The Furies (40 page)

“You mean Stovall’s going to sell?”

“It’s a distinct possibility.”

“Jubilee!” the editor cried, doing a little jig. “I think I’ll go out and get a drink to celebrate.”

“Not right now, please,” Amanda said. “What’s your first name?”

“Theophilus.”

“I prefer Theo. I heard your guest using it—” She acknowledged the stout woman gazing at her through a curl of smoke from the cigar now clenched in her teeth.

Realizing he’d neglected introductions, Payne blurted, “Oh, excuse me—Mrs.—de la Gura, you said? This is Kent’s romantic novelist, Mrs. Rose—that is—”

His cheeks turned as pink as his nose. His eyes appealed to the elegantly groomed woman. She rescued him. “It’s all right if she’s going to own the place, Theo.” She extended her hand. “Rose Ludwig. Mrs. Adolph Ludwig of New York City.”

“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ludwig.”

“Down in New York, nobody knows I’m Mrs. A. Perm,” the woman confided. “Being an authoress isn’t an occupation my late husband—or his friends—would consider proper.”

“I’ll keep your secrets,” Amanda told her.

Rose Ludwig drew the smoldering cigar from her mouth. “Including my vice?”

Laughing, Amanda nodded. “Now, Theo, although the sale hasn’t been consummated, it’s far enough along so that you and I should get to know one another. I’m buying Kent and Son to diversify my holdings”—the lie came glibly—“and if Mr. Stovall comes to terms, I’ll probably want you to continue acting as editor and manager. Provided you and I find we can deal with one another.”

Payne took the candid remark as a threat. He started perspiring. Amanda decided that Hamilton Stovall had reduced the man to a state of fear.

Rose Ludwig settled herself in a chair beside Payne’s cluttered desk. “Where are you from, Mrs. de la Gura?”

“California.”

“One of those new gold millionaires?”

“Not quite yet.”

The woman intimidated Amanda a little. She’d caught the reference to Commodore Vanderbilt, the steamship magnate. Mrs. Ludwig obviously had important social connections.

But she didn’t act as if she did. She disarmed Amanda by tossing her cigar butt in Payne’s spittoon and nodding emphatically. “Well, by God, I’m glad you’re here. I like your cut. How about you, Theo? Isn’t she a big improvement over Mr. Stovall?”

“Careful!” Payne warned, a finger at his lips. He mouthed a name:
“Drew.”

Amanda realized the doddering office manager must be a spy for the owner. She kept her voice low as she asked, “Do you know Stovall personally, Mrs. Ludwig?”

“Unfortunately I do. My late husband forced me to entertain him several times. Adolph once owned a fairly substantial block of shares in the Stovall Works. The last time Mr. Stovall graced our house, he drank too much—nothing personal, Theo—ignored his wife—she’s dead now and I’m not surprised—and fawned over another guest. A gentleman,” she added pointedly. “And he pretends to be so respectable! He’s really a dreadful man—a grotesque. He wears a white silk scarf that covers half his face, and never takes his gloves off indoors because his hands are scarred, they say.”

Theo Payne shut the office door and added to Rose Ludwig’s comments in a whisper, “He’s also a political primitive. He boasts about membership in the Order of the Star Spangled Banner.”

“I’m not familiar with that,” Amanda told him.

“The inner circle of the Know-Nothing Party.”

Amanda merely nodded. It was evident Payne detested Stovall’s politics, and perhaps hoped to draw her out about hers. She changed the subject.

“It’s obvious you’re not happy here, Theo. Why haven’t you resigned?”

Scratching his pink nose, he walked back to the desk. “I have four youngsters in my family, Mrs. de la Gura—and positions aren’t easy to locate these days.”

Amanda wondered whether he meant he personally had a hard time finding jobs because of a fondness for alcohol. She tried to reassure him. “Well, I hope you’ll stick with it a while longer. If the sale can be completed, perhaps you’ll be happier with your situation.”

“As you said, that depends on whether we can work together. Also on what changes of policy you might institute—”

Again Amanda stayed on safe ground.

“I can assure you I’d do anything to keep Mrs. A. Penn content.” She turned to Rose. “I saw two women at the American House carrying copies of your last novel.”

“Did you, now. I know Theo’s right—the books are trash. But I have to do something to keep from suffocating in that mausoleum Adolph left me!”

