Buster Randall might have been cooling in his grave for two years now, but Chet liked to chew things over with his father daily. The old man’s advice would come if he listened hard enough. He needed it today, not so much for the situation with the factory foreman but for the one with Amber, who dominated his thoughts.

He leant back in his chair and crossed his feet atop his desk, powerless to stop their jiggle with the new idea that he was in love. He ran his eyes over the images of his legendary father that adorned the walls of his office. There was the portrait, set deep into the walnut wainscoting, of the square-jawed, silver-haired patriarch, seated straight-backed in a tiger-skin chair, holding a gold sceptre in his right hand. Quite the vision of a manufacturing magnate. Beside that was the real Buster – the Civil War veteran, the hunter and trapper, the furrier from another life. His dad, before manufacturing and money had made him respectable.

Chet regarded this last photograph ever taken of Buster. His father grinned back at him, hunting rifle in hand, dressed in slick khakis on safari in Africa, and unaware that in less than two minutes forty of his best bullets would be no match for the one-ton rhinoceros bearing down on him at thirty miles an hour. Despite the fact Buster was in his final moments, the portrait had a poetic elegance to it. His father was truly in his element. Surely, Chet thought, there would be no finer way to see out one’s life than in pursuit of one’s passion.

‘What would you do, Father?’

He listened hard, but Buster wasn’t giving away much today. Perhaps the old man was finally satisfied with all that Chet had accomplished in his short time at the helm of Randall Enterprises.

In two years, Chet had managed to ingratiate himself into New York’s elite brotherhood, rubbing shoulders daily with Westinghouse, Rockefeller, Edison and Tesla and also aligning his interests with the powerbrokers at Tammany Hall. He was playing both sides with the ease of an orchestra conductor. Then he’d diversified the business too, branching out into real estate with his land portfolio. He was now building a hotel at the eastern tip of Coney Island. He defied anyone to say he wasn’t filling the large shoes left by his father.

Now all he wanted was Amber, a son or ten, and, if he were really honest, a seat in the exclusive pinnacle of Manhattan business, the Zodiac Club. He’d have to wait for one of the old farts to die first, though. There were only ever twelve members of Manhattan’s most esteemed allowed in the club at any one time, one for each sign.

He slid open the desk drawer and poured himself a shot of single malt. It was an hour earlier than when he usually took his customary nip, but it would prove a useful lubricant for an afternoon of decision. He toyed with the idea of an opium popper, rattling the little golden bullets around in the fox-faced jar that had been issued to his father in the Civil War. But no. He had to be on his mettle for the meeting with his foreman.

‘Now for the matter of Joseph Abel,’ he said to his father. ‘Joseph Abel. Fucking kike.’ His blood rose to boiling every time he thought of him. ‘You should have known better.’ He looked Buster in the eye. ‘Abel may have been a brilliant tailor in his day but he’s not a leading hand’s ass wipe and has no idea how to keep those hens in order. I need to put my foot down and get rid of the cancer that’s spreading these delusional notions of grandeur amongst our workers. Fewer hours and more breaks, indeed. Let them strike, wouldn’t you say?’ He hammered the desk. ‘You know, Dad, I’ve made a deal with the girls from the bordellos at the Tenderloin to step in, in case of a strike. They’ll do anything for money and they’re mighty fine with their hands, you’d be the first to admit that.’ He barked a laugh and dismissed the thought, as he felt the nervous tick return to his cheek. He stroked it out, drained his glass and poured himself another, then focused on Amber.

An involuntary sigh escaped his lips and he contemplated the caramel contents of his glass, enjoying the comforting smell of peat and honey in his nostrils.

‘Ah, Amber. What do I love about her, you ask? Well, at first, as you’d appreciate, it was the thrill of the chase – she’s smart, mercurial and hard to catch.’

Chet bit the end off a cigar, thinking back to her refusals in the back of the carriage. He should have known better. Of course she would have principles.

