by John Jakes
Philip didn’t speak to either of them for the first forty-eight hours of the dismal journey home.
Chapter VI
Wedding Night
i
IN HIS YOUTH, PHILIP KENT’S connection with a religious faith had been all but nonexistent. Because of her brief career as an actress in Paris, his mother was automatically excommunicated from the Catholic church.
Philip’s first wife, Anne, the daughter of a Boston lawyer, was a Congregationalism. But she and her husband had seldom attended services. His second wife had been raised in Virginia’s aristocratic Episcopal church, but had adopted her first husband’s faith—the dour Presbyterianism of the Scots—following her marriage.
Thus it was another sign of Philip’s rising status and growing conservatism that by the time Abraham and Elizabeth were married in midsummer of 1796, Philip had reverted to British-rooted Anglicanism. The Kents owned a high-sided box pew directly across the aisle from the one belonging to the family of Mr. Revere’s eldest son in the small but lovely Christ Church in the city’s North End.
Here, on a mellow Saturday in late July, the rector united Abraham Kent and Elizabeth Fletcher, watched by an impressive gathering of notables.
Elderly Mr. Revere sat in his son’s pew. Philip’s friend General Knox, the obese ex-Secretary of War, had traveled down from Maine, John Adams and his wife Abigail, just returned from Philadelphia, were present. So was the head of the Rothman house, dark-eyed and handsome Royal, and his attractive Jewish wife.
A wealthy iron-maker named George Lumden had come all the way from Connecticut, along with his red-haired, bright-cheeked wife Daisy. The bridal couple understood Philip had helped Lumden desert from his British regiment during the troubled days before Lexington and Concord. Lumden had been quartered in the house of Abraham’s mother, where Daisy was a lowly cook. Now she was rich.
Christ Church, in short, was so packed with persons of wealth and influence that ordinary well-wishers such as Mr. Supply Pleasant were hard put to find a single seat in a rear corner.
Abraham hardly noticed the dignitaries, however. His attention was divided between Elizabeth and his father.
Elizabeth’s bridal gown and veil were the most expensive obtainable. Yet beneath that veil, her cheeks lacked color, as if the wedding were more strain than pleasure.
Philip looked just as he had for weeks—glum and displeased.
Peggy had been responsible for virtually all the wedding arrangements. She sat in the family pew with perfect poise. Yet her face showed signs of fatigue and tension. Philip’s face might have been hewn from Maine granite as he performed the novel function of giving Elizabeth away to his own son and then retired to the pew, limping yet somehow haughty.
Only thirteen-year-old Gilbert seemed totally delighted. Gilbert had shot up in height without adding weight. His skin was the color of parchment. People often commented privately that Gilbert Kent resembled a worried, emaciated old man more than he did an adolescent.
But all that dimmed from Abraham’s awareness as he stood beside Elizabeth. Her eyes sought his from time to time, large and startlingly blue despite the gauzy veil covering her face. He wished he could speak to her. Comfort her. Instead, he was forced to stand rigid, then kneel, then rise again while the rector droned his way through the service.
Unhappy about his father’s attitude and concerned for his bride, Abraham got a jolt as the rector began reading scripture.
“So ought men to love their wives as their own bodies. He that loveth his wife loveth himself.”
The words struck a responsive chord in Abraham’s memory. Wasn’t that the very passage he’d tried to recall months ago? At the time, he’d been unable to remember either the precise text or its source—Saint Paul’s epistle to the Ephesians. A slight flush tinged his cheeks as he realized how widespread the knowledge of his rift with his father must be. Otherwise, why would the rector have selected this particular passage?
Sunshine slanted through large windows into the white-walled brilliance of the sanctuary. Elizabeth’s fair hair shone beneath her veil. Her quick, sidelong glance told Abraham she too understood the significance of the text—and his discomfort.
“For this cause shall a man leave his father and mother, and shall be joined unto his wife, and they two shall be one flesh—”
Abraham longed to turn and see how Philip was taking it. He didn’t dare.
