The Americans

by John Jakes

  Will waved off the compliment. “I’m just thankful we got out safely. Glad you got your wallet back, too.”

  Marcus took a chair and crossed his legs, relaxed and elegant. He lit a cigarette. “Oh, the girl didn’t try to steal anything of mine. She just wouldn’t perform the—ah— special service I requested. I got damned mad about it.”

  Will felt victimized. But it was clear his visitor wasn’t interested in his reaction; he didn’t even glance in Will’s direction.

  And Will decided his annoyance was worth it when Marcus said, “The purpose of my call is to show you I’m genuinely grateful for what you did. If you’ve some free time over Christmas, I’d like you to join a house party we’re having at our place down in Westchester County.”

  Will was so overwhelmed, he couldn’t speak for a moment. Marcus raised an eyebrow. “That’s outside New York City.”

  “Yes, I know where it is. That’s very kind of you, Pennel.”

  “Call me Marcus. I think fate, or possibly our interest in women, ordained that we’d be friends. You’ll like Pennel House over the holidays. Lots of bright young people around. Lots of charming females.” He scrutinized Will with mock seriousness. “You might even take a fancy to my sister, Laura. She’s a year younger than I, but a pretty piece of fluff, if I do say so. The Harvard boys I bring home don’t seem to interest her in the slightest. Perhaps a learned physician will break the pattern.”

  Excited by the thought of what the invitation could mean to his career, Will nevertheless felt it prudent not to appear too eager. “See here, Pennel—”

  “It’s Marcus, didn’t I say?”

  “Very well—Marcus. You needn’t invite me just to give me some kind of—reward, as you put it. I was glad to help you.”

  Even though I was scared as hell doing it.

  “Of course I need to give you a reward! Buying, selling— balancing one favor against another—that’s what the world is all about. That and nothing else.”

  His smile was cordial, yet a little smug. He rose and held out his hand.

  “My driver’s waiting. I have other calls to make, but this was the most important. We’ll expect you at Pennel House the day after Christmas.”

  iii

  When Gideon heard the news, he never thought to probe Will’s statement that he’d met Marcus Pennel through mutual friends at Harvard. He was too busy being exercised.

  “Bunch of hypocritical robbers, the Pennels. Thurman Pennel, the boy’s father, is a mossback of the worst kind.”

  “You’ve met him?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. I had a run-in with him at the last Republican nominating convention. He’d like to see us roll blissfully backward into the eighteenth century—or perhaps the Middle Ages. Then no one would presume to question his right to make money from human misery. Mr. Pennel specializes in that. He puts up the most efficient factory buildings in New England. Companies stand in line to lease them. I shudder to think of the number of young girls and children who die because he designs those buildings to be free of distractions for the workers. I’m referring to distractions such as windows that admit sunlight and fresh air. I’m surprised you want to get involved with people like that.”

  Irked, Will shot back, “Papa, it’s a social occasion. I’m not endorsing the way the Pennels live.”

  Gideon cast a dour eye over his son. “Don’t be too sure.”

  iv

  Drew was even more caustic about the invitation. “By God, you are determined to be a Fifth Avenue doctor, aren’t you? But ascending the social heights via the window of a whorehouse—that must be some kind of first.”

  Will refused to be baited. His life was his to live as he chose, and he had no intention of missing a chance to visit the Pennels of Westchester County.

  CHAPTER VII

  THE PENNELS

  i

  WILL FIRST SAW PENNEL House through the slowly falling snow of a December afternoon. Even counting William K. Vanderbilt’s palace on Fifth Avenue, he’d never seen a more magnificent residence. Centerpiece of a two-hundred-acre estate forty minutes north of the city by train, Pennel House was not only stunning in its own right, but symbolic of, and appropriate to, the position of its owners. Their world contained everything that was worth having—or so Will had convinced himself while anticipating this visit.

