The Furies

by John Jakes

  “You don’t! It’s filthy of you to accuse me of—”

  Angry at her protests, he slid his mouth across her cheek and found her lips.

  At first they were cold and unyielding. She continued to struggle. But after a moment he felt a little heat.

  He laughed, a soft, harsh sound. He held her tight as he pushed his tongue between her teeth.

  Her tongue touched his for a fraction of a second. Then, as if realizing her own feelings were getting out of control, she wrenched her head away. “You mustn’t do this! If your mother should find out—”

  “She won’t. We’ll be done before she’s home.”

  “I swear to you, I’m a virgin—”

  “We’ll remedy that.”

  He slid his hand down the front of her apron and pressed, feeling the curve of her belly. He moved his hand lower, his head all at once throbbing from the whiskey. The gaslit room seemed isolated, cut off from the real world. And the pressure between his legs had grown unbearable—

  When he tried to thrust her back onto the bed, she broke away again, slipping around him toward the door. She’d nearly reached it when he called out, “Kathleen!”

  Slowly, she looked back. Her blue eyes widened at the harshness of his face.

  “What—what is it?”

  “Do you want to be arrested for thievery?”

  Her mouth shaped into a horrified O. She could barely repeat the word. “Thievery!”

  He gestured to a bureau, where he kept loose change. “I’ll say I found you rummaging through my belongings—searching for money—unless you do exactly as I say.”

  “Oh, God, Master Louis, you wouldn’t—”

  “I would unless you undress and lie down on the bed, Kathleen.”

  Her eyes grew hateful then, so hateful that he was terrified, tempted to let her go and be done with it.

  But she hid the hatred, begging, “I need this position. I’m the only one of the McCreerys old enough to work—”

  “Very well. If you value your six dollars a week, do what I say.”

  “You—you imagine you have a right to demand—”

  “I do have the right.” He wiped his perspiring upper lip. “What’s it to be, Kathleen? The six dollars—or a charge of thievery? It’ll follow you wherever else you try to work—”

  She started crying, the tears dampening her freckled cheeks as she glanced helplessly from one side of the room to the other. Seeing how she weakened so easily, he laughed aloud.

  “You”—her voice was ragged—“you’re only a child. Not even fifteen—”

  Flushing, he said, “I have a man’s cock, if that’s your worry.”

  “But not a man’s heart. Not a speck of Christian kindness—”

  “I want to love you, Kathleen.”

  “—anything you want, you think you can take!”

  “I can.” He took a step toward her.

  “Don’t touch me!” Then, less stridently: “Not—not till I’m ready.”

  He stepped to the door and slid the bolt. “Just pull your skirt up and bare yourself. That’ll be satisfactory—”

  He heard the bed creak as she lowered herself onto it. He heard garments rustling, then her voice again: “Will—will you be good enough to turn the gas down?”

  “I don’t think so. I want to see you—”

  Unfastening his trousers, he faced her, his heart hammering in his chest as he moved his gaze slowly, slowly upward along her freckled white legs.

  iv

  She lay still beneath him, her eyes open and fixed on the ceiling. Louis slid between her thighs and probed, hurt at first by the roughness of her flesh.

  Finally, her body changed in reaction to his presence. He jerked back and forth. Within a few seconds, his loins quivered and exploded. He felt a deep sense of disappointment—

  Kathleen maneuvered her hips so their bodies were no longer joined. He rolled onto his side, stretching a hand toward her wrist as she stood up and started to lower her skirt.

  The moment his fingers closed, she glared at him, miserable and angry at the same time. “I’ve given you what you wanted, haven’t I?”

  “Once.” He nodded, feeling distinctly sober and angry himself. The experience had been much less fulfilling than he’d imagined: a quick abrasion of flesh on flesh, then an abrupt end—nothing worth boasting about—“Lie down again.”

  Disbelieving, she shook her head. “You can’t again so soon—”

  “But in a little while—Kathleen, damn you, lie down!”

