by John Jakes
Exactly how much did he know? Rightly or wrongly, Gideon didn’t want the answer to that question. The truth might devastate Julia. What mattered now was protecting Carter from danger—
His protracted silence brought a keen look from Miss Vail. Trying to act unconcerned, he folded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of his nightshirt.
“I’ll have to ask the boys if they know what it means,” he said.
Miss Vail continued to scrutinize him. “Could it have something to do with the visit of those policemen the day Miss Eleanor was married? I was under the impression they were only making a routine inquiry.”
How easily they had all become enmeshed in Carter’s lies—if lies they were, Gideon thought sadly. He was almost brusque as he said, “Yes, that’s all it was, a routine inquiry. Is Carter at home?”
“No, sir. The plant closed down for two days. Something to do with repairs on its conveyor system.”
“Oh, yes, he did say something about that.”
“Master Carter took Master Will to watch the indoor foot races over at Harvard.”
“Well, I doubt the note’s anything other than a joke. But I’ll check into it.”
His response didn’t satisfy her. “It strikes me as sinister, Mr. Kent. I wouldn’t take it so lightly.”
“Leave it to me, please,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “Just leave it to me.”
ii
During the following week, Gideon was obsessed with worry about his stepson—both his wayward behavior and the possible threat to his safety posed by the note.
It galled Gideon not to know whatever his stepson knew about the death of the man found floating in the harbor. Gideon’s whole background as a newspaperman rebelled at a self-enforced state of ignorance. And yet he remained convinced that it was useless, even dangerous to pursue the inquiry. He felt certain Carter couldn’t be personally involved in a murder; that was just too incomprehensible. But any further investigation might lead to revelations that could only hurt Julia—and Carter’s future.
No, the solution to the problem didn’t lie in pushing and pushing until the truth came out. It lay in another direction. Gideon needed to get his stepson out of the city for a while—and before the return of Ortega’s brother, mentioned in the note. That gave him a month or so.
He pondered and rejected various plans. Military service, for example. But the lot of enlisted men in the peacetime army was little better than that of a prison inmate, at least in terms of food and living conditions. And Carter certainly wasn’t suited to taking orders.
Gideon knew he could get his stepson a job in New York. But his conscience rebelled at foisting Carter off on some unsuspecting business acquaintance. Besides, he couldn’t give Carter a good recommendation without lying.
The failure to find any satisfactory answer made Gideon testy and gave him several sleepless nights.
A week after he returned to work, a January blizzard struck Boston. Gideon sent his employees home early that day. When he arrived at Beacon Street, he found a letter from Michael Boyle waiting.
With his numbed legs stretched on an ottoman in front of the parlor hearth, and a long drink of brandy at his elbow, he began to read the letter. One passage toward the middle was of particular interest:
During the trip which Hannah and I took to California to escape the winter storms, I ran into an old family friend. You may not be acquainted with him—his name is Israel Hope—but he knows of you, and holds great affection for the entire family.
“Hope, Hope,” Gideon repeated aloud. Yes, he’d heard about Israel Hope from his father. Hope was a mulatto; a runaway slave who had met Amanda Kent—Mrs. A., as Boyle always called her—in California in the 1840s. He had been her friend and companion, helping her operate a little restaurant in San Francisco. When she had finally moved east, Hope had remained behind to manage the gold mine she’d inherited from her cousin Jared. Hope had held that post for nearly ten years after Amanda’s death, quitting it at the outbreak of war between the states. His resignation was a protest against Louis Kent’s scheme to make money from the war. Louis had planned to sell supplies secretly— and illegally—to the South. Hope, of course, had wanted the rebels defeated and humbled, not helped.
Gideon resumed reading.
I had met Mr. Hope in person only once before, on the occasion of his split with Louis, but I had heard about him long before, when I clerked for Mrs. A. I recognized him instantly in San Francisco, for he is distinctively tall, with skin the shade of a well-worn yellow glove. He inquired about the health of Mrs. A.’s son, not realizing Louis was dead. He was most interested to hear that Carter strongly resembled his father.
