Back Bay (29 page)

This afternoon, Abigail was interviewing a couple just arrived from Ireland. They had been recommended by the minister from the Park Street Church.

Abigail went downstaris to the receiving room and ensconced herself in her favorite chair. “Send them in.”

Delia Mannion, about forty-five, entered the room. She had a round Irish face, hands callused by years of work, and the full heft
of middle age widening her girth. “Good morning, ma’am.” Delia Mannion extended her hand.

Abigail was impressed by the strength of her grip. “It’s a pleasure, Mrs. Mannion.”

“The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.”

Abigail invited her to sit. Abigail did not ordinarily encourage such friendliness with her employees, and if Mrs. Mannion went to work for the Pratts, she would not be invited to sit in the receiving room again.

“I thought your husband would be with you,” said Abigail.

Mrs. Mannion smiled nervously. “Well, ma’am, he ain’t… isn’t my husband, exactly.”

“Then what is he?”

“He’s my son, ma’am.”

Abigail was surprised. “I was expecting a husband and wife. How old is the boy?”

“Nineteen.”

“Boys of that age tend usually to be unreliable. If he is to work for me, he will be called upon at all hours of the day and night.”

“Oh, he’ll be a good one, ma’am.” It was clear that Mrs. Mannion desperately needed work. “He’s a quiet boy, but strong, and he’s stayed by his mother ever since his da died four years ago.” She was pleading. “He never raises a ruckus or drinks or causes trouble. He likes to write poetry and such.”

“Has he had experience in private service?”

Mrs. Mannion looked at her shoes. “No, ma’am. None.”

“Have you?”

“I worked for a Protestant minister in Ireland. When we left for America, he gave me the name of the minister at the Park Street Church. Reverend Russell. He gave our name to you. We’ve been staying in his carriage house.”

“You’re Congregationalist?”

“No, ma’am.”

“A Catholic, then?” Abigail seemed displeased.

Mrs. Mannion nodded.

“Why have you come to America?”

“To work and, I’ll be honest with you, to give my boy a chance at a good life. He can learn a mighty lot in the service of a great lady
such as yourself.” Mrs. Mannion’s brogue was thick. An ingratiating smile spread across her face.

Abigail studied the Irish woman coldly. She had already decided to give the Mannions the job, but she wanted the woman to appreciate Pratt generosity and consider it a privilege to care for a Pratt. “You’ve had no experience in the service of American gentry, you have no references, you’re Catholic, and your son is going to grow out of this work very quickly.”

“Oh, but he’s a fine boy. Wouldn’t you like to meet him?”

Abigail nodded.

“Excuse me, then.” Mrs. Mannion went into the hallway, where her son Sean was nervously squashing his cap in his hands. “Now be nice and polite. Say ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, ma’am,’ and the devil grab you by the scruff of the neck if you dare to speak a word before spoke to.”

“Yes’m.”

When she saw Sean Mannion, Abigail would not admit to herself that he was beautiful. She had fallen in love twice since her husband had died. Each time, her lover was handsome, intelligent, aggressive, and, in the long run, more interested in her father’s power than in Abigail herself. One of her suitors now captained a Pratt opium ship. The other, fired by Pratt for abusing Abigail’s affections, worked for Thomas Handasyd Perkins. At thirty-five, Abigail no longer permitted herself to respond to men, except as she would to her brother Jason, with his spreading paunch, dullard’s eyes, and watery lack of character.

“Good morning, young man,” said Abigail, more pleasantly than she had intended.

“Yes’m, good morning.” He spoke softly.

Abigail marveled that such a powerful body produced such a gentle sound. He was six feet tall, with broad shoulders and huge hands, the product of his years on a farm, but his features were delicate, almost feminine, and not at all Irish. His face was smooth and unmarked by the pox. His eyes were blue, and his forehead was framed in strawberry-blond hair.

“Your mother tells me you like hard work.”

“Yes’m.” He twisted the cap in his hands.

“Do you like caring for people who cannot care for themselves?”

“Sean took good care of his da after the mill wheel crushed his legs,” said Mrs. Mannion.

“Your son can answer for himself.”

“Yes’m.”

“Besides tending the grounds, you will have to take care of my father. You will bathe him, feed him, dress him, carry him to bed, and on pleasant days, drive him around the Back Bay. Will you do these things with a smile and a pleasant demeanor?”

“I’ll try, ma’am.”

“You will have to do more than try.”

“He will, ma’am. He’s a fine boy.” Delia Mannion was trembling. “Please give us a chance.”

Abigail looked once more at the young man. “I must also tell you that my father is incontinent.”

“Ma’am?” Sean did not understand her meaning.

“You don’t have much of a vocabulary for a budding poet. I will put it plainly for the farm boy. My father shits in his breeches and must wear a diaper. Will you change the diaper as readily as you sit down to your verses?”

He hesitated. “I believe I’d prefer the verses.” He heard his mother inhale sharply. He’d said the wrong thing.

Abigail smiled. “I like to have honest men in my service.” She rang the bell beside her, and the maid appeared in the doorway. “You and your husband are to vacate your quarters in the carriage house by noon. Mrs. Mannion and her son will be taking your place.”

Delia Mannion almost fainted.

