Back Bay (36 page)

“Then you will not invest in railroads, because I have no intention of giving you my house.” Abigail stared out at the tide pools and channels reflecting silver in the morning sun. Jason glared at her.

For a long time, they traveled in silence. The coach rolled down Lenox Street, then turned north and clattered past the mills and foundries on Gravelly Point. Abigail did not intend to speak until her brother spoke. She could see him grappling with his own inadequacy. She knew that he was trying to find the courage to break an oath. She sensed his discomfort; she magnified it by saying nothing.

Finally, Artemus spoke. “Aunt Abigail, the house is quite large. Do you really believe you need all that space?”

“It is the ancestral home, Artemus. I’ll not see it destroyed so that the Boston and Lowell Railroad can have a depot. I have greater respect for my heritage than that.” She spoke evenly, firmly, and looked out the window again.

Artemus couldn’t help but admire his aunt. She seemed soft and delicate, but beneath the damask, she was flint and steel.

The carriage reached the Mill Dam and stopped. This was the halfway point in the trip, and Abigail usually climbed out here to survey the city. A mile to the east, Beacon Hill and Boston rose out of the receiving basin. Off to the west rolled the hills of Brookline, brown and leafless in the November light. On the north side of the dam, the Charles River flowed out to Boston Harbor. On the south side, the waters of the Back Bay spread like a film across the flats.
Abigail was making her weekly pilgrimage to the treasure, which sat out there beneath the shallow water, a half mile from any solid land.

Abigail looked at the two men sitting opposite her in the cramped carriage. “I’m here for my Saturday stroll. Would either of you care to join me?”

“Abigail,” blurted Jason, “I have decided to break a promise to you that I made on our father’s grave.”

She smiled. “I expected as much.”

He looked at his son. “On the day we buried my father, Abigail told me of a treasure somewhere in the waters around Boston. She told me she was the only person who knew its nature and location, and she said it was always there if ever we needed it.” He looked at Abigail. “We need it now. Since you are so adamant about giving up the house and so convinced of the rightness of railroad investments, you must be willing to give up something for the good of the company.”

Abigail laughed again. “Sell your ships, Jason. Act like a businessman. Learn that life provides no easy escapes from crisis.”

Jason’s anger flared. “Do you want me to reveal your secret?”

“You’ve already revealed it to Artemus.”

“It’s the Revere tea set,” he said triumphantly, “and it’s someplace out there.” He gestured toward the Back Bay.

Abigail was not surprised. He had enough of the facts, and he had spent five years putting them together.

“I know it’s the tea set, because the government investigated Father after its disappearance. I know it is in the Back Bay, because that’s where young Horace drowned. There is no longer any secret and no need to keep the treasure hidden.” Jason sat back and tried to look smug.

Abigail smiled. “If you think it’s the tea set and it’s in the Back Bay, you have my permission to look for it.”

“Is it the tea set?”

Abigail stared out the window and said nothing.

“Well, whatever it is, it’s in the Back Bay, and I’ll find it.” He tried to speak firmly.

“You have several hundred acres in which to look, dear brother, and you don’t even know what you’re looking for,” responded Abigail.

“I’ll drag the bottom of the bay. I’ll cover every square inch, if
I must. But I will find it. It’s a family legacy. It’s part of my birthright.” Jason spat as he spoke.

“Apparently, our father disagreed with you, Jason. I am the only person who knows what it is and where it is. I shall determine when, if ever, it is to be retrieved. Moreover, dragging the bottom of the Back Bay will be an expensive proposition, and you will certainly attract unwanted attention. Someone may get the right idea and start dragging along with you.” She was cool, imperious.

“I can handle anyone I have to deal with,” said Jason, beginning to bluster.

“And when they ask one of Boston’s leading businessmen what he is looking for out there in a rowboat, what will you say?”

“Nothing. Let them mind their own business.”

