Back Bay

by William Martin

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Mysteries

Synopsis

INSTANT NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER

"A rip-roaring page turner. A perfect read!" -Boston Globe

Meet the Pratt clan. Driven men. Determined women. Through six turbulent generations, they would pursue a lost Paul Revere treasure. And turn a family secret into an obsession that could destroy them. Here is the novel that launched William Martin's astonishing literary career and became an instant bestseller. From the grit and romance of old Boston to exclusive-and dangerous-Back Bay today, this sweeping saga paints an unforgettable portrait of a powerful dynasty beset by the forces of history...and a heritage of greed, lust, murder and betrayal.

Release date: April 30, 2013

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 480

Sample

October 1789

Horace Taylor Pratt pulled a silver snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket and placed it on the table in front of him. He hated snuffboxes. They were small, delicate, and nearly impossible for a man with one arm to open. Whenever he fumbled for snuff, Pratt cursed the two-armed world that conspired against him, but when he wanted a clear head, he had to have snuff. This evening, he wanted wits as sharp as a glasscutter.

He slid the box open, took a pinch of black powder, and brought it to his nose.

“Father!” The young voice cracked, and Pratt turned to his son, a handsome boy of thirteen. “You’re not going to sneeze in the presence of his majesty, are you, Father?”

Pratt looked around, his fingers poised theatrically just below his left nostril. “Majesty? I see no king, Horace.”

Two hundred of Boston’s most prominent citizens sat with the Pratts at a great, three-sided banquet table in Faneuil Hall. The gentlemen were dressed in their finest satins, brocades, broadcloths, and silks. The table was covered in Irish linen and laden with fruits and cheeses. Candles glowed against October’s early dusk. John Hancock’s personal stock of port filled crystal stemware. The guest of honor, seated between John Adams and Governor Hancock, was America’s most royal figure.

“I mean His Presidency.” Young Horace looked toward the middle of the table, where a hulking man with powdered hair chewed on a piece of cheddar while Hancock and Adams conversed around him. “You can’t take snuff in front of George Washington.”

Pratt leaned close to his son and whispered, “He looks rather bored sitting between those two Massachusetts magpies. I daresay he’d love a dash of snuff himself right now.”

Pratt inhaled the tobacco and took another pinch in his right nostril. He closed his eyes. He felt the tingle spread through his sinuses. His mouth opened, his back stiffened, and he reached for his handkerchief. Before he could cover his face, the sneeze burst out of him, and Washington jumped as though startled by a British musket. Pratt sneezed again, more violently. Conversation stopped all about the room. John Adams shot an angry glance at Pratt. Young Horace slumped in his chair and counted the stitches on the hem of the tablecloth. Pratt sneezed once more, a final, satisfied bark. Then he blew his nose and looked around. Every eye was on him.

When Horace Taylor Pratt wanted attention, no discreet clearing of the throat or subtle shuffling of the feet would do. He glanced toward the center of the table. Washington was still staring in his direction, and John Adams’s bald head was blushing crimson, the color of Washington’s satin frock.

Pratt stood quickly. “Before John Adams, in the high dudgeon for which he is famous, chides me for taking a bit of snuff, let me propose a toast.” He lifted his glass. “To the health of our Federal Republic and its new President.”

“Hear, hear,” grunted Mather Byles, the old Tory minister seated next to Pratt.

John Hancock raised his glass. John Adams lifted his crankily. And the gentlemen of Boston toasted the President.

Then Washington stood slowly and raised his glass to Pratt. “To you, Mr….”

“Pratt. Horace Taylor Pratt.”

“To you, Mr. Pratt, and to all your peers in Boston. We certainly hope that your snuff comes from fine Virginia tobacco.” Washington smiled, and everyone else laughed politely.

Pratt had introduced himself to the President. When he spoke out later, Washington would know him. He finished his wine and sat down as conversation began again in the banquet hall.

“I must offer Mr. Washington some of my English snuff after the ceremony,” whispered Pratt to his son.

“English snuff?”

Mather Byles leaned into the conversation. “Your father may have bad manners, Horace, but he has excellent taste in snuff.”

“The English know how to make it,” explained Pratt, “along with most other things.”

“You have such admiration for British craftsmanship,” said Byles, “I sometimes wonder that you weren’t a Tory.”

“Reverend, fourteen years ago, the British Crown stood between me and a fortune. Had men like me remained loyal, the British would still be here, and I’d still be poor.”

