FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 2]
Mar. 25th, 2013 10:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
By the third week of the voyage to Philadelphia, the second-class bar of the Corliss had taken on the reassuring noise of any sizable watering hole. Those passengers who had managed to withstand the choppy motion of the ship lounged at scattered tables; others, just recovering, drank ginger ale and lemon pop cautiously, wincing when the ship heaved now and again. The air was dense with smoke and the mingled smells of beer, whiskey, and unwashed bodies. Hoarse laughter and the sound of stamping feet nearly drowned out the impromptu band that had formed at the far end of the bar.
Sean sat near the door, nursing his beer and watching the crowd. Most of them could have been lifted directly from the Rose and Thorn – roughly dressed, unshaven, and a bit surly until their machinery was oiled with a pint or two. Once that had taken place, a man had a friend for life, or at least until closing hour. There were others in the bar as well, hulking, hard-bitten men who spoke a polyglot jumble of languages but mysteriously seemed to understand each other. They traveled in groups, possessed the easy arrogance of long-time comfort with their surroundings, and Sean would have mistaken them for crewmen except for the frank lewdness with which they approached the few women in the bar, and their quick, murderous tempers that Sean guessed – or hoped - would have been unacceptable in crew members. Already there had been fights resulting in cracked skulls; Sean had recoiled in horror as two stewards dragged a man from the bar, moaning and thrashing, his broken head leaking a purplish fluid.
Sean had not bothered to ingratiate himself with anyone on the voyage. His aloofness had earned him a few unfriendly looks, he knew: Hoity-toity, the stares said. Jumped-up bit of muck, getting above yourself when you’re second-class like the rest of us. He rose and ambled toward the bar for a refill. As he stood waiting, one of the foreigners poked him in the side. "What about a game of cards, friend?"
"No," Sean replied. "Thanks all the same." He took his refilled pint and started for his seat, but the man grasped his upper arm and held it.
"Come along. One game. Perhaps two." The man’s friends crowded round, their faces dark with menace.
Sean weighed his choices. If he kicked up a fuss, it was likely that this bunch of toughs would simply drag him into the corridor and beat him senseless. He could give a fair accounting of himself in a fight with one man, but three or four, never. On the other hand, if he consented to play cards, this man would likely cheat him. And Sean had no wish to lose even a penny of his money in a loaded game. Still, it was better than bleeding to death. "All right. I’m not much of a card player, mind."
"I’ll teach you," the man said, with an expansive gesture of his arm and cold greed in his eyes. "Not to worry at all. Come – I should like to buy you another drink. Something a little stronger than beer, eh?" He steered Sean toward a table occupied by two men in shabby suits. "Get out," he snapped. The pair rose and scurried away without a backward glance. The man seated himself heavily and pulled a worn deck of cards from his pocket. "Now then – you know ecarte?"
"I’ve heard of it." Sean allowed himself only the smallest of smiles. He was an old hand at ecarte. Two could play at this game, after all.
*
"My trick," Sean announced, to the cheers and groans of the crowd surrounding the table. Above him, hands darted out, passing currency to and fro. Sean pulled his winnings close and began to stack them, a small pile of crowns, guilders, dollars, and kroner. "I’m out, lads."
"Ahh. One more game, Sean." His opponent, Hans Mathisson, had small blue eyes, as flat and lifeless as a netted carp’s despite the grin that stretched his mouth.
"Nay. Thanks all the same."
Mathisson tilted his head to one side and studied Sean. "I think you lie about knowing ecarte, eh?"
Sean grinned. "Now what makes you say that?" The men around him roared approval and slapped him genially on the back. Several of the men were Mathisson’s mates; nevertheless, they cheered his defeat with an utter lack of sympathy. Sean’s smile dimmed as Mathisson’s grin widened. There was no humor in those blue eyes, none at all. The men gathered around the table shuffled back a few steps. "Well, it were a fair game, weren’t it?" Sean said, slipping the money in his pocket.
"Fair," Mathisson said. "Ja, it was fair."
"Well then." Sean rose to his feet and dropped a few crowns on the table. "Have a round on me, lads. I’ll say good night now." He walked out of the bar, waiting for the heavy tread of booted feet to follow him. Once in the narrow corridor, he turned, but no one had followed.
The night was clear and cold, the sky brilliant with stars despite the cloud of ash and soot spewed by the ship’s funnel. Sean wandered to a rail and looked down. Dark water, silvered by moonlight, churned and foamed far below as the ship plowed westward. He had no particular love of the sea, but on such a night it was easy enough to appreciate all the songs and poems he’d heard in his youth. He tried to remember one that Freddy had taught him – old Triton and his wreathed horn, or some such – but they hadn’t got far in the learning.
For the first time in days Sean forced himself to think of Freddy. He’d done him a bloody bad turn, cheating him out of that money, but there was nothing for it now. Harry would be in a fury, but if Freddy kept his mouth shut, no one would be the worse off. And as for Freddy, he’d got his tale-carrying letters back. The whole thing had worked out better than Sean could have planned. Problem solved, and he was four – no, five hundred pounds richer, and debt-free in the bargain. He leaned on the rail, savoring the salt spray on his cheeks, and whistled, off-key, but with cheerful vigor.
A couple in evening clothes moved toward him. The man’s white shirtfront gleamed in the darkness; his diamond studs caught the deck’s lamplights, glittering like the stars. The woman was wearing the sort of frock Sean had only seen in illustrated magazines, all soft ruffles and shockingly low bosom. They were young and handsome, like illustrations themselves. Sean nodded and smiled in greeting.
The woman clung more closely to her companion. "It’s a pity that some decks are open to absolutely anyone, don’t you think? Quite unfair, considering the price one pays," she said. Her voice was posh London, as icy and brittle as a shard of crystal.
"Quite," the young man replied, deftly propelling the woman away from Sean as if he smelled like a pigsty.
Sean glared after them. The evening's pleasure was spoiled. Sod them. In a few days he’d be well shut of all of it. He made his way toward the lower decks and his cramped, smelly cabin.
Outside his door he fumbled for a half-crown. The heat and gaslight was coin-operated on the lower-class decks; he wasn’t so rich now that he could waste money on a first-class ticket, but it was better than crossing as a steerage passenger. Perhaps he was jumped-up after all, but he wasn’t a fool, either.
He slipped the key into the lock and entered the dark cabin, groping for the coin box. He heard a soft noise behind him; before he could turn, a stunning pain landed just behind his ear, and he staggered forward. He tried to stand upright, to turn and fight his assailant, but another blow caught him in the temple, and he crashed to the ground.
*
When he awoke, he was on the floor. The gaslight burned its feeble yellow glow beside the door, and the only sound was that of the ticking meter. Gingerly, Sean touched his temple and winced. Already there was a lump; it would be the size of a goose egg by morning.
He sat up and glanced around, squinting with pain. Dismayed, he rose and stared at the wreckage of his room. The mattress had been torn apart; cheap bedticking and rags lay in piles on the floor. His clothes were in shreds. And his suitcase had been broken up, the lining ripped out. His money was gone. All of it.
Sean sank to his knees, unable to control his trembling legs. With a slow, careful gesture, he thrust his hand into his trouser pocket. There was no jingling of silver and gold; he’d been robbed of every last penny. They’d even stolen his pocket watch. It wasn’t a fine one, only silver plate, but it had been his dad’s, and had meant the world to him. It was only too clear who’d done this – who perhaps had watched him from the very beginning, waiting for the proper opportunity to take advantage of his stupidity.
*
The second-class bar was empty except for the barman, who polished glasses with the stolid placidity of his profession, and a group of men at the corner table. Sean strode up to them without hesitation. "Give me back my money."
Mathisson cocked his head in delicate inquiry, then turned to one of his comrades and muttered something unintelligible. There was a burst of laughter, coarse and loud.
Sean’s hands clenched at his sides. "Give it back, I said."
One corner of Mathisson's mouth shot upwards. "Am I not remembering, or did you not win three games tonight?"
"You know what I’m talking about. I want my money."
Mathisson bit off the end of an unlit cigar and spat it onto the table. "I thought we were playing a friendly game of ecarte. Are you accusing me of cheating you?"
Sean grasped the end of the table and flung it aside. Glasses flew and crashed to the floor. "You sodding bastard. Give it back or I’ll bloody kill you!" He lunged toward Mathisson, but two of his companions leapt up and pinned Sean’s arms. Sean twisted, intending to call to the barkeep for aid, but the man put his glass and polishing cloth down and prudently slipped out a side door.
Mathisson rose to his feet. He grasped a fistful of Sean’s hair and dragged his head back. He leaned close; his breath reeked of cigars and beer. "You, kill me?" he snorted. "You should be careful with your words, boy. It would be sad for you to lose your balance on deck some night, eh? A young man like you, with so much life ahead of him?"
"I’ll go to the captain."
"Go, then. Much good may it do you. You can’t prove a thing, boy." He tapped the lump on Sean’s temple. "And who knows – you might fall overboard tonight, on your way to see him. Even on calm nights there is turbulence. Terrible tragedies happen at sea."
Sean stopped struggling and held back tears of rage and defeat. Mathisson smiled in triumph, let go of Sean’s hair, and nodded to his companions. "I hope you rot in hell," Sean snarled.
Mathisson shrugged. "That’s almost certain. Now, I tell you what to do. You go back to your cabin, and stay there except for meals, ja? And I sweeten the pot." He pulled out a crisp ten-pound note and held it out to Sean. "Since you seem to be short of funds, I give you some money for expenses on shore." Sean would not take the money, so Mathisson shoved it into Sean’s jacket pocket. "Go on now. Don’t let me see your face again."
Moving like a somnambulist, Sean went back to his cabin. The meter had wound down, leaving the room dark, and he hadn’t another coin, so he took his tattered clothes and the remains of the mattress, placed them on the steel frame, and lay down. Tears burned his eyes, but would not fall. In the back of his mind, some phrase about ill-got gains tickled at him until he forcibly pushed it away.
He lay awake all night, his head throbbing, only succumbing to sleep when grey dawn filtered through the cheap cotton curtains that covered the porthole. When he awoke, the lump on his temple was indeed the size of a goose egg, and the destruction of his room was even more disheartening in the sullen daylight. He’d have to jump ship to avoid being charged for destroying ship’s property.
He gritted his teeth and set to tidying the cabin as best he could. There were worse predicaments than his. He could be back in Winsley, beholden to Freddy Watkins. He could be deep in the North Atlantic, or lying in the infirmary with a broken head courtesy of Hans bloody Mathisson.
As it was, he had ten pounds and his freedom. Many people had to make do with less.
*
Viggo took a cautious spoonful of his dessert, poached peaches drowned in a sweet cream and brandy sauce, and noticed his hostess watching him. He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment. "It’s exquisite. My compliments to your chef."
Rebecca Lockwood beamed. "Monsieur de la Fressange will be delighted to hear it. He’s a bit of a tyrant in his domain, but praise turns him to melted butter." She turned to her daughter, Charity. "Isn’t that so, my dear?"
"Oh – yes, Mamma." Charity was pretty enough, but at sixteen still had the unfinished face of a child, and occasionally the discomfiting manners of one. More than once, Viggo had caught her staring at him with an expression compounded of adoration and yearning. There would have been something amusing about the whole affair had not Rebecca Lockwood hovered behind her daughter, pushing the poor girl toward Viggo at every opportunity.
