Late November 1866, Argyle Residence.
The fireplace in the study burned brightly, with the occasional crackle of burning pine.
Felix sat behind a large mahogany desk, swirling half a glass of Bordeaux red wine. He looked at a European newspaper in his hand with great interest.
"Boss, an urgent telegram from Jenkins in London just arrived."
Frost said softly from the side, as if afraid of disturbing the silence in the room.
"He says the sales in London were very successful. Standard Blue Barrel Kerosene has entered the British Royal Navy's procurement list, and the French are also very interested in this non-explosive kerosene. But..."
Frost paused and glanced at Felix's expression.
Because Jenkins was still in Europe, the Boss needed to temporarily transfer Rockefeller, who was still dealing with Ohio Standard Oil, to Pennsylvania for business.
This was somewhat inconsistent with the strategy the Boss had previously set, so he was a bit hesitant to speak.
"But because of the surge in European orders and the need to establish a distribution network there, Jenkins probably won't be able to return to New York until next spring. So, he is requesting to stay in Paris for another month."
"One month, huh."
Felix put down his wine glass, a playful smile curling at the corners of his mouth.
"It seems Peter is an excellent salesman, but sometimes he's too infatuated with that so-called aristocratic sentiment in Europe. He actually forgot that his own backyard is on fire. Never mind, considering he's expanding channels for the company."
Felix stood up, walked to the map, and picked up a black marker.
His finger tapped on the oil-producing regions of Pennsylvania.
It was almost completely covered in black, meaning Miller and Rockefeller's campaign there was a major victory.
Then it slid toward the East Coast.
Philadelphia... New York.
"With Peter unable to return for now, these established refiners in the East are starting to get restless."
Felix's voice lowered; these guys were truly troublesome.
Did they think that because Standard Oil's general manager went to Europe, no one could suppress them anymore?
He himself was still right here in New York.
They were simply disregarding him.
They must be dealt with!
"I heard that the Philadelphia Refiners Association is lobbying the state legislature to try and limit Standard Oil's transportation monopoly. And those two foxes in New York, Charles Pratt and Henry Rogers—Flynn says they seem to be trying to form an 'Anti-Standard Oil Alliance'."
"Ha... perhaps they think Peter is a gentleman, a businessman who only knows how to do business, which is why they dared to bargain before."
"So now I need a knife, Edward."
Felix turned around, his gaze becoming sharp.
"A knife that doesn't care for gentlemanly grace, only for efficiency and slaughter."
"You mean..."
Frost seemed to have guessed something; who else in Standard Oil could serve as a knife?
Of course, it was Rockefeller!
"Send a telegram to John Rockefeller," Felix ordered.
"Tell him he's done a great job recently. Now, I need to borrow him for a while longer."
"Have him take a train to New York immediately. Tell him that since Peter went to Europe to sell oil, the rats at home need a cat to catch them."
"As for Ohio, we'll deal with it after the East is settled."
Frost hesitated slightly.
"But Boss, Mr. Rockefeller is, after all, the manager of the Ohio subsidiary. You've already had him help with Pennsylvania. If you let him interfere with the head office's East Coast operations, when Peter returns, will he..."
"That is exactly the effect I want."
Felix picked up his wine glass again, looking at the fire in the fireplace through the red liquid.
"Perhaps Peter needs a bit of pressure, and Rockefeller needs a larger stage. Letting a wolf into the flock—even if it's one's own flock—will make the sheep run faster."
"Also, tell John to bring his butcher's knife. I want to see the maps of Philadelphia and New York turn black before this winter is over."
...Two days later, a train from Cleveland slowly pulled into New York Central Station.
John D. Rockefeller stepped out of the carriage.
Today, he was wearing a heavy wool coat and carrying a worn briefcase in his hand.
Standing a bit ahead of him were Miller and several security guards, roughly surrounding the two.
Compared to the well-dressed New Yorkers, Rockefeller's attire looked a bit rustic, like a country preacher who had just arrived in the city.
"So this is New York."