Hope is married to an octoroon, Clotilde, and they have one daughter. Though well up in years, he is vigorous, and active in the management of an enterprise by means of which he has prospered greatly in San Francisco—the Hope House Hotel, one of the city’s finest. Hannah and I stopped there without realizing the identity of the man who owned it. The staff is entirely white save for the porters. Hope told me that in order to secure white trade, he must, so to speak, remain invisible. He is seldom if ever seen in the establishment’s public rooms.
And, of course, he is required to live in the Negro section west of Montgomery Street and north of Jackson, though I am told his home in that district is among the finest in the entire city, excluding of course the palaces on Nob Hill— or Snob Hill, as some call it.
Hope wishes to be remembered to all the Kents. Never having met you personally, he still hopes you or anyone in your family will stop at his hotel, on a complimentary basis, should travel bring you westward. And if he can be of service to you in any way, he would be most happy to hear from you.
“Happy to hear from you,” Gideon repeated, shifting his leg on the ottoman and squinting at the paragraph he’d just read. “Happy to hear from one of Jeb Stuart’s own?”
Suddenly he had a flash of inspiration. “Let’s see about that!”
iii
Gideon had shown Julia the crumpled note sent to her son—but only after his plans for Carter were complete. At dinner on a rainy evening in mid-March, they presented the idea to Carter. The moment he heard it, he erupted.
“San Francisco? Why the devil should I go there?”
Gideon put his napkin aside. “Because I’m asking you to do so. Because I’ve already made arrangements for you to take a job at Israel Hope’s hotel. He’s written to say he’ll be pleased to have you. I’ve even bought your railroad ticket. I want you on your way by the first of April.”
Will was gazing at Gideon with a stunned expression. Carter leaped to his feet.
“I don’t care what you want. I don’t give a goddamn about what you’ve bought or arranged. I’m not going.”
“Don’t send him away,” Will said. It startled Gideon to hear that kind of plea from his son. Will was even more dependent on his stepbrother than he had imagined.
“Will, this is none of your affair,” he said. “Kindly excuse yoursel—”
“It is my affair! Carter and I are as close as real brothers.”
Above his beard, Gideon’s cheeks were red. “You’ll see him again. He’ll only be spending a year with Mr. Hope. It’s not as if we’re sending him to China—or into permanent exile. Israel Hope strikes me as an exceptionally fine man. He’s even accepted the fact that I served in the Confederate Army.”
Julia didn’t like to see Gideon so upset. She tried to calm things. “Will, please do as your father asks and leave the room. Do it for me.”
The boy hesitated. Julia’s gentle smile of entreaty at last overcame his resistance. He walked out, looking almost destitute, Gideon observed.
Carter stepped behind the chair in which he’d been seated. With both hands he gripped the high walnut back upholstered in golden damask. “I’ve finally discovered how things are done in this household. When I’m ninety, I’ll still be having everything arranged for me. I’ll still be aski
ng permission to fart.”
With a bellow, Gideon leaped to his feet. His chair toppled over as he reached across the table and seized Carter’s arms. “I will not permit such language in front of—”
Carter wrenched free. “Don’t shout at me. I’m not your son. I won’t be ordered about by you or anyone else.”
“Oh, Carter, Carter,” Julia cried, hurrying to his side while he glared at Gideon across the silver and crystal and china. Carter’s swarthy face had lost most of its color. His black eyes blazed.
“You’ve made too much of this,” Julia said to him, “caused too much commotion—”
“You’re damn right I’ll cause a commotion! You just announced that you’re shipping me halfway around the world.”
