The Furies (55 page)

Amanda flung down the pen, pressed her palms against her eyes. The sounder began to click again:

AWAIT YOUR INSTRUCTIONS.

Wearily, Amanda clicked out NO INSTRUCTIONS, then added her initials. In a moment, the sounder replied.

ACKNOWLEDGED. END.

The stillness of the library was broken only by the steady beat of the rain on the windows and the sound of Mr. Mayor scampering through the main hall in pursuit of some phantom adversary. Amanda stared at the message the bank had transmitted.

“God
damn
it!” she cried, slamming her fist down on the pad while tears welled in her eyes. The last few words smeared from the impact of her hand—

She knew who had moved so swiftly to convene the Stovall board and make it impossible for her to acquire the needed fifty-one percent. It was no consolation that she’d increased the risk of discovery by her decision about Mary—and that she’d made the decision of her own free will.

When Michael returned at ten past five, looking dour, she showed him the information from the Boston bank.

“Stovall doubled the number of shares—and then bought them. He or someone acting on his behalf.”

“I expect so, Mrs. A.”

“Because of the
Journal
story.”

“Yes,” Michael said. “We’ve always suspected he’d be aware of steady movement in the shares over the past year or so. The story undoubtedly prompted him to look into it—very closely.”

She covered her eyes again. “Then I’ve thrown away my last chance to own Kent’s—”

Michael strode to the hearth, knelt and began laying logs on top of kindling. “I’m afraid we have more immediate concerns than that.”

She wiped her eyes and looked at him. He said, “Something’s brewing in the Five Points.”

“What?”

“I saw copies of the
Journal
being passed around in three saloons. Heard your name mentioned”—he applied a locofoco to the kindling; as it began to snap and blaze, he stood up—“plus a lot of nasty talk about a runaway nigger. I managed to draw one of the lads into conversation. Ever since the paper came out, Mr. Rynders has been buying a powerful number of whiskeys for certain selected acquaintances—”

“You think the money I paid Kathleen—and the extra you promised—wasn’t enough to pacify her?”

“That’s exactly what I think. Also, Mr. Isaiah Rynders has made no secret of the fact that before the day’s out, he’s going to look up someone at the Astor House.”

“The Astor! That’s where Tunworth’s staying—”

“I’m sure Mr. Rynders read it in the paper. He’s a clever bastard—Tunworth will fit into his plans beautifully. Here’s how it works. Kathleen appeals to Rynders for succor. He spots the
Journal
piece. It’s a fine pretext for his friends to do devilment on Kathleen’s behalf. They can screen their real motive behind false moral outrage—you’ve concealed a fugitive slave! You’ve broken the law! Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if some of those gang boys showed up as part of Tunworth’s search party—”

“?n other words,” Amanda said quietly, “you definitely believe we’ll be visited.”

“Tonight.” Michael nodded. “Or tomorrow.”

“But there’s nothing they can do! The girl’s gone!”

“Why, that gives Rynders’ chums an excuse to act even angrier. I suggest we follow a sensible course of action. Leave. Now.”

“Be frightened out of my own house? I’ll be damned if I will!”

“You’re also involving other people, Mrs. A. It’s not fair to the servants—”

“Can’t we contact the police?”

“Not until something happens—unless you’re willing to admit the entire story—Mary included. That might lend credence to—”

“No! Mary won’t be out of New York until tomorrow evening.”

“Well, the police won’t act on suspicion alone. Especially not when Mr. Rynders is a pal of quite a few of them—”

Amanda drew a long breath.

“All right. Gather the servants in the kitchen. Wake Rose. And bring Louis downstairs.”

What Amanda had to discuss with the assembled group seemed incongruous in the cheery atmosphere of the large kitchen. Smells of baking bread drifted from the huge iron stove. Three capons browned on the hearth spit, giving off a savory aroma.

Rose puffed one of her vile-smelling cigars—causing Hampton to cough in an exaggerated way—as Amanda spoke.

“I’ve asked you here because I’m afraid the dismissal of Kathleen McCreery may have put this household in a dangerous position. Michael went to the Five Points twice today. It seems clear Kathleen won’t be satisfied until she takes revenge for the injustice she feels was done to her—”

Louis stared at his feet, scarlet.

