The Americans (51 page)

have enticed you into it as well." Will flushed. Eleanor stepped between the two men: "Papa, you have no right to say such things to W. And that quotation is perfectly ridiculous! It's the dear, wonderful, ordinary people who killed my husband!" Gideon spun on her, sweaty and red-faced in the heat: "I'm sick of hearing that. I respect your grief but I cannot respect the errors in your thinking." "Don't take it out on her because I'm going to Newport," Will exclaimed as Eleanor picked up her skirts and rushed out. In the hall, her high-topped shoes drummed on the carpet. The sound quickly faded. "Yes, you are going there, aren't you?" Gideon retorted. "I wouldn't brag about associating with a pack of self- anointed aristocrats." Will's temper was almost at the breaking point. "Why do you hate them so?" "Because they're the antithesis of everything this family stands for! They're a disgrace to the country." "Christ. They're as American as you!" Gideon shook his head angrily. "They're Americans in name only. They may lack hereditary titles, but they're of a piece with the rotten nobility old Philip despised and fought." "Oh, bull shit! You hate them for one reason. They don't want any part of an ill-mannered Southern brawler who-was "Goddamn you!" Gideon shouted, his right hand fisting above his head. Before Gideon could strike him, Will grabbed his father's wrist; held it high while Gideon pushed down-strength against strength. For a moment there was a stalemate. Then, with a loud exhalation, Gideon relaxed the pressure, unable to best his son. Will let go of Gideon's wrist. Disgusted, he stepped back. "Be decent enough to answer one question." "What is it?" "Did your father choose the people you associated with?" Gideon's good eye shone like a blue flame. "No. Jeff Davis did." With an embittered laugh, Will reached for his summer blazer hanging on the bed post: "Oh, that's right. You were off to war when you were my age. The great cavalry hero-how could I possibly forget? You never permit us to forget. You even grew a beard like all the G.a.r. veterans, just to be sure we wouldn't-was Gideon's face shaded from red to plum, and Will was afraid he'd goaded his father into a seizure. He held very still. Ten seconds passed. Ten more. The unnatural color drained from Gideon's face. His breathing grew less stertorous. He began rubbing his right wrist with his left hand, as if to eradicate the memory of being defeated by a younger, stronger man. When he spoke again, his voice was surprisingly moderate: "We've gotten far from the subject. I ask you to think of Moultrie Calhoun's wedding as a family obligation." Will shook his head. "I'm sorry, Papa. You're deliberately making jt an issue. You're giving the wedding an importance it doesn't deserve." Gideon's startled look showed he knew he was guilty of the accusation. "And if you count on me being there," Will added, "you'll be disappointed." A pause. Then Gidfion whispered, 'Those Fennels will ruin you." Will snatched up his valise. "I doubt it." "If you were aware of the questionable business practices of that girl's father-was "I'll appreciate it if you make no more remarks about Laura's family." "I must. Before you entangle yourself further, it's important that you realize some of the things they-was and*ble "Papa, that's enough!" Silence. Longer, this time; interrupted eventually by the drone of a fly coming in the window. Down on Beacon Street, the bell of an ice wagon clanged. Looking old and tired, Gideon sank onto the bed and stared at his son. Softly, he said, "What the devil is going to become of you, Will?" For a moment Will actually hated his father. Gideon's face accused him-as did other faces that abruptly came to mind. Drew's face. Roosevelt's- A few words about your duties. "Why do you do that?" he cried. "Why do you all act as if you have to supply me with a conscience?" "Because yours is missing." "I don't want or need your kind of conscience!" Will slammed his straw hat on his head. He stalked toward the door, valise in one hand, blazer trailing from the other. He heard his father say: "No, not among the Fennels. And especially since you've abdicated your place among the Kents." You arrogant son of a bitch! Will shouted-but not aloud. He stormed down the stairs. Ignored the anxious face of a footman peering from the dining room. Heard