The Furies (47 page)

“Stovall was at the theater.”

He spun around. “What the devil was he doing at an abolitionist meeting?”

“He wanted to disrupt Douglass’ speech. He didn’t succeed.”

“Did he have a crowd of cronies with him?”

“No, just one companion.”

“My Lord, Mrs. A, that takes brass.”

“Stovall’s been accused of a good many things, but I don’t believe cowardice is one of them.”

“Did you speak to him?”

She sank down in the chair opposite Michael’s. Her eyes moved to the piles of manuscript. But her mind was elsewhere. “It was unavoidable. Rose introduced us afterward. My tactics have gotten me in trouble, I’m afraid. Stovall knows my story about diversifying was a sham. He knows I’ve bought no other properties—”

Rapidly, she described the encounter at the Bowery Theatre. Some six months earlier, when she’d decided she could trust Michael Boyle, she’d revealed her plans concerning her adversary—and her reasons for them. He had to know if he was to function as her confidential assistant. She suspected he didn’t wholly approve of her effort to regain control of Kent and Son. But he kept his personal views to himself, and always executed her orders without question.

She concluded, “It’s possible Stovall will look more closely into my background—”

“Why should he?”

“Apparently I reacted very visibly when he made a derogatory remark about the Kents. I didn’t mean to—it simply happened.”

“Um.”

“I think I’d better instruct Rothman’s to move faster.”

Michael gestured to the telegraph equipment. “You can take care of that yet tonight. Mr. Rothman’s operator has queried you three times since five p.m. I told him to try again at ten thirty.”

“Is there a problem?”

“I gather so. Something to do with an emergency meeting of the Blackstone board. If you were in Boston, communication would be less of a problem. Of course I realize Stovall is
here
—”

She looked up at the broad-shouldered young man. “You think I should drop the campaign to take back the firm, don’t you? You—and Rose.”

“It uses up a hell of a lot of your time. And your strength, I should imagine. Still, it’s not for me to say whether you should or shouldn’t. I am after all just your employee.”

“Nonsense, Michael. You know you’re closer to me in some ways than my own son. Where is he, by the way?”

“Popped off to sleep, I think.”

“Rather early.”

“He seemed—oh, nervous. Quite nervous, as a matter of fact.”

“Did he say there was anything wrong?”

“No,
he
didn’t say—”

Thinking about Louis, she didn’t catch the significance of the emphasized word. She mused aloud, “I’ll have to talk with him in the morning—”

She smiled then, reminded of something her friend had said. “Would you like to hear a bit of gossip Rose passed along? It seems some of the finer folk of New York have come to the conclusion you and I are lovers.”

Michael burst out laughing. Amanda loved the sight of his smile. That such a handsome young man should be marred for life by the ugly scar on his forehead was a kind of blasphemy.

Still shaking with mirth, he turned to warm his hands at the hearth. “Didn’t mean to bray like that. It just tickles me that the filthy sods would come up with such notions. They’ve missed the truth entirely—” He faced her. “I am fond of you. But not for the reasons they imagine. No one’s ever treated me more decently than you. I’d never dare say this to anyone else for fear of being hooted at—but you’re as kind as I imagine my own mother would have been, had she lived.”

His words heartened her, helped soothe away some of the tension she’d felt ever since the encounter with Stovall.

“That’s sweet of you, Michael.” She teased him: “I hope it’s not pure blarney.”

“An Irishman only dissembles with those he depises, not those he loves—” He pivoted back to the fire. “Faith, I’m carrying on like some convent girl—”

“I don’t mind one bit.”

They looked at one another for a moment.

“What’s that manuscript on the floor?”

“Ah!” He scooped up a few of the pages. “Your nigger—beg pardon, I forgot you don’t like me saying that—Mr. Hope’s narrative. Delivered from the docks late this afternoon. There’s also a letter describing the promising nature of the new mining claim in the Sierras. Plus one from your cousin in Virginia, and two others—”

Amanda scanned the few sheets Michael handed to her. Mr. Mayor put his forepaws on her skirt, studied her to see whether she’d resist. When she didn’t, he hopped into her lap and curled up, his green eyes closing.

