Woodsburner (25 page)

Eliot checks his watch, fingers the slack chain, slips it back into his vest pocket. The small sample of Concord visible through the dirty storefront window seems half-asleep. The breeze drifting through the open door carries the charred scent that has grown stronger since morning, and every now and then Eliot sees a passerby stop and point at the sky before continuing on, unconcerned.

It is already half past noon, well past the time Seymour Twine agreed to meet. Eliot has not communicated with him directly. He arranged their meeting through a mutual business associate, a man in whom he places only a modicum of trust. It seems to him that his life is populated by unreliable men—merchants, tradesmen, salesmen—men whom he knows only by a last name, men identified by the wares they carry. Eliot is as ignorant of their personal lives as he is of the cobbler, who, according to Otis Dickerson, died in the very shop where Eliot now paces impatiently. How, he wonders, have his days come to consist of one petty negotiation after another?

Eliot is not a diarist and has never felt the need. Those experiences worthy of recollection—food for reflection when he is working on his plays—always seem to lodge themselves in his memory. Sometimes, though, he wishes he had kept a diary as a young man, if only that he might now have a document detailing the indiscriminate decisions and digressions that have ushered
him here. Eliot had thought only of love when he pursued Margaret Mahoney; he had not considered that he was wooing a father-in-law and business partner as well. He remembers the first time he ventured to take Margaret's hand, trembling at the touch of her cool, delicate fingers. He remembers their first kiss, stolen in the shadows of the Tremont Theater balcony after Mr. Mahoney was called away on an important matter of business, and he can recall other isolated moments, conversations, walks, dinners. But now, looking back, he cannot mark the incremental progression that brought him from romance to love to something more prudent, if less inspiring.

Eliot's first visit to the Mahoneys' parlor came not in the name of courtship but in response to an invitation from Mr. Mahoney himself. When Eliot arrived, he learned that Margaret was not even at home but was in Philadelphia visiting a cousin. The two men were alone, seated on facing serpentine sofas, when Mr. Mahoney made his intentions known.

“Calvert, I can see you are a man of the world, so I shall speak plainly.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eliot said, flattered.

“My daughter, as I am sure you have discerned, is a strong-minded woman, as well she should be, considering the sum I have exhausted on her schooling. But her willfulness has at times proven a frustration to those men who did not feel up to the challenge.”

“I should think such men fools.”

Mr. Mahoney grunted and tugged at his tight-fitting waistcoat. He slid back into the sofa, seeking a comfortable position on the fat green cushions, and his great stomach rose before him like an island. “The fact is that you, my boy, are not the first dog to come sniffing at our door. There have been suitors before, and most had an ample supply of the one thing you do not:
money
.”

Eliot sat still, uncertain whether he should take offense. In the theater, dissemblance and misdirection were the preferred paths to truth; he was not used to dealing with men who spoke bluntly.

“Nevertheless,” Mr. Mahoney continued, “you have advanced further than the lot of them. Most fled as soon as they realized they could not match my daughter's wit. As for the others, I refused their entreaties because
they
lacked what you possess:
ambition
. And what is ambition but a desire to be something more than what you are? Tell me that I am not mistaken.”

“You are not mistaken, sir.”

“Certainly not. I know men. It is not the
having
that makes a man what he is to become. It is the
wanting
. Young men raised on their fathers' money do not understand the necessity of wanting what they do not already have.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Mahoney tugged at his snug waistcoat again and unfastened the lowest button, which practically jumped from its hole.

“Nothing is more important to me than my daughter's happiness.”

“Of course.”

“But”—Mr. Mahoney held up a thick finger—“she has, upon occasion, associated with men of artistic temperament—men of little or no accomplishment to speak of—and I know that she does so simply to confound my interest in seeing her settled with a husband of sound finances. She gets her rebellious spirit from her dear departed mother, and it comes as no surprise to me. But I fear she does not always act in her best interest.”

Eliot fidgeted nervously. “Am I to understand that you disapprove of my attentions?”

“Not at all. You miss my point entirely.” Mr. Mahoney struggled against the cushions for a moment and then settled back into them with a deep sigh. His immense head, with it sparse crests of
gray hair, looked as though it were slowly being swallowed by his chest. “That is why I have asked you here, Calvert. Something in your nature sets you apart from the others. I wish to know more about your plans.”

Eliot held on to the armrest to keep himself afloat on the wide sofa as he studied Mr. Mahoney's face, looking for some indication of how he should reply.

“Plans for what?” Eliot asked.

Mr. Mahoney cocked an eyebrow and stared at Eliot over the rise of his stomach. “Why, for life! Your plans for life! I can tell that you are not a man content to wander aimlessly through his days.”

Eliot hesitated. “Well, I am working on a play of some merit—”

“Yes, yes. Margaret has told me as much. I have written a little poetry myself. A man of business needs recreation to sharpen the mind. But I want to know about your
real
work. What of your business plans? Your expectations for the future.”

“I have reason to believe,” Eliot said, trying to sound confident, “that there might yet be a place for me at Carter and Hendee, after the sale is complete.”

“You cannot expect to blacken Carter's boots forever, Calvert. Besides, we both know Carter and Hendee will be blackening Ticknor's boots soon enough.” Mr. Mahoney twisted another button on his waistcoat but could not dislodge it. He gave up and regarded Eliot with disapproval. “You strike me as a man who wants something more.”