‘She won’t give herself to me just because I demand it. And that’s what makes her so damned desirable.’

A knock at the office door sharpened his focus. He slid the whisky decanter away and sat tall in his seat.

‘Enter.’

Elmer, Chet’s pale-faced young office manager, shepherded in a stooped shadow of a man with a long greying beard and a worn-out gait. The pouches under Joseph Abel’s eyes preached the ills of insomnia. The man had even buttoned up his suit in the wrong buttonholes.

Chet could feel his ire mushrooming. He put a finger under his collar and jerked it around his neck to release the simmering heat. Sloppy dressing always made him twitchy. The man’s tall hat was gripped in one hand and a slim briefcase was clutched in the other, and he stood by the chair limply awaiting instructions while Chet allowed uncertainty to intimidate him.

‘Take a seat.’ Chet tented his fingers under the dimple in his chin as if deep in thought, then made his way around the desk, reining in the impulse to grab the foreman by the scruff of his neck. He sat on the edge of the desk, drumming his fingers and regarding from on high the man who was singlehandedly turning his factory into a charitable case for bleeding hearts.

Abel leant forwards a little, readjusting his seat to aim for eye contact. Tiny beads of sweat had formed on his brow, and he pulled out his handkerchief and patted them away. Chet regarded his signs of fear with satisfaction, then slammed his fist down on the table. Abel jumped.

‘What do you mean by wearing this shabby excuse for a suit when you are supposed to uphold the fine workmanship of the Randall name?’

‘It was all I had,’ Abel said in a low, gravelly voice.

‘Pathetic. Just like your record in dealing with the workers.’

‘Sir, let me explain. Our women are excellent workers. I believe they are the best workforce in the whole of New York City. They are good women every last one of them, if you would just give them—’

‘Lies!’ Chet bellowed. ‘I won’t have it. Either the women stay working under their current conditions or you’ll all be out on the streets scrapping for work. And I’m starting with you, Abel, to show I mean business.’

‘But, sir, I’ve been with Randall Enterprises for fifteen years. I’ve never taken a sick day and these women work hard for me – for you.’

‘Everyone is expendable, Abel.’

The man sat immobile and licked his lips. ‘Please, sir, please reconsider. I have a large family. Seven in all.’

‘Well, you should have kept your dick in your pants and bent your energies to keeping the factory hens under control.’ Chet lowered his voice and let his vitriol speak. ‘I will not have a union presence in my business. You are excused, effective immediately. Elmer will see to your severance pay. No one can say I’m not a fair man.’

Abel sat, shell-shocked. He didn’t budge.

‘Get out!’ Chet roared. He could feel the veins pulsing in his neck. He grabbed Abel by the collar and yanked his lanky frame to his feet, just as a knock came, and the door creaked open.

Chet let Abel go and straightened his suit.

‘Sir,’ came Elmer’s timid voice.

‘Not now, Elmer.’

‘Sir, I just came to tell you we can hear quite a bit next door and a guest has just arrived.’

‘Tell them to go away,’ Chet growled.

‘It is her, sir. Miss Kingsbury Smith,’ Elmer whispered through the crack.

‘Right.’ This caught him off guard, and his heart skipped a beat. He used the mirror of his father’s picture to check his appearance, and grinned to make sure his teeth were spotless.

‘Elmer, come in.’

A sheepish Elmer entered.

‘Mr Abel no longer works for Randall Enterprises. Please see he is walked out immediately.’

Chet clicked the door closed and took a deep breath, soothing the tic in his cheek.

‘Amber, what a lovely surprise.’ Chet’s velvet voice soothed Rose’s nerves and she turned from the giant half-moon window that overlooked Sixteenth Street.

