Chapter Text
1882
Western Pennsylvania
Ivan Braginsky saw Mr. Alfred F. Jones a couple of times a year.
Ivan worked at a steel mill in a town in western Pennsylvania. It was the best job he could secure when his family needed him to acquire a stable job. Almost every able-bodied man and boy in the town worked at the steel mill. The pay was meager, and the hours were long, but more than that it was dangerous.
There were accidents throughout the year. If they were small, the foreman brushed them aside and work proceeded as normal. If there were deaths, the president of the mill, Mr. Jones, made the journey from New York to the mill, either out of obligation or appearances, and inspected the conditions himself.
At first, Ivan was fascinated by Mr. Jones. He came from humble beginnings according to the newspapers, and now he was one of the wealthiest businessmen in the United States. He was only a couple years younger than Ivan, a bachelor too, with an exceptional ability to make all of his workers feel seen and appreciated during his visit.
Ivan shook his hand a couple of times over the years. The first time was thrilling. He’d never seen someone so well-dressed and powerful: wearing a top hat, wrapped in an overcoat, and carrying a walking stick like these kinds of men always do. There was also an optimism in the way Mr. Jones spoke, encouraging everyone to move past whatever awful scene unfolded and thanking them for their hard work.
However, over the years, Ivan grew less impressed. He realized that this was all part of the game: to keep the mill running so Mr. Jones’s wealth grew, while the lives of the workers remained very much the same.
In the winter of 1882, there was an explosion. These were unfortunately regular occurrences in the colder season, when the scrap put in the furnace could be covered in water or snow. The workers all knew the risk, but rather than let them wait for the scrap to dry, the foreman told them to add it anyway.
“Small explosions are no big deal,” he would always say.
On this occasion, the explosion ended up killing two people.
Ivan knew one of them well. Something snapped in his mind then. When the fanfare of Mr. Jones’s arrival came, a black carriage stopping in front of the mill, and Mr. Jones stepping out in his overcoat and top hat, Ivan could no longer be polite.
“Mr. Braginsky, I am sorry you had to witness the horrible accident,” said Mr. Jones, shaking his hand. “I hear you helped tend to the injured. The other workers seem to respect you very much, as do I.”
Ivan looked at his large, dirty hand shaking the white gloved one of Mr. Jones. Then he stared into the bright blue eyes of his employer.
“I wish I could say the same,” Ivan replied, smiling coolly.
He could hear the men beside him hold their breath.
Mr. Jones seemed taken aback at first. His eyes widening marginally, like he was noticing Ivan for the first time.
Then, his lips spread into a grin. “Take care, Mr. Braginsky.” He moved on to talk to someone else.
Ivan balled his hand by his side. The urge to strike someone had never been stronger. But that would help no one. The only way to change anything was to have the workers unite against Mr. Jones. It seemed so impossible, Ivan hardly let himself dream about it before.
Now, he’d never been more motivated try.
1883
New York
Ivan’s carriage dropped him off at Fifth Avenue, where tall townhomes bordered either side of the wide dirt road. More carriages trotted by while he remained fixed in one spot, staring up. This ornate, white building was where the president of the mill lived. Ivan glanced between the card in his hand and the building again.
He gritted his teeth. The old, worn suit he was wearing did not fit him properly. Too tight on his shoulders and loose on his stomach. Ivan did not care about having nice things, but he did not miss the curious eyes of some high society woman peering at him through the window of a neighboring house.
He must stand out more than he thought. This pretty little world was so removed from the place he lived, he was sure many of them could hardly fathom it.
Ivan walked up the steps and knocked at the door.
A middle-aged man in a crisp black suit appeared. He had green eyes, shaded under a pair of thick brows. Not Ivan’s employer, but someone who worked for him.
“You must be Mr. Ivan Braginsky, yes?” the man said coolly, his accent British. “I am Kirkland, the house’s butler. The master has been expecting you.”
He stepped aside and allowed for Ivan to enter.
Ivan planned on giving nothing away, but when he saw the tall ceiling overhead and the paintings, and the staircase and the carpets, he let out a short breath of surprise. This was not just wealth. This was obscenity.
“I can take your hat and coat,” Kirkland said beside him.
“Oh. Yes, thank you.” Ivan handed over his belongings, and adjusted his suit as best he could. Katya did her best to fit it again, but Ivan must have lost more weight.
