The Furies (56 page)

The marshal reddened. “Afraid we did disturb your guest, Mrs. de la Gura. Can’t say I’ve ever heard a female use such a collection of cuss words before—”

“Marshal, you come across to the park with me!” Tunworth demanded. “You talk to the man who kept watch yesterday. This woman smuggled my slave away in disguise!”

“Unless someone can swear positively to having seen a nigra person leave the house—not just a person, Captain: a
nigra
person—you’ve no grounds for pressing your complaint.” The marshal displayed his search warrant. “Mrs. de la Gura’s allowed a complete examination of her home. I can’t use the other warrant to arrest someone I can’t find.”

“Take her into custody! Question her!
Force
her to tell you where—”

“That exceeds my authority, Captain,” the marshal interrupted, sounding annoyed for the first time. He settled his hat on his head and executed a stiff bow. “Ma’am, we thank you for your cooperation.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.” Amanda smiled, ushering him to the door.

Bowden went out. Captain Tunworth stormed down the steps after him. Amanda closed the door and moved to the window to watch, Michael at her shoulder.

Louis came running from the kitchen with half a sweet bun in one hand and sugar showing at the corners of his mouth.

“Oh, Ma, you sure fooled ’em! I never saw anyone as mad as that captain when he paraded through the kitchen—”

“He’s still fuming,” Michael said, pointing outside.

The marshal and Tunworth stood by the hack’s open door. Amanda couldn’t make out the words, but it was obvious Tunworth was insisting on further action, and the marshal was refusing. Finally, red-faced, the marshal thrust both warrants into Tunworth’s hand, climbed into the hack and jerked the door shut.

The hack clattered off. Tunworth glared at the house, then stalked across the street. He went straight to the crowd of rough-clad watchers near the kiosk and disappeared in their midst. Amanda drew a tense breath when a couple of the men spun away and started walking toward the house.

Tunworth immediately caught them and pulled them back. Presently, the men began to drift away. Captain Tunworth headed for the opposite side of the square, alone, and was eventually lost from sight in dray and carriage traffic.

“Well,” Michael said, “that’s it—for the moment.”

“I should think we’ve seen the last of the captain,” Amanda said. “There’s nothing more he can do.”

“There’s nothing more he can do
legally.
But I’ll bet a gold piece those boyos who came to watch the girl’s capture are friends of Rynders—”

After a moment he added, “And they operate best after dark. We’ve not gotten out of the woods yet.”

Despite Michael’s pessimism, Amanda couldn’t help being elated about frustrating Tunworth. She went up to see Rose, and described the search in detail. Rose complained profanely about having two men poking around her room while she was still in her bedclothes—

Amused, Amanda asked, “Did they see something they shouldn’t?”

“Hell no. They wouldn’t even give me a second glance!”

“
That’s
why you’re angry!”

“Not funny,” Rose barked, lighting a cigar.

Presently she dressed and joined Amanda downstairs. The two ate lunch. At the end, Amanda suggested her friend go home, to ensure that the black girl was taken to the White Star pier on time.

“There’s really no more danger here, Rose.” She sounded more confident than she felt.

Rose finally agreed. Michael walked her across the square to catch the horse-car, returning to report the park free of Captain Tunworth’s spies. Amanda was more convinced than ever that Jephtha’s father-in-law wouldn’t bother them again. She told Michael that in the morning, he was to take the carriage and collect the servants. Meantime, he and Louis could resume then-work repairing the broken stall in the carriage house.

In the library, she laid a fire, lit it and settled down in a chair to read through Israel Hope’s manuscript. She couldn’t concentrate on it. The morning’s elation was quite gone.

She thought about using the telegraph to query the Rothman Bank concerning the stock situation. But she decided against it, sadly certain she’d hear nothing to cheer her up. The item in the
Journal of Commerce
had totally wrecked her scheme to force Stovall to sell Kent’s. The more she thought of that, the more depressed she became.

One simple choice—one moment of commitment to the welfare of a girl she’d undoubtedly never see again—had undercut the effort of the past two years—and the hopes, the hard work, the struggle of many more years than that.

Amanda had never been one to dwell much on past mistakes. But with the problem of Captain Tunworth resolved, she couldn’t escape a deepening despondency. If she used the telegraph, the bank would only confirm that Boston Holdings had failed in its mission—

Was the freedom of one uneducated and frightened black girl worth the sacrifice of what she wanted most in the world?

