The Seekers Page 27

  Stacks of glass-fronted cases displayed all sorts of natural specimens: fossils, feathers, butterflies on pins, dried leaves and pressed plants. Tottering piles of books rose halfway to the ceiling, a huge and varied assortment. There were gazetteers and atlases of the country and the world—once, on a map of Ohio, he had marked a heavy charcoal cross on the approximate spot where his mother had met her death, then gazed at it for a quarter of an hour, and finally wept.

  He had accumulated works of fiction and collections of essays too, including the very first volume ever published by his grandfather, Thomas Paine’s American Crisis papers. On the top of one stack was 1809’s international literary sensation, Diedrich Knickerbocker’s History of New York. The pseudonymous author of the tongue-in-cheek narrative of the early days of New Amsterdam was a New Yorker himself, a Mr. Washington Irving. After hearing of Mr. Irving’s manuscript, Gilbert had taken his private coach nonstop to Irving’s home in an attempt to secure American rights to the work. To his annoyance, he had been outbid by another publisher.

  But Kent’s had scored a march the following year, successfully negotiating a contract to print an American edition of a rousing adventure tale, Scottish Chiefs, written by a woman named Porter. The book had done extremely well, salving Gilbert’s disappointment at failing to land Washington Irving as a house author. Scottish Chiefs lay open on the bed; Jared was reading it for the third time.

  He kindled a fire in the grate. As he finished, he heard Amanda’s step in the hall. He peeked out to see her going down the back stairs, probably to the jakes at the rear of the second floor. She had already changed clothes.

  He flung off his muddied coat, warmed his hands at the flames, reexamining his conviction that he must leave the house, and soon. He found no flaws in the idea—except one.

  Where would he go?

  Unbidden, thoughts of his father came, stirring a deep anguish. He knew so very little about Abraham Kent: that he’d served in the army under Mad Anthony Wayne; that he’d spent a few years in Ohio as a farmer; that he’d brought his son back to Boston after marauding Indians killed his wife. Gilbert hinted that a quarrel with Philip Kent had driven Abraham out of the household the first time—and that a second quarrel with Gilbert himself had been responsible for Abraham’s abrupt departure in 1803.

  Jared’s uncle refused to be explicit about details, but Harriet’s invective made up for that. The boy’s mental portrait of his father showed him a man who had been a failure. His image of his strong-willed mother was similar. Harriet made it clear she saw no hope for their son—and events often seemed to confirm that to Jared.

  More often than not, his impulsiveness landed him in trouble. The little adventure on Dawlish’s roof, for instance: Amanda could have been seriously hurt—

  Perhaps he was destined to fail at everything he tried—and to be carried to that failure by his own temperament. The queer sickness he suffered at the sight of blood came to mind again. If there wasn’t something wrong with him, why was he cursed with such an affliction?

  Absorbed in the melancholy thoughts he was somehow unable to banish, he started at the sound of a voice. “I was informed you had returned, Jared.”

  He turned. His aunt stood in the doorway, the birch rod in one hand.

  “Good evening, Aunt Harriet,” he said politely. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “The door was not quite closed.”

  She proceeded to close it. His heart leaped when she spied his mud-fouled coat lying in a corner. He was let down when the coat failed to keep her attention. “You ordered the ice?”

  Jared studied his aunt a moment. In a way, she was a beauty. Stunningly dark-haired, dark-eyed. But her face lacked the wholesomeness and good humor of Amanda’s. On occasion it was a pinched, mean face—and this was one of the occasions. “I asked you a question. Did you order the ice?”

  “Ten blocks, Aunt Harriet. I did exactly as you instructed.”

  “How unusual.” He glanced pointedly at the stained coat.

  “While you were gone,” she said, “Mr. Tewkes paid a call.”

  He almost crowed with a perverse delight. From a totally unexpected quarter, here was an issue that would serve as well or better than the roof-climbing incident. Silas Tewkes kept a young man’s academy in the North End. There, for a handsome fee from every pupil, the fussy old fellow taught Latin, sums and bits of natural science, history, philosophy and theology. Only the sons of wealthy citizens were welcome as pupils at the private school.