Abigail laughed derisively again. The breeze changed, and the stink of a mudflat low tide filled the carriage. She held a perfumed silk handkerchief to her nostrils and rapped again on the roof of the carriage. “Take us back to Long Wharf, Sean.”

“You can’t turn me away so easily.” Jason sounded like an angry child.

“However, I can turn away
from
you.” Abigail shifted her eyes onto the Back Bay.

Soon, Abigail, Jason, and Artemus were rocking gently down the Mill Dam toward the city. Abigail had said all that she had intended to say, and she stared out the window, as if to discourage further conversation.

Artemus realized that Abigail had beaten his father, who sat with his fists clenched on his knees and his eyes fixed in hatred on his sister. Artemus knew that his father was a failure, an inconsequential man too weak to battle in the holy wars of New England business, too weak to control his own sister.

As he listened to the rhythmic clap of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones, Artemus Pratt resolved never to be weak. Like his grandfather, he would be relentless and unbending. He would brook no opposition from politicians, competitors, or recalcitrant relatives. He would never lose control of himself. And he would learn from Abigail to communicate as clearly through silence as through well-chosen words. He would force an issue when he could and avoid it when he couldn’t. He would put his faith
in business, in the manipulation of goods, capital, people, and events. Treasure hunting he would leave to men like his father.

The fire burned brightly in Jason Pratt’s study that night, almost as brightly as it burned in his belly. He had been drinking port since early afternoon while staring alternately at the logs on the grate and the pile of Pratt ledgers on his desk. He had not even eaten supper, but still, he had no solutions.

Jason Pratt wanted to be part of the merchant aristocracy that Jackson had described. His father or son would have told him that the Pratts were already the first family of Boston merchants, but Jason lacked such confidence. He needed acceptance. To gain it, he would gladly give over the house on Pemberton Hill or the family’s secret treasure.

He sent for his sons. Artemus, Elihu, and Philip appeared at the door. Their mother was visiting an aunt in Maine. Elihu, a Harvard sophomore, of rather retiring nature, looked to his older brother for counsel. Philip, seven years old, was a bright, handsome child, the product of one of his parents’ last couplings.

Jason loved the youngest boy best of all. “I want to talk to your big brothers, Philip. You may go and play.”

Philip retreated into a corner. He kept a large box of wooden soldiers on a bookshelf beside the
Collected Works of Shakespeare
. He took it down and dragged it into the middle of the room.

Jason offered Artemus and Elihu a glass of port. Neither accepted. “Then sit down, sons. We must talk.”

Artemus leaned against a bookshelf. Elihu reclined in his father’s reading chair. Philip, now engrossed in play, filled the room with the sounds of a child’s imaginary battle.

“What do you gentlemen suggest that I do with regards to this railroad business?” When he talked business with his sons, Jason always tried to sound very officious.

Artemus spoke first. “That we sell the
Pegasus
and the
Star of Canton
, cover the Curtis losses, and subscribe for a hundred shares of the Boston and Lowell.”

Jason looked at Elihu. “Your brother has apprised you of the situation?”

“Yes, and I agree with his judgments.”

“What about Abigail?” asked Jason.

“She refuses to move. There is nothing else for us to do,” said Artemus.

“We can find the treasure. I’m certain that it’s the Golden Eagle Tea Set, and I’d stake my life that it’s in the Back Bay. If we find it, we can do all that you’ve suggested without selling a single yardarm.” Through the port-wine haze, Jason could see no other solution.

The two brothers exchanged glances. Artemus had prepared Elihu for this and had told his younger brother not to respond.

“Well,” said Jason, “will you help me?”

“I refuse to involve myself in such foolishness, Father,” announced Artemus. “We’re businessmen. We’re Pratts. I’m sure we can find a way to absorb the loss, keep the ships, and still invest in the railroads. But I would prefer not to invest if we must first hunt for some mythical treasure out on a mudflat.”

