The Americans (56 page)

Marcus took him into the cottage by a servant's entrance, and showed him a secondary stairway to the upper floor. Will was able to reach his room without encountering anyone. He cleaned himself up so there'd be no sign that he'd been fighting. The others would find out soon enough anyway, Marcus had gloomily predicted. "They don't yet know where you went. I said I thought you'd gone out shopping for a house gift. I'll have to tell them it was sheer luck that I found you so quickly." Will packed in ten minutes. Downstairs, he said his formal goodbye to the family. Mrs. Fennel expressed synipa- T thy but the words were perfunctory. Marcus took her arm and the two of them disappeared into the music room. Will and Laura stepped into an alcove under the main staircase for a moment of privacy. He told her that as soon as the funeral was over, he'd be spending a week in New York; an obligation, he said. She wanted to know the nature of the obligation. "It's too complicated to explain, Laura. It's just a piece of business I have to get out of the way. The moment I do, I'll be back. We must make plans-was She kissed him and smiled, but he felt she wasn't entirely teasing when she said: "Indeed we must. I'm counting on you to make an honest woman of me." m The second-class day coach which took him south on the mainland was airless and sooty. It made little difference to W; he was uninterested in his surroundings or in the other passengers. He could only think of what had happened with Laura. He wanted to be pleased about the consequences of that hour on the shore. But something was wrong. He finally realized the cause of the feeling. Her remark just before he left. She had meant it. Like it or not, a new element of coercion had entered their romance. Before his visit to Maison du Soleil he'd had a choice. Now he had none. It wasn't even a matter of pregnancy. That worry had been removed just one day after they'd been together. It was a matter of honor. He'd made love to her, therefore he had to marry her. His mother had always been insistent about that. Never mind that Carter called the idea ludicrous. This was one instance in which his stepbrother was wrong. Carter had never associated with girls like Laura Fennel. He had no understanding of the rules that governed behavior among her class of people. If Will did the honorable thing, as he knew he must, he'd achieve his highest ambition. An alliance with the Fennels would bring him absolutely everything he wanted. So why the hell wasn't he as happy as he'd been yesterday? He knew. The answer lay in the imperative way Laura had spoken to him. As if he weren't her lover but her- Her property. He spent the rest of the trip trying to forget that one remark. He couldn't. CHAPTER X Parting "THEN SAID MARTHA unto Jesus, Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died." While the vicar read the Bible, mourners fidgeted. Summer heat made an oven of Christ Church in the North End of Boston. The Kents were seated together in the high-sided box pew that had belonged to the family for almost a hundred years. The pew was situated directly across the aisle from that belonging to the Revere family. Will sat nearest the aisle, sweating in his black alpaca suit. He hadn't worshiped in the church for a long time. Gideon belonged to the congregation, but his participation consisted of writing a very large check once a year. Directly ahead of Will hung a painting of Christ at the Last Supper. The picture was flanked by panels on which the Ten Commandments, the Lord's Prayer, and the Apostle's Creed had been lettered in gilt. From above the central painting, summer light flooded through a clear window. Stained glass had been avoided in order to make hymnals and prayer books easy to read. Eleanor sat at Will's left, then Julia, and finally his father. Gideon looked more exhausted and irritable than ever. He and Eleanor were barely speaking-for reasons no one would explain to W. As yet, Will hadn't told Gideon T that he planned to marry Laura Fennel. Because of his father's mood, he was now thinking of waiting until he got back from his week in New York. He'd telegraphed Drew to expect him in a couple of days. "Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again -" * Not counting the family, only about a dozen people sat in the tiny sanctuary. They included Moultrie Calhoun and his new wife; one of the sons of the former Union editor, Theo Payne; and a representative of the Rothman Bank. Molly's body was already in a hearse outside. The coffin had been surrounded by blocks of ice because of the heat. It was Friday. The funeral had been delayed two days to allow for the arrival of the three mourners seated immediately behind the Kents. Michael Boyle had been especially close to Molly's husband Jephtha. The Irishman had come all the way from Cheyenne together with his wife, Hanna, and their son. Nineteen-year-old Lincoln Boyle was a tall, red-faced young man with a deceptively mild manner and his father's pale, gold eyes. Just a few minutes" conversation told Will that the Boyles' son was bright and, for his age, extremely well read. There was an immediate kinship between Will and Line, as everyone called him. The reason had become clear the night before, during the Boyles' first meal at the Kent table. Michael had been critical of some books his son had brought along on the trip. "Radical rot," was the way he characterized them. Line had defied his father by