Viggo wondered at this new democracy. The Lockwoods were firmly entrenched Old Philadelphians. They were associates at the Philadelphia National Bank, leaders at the Assemblies, trustees at Chestnut Hill Academy, and pillars of St. Peter’s. Why they were courting a nouveau riche was a mystery – or was it? Viggo glanced at the furnishings in the dining room. They were elderly pieces, and rather chipped and sad-looking. Was it incipient poverty that prompted a welcoming of the possible infusion of parvenu blood, or was Viggo merely witnessing Philadelphian indifference to material trappings? He hadn’t been in society long enough to tell the difference, and felt at a distinct disadvantage, as if he were playing a game whose rules were known only to the other players.
"You’re wrong, Mother." Archie Lockwood, sitting at the head of the table, patted his mouth with a snowy napkin. "The only thing that makes that damned Frog happy is his weekly pay. Besides, Vig's one of those ghastly outdoor types. He's not interested in dainty Frog food, are you, Vig?"
"Indeed? That’s very healthful." Rebecca’s smile grew brighter, showing the edges of sharp little white teeth. "Charity adores lawn tennis, don’t you, Charity?"
"Yes, Mamma."
"For God’s sake, Mother," Archie breathed, rolling his eyes. He clipped the end of a cigar and offered it to Viggo, who shook his head. "Vig’s not interested in lawn tennis either."
"Archie exaggerates, Mrs. Lockwood." Viggo said. "I –"
"He can tell you about it another time," Archie said as he rose, his cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. "Right now there are games afoot. Come along, sir." He plucked impatiently at Viggo’s sleeve and bellowed for the butler. "Briggs! Coat, hat!"
"Oh, not a billiard hall, Archibald. Such low places."
"Mother, we’re going to the Rittenhouse Club, for the love of heaven. They’ve had billiards there for nigh on forty years. It’s perfectly nice, perfectly respectable. Send Briggs to check on us if you’re feeling skittish." Archie grasped Viggo’s arm and hauled him out of his chair without ceremony, pulling him toward the door.
Viggo managed an awkward bow to Mrs. Lockwood and Charity. "Thank you for a lovely evening."
"You must come again," Rebecca called after them. "We’re so eager to hear about your college life out West. Aren’t we, Charity dear?"
Charity’s voice floated faintly from the dining room. "Yes, mamma."
Only when they were outside, securely cloaked and hatted, walking sticks in hand, did Viggo turn to Archie. "Good God, you really are a lout. I looked like the most ungrateful sort of guest."
"Oh, come on now." Archie puffed on his cigar. "I saved your bacon back there and you know it. Don’t mistake me – I love Charity dearly and Mother’s not a bad egg, but the pair of them are positively terrifying. A fellow doesn’t stand a chance in their presence. Not that I’d necessarily object to having you as a brother-in-law, mind, but I can only tolerate so much." He took the cigar from between his teeth and breathed deeply. "By God, isn’t it a fine night? You can smell springtime in the air at last."
Viggo wondered how Archie was able to smell anything but the noxious cigar. "Wait – this isn’t the way to the Rittenhouse Club."
"Of course it isn’t. I had to tell Mother something, though."
The too-rich dinner he’d eaten began to congeal in Viggo’s stomach. He had some idea where Archie was leading him. "And if she sends your butler looking for us?"
Archie chuckled. "She won’t. Even if she does, he’s sharp enough to say that all’s well. Come on, look lively. Schuyler, McCall, and Trowbridge are meeting us there."
Viggo halted in his tracks. "Archie, I really don’t think I ought to go tonight."
Archie stopped and folded his arms. "Look here, Vig. Ever since you’ve come back from college you’ve been damned peculiar. Keeping to yourself, avoiding your friends. What’s got into you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And this is – how many times, I’m sure I don’t know – that you’ve begged off Madame Rosemonde’s. Did you catch a dose of clap from some saloon girl out there? It must have cleared up by now."
Viggo almost laughed despite his annoyance. "No, I didn’t catch the clap. For God’s sake, I’ve just come from dinner with your mother and sister. Isn’t all this a little…well, inappropriate?"
Genuine perplexity creased Archie’s brow. "What’s one got to do with the other? Come on," He looped an arm through Viggo’s. "We’re already late. Why are there no damned cabs at this hour?"
*
Viggo took a deep draught of wine and moved to the half-open window to escape the reek of the gas jets and the effluvium of an intense rose scent that pervaded the room. He fingered the blue damask drapes and grasped the heavy material tightly to prevent a sudden flight.
He despised himself for letting Archie maneuver him into the brothel, but Archie wasn't one to take no for an answer. Nor were his other Penn associates, Harald Schuyler, Percy Trowbridge, and Alexander McCall, all of whom were at this moment disporting themselves in the arms of the women they’d selected for the night.
He turned at a noise behind him. The girl he’d chosen stepped from behind her dressing screen, a wide smile plastered to her face. Her body was slim, almost boyish in its lack of breasts and hips. She wore a chemise, drawers, and stockings. A narrow black ribbon encircled her throat. Watching her, Viggo felt no arousal, merely anxiety and a touch of pity.
She stepped close to him. "Is the wine to your liking?"
Viggo forced himself to remain still. "Yes, thank you. Where do you come from?"
The girl’s brow wrinkled in consternation. "Krakow." She fitted her body to his, gently pushing herself against him.
"How long have you been here?"
The girl counted on her fingers. "Three months now."
"Did you come with family?" It was foolish to postpone the awful defeat of the night, he knew. Best to get it over with and get out as quickly as possible.
Her dark eyes clouded. "No more talking," she said softly, drawing him toward the bed. She urged him down, her hands on his shoulders, and nudged his legs apart with her knee. One strap of her chemise fell as her hands moved toward the buttons of Viggo’s trousers, revealing a glimpse of tiny, pointed breasts.
Viggo closed his eyes. Maybe Archie was right. It had been too long since he’d been touched by another person. His own hand was a necessary but joyless means of stimulus and release. Besides, he knew exactly what to imagine in order to make himself hard.
In a moment it was over. Panting, he opened his eyes to behold the girl still straddling him, an expression of amusement on her face. She had loosened her chemise, and it pooled around her waist, revealing her narrow torso. Without a word, she leaned over him, her breasts close to his lips, and took a folded linen towel from the bedside table. For a moment, she stayed where she was, clearly waiting for him to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. When he tilted his head away from her, she shrugged and gently cleaned him with the towel.
"You paid for all night."
"I know. I…" Viggo hesitated. "I can’t stay. I’m sorry." His apology struck him as absurd. Doubtless the girl would be glad to get rid of him. He placed his hands on her narrow hips and gently moved her off. She rolled onto the bed and watched as he tidied his clothes. He reached into his pocket and extracted a bill, then awkwardly placed it on the pillow. "Thank you," he said softly. The girl said nothing as he nodded to her and let himself out.
*
The whorehouse was a few blocks from the docks, close enough for Viggo to smell the brackish, fishy odor of the water, but he’d never truly paid attention to the route and now he was hopelessly lost. And it was raining, a dull pounding rain that soaked him and intensified the sickening aroma of the perfume that clung to him. He plunged his hands into his pockets, hunched deeper into his overcoat, and strode through the warren of streets with feigned purpose.
Dirty yellow smoke from the coal lamps mingled with the steadily falling rain, giving the streets the unhealthy appearance of being washed in pale, greasy tea. Grim black silhouettes of buildings huddled together as if protecting one another from some malicious foe. There was more broken glass scattered under Viggo’s feet than in the narrow windows, and old food and garbage littered the unevenly cobbled sidewalks.
Though the clocks had just chimed nine, there were few people about, and those who were seemed furtive and shifty. Men slouched in pairs or trios, caps hiding their faces, presenting a front of quiet menace to discourage confrontation. Pinched-looking prostitutes loitered on corners, their feminine allure long faded, desperation born of poverty and hunger lending their eyes a hard jewel-like glitter in the dim lamplight. A few ragged urchin boys hooted obscenities at them, thumbing their noses and laughing when the women swore violently.
Viggo lengthened his stride, feeling like a fool. Surely there had to be a public house open nearby, somewhere to get directions. He turned a corner and was rewarded by a burst of noise and light. A small knot of men pushed their way out of the door and made slow, weaving progress toward him. He gave them a wide berth.
"Hey there, fella," one called. "Spare two bits?"
"Sorry." Viggo averted his eyes, hoping to avoid confrontation. The hope was dashed when one of the men staggered forward and grasped his lapel, pushing him into the wall.
"Dintcha hear my friend, pal? He asked for a loan."
"I haven’t got any money," Viggo replied, a statement some forty dollars shy of the truth. He saw no reason to give his money away simply because a pack of drunkards blasted him with shouting and beer-scented breath.
"Yeah? You look like you got plenty, pretty boy. C’mon, pony up."
A long-fingered hand curled around the paw grasping Viggo’s lapel and wrenched it aside. "Leave him be," a deep voice said. "Christ, Haller, you’ve had enough for one night, haven’t you?"
"’S for tomorrow, Sean." The drunk swayed back and forth, glaring.
"Sod off. Go on, or I’ll belt you one." Viggo's rescuer waited until the others shuffled off, then turned to him. "You all right?" The man was young, surely not much older than himself. He had a long face with a powerful nose, and a shock of blond hair.
"Yes. Yes, thank you."
"He wouldn’t have hurt you none." The young man’s voice was English, Northern-accented. "Right coward, he is, a bully. Crumples like a wet paper sack when you stand up to him."
"Even when he’s drunk?"
The young man laughed, displaying a broad, handsome smile. "Aye, even worse. Like as not you’ll find him half a square from here, asleep in a doorway."
"I’ll take your word for it," Viggo said. "Thank you again. You wouldn’t know the way to Walnut Street, by any chance?"
"Lost?"
"You might say that."
"Well, you don’t look as though you’re from round these parts. That’s a compliment, mind." The young man gave him explicit directions. "I can walk with you, if you like."
"It’s not necessary, but I thank you all the same." Viggo stuck his hand out. "Viggo Mortensen."
"Sean Bean." They shook hands and Bean tipped his cap. "Pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Mortensen. Mind yourself, now. It can be a bit rough round here."
Viggo grinned. "I shall try my best. Good night, Mr. Bean." He moved quickly up the street, confident now in Sean Bean’ clear directions. Halfway up the square, he turned to look back at the young man, but he had already vanished.
*
Viggo studied the three identical doors in the south wing. In four months he still hadn’t learned every room of the Old York Road house. He found that depressing and possibly obscene, but in no way did the glacial fifty-room pile of stone feel like a home. It felt more like a hotel: excessively grand, spotlessly clean, over-furnished. The staff was first-rate, ready to indulge his every whim, but it was impossible to shake the sensation of being a guest at his own address. He saw assorted members of his family at mealtimes and exchanged polite conversation, but the noisy camaraderie they had once shared seemed to be slipping away in favor of a stuffy and disheartening formality.
Which door was Grace’s? All his sisters living at home shared this wing, but he visited them so infrequently. The girls should have put name-plates on the doors. He chose the middle one and tapped.
The door opened almost at once. Grace peered out, looking cross, then smiled when she saw her visitor. "Well, hello there."
"Hello, old thing. I couldn’t remember which door was yours."
"This and that," she said, pointing to the door on her left. "That’s my sitting room. This is my bedroom. Come in."
Grace’s bedroom was enormous, with a rose-colored velvet carpet and pretty wallpaper striped in rose and pale grey. Drapes of rose silk fell over dainty white curtains. Swathes of white tulle bound here and there with pink velvet roses festooned the dressing table, littered with silver candlesticks, cut-glass perfume bottles, porcelain and crystal figurines, and little silver boxes of powder and rouge. It all looked unused, like a stage set, and certainly at odds with Grace’s appearance. She wore a plain white blouse, a dark-blue tie, a grey flannel skirt, and soft slippers over her white stockings. Her hair was pulled into a simple bun, and her face was ruddy from the sun and innocent of powder, a minor act of rebellion that caused their mother no end of vexation.