“Well, yes, I do indeed.” Eliot watched Mr. Mahoney's hand return to the strained button at his waistcoat, and he felt an urge to leap up and unfasten it for him. “I should think there will be new opportunities for advancement once Mr. Ticknor is in charge, possibly.”

“You are aware of the type of books Ticknor intends to publish?”

Eliot nodded. “Medical books—they may prove to be a lucrative
offering. There is always a demand, and such publications command no small price, especially those with engravings.”

“And you do not think that a man of your ambitions will grow weary of dissection manuals?” Mr. Mahoney abandoned his efforts at undoing the button for a second time. “And what then? When your weariness turns to desperation, what then? Will you become one of the mass of men, forgotten in middling jobs, too uninspired to advance, too debt-ridden to quit altogether? What then, Calvert?”

Eliot was not prepared for the assault. He did not relish the future Mr. Mahoney described, but he could think of no plausible alternative.

“Your concern is not unwarranted,” Eliot said, stalling for an answer that did not sound naïve. “But my position at Carter and Hendee … well, it is truly only a means to an end. As soon as I finish my play, I shall immediately strive to have it produced on the stage. All I need is one good night to attract investors, and I expect that once I leave my position I shall be able to devote all my energies to writing …”

“All your energies, you say?”

“Well, certainly—”

“Can you possibly expect your plays to generate income enough for my daughter?”

The boldness of the moment nearly struck Eliot dumb.

“I… I had not thought on it.”

“Of course you have,” Mr. Mahoney pressed. “Margaret is wholly entranced by the world of the theater and its romantic nonsense, but at the end of the day she will need to be kept in the manner to which she has grown accustomed. It is no small wonder that she has not yet found the man who can guarantee her happiness. However, in this I believe I might offer you some assistance.”

Eliot's eyes darted about the handsomely appointed room,
taking in the mahogany Hepplewhite furniture, dark paintings of stormy landscapes, ornamented corner chairs, statuettes and candlesticks and miniature portraits in tiny gilt frames. He became suddenly conscious of the close, dusty air. If he could have intuited what Mr. Mahoney wanted him to say, he would gladly have uttered it so that he might conclude the conversation and leave the suffocating parlor.

“Mr. Mahoney, please do not think me impertinent for saying so, but I see no reason that I should not hope to sustain your daughter's happiness on my own until I achieve fortune on the stage.”

Mr. Mahoney regarded Eliot with the cold stare of a man accustomed to negotiating other men out of their money.

“This is your final offer, Calvert?”

“I was unaware that an offer was being made.”

The large man rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and broke into laughter.

“Ho! You are a good one, Calvert. It has taken me a lifetime to acquire this wealth. How can I expect the same from a young man like yourself? No one has ever dissembled so well under my stare, and I have broken tougher nuts.”

“I am not dissembling, sir.”

“Enough! Ho! You have won. And I cannot say that I do not deserve the abuse. Margaret must have told you something of my plan already. I cannot trust the girl to keep a secret. Oh, you will make her a fine husband indeed.”

Mr. Mahoney shifted his bulk and the sofa creaked beneath him, while Eliot wondered if a proposal of marriage had just been made and accepted on his behalf.

“We can work out the details later,” Mr. Mahoney said, “but it should suffice to say that I have excess capital that I must put to work.”

Eliot was not sure if Mr. Mahoney was referring to his daughter or to his money.

“I have decided to invest in a bookshop, Calvert. Timothy Carter and Charles Hendee will soon be out of the game. William Davis Ticknor is a formidable businessman, but he shows no interest in literary stuff. That leaves us with little competition.”

“Competition?” Eliot had never met Mr. Ticknor, but he knew that the man had arranged for considerable backing to support his venture.

Mr. Mahoney paid Eliot's reluctance no heed. “I know opportunity, but I know nothing of the publishing world. You understand the people who read and buy books, but you have not the means to put your understanding into action. We shall wed our advantages each to each. I shall buy a bookstore, and you shall have the running of it.”

“I am flattered, truly,” Eliot said, hoping to slow the advance of what seemed to him an utterly absurd scheme. “But I fear your investment would be at risk.”

Mr. Mahoney dispelled Eliot's doubt with a sweep of his thick arm.

“Have you heard of the
Sovereign of the Seas?”

Eliot shook his head.

“No reason you should have. Norwegian ship. It was said to be a good investment—well built, valuable cargo, certain profit—but I had a bad feeling, and I always follow my gut.” Mr. Mahoney respectfully patted his stomach. “And what happened? The doomed ship exploded in Boston Harbor. No survivors, a terrible loss of capital.”

“Remarkable instincts,” Eliot said, only slightly reassured by the man's confidence.

“I never doubt them. And now my instincts tell me that a bookshop is the thing.”

Eliot rubbed his jaw. He felt numbed by the possibilities suddenly opening before him. “I have never given any thought to running a bookstore.”

“You'll learn how to balance the accounts in time, easiest thing in the world.”

“I… well, I am without words.”

“Ha! Without words! That wit! Soon you'll have plenty to sell, at great profit. Margaret has convinced me that you are the perfect man for the job, and my
gut
agrees.”