offering a cheerful correction to Will: "The truth is, they're just books I borrowed from one of the free libraries run by the Farmers' Alliance. Universal literacy only gets lip service in the Boyle house. Hand a man a book and the next thing you know, he's smart enough to realize he's being victimized." Michael reddened but held his tongue. After the meal, Will discovered Line in the first floor office. Books were piled on a table at his elbow. Will asked him what Michael found so objectionable about them. The sunburned young man leaned back, a homespun sort of figure in his corduroy traveling suit, faded blue shirt and scuffed knee boots-a wardrobe ideal for the cool nights of summer on the high plains, he'd said earlier, but unbearable in sweltering Boston. "They're all keystones of the agrarian movement." Line tapped book spines one by one. "Bellamy's Looking Backward. Caesar's Column by Ignatius Donnelly. William Harvey's Coin's Financial School. Henry George's book on the tariff. The Alliance makes these titles and a lot more available to farm families who can't afford books. Of course-was He drew out a tobacco pouch; filled a long-stemmed clay pipe. "Pa would just as lief burn every one. As far as he's concerned, anything which doesn't champion the tariff, the trusts, and the gold standard is unpatriotic and dangerous." Voices drifted through the open doors of the office. Across the hall in the parlor, Gideon and Michael sat with their chairs close together. Though they'd been hostile to one another in the past, tonight they were acting like old cronies. Michael handed his host a small wooden box with brass corners. Gideon accepted it with a strange, almost reverent expression. "So you and your father are at odds?" Will asked. . "Very much so, I'm afraid." Line exhaled pipe smoke. "I've been courting the daughter of a man who makes his living raising hay and alfalfa. It's through my girl's family that I got interested in the farmers' movement. Pa hates the movement because that's the attitude required of all good Republicans. Pa's an admirable man in many ways. He accomplished a lot in his time. Fought for the Union. Helped build the Union Pacific. Made a few millions in general merchandise and cattle. But he's sixty now. You know what a bad combination age and a little money can be. Not only does he think like a plutocrat, he despises anyone who doesn't. It's a hell of a situation," he finished, melancholy for a moment. Line's candor made it easy for Will to speak: "I'm in the same spot, only in my case the political poles are reversed. My father can't stand the parents of the girl I'm seeing. They're somewhat like your father. Rich and conservative. It causes a lot of trouble." He walked to the marble hearth; stared into the cold fireplace. Only half joking, he added, "Since we both seem to be up against the same problem, maybe between us we can figure out an answer." "How about trading fathers?" Will laughed. "Not a bad idea. Think it'd work?" "I "I wish it would. I'll tell you the conclusion I reached a couple of years ago, when Pa and I started having really jdderocious battles. I decided that my only course was to go right ahead-do what I believe is right-and at the same time try to keep differences from splitting the family for good." "Does it work?" "Certainly-provided I'm willing to sit like a stump and never express an opinion," Line said glumly. "You aren't, are you?" "Of course not. The truth is, my solution doesn't work. Not often, anyway. Trouble is, I can't find another that's any better. Things would smooth out if I backed down. But there I take a lesson from Pa. He never backed down. So, hard as it is, I just go right ahead and keep hoping for the best." "What if the worst happens?" "You mean what if Pa disowns me? Something like that?" "Yes." Line laid a hard brown hand on the top book of the stack. "That's a risk I'm willing to bear. I love Pa. And I owe him a certain respect because fee's my father. But I won't change what I believe just to please him. Slavery in the house of a benevolent master is still slavery." He gestured to Philip's portrait. "The old fellow who started this family knew that, I'm told. But fathers have an infuriating way of forgetting." "You're right," Will said. Across the hall, he saw an astonishing sight. Gideon embracing the Irishman like a lost brother. "comabsolutely right." And there's no point in delaying the discussion of marriage. "Go right ahead," Line said. It's the only comway. I'll tell my father about the engagement before I leave. He'd do it as kindly and tactfully as he could. But he wouldn't let Gideon's opinions change a thing. "com Jesus said unto her, I am the resurrection, and the life. He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live." Will came out of his reverie. The vicar's voice rose in ringing affirmation: r "And whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die." He closed the lecturn Bible. "Let us pray. Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace, both now and evermore. Amen." His hand slowly traced the cross in the air. Will had the feeling someone was watching him. He turned slightly to the left; saw Gideon leaning forward and looking at him, as if he'd sensed Will's defiant thoughts. Will looked away and bowed his head. ii There was grief in the Kent family that day, but it was acceptable grief. Molly had lived a good, full life. Gideon held back tears as the coffin was lowered into the dry ground at Watertown. He and Julia had agreed that they wanted no long faces in the house that night. The kitchen was already at work preparing a big meal which would be served with plenty of wine. Before supper, the Boyles went upstairs to pack. They were scheduled to leave in the morning. Gideon knocked at the door of his son's room and asked him to come to the office: "I have something splendid to show you." Apprehensive, Will followed his father downstairs. Gideon seemed in good spirits; especially good considering what had taken place today. It might be a propitious moment to mention Laura. Looking pleased, Gideon swung around beside the mantel in the office; pointed to the small brass-cornered box: "See what Michael brought us?" "I'm afraid I don't know what it is." "It's his most treasured possession." Gideon lifted the box from its place beside the partially filled green bottle. He opened the lid. Inside, Will saw a small mound of ordinary dirt. Gideon's face fairly glowed: "Michael collected this just before he left the Union Pacific. It's earth from the roadbed he worked on. He is a Kent by adoption. He wants the box kept with the other mementoes, so people will know someone in the family had a hand in that incredible achievement-was Gideon closed and replaced the box. "Michael and I didn't always see things the same way. Frankly, I was the one at fault. For a long time I considered him a fortune hunter. I was wrong. We still disagree on most political questions, but on the importance of the traditions of this family, we are in perfect agreement." He paused, then walked past his son. He shut the double doors and turned around before resuming: "But I've been anxious to ask about your trip to Newport." Although the office windows were open, the room was oppressively hot all at once. The curtains hung motionless in the heavy humidity. Outside, a damp gray dusk blurred the trees and footpaths of the Common. A strolling couple moved slowly, like sleepwalkers. "I'd like to know what happened up there," Gideon went on. "I'd also like to know the current state of your feelings toward Miss Fennel." Will didn't warit to anger his father. Not today. But Gideon was making restraint difficult; he leaned against the double doors as if he intended to guard them until he got answers. He's acting as if this is Jeb Stuart's cavalry, and I'm some enlisted man to be ordered about anyway Major Kent pleases! He thought of Line Boyle's simple, if risky advice. "Go right ahead." If his father wanted to force the issue on the day Molly Kent had been buried, so be it. Will took a chair, crossed his legs, and said, "My feelings toward Laura aren't hard to explain. I'm going to marry her."

After a moment, Gideon shook his head. "Surely you're joking." "No, sir. I know you don't care for the Fennels or their politics. But I see no reason why that should affect-was "I had no notion it had gone this far," Gideon broke in. "Julia kept warning me, but I didn't believe her. It's more important than ever that you listen to me. Thurman Fennel is a jackal. A profiteer without conscience or scruple!" Will covered his eyes a moment; tried to suppress mounting anger: "Why the hell must we go over and over the same ground? We argued before I went to Newport, and I see no point in repeating that scene. First of all, I'm marrying Laura Fennel, not her father. Furthermore, I'm old enough to marry whomever I please. If you can't accept that, it's pointless to talk, and pointless for me to stay here. I'll pack my bag and go." Gideon leaped on that: "Go? Where?" "I'm taking another trip. I thought I'd mentioned it." "You most certainly did not." A resigned shrug. "Well, perhaps not." Or perhaps it slipped your mind. They say it happens to old men. "Things have been confused lately. It's natural that one of us might forget-was "I forgot nothing. You failed to inform me you would be leaving again. Kindly do me the courtesy of telling me where you're going." He's tired, Will thought. Think of comwhat he's been through today. But his father's arrogance overrode charitable impulses. Gideon made things worse by prodding: "I said you will do me the courtesy of telling me where-was "The hell I will." "What?" "I believe you heard me." Gideon's face began to redden. Will cautioned himself not to repeat the mistake he had made last time. He mustn't push his father to the brink of a seizure. In a tight voice, Gideon said, "What I hear is your defiance. Your absolute contempt for all the values which have sustained and enriched this family. Even Michael Boyle, who isn't a Kent by birth, understands them better than you." "Oh God, Papa. Don't start with that kind of-was Gideon ignored him: "I don't need your answer. I know where you're going. Back to that crowd of thieves and poseurs. Back to Newport! That's it, isn't it?" you think so little of me, what's the point in telling you the truth? "That's it, isn't it, Will?" Silence. Will stared at his father with fury in his eyes. Gideon pivoted away: "I thought so." Gideon lifted one of the curtains and stared into the humid dusk. He was breathing loudly. His right hand moved I. out of sight in front of his chest, as if he'd experienced a sharp pain. Tell him where you're going! But if he did that, it would lead to a full explanation. And when Gideon learned he had no intention of joining Drew in his practice in the slums, he'd think even less of H him- "Papa-was he began. Gideon spun, the very movement intimidating. Bungler, said