Lawless

by John Jakes

  Eleanor thought Hubble had given the men instructions about where to go and what to do. She couldn’t recall exactly when the name had been used—she glanced away as she said that, and Gideon knew she was lying—but she’d swear on her grave it was spoken during the attack.

  The resulting suspicion was far-fetched. Yet the moment it popped into his mind, he knew he couldn’t rest until he proved or disproved it. An attack on a man was one thing, an attack on women and children quite another. The serving girl who’d been assaulted in such a foul way had been taken to her parents’ home. Gideon had sent doctors to attend her. They reported the girl was out of her mind with shock and shame. She might never recover.

  And Margaret was dead.

  If Thomas Courtleigh was responsible for all those things—

  The rage Gideon felt at the mere suspicion was so powerful, it left him shaken for an hour or more. He telegraphed the Union’s Western correspondent, Salathiel Brown, who was already in Chicago. He asked Brown to look into whether the Wisconsin and Prairie had anyone named Hubble on its payroll.

  During the days of preparation for the funeral, Eleanor continued to concern him. She insisted she’d only been roughed up by the men who stormed the mansion. Her dress and chemise had been torn, and one of the men had hit her, but she claimed that was the extent of it.

  Gideon found it illogical that the thugs would rape a serving girl and leave a mistress of the house untouched, particularly since it was quite clear from inscriptions painted on the walls that the Kent family had been the target of the attack. Eleanor refused to change her story, even though something flickering in her eyes from time to time hinted that there was another one.

  On the same Wednesday night of Gideon’s return, Dana Hughes had located Matt in Roxbury, Massachusetts, where he was drunkenly playing the outfield in a baseball game between two volunteer fire companies. The editor had sobered him up and put him aboard a southbound express the next day. On Saturday morning, Julia and Carter had arrived from the South. Carter’s school was out for the summer and he was accompanying his mother on the lecture circuit.

  Julia and her son paid a courtesy call at the house late that day. From the moment they walked in, Will was fascinated by the fifteen-year-old boy who had the same last name he did. Carter had shot up over six feet, and was astonishingly handsome—the one person in all the family who looked as if he had Latin blood, which he did.

  Julia chose to stay at a downtown hotel. But she brought Carter back to the mansion on Sunday, to see whether she could help with arrangements for the memorial service next day. Again Gideon’s eight-year-old son followed the older boy everywhere. Carter didn’t seem to mind. He appeared to enjoy the adulation, in fact.

  By that weekend, just prior to the funeral service, the rail strike was all but over. Many newspapers had warned of continued, Communist-inspired rioting, even of revolution. But much of the hysteria had been unexpectedly dampened by an interview the National Republican obtained from none other than President Hayes. Only a day after the start of the Pittsburgh violence, the President said he didn’t consider the looting and bloodshed to be evidence of “the prevalence of a spirit of Communism, since the acts were not primarily directed against property in general, merely against that of the railroads with whom the strikers had had difficulties.”

  The Marxist scare continued, of course. But the President’s calm statement had undermined it. Gideon was too wrung out to do more than take note.

  So now it was Monday afternoon. Following the memorial service, he planned to travel to Massachusetts to see Margaret’s burial in the family plot in Watertown. Her remains were not actually in the coffin as yet. Because of the season and the problem of deterioration, the body lay on ice at the undertaker’s.

  About two dozen mourners were scattered in the pews of the small church. They listened dutifully as the prayer droned on. Molly was seated on Gideon’s right, and Matt to her right. Gideon’s younger brother looked wretched, as if he’d been working too hard on the book, or imbibing too heavily, or both. Will leaned against his father’s left side. Just beyond, on the center aisle, sat Eleanor.

  Gideon turned his head far enough to study her profile. She was staring at the minister, not even bothering to slit her eyes in a pretense of piety. He marveled that he and Margaret had brought such a lovely creature into the world.

