The Furies (38 page)

Thunder rumbled again, louder this time. “What sort of information?”

“I would prefer you learn that from him,” the lawyer said, still acting stunned.

Mr. Joshua Rothman was a slim, dark-haired young man with graceful hands and thoughtful dark eyes. Behind his high-backed chair, rain spattered the windows of his private office.

The office was conservative, as befitted an important Boston bank, yet opulent. Thick carpeting deadened sound. The marble top of Rothman’s desk showed not a speck of dust. Wood paneling reflected the bluish light of the gas jets hissing within wall-mounted glass bowls. Until today, Amanda had never been in any building with gas illumination, though her hotel, the American House, boasted that it had installed gas fixtures in its rooms and upper halls in 1835.

From beyond a heavily carved door came a sudden, rapid clicking. Curious, Amanda swung toward noise.

“My apologies for the racket, Mrs. Ken—Mrs. de la Gura,” Rothman corrected. “That’s a private telegraph wire. The bank maintains constant contact with Wall Street. Where large sums are involved, fast and confidential communication is important.”

The young banker rose, walked to the door and opened it. He said to Louis, “You’re welcome to go in and watch the operator.”

Louis shook his head, clearly unhappy at being trundled from office to office. Joshua Rothman shrugged, closed the door and strolled back to the desk where Amanda was seated.

“I only wish my grandfather Royal were here to greet you in person. He often spoke of the Kents—and with great fondness. The publishing house your grandfather founded has added luster to Boston for a long time.”

“I have the impression absentee management has dimmed that luster quite a bit.”

“Hamilton Stovall, you mean? Yes, his orientation is—how shall I say it? More blatantly commercial than that of the Kents. You know, I’ve always been curious about the loss of the firm to Mr. Stovall. There’s still a fanciful tale that the transfer came as a result of a wager—”

“The story’s correct,” Amanda said. “My mother’s second husband was cheated by Mr. Stovall. In a gambling game.”

“Is that a fact. I never believed it. I do know the printing house burned. I heard the fire was started by—ah, but forgive me for bringing up an unpleasant subject.”

“It may be unpleasant, but it’s the truth. My cousin set the fire. He died in California. That part of the past is closed.”

The banker nodded without replying.

“I’d like your opinion on something, Mr. Rothman. Suppose that in a few years, I were to accumulate a substantial amount of money from the mining claim I described. What are the chances of my purchasing Kent and Son?”

“I would say excellent.”

Relief swept over Amanda as the young man went on. “The firm earns a decent return, I’m told. But Mr. Stovall has a reputation for being more interested in the current balance sheet than in long-term stability and growth.”

“He milks the company, in other words.”

“Exactly. He does the same with his. steel factories. He’s in his mid-fifties, but he’s still quite preoccupied with—ah—call them worldly pursuits. He’s not a favorite of the lending community because he gives too little attention to sound management. He prospers only because the domestic market for steel is voracious. Since he devotes even less time to the publishing operation, I should imagine he’d be happy to dispose of it if he could realize a profit.”

With never a flicker of change in her expression, Amanda stored away the bits of information about Hamilton Stovall—including the hint of licentiousness in Joshua Rothman’s choice of the words
worldly pursuits.
She stored the information away just as she’d already taken note of the use of a private telegraph line.

“Very good,” she said. “The draft I handed you for deposit should convince you I’m serious about purchasing my family’s former home—well, I’m every bit as serious about buying Kent and Son.”

“I don’t doubt you for a moment, Mrs. de la Gura. But you needn’t delay making an offer to Mr. Stovall.”

For the first time since entering the busy bank, Amanda was genuinely surprised. “What do you mean?”

“Rothman’s has enjoyed a peculiar relationship with the Kents over the years. The bank has been the steward of certain assets of your late father of which you are probably unaware.”

“What assets?”

“Have you ever heard of a cotton spinning firm in Pawtucket, Rhode Island, called the Blackstone Company?”

“Never.”

