FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 3]
Mar. 28th, 2013 10:52 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.
WARNING: Violence in this chapter.
*
Viggo jabbed his fork into his poached egg and clamped his lips together as bright yellow yolk bled from the white crust. It was his own fault the cook was ignorant of his preferences. He detested poached eggs and had since childhood, but he hadn’t given the breakfast menu more than a cursory glance and was therefore condemned to repent at leisure. Hastily, he rescued the toast from the widening pool of yellow and put the slices on the plate where three rashers of bacon exuded tempting aromas.
Bacon, toast, and tea would have to do for his first day at work, and he would have to think of a way to tell the cook he preferred scrambled eggs to poached without insulting her cooking or allowing her to know he’d scarcely looked at the menu. It was all very confusing, and he wished he’d asked his mother questions about household management. He could imagine her reply, though: "Find some sweet girl to marry, Viggo, and you needn’t bother with all those details," or some such folderol. It was true that he didn’t feel suited for the domestic life, but that would have to change whether he felt suited to it or not.
Dining alone in baronial splendor was uncomfortable, though he knew he should be grateful to have a decent place to live. He’d landed it through pure chance. It belonged to the Patrick McLaughlins, one of the few wealthy families in his brother Michael’s parish. Mr. and Mrs. McLaughlin were heading to London, Frankfurt, Rome, and Paris via steamer for a year, perhaps two. They had thought to close their house down, but Michael had made discreet inquiries, and it had been arranged that Viggo would occupy the house and employ the remaining servants for a reasonable rent. Besides, Mrs. McLaughlin was a distant relation of one of his mother’s chums, so it was all perfectly in order.
Slowly Viggo realized that if he had hoped to escape the obligations of family and society in Wilkes-Barre, he was in for a rude awakening; even on the train from Philadelphia, friends of his mother’s had recognized him and monopolized the conversation for the entire trip, and he’d had no opportunity to talk to Sean. Upon arrival, he’d been swept off to dinner by still more family friends, the next day, Sunday, had been spent in Michael’s company, and already his calendar was filling faster than he could pencil in engagements. He was Wilkes-Barre royalty now, Michael had joked, like it or not.
Viggo peered around the dining room. If he was royalty, the house suited his position. The walls were covered in dark red silk, and every chair at the long walnut table was a triumph of crimson tufts and gilded scrollwork. On Viggo’s left were grim portraits of the McLaughlins in ornate oval frames, and on his right was a massive oil painting of cherubs, clouds, and scantily clad, ill-proportioned women that had clearly fallen short of an attempt to emulate Rubens. Why such egregious impediments to digestion had been placed there, Viggo didn’t know, but he did his best to ignore them.
His valet, Pearce, the only servant Viggo had brought from Philadelphia, glided into the dining room and stood by the doorway. "The carriage is ready, sir."
Viggo’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Carriage? Pearce, the office is only three blocks away, and it’s a lovely morning besides. I thought I’d walk."
"Very good, sir." Pearce nodded, but his brow was laddered in consternation.
"You obviously disapprove."
"Sure it isn’t my place to say, sir."
"Say it all the same, if you please."
"Well, sir. It’s only that a Philadelphia gent wouldn’t walk anywhere that he could drive, or better yet be driven."
"Oh, come along. Surely you don’t believe such claptrap. It’s three blocks."
"I’m only telling you how it’ll look, sir, your being new in town. You’ll shock people altogether."
"Absolutely ridiculous," Viggo snorted. "And someone’s to drive me, and pick me up at day’s end as well, I suppose."
"Four o’clock sharp, sir. There’s a stable boy, sir, but no coachman. I’ll take on that duty as it’s just yourself in the house. But I’m to drive you to luncheon at noon as well, sir, except for today on account of you touring the mining operation."
"Naturally. God forbid we should offend the delicate sensibilities of the populace. I warn you, I'll not tolerate being ferried around for long." Viggo rose to his feet. "Let’s be off, then. If Wilkes-Barre wants to see me driven a paltry three blocks, it wouldn’t be fair to keep them waiting."
*
Sean was waiting on the doorstep of the office when Viggo alighted from the carriage. He nodded a greeting and turned to Pearce. "I didn’t see the assembled hordes waiting to judge me."
"Ah, sure they’ll be lined up tomorrow, sir. No question."
"I’ll take your word for it. I shall see you at four, then?"
Pearce touched two fingers to his hat. "Righto, sir. Walk on," he said to the horse, and moved up North River Street at a leisurely pace.
Viggo trotted up the stairs. "Good morning."
"Morning, sir. Lovely day."
"It is, isn’t it?" Viggo beamed as he looked up and down the street, lined with trees in their first hopeful green blooming. "This is quite pretty."
"Aye, it is. I hope I’m not late, sir."
"No, not at all." Viggo took out his watch. "Not quite nine. We’re both early. How is the boarding house?" Sean had stayed one night in the Hotel Sterling and had then, on Michael’s recommendation, found a room in a respectable boarding house on Northampton Street, run by one of Michael’s parishioners.
"It seems fine, sir," Sean said, following Viggo into the cool, damp hall. "Lovely breakfast."
"I’m glad to hear it. Shall we tour the place?"
The offices of Mortensen Coal resided in a two-story building, a small but pretty stone and stucco affair sandwiched between an attorney’s and a doctor’s office. There was a receiving room, the main office where Viggo and Sean would both work, and a room with a tidy row of filing cabinets. Up a flight of stairs was a washroom and a chamber fitted out as a bedroom, presumably for guests. All the furniture had been recently dusted, and everything was as neat as a pin.
Back in the office, Viggo perched on the edge of the massive desk that now belonged to him. "Well, everything seems to be in apple-pie order. It doesn’t look as though it’s been touched at all since Mr. Covington died, God rest his soul. Gavin Rowe will be here at eleven o’clock to take me on a tour of one of the mines."
"And who’s Gavin Rowe, sir?"
"Ah, of course you don’t know him. I scarcely know him myself except through some hasty correspondence. He’s the mine boss. Would you like to come along, Sean?"
"No, sir, thank you. Best if I stay and get acquainted with the office."
"As you wish. I suppose a mine’s nothing new to you, is it? I’m looking forward to getting down to work. I have to confess, though – I’ve spent two weeks getting acquainted with the business, and now that I’m here, I haven’t the first idea where to start."
Sean, who had been admiring the black marble fireplace, turned to Viggo and grinned shyly. "Well, I have. We should likely start by looking at the account books." He moved to Viggo’s desk, removed a ledger, and put it on a smaller, less imposing desk in the corner. He opened a drawer, found a notebook and a pencil, and sat. "I’ll start with the most recent accounts and move backward."
Viggo carried a chair to Sean’s desk, then pulled open the curtains so that morning light flooded into the room. "Let’s get started, then."
*
Gavin Rowe was small and sinewy, with thinning hair and a ruddy, lumpy face, as if he’d had a bad childhood case of pox. His eyes were owlish and unblinking behind delicate wire-rimmed spectacles. He was affable and garrulous, and pointed out notable houses and places of possible interest to Viggo in a singsong Welsh lilt.
"It was a right shock, losing Will," Rowe said, shaking the reins to prod his horse. "The men liked him, and that’s nine-tenths of getting them to do a decent day’s work. Will was a good friend of my dad’s – hired him straight off the boat, Will did, and Dad never missed a day of work."
"A decent day’s work – but the miners are paid on a quota system, aren’t they?" Viggo asked. "That’s what my father told me."
"Aye, sir, that’s true enough, but…well, sometimes the lads can get stubborn if they feel they’re not being treated fairly. The foreman can only check on them every so often, see, and sometimes a man will spend a while laying about just to annoy the bosses, then make up his quota at the end of the week. It doesn’t happen often," Rowe assured Viggo hastily, "and truth be told, ever since the 1902 strikes, it’s been as quiet and peaceful as can be. Don’t fret yourself, sir. I don’t think you’ll have any difficulties with the lads. You seem a decent sort."
"I believe a justly treated worker is a productive worker, Mr. Rowe. If the miners have some grievance, I expect you to come to me promptly so that we can settle it to everyone’s satisfaction."
"It’s good to hear you say that, Mr. Mortensen."
Cheered by his own decisive words, Viggo sat back and watched the passing scenery. The gracious homes of Franklin Street, set back on their sweeping tree-shaded lawns, had given way to frame houses, closer to the street, but still spruce and well-kept. As they drove on, the houses became small and slightly shabby. Black smoke curled out of the sagging chimneys.
"Close now, sir."
On Viggo’s right was a low, barren hill, covered with bits of stone. A few women and children ranged over it with buckets in hand, picking out chunks of coal. These were the culm banks, Rowe explained, the leftover rocks brought up from the mine. The women and children gleaned bits of coal from the banks to sell, at ten cents a flour-sack. On the left were the cottages, stained with smoke and soot, dotting the unpaved road like irregularly spaced teeth. More women and children spilled out of the houses as if answering a summons Viggo couldn’t hear. His bemusement dissolved into discomfort as he realized they were staring at him. Not a one nodded in response to his soft greetings, or even acknowledged that he was there. Blushing, Viggo replaced his hat and leaned close to Rowe. "Are we trespassing in some way, Mr. Rowe?"
"Not at all, sir. Most of these lasses and weans don’t speak English, though. Italians, Poles, Germans, Slovaks, some Irish. Most of ‘em haven’t been here but a few years. Keep to themselves quite a bit. Ah. here we are, sir."
A massive, gloomy edifice, black as night and at least a hundred feet tall, loomed menacingly over the scrubby landscape. Viggo saw a number of sloping roofs and a dozen windows that did nothing to lighten the sensation of weightiness and oppression that surrounded it.
"That’s the breaker, sir. Grand, isn’t it?"
It was monstrous. "It’s certainly imposing." Like anyone who’d traveled the Pennsylvania countryside, Viggo had seen a number of coal breakers, but had paid little attention to them. Now he thought that the structure looked sinister, as though it leached vitality from its environment, and indeed the scant vegetation was sparse and looked as though it clung to life by a mere thread. "We’ll have a look inside, I hope. Have you a particular recommendation as to how we should proceed, Mr. Rowe?"
Rowe considered. "Start to finish would be best, sir, so’s you’ll get a working picture of the place." He stole a sideways glance at Viggo. "Your clothes might get a bit mucky, Mr. Mortensen."
"I think it’ll be worth a little muck, Mr. Rowe." The menacing ugliness of the breaker notwithstanding, Viggo was excited. He watched as a team of six mules, hitched together in tandem, plodded out of the sloping tunnel that led into the pit, dragging a car weighted with glistening coal. A boy perched on the cart, his face and clothes black. The very air seemed filled with a fine dust. There was a ceaseless racket of machinery and shouting voices underscored by the rumbling of a locomotive as it slowed to a stop beside the breaker.
Rowe pulled up close to a fence near the breaker and leapt down lightly. "I’ll just get things ready, sir. Won’t be a moment." He emerged soon with two carbide lamps and a gangly boy in his teens. "See to the horse, lad." He turned to Viggo, handing him one of the lamps. "Come along, Mr. Mortensen."
The two men made their way into the shaft entrance. The dark seemed to close around Viggo immediately. He followed Rowe down a mild grade, slipping a little as the path hooked sharply right.
"All right there, sir?"
"Oh, yes – fine," Viggo replied, taking care to step lightly. They stopped before a tremendous fan, which circulated air into the mineshaft via a series of trapdoors. To the left sat a wire and steel cage, faintly limned by the flickering lamps. "This will take us down?"
"That it will, sir. We could walk the slope and see the different levels, but this will take us deepest in a short time." He stood aside so Viggo could step into the cage that shivered beneath his weight. He grasped at the wire mesh, and Rowe chuckled. "Aye, shakes a little, but it’s perfectly safe." Rowe swung the wire door shut, latched it, and nodded to the man who tended the winding gears. "Hang on, sir. All right, Clyde, drop us down."