Rockefeller stood on the platform, looking at the bustling crowds and the towering church spires in the distance, and took a deep breath. The air was a mixture of coal smoke, horse manure, and the smell of money.
"To be honest, Mr. Miller, it's much noisier here than in Cleveland," he remarked flatly.
"It's called lively, and New York is much wealthier than Cleveland, alright buddy?"
Miller chewed on a cigar as several security guards chased away a few porters trying to approach.
"John, the Boss is waiting for you on Fifth Avenue. I heard there's Boston Lobster tonight; we can have a good meal."
"Mr. Miller, I don't care about lobster at all right now."
Rockefeller tightened the collar of his coat, his eyes cold as ice.
"I only care about the refineries here. The Boss said Mr. Jenkins has been too soft. God gave us oil, not so we could hold tea parties with our competitors."
"Fine, let's go then."
Miller shrugged, indicating he didn't care; after all, he wasn't in charge of Standard Oil.
As for the issue between Peter and Rockefeller, that wasn't something he needed to worry about.
The Boss was above them.
He strode out, and Rockefeller quickly followed suit.
Philadelphia, once the capital of the United States, still retains an ancient and arrogant commercial tradition, even though its political status has long since been superseded by Wall Street and Washington.
Chimneys line the banks of the Schuylkill River; this is an oil refining stronghold second only to Cleveland and Pittsburgh.
The refiners in Philadelphia have always prided themselves on being "gentleman merchants." They looked down on Peter Jenkins' aggressive marketing and even more so on Rockefeller, that country bumpkin from Ohio.
However, this sense of superiority was completely shattered this winter.
Old William Harrison, the owner of Philadelphia's largest refinery, "Liberty Bell," was currently sitting in his luxurious office on Walnut Street, staring blankly at a new freight bill.
"What is the meaning of this?!"
He roared at the manager of the Pennsylvania Railroad Company in front of him, spray from his shouting hitting the man's face.
"Transporting a barrel of crude oil from Titusville to Philadelphia costs 2.5 dollars? That's double what it was last month! This is robbery!"
"Mr. Harrison, please calm down."
The manager wiped the sweat from his forehead with a look of helplessness.
"This was a decision from the head office. You know that due to the previous pipeline explosion, rail capacity is very tight. And..."
The manager lowered his voice as if he were about to reveal some monumental secret.
"Because the Standard Oil Company has such high transport volumes and signed an 'exclusivity agreement,' they enjoy a special discount. Their freight rate is only 1 dollar."
"1 dollar?!"
Harrison was so angry he nearly fainted, his heart feeling as if it were being squeezed hard by a giant hand.
"On what grounds? I'm a major customer too, shipping thousands of barrels every month. When Peter Jenkins was here, we had a perfectly good arrangement."
"You know as well as I do, Mr. Jenkins went to Europe." The manager shrugged helplessly.
"The one currently in charge of Eastern affairs is Manager Rockefeller, whom Mr. Argyle transferred over from Ohio. He said the previous contracts were too 'merciful' and didn't align with market principles."
The manager was also helpless; strictly speaking, both he and that Rockefeller were branch managers.
But Standard Oil was the favored son while the Pennsylvania Railroad Company was more like a stepson—and Rockefeller was personally dispatched by the Boss. He couldn't afford to offend him.
Harrison slumped back into his chair.
What did a 1.5-dollar difference in freight costs mean?
It meant his costs were significantly higher than Standard Oil's. When Standard Oil's 'Blue Barrel' kerosene could turn a profit selling at 10 cents a gallon, he was losing money even at 12 cents.
This wasn't just business; this was cold-blooded strangulation.
"I'm going to the Governor to report you; this is unfair competition!" Harrison said through gritted teeth.
"It's useless."
A cold voice drifted in from the doorway.
Harrison looked up and saw a young man walking in. He wore a dark gray trench coat and held a black top hat. His eyes were like stagnant water, and he carried something that looked like a ledger or a Bible.
With this style, everyone knows who it is, right?
That's right, it's John D. Rockefeller.
