FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 4]
Apr. 1st, 2013 09:41 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.
*
Breakfast was served twice in Maggie Donnelly’s boarding house, at six and eight o’clock. The meal bell rang exactly once each time, and woe betide the too-leisurely boarder who strolled to the table fifteen or twenty minutes tardy; he would find himself scraping cold porridge from Mrs. Donnelly’s second-best silver tureen and cursing his fate. Sean was too canny to make the same mistake twice. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and settled it beside his plate. "That were lovely, Mrs. Donnelly."
Mrs. Donnelly snorted. "I hope so, lad. You tucked enough of it in. Oh, now who's that?" she groaned as the doorbell rang.
Visitors at an early hour were unusual, and the boarders at the table listened intently, making no pretense at conversation. Sean started as he heard a familiar voice.
"I can wait in the parlor."
"Ah, there’s no need of that. Come in." Mrs. Donnelly swept back into the dining room with Viggo in tow. "Here’s Mr. Mortensen for you, Mr. Bean." Her eyebrows were raised almost to her hairline, but there was no disapproval in her posture or tone.
"I thought I’d save you the trouble of coming to the office, Sean," Viggo said, removing his hat. "No, please don’t get up. Finish your breakfast. I’m sorry, I’m far too early."
"Morning, sir." Sean fought to control the flush that wanted to creep up his neck. "I'm ready." He rose and nodded a farewell to the other boarders and Mrs. Donnelly, and they went outside to where Viggo’s horse and carriage waited.
"Pearce was going to drive us, but I said we’d be fine on our own. It’s a bit of a long drive, though – eleven or twelve miles."
Sean nodded coolly. "Pretty day. Have you got a map, sir?"
"Oh, yes. I keep thinking I might buy a motor car. What do you think of that?" Viggo swung up into the driver’s seat.
"I’d change from your secretary to your driver to have a go at one of those, sir," Sean said with a grin. "What sort were you thinking of?"
"I’m not sure. There are so many nowadays, it seems." He clucked to the horse and they were off, driving through the city at a fair clip. Viggo kept silent, staring straight ahead, and Sean took that as a sign to keep quiet himself. He folded his arms, leaned back against the seat, and gazed round idly. Occasionally his gaze brushed Viggo’s capable-looking hands clenched around the reins, or the lean thigh clad in grey summer-weight wool that grazed Sean’s when the carriage ran over a bit of uneven road. Leave it out, he reminded himself.
"The map is in a pocket on the side there," Viggo said, pointing. "Would you mind navigating? I’m not certain of my bearings from here."
"Aye, I’ll do that." Sean unfolded the map and examined it. "Looks like you keep going straight for a fair piece, sir. Six miles, maybe."
"That’s fine, then." Viggo drove quietly for a few moments. "I spoke to my father again. He said we weren't to take any action regarding the breaker boys, nor the benefits for miners' families."
Sean stole a look at Viggo's downhearted expression."I'm sorry, sir."
"My family profits from the backbreaking toil of those men and boys. Little boys, Sean, who should be in school, or running about in the sunshine, not picking rock out of chutes with bloody hands." Viggo let the reins slacken. The horse slowed to a walk. "I had friends, wealthy friends, who called me a bleeding heart. They’d spent their lives completely insulated from the hard truths of life. They've never had to think twice before buying a new suit of clothes, or a piece of furniture, or a horse. I suppose they attributed my fussing to being newly rich. It wasn’t as if we were poor, but we weren’t rich either, not for a long time."
"So your brother said."
"Did he?" Viggo laughed. "Trust Michael to talk about everything. Well, it’s not as if it’s a secret. But do you think…do you think it’s bleeding-heart to want men to have decent working conditions, and a fair day’s pay for a hard day’s work?"
"Nay. I think it’s only right, sir. My dad worked for slave wages for years in the mines and died of the black lung. I don’t know that more money would have helped him live much longer, but it would have made my family’s life easier, that’s certain."
"I’m sorry," Viggo said softly.
"Weren’t your fault, sir. Besides, I know you’re trying to get your dad to up the lads’ wages. You’re doing what you can."
"Thank you. You're very easy to talk to, Sean. I'm grateful for it."
Sean stole another glance at Viggo. His features were so cleanly cut in profile, they might have been suited for the head of a coin. Sean swung his cap off his head and began twisting it in his hands. "Lovely country out here."
Viggo nodded enthusiastically. "It is! You know, I’ve lived in Philadelphia all my life. I’ve been surrounded by people as long as I can remember. It’s rather refreshing to be out in the open like this, don’t you think?"
"You should see Yorkshire," Sean laughed. "You could travel for two days without seeing another living soul."
"Tell me about it, won’t you?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Well…tell me about the look of the place, as my grandfather would say," Viggo said. "My mother's father came here from Ireland fifty years ago. He told us stories about Ireland – all the soft rolling hills, more shades of green than there are names for them, the ruins of castles and churches, little thatched cottages – he made it sound so romantic. Is Yorkshire like that?"
"A bit more rugged, I think. I’ve never been to Ireland myself, but…." Sean shrugged. "Yorkshire’s got its own beauty, to be sure. We had a little house on the heath, a long ways from the closest town." As he spoke, everything he had hated about the bleakness and solitude of his life fell away, and he was left remembering the wild enchantment of the moors, the thick grey curtains of rain and mist that drifted across the stark fells and green plains, the cool, silvery northern light, the clean smells of grass and peat and water. His hands flashing back and forth in the air, he sketched the massive size and shape of boulders that littered the patchwork of fields, the glittering becks that cut through the land in long, elegant curves, the calligraphy of long-ago pagan gods. His heart ached as he spoke, but it was a sweet ache, suffused with a love that surprised him.
He stopped, suddenly conscious that he'd been prattling on. "I’m boring you."
"Not in the least. I could listen to you all day." Viggo stiffened. "That is – you're a most engaging storyteller."
"Thank you, sir."
Viggo shook the reins briskly. "Why did you leave England, Sean? It sounds absolutely lovely."
Much as Sean liked and admired Viggo, it wouldn’t do at all to tell him the truth. He settled for a partial truth. "My mam and dad died, and there was nothing left for me. So I decided to try my luck in America."
"And do you think you’ll stay?"
"Oh, aye, I think so."
"I’m glad." Viggo darted a shy smile at Sean.
