The Furies

by John Jakes

  But was it?

  Abruptly, she realized Rose had spoken to her. The stout woman repeated what she’d said. “The carriage is at the curb. Do you want to go home? Or just stand here all night?”

  She glanced around. The lobby had finally emptied.

  “I’m sorry—certainly, let’s go.”

  She was conscious of Rose scrutinizing her as they hurried outside.

  ii

  The city of New York looked almost beautiful this February night, covered as it was by fresh snow.

  New York’s population had climbed to almost three-quarters of a million people. A construction boom was steadily pushing the northern boundary toward the Croton Reservoir at Forty-second Street. Tonight, the ugliness of an expanding city of rich and poor—its unfinished buildings, its piles of uncollected refuse, its free-roaming herds of pigs and cows—was hidden by the wind-blown whiteness.

  The streets were empty for a change. It always seemed to Amanda that half the city’s inhabitants must be Irish—and indigent. They were forever loitering on the main thoroughfares. In some areas ruled by the immigrants, a lone woman—or a lone man who wasn’t Irish, for that matter—dared not walk after dark. Michael Boyle, who would be waiting for her at home with the late afternoon’s business matters yet to discuss, was a product of one such festering district, the Five Points.

  The inside of Rose’s carriage was ice cold. Or was the coldness within her? She couldn’t escape an uneasy feeling about her reaction to Stovall’s mention of the Kents.

  Lamps and gaslights in passing buildings lit the carriage interior from time to time. The wheels jolted into a rut in the unpaved street. The driver whipped the team. The carriage lurched. Rose swore, singeing her glove on the locofoco she’d been trying to apply to the end of a cigar.

  When the cigar was lit, she slid a window down and tossed the charred match into the storm.

  Amanda felt questions were imminent; perhaps some of her own would forestall them.

  “Rose, you spoke about Stovall’s wife once. When did she die?”

  “Oh, let’s see. Early in fifty, I believe. She came of a good family. Baltimore—precious Hamilton’s own city.”

  “When did he marry her?”

  “Years ago—and only so he could use her family’s capital to shore up his steel business. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “He has no heirs—isn’t that right?”

  “None.”

  “And I assume his wife died of natural causes—”

  “That was the story—publicly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I heard a whisper or two that it was suicide.”

  Amanda smiled without humor. “Perhaps she found out Stovall’s not quite so respectable as he pretends to be.”

  Thoughtfully, Rose puffed out smoke. The thick blue cloud made breathing difficult.

  “Well, he does admit to a few vices. He drinks a good deal. He’s been known to gamble heavily. But if you removed everybody who does either one, New York would have a population of approximately forty-six. I had a peculiar feeling about, that Mr. Jonas, though. I wonder if he’s something more than a secretary—”

  “He might be Stovall’s lover.”

  “That was exactly my suspicion.”

  “There’s evidence to support it.”

  “What evidence?”

  “Michael goes back to the Five Points now and again,” Amanda explained. “To visit some of the friends he knew when he worked on the docks. There’s a story circulating about Stovall to the effect that he occasionally takes a little holiday with some people on Mulberry Street. Under another name.”

  “Who does he visit?”

  “A young whore—and her brother. I gather they’re all part of a—call it a triangular relationship.”

  Rose shivered. “My God. I fancy I’m liberal about a lot of things, but I don’t care to know any more details of a sordid situation like that!”

  “Maybe Stovall’s wife caught a hint of it—”

  “Perhaps.” Rose nodded. “Stovall’s tony friends didn’t, I’m sure. I’ve heard nothing like that about him. If he prefers male companions instead of female—”

  “I’ve been told there are some who like both.”

  “Well, you can be sure he’ll be careful no one can prove it. Any more than people can prove your relationship with Michael Boyle’s something other than business.”

  Aghast, Amanda said, “Do they accuse me of having Michael for a lover?”

  “Naturally! I’ve told you—the ruining of reputations is a popular sport of some of our finer citizens.”