  But there was still a secret grief lurking in her gaze. It wasn’t merely his opinion. Matt had sensed it. And Julia, who was seated two rows back, with Carter. In private, she’d told Gideon she thought Eleanor was suffering from some deep inner wound about which she refused to speak. Was it Margaret’s death causing that? Julia wondered aloud. Gideon doubted it. What, then? He didn’t know.

  Behind Julia sat a number of people from the Union, including Theo Payne and his tiny, kindly-looking wife. Most of the servants were back there, too. When the service finally ended a few minutes later, Gideon noticed a late arrival he hadn’t seen before—the impeccably dressed Joshua Rothman.

  As the organ pealed the postlude, Eleanor left the pew without waiting for her father to usher her to the foyer. Gideon frowned, then took Will’s hand in his and started down the aisle. As they passed Julia’s pew, Will noticed Carter watching him, and immediately pulled his hand from Gideon’s.

  Molly walked out holding Matt’s arm. Several steps ahead, Gideon went to Rothman in the foyer.

  “It was good of you to come, Joshua.”

  They shook hands. The banker was in his mid-fifties and growing portly. “I apologize for disturbing the service—”

  “You didn’t.”

  “But my train was late. Miriam wanted to come with me, but a”—he colored slightly—“a female complaint has kept her indisposed for the past month.”

  “I hope she’ll be all right.”

  “The doctor assures me she will. He says this is merely a painful phase all women pass through.” He laid a hand on Gideon’s shoulder. “You’re the one I’m concerned about at the moment. How are you bearing up?”

  Gideon glanced toward the main doors; Eleanor had already gone out and down the steps to the line of waiting carriages. Her chin was raised and her back was stiff as a soldier’s. There’s no love in her, he thought suddenly. Or if there is, she hides it. As if it somehow isn’t proper to display affection for anyone.

  My God, have I caused that?

  He realized Rothman was peering at him, awaiting an answer. Molly and Matt passed by. Molly clearly wanted to speak to the banker, but she walked on so as not to interrupt what had the look of a very private conversation.

  “Bearing up? As well as can be expected, I suppose,” Gideon said. He felt himself growing cross. His bandage itched, and the wound hurt. The heat of the foyer was making him dizzy. His voice was sharp as he added, “Let’s go outside, shall we?”

  At the door, there was the obligatory handshake and a murmur of condolences by the pastor. Three burly young men in cheap suits and derbies came up the steps and entered the sanctuary; they had come with the black-lacquered, glass-sided hearse which was standing near the corner at the head of the carriage line.

  Gideon accompanied Rothman down the steps. A few spatters of rain dotted the wooden walk. Perhaps there’d be some relief from the heat. He found no relief from his bad temper when he glanced to his left and saw Eleanor smiling and chatting with Matt. With her own father, she was barely polite.

  Coming right on top of the heat and the pain and the strain of the memorial service, that made him unreasonably angry.

  ii

  Eleanor was enthralled by Papa’s brother. Even in a suitably sober suit, Uncle Matt was a dashing figure with his hair curling over his collar, and his mustache drooping past the corners of his mouth. He fanned both of them with his straw boater, then lit a cigar as she said, “I know this isn’t the time or place, Uncle Matt. But sometime I hope you’ll talk to me about the theater.”

  “I confess I don’t know much about it, Eleanor.�
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  “Yes, but you’re a painter, and I’ve read that painters suffer just the way actors and actresses do.”

  She was so fervent, she completely overlooked the wryness of his smile as he answered, “Well, I suppose I can give a little expert testimony in that department. Your father’s told me about your interest in acting. I’m not sure he approves.”

  Her eyes glinted. “He’s the one who first took me to a play.”

  “Watching them isn’t the same as spending your life performing them. Besides, you’re older now. You’re a daughter, and he’s a father—” He stirred the humid air with his cigar, as if stirring a cauldron. “That creates a special family brew. I’m told fathers become highly protective when daughters reach your age.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she retorted. “And I don’t think he cares two pins about protecting me. I don’t think he cares about anything I do.”

