The list of objectives was clear, a battle plan for a war of assimilation, but the first move remained elusive. How does a tree root itself? he thought, tapping the pen against the inkwell. It doesn't force its way. It subtly infiltrates, offering just enough nourishment to the surrounding soil to be welcomed.
The idea, when it came, was simple, elegant, and utterly conventional.
A new neighbor arrives. He is wealthy, perhaps a little gauche, and eager to make a good impression. What does he do? He brings gifts. No one would suspect a deeper motive behind such a time-honored tradition of social grease.
He found Eliza in the kitchen, where she was meticulously organizing the newly stocked pantry, her movements efficient and satisfied.
"Eliza, a new task, if you please," he announced, leaning against the doorframe.
She turned, wiping her hands on her apron. "Of course, sir."
"It occurs to me that I have been remiss in my duties as a new resident of Vesper Lane. A man cannot live as an island, especially one in commerce." He adopted a look of mild self-reproach. "I would like you to procure a selection of… let's call them 'welcome gifts.' For the immediate neighbors. Focus on the households that appear to have a certain… standing. The well-kept homes, the ones with a merchant's seal on the door, that sort of thing."
Eliza's eyes lit up with understanding. "A lovely idea, sir. It will foster good relations."
"Precisely. We shall be the very model of congenial new money." He reached into his wallet and produced a couple handfuls of coins, placing them on the kitchen table with a solid thud. The clink of metal was unmistakable. "There are thirty Gold Hammers here. This should be more than sufficient."
This is an investment, and the returns are the building of connections.
With this, his funds were reduced to 570 Hammers.
Eliza's breath hitched. Thirty Gold Hammers was a tradesman's annual income. "Sir… for gifts? What sort of gifts did you have in mind?"
"The sort that makes a statement, but not a desperate one," Lutz clarified, his tone that of a connoisseur. "Fine wines. A box of those expensive Loenese chocolates. Perhaps a high-quality smoking blend for the gentlemen. Nothing personal, nothing that requires intimate knowledge—yet. The message is one of general, generous goodwill from a man of substantial means. And," he added, a flicker of James Morgan's theatricality entering his voice, "when you deliver them, you will extend my most cordial greetings. James Morgan, lately of the south, is delighted to be among such distinguished company and would be honored if they would call upon him at their convenience. Make it sound… inviting."
"I understand, sir," Eliza said, pocketing the funds in her purse with a newfound sense of gravitas.
And so the seed is planted, Lutz thought as she hurried out, pulling on her new coat. With enough money for fertilizer.
He retreated to his study to wait, his mind already analyzing the potential outcomes. This was a low-risk, high-reward intelligence operation. The gifts would force a response. The polite would feel obligated to return the courtesy. The suspicious would come to scrutinize him. All reactions were useful.
An hour and a half later, Eliza returned, her cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, followed by a boy from a nearby delivery service carrying two large, woven baskets lined with velvet cloth. Inside were beautifully packaged bottles of amber and ruby liquids, ornate boxes of confectioneries, and several sealed tins of tobacco.
"Excellent choices, Eliza," Lutz remarked, inspecting a bottle of Balam red. "You have a good eye."
"Thank you, sir. The merchant at 'Daniel's Reds' was most helpful. I followed your instruction and focused on the homes to the west, primarily. Number 15, a Mr. Reeves, he has a very fine house with a new carriage out front. And Number 11, the widow, Mrs. Adelheid, though her house is quieter, her curtains are the finest on the street…"
"Splendid. No time like the present. Begin the deliveries."
He watched from the study window as Eliza, back straight and basket over her arm, marched first to Number 15. The home of Mr. Reeves. He saw her knock, wait, and then engage in a brief conversation with a maid before handing over a bottle of wine and a box of chocolates. She delivered her lines, gave a small curtsy, and moved on.
The process repeated at three other houses. The curtain at Number 11 twitched, and Lutz caught a glimpse of a stern-faced yet beautiful older woman peering out before Eliza even reached the door. The widow Adelheid. Noted.
He poured himself a small glass of beer that Eliza had bought earlier and waited.
The first response came sooner than expected. Perhaps one hour after Eliza returned, a knock sounded on the front door. It was a firm, confident rap.
Eliza answered. Lutz stayed in his study, door ajar, listening.
"Good afternoon," a man's voice boomed, jovial and full of practiced warmth. "I'm Edmund Reeves, from Number 15. I understand I have a new neighbor to thank for this delightful vintage!"
He comes himself, not sending a servant. Ambitious, or merely nosy?
He waited a beat, allowing Eliza to usher the man in, before making his entrance.
"Mr. Reeves!" Lutz exclaimed, sweeping into the hallway with James Morgan's signature flourish. "What a tremendous pleasure! I am James Morgan. Please, you must forgive the forwardness of the gesture, but when one finds oneself in such a lovely street, among what are clearly people of taste, one feels compelled to say hello."
