Back Bay (34 page)

The lines around her eyes and mouth had deepened, and the flesh beneath her chin sagged slightly, but she gave no other indication of her age. Her skin was pale and smooth, like ivory. Her hands were soft, with perfect nails and long, delicate fingers. She traced the outline of her breasts. She lingered a moment at her nipples and felt the flesh respond. She continued in a graceful, luxuriant arc across her belly, down to her thighs, and up across her buttocks. She did not avoid the few rolls of fat she found gathering at her waist. She would not deceive herself. To remain young, one admitted the passage of time and accepted the inevitability of age.

A second time, she followed the contours of her body and rested her hands on her abdomen, just above her pubic mound. A year earlier, her periodic flow had grown irregular. It had stopped completely eight months later. She knew now that her womb would never expand with life, and the thought depressed her. She dreamed often of bearing young, but after the death of James Bentley, she had never met a man she considered worthy to father her children. Once or twice she had thought she was pregnant by Sean. At first, she was repulsed by the prospect of carrying an Irish child, in spite of her willingness to lie with an Irish man. But she thrilled to the idea of a child in her image. Each time she thought she was pregnant, she convinced herself that the child would be hers alone, that it would bear her traits and the stamp of her upbringing, that the father needed only to be physically fit and intelligent, and society be damned. But her belly never swelled, and she wondered often if she was infertile. She would never find out.

No matter, she thought. Her body would never show the marks of childbirth, and she would be the mother of something much greater than a single baby.

Abigail heard his step. She wrapped herself in a silk robe and sat by the east windows. He knocked three times, then once.

“Come in, Sean.”

Five years had added to his beauty and bulk but not to his poetical abilities. Abigail had helped him to publish three volumes of verse, none of which sold more than fifty copies. He had been trying to publish a fourth, but Abigail’s influence with booksellers no longer helped him.

“The only people who would want to read your poetry,” one publisher told him, “are the Irish, and most Irish can’t read.”

Still Abigail listened willingly to his memories of Ireland and his visions of heroism. She offered criticism and encouragement and told him to keep writing. Sean’s mother never questioned Abigail’s interest in the boy; she was thankful for Abigail’s kindness.

Abigail and Sean no longer made love after each reading. He had begun to practice on other women the skills he had learned between her legs. She did not give him her love, but she was jealous to keep him to herself. When she sensed that he was seeing some Irish girl from the parish, she would speak to him politely but brusquely, as an employer to a servant. When his expression told her that his new love was gone, she would leave him to suffer a day or two, then invite him into her bed.

Today, she wanted him. She didn’t care if he had just come from a Canal Street whore.

“How are you today, Sean?”

“Well, ma’am.” He was carrying no poetry with him. He seemed nervous.

Abigail stood and approached him. “I’ve been waiting for you, dear.” She slipped her arms around his waist and clasped her hands behind him.

He stepped back, as though he did not want her to touch him.

“What’s wrong, Sean?” She thought he was ill.

“Will you marry me, Abigail?” He called her Abigail when they spoke intimately. The rest of the time, she was Mrs. Bentley.

Abigail smiled maternally. “We’ve discussed this before, Sean. A lady does not marry her Irish servant. It is simply not done. Besides, dear, we are not in love.”

“But I love you,” he protested.

“That isn’t enough, Sean, and if you loved me, you wouldn’t spread yourself around like some Irish alley tomcat.”

“Then you’re going to lose me, Mrs. Bentley.” He buttoned his topcoat as a gesture of finality, a symbol of his leaving. “I can’t stay in this house.”

“May I ask if you’ve found another young lass to be tickling your fancy?” Abigail was not upset. They’d had this discussion many times.

“No. I’ve got to leave this house and make somethin’ of myself.”

“You’ve already made something of yourself, Sean. You’re a fine poet.”

He laughed bitterly. “I thought that once, but that was you lyin’ to me.”

His words cut into her. She hadn’t thought he could hurt her. She put her hands on his shoulders and held him at arm’s length. “I have never lied to you, Sean. I have always encouraged you and tried to be good to you.”

“You’ve been good to me as long as I gave you what you wanted, and you wanted me to come to you like a nineteen-year-old boy. Well, I’m twenty-four now. I’m a man. I can’t be drivin’ a lady’s coach and readin’ poetry to her all my life.”

As he spoke, she began to realize that, this time, he was serious. She had always been able to turn his ambitions aside, but she knew that she had no right to keep him in her service any longer. She was using him. She had to let him go. She brought her hands gently to his face.

He stepped back again. He was struggling to maintain his resolve.

“Please, dear.” She touched his face. She wanted to remember each feature. “You’re so beautiful, Sean. You have given me so much. If this is what you want, I won’t try to stop you.”

He took her hand. “I wouldn’t stay, even if you married me. I must quit this house altogether. As long as you’re in my life, I’ll be a slave to you.”

“You talk like a poet, Sean.”

Impulsively, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Then he turned it over and kissed the palm. She caressed his cheek, and they embraced. She wanted to pull away. If he was leaving her, it was best that he go quickly. She had long feared this day, and she
had tried to prepare herself for it, but she knew that she could not let him go completely. She had to take some part in his life.

She stepped back and looked him over as though she were inspecting a ship before a voyage. “Where will you go, Sean?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I’ll be strikin’ out on my own.”

“What would you say to shipping from Boston under the Pratt House flag?”

He hesitated. It took a moment for the question to sink in.

“I’ll speak to my brother about putting you on the
Alicia Howell
,” continued Abigail, warming quickly to the idea. “She’s bound for Canton in two weeks. Can you wait that long?”

“Yes. Yes!” he said excitedly.

