by John Jakes
Four-year-old Laban Hazard sat at Charles’s feet on the front steps of Fairlawn. The boy worshiped Charles and had been waiting an entire year to see him. The Mains had arrived in Newport that morning.
Laban’s twin brother appeared at the corner of the house, rolling a hoop. He pointed to the boat. “That for Laban?”
Charles nodded.
Levi looked sour. “I want one.”
Charles chuckled. Levi seemed to have inherited his mother’s disposition. “All right,” Charles said. “As soon as I finish this one.”
Levi stuck out his lower lip and shook his head. “Make mine first.”
Charles pointed the knife at him. “You mind your manners, Mr. Yankee, or I’ll stick you on a spit and cook you for supper.”
He said it jokingly, but Levi screamed and fled. Laban laughed and leaned against his idol’s knee. Billy emerged from the house.
“Froggy going a-courting so soon?” Charles asked. “The girls won’t even be unpacked.”
Billy ignored him and fussed with his cravat. Charles whistled.
“Me oh my, look at that jacket. I don’t recall you dressing up so fancy last summer. It surely must be love—”
Billy grinned. “Go to hell. Laban, don’t tell your father I cussed in front of you.”
And away he went. Halfway down the lawn he broke into a run. He vaulted the brick wall, startling the masons who were once again repairing the mortar.
Young womanhood had touched Brett Main that spring. Will he notice? she wondered as she examined her mirrored image and tried to force her small breasts to greater prominence by tugging her dress and undergarments downward from the waist.
Behind her, Ashton exclaimed in delight:
“Oh, mercy. He’s here already! I can hear him talking to Orry.”
She went down the staircase with the speed and display of a Fourth of July rocket. Brett was only a few steps behind her. It made no difference. By the time Brett was halfway down the stairs, Orry had left the foyer, and Billy and Ashton were racing out of the house without so much as a glance in her direction.
She walked the rest of the way to the bottom. From behind, a hand touched her shoulder. She squealed and jumped.
“Papa!”
“I thought you’d be resting, missy.”
Tillet noticed a tear on his daughter’s cheek. With a little groan and a pop of knee joints, he sat on the lowest step and drew her down beside him. He put his arms around her.
“Why so unhappy?”
“It’s that Billy Hazard. He’s the most stuck-up person I’ve ever met. I wanted to say hello, but he wouldn’t even look at me.”
“Don’t be too hard on the lad. He’s got a case for your sister. I think it’s mutual.”
“She always gets anything she wants! She’ll get him too, won’t she?”
“Oh, I don’t know. They’re both mighty young for any discussions of matri—missy, come back. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
But she had already bolted upstairs, her wail of misery echoing behind her.
Billy and Ashton went straight to the rock where they had kissed last summer. The instant Ashton felt Billy’s arms around her and the sweet, shy pressure of his lips, practical considerations melted away.
What a lot of time she’d wasted on all those deep plans made last year after she had looked down from the rail of the steamer and seen Mr. Bob Rhett snub her brother. The plans and the pathetic Huntoon were now completely forgotten. She’d marry Billy and no one else.
That could fit into her larger scheme, though. The Hazards might be Yankees, but they were rich and prominent. She must let Billy know about her ambitions. But not right this minute. All she wanted to do now was savor her surrender to love and to him.
She squeezed him hard, so he’d be sure to feel her breasts. “I never thought I could miss anyone so much. I just died waiting weeks for each of your letters.”
“I’m a bad writer. For every one I sent, I tore up ten.”
“You can make up for it now, sweet. Kiss me, and don’t you dare stop till I’m ready to faint.” He obliged with enthusiasm.
A mantle of false peace enfolded the two families and the nation in that summer of 1851. Most Americans were exhausted from the war and the wrangling over the slave issue. Even if the Compromise of 1850 had achieved no permanent solutions, people were prepared to act as if it had. Some loud voices on both sides continued to proclaim that little had been changed and nothing solved; a cancer hidden by bandages remained a cancer. But the James Huntoons and Virgilia Hazards had trouble promoting their militant views during those warm, gentle months. The majority of Americans wanted a respite, at least for a season or two.