She went on reading while Michael took a clay pipe from the mantel, filled it with tobacco and lit it with a splinter of wood ignited in the fireplace. The odor of the Virginia leaf sweetened the stale, overheated air. But Amanda was hardly conscious of the warmth any longer, absorbed by the flow of Israel’s prose.

“He writes extremely well.”

“Yes, he does. As much as the subject of—ah—nigras leaves me cold, I confess the first few chapters caught my interest. I think his title’s a bit dull, though.
The Life of Israel Hope
would mean nothing to the general public—he’s not famous. I suggest something slightly more dramatic if Kent and Son ever publishes the book—”

“Kent and Son
will
publish it.”

Her determination brought another smile to his face. “Then why not call it something like
West to Freedom
? It avoids the cliché of a reference to the north—it suggests the escape theme—and people are intrigued about the west.”

“Yes, that’s very good. I’ll be anxious to read all of it—”

She laid the manuscript aside, causing Mr. Mayor to open his eyes and regard her with annoyance. She was almost embarrassed to bring up the next subject.

“Did you drive down to the Royal Sceptre office?”

“I did.” He nodded. “The situation’s just as it was last month when your letter was returned from London. The owners of the line still don’t know anything more about Captain McGill.”

Saddened, Amanda ran her hand aimlessly over the tomcat’s neck. He arched and purred.

What in heaven’s name had become of Bart? He’d sailed back from India the preceding November and abruptly resigned his command, that much she’d learned. But he hadn’t told anyone in London where he was going—he’d just walked out and disappeared.

“I suppose it’s time to give up on him,” she said presently.

“We’ve no other options that I see.”

“God, I hope he’s all right—”

“You loved him a great deal, didn’t you?”

“More than I realized when I said no to him. However”—she shrugged to hide the hurt—“we should be worrying about other things. How much Stovall stock do we own at the moment?”

“I can’t be positive without consulting the records. Mr. Rothman and Mr. Benbow have so many friends and clients buying small amounts on your behalf, then reselling them to the dummy company, the total changes daily.”

“Where’s the ledger?”

“In my room. I was trying to bring it up to date before dinner, but I confess I fell asleep. I believe Boston Holdings owns somewhere above twelve thousand shares now.”

Amanda nodded. For months, she’d been engaged in a covert campaign to accumulate stock of the Stovall Works. Her strategy was simple. When she’d acquired a controlling interest, she intended to present Stovall’s attorneys with a demand that Kent and Son be sold to her—in exchange for the number of shares that would return Stovall to the position of majority stockholder.

She’d planned to take as long as necessary to acquire the shares; Rothman and Benbow moved with great circumspection, approaching one investor at a time, through intermediaries. So far, she didn’t believe Stovall realized the true reason for the activity in shares in his company—nor did she think he knew of the existence of Boston Holdings.

“Find the book and get me the exact figure, would you?” she asked. “Meantime, I’ll read Jephtha’s letter.”

Michael brought it to her from the Uttered table, then left the room.

Amanda stared at the soiled envelope that had come from Lexington for three cents’ postage. But she didn’t really see her name and address written in an irregular hand. She was thinking of Bart McGill.

Yes, she had loved him. Not in the same way she’d loved Jaimie de la Gura, and then Cordoba. More deeply—that was the hurtful truth she admitted to herself.

He hadn’t sent her a single letter from London, or, so far as she knew, tried to ascertain her whereabouts. And now he’d left England, and no one knew where he was. Jaimie and Luis Cordoba had been taken from her by events over which she had no control. But Bart’s departure had been her own doing, and she faced that bitter truth often—especially in the dark hours of early morning when she couldn’t sleep, when age made her bones ache, and the shadows around her bed seemed to whisper of her life running out all too rapidly—

She rubbed her eyes to clear them of tears, then turned her attention to the letter.

It proved almost as disheartening as her memories.

The letter, scrawled with a blunted pencil, was dated three and a half weeks earlier. Either it hadn’t been mailed promptly, or had been delayed in transit.