  “I must go—”

  “No, we”—he yawned—“we’ve plenty of time.” It seemed that way; it seemed as if only a minute or so had elasped since he’d entered the room. “Besides, no one ever disturbs me after I’ve shut my door for the night.”

  She bowed her head, knelt on the bed and stretched out, weeping softly again. He was caught in a storm of conflicting feelings.

  Satisfaction because he’d had his way.

  Fear that he shouldn’t have done it; he tried not to dwell on the hate he’d glimpsed in her eyes.

  And a peculiar sadness that came over him because the act so long anticipated had been so curiously coarse and unrewarding.

  The second time would be different. He’d enjoy it and so would she—

  She lay with her back toward him. He pulled her over and forced her fingers to curl around him. She didn’t want to touch him that way—her palm was cold; she cried harder—but he held his hand over hers and forced her, staring at the ceiling as she had done earlier, awaiting the first tingle of a response from his own flesh.

  Chapter VI

  Of Stocks and Sin

  i

  AMANDA LET HERSELF INTO the dim front hall. She drew off her hat and cast the snow-dampened muff aside, then paused to study her face in a pier glass.

  She’d be forty-nine before the year was out. She felt every one of those years this evening. The glass showed wrinkles around her eyes, and more gray in her hair. How much of that gray had been put there by her preoccupation with Stovall?

  Feeling incredibly weary, she drew a deep breath and walked to the library doors. She opened them and gasped at the heat.

  Busy cleaning himself on the telegraph table, Mr. Mayor paused with a paw athwart his nose. He recognized her and went back to bathing. Michael rose from the chair beside the hearth.

  “Hallo, Mrs. A,” he said with his mouth full.

  She was always amused by Michael’s passion for food and warmth. He never seemed to sweat, or put on an ounce of fat. She understood the reason for both cravings and seldom said anything about either—although withstanding Michael’s temperature preferences required a good deal of forbearance.

  “Bad weather out there,” he went on as she came toward him. “I was growing a mite concerned. How was the lecture?”

  “Douglass is an eloquent speaker. It’s hard not to be moved by what he says. His chief target was the fugitive slave law.”

  Michael’s pleasant expression vanished. Amanda knew his feelings about those who championed the cause of slaves. The young Irishman would have preferred to see the same amount of time and energy spent improving the lot of his own people, who had come to the United States to escape the privation and the legal tyranny they’d endured for generations. Instead, the Irish had found tyranny of a different sort—the kind produced by hatred of foreigners. As a result, they’d found privation too.

  “I told Douglass I’d send him another draft soon. Will you take care of it? A hundred in my name, and two thousand anonymously.”

  At the desk, Michael jotted a note without saying anything.

  “Stovall was at the theater.”

  He spun around. “What the devil was he doing at an abolitionist meeting?”

  “He wanted to disrupt Douglass’ speech. He didn’t succeed.”

  “Did he have a crowd of cronies with him?”

  “No, just one companion.”

  “My Lord, Mrs. A, that takes brass
.”

  “Stovall’s been accused of a good many things, but I don’t believe cowardice is one of them.”

  “Did you speak to him?”

  She sank down in the chair opposite Michael’s. Her eyes moved to the piles of manuscript. But her mind was elsewhere. “It was unavoidable. Rose introduced us afterward. My tactics have gotten me in trouble, I’m afraid. Stovall knows my story about diversifying was a sham. He knows I’ve bought no other properties—”

  Rapidly, she described the encounter at the Bowery Theatre. Some six months earlier, when she’d decided she could trust Michael Boyle, she’d revealed her plans concerning her adversary—and her reasons for them. He had to know if he was to function as her confidential assistant. She suspected he didn’t wholly approve of her effort to regain control of Kent and Son. But he kept his personal views to himself, and always executed her orders without question.

  She concluded, “It’s possible Stovall will look more closely into my background—”

  “Why should he?”

  “Apparently I reacted very visibly when he made a derogatory remark about the Kents. I didn’t mean to—it simply happened.”