Edmund Reeves was a man in his late forties, with a hearty complexion, a well-tailored but slightly tight coat over a burgeoning waistline, and eyes that missed very little. He grasped Lutz's offered hand with a firm, dry grip.
"The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Morgan! Forwardness? Nonsense! It's a breath of fresh air. So often these days, new neighbors slink in like ghosts. This," he said, holding up the bottle of wine, "is a mark of a true gentleman. A man who understands the social contract."
Buddy, i lead you onto my house with a bottle of wine, this is like throwing a line and waiting for the fish to bite, Lutz corrected mentally. But let him believe what he will.
"You are too kind, sir. Please, come through to the parlor. Eliza, could we have some tea? Or perhaps you'd prefer to sample that Balam right now, Mr. Reeves?" Lutz guided him into the sitting room, subtly positioning himself in the best chair, the one that caught the light from the window.
"Oh, tea is splendid" Reeves said, his eyes doing a quick, appraising sweep of the room, taking in the new furniture, the quality of the rug, the art on the walls. Lutz could almost see the mental calculations ticking over. "I must say, you've settled in remarkably quickly. The place was empty for an age."
"You could say i manage my time efficiently." Lutz answered. "Time, as they say in my former home, is the one commodity even gold cannot buy more of." He leaned forward conspiratorially. "Between you and me, the southern climate is lovely, but the business opportunities? Stagnant. Whereas St. Millom… St. Millom breathes commerce."
Reeves's eyes gleamed. This was a language he understood. "It does indeed! It is the heart of the Feysacian economy, some would say the world's! And what line of commerce are you in, Mr. Morgan, if you don't mind my asking?"
The line of stealing from gang leaders and swindling the corrupt, Lutz thought. Out loud, he gave a airy wave. "Oh, the family has interests in a few things. Shipping, primarily. But I'm here to diversify. To find new, vibrant ventures. I have a particular interest in the luxury goods market. Things of beauty and value." He gestured around the room. "As you can see."
"I can, I can indeed!" Reeves nodded vigorously. "Well, you've come to the right place. And the right street, if I may be so bold. I myself am in textiles. Reeves & Son Fine Cloth, we supply several of the better tailors in the city."
"Textiles! The very foundation of civilization," Lutz declared, pouring on the charm. "Without cloth, we'd all be savages in animal skins. Your work is a civic duty, my good man."
Reeves chuckled, puffing out his chest slightly. "I've never thought of it that way, but I like it! I shall tell my wife that." He took a sip of the tea Eliza provided. "I tell you what, Mr. Morgan. You simply must come to the Hallbrook soiree tomorrow evening. Lord Hallbrook is a key figure in the merchant consortium. I would be delighted to introduce you."
The invitation had fallen into his lap without him even having to ask. James Morgan's frivolous wealth was a magnet for men like Reeves, who saw in him a potential protégé to boost their own status.
"The Hallbrook soiree? I've heard it's the event of the season!" Lutz feigned delighted surprise. "Mr. Reeves, that is extraordinarily generous of you. I would be in your debt."
"Think nothing of it! Nothing of it! It will be my pleasure to show a new face around." Reeves finished his tea and stood, his mission accomplished. "Well, I must not monopolize your time. Thank you again for the gift, and I shall call for you tomorrow at half-past seven."
"I shall be ready," Lutz said, seeing him to the door. "The anticipation is already killing me!"
As the door closed, the boisterous energy in the hallway seemed to dissipate, replaced by the study's quiet intensity. Lutz walked slowly back to his chair.
Edmund Reeves, he mentally catalogued. Textile merchant. Socially ambitious. Sees me as a valuable commodity to be presented. Likely has a network of mid-tier merchants and aspirations for higher circles.
The rest of the afternoon saw two more visitors. The wife of a ship's chandler from Number 8, who came to gush over the chocolates and stayed to gossip about the 'dreadful' widow Adelheid at Number 11. And a dour, elderly man from Number 5, a retired barrister, who offered a stiff, formal thanks for the tobacco and a warning about the "noise levels expected on the street."
Each interaction, relayed by Eliza or observed by himself, was a piece of data. He was mapping the social topography of Vesper Lane.
The most interesting non-visit was from Number 11. The widow Adelheid did not come herself. She sent her maid with a simple, neatly written note on heavy cardstock.
'To Mr. James Morgan,' it read. 'Thank you for the generous gift. It was entirely unnecessary but appreciated. I wish you well in your new residence.'
It was signed with a simple, elegant 'C. Adelheid.'
No invitation to call. No personal visit. A polite but firm reinforcement of boundaries, Lutz mused, holding the card. She is either deeply private, disdainful of new money, or both. A potential obstacle, or a valuable source of information once the right leverage is found.
As dusk began to settle, painting the room in shades of blue and grey, Lutz sat back in his chair. He had spent a significant sum, but he had bought a social foothold. He had an invitation to a major event, a basic understanding of the power dynamics on his street, and a growing list of names and personalities.
One step at a time, he thought, I play the fop for the Reevses of this world.