  “Mr. Tewkes!” Jared repeated, rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “That’s a surprise.”

  “Don’t act so cool and innocent! It’s not a surprise at all—you surely know the reason.”

  “I suspect it.”

  “Well, it’s going to earn you the rod.”

  Vastly pleased, Jared said nothing.

  “Jared, it will be less difficult if you admit—”

  “That I didn’t appear for classes Tuesday or Wednesday? Of course I admit it. There was still a little ice on the Charles. I went fishing. Tewkes is a dull old fart.”

  He was delighted at Aunt Harriet’s horrified gasp.

  “You have a filthy mouth, Jared.”

  “I beg your forgiveness.”

  “Don’t mock me!”

  “Aunt Harriet, I’m sorry if I—if—” He could hardly keep from chortling.

  “You dare to laugh! Silas Tewkes is a respected citizen and teacher! You’ve tried him sorely—when you’ve bothered to attend classes. And you’ve been absent repeatedly during the past several weeks, I discovered. He is thinking of dismissing you from the academy.”

  With a grand shrug, Jared said, “That’s a bluff. Tewkes huffs and puffs, but he’ll teach me till I’m a hundred if Uncle Gilbert keeps paying.”

  Harriet Kent tapped the rod against her skirt. “I have yet to report the visit to my husband—”

  Smiling to soften his answer, he said, “I wouldn’t do it. Uncle Gilbert seems in quite a state over these unknown visitors coming tomorrow. Who are they, by the way?”

  “That is none of your concern. I find your defiant attitude intolerable—though not unfamiliar. You’re just like your parents.”

  Here was an old, familiar weapon of attack, one that angered him as no other did. “With all due respect, Aunt Harriet—don’t bring them into this.”

  “You won’t dictate to me what I will or will not discuss!”

  “In this one area, yes, I will. For years I’ve listened to your slurs—”

  “I only tell the truth!” she burst out. “Your father was a weak man. Unwilling to accept the standards of respectable behavior. That destroyed him, you know.”

  Jared’s eyes burned. “The damned—”

  “Stop that foulmouthed talk!”

  “—barbarous west everyone prattles about so glowingly—that destroyed him. Life out there is too hard for some people—”

  Harriet’s cheeks were mottled. She controlled her anger, but with difficulty, and shook her head. “It was his weakness. His weakness made him prey to your mother’s foolish, rebellious—”

  Jared took a step forward. “Don’t say any more.”

  “He took up a life in the west because she demanded it. They did it against all the advices of your grandfather, and she died as a result. Your father paid with his sanity and probably his life too. The night he left this house, he was insanely drunk. Bestial. And you’ve inherited the worst of both—”

  Jared snatched at the rod in Harriet Kent’s hand. Quickly, she retreated toward the marble fireplace. The color deepened in her cheeks. A tremor in her neck gave him a clue to the enjoyment she derived from baiting him.

  For a moment they faced one another, eyes locked. All at once Harriet seemed to realize how tall Jared had grown, almost as tall as she was. Showing him the birch rod, she trembled. “Stand aside. We’ll discuss your parents another time—”

  “We will not discuss them any other time, e
ver.”

  Harriet’s mouth curled. “What a fine, proper boy we’ve raised! What a decent, respectful—”

  A furious wave. “Don’t use that flummery on me!”

  “Flummery, is it—?”

  “I never once begged for your not-so-kind attention!”

  Scathing: “My! You’ve a masterful command of the language—”

  “I haven’t skipped all my classes with that pompous boot-licker.”

  “—but your expensive education seems to have generated no humility. Just the opposite. It’s given you the desire—and the means—to flout your filthy temper and your arrogant views! I have no doubt—”

  “Oh, be quiet, woman!”

  “I have no doubt you’ll ruin yourself the way your father did!”

  His fists clenched at his sides. “I’d rather be ruined, as you call it, than continue to live under the same roof with a mean-spirited bitch like you. Tell your husband that, why don’t you?”