Eleanor call his name from somewhere but didn't pause. He was going to Newport tomorrow-to the girl he wanted-and Gideon Kent's opinions be damned! As soon as he had discharged his obligation to Drew, he'd have no more claims on him. He'd be free to do whatever he wanted with his life. Free of pious voices forever crying platitudes about duty, democracy, and God knew what else. He was beginning to think some of Eleanor's diatribes were justified. He stopped at the first corner he reached, struck by another pang of guilt. During the past few minutes he had violated a fundamental precept of medicine: the physician must use every means at hand to protect and preserve the health of others. He had done the opposite; by his own anger, he might well have provoked his father into a fatal paroxysm. He vowed never to repeat the mistake. How would it all work out? He didn't know. But he saw a sad pattern reappearing. Once, Gideon's eldest child had fled his house. Of course Eleanor had left thinking her father guilty of deeds for which poor, demented Margaret had actually been responsible. Will's case wasn't quite the same. But the result could be the same, he thought as he walked on in the scorching sunlight. If Gideon's stiff- necked antagonism continued, Will too would walk out. And although it was sad to contemplate, he knew that if he ever decided to do that, the parting would be permanent. CHAPTER IH Newport Flykyns

So she loved not wisely? Sylykyns - Yes, it's a case of sin and bear it. Will shook his head and turned the page. Winkle - You're the last man I'd expect to marry outside the fashionable set. Binkle - Oh, 1 fancied I'd like to have a wife of my own, don't you know? He shut the paper, frowning. The jokes in Town Topics didn't strike him as funny. The one he'd just read was especially disagreeable. Laura was a member of the so-called fashionable set. He sat on the open deck of Eolus, his dark hair tossed by the wind. The steamer was chugging slowly around the southern tip of Goat Island, on its way to one of the Newport piers. The pier extended from a waterfront street which resembled that of any small New England maritime town. Will had bought a little guidebook in Boston. He knew that at one time slave ships had sailed out of Newport bound for West Africa. Now the vessels in the harbor were mostly small sailboats running before the breeze, or dumpy were lobstermen putting out to the offshore banks. In the main channel of Narragansett Bay, two dozen crewmen were aloft spreading canvas on a three-masted yacht. She was a splendid, stately sight as she glided toward the Atlantic in the summer sunshine. Will had never seen so many sailboats moored in one place. Colonel Mann must have been thinking of Newport when he wrote a comment Will had just read in the Saunterings column. The man that does not own a yacht or know a man that owns a yacht is a poor, despicable creature indeed, That kind of condescension pervaded Mann's so-called Journal of Society, a tabloid containing articles, short fiction, and those wretched jokes. But the heart of it was Saunterings comten pages of short paragraphs which started on page one. He guessed that Saunterings attracted two groups of readers-ordinary people who wanted to peep through a journalistic keyhole at the rich, and the rich themselves, anxious to see whether their names or escapades were included in the column. An item on page one was typical. It began, There is a little comedy, or tragedy, if you like, going on just now. Then two paragraphs piously deplored the various affairs of an unfaithful wife. The wife was never named. But the street in New York on which she lived was mentioned twice. Will supposed that was how Mann made sure his victims were identified. Obviously the woman or her cuckolded husband hadn't paid the amount necessary to keep the item out of print. Will had lived in a newsman's house long enough to recognize Mann's moralizing for what it was-a screen behind which otherwise objectionable material could be published. Altogether, he found the paper as distasteful as his father said it was. He tossed it into a waste can. At the rail he squeezed between two heavy-set gentlemen, obviously tourists. A gust of wind almost lifted his bright-banded straw hat from his head. He raised his hand to ho

d it in place and, with mounting excitement, scanned the shore.

