The Furies (28 page)

Jared pointed to the corner where he’d put down his bag and his old Hawken rifle; he’d fetched them from a cheap hotel where he’d taken a room before going to the Exchange.

“I expect that’ll handle them if they cause a fuss.”

“I doubt they’d do it on Christmas,” Billy said. “We can just relax and enjoy the grub.”

Jared chuckled, amused at the way California slang had found its way into the Australian’s vocabulary. Billy Beadle was a convicted thief, Amanda said. But he seemed a sunny, even-tempered sort.

“I’ll stow my hammer,” he said.

“And I’ll prod Felix—”

Amanda and the Australian left. Jared stretched again, feeling drowsy in the sunlight. His knees had begun to ache a little. But he was supremely content, totally unworried about the dead man’s friends.

They began the Christmas celebration with a discordant but boisterous rendition of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” which Billy Beadle directed with considerable flourish.

Then Amanda said, “Louis usually offers the grace, Jared. But if you don’t object, I wish you’d do it—being the oldest of the family.”

“Don’t know whether that’s a compliment or not.” He smiled, then bowed his head along with the others.

It took a while for him to collect his thoughts. Even when he did, the words were hesitant. “Lord God, this is Jared Kent speaking to you. I, uh, mention the name because I haven’t been one of your most faithful followers. But I—we thank you for the blessings of this holy day, most particularly because”—he cleared his throat and knuckled his misting eyes—“because you saw fit to reunite the Kents, and for that we are in your everlasting debt. We thank you for the food of which we are about to partake, and for the kinship of loved ones after so many years of—” He couldn’t go on for a moment. “After so many years,” he repeated in a whisper. “Thank you. Amen.”

Amanda slipped her hand over his and squeezed, not letting go for a good long time. Jared got himself under control and, smiling again, finally raised his head.

Amanda nodded briskly to the cook who had crossed himself at the completion of the grace. “Felix, we’re ready. Do your utmost.”

He bowed low. “Madame Kent—that I have already done. You shall see!”

He bustled out, returning with platter after platter. The meal included his egg and oyster specialty, salmon, wild duck with rice, loaves of bread he’d baked before daylight, and plenty of rum and French champagne to lubricate Jared’s tongue and deaden his rheumatic pains.

Amanda left once during the meal, to go out to the shanty and see to Israel. While she was gone, Jared carved himself a second slice of duck. The slightly greasy handle of the knife slipped in his hand. He nicked a finger. Louis ran for a bit of clean rag while Jared sat pale as milk, his stomach churning with the old, inexplicable nausea that had plagued him since childhood.

He had never been able to look at a wound—his or anyone else’s—without being overcome by a few seconds of paralyzing sickness. He’d long ago given up trying to fathom why he was so afflicted. By force of will he usually managed to keep his reaction hidden while he waited for the infuriating nausea to pass, as it did now.

By the time Louis returned with the rag scrap and knotted it around Jared’s finger, he was his old self again. Amanda came in to report Israel was sleeping comfortably.

Louis insisted on hearing Jared describe his life as a trapper. He obliged, sprinkling the story with anecdotes about the friends he’d made—his partner Weatherby; Old Gabe Bridger; the bandy-legged and pugnacious brigade captain, Kit Carson—and examples of the humor peculiar to the tough, often illiterate mountain men. He repeated their jokes about the Platte River—“The only water in America you have to chew”—and the spaciousness of the country they roamed.

“Since an echo takes eight hours to come back, you just shout, ‘Time to get up!’ when you go to bed. Then of course there’s the glass mountain—”

Louis was smiling but dubious.

“I’ve seen it!” Jared said. “A whole mountain exactly like the lens of a spyglass. You can look through it and watch elk grazing twenty-five miles away. But it’s so clear, there are thousands of dead birds around the base. They try to fly through it and knock their brains out.”

“Glass mountain or not,” Louis said, “it sounds like you’ve done some mighty exciting things.”

“I’ve done what I had to do,” Jared answered, with considerable truth. He drained the rum in his cup, gazed across the table at Amanda. “I never did find your mother, though. Weatherby and I searched two whole seasons, asking for her among the Teton Sioux—”

“They kept me out of sight whenever white traders arrived. I never got so much as a peek at visitors.”