  “Um.”

  “I think I’d better instruct Rothman’s to move faster.”

  Michael gestured to the telegraph equipment. “You can take care of that yet tonight. Mr. Rothman’s operator has queried you three times since five p.m. I told him to try again at ten thirty.”

  “Is there a problem?”

  “I gather so. Something to do with an emergency meeting of the Blackstone board. If you were in Boston, communication would be less of a problem. Of course I realize Stovall is here—”

  She looked up at the broad-shouldered young man. “You think I should drop the campaign to take back the firm, don’t you? You—and Rose.”

  “It uses up a hell of a lot of your time. And your strength, I should imagine. Still, it’s not for me to say whether you should or shouldn’t. I am after all just your employee.”

  “Nonsense, Michael. You know you’re closer to me in some ways than my own son. Where is he, by the way?”

  “Popped off to sleep, I think.”

  “Rather early.”

  “He seemed—oh, nervous. Quite nervous, as a matter of fact.”

  “Did he say there was anything wrong?”

  “No, he didn’t say—”

  Thinking about Louis, she didn’t catch the significance of the emphasized word. She mused aloud, “I’ll have to talk with him in the morning—”

  She smiled then, reminded of something her friend had said. “Would you like to hear a bit of gossip Rose passed along? It seems some of the finer folk of New York have come to the conclusion you and I are lovers.”

  Michael burst out laughing. Amanda loved the sight of his smile. That such a handsome young man should be marred for life by the ugly scar on his forehead was a kind of blasphemy.

  Still shaking with mirth, he turned to warm his hands at the hearth. “Didn’t mean to bray like that. It just tickles me that the filthy sods would come up with such notions. They’ve missed the truth entirely—” He faced her. “I am fond of you. But not for the reasons they imagine. No one’s ever treated me more decently than you. I’d never dare say this to anyone else for fear of being hooted at—but you’re as kind as I imagine my own mother would have been, had she lived.”

  His words heartened her, helped soothe away some of the tension she’d felt ever since the encounter with Stovall.

  “That’s sweet of you, Michael.” She teased him: “I hope it’s not pure blarney.”

  “An Irishman only dissembles with those he depises, not those he loves—” He pivoted back to the fire. “Faith, I’m carrying on like some convent girl—”

  “I don’t mind one bit.”

  They looked at one another for a moment.

  “What’s that manuscript on the floor?”

  “Ah!” He scooped up a few of the pages. “Your nigger—beg pardon, I forgot you don’t like me saying that—Mr. Hope’s narrative. Delivered from the docks late this afternoon. There’s also a letter describing the promising nature of the new mining claim in the Sierras. Plus one from your cousin in Virginia, and two others—”

  Amanda scanned the few sheets Michael handed to her. Mr. Mayor put his forepaws on her skirt, studied her to see whether she’d resist. When she didn’t, he hopped into her lap and curled up, his green eyes closing.

  She went on reading while Michael took a clay pipe from the mantel, filled it with tobacco and lit it with a splinter of wood ignited in the fireplace. The odor of the Virginia leaf sweetened the stale, overheated air. But Amanda was hardly conscious of the warmth any longer, absorbed by the flow of Israel’s prose.

  “He writes extremely well.”

  “Yes, he does. As much as the subject of—ah—nigras leaves me cold, I confess the first few chapters caught my interest. I think his title’s a bit dull, though. The Life of Israel Hope would mean nothing to the general public—he’s not famous. I suggest something slightly more dramatic if Kent and Son ever publishes the book—”

  “Kent and Son will publish it.”

  Her determination brought another smile to his face. “Then why not call it something like West to Freedom? It avoids the cliché of a reference to the north—it suggests the escape theme—and people are intrigued about the west.”

  “Yes, that’s very good. I’ll be anxious to read all of it—”

  She laid the manuscript aside, causing Mr. Mayor to open his eyes and regard her with annoyance. She was almost embarrassed to bring up the next subject.

  “Did you drive down to the Royal Sceptre office?”