Gently, without Sean realizing it, the terrain changed. It was hillier, and less pastoral, though there were copses of green trees, now in full flower, and grass fields. As they drew closer to the town, the ground, the fields gave way to tough, short scrub and weeds. There were a few large houses, well-kept, with neat flower beds and wraparound porches of the sort never seen in England, but as the houses grew in number, they diminished in size and distinction. The town itself was hardly bustling, but the main street was pleasant enough. They passed a garment factory, a small textile mill, a grocer, a butcher, a dairy shop, a few churches, a streetcar station, a number of pubs, and a newsagent. The Susquehanna Coal company store stood in the center of town, though it looked a bit down on its luck. Just as well. He hated the gouging practice of the company store, selling shoddy goods for exorbitant prices, and carrying out reprisals if the miners shopped elsewhere. The owners, sneaky buggers that they were, often had people watching the mining families to make sure they only used the company store. Shopping at a competing store often resulted in the loss of job and home. The union fellows had put paid to most of the gouging, but there were still a few holdouts here and there. It was a credit to Viggo – mostly to his father, true – that Mortensen Coal had no company store.
The landscape became drearier and scrubbier, the businesses gave way to a patch village, a company-owned, dilapidated collection of squat houses. They were two-story structures, squalid and ill-used. Some had struggling little plots of flower garden in front of the sagging board fences, but in the main they were unadorned, the windows curtained with sacking, the front walks packed dirt, the paint peeling. They were sadder and shabbier than the worst cottages in Winsley. There, at least, most of the houses were stone, and rarely had the slanting, decrepit look of these poorly built wooden shacks. Dread filtered into Sean’s heart. There were the culm banks, great piles of cast-aside rock, and there was the breaker, huge and ugly.
"How dreary this is," Viggo said.
"You don’t own a patch village, sir, nor a company store."
"But the land looks the same. Look at the culm banks. Dreadful."
"The villagers pick bits of coal from them to sell. I’ve heard some owners will set the police on them, charge them with stealing." Sean snorted indignantly. "Can’t part with even a ten-cent sack of coal that took some poor kid all bloody day to fill."
"And they’re dangerous. Gavin told me that at least one person dies of suffocation every year because a damned bank shifts under his feet, and he disappears. I can’t imagine anything as horrible. And the other accidents – cave-ins, machinery malfunctions, gas explosions, drowning – and that doesn’t even count the number of men dying from black lung, like your father."
Sean shuddered as if someone had walked over his grave. He let out a breath and stared at the breaker. "You mustn’t think about it, sir. All of it, it’ll drive you mad if you think too much. Every job’s got its dangers."
"I’m just beginning to realize how little I know of life, and it’s distressing. I should like to improve conditions for my employees. Is that a futile hope?"
Sean shook his head. "Nay, sir. It’s a good one. But it’s an uphill fight, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone to fight with you."
"I know." Viggo seemed about to say something else, but he shook his head, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.
A short, stout man with a black beard came out to greet them. "Mr. Mortensen?" he inquired in a thick accent.
"That’s right."
"Jan Stancavage," the man said. "Mr. Miller’s sorry he couldn’t be here. I’m to show you about."
Viggo introduced himself and Sean, and they both climbed from the carriage. "Could I get someone to look after my horse?" Viggo asked.
A mule boy, small, laconic, and wiry, was summoned. Stancavage spoke to him in an unfamiliar language, and the boy nodded and led the horse away. "Come along," Stancavage said. "Best way to look at the drilling tools is by seeing them working. You might get dirty."
"It won’t be the first time," Viggo laughed. "Lead on, Mr. Stancavage."
Jan Stancavage moved at a rapid pace for a small, round fellow, and Viggo fell into a trot behind him. Sean stood rooted to the spot, staring at the mine entrance. It looked like a hungry, gaping mouth. His heart started to thump, and his tongue was drier than dust.
Viggo turned. "Come along, Sean! What are you waiting for?"
Sean licked his lips in a fruitless attempt to moisten them, and moved forward slowly. His heart beat harder and harder, and he felt an almost irresistible impulse toward flight, but he’d be damned if he was going to show himself for a lily-livered coward in front of Viggo. He squared his shoulders and stopped at the mine entrance.
"Here we are," Viggo said cheerfully. "I should have brought my own carbide lamp, Mr. Stancavage – I feel as if I’m becoming an old hand at this. Sean, let’s remember next – why, what's wrong? Are you all right?"
A trickle of sweat ran down Sean’s back. "Oh, aye." He wanted to vomit. He gritted his teeth and smiled.
"You’re shaking."
"Jumped down too fast. Just a bit dizzy, sir."
Viggo frowned. "Very well, if you're certain. Come along, then."
Sean followed Viggo and Stancavage into the entrance and accepted the lamp that the mine boss handed him. Sweat trickled down his temples and beaded above his upper lip. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of the endless, narrow mineshaft, the constricting tunnels below, the fact that there was only one way in and out of the place. There was so little air down there….
Stop. Stop! He forced his hand to cease its trembling as he lit his lamp. It was no cause for shame, his dad had told him; there were plenty of men, big strong fellows no less, who couldn’t abide the closed-in spaces of a mine. It was silly, though, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to die for lack of air. There were men who checked for that very thing every day, and miners went below all the time and didn’t suffocate.
Sean leaned against the wall, not hearing the animated conversation between Viggo and Stancavage. He listened to the churning of the lift, the whirring of the fans, and told himself to breathe normally. He wasn’t dying, and no matter that the last time he’d been down a mine he’d humiliated himself by shrieking and clawing at the walls. He’d been nine, just a nipper, and his dad had taken him back to the surface and dried his tears. Sean had gone to work in the brickyard after that, in the open air, in safety.
The lift stopped.
"Here we are." Viggo’s voice sounded far-away and hollow.
Sean’s legs shook. His heart slammed against his ribcage so violently it seemed that Viggo and Stancavage would hear it above the heavy drone of the fans. A spasm of nausea forced the breath from his body. He stared at the black ground and stepped onto the lift. His fingers hooked into the wire mesh that surrounded them.
The lift began to descend. There was a rush of air, then solid blackness except for the glint of the carbide lamps. Sean opened his mouth to suck in the cool air and heard a soft, strangled moan from his own lips. Viggo and Stancavage, absorbed in conversation, didn’t notice.
Nothing to be afraid of. Not a blessed thing.
