Chapter 41 – Timing

Robert went to the dining car, was admitted by the steward, and sat down across from his father who was reading a three-day-old copy of the London Times. "Where is Mama?" he asked when he saw the empty third seat.

"Indisposed," his father replied. "The flux, or something like it," he whispered. "Dirty food or water no doubt."

"Shall we call for a doctor?"

Lord Crawley lowered the paper. "Wheat prices are down again," he muttered. "No. I suggested the very thing and your Mama asked me if I was mad thinking she'd allow herself to be treated by a foreign doctor." The last came out in a whisper.

"But…"

Richard held up a hand. "Sally is with her. She will let me know how she is doing. If she is not better by the time we arrive at Naples we shall disembark there and find an English doctor." He opened his paper once more. "And how are you my son?"

"Fit. Glad to away from Rome, though. Too bloody hot and dirty."

"Well, lad, you've been to the Eternal City before, just in the Autumn. Much more agreeable then." Richard turned up his nose. "The streets were cleaner the last time I visited. But that was in '81."

"Your friend Brooks-Hill would have to make his wedding arrangements for the hottest part of the year," Robert grumped.

Richard harrumphed. "I do not believe the weather had any part to play in the time of the thing; unless you mean the phases of the moon."

Robert was about to respond but bit his tongue, for he knew the real reason, that Brooks-Hill fiancée was expecting a child. Such a thing he'd never actually discussed with his father, but Mama made a vague suggestion of the matter. Robert had rapidly gotten the message. "Timing, yes."

Richard gave his son a cold stare. "One way to put it."

A waiter came over and Robert told him he only wanted espresso. Sneering, the man went away.

"Papa, I wanted to ask you…," Robert began, but stopped when his father held up his paper to fully shield himself.

Sighing Richard lower the paper, folded it and carefully placed it on the brilliant white linen tablecloth. "Yes?" he asked icily.

"Wheat?"

Richard blew air from his nose. "Bloody Americans. They have an entire continent over there planted in wheat, so they ship any excess to England and sink domestic wheat prices. Bastards," he hissed.

"Capitalism has it's bad points, yes."

Richard looked sideways. "Too right." Richard had been pondering how he might cut corners at Downton. With nearly two-hundred and fifty families directly on the estate it was a large operation. Large and costly.

"We have spoken about, uhm, injecting, shall we say funds into the estate." Robert was not happy about the scheme.. Find him a bride and a dowry; but it was the usual thing.

"That is the plan my boy. Now if I had only put some money into that German Krupp's business none of this would be needed. Krupp Steel has been shipping railroad wheels to Africa and India. Even China, I have heard. Too late now to get a piece of that action, the price is too rich for my blood. All the real money was made in that business six months ago. Do you know that they are even importing German steel to the UK? Monstrous!"

Robert shook his head. International trading was not something he knew very much about. "And that makes the steel mills of England suffer."

"And they make many men redundant as they close mills. That makes fewer people ready to buy expensive English bread and flour made from English wheat. So now the rolling stock of England is German carrying American wheat." Richard shook his head. "Damn."

Robert lowered his eyes; fop Papa never spoke thusly. "So, what can we do about it?"

"I have an idea. Barrels."

"Barrels?"

Richard lowered his voice. "Barrel staves made of American white oak. Used ones from Bourbon whiskey making. That is another thing those Americans grow a lot of; corn, so they distill a lot of what they call whiskey. Import the barrel bits from America to England, ship them up to Scotland, and age whiskey in them. Oh, I didn't invent the idea. Some chaps up in Oban thought of it. Good red oak from the Highlands is nearly gone."

Robert almost felt faint. "Age good Scotch whiskey in American wood? You must be mad."

"Or desperate."

Robert's espresso came and he stared at the small cup. "Good Lord."

Richard smiled hugely. "Now if we can get you settled," he smiled. "All the better."

Robert stared at his father. There was that American girl he'd spied in Nice and Paris, he mused. Tall thing, a looker; plus a bit forward. No shrinking violet like British girls. Good teeth as well, he had noticed. An imported bride as well?

He picked up his cup, and sipped, burning his tongue. "Blast it!" he exclaimed. "Hot enough to take the hide off!"

Richard laughed inwardly. "Timing, my boy, is everything. You should have waited a bit longer. Just not too long."

Robert dabbed glumly at his seared lips. "I suppose you are right." Now what was her name? Carol? No… Cora. Yes, that was it. Levinson.