While the two sides fought both in court and in the realm of public opinion, the electrification of America continued. Edison sold D/C units to the mansions of Boston, Chicago, and Detroit while Westinghouse sold A/C systems to Telluride, Colorado, and Redlands, California.
In New York, Tesla was remembering more and more. Paul would sit up late at the inventor’s bedside, watching him scribble his way through notebook after notebook. It seemed that the inner workings of what he’d designed for Westinghouse, for Edison, and on his own were returning to his command. Paul was encouraged to hear him curse both Westinghouse and Edison at the mention of their names. He had no idea if the inventor’s scribbles would ever comprise a new and non-infringing light bulb, but if they did, that would constitute by far the best path to victory.
It was on such a visit that Paul had an opportunity to speak to Fannie. There was a proposal he’d been building up the nerve to make ever since his conversation with Marguerite Westinghouse. The chance presented itself on a Saturday night in early February. Agnes had gone out with her castmates after the show, which meant that Paul found a moment alone with her mother.
Despite the hour, she made them tea. Paul felt this was a peace offering. Their press gambit against W. H. Foster had gone well—the Huntingtons hadn’t heard from him since Agnes’s interview had run in The Times. Paul found himself in Fannie’s good graces, at least for the moment.
“I must thank you, Mrs. Huntington,” he said. “I know what you’ve done for me, and for Mr. Tesla, these past months.”
She inspected some fading flowers on the table between them. “Your help with my daughter’s situation has been appreciated,” she said.
“We’ve had a mutually beneficial partnership.”
She rearranged her flowers by dim candlelight. Paul waited awkwardly for a few moments. “Mrs. Huntington. There is another humble request I’d like to make of you.”
“I can see that,” she said.
She was, once again, no fool. “I was hoping to take Agnes on a walk. Perhaps this Sunday. The gardens, I’d thought. Prospect Park, out in Brooklyn. They’ve actually got some winter orchids that are still in season. Lovely. Quite lovely. Before I asked her, I wanted to have your blessing.”
Despite Agnes’s rather modern disposition, he had decided that in courting her he should pursue a distinctly old-fashioned path. She was very much a New Woman, as they called them in the papers. Having seen the champagne-doused society company in which Agnes secretly traveled, Paul had decided to distinguish himself by way of a formal courtship. A walk through the gardens had been selected to appeal to both of the ladies Huntington.
Fannie Huntington looked at him as if she were for the first time picturing the aquatic life of a distant planet.
“Mr. Cravath,” said Fannie slowly, “I believe Agnes already has plans on Sunday afternoon.”
Paul didn’t get it at first. “Well. Perhaps next week, then.”
“With Henry La Barre Jayne.”
“Oh,” said Paul.
“Of the Philadelphia Jaynes,” Fannie added unnecessarily.
“Yes.”
“It’s not their first afternoon outing together.”
“No, no, of course not.” Paul wanted to flee. Of course Agnes Huntington would be courted by American royalty. How foolish had he been to think that of all the offers she must receive, she would favor his? That she hadn’t mentioned any gentleman callers to Paul only accentuated the extent of his stupidity. She’d been immersed in a social world so far from his that such matters never even occurred to her while in his company. She had not judged Paul wanting; she had found him too insignificant to judge.
Henry Jayne was the latest in a long line of shipping heirs whose family fortune had recently been extended to real estate. The Jaynes owned half of Philadelphia and had recently begun snapping up wide swaths of Manhattan as well. Henry Jayne, who was only a few years older than Paul, managed his family’s foothold in New York. The quarterlies all agreed that he was the most philanthropically inclined of his siblings, and the standard-bearer of the family’s fine-art holdings to boot.
“Are they to marry?” Paul asked. It was only after the words had come out that he realized how impolite they were. It was shame speaking. He wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Well, I most certainly can’t say,” snapped Fannie. “But I will say that Mr. Jayne is quite an interesting young man. Completed his studies in Leipzig. Speaks five languages.”
“How fascinating.”
“My daughter’s company is in high demand, Mr. Cravath. Will she marry Mr. Jayne? I’m not sure. Her gifts, not to mention her grace, have afforded my daughter a rare opportunity. It is her intention not to waste it. And it is my earthly duty to make sure she doesn’t.”
She crossed her arms before her small frame.
“Mrs. Huntington,” said Paul, “I wish you both the very best. I’m proud to be your and your daughter’s attorney. It is a position I cherish, and one that I hope to maintain for a very long time.”
This emphasis on Paul’s position seemed to satisfy Fannie. Her goodbye was peaceable.
Paul found his way to the front door as quickly as he could. He’d made an ass of himself.
But he gave a start as he opened the door. Agnes stood on the stoop, fishing in her handbag for her key.
“Cravath!” she said with a smile, pleased by the magic of the opening door. “Perfect timing, as always.”
Agnes looked a little tipsy. She was in good spirits, clearly happy from her night out. Had she been with castmates? Or with Mr. Jayne? He realized how little he knew of her activities when they were apart. He couldn’t imagine being in Tesla’s room with her ever again.
He moved aside so that she could come in from the cold.
“Will you join me for a nightcap?” she asked. “You will never believe the night I’ve had. Did you know that swans bite? They bite hard; it’s horrible. You’ll love this story.”
But Paul did not remove his hand from the door. “I’m sorry, Miss Huntington,” he said. “I must be off. Good evening.”
Before she could remove her coat and place it on the brass rack, Paul had already walked out and shut the door behind him.
He descended the steps quickly, walking determinedly into the night.
He did not look back to see if her face was in the window. Instead, he kept his eyes on the black leather of his shoes. He wished for sleep to come quickly, for his dreams to pass unremembered, and for the dawn to greet him soon.
He needed to get back to work.
—
Paul’s four associate attorneys were waiting for him when he entered their ramshackle offices on Greenwich Street the next morning. It was time for their weekly appointment. They appeared to have slept there the night before. The men’s shirt collars were loosened, their ties undone. The single room smelled of sweat and dried coffee. For once, he envied them.
With flair, one of them handed Paul a folder full of papers.
“Why don’t you summarize it for me, Mr. Beyer?” asked Paul as he opened the folder.
The associate exchanged a look with his fellows.
“What?” said Paul.
“It’s only…well…I’m Bynes.”
Paul looked up. He could have sworn that Beyer was the one with the mustache.
“Apologies. What do you have to show me?” asked Paul.
“Well, sir,” said whichever one of them it was. “I think we’ve got him.”
The associate gestured to the top document within the folder. “That is an interview with Thomas Edison in The New York Sun from October twentieth, 1878. In it, he clearly states that his new electrical lamp consists of a glass bulb, hollowed out into a vacuum, with a platinum filament inside. The filament is the part that glows.”
“I know what a filament is,” said Paul.
“Well, Edison’s patent, granted January twenty-seventh, 1880, refers to a glass bulb, hollowed out into a vacuum, with a cotton filament inside. He changed the filament.”
Paul realized what this meant. “He told the press he was using one kind of filament. But by the time he filed for the patent, he was already using a different kind. He hadn’t gotten the lamp to work as early as he’d claimed.”