“—let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself, and the wife see that she reverence her husband.”
The rector closed his Bible, began to pray. In a tangle of emotion—soaring love, depressing guilt—Abraham steeled himself to endure the rest of the ceremony. He wanted it over so that he could speak to his father. The need had all at once grown almost compulsive.
The rector might as well have been praying in a foreign tongue for all the attention Abraham paid. Something else was troubling him now.
Shame.
Here he was, standing in God’s house accepting a white-gowned young woman as his spouse—and he had already known her carnally. Sinfully, the rector would declare. The mere thought undercut the joy of the occasion, and increased his uneasiness.
Well, he said to himself at last, I suppose even among these respectable people, there are few who have totally clean hands and a spotless conscience. His father, for example, had killed other human beings in order to survive. Didn’t the Bible promise that Christ would forgive error? Bless those who came to His altar with a humble and contrite heart?
Never what could be called a devout person, Abraham still found himself saying a short, fervent prayer. A prayer begging Heaven to grant him forgiveness and, more important, a good beginning to his life with his new wife—
The organ pealed. Lifting Elizabeth’s veil to give her a decorous kiss, Abraham saw her lids flutter, as if she were faint. When he touched his mouth to her cheek, he was shocked by the chill of her skin. And he felt her trembling.
As he stood back, she smiled, but wanly. With a stab of dread he wondered whether his prayer would go unheard because they had both sinned.
ii
In the dusk, the house on Beacon Street blazed with lamplight, rang with the voices of the guests. The voices grew louder with every quart of rum added to the great crystal bowls of punch. In a corner of the dining room, a small string orchestra scraped away, adding to the din.
Abraham paced back and forth in the downstairs hall. He was dressed in his best suit. From time to time he glanced anxiously up to the second-floor landing.
Luggage had already been carried to the hooded chaise awaiting the young couple at the ring-block out in front. Abraham had intended to pay for all expenses connected with their wedding journey. But through Peggy, he discovered that Philip had hired the chaise himself, just as he was financing this large, noisy party.
Since leaving Christ Church, Abraham had had no good opportunity to speak to his father. Outside the church, Philip had shaken his son’s hand, murmured some word of congratulations, and gone immediately to his own carriage. Once the party started, Philip seemed to be everywhere—except alone, where his son might catch him for a private word. Abraham was hurt and angry at the way Philip seemed to be withholding his emotions—his affection—while he displayed his material generosity.
Through a doorway, Abraham could see his father’s back. Philip was in the midst of a heated discussion with huge-bellied General Knox, Lumden the iron-maker, and the slender, elegantly dressed banker, Royal Rothman. Suddenly Abraham felt a tug on his arm. Startled, he turned to discover Gilbert—at thirteen already taller than his half brother.
“Aren’t you anxious to be away, Abraham?” Gilbert asked, trying to invest the question with a manly wickedness.
Abraham put on a smile he didn’t feel. “Of course I am.”
“Where are you and Elizabeth going?”
“That, Gilbert, is our secret.”
“You must be sure to speak to Papa before you lea
ve.”
Abraham frowned. “Yes, I do wish he’d take the trouble to say goodbye—”
Philip’s haughty back—and his loud harangue about the danger of Jefferson standing for election and receiving enough votes to become vice president or, worse yet, president—gave him little encouragement.
“Oh, he definitely wants to speak with you.” A mischievous smile curved Gilbert’s colorless lips. “I have it on Mama’s authority.”
But Philip still showed every sign of being engrossed. The older brother shrugged in a weary way. “Mama may be expressing a hope, not a fact.”
The slim, white-faced boy stepped closer. His expression showed a maturity beyond his years as he asked: “You’re unhappy with Papa, aren’t you?”
“I’d say it’s the other way around.”
“Well, I want you to know I think it’s splendid you and Elizabeth made a match. Just splendid.”
“Thank you, Gilbert. You’re the first person to really sound sincere about it.”
“You’ll be a good influence on her, too.”