It wasn’t working. Fear slithered around his chest and constricted with iron bands. His heart stuttered in rapid beats that seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. His chest expanded as he tried to suck in more air, but his throat had closed to a pinpoint and bright sparks of red flashed in his vision. He felt his knees buckle, heard a faint tinkling noise, and Viggo’s voice, raised in anger or distress. Then he heard nothing at all.
*
He started awake to see Viggo’s face hovering inches above his. Sean blinked and hitched in a short, sharp gasp of a breath. He saw the red stars again, then realized he was outside, in the sweet daylight, and that he was lying on the ground in a patch of prickly yellowish grass.
Viggo moved back. "Sean?"
"Aye."
"You frightened the wits out of me." Viggo rested the palm of his hand against Sean’s cheek and then laid it on his forehead. "You fainted."
Ashamed, Sean tried to sit up, but Viggo held his shoulders down. "No, I’m fine, sir."
"Please lie still a moment. You’re as white as a sheet. Mr. Stancavage has gone to get you some water."
"Oh, Christ." Sean wanted to writhe in humiliation. "It’s nowt, sir. It’s only…I can’t be in those small spaces. I get panicky, like. I know it’s stupid."
"Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?"
A grim little chuckle escaped Sean’s lips. The worst had happened. No point in concealing the truth now. "Didn’t want you to know." He turned his head to escape the compassion in Viggo’s eyes and realized his head was pillowed on Viggo’s good coat. He sat up, pushing Viggo’s hands away. "I’m mucking up your coat."
"That doesn’t matter," Viggo said, but allowed Sean to sit up. He touched Sean lightly on the arm. "Do you still feel faint?"
Sean shook his head. "As long as I don’t have to go back in there, I’m right as rain." He dared to look into Viggo’s eyes again, and knew the familiar, hateful blush was rising to his cheeks. "I’m sorry about that, sir. I feel like a right fool."
"Nonsense," Viggo replied. His eyes were bright, and his own cheeks were pink. "I’m just glad you’re not hurt. Ah, here’s Mr. Stancavage. Thank you so much, sir." He took a glass of water from Stancavage’s outstretched hand and gave it to Sean. "Drink it. You’ll feel better."
Obediently Sean took the water and drained it. Oddly, it did make him feel better. He tried to stand, but Viggo pressed a hand to his shoulder.
"You stay here. I still need to see that equipment, but I shan’t be long. Will you be all right?"
"Aye, I will." Sean handed Viggo his coat. "Isn’t there anything I can do for you, sir?"
"Yes. Rest, please." Viggo touched Sean's shoulder. "We’ll be back directly." He strode off toward the mine entrance.
Stancavage crouched beside Sean. "This happens sometimes," he said philosophically.
"I’m a right idiot," Sean muttered.
Stancavage shrugged, then took a small flask from his hip pocket and handed it to Sean. Sean uncapped it and took a deep swallow. The whiskey burned a raw trail down his throat toward his stomach and left a bloom of warmth in its wake. He capped the flask and handed it back. "Thanks."
Stancavage patted Sean's arm, rose to his feet, and trudged away.
Sean leaned back on his elbows. He still felt like twenty kinds of fool, but counted himself fortunate that Viggo didn’t think the less of him for having a silly affliction that was all in his head. He watched Viggo and Stancavage re-enter the mine, but the fear had trickled away. As long as he was far from it, he was fine. It was ridiculous, but true.
He remembered Viggo’s face so close to his, and gently, in imitation of Viggo, touched his cheek, then his forehead. His face grew hot, and there was a stirring between his legs. Suddenly miserable, he drew his knees up, wrapped his arms round them, and lowered his head.
*
His step was quick and light as he strode down Franklin Street, and he balanced his parcels with ease – books, flowers, and a paper-covered, twine-wrapped box containing the ingredients for the trifle Mrs. Donnelly had promised to make. It was a beautiful Saturday, he had two days all to himself, and the prospect of a pleasant night of conversation, ale, and darts at his favorite local pub. Life was as grand as it could be.
May had arrived, bringing blue skies, sweet, warm weather, and for the citizens of Wilkes-Barre, a palpable sense of excitement. Wilkes-Barre’s centennial jubilee was fast approaching, and preparations were in full swing. Every household that could afford it gave their house a lick of paint or whitewash, scrubbed their steps, planted flowers. Colored bunting, banners, and flags hung from windows. The city fathers had planned a three-day celebration, with parades, concert band performances, fireworks displays, sporting contests, talent shows, and picnics, including the Centennial Ball on Saturday night. The stores and market stalls advertised ‘jubilee sales’ exhorting customers to make their purchases in time for the celebrations. The pubs were doing a brisk business, filled with early revelers, and the temperance societies and some of the more scrupulous local churches, not to be outdone, were already distributing pamphlets that trumpeted the evils of drink and the moral perils of too-boisterous carousing. If they were to be believed, the jubilee would be a bacchanal not seen since the days of Nero and Caligula.
Sean viewed it all with bemusement. After all, even Winsley was a few hundred years old and cities like York and Sheffield had been around for more than seven hundred years. It seemed a bit daft to celebrate being an incorporated town for a mere hundred years, but then, Americans seemed to love their fairs and picnics, and so it was as good a reason to kick up their collective heels as any. Not that he minded. The townspeople’s enthusiasm was infectious and he found that he was looking forward to the festivities himself.
His rented evening suit, the first he’d ever worn, was hanging in his little cedar-lined wardrobe at Mrs. Donnelly’s, and he’d even gone to Lazarus Brothers for a set of plain silver shirt studs and cufflinks. It was so different from his meager collection of clothing in England. His mother had firmly discouraged physical vanity and dressing like a peacock. The family had had its Sunday best, of course, but that was worn out of respect for the Lord and not to preen and strut in front of other churchgoers. Nevertheless, Sean had discovered he was partial to handsome clothing. He’d admired Freddy’s costly clothes – he’d been taller and broader than Freddy and so the only garment that had fit him was a dressing gown of midnight blue silk with a violet and gold paisley design. Freddy hadn’t permitted him to wear it often; he’d noticed how reverently Sean had touched the silk, how obvious was his pleasure in wearing it, and he’d hidden it away, preferring Sean to clothe himself in a crumpled sheet, his own clothes, or to simply go naked. It was a small cruelty, but Freddy had had a staggering repertoire of small cruelties that he'd exercised on every possible occasion.