"Pretty room," Viggo commented.
"I hate it. All this fluff, it’s ridiculous. You know, Mother asked me what I wanted. I told her something trim, not fussy. I imagined plain white and blue, ordinary furniture. I got this instead. It looks like an overdone hat – horrid. Mother said if I intended to live like a nun, I should take vows."
Viggo snickered. "She did?"
"It isn’t funny. Try sleeping under all that lace, it’s awful." Grace tossed the couch pillows onto the bed and thumped down with a disconsolate expression. "Aren’t you going to sit?"
"Thank you." Viggo sat beside her. "It’s a fine day. Do you want to come for a drive with me? I was thinking of going to Fairmount Park. We could hire a boat. I haven’t rowed in almost a year."
"Oh, bother it! I’d love to, but I can’t." Grace’s fingers floated up to fiddle with her tie. "Mother’s making me host someone for tea. I’m supposed to be dressed already." She indicated a lacy pink frock spread out on the bed.
Viggo bit back a smile. "Another would-be suitor? What’s his name?"
"I can’t remember, and I don’t even care. Mother won’t be content until she marries me off to some Philadelphia Club scion with a seventy-room summer cottage in Newport, an income of twenty thousand dollars a year, and eight dozen servants." Grace scowled. "You’re so lucky, Viggo. You can do anything you please, and no one says a thing against you. You could run off and join the Navy or go back West and start a cattle ranch and everyone would say how intrepid you are. I can’t even visit Kitty Connolly back in Roxborough without Mother sending a detachment of constables to look for me."
"Maybe she’s afraid you’re going to run away."
"I’d like to." Grace blew a strand of hair out of her eye. "When I think about having to marry one of those fellows, let alone live with him, I want to disappear."
Viggo patted his sister’s hand. "If you want to run away and start a ranch, or stay here and annoy Mother by becoming a suffragette, I’ll support you."
"I’ll remember you said that. You’d better go. Mother’s going to have my head on a plate if I’m not there to dish out the petit fours. I wish I could go with you."
"Another time." Viggo rose, waved goodbye, and headed for the stables.
*
Fairmount Park was crowded with optimistic revelers, lulled into complacency by sunshine and warmth. Spring in Pennsylvania was less a season than a stolen handful of sunny afternoons, and no one wanted to admit that in another two or three weeks, the pretty, fragile, unreliable illusion would probably end with biting winds, another foot of snow and hundreds of frozen cherry blossoms. So away went the sturdy coats and mufflers and heavy umbrellas, and out came the straw boaters and cycling costumes and parasols, only to be put away for another few weeks in wounded indignation.
Viggo dawdled along the riverside drive. It was lonely and dull to row alone, and he had no desire to try to maneuver a bicycle through the knots of idling walkers and riders. He smiled a little wistfully as he walked. There were couples everywhere he turned. Young sweethearts laughed as they chased each other on bicycles, heedless of the crowds. Older, more sedate couples walked arm-in-arm or picnicked bravely on the still-damp grass. Viggo’s wandering gaze fell upon two young men in college scarves strolling close together, sharing a cigarette and a joke. They nodded politely to him as he passed, and he returned the nod, with the suspicion, if not the certainty, that they were lovers.
How did he know? Certainly they were perfectly ordinary-looking. Their gestures were not particularly broad, nor were their voices lacking in typical masculinity, yet there was a peculiar complicity that Viggo had recognized at once.
Surreptitiously, he turned back to look at them. They were laughing uproariously, and Viggo felt a slight pricking of jealousy. He turned back to continue his walk and collided with another stroller, treading heavily on his foot.
"Mind yourself!" the man snapped.
"I’m sorry," Viggo apologized. "Terribly clumsy of me." He stopped, frowning at his unintended victim. He looked awfully familiar.
"I should say so. Still, no harm done." The man's green eyes narrowed. "Haven’t I seen you before?"
"Why – yes, I think so," Viggo said. "A few weeks ago. You rescued me from one of your companions. It’s Mr. Bean, isn’t it? Sean Bean? Viggo Mortensen."
"Aye, that’s it," the young man said. "Look here, I’m sorry about those blokes. They’re not really friends of mine – they’re only work mates. And louts, when you come right down to it."
"It takes a brave fellow to stand up to a bully," Viggo said. "I appreciated it."
A flush appeared on Sean Bean’ cheeks. "Ah, it were nowt." He stuck his hands in his pockets and a sudden shy smile tugged his mouth upward. "I reckon we’re square."
"I didn’t injure you, did I? I didn’t mean to blunder into you like that. I wasn’t paying attention – I’m not usually so clumsy." He gestured at the Schuykill, grey and icy-looking and flowing sluggishly. "I was looking at the river. It seems so cold, even though the day’s quite warm." He clamped his mouth shut. Stop explaining things, you sound ridiculous.
Bean walked to the railing and looked out at the water. "Aye, it does that." There was a touch of melancholy in his tone. "Do you live round here, then?"
"No. I live a ways out, on Old York Road. Not really in the city."
"Lucky you. I live by the docks. Work there, too. What sort of work do you do?"
"Oh…I’m…actually, I don’t work at the moment. I’m looking for something I might like to do." Viggo regretted the words as soon as they emerged. He sounded like a spoiled dilettante.
"Gentleman of leisure, is it?" Bean said, giving Viggo’s clothes a quick up-and-down glance. "I might have guessed. Nice work if you can get it, eh?" He pushed himself away from the railing. "Well, it was good to see you again, Mr. Mortensen. Good afternoon."
Viggo felt a stab of disappointment. "Wait a moment. Have you time for a cup of coffee? Or tea, I suppose you’d prefer tea. I have my gig, or we could go to the tearoom at the Indian Rock Hotel –"
"Nay, it’s getting late. Thanks all the same." The young man seemed momentarily regretful, then stretched out his hand. "Goodbye now."
There was nothing to do but take the offered hand. He noticed Bean’ neat but threadbare tweed jacket, his unfashionable tie, his bare hands, the shirt that showed a faint hint of darning near the collar, and damned himself for a hundred kinds of callous fool. "Goodbye, Mr. Bean. Again, please accept my apologies." He stood at the railing and watched Bean walk away. Had he become just like his college chums after all – useless, glutted on wealth, utterly lacking in sensitivity or compassion? He should have seen the young man’s state of poverty straight away, and not trumpeted his wealth so blatantly.
Archie Lockwood had told him a dozen times that there was no shame in being rich, and that Viggo ought to stop behaving like a Christian martyr – it was so tedious. There were plenty of people, he’d said, poison-jealous of Viggo’s wealth and willing to separate him from the filthy stuff if he wanted to be a bleeding heart, but what good did all that guilt do? But then, Archie had grown up cushioned by the security of blood and reputation; he’d never known any other life.
Sean Bean glanced back over his shoulder and met Viggo’s eyes. Clearly embarrassed, he pivoted quickly and hurried away.
Viggo looked out at the river, too heavy-hearted to be ashamed.
*
The air at the dinner table that evening swathed the family in a cloud of unease. Grace sat silent and morose, hardly looking up from her plate. Katherine aimed baleful stares at her between every bite. Apparently, Viggo gathered, the tea had been less than successful. Harald seemed sunken into a morass of private gloom. Only Agnes seemed animated and cheerful, and even her conversational gambits had dropped one by one into a bottomless well. Nevertheless, she soldiered on.
"I saw the prettiest summer hat in Wanamaker’s window today, Mama – a yellow leghorn picture hat with greyish-pink roses. Maybe you and Grace can come and look at it with me tomorrow."
Katherine dragged her gaze from her eldest daughter’s downcast face. "Of course I will, dear, if I have time. I doubt your sister would be interested, though. She hasn’t the patience for such useless fripperies."
"Mama, please," Grace whispered, her eyes still fixed on her plate.
"I am nearly fed up with you, young lady. You behaved like a perfect…I don’t know what, and I have had enough of your moods and tantrums every time you fulfill an obligation."
"Mother, maybe Grace simply isn’t suited for your sort of social schedule," Viggo ventured.
"Don’t be absurd," Katherine sniffed. "It isn’t my sort of social schedule, it’s everybody’s. How she’s going to meet an appropriate husband or have a normal life, I’m sure I don’t know."
"Maybe I don’t want a husband," Grace muttered.
Katherine’s eyes narrowed. "What?"
Agnes darted a glance at her mother and addressed Grace hastily. "What did you do that was so dreadful, Gracie?"
Grace opened her mouth to reply, but Katherine rushed in before Grace could say a word. "I’ll tell you what she did. She started talking about the suffragist cause. As if Clement Whitcomb cared a fig about suffragettes."
Grace offered Viggo a wry smile and a tiny shrug. He shook his head at her reprovingly and cleared his throat. "Well, we all know that Grace feels strongly about the cause. If he’s any sort of prospective husband, he should know about her interests."
"Interests, my eye. And what she should know is to talk about subjects that interest the young man, not herself." Katherine moved a tall epergne overflowing with lilacs and addressed her husband. "Mr. Mortensen, are you listening to any of this? Your daughter is running absolutely wild."
Harald, still in the cutaway he’d worn to church, sighed heavily. "Katie, let the poor girl alone. There are dozens of lads who’d be delighted to marry her, suffragist cause or no suffragist cause."
"I see. Well, I suppose you know best, though I must say you don’t seem worried about your daughter being called a bluestocking."
"Damnation, Katie, leave off. My Wilkes-Barre manager died of influenza two days ago and I have my hands full." He rubbed his eyes. "I’m sorry, darling. I’m not intending to shout at you. It’s only that he was a good man, with a family, and it’s a shock."
"I see. Well, God rest his soul," Katherine said, and took a forkful of galantine after shooting Grace a glare promising that the matter was far from settled. "His family was in Wilkes-Barre also?"
"Yes. You met him and his wife. Will Covington. And his wife’s name…ah, Lydia. And three children. I forget their names now, but they were little ones, near as I can recall."
"Oh, dear. Poor things."
"He was steady," Harald said. "The lads liked him, and he liked them. Never a cross word between them."
"The widow will get his pension, won’t she, Papa?" Grace asked.
"Of course she will, Gracie. Never fear on that account. The problem is I haven’t a replacement for him. I can’t spare anyone from the Philadelphia office just now, but I can’t leave Wilkes-Barre unsupervised, either. The place needs a presence of authority. I suppose I’ll have to go myself, for a while at least."
Viggo studied his woebegone father. "Send me, Father."
Everyone stopped to stare at Viggo. Harald put his fork on his plate. "You, lad? I didn’t think you were interested."
"I am," Viggo said. "At any rate, I need to be useful. I’ve been languishing here for months without anything serious to occupy my time."
Harald scratched at his mustache, regarding his son. "But you’ve never done this sort of thing before."
"Well…then perhaps you could send someone in the Philadelphia office to Wilkes-Barre, and I could take his place. I could apprentice for a while, the way I did in college."
"I doubt you’ve forgotten much from those summers. They weren’t so long ago, I reckon. Are you sure?"
"I’m sure, Father. I’m not cut out for a life of leisure." Viggo heard his mother’s huff of irritation. "I’m awfully sorry, Mother. It just doesn’t suit me, all this frenetic activity. I’ll be much happier as a working man."
"My children want to be lonely and miserable in their old age. Go on, then. I can’t stop you."
