The Seekers (6 page)

“Yes, Papa?” Abraham said.

Philip continued to scrutinize his older son. There was something a bit forbidding in that stare, Abraham thought.

Or was that only his imagination? His guilt? In the short time he’d been back in Boston, he had seen Philip but briefly; the inevitable subject of Abraham’s future hadn’t yet arisen.

At last Philip spoke. “You favored us with some interesting accounts of your time in the west. But you’ll forgive me if I observe that very little of what you’ve said is anything more than superficial.”

Abraham frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Well, for instance—during the charge, were you frightened?”

Peggy clasped her hands together. “Oh dear, Philip, must he answer? You’ve a way of tossing people straight onto the griddle with your, questions.”

“My thought exactly!” Elizabeth agreed.

Her words drew a frown from Philip. But that wasn’t all. “Young woman, I believe I’ve made it abundantly clear that you have a great many thoughts of which I don’t approve.” His glance leaped to his wife. “Have you seen to the disposal of that trashy novel Elizabeth brought into the house?”

“Yes, she did,” Elizabeth said, angry. With a slight turn of his head, Abraham saw the fire in the girl’s blue eyes. Almost reckless, those eyes. An inheritance from her father, the family had long ago concluded—

Elizabeth’s father had been a Virginia gentleman of good background but poor character. On the rare occasions when he was discussed in the Kent house, it was said that he’d been given to heavy drinking, and furious rages. Now Elizabeth showed more of that inheritance. She pouted, struck the table with one dainty fist.

“I should think, at seventeen, I might read what I please.”

“Not Mrs. Rowson’s sinful novel,” Philip declared. “
Charlotte Temple
is sentimental tripe. It dwells excessively on seduction, and is therefore unfit for young women of breeding. The book may have enjoyed a vogue in England. But I refused the opportunity—if you care to call it that—to bring it out in America under the Kent imprint. That summarizes my opinion, I believe.” He addressed his wife again. “Is it gone?”

Peggy smiled a tolerant smile. “Yes, what Elizabeth told you is correct—I’ve seen to it.”

“Good.”

Abraham kept a straight face. The little dialogue just concluded only demonstrated again the thickness of the shell of conservatism that had hardened around his father in the latter’s advancing years.

Philip said, “Now, Abraham, back to the question—which I didn’t mean unkindly, by the way.”

“I realize, sir.”

“A man who goes into battle without fear is the worst sort of fool.”

“Then, happily, I guess I’ll escape that label. I was terrified.”

Gilbert’s worshipful expression vanished. “You were?”

“Of course. At the same time, I still wanted to do well—wanted to acquit myself honorably.” That pleased Philip. “But after ten minutes in the thick of the fighting, I’d frankly had enough to last me the rest of my life. I discovered there’s nothing pleasant or uplifting about killing another human being.”

“Yes, I discovered the same thing. On several occasions,” Philip added, letting it go at that.

Abraham naturally knew most of the details of his father’s history. Philip Kent had emigrated from England before the Revolution, as a result of trouble over an inheritance from his father—an English peer dead almost six years now. The duke had never married Philip’s mother, a French woman of great beauty but low birth who had been an actress in Paris for a time. Philip frequently intimated that he’d had to defend his own life more than once in the uncertain years before he gave his wholehearted support to the cause of the Boston patriots. Philip’s struggle for survival as a young man—and perhaps his bastardy—explained to Abraham why his father had acquired an aura of confidence, power, even arrogance that often intimidated others of his sex—his sons included.

Not that Philip was overtly truculent. The quiet air of absolute authority was simply part of his makeup. It showed in the challenging quality of his next remark. “You’ve decided that soldiering is not a career you’d want to pursue, then?”

Abraham nodded. “Very definitely.”

“So that leaves your future open to discussion. Excellent.”

Abraham tried not to show how great an impact those words had on him. He felt as if a huge weight, long suspended over his head, had crushed down on him at last. He’d known he couldn’t indefinitely postpone talking about what he intended to do now that he was home. Philip had just made that doubly clear.

But Gilbert didn’t want to abandon war stories quite so quickly. The adoring look stole back into his eyes as he said to his half brother, “How many of the red men did you kill, Abraham?”

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t you count?”

