Page 25 of The Ambiguous Enigma of the Hunted Lady
Chapter 8
Cornelius Wilson was an aging man, but he was determined not to let his age get the better of him. There was much to be done in life, he reasoned, and the sooner one stopped doing the sooner one died of uselessness.
It was this attitude that found him, at the ripe age of two and sixty, running an extremely successful business. On that August morning he sat at his desk, if it could be called a desk. It was much more like an altar, positioned in front of his windows in such a way that it gave off a certain reverence.
Cornelius ran his hands over his neatly-combed grey hair. His appearance was something that he took very seriously. He knew the risks of being perceived as weak, and there was nothing weaker than a decrepit old man, at least in Cornelius' world.
That was the image he combated day and night, although some would say his efforts were unnecessary. He had a fair build for a man of his age, not too soft in the middle but not too thin either. Cornelius had broad shoulders, much like his nephew Kenneth, and his eyes were a piercing blue.
His always kept his clothes neatly pressed and organized. Cornelius would take great care ensuring the correct trinkets were arranged in just the right way so that any onlooker would assume him to be only the most proper of gentlemen.
The morning light came through his windows and fell over his shoulders in a way that brought him confidence each day, and so, he enjoyed being at the office before everyone else, even in his old age. He liked to watch as his employees trickled in, always between the hour of seven and eight. It gave him comfort to see them immersed in the routine he had created with all of his hard work and time spent.
And it was much time.
Cornelius had learned early that if he wanted anything in the world, he would have to take it. He was born to a wealthy family, one of the wealthiest in the country in fact, but none of it was ever to be his, for he had an older brother. There was a time when he thought his brother might die suddenly, and that all would be his. He did not think this maliciously; he did not have the capacity to hurt a member of his family, and he would never dream of doing so. It was more of a fantasy – a dream – that one day he would not be the second.
But as he grew older, so did his brother, and the clearer it became to Cornelius that he would never inherit his father's title.
So, he had begun to build his own world, one separate from the balls and festivities of the peerage. One in which he was not second, but first, and where his word carried more weight than anyone else.
It had not been an easy road, but it had been a rewarding one. After forty years of dedication, he had become the richest independent businessman in all of England. He held massive sway with peers of repute and could influence the global market for fine China at his whim, for it was in luxury goods that he found his niche.
It had started with a simple plan. As a younger man, Cornelius had realized the drastic difference in wealth that he lived among. He saw the enormous amount of money spent on things like tables and snuff boxes while people starved to death outside.
Out of this upbringing, Cornelius understood that people will pay whatever you ask of them, as long as they feel they need something, and the rich folk of London were the neediest.
So, Cornelius had used his charisma and intellect to build an empire of silk, china, tobacco, and other amenities that the richest of Englishmen could not live without, be it in Australia, Africa, India, or the far East.
Cornelius sat back in his great throne of a chair and methodically opened his drawer. He retrieved a cigar that he had been working on for a week now, clipped the char from the end, and lit it up.
Cornelius took several long, thoughtful puffs from the tobacco, and then extinguished it in an ashtray carved from the ivory of an Indian elephant.
Coughing once, he brushed the end of the cigar clean, placed it back in the drawer, and wiped his hands on a small rag he kept folded on the edge of his desk.
Like clockwork, as he finished refolding the cloth there was a knock at his office door.
“Thompson?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Come in, lad.” Cornelius delivered the same exchange with his assistant each morning, and the routine of it brought him to the official beginning of his work day.
“Morning, My Lord.” Thompson said. He entered through the grand, church-worthy doors with a pile of folded envelopes in one hand.
“This morning’s correspondence?” Cornelius gestured. He knew that it was.
“Yes, My Lord, here you are.” Thompson set the papers on the desk.
“All set for the day, Thompson?”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Good lad, off with you then.” Cornelius dismissed him with a friendly wave and a smile. He cared for his employees, especially the ones that had been with him the longest.
“What have we here?” he pondered aloud, spreading the envelopes over his desk with separate fingers.
Among the assorted mail there were far too many messages from banks for his liking. The bank's letter would only reach him if there were a problem with money, either on his end or the buyer's. This many-folded letter was indicative of a problem on his end, and this troubled him. It was likely yesterday's deposit had been filed after the bank's closure, and thus delayed the filing. Someone would be reprimanded for this, if it were as he suspected.