An entry from Abigail Pratt Bentley’s diary, July 2, 1825:

A September morning in Boston: the sky a crisp cerulean blue, the sun warming slowly toward noon, the cool air invigorating the city. On such a morning, Abigail Pratt Bentley put a blue dress on over several petticoats, then a flowered shawl, and a green bonnet. She called for her carriage and told Sean to take her to Long Wharf.

Twice a week, she visited her brother Jason at the offices of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile. They discussed, with as much civility as possible, the current business, plans for future investment, the reasons for their perpetual disagreement, and the state of Horace Taylor Pratt’s health. The conversations usually began coldly and ended in frigid silence.

Frustration consumed Abigail whenever she left the waterfront and returned to Pemberton Hill. Because she was a woman, her intelligence, her resolve, and her thirty percent of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile meant nothing. She could not remain in the handsome building on the wharf. She could not, without escort, visit the coffee houses along Congress Street, where the Jacksons, the Lowells, the Perkinses, and the Pratts met to discuss the business of the day. She could not go to the exchanges on State Street, where money, stocks, bonds, and commodities were traded each hour. And worst of all, she could not sit behind her father’s desk, with his capital, ships, and investments spread before her, and make decisions which would determine the future of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile.

She could observe and advise, but her father had delegated her no other authority. Today, she planned to talk about a new investment—railroads. She knew that Henry Eaton, a Pratt bookkeeper just back from vacation in England, was going to make his report on railways in Great Britain. She wanted to hear his impressions.

Jason Pratt’s office occupied the third floor of the outermost
building on Long Wharf. Windows on three sides opened to the sea. Pine paneling covered the walls. An oriental rug, given to Horace Pratt by the hong merchant Houqua, adorned the floor. Pratt’s model of the
Gay Head
sat in drydock on the mantel.

When Abigail entered the office, Jason Pratt, his son Artemus, and James Curtis, his treasurer and adviser, were in conference with Eaton. Jason sat behind his mahogany desk. Artemus, now seventeen, sat in a corner and listened closely to the discussion. James Curtis, whose stern, ascetic look reminded Abigail of a hungry greyhound, sat beside Pratt and took notes. Henry Eaton was sunk deep in the leather chair in front of Pratt’s desk.

“Abigail, come in,” cried Jason. “Henry Eaton is telling us about the railroad he has seen in England.”

“We have a railroad right here in Massachusetts,” she said, referring to the Granite Railway, which carried stone from a quarry in Quincy to the Neponset River.

“A horse-drawn railway. Henry Eaton has seen a train pulled by something called a locomotive, a marvelous novelty.”

Abigail sat in a straight-backed chair by the southeast window, and the sun poured in around her. She had learned from her father to make others look into the glare.

“A glass of port, dear sister?” offered Jason.

“I do not drink port, except after dinner. It is a custom you would do well to embrace.”

Jason finished the glass and poured another. He was only forty-one, but his body was thick and sluggish, his eyes rimmed in red. “Father joined me for a glass each day before lunch, Abigail. I need no censure from you.” He turned to Eaton. “Please go on.”

Eaton was a tiny man wearing wire-rimmed spectacles. He had never been in the president’s office before. “Mr. Stephenson has designed several locomotives, and he is building two for the Stockton-Darlington run. I took it upon myself to express Mr. Pratt’s tremendous interest in locomotives and asked if I could see one. He invited me instead to ride the locomotive operating on nine miles of track between a coal mine and the sea.

“What a memorable sight it was! A great boiler rests atop a platform on steel wheels. All manner of pulley, throttle, and gauge
surround it, and two men operate it. One manipulates the devices. The other feeds the fire, which creates steam to drive the wheels. We traveled over hill and dale, sometimes reaching speeds of nine or ten miles an hour. All the while, the boiler spewed forth black smoke and sparks and roared like the fires of hell.”

Abigail had seen the Granite Railway in operation, and she had read Stephenson’s predictions for the future of the steam locomotive. She felt that railroads might be an excellent investment. “What is your impression of this new device?”

Eaton puffed up like a male bird in the mating season; he was rarely asked him opinion about anything. “Well, Mrs. Bentley, I’d invest some Pratt money in Stephenson’s work, if the money was mine to invest.”

“I agree, Mr. Eaton. High-speed land transportation may mean the future of America.”

“Hah!” Jason Pratt finished his port. “Abigail, you’ve become a dreamer.”

“When we have the money to risk, we should be dreamers.”

“Let others be daring, then step in after the ground or the investors themselves have been broken. That was Father’s advice.”

“To you. Because he didn’t believe you had the capacity to be daring and intelligent on your own. Father himself never heeded such words when he was a young man. He gambled his fortunes and won. His early voyages to China were the maneuvers of a daring man.”

“He didn’t invest in the Waltham mills when I suggested it. Ten years ago, textiles were a daring investment.”

“Old age brought conservatism. Father and I both should have listened to you then.” Abigail gave him his due. She knew that flattery was an excellent tool.

“But you did not, and we paid for it when we finally took our piece of the textile pie. Now, I am the president, and I will not listen to you.” Jason glanced at the others. He spoke as much to impress them as to demean Abigail.