Brian Garfield by Manifest Destiny Page B

sparked in the wan eyes. “De Morès. Where is he, then?”
    â€œJust over there.” Pack gestured toward the private railroad car.
    De Morès said, “Oh, I shall be the richest financier in the world.” He smiled at Roosevelt when he spoke; but he meant what he said. The comment was in reply to Roosevelt’s expressed admiration for the size and formidable solidity of the brand-new abattoir with its towering brick chimney.
    â€œThe Marquis will do it, too,” Pack said. “Don’t you find a mighty excitement in knowing we are here at the beginning, eyewitnesses to the birth of empire!”
    Lord Almighty, Joe thought. Spare us .
    Roosevelt was saying in a dull sort of voice, “Ambition’s a fine attribute. I admire a man with determination and drive.” While he spoke, his gaze drifted toward Madame. Joe saw Pack watching that exchange of glances as if he were trying to read something into it.
    They had greeted each other with careful formality. Joe remembered Madame’s earlier words: Teedie … Poor thing. Did everyone in New York refer to Roosevelt as “Teedie”? Or had it been a slip of the tongue, revealing something more than casual acquaintance?
    Joe couldn’t tell. In any event they behaved like virtual strangers under the perceptive eye of the Marquis.
    De Morès said to Roosevelt, “You’ll find good hunting to the north this time of year. The country’s rough but the game should be plentiful. You may have the luck to find elk this month. Of course you’ll be traveling with the proper comforts.”
    â€œI prefer to travel light,” said Roosevelt, as if delivering a eulogy. “Hardships can be fine things.” His glance may have remained on Madame’s lovely face a moment or two too long. Once again Joe saw his friend Pack observe the exchange; Pack’s face showed plainly that he was offended.
    Roosevelt’s piping high voice rattled suddenly, snapping words out in a rush, as if to cover a moment of embarrassment: “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been at the christenings. I managed to miss them both, didn’t I. Trapped in a crowded smoky room in dear old Albany. No rest for the wicked, they say. But my very best wishes went out to you, of course.”
    â€œYes,” she replied easily. “My father pointed out your card. ‘That’s from Teedie Roosevelt,’ he said.”
    â€œI’ve left that childish name behind.” He smiled—one of those facial punctuation marks that were his habit; all those great square teeth —and turned to De Morès. “I’m not sure, under the circumstances, whether to pronounce your title ‘Markee’ in the French fashion or ‘Marquiss’ as they say in England, and so I’ve decided,” he concluded after drawing a wheezing breath, “that I’ll just call you Mr. De Morès, because we have no marquises in the United States of America.”
    In the corner of his vision Joe saw Madame la Marquise avert her face to hide what may have been a quick smile—of amusement? Of memory?
    Roosevelt offered his hand to De Morès. “That’s settled then. I look forward to seeing you soon. And your delightful wife.”
    Demoted to an egalitarian Mister, the Frenchman accepted the proffered handshake only after a pause that was long enough to be insulting. Roosevelt didn’t appear to notice. He shook hands briefly with Pack, bowed deeply—perhaps an inch too deeply?—to Madame la Marquise and summoned Joe with a jerk of his head.
    Joe endeavored to help carry the luggage but Roosevelt refused to relinquish it. “Just show the way. I can carry for myself. Didn’t come out here to be waited upon.”
    Joe pointed north and Roosevelt promptly tramped away.
    Pack glared after him. “What an insufferable prig. What an utter disappointment.”
    You’ll change that opinion