a remote, superior voice Will hadn't heard in some time. He knew why he heard it now; he was making a botch of every response. Instead of speaking his mind with patience I and reason, he was acting like his father; losing his temper. I He forced a calm tone: "You obviously have little respect for me, or what I'm doing-was Gideon yelled: "I don't respect anyone whose chief amblea bition is to curry the favor of people like the Fennels! They was represent everything that's wrong with this country!" "You're so quick to sit in judgment. You might be a I little more understanding of-was "Nonsense! The evidence against the Fennels became conclusive long ago! They are dangerous people. Amoral exploiters of the poor. And you seem as obedient to their wishes as a tame puppy." Livid, Will said, "If you feel that way, perhaps I i shouldn't merely take a trip. Perhaps I should move out." "Perhaps you should! First, however, I have one more i thing to say. You evidently are unaware of certain- *tilde statements widely made about the young lady you say you plan to marry." Will came up from his chair as if a branding iron had touched him. "Statements? What kind of statements?" r "Concerning Miss Fennel's character. It's been charged-was His voice ominously low, Will interrupted: "Be quiet, Papa. I've listened to the rest of your fulminations, but I refuse to hear one word about Laura. If anyone's to criticize her, it'll be me." "I only mention it in an effort to protect-was "Goddamn it, I'm not interested in your protection! I am a grown man. I am capable of doing my own thinking and making my own decisions!" For a moment, rage robbed Will's thoughts of coherence. Then a measure of reason returned. Don't prolong this. No matter what he's done, don't be the one to bring on an attack. You owe him that much as a doctor, if not as a son - Will fought back tears that unexpectedly sprang into his eyes. He walked past his father and said one word- "Goodbye"-before he slammed the door behind him. IV Twenty minutes later, he slipped down the rear stairs and out the back way. Not once during the twenty minutes had he heard the office door open. Gideon didn't attempt to stop him; didn't care enough to try. Very well, he thought as he walked into the summer darkness. He'd never step inside the Beacon Street house caret again. To stave off the moment when he'd be alone with his thoughts, Gideon pulled a book from one of the office bookcases. He sat down and opened the book with trembling hands. It was a political tract called The Chains of Slavery, originally published in England in 1774. The author was Jean-Paul Marat, the Frenchman who ultimately led the most extreme faction of the Revolution, and who was stabbed to death in his bathtub by Charlotte Corday. Years before the Revolution, Marat had offered a pessimistic view of its outcome: Liberty shares the fate of all human affairs; it yields to time, comwh destroys all; to ignorance, which confuses all; to vice, which corrupts all; and to force, which crushes all. ... Try as he would, Gideon couldn't get beyond those words. He didn't have to stretch them far to find them applying to contemporary America-or the family's own situation. Time had destroyed whatever principles Carter might once have believed in. Ignorance had confused Will, and made him prey to the subtle but ultimately cancerous vice of ambition. Force had crushed whatever idealism Eleanor had possessed before Leo's death, as well as whatever chance for happiness she once might have had. Since their fiery scene, she'd said little to him, and his one attempt to suggest that she see an alienist had met with an instantaneous rebuff. He knew he'd failed. And because of all that, there was no one left to shepherd the family through its next generation, no one who gave a damn about the cornerstone of the family's strength-the liberty for which old Philip had first borne arms; the liberty of which Marat wrote with such disillusionment. Gideon shared that disillusionment now. Suddenly, though, he saw what he was doing. The same thing Eleanor had done. He was placing the blame everywhere but upon the shoulders of the one person to whom it rightly belonged. Gideon Kent. Time passed while he pondered his alternatives. Carter was beyond help, Eleanor almost so. But Will, now. That was another matter entirely. He threw Marat's treatise on the floor and hurried out of the office. He would apologize to his son. Try to smother his own frustrations and make amends. Try to substitute fatherly affection and reason for the anger of an exhausted, spent man- It was too late. Will's closet had been emptied. He was nowhere to be found. T VI At two in the morning, there was a brief shower. Then the sky cleared. The moon shone. Gideon stared out the window of his bedroom, ostensibly speaking to Julia in the darkness behind him, but in truth speaking mostly to himself: "What's happened to him? Ridiculous question. He's caught the fever of the age. The fever for wealth. The fever for position-was Despairing, he leaned on the sill and shook his head. Then he turned to face the darkened room, a bent silhouette against the moon. "What's wrong with the people in this country, Julia? Are we nothing but a nation of self-indulgent snobs whose only concerns are the size of a house and the cost of the furnishings? Have we gotten so greedy and indolent, we're satisfied to stand for nothing except a bank balance while we're alive-amount to nothing but an