The Cold Millions: A Novel, стр. 32
“Thank you,” Rye said, though he was filled with jealousy and wondered how Ursula had managed to get in to see Gig when they were on lockdown.
“He also told me about the house you hope to build one day,” she said.
“He did?”
“Yes, he’d like to build a real home for you, Ryan.” She smiled and squeezed his arm again. Rye could feel her breath on his face.
Hearing about his brother’s feelings from Ursula was strange. Like Rye was overhearing a conversation that wasn’t meant for him. He had to remind himself that less than two weeks ago this woman had chosen a rich mining man over Gig.
He wished he could show her that he and Gig weren’t all orphan-on-the-bum sorrow. That they were actually adventuring brothers. But he was at a loss as to how to make that case in the back of a rumbling seven-person automobile. Some nameless ache hit him, and he imagined Gig and Ursula making a house together, her cooking dinner—and felt a swirling confusion: his arm pressed in her bosom. Rye wasn’t sure if he wanted to be kissed by this woman or mothered.
“What is it, Ryan?” she asked, and she squeezed his arm even tighter, and he thought, When we separate, my arm might go with her.
The driver shifted to go uphill and Rye had to yell over the sound of the motor. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course!” she said.
“It’s about the cougar!”
“Oh,” she said, “that,” and loosened her grip. She must’ve heard this question a hundred times, because she turned away and looked out the window. “There’s meat sewn in the corset,” she said more quietly. “Beef liver and offal.” She shrugged. “Provides some extra here, too.” She patted her chest. “The cat knows that if he growls but refrains from biting, he’ll get a fine meal.” And now she glanced at the driver again. “Me, too, I guess. If I growl but don’t bite, I get to eat.”
The car slowed then, and Rye looked up. They were on a street of mansions lined with shade trees and massive gates. The driver wheeled the Peerless Touring into a turnout. The home went on forever, dormers and rooflines making it look like three houses had collided—not just the grandest home Rye had ever seen but, he knew in that moment, the grandest home he would ever see.
He couldn’t take the entire house in, but the front seemed to cover half the block. It was three stories, with turrets and balconies and rows of exterior arches. It was an unusual coral color, like a castle from another land, the buildings behind it painted the same: a carriage house, a shop, and a gardener’s bungalow. Rye realized he was gaping and closed his mouth.
Thank God for the paid braggart driver or Rye never would have known the house was “constructed entirely of sandstone imported from Italy” or that its style “suggested Spanish and Moorish influences with classical elements.”
“I was thinking Moorish,” Rye muttered.
The driver went on about how the arches referenced an estate called Alhambra, a Spanish palace belonging to Charles the Fifth.
The driver opened the back door of the Peerless Touring and they climbed out, Rye grateful to have Mr. Moore’s bowler on his head as they climbed the steps, the driver leading them to a set of double doors adorned with silver knockers inlaid with gold sculpted horses. Then he pushed on both doors and the building didn’t open so much as unfold, reveal itself to Rye, the first image one that would endure for him—gold.
Gold light and gold fixtures and gold furniture, burlap wallpaper painted gold across a wide two-story landing, crystal chandeliers hanging between two grand round staircases, each with shiny black railings above a marble floor, those steps curling away into untold second-story riches. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The tables and chairs lining the entryway, the rugs, everything was gilded on its edges. Four servants were lined up waiting, the first a young man holding out his hands for coats and hats and gloves and scarves. “Can I keep my hat?” Rye asked, worried about the rat’s nest beneath.
“Of course, Mr. Dolan,” the coat man said.
The lord of the house was nowhere in sight, and unsure what to do now, Rye stepped up to get a look at one of the two dazzling staircases, wide enough for ten men at the bottom but narrowing as it curled up and around. He looked deep into the black shiny railing, expecting to see himself, but whatever that black stone was, it gobbled up light and reflection like a deep cave.
“Onyx,” the driver said. “Each of the house’s nine fireplaces is also constructed of Brazilian onyx.”
“Did he run out of gold?” Rye asked.
The bragging driver made a noise that might’ve been a laugh, and when Rye turned back, the driver was handing the servant his own hat and gloves and coat. Beneath his wool coat, he wore a velvet dinner jacket, and Rye thought he seemed older than he had in the car—fifty, perhaps. The other servants all faced him and waited. “Heat some brandy,” the driver said, “and some tea for Ursula,” one of the waiting women nodding and backing away, and Rye saw that even Ursula the Great was watching the driver, and he understood, finally, just as the man offered his hand.
“Lemuel Brand,” he said. “You’ll forgive me for not introducing myself earlier, but I am still getting used to motoring by myself.”
Rye glanced over at Ursula, remembering her promise that night “not to bed the man,” but she wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Then Lem Brand waved his arm around the room like a magician and said, “Welcome