Chapter 2343 - 293: August, Will You Take This New Deal? (2)

Schneider and his wife had barely exchanged a few words when the boys and girls came tumbling downstairs one after another.

The eldest daughter sat down with her brow tightly knitted, making one think she was still mulling over yesterday’s theology lesson.

But in fact?

Her mind had not yet freed itself from the fashionable novel she’d just borrowed yesterday.

The second daughter had only just settled into her chair when she realized her stockings had slipped down to her heel.

She quietly drew one foot back under the table, meaning to slip off her shoe and pull them up again, but was interrupted by mocking laughter from across the table.

Mocking her was her rough little brother in his jacket, a spinning top secretly tucked in his pocket, a day pupil at Westminster School.

Young Schneider scolded his sister while biting into his bread, as though he were the true master of the Schneider household.

The maid who had gone out for bread had just finished her habitual morning flirtation with the baker, an untimely blush still lingering on her face. The cook, meanwhile, was quietly sobbing in the kitchen—Eld Carter’s new work, Orphan Fanny, was clearly tugging harder at her heartstrings than the bacon in the pan.

They took their places and bowed their heads, and under Schneider’s lead began the morning prayer.

Schneider stood at the head of the table and, in his rough, rasping voice, intoned the prayer: "Most almighty and merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep..."

He had barely reached halfway when the sound of an accordion drifted in through the window—the street performers had already begun their day’s work.

The moment the music started, several children’s feet began to swing involuntarily beneath their chairs.

The youngest, Miss Charlotte Schneider, even took advantage of her father’s closed eyes to pop into her mouth a scrap of curling paper her mother had dropped on the table; the impropriety of it quite made the family governess, Miss Mick, tremble in the shoulders.

Yet for some reason, Schneider—usually so stern—did not lose his temper today. He did not even cast so much as a glare at Miss Mick, as though he had not noticed at all what was happening right under his nose.

"The love of God the Father and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with us all, evermore. Amen."

As the "Amen" fell, everyone in the dining room let out a breath.

Schneider pulled out his chair and sat down, his movements smooth yet stiff, like an old machine that hadn’t been oiled in a very long time.

He did not look at the children, nor did he notice Miss Mick wiping the sweat from her temples with the back of her hand; he merely, as a matter of course, picked up the teacup placed before him.

The tea was fresh-brewed Ceylon black, pale in colour, with a fragrance so faint one might suspect someone had slyly topped it up with a second infusion of hot water.

He took a slow sip; his eyebrows moved ever so slightly—the metallic taste in the tea service was still there, and growing more pronounced.

Breakfast, as usual, was two slices of toast, a small pat of butter, and one Yamouth kipper.

The kipper’s skin was a little wrinkled, plainly grilled too early and left too long on the silver platter.

The little pool of butter had begun to soften under the residual warmth from the candlesticks, a rim of darkened grease beading at the edge.

Schneider did not complain and showed no displeasure; he merely cut the kipper slowly, lifting a small piece to his mouth.

Mrs. Schneider lowered her voice: "I went through last night’s accounts again."

Schneider nodded and picked up the toast; it was already a touch hard, giving off a faint cracking sound as he bit into it.

"The jam is nearly finished. I’ll have to go to King Street and buy more today," his wife added. "And the key to the wine cabinet is still in... that place you know of?"

"I know."

Schneider still did not raise his head; he slowly finished the remaining kipper.

At the table, the children were bickering under their breath, Miss Mick kept frowning, and in the back kitchen the cook was flirting and bantering with the coachman.

All these sounds flowed around Schneider, yet he acted as though he heard none of them, setting down his knife and gently moving his teacup aside: "I’m going out. I may be back late tonight."

His wife nodded and instructed the maid: "Jenny, fetch the coat—the blue serge one."

When the coat was brought, it still carried the fading warmth of the fireplace. Schneider took the blue serge coat, slipped it on with practised ease, buttoned it, then paused briefly by the mirror to push his tie up a fraction.

He did not look back at the dining room, nor did he check whether the children were sitting properly; he simply reached for his umbrella and hat and went straight out.

The air outside was far fresher than indoors.

