The Americans Read online

  The Irishman was in his early to mid-fifties. With hardly a gray hair, Gideon thought enviously. Boyle had not yet seen him standing at the head of the stairs. Gideon pondered whether he ought to push on through the crowd and make his presence known.

  Michael Boyle was the man to whom Gideon’s father had willed the one-third interest in the Kent fortune that would have gone to Gideon’s brother Jeremiah. Jephtha had made the decision during the years in which everyone presumed Jeremiah was dead. Boyle had borrowed against some of the money that was to come to him at Jephtha’s death. He’d used the loan to start a chain of general stores along the Union Pacific right-of-way. The stores had earned him his first million dollars.

  Gideon had always regarded Boyle as an opportunist who’d exploited his position as Amanda Kent’s clerk and confidant in order to get some of the Kent money. Julia insisted the judgment was unfair. For someone who’d only met the Irishman a couple of times, she seemed curiously vehement in her defense of him.

  Still, perhaps he was guilty of misjudgment, Gideon thought now. Boyle hadn’t squandered the fortune Jephtha had left him. On the contrary, he’d preserved and increased it. From his home in the Wyoming territorial capital, Cheyenne, he’d made fortunes of his own in retailing and in cattle.

  He’d also taken Kent as his legal middle name. He was evidently a Republican, something Gideon hadn’t known before. The political tie overcame Gideon’s habitual suspicion. He walked along the packed aisle to Michael’s box. There he stopped, and extended his hand.

  “Boyle? Gideon Kent.”

  Michael stood up, a graceful man with gold eyes. He wore an expensive coat of bottle green velvet, fawn trousers and spotless linen. He was taller than Gideon by several inches. His handshake was firm.

  “Yes, I saw you down there on the floor. I was debating whether to make myself known.”

  “I’m surprised you recognized me. We only met on that one occasion in New York.”

  Michael nodded. “But I remember it quite distinctly. Hannah and I called on you at your mansion. You were about to sell it and move to Boston. You and your wife were extremely gracious. Besides, it isn’t easy to forget a relative who’s a public figure. Even in my part of the world, you’re famous.”

  Gideon shrugged to brush the compliment aside. “What brings you to Chicago?”

  “An attempt to get more favorable freight rates for the cattle we ship from our ranch. And of course this convention. I work for the Republican Party in the territory.”

  “Look, this place is damnably noisy. Why don’t we have supper tonight? I’m at the new Palmer House.”

  “So am I. Suite eight hundred.”

  That rankled. Gideon had only booked a single room.

  “Shall we say eight o’clock in the dining room?”

  “Fine,” Boyle said. “I’ll look forward to it. We may have been on opposite sides in the late war, but we are members of the same family.”

  Presumptuous bastard, Gideon thought. Then he silently chastised himself. Michael Boyle was fully entitled to think of himself as a Kent. Gideon’s own father had decreed that. The trouble was, Gideon still hadn’t completely accepted the decree.

  On the way back to the convention floor, he passed a man who gave him a venomous scowl. He’d gone another half dozen steps before he remembered who the man was. Thurman Pennel, the real estate millionaire from New York. Pennel clearly hadn’t forgotten the quarrel about Blaine. The animosity didn’t bother Gideon. As a newspaperman, he was accustomed to being hated.

  vi

  That evening in the crowded dining room of the Palmer House, Gideon and Michael engaged in a verbal sparring match for the first ten or fifteen minutes. They tested each other’s political positions and explored each other’s recent history, but superficially, and without great warmth. A certain unsmiling stiffness remained as the waiter brought the first course.

  When they were about halfway through the meal, a harried Theodore Roosevelt bustled in. He seemed to run everywhere, never walk. He was on his way to a table for one, a sheaf of papers in his hand. He paused to greet Gideon and be introduced to Michael.

  “You’re welcome to join us, Theodore,” Gideon said.