Viggo’s clothes were as expensive as Freddy’s, if less foppish and dramatic. The materials were elegant, though – wools in grey and dark blue and fawn, waistcoats in brocade and herringbone tweed, crisp shirts of pure white cotton, gleaming silk ties in wonderful colors, felt hats with grosgrain ribbon trim, kid gloves as soft as velvet, glossy leather shoes. As well-dressed as he was, though, Viggo didn’t appear to give a fig about clothes. Sean never caught him glancing in a mirror, and the only time Viggo had brought up the topic of clothing was when he’d commented favorably on one of Sean’s new suits.
Sean had purchased the suits at Lazarus Brothers, where he’d rented his evening clothes. He’d had only a few items that he’d managed to salvage from his unfortunate escapade on the crossing to America, and his heavy tweed was rapidly becoming too hot for springtime. When he’d saved enough, he had taken himself to the shop and bought two broadcloth suits – one grey, one navy – five shirts, and three neckties. Not so fancy as Viggo’s, but not bad for all that, Sean had mused, looking at his reflection in the store mirror. The following Monday, Viggo had looked Sean up and down. "New clothes?"
Sean had nodded coolly. "Yes, sir."
"Very handsome indeed."
And that had been the end of it. But that small compliment had felt like the knightly touch of a sword on his shoulder; he’d been hard-pressed to keep from beaming for the rest of the day.
Things were a bit easier now that he’d admitted the truth to himself. It was simple, if unsatisfying, to desire someone without any hope or expectation of it being returned. It was like wishing to be a millionaire or to live forever: impossible, but a pleasant daydream while he waited for his emotions to subside. For the littlest things made his chest ache now unless he tamped them down fiercely. Watching Viggo frowning over an inventory roster, biting his lower lip in thought. Listening to him talk with employees and higher-ups alike in his low, polite, faintly graveled voice. The scent he exuded when he sat close to Sean, a compound of lemon verbena and clean, healthy young male. It didn’t do to dwell on any of those things – that was a recipe for misery. One day, he supposed, if he didn’t get over this liberated tide of feeling, he’d have to remove himself from the source, but until then….
Over the past few weeks he’d become ruthlessly proficient in his nighttime habits. After the house was asleep, he stole down the stairs barefoot to the bathroom on the second floor. Once inside, he locked the door, turned the gaslight on to a flicker, and stroked himself to a quick and joyless climax. If all the while he was thinking of Viggo’s mouth on his prick or Viggo’s voice crying out in ecstasy as Sean thrust inside, that was his own affair. He had to think of something, after all.
No, it didn’t do at all to dwell on something so hopeless. Nor did it do to spend any more time with Viggo than was necessary. Viggo had tried to draw Sean into his own social circle, but Sean had politely refused a number of times. He didn’t belong with the moneyed crowd; they were stiff and formal and a bit self-important, pursing their mouths when Viggo introduced them. Sean preferred the informality of McGerrity’s Tavern, a small pub choked with tobacco fumes and the smells of stale beer and the working-class lads who frequented the place. Several were miners for Mortensen Coal, and they recognized in Sean a kindred spirit despite his suits and groomed hair. His accent was familiar and appealing to many of them, displaced Welshmen and Northerners, as was his reserve. The Wilkes-Barre fancy set thought he was a snob himself, a jumped-up overdressed pleb too haughty to engage in conversation, but the miners knew better. They treated him kindly. And while Sean had never thought himself particularly social, he relished their company.
Sean tipped his face to the breeze and shifted his packages. Home was only two blocks away. It was a lovely thing to live within walking distance of a library. He had a passion for reading that he hadn’t been able to indulge in Winsley, which had no library to speak of, and he couldn’t afford the car fare that would take him to the library in Philadelphia. As he crossed the street at the intersection of Northampton and South Main, he heard a familiar voice.
There was Viggo, in the driver’s seat of his carriage. Beside him was a young lady clinging tightly to his arm, leaning close to him and speaking almost in his ear. She was expensively dressed, in a grey-green traveling suit and a black feathered hat, and although she wasn’t beautiful or extraordinary in any particular detail, her face was lively and alert. Viggo leaned in just as intimately, obviously riveted by her every word. Suddenly they both burst into laughter, sagging against each other in helpless merriment.
As Sean watched, the girl threw her arms around Viggo’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. He poked her in the ribs, and the girl shrieked and swatted at him, upsetting her hat. That sent them into new gales of laughter. The young lady pulled the brim of Viggo’s hat down and made a grab for the reins. The placid horse looked over his shoulder and kept moving at the same patient, plodding pace. Strangely, the horse’s innocuous reaction made Viggo and the girl laugh even harder. People were beginning to look at them now, but they were far too absorbed in each other, and in the wonderful time they were having, to notice. Certainly they took no notice of Sean as they drove past.
Numbly, Sean walked the rest of the way to the boardinghouse. He went into the kitchen and set the groceries and flowers on the countertop. Mrs. Donnelly, her face, arms, and apron dusted with flour, was putting the finishing touches on a huge chicken pie, deftly scalloping the edges with a paring knife. "You didn’t have a hard time finding anything, did you, lad?"
"No, ma’am." Sean’s voice was the merest shadow of a whisper.
"How did the berries look? I hope you found some nice ones. It’s so early, I may have to sugar them more than usual to get the tartness out. Still, I –" She broke off as she noticed Sean moving out of the kitchen. "Mr. Bean?"
Sean ignored her and went up to his little third-floor room. He locked the door, dropped his books on the carpet, and lay on the bed, fully dressed, dry-eyed, drenched in cold sweat, shriveled and sick with disappointment. That was reality, that laughing girl. Not Sean’s dreamy meanderings or hopes, so deceitful that he’d fooled even himself for a while. Despair settled into his skin and weighed him down like stones in a suicide’s pockets.
Hours passed, and he remained motionless on his bed. He ignored the dinner bell. Some time afterward, there was a soft knock on the door. "Sean." It was Mrs. Donnelly, who’d never called him by his Christian name before. "Are you ill, lad?"
Stiff, slit-eyed with exhaustion, Sean rose and stumbled to the door, opening it a crack. "Aye, Mrs. Donnelly," he croaked. "I’m feeling a bit sick."
"A stomach ailment? Or something else? I can mix a cordial for you."
"Nay, nay. I don’t need owt. Just sleep."
