Free Back Bay by William Martin Page A

you?” she said evenly.
    “We’re discussing something of vital importance,” said Jason. “I would appreciate it if you left us in peace.”
    “You’re being most disagreeable today, Jason,” said Pratt. “This textile business has certainly fueled the fire in that fat belly of yours. Who approached whom about this venture?”
    “Francis Cabot Lowell talked with me after services last Sunday. I rode with him yesterday to the Waltham mill.”
    “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that someone so closely related to our competitors would ask you to join him in what promises to be a very lucrative investment? And stranger still that Lowell’s own relatives on the Cabot side have not invested a nickel?” His sarcasm had the intended effect.
    Jason began to speak, then fell silent.
    “You wish to free capital,” said Abigail softly. “What capital? Seventy percent of our money is tied up in the harbor. Four Indiamen schooners, and half the property on the waterfront. To sell any of that in this economy, you sell at a loss.”
    “Quite so,” said Pratt.
    Ordinarily, Jason did not persist. “We could sell the tobacco lands in Connecticut, our interest in the New Hampshire granite quarries, or the foundry in Vermont.”
    Pratt did not even look at his son. “Your brother learned well, but I sometimes wonder if I’ve taught you anything. You do not sell land or business that is earning an excellent profit in order to invest in an industry that, in the past, has shown only the mostmarginal returns. I see no reason for Mr. Lowell to have any more success than any of his predecessors.”
    The conversation was over. Pratt dismissed his son with the wave of his hand.
    “We will talk again, Father.” Jason’s eyes shifted to Abigail. “When we can speak without interruption.”
    “My mind is set,” said Pratt.
    “Your mind can be changed, but you cannot change the future, once it becomes the present.” Jason stalked out of the office.
    “Our brother is sounding rather bold today,” said Abigail.
    “Bold, but stupid.”
    “I agree with your decision, Father. We must try to hold on until the war is over.”
    “That’s all we can do.”
    She put her hand on his arm. “Would you care to have lunch with me?”
    Abigail worried about her father. Since the imposition of the British blockade, she had been visiting him each day at his office. Early in the war, the British had left the New England ports open in the hope of encouraging secession, and Pratt’s trade had flourished. He also had made large profits in the Peninsula trade, supplying wheat to the British troops fighting Napoleon in Spain. Now, the pressures of the blockade weighed heavily on him. He looked forward to his daughter’s visits and the distraction she brought. But today, she couldn’t brighten his mood.
    “I’m not hungry.”
    “A glass of port might relax you.”
    “Secession would relax me more. I have a great deal to do, Abigail, so please leave me in peace.”
    “Very well, Father.”
    “I’ll be home for supper.”
    For a time, she stood beside him in silence as he gazed out his window at the ships rotting in the harbor. Then, she slipped out.
    A younger Horace Pratt might have jumped into textiles. He had been the first to send ships to the Pacific Northwest, where his agents had traded trinkets for otter pelts with American Indians, then otter pelts in Canton for the riches of China. Now, short-termsolutions seemed safer than visionary schemes. Horace Taylor Pratt II, heir to Pratt Shipping and Mercantile, was dead, the victim of Jefferson’s Embargo Act. Jason Pratt was a dabbler and daydreamer with none of his brother’s perseverance. And Abigail Pratt Bentley was a woman. Only the prudent management of existing resources would keep the company solvent until Horace III grew to replace his father in the Pratt hierarchy.
    Pratt smiled whenever he thought of the boy. He liked his other grandchildren well enough and thought that