He glanced around the room again. There was so much to take in. Ivan did not want to look at any of it, but with so much opulence, he was mesmerized.
“It is a handsome house isn’t it?” Kirkland commented after putting away Ivan’s hat and coat. He folded his arms behind his back. “The master had one of the best New York architects design it when he moved to Fifth Avenue. It fits in with the old rather well.”
Ivan pressed his lips together, disappointed that he gave the butler the impression of being impressed. He was not. He was disgusted.
“The master is already waiting for you in the study. This way.”
Ivan followed Kirkland down the hall, past many doorways with equally extravagant interiors. They stopped at a closed door and Kirkland knocked. After a yes was heard, Kirkland opened the door.
“Mr. Ivan Braginsky is here to see you.” Kirkland glanced at Ivan, who was still standing in the hallway and commanded him inside.
Ivan stepped inside the study, where Mr. Alfred F. Jones was setting down a fountain pen at his desk. His hair was a warm golden blond, brushed into gentle waves on his head. All of it very neat, except for one wild lock flicking by his head. He looked up, flashing his sparkling blue eyes.
“Mr. Braginsky, welcome!” he grinned, and rose to his feet with a sprightly flair. The cut of his waistcoat and white collared shirt hugged his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The four-in-hand tie was as blue as his eyes. “Thank you, Kirkland. Some coffee in twenty minutes would be great. Or do you prefer tea?”
Ivan felt like stone, trying to understand as quickly as possible the type of man he was dealing with and so far, failing. He glanced marginally at Kirkland to say, “Tea.”
“Very good.” Kirkland smiled slightly and disappeared through the door, closing it behind him.
“Look at that, you made Kirkland smile,” Mr. Jones chuckled, pulling at a chain fastened to his waistcoat and checking the time on his golden pocket watch. “The man is always trying to get me to drink tea. He believes it will make me more sophisticated. But I find the taste unbearable.” He tucked the pocket watch back inside, and the chain swung as he pulled out another chair by his desk. “Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”
Ivan nodded, and unbuttoned his jacket before sitting rigidly on the chair. He avoided looking at the bookshelves, heavy tapestries, or the shiny wooden desk. He kept his gaze fixed on Mr. Jones, instead.
“It is a pleasure to receive you here,” Mr. Jones continued, resettling in his chair. He leaned back with elegant ease. “I hope your journey was pleasant?"
“Yes.”
Mr. Jones's lips pulled a little wider. "Have you been to New York before?"
"Yes."
"I see,” Mr. Jones hummed. He picked up his pen and turned it in his hand. “And where are you originally from? The Russian Empire?"
Ivan’s eyes narrowed marginally. "...Yes."
"You're a man a few words, aren't you?” Mr. Jones laughed, the sound rich and carefree. “Well, I can respect that. Although I am quite the opposite, you should know."
Ivan pursed his lips. His fingers clenched over the fabric of his trousers.
"I was surprised that you rejected my offer to pay for you hotel. It was by my request that you came out here, I find it unfair that you shoulder this expense."
"I am here on business, on behalf of the union. It is unnecessary."
Mr. Jones’s expression tightened. "I can respect that. You're a man of principle, I suppose. Well, of course you are! Otherwise we would not be here together." He chuckled and adjusted his posture so he was leaning forward, both hands clasped together over the desk. "You are making things rather hard for me. I am not a fan of unions."
Ivan sighed softly. At least they were getting to business. "Our demands are not unfair."
"No, they are not,” Mr. Jones conceded softly. “But that doesn't mean I can accept them."
"You agreed to see me, so I assume you are open to conversation,” Ivan pressed, peering at him closely.
"With you? Absolutely.” Mr. Jones’s grin returned, lighting up his features. “I always like having conversation with an intelligent man."
Ivan ignored the compliment, surely meaning nothing. "The workers deserve an eight-hour day, with time to see their families, and recover. It is hard labor in your steel mill."
"Of course, it is. And I appreciate your work very much."
"Because it has made you rich,” Ivan pointed out sharply.
Mr. Jones’s eyes rounded, looking even bluer. Then, he broke into real laughter and ran a hand through his hair. "You are not very afraid of me, are you?"
"What is there to be afraid of?" Ivan asked, puzzled.
"Well, you are not wrong. I am rich. Very rich,” Mr. Jones admitted, shrugging. “And yes, there was some luck involved, but I've always had a good nose for business. I've never been afraid of making risks either. It's what's gotten me ahead."
