Back Bay (30 page)

“If our brother had lived, you would not be sitting in this office.” Abigail did not move or raise her voice. Her response landed like a blow.

For a moment, no one spoke. Eyes shifted from Abigail to Jason, but Jason lacked his sister’s acerbity, and he knew she was right. He had no response.

Mr. Eaton squirmed nervously. Jason excused him.

“Do you say no to railroads because you firmly believe they have no future, or because of your feelings for me?” asked Abigail after Eaton had left.

“I confess that my dislike for you colors all our dealings, Abigail, and I agree that there may well be a future for railroads, but at the moment, we do not have the money to invest. We are building ships. I have commissioned Melville Morton to build six instead of the four that Father was planning.”

“Six?” While other boys his age learned a trade, Artemus studied the books of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile. “Do we have the money to support such an undertaking, Father?”

“Whether we have the money or not,” said Abigail, “it is a bad investment. Our shipping revenues have not risen appreciably since 1820. We have steady income from the China trade, but Boston is losing its position as a center of American commerce. The Erie Canal and the Hudson River make it cheaper to ship goods through New York.”

“Boston is still preeminent in the field of textile manufacture, Abigail. We have markets around the globe. And one day, we will be able to trade with all of China. We will not have to go through the hong merchants in Canton. Then we will clothe millions. Hundreds of millions.” Jason poured himself more port. “We’ll build the ships. The Pratt House flag will rule the seas, Abigail.”

“We have no exclusive contracts with textile producers, Jason, and you have not been able to secure any since Father took sick. Until we are guaranteed that the Merrimack Manufacturing Company will ship only through us, we cannot expand our fleet.”

“We are building ships.”

Abigail stood and approached Jason’s desk. “Have you ever considered the distance from Boston to Lowell, Jason? And the length of time it takes to travel it?”

“Only when I travel it.” Jason laughed at his joke and looked toward his son, who did not react.

“Then consider this: a railroad line from Boston to Lowell
would bring textile goods to the waterfront cheaply and quickly, at a tremendous profit to the operators of the line.”

Jason tried to dismiss her with a wave of his hand. “Lowell is over thirty miles away, and efficient steam locomotives are still a dream in the heads of a few inventors.”

“Have you ever considered the immensity of this country, Jason?”

“No.”

She turned to Artemus. “Have you?”

“I’ve read the journals of Lewis and Clark’s expeditions.”

“Then you know what riches lie beyond the Adirondacks and Appalachians. Europe will one day beg for all the minerals, foods, and animal furs this country can produce. To bring these goods to Eastern ports, we will need railroads. Let Boston lead the struggle, and we will guarantee that our ships are always full.”

Jason was becoming exasperated. “But there is no railroad to invest in.”

“Generate one!” Abigail was speaking passionately now. She had forgotten the coolness with which she usually spoke to her brother. “To start with, a line from Boston to Lowell. Go to Stephenson. Give his company money in exchange for exclusive American rights to his locomotives. It’s a gamble, but we must be daring. Otherwise the times will pass us by.”

“An excellent phrase, Mrs. Bentley. May I use it?” James Curtis rarely spoke except in sarcasm.

Abigail ignored him. “Have you discussed your decision with anyone else?” she asked Jason.

“I’ve talked it over with Artemus.”

“And I disagree with your decision to build six ships.”

Jason turned on his son. His voice was suddenly harsh. “When I was your age, my father rarely spoke to me, and he never included me in his business discussions. Be glad that I think so highly of you.”

“I still disagree.” He spoke firmly. Already he seemed more confident than his father.

Jason turned to Curtis. “And your opinion?”

“I have agreed from the outset that our fleet must be enlarged, regardless of the expense.”

Abigail smiled at Curtis. “After all these years, my brother has managed to find himself a sycophant.”

Abigail did not like or trust James Curtis. Long before Jason had moved into the president’s office, Curtis had latched onto him and held tight. As Jason’s responsibilities grew, Curtis’s importance was magnified. Now, he was her brother’s closest adviser, a man of intelligence and experience who might easily manipulate his superiors. Abigail often felt that Curtis was directing Pratt Shipping and Mercantile through her brother, and she wondered what profit he took beyond his salary and his shares in Pratt ships.