“San Francisco is not halfway around the world,” Gideon said. “It’s a splendid, cosmopolitan city. And much more suited to your free and easy disposition than Boston, I suspect.” He was struggling to hold his temper in check. “Most young men your age would be thankful for an opportunity to see the West. Furthermore—”
Carter interrupted. “I don’t consider, being packed off like a remittance man any great favor, thank you very much.”
He pulled out a cheap metal cigar case. Took out a dark green cheroot which he proceeded to sniff, then roll between his fingers. Angry as Gideon was, he couldn’t help admiring his stepson’s cockiness.
“You can donate the railroad ticket to some bohunk just off the immigrant boat at Castle Garden,” the younger man said with a wave of the cigar. “And you can send that nigger my regrets.”
Seething again, Gideon said, “You won’t even take this suggestion for your mother’s sake?”
Carter threw the cigar down beside his plate. “No. And kindly don’t trot out that sentimental family bullshit, Gideon.”
Livid, Gideon started for him again. Julia’s right hand pressed the tablecloth, her skin almost as white as the fabric. Carter forestalled Gideon’s attack by pivoting toward his mother. “I’m sorry to speak that way in your presence—”
What disconcerted Gideon was a realization that, for the moment anyway, Carter was sincere. He did have feelings for Julia. The trouble was, those feelings never controlled him for very long.
“I guess I lapse into bad language out of desperation. Maybe if I swear enough, someone”—he threw a swift glance at Gideon—“will realize I’m not a schoolboy who can be rapped on the knuckles and told what to do every minute of the day.”
Growing a little calmer, he ran a hand through his thick black hair. “I admit it might be entertaining to see the West. In other circumstances, I’d probably jump at the opportunity.”
Gideon reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You didn’t allow me to finish. In your case, I don’t think the right word is opportunity. The right word is necessity.”
He gave his stepson the folded paper. “Miss Vail found this outside your room one day back in January. I assume you dropped it.”
Carter recognized the threatening note; his face showed that. He handled the paper with nervous fingers, tossed it next to his cigar, then gestured at it in a tense way. “I thought I’d lost it on the street.”
“Where did you get it in the first place? The same place you got the others?”
Carter nodded. “The locker. I don’t know who put it there—”
The end of the sentence faded away. Gideon detected anxiety in Carter’s eyes.
“Does that fellow Ortega really have a brother?” Julia asked.
“Yes,” Carter said. “A rough sort, they say. A seaman. Away for long periods of time—”
Trying to be patient, Gideon said, “You told us you knew nothing about the death of that Portugee. Someone obviously thinks otherwise.” Carter avoided his stepfather’s eye as Gideon went on. “I have never liked to run from a quarrel. But neither do I think it’s very intelligent to court one. The trip would do you good. You’d have both independence and a means of support out West, and your absence for a year would permit this local situation to cool down and be forgotten.”
Carter’s dark eyes returned to the folded paper. Either someone in the plant had made a lucky guess about Sancosa’s disappearance and Ortega’s corpse, or—much more likely—Phipps had been bribed or frightened into saying something.
Twice before, he’d received notes warning him of Ortega’s eventual return—and then Ortega had showed up. This latest note therefore could not be ignored. When he coupled the note with O’Goff’s promise to bring him to justice one way or another, he was confronting a double danger.
Well, what did it matter if he stayed in Boston? Will could manage without him, and if he left, it would further reduce the chance of his stepbrother finding out why the police had questioned him. Carter had so far gotten by with a story about witnessing a dockside robbery. Will had accepted it without question.
As for Gideon and Julia, they’d be glad to get rid of him, he thought with momentary bitterness. Both of them considered him a liar and a troublemaker, and he was caught in the trap of being unable to tell them why he’d lied about events at the Red Cod. To keep his vow to Eben Royce, he had to keep silent for the rest of his life.
Slowly the hostility, the studied bravado, disappeared. His shoulders sagged, and for a few seconds he looked much more a boy than a man. Gideon knew he and Julia had won out when Carter shrugged and said in a surprisingly mild tone, “San Francisco—well, maybe I can at least think it over.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE PROMISE
i
“WATCH OUT!”