Ivan did not acknowledge this man’s self-flattery. He was sitting in a house dedicated to it, for god’s sake.
"Then make this risk now,” Ivan told him. “Be the first to accept the union. Eventually, all mills will go this way."
"You really think so?" Mr. Jones asked, seeming genuinely curious about the answer.
"It is what the people want."
Mr. Jones, nodded once. "And you?"
"Me as well,” Ivan said. He thought that was obvious, but perhaps not to someone like this. “I want fairness, especially in my work."
"Do I not treat you fairly? Surely, I am no worse than every other businessman in New York,” Mr. Jones teased, smirking slightly.
Ivan’s expression did not change. "You are the same."
"I can see that receiving any flattery from you would be like pulling teeth,” Mr. Jones let out an exhausted laugh. He knocked his knuckles on the desk rhythmically. "Very well, let us negotiate."
"I am not interested in negotiating—"
Mr. Jones cut in: "Being in possession of an enormous fortune, I have the ability to make your life a little easier. You are smart and capable. I am more than happy to pay you a considerable sum if you will step down as head of the union and dissuade the others from striking."
Ivan stared at him, appalled. Then he scoffed loudly. "That will not happen."
"Mr. Braginsky," Mr. Jones laughed, opening his palms wide. "I have not given you a number yet."
"I am not interested in a number,” Ivan shot back, nostrils flaring. “I am interested in my cause. Our cause. The cause of your workers."
"It would never work,” Mr. Jones sighed, shutting his eyes.
"You are speaking out of greed. All we are asking for is reasonable hours, safety measures, time with our families—respect."
"You are being too stubborn. Not thinking clearly, or rationally,” Mr. Jones exclaimed, standing up. He turned his back to Ivan, keeping one hand on the top of his chair.
“I am perfectly rational. I am presenting you with extremely reasonable requests—ones that will become standard one day. It is only a matter of time, you should consider this as an opportunity to be a pioneer.”
There was silence. Ivan wondered if he was able to make a point, but he could not judge Mr. Jones’s body language.
“Mr. Braginsky,” Mr. Jones said eventually, turning around. His smile returned, and he circled the perimeter of his desk. “You know that despite our differences of opinions, I genuinely like you.”
Ivan watched him warily. “Is that so?”
“No need to look so scandalized!” Mr. Jones chuckled. He stopped at the front of his desk and leaned against it. He was much closer to Ivan like this. “Is that so much of a surprise? Of course, I like you.” Mr. Jones’s fingers flexed around the edge of the desk. “I noticed you whenever I visited my mills.”
“I am…flattered that, uh, my work has gone noticed,” Ivan said, stumbling over the words.
This man was extremely different to what Ivan was expecting. He had heard through hearsay what a ruthless business man he could be, and how cutthroat his competitors found him. But Ivan was not expecting this…personable attitude. Even if it was more than likely false.
Mr. Jones flashed his white teeth, slipping his hand into the pocket of his trousers. “We may not be of the same station, but I think we have something in common.”
“Excuse me?”
“You became head of this…union…a couple months ago, no?” Mr. Jones prompted, pulling a folder of papers from his desk. “Well, of course, when my people and I received your letter I naturally became curious about who you are. Not just anyone would do what you did.”
Ivan’s laugh was hollow. He was exhausted trying to keep his temper in check. “I don't understand what you are saying. I am sure I have nothing in common with you.”
“Well, I had my secretary look into you,” Mr. Jones went on casually. He read from the paper, though Ivan suspected he already had it memorized. “Born in the Russian Empire. Arrived in the U.S. at ten.” Mr. Jones lowered the paper then, cracking a smile. “You’ve done a fantastic job of hiding your accent, by the way. I never would have guessed without knowing your name.”
“Mr. Jones,” Ivan warned in a low voice. He was not sure where this was going and he did not like it.
“You worked odd jobs here and there. Well then, who didn’t? It’s how I started too.”
“Mr. Jones.”
“But what really caught my eye was an incident at a brothel in 1868,” Mr. Jones said.
Ivan’s mouth went dry.
Of course, he remembered the year. He remembered everything about that brothel on that day. He went in searching for some male company, like he’d done a couple times before. However, the last time he visited it was targeted by police and he’d been shaken down because of it.
Mr. Jones managed to find that out? How? Why?