Curtis stared at Abigail for a few moments, then he looked toward Jason. His eyes suggested that Jason finish the conversation.

“Ships are the lifeline of New England, Abigail. They always have been. They always will be.” Jason spun in his chair and gazed out at the ocean. He fancied that he conveyed his father’s authority.

“Jason, you are a fool. I do not suffer fools gladly. And this matter is not closed.” Abigail picked up her purse and shawl.

At the door, she turned again. “I pray, for the good of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile, that young Artemus is not so obtuse as his father. Otherwise, we shall not survive another generation.”

Abigail had lost. She did not consider it a small defeat. She would have other chances to argue for railroads; they were still in their infancy. But she could not stop her brother’s massive investment in new shipping.

If the weak man takes power, his weakness may lead him to act when the strong man would do nothing. Abigail recalled the lines from her diary. And the weak man may refuse to listen when the strong man would welcome advice.

Abigail stepped into the bright sunshine of Long Wharf. Sarah Lowell Pratt and Philip, her two-year-old son, were alighting from their carriage.

“Good day, Sarah,” said Abigail coldly.

“Your weekly harassment of my husband?” Sarah’s voice had not softened with the years.

“It behooves me to know what the acting president—”

“Acting and future president,” corrected Sarah.

“—is doing with Pratt money.”

“You have no constructive interest. You visit that office because you hate my husband and want to embarrass him.”

Abigail smiled. She usually found Sarah’s distrust rather amusing. “There is no fraternal love between us, but I see no purpose in weakening your husband. We are allies in the interests of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile.”

Sarah laughed. She was not amused.

Abigail knelt, or squatted in her petticoats, beside her nephew. She loved the child, as she loved all her nephews, in spite of their parents. She thought that Philip, with his blond curls and blue eyes, was the most beautiful child she had ever seen. “How is our little man today?”

Philip played with the buttons on his suit. He was still learning to speak, and he talked only when the mood was upon him.

Abigail embraced him. “Do you have a kiss for your Aunt Abigail?”

He continued to play with his buttons.

“Apparently, the child is a better judge of character than his older brothers, both of whom have lately spoken well of you.”

Abigail felt her muscles tense and her hands tighten around the boy’s shoulders. Anger screamed in her ears. It was not the first time that Sarah Lowell Pratt had mocked Abigail in front of the children. Sarah knew that maternal instincts burned in Abigail, as they did in every woman. To be without young was a tragedy, to be fertile, a joy. For years, Sarah had been finding ways to remind Abigail that she was childless. It was Sarah’s small victory against Abigail’s independence.

Abigail stood. She refused to show her anger.

Sarah took her son by the hand. “Come along, Philip. We must be visiting Papa. Good morning, Abigail.”

Abigail felt the tears well in her eyes. She wished sometimes that she had never been born a Pratt, that she had been instead a farmer’s daughter and a farmer’s wife living in Lexington with her twelve children and her loving husband. If a woman was born to bear children and overflow with love at the sight of a little boy, why did Abigail feel that she had been born to control the affairs of men?

She clenched her fists and closed her eyes. She tried to fight back tears of frustration. She cursed Pratt Shipping and Mercantile and all it meant to her. She cursed her fat brother and her mad father and all the men who had used her. She remembered Richard Lawson, the first mate of the
Gay Head II
, with his tanned skin and the white scar across his cheek. He professed his love every day until her father made him master of the
Ephraim Pratt
. She thought of her own James, the man she loved. They had been married just a week when he had left for England. She remembered how she had pleaded with him to stay. He had said he would be gone a few months, but he had never returned. She could no longer control her tears.

Sean Mannion helped her into the carriage and climbed onto his perch. He opened the box and looked down into the compartment. “Where would you like to go, ma’am?”

Mrs. Bentley was huddled in the far corner. She was crying softly. For the first time since he had met her, she seemed vulnerable. Sean wanted to comfort her, to protect her.