"Are you certain, lad?"
"I’m certain," Sean replied. He flexed his mouth into a smile. "Ta all the same, ma’am."
Mrs. Donnelly frowned. "Well…knock on my door if you need aught. I won’t mind."
"Aye, I will. That's kind of you." Sean closed the door quietly and went to the mirrored dresser. Slowly, he disrobed, letting his clothes lie where they fell, watching himself in the waning light. At last he stood naked, his body dappled by the shadows of the tall chestnut tree outside his window.
Long ago, after Freddy had abandoned him, he’d promised himself that he’d never be ashamed by who he was, even if the whole world wanted to make him ashamed of himself for wanting men and not women. If there was a God, then God had made him so, and it was God’s problem, not Sean’s. He wasn’t obvious the way Freddy was, almost asking for taunting and mockery and arrest. Sometimes it had seemed that Freddy relished his plight – that was how he’d put it, his plight – but Sean chose to take a more practical view of things. He’d not court disaster by making a spectacle of himself, but he’d be damned if he’d apologize or cower, either.
Now he felt small and craven and disconsolate. It wasn’t Viggo’s fault, not at all, but it had been years since Sean had felt so utterly outside of things, some fundamental part of him broken and disfigured.
Tears brimmed on his lashes, mercifully blurring his reflection. He went back to the bed, drew the covers aside, and lay down. There was nothing now but to withdraw. There were other jobs to be had in Wilkes-Barre, or even in Scranton or further north, in New York, perhaps.
He’d give his notice on Monday.
*
The double doors of Mortensen Coal were painted a glossy black, perhaps to remind the visitor of the sheen of anthracite. Handsome steel knockers shaped like lions were affixed to each door. Sean had never really noticed them before, but now he stared at them as if they’d come to life, snarling and roaring a warning to stay away. Daunted, he paused on the doorstep, seized by a wild impulse to turn and walk back down the steps, to simply never show up at Mortensen Coal again. It was cowardly of him, but there were worse things – staying, for one. Viggo was persuasive when he chose to be. He might well plead with Sean, begging him to stay at Mortensen Coal, and what if Sean didn’t have the strength to resist him? It wasn’t an impossible thought; several times over the weekend he’d argued with himself, torn between packing a bag and taking the next train out, and remaining in Wilkes-Barre just to be close to Viggo. Cowardly, despicable. He conjured a picture of Viggo’s wedding to that laughing girl. Of course Sean would be invited. Viggo would invite him in a spirit of good-will and friendliness, radiant with joy, blithely unaware of Sean’s yearning. He imagined Viggo carrying his young bride to their wedding bed, both of them smiling and whispering, their words sweet and tender. He saw Viggo covering her with kisses, touching her with his hands, and finally taking her, both of them transported with rapture.
Sean touched the door handle, then snatched his fingers away as if he’d been burned. A fool he might be, but he wasn’t foolish enough to punish himself like that. As he turned, the door opened.
"Sean, what on earth are you doing out here? I saw you come up the walk and I’ve been waiting – do you realize you’ve been standing out there for five minutes?"
Hot blood filled Sean’s cheeks. "I couldn’t find my key."
"Then why didn’t you knock?" Viggo smiled at him, brimming with cheer.
Mortified and unable to speak, Sean wet his lips and cast about for some excuse. He couldn’t very well run now, although it seemed the only sensible solution – turn tail and dash away like a frightened rabbit, like the utter fool he was.
Viggo took hold of Sean’s sleeve and pulled him inside without ceremony. "Come in, I’ve a guest I want you to meet."
Sean turned to stone, suddenly quite sure who Viggo’s guest was. He recalled their laughing intimacy with sickening clarity. She was the last person in the world he wanted to meet. "If you please, sir, could I have a brief word with you first?"
There must have been something amiss in Sean’s tone. Viggo stopped and scrutinized Sean’s face. "Are you ill? You were flushed a moment ago, but now you’re terribly pale."
Sean shrugged. "Had a bit of a fever the other day. Just a word, sir."
"Of course. This won’t take a moment, and she’s quite eager to meet you. Come on."
Viggo tugged at Sean’s sleeve like a small boy. Resigned, Sean trudged inside and closed the door behind him. He allowed Viggo to pull him into the parlor, where the young lady from Saturday’s carriage ride was seated on the horsehair sofa.
"Grace, may I present Sean Bean. Sean, this is my sister, Grace Clodagh Mortensen."
Grace Mortensen rose from the sofa, picked up Sean’s half-heartedly extended hand, and wrung it with great energy. "How do you do, Mr. Bean? Viggo has written reams about you. I’m delighted to meet you at last."
Sean hitched in a quick breath and shook her hand with caution, not certain he’d heard correctly. "Miss Mortensen?"
Viggo laughed. "Well, not reams, Sean. Grace is prone to exaggeration. Now, pages – that, perhaps, is true." He gave the girl a look of mock exasperation and swatted her on the shoulder. She laughed.
"Oh, please call me Grace. I get tired of formality, don’t you?" She smiled at him. Her eyes were blue-grey, not as striking as Viggo’s, but they twinkled agreeably and creased at the corners the way Viggo’s did. Her cheeks were vividly pink without the aid of rouge, and her brown hair was pulled into a simple chignon, topped by a netted hat of honey-colored straw. The severity of her blue jacket and skirt was relieved by a frilly white blouse and a cameo brooch at her throat.
A massive and sweeping relief overwhelmed Sean. He broke into a grin, and shook her hand with renewed enthusiasm. "Aye, I do that. I’m Sean. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, miss."
"Oh, the pleasure’s all mine, I assure you. And he has written reams. Every word of it a compliment." Grace Mortensen removed her white crocheted gloves and dropped back onto the sofa.
"Well, it’s all true." Viggo was busying himself with the ashes heaped in the fireplace.
"Let me get that, sir."
"Oh, no – it’s fine. The cleaning ladies will be here early tomorrow." Viggo rose and dusted his hands, his face a bit pink. "Grace is visiting from Philadelphia for a few weeks. Apparently she expects me to entertain her even though she descended upon me with practically no notice at all, so I thought -- what could be more exciting than an outing to the offices of Mortensen Coal, Incorporated?"
Grace looked around doubtfully. "Watching grass grow, maybe. Or Mass! Sean, have you met my brother Michael? Father Michael?"
"Yes, miss."
"Of course he did," Viggo snorted. "Michael talked his ear off."
"Naturally. Well, Viggo’s idea of entertainment yesterday was taking me to ten o’clock Mass, at which our brother presided. Then we all went to luncheon at a hotel."
"A new hotel," Viggo interposed.
"Pardon me, I’m sure it was the latest word in hotels. I’m not demanding, Sean. I’m not part of the social whirl back home. But honestly – Mass and lunch? I expect more imagination from my brothers."
A brief twinge of shame needled Sean, followed by embarrassment at his frank thoughts of the two of them as a married couple. Wedding day indeed! "Well, miss, you certainly came at the right time if it’s entertainment you're after. There’s a carnival coming up this weekend to celebrate the town’s centenary."
"That’s right!" Viggo smote his forehead. "Hang it if I didn’t forget to tell you, Grace. It should be pretty spectacular."
"I wondered what all the fuss and hoopla was about," she remarked.
"Yes. Also – there’s a ball on Saturday night." Viggo stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I suppose I should tell you the rest, Gracie. You too, Sean. Yesterday when we were at luncheon, I met Chester Welles, the president of Wyoming Valley Trust. You remember?"
Grace frowned. "No. Oh, wait. The one who looked like a carp?"
"Grace!"
"Well, he did. If I’m thinking of the right gentleman, of course."
Viggo shook his head in mock despair. "Yes, the one who looked like a carp. At any rate, he asked if I’d escort his daughter Charlotte to the ball."
"Does she look like a carp too?"
"Actually, Miss Smarty, she’s very pretty. That’s just it, though," Viggo frowned. "She’s supposed to be quite popular, but her father acted as if she were a wallflower who never leaves the house. I don’t really know her well myself. I met her at a tea dance, or a dinner, I think."
"So what did you tell him?"
Sean, who had been listening to the siblings’ rapid banter with mild amusement, steeled himself for the disappointment that he knew was coming.
"Well, what could I say? I said yes, obviously. It was all a bit embarrassing, being asked so bluntly. I wasn’t in any position to refuse. And the worst part is that I had planned to go footloose and fancy free with Sean." He sent a quick, shy smile Sean’s way. "But your arrival’s saved the day, Grace. If I escort Charlotte, Sean could escort you, and we’d be a foursome. What do you say?"
Grace’s pale brows knitted. "I say you’re putting a terrible burden on Sean." She turned toward Sean and sighed. "I’m sorry, Sean. You needn’t feel obliged to escort me. I can’t abide those things, and I didn’t bring a ball gown in any case."
Sean sank down onto a chair. A few moments ago he’d been ready to offer his resignation. Then he’d been swept to dizzying relief, and now Viggo’s sister was being offered as a replacement for Viggo himself. Not that he’d thought the evening at the ball would be the pair of them talking to the exclusion of all else…or had he? Perhaps he had, at that. Daft as a brush, he was. He opened his mouth to politely decline, and heard himself say "I’d be delighted to escort you, miss, if you’re interested." Horrified, he closed his jaws with a snap and groaned inwardly. If you’re in a hole, stop digging, you arse, he berated himself. What if this was an attempt at matchmaking? He smiled at Grace, silently begging her to refuse him.
Her face was puckered in consternation. "Well, I don’t know. I feel awful that Viggo’s maneuvered you into asking me."
"I’m not asking him to marry you, for heaven’s sake," Viggo exclaimed with uncharacteristic impatience. "It’s just a dance. And as for the dress, you can wire Mother to send one on the train, and it’ll be here by Wednesday. Shoes and gloves and all that rot. She'll be beside herself with happiness that you're going to a ball." He seated himself with a thump. "None of this was my idea, you know." His voice was slightly petulant.
"All right," Grace conceded with a valedictory wink in Sean's direction. "It isn’t that you wouldn’t make a charming companion, Sean –"
"Which you’d discover if you let him get a word in edgewise," Viggo retorted.
Grace lifted her eyebrows in delicate disdain. "You’re the one steaming this conversation along. As I was saying, Sean, I’m sure the ladies will cluster around you like bees to honey. You’re even handsomer than Viggo said."
Viggo surged from his chair as abruptly as he’d sat. "Grace, you really do exaggerate at times. Sean, didn’t you say you had to speak to me about something?" He turned and stalked out of the parlor, leaving Sean and Grace to stare after him in wordless consternation.
Sean rose awkwardly and made a short bow to the girl. "I’d better be about my duties. It was a pleasure to meet you, miss. I’m looking forward to Saturday evening."
"So am I. Well, as I said, Sean, I can’t abide balls and tea dances and all that sort of thing, but at least I’ll have someone congenial to talk to, if you’re not dancing with every girl in sight. Viggo is so very fond of you – I know I shall be as well." She smiled.
Sean burned to ask Grace about the contents of Viggo’s letters. "We can avoid the honeybees." He grinned and put out his hand.
"It’s a bargain. Tell him he’s going to have to take me to the telegraph office at once if I’m to have a dress."
"I’ll tell him, miss." Sean went into the office, closing the door behind him.
Viggo was at the desk, writing busily. He glanced up at Sean and then bent back to his work. "I’m sorry about that. She’s sweet and awfully intelligent, but she can be a bit…well, you know what girls can be like."
"She seemed lovely, sir, not a bit toffee-nosed. She asked could you take her to the telegraph office."
Viggo put down his pen and seemed to study Sean. Sean gazed back steadily. There were times – just snatches of moments, really – when it seemed as if Viggo watched him with a peculiar look in his eye, and he had been embarrassed about Grace’s remark. But perhaps that was just a brother’s customary exasperation with his sister, a long-standing brew of familiarity, fondness, and irritation. Sean hadn’t the experience to know for certain. It was mad of him to yearn for some sort of reciprocation. A look here and there was nothing upon which to pin a hope.
Presently Viggo laughed and shrugged. "I’ll wager she demanded it, not asked. You’re sure you don’t mind escorting her?"
"I’d be delighted, sir."
"Well, thank you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, truly. I just wanted us all to go together. Now then, I’m sorry that took so long. What did you want to talk about?"
Sean sat at his desk to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. He wouldn’t leave; he knew that now. Seeing Viggo with Grace reminded him more and more how bitterly lonely he was. He had no ties in the world. If he left, he’d be adrift, perhaps briefly missed but certainly not mourned. Might as well go back to Freddy, where he was known if not loved. The acknowledgment was wounding, but nothing rang as true as the truth, however painful. Even if Viggo didn’t regard him with affection, he was at least fond of Sean. Even Grace had said so.