“You were twenty-one then, were you not?” Mr. Jones checked in an amicable voice. Like they were discussing a game of tennis, and not something so perverse. “Plenty of time to move past it. But it’s hard to completely squash a rumor. Someone always remembers. And I hate to point out the obvious, Mr. Braginsky, but you are a hard person to forget.” Mr. Jones’s assessing eyes fixed him in place.
Ivan swallowed once. When he laughed, it sounded strangled. “You really do live down to your reputation,” he muttered, wringing his hands together.
“In what way?” Mr. Jones asked. It seemed he was always eager to know more about himself. It didn't matter if it was good or bad.
Ivan didn’t answer.
Instead, he sucked in a breath, eventually asking, “Do you intend to use this against me? Publish some story about the mistakes I’ve made? That is fine. I might be out of the job, but someone else will continue the union’s cause.” Ivan looked up, smiling coldly. “I am not as important as you think.”
Mr. Jones blinked, slowly lowering the papers to the desk again. “Why would you say that?”
Ivan hesitated, confused at Mr. Jones’s shocked tone.
Mr. Jones resumed smiling quickly enough. “Regardless, I would very much like to continue working with you, so—no. I will not tarnish your reputation.” Mr. Jones’s gaze slipped to the floor in an usual display of doubt. He sucked his lower lip and rubbed his cheek. “As it happens, I have had a similar brush with police in the past. In, erm, similar circumstances too.”
Mr. Jones said just two sentences. They barely contained much, but they hinted at everything. Ivan pieced the meaning together in moments, staring at his employer, the all-powerful president of the steel mill, the entire time.
But he refused to believe it. Even if it was true—he would not reveal such a weakness to Ivan of all people. Where was the benefit? Didn’t people like this always think in terms of how it benefited them?
Whatever this was, it was meant to trick Ivan in some way.
“You…? No.” Ivan jumped to his feet, kicking the chair in the process. “I do not know what you are trying to do, but I am not like that. It was a mistake.”
Mr. Jones talked more hurriedly. “Of course it was, but I don’t think you’re listening to me. I am interested in you…beyond this union business.”
Ivan went slack-jawed.
Who was this man? There was no way he could be serious about what he was suggesting. Yet, he did not flinch away from Ivan’s gaze. Mr. Jones seemed determined to keep his attention somehow.
“Why?” Ivan blurted, then shook his head. “No. Never mind.” He took more steps away, pressing down the wrinkles in his trousers and fixing his hair out of nerves. “I am here solely for the union, Mr. Jones. If you are done discussing that, then there is no more business between us. You can expect a strike at your mills very soon.”
Mr. Jones stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Braginsky…Ivan—”
Ivan whipped around, using the few inches of height difference between them to his full advantage. “Do not—!”
They both stopped at a knock on the door. Ivan leaped a full foot away from Mr. Jones.
Mr. Jones, in the meantime, cleared his throat. “Come in, Kirkland.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Jones,” Kirkland entered, followed by a footman carrying a tray. “I have brought you and Mr. Braginsky some tea.”
Using the interruption as an excuse, Ivan finished buttoning his suit jacket and thrust his hand forward. “I apologize, but I cannot stay.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Jones looked taken aback. “You’re surely staying for tea.”
“No. No, I think not,” Ivan said hurriedly, eyeing the butler and footman already preparing two cups of tea. “I’ve made my point. You are closed to discussion so my business is done here. The strike will go on.”
“Mr. Braginsky,” Mr. Jones chuckled, amused and exasperated. There were two spots of color on his cheeks. Ivan could only imagine his face was more flushed.
Tired of waiting for the handshake that was not coming, he withdrew and marched to the door.
“Good day, Mr. Jones,” Ivan said belatedly. He glanced at Kirkland. “Please show me out.”
Kirkland waited for Mr. Jones’s approval, and then guided Ivan back where he came.
After one night at a hotel, Ivan rose first thing in the morning and caught the earliest train back to western Pennsylvania. He always had mixed feelings about returning to the cramped apartment he and his family call home.
Katya was there to great him, an apron tied to her waist as always. She looked tired, her hair dull and her hands red from doing laundry. But he still smiled when Ivan returned and consoled him about the poor visit. He did not tell her specifics.
Katya was a widow, and she had a daughter too. Natalya was just eight, and treated Ivan like a father. He felt bad when he left them. He felt bad that he could not do more for them. He carried so much guilt in his heart.