  “I didn’t realize I was sufficiently well known to merit that kind of attention.”

  “In a little over a year, my dear, you’ve made the city very much aware of your presence. You’ll still never crack that so-called social barrier we’ve discussed before—but a rich, good-looking woman who owns gold in California and part of one of the most successful textile companies in the northeast is grist for the conversational mills of society.”

  “I had no idea there’d been filthy talk about Michael—”

  “Well, my God, he is good-looking. He is your private clerk—and you did give him a room as well as a position.”

  “He’s a bright young man. Why shouldn’t he have a better place to live than the slums? I’m disgusted about the stories—”

  “Oh, stop.” Rose chuckled. “At least Michael’s the right sex—which can’t be said for Mr. Stovall’s employee. Stovall will have to give that up if he’s serious about marrying again.”

  “Marrying! That, I hadn’t heard.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Who’s the woman?”

  “Miss Coralie Van Bibb. Her father’s a pushy clod, but he’s done handsomely building carriages—this is one of his vehicles, I think. The irony’s delicious. The best people ride in the products of Van Bibb’s Westchester factory, and he can’t get past their front doors.”

  “What’s his daughter like?”

  “Unattractive. She’s thirty-four and never had a husband—doesn’t that tell you? Pious as a Plymouth puritan, too—if what you say is correct, dear Hamilton will have to mend his ways. Or make a mighty pretense of it. No more Mulberry Street excursions. No more Mr. Jonas—unless he sticks strictly to business. Any sensible girl wouldn’t let Stovall court her, you know. But he does have a certain dubious social standing—which old Van Bibb’s desperate to share. For his part, Stovall won’t be acquiring a wife so much as another source of financing. Papa Van Bibb’s money—”

  Amanda’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, that would jibe with something Joshua Rothman told me. Stovall’s trying to float a big loan for modernization of his Pittsburgh plant. He’s having a difficult time of it—the eastern banks don’t consider him the best of risks.”

  “No wonder! He refuses to devote the time needed to run the company properly—and his board is hand picked so he encounters no opposition.”

  Quietly, Amanda said, “That’s right. He has two cousins on the board—his only relatives. And he owns by far the largest single block of stock. Forty percent. No other shareholder owns anything close to that.”

  Rose took another puff of the cigar. “You seem damn conversant with Mr. Stovall’s affairs.”

  “No more than you. I’ve found out some things about him since he refused to sell Kent’s, that’s all. The information from Michael came quite by accident.”

  “You don’t have any hope of trying to buy the printing company again, do you?”

  “No,” Amanda said, truthfully. I’m going to get hold of it another way.

  “Do you think he suspects who you really are?”

  “I hardly see how he could, Rose—unless I gave myself away completely tonight.”

  “Not completely, though your reaction was noticeable. Amanda”—she hesitated—“we’re friends, aren’t we?”

  “The closest of friends, Rose—you know that.”

  “Then
I wish you’d be honest with me.”

  “About what?”

  Rose leaned toward her, the cigar in her hand casting just enough light to put pinpoints of orange in her eyes.

  “Stovall alluded to having won the firm in a wager. When we first met in Boston, you gave me the impression he’d bought it. Which is it?”

  Amanda sighed. “Stovall was telling the truth. I misled you. At the time, I thought it was prudent.”

  “That’s why you kept your family connection out of the negotiations—the Kents have a grudge against him?”

  “And vice versa. He cheated my family years ago—”

  “Is that the real reason you’re in New York, not Boston? Because he’s here, and you can make inquiries about him?”

  “Partly.”

  “Two can play the game, you know.”

  “That I realize.”

  “Do you honestly mean to say you’ve given up doing anything further about taking over the company? That’s not in character, my dear.”