  The young man held out the papers, which were covered with names and figures. “Thank you, but I must do another analysis of delegate strength while I’m dining. This convention must choose a reform candidate such as Senator Edmunds of Vermont. Blaine isn’t electable and neither is Chester Arthur.”

  Gideon puffed his cigar. “I agree. If Blaine’s the candidate, the party won’t have my support. Nor my paper’s endorsement.”

  “Oh?” Michael raised an eyebrow. “I think a man’s dutybound to stick with his party whether he approves of the candidate or not. Otherwise, how can a man consider himself a true member of that party?”

  “Afraid I feel the same way, Mr. Boyle,” Roosevelt said in that squeaking voice. “That’s why I’m working so vigorously to see Blaine defeated. The Democrats will choose Grover Cleveland, I imagine. His reform record will be a powerful asset. It might even overcome the scandal connected with his personal life.”

  “What scandal?” Michael wanted to know.

  Gideon answered. “There have been rumors that Cleveland fathered a bastard when he was in law school or shortly after he got out. It’s never been proved. But I fear some of our party loyalists won’t let that stop them from spreading the story.”

  Michael scowled. “I don’t like that kind of tactic.”

  “Nor do I, sir. Nor do I!” Roosevelt exclaimed, and hurried off.

  The Irishman stared after him, then shook his head. “He’s one of the strangest ducks I’ve ever met.”

  “We need more like him. He’s a corner in the party,” Gideon said. “Got quite a remarkable history, too. Family’s old New York aristocracy. Lot of money. As a boy, he was almost incapacitated by asthma. His father built a gymnasium in their townhouse, and Theodore exercised for hours every day to overcome his physical weakness.”

  “He’s done it, obviously. He looks strong as a bull.”

  Gideon nodded. “He whipped everything except his bad eyesight. That doesn’t keep him from going hunting in Dakota. He’s been out there quite a lot this year. In February, his wife and his mother died in circumstances no editor would ever find credible in a story.” In response to Michael’s quizzical look, he went on. “They died on the very same day, of unrelated illnesses. It was quite a blow to him. But he pulled through. He doesn’t give up. That’s one of the reasons I like him.”

  “You know him well?”

  “I met him just this past winter. But I’d say we’ve become good friends. We exchange letters from time to time. I like the way he thinks. For instance, he can’t stand what he calls fireside moralists. You know—the sort of people who are forever crying about bad government, but who sit home and do nothing to correct the flaws. Theodore isn’t that kind.”

  Michael glanced at a nearby table where Roosevelt was scribbling on one of his papers. “I liked him because he’s willing to support the Republican candidate. Without reservation.”

  The remark was pointed. So was Gideon’s reply. “That’s certainly more than you can say for me.”

  “We disagree, then.”

  “On that and a few other things, from tariffs to the money policy, I should imagine.” Gideon fought down his annoyance; he managed a wry look. “But politics should be barred from the conversation when relatives eat together. How do you feel about the buffalo steak?”

  Michael sampled another morsel with his fork. He dabbed his mustache with a stiffly starched napkin. “Damn good. Some of the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Well, there’s a common ground.”

  For the first time since their meeting at the convention, both men smiled.

  vii

  The chance encounter in Chicago touched off an occasional correspondence that extended throughout the summer and into the fall.

  Blaine h
ad taken the nomination on the fourth ballot. And as predicted, Cleveland was the choice of the Democrats. Independent Republicans were faced with the question of whether to support the candidate or bolt. Gideon joined the so-called Mugwumps who bolted. Young Roosevelt, who was trying to embark on a second career as a Dakota ranchman, did not. A letter mailed from the town of Medora, Dakota Territory, told Gideon the decision hadn’t been a happy one.

  Never had Gideon witnessed a more vicious national campaign. In late July, the Buffalo Evening Telegraph confirmed that Cleveland had indeed fathered an illegitimate child. The mother was a woman named Maria Halpin. The candidate quickly admitted his culpability, and supplied evidence that he’d provided for the child’s care. His candor turned a liability into an advantage. But the Republicans were soon singing a derisive song in every one of their torchlight parades:

  Ma! Ma! Where’s my pa?

