But Papa needed help. He wanted someone—a member of the family—to carry the Post company into the next generation. My husband was smart and well educated. Maybe settling a Texas village was not for him, but Eddie could be a great asset on the business side of things. Treasurer or vice president of the company? Someday even president, perhaps?
“Papa may have wild ideas,” I conceded, “but he changed an entire country in introducing his ideas for breakfast. He’s built an empire, and he wants us to keep it going. Think about it, Eddie. You and I could take up the mantle, really be a part of it. Together.”
“Marjorie, you and I live in Greenwich. He built The Boulders for us.” In fact, I thought, he built The Boulders for me. But I did not see how it would help for me to point that out. “That is our home,” Ed declared.
“Yes, but—”
“Marjorie, dear, I am being as clear as I can be. Please hear me when I say that I want no part of Texas, or Battle Creek.” As usual, Ed was civil enough with his words, but this time I could hear the steel beneath them; there was not an inch of give in his tone.
I breathed out slowly, feeling my body slacken in the big hotel bed. From outside came the sound of laughter and a lively piano tune, a group of cattlemen streaming out of one of the saloons.
A few moments later, the sound of my husband’s steady breathing told me that Eddie had drifted off into an exhausted slumber. I remained in bed beside him but sleep evaded me; I passed hours in the dark, staring squarely at the truth that spread before us: If my marriage was to succeed, I would need to put my husband before the Post Cereal Company. Before my father’s wishes. Even, it seemed, before my own wishes.
Chapter 12
Greenwich, Connecticut
With Papa’s plans for both Texas and Battle Creek firmly ruled out for Eddie and me, I threw myself into making a life for us in Greenwich, so that The Boulders might start to feel like home.
Papa had accepted my announcement that Eddie and I would not be taking a day-to-day role in his Texas settlement or the Battle Creek operations of Post Cereal cheerfully enough. But he had a counteroffer, nevertheless. “Very well. But I’m not going to let you sit back with your feet up like those blue-blooded ladies of leisure, Budgie. You’re too smart for that, and I trained you to keep busy. You’ll manage The Boulders like the business it is—your employees depend on you. You’re in charge. Your workers need their wages paid each Friday, and I want a balanced budget for the household each month. And I expect a portion of your budget set aside each month and invested for the future. You make your money work for you.”
I was a new bride, only nineteen, now in charge of a huge staff and a sprawling estate with a large operating budget that had to be not only balanced but also invested. The task was staggering. Soon it all came to feel less like a gift and more like a burden—a load that I was grossly ill-equipped to bear; the weekly efforts of balancing the costs of the estate and paying out dozens of salaries proved harder than any of my school math lessons. Every meal became a source of stress as I’d look at my plate and then begin doing the figures in my head: Had I accounted for the costs of the food? The hands preparing it? The time required for its preparation? The laundering of the table linens?
* * *
—
“Dearest Budgie: See me in my room.” I knew what this summons meant, and unlike the notes of my childhood, this one did not elicit joyful anticipation, but rather a thick bellyful of dread. It was the end of August, and Papa, who was visiting, wanted a full review of my accounts for the month. So when I joined him in his room, I submitted the fruits of my monthlong labor to him: my pile of household papers and receipts, with my lists of costs and expenditures. I sat there, nibbling my fingers, as he scrutinized my neatly penciled columns.
He spent several long minutes scouring every figure on the ledgers. Then Papa propped his elbows on the desk and looked up at me. I could tell he was not pleased. “This won’t do,” was all he said. My entire body wilted. I had worked so hard on all of those sums. I’d kept receipts and accounted for every wage and expense. I had checked and rechecked my math a dozen times. I’d been more fastidious in my household accounting than I’d ever been with any school assignment. “Why not?” I asked.
“Your budget is not balanced, Marjorie,” he said, his voice wooden.
“What?” I leaned forward to peer over the columns. “By how much?”
His finger tapped the paper in front of him. “You’re missing five.”