  “Rose, I think we should drop the subject—”

  “Sorry, but I can’t. I don’t want anything to happen to you. And Mr. Hamilton Stovall isn’t the sort one crosses swords with in a casual fashion. You saw what he almost did to that poor chap in front of the theatre—a man he didn’t even know. He’s vicious. And based on what Michael told you, maybe even a little deranged. Leave him alone, Amanda. Whatever reasons you have for hating him, leave him alone—he could hurt you.”

  The warning echoed ones she’d heard before. But too much past history remained to be set aright for her to be frightened off by one failure—or an unfounded fear that she might have given her feelings away when Stovall insulted the Kents.

  “I’ve faced worse than Mr. Stovall, Rose. I’ll be careful.”

  “Then you haven’t abandoned the idea of taking the firm away from him—”

  “No,” she admitted. “But there’s no point in dragging you into it.”

  “He refused to sell! What other legal options do you have?”

  Amanda didn’t answer. Rose glowered at her cigar.

  The carriage was slowing. Amanda glanced out the window. They’d arrived in Madison Square, one of the more fashionable residential areas developed in the last decade. Light from large homes dappled the snow with patches of yellow. The carriage swung up the east side of the square and under the portico of a three-story brownstone house Amanda had purchased, gutted and rebuilt after consultation with an architect Rose had recommended.

  The driver climbed down and opened the door. A snow-dusted figure, he stood shivering in the night wind. The lights of Amanda’s home lit Rose Ludwig’s dismayed face.

  “Rose, don’t be angry with me—”

  “I am not in the least bit angry! I’m worried. I’d as soon go strolling in Five Points naked and carrying gold ingots as keep up a feud with Stovall. You’ll be the loser. He already suspects you wanted his company and no other. And after tonight, he knows the name Kent produces a reaction. He may figure out a good deal from that—”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s possible.”

  “Then for God’s sake leave him alone, Amanda. Please!”

  “Good night, Rose. I enjoyed the dinner and the lecture. Let’s have lunch early next week—”

  “Amanda—”

  She shut the carriage door.

  She stood in the blowing snow at the foot of the balustraded marble stairs. The carriage careened out of the drive, its lanterns rapidly diminishing to blurs. A sleigh crowded with young ladies and gentlemen went skimming by on the opposite side of the square. Laughter and the sound of bells lingered long after it had passed from sight.

  She was tired, drained by the confrontation with Stovall, and by jousting with Rose. But she couldn’t call it a day just yet. She had to deal with the problem of Stovall’s suspicion.

  Perhaps nothing would come of it. But if he did look further into her background, she couldn’t afford to wait and discover it after the fact. She had to accomplish what she wanted to accomplish now, before he found out any more—

  She hurried up the steps into the house.

  Chapter V

  The Girl Who Refused

  i

  LOUIS KENT CAME DOWN the staircase, walking past the entrance to the dining room on his right and the music room—containing the piano no one played—on his left. The clock in the library chimed nine.

  Despite the chill permeating the house, his cheeks felt hot. Not much more than an hour left—

  All evening he’d thought about her—wild, confused thoughts that set his heartbeat racing. All evening he’d struggled to convince himself that what he wanted to do was perfectly proper for a wealthy boy going on fifteen. Some of his classmates at Professor Pemberton’s Day School—the sons of merchants and professional men—boasted of their affairs with household girls. One boy repeatedly bragged that he’d begun when he was twelve!

  That, Louis could hardly believe. But the boasting left him feeling inferior all the same. Finally, when his mother had hired the new Irish girl a few weeks ago, he’d decided to go ahead.

  The other two maids and the cook were older, unattractive. Kathleen was neither. She was seventeen and on the plump side, but pretty. Clean-smelling, too—though he recalled she hadn’t been the first day she presented herself for an interview. She came from a tenement somewhere in the Five Points.

  His mother had left at three to have dinner and attend an abolitionist lecture with Mrs. Ludwig. The opportunity was perfect. But he was afraid. Inexperience heightened his certainty that he’d blunder, that Kathleen would refuse him. Or laugh. So instead of waiting for her upstairs—she began her rounds of the three occupied bedrooms shortly after nine every night—he’d fled down here to the first floor. Now he was telling himself his scheme was entirely too dangerous.