As the cage dropped, Viggo’s stomach plummeted toward his shoe tops, and he regretted the light breakfast he’d eaten. "Oh, my." His voice was swallowed up by the rushing of the cage machinery and the lightless walls.
"Takes some getting used to," Rowe shouted. "Seven hundred feet down, it is. Don’t drop your lamp."
Viggo struggled to hold onto the rail with one hand and his lamp with the other. The little flame danced wildly, striving to stay alive against the dizzying speed of their descent. The temperature dropped, and damp air clung to his skin. The light of his lamp was now no more than a firefly’s momentary glow in the dark.
Presently the cage seemed to slow, then move upward. "Did we miss our floor?" Viggo joked.
"Nay, we’re still descending. It just feels as if we're going up. Hold on – we’ll be stopping soon." No sooner had Rowe spoken than the cage lurched to a stomach-churning stop. Rowe unlatched the door and held it open for Viggo. "There we are. Mind your step, sir. It’s slippy underfoot. The rock sweats a bit."
There was a warm glow ahead – the underground office, Rowe said. It was a little cubicle with a desk and lamp, and a large wooden pegboard leaning against one of the whitewashed walls. There were tags on the board that identified each miner and his location. "Easy to find them that way, in case of an accident," Rowe explained. Further ahead was the mule barn cut out of the rock. The mules lived underground year-round. The temperature never varied, and the animals never exposed to bad weather. Viggo stroked the velvety nose of the closest mule, and it nudged his shoulder affectionately. The creatures seemed healthy and well-cared for; their water and hay looked and smelled fresh, and their coats gleamed with currycombing. "The mule drivers love these beasties, even the stubbornest," Rowe said. "Come along, sir, we’ll go down to one of the chambers."
They came to a wide door across the gangway, guarded by a small boy perched on a crate. "This is Mickey," Rowe said. "He’s a nipper. Tends the door, makes sure they’re open when the cars come through. Mickey, this is Mr. Mortensen, the owner."
Viggo was startled to see a boy so young in the mines. "Hello, Mickey," he said, leaning down and putting out a hand.
The boy stared at him suspiciously before placing his grimy hand in Viggo’s. "Howeryeh," he said. "Going in, Mr. Rowe?"
"That we are, lad." Rowe swung the door open. "Gets low in places here, Mr. Mortensen," he said. "Mind your head."
Viggo ducked obediently and followed Rowe into the black corridor. He had thought that he would step off the cage and see men noisily chipping away at glistening veins in the wall. He was surprised when Rowe led him through a long, eerily silent tunnel. He lifted his lamp to illuminate a wooden sign with a crudely scrawled but whimsical designation: 'Lilac Hill'. Another read 'Appleyard', still another read 'Tara Road'. "Are these tunnels still active?" he asked. His voice sounded queerly muffled.
"Oh, aye. It’s a regular city down here, sir. Hello, lads!" As if to illustrate Rowe’s words, a group of miners shuffled past, lamps in hand. They were almost as black as the walls, their age indeterminate under all the muck. They muttered a greeting to Rowe and darted sideways glances at Viggo as they passed.
The tunnel was silent again. Viggo progressed slowly, moving his lamp between the craggy, puddle-ridden ground and the sloping ceiling. His back began to ache from bending. Height was a disadvantage in the mines.
The atmosphere seemed frighteningly still, even though Viggo had seen one of the huge fans that pumped fresh air into the mines. Now and then he heard the plinking drip of water, and once, a deep crackling rumble. His heart pounded rapidly. He was seven hundred feet below ground, with only timbers the thickness of his thigh bracing the thousands of tons of rock and earth above him. "Mr. Rowe, is that –"
"Just settling, sir. Nothing to be concerned about. This way." He turned into a corridor marked 'Sweet Comfit' and led Viggo forward. Here the corridor branched out into separate passages. He chose one, and now there were faint but reassuring sounds of work – hammering, drilling, shoveling, human voices. They peered into one chamber after another, where the miners and their apprentices toiled, taking no notice of Viggo’s scrutiny.
Most of them were stripped to the waist, their upper bodies stained with coal dust, agleam with streaked sweat. Some wore leather caps with tiny lamps affixed to them. They were quick, tireless, and agile, hewing massive chunks of coal with pickaxes and shovels and bare hands. The miners scrambled about on their hands and knees in the low chambers, untroubled by the oppressive darkness, the dampness, and the smothering sensation of coal dust permeating the already stifled air.
Rowe gently tapped Viggo’s arm. "Shall we see the rest of it, sir?"
The trip back to the cage was uphill and rugged on the return. Viggo stumbled several times, and twice bumped his head on the low timbers, once hard enough for stars to sparkle in front of his now night-sighted eyes. As he wobbled on his feet, Rowe took his arm and steadied him. "It’s not easy if you’re not used to the life of it, sir. You went further than I’ve seen any toff go. Owner, I mean. There’s the cage, straight ahead."
"Thank you," Viggo replied with rueful good humor, rubbing at the swelling on his forehead. "I’ll be better prepared next time. Perhaps I’ll wear a helmet."
Back on the surface, Viggo lurched out of the cage and staggered toward the mine entrance, blinking in the bright daylight. Rowe ushered him into the breaker. Viggo winced at the ear-splitting din that assaulted them from every direction. Those were the machines that crushed and sorted the coal into assorted sizes: stove, chestnut, pea, buck, rice, and barley. And there – Rowe pointed at dozens of hunched figures astride long diagonal chutes that ran from near the top of the breaker – those were the breaker boys. The loaded cars of coal were dragged to the roof via cable, crushed, and then dumped onto the chutes. The breaker boys picked the rock and refuse out of the coal as it flowed down the long troughs. Viggo moved closer to inspect the chutes and stopped, startled.
The breaker boys were children. Not a one appeared to be over twelve, and most seemed much younger. They were all stoop-shouldered and thin, with bright, sharp eyes that peered out of their dirty faces from under homemade caps. A man strolled up a gangplank between the chutes, armed with a long stick. As Viggo watched, the man barked something at one little boy and cracked him smartly on the shoulder.
"You there!" Viggo shouted. Several of the boys nearest him swiveled to gape, but it was obvious the breaker boys’ supervisor hadn’t heard, or was simply ignoring him; he kept trudging up the gangplank, prodding the children into action.
Viggo strode out of the breaker, beckoning curtly for Gavin Rowe to follow him. Once they were out of shouting range, Viggo wheeled on Rowe. "This isn’t acceptable, Mr. Rowe, not at all. I’m certain my father will be horrified when I tell him what’s happening here."
"Mr. Mortensen, I’m not following you."
"I may be a greenhorn, Mr. Rowe, but I know there are laws proscribing child labor. Some of those boys looked no older than five or six."
"Could be, sir. We’ve had ‘em that young at times."
"Well, how do you account for it? We live in the modern world. I won’t have little children performing the worst sort of back-breaking labor and being thrashed for it besides." Viggo heard his voice shaking and controlled it with difficulty. "I won’t have it. And neither will my father, I assure you."
"Mr. Mortensen," Rowe said gently, "Mr. Harald has already seen the lads. He knows they’re wee ones."
Viggo froze. "No, that’s not possible. He’d never condone such a thing."
"It’s true. You go to any colliery in the country, Mr. Mortensen, and you’ll find the same thing all over. All the breaker boys are small."
"But there are laws –"
"Aye, laws," Rowe shrugged. "There are ways around them. It’s always been the little ones as are the breaker boys, sir. It’s not such hard work. They get to sit, and they’re not lifting heavy loads, are they? Besides, their families need the money." There was faint contempt in his voice now for Viggo, who had it soft.
"But they’re just children. They should be in school."
Rowe shrugged again, indifferent now. "Aye, I won’t disagree with you. But they’ve got to make a living wage, and there’s an end to it for most of them. If you’re about ready to leave, sir, I’ll go and hitch up the horse."
Rowe drove back in stiff-backed silence. Viggo brooded beside him, ignoring the fresh green of the trees and the blueness of the spring sky. When they pulled up to the scrubbed steps of the office. Viggo put out a hand, faintly astonished to see that his shirt cuff and hand were filthy. "Thank you for showing me the operation, Mr. Rowe. I hope you understand that I don’t mean any personal affront by my remarks, but I cannot condone the exploitation of children for profit, even my own. Changes will have to be made."
"As you say, sir. It’s your place." Rowe shook his head. "I’m not heartless myself, Mr. Mortensen. I know they’re little ones, and they should by rights be getting an education and romping about. But that’s as may be when their families are ill for want of food, if you follow me."
Viggo sighed. "For now, I want you to tell that free-handed fool that striking little boys is unacceptable, on pain of dismissal. And the same goes for any man in a supervisory position."
"Aye, I’ll tell them." Rowe nodded. "I’ll be by on Friday, sir, with the weekly quota sheets."
"Very well. Good afternoon."
Sean looked up as Viggo came in, wiping ink-stained hands on a handkerchief. He blinked. "Been doing some mining yourself, sir?"
Viggo frowned. He was irritable, ferociously hungry, and the bump on his head was starting to throb. "What do you mean?"
"This way, sir." Sean steered Viggo to the long glass in the hall. "Have a look."
Viggo stifled a laugh. He was covered in coal dust from head to foot. His face was nearly as black as a miner’s, and his suit, shirt, and tie were utterly ruined. Somewhere on the journey, he’d lost or forgotten his hat as well. He met Sean’s eyes in the mirror. "I took a tour of the mine."
"Aye, looks that way."
"He said I’d get a bit mucky."
"A bit mucky," Sean repeated. "Aye, a bit mucky is what you seem to be."
Viggo continued to examine himself in the mirror. He noticed that he and Sean were almost exactly the same height. "Tell me, Sean, did they use children in the breakers in England?"
"That they did. I were a breaker boy, for a time."
"And how was it?"
Sean snorted. "Dreadful."
"This isn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought," Viggo said softly. "I’m beginning to think I’m a terrible fool."
Sean shook his head. "You’ll do, sir. Everything new is difficult at first. And I’ll help you as much as I can."
"That’s kind of you, Sean. I think I’m going to need all the help I can get."
*
Freddy Watkins was one of the best-looking fellows in Winsley. The best-looking, maybe; to hear it told, there wasn’t a lass in Yorkshire didn’t have her eye on him when he came back from his travels in Europe. Same went for some of the lads. Even years later, soberly dressed and groomed, he was right handsome and no mistake. He’d caught Harry Slater’s attention, and that was saying something.
Harry tilted his head to one side, considering. Well, could be Freddy wasn’t the handsomest fellow in Winsley now. The left side of his face was one huge purpling bruise. His left eye had swollen shut and the right was beginning to take the lead from its chum. Tears and snot trickled down his dirty face. Pathetic moaning sounds issued from Freddy’s throat. Harry had balled up Freddy’s stockings and shoved them in his split and bleeding mouth when the screams grew too loud. His jacket and tie were gone, and his shirt streaked with dirt and blood. One arm hung uselessly by his side, half-wrenched out of its socket; the other was tied to the post of the rickety bed where Freddy and he had buggered one another senseless. Harry’s upper lip curled in disgust. Freddy’s sweet little love-nest, this tiny cottage out on the edge of the moor. How easy it had been to lure him out here – but then, Freddy had never been any too sharp when it came to what might have occupied the thoughts of other fellows.
"Not too sharp at all," Harry murmured.
Freddy whined. More tears trickled from his half-shut eyes.
Harry heaved himself up from the chair he’d been straddling and ambled over to the bed. He plucked the stockings from Freddy’s mouth and patted his cheek with no pretense to gentleness.
Freddy tried to lick his lips and winced in pain. "Harry, for the love of God –" As Harry slapped him with the flat of his hand, Freddy’s head rocked back, thudding against the iron headboard. "Oh, God – please, please don’t –"
Harry plowed his fist into Freddy’s belly, driving the air out of him in a great whooping gasp. Freddy's mouth opened and closed like a fish desperate for water, and his face went a bright red.
"Shut your fucking gob, Freddy. You’ll talk when I want you to talk, and not a moment before. I thought we agreed on that."
