The Seekers (10 page)

Before she could say anything, Philip shook a finger in his son’s face. “The time to abandon this lunacy is
now,
young man!”

“No, I won’t—”

“
Yes!
You’re being totally impractical!”

“Papa, I refuse to listen to—”

Philip drowned him out. “Precisely what do you plan to do after you complete this romantic pilgrimage? Become one of Mr. Jefferson’s noble and impoverished dirt farmers?”

“By God, sir,” Abraham said, reddening, “there’s no shame in any kind of work so long as it’s respectable.”

“Respectable poverty, that’s what you want?”

“
I want to make my own way!
Thousands of others are doing it—with fewer wits and less strength than I have!”

“I question your statement about wits,” Philip sneered. “You’ve lost yours.” He faced Elizabeth. “This is entirely your doing.”

“Philip, don’t—!” Peggy began.

Elizabeth broke in. “You’re vile to suggest that!”

“Do you deny it?”

“I won’t deny Abraham and I want to leave Boston and live our own lives—”

“In preference to staying here and enjoying security? Wealth? The chance to mold opinion—the very course of this nation? You’re a fool”—Philip spun to his son—“and so are you. At Kent’s you have every opportunity to be of real service to the country—
and
earn a handsome profit at the same time! I—”

Suddenly Philip drew a deep breath. His anger seemed to melt just a little. He ignored Elizabeth standing beside Abraham, gripping his arm. His eyes sought his son’s, imploring. “I beg you to recognize what you’re throwing away.”

“We’re throwing away
nothing!
” Elizabeth exclaimed. “Arguing is useless. We plan to be married and go where we will!”

Again Philip started to yell, restrained himself only with obvious effort. While Peggy watched anxiously, he took a different tack. His voice shook as he raised both hands. “A compromise, then—”

Abraham looked stunned when he heard the words. They were natural enough coming from a poor man like Supply Pleasant. When Philip used them, it signaled panic.

“No compromise,” Elizabeth said.

“You must give me a fair chance to present my side. Abraham? You must!”

Abraham hated to see his father plead. It was sad and degrading, somehow. And yet, one tiny part of his mind took pleasure in it.

He said to Elizabeth, “We should at least be courteous enough to listen—”

“No!”

“Yes,” Abraham said, with firmness.

“Thank you,” Philip said. “If—if you’ve failed to see the sort of future you could have, the fault’s mine. I must rectify that. Elizabeth”—forcing himself to ignore her hostile glare, he moved toward her, his right shoulder sagging at every step—“you’ve never been outside Boston. Abraham has seen nothing but the back roads and rivers between here and that damned godforsak—between here and the west. Let me show you what you’ll be rejecting if you pursue the course you’ve set—”

Sounding more confident, Philip straightened his shoulders, even attempted a smile. “I think after I’ve laid the alternative before you both, you’ll quickly choose it in preference to your own plan.”

Quietly, Peggy said, “Philip, I am not sure what you
are
proposing.”

“A tour! A holiday! To the capital—perhaps even as far as your home state of Virginia—”

There was a falsity to Philip’s enthusiasm that still saddened Abraham. But he listened without comment as the older man rushed on.

“I’m in need of a change of scene anyway. The good weather is coming—the roads will be passable—we’ll show these young people where the future of America really lies. In the cities! The solid seats of power along the coast! By God, I’ll even write my old friend Henry Knox and arrange for Abraham and Elizabeth to meet the president himself! What do you say, Abraham?”

The son hesitated, sickened to see his father so desperate. At the same time, he was conscious of Elizabeth’s tension as she held his arm. Her fingers dug into the fabric of his sleeve.

“I say nothing can change our minds,” she told Philip.

“Not the prospect of being well off? Influential? Ah, we’ll see. We’ll see!” He looked straight at Abraham. “As my son, I think it is your duty to grant me the right to prove my case.”

“Oh, that’s unfair, sir!” Elizabeth cried. “To play on his emotions—” She would have said more, but Peggy’s sharp glance silenced her.

There was a long moment in which no one spoke. Then, very quietly, Philip said, “Abraham?”

Abraham knew even before he replied that his father had outwitted him—because Philip knew his son couldn’t refuse a plea of family love, family duty—no matter how expedient or meretricious its invocation.