The lines slanted across the page. Jephtha’s hand was uneven, far less readable than it had been two months ago, when he’d reported his continuing alienation from his family and refused her offer of the income due him from the Ophir claim. The handwriting said the Reverend Jephtha Kent—a Reverend no longer—was a tormented man. The opening paragraphs told her he was still living and working on the grounds of the Virginia Military Institute:

My only friend is Thos. Jackson, the professor of whom I believe I have spoken before. He is a strange, deeply religious person—a Presbyterian—who has risked unpopularity by taking an active role in support of the local Negro Sunday School. My father-in-law, by contrast, would deny the colored people even the solace of God.

Jackson
—
whom many of the cadets deride with the name “Tom Fool” despite his outstanding record in the late Mexican conflict
—
is opposed to all the secessionist talk. He is humane. He once taught one of his own slaves to read in exchange for the slave’s help
—
holding a torch
—
while he studied. It is Jackson who renews my hope that all in the south are not prey to the philosophy of a vile human being such as Captain Tunworth.

Jackson is married. He and his wife are the only persons in Lexington willing to welcome me into their home occasionally. It is true that his habits are peculiar. To prevent distraction when he is pondering problems in military tactics, he will turn his chair to the wall and sit motionless for long periods of time. But I am comfortable with him, and can share my thoughts freely
—
my sadness over Fan’s continuing refusal to allow any contact between myself and the boys
—
and my growing certainty that the south’s system of servitude will bring its own dire harvest

Compromise will never avail
—
it is too late. We have sinned as a nation
—
I firmly share this belief with the noted abolitionist and Free-Soil advocate, John Brown of Ohio. Sin is always punished. So the nation will be punished. And not lightly. In the words of Paul the Apostle to the Hebrews
—
“And almost all things are by the law purged with blood. And without shedding of blood is no remission.”

The gloomy prediction disturbed Amanda, because there were already signs that Clay’s compromise bills had bought nothing but a temporary peace.

The Fugitive Slave Act, designed to mollify the south, had generated an even greater militancy on the part of the northern abolitionists. And influential Congressmen were toying with a doctrine which could renew sectional antagonism.

The doctrine’s chief ideologue was Stephen Douglas of Illinois, a Senator whose combative temperament and slight stature had earned him the title Little Giant. Sometimes the doctrine was called popular sovereignty, sometimes squatter sovereignty. Basically it stated that people in a newly organized territory had the unqualified right to determine what form their government would take, specifically, whether the government would allow or forbid slavery.

To Douglas, this was nothing more than the working of the principle of democracy. To the abolitionists, it was betrayal. If the doctrine were followed to its logical conclusion, a territory could adopt or reject slavery whether the territory lay above or below the Missouri Compromise line. Not only did the doctrine run counter to the 1820 Compromise, but by its very nature it denied Congressional right to limit the spread of slavery.

Whig opponents abused Douglas as the south’s toady, claiming he was advancing the scurrilous philosophy to enhance his own chances as a future presidential candidate on the Democratic ticket. Others, less partisan, said Douglas acted only out of a solid belief in the rights of the majority. But whatever the Little Giant’s motives, the papers had been filled with the debate over his doctrine.

There was bound to be a test of it in the Congress in the next year or so. Legislators were already talking of the need to organize one or two large territories between Missouri and California. There had even been discussion of a transcontinental railroad, and for this to become a reality, the western lands had to be under some form of government.

If the intellectual debate led to a practical attempt to put the doctrine into effect in the organization of new territories, the Missouri Compromise would be severely threatened—and all of the efforts of Clay and Webster to secure peace might come to nothing. Some pundits predicted that if popular sovereignty ever passed into law, abolitionist groups would launch open warfare—

Open warfare.
Remission of sin through the shedding of blood
—

Sometimes it seemed to Amanda that the nation was heading inevitably toward it—and toward the even more grave Constitutional crisis that might be precipitated. The crisis was implicit in the south’s traditional response to harrying by its enemies: secession.