Frantically, Freddy bobbed his head up and down. His mouth hung open, displaying shattered teeth. "I know. I know. I just –" He wailed as Harry slapped him again, first one cheek, then the other. "Please."
"Don’t give me ‘please,’ you sodding cunt," Harry said. He sat on the bed and rested a hand on Freddy’s thigh, smiling when Freddy flinched. "You say ‘please’ one more time and I’ll saw off your prick and shove it down your throat. Then you can suck your own cock. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Freddy clamped his lips shut, and Harry nodded. "That’s better."
"I’ve given you money – lots of money, Harry." He nodded toward the valise of cash he’d brought in response to Harry’s note. Seven thousand pounds in there, a fortune. "What more in the name of Christ do you want?"
"Ah, don’t play coy with me, Freddy darling," Harry replied in a vicious trill. "I want answers, like I said before."
"I told you, I don’t –" Freddy screamed as Harry’s fist connected solidly with his nose. Blood spurted. "I burned them all, I told you!"
"Don't believe you, love." Harry raised his hand again.
"Sean! Sean must have taken some!"
"Why, if he was on his way to America? What was the point of all that, eh?"
"I don’t kn –" Another shriek tore from Freddy’s lips as Harry slammed a lead pipe against his ankle. He sobbed and writhed for a moment, trying to gather enough air to breathe. "Christ almighty, I don’t know!"
"It was your buggering idea, wasn’t it?"
"No. I never asked him to – Oh, Jesus Christ –" The pipe crashed against the other ankle. "Please, please –"
Harry grabbed a handful of Freddy’s blood-soaked hair. "I told you not to say that. No matter. I’m only going to ask you one more thing, then it’ll be all over, Freddy. No worries."
"All right. All right. Anything." Freddy was weeping again. Blood trickled into his mouth, and he coughed spasmodically.
"Where is he now? He told me New York, but that’s a sodding lie, isn’t it? He’d never tell me the truth, not with what the two of you were cooking up. So…where’d he go, eh?"
"Philadelphia. I booked him passage from Liverpool to Philadelphia." Freddy’s swollen eyes met Harry’s. "I swear it’s the truth. I swear it!"
Harry smiled gently. "I believe you, Freddy." He rested his hand on Freddy’s thigh again. "You and me, we had some times, didn’t we?"
"We – yes, we did." Piteously eager, that whining voice.
"I trusted you, but I was a right fool, wasn’t I?"
Freddy gaped at him in silence. Then he choked out, "You blackmailed me."
"I trusted you," Harry said, shaking his head in regret, "and you betrayed that trust. Can’t forgive that, I’m afraid." He leaned against the creaking footboard and regarded Freddy dispassionately. Poofs were always getting themselves killed, weren’t they? It was true. Freddy must have known that his tomcatting ways would get him into trouble one way or the other. And out here on the moors, in the middle of bloody nowhere, why – who could say that Freddy had got himself killed at all? He’d tie a stone round one of those now shattered ankles and toss him in the water – going, going, gone, fare-thee-well, Freddy Watkins, and none the wiser. They’d say he’d run off, taking a bag of money with him. Then Harry would be free to deal with Sean Bean, that sneaking, thieving little dog’s prick that he was. The sweetness of it all fell into place, neat as you please.
Harry rose and caressed the lead pipe. He smiled at Freddy, at his dawning comprehension, at his growing horror and despair. "Grand times. Grand times indeed."
*
"Dash it."
Sean glanced up, suppressing a smile. Viggo Mortensen used the mildest expletives, but they were uttered with as much conviction as if he’d spat out profanities that turned the very air blue. "What is it, sir?"
"Father writes me. He says he understands that it’s upsetting to learn the age of the breaker boys, that he was shocked at first too. Then he says that their wages often keep struggling families afloat."
"Well, that's true."
"But he’s condoning the entire mess. Nowhere does he condemn the practice, and he simply sidesteps my suggestion."
"What suggestion is that, sir?"
"I asked him to consider starting a school particularly for the children of mining families, and also to begin a fund for the support of those families who have lost fathers, brothers, et cetera – breadwinners. I also asked him to re-examine his wage policy for mine workers. Surely if all these families are in need, something should be done."
Sounds like a grand way to go bankrupt, Sean mused. "Well…perhaps he’s considering your suggestions, sir. Giving it some serious thought, like."
"Maybe. Then again, maybe he’s just ignoring me."
"I’m sure he wouldn’t ignore you, sir. He trusted you enough to have you come out here and run things. He knows you'll do a good job of it."
"I hope he knows that." Viggo slumped down in his chair. "I hope I’m not just making a fool of myself."
"You’re just finding your feet, sir." That, at least, was true. The past few weeks had been unsteady ground for both of them. Together Viggo and Sean had pored over every active ledger in the office, sorting out lists of customers, shippers, machine suppliers, repairmen, railroad contract, determining who owed and was owed. They had visited other collieries in the area, and in other counties: Lackawanna, Wyoming, Columbia, Monroe, and Carbon. They’d talked with other mine owners, Viggo’s comrades and competitors, men in black coats and tall hats who smiled jovially and eyed Viggo and Sean like racetrack shills examining a counterfeit ten-pound note. They had met with union representatives, mine bosses, salesmen, and contractors. At the end of three weeks, they felt they had a working if somewhat hasty grasp of the mining industry.
"I suppose that’s true. And I suppose it’s a further truth that a man has to discover that his father is only human after all."
"Happens to the lot of us," Sean agreed. He liked Viggo’s forthright, cheerful nature, his open confidence, and his nearly boundless optimism. He wasn’t ashamed of his mistakes; he merely sought to correct them as quickly as possible. Too, he’d made it clear that he relied upon Sean’s expertise. That was a heady thing, after years of working for little money and almost no acknowledgment that he was even alive, let alone that he had a working brain. It made Sean eager to please, a desire he’d only ever had for his parents. And though he remained perfectly proper and formal in his speech, he’d stopped thinking of Viggo as Mr. Mortensen. That, perhaps, wasn’t the thing to do.
Viggo smiled. Sean returned the smile, abashed, and bent to his work. He stared a bit too much, he knew, and if the familiarity of Viggo’s first name didn’t cause trouble, the staring would. It would be easier if Viggo’s own gaze weren’t so frank and honest.
A blotch of ink spread beneath the nib of Sean’s pen, spoiling the column of figures he’d been adding. He cursed under his breath and reached for a sheet of blotting paper. Served him right for mooning, as if one ill-fated association with an employer wasn't enough. Sean was here to earn a living, not get himself in more trouble, and Viggo – Mr. Mortensen – was a perfectly polite man who happened to be a young, good-looking fellow. There was an end to it.
"I say, Sean, have you brought your luncheon today?"
Sean looked up from his ruined figures. "Nay – that is, I was going to walk to Public Square and buy a pie or sommat. Would you like me to get something for you, sir?"
"Oh, no. It’s only that I mentioned to my cook that it was a pretty morning and that I might like to eat on the river common." Viggo laughed. "She packed me a picnic lunch to feed an army. Won’t you join me?"
"I couldn’t."
"Why ever not?"
"It’s only that – well, I shouldn’t like to intrude, sir."
"Sean, you’d be welcome. I’d enjoy your company. Unless you were meeting someone else?"
"Oh, it weren’t that. I’m not –" Sean shrugged, at a loss. Viggo Mortensen had been eating his luncheons at hotels and fancy restaurants, with Wilkes-Barre toffs, other coal-company owners, business people, society people. He couldn’t want to eat with one of his employees, a lowly clerk with ink-stained hands. He felt heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks. "What would people think?"
"Probably ‘Look at those two lucky fellows having a picnic on a lovely day like this.’" Viggo said, jumping to his feet. "Come along, Sean. Let’s not waste an opportunity as fine as this one. Besides, I’ll need help just carrying the picnic hamper – it must weigh fifty pounds."
Sean stole a glance at Viggo’s face – happy, expectant. None of his friends had ever been so affable. Was it owing to the circumstances of birth? Maybe it was easy to be cheerful when one had it soft. Then again, Freddy had always had it soft, and his mood had been one of perpetual discontentment.
Almost against his own volition, Sean rose to his feet. "It’s a fine day. You’re right on that score."
"Splendid! Let me get the hamper, and we’ll be off."
"I’ll fetch it, sir," Sean said. "Won’t be a moment."
There was a little kitchen on the premises, with an icebox. Sean opened the door and dragged the hamper out. Lifting the lid, he peered inside cautiously. Strapped against the side was a creamy white plate, with a band of dark blue and trimmed with gold. Christ almighty. One plate only, though. They’d have to share it.
*
The air was warm, almost syrupy, with a faint breeze that blew cherry blossom petals along the river common path. Sean walked in silence. Freddy had been happy enough to bend him over the red leather Chesterfield and shag him up the arse, but he hadn’t gone so far as to eat a meal with him. He could hear Freddy now – Wouldn’t be cricket, dear boy – and there wouldn’t be any further discussion of the matter. He wondered if he should try to talk business, but Viggo seemed happy enough to walk without conversation.
"What about here?" Viggo pointed beneath a sugar maple.
"Aye, that's fine, sir."
Together, they spread the cotton tablecloth, and laid out a feast: ham sandwiches, bacon-and-egg pie, chicken salad, fruit salad, slices of cake, a bottle of lemonade. Viggo looked inside the nearly empty hamper. "There’s only one plate."
"I don’t need a plate, sir."
"Never mind. We’ll share." Viggo set the plate down. "Unless you mind?"
"Nay, I don’t mind."
Sean found himself wanting to steal glances at Viggo as he ate, and kept his head down, fearing to be rude.
"Sean, have you heard about the Centennial ball?"
Sean swallowed a bite of sandwich and nodded. "At the Armory, mid-May or thereabouts."
"I think we should go."
"You…me, sir?"
"Why not? You might enjoy yourself."
"Well, I haven’t the togs, for one thing," Sean said bluntly, then bit his lip. He made a decent wage; if he scrimped and saved, he could afford a suit of evening clothes. "It's for society folk, sir, not the likes of me."
"Well, what if I wanted you there?"
Viggo’s head was lowered, and he was busily scraping the last of his chicken salad from an elaborately pinked orange-peel cup. "Sir?"
"I mean…I only mean that it would be good for business. If I’m otherwise occupied, I need you to be my right-hand man, and that means meeting people in…in a social capacity as well." Viggo plucked at a long strand of grass, keeping his eyes downcast. He had blunt, capable-looking hands. A gold signet ring gleamed in the sunlight.
A hundred different replies careened through Sean’s head, and he found himself tongue-tied again. He looked down, saw he was wringing his hands, and very deliberately pulled them apart and leaned back, resting them on the cool grass. He put a note of carelessness into his voice. "Whatever you say, sir. I’m not used to that sort of thing, though."
"Neither am I, Sean."
Viggo had such clear, feckless grey eyes, and a handsome straight nose, and now Sean noticed a small scar on his upper lip. He stared at it, mesmerized, wondering how Viggo had come by it, then caught himself and leapt to his feet. Fool. Damned thick-headed fool.
"I’d best get this mess cleaned up," he said, trying to control the tremor in his throat. "The greater part of the day’s got away from us."
*
The doorbell gave one short, sharply impatient jangle, as if the ringer expected the door to be answered with great alacrity.
"Bloody hell," Sean muttered and tried to shift an immense pile of paper from his lap to the top of his already groaning desk. "Just a moment!" He made a mental note of the last calculation he’d made and set the stack carefully atop a pile of open ledgers.
The bell rang again, longer and louder this time. "All right, I’m coming. Wait just a damned minute." Sean wiped off his pen and got to his feet, scrubbing his hands on his hopelessly inky handkerchief. He swung the door open, already manufacturing a scowl for the fool who’d interrupted him. A tall figure in clerical black, with blue eyes in a white face topped by a thatch of unruly red hair, stood on the doorstep, smiling and looking not at all impatient. Sean’s brow smoothed as he recognized Viggo’s brother, Michael. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Mr. Bean. How nice to see you. Is my brother on the premises?"