He looked expensive today, every inch the industrial magnate. The cut of his pinstripe suit sat comfortably on his broad shoulders and the white shirt seemed to strain against the girth of his neck. He was clean shaven and the dimple in his chin gave him an air of dependability, but the forced smile and the cool look in his eyes made her nerves tingle. Perhaps she’d overstepped the mark coming here uninvited after not responding to his apology roses, or perhaps it was the heated conversation she’d partially overheard coming from the room next door that was the problem.

She clasped her hands tight around her parasol to control their tremble and adjusted her bun self-consciously.

‘I thought I’d surprise you,’ she said brightly. She flashed a grin, hoping for reciprocation, but his mind was elsewhere. ‘I have good news and I wanted to share it with you first.’

‘Oh, really? I’m intrigued,’ he said, taking her arm briskly and moving her to the elevator door. ‘Why don’t we discuss it over luncheon? Shall we go to Sherry’s?’

‘Can’t we go into your office to talk?’

‘No, men are discussing the final details of a deal I’ve just signed off.’

She hoped her disappointment didn’t show. She’d rather banked on delivering the news in the privacy of his office.

‘I hope I haven’t done the wrong thing turning up unannounced like this?’

‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘This is the highlight of my day.’ But his smile seemed forced. ‘Shall we walk?’

‘Perfect.’ She gave an inward sigh. The walk would give her a chance to collect herself.

Once outside, his dark cloud seemed to lift. ‘Tell me, what is it? Your news? Is it about the stolen jewellery?’ Concern brought his thick brows together in a dip.

‘No, no, nothing like that. Though I dream it were so! No, this is wonderful and sad all at the same time.’

Rose looked up to the sky for signs of her future. But all she saw was a field of evenly furrowed cirrus clouds, like frowns, stretching to infinity. She averted her eyes. Her superstitions were childish.

Chet followed her line of sight and assumed it was towards the jeweller across the street. ‘Shall we, beautiful?’

‘Indeed.’ She inclined her head. This was, after all, a day of celebration.

Inside they perused the new cuts of diamonds. Chet lifted his gaze, as though struck by inspiration. ‘I was thinking I might buy you a thank-you gift for your Emporium idea. Powell explained to me the ins and outs of your shell structure.’

‘Not just any old shell. Your Emporium would take the shape of a nautilus, actually, with a helix, like the Tower of Babel.’ She rotated her hands around an invisible pole to describe the shape. ‘I thought your Emporium should be a place for women to relax, inside a protective shell, away from the pressures of the everyday. And, believe me, nothing in the store would ever be big enough to thank me for dealing with that unimaginative Brooks Powell.’

‘Ha.’ Chet slapped his leg. ‘Welcome to business, my beauty. Perhaps I can think of something bigger and grander than a necklace.’

He winked, took her hand and placed a kiss on her ring finger.

Once settled in the cool oasis of Sherry’s, surrounded by the polite tinkle of silverware and the whispers of Manhattan’s secrets promulgating around them, Rose accepted a small aperitif on the house. The combination of alcohol and apprehension swiftly got hold of her tongue.

‘I love this dining room, Chet. The decor is so reminiscent of the Queen Anne period. The flocked wallpaper, ruched drapes and furniture with delightfully turned legs. I’m enamoured with the baroque, it’s just so elegant – redolent of gentility. And it goes without saying that the food here has a rival only in the best Parisian restaurants. Everything seems so delightfully in season.’

‘Out with it,’ Chet said.

‘What?’

‘Your news, Amber. Enough of the filibuster. You’ve been waffling on about decor and the menu. You’re not a waffler. What’s up?’

He leant forwards expectantly and rested his chin on his knuckles with a smile.

She took a deep breath. ‘A letter from Paris arrived this morning . . . unexpectedly.’

Chet’s face remained fixed in an interested half-smile.

‘It was from the Ecole des Beaux-Arts.’

The pleasant curve of his lips disappeared, and he bent towards her. ‘And?’

‘Chet,’ she whispered. ‘I’ve been accepted. I leave for Paris next month.’

He stared at her. A muscle in his cheek flinched.