"Rockefeller? What are you doing here?"
Harrison stood up warily.
"You're not welcome here. I want to see Jenkins! I want to see Mr. Argyle!"
"Mr. Argyle is very busy, and General Manager Jenkins is still in Paris."
Rockefeller walked to the desk and looked down at the Philadelphia tycoon from a height.
"I've come to bring you a gift, Mr. Harrison. A gift that will allow you to retire with dignity."
He placed a document in front of Harrison.
"This is Standard Oil's acquisition offer for the 'Liberty Bell' refinery."
"Acquisition?" Harrison laughed out of pure rage.
"You want to swallow me whole? Let me tell you, keep dreaming! I've operated in Philadelphia for twenty years. I have friends, I have connections, I have..."
"You have a 2.5-dollar freight rate."
Rockefeller interrupted him, his mocking tone making Harrison grit his teeth.
"And I have a 1-dollar freight rate. That is all there is to it."
"Mr. Harrison, you can go ahead and sue me, or go to the Governor. However, I heard Miss Clark is currently vacationing in Philadelphia, and she has a good relationship with the Governor's wife. I imagine before you win any lawsuit—well, assuming you could win—your factory would have long since gone bankrupt from the losses."
Rockefeller pointed out the window.
"Look at your chimneys; half of them have already stopped, haven't they? Because you can't afford crude oil. Meanwhile, my oil is flowing into Philadelphia in a never-ending stream. Next week, I will drop the price of kerosene by another cent. General Manager Jenkins might have shown you some courtesy, but I will not."
Harrison's face turned deathly pale.
He looked at the young man before him as if he were looking at an emotionless devil.
"You... you devil."
"No, you are mistaken. I am a defender of order."
Rockefeller looked at him, his eyes shining with a near-divine light.
"This industry is too chaotic, Harrison. Too many people are engaged in futile efforts. Only by integrating all resources can costs be lowered. This is a contribution to society."
"Sign it."
Rockefeller handed over a Parker fountain pen.
"The price is fair enough. Take this money and you can go bask in the sun in Florida. If you don't sign... next week, this paper will become a court auction notice."
Well... the rhetoric had hardly changed; from Cleveland until now, he basically used this same pitch.
But in a trade war, under the crushing weight of momentum, it really is that simple.
Back to the point... Harrison looked at the contract, his hands trembling slightly.
He desperately wanted to tear the contract to pieces and throw it in the young man's face.
But he couldn't do it.
Because he knew this was his only way out.
In this cold winter, Philadelphia's oil refining industry met its end. Rockefeller, this "butcher's knife" from Ohio, was sharper than anyone had imagined... It took only two weeks to settle Philadelphia.
Immediately following that, Rockefeller charged toward New York without pause.
Brooklyn, the Pratt-Rogers Refinery.
This was the last bastion of the New York refining industry. Charles Pratt and Henry Rogers, the two shrewdest refiners in New York, had already heard the news from Philadelphia.
"That madman is coming."
Henry Rogers sat in his office, holding a newspaper with a furrowed brow.
The front-page headline was "The Fall of Philadelphia: Standard Oil's Black Terror."
"Charles, we must speed things up. That anti-Standard Oil alliance must be formed as soon as possible, or we'll be next."
Charles Pratt, sitting opposite him, was an elegant middle-aged man. He pushed up his glasses and sighed.
"Henry, it won't be easy. Those small factory owners are scared out of their wits. When Peter Jenkins was here, everyone could sit down and talk about quotas. Now with this Rockefeller... he's simply a hungry wolf."
Just then, there was a knock on the office door.
"Mr. Rogers, Mr. Pratt." The secretary ran in flustered. "Mr. Argyle is here, and he's brought Rockefeller with him."
The two men looked at each other, both seeing the shock in the other's eyes.
Argyle came personally?
A few minutes later, Felix walked into the office wearing a black cashmere coat, followed by the expressionless Rockefeller.
"Good afternoon, gentlemen." Felix smiled and took off his hat.