Foolish question. She knew she couldn’t have refused to help the runaway. In that kind of situation, a Kent could never refuse—

But the price of Mary’s safety was so high, so unbearably high—

Again she tried to read what Israel had written. It seemed pointless; by its very existence, the manuscript mocked her. It would never be published with the Kent imprint—

The words blurred. The sentences lost all meaning. The strain and exhaustion of the past few days finally caught up with her. Sometime after three, she dozed off—

She awoke with a start to find Brigid hovering beside her. Except for the glow from the hearth, the library was dark.

“Visitor, ma’am. In the hall—”

Her palms turned cold. Not Tunworth again—

“Who is it, Brigid?”

“He didn’t present a card, ma’am. But he says his name’s Stovall.”

“Stovall!”

Amanda seized the arm of the chair. The pages of manuscript spilled off her lap.

“Where’s Michael?”

“In the kitchen, ma’am. He and Louis are eating a bite of supper I fixed. ’Tisn’t as good as cook’s fare, but I did my best. I looked in at seven to see if you’d want some, but you were asleep—”

“Seven? What time is it?”

The clock showed half after eight.

Tense, Amanda picked up the manuscript pages and piled them at the foot of the chair. Brigid noticed her extreme nervousness.

“Would you like me to tell the gentleman you’re indisposed?”

“No, Brigid, I”—fear crawled in her like some venomous invader—“I’ll receive him.”

“In the sitting room?”

Amanda dabbed at her perspiring upper lip, glanced from the objects on the mantel to the painting of her grandfather. Her voice grew a little firmer. “In here. Light the gas, please. Did you bolt the front door again?”

“Of course, ma’am.”

“All right. I’ll see to the visitor.”

Still plagued by an ominous feeling, she left the library and walked toward the front door where Stovall waited, his gold-knobbed cane under one arm and his silk hat held in his gloved hand.

Outside, Amanda heard a carriage horse stamp. The immaculate white scarf bisecting Stovall’s face had a silken sheen in the gaslight. His visible eye sparkled bright as a bird’s.

Staring at him, her sense of dread worsened. Her gaze went past his shoulder to one of the narrow windows flanking the door. Except for the flare of the lantern on his carriage and the dimmer lights on the far side of the square, she saw nothing but darkness. Somehow that terrified her too—

“Kind of you to receive me, Mrs. de la Gura,” Hamilton Stovall said with a slight bow. “Or would it be more proper if I addressed you by your correct name? Kent?”

From a shadowed place in the hall, Mr. Mayor meowed. The sound of Brigid’s footsteps faded at the rear of the house. She kept her voice as steady as she could.

“Whatever you prefer, Mr. Stovall. Please come this way—”

“Thank you.”

Amanda’s arm trembled as she held the library door open. Inside, the gaslight glowed.

Stovall went in. She wanted to strike him. But she held back, struggling for control, for mastery of the inexplicable mixture of loathing and terror his presence generated.

Yet he behaved politely enough, taking the chair she’d vacated beside the hearth. She walked around the desk and sat beneath the painting of Philip, almost as if she needed some sort of physical barrier to prevent her from attacking him.

Stovall acted quite relaxed. Smiled—though there was no cordiality in his eye. His artificial teeth glimmered like old bone as he laid his cane across his knees and set his silk hat on the floor.

“It seems my suspicions weren’t entirely unfounded,” he said.

She didn’t answer.

“You
do
recall our little encounter at the Douglass lecture?”

“Quite—quite well.”

Never had ordinary speech required such effort; never had she churned with such overpowering hate. At the same time, her fear of him grew; she was terrified of his assured manner, that skull’s grin—

Almost as if he were chiding an infant, he continued. “You lied to me. Your motive for wanting to buy Kent and Son was not entirely a matter of business—”

“That conclusion hardly seems a sufficient reason for you to call in person, Mr. Stovall.”

He wouldn’t be prodded. “You can imagine my stupefaction after I browsed through Monday’s
Journal
and saw the mention of your relative—”

“Get to the point!”

Her outburst amused him; he clearly enjoyed unsettling her. Breathing loudly, she brushed a stray lock of white hair from her forehead.

