The Furies (50 page)

“Do you have any idea what they’d do?”

“None whatever. It could be a friendly little street assault when you least suspect it. Or Louis might be the target. Some of the roughest gangs specialize in such charming touches as stomping a victim with shoes in which they’ve embedded a couple of knife blades—”

“Dear God!”

“They’re also fond of quick raids to wreck and loot a house. Or arson—that’s relatively safe. The possibilities are almost without limit—” He shrugged. “On the other hand, Kathleen’s threat may be more heat than substance.”

“You’re not entirely convinced of it.”

Michael’s eyes slid away. “Not entirely.”

“Well, I suppose it’s time for me to resurrect my old revolver and keep it handy.”

“Not a bad notion,” he agreed.

“As for Louis—I know what I’m going to do. First I intend to punish him personally. Then I’m going to withdraw him from Professor Pemberton’s Day School for a while. Put him to work around the house. Any sort of project that needs doing—or can be invented. I want you to take charge of that phase. Work him to exhaustion.”

“What are you trying to do, Mrs. A, break him like a horse?”

That irritated her. “Do you have a better suggestion?”

“I think so—though it’ll make you even more angry.”

“I’m listening.”

Michael drew in a deep breath. “Set him a different kind of example.”

She turned red. “Just exactly what do you mean?”

“Simply this. You’re a determined woman. You go after what you want, no interference allowed—and you make no secret of it. I suspect Louis is only showing his admiration of that.”

“In a very warped way!” She said it sharply. But she knew Michael had touched the essential truth of the problem.

“Agreed,” he said “Still, you might find things changing favorably if you displayed—shall we say—a less aggressive attitude?”

“I can’t be what I’m not.”

“Certainly. But you
can
be less outspoken about your intention to own Kent and Son at any cost. Louis may not understand the reason for it, or know how you’re going about it. But he can’t help being aware of your hostility. You’re quite a different woman when Mr. Stovall occupies your thoughts than you are, for example, when you’re entertaining Mrs. Ludwig or arguing the pros and cons of abolitionism. You may not even realize the disparity—”

“I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Then perhaps I’ve made you angry in a good cause.”

Amanda gazed restlessly around the library.

At the painting of her grandfather highlighted by the flicker of flames from the hearth—

At the polished scabbard of the French sword and the lustrous wood of the Kentucky rifle—

At the shimmering green glass of the tea bottle—

She sounded almost despondent when she spoke. “Everyone wants to convince me I’m a fool for trying to get control of the firm.”

“Everyone? There have been others before me?”

“Quite a few,” she said, sourly. “Rose Ludwig just this evening. My cousin Jared before he died. Captain McGill—but that’s immaterial. I consider it my duty to deal with Stovall.”

“I’d say your sense of duty has become a fixation.”

“Call it anything you like. I won’t stop now. He blocked me once, because I was careless, but he won’t a second time. You must understand how I see it, Michael—Louis behaved inexcusably. But every step I’ve taken against Stovall, I’ve taken for a good and sufficient reason—”

“You could lecture Louis for days, Mrs. A, and I don’t believe you’d get through to him. He’s not old enough to comprehend the subtle difference between an appetite for a woman and an appetite for revenge. If there
is
a difference—”

“There is!”

His shrug said the question was debatable.

“Michael, what Louis did to Kathleen was pointless and—”

“Forgive me again,” he interrupted. “I may be expressing a narrow male attitude, but a boy with a physical craving hardly considers the craving pointless. It’s the most important thing in the world to him. It took me months to work up nerve the first time I—well, never mind the details.”

“I am talking about the despicable way Louis went about it!” she insisted.

Michael’s gaze rested on Mr. Mayor sleeping in a ball on the marble in front of the fire. “You wouldn’t call my planned expedition to the Five Points despicable?”

“I was very explicit on that subject. The material from the Phelans would only be used in an extreme situation, so let’s not permit that to confuse the discussion.”

He flushed. “I think it’s very pertinent to the discussion. You
did
ask for my suggestions—”

“Well, I don’t agree with them. Hamilton Stovall and my son’s behavior have nothing to do with one another.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me? Or yourself?”

“Michael, you’re overstepping—!”

“The hell I am! You’ve enrolled me as your son’s disciplinarian!”