‘Isn’t it marvellous? Now I can finally pursue my dream.’

She searched for a reward in his face – a sign of joy or congratulations – but only found a perplexed gaze.

‘But you can’t!’ he blurted. ‘I mean, the cost!’ He clasped her hands across the table, rattling the crystal and keeping his voice low. ‘How will your family cope? The money?’

‘Shh. I told you our financial problems in confidence.’ She pulled her hand away and folded her arms. ‘If you must know, Father will sell the house.’

‘I’m sorry, Amber, what I meant was . . .’ He gazed at his own reflection in the silver saltshaker before unsuccessfully attempting to assume a semblance of enthusiasm. ‘I’m thrilled for you, really. But, remember, Stanford doesn’t have formal training and you don’t need it either. You have talent, Amber, and I’ll support you. I’ll promote your work. You know I will.’

‘Chet, please. Don’t live in a fool’s paradise. Stanford is a man – of course formal training beyond an apprenticeship is not a prerequisite to his success. Can you imagine a woman doing the same thing? Trying to pass herself off as a qualified architect with nothing more than a few sketches and a pocketful of dreams? I’d be a laughing stock.’

‘But . . . is this what you really want? Putting your family through such hardship for your own benefit? Isn’t it a bit selfish? When, really, there is no need. No need at all.’

Guilty tears raced to her eyes. Her own sense of her selfishness had been a prickly obstacle from time to time, but she’d always pardoned herself with the notion that one day it would be worth it. One day she would make her family proud. But Chet’s assertion sounded more like an accusation, and served only to subjugate her guilt and cement her decision.

‘Yes, this is what I want.’

‘More than . . .’ Chet implored.

‘More than what?’ she whispered tearfully.

‘Me?’

‘Oh, Chet.’ She sank in her chair, comprehending the truth behind his objections. ‘I do like you. Very much indeed. But I need to be realistic. I need to be able to earn a living. This is my dream.’

He looked at her with gravity and seemed to struggle for breath. She dabbed at her eyes with the lacy corner of her handkerchief as the waiter approached and then, upon seeing their tense discourse, turned on his heel and walked away again. Chet slid around the table and knelt down before her on one knee.

‘I love you, Amber.’ His eyes glassed over.

‘Oh.’ She exhaled, feeling the blush radiating up her neck and her heart palpitating with what she sensed was to come. The room tinkled with the sound of cutlery resting on china as other diners turned their way, intrigued.

‘I need you, Amber,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Please do me the honour of becoming my wife.’

‘Chet, it’s a generous offer. Any woman would be privileged to be your wife.’

‘I don’t want any woman. I want you. More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life.’

She choked back a sob. What was happening? ‘We’ve known each other barely four months.’

‘Please, Amber. I promise I will make you the happiest woman in the world.’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘But you can! We’ll move to Paris together. You can study and I’ll come back and forth for my business. It is a perfect solution. Don’t you see?’ He gripped her hands in his and whispered with as much force as his choked throat could muster, ‘Your family will never have to worry about money again. I’ll see to it they receive a generous allowance. They’ll keep the family home and your father can hold his head high. You will be able to earn your qualifications and I will support you. Together there will be no mountain we can’t climb. Let me love you. Please, let me love you.’

He held her hands and placed them on his cheek. The way he moved, the way he looked, hit a chord so deep in her soul that she imagined his words might be true. The imposing daredevil of a man she had seen across the table at that first dinner party now looked up at her as a hopeful boy. She excused her promises to herself. She wanted to believe in him as he believed in her. And at that moment she believed she could. He was so passionate and so vulnerable. Searching the depths of his eyes now, she saw nothing but trust and a deep, abiding love. In time, she could learn to love him back.

‘Please, Amber.’ His voice trembled. ‘Make me the happiest man in the world.’

The words tumbled out before she gave herself time to consider their implications.

‘Yes, Chet. I will marry you.’