"and% if greater-than and Behind the busy piers and the straggle of houses and shops along the main street-Thames Street, if he recalled the guidebook-small, neat saltbox houses perched on the side of a moderately steep hill. Aquidneck was a hilly island, with outcrops of rock and patches of scrub growth breaking up its expanses of farmland. Fifty years earlier, Newport had been a popular summer retreat of wealthy Southern planters. The Civil War had driven them home to stay. Then, a few years ago, the ladies at the top of Northern Society had rediscovered the place. It had happened about the time that the prestige of the New Jersey resorts-Deal Beach, Elburon, Long Branch- had begun to decline. Thurman Fennel identified the cause of that decline as an "infestation of New York Jews." Two local land speculators named Joseph Bailey and Alfred Smith had responded to the interest in Newport by developing a parcel of a hundred and forty acres on the island's southeast side. They offered the land as a kind of private preserve of the rich. Now more and more of New York's leading families were buying property and buildings vacation homes. Earlier in the year, Mrs. Astor had officially sanctioned Newport as the nation's premier summer colony when she let it be known that she would be in residence during July and August. The Bailey and Smith land had been subdivided into large lots. The choicest ones were located on the east side of Bellevue Avenue, overlooking the public Cliff Walk and the Atlantic. The Fennels had purchased one of these lots almost three years earlier. At that time, Laura's mother had somehow become attuned to the resort's imminent popularity. She'd persuaded her husband to commission Richard Morris Hunt to design and supervise construction of the Fennels" summer residence. The choice of Hunt turned out to be a remarkable stroke of foresight. Now that Mrs. Astor had given her imprimatur, everyone wanted a cottage at Newport-no matter how large, the homes were always called cottages-and everyone wanted Hunt for the architect. The rush had only started, and the Fennels were already settling into place at Maison du Soleil. All Newport cottages were required to have special names, it seemed. The Wetmore cottage was Chateau-sur-Mer, that which the Cornelius Vanderbilts had bought from the Pierre Lorillards, The Breakers. Mrs. Astor's cottage was Beechwood. The Fennel cottage had been finished and furnished during the spring. Maison du Soleil had forty-two rooms, and was constructed chiefly of Siena marble. Laura said it was a copy of a Northern Italian villa, though she called the style American Renaissance. To Will it seemed a gross waste to build such huge places and move forty or fifty servants all the way from New York for a season only eight weeks long. Of course, in the Fennels' circle, cost was usually the factor of least importance in any decision. Laura boasted that marble imported for the cottage had cost four million dollars just by itself. Will was almost as anxious to see Maison du Soleil as he was eager to see Laura. The pier at which Eolus docked was crowded with people, including a good many men with the robust look of fishermen. Their faces were cheerfully contemptuous as they eyed the pale vacationers on board the steamer. The tourists jostled for a position near the gangway while the vessel was warped in the last few feet. There were ordinary townsfolk on the pier, too. Even a few aristocratic servants who kept themselves noticeably apart from the rabble. Perhaps the servants had come to await a freight shipment. Will searched the crowd for Laura. Slowly his smile faded. She wasn't there. She'd promised he would be met, and he'd assumed she would be the one to meet him. What had happened? m Suddenly, up on Thames Street, people scattered. There were shouts; curses; fists shaken. A lacquered victoria came careening into sight from behind some waterfront houses. The top-hatted driver whipped the four matched sorrels, heedless of pedestrians. He didn't slow down until he had to turn at the head of the pier. There, too, people were forced to run. As the victoria came bouncing down the pier, Will recognized the driver. Marcus Fennel. With four sets of reins in his hands and a gleaming black boot on the brake, Marcus brought the victoria to a swaying stop. When he jumped down he was caustically rebuked by a woman who'd snatched a toddler out of the path of the coach. Marcus strolled right by, not even glancing at her to acknowledge her existence. By then the steamer was snugged to the pier with hawsers. The gangway thumped down. Passengers started to elbow and shove one another. Marcus swaggered to the edge of the pier and put one shining patent leather boot up on a bollard. He took off his black silk hat and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief plucked from his cuff. His curly hair glistened in the sunshine. He was wearing an emerald green coaching jacket with gilt buttons, a yellow waistcoat, spotless white breeches, and gloves. In his lapel he sported a yellow flower that matched the four bouquets decorating the throatlatches of his horses. "Marcus! Hello!" Will waved. "Hello, there!" Laura's brother raised his top hat, then tilted it in an exaggerated way. A passing sailor looked at him and spat. The spittle landed near the toe of Marcus' right boot. The