“No,” Abraham answered, curtly. He saw agonized faces, heard screams—

Elizabeth tossed her fair hair. “I’d like to know which is more immoral—Mrs. Rowson’s novel of seduction or all this gory talk of slaughtering Indians!”

Philip shot the girl another irritated glance. Peggy, always the mistress of tact and diplomacy, rose from her chair before he could speak.

“Neither is appropriate at the moment, my dears. I’m sure the servants are anxious to clear away. Shall we take tea in the music room? Abraham, you haven’t heard Gilbert play the harpsichord—”

Gilbert made a disgusted face.

“I’m looking forward to it,” Abraham said.

“You’ll be delightfully surprised. Gilbert can perform most of the hymns and fugues in Mr. Belcher’s
Harmony of Maine.
Or any of Mr. Kimball’s popular songs from
The Rural Harmony
—he’s really quite accomplished.”

Philip stood up. “I prefer that Gilbert concentrate on his study of mathematics. If he continues to show the aptitude he’s demonstrated so far, our business will never lack for managerial talent. In fact I’ve given some thought to having the sign repainted.”

Peggy looked startled. “In what fashion?”

“So that it reads
Kent and Sons
—plural.” With affection, Philip reached out to tousle Gilbert’s curly hair. For a moment his stern countenance softened noticeably.

Gilbert smiled in a forced way. He appeared to accept the channeling of his life into a predetermined course with almost complete resignation. But he grew a little more cheerful when Philip said to him: “Let us postpone the concert, shall we?”

“Anything you say, Father!”

“Why can’t Gilbert play?” Peggy asked.

“Because I want a word with Abraham alone—over a glass of port in the sitting room.”

Again it was more of a command than a statement, and it didn’t sit well with Abraham, rankled as he was by Philip’s remark about renaming the firm. Elizabeth rebelled too, though against something else.

“I despise this ridiculous tradition of the gentlemen retiring behind closed doors!” She rose, flinging her linen napkin on the table. “Mama and I are expected to be docile slaves simply because of our sex—”

“Elizabeth!” Peggy warned. “You will refrain from the use of that word in conversation.”

“Oh, Mama, stop!”

Peggy glanced pointedly at Gilbert. “Please consider who is present—”

“Do you honestly suppose Gilbert hasn’t seen the dogs coupling in every alley in Boston?”

“Of course I have.” Gilbert grinned.

Already scarlet, Peggy gasped, “Young man—!”

“This pious sham of not using certain words is disgusting!” Elizabeth cried.

Philip’s eyes were thunderous—like his voice:

“Nevertheless, you will not use them in Gilbert’s presence—your mother’s presence—or mine! This is my house, and it’s my decision.”

“Yes, you make all the decisions, don’t you?”

“See here—!”

“You also make it quite apparent that I’m an outsider.”

“Oh, Elizabeth, that’s altogether unfair and unwarranted,” Peggy said in a saddened tone.

“Is it? I don’t believe so!”

The candles in the chandelier put glistening highlights in Elizabeth’s pale blue eyes. Yet Abraham had the uncanny feeling that her tears were artifice. If so, they still worked.

Philip looked taken aback. “My dear child, your mother’s quite right. You’re as much a part of this family circle as any other person at the table. But the fact remains—you’re much too forward and free-thinking.”

“I suppose next you’ll be calling me a mad, bloodthirsty Jacobin!” Elizabeth wailed, starting to rush out. As she left, she contrived to brush against Abraham. His arm tingled at the touch of her muslin-covered breast.

They all listened to Elizabeth clattering away upstairs to her room just down the hall from Abraham’s on the third floor. A door slammed distantly. Philip sighed. Then: “Peggy, will you please go to her? She continues to harbor the misguided notion that because I’m not her father, I care the less for her.”

Peggy said softly, “We both know that’s not true.”

“At the same time, I demand decent behavior. Elizabeth quite often seems totally incapable of it.”

“She just doesn’t want to grow up and be ladylike,” Gilbert said with a tentative smile.

No one responded. His large eyes lost their glow. His face fell.

Abraham knew full well that the problem was much deeper than Gilbert’s oversimplification suggested. Elizabeth bore her father’s last name, Fletcher. That she was illegitimate was no secret within the Kent family. The circumstances of her conception, however, were largely unclear to Abraham.