  He walked softly across the Oriental carpeting of the long front hall. On his left, forward of the music room, the doors to the drawing room were shut. The library, on the right between the dining room and the front sitting room, showed light, its two doors ajar. In the hall, a single gas jet flung Louis’ shadow on the huge front doors. He opened one and let out a gasp of surprise. Snow was falling in Madison Square.

  He remained at the open door for a few moments, unable to keep his mind off Kathleen. You don’t ask them, Lou, the boys at Pemberton’s said. You tell them. You threaten ’em with discharge if they hesitate. Anyway, most are eager for it. They’ll say no a few times. But then they’ll relent.

  Why had he listened? Why had he rashly promised that he’d bring it off before classes resumed next week? He’d actually gotten in another fistfight when two of the boys scoffed—

  Of course he could he on Monday. But they’d question him. Demand intimate details. He feared that if he tried to pretend, they’d trip him up.

  And it would be a relief to end the nightly wakefulness in which he imagined bare breasts, and legs, and lips caressing his face—more and more these past months, he thought of such things frequently. Dreamed of them, too, in dreams that caused an embarrassing aftermath.

  He pressed his belly against the edge of the open door. No matter how he tried, he couldn’t prevent his flesh from betraying his feelings at the most unexpected moments—

  I must do it, he said silently. Tonight, while it’s quiet and Ma’s away. He still thought of her as Ma, though Amanda had long since trained him to use the word Mother when he spoke.

  Sweating a little, he watched the falling snow. He knew he’d never be heard upstairs. Except for Kathleen, the servants didn’t venture beyond the first floor. Right now, before going home for the night, they’d all be taking supper down in the mansion’s raised basement—

  The insistent pressure between his legs refused to go away.

  But it’s too risky!

  An inner voice mocked him: It isn’t too risky. You’re frightened, that’s all.

  What would his ma do in a comparable situation? He thought he knew.
She did whatever she wanted, went where she pleased, and brooked no interference. That had been apparent to him ever since the time in California when he heard she’d shot a man who interfered with her up in the mining camp—

  His swarthy face troubled and his dark eyes focused at some remote point beyond the snow-whitened square, Louis slowly backed up and shut the door. He was afraid of his mother. Her toughness and her preoccupation with business affairs made her forbidding, somehow. Yet he admired her—

  He decided he was being foolish to worry about repercussions. She never seemed to—

  All right. What he wanted, he’d take. That was the privilege of wealthy people, wasn’t it?

  Turning, he stepped on the tail of the white tomcat before he realized it. The cat, whose name was Mr. Mayor, had evidently crept out of the library and approached him silently.

  Mr. Mayor meowed loudly and went bounding back toward the library doors—which opened all the way a moment later.

  From the doorway, Michael Boyle looked at Louis. The boy was sure Michael could see guilt on his face.

  Mr. Mayor sought protection behind Michael’s legs, peering at Louis with green eyes that caught the gaslight and shone. Suddenly Louis realized what he needed in order to proceed with his plan. He should be able to get it, too. In the darkened dining room—

  If only Michael didn’t suspect, and try to stop him.

  “What are you doing skulking out here, Louis?” the young man asked, cheerily enough. “I thought I’d caught myself a burglar.”

  “I was only looking at the snow.”

  Louis walked back toward the entrance of the library. He wanted to glance down, to see whether there was a telltale bulge to give him away. He didn’t dare.

  ii

  Michael Boyle was a head taller than Louis. Almost six feet. He was twenty-two, with a handsome, fair face, rust-colored hair and golden brown eyes. He had wide shoulders, a narrow waist, and looked elegant in whatever he wore—tonight a loose-fitting white silk shirt, snug gray trousers and expensive Wellington boots. Only a long white scar across his forehead marred his appearance.