young man pretended not to see. The sailor snickered and walked on. Will struggled down the gangway with his valise. He was uncomfortably hot in his blazer; Marcus looked dry and cool despite the obvious heaviness of his driving clothes. "Nearly thought I wouldn't get here," Marcus said, laughing. "I came through the tail end of the noon coaching parade. Damn near ran over four or five townies." His laugh bothered Will, but not as much as Laura's absence. Perhaps jt wasn't proper for a girl of her position to meet a beau at a public pier. All the same, he was disappointed. "Seems like a year since I last saw you," Marcus went on. He relieved Will of his valise and carried it through the crowd toward the victoria, which was upholstered in rich maroon. "Well, it has been six months," he replied. "How've you been?" "I manage to survive. Real estate's a boring business, but then I'm afraid I'd find any business boring. I'd much rather be driving or sailing." Since graduating from Harvard, Marcus had been managing some of the Fennel properties from the family offices in New York's financial district. Marcus flung Will's valise into the open carriage. "Laura's at the beach with some of her girl friends. She should be back by the time we reach the cottage. Maybe you'll even have a glimpse of her bathing costume." He winked, and a moment later Will felt himself go rigid. The words bathing costume had done it. Contemporary beach fashions showed very little flesh, but they were still considered quite daring by most people, and flagrantly unmoral by a few. Hiding his embarrassing reaction as best he could, he climbed up on the coachman's seat next to his host. Marcus pulled the whip from its socket. "The girls are required to clear the beach by noon. After that it's reserved for disnude bathing by gentlemen-was He noticed an older man and woman who appeared to be having a reunion with a younger girl directly in front of the horses. The girl had been on the steamer. Marcus waved the whip at the man. "Clear the way, Edmonds!" Edmonds, a plain-looking sort, turned toward the elegant young man as if ready to object. Before he could, Marcus again brandished the whip: "I said clear the way, you clod." The starch went out of the man suddenly. He took the two women by the arm and guided them to the other side of the pier. Amused, Marcus said to Will, "He'd better move when I tell him. His son's one of our gardeners. Edmonds himself needs the cold water cure. Failing that, he needs his son's wages so he can buy whiskey." Now that the man and his family had gotten out of the way, Marcus was in no hurry to drive on. Edmonds noticed that, and glowered. Marcus ignored him. "How was the trip from Wick- ford?" "Smooth. I spent most of it reading Town Topics" "God almighty. What'd you do with it?" "I threw it away." "Good. That rag isn't allowed in our house any longer." "Why not? Your family used to read it. Laura said so." "We still read it, old boy. We just aren't permitted to let it lie about the cottage as if we approve of it. Father skims Saunterings once a week at a men's club 111 show you on the way home. He skims it nervously, I might add. A year ago I got involved with a Chinese girl down in the city. Never told you about that, did I?" Will shook his head. "Somehow Mann discovered I was buggering the wench. He presented Father with the galley of an item on the subject. No names, of course. But the piece was written so everyone would know I was the fellow trying to erase the natural color barriers between the American and Asian races, as Mann so delicately put it-was Marcus shuddered, his smile gone. "It was horrible. Naturally, Father paid Mann to suppress the story. But the language of their discussion got pretty heated. The very next week, to retaliate, Mann condensed the story to half its original length and published it anyway. I couldn't show my face for weeks." Will was aghast. "How could Mann pull a trick like that?" "How could he? Because he's a damned crook. Of course he kept the letter of his bargain. He'd been paid to kill the copy he showed father, and he did. Nothing was said about other versions. He joked about it afterward. I tell you, Will, everybody on the island is terrified of the son of a bitch. "There isn't a first-rank household that isn't fearful of harboring at least one of the Colonel's informants on its staff. We think we have two or three. Trouble is, we don't know who they are and we can't find out Mann pays them too well." "You mean servants actually spy on their employers?" The naivete of the question made Marcus snicker. "How else do you suppose the Colonel digs up all that dirt? Someone else on the island acts as a clearing house for the information and a conduit for the money. We can't find out who it is, either. Another of our footstools, I suspect." "Footstools?" "Those of us who come up for the summer call the townies our footstools. I'm told the term originated with King Louis the Fourteenth. I like it." Will said nothing. He was appalled by the remark, and by all he'd heard in the past few minutes. He'd seen little of Marcus Fennel during the past year, and he realized something had changed. Perhaps it was his own viewpoint. How had he ever been able to consider this callous young man his friend? The truth was, he hadn't. As he looked back, he realized Marcus had impressed him