In Which Snobbery Abounds And Mike Carden Is Displeased
Mike was lounging in the chair by the large bay window, watching the snow start to drift down. The winter was closing in fast now, the sky steel grey, hard and heavy above their heads.
He didn't even bother straightening up as his father came to stand beside him, snifter already in hand despite it being mid-afternoon on a Sunday. "The zeppelins will find it hard to dock if that sky gets any lower," he commented to the room at large.
There was a general murmur of agreement from the other men in the room. Sunday afternoon was always when the gentry paid calls on each other, moving in some unconscious ballet so they all ended up in the appropriate drawing room or study.
Someone down by the door scoffed. "Get those slumrats on ladders with lanterns would solve that problem. Not like they're doing much else but thieving and fighting."
Mike sat up straighter at the general chorus of approval for the speaker. "Fighting for their lives, perhaps."
There wasn't a word, but Mike felt the full force of their scorn slam into him. His father's hand was heavy on his shoulder, reigning him in. "Michael seems to have spent the summer developing what he thinks is a social conscience."
This time the scorn was levied with pitied amusement. "He'll grow out of it soon enough," one of the grey-beared gents by the fire told his father.
"Or perhaps, more desirably, I'll grow into it," Mike shot back. "The only different between the people in this room and the people in the slums is the quality of the clothes and the fullness of their bellies."
The room was turning hostile, he could feel the tides turning against him. "That's quite enough, Michael," his father said, tone mild but eyes hard.
The first speaker scoffed. "Then why are they in the slums?" He didn't wait for Mike's answer. "Poor moral character, that's why. No morals leads to their depraved living conditions." He spoke like a gambler lays down an ace.
"Poor luck, just as likely," Mike shot back. "Think hard, sir, what it would take for you to lose everything." He craned his neck, finally seeing the speaker clear enough to put face to name. "A poor seam of ore, Mr Howard, a drop in the international trading price. A spot of piracy and a clever young lad developing a new and better way to cast the iron, and you've lost the backbone of your business." Mike forced himself to sit back even though he wanted to rise to his feet and rant. Superiors sit, subordinates stand, that's what he was always told.
Jepha Howard obviously didn't have the same tutors as Mike. He leapt to his feet and crossed the room in long, angry strides. "My business is sound, and can withstand all but the most cataclysmic of economic shocks."
Mike dipped his head in acknowledgement of the point. "Your business is large, with healthy profit margins. But those closer to the line? The shopkeepers and clerks, the technicians and line workers? What margin to they have between themselves and the wolf at their door? A change in management, a sudden illness, the closure of a shipping lane, and there they are, in the slums, one of the morally corrupt, as you would describe them. But where is the moral misjudgement, sir? How does a change in their financial fortunes so drastically alter their very nature?"
Howard spluttered, obviously ready to argue to the bitter end.
"Interesting points, gentlemen, but in the end, entirely moot." Mike's father was almost glowering, whether from rage or from the fresh glass of cognac in his glass. "They are, for whatever reason, in the slums, and from there they are unlikely to ever rise again."
This received ready agreement from the room. "Like the eldest Way," someone murmured. "A tragedy, that one."
"Besides, Michael, I believe your mother had some introductions she wished to make."
Mike paused just long enough to see the look in his father's eyes as he tried to deal with this sudden flash of spirit. He then stood, bowing gracefully to the assembled gentlemen. "Of course. If you will excuse me?"
He crossed the silent room and closed the door. On the other side of the wood, he heard the sussurration of conversation resuming. Scowling, he stalked off towards the parlour.