"I’m afraid not, sir. He had an appointment. But he should be back in twenty minutes or thereabouts. You’re welcome to wait, if you like."
"Thank you, I think I will." Michael moved past Sean into the hall and allowed himself to be ushered into the parlor.
"Tea, sir?"
"Please call me Michael, or Father Michael if you wish. I don't stand on formality. And yes, I would love a cup of tea. Thank you very much indeed."
Sean had very limited contact with Catholic clergymen and assumed they were accustomed to being treated with great deference, the way Vicar Pomeroy was. But Viggo’s brother seemed as informal as any ordinary young man. Maybe it was his youth; maybe all men of the cloth became cantankerous with age. Sean couldn’t imagine why. Being a vicar seemed a pretty soft lot.
He’d made a pot of tea only half an hour ago, so it was a matter of nothing to whisk a tray together. He returned to the parlor to find Michael staring fixedly at a small still life of flowers hanging over the mantel.
Michael beamed. "This painting once hung in our old house." He looked round the parlor, squinting in the same manner Viggo had when he scrutinized something. "In fact, most of this furniture seems to have come from our old house. When Father struck it rich with the mines and they moved to the big house, Mother decided they needed furniture in keeping with a grander style. So everything came here, I suppose. So – with whom is Viggo meeting?"
Sean blinked at this barrage of information. "Bankers, sir. Luzerne National, I believe."
"Ah. Must remain liquid, mustn’t we?" Michael took a chair and poured himself a cup of tea. "There’s no cup for you, Mr. Bean. Won’t you at least keep me company until Viggo arrives?"
Torn between the urge to return to absorbing work and the curiosity of talking to a relative of Viggo’s, and a priest at that, Sean hesitated, then curiosity won out. "Certainly, sir." He sat and gave himself a moment to examine Michael as discreetly as possible. There was a resemblance, to be sure – the same lean frame, the same sharp features and ready smile. Michael’s hair was a startlingly bright shade of red, though, and he was quite tall, outdistancing Viggo by several inches.
Michael added three lumps of sugar and a quantity of milk to his tea. "How are you finding the boardinghouse?"
"Oh, it’s fine," Sean replied. "Thank you for putting in a good word for me."
"My pleasure. Mrs. Donnelly’s a bit of a dragon, isn’t she? Still, if you stay on her good side, she’ll do almost anything for you. I think she’s taken to you."
Sean lifted an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Oh, indeed." Michael took one of the little cakes Sean had put on the tray and bit into it heartily. "Delicious. Yes, indeed. I saw her at seven o’clock mass yesterday morning and she told me you were no trouble so far."
"I don’t know as I’d call that a ringing endorsement, sir." Sean was amused despite himself. His landlady was a bit of a dragon, always scowling and muttering about dirty boots on her clean carpets, but Sean was growing fond of her nevertheless. She reminded him a bit of his mother, stern and unsentimental, but fair and decent at heart.
"Believe me, from Maggie Donnelly, that’s the very highest praise. She certainly wouldn’t hesitate to complain about you if she didn’t care for you."
"That’s very kind of her, then."
"Quite. And how are you finding employment with Mortensen Coal?"
"Lovely. That is, I’m quite enjoying it. Your brother’s a good man, a fair man, sir."
"And he thinks the world of you, Mr. Bean. Why, only last week he told me that you’d helped him learn the mining trade faster and more thoroughly than our own father did."
An ember of pleasure glowed in Sean's chest. "That were kind of him. We learned together, though."
"That’s good to hear. I think this work has changed him for the better. Perhaps it’s simply a more salubrious atmosphere than Philadelphia. I’ve often wondered if city life altogether suited him. He came back from college changed. Everyone noticed it. Even his friends said as much, and they’re not the most perceptive lot."
Sean sat waiting, fascinated and scandalized. Reverend Pomeroy, like most Yorkshiremen he knew, would have sooner eaten a mouthful of red-hot nails than openly gossiped about anyone, least of all his own family, but Father Michael Mortensen seemed to regard family business as public knowledge.
"In any case, he seems as right as rain now, and I should think he’ll do fine, as long as he can survive my mother’s long-distance matchmaking. She tried her best in Philadelphia, and she’s still trying, even from a hundred miles away." Michael shook his head. "Perhaps it’s all stuff and nonsense, but he is almost twenty-three – high time he thought of settling down, I suppose. Are you married, Mr. Bean?"
Sean shook his head. "I haven’t really got time for that sort of thing."
"Perhaps it’s just as well. Nose to the grindstone, eh?"
"I reckon, sir." Sean stared at the flowers in the carpet. Viggo had a whole life separate from work. Family, friends, journeys across the country, potential sweethearts – here and in Philadelphia as well. He’d been a fool, casting Viggo in the same role as Freddy Watkins without a shred of evidence to support his ridiculous notions. Viggo had always been pleasant and polite, and there hadn’t been the least hint of impropriety on his part, let alone any indication that he preferred the company of men.
"The upshot is, and the reason I tell you all this, Mr. Bean, is to request that whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop. You’re obviously part of the sea-change that’s occurred, and I’m delighted to see my brother so happy and engaged again."
Sean managed a smile. Even if he was a fool, he wasn’t about to behave like one. Any more, at least. "Thank you, sir. That’s good to hear."
"Sean?" Viggo peered into the parlor. "Michael! I thought I heard a familiar voice." He strode into the parlor and shook his brother’s hand. "What brings you here?"
"This and that," Michael shrugged. "I’ve been devouring all your cakes and talking about you. Were your ears burning?"
"You always talk about me, so I’ve grown accustomed to the heat," Viggo laughed. "Sean, you don’t have a cup. Has Michael been hoarding all the tea for himself? You should see him eat at home – I think he has a hollow leg."
Sean got to his feet. "I’ll get you a cup, Mr. Mortensen."
"You needn’t go," Michael said.
Sean smiled in polite acknowledgment and made his way blindly to the kitchen. He found a cup and saucer, then stood motionless, clinging to the chipped zinc sink, suffused with shame and a sudden swelling of emptiness that was as startling as it was painful.
The explanation was simple enough, he supposed. His parents had been dead only a few months and he missed them far more than he’d anticipated. They’d always been tight-knit, and Sean had floundered about after they were gone, hungry for some human closeness. It was natural to become attached to the first truly friendly face that came along.
That was it, to be sure. But as Sean returned to the parlor, bearing the cup and saucer, he felt a surge of anger, as if Viggo had been deceiving him all this time, that his sturdy cheerfulness and small gestures of friendship had been façades.
Viggo was gesturing broadly, and his voice rang with good-natured exasperation. "I swear to you, one more of these pointless dinners and I’m going to feel perfectly justified in becoming a hermit." He stopped as Sean set the cup and saucer down. "Sean, won’t you join us?"
Stony-faced, Sean stared at a point above Viggo’s head. "No thanks, sir. I’ve got to get back to those ledgers." A tiny worm of conscience gnawed at his insides, but he ignored it and nodded coldly to Michael, the harbinger of unhappy tidings. "It was good to see you again, Father. I’ll be in the office if you need owt, Mr. Mortensen."
A faint crease appeared in Viggo’s brow. "Thank you, Sean. I’m sure we’ll be fine."
Michael stood to shake Sean’s hand. "It was good to see you also, Mr. Bean. Do give my best to Mrs. Donnelly."
Sean nodded again, trying to banish the chill from his demeanor. He went back to the office, shuffled papers to and fro, and stared unseeing at a ledger from 1904, written in an almost unreadable scrawl of brown ink.
Viggo came in a half hour later, flushed and looking annoyed. "Sometimes I think you’re quite lucky being an only child, Sean."
Sean glanced up and offered a brief smile, striking a delicate balance between common courtesy and frosty disdain. "Is that so, sir?"
"Indeed. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve spent my entire life with my family peering over my shoulder, just waiting – I'm sorry. I don’t mean to blather on. It’s only that my family feels a duty to marry me off at once."
"I suppose every family wants that for their children." Sean bent over his ledger.
Viggo pulled a chair close to Sean’s desk and sat. "I’m sure that’s true, but good heavens, Sean, there are seven children in the family – six if you don’t count Michael, since he’s taken vows. It isn’t that there aren’t some very lovely girls in Philadelphia and even in Wilkes-Barre, but I wish – oh, hang it, I’m interrupting you, rattling on so."
Sean kept his head down. He was acutely conscious of Viggo’s hand on his desk, close to the ledger. "It’s nowt, sir."
"No, I’m being ridiculous. Forgive me. I suppose you had a bevy of beauties pining after you back in England."
"Nay." Sean half-smiled.
"One special young lady, then?"
"I've always kept myself to myself, sir. But I expect you’ve already met a number of girls here." Why he was prolonging this conversation was an utter mystery.
Viggo sighed. "A few. None of them have struck me as the sort of person with whom I’d like to spend the rest of my life."
"I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually, sir."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
An odd catch in Viggo’s voice forced Sean’s head up. Viggo was plucking at a loose thread on his coat, his downcast face the picture of misery. Sean felt a sudden pang of remorse for his coldness. It wasn’t Viggo’s fault that Sean’s admiration was unrequited. He’d been a kind employer and a thoroughly decent man, and here was Sean, stiff-necked and angry, treating him like the dirt under his feet. "I’ve made great progress in finding those Short Line discrepancies, sir," he said gently.
Viggo looked up. "You continually surprise me, Sean. My father’s going to be so pleased. Not at losing the money, of course, but you’ll have saved him a great deal in the long run, as well as a number of other customers. Thank you."
Sean blushed crimson and moved out of the lamplight. "Ah, it’s nowt," he murmured.
"Not to me. Would you mind accompanying me to Glen Lyon tomorrow? Apparently there’s a gentleman there who has the most up-to-date equipment in the Wyoming Valley."
Sean wanted to refuse, but it would look strange to say he hated the very sight of coal mines; it was his profession, after all, even if he wasn’t a miner himself. "Very well, sir."
"Capital. And…this is a bit forward, I know, but I've received an invitation to the Centennial Ball in May, and I managed to acquire one for you as well. We’ll have to rig up. I know you said you didn’t have proper clothes, but I can –"
"Nay, I can afford the togs, sir," Sean said. "It isn’t that. It’s only – well, I won’t know anyone there."
"You’ll know me." Viggo grinned. "I’m surprised you haven’t a number of girls clamoring for your attention already, Sean. You’re quite handsome."
A twinge settled inside Sean’s stomach. "That’s kind of you to say so, Mr. Mortensen."
"So." Viggo held his hand out. "Is it a bargain?"
Sean closed his hand around Viggo’s. It was warm and dry and firm, and as they shook, Sean surrendered his amorphous yearnings to brutal reality. In a way it was better. There were no encouraging signs to cling to, no need to watch and hope for something that would never materialize. It was better to know things for certain.
"Aye," he said. "It’s a bargain."
*
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.
WARNING: Violence in this chapter.
*
Viggo jabbed his fork into his poached egg and clamped his lips together as bright yellow yolk bled from the white crust. It was his own fault the cook was ignorant of his preferences. He detested poached eggs and had since childhood, but he hadn’t given the breakfast menu more than a cursory glance and was therefore condemned to repent at leisure. Hastily, he rescued the toast from the widening pool of yellow and put the slices on the plate where three rashers of bacon exuded tempting aromas.
Bacon, toast, and tea would have to do for his first day at work, and he would have to think of a way to tell the cook he preferred scrambled eggs to poached without insulting her cooking or allowing her to know he’d scarcely looked at the menu. It was all very confusing, and he wished he’d asked his mother questions about household management. He could imagine her reply, though: "Find some sweet girl to marry, Viggo, and you needn’t bother with all those details," or some such folderol. It was true that he didn’t feel suited for the domestic life, but that would have to change whether he felt suited to it or not.
