The Last Days of Night(78)

By a unanimous vote, the firm of Carter, Hughes & Cravath decided to defer their legal fees until after the crisis was over. To be sure, the dues owed them continued to mount. They dutifully recorded their labors in the leather-bound ledger they kept for such a purpose, scribbling every meeting, every letter, every late evening beneath the office gas lamps. The right-hand column of their book filled with imaginary dollars. Who knew if they would ever be paid? As the firm—as Paul—built a theoretical fortune, the men remained all too aware that these paper riches might never become real. Paul continued to manage his “associate attorneys” in secret in the hopes that they might uncover another hole in Edison’s patent. Paul paid them from a combination of his own rapidly depleting savings and whatever scraps he could surreptitiously borrow from the firm’s meager accounts. No day ended with a promise of the next.

—

One September day Agnes Huntington strode into his office. Four months had passed since their goodbye in Nashville. She hadn’t made an appointment.

He hadn’t written to her. He hadn’t known what to say. Seeing her in front of him, he still didn’t. He knew her secret. She knew his heart. They were in this way intertwined by the impossibility of their predicament.

“Miss Huntington.” Once again the name felt foolish on his lips after what had passed between them. But what else was he to call her?

“Good morning, Paul,” she said as she shut the door behind her.

“It’s good to see you,” he said. He was telling the truth. “Will you take a seat?”

The humid September air wafted in through the open windows. It had rained only that morning, and the breeze was damp.

“How is Nikola?” she asked.

He told her what he knew. He’d instructed his father not to use the inventor’s name in letters, since they couldn’t be sure if anyone was reading Paul’s mail. Erastus was to speak only of the Tennessee sunflowers in their garden. As his father described the sunflowers, Paul would know that what he was really describing was Tesla. The old man hadn’t liked this subterfuge, but he understood its necessity. His most recent letter had said that the flowers were blooming nicely. Not as tall as he’d hoped, but they were showing their color.

Agnes complimented Paul on handling this with typical cleverness. Paul was proud to be clever in her eyes. Between them, they’d spent a lot of time in the company of geniuses over the past year. Clever would do just fine.

“And how is Mr. Jayne?” Paul asked. He still wasn’t sure just why she’d come to see him. But this was the figurative elephant in the room. He couldn’t go without mentioning it.

“He’s invited me to journey with him to Paris next month. Three weeks of traveling and sightseeing through France. I haven’t been since last I sang there. His family—well, they have their house in the city, in Paris. And a summer cottage farther south. Near Lyon.”

Of course they did. “Are you to be married?” The question was difficult to voice. But he had to know.

She swallowed. “Paul…I…” She stopped herself. When she tried again, her voice was lighter. “I believe the purpose of the trip is so that he might propose.”

“Of course.”

“He’ll offer me his grandmother’s ring in Paris, I’d imagine. Then we can celebrate through the countryside for a few weeks, before returning to Manhattan and Philadelphia to tell our respective families what they assuredly already know.”

“And you’ll accept his proposal?”

“Paul…”

“What does he think of your performing at the Met? Surely he’ll want you to stop?”

“Henry is a good man,” she said. “You think I must be compromising myself for his money. Well, let me tell you, he’s a better man than most, and any woman would be lucky to have him. Just because he comes from money doesn’t make him callow. And if you knew how much I’ve wanted to stop singing professionally, or how many times I’ve almost quit…It is not the constant jockeying for position and stature that I love. I can sing for anyone. Henry doesn’t have such a poor voice himself.” Her voice was firm. But her eyes were wet.

“I understand,” he said. “I respect your decision.”

“You haven’t written me.”

“Nor you me. I’ve been trying to win this suit—or at least not to lose it.”

“So we’re both playing games. You cannot blame me for winning mine just because you’re losing yours.”

They were silent for a moment. Paul wondered if she too felt like a pawn on someone else’s board.

“I didn’t come to tell you that,” said Agnes finally. “I came about your case. About Westinghouse. I know you’ve been to every investor below Fourteenth Street, trying to scrounge up funds. And I know it’s not going well.”

“How do you—” Paul didn’t need to finish the sentence before he realized the answer. “Jayne.”

“Of course he knows that you’re my attorney. And he told me about your troubles. That every banker in town knows of them. But he told me something…well, something that not every banker in town knows. He told me why you’re having such a hard time.”

“Why is that?”

“J. P. Morgan.”