  Gone to the White House—

  Ha! ha! ha!

  The Democrats were no more scrupulous. They sang lustily about “Blaine, Blaine, James G. Blaine! The continental liar from the state of Maine!” In letters Michael and Gideon wrote during September and October, they twitted one another about supporting a lecher and a swindler.

  The letters grew more and more cordial. Politics gave way to chatty news of their respective families. Michael and his wife, Hannah, had two children—a son, Lincoln, named after the president, and a daughter, Erin. Gideon soon found himself enjoying the correspondence immensely. He and Michael might never be warm friends, but at least he regarded the Irishman with less suspicion now. He still considered Boyle an idiot for remaining loyal to Blaine.

  On election night, Gideon was at Democratic headquarters in Boston. In the fine baritone voice he’d once used to sing in the saddle with Stuart’s cavalry, he joined the rest of the revelers as they praised the victorious Cleveland.

  Hurrah for Maria,

  Hurrah for the kid!

  We voted for Grover,

  And we’re damned glad we did!

  viii

  When Gideon arrived at Kent and Son the next day, Helene Vail was waiting for him with a paper in her hand.

  “I think you’d better read this at once, Mr. Kent.”

  He held his head and slumped into his chair. “I can’t read anything this morning.”

  “Please make an effort, sir. This is a telegraph message from your daughter.”

  Giving him a severe look, she laid the paper on the desk. Then she brought a damp cloth from the washstand concealed behind a screen in the corner.

  “Here, sir. Put this on your forehead. I fail to understand how you can be so debilitated from a night of celebration.”

  “Then you’ve never celebrated with Democrats.” He laid the cloth over his eyes and put his head back. The throbbing persisted. After a moment, she cleared her throat.

  “Mr. Kent—”

  He groaned. “Miss Vail, can’t the message wait?”

  “Not long, sir. It’s November already. Your daughter wants to be married here in Boston before the year is out.”

  ix

  On the thirtieth of November, the coastal steamer M. S. Prince of Fundy docked at Boston on her way northward from New York to Halifax and St. John’s. Among the third-class passengers was a man with a red bandanna tied around his curly black hair, his few worldly possessions packed in a stolen carpetbag, and a knife hidden under an expensive sheep-lined coat he’d killed to get.

  Deck lights whitened the facial scar shaped like a fishhook. A gale wind had begun blowing off the dark Atlantic, and he had to struggle down the gangway against its buffeting fury. He hadn’t been in the city for more than a year and a half. He was glad to return. But in order to resume his life, and have people again treat him with respect, there were matters to which he must attend. One involved the young student who had humiliated him at the Red Cod, the night all his trouble had started. Ortega would accept many things that life or other men dealt out, but humiliation was not one of them.

  Fortunately, thanks to a friend in Boston, he knew where to find the student anytime he chose. He wanted to settle that particular score, and several others, very soon. Then he could celebrate the holy Christmas season in good spirits.

  CHAPTER XI

  THE SECRET DOOR

  i

  ELEANOR KENT ARRIVED HOME during the first week of December. She was glad to be back in Boston. Glad to see the familiar rooms and furniture of Beacon Street. Glad to be reunited with Julia and her father and brother. And yet, from the moment she stepped off the train and ran into her father’s embrace, the visit was marred by uneasiness. She hoped there would be no overly frank discussion of her decision to marry Leo Goldman. Such a discussion could lead into areas she must avoid. It could lead to the dark door kept closed for so many years—

  Still Eleanor was in a cheerful mood when she got home. She’d spent a few days visiting at Mrs. Louisa Drew’s Arch Street Theater in Philadelphia and found it an enjoyable experience. The Christmas season was just getting under way, with decorations greening the windows of homes and shops, and the lovely old hymns pealing from choir lofts on Sunday—and from the throats of carolers the rest of the week.

