The Golden Envelope

"If it's a great house, or land, that you're after..."

"Let's not."

Gilbert held his tongue for a long while after Paver's reply.

"All you can offer is money. The trouble is, I can make that sort of money myself."

Gilbert had no answer.

"Our roles overlap. On what grounds would we go into business together? Wouldn't you say?"

"Money is the sort of thing where more is always better..."

So that was the best he could ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠produce after all that thinking.

"You've heard of a lifestyle, I assume."

"Pardon?"

"There are people these days who sell exactly that. I rather admire the ones who stay a step ahead."

Paver had been ready to stand. In that instant, though, the other man's eyes changed. Perhaps he had decided that going back empty-handed would be the end of him. All or nothing. Gilbert opened his mouth as if laying down a threat.

"You ought to think very carefully."

Paver only looked at him.

"You would be refusing Chairman Leona's offer. If you believe you can still work in this trade after making an enemy of the Harris Group..."

"So we've come to threats."

"I'm only telling you the truth. Do you imagine Chairman Leona's influence ends with running a department-store chain?"

Gilbert pressed on.

"One phone call, and you won't be able to open a shop anywhere in London."

"Do as you like."

Gilbert swallowed.

"Call them. Send a telegram. Fly a pigeon. Suit yourself."

"Will you really not be satisfied until you've made an enemy of the Harris Group?"

Why is he doing this? To a man whose motto in life is resistance.

"Read our magazine when you have a moment. My character is written in there, plain as it is."

With that, Paver rose and left the table. Perhaps it was only Gilbert's lonely gaze trailing after him, but the place he vacated looked unusually bare.

At the same hour, in Florence, Guccio headquarters was every bit as splendid as one would expect. For all the talk of a business in trouble, the reception room had a wall packed floor to ceiling with the finest wine.

Is this a restaurant?

What use was wine to a house that sold fashion? The chairman was living well on company money. No question of it. Sure enough, he appeared with a face flushed red, as if he had already taken a glass with his meal. Beside him stood a man who looked to be his chief secretary. From the look of things, the secretary had come along to mind a chairman who lived in his cups.

"Alfredo Guccio. Head of this house."

"Park Jihoon. It's an honor to meet you."

We sat facing each other across an antique table. The chief secretary and I let a meeting of the eyes stand in for a greeting.

"I hear you need our license."

So the rumors were true. They were surviving these days by selling off trademark rights, and Alfredo looked ready to talk money from the first breath. I had something else in mind.

"It isn't simply a license we need."

"Complicated is fine. So long as you pay a price to match."

He laughed as if he had told a tremendous joke. The chief secretary beside him was just lifting the corner of his mouth out of courtesy when I spoke.

"What I want is a collaboration with your house."

"A collaboration?"

Was the notion still unfamiliar, or was it simply that he left the company's work to other people and did nothing but drink? Alfredo glanced back at his chief secretary. Collaboration or whatever they called it, his face asked whether the thing made money. The secretary turned to me.

"We're well aware of Queensman's fame. The British press writes about you day after day. Even so..."

However long the queues, they sold perhaps two hundred of any given item, and that was the whole of it. That was what he wanted to say. My answer was simple.

"Which is why we mean to test our own potential while we're at it."

He blinked at me.

"Your house would take on production and sales of the items we design."

Alfredo's face crumpled. However unsettled the house might be, it was still, in name at least, a luxury brand. They might trade in trademarks, but playing subcontractor to someone else was more than pride would allow. Something of that sort.

I nearly laughed. At times like this, the surest move was to flatten a man with money.

"Please produce fifty thousand of each item. At the same quality as existing Guccio goods..."

"And if they don't sell? You're telling us to swallow the entire inventory?"

"Hardly. I'll buy every bit of the stock myself."

"You will... no. You, sir, will purchase it?"

At that, Alfredo quietly shifted his manner. Suspicion rushed in a moment later. He looked at me sidelong.

"I won't deny it."

"Even so, if we print fifty thousand of each item and end up holding the stock... let me see."

The words were barely out before the secretary did the sum in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his head. Sharp enough, apparently. He kindly rendered the figure in Korean won, and of course it was astronomical. Alfredo turned to me at once, as if to ask whether I could truly bear all of that. The ball had come to me.

"With money like that, it might be better to acquire the company than the inventory."

"What?"

Alfredo's eyes went round.

"Our... company?"

"A joke. Only a joke."

"Well, well. You d-do tell a joke with some nerve."

Faced with a jest that had a bone in it, he could manage nothing but an awkward laugh.

Meanwhile, Leona Harris was hearing Gilbert's report. He had not even finished speaking, and already her face had gone hard.

"He refused you outright?"

"I have no excuse, Chairman."

Leona turned her head as if even a curse would be wasted on him. What was there to expect from men who worked under her husband?