  “Eleanor, you’re wrong—”

  She rushed on. “But I knew you’d understand what I want. You of all people in this family must know what it’s like to feel a terrible craving to be a dedicated artist.”

  Matt was amused by the passion of her words, and by the words themselves. But he didn’t let on. That would have hurt her. It struck him that he must be getting old, because he was beginning to take cynical note of how intense, idealistic and optimistic young people were. There were apprentices up at Kent and Son, Boston, who were sure they’d own the biggest printing house in the land by the time they were thirty.

  “I’ll be glad to talk with you any time you want,” he said, fully matching her seriousness. “I can tell you this much right now, though. I have a friend in Paris, a very fine painter named Paul Cézanne, who’s going to be well thought of one day. He once called painting a dog’s profession. He meant it was lonely, frustrating, unsatisfying for long periods of time—and that there was no guarantee of success. I imagine the same can be said of acting. To be very good at something, you usually have to give up something else. Peace of mind, perhaps. Or a normal life. Sometimes the choice is unappealing and damn—uh, very painful.”

  “I’d give up anything to do what I want, Uncle Matt.”

  “Sure you mean that?”

  “Absolutely.”

  How fiery she was, and how cheerless. He tested her a little further.

  “Most girls your age are envisioning a marriage, babies—”

  “I’m not. I never want to get married. I’m not even going to let myself be interested in a boy; that just—distracts a person.”

  He had the feeling she finished the sentence in a way that concealed what she’d really started to say. Again he was troubled by the intensity of her statements. They were born of deep conviction—and perhaps of more than a little pain. But she hid that. There was a quality about her some would call strength and others hardness. It was difficult to tell at this stage whether it would help or harm her.

  He tried teasing her. “The gain of the theater will be the loss of the male population, I’m afraid. I guess it isn’t amiss to pay a compliment to a niece and say she’s a very pretty young woman.”

  Eleanor’s cheeks pinked. She wasn’t completely lacking in human feeling.

  “Also a very determined one,” he added. “I have a notion you’ll be a success at anything you choose to do.”

  “I’m glad someone thinks so.” She directed an unfriendly glance at her father, who was standing with a stranger a short distance down the walk. Then she gave Matt a warm, almost worshipful smile and murmured, “Thank you. We’ll talk sometime when Papa’s not around. I’d better go to the carriage now. I suppose they’re all gossiping because I’m not wailing and sobbing like an infant.”

  What a curious girl, Matt thought as he puffed his cigar and watched her enter the carriage in which Molly was already seated. Fiery about certain things, cold about others. Didn’t she mourn for her poor mother? Or did she keep her sorrow buried inside?

  And why had she looked at her father with something close to loathing? Gid had said long ago that his relations with his daughter were strained, but that seemed to be understating it.

  As far as Matt could tell, Margaret’s death hadn’t brought father and daughter closer together, as family grief sometimes did. Disturbing, he thought as he finished his smoke. Damned disturbing.

  iii

  At that moment Joshua Rothman was saying to Gideon, “Did you know your father’s second cousin, Amanda Kent, had her mansion in Madison Square mobbed too? Just about twenty-five years ago, it was.”

  Gideon wrenched his glance from Eleanor, who was getting into the family carriage. She’d obviously enjoyed speaking with his brother as much as she disliked speaking with him.

  Once Theo Payne had told him adolescents went through a normal period of disagreeing and even quarreling violently with their parents. At the same time, Payne said, they frequently chose other adults as idealized mothers or fathers. Maybe that was happening with Matt. If so, it was wrong for him to be angry with his daughter.

  In response to Rothman’s remark, he nodded and said, “Yes, I did hear my father mention that once or twice.”