"Sorry, Peter isn't here, so I, the Boss, had to come visit in person."
"Mr. Argyle, it's an honor to have you here." Pratt stood up quickly.
"Please, sit."
Rogers, beside him, was full of wariness.
"If you're here for an acquisition, we aren't selling."
"No, it's not an acquisition."
Felix sat down and pointed to Rockefeller beside him.
"John did a good job in Philadelphia, but he has to return to Ohio eventually. Peter is also very busy in Europe. Standard Oil's territory is too large; we need help."
Felix looked Rogers in the eye.
"Henry, I know you're called the 'Hellhound.' I admire your ruthlessness. Instead of wasting time in an alliance destined to lose, why not join us?"
"Us?" Rogers was stunned for a moment.
"Yes, a merger." Felix threw out his bargaining chip. "Your factories will merge into Standard Oil in exchange for shares in the parent company. I need someone to temporarily manage the entire sales network on the East Coast, as well as the future Southern market of the Union."
"Mr. Rogers, Mr. Pratt. Are you willing to cling to a small factory and wait for death just for that pitiful bit of pride? Or are you willing to follow Mr. Argyle and conquer the world?"
Rockefeller added a timely comment.
"Mr. Jenkins is a good man, but not ruthless enough. The Boss says the head office needs people like you."
Rogers and Pratt exchanged a look, seeing the hesitation in each other's eyes.
In this era where giants devoured everything, joining a giant was the most correct choice.
There were no surprises.
Being able to join Standard Oil, an industry giant backed by Argyle, while also receiving a promise to develop branch companies in several Southern states in the future, was something the two of them simply could not refuse.
Of course, the key was being able to obtain shares in the parent company.
Even if it was a mere five percent.
One must realize that even Rockefeller only held 13% of the branch company's shares at present (having increased his capital once after acquiring local Ohio refineries).
Naturally, Felix had originally allowed Rockefeller to exchange his shares for shares in the parent company.
But Rockefeller had refused, perhaps feeling that Ohio Standard Oil would surpass the parent company under his leadership?
Who knows.
With the defection of the two New York giants, the East Coast's refining industry defense line completely collapsed.
Pratt and Rogers did not just bring their factories and technology to Standard Oil; they also brought a token of allegiance.
Those were their sales channels built up over many years.
In the top-floor conference room of the Argyle Empire Building, a new operational map was laid out.
Felix sat at the head, with Rockefeller on his left and the newly joined Henry Rogers on his right.
"Philadelphia and New York have been taken. Now, only one nail remains." Felix pointed to a spot in the middle of the map.
Pittsburgh.
As a hub connecting the Midwest and the East, the refiners in Pittsburgh had always been a tough bunch to crack.
Relying on the water transport advantages of the Allegheny River, they attempted to bypass Argyle' railway network to ship crude oil directly to the South or for export.
"They think they can survive by relying on those few broken rivers."
Henry Rogers said with a cold sneer. By now, he had completely stepped into his role as a Standard Oil executive, becoming even more aggressive than Rockefeller.
"Those Pittsburghers have organized a 'Shipping Alliance' and aren't using the railways."
"Water transport is indeed a problem." Rockefeller frowned.
"Although the railway is faster, the cost of barges is too low. If we can't cut this line, we won't be able to achieve a monopoly."
"John, you're still too honest."
Felix leaned back in his chair, twirling the ruby ring on his hand.
"Water transport is indeed cheap, but it has a fatal weakness."
"Boss, what is it?"
"Waterways also require maintenance."
Felix looked at Bill, who was sitting to the side and hadn't spoken.
The head of the Metropolitan Trading Company was also Argyle' 'spokesman' in the underworld.
"Bill, I remember we have a branch downstream from Pittsburgh that specializes in inland river shipping?"
"Yes, that's right."
Bill grinned, revealing forest-white teeth.
"We have a few steam tugs and dozens of sailors with rather bad tempers."
"Good." Felix gave the order calmly.