“My grandfather Royal, your father, Gilbert Kent, and a number of other local men founded the Blackstone Company in 1803. It’s still operating. Very successfully, I might add. For certain reasons of his own, your father preferred that your mother not be aware of his investment of one hundred thousand dollars in the firm—forgive me if this is offensive in any way—”

“No, go on,” Amanda said softly, a strange expectancy gripping her.

“Your father, in short, took steps to protect a portion of his estate by placing his Blackstone voting stock in the bank’s keeping. Your mother drew income from, and controlled, only the printing house.”

Immediately Amanda understood why. The way in which Harriet Kent’s poorly chosen second husband had gambled away Kent’s made her father’s decision wholly comprehensible.

“Rothman’s has long since assumed there were no Kent heirs,” the young man went on. “Nevertheless, we have administered the Blackstone shares as if there were. Contrary to much popular opinion, bankers are not thieves. You are the recipient of your father’s legacy—which has grown to be worth a great deal of money.”

“How much money, Mr. Rothman?”

“At current market value—conservatively—six million dollars.”

“Oh my Lord, Ma! Six
million?
” Louis burst out. She was so overcome, she quite forgot to correct his use of the word “Ma.”

The initial shock passed in a few moments. But not her awareness of the stunning possibilities opened by the young banker’s announcement. While the rain ticked at the windows and a glare of lightning paled the gaslight, she collected her thoughts.

She said finally, “For the time being, Mr. Rothman, I want the bank to continue administering the shares.”

“Certainly. The dividend income will be credited to your new account.”

“I’ll also want to inspect the Blackstone Company.”

At that, he looked dubious. “If you wish, I can arrange it. But not even the male stockholders go there very often. It’s a noisy, unwholesome place—a typical factory, I’m afraid.”

“But I own part of it—”

“Yes, a substantial part.”

“You said it’s voting stock?”

“It is.”

“How can I cast intelligent votes if I’ve never seen the business? What it does, or how?”

“Why”—he smiled in an admiring way—“you can’t, obviously. I’ll be happy to schedule a visit at your convenience.”

“Excellent. I’d appreciate your doing two other things for me. First, approach the owner of Kent and Son regarding a purchase. Operate through Benbow if you wish, but above all be discreet. I don’t want it known that I’m a member of the family. Mr. Stovall might not be willing to sell to a Kent. He harbored quite a grudge against my cousin. That’s why he took the firm away in the first place.”

“So I remember hearing,” Rothman murmured. “We can make the proposition this way—you are a woman of means who seeks to diversify her business holdings. At all times, we’ll refer to you by your married name.”

Amanda smiled. “You’re very quick, Mr. Rothman. We’ll get along splendidly, I think.”

“I think so too. But I wish you’d call me Joshua.”

“Very well—Joshua.”

“You mentioned a second request—”

“Mr. Frederick Douglass is in Boston to present a lecture at the Park Street church—”

“My wife and I plan to attend.” His glance said he was testing her political sentiments.

“I met him on shipboard, and I promised him a donation. Send him a draft for one hundred dollars, drawn in my name so he knows I kept my promise.”

“With pleasure.” He started to make a note, then noticed her upraised hand. “Yes?”

“A week from now, send a second draft to him in Rochester. Don’t identify the donor.”

“Is the sum also a hundred dollars?”

“Five thousand.”

“Your generosity’s commendable. But why give so much anonymously?”

Amanda’s face looked oddly pale in the gaslight. She framed her reply with care. “Two reasons. One, I don’t think the purpose of charity is to earn public approval for the donor.”

“Nor do I—though many people wouldn’t give a penny to any cause unless they were honored for doing so. Still, Mr. Douglass is hardly in the same category as churches and orphans’ homes. Boston
is
the center of abolitionism, but there are also quite a few local citizens who detest Garrison, Douglass and everything they stand for—”

“That’s my second reason. I prefer not to be too closely identified with the movement. A small sum attracts small notice. A large one attracts a great deal. I’m sure you understand.”

He did, but he said nothing. Amanda knew she’d diminished herself in his eyes. But she was determined not to become actively involved in the slavery dispute. Whether Joshua Rothman thought she was cowardly or not, she had no time for extraneous struggles. Kent and Son came first.