Dining alone in baronial splendor was uncomfortable, though he knew he should be grateful to have a decent place to live. He’d landed it through pure chance. It belonged to the Patrick McLaughlins, one of the few wealthy families in his brother Michael’s parish. Mr. and Mrs. McLaughlin were heading to London, Frankfurt, Rome, and Paris via steamer for a year, perhaps two. They had thought to close their house down, but Michael had made discreet inquiries, and it had been arranged that Viggo would occupy the house and employ the remaining servants for a reasonable rent. Besides, Mrs. McLaughlin was a distant relation of one of his mother’s chums, so it was all perfectly in order.
Slowly Viggo realized that if he had hoped to escape the obligations of family and society in Wilkes-Barre, he was in for a rude awakening; even on the train from Philadelphia, friends of his mother’s had recognized him and monopolized the conversation for the entire trip, and he’d had no opportunity to talk to Sean. Upon arrival, he’d been swept off to dinner by still more family friends, the next day, Sunday, had been spent in Michael’s company, and already his calendar was filling faster than he could pencil in engagements. He was Wilkes-Barre royalty now, Michael had joked, like it or not.
Viggo peered around the dining room. If he was royalty, the house suited his position. The walls were covered in dark red silk, and every chair at the long walnut table was a triumph of crimson tufts and gilded scrollwork. On Viggo’s left were grim portraits of the McLaughlins in ornate oval frames, and on his right was a massive oil painting of cherubs, clouds, and scantily clad, ill-proportioned women that had clearly fallen short of an attempt to emulate Rubens. Why such egregious impediments to digestion had been placed there, Viggo didn’t know, but he did his best to ignore them.
His valet, Pearce, the only servant Viggo had brought from Philadelphia, glided into the dining room and stood by the doorway. "The carriage is ready, sir."
Viggo’s fork stopped halfway to his mouth. "Carriage? Pearce, the office is only three blocks away, and it’s a lovely morning besides. I thought I’d walk."
"Very good, sir." Pearce nodded, but his brow was laddered in consternation.
"You obviously disapprove."
"Sure it isn’t my place to say, sir."
"Say it all the same, if you please."
"Well, sir. It’s only that a Philadelphia gent wouldn’t walk anywhere that he could drive, or better yet be driven."
"Oh, come along. Surely you don’t believe such claptrap. It’s three blocks."
"I’m only telling you how it’ll look, sir, your being new in town. You’ll shock people altogether."
"Absolutely ridiculous," Viggo snorted. "And someone’s to drive me, and pick me up at day’s end as well, I suppose."
"Four o’clock sharp, sir. There’s a stable boy, sir, but no coachman. I’ll take on that duty as it’s just yourself in the house. But I’m to drive you to luncheon at noon as well, sir, except for today on account of you touring the mining operation."
"Naturally. God forbid we should offend the delicate sensibilities of the populace. I warn you, I'll not tolerate being ferried around for long." Viggo rose to his feet. "Let’s be off, then. If Wilkes-Barre wants to see me driven a paltry three blocks, it wouldn’t be fair to keep them waiting."
*
Sean was waiting on the doorstep of the office when Viggo alighted from the carriage. He nodded a greeting and turned to Pearce. "I didn’t see the assembled hordes waiting to judge me."
"Ah, sure they’ll be lined up tomorrow, sir. No question."
"I’ll take your word for it. I shall see you at four, then?"
Pearce touched two fingers to his hat. "Righto, sir. Walk on," he said to the horse, and moved up North River Street at a leisurely pace.
Viggo trotted up the stairs. "Good morning."
"Morning, sir. Lovely day."
"It is, isn’t it?" Viggo beamed as he looked up and down the street, lined with trees in their first hopeful green blooming. "This is quite pretty."
"Aye, it is. I hope I’m not late, sir."
"No, not at all." Viggo took out his watch. "Not quite nine. We’re both early. How is the boarding house?" Sean had stayed one night in the Hotel Sterling and had then, on Michael’s recommendation, found a room in a respectable boarding house on Northampton Street, run by one of Michael’s parishioners.
"It seems fine, sir," Sean said, following Viggo into the cool, damp hall. "Lovely breakfast."
"I’m glad to hear it. Shall we tour the place?"
The offices of Mortensen Coal resided in a two-story building, a small but pretty stone and stucco affair sandwiched between an attorney’s and a doctor’s office. There was a receiving room, the main office where Viggo and Sean would both work, and a room with a tidy row of filing cabinets. Up a flight of stairs was a washroom and a chamber fitted out as a bedroom, presumably for guests. All the furniture had been recently dusted, and everything was as neat as a pin.
Back in the office, Viggo perched on the edge of the massive desk that now belonged to him. "Well, everything seems to be in apple-pie order. It doesn’t look as though it’s been touched at all since Mr. Covington died, God rest his soul. Gavin Rowe will be here at eleven o’clock to take me on a tour of one of the mines."
"And who’s Gavin Rowe, sir?"
"Ah, of course you don’t know him. I scarcely know him myself except through some hasty correspondence. He’s the mine boss. Would you like to come along, Sean?"
"No, sir, thank you. Best if I stay and get acquainted with the office."
"As you wish. I suppose a mine’s nothing new to you, is it? I’m looking forward to getting down to work. I have to confess, though – I’ve spent two weeks getting acquainted with the business, and now that I’m here, I haven’t the first idea where to start."
Sean, who had been admiring the black marble fireplace, turned to Viggo and grinned shyly. "Well, I have. We should likely start by looking at the account books." He moved to Viggo’s desk, removed a ledger, and put it on a smaller, less imposing desk in the corner. He opened a drawer, found a notebook and a pencil, and sat. "I’ll start with the most recent accounts and move backward."
Viggo carried a chair to Sean’s desk, then pulled open the curtains so that morning light flooded into the room. "Let’s get started, then."
*
Gavin Rowe was small and sinewy, with thinning hair and a ruddy, lumpy face, as if he’d had a bad childhood case of pox. His eyes were owlish and unblinking behind delicate wire-rimmed spectacles. He was affable and garrulous, and pointed out notable houses and places of possible interest to Viggo in a singsong Welsh lilt.
"It was a right shock, losing Will," Rowe said, shaking the reins to prod his horse. "The men liked him, and that’s nine-tenths of getting them to do a decent day’s work. Will was a good friend of my dad’s – hired him straight off the boat, Will did, and Dad never missed a day of work."
"A decent day’s work – but the miners are paid on a quota system, aren’t they?" Viggo asked. "That’s what my father told me."
"Aye, sir, that’s true enough, but…well, sometimes the lads can get stubborn if they feel they’re not being treated fairly. The foreman can only check on them every so often, see, and sometimes a man will spend a while laying about just to annoy the bosses, then make up his quota at the end of the week. It doesn’t happen often," Rowe assured Viggo hastily, "and truth be told, ever since the 1902 strikes, it’s been as quiet and peaceful as can be. Don’t fret yourself, sir. I don’t think you’ll have any difficulties with the lads. You seem a decent sort."
"I believe a justly treated worker is a productive worker, Mr. Rowe. If the miners have some grievance, I expect you to come to me promptly so that we can settle it to everyone’s satisfaction."
"It’s good to hear you say that, Mr. Mortensen."
Cheered by his own decisive words, Viggo sat back and watched the passing scenery. The gracious homes of Franklin Street, set back on their sweeping tree-shaded lawns, had given way to frame houses, closer to the street, but still spruce and well-kept. As they drove on, the houses became small and slightly shabby. Black smoke curled out of the sagging chimneys.
"Close now, sir."
On Viggo’s right was a low, barren hill, covered with bits of stone. A few women and children ranged over it with buckets in hand, picking out chunks of coal. These were the culm banks, Rowe explained, the leftover rocks brought up from the mine. The women and children gleaned bits of coal from the banks to sell, at ten cents a flour-sack. On the left were the cottages, stained with smoke and soot, dotting the unpaved road like irregularly spaced teeth. More women and children spilled out of the houses as if answering a summons Viggo couldn’t hear. His bemusement dissolved into discomfort as he realized they were staring at him. Not a one nodded in response to his soft greetings, or even acknowledged that he was there. Blushing, Viggo replaced his hat and leaned close to Rowe. "Are we trespassing in some way, Mr. Rowe?"
"Not at all, sir. Most of these lasses and weans don’t speak English, though. Italians, Poles, Germans, Slovaks, some Irish. Most of ‘em haven’t been here but a few years. Keep to themselves quite a bit. Ah. here we are, sir."
A massive, gloomy edifice, black as night and at least a hundred feet tall, loomed menacingly over the scrubby landscape. Viggo saw a number of sloping roofs and a dozen windows that did nothing to lighten the sensation of weightiness and oppression that surrounded it.
"That’s the breaker, sir. Grand, isn’t it?"
It was monstrous. "It’s certainly imposing." Like anyone who’d traveled the Pennsylvania countryside, Viggo had seen a number of coal breakers, but had paid little attention to them. Now he thought that the structure looked sinister, as though it leached vitality from its environment, and indeed the scant vegetation was sparse and looked as though it clung to life by a mere thread. "We’ll have a look inside, I hope. Have you a particular recommendation as to how we should proceed, Mr. Rowe?"
Rowe considered. "Start to finish would be best, sir, so’s you’ll get a working picture of the place." He stole a sideways glance at Viggo. "Your clothes might get a bit mucky, Mr. Mortensen."
"I think it’ll be worth a little muck, Mr. Rowe." The menacing ugliness of the breaker notwithstanding, Viggo was excited. He watched as a team of six mules, hitched together in tandem, plodded out of the sloping tunnel that led into the pit, dragging a car weighted with glistening coal. A boy perched on the cart, his face and clothes black. The very air seemed filled with a fine dust. There was a ceaseless racket of machinery and shouting voices underscored by the rumbling of a locomotive as it slowed to a stop beside the breaker.
Rowe pulled up close to a fence near the breaker and leapt down lightly. "I’ll just get things ready, sir. Won’t be a moment." He emerged soon with two carbide lamps and a gangly boy in his teens. "See to the horse, lad." He turned to Viggo, handing him one of the lamps. "Come along, Mr. Mortensen."
The two men made their way into the shaft entrance. The dark seemed to close around Viggo immediately. He followed Rowe down a mild grade, slipping a little as the path hooked sharply right.
"All right there, sir?"
"Oh, yes – fine," Viggo replied, taking care to step lightly. They stopped before a tremendous fan, which circulated air into the mineshaft via a series of trapdoors. To the left sat a wire and steel cage, faintly limned by the flickering lamps. "This will take us down?"
"That it will, sir. We could walk the slope and see the different levels, but this will take us deepest in a short time." He stood aside so Viggo could step into the cage that shivered beneath his weight. He grasped at the wire mesh, and Rowe chuckled. "Aye, shakes a little, but it’s perfectly safe." Rowe swung the wire door shut, latched it, and nodded to the man who tended the winding gears. "Hang on, sir. All right, Clyde, drop us down."
As the cage dropped, Viggo’s stomach plummeted toward his shoe tops, and he regretted the light breakfast he’d eaten. "Oh, my." His voice was swallowed up by the rushing of the cage machinery and the lightless walls.
"Takes some getting used to," Rowe shouted. "Seven hundred feet down, it is. Don’t drop your lamp."
Viggo struggled to hold onto the rail with one hand and his lamp with the other. The little flame danced wildly, striving to stay alive against the dizzying speed of their descent. The temperature dropped, and damp air clung to his skin. The light of his lamp was now no more than a firefly’s momentary glow in the dark.
Presently the cage seemed to slow, then move upward. "Did we miss our floor?" Viggo joked.
"Nay, we’re still descending. It just feels as if we're going up. Hold on – we’ll be stopping soon." No sooner had Rowe spoken than the cage lurched to a stomach-churning stop. Rowe unlatched the door and held it open for Viggo. "There we are. Mind your step, sir. It’s slippy underfoot. The rock sweats a bit."
There was a warm glow ahead – the underground office, Rowe said. It was a little cubicle with a desk and lamp, and a large wooden pegboard leaning against one of the whitewashed walls. There were tags on the board that identified each miner and his location. "Easy to find them that way, in case of an accident," Rowe explained. Further ahead was the mule barn cut out of the rock. The mules lived underground year-round. The temperature never varied, and the animals never exposed to bad weather. Viggo stroked the velvety nose of the closest mule, and it nudged his shoulder affectionately. The creatures seemed healthy and well-cared for; their water and hay looked and smelled fresh, and their coats gleamed with currycombing. "The mule drivers love these beasties, even the stubbornest," Rowe said. "Come along, sir, we’ll go down to one of the chambers."
They came to a wide door across the gangway, guarded by a small boy perched on a crate. "This is Mickey," Rowe said. "He’s a nipper. Tends the door, makes sure they’re open when the cars come through. Mickey, this is Mr. Mortensen, the owner."
Viggo was startled to see a boy so young in the mines. "Hello, Mickey," he said, leaning down and putting out a hand.
The boy stared at him suspiciously before placing his grimy hand in Viggo’s. "Howeryeh," he said. "Going in, Mr. Rowe?"
"That we are, lad." Rowe swung the door open. "Gets low in places here, Mr. Mortensen," he said. "Mind your head."
Viggo ducked obediently and followed Rowe into the black corridor. He had thought that he would step off the cage and see men noisily chipping away at glistening veins in the wall. He was surprised when Rowe led him through a long, eerily silent tunnel. He lifted his lamp to illuminate a wooden sign with a crudely scrawled but whimsical designation: 'Lilac Hill'. Another read 'Appleyard', still another read 'Tara Road'. "Are these tunnels still active?" he asked. His voice sounded queerly muffled.
"Oh, aye. It’s a regular city down here, sir. Hello, lads!" As if to illustrate Rowe’s words, a group of miners shuffled past, lamps in hand. They were almost as black as the walls, their age indeterminate under all the muck. They muttered a greeting to Rowe and darted sideways glances at Viggo as they passed.
The tunnel was silent again. Viggo progressed slowly, moving his lamp between the craggy, puddle-ridden ground and the sloping ceiling. His back began to ache from bending. Height was a disadvantage in the mines.
The atmosphere seemed frighteningly still, even though Viggo had seen one of the huge fans that pumped fresh air into the mines. Now and then he heard the plinking drip of water, and once, a deep crackling rumble. His heart pounded rapidly. He was seven hundred feet below ground, with only timbers the thickness of his thigh bracing the thousands of tons of rock and earth above him. "Mr. Rowe, is that –"
"Just settling, sir. Nothing to be concerned about. This way." He turned into a corridor marked 'Sweet Comfit' and led Viggo forward. Here the corridor branched out into separate passages. He chose one, and now there were faint but reassuring sounds of work – hammering, drilling, shoveling, human voices. They peered into one chamber after another, where the miners and their apprentices toiled, taking no notice of Viggo’s scrutiny.
Most of them were stripped to the waist, their upper bodies stained with coal dust, agleam with streaked sweat. Some wore leather caps with tiny lamps affixed to them. They were quick, tireless, and agile, hewing massive chunks of coal with pickaxes and shovels and bare hands. The miners scrambled about on their hands and knees in the low chambers, untroubled by the oppressive darkness, the dampness, and the smothering sensation of coal dust permeating the already stifled air.
Rowe gently tapped Viggo’s arm. "Shall we see the rest of it, sir?"
The trip back to the cage was uphill and rugged on the return. Viggo stumbled several times, and twice bumped his head on the low timbers, once hard enough for stars to sparkle in front of his now night-sighted eyes. As he wobbled on his feet, Rowe took his arm and steadied him. "It’s not easy if you’re not used to the life of it, sir. You went further than I’ve seen any toff go. Owner, I mean. There’s the cage, straight ahead."
"Thank you," Viggo replied with rueful good humor, rubbing at the swelling on his forehead. "I’ll be better prepared next time. Perhaps I’ll wear a helmet."
Back on the surface, Viggo lurched out of the cage and staggered toward the mine entrance, blinking in the bright daylight. Rowe ushered him into the breaker. Viggo winced at the ear-splitting din that assaulted them from every direction. Those were the machines that crushed and sorted the coal into assorted sizes: stove, chestnut, pea, buck, rice, and barley. And there – Rowe pointed at dozens of hunched figures astride long diagonal chutes that ran from near the top of the breaker – those were the breaker boys. The loaded cars of coal were dragged to the roof via cable, crushed, and then dumped onto the chutes. The breaker boys picked the rock and refuse out of the coal as it flowed down the long troughs. Viggo moved closer to inspect the chutes and stopped, startled.
The breaker boys were children. Not a one appeared to be over twelve, and most seemed much younger. They were all stoop-shouldered and thin, with bright, sharp eyes that peered out of their dirty faces from under homemade caps. A man strolled up a gangplank between the chutes, armed with a long stick. As Viggo watched, the man barked something at one little boy and cracked him smartly on the shoulder.
"You there!" Viggo shouted. Several of the boys nearest him swiveled to gape, but it was obvious the breaker boys’ supervisor hadn’t heard, or was simply ignoring him; he kept trudging up the gangplank, prodding the children into action.
Viggo strode out of the breaker, beckoning curtly for Gavin Rowe to follow him. Once they were out of shouting range, Viggo wheeled on Rowe. "This isn’t acceptable, Mr. Rowe, not at all. I’m certain my father will be horrified when I tell him what’s happening here."
"Mr. Mortensen, I’m not following you."
"I may be a greenhorn, Mr. Rowe, but I know there are laws proscribing child labor. Some of those boys looked no older than five or six."
"Could be, sir. We’ve had ‘em that young at times."
"Well, how do you account for it? We live in the modern world. I won’t have little children performing the worst sort of back-breaking labor and being thrashed for it besides." Viggo heard his voice shaking and controlled it with difficulty. "I won’t have it. And neither will my father, I assure you."
"Mr. Mortensen," Rowe said gently, "Mr. Harald has already seen the lads. He knows they’re wee ones."
Viggo froze. "No, that’s not possible. He’d never condone such a thing."
"It’s true. You go to any colliery in the country, Mr. Mortensen, and you’ll find the same thing all over. All the breaker boys are small."
"But there are laws –"
"Aye, laws," Rowe shrugged. "There are ways around them. It’s always been the little ones as are the breaker boys, sir. It’s not such hard work. They get to sit, and they’re not lifting heavy loads, are they? Besides, their families need the money." There was faint contempt in his voice now for Viggo, who had it soft.
"But they’re just children. They should be in school."
Rowe shrugged again, indifferent now. "Aye, I won’t disagree with you. But they’ve got to make a living wage, and there’s an end to it for most of them. If you’re about ready to leave, sir, I’ll go and hitch up the horse."
Rowe drove back in stiff-backed silence. Viggo brooded beside him, ignoring the fresh green of the trees and the blueness of the spring sky. When they pulled up to the scrubbed steps of the office. Viggo put out a hand, faintly astonished to see that his shirt cuff and hand were filthy. "Thank you for showing me the operation, Mr. Rowe. I hope you understand that I don’t mean any personal affront by my remarks, but I cannot condone the exploitation of children for profit, even my own. Changes will have to be made."
"As you say, sir. It’s your place." Rowe shook his head. "I’m not heartless myself, Mr. Mortensen. I know they’re little ones, and they should by rights be getting an education and romping about. But that’s as may be when their families are ill for want of food, if you follow me."
Viggo sighed. "For now, I want you to tell that free-handed fool that striking little boys is unacceptable, on pain of dismissal. And the same goes for any man in a supervisory position."
"Aye, I’ll tell them." Rowe nodded. "I’ll be by on Friday, sir, with the weekly quota sheets."
"Very well. Good afternoon."
Sean looked up as Viggo came in, wiping ink-stained hands on a handkerchief. He blinked. "Been doing some mining yourself, sir?"
Viggo frowned. He was irritable, ferociously hungry, and the bump on his head was starting to throb. "What do you mean?"
"This way, sir." Sean steered Viggo to the long glass in the hall. "Have a look."
Viggo stifled a laugh. He was covered in coal dust from head to foot. His face was nearly as black as a miner’s, and his suit, shirt, and tie were utterly ruined. Somewhere on the journey, he’d lost or forgotten his hat as well. He met Sean’s eyes in the mirror. "I took a tour of the mine."
"Aye, looks that way."
"He said I’d get a bit mucky."
"A bit mucky," Sean repeated. "Aye, a bit mucky is what you seem to be."
Viggo continued to examine himself in the mirror. He noticed that he and Sean were almost exactly the same height. "Tell me, Sean, did they use children in the breakers in England?"
"That they did. I were a breaker boy, for a time."
"And how was it?"
Sean snorted. "Dreadful."
"This isn’t going to be as easy as I’d thought," Viggo said softly. "I’m beginning to think I’m a terrible fool."
Sean shook his head. "You’ll do, sir. Everything new is difficult at first. And I’ll help you as much as I can."
"That’s kind of you, Sean. I think I’m going to need all the help I can get."
*
Freddy Watkins was one of the best-looking fellows in Winsley. The best-looking, maybe; to hear it told, there wasn’t a lass in Yorkshire didn’t have her eye on him when he came back from his travels in Europe. Same went for some of the lads. Even years later, soberly dressed and groomed, he was right handsome and no mistake. He’d caught Harry Slater’s attention, and that was saying something.
Harry tilted his head to one side, considering. Well, could be Freddy wasn’t the handsomest fellow in Winsley now. The left side of his face was one huge purpling bruise. His left eye had swollen shut and the right was beginning to take the lead from its chum. Tears and snot trickled down his dirty face. Pathetic moaning sounds issued from Freddy’s throat. Harry had balled up Freddy’s stockings and shoved them in his split and bleeding mouth when the screams grew too loud. His jacket and tie were gone, and his shirt streaked with dirt and blood. One arm hung uselessly by his side, half-wrenched out of its socket; the other was tied to the post of the rickety bed where Freddy and he had buggered one another senseless. Harry’s upper lip curled in disgust. Freddy’s sweet little love-nest, this tiny cottage out on the edge of the moor. How easy it had been to lure him out here – but then, Freddy had never been any too sharp when it came to what might have occupied the thoughts of other fellows.
"Not too sharp at all," Harry murmured.
Freddy whined. More tears trickled from his half-shut eyes.
Harry heaved himself up from the chair he’d been straddling and ambled over to the bed. He plucked the stockings from Freddy’s mouth and patted his cheek with no pretense to gentleness.
Freddy tried to lick his lips and winced in pain. "Harry, for the love of God –" As Harry slapped him with the flat of his hand, Freddy’s head rocked back, thudding against the iron headboard. "Oh, God – please, please don’t –"
Harry plowed his fist into Freddy’s belly, driving the air out of him in a great whooping gasp. Freddy's mouth opened and closed like a fish desperate for water, and his face went a bright red.
"Shut your fucking gob, Freddy. You’ll talk when I want you to talk, and not a moment before. I thought we agreed on that."
Frantically, Freddy bobbed his head up and down. His mouth hung open, displaying shattered teeth. "I know. I know. I just –" He wailed as Harry slapped him again, first one cheek, then the other. "Please."
"Don’t give me ‘please,’ you sodding cunt," Harry said. He sat on the bed and rested a hand on Freddy’s thigh, smiling when Freddy flinched. "You say ‘please’ one more time and I’ll saw off your prick and shove it down your throat. Then you can suck your own cock. Bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Freddy clamped his lips shut, and Harry nodded. "That’s better."
"I’ve given you money – lots of money, Harry." He nodded toward the valise of cash he’d brought in response to Harry’s note. Seven thousand pounds in there, a fortune. "What more in the name of Christ do you want?"
"Ah, don’t play coy with me, Freddy darling," Harry replied in a vicious trill. "I want answers, like I said before."
"I told you, I don’t –" Freddy screamed as Harry’s fist connected solidly with his nose. Blood spurted. "I burned them all, I told you!"
"Don't believe you, love." Harry raised his hand again.
"Sean! Sean must have taken some!"
