The Furies (37 page)

As Douglass started away, she added, “I do hope I may be able to make a donation to your paper soon.”

The black man turned back, pleased. “A shortage of money is the constant plague of
The North Star.
Without the help of friends, my paper would never survive, and my message could never be spread so broadly. As it is, I spend too much time running from city to city presenting lectures and soliciting donations. Your contribution would be very welcome. An address reading Fred Douglass, Rochester, New York, will bring it to me—”

“I’ll remember.”

As Douglass disappeared down a companionway, Amanda turned toward the panorama of Boston, a murky jumble of piers, hills, residences, and commercial buildings that poured smoke from tall chimneys into the already gray air of the late June morning.

“I’m not sure all those factories are as great a boon as everyone claims,” she remarked to Louis. “Look at the dirt they spew into the sky.”

The boy was more interested in their departed companion. “Is Mr. Douglass really famous, Ma?”

“Louis, I’ve reminded you before—it’s time you began saying Mother.”

The dark-eyed boy scowled. “What’s the difference?”

“One sounds more genteel than the other. And to answer your question—yes, Mr. Douglass is just about the most famous runaway slave in America. People pack his lectures.”

“Then why wouldn’t anyone else sit with him in the dining room?”

“Because he’s a black man.”

“But he’s very nice.” His scowl deepening, Louis surveyed the passengers along the rail. “People should be whipped for treating him that way.”

Amanda said nothing. The remark about whipping disturbed her. Louis was beginning to display some less than admirable traits. She recalled the dreadful row with Jephtha’s son over a toad during their visit in the Shenandoah Valley.

She tried to recall when she’d first become aware of the boy’s aggressive attitude. In California, she decided. Soon after she told him of the shooting in Hopeful. She’d taken pains to explain that the man had threatened her, but it was the fact that she’d killed him that seemed to make the greatest impression on Louis. Quite a few times since, she’d noticed him watching her with a speculative expression.

Now, while his attention was diverted, it was her turn to study him. He was handsomer than Cordoba. Yet he seemed to lack the Mexican officer’s softening humanity.

On the long voyage from San Francisco, she’d finally told Louis about his father. The experience had been harder on her than it seemed to be on him. He’d asked a few questions about Cordoba’s appearance and character, and accepted Amanda’s statement that the officer was an honorable man whom she’d loved.

She deliberately refrained from cautioning the boy about mentioning his illegitimacy to others; he had no friends with whom to discuss it, and she was afraid that undue emphasis would lend it an unhealthy importance it shouldn’t have.

Louis hadn’t brought up the subject since that one and only discussion. In many ways, the boy was an extremely private person. Not surprising, since she’d been occupied with so many other things these past few years. And would be in the weeks and months to come. She wondered whether their new life in the east would be good for him—

A bit too late to think of that, she reflected. Still, his words about whipping put her on guard. If she were required to perform any unpleasant actions in connection with Hamilton Stovall, the boy must never become aware of them.

The pilot maneuvered
Yankee Arrow
through the crowded harbor. Amanda felt just a bit intimidated by the great city rising before her. She was angered by the reaction. Here she was, about to step ashore to begin a new life just the way her grandfather had done eighty years ago, and her gloved hands were trembling!

Despite her anxiety, she was fascinated by the sprawl of the city, the gush of smoke from the manufacturies, the crowded confusion of the docks becoming visible off the bow. Boston, like the other cities she’d glimpsed on the trip, seemed to symbolize the wealth, the power, the human energy and inventiveness of the industrialized east. In all her years, she’d never seen anything that even resembled this part of America.

There were nearly twenty-five million people in the nation now. Population, according to Mr. Douglass, had grown at an unprecedented rate of thirty-six percent in ten years. And there appeared to be no limit to the mechanical genius of the country’s citizens.

For two decades, McCormick’s reaper had been improving the productivity of the farms. Three rival inventors—Howe, Wilson and Singer—were vying to produce a device for mechanized sewing. She’d overheard a man on the steamer discussing a fellow named Otis, who proposed to build some sort of oversized box to lift and lower passengers within a shaft inside a building. The man had made an extravagant prediction: structures as tall as eight, ten or twelve floors would be commonplace if Otis succeeded.

