by John Jakes
Theo Payne shut the office door and added to Rose Ludwig’s comments in a whisper, “He’s also a political primitive. He boasts about membership in the Order of the Star Spangled Banner.”
“I’m not familiar with that,” Amanda told him.
“The inner circle of the Know-Nothing Party.”
Amanda merely nodded. It was evident Payne detested Stovall’s politics, and perhaps hoped to draw her out about hers. She changed the subject.
“It’s obvious you’re not happy here, Theo. Why haven’t you resigned?”
Scratching his pink nose, he walked back to the desk. “I have four youngsters in my family, Mrs. de la Gura—and positions aren’t easy to locate these days.”
Amanda wondered whether he meant he personally had a hard time finding jobs because of a fondness for alcohol. She tried to reassure him. “Well, I hope you’ll stick with it a while longer. If the sale can be completed, perhaps you’ll be happier with your situation.”
“As you said, that depends on whether we can work together. Also on what changes of policy you might institute—”
Again Amanda stayed on safe ground.
“I can assure you I’d do anything to keep Mrs. A. Penn content.” She turned to Rose. “I saw two women at the American House carrying copies of your last novel.”
“Did you, now. I know Theo’s right—the books are trash. But I have to do something to keep from suffocating in that mausoleum Adolph left me!”
Amanda turned back to Payne, who had slumped into his chair.
“I do think new management could find the money to reset corrected copy for Mrs. Ludwig—provided you and she settle your differences on style, of course.”
“Jesus Christ, that’s an improvement already!” Rose declared. “Just for that, Mrs. de la Gura, I’ll treat you to dinner this evening. If you’re free—”
“I am,” Amanda said, delighted. “Could we take a short tour now, Theo?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Mrs. Ludwig, would you excuse us for a while?”
“No, I’m going to tag along. I hope you realize Theo and I don’t really hate each other,” she continued as they left the office. “Those goddamned Harvard literature courses softened his mind a little, but he’s still a smart boy. And he works under very trying restrictions. Instead of Mrs. A. Perm—with or without adjectives—he’d rather publish tracts on abolitionism—”
“Not so loud!” Payne said, glancing down the corridor. Amanda turned and saw the emaciated Mr. Drew dart back out of sight.
iv
Amanda found herself growing angry again as they walked through the cramped, disorderly warehouse area on the top floor. She saw bins full of cheap reprints of popular works—novels by Scott and Cooper—issued first by other publishers.
When they passed a bin containing Maria Monk’s Awful Disclosures, she exploded. “You’re still selling this?”
Payne grimaced. “Mr. Stovall’s orders.”
“You can be sure the moment the company changes hands, we’ll destroy all copies.”
“I’d be happy to see it gone from Kent’s list.”
Another appalling sight waited for Amanda in the basement. It was noisy, damp and badly lighted. It smelled of ink and the sweat of eight slovenly men in leather aprons who operated the antiquated flatbed presses. Amanda raised her voice to be heard above the rhythmic thumping.
“Doesn’t the ink take a long time to dry in this dampness, Theo?”
“Of course it does,” he shouted back. “And I can’t tell you how many sheets we smear and ruin. But Mr. Stovall’s accountants reckon that loss to be smaller than the cost of installing proper ventilation.”
“I don’t know much about the printing business, but it’s obvious this equipment doesn’t belong in a cellar.”
“No, it belongs on the second or third floor.”
“Why isn’t it located there?”
“Too expensive to brace the flooring properly.”
“How old are these presses?”
“Oh, thirty or forty years.”
“Isn’t there anything newer on the market?”
“Certainly. Mr. Hoe of New York has perfected steam-driven rotaries that print much faster. Some of the newspapers have installed them—”
“We really will have quite a few changes to make,” Amanda said as they left the basement.