“I told you I intend to punish—”

“For God’s sake, Mrs. A, why won’t you recognize that it’s your obsession with Kent and Son that’s damaging the boy? Until you reach that conclusion, no punishment will make a whit of difference in Louis’ character. If you change, he may. Otherwise—”

“Enough, Michael.”

“No, goddamn it, I want to have my say about—”

“The subject is
closed.
”

There was a heavy silence.

“And you’ll take charge of Louis as I instructed.”

“Ordered!” he growled, turning toward the fireplace. He saw the white cat lying in front of him. He kicked it.

Mr. Mayor woke with a start, nearly as astonished at the young man’s cruelty as Amanda herself. Michael slammed a fist down on the mantel, then bent to stroke the cat, murmuring apologies almost as if he’d struck a human being.

She
couldn’t
admit Michael was right. Or Jared. Or Bart McGill. She couldn’t admit she was being destroyed by her own dedication to owning the printing house. She was strong. She’d survived challenges before. Survived and overcome them. She would survive this one; bring Louis into line
and
gain her objective—

Michael’s back was still turned as she said, “Be sure Louis is wakened at six. I’ll inform him before I go to bed that you’ll be—”

A commotion at the rear of the house whirled them both toward the doors.

Michael started into the hall, only to step back as the butler, Mr. Hampton, rushed into sight, still struggling to slip his arms into his black coat. He smelled of gin; he’d evidently been relaxing downstairs before trudging home—

“Mrs. de la Gura, there is an Adams Express wagon in the alley.”

“At this hour?”

“I hardly believed it myself when I saw the accumulation of snow. Nevertheless, two deliverymen are bringing in a large crate.”

“We’ve ordered nothing big enough to be delivered in a crate—” Michael began.

“I can’t help that, Mr. Boyle,” Hampton said with a dogged shake of his head. “The crate has come from the railroad station, addressed to this house.”

“Oh my God,” Amanda exclaimed, an incredible suspicion forming in her mind. “Jephtha’s letter—”

“What’s that to do with a crate from Adams Express?” Michael wanted to know.

But Amanda had already dashed past him toward the butler’s pantry. With astonished looks, he and Hampton hurried after her.

The crate, dripping melted snow and exuding a faint acrid smell, had been brought down the rear service stairs into the room at the rear of the raised basement.

The room was a cheerless place without gas fixtures, used principally for storage.

The servants clustered around the crate. One of them, Brigid, the downstairs maid, held a flickering oil lamp that cast slow-moving shadows. Two sodden and distinctly unhappy draymen stood eyeing the box as Amanda entered, Michael and the butler right behind.

The outer door blew open, whirling snow and freezing air into the room. The flame of the lamp jumped in the sudden gust. Grotesque shadows leaped across the walls and ceiling. One drayman kicked the door shut while Amanda surveyed the crate. It had been crudely addressed in black paint:

MRS. A. DE LA GURA

MADISON SQUARE

NEW YORK CITY

It also bore a return address—j. jared, clifton forge, Virginia—and, across the ends, an additional legend:

BOOKS & HOUSEHOLD MERCHANDISE

The contrived name of the sender—meaningful to Amanda but to no one else—strengthened her growing conviction about the crate’s contents. With a sinking feeling, she recalled a passage in Jephtha’s letter about regular destinations for
freight
being unsafe—

“Come off the train from Baltimore,” one of the draymen informed her. “We ain’t to blame for the stink. One of the handlers down at the terminal must have pissed on—”

His companion nudged him, then held out a scrap of paper and pencil to Amanda. “You’ll have to sign.”

“Why did you deliver it on such a bad night?” she asked, scribbling her name.

“ ’Cos the goddamn sender paid extra,” the first man grumbled. “Special delivery within an hour after it arrived—”

The draymen left. Outside, wheels crunched snow. Hoofs clopped softly. The sounds faded.

Amanda circled the box, spotting three small holes neatly drilled through the wood. She didn’t know whether to laugh or weep over the additional burden thrust so unexpectedly on the already disturbed household.

Michael voiced the confusion of the whispering servants. “Who in God’s name would be shipping you books and such, Mrs. A?”

“That
J. Jared
is the Reverend Kent in Virginia. Jared was his father’s name. I’m sure he painted that on the box so we’d identify the sender.”