Cooper and Judith had been married on the first of June 1850, and nature had quickly interfered with Cooper’s plan to visit Britain. Exactly nine months after the wedding, Judith delivered Judah Tillet Main—or J.T., as his proud grandfather called him from the moment he first heard of his arrival. In late July 1851, the parents, the baby, and a wet nurse traveled to Newport to spend ten days with the Mains.
A few hours after the group arrived, Tillet seated himself in a rocker on the porch of the rented house. Cooper sat down next to him. Tillet gazed proudly at his grandson, who was resting in a blanket in Cooper’s arms. Judith was out on the lawn, playing ninepins with George, Billy, and Ashton. Their shadows were long in the twilight.
Tillet cleared his throat. “Your wife is a fine woman.”
Cooper was overwhelmed. Never before had his father paid her a compliment. “Thank you, sir. I agree.” He folded a corner of the blanket to protect the top of his son’s head from the breeze.
Tillet leaned back and laced his fingers over his paunch. It grew larger every year. How old he looks, Cooper thought. What is he now? Fifty-five? No, fifty-six. It shows in the wrinkles in his skin. It shows in his eyes. He knows it’s nearly over for him. For the first time in a long while, Cooper felt an outpouring of love for his father. Love without reservation or qualification.
But Tillet had a qualification, which he stated a moment later. “I can praise Judith without agreeing with everything she says. I don’t, you know. Still—families shouldn’t fight amongst themselves.”
“I agree, sir.” But it’s damn hard to achieve that ideal in these times.
“You’ve done well with the company,” his father continued. “In fact your record is outstanding. Mont Royal’s a beautiful thing—yes, I know, a resounding commercial success as well.”
“We could use three more like her, to handle all the business we’re being offered. I’m looking into it. And something else. I’ve been asked to design and build ships for others. I’m looking into that, too.”
Tillet scratched his chin. “Do you think it’s wise to expand so rapidly?”
“Yes, sir, I do. I think we stand to make a larger and more dependable income from ship construction than from carrying cotton.”
“Is all of this just conversation or is there substance to it?”
“If you’re asking whether I have firm commitments, I do. One from a shipping line in Savannah, another from a Baltimore company. Some points are still being negotiated, but each firm definitely wants a vessel like Mont Royal—if I can provide them. I surely intend to try.”
He leaned forward enthusiastically. “I envision a day, maybe as little as five years from now, when Main steamers will be shuttling up and down the East Coast and to Europe under the flags of a dozen companies. The cotton market may shrink eventually, but I’m convinced the demand for cargo space and fast delivery of all sorts of goods will only grow during our lifetimes.”
“During mine, perhaps. Long-term, I wouldn’t venture a guess. The Yankee politicians are unpredictable. Greedy and tricky as—ah, but let’s not get onto that and spoil everything. I am frankly awed by the reputation you’ve established with just one vessel.”
“Mont Royal incorporates a great many innovations. Two small ones are mine. I patented them
.”
“Why couldn’t these other cargo lines get a ship by going directly to that yard in Brooklyn?”
“They could, but they want something more. They want me to supervise the planning and construction. Quite by accident, I’ve become a Southern expert on shipbuilding. There aren’t many.” Cooper smiled then. “You know the definition of an expert, don’t you? Someone from out of town.”
Tillet laughed. The noise roused his grandson, who started to cry. Cooper caressed the delicate, warm cheek until the baby was quiet again.
“Don’t be overly modest about your accomplishments,” Tillet told his son. “You’ve worked hard in Charleston—I’ve heard that from any number of sources—and you’re still at it. Just look at the reading you brought along on your vacation. Naval architecture, metallurgy—books I can barely lift, let alone understand.”
Cooper shrugged, but he was basking in the sudden and unexpected praise. “As part of that learning process, we’re finally going to Britain in November.”