“You’re aware we’ve been under observation by men hired by Captain Tunworth. The girl’s gone. But you can be sure the captain will be back. Further, Michael said Isaiah Rynders was going to the Astor House late today. It’s possible he went to see Tunworth—to offer the help of some of his thugs. Hunting for a fugitive slave would be a perfect pretext for an invasion of this house—and perhaps worse—”

She left the thought there. But she saw from the faces of the servants that their own imaginations were painting vivid pictures.

“It’s my responsibility to defend my own property. But it’s not yours. You normally leave late in the evening to go to your homes. I’d suggest you start leaving now, one by one. Go through the alley. I don’t think you’ll be stopped by the man on watch—especially when he sees you’re white,” she added with a touch of cynicism. “We might have trouble tonight, it might come tomorrow—or it might not come at all.” She tried not to let them know she didn’t believe that last.

“I don’t want any of you endangered,” she said. “So decide who’s to go first, and leave. Rose, that includes you.”

“Hell”—the heavy woman shrugged behind a cloud of smoke—“I don’t have any clothes to wear.”

“I’ll loan you something.”

“Won’t fit. I’m staying.”

“I’ll stay too, madam,” Brigid said. “My old man once got his head broken by some of Rynders’ bullies, ’cus he wouldn’t vote the way Rynders ordered.”

“Very well, it’s your choice. Louis—I want you out of the house along with everyone else—”

“Leave you here with just Michael and Brigid and Mrs. Ludwig?” He shook his head.

“Louis, I really insist—”

“No, Ma. I’m not scared of a fight.”

As she stared at the boy, she fancied she saw Cordoba’s face glimmering in a kind of lapped image. She smiled in a tired way. “All right. But the rest of you hurry.”

By eleven that night, the house lay silent. Rose had gone to bed after three stiff whiskeys. Louis was keeping watch at the back entrance. The rain slashed the sitting room windows. Michael glanced out, then resumed his nervous pacing.

“Still just one chap in the park. Perhaps the rain’s spared us tonight.”

“The rain and Captain Tunworth failing to get his warrants,” Amanda replied. “I almost wish they’d come and get it over with—the waiting’s worse than the battle. It’s always worse—”

A moment later, noticing her odd, bemused smile, the young Irishman said, “Doesn’t seem to me our predicament’s a subject for humor, Mrs. A—”

“No.” She brushed a tired hand across her forehead; her smile faded. “I was only thinking of how the past comes around and around again—like a wheel. I was remembering Texas. When I was in the Alamo mission. By my own choice. When I got out alive, I thought I’d surely never go through anything similar. But here I am, besieged again—and again with no one but myself to blame.”

“Blame, Mrs. A? Why do you talk of blame? In your position, most women—men, for that matter—would have gone scurrying out of town hours ago. But you never run. That’s rare—and certainly not worthy of blame.”

“I ran from Stovall.”

“Bosh! You canceled your plans concerning the Phelans because your family’s always stood for honor. Decency—”

“Neither of which will buy Kent’s now that I’ve lost my lever for forcing the sale.”

“We’re not positive Stovall’s behind the big stock acquisition—”

“Don’t try to be consoling, Michael. Of course he is. He saw the paper.”

“Well, at least you can balance the other side of the ledger with several favorable entries. You didn’t mire yourself in blackmail. You just may have saved your son from ruin. You certainly saved Mary from recapture—”

“And I lost the one thing I wanted most!”

She exhaled loudly, slumped in her chair. “I must be crazy to stay here like this—”

“Why no,” Michael said. “You’re a Kent. You’ve always said they were a brave lot—”

Amanda studied the painting of Philip. How she longed, this moment, for a fraction of the courage those eyes conveyed—

She shivered as wind spattered rain against the windowpanes.

“A member of the Kent family’s no different than anyone else in one respect, Michael. Being a Kent doesn’t make me any less frightened of what’s going to happen.”

D
URING THE NIGHT THE RAIN STOPPED.
The clouds cleared. By morning, Madison Square glowed in winter sunlight.

Amanda hadn’t slept well again. But she was up and dressed when Michael ran into the library a few minutes after nine.

“There’s a hack at the door, Mrs. A. And some witnesses over in the park—”

“Witnesses?” She jumped up, following him to the hall.