"It’s a wonderful idea, Viggo! I’m sure you’ll meet all sorts of charming people there," Agnes said.
"And Michael's there," Grace said.
"Your brother has parish duties from morning until night," Katherine interposed. "And if you’re hoping to turn to him for introductions, remember his parish is a poor one. Charming people, my eye."
"I’ll remember, Mother." Katherine’s scolding and exasperation was comfortable and familiar. Viggo preferred them to the stiff etiquette she’d lately adopted. "Will you miss me if I go?"
"Honestly, Viggo," Katherine scowled. "Don’t be such a ninny. Why you should ever ask such a silly question is utterly beyond me."
Viggo didn’t trouble to hide his smile. It was as much of a statement of affection as he’d ever get from her, stern, unsentimental soul that she was. "What do you say, Father?" he asked, turning back to Harald. "Are you willing to take me on?"
Harald beamed. "I think it’d be just grand, my boy. Just grand. Come to the office with me tomorrow and we’ll get you re-acquainted with the business. Can you be ready to leave in two weeks, do you think?"
"Oh, yes, I think so." Viggo grinned back at his father and then fixed his attention on his food, unwilling to meet the dismayed gazes of Grace and his mother. His heart had always been poor soil for the seeds of whimsy to flourish; he was far too patient and deliberate to abandon himself to impulse. He was shocked at his own behavior, but a tickle of growing elation threatened to overcome the shock. It was such a small rebellion, after all, and utterly respectable.
*
"Harald, thank goodness you’re here." Stephen O’Malley, tall, red-haired, and bewhiskered, hurried toward Harald and Viggo, mopping his brow with a gigantic handkerchief. A plump little clerk with a chest like a pouter pigeon’s waddled behind him, waving a manifest in evident hope that his employer would notice him."I’ve some urgent questions about the Charleston loads for next week. Can we go to my office for a moment?"
Harald smiled. "Stephen, you know my boy Viggo. He’s going to take the reins in Wilkes-Barre for me. Taking over for poor Will, don’t you know. Viggo, Mr. Stephen O’Malley."
O’Malley gave Viggo a brief nod. "Of course. Delighted to see you again. Harald, I hate to be a nag –" He motioned urgently toward a closed door and turned to sign the manifest, to the little clerk’s tremendous relief.
"Of course, of course. I won’t be a minute, son."
"Shall I come with you, Father?"
"No, lad. Just have a seat over there and watch all the goings-on. Likely you'll learn a thing or two."
The shipping office of Callahan and O’Malley was as dirty and disorderly a place as Viggo had ever seen, but it was exciting, too. Shipping officials, clerks, foremen, laborers, and messenger boys scurried to and fro, their raised voices drowning the outside roar of the shipping yard and the clatter of wharfside traffic. Callahan and O’Malley shipped Harald’s coal down the coast to Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah, and Jacksonville. They were a small outfit in the very grand scheme of Philadelphia coal shipping, but Harald made a point of engaging the services of smaller companies whenever possible.
Viggo’s attention dwindled. He’d spent more time running about Philadelphia in the past week and a half than he had in months, earnestly absorbing as much as he could about mining management, even though Harald had assured him that the entire venture would be easy as pie. There was an experienced mine boss who knew everything about quotidian operations. Viggo’s task, as Harald told it, was merely to represent his father, make sure the boss was doing his job, supervise the accounts, and act as an authority figure for the miners. "They don’t like absentee landlords, and I can’t blame them for it," Harald had said. "You show up every so often, have a kind word for them now and again, and they’ll work hard for you."
"I expect I’ll have a challenge now and again," Viggo had said, amused at Harald’s tidy recitation. Harald’s nonchalance hadn’t lessened Viggo’s diligence; he was determined to learn every facet of the mining business. What he couldn’t pick up during his two weeks of hasty training, he’d learn on the job, and try his best not to make a hash of things.
A sudden hubbub of raised voices jolted him out of a lull. Three men were arguing vociferously – one of the clerks behind the counter, peevish and sweating in his visor and sleeve-garters, a short, stumpy man with the clothing of a laborer and the hard, abrupt authority of a dock boss, and a third man, tall and lean, who had his back turned to Viggo. The third fellow gestured angrily with a hand. Viggo leaned forward, surprised. The man was covered in coal dust except for the lower half of his face, which he’d evidently protected with the dirty kerchief hanging loosely at his neck. The profile was unmistakable, though. It was Sean Bean, his erstwhile defender. And someone who wanted nothing to do with you, Viggo reminded himself with a prickle of wounded pride. Nevertheless, he fixed his attention on the trio, as did a number of other men who watched the argument as if it were a riveting theatrical.
"That’s three hours owing," Sean Bean said. "You won’t cheat me this time the way you did two weeks ago. You think I’m a bloody fool who can’t do sums?" He folded his arms, glowering.
"Who hired you to be a god-damned clerk, Bean?" the short man exploded. "Are you sitting behind the desk? Well?"
"Add it again," Bean insisted, shoving his wage slip at the clerk. "Go on, let me watch you."
"I won’t," the clerk retorted. "This is ridiculous and you’ve taken up quite enough of my time."
"And what about my time? I’m the one who’s being bloody rooked!"
The stumpy fellow took a step forward and pushed a thick finger against Sean Bean’ chest. "You’re naught but trouble, Bean. A born moaner, you are. You know I can replace you in ten minutes, don’t you?"
"And I can go to Bertie Connolly with the dockers’ union and have you investigated for sharp pay practices, Mr. McCutcheon."
"Go on, then," McCutcheon said. "Prove it, you sorry sod."
Sean Bean glanced up. For one instant his eyes met Viggo’s and widened in surprise. Then he frowned, pushed past McCutcheon, and spread his pay voucher on the desk. "Give me your pencil," he said to the clerk, and began to do some rapid figuring, speaking as he wrote. "Twelve hours a day for ten days at twenty-two cents per hour – that’s twenty-six dollars and forty cents. Then, fifteen hours a day for two Saturdays at twenty-two cents per hour – six dollars and sixty cents. That’s thirty-three dollars even, not thirty-two dollars and thirty-four cents." He dropped the pencil and glared triumphantly at the clerk. "So hand over the sixty-six cents you owe me and be quick about it."
The clerk and McCutcheon stole uneasy glances at the assembled crowd. McCutcheon unfolded his thick arms. "Go on," he muttered. "Give him what he’s owed."
The clerk opened his strongbox and counted out a number of coins, placing them in Bean’ grimy, outstretched hand with the air of a king giving alms to an impertinent beggar. He closed the box and scowled down at his papers, ignoring the young man’s derisive snort.
"There," McCutcheon said. "Now that you’ve got your money, get out and don’t bother coming back." He held up a hand, forestalling Bean’ angry retort. "Don’t forget you’re a contract laborer, and when I no longer need your services, I can dismiss you. That’s the agreement you signed. So – I no longer need your services, Mr. Sean Hoity-Toity Bean. Tell that to Bertie Connolly when you see him."
Bean’ hands clenched and unclenched, and a muscle worked furiously in his cheek. "I’ll tell him, all right. I’ll tell him you’re a lying, cheating bastard, and that he’s got to make sure that every docker checks his wage voucher over right careful before collecting his pay. That ought to put a dent in your coffers."
"Get out," McCutcheon repeated. "Go on, get out of here. Don’t let me see you round here again."
Sean spat on the floor and sauntered out without a backward glance. The men assembled in the office started buzzing even before he disappeared.
Viggo didn’t hear a word of their whisperings. He rose slowly and pushed through the throng until he found himself on the doorstep. The overwhelming odors of the wharf rose to his nostrils at once, worse than the mingled fumes of smoke and chewing tobacco and bodily effluvia in the office. He pressed a closed fist to his mouth and searched past the streams of soberly clad businessmen and rough dockers.
There was Bean, halfway down the block already. Viggo broke into a trot, then a run. "Mr. Bean!" he called. "Mr. Bean!"
Sean Bean turned just as Viggo was about to tread on his heels. "Mr. Mortensen," he said flatly. "Looks like I bump into you everywhere. This isn’t your part of town, is it?"
Viggo paused to catch his breath. "I saw what happened. I’m terribly sorry about it."
"It’s nowt." Bean shrugged, the picture of indifference, but anxiety flashed across his face, and his gaze skittered away toward the wharf. He "I’m well rid of that nasty piece anyway. He had it in for me."
"My father is a very good customer there. I could ask him to intercede for you."
"Nay, but thanks all the same. That McCutcheon’s a right bullying sod. He’d only find some other excuse to discharge me."
"I thought you stood up to bullies," Viggo replied with asperity. Bean’ eyes narrowed, and Viggo hastened to add, "You did that night, at any rate, remember?"
"Oh, aye. Haller," Bean said with a touch of scorn. "He’s nowt but a common drunk. Easy enough to stand up to a man like him."
"I was impressed."
An unexpectedly sweet smile spread over Bean’ face. "That’s kind of you." He touched his cap. "Thanks for the offer, anyroad. Good afternoon."
"Mr. Bean!" Viggo put a restraining hand on the young man’s soiled sleeve.
"Christ – I mean, good heavens, Mr. Mortensen, don’t touch me. I’m like the inside of a coal bin."
"You’re quite adept at mathematics."
"Aye, I guess I am at that."
Viggo rubbed his grey-gloved hands together nervously as practicality collided with impulse and sparked an idea. "I’m looking for an assistant. You see, I’m moving to Wilkes-Barre early next week to oversee my father’s mining operation there. I’ll need someone to help me, and – why, you’re in need of a job and you’re obviously quite good at sums. I need someone who can corroborate the account books for me and look after some day-to-day tasks there."
Bean’ face bore no reaction. "My dad were a miner," he said quietly.
"I imagine you know quite a bit about it, then."
A coal-dusted blond brow rose. "Aye, enough, I suppose. You’re not looking for anyone to go down into the mines?"
There was a note of discord in Bean’ voice that puzzled Viggo. "No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll pay you fifty cents an hour. You’d have to move to Wilkes-Barre, of course, but I think you’ll find the cost of living less there."
Bean whistled softly. "Fifty cents an hour?"
Viggo hesitated. Should he have offered more? He had no idea what secretaries earned. "Well, I –"
"I’ll take it." Bean grinned. "Afore you change your mind, like."
A strange relief washed over Viggo. "It’s a bargain. Can you meet me at the Broad Street Station Monday morning at seven-thirty? I’ll have your ticket – just bring your baggage."
"Aye, I’ll do that. And it’s Sean. Call me Sean."
"Very well, Sean – I’m Viggo."
"Oh, no." Sean looked scandalized. "I couldn’t. Oh, bloody hell – I’ve mucked up your gloves." He snatched his hand from Viggo’s. "I’m sorry."
"It’s nothing." Viggo stripped the gloves off, about to say he had two dozen pairs, but caught himself. "Easily laundered. I’m glad you’re going to join me, Sean."
"Can I ask you sommat, sir? You don’t really know me at all. Why’d you engage me, just like that?"
Viggo considered. "We’re of an age. I think we’d get on well. I know you’re good with sums. And as you say, we keep bumping into each other – it must be fate." He smiled. "And I never forget a kindness."
"Well," Sean said, "neither do I. I’ll see you Monday, then?"
"Monday." Viggo touched his hat and swung back toward the shipping office. Beneath the dead-fish, old garbage, stagnant river, and smoky fuel stench of the wharf, he thought he detected another aroma, a greening watery smell, the fragrance of early spring. His step quickened, and he reached into his pocket to touch his sooty gloves.