Payne burst out suddenly, “I hope you’ll permit changes in our list as well—I mean beyond dropping the Monk book. We’ve been severely limited by Mr. Stovall’s tightness with money on one hand, and his political bias on the other. For instance, two years ago, I wanted to buy the American rights to Jane Eyre. Too costly, I was told. One of the country’s foremost poets, Professor Longfellow, lives just over in Cambridge and we can’t afford him either—”
“With all this emphasis on culture, we can kiss Mrs. Perm’s future goodbye,” Rose sighed.
“Definitely not,” Amanda laughed. “I told you before—I wouldn’t lose Kent’s most popular writer.”
“But I am controversial to certain clergymen, Mrs. de la Gura—”
“Call me Amanda, please.”
“My pleasure. You do know some churchmen find my books offensive?”
“Does the public?”
“Not generally. I practice moderation. When Mr. van Dugdale, the horse-car tycoon, raped Mercy Twickington in Bartered Virtue, I closed the bedroom door well before the actual moment—and only alluded to the deed afterward. Still, I know why women read my books. The subjects of sex and money are irresistible—sometimes an author doesn’t even need money! Look how handsomely Mr. Hawthorne’s doing with The Scarlet Letter. Theo’s right, though. Kent’s could stand the addition of some substantial authors writing on important subjects.”
“I had a chance to bid on the right to reprint Fred Douglass’ autobiography,” Payne said. “I didn’t even raise the question internally because I knew the owner would veto the idea.”
Amanda shook her head, outraged. “And that book’s done well!”
“Exceedingly well. As a category, narratives of the lives of escaped slaves are highly popular. They also serve a worthwhile purpose,” he added as they reached the entrance to his office and went in.
Amanda realized she was approaching controversial ground again. But she asked one more question.
“I assume most of the authors of such books have professional help in preparing their texts—?”
“Generally, yes. Douglass did his own—he’s a rarity.”
“It’s premature to say this, Theo, but I know a man in California who might be persuaded to assemble notes on his experiences as a slave in Mississippi. The man’s a mulatto. He manages my share of a mining claim—”
The mention of California caught Rose Ludwig’s attention. “You really do come from the far west?”
“Yes, I spent some years in Texas, and then California.”
“Then you’re just the person I’m looking for! You can help me with background for my next book. Theo, I haven’t mentioned this to you, but I’m fed up with sighing heroines. That’s one of my quirks, Amanda—I’m easily bored. After Adolph was buried, I started writing because I was bored, and after three novels with a New York setting, I’m bored again. The growing, important part of this country is the far west. I want to do a tale about a genuine western hero.”
Payne looked dubious. “I doubt the public would accept that kind of novel from Mrs. Penn.”
“Of course they will if it’s interesting and the detail’s authentic. And here is my source!”
“If you’ll settle for an imperfect recollection of my husband’s career—he was a fur trapper—I’ll provide you with whatever detail I can,” Amanda said.
“I knew you were a proper sort the second you walked in!” the other woman declared. “Theo, I believe we’re all going to be much happier as a result of this meeting.”
“So do I,” Payne agreed. “I hope the sale goes through promptl
y.”
Amanda asked, “You will keep everything we’ve discussed in absolute confidence?”
“Naturally, naturally!”
“When the lawyers finish haggling and we have Mr. Stovall’s signature, I’ll be in touch with you by telegraph.”
“Telegraph?” Payne repeated. “You don’t plan to remain in Boston?”
“I intend to buy or build a home in New York City. That’s the financial center of the country, and that’s where I must be if I’m to make my business ventures a success. I may install a private telegraph wire between my home and my local bank, though.”
“My God, Mrs. de la Gura, do you have any notion of how expensive that will be?”
“I don’t,” Amanda replied. “If I have to worry about the cost, I’d have no business doing it.”
Rose Ludwig laughed. “Theo, I think you’ve met your equal. Maybe your better—even though she didn’t go to Harvard.”
v
That evening, under the gaslights of the dining room at the American House, Amanda and her son shared a table with the authoress. Amanda had already confirmed her first reaction to the deep-voiced woman. Rose Ludwig was outgoing, opinionated, occasionally profane—and the two of them got along famously.
