The Furies

by John Jakes

  She found Mary just finishing an immense breakfast brought up from the kitchen. The girl seemed in good spirits.

  “I never had so much food at one time in all my life! Never slept in a bed so soft, either.”

  “Are you feeling well?”

  “Reckon I am. I couldn’t eat that food fast enough.”

  “Good. Today we’re going to look into the schedules of steamers to Canada.”

  “It scares me some to think about goin’,” Mary admitted. “I don’t know anybody there. An’ the Reverend, he didn’t have no names to give me—”

  “I’ve been told there are antislave societies in almost every large Canadian city. I’m sure you’ll have no trouble locating one. They’ll help you get settled.”

  The girl clutched Amanda’s arm. “You don’t think they send anybody after me from Virginia, do you, ma’am?”

  “I think it’s very unlikely,” Amanda reassured her, hoping she was right. She left Mary sitting on the bed, bouncing up and down and enjoying the resilience. Mary’s expression was almost rapturous.

  Amanda went to her son’s room next. It was empty. In Kathleen’s absence, no one had yet made up the bed. She returned to her own room, dressed and hurried down the staircase.

  As she descended the steps, she heard the bell of a horse-car clang on the far side of the square, then the prolonged rasp of a large chunk of snow sliding off the roof. In the front hall, the sun shone through the narrow windows on either side of the door, casting rectangles of light on the carpet. Somehow that glow restored her spirits a little. She felt more competent to deal with the problems that had arisen during the night.

  Hamilton Stovall was far from her mind as she entered the dining room and saw Louis, still in his velvet-collared robe, dawdling over a cup of coffee.

  He glanced at her, then back to the cup, his manner subdued. A moment later, the maid Brigid appeared. She was a plain, buxom girl in her late twenties.

  “Only tea, I think, Brigid,” Amanda said. “But no cream. I’m putting on too much weight.”

  Brigid smiled, murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” and left.

  Amanda unfolded the stiff linen napkin set at her place at the head of the long mahogany table. Louis was seated on the side, to her left, near a weighty breakfront displaying some two dozen pieces of fine silver. Amanda laid the napkin in her lap; she could feel the tension her presence created. Rather than confront Louis immediately, she began with another subject.

  “Where is Michael?”

  The boy’s quick exhalation signaled his relief. “Off in the carriage already. To the steamer offices, he said. He told me about the crate Adams Express delivered last night.”

  “You’re to say nothing about it outside this house. The girl will be gone within a few days.”

  Louis nodded. “I don’t know who I’d tell, anyway—”

  “I was thinking of your associates at the Day School,” Amanda said in a quiet voice. “The ones with whom you’ve been quarreling.”

  The boy’s head jerked up, his dark eyes wary.

  “We had a note from Professor Pemberton yesterday. About your fighting. And your refusal to study. I’ve decided to withdraw you from school for a few weeks.”

  He almost smiled. He’d hardly consider that a severe penalty, she knew.

  “As to what happened with Kathleen, I’m going to punish you for that when we finish breakfast.”

  “Punish me? How?”

  “You’ll discover in due time. First I’d like to ask you a question. Have I somehow given you the idea that you can take anything you want in this world with no thought of how you might be hurting other people?”

  The boy frowned. “I don’t know, Ma—Mother. Sometimes, I—I do have the feeling you do whatever you please—”

  “Then I am to blame—even though there are good reasons why I behave as I do. You had no good reason for what you did to Kathleen. And nothing like that will ever happen again, Louis. Nothing,” she repeated. “I’m afraid I’ve spoiled you. That too is going to change. While you’re out of school, I expect you to work around the house. Under Michael’s supervision.”

  He accepted the announcement in stoic silence.

  “Now I’d like to know something else. After mistreating Kathleen last night, did you feel nothing? No shame? No sorrow—?”

  He pressed his lips together, toying with the handle of his cup. When he looked at her again, she felt almost dizzy with relief. There was a spark of contrition in those blazing black eyes.