*
TBC
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
By the third week of the voyage to Philadelphia, the second-class bar of the Corliss had taken on the reassuring noise of any sizable watering hole. Those passengers who had managed to withstand the choppy motion of the ship lounged at scattered tables; others, just recovering, drank ginger ale and lemon pop cautiously, wincing when the ship heaved now and again. The air was dense with smoke and the mingled smells of beer, whiskey, and unwashed bodies. Hoarse laughter and the sound of stamping feet nearly drowned out the impromptu band that had formed at the far end of the bar.
Sean sat near the door, nursing his beer and watching the crowd. Most of them could have been lifted directly from the Rose and Thorn – roughly dressed, unshaven, and a bit surly until their machinery was oiled with a pint or two. Once that had taken place, a man had a friend for life, or at least until closing hour. There were others in the bar as well, hulking, hard-bitten men who spoke a polyglot jumble of languages but mysteriously seemed to understand each other. They traveled in groups, possessed the easy arrogance of long-time comfort with their surroundings, and Sean would have mistaken them for crewmen except for the frank lewdness with which they approached the few women in the bar, and their quick, murderous tempers that Sean guessed – or hoped - would have been unacceptable in crew members. Already there had been fights resulting in cracked skulls; Sean had recoiled in horror as two stewards dragged a man from the bar, moaning and thrashing, his broken head leaking a purplish fluid.
Sean had not bothered to ingratiate himself with anyone on the voyage. His aloofness had earned him a few unfriendly looks, he knew: Hoity-toity, the stares said. Jumped-up bit of muck, getting above yourself when you’re second-class like the rest of us. He rose and ambled toward the bar for a refill. As he stood waiting, one of the foreigners poked him in the side. "What about a game of cards, friend?"
"No," Sean replied. "Thanks all the same." He took his refilled pint and started for his seat, but the man grasped his upper arm and held it.
"Come along. One game. Perhaps two." The man’s friends crowded round, their faces dark with menace.
Sean weighed his choices. If he kicked up a fuss, it was likely that this bunch of toughs would simply drag him into the corridor and beat him senseless. He could give a fair accounting of himself in a fight with one man, but three or four, never. On the other hand, if he consented to play cards, this man would likely cheat him. And Sean had no wish to lose even a penny of his money in a loaded game. Still, it was better than bleeding to death. "All right. I’m not much of a card player, mind."
"I’ll teach you," the man said, with an expansive gesture of his arm and cold greed in his eyes. "Not to worry at all. Come – I should like to buy you another drink. Something a little stronger than beer, eh?" He steered Sean toward a table occupied by two men in shabby suits. "Get out," he snapped. The pair rose and scurried away without a backward glance. The man seated himself heavily and pulled a worn deck of cards from his pocket. "Now then – you know ecarte?"
"I’ve heard of it." Sean allowed himself only the smallest of smiles. He was an old hand at ecarte. Two could play at this game, after all.
*
"My trick," Sean announced, to the cheers and groans of the crowd surrounding the table. Above him, hands darted out, passing currency to and fro. Sean pulled his winnings close and began to stack them, a small pile of crowns, guilders, dollars, and kroner. "I’m out, lads."
"Ahh. One more game, Sean." His opponent, Hans Mathisson, had small blue eyes, as flat and lifeless as a netted carp’s despite the grin that stretched his mouth.
"Nay. Thanks all the same."
Mathisson tilted his head to one side and studied Sean. "I think you lie about knowing ecarte, eh?"
Sean grinned. "Now what makes you say that?" The men around him roared approval and slapped him genially on the back. Several of the men were Mathisson’s mates; nevertheless, they cheered his defeat with an utter lack of sympathy. Sean’s smile dimmed as Mathisson’s grin widened. There was no humor in those blue eyes, none at all. The men gathered around the table shuffled back a few steps. "Well, it were a fair game, weren’t it?" Sean said, slipping the money in his pocket.
"Fair," Mathisson said. "Ja, it was fair."
"Well then." Sean rose to his feet and dropped a few crowns on the table. "Have a round on me, lads. I’ll say good night now." He walked out of the bar, waiting for the heavy tread of booted feet to follow him. Once in the narrow corridor, he turned, but no one had followed.
The night was clear and cold, the sky brilliant with stars despite the cloud of ash and soot spewed by the ship’s funnel. Sean wandered to a rail and looked down. Dark water, silvered by moonlight, churned and foamed far below as the ship plowed westward. He had no particular love of the sea, but on such a night it was easy enough to appreciate all the songs and poems he’d heard in his youth. He tried to remember one that Freddy had taught him – old Triton and his wreathed horn, or some such – but they hadn’t got far in the learning.
For the first time in days Sean forced himself to think of Freddy. He’d done him a bloody bad turn, cheating him out of that money, but there was nothing for it now. Harry would be in a fury, but if Freddy kept his mouth shut, no one would be the worse off. And as for Freddy, he’d got his tale-carrying letters back. The whole thing had worked out better than Sean could have planned. Problem solved, and he was four – no, five hundred pounds richer, and debt-free in the bargain. He leaned on the rail, savoring the salt spray on his cheeks, and whistled, off-key, but with cheerful vigor.
A couple in evening clothes moved toward him. The man’s white shirtfront gleamed in the darkness; his diamond studs caught the deck’s lamplights, glittering like the stars. The woman was wearing the sort of frock Sean had only seen in illustrated magazines, all soft ruffles and shockingly low bosom. They were young and handsome, like illustrations themselves. Sean nodded and smiled in greeting.
The woman clung more closely to her companion. "It’s a pity that some decks are open to absolutely anyone, don’t you think? Quite unfair, considering the price one pays," she said. Her voice was posh London, as icy and brittle as a shard of crystal.
"Quite," the young man replied, deftly propelling the woman away from Sean as if he smelled like a pigsty.
Sean glared after them. The evening's pleasure was spoiled. Sod them. In a few days he’d be well shut of all of it. He made his way toward the lower decks and his cramped, smelly cabin.
Outside his door he fumbled for a half-crown. The heat and gaslight was coin-operated on the lower-class decks; he wasn’t so rich now that he could waste money on a first-class ticket, but it was better than crossing as a steerage passenger. Perhaps he was jumped-up after all, but he wasn’t a fool, either.
He slipped the key into the lock and entered the dark cabin, groping for the coin box. He heard a soft noise behind him; before he could turn, a stunning pain landed just behind his ear, and he staggered forward. He tried to stand upright, to turn and fight his assailant, but another blow caught him in the temple, and he crashed to the ground.
*
When he awoke, he was on the floor. The gaslight burned its feeble yellow glow beside the door, and the only sound was that of the ticking meter. Gingerly, Sean touched his temple and winced. Already there was a lump; it would be the size of a goose egg by morning.
He sat up and glanced around, squinting with pain. Dismayed, he rose and stared at the wreckage of his room. The mattress had been torn apart; cheap bedticking and rags lay in piles on the floor. His clothes were in shreds. And his suitcase had been broken up, the lining ripped out. His money was gone. All of it.
Sean sank to his knees, unable to control his trembling legs. With a slow, careful gesture, he thrust his hand into his trouser pocket. There was no jingling of silver and gold; he’d been robbed of every last penny. They’d even stolen his pocket watch. It wasn’t a fine one, only silver plate, but it had been his dad’s, and had meant the world to him. It was only too clear who’d done this – who perhaps had watched him from the very beginning, waiting for the proper opportunity to take advantage of his stupidity.
*
The second-class bar was empty except for the barman, who polished glasses with the stolid placidity of his profession, and a group of men at the corner table. Sean strode up to them without hesitation. "Give me back my money."
Mathisson cocked his head in delicate inquiry, then turned to one of his comrades and muttered something unintelligible. There was a burst of laughter, coarse and loud.
Sean’s hands clenched at his sides. "Give it back, I said."
One corner of Mathisson's mouth shot upwards. "Am I not remembering, or did you not win three games tonight?"
"You know what I’m talking about. I want my money."
Mathisson bit off the end of an unlit cigar and spat it onto the table. "I thought we were playing a friendly game of ecarte. Are you accusing me of cheating you?"
Sean grasped the end of the table and flung it aside. Glasses flew and crashed to the floor. "You sodding bastard. Give it back or I’ll bloody kill you!" He lunged toward Mathisson, but two of his companions leapt up and pinned Sean’s arms. Sean twisted, intending to call to the barkeep for aid, but the man put his glass and polishing cloth down and prudently slipped out a side door.
Mathisson rose to his feet. He grasped a fistful of Sean’s hair and dragged his head back. He leaned close; his breath reeked of cigars and beer. "You, kill me?" he snorted. "You should be careful with your words, boy. It would be sad for you to lose your balance on deck some night, eh? A young man like you, with so much life ahead of him?"
"I’ll go to the captain."
"Go, then. Much good may it do you. You can’t prove a thing, boy." He tapped the lump on Sean’s temple. "And who knows – you might fall overboard tonight, on your way to see him. Even on calm nights there is turbulence. Terrible tragedies happen at sea."
Sean stopped struggling and held back tears of rage and defeat. Mathisson smiled in triumph, let go of Sean’s hair, and nodded to his companions. "I hope you rot in hell," Sean snarled.
Mathisson shrugged. "That’s almost certain. Now, I tell you what to do. You go back to your cabin, and stay there except for meals, ja? And I sweeten the pot." He pulled out a crisp ten-pound note and held it out to Sean. "Since you seem to be short of funds, I give you some money for expenses on shore." Sean would not take the money, so Mathisson shoved it into Sean’s jacket pocket. "Go on now. Don’t let me see your face again."
Moving like a somnambulist, Sean went back to his cabin. The meter had wound down, leaving the room dark, and he hadn’t another coin, so he took his tattered clothes and the remains of the mattress, placed them on the steel frame, and lay down. Tears burned his eyes, but would not fall. In the back of his mind, some phrase about ill-got gains tickled at him until he forcibly pushed it away.
He lay awake all night, his head throbbing, only succumbing to sleep when grey dawn filtered through the cheap cotton curtains that covered the porthole. When he awoke, the lump on his temple was indeed the size of a goose egg, and the destruction of his room was even more disheartening in the sullen daylight. He’d have to jump ship to avoid being charged for destroying ship’s property.
He gritted his teeth and set to tidying the cabin as best he could. There were worse predicaments than his. He could be back in Winsley, beholden to Freddy Watkins. He could be deep in the North Atlantic, or lying in the infirmary with a broken head courtesy of Hans bloody Mathisson.
As it was, he had ten pounds and his freedom. Many people had to make do with less.
*
Viggo took a cautious spoonful of his dessert, poached peaches drowned in a sweet cream and brandy sauce, and noticed his hostess watching him. He dipped his head in polite acknowledgment. "It’s exquisite. My compliments to your chef."
Rebecca Lockwood beamed. "Monsieur de la Fressange will be delighted to hear it. He’s a bit of a tyrant in his domain, but praise turns him to melted butter." She turned to her daughter, Charity. "Isn’t that so, my dear?"
"Oh – yes, Mamma." Charity was pretty enough, but at sixteen still had the unfinished face of a child, and occasionally the discomfiting manners of one. More than once, Viggo had caught her staring at him with an expression compounded of adoration and yearning. There would have been something amusing about the whole affair had not Rebecca Lockwood hovered behind her daughter, pushing the poor girl toward Viggo at every opportunity.