The day after, Ivan returned to work at the mill, swallowed back in the building of smoke and heat. Some of his coworkers found him. Gilbert needled him for information, and Ivan reluctantly gave it.
“How did it go?”
“Disaster,” Ivan told him, wiping sweat from his brow. The furnace was just beside him. “Train wreck. He will not listen to reason.”
Gilbert and Tolys exchanged a meaningful look.
Tolys sighed. “Then the strike will still go on.”
“Of course,” Ivan growled, staring at nothing, but seeing Mr. Jones’s handsome face all the same. “Someone like that needs to be backed into a corner before they admit defeat.”
“You’re incredibly scary when you’re angry, you know,” Gilbert laughed weakly, passing him a slim cigarette. He patted Ivan’s back once. “But I can’t find a fault with what you said. We will start planning with the others then.”
Hardly a week passed for Ivan received a letter that Mr. Jones would be visiting western Pennsylvania again. That would not be an unusual event in of itself.
Except he was not coming to check on the mills. He was going to Ivan’s house directly—he wanted "another meeting with the head of the union."
Katya was a flustered mess when Ivan told her.
“Him? Someone like him is coming here?” she blurted, eyes wide. “But what can I offer him? Surely, he has expensive tastes. Does he expect supper? Coffee?”
“Coffee is fine,” Ivan muttered, glowering at their tiny living area. Soon enough, Mr. Jones’s fine clothes will be the most expensive belongings in it. “I doubt he will stay long.”
“Is this about the union? The strike?” Katya questioned, worried. “Please, Vanya. I don’t want you to get into trouble. Maybe this isn’t worth it.”
“It is,” Ivan told her. Seeing her teary eyes, he softened and pulled her into a hug. She’s lost more weight as well. Her narrow shoulders too bony under his arms. “Do not worry. He is…” Ivan swallowed the distaste in his mouth as he lied, “he’s a gentleman.”
Katya sighed, a little relieved. “Okay.”
In the middle of the day, Ivan heard commotion outside. He left his small flat and found nearly the whole town watching the lux black carriage of Mr. Jones trotting down the road. Everyone in the area was employed at the same mill—young and old—so they were all invested in Ivan’s dealings with the president.
Mr. Jones stepped out of his carriage, a walking stick in his hand and a top hat on his head. It added inches to his tall frame, making him look even more the part of the American millionaire. His blue eyes slowly scanned right and left at the people watching, giving nothing away. His smile was slight, but still shone brightly.
Ivan stopped glaring at the tailored fabric of Mr. Jones’s top coat and trousers and finally approached him.
“Mr. Jones,” he greeted, voice clipped. “I am…surprised to see you here.”
Mr. Jones tilted his head, smiling more. “I suppose you are,” he said, shaking Ivan’s hand with his gloved one. He gestured to Ivan’s apartment. “May I come in?”
“Do I have a choice?” Ivan countered, raising a brow. He could feel his neighbors holding a breath at the way he was talking to their employer. Ivan did not care.
Mr. Jones laughed amicably. “Please, Mr. Braginsky. I think we have more to talk about.”
“Fine.” Ivan kept the door open and allowed Mr. Jones inside first, a sweet cologne trailing after him.
Mr. Jones stopped at the entryway, his face a mask as he looked around. Ivan stood beside him, wondering what crude remark he would make about his living situation. He would like even more reason to hate this man.
Then, Mr. Jones turned toward him. “I am here to dissuade you from this ridiculous strike.”
Ivan frowned. “I believe I already made my position clear. Myself and all of the others are immovable on this front.”
“You are not thinking clearly,” Mr. Jones said, clenching the walking stick in his hand. “I can give you so much if you would only let me! There’s no need to take it this far.”
Ivan squared his shoulders back. “There is every need! I do not want to bribed, I want my cause to be seen and recognized by YOU.”
“Mr. Braginsky—” Mr. Jones began in a warning voice.
“Vanya, who is this?”
Both men turned toward Ivan’s niece, Natalya. She was in a humble gray dress, her blonde hair a little more tamed than usual. Katya did her best to make everyone presentable today.
“Oh, Natalya.” Ivan glanced at Mr. Jones again before rushing to her. He grabbed her hand. “Be polite. This is my employer, Mr. Alfred Jones. Mr. Jones, this is my niece. She and my sister both live here with me.”
Natalya’s wide eyes turned to the stranger. She pursed her lips. “Is this the robber baron?”