“My grandson too?”
“Yes, all of us. The doctor said Judah could travel with the wet nurse. Brunel’s granted me an interview. Imagine spending an hour with that man. His talent—the breadth of his imagination—incredible. He and his father built the tunnel under the Thames River, did you know that?”
“No, but why does anyone need a tunnel under a river? What’s wrong with ferryboats? Or bridges? For that matter, why does anyone need faster ships? I remember something the Duke of Wellington said about railroads in Europe. He said they would only promote social unrest by enabling the lower classes to move about. I feel that way about all the newfangled things coming along these days. Too revolutionary!”
“The precise word, Father. We are in the middle of a revolution—a peaceful revolution of industry and invention.”
“We should stop it for a while.”
“It can’t be done. Nor can you go backward. The only possible direction is forward.”
“Don’t sound as if you enjoy it so much!” Then Tillet sighed. “Ah, well—let’s not get into that, either. You’re certainly entitled to a trip. But you’ve earned more than that, and I’ve been meaning to say something to you.” Again he cleared his throat. “I’ve instructed the family lawyers to prepare documents changing the ownership structure of C.S.C. Henceforward you will control fifty-one percent of the company stock—and receive an equivalent percentage of the profits, free and clear. I have read every report you’ve sent me. At the rate you’re generating income, under the new arrangement you’ll soon be a very wealthy man. Self-made. That, too, is a distinction.”
After a long moment, Cooper overcame his surprise enough to say, “I don’t know how to thank you. For your show of faith. Or for your generosity.”
Tillet waved. “You’re my son. You gave your firstborn my name. That’s thanks enough. Families shouldn’t fight.”
He said it a little more poignantly this time. A plea? A warning? I hope that’s not it, Cooper thought. I hope he isn’t trying to ensure my silence or agreement with his views. I love him, but I can’t be bought.
Then he wondered if he was being ungrateful. He wanted to ask Tillet exactly what he meant by the remark about families fighting, but he was unwilling to disturb the tranquillity of the evening. Like the tranquillity of the nation, it was fragile. It would not last.
Both families embraced the summer happily. A relaxed and mellow mood prevailed, a mood that everyone worked to maintain. Even Constance and Isabel had short conversations occasionally.
Talk of national issues was banned by mutual agreement—violated only once. Virgilia, her constraint overcome one evening by too much wine, denounced the latest public pronouncements of William Yancey, the Georgia-born lawyer and former congressman who had become the spiritual heir to Calhoun’s most extreme views. The South still held a grudge against Senator Seward of New York. Seward had defended the Wilmot Proviso by saying it fulfilled a law higher than the Constitution, God’s law, which would one day prevail against slavery. Yancey verbally lashed the senator from a lecture platform. When Virgilia read of it, she called Yancey a lot of names, including whoremonger. Before long she was substituting the South for Yancey. Orry exploded:
“What a marvelous storehouse of righteousness you’ve built here in the North, Virgilia. All the sin is below the Mason and Dixon Line—and never mind that I just read about Iowa’s posting harsh penalties for any free Negro who dares set foot in the state. All the hypocrisy is down South, too—never mind that California, which your politicians worked so diligently to drag into the Union as a free state, is sending pro-slavery men to the Senate. You never admit to things like that. You ignore them and just keep spouting invective!”
He threw his napkin aside and left the table. Ten minutes later George cornered his sister and yelled at her until she promised to apologize. With great reluctance, she did.
Except for that one lapse, the warm, euphoric days remained peaceful. Brett delighted everyone with her piano rendition of Foster’s new song, “Old Folks at Home.” George proved to be an unbeatable ninepins champion. There was a lively front-porch discussion of the current effort by some preachers to ban Mr. Hawthorne’s racy novel The Scarlet Letter. One cleric called its publication “the brokerage of lust.”