because of his family name, nothing else. And after he'd met Laura, he had tended to overlook Marcus' faults because he was her brother. The presence of the victoria in the center of the pier was an inconvenience to pedestrians and cart traffic. Marcus knew that; it was the reason he'd prolonged the conversation instead of driving on. No one had had the nerve to ask him to move. Now, however, a number of rough-looking fishermen were gathering and gesturing toward the coach, scowls on their faces. Marcus sensed that the appropriate moment for departure had come. He picked up the reins and quickly separated them. "Here we go." He whipped up the horses and started them into a wide hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. He whipped them a second time as the carriage rumbled toward the head of the wharf, picking up speed. He was grinning again. He clearly assumed that any sailors, fishermen, or townspeople would remove themselves from his path before he ran them down. Remarkably, they did. CHAPTER IV The Shacker THE HIGH-STEPPING SORRELS drew the victoria north along Thames Street. Occasionally Marcus flicked one of the leaders with the whip. He was an expert driver, Will observed as Marcus guided the carriage around a corner and up a sloping brick street. "How long are you going to be here, Will?" "A week or a little more. Till Laura gets bored with my presence." "Oh, my dear sister has many a devious method of combating boredom," Marcus replied with a sly smile. Will found himself disliking that smile, though he couldn't say why. Marcus realized he'd annoyed his friend. With a straight face, he added, "She's awfully anxious to see you again. I think you two would make a capital match." Redness showed in Will's cheeks. "How does she feel about that?" "I haven't quizzed her, but I have a feeling she agrees. I was expressing the opinion of some of the rest of us-was He pointed the whip at a small, gray-painted colonial building on their left. "That's the Touro Synagogue. Oldest Jew church in America. Established a good ten years before the Revolution." Will held onto his straw hat and turned to look at the building. Marcus guided the horses down the middle of the street. A delivery wagon coming from the other direction was forced to give way. Sparks shot from the hooves of the sorrels as they pulled haToday toward the summit of the hill. Over the noise of iron shoes and wheel rims, Will shouted, "What do you do for entertainment here?" "I'll show you when you can tear yourself away from Laura. The family dinghy's berthed at the local yacht club. I like sailing even more than driving, I think. Pierpont Morgan said you can do business with anyone, but you can only go sailing with a gentleman. Managing Father's real estate, I meet a lot of low-class people. You can't imagine what illiterate grafters I'm forced to deal with. Some of them come right out of the foulest si-well, never mind that," he amended, keeping his eye on the horses. He turned into another tree-shaded street. This one headed roughly southeast along the crest of the hill. "We were discussing recreation caret -You have your choice of the yacht, polo ponies, this and several other carriages-you enjoy coaching, as I recall-was Will nodded. -- "Then you'll be right at home in Newport. You can also play tennis, swim, or visit Blanche's and get royal treatment for your cock." "What's Blanche's, a whorehouse?" "A very fine and discreet one. The girls would object to the use of such a crude term. All our crowd goes there. Keep it in mind if Laura's busy." He chuckled and watched the road a moment. "Seriously, old fellow, she's working very hard on your behalf these days." "What do you mean?" "Ward McAllister summers here, up at Bayside Farm. He puts on picnics that are all the rage. Earlier this month Laura attended one. She flattered and wheedled McAllister until he was in a good mood and she could bring you into the conversation. I'm afraid Wardie hasn't forgotten what your father did. But Laura reminded him your name is Will Kent, not Gideon. He admitted that was true. Before she was finished with him, he'd virtually promised to get you an invitation to Mrs. Aster's ball next January."" It was
incredibly good news. Why, then, did Will have trouble summoning any excitement? He tried: "That's wonderful, Marcus." "A little more enthusiasm, if you please. Once you attend Mrs. Astor's winter ball, your membership in Society is forever certified. You're recognized as creme de la crime, as Wardie likes to put it-was Promise me you'll be somebody. And promise me you'll make sure everybody knows it. "I appreciate Laura's effort," he said with greater animation. "I didn't mean to act as if I don't. Something else had crossed my mind-was "What?" "That servant whose leg I set the first time I visited Fennel House." The victoria turned down another broad street. Through dust raised by the horses, Will saw a marker identifying the street as Bellevue Avenue. Marcus looked blank for a moment, then said: "Jameson-wasn't that the fellow's name?" "Jackson. Is he still with you?" "No. I think he married one of our house girls and went west. Why do you ask?" "I'd like to know whether the leg healed properly." "Afraid I can't say. To tell you the truth, I never inquired. Does it matter?" "No. It was just my first fling at-well, call it horse doctoring."