  In a thoughtful way, the banker continued. “Amanda died as a result of the attack. It’s a sad and interesting parallel. In 1852 the trouble came about because Amanda protected a runaway slave. Runaways, or contrabands as they came to be called, were one of the hottest issues then. I mean the question of whether they should be given sanctuary, or returned to their masters. Amanda took a stand on behalf of a poor black’s freedom, and she died for it. Your home was ransacked and Margaret lost her life because of your concern with another downtrodden class. It’s curious how idealism leads the Kents back over the same ground—”

  Gideon’s accumulating tension made him snappish.

  “I fail to see much of a comparison, Joshua. Amanda was shot defending her house. I brought the trouble down on Margaret and the children, but I wasn’t here to help them deal with it.”

  “Gideon, you mustn’t blame yourself for your wife’s death.”

  “Why not? Everyone else does.” Instantly, he realized how self-pitying that was, and apologized.

  “Have the police located the men responsible?” Rothman wanted to know.

  Gideon shook his head. “Eleanor and the servants were only able to provide very sketchy descriptions.”

  “Then you have no hope of finding and punishing the ringleaders?”

  One, he thought. In Chicago. But Rothman wouldn’t have understood, so he simply shook his head again and murmured, “Very little.” He took hold of the banker’s arm. “Come to the house for a while, Joshua.”

  “Certainly—if I won’t be disturbing you.”

  Gideon assured him he wouldn’t. “Will you stay to supper?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that. My train leaves at six forty-five.”

  Gideon handed Rothman into his hired carriage. Next he went to see Julia off. As Matt approached, she declined the same invitation Gideon had given the banker.

  “I think it’s best you devote your attention to Molly and Mr. Rothman and the children.”

  “I agree,” Matt put in. “I’ll see Julia and Carter back to their hotel.” He grinned. “May even steal her away from you, Gid.”

  Gideon didn’t smile. Julia noted the tension on his face. She laid a gentle hand on his arm.

  “If you have time, come by this evening before you take the train for Boston.” Matt drifted away again, to corral Carter. Julia stepped closer. “Above all, try to heal the rift with Eleanor.”

  “It’s that apparent, eh?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, I’ll do what I can.”

  But he was beginning to believe the gulf was already far too wide. His own ill humor wasn’t helping to narrow it.

  Matt returned with Will and Carter. Julia’s son had his arm around the younger boy’s shoulders. Will’s eyes were still red from the crying he’d done early in the service. Carter was spea
king to him in a low, comforting voice.

  “I’ll be up to see you soon, Will,” Carter called as he and Matt climbed into Julia’s carriage. Will gave the older boy a grateful glance, then preceded Gideon into the Kent carriage. Eleanor sat against the far wall, rigid. She barely turned her head to acknowledge her father’s presence.

  Gideon squeezed in beside his stepmother. He shut the door and thumped the roof. The carriage rolled forward past the hearse into which the empty coffin was being loaded by the three young men wearing derbies. Gideon heard them cracking jokes. He bowed his head, controlled his temper, and began speaking in a moderate voice.

  “Eleanor, I believe that you and I—”

  “Papa,” she broke in, “we have nothing to say to each other.”

  All his resolve vanished in a renewed rush of anger.

  iv

  “Molly,” he growled, “you must forgive me, but it’s time Eleanor and I settled a few things. The conversation may not be pleasant.”

  His stepmother frowned. “I think it would be more appropriate if you waited until we arrived home.”

  “Indeed it would be,” he shot back, struck by another spell of dizziness. He gripped the edge of the open window to steady himself. “But I refuse to wait that long. Eleanor, I’m sick of your disrespectful ways and your accusing looks. There is no reason for either.”

  She acted incredulous. “No reason? Papa, she might be alive right now if you’d been here to protect her.”

  “Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think I haven’t thought of that every minute since I heard she was dead?”

  “Will,” Molly whispered, “come sit by me.” The wide-eyed boy squeezed against her side.

  “Even when she was alive,” Eleanor went on, “you never thought of what she was going through.”