  Harriet Kent whipped up the rod, intending to strike Jared’s cheek. He caught her arm with one hand, seized the rod with the other.

  Stepping back, he broke the rod over his knee and threw the halves onto the flames.

  v

  Ashen, Harriet whispered, “You’re exactly like him! A monster—”

  Jared stepped forward again, so close to her that he was overpowered by the citrus scent she wore. He fought to keep his hands at his sides. “If you speak one more word about him—”

  Harriet dodged toward the door. “We’re finished with words, Master Jared. I’ll see you get your wish. I’ll have you out of this house!”

  Jared Adam Kent beamed. “That would suit me admirably. Admirably!”

  The door crashed shut.

  He stared at it, the smile and the cocky feeling draining away all at once. He had widened the gulf, exactly as he’d planned. But it was less satisfying than he’d expected. Having given cruelty for cruelty, he felt unclean.

  Sinking down on the bed, he held his head with both hands. The break had come sooner than he might have wished. But he’d been unable to control himself during the argument. That was disturbing—

  Again the secret doubts swept over him. He wondered bitterly whether Harriet could be right. Was he taking the same kind of rash step his father had, at his mother’s insistence? He’d heard it said that their confidence in their ability to survive in the west had been ill-founded. The results were death for Jared’s mother—guilt and ruin for Abraham Kent—

  Would he fail the same way? The fear of it grew consuming all at once—

  And a distorted memory of his sickness when he stared at his own scraped hand seemed to turn the fear to a certainty.

  Head starting to throb, he realized it was a little late for second thoughts about his decision. Fear or not, he’d have to face the consequences of the stormy scene just concluded. He must begin to think—and immediately—of a place to go. He had to be ready when Aunt Harriet spoke to Uncle Gilbert, and Uncle Gilbert spoke to him—

  He needed a destination—a means of escape—something!

  The muddy coat forgotten, he leaned on the mantel and stared into the flames.

  No answer came.

  Chapter II

  A Mackerel by Moonlight

  i

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, JARED delayed his arrival at breakfast as long as possible.

  Normally, the first meal of the Sabbath would have been served early, to permit the family to attend church. This particular Sunday it was rescheduled for the regular weekday hour—ten o’clock. Church was forgotten.

  Jared felt intense relief as he entered the dining room. Uncle Gilbert was in his customary place, but Aunt Harriet was absent. He heard her out in the kitchen, shrilly warning the servants not to damage the Spode as they washed it.

  So the best porcelain was to be set, eh? It was one more indication of the importance of the evening dinner party.

  Uncle Gilbert sat at the head of the table, wearing a threadbare dressing gown and slippers. Harriet often complained about Gilbert’s casual morning attire. Once Jared had heard his uncle reply that if a dressing gown and slippers were suitable for President Jefferson to wear while answering knocks at the door of the executive residence in Washington, he could dress the same way in his home with no loss of status. Harriet Kent used the word status often, with complete seriousness. When Gilbert used it, he did so jokingly.

  “Good morning, Jared.”

  “Morning, sir.”

  “Sleep soundly?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  Gilbert’s breakfast, hardly touched, was his customary slice of salt fish, piece of cornbread and glass of whiskey and water. At one side of the plate lay two piles of manuscript. The dark-haired, ascetic-looking owner of Kent and Son resumed reading. When he finished the page, he picked up his fork, absently ate a small bite of fish, glanced again over the top of his spectacles at his nephew, seated now. But he said nothing.

  Gilbert looked almost as uncomfortable as Jared felt. His uncle took longer than usual arranging his fork, knife and spoons on his plate, the signal that he’d concluded his meal. He wiped his mouth and his hands on the hem of the tablecloth; utensils had made napkins unnecessary.

  He coughed. Reached out, tugged the bellpull. Finally, fixing Jared with dark eyes made large by his spectacles, he brought up the subject the boy was dreading. “You and I must have a conversation.”