“I do recall a village where there was a brave named Plenty Coups,” Jared reflected. “Weatherby and I visited it a year after I threw in with him. No one said a word about a white girl in the tepees. My God—” He shook his head. “If we’d only had sense enough to search a little on the sly—”

“We were probably closer than we knew,” Amanda agreed.

“At least we didn’t spend all our lives without seeing each other. I was plain lucky to draw the first holiday—”

“And we’re delighted your mine’s a success, sir,” Billy Beadle said, toasting their visitor with a cup of champagne.

“Delighted and envious!” Felix growled from his place beside the Australian. “I should leave the kitchen! Go to the diggings—”

“You’d have a hard time,” Jared advised him. “It’s sad to say, but the Americans are pretty intolerant of foreigners.”

“The same is true here, sir,” Billy remarked. “I often wonder if it’s a national disease—”

“Sometimes the behavior of Americans does make you think so,” Amanda said. “I do get astonished at how easily people forget that everyone in this country is a foreigner—except the Indian.”

“I would be happy to take my chances if I could find gold,” Felix declared.

“Not many do,” Jared said. “I’d guess ninety percent of the men in Hopeful will end up poorer than when they chased out here. I suppose I should count myself fortunate. At the rate the Ophir’s producing now, it won’t make me wealthy by the time I die. But at least I’ll be comfortable.”

“Comfortable enough to go east to see Jephtha—” Amanda began.

Unaccountably annoyed, he hedged. “At this stage, it’s no more than a thought—”

“A good thought. Louis and I could go with you. We could visit your son, and then Boston.”

Louis’ cheerful expression vanished. He snatched a slice of bread, tore it in two and stuffed a half in his mouth.

Jared shook his head. “Talking about Boston is pointless, Amanda. I have no desire to go there.”

“I think you’ll change your mind.”

She didn’t say why, though, just gave him an odd, challenging stare. Her face looked chalky in the pale orange light suffusing the room. Jared again had the feeling she wanted to tell him something. He almost urged her to it. But she stood up suddenly, murmuring that the coffeepot was empty.

Felix jumped to his feet “I will go, madame—”

“No, you sit still.” Before she turned away, Jared saw that hard glint in her eyes.

He frowned and plucked a crumb from his beard, wondering sadly whether they could ever be genuinely close again. As he well knew, time and hardship changed a person. It seemed to have changed her.

Yet he felt there was more to it. She was inexplicably tense, expectant—

I’m getting old,
he thought.
I’m seeing phantoms where I should be seeing only a capable, grown-up woman who can’t help being a stranger in many ways
—

But he wasn’t convinced. She was hiding something. What was it?

Gazing at the curtain falling into place across the kitchen door, he asked himself whether he truly wanted to discover the answer.

It was well after dark. A whale oil lamp glowed on the small table next to Jared’s chair by the window.

Louis was already tucked into bed in his alcove. Billy Beadle had gone off to sit with Israel. The doctor had called at five, saying Israel would begin to experience a good deal of pain soon, and would need liberal doses of alcohol throughout the night. Felix had departed to circulate among the celebrants in the saloons. Even on Christmas, San Francisco had resumed its revelry.

Jared yawned, sleepy from the huge meal and the rounds of rum and coffee afterward. Amanda entered; she’d gone to settle an argument between two of the paying guests upstairs. He marveled at the expert way she handled the long-muzzled Colt’s revolver—

She replaced the revolver on its pegs, then moved to a shelf of books he had noticed earlier. She drew one down and handed it to him.

Puzzled, Jared examined the stamped spine. “ ‘Napoleon and his Marshals,’ ” he read aloud. “If you’re recommending this to put me to sleep, I don’t need it.”

She ignored his wry smile. “Look at the title page.”

He turned the first couple of leaves.

“My God! Kent and Son.”

Amanda leaned over him, pointing. “The date, Jared. Ten years ago.”

His hand shook as he closed the cover. Now he understood what had caused her tension. He felt as if he’d walked to the rim of a chasm—a chasm from which he’d retreated years ago. The whale oil lamp made her eyes glare with a fierceness he found frightening.

“Where—where did you get this, Amanda?”