Amanda turned back to Payne, who had slumped into his chair.

“I do think new management could find the money to reset corrected copy for Mrs. Ludwig—provided you and she settle your differences on style, of course.”

“Jesus Christ, that’s an improvement already!” Rose declared. “Just for that, Mrs. de la Gura, I’ll treat you to dinner this evening. If you’re free—”

“I am,” Amanda said, delighted. “Could we take a short tour now, Theo?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Mrs. Ludwig, would you excuse us for a while?”

“No, I’m going to tag along. I hope you realize Theo and I don’t really hate each other,” she continued as they left the office. “Those goddamned Harvard literature courses softened his mind a little, but he’s still a smart boy. And he works under very trying restrictions. Instead of Mrs. A. Perm—with or without adjectives—he’d rather publish tracts on abolitionism—”

“Not so loud!” Payne said, glancing down the corridor. Amanda turned and saw the emaciated Mr. Drew dart back out of sight.

Amanda found herself growing angry again as they walked through the cramped, disorderly warehouse area on the top floor. She saw bins full of cheap reprints of popular works—novels by Scott and Cooper—issued first by other publishers.

When they passed a bin containing Maria Monk’s
Awful Disclosures,
she exploded. “You’re still selling this?”

Payne grimaced. “Mr. Stovall’s orders.”

“You can be sure the moment the company changes hands, we’ll destroy all copies.”

“I’d be happy to see it gone from Kent’s list.”

Another appalling sight waited for Amanda in the basement. It was noisy, damp and badly lighted. It smelled of ink and the sweat of eight slovenly men in leather aprons who operated the antiquated flatbed presses. Amanda raised her voice to be heard above the rhythmic thumping.

“Doesn’t the ink take a long time to dry in this dampness, Theo?”

“Of course it does,” he shouted back. “And I can’t tell you how many sheets we smear and ruin. But Mr. Stovall’s accountants reckon that loss to be smaller than the cost of installing proper ventilation.”

“I don’t know much about the printing business, but it’s obvious this equipment doesn’t belong in a cellar.”

“No, it belongs on the second or third floor.”

“Why isn’t it located there?”

“Too expensive to brace the flooring properly.”

“How old are these presses?”

“Oh, thirty or forty years.”

“Isn’t there anything newer on the market?”

“Certainly. Mr. Hoe of New York has perfected steam-driven rotaries that print much faster. Some of the newspapers have installed them—”

“We really will have quite a few changes to make,” Amanda said as they left the basement.

Payne burst out suddenly, “I hope you’ll permit changes in our list as well—I mean beyond dropping the Monk book. We’ve been severely limited by Mr. Stovall’s tightness with money on one hand, and his political bias on the other. For instance, two years ago, I wanted to buy the American rights to
Jane Eyre.
Too costly, I was told. One of the country’s foremost poets, Professor Longfellow, lives just over in Cambridge and we can’t afford him either—”

“With all this emphasis on culture, we can kiss Mrs. Perm’s future goodbye,” Rose sighed.

“Definitely not,” Amanda laughed. “I told you before—I wouldn’t lose Kent’s most popular writer.”

“But I
am
controversial to certain clergymen, Mrs. de la Gura—”

“Call me Amanda, please.”

“My pleasure. You
do
know some churchmen find my books offensive?”

“Does the public?”

“Not generally. I practice moderation. When Mr. van Dugdale, the horse-car tycoon, raped Mercy Twickington in
Bartered Virtue,
I closed the bedroom door well before the actual moment—and only alluded to the deed afterward. Still, I know why women read my books. The subjects of sex and money are irresistible—sometimes an author doesn’t even need money! Look how handsomely Mr. Hawthorne’s doing with
The Scarlet Letter.
Theo’s right, though. Kent’s could stand the addition of some substantial authors writing on important subjects.”

“I had a chance to bid on the right to reprint Fred Douglass’ autobiography,” Payne said. “I didn’t even raise the question internally because I knew the owner would veto the idea.”

Amanda shook her head, outraged. “And that book’s done well!”

“Exceedingly well. As a category, narratives of the lives of escaped slaves are highly popular. They also serve a worthwhile purpose,” he added as they reached the entrance to his office and went in.

Amanda realized she was approaching controversial ground again. But she asked one more question.