  The mansion had been designed in popular and eclectic style. It was a three-story, fifty-four-room castle with no two exterior elements matching. Shape pulled against shape, color against color, texture against texture. The ground floor was pale limestone trimmed with dark brick; the second story was shingled, the third half-timbered, gabled, and roofed with slates of several colors.

  Balconies, porches, and dormers interrupted the façade at a dozen places. Two huge chimneys dominated one end of the house. At the other, an immense round tower jutted into the gloomy sky. The mansion’s windows resembled a painter’s palettes; light of every conceivable color was cast on the snow by intricate patterns of stained glass. Curiously, the jumble of elements and techniques was so overstated that it achieved a certain reverse elegance, its ostentation declaring to the world that a Midas lived here— for who but a Midas could afford such extravagant confusion?

  The Pennel carriage, sent to meet Will at the railroad station, pulled up at the main entrance to the house. The postilion jumped down, eyebrows and hatbrim snow-encrusted. He began unloading Will’s three pieces of luggage. Marcus burst out the front door, a toddy mug in hand.

  “Welcome, my friend! We’ve been expecting you for an hour.”

  “The snow’s getting heavy on the roads.” He shook Marcus’ hand and moved gratefully from the cold air to the warmth of the immense baronial foyer.

  Pennel House was as elaborate inside as out. Everywhere he looked, he saw ornamentation, decorative scrollwork, heavy furniture, all in the Queen Anne style. Gas and lamplight on polished paneling and a parquet floor created a warm atmosphere helping to offset the forbidding vastness of the foyer. Will quickly decided that despite the jumble of styles, motifs, and materials, the house had a definite appeal. It was just the sort of place in which he could be happy.

  Servants took Will’s coat, hat, stick, and gloves and whisked them out of sight. With a grin, Marcus said to him, “I’ve built you up to Laura something fierce. Handsome, all-knowing physician to whom no crevice of a woman’s body is a mystery—or sacred.”

  Will turned red. “Good God. Your sister will run the other way.”

  “On the contrary. All we get here are chaps with pedigrees, never one with brains. Till you, I mean. She’s mad to meet you.”

  “I’m anxious to meet her too. Is she here?”

  “No, not just now. She and the others went skating on the pond. But I’m glad the place isn’t swarming with our friends. It gives me a chance to introduce you to Father.”

  He grasped Will’s arm and steered him toward massive, intricately carved doors of dark wood. A footman rushed forward, seized a heavy bronze ring and opened the right-hand door. Will said, “I’m worried about the way you described me to your sister. She’s in for a mighty disappointment.”

  “Nonsense!” Marcus waved with his mug. Some of the toddy splattered the footman’s coat. The man blinked but said nothing. Apparently Marcus didn’t even notice. “She’ll be charmed. I keep telling you that you’re like no guest we’ve ever had at Pennel House.”

  That was probably true, Will thought, but not in the sense that Marcus meant it. He had done some investigation of the Pennels. In terms of social position, they were far above the Kents. For one thing, Thurman Pennel no longer dirtied his hands with direct involvement in his business empire. He merely issued orders to underlings.

  “Father has a guest, but he said it’s all right to break in. Follow me.”

  ii

  Marcus led his visitor into a huge but surprisingly cheerful room that resembled pictures of English castles that Will had seen. The room—the living hall, Marcus called i
t—was crowded with furniture, potted plants, and bric-a-brac. A large open stairway dominated the inner wall. The outer one was pierced by narrow windows of leaded stained glass. In the wall directly ahead was a large, lofty recess.

  Within the inglenook, two perspiring men sat on thickly padded bench seats which faced one another in front of an immense hearth. Fragrant logs blazed in the grate and set reflections to shimmering on polished floor tiles. Marcus and Will stopped at a respectful distance.

  The larger of the two men was saying in a slurred voice, “—of course I intend to donate heavily to the war chest, Andrew. That damned Democrat is dangerous. He must be turned out before he engineers the ruin of the system under which we’ve both prospered.”