  To heighten the excitement, there was the wedding. A one-hour family meeting on her first night home produced a mutual agreement on the date; the wedding would be held during the week after Christmas. Leo would be bringing his father up from New York. Mr. Goldman, a widower, had finally consented to come, even though he disapproved of his son marrying outside the faith.

  Eleanor had a great many anecdotes to relate to her family during her first days at home. She preferred talking about the theater rather than the forthcoming marriage, simply because she was of two minds about the latter. She loved Leo Goldman, and she wanted to marry him. Yet a small part of her held back, and it was that part she feared for Julia and her father to see.

  There was no danger of Will seeing it—he was too young. And Carter—well, he worked nights, and when he reeled home the morning after her arrival, he bussed her sleepily and went staggering upstairs to bed. He smelled of fish and—shockingly—beer. She quickly sensed that there was trouble in the house, tension between Gideon and Carter. But no one mentioned it. Nor was she critical of her stepbrother. If Carter had flaws, so did she. One of the worst was her confused reaction to the prospect of marriage. On one hand, she wanted to be Leo’s wife, and make him happy, and enjoy a normal existence. But against that, there was the door. The hidden door she kept closed almost constantly. Surely it would be opened at least a little, commencing with her wedding night—

  As best she could, she avoided giving any hint of this turmoil to her parents.

  At twenty-two, Eleanor was not only a stunning darkhaired beauty, but also a veteran actress. She’d embarked on a career as a touring performer at fifteen, looking mature enough to convince audiences she was three to five years older. She and her father hadn’t been getting along at the time she left home—due to her poor, demented mother’s schemes to divide the family. But Gideon had had nothing to say about her decision to go on the road with J. J. Bascom’s third-rate troupe of players, who traveled the country performing Uncle Tom’s Cabin.

  Some years later, long after Margaret’s plotting had been exposed and Eleanor and Gideon were friendly again, her father told her that one factor had lessened his worry when she joined the Tom show. That was the presence of young Leo Goldman in the same company. Leo had been in love with Eleanor even then; the two had met at one of the amateur theatrical clubs which had flourished in New York in the seventies.

  For years, Leo had pursued Eleanor in a good-humored but persistent way, frequently stating his intention of marrying her. And then one day, she realized she had indeed fallen in love with him. Soon after, she told him so.

  It took her a couple of years beyond that to accustom herself to the idea of marriage. Leo talked of it constantly. She joked and fended off his pleas that they visit a justice of the peace in som
e town where they were appearing. She invented reasons why she couldn’t do that.

  Many women in her situation would have worried about marrying Leo because he was a Jew. They’d have fretted about being exposed to the insults and the irrational hatred Jews seemed to inspire. She’d confronted that sort of thing with Leo before, and learned a method of coping with it. And it was nothing—nothing—compared to the fright she felt in connection with her own inadequacy as a woman.

  The inadequacy made her hesitate. She wanted to marry him, she would say, but the time wasn’t right. The frequently repeated excuse had finally provoked an argument during the recent theatrical fiasco in Fort Wayne. Leo was growing impatient; Eleanor realized she’d better say yes or she might lose him. Only that danger enabled her at last to overcome her fear. She flung her arms around Leo and whispered, “Oh, yes, dearest, I’m tired of waiting too. Let’s go to Boston and get married before the year’s over.”

  Thus Eleanor crossed a kind of emotional Rubicon. But even then, the image of the door persisted. Perhaps now it was more important than ever.

  The image was vivid because she had made it so. She had created it. It was of a single door, made of reddish-brown wood heavily decorated with intricate carvings whose subject matter she never got close enough to examine, but which gave her a faintly unclean feeling, somehow. The door hung in a vast, gloomy limbo without a visible source of light. Yet when she approached the door in her imagination, she could see it with a fair degree of clarity. The door was not unlike the one leading into the room where Margaret Kent had hidden from reality during the last years of her life, concealing her alcoholism, her deteriorating mental condition, and the diary in which she recorded all the deceptions she had used to drive a wedge between Gideon and his daughter.