The morning fog had only just lifted, and last night’s moisture still clung to the paving stones, reflecting a dim light.

His carriage was already waiting by the kerb; the coachman sat up high, looking down as he adjusted reins and gloves.

Schneider stepped down from the door and was just about to set his foot on the carriage step.

"August." Someone suddenly called out to him.

Schneider’s movement halted for an instant, then he turned around.

By the cast-iron lamp-post at his door, a man was leaning.

A dark coat cut clean and sharp, the collar casually open, his hat not on his head but hooked carelessly in the crook of his arm. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a cigar, smoke slowly unfurling by his face to reveal an easy, freehand sort of smile.

It was Arthur Hastings, his old friend.

He stood at his ease, one might even say nonchalantly, shoulder resting against the lamp-post; ash had built up along the cigar, yet he hadn’t tapped it off, as though he’d been waiting there for quite a while.

"Arthur?" Schneider instinctively straightened his back. "What are you doing here?"

Arthur gave a small laugh: "If I said I was just passing by, would you believe me?"

Schneider glanced at the cigar butt, already burned down by half, in his hand. "What does it matter—do the facts really count?"

Arthur shifted the cigar to his other hand and asked offhandedly, "Do you have an engagement today?"

Schneider hesitated for a moment.

Of course he had no engagement.

Of late, he’d been carefully wiping his name clean off the club’s luncheon book, and even the occasional card game he avoided whenever he could.

Not out of some pretence of austerity, but because every glass of wine ordered at the club, every stake laid on the card table, left behind on his ever more strained accounts a figure he did not care to see.

But such things were clearly not suited to be spoken aloud on a morning street.

"I do." Schneider hardly hesitated; his tone was so natural it surprised even himself. "My morning is fully booked."

Arthur raised his brows but did not expose the fib; instead he followed the line: "And this afternoon? The weather’s decent. I was thinking of a round of golf in the country, or perhaps just a look in at the cricket ground. But going alone is tedious, you know how it is."

Schneider tapped his stick lightly against the ground, as though weighing his schedule.

"This afternoon... I was supposed to meet someone as well," he said slow and measured, as if a tightly packed diary really lay behind him. "But if it’s you..."

"If it’s you, Sir Arthur, asking for me, I can have a note sent and cancel the other engagement." He paused, as if weighing the relative importance. "After all, you’re front rank at the Home Office—your average Whitehall official daren’t compete with you for a slot."

Arthur regarded him, the smile in his eyes deepening, but still he did not puncture anything: "So we’ll say it’s settled?"

Schneider nodded: "Set a time, and I’ll be there."

Arthur lifted his wrist to check his watch, then glanced at the street, which was just beginning to liven up: "I’ll have someone from the Foreign Office find you before noon. Golf or cricket, take your pick."

Arthur made as if to turn away, one foot already half-stepping off.

"Arthur." Schneider called him back all the same.

Arthur stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

His tone was easy, as though he’d fully expected to be called back.

Schneider stood by the carriage, his stick hanging at his side: "You didn’t come to me... just for a game, did you?"

Arthur smiled; there was not the slightest annoyance at having his intentions guessed, only the calm of someone who had long foreseen just this: "Don’t worry, it’s nothing too serious, August. Have you forgotten? We’re the best business partners there are."

Best business partners?

Schneider felt his whole body jolt, as if he’d been shocked.

In recent years, business had gone so well for Arthur Hastings that in the Financial City he was nothing short of a household name.

First Imperial Publishing, then the England Electromagnetic Telegraph Company, and he even held a good many railway shares in his hand.

So calling Arthur a businessman was certainly no stretch.

But to say that he was Arthur’s best business partner...

Schneider couldn’t help asking, "You’re talking business with me?"

"What else?" Arthur replied matter-of-factly. "It can’t really be just for a game, can it?"

With money tight, Schneider could hardly help sounding a little cowed: "I do have some property, but I’m afraid I can’t raise much ready cash at the moment. If the deal is too large, I’m afraid I..."

Arthur raised a hand at that: "August, don’t worry. This venture won’t be much bigger than the one in Italy."