“Well, we can leave it sitting till morning, anyway—”

Amanda shook her head. “We have to open it. Fetch a crowbar.”

“Why?”

She pointed. “Do you notice those holes?”

“What of them?”

“Do you remember reading in the paper last year about a black man in Virginia who had himself shipped to the Philadelphia Antislavery Society? The Underground railroad’s used the trick several times before.”

“Oh my Lord!” the cook exclaimed. “Is your cousin mixed up in that, ma’am?”

“I’ve had hints of it in his letters—Michael, bring the crowbar!”

In half a minute, the young man returned and fell to prying one side off the case. Amanda was outraged that the Reverend Jephtha Kent would make her a party to his illegal work without so much as a word of warning—

But there
had
been warning, she realized belatedly. In Jephtha’s delayed letter, hadn’t he made a reference to
calling on some we wouldn’t otherwise burden or endanger?
If those weren’t the exact words, the sense was the same. He’d been telling her in a cryptic way that he might need her help. Perhaps he’d avoided saying it straight out in case mail from suspected underground railroad operators was tampered with. At the time she’d read the lines, she’d simply been too dull-witted to grasp his meaning.

A nail squealed as Michael worked the crowbar. He was starting to pry loose another when the bar slipped from his fingers and clanged on the floor.

“Can’t hold on to the blasted thing. There’s a bit of grease on it—”

“Spit on your hands,” Amanda said.

Bent over and reaching for the length of iron, Michael stared. The reaction was more pronounced from the servants. The butler uttered an audible gasp.

Amanda snapped at him, “Haven’t you ever used a little spit so you could get a better hold on something, Mr. Hampton?”

“No, madam, I have not,” the butler said, plainly horrified by the idea.

“Well, you’re not taking advantage of the saliva God gave you. For heaven’s sake, Michael, get that damn thing open!”

“Right away, Mrs. A—I was about to do the very thing you suggested.”

He moistened his palms while Mr. Hampton raised his eyes to the ceiling.

Presently the last nail came free. Michael scrambled back as the side of the box crashed to the floor. One of the maids shrieked softly. Amanda almost felt like crying again.
Not this on top of everything else!

Huddled inside the crate in a tangle of cheap blankets was a light-skinned colored girl. Her frayed cotton dress barely covered her emaciated thighs. Amanda judged her to be sixteen or seventeen. She looked undernourished and nearly frozen. With the crate open, the smell of urine was much stronger.

The black girl started to crawl out, tears in her eyes. “I thought I die in there. I thought I die from the cold and the shakin’ on the train—”

Amanda forced herself to stay calm. She knelt and slipped an arm around the trembling girl. “You’re safe, child. Safe. What’s your name?”

“Mary, ma’am.”

“Mary what?”

“Mary’s the only name I got.”

“I’m Mrs. de la Gura—”

“Praise God! The Reveren’ Kent, he took me over to Clifton Forge hid in Mr. Syme’s wagon. He stopped in some woods outside of town, an’ before he nailed me in the box, he say you help me get to Canada—”

“Christ, that’s all we need—black contraband!” Michael groaned.

“Hush, Michael.”

“But you can be arrested for concealing a runaway sl—”

“I said hush! Mary—how long have you been shut up in that box?”

“Mos’ part of two nights an’ all day, I guess—what day’s this?”

“Friday night—Saturday morning by now.”

“The Reverend, he drove me to the Virginia Central depot Wednesday—trip’s almos’ thirty miles—”

“Why couldn’t they simply have shipped the creature to Canada?” Mr. Hampton asked, disdainful.

“Watch your tongue, Mr. Hampton,” Amanda warned. “She’s not a creature—she’s a human being. And a hungry one at that, I imagine. Have you had anything to eat, child?”

“Biscuits. No drinkin’ water. Breathin’ was the hardest. Breathin’ and bracin’ my hands an’ feet so I wouldn’t roll around and make noise when men lifted the box—”

“Does that answer you, Mr. Hampton?” Amanda asked in a waspish voice. “If they shipped her all the way to Canada, she’d probably suffocate before she got there—or make such a stink in the box someone would surely open it.”

The girl grew agitated. “I couldn’t help wettin’ myself. I tried and tried not to—I tried hard, but I couldn’t—”