“A trip at sea would be marvelous. Best thing in the world for a young man.” She was beginning to feel like a kindly aunt.

“Indeed, ma’am. I’ll do anything they ask me.”

“And I shall see to it that they ask you to do everything there is.” She walked to her settee. “Learn everything there is.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How to fix a bilge pump. How to take a sighting from the north star. How to flatter a hong merchant and get the best price for Pratt opium.”

“I’ll learn it all. I promise.” The excitement was jumping in his throat.

She lowered her voice. “And Sean.”

“Ma’am?”

She sat. “I wouldn’t do this for anyone else.”

He walked over to the settee and knelt down beside her. “I’ll be forever in your debt, Mrs. Bentley.”

“I know.” A smile spread across her face. “You have two weeks to start paying me back.”

The next morning, a note from Jason Pratt awaited James Curtis when he arrived for work. “James, I’m off to inspect new mills in Lowell. My sister has made another request, but she has finally asked for something that it is within my power to grant. Her young servant Sean, the brooding Irish poet, has decided to stop brooding and do something worth-while with his life. Abigail has great
affection for the boy, and she has asked that we find him a position. She says he has a mind for numbers and is very bright. I suggest that we make him assistant to the supercargo on the
Alicia Howell
and let him learn a little about the trade. Anson Dabney will be going out on
Alicia
, and he’s a most patient sort. He can keep the boy busy during the voyage and introduce him to our people in Canton. Perhaps the horse thief that is said to lurk in the soul of every Irishman will find a comfortable niche with Pratt Shipping and Mercantile, and we can use his heredity to our advantage.”

Curtis tossed the letter aside. He knew Anson Dabney to be a cranky, crustaceous old sot. He had been trying to convince Pratt to fire Dabney for years, and now Pratt wanted to give him an assistant. The China run needed no supercargoes. Pratt Shipping and Mercantile maintained its own agency in Canton, and the agency performed the duties of the supercargo. But Anson Dabney had spent forty years in the service of the Pratts, and Jason couldn’t fire him.

Curtis sometimes wondered how the company continued to make money under Jason Pratt. Income had reached a peak by 1825 and leveled off. It had taken a year at sea before Jason’s six new Indiamen had become profitable, and their income had never fulfilled Pratt’s expectations. After he had built the ships, Jason had stopped making decisions and let the company run itself. Or so it seemed to James Curtis.

If Pratt didn’t have men like himself, thought Curtis, Pratt Shipping and Mercantile would be slipping slowly into Boston Harbor. Jason Pratt’s father had built an efficient organization in Boston, London, New York, and Canton. He had found men like Curtis to support his operation and assure its smooth functioning. Such men freed Horace Pratt from the daily problems of directing his company and allowed him to devote his time to speculations. Such men were the backbone, and the president was the brain. Under Jason Pratt, the brain had functioned sporadically, and James Curtis had been forced to do most of the thinking. He had enjoyed the power he wielded and the rewards it brought him, but he had always resented serving a lesser man.

He would see to it that the Mannion boy was given a position
on the
Alicia Howell
. Curtis did not consider it in his interest to antagonize Abigail Pratt Bentley. She was suspicious, distrustful, and nuisance enough as it was.

He called for his morning cup of tea and the company books. Keeping everything balanced was a complicated task.

The packet
Sea Gull
arrived from New York on the afternoon tide. The cabin boy had the job of delivering important dispatches straight off the ship. Before the
Sea Gull
tied up, he was galloping through the crowd on Long Wharf with a dispatch in his hand. He hoped he was carrying good news; it always meant a big tip.

“Dispatch for Mr. Jason Pratt,” he announced. He was ushered into James Curtis’s office, through which one passed to see Pratt. He presented the envelope to Curtis and waited.

Curtis broke the seal and read the signature. The dispatch came from Roger Hamilton, second mate on the
Ephraim Pratt
, an East Indiaman.

Sir, It is my unhappy duty to inform you that the
Ephraim Pratt
sank in heavy seas off the coast of Brazil (10°4′ South, 36°8′ West) on September 1, 1830. We carried a crew of eighteen, including captain and mates. All save four perished. Captain Lasher and First Mate Magee went valiantly down with their ship. I could not save her books, but your agents in Canton will supply you with a strict accounting of the cargo. We carried silk, teas, spices, and a special shipment of jade sculpture valued in excess of $20,000. I will arrive in Boston soon after this letter to provide you with a complete report of the tragedy. Your Most Humble and Obedient Servant.

James Curtis read the letter twice. He couldn’t believe it. For fifty years, Pratt captains had maintained a record of safety and good seamanship that was unsurpassed. Curtis had never expected this news.

The cabin boy cleared his throat.

“What do you want?” snapped Curtis.

“Nothing, sir.”

“Then be off with you.”

Bad luck to be delivering bad news. “Thank you, and good afternoon, sir.”

Curtis did not notice the sarcasm. He was already planning his departure. He would leave loose ends, a month’s salary, and a houseful of furniture behind, but his deposits in the Boston Five Cents Savings Bank would carry him and his wife a long way. Perhaps back to Scotland and his mother’s family, perhaps to Florence or Rome. He placed the dispatch on Pratt’s desk, then cleaned out his own. He looked around the office a last time and left with Pratt Shipping and Mercantile in turmoil.

That evening, Abigail reclined in front of the fireplace in her sitting room, a glass of sherry at her side and her diary in her lap. She sipped the sherry, holding it for a moment on her tongue to relish its sweetness. Her senses tingled after a day with Sean, and she was glad for these two weeks. She would savor him every day until he left. Then she would turn her attention to the more serious matters which had today presented themselves.

She dipped her quill and wrote.