“Where to, ma’am?” he said softly.

She did not answer.

He waited until she stopped crying. “Ma’am?”

“Oh Sean,” she said. “Life would be so much simpler for me if I were a man.”

“And much less enjoyable for the rest of us… beggin’ your pardon, ma’am.”

Abigail smiled. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “That’s very nice of you, Sean. Thank you. Please take me home.”

“Yes, Mrs. Bentley.”

“And Sean, you’re a fine young man. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Sean blushed and called to the horses.

The ride back to Pemberton Hill took only a few minutes. On the way, Abigail resolved that she would not allow self-pity to paralyze her. She would not let other men see her crying. She would be strong.

Sean stopped the carriage in front of the house and started to climb down.

“That’s all right, Sean,” said Abigail. “You may put the carriage away.” She wondered later if she had spoken on impulse, or if she had been planning to say that.

The carriage rolled into the barn. Abigail smelled the pungent odor of hay and manure and sweating horses. She liked it. It was a clean smell. It made no pretense. Neither did Sean.

The carriage door opened and Sean extended his hand. “May I help you out, ma’am?” he asked softly.

She saw the admiration in his eyes. Whenever he looked at her, she saw her beauty reflected. Never did she see lust or self-interest. In his presence, she felt like a work of art.

She gave him her hand. Through her cotton gloves, she felt the perspiration on his palm. It flattered her. She climbed out of the carriage and stood in front of him. For a moment, she held onto his hand and looked deep into his eyes. She felt him trembling. They had never stood this close before.

“Sean,” she whispered, “you have brought me great relief.” She brought her face close to his. “Do you like me, Sean?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He could barely speak.

“I think you are the handsomest young man I have ever met.” She paused. She was going to enjoy this boy. “I’ve decided to let you kiss me.”

He didn’t move. He had kissed only two women in his life, his mother and a farm girl in a haystack. Mrs. Bentley was a fine lady.

“Kiss me, Sean,” she urged gently.

He placed his lips upon hers for a moment, then, believing he had gone too far, he pulled away. She put a hand around his neck and brought his face down to hers. She kissed him hard.

“When I tell you to kiss me, that is how I want it done.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Now, kiss me,” she commanded.

He pulled her against him. When they separated, they were both breathing heavily.

“That’s better, Sean.”

She kissed him again. She felt his hands around her waist, but they did not stray. He would do only what she instructed. She began to savor her power over him.

“I have other parts,” she whispered. “You may find them if you care to.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Tentatively, he ran his hands across her breasts, but the top of a tight corset protected her nipples. He moved down her back and tried to caress her buttocks, but her heavy petticoats were impenetrable. He brought his hands more urgently back to her breasts, then across her stomach. He moved toward her loins, but he could feel nothing through the layers of fabric. His hands settled in defeat at her waist.

She smiled. She had frustrated him just enough. With her fingertips, she lightly brushed across his crotch. He shuddered. She felt his penis bulging against his pantaloons. She pressed her palm against it, an act of mercy. He whimpered, and the fish smell of semen mixed with the earthy aroma in the barn. Abigail breathed deep and wiped her hand on her handkerchief. Now, she owned him.

Sean looked at the stain spreading across the front of his pants and turned away. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Bentley. I…”

“Sean, are you free this afternoon?”

“After my chores.”

“When you finish, bring your poetry upstairs to my sitting room. I have never listened carefully to it. I may like it well enough to send it to one of my bookseller friends on Washington Street.”

That afternoon Abigail reclined on the settee in the middle of her room. She wore a loose-fitting flowered dress over a slip. She did not wear a corset. Sean sat in a straight-backed chair opposite her. He had changed into trousers and blouse. Her sitting room, on the west end of the house, adjoined her bedroom on one side and her father’s room on the other.

Sean was reading from “The Ballad of Denny Dundee,” his attempt at Byron. “Off in the heather where the cold wind blows,/Young Denny Dundee was running./The Brits did pursue him,/For a brave man was he/Who fought all his life so that Eire might breathe free.”