  “Yes, I—I felt wretched.” He lowered his head. “But not until it was over.”

  He stood up suddenly, hurrying around the corner of the table to stand beside her. “I went to sleep thinking of how I tried to lie to you—and how much you despised me. I can’t stand to have you hate me, Ma—”

  She closed her eyes a moment, immensely relieved. Perhaps he wasn’t beyond hope after all.

  “I don’t hate you, Louis. I love you. But I can’t forgive or excuse what you did. You hurt Kathleen. You shamed her. You abused her as if she were an animal. You caused her to lose her job because I couldn’t keep her in this house after what happened. No matter how rich a person may be—or how self-important money makes you feel—and it does, sometimes—that still gives you no right whatsoever to hurt another human being who’s done nothing to hurt you. I’m going to impress that on you in a way I trust you’ll never forget. At the same time, I acknowledge my part in your guilt—I expect I’ve set you a bad example because you don’t understand why I do certain things.”

  “Would those things have anything to do with that man who still owns Kent’s?”

  “What do you know about him, Louis?” she countered softly.

  “Why—I know he won’t sell the company back to you, and that makes you mad. You bring up his name with Michael a lot, and you’re mad then too. I’ve read in the papers that Stovall runs a huge steel factory. And I remember once in California, you and Captain Bart had a terrible argument while I was trying to sleep. I heard his name even way back then—”

  Amanda sighed. “Well, you’re correct. A good deal of my activity since we’ve come east is connected with Stovall. I expect I owe you a full explanation. You’ll have it—in a week or two—when you’ve shown me you mean to change your ways.”

  She couldn’t keep affection out of her voice as she clasped both of his hands in hers. “I can’t permit you to go the wrong way now, Louis. There’s too much at stake—principally your future. You’ll be in charge of Kent and Son one day. I want you to work with Theo Payne if he’ll stay on. Learn from him—”

  “But we don’t even own the company!”

  “We will,” she assured him. “And you’ll rebuild it into the kind of firm your great-grandfather would be proud of. There’s no limit to the possibilities open to you, Louis. A useful life—a good marriage—entree to the best homes—by the time you’re grown,” she added with a wry smile, “the sour old society ladies who con- sider me new rich will be in their graves. Their children will welcome you as an equal. That’s what I want for you—because you’re a Kent. And because I love you.”

  He pulled his hands loose and flung his arms around her neck, hugging her. “I know I did wrong last night, Ma. I’ll make it up to you—I want you to be proud of me—

  She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest, the relief almost unbearable—

  She heard Brigid enter with her tea and broke away. The tea smelled delicious. She drank it eagerly. An image of the portrait of Philip Kent drifted into her mind. She thought, It isn’t too late. I’ll turn him into a Kent worthy of the name—

  The sound of boots stamping in the front hall caught her attention. She heard Michael speaking to Hampton, set her teacup down and hurried from the room.

  Michael stood in an oblong of sunlight, unwrapping a long scarf of red wool from around his collar. His hair shone almost as brightly as his smile.

  “We’re in lu
ck, Mrs. A. We’ve only to wait until Tuesday night. There’s a White Star steamer sailing from North River at ten o’clock. Straight up the coast, overnight at Boston, then along the St. Lawrence to Montreal—” He pulled a manila envelope from his coat. “I bought the girl’s ticket.”

  “Wonderful!”

  Michael flung the scarf onto a bench and raked droplets of melted snow from his hair. “Have you spoken with Louis?”

  “Just now. He seems contrite.”

  “Is he ready to work?”

  “He will be in an hour.”

  “Why the delay?”

  “I’ve one thing yet to take care of—” Her eyes were hard.

  “Very well. While I’m waiting, I’ll chop up that crate and burn the pieces. As soon as Louis is free, I’ll set him to clearing the slush out of the front drive. My, won’t that raise eyebrows next door! Mrs. de la Gura’s son doing servant’s work—”

  Amused, he walked toward the dining room. Amanda followed. “Come with me, Louis,” she said.