  “I canna help but agree, Thurman. But he’s the incumbent. We must start now if we mean to defeat him. That’s why we’re seeking your guarantee of support this far ahead of the election. We—”

  The speaker stopped suddenly, warned by the nervous eyes of the heavier man. Marcus moved forward. Both men rose and stepped out of the inglenook.

  Will knew that he and Marcus had interrupted a conversation about President Cleveland. The Republicans had been infuriated by the President’s annual address to Congress on December 6. The President had devoted the entire message to a carefully structured plea for reduced tariffs— a proposal which was anathema to the protectionists in the Republican Party. Gideon had predicted that the tariff would be the major issue of next year’s campaign. The conversation just overheard tended to confirm that.

  “Father,” Marcus said, “I’d like you and your guest to meet my friend Will Kent.”

  He addressed the larger of the two men. Thurman Pennel stood well over six feet. He was paunchy and had lost most of his hair. Only a few dark, oiled wisps were left, combed across his hairless skull.

  His visitor, fifty or a bit older, was noticeably shorter and leaner. White whiskers lent him a benign air, though his eyes were foxy, even hard. When Marcus spoke Will’s last name, the visitor raked Will with an appraising glance.

  Meantime, Marcus’ father said, “How do you do, Kent? I’m Thurman Pennel. We’re happy to have you here.”

  He extended his hand and smiled, but there was no cordiality in his heavy-lidded eyes, just as there had been none in his welcome. Marcus didn’t resemble his father, Will noticed. Perhaps he favored his mother.

  “I appreciate the invitation, sir,” Will said, determined to be polite. It was uncomfortably hot near the fire. Pine boughs hung up to decorate the living hall gave off an odor that was cloyingly sweet. There was another sweet smell in the air, but Will couldn’t immediately identify it.

  “This is Mr. Carnegie,” Pennel said. “Andrew—Mr. Kent.”

  The sinewy little man shook hands. His grip was strong. “Related to the Boston Kents, by any chance?”

  “Gideon Kent is my father.”

  “I see.” Carnegie’s lips twitched; it could never have been called a smile. “Well, lad, we’ll na hold that against you.”

  Will kept his temper as best he could. He knew Carnegie’s name and background, of course. Almost everyone in the nation did. An immigrant from Scotland, Carnegie had begun his working career as a bobbin boy. Today he controlled a steadily expanding complex of steel factories. Will had heard his father say Carnegie was pulling the American steel industry into a dominant position in the world market almost single-handedly. “British steelmakers would like to see him dead” was Gideon’s summation. To judge from Carnegie’s hale and leathery look, he would probably be around for many years.

  Carnegie’s smile remained as cold as the air Will had quitted a few moments ago. “I’ll na lie to you, young man. I cannot abide your father’s views. They say he was once a Republican—” The little man clearly found that hard to believe.

  Marcus looked unhappy about the trend of the conversation.

  Thurman Pennel said, “He showed his true colors when he deserted Blaine in the last national election. Your father and I had a discussion about Mr. Blaine at the nominating convention. No, I guess discussion doesn’t quite cover it—”

  Pennel smiled just as his guest had done—to make it seem as if he were uttering a little joke when he was actually indulging his malice.

  “He started to knock me down. The same way he knocked down Ward McAllister—”

  By God, I refuse to stand for this, Will thought. But politeness won out. Pennel was his host, and Gideon was the first to admit his opinions weren’t popular among Republicans.

  Still pretending to smile, Pennel added, “Hot-tempered, these ex-Rebs, eh?”

  Will’s face was white. He kept his voice level. “That’s true, sir. They can be very hot-tempered when they believe something strongly. My father believed Mr. Blaine was a crook.”

  Pennel scowled. But Carnegie’s expression changed from distaste to grudging admiration. Pennel noticed his guest’s approval—and then his son’s distressed look. He wasn’t so tactless as to pursue the little quarrel further. He again resorted to that false joviality.

  “In any case, Kent, you’re the one invited for a visit, not your father—”

  He stepped to Will’s side and clapped him on the shoulder. Will smelled the sweet odor again, and recognized it. Gin. No wonder Pennel was so garrulous, so imprudent in what he said: If I talked that way when I drank, I wouldn’t drink.