The marvels were by no means limited to the large and spectacular. In her cabin, Amanda had a half dozen samples of a remarkable little invention called a “safety” pin, perfected only a year ago. The sharp end was springy, and hid away within a small metal cap when the pin was fastened.

She was both fearful and excited at the idea of creating a place for herself in this restless, fast-changing society. It would be an important place, too. She had the means. In her portmanteau, she carried the document Jephtha had signed, granting her the right to administer the California claim—

For a few moments she pondered the sad enigma of the Reverend Jephtha Kent, a pious, haunted-looking young man who scarcely resembled his father. Something was seriously wrong in Jephtha’s family; she’d sensed that all during her visit.

Perhaps it was friction over the slave problem. Jephtha’s petite and attractive wife had made it clear she was a partisan of the system. His father-in-law, a detestable rogue named Tunworth, had been even more outspoken, positively vitriolic. But Jephtha himself had given few hints of his own convictions. To Amanda that suggested he didn’t feel free to voice them. Having secured what she came for, she’d been glad to leave the tense household.

Thoughts of her cousin once removed reminded her of Bart’s warning about the stormy political situation here in the east. She had seen another tangible example aboard the
Yankee Arrow:
the public shunning of a noted man who happened to be black.

Perhaps the socially generated turmoil was one more reason she felt uneasy. She didn’t want to be drawn into it. And yet, quite without realizing she
was
being drawn in, she’d taken Louis to sit with Douglass in the dining room. No great damage done by that—snickers and glares could do her no harm. But she’d have to be careful of any deeper involvement. It could divert her from her purpose.

With her autographed copy of the
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
tucked under one arm, Amanda waited impatiently near the open door of a private office at Benbow and Benbow.

Yankee Arrow
had let down its gangplank less than an hour ago. Clerk’s pens had stopped scratching the moment she and Louis walked into the dusty-smelling outer room of the law firm.

She was still conscious of eyes turned her way.

Louis raised his head at the sound of faraway thunder. At the open door, a clerk was speaking to the invisible occupant of the private office: “—a Mrs. de la Gura, sir.”

A somewhat high-pitched male voice snapped back, “The Benbows have no clients by that name. If she insists on seeing someone, refer her to one of the junior partners—”

Amanda stepped forward. “If you’ll excuse me”—the clerk had to move or be bowled aside—“I insist on speaking to one of the senior partners.” She stopped in the doorway. “Is your name Benbow?”

At an ornate desk in front of a wall bookcase jammed with reference volumes, an elderly man with thin white hair and pale skin swung his spectacles back and forth from one hand. He studied his visitor disapprovingly.

“Yes, madam, I’m William Benbow, Junior.”

“Well, I’m not precisely a client as yet. But before we finish our interview, I will be. Now if you’ll dismiss this young man, I’d like to discuss my business—”

Benbow flung down the spectacles. “See here! I am preparing an important brief. If you insist on seeing me, make an appointment for sometime next week.”

Amanda shook her head and walked into the gloomy office. “You don’t understand, Mr. Benbow. I’ve come all the way from California, and I don’t propose to wait. I’m Gilbert Kent’s daughter.”

William Benbow, Junior, was seized with a fit of coughing. He groped for a crystal water jug and overturned one of the tumblers before he poured and gulped a drink. It was a full minute before Amanda was sure the old man wasn’t going to faint away.

Turning to the clerk, she said, “You may go.” She took hold of the door and pushed to make certain he would. Louis grinned and darted into the office before the door shut.

“Incredible,” William Benbow, Junior, said at the end of Amanda’s rapid summary of her history—the portions of it she cared to reveal, that is. “Absolutely incredible. You do resemble your father. At the time he died, my father”—a gesture toward a dour portrait on one wall—“was his attorney. I was still clerking in the outer chambers.” The lawyer wiped his eyes with a kerchief, replaced his spectacles. “You mentioned business—if it has anything to do with your gold claim, I should advise you that the Benbow firm has no expertise in that area.”