On the carriage ride from Kent and Son, Rose was candid about her beginnings. Her father had been a lock-tender on the Erie Canal near Buffalo. Her first meeting with her deceased husband, the owner of a fleet of brightly painted canal passenger boats, had been accidental. Ludwig had been touring the Erie system—which was still in operation, but gradually declining in importance because of the spread of the railroads.
Rose frankly admitted she was drawn to Ludwig’s wealth and his status as a widower more than she was to his physical assets.
“He was four inches shorter than I am. A wispy little fellow. His head had this unfortunate point—which his baldness didn’t help. On the other hand, he was no fool. And he was kind to me the first time my father introduced us. So when he came back on another inspection trip a year later, I was ready for him. My God, I was thirty already—a spinster!—because I refused to marry the first canal-boat captain who came along! I’d learned my lesson from my older sister Lily. She rushes to the altar the moment some man makes her pulses flutter—and she never worries about the wisdom of the choice until afterward. She’s had seven—no, eight husbands—the poor creature’s been wed so many times, her cheeks are pitted from the rice. The last one who carried her off pretended to be a Bavarian duke. I think Lily’s in Europe with him right now—no doubt having discovered he’s only a pastry cook with an accent. That’s not my style. I wanted to be sure I had a good catch. The second summer that Adolph happened by, I’d looked through enough old newspapers to be certain he was the one. I hooked him in record time. Six days, two hours and twenty-three minutes. I think that’s why I took to you, Amanda—you’re as direct as I am. That is—as direct as I am when I’m hobnobbing with Theo. In New York, it’s a different story.”
“I’d like to hear about your life in New York when we have dinner,” Amanda said.
“I’m afraid most of my comments will be negative. I despise so-called society. Unfortunately, by virtue of marriage, I’m considered part of it. By and large, the people are pretentious mummies—except for one or two, like Vanderbilt, who can cuss the paint off a wall, and does. God, I hate these hoop skirts!”
She writhed on the carriage seat, cursing so floridly that the driver opened the sliding partition behind his feet to see what was wrong.
At her own hotel, Rose Ludwig brought Amanda up to her suite while she rid herself of the hated muslin petticoat with its four steel hoops sewn into the fabric. Amanda, who had thus far relied on stiff petticoat material to give her skirt the fashionable bell shape, inspected the hoops with interest. The style was coming into fashion.
End to end, the hoop at the top of the skirt measured about a yard and a quarter, she guessed. It was a complete circle of steel. The three lower hoops, increasingly longer, didn’t meet in front; there was an opening of about ten inches in each.
“No matter how carefully you walk,” Rose called from the bedroom, “they jab the hell out of your thighs. I’d be in a fix if I was young enough so a man would want to look at my thighs—”
She appeared in the doorway in a costume that brought a gasp to Amanda’s lips: a jacket and knee-length skirt in cerulean blue and, underneath, men’s trousers of the same material, gathered at the ankle.
“But I’m not supposed to say a word like thighs, am I? Women don’t have thighs, breasts, stomachs—or some other anatomical features I’d be ostracized for mentioning—Amanda my dear, why are you staring?”
“I’m sorry, I’ve never seen real bloomers before. Those are bloomers?”
“Copied after the very ones worn by Amelia Bloomer herself. I don’t dare put them on in New York as yet, though I predict they’ll be popular in less than a year, no matter how the churches howl about immodesty. I hope I won’t be barred from the dining room at the American House—”
She almost was. The head waiter frantically clenched his teeth and darted his eyes from the bloomers to the turned heads of scandalized guests. Amanda tipped the man heavily to overcome his moral scruples and, with Louis in tow, she and Rose sailed toward their table. They did grant the head waiter a little amnesty by permitting him to seat them in a corner. The position of the table hid the lower part of Rose’s costume from most of the room.