Ivan sucked in a breath. God, she must have heard that from him. Definitely from him. His cheeks colored, worried about Mr. Jones’s reaction.
Strangely, Mr. Jones laughed.
“What an eccentric child!” he said, beaming down at her. “She’s referring to me?”
“No!” Ivan lied quickly. He nudged Natalya toward the kitchen. “Hush, now, Natalya. Why don’t you find your mother and help make some coffee for our guest. We need to discuss things.”
“Vanya, he should not be here,” she hissed at him, not wanting to be led away. “Look at him. That hat.”
“Go to Katya. Now,” Ivan ordered impatiently, pushing her into the next room. After she was closed away, Ivan rejoined Mr. Jones and found him still chuckling.
“What a charming girl your niece is,” Mr. Jones commented.
“Yes,” Ivan faltered. He gestured to a pair of chairs and they both sat down.
Mr. Jones’s unbuttoned his top coat as he lowered to the chair. He did not complain about the creaking of the chair, or its poor quality. His gaze wandered the room in idle curiosity.
“I am sorry I cannot offer you the same comforts you gave me,” Ivan said, breaking the silence.
Mr. Jones dismissed him with a shake of his head. “You worry too much. I am an adaptable man.” His grin glinted in the poor lighting. “I was not born into wealth, you know.”
“You wear it well, though.”
“Poorly, you mean?” Mr. Jones guessed, seeming pleased when Ivan frowned. Mr. Jones’s gloved hands clasped over the top of his walking stick. “Mr. Braginsky, you are clearly a stoic man, but you do not hide your anger well. That handsome smile betrays more than you think.”
Ivan made a strangled noise. “You shouldn’t talk like this.”
“No, perhaps not,” Mr. Jones conceded quietly. His lashes fanned down in an odd display of melancholy. “You did not take well to my advances, did you?”
“As far as I am concerned, nothing happened at all and I do not know what you are talking about.”
Mr. Jones nodded once. “I see. I was mistaken then, to have thought my charm would work on you.”
“Mr. Jones—” But he did not know what else to say.
“I am so used to getting what I want. It’s vexing when something eludes me,” Mr. Jones added thoughtfully, teeth sinking into his lower lip.
Ivan stared at him. “Surely, you do not mean me?”
“Is that ludicrous became I am rich or because I am a man?” Mr. Jones asked, his laugh carefully light.
“Quiet,” Ivan ordered, his muscles coiled with tension. He suddenly felt to warm in his chilled, damp apartment. “My sisters are here. They do not know of this sort of…thing.”
Mr. Jones’s smile went lop-sided. “Very innocent, are they? To poor creatures like us?”
“You are bold to assume so much about me,” Ivan told him hurriedly. He should have said more. It did not feel like nearly enough to brush off the assumptions this man has already made about him.
“That is not the first time I have heard that. Though it is the first time in this context.” Mr. Jones licked his lips once. “Yes, I am bold. But one has to be sometimes. You are bold too, don’t you think?”
Ivan frowned. “You…”
“Vanya.”
Katya entered the room, her smile tight but still lovely. She had a tray with two steaming cups.
“Oh, Katya,” Ivan sat up, his cheeks coloring. He watched his sister hand the cup of coffee to Mr. Jones.
“I am sorry that I cannot offer you more, Mr. Jones,” she told him.
Mr. Jones smiled kindly. “Don’t apologize. A coffee is exactly what I needed. Thank you.” His eyes flitted to Ivan before returning to Katya. “You are very kind to welcome me into your home. I promise I will not keep your brother occupied for long.”
Katya nodded. She passed the other mug to Ivan and quickly exited the room.
Ivan watched Mr. Jones take an appreciative sip of his coffee, expecting a remark about its poor quality or taste. He said nothing. Even his expression was not displeased when he went for another sip.
Ivan put his cup on the small table beside them. “If you are not hear to discuss the union then I suggest you leave, because my stance has not changed.”
“Mine has not as well,” Mr. Jones informed calmly, placing the cup back in its saucer. He also put it on the table. “A union would ruin me. I would be a laughing stock among my competitors.”
Ivan scoffed. “This again—”
Mr. Jones leaned forward, a wide grin on his face. “But I would like to see more of you. Maybe I could be persuaded that way.”
Ivan smiled very icily. “You are out of your mind.”
“Maybe? Am I?” Mr. Jones tilted his chin as if considering it. Then he shrugged. “Well, my butler certainly thinks so most of the time. My valet too.”