  “Where?”

  Michael gaped when she answered, “The carriage house.”

  ii

  The dapple gray mare whickered as Amanda and her son entered the frame building at the rear of the property. The light was poor and the interior smelled of straw and manure. The mare’s breath streamed from her nostrils in the cold air. She bumped the side of her stall.

  Water dripped from the wheels and springs of the carriage Michael had only recently returned to its place. Amanda reached up and drew the stiff-handled whip from its socket.

  “Louis, take off your robe.”

  “My robe? What are you going to—?”

  “You heard what I said. Take the robe off and stand against that post, facing it. Put your hands on the post, over your head.”

  The boy swallowed. The ferocity she’d seen on his face last night might never have existed. He looked terrified, young and vulnerable—

  She ached at the thought of what she was about to do. Yet it had to be done.

  Louis dropped the robe, lifted his hands to grasp the post. She watched his back prickle into gooseflesh as he waited, his head turned slightly, one eye visible.

  “Now,” she said, “you remember this moment, because I’ll never do such a thing to you again—just as you’ll never treat another person the way you treated Kathleen. I remind you once more—she did nothing to deserve the hurt you gave her. Not just the physical hurt—she’ll carry the memory all her life. I want you to carry the memory of this. How it feels to be hurt by wanton cruelty. You remember, Louis—and let it keep you from hurting any other blameless person—ever again.”

  “Ma—” he began. The whip flicked up past her shoulder, and forward. The tip struck between his shoulder blades with a sharp, smacking sound.

  Louis’ hands tightened on the post. He clenched his teeth.

  She whipped him again. This time he cried aloud.

  The cry disturbed the mare. She kicked the side of the stall. Louis’ whole body was trembling. Sweat covered his cheeks. The second blow had left a thin scarlet stripe on his skin.

  Amanda struck a third time. He cried louder, digging his fingers into the post. The mare whinnied, kicked again. One of the stall boards cracked.

  She forced herself to fall into a rhythm: the long, flexible tip of the whip came back, then flew forward to mark him. The whip butt grew slippery in her hand—

  Six strokes.

  Seven—

  Blood began to run down the boy’s back. The mare was wild with terror, bucking and slamming her hoofs into the stall’s side, smashing the boards—

  Eight.

  Nine—

  Louis groaned, started to slide down the post. White-faced, Amanda whispered, “Stand up. Stand up and feel it.”

  The savagery of her voice made him pull himself erect. He braced for the next blow, listened for the whisper of the whip cutting the air, closed his eyes—

  Screamed when the whip flayed him.

  The mare kicked, the sound thunderous. Two more boards in the side of the stall splintered apart.

  “All right,” Amanda said, ashen.

  Louis turned. His hands jerked at his sides. He stared at her, tears in the corners of his eyes. There was no hate in that glance, only dull suffering—

  She walked to the carriage, picked up a handful of straw, wiped the blood from the whip and replaced it in the socket. Then she faced her son. “Come here.”

  He walked to her, stumbling the last couple of steps. She caught him in both arms, cushioning him against her, arms around his waist.

  “Cry if you want. Cry—no one will hear you—”

  He did, letting the long sobs free him of some of his pain. Amanda cried too, in silence, holding him close until the worst of his shuddering passed—

  Finally he got control of himself. She stepped back, barely aware that the sleeves of her dress were stained red.

  “If you’re ever tempted to hurt someone again, remember today.”

  “I will, Ma.”

  “Swear it, Louis.”

  “I swear. Before God, I swear it.”

  A knot seemed to break within her. She could barely speak. “Now”—she wiped her cheeks with the back of one hand—“put your robe on—”

  He did, groaning when the fabric came in contact with the lash marks.

  “We’ll go upstairs. I’ll dress and bandage the cuts. You can rest for an hour. Then you’re going to work. You’ll hurt quite a few days, I expect. It’s proper you should.”