“Certainly,” he murmured. “I drove here to satisfy my curiosity—and to pass on two items of information. Shall we take those in order?”

He leaned forward slightly. “Who are you?”

“The cousin of a young man named Jared Kent.”

He sat bolt upright—a point scored.

“That’s right,” she said. “The boy who served with you aboard
Constitution.
”

He touched the white silk with a gloved finger. “The boy who attacked me—”

“Oh, that’s very funny—you speaking of an attack.

Wasn’t it the other way around? Once in your cabin? And once on the deck?”

Now, finally, she’d cracked his defenses; he spoke with soft, seething fury. “Jared Kent forced me to live my life as a grotesque—”
Flick
went the gloved finger against the silk. “He gave me this.” He held out his gloves, palms up. “And these. Hands so scarred, I can’t display them in public—”

“I think you extracted payment ten times over. You stole the printing firm from my stepfather—”

“That foolish Piggott? My dear woman, I won a wager from him!”

“Not honestly, I suspect.”

Stovall’s lips pressed together in prim pleasure. “Impossible to prove, of course.”

“Of course. When my cousin shot your companion—”

“Poor old Walpole. Retired now. Hopelessly senile.”

“—you never took steps to correct Jared’s belief that he’d done murder.”

“Great God, woman, what do you expect from a man who’s been the target of a pistol? Charity? Compassion? Besides, your cousin fled Boston—”

“Thinking he was a murderer. He carried the guilt all his life.”

“May I ask where he is now?”

“He died in California over two years ago.”

“While you amassed your wealth partly in”—a supple gesture of his right glove—“California! Now I begin to perceive the pattern. A reunion. A pledge of retribution—in the form of regaining the family business. Really rather cheap theatrics, don’t you think? Well, you have at least satisfied my curiosity. And as regards your effort to buy—or in the case of the stock manipulation, I might say steal—Kent and Son, you have failed.”

He leaned forward again. “How utterly you’ve failed is one of the points I wish to impress on you this evening.”

She watched the play of firelight on his flesh and the concealing silk. She felt unclean. He was more than a physical grotesque; the shine of his eye said his very soul—if he had one—was malignant.

“Happily,” he continued, “I checked your little stock scheme in time, thanks to the fortuitous appearance of the Kent name in Monday’s press. I am not entirely the thoughtless and unqualified steward of my own affairs that I sometimes appear to be, Mrs. de la—forgive me. I simply can’t use that name any longer. Mrs. Kent. For some months, I’ve been aware of a good deal of movement in Stovall Works shares. Much more than the firm’s reputation merits, I might add. But if investors had confidence in my company, excellent! That I failed to scrutinize the movement more closely is a tactical error I readily admit. My head’s been busy with other things. Attempting to float a loan. Courting a young woman—at any rate, I was not aware the acquisitions of Stovall shares were in any way organized until the
Journal
item prompted me to make certain inquiries—and very rapidly, I don’t mind telling you. Naturally the information was there—in the hands of the bankers who act as registrars of the stock. Those fools had neglected to see any significance in the pattern and hence had never called it to my personal attention. All the individual purchasers, it seems, resold their shares to a company known as Boston Holdings. Whose principals, I learned, are the very same Jew financier and the very same attorney who attempted to arrange your purchase of Kent’s—”

He kept smiling that hateful, insincere smile; his teeth glared red in the firelight.

“What was your ultimate goal? A majority position in the stock?”

She could barely nod. “Yes.”

“Which you would then exchange for control of the company you wanted?”

“Yes.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I don’t accept that lightly, my dear woman. Not lightly at all. You maneuvered against me—”

“Get out,” she breathed. “Get out of here before—”

“Before what, Mrs. Kent? You’ve no trump cards to play—they’re all mine. As you’ll soon see—”

She shivered. His voice had dropped low. He lightened it, almost teasing her. “Naturally when I unearthed your little manipulation on Monday, I acted. At one thirty in the afternoon, I convened the available members of the board—which now includes my prospective father-in-law, by the way. By two, we had agreed to issue the new stock. Thankfully, Mr. Van Bibb had already agreed in principle to invest in the Stovall Works. Instead of making a loan to the company, he and two associates subscribed the entire new issue. Between us, Van Bibb, his friends and I now hold a commanding majority—”