  Jared wanted to be polite, but not overly defensive. “I’m sorry I lost my temper with Aunt Harriet yesterday. She said unkind things about my father and mother.”

  Gilbert frowned. “She also said you were ready to strike her—which cannot under any circumstances be allowed or forgiven.”

  “Actually it was the other way around. She was going to strike me.”

  Expressionless, Gilbert digested that. Then: “You’ve absented yourself from the academy twice this week, I hear.”

  “Aunt Harriet keeps you well informed, I hear.”

  Gilbert sighed, refusing to be baited by the bitter echo of his own words.

  “She does. But even without that, your unhappiness lately has been quite evident. We must do something about it. Having said all I’m going to on the incident yesterday—specifically, that I won’t tolerate a repetition—I’m prepared to sit down with you and discuss what’s best for your future. I suggest we talk as soon as possible. This evening—after our guests depart.”

  “I’ll be glad to, sir.”

  Jared could never stay angry at his uncle longer than a second or two. Gilbert’s nature was essentially kind.

  Not that he lacked strength of will. Jared knew he had that, in plenty. A weak man couldn’t run a firm as large as Kent and Son successfully.

  Yet Gilbert seldom raised his voice. Quiet reasonableness and a firm tone lent him just as much authority as bullying. Or more. Most people respected Gilbert’s strength, no matter how they felt about his politics. And Jared knew better than to take Gilbert’s mild warning about quarreling lightly.

  In an effort to lighten the mood, he said, “May I ask who you’re entertaining tonight, sir? From all the secrecy, I’ve wondered if it’s someone who shouldn’t be seen here.” He forced a smile. “Mad old King George? Prinny?”

  “The King and his dissolute son the prince-regent would be publicly welcomed in Boston,” Gilbert said, returning the smile. “But they’d hardly call on us. I’m afraid I’m pledged not to reveal the names of our guests until they’ve left the city. You and Amanda will be served dinner upstairs, by the way.”

  Jared wanted to question his uncle further, but a serving girl entered, bringing his breakfast. It was the same as Gilbert’s except for the beverage. Since his twelfth birthday, he’d been permitted beer in the morning instead of cider.

  Gilbert returned to his reading while Jared picked at his food. A few moments later, Harriet came in from the kitchen, carrying a highly polished spittoon.

  After a caustic glance at Jared, she
paced around the table, searching for a place to put the gleaming brass pot.

  “Really, Gilbert, you’re occupying this room much too long,” she said. “The girls need to begin preparing the table.”

  Gilbert sighed, removed his spectacles. “I’ll take my manuscript to the library.” He started to consolidate the two piles of paper.

  “Why a respectable house must provide a place for men to spit their filthy tobacco is beyond me,” Harriet complained, finally putting the spittoon beside the wall near the head of the table.

  “There are spittoons all over Washington, my dear,” Gilbert said. “The fad is spreading to some of the best homes in Boston.”

  “Not to ours, I trust! I never fancied I’d be forced to entertain one of those barbarous Kentuckians—”

  Jared’s hand went rigid, the fork halfway to his mouth. Hurriedly, he swallowed the bite, pretending not to see Gilbert frown slightly, and purse his lips. His glance at his wife, mild enough, still carried unmistakable warning.

  Annoyed by the silent reproof, Harriet flounced out.

  Jared’s mind was afire with curiosity. A Kentuckian coming to dinner? Who could it possibly be? He determined to find out.

  All at once his eye darted to a corner of the dining room. There right in front of him was the way to learn the identity of his uncle’s guests—

  “Finish quickly, Jared,” Gilbert said as he left. “The day is going to be difficult enough, so try not to supply extra inducements for your aunt to fly into a temper.”

  He didn’t act angry, merely resigned. Jared listened to the slow shuffle of his uncle’s slippers as he proceeded to the library.

  Gilbert did, however, shut the doors with a bang.

  ii

  Gilbert Kent had always been a devoted student of the thinking and the habits of the former president, Mr. Jefferson. At considerable cost, he had copied one of the mechanical innovations the Virginian had installed at Monticello: a dumbwaiter.