  The dapple gray blubbered her lips, still stirring restlessly in the broken stall as the two of them walked into the winter sunlight, the boy leaning on his mother for support.

  iii

  At twilight on Sunday evening, Amanda was at work at the desk in the library, comfortably dressed in one of the three bloomer outfits she owned—a matching top and trousers in lavender. She was going over the fist of investments she’d made using Jephtha Kent’s earnings from the Ophir Mineralogical Combine. If the Sierra claim looked as promising as Israel Hope’s letter suggested, those earnings should soon increase sharply.

  She figured the different percentages of growth for each of the issues in which she’d invested the mining profits. None of that money had gone to purchase Stovall Works shares, as she’d originally intended. Boston Holdings operated solely on income from the Blackstone mill.

  She worked slowly. Her eyes itched from scanning the columns of figures. After jotting a final note on two stocks whose poor performance merited immediate sale, she turned to the weekly edition of Mr. Greeley’s Tribune.

  She read an account of a lecture given in New York the preceding week by the philosopher, Emerson, then a review of a concert by the Swedish opera star, Jenny Lind, who was touring America under personal contract to the showman Phineas Barnum. She found both articles informative but dull. On the livelier side was a scathing feature about the poor performance of New York’s police.

  The writer accused the chief of taking criminal bribes—including one from the city’s foremost female abortionist—and argued that city police protection would never be satisfactory until the force was given some semblance of professionalism, the first step being uniforms. But those, the police had steadfastly refused to wear ever since Mayor Harper had suggested the idea in the mid-40s. The police contended they were “free Americans,” and thus should not be required to appear in public in “livery befitting servants.”

  A dispatch from Illinois caught her attention next. It dealt with the Whigs in that western state, and quoted a lawyer named Lincoln who had served one term in Congress during the Mexican war and was apparently becoming a power in the party.

  The lawyer’s first name was Abraham. Amanda wondered whether he could be the same person she’d seen briefly when she and Jared had been traveling to Tennessee years ago. Because Jared had contracted an illness, they’d stopped for a couple of weeks at a cabin in Kentucky. She remembered farmer Lincoln’s boy Abraha
m quite clearly. Though he had only been five years old, he’d displayed an unusual curiosity about letters and words.

  Expressing himself on the strength of the Whigs in Illinois, Lincoln was then quoted on his personal views about the Know-Nothings. The nature of his opinions made it instantly clear why Horace Greeley had given them space.

  “How can anyone who abhors the oppression of Negroes be in favor of degrading classes of white people? Our progress in degeneracy appears to me to be pretty rapid. As a nation, we began by declaring that ‘all men are created equal.’ Now we practically read it ‘all men are created equal, except Negroes.’ When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read ‘all men are created equal, except Negroes, foreigners and Catholics.’

  “When it comes to this I should prefer emigration to some country where they make no pretense of loving liberty—to Russia, for example, where despotism can be taken pure, without the base alloy of hypocrisy.”

  The statement summed up Amanda’s own beliefs about as well as she’d ever been able to do herself. She decided to show the piece to Michael. It might help abate his deep-seated antagonism toward colored people, pointing out as it did that there was little difference between those who would deny the black man liberty, and those who wanted to keep the immigrant Irish in much the same kind of inferior position.

  She had just started to tear the article from the page when the door opened and Mr. Mayor meowed. She glanced up, rubbing her eyes—the older she grew, the longer they took to refocus from close work to something more distant.

  Hampton presented a silver tray bearing a rectangle of white pasteboard.

  “A gentleman in the sitting room, Mrs. de la Gura. He’s most insistent about seeing you.”

  “I wasn’t expecting any callers—”

  “The gentleman isn’t from New York. From his speech, I would judge he comes from one of the southern states.”

  The peace that had begun to settle over her since Saturday morning shattered as she snatched the engraved card and read the name: