The Seekers (50 page)

“Do you hear me, child?
I said come here.
”

Piggott shuffled out of the shadows, looming in the cross-light from the library. Digging her nails into her palms, Amanda descended the stairs.

Where were the servants? Why had she been caught by herself like this—? Oh, if only she were a witch from Lynn! She’d cast a spell and strike him dead—

At the foot of the stairs, she stopped. He approached, bent down, laid a hand on her forearm. She was certain she was going to faint dead away.

Piggott dropped his hat as he squatted beside her. She wriggled but he wouldn’t release her. He acted quite agitated. “Where is Mrs. Piggott, Amanda?”

“Mama’s gone out.”

He looked relieved. “Do you know where?”

She hesitated before answering. “She didn’t say.”

“You’re lying to me, child.” His fingers tightened. “I want you to tell me where Mrs. Piggott has gone, and how long she’ll be away.”

“I don’t know how long—”

“Ah!” He smiled in a sly way. “But you do know where?”

“No, I—”

“No lies! I am your father, remember.”

“You’re not!” Amanda cried. “You’re not and you never will be! Mama went to Mr. Benbow. About
you!
”

Shrieking the last word, she wrenched free and leaped toward the stairs. Piggott caught her, ripping her silk sash as he dragged her back.

Amanda stumbled, sprawled across the lowest stair. Piggott crouched, clasped both arms around her, pulling her against him. She smelled the bad odor from his mouth, and his cologne, and rum.

“She went to the attorney’s? Why—?
Put your hand down! If you dare strike me
—”

“Mr. Piggott?”

Pinned on the stairs, Amanda saw him go rigid. He released her, leaped up and whirled toward the dim spill of light from the dining room. Amanda recognized Florence, the downstairs maid.

“I heard someone cry out,” Florence said. “Was it you, Miss Amanda?”

“Yes, he—”

“She fell,” Piggott interrupted. “Leave us alone.”

The maid looked uncertain. “But if Miss Amanda’s hurt—”

“I’ll see to the child. Get out of here!”

Florence fled. The door to the kitchen crashed shut, sealing off the light.

Piggott breathed loudly. He leaned toward the ten-year-old girl, cupped a hand beneath the small swell of her right breast. “In other circumstances I’d strip you naked and give you a hiding you wouldn’t forget, my girl—yes, and something else, too.”

Amanda tried to cringe away from him. Away from that wicked, fondling hand. But Piggott was too big. And she was trapped on the stairs, pinned between the man on her left and the wall on her right.

All at once he drew his hand back.

“But I’ve no time. I’m going upstairs for a valise”—Amanda thought the front door had opened; Piggott apparently failed to hear; his voice was very loud—“and if you call the servants or interfere in any way, I’ll punish you as you’ve never been pun—”

“Punish her for what, Andrew?”

He straightened up as if he’d been whipped.

Amanda scrambled past his legs, hurled herself at the dim figure near the front door. “Mama—
Mama!
”

Sobbing, she wrapped her arms around Harriet’s skirt. She felt her mother’s hands on her hair. Those hands trembled almost as badly as her own.

“What was he doing, Amanda?” Harriet asked.

Controlling her tears, Amanda gasped, “Making me tell—where you’d gone.”

“You have some special need to know that, Andrew?”

“None of your damn business, Mrs. Piggott.”

“He said he’s going to pack, Mama—”

“Is that right?”

Harriet approached the foot of the stairs. Piggott had moved up to the fourth riser, an indistinct hulk in the chilly darkness. Some of Amanda’s terror passed, driven out by the strange, almost happy tone of her mother’s voice. “You’re leaving, Andrew? Good. You’ll save me considerable trouble.”

“Trouble? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Legal proceedings.”

“Yes, I heard you’d gone to see that old bastard Benbow—”

“Amanda told you?”

“He forced me, Mama.”

“That’s all right, dear—don’t worry. It’s typical of Mr. Piggott to threaten a child. But we won’t be bothered with him any longer—”

Hugging the wall near the front door, Amanda watched Piggott jump down two steps, whip up his fist. Harriet darted out of range. Piggott called her a filthy name.

“Curse all you want, Andrew. That won’t change anything. I have indeed been to the offices of Benbow and Benbow. I’ve passed certain information about you into their hands—”

“What information?” For the first time, he sounded shaken.

“How you lied to me before our marriage. You’re not from a well-connected family. You never attended any college. You’re a tanner’s boy from South Boston—”

“You set spies on me?”

“Yes, and it was long overdue. This card game that’s occupied you all week—”

“What about it?”

“That too has been observed from the street outside. Women have been seen going in and out of those rented rooms. Women of bad character. I won’t be more specific in Amanda’s presence. But I have ample grounds for a bill of divorcement. Mr. Benbow senior will undertake the suit on my behalf. I have been victimized, Mr. Piggott. Deceived and victimized—”

“It’s no less than you deserve, you harpy!” Piggott roared, darting down the last two steps. Harriet lunged aside as Piggott lashed the air with his fist.

“Get out!” Harriet breathed. “Take your personal belongings and get out of my house. If you try to claim any of my property, Mr. Benbow will have a warrant drawn for your arrest.”

Piggott laughed then, loudly.

“You’ve developed a surprising amount of courage, Mrs. Piggott—”

“Henceforward, my name is Mrs. Kent!”

“Well, that’s all you’ll have
henceforward
—your name. After our—our chat last week, I had a feeling you might go to your lawyer. So I haven’t worried too much about the size of my wagers with the gentlemen from Maryland.”

“The cardplayers—?”

“We started with cards. Then we changed games. We tried a new one just introduced in New Orleans by a young sport named de Mandeville.”

“What has this to do with—?”

“Hear me out, Mrs. Piggott. I want you to hear every detail before I go. The game is played with dice—do you know what dice are, Mrs. Piggott?”

“Of course I do. You will stop calling me—”

“The gentlemen told me the game’s a variation of hazards—very popular in English coffeehouses, where Mr. de Marigny de Mandeville picked it up. The New Orleans gentry call it crapaud, after Johnny Crapaud, which I gather is a scornful name for Creoles. Wouldn’t you like to know how I fared at crapaud, Mrs. Piggott?”

“Damn you,
get out!
” Harriet cried, raising her own hand.

Piggott rushed at her, struck her forearm with his fist. Harriet let out a low cry. Piggott seized and shook her. “You’ll damn me ten times over before this day’s done, woman!” He let go, stood back, his smile vicious. “My luck ran against me. I kept losing. Heavily. But the gentlemen were quite pleasant about it. They accepted my note wagering the assets of Kent’s. They suggested the idea, actually. It didn’t pain me greatly when I lost the final rolls. As I say, ever since our chat, I suspected you were going to act against me—”

In a whisper, Harriet said, “Wait, sir.”

“I suspected some ploy like this bill of divorce. I’m sorry to inform you, madam—”

“Wait. You said the assets of Kent’s—”

“—because of my losses, you no longer own—”

“What assets of Kent’s?”
she screamed. Amanda covered her ears, buried her face against the wall.

The kitchen door banged open again. Amanda heard a scurry of feet as several servants rushed to discover the cause of the new commotion. She wouldn’t uncover her eyes, though. She was too frightened.

Piggott boomed all the louder. “The printing house, woman. The whole goddamned printing house!”

Silence.

Four of the servants watched from the dining room doorway, not daring to speak. Piggott chuckled. “Need I point out that I was still your husband when I signed my note? Your interview with your blasted Mr. Benbow is a mite tardy.”

“You—you lost—?”

“Everything.”

“God in heaven,” Harriet said softly. “Oh dear God in heaven—” Suddenly her head came up. She stalked him. “You did it to spite me. You did it because you knew—”

“Suspected,” Piggott broke in. “Suspected, my dear. Same thing, though, I suppose. There was precious little disappointment in losing what I didn’t own in the first place. But there was a great deal of pleasure, I don’t mind telling you. Of course, if the final rolls had gone the other way, I’d have taken the gentlemen’s money and left here with it. Whichever way the game came out, I’d already decided to leave. I can do so now with immense satisfaction. You’ll have to sell this house. Dismiss these cattle who fawn and wait on you—”

One of the servants, the young gardener, took a step forward. Florence held him back. Harriet began crying. “It isn’t true—”

“It is, and it’s what you deserve.”

“No. It can’t be legal—”

“As legal as the first wager. Entirely legal. If you don’t believe me, go down to Kent and Son this minute. My friends should be there with the same attorney who was engaged after I lost the press playing shemmy. They’re taking possession this very afternoon.”

“You’re lying.
Lying to me
—
!
”

Piggott could no longer contain his rage. He ran at Harriet again. Through fingers pressed over her eyes, Amanda saw the man lift his right arm to his left shoulder, then slash outward with his fist. He struck Harriet’s cheek, a loud, pulping blow.

She fell. Amanda screamed, “Mama—!” and rushed toward her as Piggott roared, “If you don’t believe you’ve nothing left, go down there and see, you fucking bitch!”

The family’s young gardener slipped from the group of servants, flung off Florence’s restraining hand, wiped his fingers on his leather apron. “You’d better take your things out of here quick, Piggott—”

“Put a hand on me and I’ll break your spine,” Piggott said.

The young gardener blinked, hesitated. In that moment, Andrew Piggott spun and ran up the stairs two at a time. His laughter floated behind him, heavy, rich, triumphant.

Amanda pushed past Florence, knelt at her mother’s side. Cheeks wet from crying, she chafed Harriet’s hands. “Mama, get up. Please get up.”

“We’d best help her into the sitting room, Miss Amanda.”

“Yes,” Harriet breathed. “Help me up, Florence—”

Her bonnet fell off as she tried to rise. She clutched the maid’s hand, pulled herself to her feet. Amanda gave her the bonnet. Her eyes widened in surprise as Harriet put the bonnet on, struggled to fasten the ties beneath her chin.

“Come rest, Mama—” Amanda begged.

“I must go to Kent’s. Now. This instant.”

“No, Mama, wait—!”

“This instant!” Harriet repeated, turning and moving unsteadily toward the front door.

She jerked the door open, spilling gray light over the stricken servants and the almost hysterical child. Her step remained unsteady as she descended the front steps and disappeared. A moment later, Amanda heard a heavy rumbling, the snap of a whip, the rattle and ring of shod hoofs on the cobbles—

A shout:
“Watch out, woman!”

The unseen horses neighed wildly. Then, through the open door, Amanda saw them plunge past, pulling a dray loaded with big barrels. The frantic driver was hauling on the reins and jamming a boot against the brake lever—

The wagon shot out of sight, sparks spurting from the rear tires. Dazed, Amanda didn’t immediately understand why the servants gasped and rushed outside. But when the young gardener’s voice drifted from the street—“Christ, save us!”—she realized something terrible had happened.

Amanda slipped through the doorway, blinked and shuddered in the bitter wind sweeping along Beacon Street.

The servants had all left the stoop. She saw them down on the walk, to the left, huddling over someone fallen half into the gutter.

To the right, the dray was stopping; the driver had gotten his frightened team under control. He leaped down, raced back, his leather cap flying off, his boots clattering.

He checked at the edge of the crowd as people appeared from nowhere to surround the servants, hide Amanda’s view of the fallen body—

Her mother. Harriet’s bonnet lay on the sidewalk, stained red.

The dray driver shrank from the hostile eyes of the servants.

“She—she come along the curbstone,” he stammered. “All of a sudden, she—fell right in front of the horses. I couldn’t stop in time—”

Standing abruptly, Florence said, “We must carry her inside.”

“I don’t know,” the young gardener said. “It might hurt her worse to move her—”

Florence cried, “We can’t leave her lying in the cold—on the street—all these people staring—!”

Sounding reluctant, the gardener said, “All right.”

“Is she breathing?” the dray driver asked him.

“Just barely.”

The servants lifted Harriet gently and bore her up the steps into the house. On the stoop, Amanda got a clear view of her mother’s head. It seemed to loll at an odd angle. Her cheeks were bruised and bloodied. Still numb from watching the awful scene with Piggott, Amanda couldn’t quite believe what she saw.

The servants put Harriet in the front sitting room, on blankets spread on the floor. One maid rushed out of the house to fetch a doctor. Then the gardener dashed past Amanda who was watching from the hall, afraid to go in.

The gardener ran upstairs. In a minute or so, he came back swearing. He informed the others that Andrew Piggott had vanished. Out the back way, most likely.

“Why isn’t Mama getting up?” Amanda said in a hushed voice.

The gardener began, “Her neck is—” Florence silenced him with a sharp look.

Then the maid said to Amanda, “She can’t get up, child. She’s hurt. You’d best go to your—”

She broke off as one of the other girls motioned.