With mingled feelings of outrage and pity, he answered, “All right, we’ll accede to your wishes, Papa.”

“Splendid, excellent! We’ll leave within a week.”

“But don’t expect miracles,” Abraham cautioned. “Our minds are made up.”

“Ah, we’ll see!” Philip repeated, trying to restore a measure of gaiety to the discussion. Elizabeth’s blue eyes burned with resentment.

As his anger drained away, Abraham was saddened by a new thought. The Bible, which Peggy had insisted he study as a boy, said something explicit about a man taking a wife, and cleaving to her, and leaving his father’s house forever. He’d come to that watershed—and at the last moment, refused to cross.

Seated beside Peggy, Philip was already outlining his plans for hiring carriages, packing their belongings. He acted supremely confident. For a moment Abraham thought that his father might be right. Perhaps he
was
a fool to throw away so many advantages—

As if sensing his indecision, Elizabeth dug her fingers still deeper into his arm. Abraham looked at her, then away. The savagery of her glance terrified him.

W
HEN EDITOR PLEASANT LEARNED
of the forthcoming trip, and heard Abraham describe its purpose, he broke out laughing. “Why, it’s almost as if he’s taking you to a great museum, isn’t it? One in which you’ll be expected to sigh and gape respectfully at scenes of life among the mighty—”

Pleasant sobered, raised a hand. “I don’t mean to mock your father, Abraham. He’s treated me well. But he’s as stubborn as sin—and remarkably canny, as you’ll discover if you haven’t so far. Prepare yourself for a dazzling exhibition. ‘Scenes of life among the mighty’—”

He scribbled it down with his quill.

“I rather like that. Damned if I’m not a shade jealous at being left behind!”

Pleasant’s phrase stuck in Abraham’s mind, constantly emphasizing the contrivance of the trip and tainting his attitude toward it. He didn’t mention the remark to Elizabeth. He was afraid she might taunt Philip with it. That could earn Pleasant a reprimand, a cut in salary, the loss of his job, or, if Philip were really exercised, a thrashing. From his boyhood Abraham remembered a couple of occasions when Philip struck employees who displeased him.

The family set out in mid-April, in two carriages. Each carriage had its own driver and postillion. Luggage was lashed in place on top. An armed guard rode ahead, another behind—ugly fellows, but necessary because the rutted highways were known to attract thieves who preyed on rich travelers.

Gilbert was delighted by every new vista along the route. But Elizabeth complained constantly about the jars and jolts. At their overnight stops, she seldom ate more than a few mouthfuls of the evening’s meal, and retired early. Her pale blue eyes sought Abraham’s often, silently imploring him—warning him—not to be seduced. He had few chances to speak to her in private, and reassure her that he was on his guard.

As Elizabeth suffered under the rigors of the journey, Philip’s spirits, by contrast, grew more and more ebullient. He was positively gay as they neared the nation’s temporary capital, Philadelphia.

On their first full day in that splendid and impressive city, they drove out to see some of the fine Georgian homes, as well as the newer, neoclassic ones designed in what was coming to be called the Federal style. They visited Congress Hall, where the two houses of the legislature sat while in session. They returned to their lodgings to find a beautifully inscribed invitation from the appointments secretary of the chief executive of the United States.

President and Mrs. Washington would be delighted to receive the family of Mr. Philip Kent, the noted Boston publisher, at their quarters in the Morris mansion on High Street at four p.m. Thursday.

At last, Elizabeth seemed a bit impressed by the ease with which Philip’s longtime friendship with the Boston bookseller Henry Knox, now retired as Secretary of War and gone to Maine, had opened the doors that shielded the mighty from those Philip scorned as “Jefferson’s democratic-republican rabble.”

Robert Morris had signed the Declaration; managed the fledgling nation’s finances during the Revolution; founded the national bank. He was called the wealthiest man in the country. His house, turned over to the president and first lady for their own use, was a magnificent three-story brick mansion. In it, people said, everything glittered, as befitted an American Midas. The lamp fixtures outside glittered; the furniture and mahogany woodwork glittered; the largest brass door-hinge and the smallest bit of brass cabinet hardware glittered. It was no wonder the entire Kent family was in a state of nerves when their carriage pulled up in front of the Morris house at the appointed hour.