“You’d still have your left arm.”

“A small price to pay.” Pratt smiled, but he showed no pleasure. His deep-set eyes and prominent nose gave him the look of a predator, a man who never rested. Although he was only thirty-nine, his gaunt frame had already begun to bow and his hair showed considerably more gray than black.

Byles looked at the empty sleeve. “You never know when you might need two arms, Horace.”

“My son is my left arm, Reverend, stronger and more reliable than my own limb.” Pratt wrapped his right arm around the boy’s shoulders.

Byles looked at young Horace. “Does the boy enjoy being one of his father’s extremities?”

Horace didn’t notice the sarcasm. “I’m a Pratt, Reverend. One day, I’ll take my place at the head of Pratt Shipping and Mercantile. It is in my best interest to help my father in whatever way I can.”

“The warmest of filial sentiments,” said Byles.

The sound of silver tapping gently on a crystal wineglass interrupted the conversation. John Hancock was ringing for quiet.

“Watch closely,” whispered Pratt to his son. “Your lesson for today is about to begin.”

“Mr. President and gentlemen,” began Hancock, “you will forgive me for not standing, but the gout keeps me in my chair.”

“Three days ago, Hancock was strutting around like one of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers,” whispered Byles. “He has no gout.”

“The silly ass is play-acting,” said Pratt. “When the presidential entourage arrived, Hancock wouldn’t visit Washington until Washington visited him. Some foolishness about the governor being sovereign in the state and the President merely his guest. Washington would have none of it and browbeat Hancock into paying the first call. To save his pampered face, Hancock announced that he was indisposed because of the gout. He had his feet wrapped in bandages, ordered three men to carry him to his carriage, and then from his carriage into the President’s lodgings, where he visited Washington like some Catholic martyr.”

“And the charade continues,” said Byles.

“Aye. He wouldn’t visit Washington’s living quarters, but now he’s about to kiss Washington’s hindquarters.”

Hancock was reaching one of the flourishes in his speech. “It is being said, Your Excellency, that men from Massachusetts and men from Virginia led the Revolution, and together we will lead a new nation into the nineteenth century. Let it be so. From the South will come abundant food and raw materials. From the shores of New England will venture forth the bravest merchant fleet the world has ever seen. And the commerce of the nation will thrive.”

The businessmen in the hall, most of them certain that Hancock was referring to the brave fleets in which they had interest, applauded his vision. Hancock accepted the ovation as a tribute to his eloquence, nodded his thanks like a gracious monarch, and allowed the applause to last a reasonable length of time before tapping his wineglass again. “Gentlemen, thank you. Your generosity is too great.”

“It most certainly is,” squawked Pratt, and once again everyone was looking in his direction.

“Excuse me, Mr. Pratt?” Hancock did not like to be interrupted.

“I was agreeing with you, sir. Please go on.”

Hancock glared at Pratt, whose gaze never wavered, then he continued. “You were last here, Mr. President, in 1776. When you drove the British from Boston on that day in March, you also drove from our midst Tories and British sympathizers who preferred rule by a monarch to government by their peers.” Hancock sounded to Pratt as though he were trying to rouse the populace against a Royalist uprising. “Those who fled left behind homes and property which the state confiscated and sold to pay for its war effort.”

“Most commendably, I might add,” said Washington.

“Thank you, sir. However, we retained a store of Tory gold and silver, some of it in plate, some of it in unworked form. For several years, we were at odds over its best use.”

“I agree with that as well,” announced Pratt, but Hancock ignored him.

“Now, Your Excellency, as a gift from the people of Boston to the new government, as a sign of goodwill from the businessmen of Boston to the new President, this precious metal has taken form sublime. To present it, I introduce a great patriot, a master craftsman, and your fellow Freemason, Paul Revere.”

Although Pratt couldn’t stand him, Paul Revere was among the most respected men in Boston, and his peers greeted him warmly. He wore a brown broadcloth frock, tan breeches, and waistcoat. At fifty-four, he looked as solid, prosperous, and handsome as his own best work. He bowed to the President, then gestured to a servant, who wheeled a cart into the middle of the room.

“Welcome back to Boston, Mr. President.”

“It’s a pleasure I’ve long awaited, Mr. Revere.”