“From a trader down in the pueblo of Los Angeles.” She pointed to the shelf. “Captain McGill has brought me others since then.” She took hold of his shoulder.
“Stovall rebuilt the company!”

Jared’s head lifted, his eyes revealing his confusion. “I wonder if Jephtha knows. He attended divinity school in New England. He might have seen some books with the Kent imprint—”

“Entirely possible.”

“If he did, why didn’t he write me?”

“To spare your feelings, perhaps. He might think it was wiser to let the past stay buried. He might assume nothing could be done about it. That’s where a minister and I would disagree. I believe something can and should be done.”

Fingers still trembling, Jared laid the book aside. He covered his eyes with a palm and whispered, “I knew there was something you were waiting to tell me. I could feel it all day—”

He dropped the hand to his lap, massaging the enlarged knuckles. The peace of Christmas had left him, replaced by a chaotic churn of emotion. He saw images—

The deck of the frigate
Constitution
on which he’d sailed when he was still a boy.

The hateful, foppishly handsome sixth lieutenant, Hamilton Stovall, who had tried to make him a party to shameful male degeneracy.

He saw Stovall aim a pistol in the smoke that hung over the frigate after its battle with
Guerriere
, saw the defensive slash of his own cutlass sever a cannon’s breeching ropes.

He saw the cannon rolling free, and Stovall falling against it; he heard Stovall’s shriek as his hands, then his right cheek struck the searing metal of the still-hot gun—

And he saw the morning when Hamilton Stovall, swinging a cane, had strolled into Kent’s with his general manager to announce that he’d won the firm by cheating Aunt Harriet’s husband at cards and dice—

He didn’t want to ask the question that fairly screamed in his mind. But he did. “Who’s operating the printing house now? Stovall?”

“His employees.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.”

A long silence. He covered his eyes again.

“I must say, Jared, I expected a stronger reaction.”

“What kind of reaction?”

“Interest. Anger.”

He shook his head. “Indulging my anger made a shambles of everything. I knew I had to begin a new life or I’d always be a prisoner of the old one.” He drew a breath. “Forget Stovall. I have.”

“How could you?
He took what belonged to us!
”

“In another life—another world. I’ll never see Boston again.”

She whispered, “I will.”

“Is—is that the real reason you’re working so hard out here?”

“Yes. Ever since I found the Headley book, I’ve worked for nothing else. Jared—”

She turned and walked slowly toward the piano bench. As she sat, her hand brushed the treble keys. A wild, jangling burst of notes filled the lamplit room, then slowly died away.

“Hamilton Stovall is still alive. Living in New York City—controlling the company from there—I’ve had Captain McGill make inquiries. He’s ruined the firm. It publishes outdated reprints and scurrilous books that run counter to everything our family stood for. I’ve got to bring Kent and Son back into the hands of its rightful owners!”

“Not for my sake. I don’t care anymore.”

Her mouth thinned. “You don’t care that Stovall’s let you believe you were a murderer all these years?”

“Let me believe? What do you mean?”

“Do you remember the man you shot at the printing house?”

“The man I killed? Walpole? Yes—”

“You didn’t kill him.”

“What?”

She rushed to him, kneeling and gripping his arms. “He didn’t die. He’s alive today—just as Stovall is! Stovall probably laughs about it. Jared, believe me. Captain McGill confirmed it—Walpole is
alive.
Isn’t that reason enough to fight for the company?
And
hurt Stovall if he gets in the way?”

His emotional defenses broke. Hate seethed through him—fully the match of the hate he saw in his cousin’s eyes.

At last, terrified of where the discussion could lead, he fought back his rage. “No, Amanda—no. I’m done with Stovall. I buried the past—”

“You can’t bury the fact that you’re a member of the Kent family!”

His mouth wrenched. “Hardly an outstanding one—”

“If that’s how you feel, now’s your chance to change things!”

“I don’t think you and I are talking about the same kind of accomplishment—”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Jared drew the medal from his pocket, held the obverse toward the light. “I remember your father speaking to me before I went out on the
Constitution
the second time. He talked about the Kents always taking the high road. The road of cause. Contribution. Commitment—I think those were the words he used. If so, I haven’t lived up to them. But at least I’ve lived so I’m not ashamed of myself—”