"Why, if he was on his way to America? What was the point of all that, eh?"
"I don’t kn –" Another shriek tore from Freddy’s lips as Harry slammed a lead pipe against his ankle. He sobbed and writhed for a moment, trying to gather enough air to breathe. "Christ almighty, I don’t know!"
"It was your buggering idea, wasn’t it?"
"No. I never asked him to – Oh, Jesus Christ –" The pipe crashed against the other ankle. "Please, please –"
Harry grabbed a handful of Freddy’s blood-soaked hair. "I told you not to say that. No matter. I’m only going to ask you one more thing, then it’ll be all over, Freddy. No worries."
"All right. All right. Anything." Freddy was weeping again. Blood trickled into his mouth, and he coughed spasmodically.
"Where is he now? He told me New York, but that’s a sodding lie, isn’t it? He’d never tell me the truth, not with what the two of you were cooking up. So…where’d he go, eh?"
"Philadelphia. I booked him passage from Liverpool to Philadelphia." Freddy’s swollen eyes met Harry’s. "I swear it’s the truth. I swear it!"
Harry smiled gently. "I believe you, Freddy." He rested his hand on Freddy’s thigh again. "You and me, we had some times, didn’t we?"
"We – yes, we did." Piteously eager, that whining voice.
"I trusted you, but I was a right fool, wasn’t I?"
Freddy gaped at him in silence. Then he choked out, "You blackmailed me."
"I trusted you," Harry said, shaking his head in regret, "and you betrayed that trust. Can’t forgive that, I’m afraid." He leaned against the creaking footboard and regarded Freddy dispassionately. Poofs were always getting themselves killed, weren’t they? It was true. Freddy must have known that his tomcatting ways would get him into trouble one way or the other. And out here on the moors, in the middle of bloody nowhere, why – who could say that Freddy had got himself killed at all? He’d tie a stone round one of those now shattered ankles and toss him in the water – going, going, gone, fare-thee-well, Freddy Watkins, and none the wiser. They’d say he’d run off, taking a bag of money with him. Then Harry would be free to deal with Sean Bean, that sneaking, thieving little dog’s prick that he was. The sweetness of it all fell into place, neat as you please.
Harry rose and caressed the lead pipe. He smiled at Freddy, at his dawning comprehension, at his growing horror and despair. "Grand times. Grand times indeed."
*
"Dash it."
Sean glanced up, suppressing a smile. Viggo Mortensen used the mildest expletives, but they were uttered with as much conviction as if he’d spat out profanities that turned the very air blue. "What is it, sir?"
"Father writes me. He says he understands that it’s upsetting to learn the age of the breaker boys, that he was shocked at first too. Then he says that their wages often keep struggling families afloat."
"Well, that's true."
"But he’s condoning the entire mess. Nowhere does he condemn the practice, and he simply sidesteps my suggestion."
"What suggestion is that, sir?"
"I asked him to consider starting a school particularly for the children of mining families, and also to begin a fund for the support of those families who have lost fathers, brothers, et cetera – breadwinners. I also asked him to re-examine his wage policy for mine workers. Surely if all these families are in need, something should be done."
Sounds like a grand way to go bankrupt, Sean mused. "Well…perhaps he’s considering your suggestions, sir. Giving it some serious thought, like."
"Maybe. Then again, maybe he’s just ignoring me."
"I’m sure he wouldn’t ignore you, sir. He trusted you enough to have you come out here and run things. He knows you'll do a good job of it."
"I hope he knows that." Viggo slumped down in his chair. "I hope I’m not just making a fool of myself."
"You’re just finding your feet, sir." That, at least, was true. The past few weeks had been unsteady ground for both of them. Together Viggo and Sean had pored over every active ledger in the office, sorting out lists of customers, shippers, machine suppliers, repairmen, railroad contract, determining who owed and was owed. They had visited other collieries in the area, and in other counties: Lackawanna, Wyoming, Columbia, Monroe, and Carbon. They’d talked with other mine owners, Viggo’s comrades and competitors, men in black coats and tall hats who smiled jovially and eyed Viggo and Sean like racetrack shills examining a counterfeit ten-pound note. They had met with union representatives, mine bosses, salesmen, and contractors. At the end of three weeks, they felt they had a working if somewhat hasty grasp of the mining industry.
"I suppose that’s true. And I suppose it’s a further truth that a man has to discover that his father is only human after all."
"Happens to the lot of us," Sean agreed. He liked Viggo’s forthright, cheerful nature, his open confidence, and his nearly boundless optimism. He wasn’t ashamed of his mistakes; he merely sought to correct them as quickly as possible. Too, he’d made it clear that he relied upon Sean’s expertise. That was a heady thing, after years of working for little money and almost no acknowledgment that he was even alive, let alone that he had a working brain. It made Sean eager to please, a desire he’d only ever had for his parents. And though he remained perfectly proper and formal in his speech, he’d stopped thinking of Viggo as Mr. Mortensen. That, perhaps, wasn’t the thing to do.
Viggo smiled. Sean returned the smile, abashed, and bent to his work. He stared a bit too much, he knew, and if the familiarity of Viggo’s first name didn’t cause trouble, the staring would. It would be easier if Viggo’s own gaze weren’t so frank and honest.
A blotch of ink spread beneath the nib of Sean’s pen, spoiling the column of figures he’d been adding. He cursed under his breath and reached for a sheet of blotting paper. Served him right for mooning, as if one ill-fated association with an employer wasn't enough. Sean was here to earn a living, not get himself in more trouble, and Viggo – Mr. Mortensen – was a perfectly polite man who happened to be a young, good-looking fellow. There was an end to it.
"I say, Sean, have you brought your luncheon today?"
Sean looked up from his ruined figures. "Nay – that is, I was going to walk to Public Square and buy a pie or sommat. Would you like me to get something for you, sir?"
"Oh, no. It’s only that I mentioned to my cook that it was a pretty morning and that I might like to eat on the river common." Viggo laughed. "She packed me a picnic lunch to feed an army. Won’t you join me?"
"I couldn’t."
"Why ever not?"
"It’s only that – well, I shouldn’t like to intrude, sir."
"Sean, you’d be welcome. I’d enjoy your company. Unless you were meeting someone else?"
"Oh, it weren’t that. I’m not –" Sean shrugged, at a loss. Viggo Mortensen had been eating his luncheons at hotels and fancy restaurants, with Wilkes-Barre toffs, other coal-company owners, business people, society people. He couldn’t want to eat with one of his employees, a lowly clerk with ink-stained hands. He felt heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks. "What would people think?"
"Probably ‘Look at those two lucky fellows having a picnic on a lovely day like this.’" Viggo said, jumping to his feet. "Come along, Sean. Let’s not waste an opportunity as fine as this one. Besides, I’ll need help just carrying the picnic hamper – it must weigh fifty pounds."
Sean stole a glance at Viggo’s face – happy, expectant. None of his friends had ever been so affable. Was it owing to the circumstances of birth? Maybe it was easy to be cheerful when one had it soft. Then again, Freddy had always had it soft, and his mood had been one of perpetual discontentment.
Almost against his own volition, Sean rose to his feet. "It’s a fine day. You’re right on that score."
"Splendid! Let me get the hamper, and we’ll be off."
"I’ll fetch it, sir," Sean said. "Won’t be a moment."
There was a little kitchen on the premises, with an icebox. Sean opened the door and dragged the hamper out. Lifting the lid, he peered inside cautiously. Strapped against the side was a creamy white plate, with a band of dark blue and trimmed with gold. Christ almighty. One plate only, though. They’d have to share it.
*
The air was warm, almost syrupy, with a faint breeze that blew cherry blossom petals along the river common path. Sean walked in silence. Freddy had been happy enough to bend him over the red leather Chesterfield and shag him up the arse, but he hadn’t gone so far as to eat a meal with him. He could hear Freddy now – Wouldn’t be cricket, dear boy – and there wouldn’t be any further discussion of the matter. He wondered if he should try to talk business, but Viggo seemed happy enough to walk without conversation.
"What about here?" Viggo pointed beneath a sugar maple.
"Aye, that's fine, sir."
Together, they spread the cotton tablecloth, and laid out a feast: ham sandwiches, bacon-and-egg pie, chicken salad, fruit salad, slices of cake, a bottle of lemonade. Viggo looked inside the nearly empty hamper. "There’s only one plate."
"I don’t need a plate, sir."
"Never mind. We’ll share." Viggo set the plate down. "Unless you mind?"
"Nay, I don’t mind."
Sean found himself wanting to steal glances at Viggo as he ate, and kept his head down, fearing to be rude.
"Sean, have you heard about the Centennial ball?"
Sean swallowed a bite of sandwich and nodded. "At the Armory, mid-May or thereabouts."
"I think we should go."
"You…me, sir?"
"Why not? You might enjoy yourself."
"Well, I haven’t the togs, for one thing," Sean said bluntly, then bit his lip. He made a decent wage; if he scrimped and saved, he could afford a suit of evening clothes. "It's for society folk, sir, not the likes of me."
"Well, what if I wanted you there?"
Viggo’s head was lowered, and he was busily scraping the last of his chicken salad from an elaborately pinked orange-peel cup. "Sir?"
"I mean…I only mean that it would be good for business. If I’m otherwise occupied, I need you to be my right-hand man, and that means meeting people in…in a social capacity as well." Viggo plucked at a long strand of grass, keeping his eyes downcast. He had blunt, capable-looking hands. A gold signet ring gleamed in the sunlight.
A hundred different replies careened through Sean’s head, and he found himself tongue-tied again. He looked down, saw he was wringing his hands, and very deliberately pulled them apart and leaned back, resting them on the cool grass. He put a note of carelessness into his voice. "Whatever you say, sir. I’m not used to that sort of thing, though."
"Neither am I, Sean."
Viggo had such clear, feckless grey eyes, and a handsome straight nose, and now Sean noticed a small scar on his upper lip. He stared at it, mesmerized, wondering how Viggo had come by it, then caught himself and leapt to his feet. Fool. Damned thick-headed fool.
"I’d best get this mess cleaned up," he said, trying to control the tremor in his throat. "The greater part of the day’s got away from us."
*
The doorbell gave one short, sharply impatient jangle, as if the ringer expected the door to be answered with great alacrity.
"Bloody hell," Sean muttered and tried to shift an immense pile of paper from his lap to the top of his already groaning desk. "Just a moment!" He made a mental note of the last calculation he’d made and set the stack carefully atop a pile of open ledgers.
The bell rang again, longer and louder this time. "All right, I’m coming. Wait just a damned minute." Sean wiped off his pen and got to his feet, scrubbing his hands on his hopelessly inky handkerchief. He swung the door open, already manufacturing a scowl for the fool who’d interrupted him. A tall figure in clerical black, with blue eyes in a white face topped by a thatch of unruly red hair, stood on the doorstep, smiling and looking not at all impatient. Sean’s brow smoothed as he recognized Viggo’s brother, Michael. "Good afternoon, sir."
"Mr. Bean. How nice to see you. Is my brother on the premises?"
"I’m afraid not, sir. He had an appointment. But he should be back in twenty minutes or thereabouts. You’re welcome to wait, if you like."
"Thank you, I think I will." Michael moved past Sean into the hall and allowed himself to be ushered into the parlor.
"Tea, sir?"
"Please call me Michael, or Father Michael if you wish. I don't stand on formality. And yes, I would love a cup of tea. Thank you very much indeed."
Sean had very limited contact with Catholic clergymen and assumed they were accustomed to being treated with great deference, the way Vicar Pomeroy was. But Viggo’s brother seemed as informal as any ordinary young man. Maybe it was his youth; maybe all men of the cloth became cantankerous with age. Sean couldn’t imagine why. Being a vicar seemed a pretty soft lot.
He’d made a pot of tea only half an hour ago, so it was a matter of nothing to whisk a tray together. He returned to the parlor to find Michael staring fixedly at a small still life of flowers hanging over the mantel.