With obvious trepidation, Peggy remarked on the presence of half a dozen even more sumptuous coaches, and many servants lounging around them. Even Elizabeth’s eyes sparkled at the sight.

Elizabeth had dressed with special care, as they all had. Her gown of white brocade silk shimmered in the mild sunlight of the spring afternoon. In her excitement, she stumbled going up the walk, losing one of her silver-embroidered high-heeled shoes, which Abraham gallantly retrieved.

Servants ushered the visitors into the parlor. Abraham’s nervousness grew as the elegantly groomed guests, a dozen ladies and gentlemen, turned toward the newcomers.

The aging president approached the Kents, a small, plump woman at his side. Martha Washington exchanged curtsys with Peggy and Elizabeth while the tall Virginian who preferred Mount Vernon to Philadelphia greeted Philip and his party with impeccable politeness.

“I’m honored to welcome so distinguished a family, Mr. Kent. When General Knox wrote that you planned a tour, I decided we must surely meet—for social as well as for somewhat more practical reasons.”

Washington, Abraham noticed, had an odd, rigid smile. Except when speaking, he kept his lips compressed. The gossipmongers said this was to hide false teeth that fit poorly, causing him continual discomfort. According to Supply Pleasant, a New York dentist had carved the president’s dentures out of hippopotamus ivory, the same material Revere had used for Philip’s false tooth. Washington’s were reportedly attached to metal bars that gouged his gums and lent his lower face a swollen look.

Philip said, “The honor is entirely ours, Mr. President.”

“Come, let me present you to the rest of the gathering,” Washington said. His lips parted sufficiently for Abraham to see that something—wine or tea—had badly blackened the artificial teeth.

Among men who were taller than he, Philip always seemed to stand more erect. That was the case now. His limp was hardly noticeable as he walked at Washington’s side.

Abraham and the others met Robert Morris and his wife, then the tubby vice president, John Adams, and his wife Abigail. Philip and Adams reminisced briefly about their long acquaintance; it had begun in Boston, before the Revolution.

The famous Philadelphia socialite and beauty, Mrs. Bingham, was presented next. She graciously drew Peggy and Elizabeth into conversation after apologizing that her wealthy husband was indisposed.

Servants brought in refreshments—tea, port and trays of sweet little cakes. Before long, the gentlemen were gathered in one group, the ladies in another. The president led Philip and the others to a large, ornate key which hung on one wall of the parlor.

“I’m reminded that you are a good friend of the Marquis de Lafayette, Mr. Kent.”

Philip didn’t seem the least overawed by the towering president. Giving a crisp nod, he replied, “Perhaps you also recall we met when we were quite young, in our native province of Auvergne, in France.”

Washington nodded. Then his gaze turned toward the great key. “My sympathies were with the revolutionaries for a time. As were those of our mutual friend.” He gestured. “That is the key to the Bastille. Lafayette obtained it the day that evil fortress was destroyed, and later sent it to me.”

“I understand the marquis is being reasonably well treated in prison,” Philip said.

“Yes, so I’ve heard. But his circumstances grieve me all the same. France was our great ally once. Now I believe our courses have separated—perhaps forever.”

The president was alluding to the political rift between the Federalists—some said they controlled Washington’s thinking through Alexander Hamilton—and Jefferson, the Francophile, who had resigned his position as secretary of state and gone home to Virginia.

“Experience is a good teacher, if she is only heeded,” Washington continued. “I would hope the next president of these states would avoid permanent alliances of any kind. Even though conditions have changed radically in France in twenty years, she still expects us to grant her favored status because of her past support. Our refusal may pose difficulties for us.”

Philip set his port aside. “You refer to the next president, sir. The reports are true, then? You won’t relent and seek a third term?”

Washington shook his head. “When a man passes sixty, a certain vigor departs. But I am sure your widely read newspaper, as well as you personally, will stand behind the gentleman I hope to see elected by year’s end.”

He laid a hand on the shoulder of the preening Adams.

“Among men of Federalist persuasion, Mr. Adams has no peers and no rivals,” Philip answered smoothly. “Of course my paper will endorse his candidacy.”