"So you came back empty-handed. Is that it?"

"I'm sorry."

Her gaze reached his throat like the edge of a blade.

"For the moment, I've arranged it so that he absolutely cannot open a store in London, but..."

It was not enough to satisfy her. Leona's eyes did not soften in the slightest, and no wonder.

"Did you manage that on your own ability?"

"...Pardon?"

"You did all of it by trading on my name!"

The look on her face asked what great deed a mere errand-boy, good for nothing but carrying words, thought he had done by running his mouth. How far down did a person have to look ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠at someone to wear an expression like that? However the fury tore through him, for the moment he had no choice but to bow his head.

"I—I'm sorry, Chairman."

Leona picked up the receiver without bothering to answer.

"Head of protocol. Have him come in."

Which was to say that Gilbert was to get out at once. Leave the room like this, and what followed was obvious without looking. Word would spread that he had fallen from the chairman's favor, and he would be treated as an old man shunted to a back room, never trusted with a proper matter.

"Chairman, a chance to make it right..."

"If you want a losers' bracket, go shout for one at a kindergarten chess tournament."

At that utterly cold reply he had to drag feet that would not move, shuffling out of the room.

Not long after Gilbert left, the head of protocol stepped in. A man who had worked beneath the chairman for years, his face said he had already taken the measure of the situation without being told. Sure enough, he set a solution down at once.

"We can step on Park Jihoon whenever we like. But there is a proper season for mending the young master's heart."

"You have a good method?"

"I hear he was quite envious to learn that Queensman's first customer was Tennessee Grosvenor. Which is why I mention it..."

The head of protocol's explanation went on for some time. His opinion must have pleased her well enough.

"Proceed at once."

Leona gave a quiet nod.

Tennessee was on his way home, summoned by his father.

It was a vast castle, larger than the dormitories put together. Tennessee's private quarters alone might have outsized an entire floor of the dormitory, and at least five staff were assigned to him alone, enough that he could settle every matter without lifting a finger.

Even so, his heart on the road home was nothing but uneasy. The moment he crossed that enormous threshold, things were forced upon him. First of all, the individual named Tennessee disappeared. Inside this huge fortress he existed only as Grosvenor: heir to a ducal house, the second man, who must one day receive a grave transfer of power. Because of it he always had to wear a mask. As if no storm could shake him, he was required to keep a cutting face no matter the hour or the place. How could the road home be a pleasure?

He was letting out a small sigh when the voice came.

"What weighs on you so?"

A familiar voice. At the tutor's question, Tennessee made himself change his expression first. A young lord without blood or tears. Calling up the role everyone demanded of him, he turned his head with perfect calm.

"I am on my way at His Grace's summons. I was only wondering whether something had befallen the house."

It must have been a satisfying answer. A smile settled over the tutor's face.

"Nothing has happened. So long as His Grace holds the center, nothing can."

"Then that is a relief."

The two of them were stepping inside, side by side.

"How is school?"

"Nothing but dull."

"Dull?"

"It is full of nothing but children playing house."

"Shall I request that you skip a year, then?"

A question offered as if to test him. Tennessee gave the answer opposite his heart.

"If it were possible, I should like to graduate as soon as next year."

"After graduation you would go straight into your lessons as heir. Would that be all right?"

"It can't be avoided in any case. Better to take it up a day sooner."

"My, my. You go off to school and come back a grown man."

Tennessee said nothing.

"With results this fine, we had better forget all about skipping a year, hadn't we. His Grace would oppose it strongly."

The words had been tossed out like a joke, and Tennessee offered no particular reaction.

"Where is His Grace?"

"He is in conversation with the minister-designate."

Tennessee had been about to ask whether he might pay his respects afterward. The tutor, though, brought out words no one had asked for.

"It seems the man has come to beg His Grace's help with the ministerial appointment."

Because a day would come when the same thing fell to Tennessee, no doubt. The tutor kept adding something more. For all of that, Tennessee only wanted to be alone. In any case, he had to keep nodding, the expressionless mask fixed in place.

Fortunately, his father's business was simple. The Harris family had sent an invitation, and Tennessee was to attend as the house's representative. He carefully opened the gold envelope his father held out.

Around there, he closed the envelope.

Honestly, Tennessee was glad. With this excuse he could leave the house at once. He was just calling a calm expression up over his face so the feeling would not show when his father spoke.

"Can ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠everyone in the world be refined?"

Tennessee carefully lifted his head.

"Even if the place is full of vulgar taste, go quietly, and come back."

The sort of space a son of the Harris family would make. He can see it without looking. There is at least the courtesy of an invitation, so I am to sell them a measured amount of face and return.

The moment his father finished, Tennessee bent deeply at the waist.

"As you command."