“Eight or ten chaps who don’t have the look of belonging in this neighborhood. They’ve been gathering for the last half hour. Expecting the hack’s arrival, I imagine—”

From the window beside the front door, Amanda saw the men loitering near the kiosk. They were shabbily dressed, in patched trousers and jackets too thin for the weather. They huddled close together, their breath making white plumes in the morning air.

Under the portico, the door of the hackney opened. Captain Virgil Tunworth stepped down, followed by a portly, mustached man in a black alpaca suit and broad-brimmed hat. A bulge on the man’s hip hinted at a holstered sidearm.

Brigid came up behind Amanda, started to open the door—

“No,” Amanda said, patting her hair to make sure it was arranged. “I’ll answer.”

Puzzled by Amanda’s cheerful expression, Brigid bobbed her head and stood back. Michael took up a position against the wall, his coppery hair catching the sunlight. A smile of rascally delight curved his mouth.

Before Captain Tunworth could lift the knocker, Amanda pulled the door open.

“Captain! Good morning.”

The greeting confused the Virginian. He glanced at his companion, who was reaching into his jacket. The portly man produced two folded legal documents.

Recovering from Amanda’s unexpected cordiality, Tunworth snapped, “This gentleman is Mr. Bowden—”

“United States marshal, ma’am,” the other man said, rather apologetically. “I have to serve you with this warrant. It permits me—”

“To search my house for the runaway girl the captain fancies I’m hiding?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Put the warrant back in your pocket, Mr. Bowden. It’s totally unnecessary.”

“What’s that?”

“I informed Captain Tunworth Sunday evening that I wasn’t harboring a runaway slave. He wouldn’t believe me. You come in and see for yourself.”

The marshal stared at Tunworth. “I thought you said she’d refuse—”

“This is some kind of damned flummery!” the captain exploded. “She’s gotten rid of the nigger—”

“Why, Captain, how ungentlemanly of you,” Amanda said, relishing his discomfort. “You continue to accuse me of breaking the law. Even if I had been hiding this imagined runaway, how could she have escaped?” She pointed past the stamping hack horse to the men near the kiosk. “You’ve had me watched day and night.”

Captain Tunworth flushed, clamped his lips together. Amanda retreated a step.

“Marshal, the house is yours. I have a guest staying on the second floor. My friend Mrs. Ludwig. She came to visit yesterday and became indisposed. Brigid will show you her room—if you must search it—”

“I’m afraid we must search the entire premises, ma’am,” Bowden advised her.

“Then would you be kind enough to knock before you disturb Mrs. Ludwig?”

She said it so sweetly, Bowden couldn’t help smiling. “Of course.”

Tunworth glared as he followed the marshal inside. Michael could barely stifle a guffaw. As the law officer stumped into the sitting room, Tunworth wheeled back to Amanda.

“You had a guest yesterday, right enough. But I know she left an hour after she arrived.”

“Really, Captain! You should hire reliable men, not the dregs of the saloons. Her carriage left, that’s all.”

“Goddamn it, I was told explicitly! Your visitor got into—”

“Please don’t swear at me, sir,” Amanda broke in, that charming smile still in place. “I don’t care what you were told. I’d suggest you inquire whether the man who passed on that doubtful information drank a little something to warm himself while he kept watch. Something that dulled his powers of observation—”

Her dark eyes mocked him. He in turn understood exactly what she was telling him without words: the black girl had departed and he had no way of proving it; the Federal marshal’s search was pointless.

But the heavyset official caught none of that. He came bustling out of the sitting room. “All clear in there. Shall we proceed, Captain?”

Virgil Tunworth slapped his hat against his leg and followed the marshal toward the library.

Bowden took forty-five minutes to comb the house from garret to basement. Now and then he ostentatiously rapped a wall, as if searching for one of those secret rooms so popular in ladies’ novels but seldom found in private homes. Amanda and Michael retired to the dining room for coffee, saying little but smiling at one another at the occasional loud sound of Tunworth’s hectoring voice.

When he and the marshal reappeared in the downstairs hall, Amanda went out to them. “Are you finished?”

Bowden nodded. “We are.”

“And satisfied?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry we had to trouble you. It seems the captain was in error when he requested the warrant—”

“The nigger was in this house over the weekend!”
Tunworth said. He waved his hat at Amanda. “She got the girl out. Wearing the clothes of that harpy upstairs!”