“It’s our pleasure, as well, sir.” Revere rarely spoke in public and spent no further time on introductions. “Now, Mr. President, it is my honor to present to you and the American people a gift which it has been my greatest honor to create.” Revere nodded to the servant, who removed the velvet cover from the cart. “The Golden Eagle Tea Set.”

For a moment, there was silence. Even Horace Taylor Pratt was dazzled. The tea set seemed to vibrate in the candlelight as though it had been touched by St. Elmo’s fire. The men of Boston were transfixed.

Revere had created thirty-one pieces of flawless silver in the Federal style: a majestic coffee urn with an ivory handle, a paneled teapot, creamer, sugar urn, wastebowl, tea tongs, serving tray, and twenty-four spoons. Expanses of shimmering silver, graceful lines, and delicate engravings offset the central decoration, America’s coat of arms. On each upright piece, a small golden eagle, talons clutching arrows and olive branch, eyes ablaze with pride, spread its wings against a background of silver.

Finally, someone whispered, “Bravo!” and the applause burst forth.

“The inscription”—Revere began to speak over the ovation—“the inscription on the urn reads ‘To President G. Washington, on the Occasion of His Visit to Boston, October 29, 1789. In Commemoration of His Victorious Siege of Boston, Ended March 17, 1776.’ We hope that this tea set will remain in the President’s House for generations to come as a reminder of our esteem for George Washington.”

Washington stood and bowed deeply. “I accept this work of art with the deepest humility and gratitude. I am honored.”

Adams rose and began a toast: “To our President and to Paul Revere…”

A single fist pounded into the table like a sledgehammer. Horace Taylor Pratt leaped to his feet, shrieking, “Seek the high ground, Mr. President! The enemy has surrounded you!”

“That man is out of order!” barked Adams.

“I will have my say!” Pratt slammed his fist on the table again.

“Be careful, Pratt. That’s how you lost the other arm,” cracked Byles.

Pratt ignored the nervous laughter that skittered across the room. “The hypocrites are praising your name, they’re fawning at your feet, and they’ll have their hand out to you in the morning!”

“Are you referring to the gentlemen of Boston, sir?” asked Washington.

“I’m referring to the men in this room, and damn few of them are gentlemen!”

Hancock jumped up like a dockhand in a tavern brawl. “Least of all yourself, Pratt!”

“A miraculous cure, Mr. Hancock?” Washington’s voice dripped bile.

Hancock remembered his bandaged feet and sat quickly. “Such words are hard to bear, Mr. President.”

“The truth always is, sir,” yelled Pratt. “You have no gout, and that tea set is no memorial to Mr. Washington.”

“This is an outrage!” boomed Henry Knox, Secretary of War.

Pratt’s hand shot toward the tea set. “That is an outrage!”

“If Mr. Pratt sees no gentlemen in the room, perhaps by example he could show us the look of one!” cried Revere.

At the sound of the silversmith’s voice, Pratt seemed to grow several inches in every direction. “You dare ask me to act like a gentleman? You see this, sir?” He began to wave his stump in the air. It was one of his favorite tricks. “I once had an arm, a hand, and fingers just like yours, but I lost them and a brother at Bunker Hill. You escaped the Revolution with nothing but a few saddle sores, yet you have the gall to ask me to act like a gentleman! When I am confronted by hypocrisy and stupidity, I do not act like a gentleman!”

“We have had enough of this rubbage!” announced Adams. He called for the guards, and three soldiers appeared at the back of the hall. Adams pointed to Pratt. “Remove this man at once.”

“There is no need to remove anyone,” said Washington.

“Mr. President, this man is speaking slander on everyone in this room,” charged Adams.

“He is speaking an opinion, sir. He has the right to be heard.” Before Adams could respond, Washington turned to Pratt. “Without undue display or unfair interruption, say your piece.”

Pratt smiled and bowed. Just as he had hoped, he had Washington’s support, and he had everyone else angry. “Thousands of dollars have been spent on that tea set, sir. Public money that might have been used to ease the burden of heavy taxes on men like me, or to help the farmers who rebelled with Colonel Shays, or to erect new buildings at Harvard College.”

Hancock slammed his hand down on the table. “Mr. President, I must interrupt—”

“We will hear the man out,” said Washington firmly.

Pratt was enjoying himself now. He glanced at young Horace, whose eyes shifted nervously from his father to the President. Pratt winked, and the boy looked again at the hem of the tablecloth. Pratt would explain it all later.

“Look around you, Mr. President,” he continued. “You see nothing but Yankee businessmen and merchants, tightfisted citizens who give nothing away without expecting something in return.”