"The rainy season has arrived recently, and the river channels are heavily silted. For 'waterway safety,' I think we need to conduct some necessary dredging and inspections on passing vessels."
"Understood." Bill nodded.
"I'll let those Pittsburghers know that traveling on the river also requires paying a toll."
...Two days later, the Allegheny River in Pittsburgh.
This was a busy water transport artery, with countless barges loaded with crude oil barrels floating downstream.
However, today, a strange sight appeared on the river surface.
A dozen barges were forced to stop in the middle of the river, bobbing with the murky waves. Stretched across the water in front of them was a rusty iron chain, its ends connected to two steamships that looked like armed gunboats.
The ships flew flags that read "Metropolitan Trading Company—River Management Office."
"What's going on? Why are you stopping our boats?"
A Pittsburgh refiner stood on the deck of a barge, shouting through a megaphone, as anxious as an ant on a hot pan.
"Sorry, buddy~ dredging operations are underway in the channel ahead."
On the opposite ship, a bearded man in a Vanguard Security uniform shouted back through a megaphone. His voice was extremely coarse and overbearing, echoing across the great river.
"For waterway safety, all passing vessels must undergo inspection! A lot of driftwood has washed down from upstream recently, and there's also the possibility of contraband."
The refiner was absolutely livid.
"Inspection? By what right do you inspect us? This is a public waterway. Federal law stipulates that rivers are free."
"The law is free, but dredging costs money."
The big man shrugged. In any case, their Militech had a set of investigation permits from the Department of the Interior; what was there to fear?
"The inspection and dredging fee for each ship is one hundred dollars. Pay the money, get a 'Safety Pass,' and you can go."
"One hundred dollars? Why don't you just rob us?"
"Of course, you don't have to pay."
The big man said indifferently, pointing to the dark clouds gathering on the horizon.
"Then just wait. Maybe the dredging will be finished by next week. But I have to tell you, buddy, it looks like a rainstorm is coming. If your oil gets water in it, or if the bottom of your boat 'accidentally' hits some hidden reef, don't say I didn't warn you."
At the same time, several barges flying the Standard Oil flag sailed over grandly.
The iron chain slowly sank into the water to let them through, then quickly pulled back up, blocking the ships behind them.
"See that? Those are member clients; they bought annual passes," the big man shouted.
Watching this scene, the refiner's anger gradually turned into despair.
This wasn't dredging a river; this was a blockade.
Don't think he didn't know the relationship between the company the big man represented and Standard Oil.
Now they were like a giant python, tightly constricting the neck of the Pittsburgh refining industry.
If you take the railway, it belongs to Argyle; if you take the waterway, congratulations, that also belongs to Argyle.
Shit, that son of a bitch Argyle isn't leaving a single path to survival!
"Pay the money."
The refiner gritted his teeth, squeezing these words out from between them.
"I'll pay!"
"That's more like it." The big man smiled.
"But you also need to fill out a form—a detailed registration regarding the origin and destination of the crude oil. Oh... by the way, buddy, if you're willing to sell this boatload of oil directly to the Standard Oil refinery downstream, not only is the inspection fee waived, but we can also send a tug to help you transport it, with a 20% discount on freight."
This was the constriction of the giant python.
In the time that followed, this suffocating tactic proved effective.
The Pittsburgh refiners were surprised to find that no matter how they struggled, their costs were significantly higher than those of Standard Oil.
The water transport advantage they were so proud of vanished into thin air in the face of Bill's 'rogue tactics.'
On the eve of Christmas in 1866, New York welcomed a rare blizzard.
Goose feather-like snowflakes drifted down from the sky, wrapping Manhattan Island in a thick, white blanket.
On the roads of Fifth Avenue, the accumulated snow had been cleared to the sides, piled as high as the breastworks of a trench. Only carriages with brass bells occasionally passed by, emitting crisp, pleasant jingles that echoed in the chilly air.
At this moment, the air in the Argyle Family mansion was filled with the scent of pine needles, cinnamon, roasted apples, and expensive beeswax floors, a fragrance unique to Christmas.