“I have one final question,” she said. “Negotiations with Stovall will take some time, will they not?”

“Yes, though we’ll make our initial approach immediately.”

“I’d like to see the firm.”

Rothman tented his fingers. “I’d refrain until we have at least sounded out the owner on his amenability to a sale. Actually, it would be better if you didn’t visit Kent’s at all—”

“That’s out of the question.”

“Very well—” He was obviously not happy. “I’ll inform you when I think it’s all right. I’d only caution you that when you do inspect the property, do so in a businesslike way. Keep your remarks very general—you’d be astonished at how a seemingly trivial word or action can sometimes upset a negotiation.”

“I’ll follow the advice, thank you.”

The banker smiled.

“You’re amused?”

“Forgive me—I am. I have an odd feeling you’ll accept advice from Rothman’s when it agrees with your wishes—and disregard it when it doesn’t.”

“You’re an astute young man, Joshua,” Amanda said, smiling back. “Good afternoon. Come, Louis.”

July rain streamed down the marble headstones in the little burying ground in Watertown. Amanda’s parasol was soaked through.

The thunderstorm had blackened the sky. Behind her, at the edge of the narrow drive, the carriage horse whinnied. She didn’t look around. Her eyes were moving across the rain-blurred inscriptions on the monuments.

Philip Kent

Anne Ware Kent

That was her grandfather’s first wife. She was the daughter of a Boston patriot, a member of the small band of men who had led Massachusetts into open rebellion against George III. Amanda knew Anne Kent had been lost at sea during the Revolution; no mortal remains lay beneath the headstone, which stood to the right of Philip’s. An equal distance to the left rose the marker belonging to her grandmother.

Peggy Ashford McLean Kent

To its left—she walked that way in the driving rain—the final monument.

Gilbert Kent

A bird had left a spatter of white on the top of the stone. It made her angry. Heedless of dirtying her glove, she smeared the white until the rain dissolved it and washed it away. Then she put the parasol on the ground and laid both hands on the wet marble and let the tears pour down her cheeks.

Presently the sadness passed. She had discharged a small debt by coming to the graveyard. Now she must discharge a larger one—and give new life to the name a stonecutter had enisled four times. Lightning glared on it—

Kent

She was home. Home and ready to return that name to its rightful eminence.

The parasol offered no protection as she groped her way back toward the closed carriage, her eyes still damp and her emotions as turbulent as the thundery skies.

“All ready,” she called to the soaked driver huddled on the seat.

In the carriage’s small oval window, a lightning burst showed her the handsome face of Louis Kent. The lightning flickered out. The face vanished.

She had asked, but not ordered him to leave the carriage and walk to the graves with her. He wasn’t interested.

What sort of emotional legacy was she passing on to him? she wondered. Was there
anything
he cared about?

Below, the cavernous rooms of the house on Beacon Street steamed in the heat of the late September evening. With a whale oil lamp in one hand, Amanda slowly climbed the front staircase toward the second floor landing. The lamp’s flame cast shifting patterns on the wall beside her.

She was vaguely aware of Louis making noise as he wandered back in the kitchen. She heard occasional shouts and catcalls from the Common. A torchlight procession had ended there at seven. Bald, bespectacled Garrison was addressing a crowd about the injustice of the recapture of a slave named James Hamlet.

The escaped black had been seized in New York City, only a few days after the Congress had passed the new fugitive slave law. Clay’s compromises had finally won through, even though important legislators on both sides—including Senator Seward of New York and Senator Jefferson Davis of Mississippi—had withheld their support.

The Kentucky statesman had endured the worst sort of personal abuse during the debates on the bills. At one point, an opponent had gone so far afield as to jeer at Clay’s thwarted presidential ambitions. Clay had replied that the work of averting national catastrophe was far more important than personal considerations. He would rather be right, he’d declared, than be president.

Once the various bills had finally been passed, the ringing of bells and an orgy of public drunkenness throughout the north celebrated the Union’s salvation. But the members of the noisy throng listening to Garrison undoubtedly hadn’t taken part in the revelry. The Massachusetts Anti-Slavery Society had been denouncing the compromise as a betrayal of American liberty.