“And in return for the tea set?” asked Washington.

Pratt took a deep breath. He was about to tap the anger of every man in the room. “They expect favors from the new government.”

“Why, that’s absurd!” announced Hancock, as he gestured for more port.

Now, Pratt ignored the Governor. “New England is the seat of American shipbuilding. The men of Boston hope their gift will put them in favor when it comes time to build warships for the new navy.”

“Mr. President,” protested Revere, “I donated my time with no ulterior motives whatsoever.”

“Certainly not,” shouted Pratt. “Your motive is clear. If the government smiles upon you, Revere and Son will make the spikes and sheathings and cast the cannon for the new frigates!”

Andrew Cabot, shipper and Revolutionary privateer, rose in anger. “Mr. President, this man makes a mockery of these proceedings.”

Pratt laughed at Cabot. “The new government may consider imposing tariffs and duties on men like you and me, unless we appeal to its head with silver tea sets.”

Two more stood to decry him, and Pratt could see the indignation rising like a spring tide.

“I am an architect,” announced Charles Bulfinch. “Am I seeking personal gain by showing my esteem for our President?”

“New York City will not be our capital forever, sir. Perhaps the President will give you the chance to deface a new city with your monstrosities.”

Elias Haskett Derby, another shipper and one of Pratt’s chief competitors, spoke out. “Mr. President, I beg hearing. Horace Taylor Pratt is not representative of the merchants of Boston.”

Others shouted their support of Derby, but Washington would not intervene. After two weeks on his inaugural tour, after two days of parades and tribute in Boston, he was finding this little controversy most amusing. He looked toward Pratt.

“I buy goods. I ship goods. I make money. Just like Mr. Derby,” said Pratt. “But I curry favor with no man.”

“Least of all the men in this room,” cracked John Adams.

“Least of all the Vice-President.” Pratt leveled his gaze on Adams and felt the anger overflow all around him.

“Dammit, Pratt!” Samuel Adams took the floor. He was the elder cousin of the Vice-President, the elder statesman of Massachusetts. “You’re a disgrace. A damnable disgrace, and I demand an apology right now.” He looked at Washington. “President’s banquet or not, no man worth his salt ought to sit here and take this!”

“Hear, hear!” Andrew Cabot turned to Samuel Adams and began to applaud. The President’s banquet erupted in ovation for Adams, in cries for Pratt’s apology. Men pounded the table and stomped their feet like Colonials confronting the British tax collector. John Adams studied the floor and waited for the noise to end, while Hancock rang so hard on his wineglass that it shattered in his lap. Through it all, Washington stood, arms folded and face impassive, as though he expected every banquet in his honor to end with such display.

In an attitude of supreme disdain, Pratt fixed his eyes on the brass chandelier above his head and put his hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy did not understand his father’s anger, but he felt the pride and defiance in his father’s grip. Instinctively, he stood.

The outcry reached its crescendo and quickly abated. Silence expanded to fill Faneuil Hall.

John Adams placed hand on hip and stood like a shopkeeper waiting for payment past due. “Your apology, sir.”

Pratt bowed to the Vice-President and then to Washington. “I apologize for nothing.”

Washington smiled. “With such temperament among the citizenry, small wonder that the Revolution started in Boston.”

“I await the President’s decision,” responded Pratt.

“Mr. Pratt,” said the President after some time, “the gentlemen in this hall, yourself included, are patriots. They would not seek favor through a silver tea set, and you insult us by suggesting that we would bestow favors for any reason. This tea set may be an extravagance, but as Mr. Adams and Mr. Hamilton have counseled, we must retain the trappings of royalty in order to establish our sovereignty in the eyes of Europe. I shall take this tea set to the President’s Residence, and I shall leave it when my term ends.”

The gentlemen of Boston applauded as delicately as maidens at a spinet recital.

“Your wish, sir.” Pratt and his son bowed graciously.

“I thank you, Mr. Pratt, for speaking your mind.” Washington smiled at both of them as they headed out of the hall.

In the doorway, Pratt pivoted back to the crowd. “Gentlemen, may I have your attention for just a few moments more. This afternoon, the Gay Head, a Pratt schooner, entered the harbor after thirty-six months at sea. She carried silks, spices, tea, and China porcelain…” He paused to savor the expressions that were already forming on the faces of his competitors. “… from Canton! At this very moment, two more Pratt ships are passing somewhere in the South Atlantic, one bound for the Orient, the other laden with China’s riches and stretching canvas for Boston. I’ve won, gentlemen. I’m the first Boston merchant to establish permanent trading relations with China. Tomorrow morning, I begin the sale of the goods on the Gay Head. Bring cash.”