"Careful, don't break that glass ornament. It was shipped all the way from Bavaria!"
The housekeeper, Elena, stood in the center of the living room, directing seven or eight maids to decorate the giant fir tree. Though over forty, she maintained the capable and meticulous demeanor of a housekeeper.
As the housekeeper who had followed Felix since he bought the villa, Elena held the house in high regard.
"That wreath is crooked, a little to the left... Yes, right there."
Elena clapped her hands, dusting them off, then turned to the footman behind her.
"Go see if the gingerbread in the kitchen is ready. The young master might want to smell it."
This Christmas was different from previous ones.
This was the first true Christmas for young master Finn Argyle, Felix's eldest son.
Thirteen-month-old little Finn, dressed in a small velvet vest embroidered with gold thread and soft-soled leather boots, toddled unsteadily across the thick carpet,
Although he was only 13 months old, the child seemed to have inherited his father's steady temperament.
He usually didn't cry or fuss, but simply gazed at the glittering decorations with his deep eyes, just like Felix's, full of curiosity.
"Creak..."
The heavy oak door was pushed open, and a cold wind mixed with snowflakes swept in, but was immediately swallowed by the indoor heating.
Felix walked in, took off his snow-covered overcoat and handed it to the approaching footman, then removed his leather gloves and rubbed his somewhat frozen hands.
"Sir, you're back."
Elena immediately stepped forward, a rare gentle smile on her face.
"Dinner is ready; it's your favorite Beef Wellington."
"Thank you, Elena."
Felix nodded, his gaze passing over the housekeeper and landing on the small figure on the carpet.
Finn , who had been looking curious, suddenly had his eyes light up when he saw Felix. He dropped the silver rattle in his hand, spread his two chubby little hands, and stumbled towards Felix.
This was quite a surprise.
A week ago, he could barely stand while holding onto the sofa.
"Da...ddy!"
A tender, clear word popped out of that little mouth.
Felix was stunned for a moment.
In the business world, he had heard countless people call him
But no address could melt his heart, which had gradually been forged into an impenetrable fortress by money and schemes, like this single
He quickly stepped forward, picked up the little guy, and lifted him high above his head.
"Hahaha... Listen! Elena, did you hear that?"
Felix laughed heartily, his usual dignity completely gone.
"He called me Daddy!"
"Yes, sir!"
Elena couldn't help but smile like an aunt.
"Finn suddenly started walking well this afternoon. I think he probably wanted to give you a surprise."
Finn wasn't scared being held in the air; instead, he giggled and reached out his small hands to grab Felix's neatly trimmed beard.
"Ma...mmy..."
The little one then turned his head to the staircase, where Catherine was standing.
She was wearing a dark green velvet gown, her hair elegantly pinned back, and around her neck was that priceless emerald necklace.
Seeing the father and son interact, the Umbrella CEO, usually so decisive and resolute, now had eyes full of tenderness.
"It seems our little Finn knows who the pillar of the family is."
Catherine smiled as she walked down the stairs, gently kissed Felix's cheek, and then kissed her son's forehead.
"Of course."
Felix held his son, feeling that this heavy little fellow in his arms was the most precious asset in the world.
"He is the eldest son of the Argyle Family, the future..."
Felix paused, not saying the word, but the ambition in his eyes was clearly revealed.
"The future what?" Catherine teased. "A banker? Or a president?"
"Better than that."
Felix carried the child to the Christmas tree and pointed to the dazzling golden star at the top.
"He will be the one who makes the rules."
However, the warm atmosphere was also tinged with a slight inconvenience.
As Felix's career expanded rapidly, this mansion on Fifth Avenue began to feel a bit small, even though it was a luxury home in the eyes of ordinary people.
For this Christmas dinner, the family hired extra chefs and waiters.
Adding the original housekeeper, maids, gardeners, coachmen, and the thirty Vanguard Security guards constantly patrolling the surroundings, the entire house was practically packed with people.