Rose Ludwig’s presence had one additional benefit. Louis was overwhelmed by his mother’s new friend. He was more polite and biddable than he’d been for several weeks.
As the three sat finishing their dessert ices, Amanda concluded her considerably censored account of the circumstances that had brought her to Boston. She had told Rose of her family connection with the printing firm, and won her promise of secrecy. But she implied the firm had first changed hands in a normal manner. Rose looked surprised.
“Theo’s always said there was some scandalous story about it being lost in a gambling game.”
“I don’t know how fictions like that get started,” Amanda replied, concentrating on her ice. She felt the other woman studying her. Did Rose believe her? If not, she didn’t make an issue.
“We certainly have a lot in common, Amanda. We both had rough beginnings. Fortunately, once I snared Adolph, my way was smoothed. Though it wasn’t all pie and roses! I immediately had entree to the best homes. You’ll be spared that tribulation.”
“What do you mean?”
“You won’t have to mingle with all those dreadfully self-important people. You don’t have any notions about cracking society, do you?”
“No. You heard what I told Theo Payne—I’m moving to New York because it’s the business center.”
“Good. Then you won’t be disappointed. Really, you’d be amazed at the number of Ohio widows who remove themselves to New York with a little capital, thinking they’ll soon be dining with the Rensselaers and the Belmonts and the Vanderbilts. Society has closed up like a clam in the last twenty or thirty years. Today you’re either born into it, you marry into it—or you wait a generation before you get your first invitation to tea with Mrs. Belmont. Some poor creatures foolishly try to shorten the wait—”
And she launched into an anecdote about one such parvenu, a young woman who learned that New York gentry frequently rode on a certain bridle path above Forty-second Street early in the morning. Though terrified of horses, the young woman contrived a system of straps to keep herself lashed to her saddle. She made herself visible on the bridle path, where she attempted to strike up conversations with affluent bachelors.
“Now God as my witness—this is true, Amanda. One morning a thundershower struck. The horse reared and the young lady was dumped on her ass—excuse me, Louis, derriere—with all her hidden straps, and her pretensions, exposed. She left the city a week later.”
Amanda laughed. “I don’t want to meet any bachelors, Rose. Or any socie
ty people, for that matter.”
Except one.
“Good for you.” She leaned her elbows on the snowy tablecloth and pointed a finger at Amanda’s nose. “You did promise to tell me what you know about frontiersmen. I’m sure Theo loathes the idea, but I’m convinced the public’s ready for a rousing western tale.”
“I’ll tell you everything I can.”
“Wonderful! Why don’t we travel to New York together?”
“I’d love that. As soon as we arrive, I want you to show me where to buy a pair of bloomers.”
“Delighted. You’ll forgive an old lady for being sentimental, but I think we’re going to be the best of friends. Friendship’s a rare commodity—I have hundreds of acquaintances, but I’ll bet I’ve had no more than two real friends all my life. No, three—I considered Adolph a friend. It’s much more comfortable being married to a friend than to a lover, you know. I like you, Amanda—”
She reached across and touched Louis’ dark hair.
“And I like your son. My God, with those eyes, he’ll be breaking hearts in a few years. If I weren’t such a tottering wreck—oh, well.” A sigh. “Are you two finished? I’m about to perish for want of a cigar. Bad vice I picked up from Adolph. He smoked them even in the bath. Have you ever looked at a tub full of floating ash? Ugh!”
As they left the dining room, still drawing shocked stares and comments, Amanda was immensely pleased. At long last, it seemed that events were moving in response to her will, instead of at the random whim of chance. Before the year was out, she’d be well established in New York—
With Kent and Son in her possession.
vi
Two mornings later, a grim Joshua Rothman called at Amanda’s suite in the American House. She was in the midst of packing, with trunks open everywhere.
“Mrs. de la Gura, what did you say when you visited the publishing company?”
She looked chagrined. “A little more than I should have, perhaps—”