Pratt rarely noticed the weather, but tonight the brisk air, laced with the smell of salt, exhilarated him. He had done all that he had intended at the President’s banquet. He looked at his son, who was beginning to shiver. He threw his cape over the boy’s shoulders and embraced him roughly. “I was proud of the way you stood beside your father.”

“Thank you.” Young Horace looked down at the sidewalk.

Pratt lifted the boy’s chin. “Let other men count cobblestones. We carry our heads high, especially when we visit one of our ships. Would you like to see the Gay Head?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the boy without enthusiasm.

“Then come along. I’m sure your mother would love a bolt of Chinese silk, and Captain Trask tells me there are gifts on board for both my sons. Playthings for Jason, an ingenious device called an abacus for you, to help you with your sums.”

He stared toward Long Wharf, but his son didn’t move.

“Why did you do it?” demanded the boy.

Pratt smiled. “It was an excellent performance, wasn’t it?”

“Performance?” The boy was shocked. “You didn’t mean all that you said?”

“Oh, I meant it. That tea set is a waste of good money, and most of those bastards are hypocrites of the first water. The only reason they gave that thing to Washington was to make him feel like a king.”

“And you insulted him for accepting it.” Horace’s tone carried equal measures of accusation and disappointment.

Pratt began to lead the boy toward the waterfront. “I had the fortitude to speak my mind. Washington will remember me long after he has forgotten the two hundred other men in that banquet hall. I made them all look like fools.”

“But you made enemies of all of them. That can’t be to your advantage.”

Pratt stopped and looked into his son’s eyes. “They were enemies to begin with, Horace. Every man is an enemy. You must always keep your enemies off balance. Never let them know what you’ll do next. Surprise them. When they think you’re leaving with your tail between your legs, turn around and tell them about the Gay Head. When they think you’re content, lash out at anything, just so they won’t know what’s in your head. And when they think you’re quiet, have yourself a damn good sneezing fit.”

The boy was beginning to understand.

“But always remember, Horace, whether you deal with president or dockhand, that every man shits, and every man is vulnerable when his breeches fall to his knees. Always keep them shitting over what you’re about to do, and you’ll always have the advantage.”

Young Horace smiled. By the time they reached the Gay Head, their laughter was echoing up and down the wharf.

At precisely one o’clock on a June afternoon, Peter Fallon turned his Volvo off the main road a few miles outside Marblehead and entered a world which had existed for almost a hundred and forty years. A row of elms shielded the estate from the road, and the lawn rolled to the edge of the cliff, where a house rose out of the fog like a great white clipper. A hundred feet below, the ocean crashed against the granite coast.

The house was called Searidge. Horace Taylor Pratt’s grandson had built it as a summer house in 1843, and Pratt descendants had been living there ever since.

Fallon drove slowly across the grounds. He wanted to absorb everything about the house before he drew too close and it overwhelmed him. Searidge stood three stories high, and a fresh coat of white paint made it seem even larger. Pilasters outlined the building in Neoclassical grace. Porticoes, pillars, and circular dormers effected a combination of majesty and simplicity that was a New England ideal.

Searidge had grown over the years. Two new wings, a solarium, and a tennis court had been added. But the house still seemed alive to the past. At the front step, two brass hitching posts awaited the master’s carriage. On either side of the walk, Chinese lions reclined in stone, monuments to the China trade that had brought them there. On the roof, a balustrade protected the widow’s walk, the platform where women once waited for their men to return from the sea. Empire builders and adventurers had lived at Searidge. Peter Fallon could feel their presence, and he envied them the exploits he would spend his life studying.

He had come to Searidge to examine the papers of Horace Taylor Pratt, one of the central figures in his dissertation and the founder of a corporation that was still a major issue on the New York Stock Exchange. He had been trying for months to contact Katherine Pratt Carrington, the seventy-nine-year-old descendant in whose home the papers were stored, but his phone calls and letters had been ignored. He had also written to the home office of Pratt Industries and requested permission to view the Pratt papers. He had received a polite rejection from Philip Pratt’s personal secretary.