In the corridor, Frost, carrying documents, had to turn sideways to make way for a servant carrying a roasted goose; at the study door, two burly bodyguards almost tripped a maid going to deliver coffee while standing guard.
Even outside little Finn's nursery, two nannies and a bodyguard were constantly on duty, making it seem a bit crowded.
"Oh dear!"
A crisp sound echoed. It turned out that a new footman, while avoiding another colleague carrying Christmas presents, accidentally bumped into an oriental blue and white porcelain vase by the corridor.
Although Elena quickly steadied it, it still startled everyone.
Felix frowned, a fleeting sense of displeasure at being disturbed.
"It seems this house is indeed too small."
He muttered to himself.
Dinner proceeded in an extremely luxurious but slightly cramped atmosphere. The long dining table was laden with silver cutlery and crystal wine glasses, and candlelight flickered.
Felix, while cutting his steak, watched the busy servants come and go, and then looked at little Finn, who was sitting in a high chair, trying to tap his plate with a spoon.
In his mind, a new blueprint slowly began to unfold.
It seemed he needed to move soon.
He needed a castle.
A fortress that could accommodate his ambition, his family, his private army, and countless future descendants.
"Catherine."
Felix suddenly put down his knife and fork, and wiped his mouth with a napkin.
"Hmm? What's wrong, Felix?"
Catherine was busy feeding a spoonful of mashed carrots to her son.
"I think it's time for us to move."
Catherine looked up and surveyed the splendidly decorated dining room.
"Move? We've only lived in this house for less than three years. And it's very close to the Empire Bank Building."
"No, not that kind of move."
Felix raised his wine glass, the red liquid flowing like blood under the candlelight.
"I mean, we should leave the hustle and bustle of Manhattan. Go to a place that is more expansive, freer, and entirely ours."
"Just like... those lords in Europe."
Catherine paused, then understood Felix's meaning. She knew this man too well.
When he felt the cage was too small, he wouldn't try to enlarge the cage; instead, he would buy the entire forest.
"Where do you want to go?" Catherine asked curiously.
Felix didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he looked through the window, towards the east.
That was the direction of Long Island, still a virgin land with a sprawling coastline and dense forests, not yet fully developed.
"I'm thinking..."
Felix's voice became deep and magnetic.
"Perhaps we need a 'Palace of Versailles' for the Argyle Family."
The day after Christmas, in the study.
On the huge mahogany desk, the oil reports and railway maps had been pushed aside, replaced by an enormous topographical map of Long Island.
Catherine, wearing a loose morning gown, sat on the sofa nearby, cradling a cup of hot milk.
Though already a mother, time seemed to have left no mark on her face; instead it had added the allure of a mature woman.
"Darling, are you serious?"
Catherine stared at the vast area circled in red on the map.
"You're going to buy all of Sands Point?"
"Ha… and far more than just Sands Point."
Felix held an ivory baton and swept a great circle across the map.
"From here all the way to these cliffs—about three thousand acres."
"Three thousand acres?"
Catherine arched an eyebrow in surprise.
"That's bigger than half of Central Park. What on earth do you want so much land for—raising cattle?"
"Cattle are only a small part of it."
Felix walked over and sat beside her, taking her hand.
"Darling, look at the house now. Frost has had to commandeer the guest room just to store files. Whenever Miller and the others come to report, they have to smoke next to the stables because there's nowhere to build a security center. And Finn—"
Felix pointed upstairs.
"He's barely a year old. When he grows up he'll need a racetrack, a swimming pool, a private library. And we'll have more children, won't we?"
Catherine's cheeks flushed slightly, but she offered no objection.
"And then…"
"I'm confident I can make the Argyle Family the power behind the throne of this nation. It needs a palace to match. A place that will make the so-called 'old money' families—Astor, Vanderbilt—feel small."
"So what are you going to build?"
Felix had a silver tongue; his description had stirred her interest.
He stood, hands behind his back, as though the grand estate already towered before him.
"First, the main house must be a castle. Not some gloomy English fortress, but a French château with elegant spires and huge plate-glass windows—like Chambord in the Loire Valley."