  He continued to resent the criticism of his father. Then, on a more practical tack, he remembered some of the reasons he’d wanted to come to Pennel House. He decided he’d better do something to blunt that criticism.

  “Perhaps I ought to explain something, Mr. Pennel. My father’s a publisher but I’m studying to be a doctor. Two different careers. Two different people. My father understands that. Politics has ruined many a friendship. I don’t intend for it to ruin any of mine.”

  “D’ya mean to say you stay neutral, lad?” Carnegie’s disapproval of neutrality was quite evident.

  Will stared him down and said, “No, sir. I have my own views. But I don’t debate them. Especially when I’m a guest in someone’s house.”

  Marcus smiled. Thurman Pennel was immediately more cordial. “I expect you’ll go far in your profession, Kent. A doctor doesn’t develop a loyal clientele by stepping on the toes of patients with whom he disagrees. You seem to have learned that lesson early.”

  Will squared his shoulders and met Pennel’s lidded gaze. The man was opinionated and more than a little drunk; Will disliked him intensely. But he smiled, stifled a twinge of conscience and said, “I’ve tried to learn it, Mr. Pennel.”

  Before he could say more, someone came rushing down the open staircase. “We’re back, Marcus. Is this your friend? You must present me at once!”

  The men forgotten, Will turned toward the stairs. With considerable relief, Marcus said, “Will, here’s Laura.”

  iii

  Will immediately lost interest in meeting the other members of the house party who followed Marcus’ sister into the living room. The group consisted of four young gentlemen from Dartmouth and Yale, and three other young ladies, vapid and noisy, who attended private schools. All Will could see was their hostess.

  Laura Pennel was a beautiful girl, a year older than Will, pale-skinned and immaculately groomed. She had slightly slanted gray eyes, and straw-colored hair that fell in tight natural curls. Curly hair was a characteristic both she and her brother had evidently inherited from their mother; it certainly didn’t come from the paternal side.

  She was dressed fashionably, in a severely tailored suit. The mauve skirt and jacket contrasted with a snug white shirtwaist beneath. An ascot was neatly pinned at the center of her full bosom.

  Her face was sweet, though it was an animated sweetness, quite unlike the insipid look of many beautiful girls. There was an innocence about her, too, an aura that told him she was a person incapable of a wicked thought or deed, at least not an intentional one.

  He tried to be pleasant and witty as he replied to a f
ew inconsequential questions about his family and his trip from Boston. He felt he was making a fool of himself. Not that it seemed to matter. She was soon gone again, sweeping out of the living hall accompanied by her friends. He was so flustered, all he could remember of their entire conversation was one fact. She would see him at supper in half an hour.

  Marcus showed him up to his bedroom in the tower wing. “You and Laura seemed to hit it off instantly,” Marcus said when they were halfway up the stairs.

  “She’s a lovely young woman.”

  “And you look like a gentleman who’s been thoroughly smitten.”

  “The instant I saw her,” Will said with a nod, his light tone concealing the strength of his feeling.

  Still, his conscience nagged at him. Would you have been smitten if her name were something other than Pennel? Would you have been so quick to turn your back on your father and try to ingratiate yourself with hers?

  “Here we are,” Marcus said, turning in at a bedroom door and temporarily relieving Will of the burden of listening to that accusing voice.

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE LIONESS

  i

  WILL’S LUGGAGE HAD BEEN unpacked, the contents neatly put away in a bureau and an armoire. He set about changing his shirt. Marcus lingered. Something was on his mind. Presently he brought it into the open.

  “You got a dreadful welcome from my father. You must forgive him, Will. He isn’t too competent playing the role of gracious host. And when he’s had too much to drink, he’s far from tactful.”

  “Oh, that’s all right—” Will began.

  “It certainly isn’t.” Marcus blew his nose, then lit a cigarette. “He insulted you. He’ll never apologize, so I must.”