Isabel and Tillet agreed that such trash should be proscribed by law. George replied that anyone who made such a statement didn’t understand free speech. Clarissa said timidly that although the novel did sound salacious, she believed George might be right in principle. “Woman,” Tillet roared, “you don’t know what you’re talking about.” Fortunately, further argument was forestalled by the appearance of Ashton, Billy, and Cousin Charles on the lawn of the Mains’ house.
The young people were bound for the beach. They went there almost every evening, with Charles the token chaperone. That amused Orry. Charles had reformed, but it was still a bit like hiring the devil to do missionary work.
George watched the young people stroll out of sight in the moonlight. Then he said to Orry, “I get the impression that your sister has set her cap for Billy.”
“George, not so fast,” Constance exclaimed, not entirely teasing. “Next summer Billy goes to the Academy. For four years.”
“Nevertheless,” Orry put in, “I think George is right.”
He didn’t bother to say that he doubted there would ever be a match. Ashton was too mercurial. Of course, like Charles, she could change. With that possibility in mind, he added, “You ought to bring Billy to South Carolina.”
“Yes, we’d love to have you—all of you,” Clarissa said. Seated apart from them at the end of the porch, Virgilia looked skeptical.
“I’d love to see Mont Royal,” Constance said.
Orry leaned forward. “Why not this fall? October’s one of our loveliest months. Cooper would be happy to show you Charleston, then you could come upriver for a long visit.”
“All right, we’ll do it,” George said after Constance squeezed his hand to encourage him.
A moment later he had second thoughts. Virgilia was watching and listening with great interest. If they took her along, the Mains would probably come to regret their offer of hospitality.
Charles leaned back against the damp rock, moonlight splashing his closed eyelids as he imagined naked thighs in various pleasing shades of pink and brown. One pair of thighs belonged to a plump and cooperative girl named Cynthia Lackey. Charles had met her during the first week of the summer, when he had gone to buy some hard candy in her father’s general store.
Away to his left he heard laughter. He opened his eyes and saw two figures emerging from the shadow of the bluff. Two figures that looked more like one. Arms around each other’s waist, they crossed the brilliantly lit sand.
“Watch out, there’s our chaperone,” Billy said. Ashton giggled. The single inky shape divided. Charles blinked away the last of his erotic visions. That didn’t relieve the tension in his groin. It was time to call on Cyn
thia again.
Ashton smoothed her hair. Billy tucked in the tail of his shirt. Charles felt sorry for his friend. He had no specific information about Ashton’s experience, but he had suspicions. At minimum, she would be an expert tease, goading a suitor until he acquired a glassy-eyed look of frustration. Billy looked that way right now, Charles noticed.
On the way home, Ashton discussed plans for the following evening. Some clam digging first. Then a driftwood fire on the beach, and—
“I’m afraid we can’t do that tomorrow night,” Charles broke in. “Billy and I have a long-standing engagement at the other end of the island.”
Dumbfounded, Billy said, “We do? I don’t remember—” Charles elbowed him to silence.
Ashton pouted, then grew almost nastily insistent. Charles smiled and held firm. After Billy had seen Ashton to the door of the house on Beach Road, he came charging around to the side porch, where Charles sat in the moonlight, one long leg resting on the porch rail.
“What the devil is this fictitious engagement at the other end of the island?”
“My boy, it isn’t the least bit fictitious. I’m going to introduce you to Miss Cynthia Lackey and her sister Sophie. I have it on good authority that Sophie’s just as eager as Cynthia to please the boys and be pleased in turn. Have you ever had a girl before?”
“Of course.”
“How many?”
Under Charles’s steady stare, Billy wilted. “All right. I haven’t.”
“That’s what I thought. We’ll make it a summer to remember.”
He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Besides, I know cousin Ashton’s reputation for coquetry. I’ve left the two of you alone so much, I expect you need the relief of an evening with Miss Sophie.”
The following night they drove a pony cart to the Lackey place, a small farm in the open countryside. They drove back to Newport at two in the morning, with Billy thanking his friend and saying it was now a memorable summer indeed.
“But I want to see the South,” Virgilia said to George. “And they invited me.”