He began sketching enthusiastically in the air while thinking of various Disney movies.
"It will have at least a hundred rooms. Every child, even future grandchildren, will have their own suite."
"The ballroom must hold three hundred dancers. We'll host the grandest balls in the Union, so Washington politicians and European nobility will covet an invitation."
"Then the support facilities."
His words picked up speed.
"A separate Gothic chapel—weddings, funerals, baptisms all held there."
"Farms, gardens, stables, a private yacht marina…"
He paused, a glint of industrial hunger in his eyes.
He wanted electricity—brilliant lamps throughout the estate and the engines of technological progress.
Alas, even with a hundred researchers at Argyle Central Laboratory and heavy investment in electrical work, power could still be used only on a lab scale.
For now, a fallback.
"I'll build an independent coal-gas plant."
"A gas plant?" Catherine asked, puzzled.
"Exactly. God knows the gas company's pressure is erratic and the light dim. Better to build our own." He complained, though he was a shareholder.
"It will use our finest refined bituminous coal to produce high-purity gas on site, then send it through copper pipes hidden beneath floors and inside walls to every room."
"Close your eyes and picture it, Catherine: night falls, thousands of custom crystal gas-lamps ignite at once, the latest focusing lenses—the whole estate will blaze like a colossal jewel. I want our nights to outshine Buckingham Palace."
"We'll add a central steam-heating system and hydraulic water supply. Our castle will surpass Europe's royal palaces—spring all year round, and every bathroom's brass taps will run hot water twenty-four hours a day."
"Darling, that sounds insane…" Catherine was stunned. "You're cramming a miniature industrial city into our home."
"But that's the proper use of technology—and a declaration of power. I want the world to know the Argyle Family not only possesses wealth but commands industry itself."
"And security…" His gaze chilled.
"We'll dig moats or raise high walls around the estate and station three hundred guards. It will be an absolute safe zone."
Catherine listened, awed and exasperated.
"The cost will be enormous, Felix—and such ostentation might—"
"Money? A trifle—budget at least a million dollars."
Felix smiled, the confidence of a man who held every card.
"Darling, do you know how much Rockefeller made last month in Pennsylvania? How many tons Reeves' railroads haul each day? To us money is just numbers. If I don't spend it, it will molder in the vault."
"As for ostentation…"
He stepped before her, leaned down, meeting her bright eyes.
"I kept a low profile while we were still growing. Now I will tell the entire Union: a new order has come. This estate will be its throne."
"Of course, it's not only for indulgence." His tone softened.
"It will be a haven for our children. However turbulent the world, however Wall Street crashes, once they return here they will be safe."
"I'll plant the garden full of white roses you love."
"And a greenhouse, heated by steam pipes so you can see flowers even in winter."
Those words melted her.
She set down the cup, stood, slipped her arms around his waist and kissed him.
"Then do it, my King," she whispered. "Build us a Versailles."
...That afternoon Frost received his orders.
"Boss, you want to buy that land on Long Island's North Shore?"
Frost's hand trembled as he read the memorandum.
"Yes. Whoever owns it, inhabited or not—buy it all."
Felix sat back, the bearing of a commercial monarch restored.
"Contact Richard Morris Hunt—the one who designed Central Park's gateway, the country's most celebrated architect, later builder of the Biltmore. Tell him Argyle has a commission a hundred times grander."
"Mention a budget of at least a million dollars—but I must see a sense of eternity in this estate. A century from now people must still gasp in awe."
"Very well, sir." Frost scribbled rapidly. "And the name?"
Felix considered.
"Argyle Estate—nothing fancier. Soon the very name Argyle will mean everything."
"Have Miller send a few dozen men. Before the architect arrives, clear the terrain—especially the sites for the gasworks and steam plant. I won't tolerate troublesome neighbors near the estate."
"Understood."
With Felix's commands issued, the North Shore of Long Island—what would become known as the Gold Coast—was about to meet its first and greatest master.
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What to name the American Empire? Taking bets everyone