  “I did.” He nodded. “The situation’s just as it was last month when your letter was returned from London. The owners of the line still don’t know anything more about Captain McGill.”

  Saddened, Amanda ran her hand aimlessly over the tomcat’s neck. He arched and purred.

  What in heaven’s name had become of Bart? He’d sailed back from India the preceding November and abruptly resigned his command, that much she’d learned. But he hadn’t told anyone in London where he was going—he’d just walked out and disappeared.

  “I suppose it’s time to give up on him,” she said presently.

  “We’ve no other options that I see.”

  “God, I hope he’s all right—”

  “You loved him a great deal, didn’t you?”

  “More than I realized when I said no to him. However”—she shrugged to hide the hurt—“we should be worrying about other things. How much Stovall stock do we own at the moment?”

  “I can’t be positive without consulting the records. Mr. Rothman and Mr. Benbow have so many friends and clients buying small amounts on your behalf, then reselling them to the dummy company, the total changes daily.”

  “Where’s the ledger?”

  “In my room. I was trying to bring it up to date before dinner, but I confess I fell asleep. I believe Boston Holdings owns somewhere above twelve thousand shares now.”

  Amanda nodded. For months, she’d been engaged in a covert campaign to accumulate stock of the Stovall Works. Her strategy was simple. When she’d acquired a controlling interest, she intended to present Stovall’s attorneys with a demand that Kent and Son be sold to her—in exchange for the number of shares that would return Stovall to the position of majority stockholder.

  She’d planned to take as long as necessary to acquire the shares; Rothman and Benbow moved with great circumspection, approaching one investor at a time, through intermediaries. So far, she didn’t believe Stovall realized the true reason for the activity in shares in his company—nor did she think he knew of the existence of Boston Holdings.

  “Find the book and get me the exact figure, would you?” she asked. “Meantime, I’ll read Jephtha’s letter.”

  Michael brought it to her from the Uttered table, then left the room.

  Amanda stared at the soiled en
velope that had come from Lexington for three cents’ postage. But she didn’t really see her name and address written in an irregular hand. She was thinking of Bart McGill.

  Yes, she had loved him. Not in the same way she’d loved Jaimie de la Gura, and then Cordoba. More deeply—that was the hurtful truth she admitted to herself.

  He hadn’t sent her a single letter from London, or, so far as she knew, tried to ascertain her whereabouts. And now he’d left England, and no one knew where he was. Jaimie and Luis Cordoba had been taken from her by events over which she had no control. But Bart’s departure had been her own doing, and she faced that bitter truth often—especially in the dark hours of early morning when she couldn’t sleep, when age made her bones ache, and the shadows around her bed seemed to whisper of her life running out all too rapidly—

  She rubbed her eyes to clear them of tears, then turned her attention to the letter.

  It proved almost as disheartening as her memories.

  ii

  The letter, scrawled with a blunted pencil, was dated three and a half weeks earlier. Either it hadn’t been mailed promptly, or had been delayed in transit.

  The lines slanted across the page. Jephtha’s hand was uneven, far less readable than it had been two months ago, when he’d reported his continuing alienation from his family and refused her offer of the income due him from the Ophir claim. The handwriting said the Reverend Jephtha Kent—a Reverend no longer—was a tormented man. The opening paragraphs told her he was still living and working on the grounds of the Virginia Military Institute:

  My only friend is Thos. Jackson, the professor of whom I believe I have spoken before. He is a strange, deeply religious person—a Presbyterian—who has risked unpopularity by taking an active role in support of the local Negro Sunday School. My father-in-law, by contrast, would deny the colored people even the solace of God.

  Jackson—whom many of the cadets deride with the name “Tom Fool” despite his outstanding record in the late Mexican conflict—is opposed to all the secessionist talk. He is humane. He once taught one of his own slaves to read in exchange for the slave’s help—holding a torch—while he studied. It is Jackson who renews my hope that all in the south are not prey to the philosophy of a vile human being such as Captain Tunworth.