Amanda replied, “No, it has nothing to do with the California property. I may need your help with a simple real estate transaction.”

Benbow looked a trifle crestfallen. “Real estate?”

“I assure you, Mr. Benbow, if you serve me capably in this small enterprise, I’ll probably have a good deal of work for you later on.”

“You plan to stay in the east permanently?”

“That depends on a number of factors we needn’t go into right now. Are you familiar with the house my father owned on Beacon Street?”

“Quite familiar.” Benbow nodded, his manner growing more cordial. “My father took me there to visit on several occasions. A handsome residence—”

Louis was seated in a chair beside his mother’s. He scraped the toe of his boot on the carpet. Benbow frowned, as though the noise had interrupted his train of thought. Amanda noticed that Louis stared right back at him, without so much as a blink.

“Who lives in the house now?” she asked.

“Why, let me see—” Benbow thought. “A family named Wheeler. Mr. and Mrs. Charles Wheeler. He’s a furniture merchant. He and his wife have owned the home for nearly twenty years, I think.”

“I’m asking because my father once kept certain family mementos in the house. I’m anxious to see whether they might have survived. The items would be of no intrinsic value to another owner—but there’s always a slim chance they weren’t discarded. Would you imagine the Wheelers would let me inspect the property? Search the attic, and the cellar?”

“Doubtful. Wheeler’s an arrogant sort. His wife is quite conscious of her fancied social position.”

Amanda smiled without humor. “You’re saying they might not permit some strange woman from the west to prowl through their house?”

“Yes, you’ve put it accurately. I doubt very much that they would.”

“Would you guess that items that might have been stored in the house would still be there?”

“I’ve no way of knowing, Mrs. de la Gura. Wheeler and his wife are antiquaries. I’m told they’ve packed the place with art objects purchased on tours of Europe. That may indicate a penchant for saving things—but it’s still thin evidence on which to base a positive answer to your question.”

“Then the only way to answer it is to buy the house.”

Benbow’s spectacles, swinging in his hand again, fell to the carpet. “You want to live in it?”

“No, I just want to go inside.”

“You—you’ve certainly chosen an extravagant means of entry!”

“I don’t think so. The location of the property still makes it valuable, I assume—”

“Very definitely.”

“Then it’s a good investment. I’ll be happy to have the house back in the family. After I inspect it, you can lease it to someone else.”

Benbow was speechless. Annoyed, Amanda said, “I’ll be glad to pay whatever fee you require, Mr. Benbow. But I want you to approach the Wheelers and tell them you have a purchaser for the property. How much is it worth?”

“Why—why, I suppose—in that area of town—forty to fifty thousand—”

From her reticule Amanda drew an envelope, and handed it across the desk. “Inside, you’ll find a bank draft representing the sale of some real estate in California. The sum of ninety thousand dollars. I’m prepared to pay up to seventy thousand for the Beacon Street house, though if you can get it for less, so much the better. You must stipulate that nothing stored in the house when the Wheelers purchased it is to be removed. Nothing—no matter how worthless the object seems.”

Benbow retrieved his spectacles, pulled the draft from the envelope and examined it, shaking his head and blinking.

Amanda frowned. “What’s the matter? The draft is perfectly good—”

“Of course, of course. I am only—only—”

“Shocked at my way of doing business?”

“To put it mildly.”

“Time is precious to me. I’ll call on you tomorrow to learn whether you’ve been successful.”

“Tomorrow?”
Benbow gasped.

“Certainly.” Amanda drew one of his old-fashioned quills from the inkstand and wrote on a slip of paper. “You’ll send a representative to the Wheelers this afternoon, I assume.” She tapped the quill feather on the slip. “You can reach me here—the American House—should you get a favorable response at once.”

“Very well,” the lawyer gulped. He nearly dropped the envelope containing the draft. “But please take this. I’ll feel more comfortable if you deposit it with a bank. I suggest the Rothman Bank on State Street—where your father had his accounts. Ask for the president, Mr. Joshua Rothman. He’s the grandson of the founder. I—I think you’ll find he has some important information for you—”