“What?”
“I mean you’ll keep a good tether on her, so she won’t grow moody and tearful, and fly into her rages—yes, it’s all turned out very well.”
Abraham failed to share Gilbert’s enthusiasm. “I don’t believe Papa sees it that way. He still blames Elizabeth for our plans to move west.”
“I think it’s wonderful you’re going.” Gilbert’s eyes brimmed with admiration. “I just wish I were strong enough to see the new country. I know I’m not. So I’ll help Papa look after Kent’s. It’s probably the only sort of life I’m cut out for anyway—” He touched his half brother, fondly yet with a certain shyness. “I’d like to be as big as you—”
“You’re taller.”
“As strong, I mean. With good shoulders. Hands that can chop wood, or plow—”
“A fine compliment! Comparing me to a plow horse!”
Gilbert reddened. “I know I’m not saying this exactly right—”
“I’m only teasing.”
“I just don’t want you to have any bad feelings about leaving. You’re doing what you were meant to do—”
“Let’s hope so,” Abraham said, uncertain.
“There’s only a problem because Papa needs someone to carry on the business. I’m the one. He’ll get used to it one of these days, don’t you worry.”
Abraham was touched by his half brother’s words, even as he was a little saddened by their hint of sorrow. Suddenly Gilbert’s eyes flashed past Abraham’s shoulder.
“I told you!” he hissed. “Papa’s coming—”
Abraham didn’t face around. He waited, feeling his father’s presence almost like a physical force. He prayed there would be no stormy scene—
Moments later, in response to Philip’s toneless request, Abraham followed the older man past groups of boisterous well-wishers to the library. There, Philip closed the double doors. He swung to face his son.
Philip’s dark eyes caught light from the single lamp on a small Phyfe table. Without knowing precisely why, Abraham shivered.
iii
Philip spoke a low voice. “Before you and Elizabeth leave this house, Abraham—”
“Don’t sound so grim, Papa. We’ll be back after our honeymoon.”
“Only for a short time. This is a day of parting. Because you’re my son, I felt we should have a moment alone. In addition to all the items your stepmother has provided for your new household, I am adding a family gift.” He paused only a moment. “The sum of five hundred dollars.”
“Five hundred—!” It took Abraham a few seconds to recover. “Sir, forgive me, but I don’t understand.”
“What is it you don’t understand?”
“A gift like that. You don’t approve of this match.”
“Perhaps not,” Philip agreed. He rolled his tongue in his cheek, and nearly smiled. “However, I’m not so insensitive that I failed to grasp the meaning of the rector’s text. I’m sure he chose it deliberately. But let’s not discuss that. The reason for the gift is very simple. Eventually you’ll need funds to purchase land. Just as important, you’ll need money for transportation. Wagon travel, river travel—I am informed they’re not cheap.”
“I’ve put aside most of my cornet’s pay from the army for that, Papa.”
Philip stiffened. “Are you trying to say you refuse the gift?”
Abraham swallowed. “No, sir, of course not. I’m extremely grateful for”—he hesitated over the rest; emotion brought it forth—“for an expression of your love.”
Features still stony, Philip seated himself in a chair. He placed his hands on the knees of his fine gray breeches. “I won’t pretend I believe you’re doing the right thing. Nor will I deny I want to keep you here for selfish reasons.”
“Gilbert has a much quicker mind than I do. He’ll be an asset to the firm after he gains a little experience. He’ll be able to discuss finances with men like your friend Mr. Rothman, for instance. I get lost just doing a few simple sums—”
“Yes, even as young as he is, Gilbert shows great promise. But he is also not in the best of health. That may reduce his value to Kent’s, though I sincerely hope not—”
Philip’s dark eyes locked with his son’s.
“I not only wanted to keep you in Boston for my own sake, but for yours. You have great strength and vitality, Abraham. But enthusiasm often blinds a young man’s eyes to hard reality. I do believe you underestimate the rigors of life in the west. You yourself may be fit enough for it. But you are not one person any longer. You are two. A family—”
Refusing to dodge the issue, Abraham blurted, “Papa, this is no time for anything less than complete candor. Do you dislike Elizabeth so much? Would you rather I not have married her?”