He did know that his stepmother had met Philip only after she had placed her infant daughter in a foster home here in Boston. Evidently Peggy hadn’t wanted to expose the child—and herself—to scandal in her native Virginia. Beyond that, Abraham had pieced together certain other information from chance remarks at the family table or hearthside:

Peggy’s first husband had been a Virginia planter named McLean. He was butchered in a short but apparently harrowing slave rebellion that swept Peggy’s home district along the Rappahannock River in 1775. Elizabeth, born in 1778, had therefore been fathered by this Fletcher fellow after Peggy became a widow.

Sometimes Abraham wondered whether that slave uprising might be the cause of the silent grief that seemed to grip his stepmother occasionally. Walking abroad in Boston, he had seen Peggy turn pale at the sight of a free black man.

Philip had once confided to Abraham that Peggy had indeed suffered physical harm in the rebellion. To what extent, he didn’t say. Abraham had speculated on the possibility of rape. That would account for Peggy’s pallor and the sudden nervous starts which automatically—and unfairly—lumped all Negroes into a single category: persons to be feared.

If Peggy Ashford McLean Kent’s past did include ravishment, how it had affected her intimate relationship with Abraham’s father remained a mystery. He knew they shared one large bed. And his stepmother hadn’t been so devastated that sexual congress was impossible for her. Gilbert was proof of that. Beyond the obvious, however, Abraham didn’t deem it his business—or, to use Philip’s word, decent—to speculate.

He did know that no children had come of Peggy’s union with the murdered McLean. Growing up, he’d asked his father questions about the whole puzzling business. Philip refused to reply to most of them, stating that he did so out of respect for his wife’s wishes. The past was buried and would remain so.

No one was forbidden from talking about Elizabeth’s real father—though no one dwelled on him especially either. Over the years, Peggy had let slip a few tantalizing details about the man. The one mentioned most often—and most proudly—was that he had been shot to death in Pittsburgh in 1778, by an Indian spy attempting to abort George Rogers Clark’s march to capture British forts in the Northwest Territory.

It seemed clear that the man had indeed possessed an unstable nature. It showed up, as it had for as long as Abraham could remember, in Elizabeth’s dislike of Philip’s discipline, and her occasional outright rebellion against it. That was one thing in the household that hadn’t changed in Abraham’s absence—even though Elizabeth’s appearance had changed remarkably. She had quite literally grown up. Filled out. Become almost beautiful.

She was no blood kin of Abraham’s. Yet he still felt vaguely guilty over the sensual thoughts she inspired. Her frank glances had stirred him often during the short time he’d been home.

Responding to Philip’s request, Peggy said in a weary tone, “Yes, I’ll go to her—though I doubt my admonitions will have much effect. They seldom do any more. Gilbert, you see to finishing your studies for the day.”

Gilbert stuck out his lower lip. “I’d rather talk to Abraham about Indians.”

“Your brother is going to talk to me,” Philip said, starting from the dining room. With each step, his right shoulder drooped a little—the result of the wound he had suffered at the battle of Monmouth Court House. The way he had limped ever since had also played a part in making him an assertive, sometimes domineering man, Abraham suspected.

Reluctantly he followed his father into the front sitting room. Servants had already lit a fire against the December darkness. Philip warmed his hands in front of the blaze. He didn’t once glance back to see whether Abraham had followed. He expected Abraham to be there, and Abraham was.

Over the mantel hung a long, beautifully polished and oiled Kentucky rifle that Philip had acquired in the war. Above that, a focal point of the room, shone the grenadier’s sword given him by Lafayette. They had known each other as young men in the French province of Auvergne; then, Philip’s name had been Phillipe Charboneau. He had adopted his new one on the voyage to America.

Gazing at the sword, Abraham recalled what his father had recently told him about its famous donor. At first a supporter of the French Revolution, the Marquis de Lafayette had lately rebelled against the savagery of the Jacobins. He was now imprisoned somewhere in Europe—Prussia or Austria, Philip believed. It was an irony of the great political upheaval that had polarized not only Europe but the United States that Lafayette, finally rejecting the revolution, had still been clapped into irons by its enemies because of his position before he changed his mind.