Viggo wondered at this new democracy. The Lockwoods were firmly entrenched Old Philadelphians. They were associates at the Philadelphia National Bank, leaders at the Assemblies, trustees at Chestnut Hill Academy, and pillars of St. Peter’s. Why they were courting a nouveau riche was a mystery – or was it? Viggo glanced at the furnishings in the dining room. They were elderly pieces, and rather chipped and sad-looking. Was it incipient poverty that prompted a welcoming of the possible infusion of parvenu blood, or was Viggo merely witnessing Philadelphian indifference to material trappings? He hadn’t been in society long enough to tell the difference, and felt at a distinct disadvantage, as if he were playing a game whose rules were known only to the other players.
"You’re wrong, Mother." Archie Lockwood, sitting at the head of the table, patted his mouth with a snowy napkin. "The only thing that makes that damned Frog happy is his weekly pay. Besides, Vig's one of those ghastly outdoor types. He's not interested in dainty Frog food, are you, Vig?"
"Indeed? That’s very healthful." Rebecca’s smile grew brighter, showing the edges of sharp little white teeth. "Charity adores lawn tennis, don’t you, Charity?"
"Yes, Mamma."
"For God’s sake, Mother," Archie breathed, rolling his eyes. He clipped the end of a cigar and offered it to Viggo, who shook his head. "Vig’s not interested in lawn tennis either."
"Archie exaggerates, Mrs. Lockwood." Viggo said. "I –"
"He can tell you about it another time," Archie said as he rose, his cigar clamped firmly between his teeth. "Right now there are games afoot. Come along, sir." He plucked impatiently at Viggo’s sleeve and bellowed for the butler. "Briggs! Coat, hat!"
"Oh, not a billiard hall, Archibald. Such low places."
"Mother, we’re going to the Rittenhouse Club, for the love of heaven. They’ve had billiards there for nigh on forty years. It’s perfectly nice, perfectly respectable. Send Briggs to check on us if you’re feeling skittish." Archie grasped Viggo’s arm and hauled him out of his chair without ceremony, pulling him toward the door.
Viggo managed an awkward bow to Mrs. Lockwood and Charity. "Thank you for a lovely evening."
"You must come again," Rebecca called after them. "We’re so eager to hear about your college life out West. Aren’t we, Charity dear?"
Charity’s voice floated faintly from the dining room. "Yes, mamma."
Only when they were outside, securely cloaked and hatted, walking sticks in hand, did Viggo turn to Archie. "Good God, you really are a lout. I looked like the most ungrateful sort of guest."
"Oh, come on now." Archie puffed on his cigar. "I saved your bacon back there and you know it. Don’t mistake me – I love Charity dearly and Mother’s not a bad egg, but the pair of them are positively terrifying. A fellow doesn’t stand a chance in their presence. Not that I’d necessarily object to having you as a brother-in-law, mind, but I can only tolerate so much." He took the cigar from between his teeth and breathed deeply. "By God, isn’t it a fine night? You can smell springtime in the air at last."
Viggo wondered how Archie was able to smell anything but the noxious cigar. "Wait – this isn’t the way to the Rittenhouse Club."
"Of course it isn’t. I had to tell Mother something, though."
The too-rich dinner he’d eaten began to congeal in Viggo’s stomach. He had some idea where Archie was leading him. "And if she sends your butler looking for us?"
Archie chuckled. "She won’t. Even if she does, he’s sharp enough to say that all’s well. Come on, look lively. Schuyler, McCall, and Trowbridge are meeting us there."
Viggo halted in his tracks. "Archie, I really don’t think I ought to go tonight."
Archie stopped and folded his arms. "Look here, Vig. Ever since you’ve come back from college you’ve been damned peculiar. Keeping to yourself, avoiding your friends. What’s got into you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And this is – how many times, I’m sure I don’t know – that you’ve begged off Madame Rosemonde’s. Did you catch a dose of clap from some saloon girl out there? It must have cleared up by now."
Viggo almost laughed despite his annoyance. "No, I didn’t catch the clap. For God’s sake, I’ve just come from dinner with your mother and sister. Isn’t all this a little…well, inappropriate?"
Genuine perplexity creased Archie’s brow. "What’s one got to do with the other? Come on," He looped an arm through Viggo’s. "We’re already late. Why are there no damned cabs at this hour?"
*
Viggo took a deep draught of wine and moved to the half-open window to escape the reek of the gas jets and the effluvium of an intense rose scent that pervaded the room. He fingered the blue damask drapes and grasped the heavy material tightly to prevent a sudden flight.
He despised himself for letting Archie maneuver him into the brothel, but Archie wasn't one to take no for an answer. Nor were his other Penn associates, Harald Schuyler, Percy Trowbridge, and Alexander McCall, all of whom were at this moment disporting themselves in the arms of the women they’d selected for the night.
He turned at a noise behind him. The girl he’d chosen stepped from behind her dressing screen, a wide smile plastered to her face. Her body was slim, almost boyish in its lack of breasts and hips. She wore a chemise, drawers, and stockings. A narrow black ribbon encircled her throat. Watching her, Viggo felt no arousal, merely anxiety and a touch of pity.
She stepped close to him. "Is the wine to your liking?"
Viggo forced himself to remain still. "Yes, thank you. Where do you come from?"
The girl’s brow wrinkled in consternation. "Krakow." She fitted her body to his, gently pushing herself against him.
"How long have you been here?"
The girl counted on her fingers. "Three months now."
"Did you come with family?" It was foolish to postpone the awful defeat of the night, he knew. Best to get it over with and get out as quickly as possible.
Her dark eyes clouded. "No more talking," she said softly, drawing him toward the bed. She urged him down, her hands on his shoulders, and nudged his legs apart with her knee. One strap of her chemise fell as her hands moved toward the buttons of Viggo’s trousers, revealing a glimpse of tiny, pointed breasts.
Viggo closed his eyes. Maybe Archie was right. It had been too long since he’d been touched by another person. His own hand was a necessary but joyless means of stimulus and release. Besides, he knew exactly what to imagine in order to make himself hard.
In a moment it was over. Panting, he opened his eyes to behold the girl still straddling him, an expression of amusement on her face. She had loosened her chemise, and it pooled around her waist, revealing her narrow torso. Without a word, she leaned over him, her breasts close to his lips, and took a folded linen towel from the bedside table. For a moment, she stayed where she was, clearly waiting for him to capture one of her nipples in his mouth. When he tilted his head away from her, she shrugged and gently cleaned him with the towel.
"You paid for all night."
"I know. I…" Viggo hesitated. "I can’t stay. I’m sorry." His apology struck him as absurd. Doubtless the girl would be glad to get rid of him. He placed his hands on her narrow hips and gently moved her off. She rolled onto the bed and watched as he tidied his clothes. He reached into his pocket and extracted a bill, then awkwardly placed it on the pillow. "Thank you," he said softly. The girl said nothing as he nodded to her and let himself out.
*
The whorehouse was a few blocks from the docks, close enough for Viggo to smell the brackish, fishy odor of the water, but he’d never truly paid attention to the route and now he was hopelessly lost. And it was raining, a dull pounding rain that soaked him and intensified the sickening aroma of the perfume that clung to him. He plunged his hands into his pockets, hunched deeper into his overcoat, and strode through the warren of streets with feigned purpose.
Dirty yellow smoke from the coal lamps mingled with the steadily falling rain, giving the streets the unhealthy appearance of being washed in pale, greasy tea. Grim black silhouettes of buildings huddled together as if protecting one another from some malicious foe. There was more broken glass scattered under Viggo’s feet than in the narrow windows, and old food and garbage littered the unevenly cobbled sidewalks.
Though the clocks had just chimed nine, there were few people about, and those who were seemed furtive and shifty. Men slouched in pairs or trios, caps hiding their faces, presenting a front of quiet menace to discourage confrontation. Pinched-looking prostitutes loitered on corners, their feminine allure long faded, desperation born of poverty and hunger lending their eyes a hard jewel-like glitter in the dim lamplight. A few ragged urchin boys hooted obscenities at them, thumbing their noses and laughing when the women swore violently.
Viggo lengthened his stride, feeling like a fool. Surely there had to be a public house open nearby, somewhere to get directions. He turned a corner and was rewarded by a burst of noise and light. A small knot of men pushed their way out of the door and made slow, weaving progress toward him. He gave them a wide berth.
"Hey there, fella," one called. "Spare two bits?"
"Sorry." Viggo averted his eyes, hoping to avoid confrontation. The hope was dashed when one of the men staggered forward and grasped his lapel, pushing him into the wall.
"Dintcha hear my friend, pal? He asked for a loan."
"I haven’t got any money," Viggo replied, a statement some forty dollars shy of the truth. He saw no reason to give his money away simply because a pack of drunkards blasted him with shouting and beer-scented breath.
"Yeah? You look like you got plenty, pretty boy. C’mon, pony up."
A long-fingered hand curled around the paw grasping Viggo’s lapel and wrenched it aside. "Leave him be," a deep voice said. "Christ, Haller, you’ve had enough for one night, haven’t you?"
"’S for tomorrow, Sean." The drunk swayed back and forth, glaring.
"Sod off. Go on, or I’ll belt you one." Viggo's rescuer waited until the others shuffled off, then turned to him. "You all right?" The man was young, surely not much older than himself. He had a long face with a powerful nose, and a shock of blond hair.
"Yes. Yes, thank you."
"He wouldn’t have hurt you none." The young man’s voice was English, Northern-accented. "Right coward, he is, a bully. Crumples like a wet paper sack when you stand up to him."
"Even when he’s drunk?"
The young man laughed, displaying a broad, handsome smile. "Aye, even worse. Like as not you’ll find him half a square from here, asleep in a doorway."
"I’ll take your word for it," Viggo said. "Thank you again. You wouldn’t know the way to Walnut Street, by any chance?"
"Lost?"
"You might say that."
"Well, you don’t look as though you’re from round these parts. That’s a compliment, mind." The young man gave him explicit directions. "I can walk with you, if you like."
"It’s not necessary, but I thank you all the same." Viggo stuck his hand out. "Viggo Mortensen."
"Sean Bean." They shook hands and Bean tipped his cap. "Pleasure making your acquaintance, Mr. Mortensen. Mind yourself, now. It can be a bit rough round here."
Viggo grinned. "I shall try my best. Good night, Mr. Bean." He moved quickly up the street, confident now in Sean Bean’ clear directions. Halfway up the square, he turned to look back at the young man, but he had already vanished.
*
Viggo studied the three identical doors in the south wing. In four months he still hadn’t learned every room of the Old York Road house. He found that depressing and possibly obscene, but in no way did the glacial fifty-room pile of stone feel like a home. It felt more like a hotel: excessively grand, spotlessly clean, over-furnished. The staff was first-rate, ready to indulge his every whim, but it was impossible to shake the sensation of being a guest at his own address. He saw assorted members of his family at mealtimes and exchanged polite conversation, but the noisy camaraderie they had once shared seemed to be slipping away in favor of a stuffy and disheartening formality.
Which door was Grace’s? All his sisters living at home shared this wing, but he visited them so infrequently. The girls should have put name-plates on the doors. He chose the middle one and tapped.
The door opened almost at once. Grace peered out, looking cross, then smiled when she saw her visitor. "Well, hello there."
"Hello, old thing. I couldn’t remember which door was yours."
"This and that," she said, pointing to the door on her left. "That’s my sitting room. This is my bedroom. Come in."
Grace’s bedroom was enormous, with a rose-colored velvet carpet and pretty wallpaper striped in rose and pale grey. Drapes of rose silk fell over dainty white curtains. Swathes of white tulle bound here and there with pink velvet roses festooned the dressing table, littered with silver candlesticks, cut-glass perfume bottles, porcelain and crystal figurines, and little silver boxes of powder and rouge. It all looked unused, like a stage set, and certainly at odds with Grace’s appearance. She wore a plain white blouse, a dark-blue tie, a grey flannel skirt, and soft slippers over her white stockings. Her hair was pulled into a simple bun, and her face was ruddy from the sun and innocent of powder, a minor act of rebellion that caused their mother no end of vexation.
"Pretty room," Viggo commented.
"I hate it. All this fluff, it’s ridiculous. You know, Mother asked me what I wanted. I told her something trim, not fussy. I imagined plain white and blue, ordinary furniture. I got this instead. It looks like an overdone hat – horrid. Mother said if I intended to live like a nun, I should take vows."
Viggo snickered. "She did?"
"It isn’t funny. Try sleeping under all that lace, it’s awful." Grace tossed the couch pillows onto the bed and thumped down with a disconsolate expression. "Aren’t you going to sit?"
"Thank you." Viggo sat beside her. "It’s a fine day. Do you want to come for a drive with me? I was thinking of going to Fairmount Park. We could hire a boat. I haven’t rowed in almost a year."
"Oh, bother it! I’d love to, but I can’t." Grace’s fingers floated up to fiddle with her tie. "Mother’s making me host someone for tea. I’m supposed to be dressed already." She indicated a lacy pink frock spread out on the bed.
Viggo bit back a smile. "Another would-be suitor? What’s his name?"
"I can’t remember, and I don’t even care. Mother won’t be content until she marries me off to some Philadelphia Club scion with a seventy-room summer cottage in Newport, an income of twenty thousand dollars a year, and eight dozen servants." Grace scowled. "You’re so lucky, Viggo. You can do anything you please, and no one says a thing against you. You could run off and join the Navy or go back West and start a cattle ranch and everyone would say how intrepid you are. I can’t even visit Kitty Connolly back in Roxborough without Mother sending a detachment of constables to look for me."
"Maybe she’s afraid you’re going to run away."
"I’d like to." Grace blew a strand of hair out of her eye. "When I think about having to marry one of those fellows, let alone live with him, I want to disappear."
Viggo patted his sister’s hand. "If you want to run away and start a ranch, or stay here and annoy Mother by becoming a suffragette, I’ll support you."
"I’ll remember you said that. You’d better go. Mother’s going to have my head on a plate if I’m not there to dish out the petit fours. I wish I could go with you."
"Another time." Viggo rose, waved goodbye, and headed for the stables.
*
Fairmount Park was crowded with optimistic revelers, lulled into complacency by sunshine and warmth. Spring in Pennsylvania was less a season than a stolen handful of sunny afternoons, and no one wanted to admit that in another two or three weeks, the pretty, fragile, unreliable illusion would probably end with biting winds, another foot of snow and hundreds of frozen cherry blossoms. So away went the sturdy coats and mufflers and heavy umbrellas, and out came the straw boaters and cycling costumes and parasols, only to be put away for another few weeks in wounded indignation.
Viggo dawdled along the riverside drive. It was lonely and dull to row alone, and he had no desire to try to maneuver a bicycle through the knots of idling walkers and riders. He smiled a little wistfully as he walked. There were couples everywhere he turned. Young sweethearts laughed as they chased each other on bicycles, heedless of the crowds. Older, more sedate couples walked arm-in-arm or picnicked bravely on the still-damp grass. Viggo’s wandering gaze fell upon two young men in college scarves strolling close together, sharing a cigarette and a joke. They nodded politely to him as he passed, and he returned the nod, with the suspicion, if not the certainty, that they were lovers.
How did he know? Certainly they were perfectly ordinary-looking. Their gestures were not particularly broad, nor were their voices lacking in typical masculinity, yet there was a peculiar complicity that Viggo had recognized at once.
Surreptitiously, he turned back to look at them. They were laughing uproariously, and Viggo felt a slight pricking of jealousy. He turned back to continue his walk and collided with another stroller, treading heavily on his foot.
"Mind yourself!" the man snapped.
"I’m sorry," Viggo apologized. "Terribly clumsy of me." He stopped, frowning at his unintended victim. He looked awfully familiar.
"I should say so. Still, no harm done." The man's green eyes narrowed. "Haven’t I seen you before?"
"Why – yes, I think so," Viggo said. "A few weeks ago. You rescued me from one of your companions. It’s Mr. Bean, isn’t it? Sean Bean? Viggo Mortensen."
"Aye, that’s it," the young man said. "Look here, I’m sorry about those blokes. They’re not really friends of mine – they’re only work mates. And louts, when you come right down to it."
"It takes a brave fellow to stand up to a bully," Viggo said. "I appreciated it."
A flush appeared on Sean Bean’ cheeks. "Ah, it were nowt." He stuck his hands in his pockets and a sudden shy smile tugged his mouth upward. "I reckon we’re square."
"I didn’t injure you, did I? I didn’t mean to blunder into you like that. I wasn’t paying attention – I’m not usually so clumsy." He gestured at the Schuykill, grey and icy-looking and flowing sluggishly. "I was looking at the river. It seems so cold, even though the day’s quite warm." He clamped his mouth shut. Stop explaining things, you sound ridiculous.
Bean walked to the railing and looked out at the water. "Aye, it does that." There was a touch of melancholy in his tone. "Do you live round here, then?"
"No. I live a ways out, on Old York Road. Not really in the city."
"Lucky you. I live by the docks. Work there, too. What sort of work do you do?"
"Oh…I’m…actually, I don’t work at the moment. I’m looking for something I might like to do." Viggo regretted the words as soon as they emerged. He sounded like a spoiled dilettante.
"Gentleman of leisure, is it?" Bean said, giving Viggo’s clothes a quick up-and-down glance. "I might have guessed. Nice work if you can get it, eh?" He pushed himself away from the railing. "Well, it was good to see you again, Mr. Mortensen. Good afternoon."
Viggo felt a stab of disappointment. "Wait a moment. Have you time for a cup of coffee? Or tea, I suppose you’d prefer tea. I have my gig, or we could go to the tearoom at the Indian Rock Hotel –"
"Nay, it’s getting late. Thanks all the same." The young man seemed momentarily regretful, then stretched out his hand. "Goodbye now."
There was nothing to do but take the offered hand. He noticed Bean’ neat but threadbare tweed jacket, his unfashionable tie, his bare hands, the shirt that showed a faint hint of darning near the collar, and damned himself for a hundred kinds of callous fool. "Goodbye, Mr. Bean. Again, please accept my apologies." He stood at the railing and watched Bean walk away. Had he become just like his college chums after all – useless, glutted on wealth, utterly lacking in sensitivity or compassion? He should have seen the young man’s state of poverty straight away, and not trumpeted his wealth so blatantly.
Archie Lockwood had told him a dozen times that there was no shame in being rich, and that Viggo ought to stop behaving like a Christian martyr – it was so tedious. There were plenty of people, he’d said, poison-jealous of Viggo’s wealth and willing to separate him from the filthy stuff if he wanted to be a bleeding heart, but what good did all that guilt do? But then, Archie had grown up cushioned by the security of blood and reputation; he’d never known any other life.
Sean Bean glanced back over his shoulder and met Viggo’s eyes. Clearly embarrassed, he pivoted quickly and hurried away.
Viggo looked out at the river, too heavy-hearted to be ashamed.
*
The air at the dinner table that evening swathed the family in a cloud of unease. Grace sat silent and morose, hardly looking up from her plate. Katherine aimed baleful stares at her between every bite. Apparently, Viggo gathered, the tea had been less than successful. Harald seemed sunken into a morass of private gloom. Only Agnes seemed animated and cheerful, and even her conversational gambits had dropped one by one into a bottomless well. Nevertheless, she soldiered on.
"I saw the prettiest summer hat in Wanamaker’s window today, Mama – a yellow leghorn picture hat with greyish-pink roses. Maybe you and Grace can come and look at it with me tomorrow."
Katherine dragged her gaze from her eldest daughter’s downcast face. "Of course I will, dear, if I have time. I doubt your sister would be interested, though. She hasn’t the patience for such useless fripperies."
"Mama, please," Grace whispered, her eyes still fixed on her plate.
"I am nearly fed up with you, young lady. You behaved like a perfect…I don’t know what, and I have had enough of your moods and tantrums every time you fulfill an obligation."
"Mother, maybe Grace simply isn’t suited for your sort of social schedule," Viggo ventured.
"Don’t be absurd," Katherine sniffed. "It isn’t my sort of social schedule, it’s everybody’s. How she’s going to meet an appropriate husband or have a normal life, I’m sure I don’t know."
"Maybe I don’t want a husband," Grace muttered.
Katherine’s eyes narrowed. "What?"
Agnes darted a glance at her mother and addressed Grace hastily. "What did you do that was so dreadful, Gracie?"
Grace opened her mouth to reply, but Katherine rushed in before Grace could say a word. "I’ll tell you what she did. She started talking about the suffragist cause. As if Clement Whitcomb cared a fig about suffragettes."
Grace offered Viggo a wry smile and a tiny shrug. He shook his head at her reprovingly and cleared his throat. "Well, we all know that Grace feels strongly about the cause. If he’s any sort of prospective husband, he should know about her interests."
"Interests, my eye. And what she should know is to talk about subjects that interest the young man, not herself." Katherine moved a tall epergne overflowing with lilacs and addressed her husband. "Mr. Mortensen, are you listening to any of this? Your daughter is running absolutely wild."
Harald, still in the cutaway he’d worn to church, sighed heavily. "Katie, let the poor girl alone. There are dozens of lads who’d be delighted to marry her, suffragist cause or no suffragist cause."
"I see. Well, I suppose you know best, though I must say you don’t seem worried about your daughter being called a bluestocking."
"Damnation, Katie, leave off. My Wilkes-Barre manager died of influenza two days ago and I have my hands full." He rubbed his eyes. "I’m sorry, darling. I’m not intending to shout at you. It’s only that he was a good man, with a family, and it’s a shock."
"I see. Well, God rest his soul," Katherine said, and took a forkful of galantine after shooting Grace a glare promising that the matter was far from settled. "His family was in Wilkes-Barre also?"
"Yes. You met him and his wife. Will Covington. And his wife’s name…ah, Lydia. And three children. I forget their names now, but they were little ones, near as I can recall."
"Oh, dear. Poor things."
"He was steady," Harald said. "The lads liked him, and he liked them. Never a cross word between them."
"The widow will get his pension, won’t she, Papa?" Grace asked.
"Of course she will, Gracie. Never fear on that account. The problem is I haven’t a replacement for him. I can’t spare anyone from the Philadelphia office just now, but I can’t leave Wilkes-Barre unsupervised, either. The place needs a presence of authority. I suppose I’ll have to go myself, for a while at least."
Viggo studied his woebegone father. "Send me, Father."
Everyone stopped to stare at Viggo. Harald put his fork on his plate. "You, lad? I didn’t think you were interested."
"I am," Viggo said. "At any rate, I need to be useful. I’ve been languishing here for months without anything serious to occupy my time."
Harald scratched at his mustache, regarding his son. "But you’ve never done this sort of thing before."
"Well…then perhaps you could send someone in the Philadelphia office to Wilkes-Barre, and I could take his place. I could apprentice for a while, the way I did in college."
"I doubt you’ve forgotten much from those summers. They weren’t so long ago, I reckon. Are you sure?"
"I’m sure, Father. I’m not cut out for a life of leisure." Viggo heard his mother’s huff of irritation. "I’m awfully sorry, Mother. It just doesn’t suit me, all this frenetic activity. I’ll be much happier as a working man."
"My children want to be lonely and miserable in their old age. Go on, then. I can’t stop you."