Philip glanced away. “That choice wasn’t mine to make.”
“Please answer.”
“No. To do so might be uncharitable.”
“That makes it very clear that you—”
“Permit me to finish. I took your wife into my house when I married Peggy, and I have tried to give her every advantage you and Gilbert have received. I have tried to give unstintingly—regardless of my feelings. Elizabeth has good qualities. She’s certainly beautiful, and I can readily understand why you would fall in love with her. But she’s frail, like Gilbert. And sometimes her behavior, as you’ve seen for yourself, suggests a reckless, even unstable temperament. I don’t mean any unkindness when I say she may be quite unsuited for the sort of existence you’ve both chosen.”
Abraham struggled to forget that the same suspicion had troubled him on the family trip. He shook his head. “I’m sure she’ll get along with no difficulty, Papa. We both will.”
Philip sighed. “Youth’s optimism. Seldom tempered by reason until”—he seemed to grieve as he studied Abraham—“until it’s much too late.”
“Papa, I’ve said I appreciate your gift. But to present it along with these dire warnings—”
Philip held up his hand to interrupt: “Don’t be angry with me. I realize the decision’s made. I accept it. I would have struggled even harder—kept trying to persuade you to change your mind—except for one fact.”
His eyes drifted toward the windows overlooking the dark Common.
“I would have been forced to employ the same weapon my mother employed with me. The bribery of love. And you needn’t say I have employed it, because I know I have. But not to the extent—well, someday I’ll tell you the story of what she wanted for me. How she almost destroyed me as a man by insisting I would destroy her if I didn’t follow her plan for my life. Much as I loved her, I couldn’t allow that, because I was a man. Experience does knock a few lessons into thick old heads, you see. Difficult as it is”—Philip’s voice had grown almost hoarse; he rose, limped toward his son, suddenly gripped his shoulders—“I let you go. With bitterness, yes. With regret, yes. But also with the deep and honest hope that your dreams won’t be shatte
red. I can’t help how I feel, Abraham—even as you can’t help going your own way. We are all guilty of being human. If I have committed any sins against you, I have committed them only out of love—just as my mother did. What a paradox, eh? What a damned, terrible par—”
His voice broke. He embraced his son.
Head bent against his father’s shoulder, Abraham heard the tears in the older man’s voice. “God keep you, Abraham. God keep you and your dreams.”
With sadness and a strange sense of foreboding, Abraham held Philip close for a long, silent moment.
iv
While Peggy cried and Gilbert capered and a crowd of guests shouted good wishes along with a few somewhat ribald encouragements for the evening, Abraham and Elizabeth hurried into the hooded chaise for the start of their wedding journey. Abraham whipped up the horse and they rattled off through the summer dark with the shouts and laughter dwindling slowly behind.
Abraham’s new sense of responsibility sat heavy on his shoulders for a little while. He was launching out on his own at last. And, as Philip said, he was a new, different man. He was accountable for his wife’s future as well as for his own—
But with Elizabeth close beside him in the bouncing chaise, chattering gaily and caressing his arm from time to time, the responsibility quickly changed from an ominous burden to a joy. He tingled when Elizabeth pressed her lips to his cheek and whispered that she hoped they wouldn’t take too long to reach the night’s stopping-place.
Their eventual destination, some miles northeast along the coast, was the town of Salem. They planned to spend a week at the town’s best inn, enjoying the sea air and taking in the sights of the booming seaport.
Salem’s harbor was crowded these days with tall-masted ships whose enterprising captains were carrying the country’s flag and the country’s products to Europe and around the world. Some of the ships that transported beer brewed in Philadelphia and butter churned on Massachusetts farms voyaged as far as the Chinese port of Canton, there unloading another part of their cargo—American-grown ginseng, an aromatic root highly prized by Oriental physicians.