I badly wanted to do as Carrot urged, but I knew I could not; it was just not possible at the time for me to leave Maysbeck for even as much as a day. There will be other times, I consoled myself; I have the rest of my life. Some days later, sitting in Mr. Wilson’s parlor in the evening, reading the newspaper to him, I discovered that Tiresias had indeed won the Derby, and I imagined the thrill it must have been to stand among the party of the winner’s owner. I wondered if Rowland had been there, enjoying the gaiety of the event. I gazed at Mr. Wilson, half-asleep in his chair, and I thought of Carrot, from whom I had received two days previous a letter expressing his disgust over my inability to come to Derby Day. I admit I had been torn, but I had known the responsible course, and I had done it, if for no other reason than to prove myself. I wished I were in Carrot’s position—or even Rowland’s—but I was not: I could not shed my life at a moment’s notice. I was a second son and had to earn my own way.
Slowly, slowly, Mr. Wilson started to regain his ability to speak. In the beginning it was almost meaningless garble, but his face would brighten if his answer to a question ought to be yes, and a glower appeared in his eyes if it was to be no. And we began to understand his attempts at words, almost like learning a different dialect of the same language. I would come into his room each morning before leaving for the mill, for he was invariably awake, and I would tell him what I had in mind for the day, or remind him what new orders we were working on, and he would smile or glower and give me advice as best he could. I came back at noontime usually, as I knew he would be anxious to hear the latest—if a frame had broken down or if the orders were keeping up, if the quality remained high or if there was too much shoddy. And again in the evening I went first to him to let him know that all had been taken care of, that there was naught to worry about. I suspected that he barely believed me most of the time, but it was true that Mr. Landes stopped in to the mill nearly every day to make sure I had everything under control. I was pleased indeed when his visits tapered off to only two or three times a week, which I took to mean that he thought I was capable of handling most things by myself.
One would think that all this new responsibility would have pleased me no end, but in fact, while I enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing my decisions carried out, it only made me more anxious than ever to move on. My father had plans for me, and I was eager to get on with them. Yet no matter what I or my father might have preferred, I could not leave Mr. Wilson, who had been more than a father to me.
Chapter 11
Carrot eventually got over his ire at my missing Derby Day, and he continued—even more forcefully—to urge me to visit. I was pleased that he seemed as anxious as I to rekindle our friendship, imagining the enjoyable time we two would have together. But of necessity I put him off as best I could, for I was still determined to prove myself to my father as well as to Mr. Wilson. And then, in midsummer, I received a short letter from my father:
I have heard word of Mr. Wilson’s unfortunate accident of some months ago, and I presume you have taken over more responsibilities in light of the situation. This certainly will be invaluable experience for you—running a manufactory on your own. I could not have hoped for better. I assume Mr. Wilson will have a speedy recovery—perhaps he already has—and you, with your newfound experience and responsibilities, will remain of greater benefit to his mill operation than either he or I imagined of you at this point. Therefore, it seems only logical that our arrangement has further need of revision. I cannot at the present take the time to come there and arrange a new agreement. Please advise Mr. Wilson to write to me what new arrangements he is prepared to make.
I read the missive with astonishment. Mr. Wilson was far from recovered and was not in a position to express what arrangements should be made. I withheld the news of my father’s letter until I had a chance to share it with Mr. Landes, but when that gentleman read it, he let out an impatient breath and looked up at me. “Do you know anything of the understanding between your father and Mr. Wilson concerning you?” he asked.
“I do not,” I said, “except that I was to be trained in the running of a manufactory, like the mill, and that Mr. Wilson was to give me room and meals and a small sum to cover my incidental expenses. And when perforce I needed to find lodgings of my own, they made another agreement that would cover my further living expenses.”
Mr. Landes frowned. “Did you never ask what exactly that agreement stated?”
“I have never been in the habit of questioning my father,” I admitted. And then I added, because that excuse seemed rather lame for a young man of my age and current responsibilities, “I thought everything was quite clear between them.”
“I wonder if there is something written,” he said. “Perhaps there is something in the ledgers—some accounting of money paid.”
Since Mr. Wilson’s illness I had had full access to the mill accounts. “I never saw anything, nor heard mention of it,” I said. “It must have been a personal arrangement between them.” And I voiced what he must have been thinking: “We may be at my father’s mercy on this.”
“Indeed,” he responded. We both knew that without Mr. Wilson, my father would have the advantage in any negotiation.
“He may not be an easy man in this,” I warned.
“There’s a chance there’s something in writing somewhere,” Mr. Landes said. “We can hope for that.”
“If only Mr. Wilson would recover—” I began, but he cut me off.
“Rochester, that is not going to happen.”
I knew it was true, but the fact of it had not yet been mentioned between us. “What will we do?” I asked.
Mr. Landes was silent for a time, and then he said, “You will write to your father and tell him that Wilson is not yet fully recovered but will make those decisions at the earliest opportunity, and that in the meantime, if there are any points of clarity that should be included, to please express them. That ought to hold him for a time while we ponder this.”
I wrote that letter, and a week or so later a short note came from my father:
Thank you for informing me of John Wilson’s continuing situation. I do hope that you are taking advantage of your position to display your full capabilities in handling the responsibility which has fallen into your lap, for responsibility is what makes a man a man.
I look forward to a response from Wilson, as soon as possible.
And there was a note for Mr. Wilson as well, which I shared with Mr. Landes when he came by the mill to see how things were going:
My dear sir,
I understand you are still invalided and require additional time of healing. Please be aware that my son is yours for as long as you need him. I assume that you recognize how much his responsibilities have increased, and I await your word as to what financial rearrangements you have made to address that issue.
“I’m sorry,” I said, after Mr. Landes had read the letter.
He didn’t respond directly to that, just saying, “I will speak to Wilson.”
*
When I came home that evening, the housekeeper told me that Mr. Landes had already arrived and was in Mr. Wilson’s bedroom. I went into the parlor and sat down, attempting to read the newspaper but too distracted to comprehend the simplest sentence. I could not imagine the attempt at conversation that was going on upstairs.
When I heard Mr. Landes’ footsteps on the stairs, I folded the paper and rose to greet him. He entered the room brusquely and made for the hearth, just the sort of place where my father might stand to dress me down.
“Sir,” I said.