody dragged the rolling pin across the freshly mixed batch of dough. She could feel her companion dully gazing at her from beneath black-rimmed lorgnettes. She looked up, her cheeks flushing. “Oh don’t you stare at me like that. It’s possible.”

possible

Instead of answering Neville turned the page in his newspaper and brought the china cup to his lips, the curve of which was barely visible beneath his black and silver dusted mustache. He finished his tea.

Taking advantage of the last potential for conversation, Mrs. Peabody flipped the slab of dough and went to work on the other side. “I heard that Miss Longhorn will be coming by again tomorrow?”

“Indeed, she shall. Have fresh flowers brought into the entryway, see to it that Millie polishes the silver.”

“Will he receive her this time?” Mrs. Peabody perked up. I do hope she will be able to compel him to go to the races with all of her friends.”

Neville folded his paper and walked the teacup to the alabaster sink. He placed it carefully inside. “I would not count on it.” He touched his hand to his hat and turned, departing from the kitchen just as quickly as he had come, Mrs. Peabody staring after him.

***

Ten o’clock pm, June 12, 1918

The tip came into the station just after the clock hit five.

The aristocrat was on the move.

Drenched in a cloak of the color of onyx and a bowler that darkened watchful eyes, he settled into the darkest corner of the little room, lit a cigarette and waited.

No one paid him any notice, each minding their own business. Throwing back libations that scalded throats and inhaling cigarettes or cigars until the room thickened with fog reminiscent of the Winyah Bay harbor at early dawn. There was a lonesome saxophone playing a sorry tune from the stage at the far end of the room and its notes twisted and mingled with the din of voices and the clink of glasses at the bar.

He took another drag, tapping ashes into the crystal tray on the table before him.

And then the velvet curtain was pushed back.

The man carried an ivory cane, not for utility but rather for social appeal. He wore an ebony colored suit that wrapped around his massive frame. A lasciviously dressed blonde hung from his free arm, her cherry painted lips turned up—arrogant to be seen in the presence of such wealth.

They moved towards him, paying him no mind.

Not five feet away, she slid sinuously into the designated booth, leaning forward in an attempt to reward her companion with a prospect of her diamond studded décolletage.