Carter crashed into Will, knocking him out of the path of the boneshaker—one of the newfangled bicycles that nearly shook a rider to pieces on a rough road.
The embarrassed wheelman called an apology from his high seat. Then he realized he was out of control. While Carter helped his stepbrother to his feet, the bicycle careened down Beacon Street and tipped over right in front of the house belonging to Dolores Wertman. The wheelman took a terrific spill.
Will stayed on the curbing in the hope the Wertmans would come outside. Sure enough, they did. First the choleric-looking father, then the mousy mother, and finally Dolores, a red-haired, full-bosomed girl of seventeen. Will had noticed Dolores as she practiced croquet on the Common the first warm weekend of spring. He’d hardly been able to think of anything else since.
“Damn fool deserves a broken neck if he can’t drive any better than that,” Carter said. The wheelman was still lying motionless in the street. He got up groggily as Carter tugged out his silver pocket watch. “My train leaves in two hours, little brother. We’d better take our stroll.”
He tilted his straw hat so the brim shielded his eyes from the March sun. It was the last Saturday of the month, a beautiful afternoon, cloudless and unseasonably warm. Already the Common and the Public Garden were swarming with people who didn’t have to work. Games of bowls and lawn tennis were in progress, but for every such game, there were five groups playing croquet. It was still the national craze.
Carter turned and gazed across Beacon to the Kent house. “I wanted one last look at it. All of a sudden, I think I’ll miss—oh-ho!” He saw the object of Will’s rapt stare. “I see what you’re missing.” He gave his stepbrother a nudge. “Don’t worry. You’ll get your share soon enough. But here’s a tip. If you want a girl, you have to make her think you care for her more than anyone else in the world. You mustn’t actually come out and say that, though. If anything happened—I mean if she got a little something in her belly later—she might hold you to it.”
From her front step, Dolores Wertman noticed Will watching her. He started to wave but didn’t have the nerve. Dolores tossed her red hair, took her father’s arm and vanished among the people who were either trying to assist the wrecked wheelman, or jeering at him.
“Ah, Carter, I’ll never get close enough to a girl to follow your advice. Besides, if you—if—”
Blandly, Carter asked, “Are you trying to say fuck?”
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Will turned red and nodded. But he still couldn’t repeat the word. “If you do that with a girl, you’re duty-bound to marry her.”
The older boy looked thunderstruck. “Who says so?”
“Ma, for one. That’s one of the things she harped about.”
Up shot Carter’s eyebrows. “She harped about that to you? How old were you?”
“No, not to me—I was little. To Eleanor. I heard her give Eleanor a big long lecture about it in her room one day. Ma thought the door was closed, but it was open this much.” He measured half an inch between thumb and index finger. “I listened outside.”
“I hate to say it, but it sounds like your mother spouted a lot of nonsense. You don’t have to marry a girl just because you sleep with her. You’d better get rid of the notion that you do, or one of these days some woman will use it to trap you.”
The Greek woman’s face flashed into Carter’s thoughts just then. He had begun to think no woman could be trusted.
“Sometimes, Will,” he finished with a shake of his head, “I think you’re just too decent for your own good.”
“Do you mean dumb?”
With an affectionate chuckle, Carter replied, “I don’t believe I’ll answer that one.”
Will shrugged. “Doesn’t make much difference what I am or how I act. Dolores Wertman would never be interested in me. She wouldn’t let me within ten feet of her.”
Carter put his arm around Will’s shoulder as they strolled along a sun-dappled path leading through the Common to Charles Street and the elaborate wrought-iron gates of the Public Garden beyond. “Wish I knew who made you feel so damn worthless, little brother. Was that your mother’s doing, too?”
Will studied the ground. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It surely does. Someone did a job on you. Hold your head up, for God’s sake! Otherwise you’re absolutely right—that girl won’t look at you.”