Michael beamed. "This painting once hung in our old house." He looked round the parlor, squinting in the same manner Viggo had when he scrutinized something. "In fact, most of this furniture seems to have come from our old house. When Father struck it rich with the mines and they moved to the big house, Mother decided they needed furniture in keeping with a grander style. So everything came here, I suppose. So – with whom is Viggo meeting?"
Sean blinked at this barrage of information. "Bankers, sir. Luzerne National, I believe."
"Ah. Must remain liquid, mustn’t we?" Michael took a chair and poured himself a cup of tea. "There’s no cup for you, Mr. Bean. Won’t you at least keep me company until Viggo arrives?"
Torn between the urge to return to absorbing work and the curiosity of talking to a relative of Viggo’s, and a priest at that, Sean hesitated, then curiosity won out. "Certainly, sir." He sat and gave himself a moment to examine Michael as discreetly as possible. There was a resemblance, to be sure – the same lean frame, the same sharp features and ready smile. Michael’s hair was a startlingly bright shade of red, though, and he was quite tall, outdistancing Viggo by several inches.
Michael added three lumps of sugar and a quantity of milk to his tea. "How are you finding the boardinghouse?"
"Oh, it’s fine," Sean replied. "Thank you for putting in a good word for me."
"My pleasure. Mrs. Donnelly’s a bit of a dragon, isn’t she? Still, if you stay on her good side, she’ll do almost anything for you. I think she’s taken to you."
Sean lifted an eyebrow. "Is that so?"
"Oh, indeed." Michael took one of the little cakes Sean had put on the tray and bit into it heartily. "Delicious. Yes, indeed. I saw her at seven o’clock mass yesterday morning and she told me you were no trouble so far."
"I don’t know as I’d call that a ringing endorsement, sir." Sean was amused despite himself. His landlady was a bit of a dragon, always scowling and muttering about dirty boots on her clean carpets, but Sean was growing fond of her nevertheless. She reminded him a bit of his mother, stern and unsentimental, but fair and decent at heart.
"Believe me, from Maggie Donnelly, that’s the very highest praise. She certainly wouldn’t hesitate to complain about you if she didn’t care for you."
"That’s very kind of her, then."
"Quite. And how are you finding employment with Mortensen Coal?"
"Lovely. That is, I’m quite enjoying it. Your brother’s a good man, a fair man, sir."
"And he thinks the world of you, Mr. Bean. Why, only last week he told me that you’d helped him learn the mining trade faster and more thoroughly than our own father did."
An ember of pleasure glowed in Sean's chest. "That were kind of him. We learned together, though."
"That’s good to hear. I think this work has changed him for the better. Perhaps it’s simply a more salubrious atmosphere than Philadelphia. I’ve often wondered if city life altogether suited him. He came back from college changed. Everyone noticed it. Even his friends said as much, and they’re not the most perceptive lot."
Sean sat waiting, fascinated and scandalized. Reverend Pomeroy, like most Yorkshiremen he knew, would have sooner eaten a mouthful of red-hot nails than openly gossiped about anyone, least of all his own family, but Father Michael Mortensen seemed to regard family business as public knowledge.
"In any case, he seems as right as rain now, and I should think he’ll do fine, as long as he can survive my mother’s long-distance matchmaking. She tried her best in Philadelphia, and she’s still trying, even from a hundred miles away." Michael shook his head. "Perhaps it’s all stuff and nonsense, but he is almost twenty-three – high time he thought of settling down, I suppose. Are you married, Mr. Bean?"
Sean shook his head. "I haven’t really got time for that sort of thing."
"Perhaps it’s just as well. Nose to the grindstone, eh?"
"I reckon, sir." Sean stared at the flowers in the carpet. Viggo had a whole life separate from work. Family, friends, journeys across the country, potential sweethearts – here and in Philadelphia as well. He’d been a fool, casting Viggo in the same role as Freddy Watkins without a shred of evidence to support his ridiculous notions. Viggo had always been pleasant and polite, and there hadn’t been the least hint of impropriety on his part, let alone any indication that he preferred the company of men.
"The upshot is, and the reason I tell you all this, Mr. Bean, is to request that whatever it is you’re doing, don’t stop. You’re obviously part of the sea-change that’s occurred, and I’m delighted to see my brother so happy and engaged again."
Sean managed a smile. Even if he was a fool, he wasn’t about to behave like one. Any more, at least. "Thank you, sir. That’s good to hear."
"Sean?" Viggo peered into the parlor. "Michael! I thought I heard a familiar voice." He strode into the parlor and shook his brother’s hand. "What brings you here?"
"This and that," Michael shrugged. "I’ve been devouring all your cakes and talking about you. Were your ears burning?"
"You always talk about me, so I’ve grown accustomed to the heat," Viggo laughed. "Sean, you don’t have a cup. Has Michael been hoarding all the tea for himself? You should see him eat at home – I think he has a hollow leg."
Sean got to his feet. "I’ll get you a cup, Mr. Mortensen."
"You needn’t go," Michael said.
Sean smiled in polite acknowledgment and made his way blindly to the kitchen. He found a cup and saucer, then stood motionless, clinging to the chipped zinc sink, suffused with shame and a sudden swelling of emptiness that was as startling as it was painful.
The explanation was simple enough, he supposed. His parents had been dead only a few months and he missed them far more than he’d anticipated. They’d always been tight-knit, and Sean had floundered about after they were gone, hungry for some human closeness. It was natural to become attached to the first truly friendly face that came along.
That was it, to be sure. But as Sean returned to the parlor, bearing the cup and saucer, he felt a surge of anger, as if Viggo had been deceiving him all this time, that his sturdy cheerfulness and small gestures of friendship had been façades.
Viggo was gesturing broadly, and his voice rang with good-natured exasperation. "I swear to you, one more of these pointless dinners and I’m going to feel perfectly justified in becoming a hermit." He stopped as Sean set the cup and saucer down. "Sean, won’t you join us?"
Stony-faced, Sean stared at a point above Viggo’s head. "No thanks, sir. I’ve got to get back to those ledgers." A tiny worm of conscience gnawed at his insides, but he ignored it and nodded coldly to Michael, the harbinger of unhappy tidings. "It was good to see you again, Father. I’ll be in the office if you need owt, Mr. Mortensen."
A faint crease appeared in Viggo’s brow. "Thank you, Sean. I’m sure we’ll be fine."
Michael stood to shake Sean’s hand. "It was good to see you also, Mr. Bean. Do give my best to Mrs. Donnelly."
Sean nodded again, trying to banish the chill from his demeanor. He went back to the office, shuffled papers to and fro, and stared unseeing at a ledger from 1904, written in an almost unreadable scrawl of brown ink.
Viggo came in a half hour later, flushed and looking annoyed. "Sometimes I think you’re quite lucky being an only child, Sean."
Sean glanced up and offered a brief smile, striking a delicate balance between common courtesy and frosty disdain. "Is that so, sir?"
"Indeed. Sometimes I feel as if I’ve spent my entire life with my family peering over my shoulder, just waiting – I'm sorry. I don’t mean to blather on. It’s only that my family feels a duty to marry me off at once."
"I suppose every family wants that for their children." Sean bent over his ledger.
Viggo pulled a chair close to Sean’s desk and sat. "I’m sure that’s true, but good heavens, Sean, there are seven children in the family – six if you don’t count Michael, since he’s taken vows. It isn’t that there aren’t some very lovely girls in Philadelphia and even in Wilkes-Barre, but I wish – oh, hang it, I’m interrupting you, rattling on so."
Sean kept his head down. He was acutely conscious of Viggo’s hand on his desk, close to the ledger. "It’s nowt, sir."
"No, I’m being ridiculous. Forgive me. I suppose you had a bevy of beauties pining after you back in England."
"Nay." Sean half-smiled.
"One special young lady, then?"
"I've always kept myself to myself, sir. But I expect you’ve already met a number of girls here." Why he was prolonging this conversation was an utter mystery.
Viggo sighed. "A few. None of them have struck me as the sort of person with whom I’d like to spend the rest of my life."
"I’m sure you’ll find someone eventually, sir."
"Perhaps. Perhaps not."
An odd catch in Viggo’s voice forced Sean’s head up. Viggo was plucking at a loose thread on his coat, his downcast face the picture of misery. Sean felt a sudden pang of remorse for his coldness. It wasn’t Viggo’s fault that Sean’s admiration was unrequited. He’d been a kind employer and a thoroughly decent man, and here was Sean, stiff-necked and angry, treating him like the dirt under his feet. "I’ve made great progress in finding those Short Line discrepancies, sir," he said gently.
Viggo looked up. "You continually surprise me, Sean. My father’s going to be so pleased. Not at losing the money, of course, but you’ll have saved him a great deal in the long run, as well as a number of other customers. Thank you."
Sean blushed crimson and moved out of the lamplight. "Ah, it’s nowt," he murmured.
"Not to me. Would you mind accompanying me to Glen Lyon tomorrow? Apparently there’s a gentleman there who has the most up-to-date equipment in the Wyoming Valley."
Sean wanted to refuse, but it would look strange to say he hated the very sight of coal mines; it was his profession, after all, even if he wasn’t a miner himself. "Very well, sir."
"Capital. And…this is a bit forward, I know, but I've received an invitation to the Centennial Ball in May, and I managed to acquire one for you as well. We’ll have to rig up. I know you said you didn’t have proper clothes, but I can –"
"Nay, I can afford the togs, sir," Sean said. "It isn’t that. It’s only – well, I won’t know anyone there."
"You’ll know me." Viggo grinned. "I’m surprised you haven’t a number of girls clamoring for your attention already, Sean. You’re quite handsome."
A twinge settled inside Sean’s stomach. "That’s kind of you to say so, Mr. Mortensen."
"So." Viggo held his hand out. "Is it a bargain?"
Sean closed his hand around Viggo’s. It was warm and dry and firm, and as they shook, Sean surrendered his amorphous yearnings to brutal reality. In a way it was better. There were no encouraging signs to cling to, no need to watch and hope for something that would never materialize. It was better to know things for certain.
"Aye," he said. "It’s a bargain."
*
TBC.....
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Date: 2013-03-29 06:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-29 06:52 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-29 02:40 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-29 08:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-29 11:27 pm (UTC)Great fun and hopefully your characters will continue to find out more about eachother, little by little...
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Date: 2013-03-30 02:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-30 12:07 pm (UTC)So Sean should take that to heart - it seems as if there'll be enough opportunities away from work in the near future!
This is such a fascinating story, well-researched as always with your work, so that we're truly living in that era with the huge discrepancies between 'haves' and 'have nots'. It's wonderful to see Viggo wanting to make changes for the better, even though it looks like he'll have a fight on his hands if he's ever to become a philanthropist.
I love the little hints we're getting from Viggo and his brother . . . take heart, Sean!
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Date: 2013-03-30 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-31 09:27 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-31 10:16 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-31 05:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-03-31 10:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-01 12:26 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-01 09:14 pm (UTC)Thank you, sweetie. It went okay. I got a shot of Neulasta [sp?] to help with my low white count. Of course, it causes bone pain,so ugh. We'll see how the week goes. *hug*
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Date: 2013-04-03 02:38 am (UTC)Hope you're feeling not too bad today. Amazing all the friggin side effects of these treatments... bone pain, I hadn't heard of that one as a side effect. How lovely. :( It reminds me of those commercials on American TV that advertise some sort of medicine, then they go into a list of possible side effects, which when you listen to it all, might deter you from taking the medicine in the first place because in all likelihood, it WILL kill you! I sure hope this Neulasta whatever helps with your white blood cells.
I see a new chapter is up, I just may go read that right now. :) *smoochas*
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Date: 2013-04-02 08:05 am (UTC)Just catching up after having the family staying over Easter and loads of visitors. The house is very quiet now.
Poor Freddie. Although he was rotten he didn't deserve what happened to him at Slater's hands. Harry really is a scary and vicious baddie.
I love the depth of your research and the things we learn about the period and the mining industry. Now off to read the next part. *Hugs*
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Date: 2013-04-03 06:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-03 08:20 pm (UTC)