He fumbled through the sheaf of notes on his desk, looking for something suitably important. "Mr. Lernard cancelled Tuesday’s luncheon. An errand boy stopped by on Friday and I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry about that."
Viggo shrugged. "No harm done. The telephone installers haven’t cancelled, have they?"
"No, sir. That’s still set for Wednesday."
"Won’t that be exciting? My father wrote that he’s getting one installed as well. I’ll be able to speak to him over the wire. No more need for telegrams. What times we live in!" Viggo’s face shone with enthusiasm.
"Indeed we do, sir." Sean smiled wistfully and let out a silent exhalation of breath. It was more than desire. Head over heels, he was, and no mistake. There’d be no budging until Viggo Mortensen was gone for good.
*
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.
*
Breakfast was served twice in Maggie Donnelly’s boarding house, at six and eight o’clock. The meal bell rang exactly once each time, and woe betide the too-leisurely boarder who strolled to the table fifteen or twenty minutes tardy; he would find himself scraping cold porridge from Mrs. Donnelly’s second-best silver tureen and cursing his fate. Sean was too canny to make the same mistake twice. He wiped his mouth with his napkin and settled it beside his plate. "That were lovely, Mrs. Donnelly."
Mrs. Donnelly snorted. "I hope so, lad. You tucked enough of it in. Oh, now who's that?" she groaned as the doorbell rang.
Visitors at an early hour were unusual, and the boarders at the table listened intently, making no pretense at conversation. Sean started as he heard a familiar voice.
"I can wait in the parlor."
"Ah, there’s no need of that. Come in." Mrs. Donnelly swept back into the dining room with Viggo in tow. "Here’s Mr. Mortensen for you, Mr. Bean." Her eyebrows were raised almost to her hairline, but there was no disapproval in her posture or tone.
"I thought I’d save you the trouble of coming to the office, Sean," Viggo said, removing his hat. "No, please don’t get up. Finish your breakfast. I’m sorry, I’m far too early."
"Morning, sir." Sean fought to control the flush that wanted to creep up his neck. "I'm ready." He rose and nodded a farewell to the other boarders and Mrs. Donnelly, and they went outside to where Viggo’s horse and carriage waited.
"Pearce was going to drive us, but I said we’d be fine on our own. It’s a bit of a long drive, though – eleven or twelve miles."
Sean nodded coolly. "Pretty day. Have you got a map, sir?"
"Oh, yes. I keep thinking I might buy a motor car. What do you think of that?" Viggo swung up into the driver’s seat.
"I’d change from your secretary to your driver to have a go at one of those, sir," Sean said with a grin. "What sort were you thinking of?"
"I’m not sure. There are so many nowadays, it seems." He clucked to the horse and they were off, driving through the city at a fair clip. Viggo kept silent, staring straight ahead, and Sean took that as a sign to keep quiet himself. He folded his arms, leaned back against the seat, and gazed round idly. Occasionally his gaze brushed Viggo’s capable-looking hands clenched around the reins, or the lean thigh clad in grey summer-weight wool that grazed Sean’s when the carriage ran over a bit of uneven road. Leave it out, he reminded himself.
"The map is in a pocket on the side there," Viggo said, pointing. "Would you mind navigating? I’m not certain of my bearings from here."
"Aye, I’ll do that." Sean unfolded the map and examined it. "Looks like you keep going straight for a fair piece, sir. Six miles, maybe."
"That’s fine, then." Viggo drove quietly for a few moments. "I spoke to my father again. He said we weren't to take any action regarding the breaker boys, nor the benefits for miners' families."
Sean stole a look at Viggo's downhearted expression."I'm sorry, sir."
"My family profits from the backbreaking toil of those men and boys. Little boys, Sean, who should be in school, or running about in the sunshine, not picking rock out of chutes with bloody hands." Viggo let the reins slacken. The horse slowed to a walk. "I had friends, wealthy friends, who called me a bleeding heart. They’d spent their lives completely insulated from the hard truths of life. They've never had to think twice before buying a new suit of clothes, or a piece of furniture, or a horse. I suppose they attributed my fussing to being newly rich. It wasn’t as if we were poor, but we weren’t rich either, not for a long time."
"So your brother said."
"Did he?" Viggo laughed. "Trust Michael to talk about everything. Well, it’s not as if it’s a secret. But do you think…do you think it’s bleeding-heart to want men to have decent working conditions, and a fair day’s pay for a hard day’s work?"
"Nay. I think it’s only right, sir. My dad worked for slave wages for years in the mines and died of the black lung. I don’t know that more money would have helped him live much longer, but it would have made my family’s life easier, that’s certain."
"I’m sorry," Viggo said softly.
"Weren’t your fault, sir. Besides, I know you’re trying to get your dad to up the lads’ wages. You’re doing what you can."
"Thank you. You're very easy to talk to, Sean. I'm grateful for it."
Sean stole another glance at Viggo. His features were so cleanly cut in profile, they might have been suited for the head of a coin. Sean swung his cap off his head and began twisting it in his hands. "Lovely country out here."
Viggo nodded enthusiastically. "It is! You know, I’ve lived in Philadelphia all my life. I’ve been surrounded by people as long as I can remember. It’s rather refreshing to be out in the open like this, don’t you think?"
"You should see Yorkshire," Sean laughed. "You could travel for two days without seeing another living soul."
"Tell me about it, won’t you?"
"What do you want to know?"
"Well…tell me about the look of the place, as my grandfather would say," Viggo said. "My mother's father came here from Ireland fifty years ago. He told us stories about Ireland – all the soft rolling hills, more shades of green than there are names for them, the ruins of castles and churches, little thatched cottages – he made it sound so romantic. Is Yorkshire like that?"
"A bit more rugged, I think. I’ve never been to Ireland myself, but…." Sean shrugged. "Yorkshire’s got its own beauty, to be sure. We had a little house on the heath, a long ways from the closest town." As he spoke, everything he had hated about the bleakness and solitude of his life fell away, and he was left remembering the wild enchantment of the moors, the thick grey curtains of rain and mist that drifted across the stark fells and green plains, the cool, silvery northern light, the clean smells of grass and peat and water. His hands flashing back and forth in the air, he sketched the massive size and shape of boulders that littered the patchwork of fields, the glittering becks that cut through the land in long, elegant curves, the calligraphy of long-ago pagan gods. His heart ached as he spoke, but it was a sweet ache, suffused with a love that surprised him.