“And he is right. No man, no gentleman like you, would suggest such a thing.”
“Gentleman suggest all sorts of things. But I never said I was one. New York will never see me that way.”
“You are rich,” Ivan pointed out.
“Richer than many, absolutely,” Mr. Jones nodded enthusiastically, electricity sparking in his eyes. “But not the right type of rich for most. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t care about them. If I wanted their affection, I would buy it.”
“You can’t buy mine.” Ivan’s gaze slid to the floor. He threaded his fingers in front of him, hoping it would stop him from trying to strangle this man.
Mr. Jones tapped his walking stick on the floor a couple of times, perhaps in annoyance. “I am learning that now. But I have more than money to offer.”
Ivan pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing heavily. “I suppose I am going to have to speak plainly,” he said, rising to his feet and glaring down at the other side. “I hate you Mr. Jones. And your sort.”
“I know,” Mr. Jones laughed, slow and amused. “I know that very much. But I still like you.”
“Why?” Ivan demanded. Surely there must be men of the same station that Mr. Jones can entertain himself with. It didn’t have to be someone so far beneath him. Moreover someone who is dedicated to being his opposition.
Mr. Jones rose to feet, buttoning his top coat in the process. “Does there have to be a reason?”
“There usually is.”
Mr. Jones took one step forward, and Ivan forced himself to keep his ground, watching warily at what this man would do.
“Well, if you want to find out—if you want to sort things out for you and your precious union—” Mr. Jones uttered the last word with unconcealed sarcasm, “and maybe get to know me too… I suggest you call upon my house sometime soon. Before this planned strike of yours.”
Ivan’s cheeks colored. His brows drew together. “You…”
“And do not pay for a hotel this time. I have a house with many rooms. One of them happens to be mine too.” Mr. Jones flashed a smile. His white gloved hands crossed over the silver head of his walking stick.
They were very close now. Ivan could see the freckles splattered over Mr. Jones’s nose and the flecks of gold near the center of his blue eyes. There were two pronounced creases between his brows on an otherwise quite youthful face. He strained his eyes too much, surely.
Ivan was sure he could probably kill this man with his bare hands if he wanted to. Mr. Jones was only a couple inches shorter, and while he did not look lanky, he was very likely not as used to physical exertion as Ivan was.
Unfortunately, Ivan did not want to kill him.
“Get out,” Ivan ordered.
Mr. Jones seemed unbothered by the demand. He thrust his hand out and Ivan clasped it once.
Then, Mr. Jones inclined his head slightly, a smile never leaving his lips. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Braginsky. Man of the people.”
Somehow, Ivan felt like he was part of some kind of secret joke. The casual way in which Mr. Jones strolled out of the dilapidated apartment did not seem at all like a man leaving a tense business meeting. More like someone who was leaving luncheon.
As soon as the door shut and Ivan heard the distance thump of the carriage door, followed by the clopping of horse’s hooves, he paced the room in frustration.
Katya reappeared soon after, stopping once she saw Ivan’s agitation.
“Vanya, is everything okay?” she asked, following him with her eyes. “You look flushed.”
Ivan stopped, pressed the backs of his hands to his cheeks and was stunned by their heat. He turned half away from his sister. “He is an impossible man. The most impossible man I have ever met.”
Katya let out a small sigh. “I am sorry, I know you worked hard for the union.”
“Oh, the union will survive,” Ivan declared into the air.
“What? Surely, Mr. Jones did not accept—?”
“He will,” Ivan started, resolution growing every time he spoke. “He absolutely will. Otherwise the strike will go on.”
“No, Vanya. Please do not do the strike. It will be dangerous. Someone might die.”
There would definitely be deaths. And many more injuries. Ivan already knew that. Someone like Mr. Jones would surely call the police for such an outburst. He would not tolerate a halt in production.
“I am not going to kneel to a robber baron,” Ivan sneered, taking a seat at the small desk in the corner.
Natalya clapped her hands. “Yes! He is right! Vanya is always right!”
“Natalya, please,” Katya begged, exasperated. She watched Ivan retrieve a paper and quill and sit at the table. “Vanya, what are you doing?”
Ivan dipped the quill in ink, his head buzzing with all of the words he wanted to say, but knowing he can only admit to maybe a quarter.
“I have to write a letter,” Ivan told her, a growl in his voice. “Mr. Jones and I require another meeting.”