"It’s a wonderful idea, Viggo! I’m sure you’ll meet all sorts of charming people there," Agnes said.
"And Michael's there," Grace said.
"Your brother has parish duties from morning until night," Katherine interposed. "And if you’re hoping to turn to him for introductions, remember his parish is a poor one. Charming people, my eye."
"I’ll remember, Mother." Katherine’s scolding and exasperation was comfortable and familiar. Viggo preferred them to the stiff etiquette she’d lately adopted. "Will you miss me if I go?"
"Honestly, Viggo," Katherine scowled. "Don’t be such a ninny. Why you should ever ask such a silly question is utterly beyond me."
Viggo didn’t trouble to hide his smile. It was as much of a statement of affection as he’d ever get from her, stern, unsentimental soul that she was. "What do you say, Father?" he asked, turning back to Harald. "Are you willing to take me on?"
Harald beamed. "I think it’d be just grand, my boy. Just grand. Come to the office with me tomorrow and we’ll get you re-acquainted with the business. Can you be ready to leave in two weeks, do you think?"
"Oh, yes, I think so." Viggo grinned back at his father and then fixed his attention on his food, unwilling to meet the dismayed gazes of Grace and his mother. His heart had always been poor soil for the seeds of whimsy to flourish; he was far too patient and deliberate to abandon himself to impulse. He was shocked at his own behavior, but a tickle of growing elation threatened to overcome the shock. It was such a small rebellion, after all, and utterly respectable.
*
"Harald, thank goodness you’re here." Stephen O’Malley, tall, red-haired, and bewhiskered, hurried toward Harald and Viggo, mopping his brow with a gigantic handkerchief. A plump little clerk with a chest like a pouter pigeon’s waddled behind him, waving a manifest in evident hope that his employer would notice him."I’ve some urgent questions about the Charleston loads for next week. Can we go to my office for a moment?"
Harald smiled. "Stephen, you know my boy Viggo. He’s going to take the reins in Wilkes-Barre for me. Taking over for poor Will, don’t you know. Viggo, Mr. Stephen O’Malley."
O’Malley gave Viggo a brief nod. "Of course. Delighted to see you again. Harald, I hate to be a nag –" He motioned urgently toward a closed door and turned to sign the manifest, to the little clerk’s tremendous relief.
"Of course, of course. I won’t be a minute, son."
"Shall I come with you, Father?"
"No, lad. Just have a seat over there and watch all the goings-on. Likely you'll learn a thing or two."
The shipping office of Callahan and O’Malley was as dirty and disorderly a place as Viggo had ever seen, but it was exciting, too. Shipping officials, clerks, foremen, laborers, and messenger boys scurried to and fro, their raised voices drowning the outside roar of the shipping yard and the clatter of wharfside traffic. Callahan and O’Malley shipped Harald’s coal down the coast to Wilmington, Charleston, Savannah, and Jacksonville. They were a small outfit in the very grand scheme of Philadelphia coal shipping, but Harald made a point of engaging the services of smaller companies whenever possible.
Viggo’s attention dwindled. He’d spent more time running about Philadelphia in the past week and a half than he had in months, earnestly absorbing as much as he could about mining management, even though Harald had assured him that the entire venture would be easy as pie. There was an experienced mine boss who knew everything about quotidian operations. Viggo’s task, as Harald told it, was merely to represent his father, make sure the boss was doing his job, supervise the accounts, and act as an authority figure for the miners. "They don’t like absentee landlords, and I can’t blame them for it," Harald had said. "You show up every so often, have a kind word for them now and again, and they’ll work hard for you."
"I expect I’ll have a challenge now and again," Viggo had said, amused at Harald’s tidy recitation. Harald’s nonchalance hadn’t lessened Viggo’s diligence; he was determined to learn every facet of the mining business. What he couldn’t pick up during his two weeks of hasty training, he’d learn on the job, and try his best not to make a hash of things.
A sudden hubbub of raised voices jolted him out of a lull. Three men were arguing vociferously – one of the clerks behind the counter, peevish and sweating in his visor and sleeve-garters, a short, stumpy man with the clothing of a laborer and the hard, abrupt authority of a dock boss, and a third man, tall and lean, who had his back turned to Viggo. The third fellow gestured angrily with a hand. Viggo leaned forward, surprised. The man was covered in coal dust except for the lower half of his face, which he’d evidently protected with the dirty kerchief hanging loosely at his neck. The profile was unmistakable, though. It was Sean Bean, his erstwhile defender. And someone who wanted nothing to do with you, Viggo reminded himself with a prickle of wounded pride. Nevertheless, he fixed his attention on the trio, as did a number of other men who watched the argument as if it were a riveting theatrical.
"That’s three hours owing," Sean Bean said. "You won’t cheat me this time the way you did two weeks ago. You think I’m a bloody fool who can’t do sums?" He folded his arms, glowering.
"Who hired you to be a god-damned clerk, Bean?" the short man exploded. "Are you sitting behind the desk? Well?"
"Add it again," Bean insisted, shoving his wage slip at the clerk. "Go on, let me watch you."
"I won’t," the clerk retorted. "This is ridiculous and you’ve taken up quite enough of my time."
"And what about my time? I’m the one who’s being bloody rooked!"
The stumpy fellow took a step forward and pushed a thick finger against Sean Bean’ chest. "You’re naught but trouble, Bean. A born moaner, you are. You know I can replace you in ten minutes, don’t you?"
"And I can go to Bertie Connolly with the dockers’ union and have you investigated for sharp pay practices, Mr. McCutcheon."
"Go on, then," McCutcheon said. "Prove it, you sorry sod."
Sean Bean glanced up. For one instant his eyes met Viggo’s and widened in surprise. Then he frowned, pushed past McCutcheon, and spread his pay voucher on the desk. "Give me your pencil," he said to the clerk, and began to do some rapid figuring, speaking as he wrote. "Twelve hours a day for ten days at twenty-two cents per hour – that’s twenty-six dollars and forty cents. Then, fifteen hours a day for two Saturdays at twenty-two cents per hour – six dollars and sixty cents. That’s thirty-three dollars even, not thirty-two dollars and thirty-four cents." He dropped the pencil and glared triumphantly at the clerk. "So hand over the sixty-six cents you owe me and be quick about it."
The clerk and McCutcheon stole uneasy glances at the assembled crowd. McCutcheon unfolded his thick arms. "Go on," he muttered. "Give him what he’s owed."
The clerk opened his strongbox and counted out a number of coins, placing them in Bean’ grimy, outstretched hand with the air of a king giving alms to an impertinent beggar. He closed the box and scowled down at his papers, ignoring the young man’s derisive snort.
"There," McCutcheon said. "Now that you’ve got your money, get out and don’t bother coming back." He held up a hand, forestalling Bean’ angry retort. "Don’t forget you’re a contract laborer, and when I no longer need your services, I can dismiss you. That’s the agreement you signed. So – I no longer need your services, Mr. Sean Hoity-Toity Bean. Tell that to Bertie Connolly when you see him."
Bean’ hands clenched and unclenched, and a muscle worked furiously in his cheek. "I’ll tell him, all right. I’ll tell him you’re a lying, cheating bastard, and that he’s got to make sure that every docker checks his wage voucher over right careful before collecting his pay. That ought to put a dent in your coffers."
"Get out," McCutcheon repeated. "Go on, get out of here. Don’t let me see you round here again."
Sean spat on the floor and sauntered out without a backward glance. The men assembled in the office started buzzing even before he disappeared.
Viggo didn’t hear a word of their whisperings. He rose slowly and pushed through the throng until he found himself on the doorstep. The overwhelming odors of the wharf rose to his nostrils at once, worse than the mingled fumes of smoke and chewing tobacco and bodily effluvia in the office. He pressed a closed fist to his mouth and searched past the streams of soberly clad businessmen and rough dockers.
There was Bean, halfway down the block already. Viggo broke into a trot, then a run. "Mr. Bean!" he called. "Mr. Bean!"
Sean Bean turned just as Viggo was about to tread on his heels. "Mr. Mortensen," he said flatly. "Looks like I bump into you everywhere. This isn’t your part of town, is it?"
Viggo paused to catch his breath. "I saw what happened. I’m terribly sorry about it."
"It’s nowt." Bean shrugged, the picture of indifference, but anxiety flashed across his face, and his gaze skittered away toward the wharf. He "I’m well rid of that nasty piece anyway. He had it in for me."
"My father is a very good customer there. I could ask him to intercede for you."
"Nay, but thanks all the same. That McCutcheon’s a right bullying sod. He’d only find some other excuse to discharge me."
"I thought you stood up to bullies," Viggo replied with asperity. Bean’ eyes narrowed, and Viggo hastened to add, "You did that night, at any rate, remember?"
"Oh, aye. Haller," Bean said with a touch of scorn. "He’s nowt but a common drunk. Easy enough to stand up to a man like him."
"I was impressed."
An unexpectedly sweet smile spread over Bean’ face. "That’s kind of you." He touched his cap. "Thanks for the offer, anyroad. Good afternoon."
"Mr. Bean!" Viggo put a restraining hand on the young man’s soiled sleeve.
"Christ – I mean, good heavens, Mr. Mortensen, don’t touch me. I’m like the inside of a coal bin."
"You’re quite adept at mathematics."
"Aye, I guess I am at that."
Viggo rubbed his grey-gloved hands together nervously as practicality collided with impulse and sparked an idea. "I’m looking for an assistant. You see, I’m moving to Wilkes-Barre early next week to oversee my father’s mining operation there. I’ll need someone to help me, and – why, you’re in need of a job and you’re obviously quite good at sums. I need someone who can corroborate the account books for me and look after some day-to-day tasks there."
Bean’ face bore no reaction. "My dad were a miner," he said quietly.
"I imagine you know quite a bit about it, then."
A coal-dusted blond brow rose. "Aye, enough, I suppose. You’re not looking for anyone to go down into the mines?"
There was a note of discord in Bean’ voice that puzzled Viggo. "No, I don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll pay you fifty cents an hour. You’d have to move to Wilkes-Barre, of course, but I think you’ll find the cost of living less there."
Bean whistled softly. "Fifty cents an hour?"
Viggo hesitated. Should he have offered more? He had no idea what secretaries earned. "Well, I –"
"I’ll take it." Bean grinned. "Afore you change your mind, like."
A strange relief washed over Viggo. "It’s a bargain. Can you meet me at the Broad Street Station Monday morning at seven-thirty? I’ll have your ticket – just bring your baggage."
"Aye, I’ll do that. And it’s Sean. Call me Sean."
"Very well, Sean – I’m Viggo."
"Oh, no." Sean looked scandalized. "I couldn’t. Oh, bloody hell – I’ve mucked up your gloves." He snatched his hand from Viggo’s. "I’m sorry."
"It’s nothing." Viggo stripped the gloves off, about to say he had two dozen pairs, but caught himself. "Easily laundered. I’m glad you’re going to join me, Sean."
"Can I ask you sommat, sir? You don’t really know me at all. Why’d you engage me, just like that?"
Viggo considered. "We’re of an age. I think we’d get on well. I know you’re good with sums. And as you say, we keep bumping into each other – it must be fate." He smiled. "And I never forget a kindness."
"Well," Sean said, "neither do I. I’ll see you Monday, then?"
"Monday." Viggo touched his hat and swung back toward the shipping office. Beneath the dead-fish, old garbage, stagnant river, and smoky fuel stench of the wharf, he thought he detected another aroma, a greening watery smell, the fragrance of early spring. His step quickened, and he reached into his pocket to touch his sooty gloves.
*
TBC