Jason looked toward Elihu, who cast his eyes toward the fire.

“My own sons refuse me.” Jason finished his port and stood as decisively as a drunken fat man could. “I will find it alone.”

Artemus could see the obsession on his father’s face. Or perhaps it was the flush of the wine. “We refuse you nothing, Father. You have our affection, our respect, and our willingness to discuss this problem in the morning.” He casually picked up the decanter, which was nearly empty. “Now, let us see you to bed.”

“I carried you both to bed countless times. I don’t need either of you to help me into my nightshirt.” He flopped into the chair beside the fireplace. “My own sons.”

Artemus looked at his brother and gestured toward the door. The young men left the room.

Jason Pratt stared at the flames for nearly five minutes before he felt a presence beside him. He looked into the eyes of his youngest son.

The boy wore an expression of the deepest concern. He didn’t fully understand the discussion he had just heard, but he realized that his father was deeply upset. “I’ll help you, Papa.”

Jason embraced the boy and kissed him on the cheek. Philip smelled the sweet aroma that he always associated with his father, the aroma of port wine.

“You help me by being a good boy.”

“I can help you find this thing.”

“No, son. It may be dangerous.”

“Please, Father?”

“I’ll tell you how you can help me.” He took his keys from his pocket and handed Philip the one for the wine cellar. “Go downstairs to my wine room. Just to the right side of the door, on the first shelf, you’ll find a row of green bottles. Get one and bring it to me.”

The boy took the key and bounded for the cellar.

“Why do I hate my brother so?” asked Abigail in her dairy that night.

Abigail blew out the oil lamp, removed her robe, and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold. The chill cut through her flannel nightgown, and she pulled herself into a little ball. She considered getting up and filling the bed warmer with hot coals, but in the time it took her to do that, her body would warm the bed. She gazed at the log burning brightly in the fireplace and closed her eyes. In five minutes, she was asleep.

On November nights, the fire would keep the room warm for several hours after she went to bed. By the time it usually burned itself out, she would be deep in sleep. But tonight, a draft woke her soon after she dozed off. She opened her eyes and screamed.

A dark figure hulked between her bed and the fireplace. She
screamed again and it moved toward her, its enormous shadow dancing on the ceiling above her head.

Sean was still working in his carriage-house apartment when he heard the scream. He jumped to his windows and looked up toward the house. He saw nothing but the orange glow of the fire in Abigail’s room. He heard another scream. He grabbed the brace of pistols which Abigail had given him when he had published his first book, and he bolted for the house.

Abigail tried to jump out of bed and run, but the figure grabbed her by the arm and flung her toward the fireplace. She saw the bags of loose flesh, the glassy eyes reflecting the fire, the upper lip curled in hatred—her brother’s drunken face.

“Where is it, Abigail?” The words rasped out of him.

“The tea set?”

“Where is it, you bitch?” He struck her across the face.

She would not enrage him further. “It’s in the Back Bay. I’ll show you where it is in the morning. I promise.”

“I know you too well. You won’t tell me in the morning. You hate me.” He advanced toward her.

“I don’t hate you.” She tried to soothe him as she reached for the fireplace shovel behind her.

“You show more affection and respect for your footman than you do for me. I despise you.”

Her hand closed around the shovel. He came at her and caught her by the throat. She swung the shovel, but he was standing too close to hit.

“Tell me where it is right now,” he commanded.

She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t breathe.

The door flew open. Sean saw Abigail struggling with a figure twice her size. He heard her muffled cries. Without thinking, he raised one of the pistols and fired. The fingers closed tight around Abigail’s throat, then let go. Jason collapsed on the floor, and a pool of blood spread like a flower on the rug beneath his head.

For a moment, Sean and Abigail stood in shock.

“I didn’t know it was… I didn’t mean to shoot him. He’s not dead. He can’t be.”

Abigail tried to speak, but she had no voice. She swallowed hard. “I’m afraid he is.”