When he was beginning to think that he would have to choose another New England shipper to fit into his study, “The Socio-Political Effects of the War of 1812 on the City of Boston,” he received a note from Katherine Pratt Carrington. It was brief and direct. Mrs. Carrington said she saw no reason to deny a Harvard man access to the papers of an illustrious alumnus. She specified an exact time and date. She told him how long he could stay and what papers he could study. And she said that if he were not punctual, he need not visit.

Fallon had not found the note unusual. He assumed that Katherine Pratt Carrington was another Yankee dowager, which meant she was born to money she never spent from ancestors she never forgot. She was probably slender, wore little makeup, and dressed in clothes that might be expensive but were always sensible. She had informed opinions about everything. And she rarely allowed anyone to enter her world before careful inspection. Fallon had passed and he was happy to see the Pratt papers under any circumstances. The more he knew about Pratt, the more quickly he could finish his dissertation.

The door opened before Fallon took his finger from the bell.

“Yes?” The maid peered out.

Fallon sensed her suspicion. He understood it. He had black hair, heavy brows, and the sort of rawboned Irish face that seems to be frowning when it isn’t smiling. He knew that before he spoke, he usually made an unsettling first impression. He straightened his tie and politely introduced himself.

“I’m sorry. Mrs. Carrington is not feeling well, and she can’t have visitors.” The words sounded rehearsed, and the door slammed in Fallon’s face.

He rang the bell again. The door opened, and the maid filled the doorway.

“Mrs. Carrington specified one P.M. You must be mistaken,” he said.

“Mrs. Carrington does not visit with strangers. Please leave, or I shall call the police.” She spoke with an English accent that disguised her midwestern origins. She tried to slam the door once more, but something stopped her. Fallon saw the end of a cane protruding from behind the door.

“With whom are you talking, Bette?” The voice was an old woman’s.

“Mrs. Carrington, please take your cane out of the door.”

She had white hair, a grandmother’s face, and a cameo on her blouse. Fallon wondered why she seemed so much younger. He decided it was her posture. She stood like a woman half her age. The cane was obviously an ornament.

“The young man from Harvard.”

Fallon tugged at his tie again and smiled.

“Open the door, Bette.”

“Mrs. Carrington…”

“I said open the door!” Her voice turned shrill, and she punctuated her command by driving her cane into the floor.

“I have my orders,” said the maid.

“You have my orders!” Mrs. Carrington pulled the door open. “Come in, young man.”

Fallon didn’t know what he was stepping into, but he didn’t hesitate. Mrs. Carrington closed the door behind him, then turned to the maid.

“You may go about your business, Mrs. Harrison.”

“I shall contact Mr. Harrison immediately.” The maid turned and disappeared down the narrow hallway that led to the kitchen.

Mrs. Carrington laughed, a self-satisfied grunt. “She can’t get in touch with him. He drove my daughter into Boston to the theater, and then, I presume, headed for some local pub. I usually go with her, but I decided to stay so that you could see the old boy’s papers.”

She spoke of Pratt with such familiarity that Fallon had to remind himself Pratt had been dead for over a hundred and fifty years.

Katherine Pratt Carrington took Fallon by the arm and led him into the sitting room. Part of the original house, it had enormous windows and twelve-foot ceilings, but the Queen Anne furniture, the fire, and the sound of classical music made it seem inviting.

“I hope you like Mozart, Mr. Fallon. I’m tackling one of his few concerti for single piano this week.” She nodded toward the baby grand beneath the window. “And right now, I’m letting Arthur Rubinstein give me a few pointers.”

Fallon saw the Philco radio-phonograph in the corner. The case was mahogany. The record was spinning at seventy-eight rpms.

“You don’t see record players like that too often,” he said.

“Forty years old,” she announced proudly. “We heard the news of Pearl Harbor right out of that speaker. My husband and I were sitting here reading the Sunday Times.

“The children were outside, playing. When the bulletin ended, Henry looked me in the eye and said, ‘Now, by George, we’ll find out if this country has any character left after nine years of Roosevelt.’ Then he telephoned the War Department and tried to get his old commission back.”

She sat in the chair by the fireplace. A book of music was open on the arm of the chair. “I’ve been following along with Arthur,” she said, placing the book aside. “My daughter keeps telling me I should get a stereo machine, but some of the best performances I own are on old seventy-eights, and I don’t see any reason why I should get rid of my faithful Philco just to fit contemporary