“I assume most of the authors of such books have professional help in preparing their texts—?”

“Generally, yes. Douglass did his own—he’s a rarity.”

“It’s premature to say this, Theo, but I know a man in California who might be persuaded to assemble notes on his experiences as a slave in Mississippi. The man’s a mulatto. He manages my share of a mining claim—”

The mention of California caught Rose Ludwig’s attention. “You really do come from the far west?”

“Yes, I spent some years in Texas, and then California.”

“Then you’re just the person I’m looking for! You can help me with background for my next book. Theo, I haven’t mentioned this to you, but I’m fed up with sighing heroines. That’s one of my quirks, Amanda—I’m easily bored. After Adolph was buried, I started writing because I was bored, and after three novels with a New York setting, I’m bored again. The growing, important part of this country is the far west. I want to do a tale about a genuine western hero.”

Payne looked dubious. “I doubt the public would accept that kind of novel from Mrs. Penn.”

“Of course they will if it’s interesting and the detail’s authentic. And here is my source!”

“If you’ll settle for an imperfect recollection of my husband’s career—he was a fur trapper—I’ll provide you with whatever detail I can,” Amanda said.

“I knew you were a proper sort the second you walked in!” the other woman declared. “Theo, I believe we’re all going to be much happier as a result of this meeting.”

“So do I,” Payne agreed. “I hope the sale goes through promptly.”

Amanda asked, “You will keep everything we’ve discussed in absolute confidence?”

“Naturally, naturally!”

“When the lawyers finish haggling and we have Mr. Stovall’s signature, I’ll be in touch with you by telegraph.”

“Telegraph?” Payne repeated. “You don’t plan to remain in Boston?”

“I intend to buy or build a home in New York City. That’s the financial center of the country, and that’s where I must be if I’m to make my business ventures a success. I may install a private telegraph wire between my home and my local bank, though.”

“My God, Mrs. de la Gura, do you have any notion of how expensive that will be?”

“I don’t,” Amanda replied. “If I have to worry about the cost, I’d have no business doing it.”

Rose Ludwig laughed. “Theo, I think you’ve met your equal. Maybe your better—even though she didn’t go to Harvard.”

That evening, under the gaslights of the dining room at the American House, Amanda and her son shared a table with the authoress. Amanda had already confirmed her first reaction to the deep-voiced woman. Rose Ludwig was outgoing, opinionated, occasionally profane—and the two of them got along famously.

On the carriage ride from Kent and Son, Rose was candid about her beginnings. Her father had been a lock-tender on the Erie Canal near Buffalo. Her first meeting with her deceased husband, the owner of a fleet of brightly painted canal passenger boats, had been accidental. Ludwig had been touring the Erie system—which was still in operation, but gradually declining in importance because of the spread of the railroads.

Rose frankly admitted she was drawn to Ludwig’s wealth and his status as a widower more than she was to his physical assets.

“He was four inches shorter than I am. A wispy little fellow. His head had this unfortunate point—which his baldness didn’t help. On the other hand, he was no fool. And he was kind to me the first time my father introduced us. So when he came back on another inspection trip a year later, I was ready for him. My God, I was thirty already—a spinster!—because I refused to marry the first canal-boat captain who came along! I’d learned my lesson from my older sister Lily. She rushes to the altar the moment some man makes her pulses flutter—and she never worries about the wisdom of the choice until afterward. She’s had seven—no, eight husbands—the poor creature’s been wed so many times, her cheeks are pitted from the rice. The last one who carried her off pretended to be a Bavarian duke. I think Lily’s in Europe with him right now—no doubt having discovered he’s only a pastry cook with an accent. That’s not my style. I wanted to be sure I had a good catch. The second summer that Adolph happened by, I’d looked through enough old newspapers to be certain he was the one. I hooked him in record time. Six days, two hours and twenty-three minutes. I think that’s why I took to you, Amanda—you’re as direct as I am. That is—as direct as I am when I’m hobnobbing with Theo. In New York, it’s a different story.”

“I’d like to hear about your life in New York when we have dinner,” Amanda said.

“I’m afraid most of my comments will be negative. I despise so-called society. Unfortunately, by virtue of marriage, I’m considered part of it. By and large, the people are pretentious mummies—except for one or two, like Vanderbilt, who can cuss the paint off a wall, and does. God, I hate these hoop skirts!”