estate when we're dead? Did old Philip go to the Concord bridge solely to secure the right to have a family pedigree approved by some simpering eunuch? By God I don't think so. But I see precious little evidence to support my point of view. In fact, my views have alienated my daughter, and now they've driven my son away." "Gideon-was she began from the shadows where she lay. "He's gone, Julia. Gone to that worthless crowd." For the first tune that day, he cried. vu After a moment, she whispered, "Gideon, come to bed." She held him in her arms for a quarter of an hour, listening to him score himself for Eleanor's disaffection and Will's sudden departure. He no longer held them responsible for the disintegration of the family. And though he didn't retract a word of what he'd said about the country or the Fennels, he couldn't hold others responsible either. The blame, he said, was his alone. Finally he was silent; motionless. She kept him close, his chest crushing the thin night dress against her right breast, her right arm curved around him so that she could stroke his temple gently. In a flat voice, he asked: "Do you suppose we'll ever see him again?" "He's a man. We've been guilty of forgetting that." "I know. He said so. But do you think-?" "That's what I'm trying to say, dearest. He's a grown man. It's entirely up to him." "Then the answer's no. He's gone for good." Her silence was devastating agreement. ." Book Six The Education Of Will Kent The Bend "CHE COS A? NON HO SENTITO do che hai detto" The speaker was an old Italian with a black clay pipe and the wheezy voice of someone suffering a lung disorder. He was the fourth person Will had asked for directions. The old man didn't understand Will any better than the others had. He made that clear by raising his hands, his shoulders, and his eyebrows in a gesture of bewilderment. The din on Mulberry Street this Saturday afternoon was incredible. Men, women, and youngsters packed the sidewalks, bargaining or socializing. Other people leaned out the windows of the four- and five-story tenements lining both sides of the street. Will had stopped on the west side of Mulberry, at the point where it made a slight change of direction-the bend for which the neighborhood was named. Two ragged boys scrambled after pennies they'd been pitching on the sidewalk. One penny had landed near the valise Will had put down. In the act of retrieving the coin, one of the boys made a grab for the valise. Will kicked it six inches to the right, just out of the boy's reach. The urchins ran off, laughing. The old man laughed too. Will didn't find much to laugh about. He was soaked with sweat and worn out from the all-night train trip. The pitiless August sunlight was giving him a headache. He felt terrible about the circumstances of his departure from Beacon Street. A permanent separation from his family had been inevitable; a long time coming, but inevitable. That was the conclusion he'd reached during his sleepless night on the local from Boston. The last hope of a good relationship had been destroyed when Gideon resorted to innuendoes about Laura's character in order to discourage his interest. Still, the parting hurt. Now, on top of everything, this old man couldn't or wouldn't help him. Will had his coat slung over his shoulder and his vest open, but even so, he was obviously dressed too well for the neighborhood. The quality and newness of his clothing would have branded him an outsider even if his language hadn't. The old man started to turn away. "Wait," Will said. "Surely somebody around here has heard of Bayard Court." He showed the old man the note Drew had sent several weeks ago. Unfortunately Will's friend had provided no directions, merely an address. "Bayard Court," he repeated, emphasizing each word. "Number four and a half. Bayard -Court." "Oh, e quello cid die vuoi?" the man said with dawning comprehension. Then Will heard an accented version of something familiar: "Bay-ard Court-?" "Yes. That's it." Will nodded several times. Slowly, the old man pivoted until he was facing north. Then Will was again forced to wait while the man acknowledged a friend; a younger man pushing a two-wheeled cart along the sidewalk. On the cart sat one of the barrels which could be seen on the curbstones at half-block intervals, overflowing with ashes and cinders. The barrel on the cart was empty, and a pert little girl in a ragged dress was balanced precariously on the front rim. She was obviously enjoying the ride. The old man beamed. "Buona giornata a te, Pasqual. E buona giornata al tuo bellissima bambina" "Buona giornata, Chiro." The younger man indicated W. "Chi e il tuo amico pallido?" That too was incomprehensible, but not the suspicion with which it was said. In answer to the question, the old man shrugged in an expressive way. The young father gave Will another suspicious stare, then went on. "Bay-ard Court?" the old man repeated at last. "Yes, that's what I want. Where do I find it?" The old man pointed north to the next intersection; rattled off directions which he supplemented with gestures. Will gathered that he was supposed to proceed to the corner, turn left, then right again. Precisely how far he went before he made the right turn, it was impossible to say. But at least he had a start. He thanked the old man, who simply stared until he picked up his valise and moved on. Other people watched him too. Only a few smiled. He felt more and more uncomfortable with every step he took.