He stopped, suddenly conscious that he'd been prattling on. "I’m boring you."
"Not in the least. I could listen to you all day." Viggo stiffened. "That is – you're a most engaging storyteller."
"Thank you, sir."
Viggo shook the reins briskly. "Why did you leave England, Sean? It sounds absolutely lovely."
Much as Sean liked and admired Viggo, it wouldn’t do at all to tell him the truth. He settled for a partial truth. "My mam and dad died, and there was nothing left for me. So I decided to try my luck in America."
"And do you think you’ll stay?"
"Oh, aye, I think so."
"I’m glad." Viggo darted a shy smile at Sean.
Gently, without Sean realizing it, the terrain changed. It was hillier, and less pastoral, though there were copses of green trees, now in full flower, and grass fields. As they drew closer to the town, the ground, the fields gave way to tough, short scrub and weeds. There were a few large houses, well-kept, with neat flower beds and wraparound porches of the sort never seen in England, but as the houses grew in number, they diminished in size and distinction. The town itself was hardly bustling, but the main street was pleasant enough. They passed a garment factory, a small textile mill, a grocer, a butcher, a dairy shop, a few churches, a streetcar station, a number of pubs, and a newsagent. The Susquehanna Coal company store stood in the center of town, though it looked a bit down on its luck. Just as well. He hated the gouging practice of the company store, selling shoddy goods for exorbitant prices, and carrying out reprisals if the miners shopped elsewhere. The owners, sneaky buggers that they were, often had people watching the mining families to make sure they only used the company store. Shopping at a competing store often resulted in the loss of job and home. The union fellows had put paid to most of the gouging, but there were still a few holdouts here and there. It was a credit to Viggo – mostly to his father, true – that Mortensen Coal had no company store.
The landscape became drearier and scrubbier, the businesses gave way to a patch village, a company-owned, dilapidated collection of squat houses. They were two-story structures, squalid and ill-used. Some had struggling little plots of flower garden in front of the sagging board fences, but in the main they were unadorned, the windows curtained with sacking, the front walks packed dirt, the paint peeling. They were sadder and shabbier than the worst cottages in Winsley. There, at least, most of the houses were stone, and rarely had the slanting, decrepit look of these poorly built wooden shacks. Dread filtered into Sean’s heart. There were the culm banks, great piles of cast-aside rock, and there was the breaker, huge and ugly.
"How dreary this is," Viggo said.
"You don’t own a patch village, sir, nor a company store."
"But the land looks the same. Look at the culm banks. Dreadful."
"The villagers pick bits of coal from them to sell. I’ve heard some owners will set the police on them, charge them with stealing." Sean snorted indignantly. "Can’t part with even a ten-cent sack of coal that took some poor kid all bloody day to fill."
"And they’re dangerous. Gavin told me that at least one person dies of suffocation every year because a damned bank shifts under his feet, and he disappears. I can’t imagine anything as horrible. And the other accidents – cave-ins, machinery malfunctions, gas explosions, drowning – and that doesn’t even count the number of men dying from black lung, like your father."
Sean shuddered as if someone had walked over his grave. He let out a breath and stared at the breaker. "You mustn’t think about it, sir. All of it, it’ll drive you mad if you think too much. Every job’s got its dangers."
"I’m just beginning to realize how little I know of life, and it’s distressing. I should like to improve conditions for my employees. Is that a futile hope?"
Sean shook his head. "Nay, sir. It’s a good one. But it’s an uphill fight, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find anyone to fight with you."
"I know." Viggo seemed about to say something else, but he shook his head, and they drove the rest of the way in silence.
A short, stout man with a black beard came out to greet them. "Mr. Mortensen?" he inquired in a thick accent.
"That’s right."
"Jan Stancavage," the man said. "Mr. Miller’s sorry he couldn’t be here. I’m to show you about."
Viggo introduced himself and Sean, and they both climbed from the carriage. "Could I get someone to look after my horse?" Viggo asked.
A mule boy, small, laconic, and wiry, was summoned. Stancavage spoke to him in an unfamiliar language, and the boy nodded and led the horse away. "Come along," Stancavage said. "Best way to look at the drilling tools is by seeing them working. You might get dirty."
"It won’t be the first time," Viggo laughed. "Lead on, Mr. Stancavage."
Jan Stancavage moved at a rapid pace for a small, round fellow, and Viggo fell into a trot behind him. Sean stood rooted to the spot, staring at the mine entrance. It looked like a hungry, gaping mouth. His heart started to thump, and his tongue was drier than dust.
Viggo turned. "Come along, Sean! What are you waiting for?"
Sean licked his lips in a fruitless attempt to moisten them, and moved forward slowly. His heart beat harder and harder, and he felt an almost irresistible impulse toward flight, but he’d be damned if he was going to show himself for a lily-livered coward in front of Viggo. He squared his shoulders and stopped at the mine entrance.
"Here we are," Viggo said cheerfully. "I should have brought my own carbide lamp, Mr. Stancavage – I feel as if I’m becoming an old hand at this. Sean, let’s remember next – why, what's wrong? Are you all right?"
A trickle of sweat ran down Sean’s back. "Oh, aye." He wanted to vomit. He gritted his teeth and smiled.
"You’re shaking."
"Jumped down too fast. Just a bit dizzy, sir."
Viggo frowned. "Very well, if you're certain. Come along, then."
Sean followed Viggo and Stancavage into the entrance and accepted the lamp that the mine boss handed him. Sweat trickled down his temples and beaded above his upper lip. He closed his eyes, trying to block out the image of the endless, narrow mineshaft, the constricting tunnels below, the fact that there was only one way in and out of the place. There was so little air down there….
Stop. Stop! He forced his hand to cease its trembling as he lit his lamp. It was no cause for shame, his dad had told him; there were plenty of men, big strong fellows no less, who couldn’t abide the closed-in spaces of a mine. It was silly, though, wasn’t it? He wasn’t going to die for lack of air. There were men who checked for that very thing every day, and miners went below all the time and didn’t suffocate.
Sean leaned against the wall, not hearing the animated conversation between Viggo and Stancavage. He listened to the churning of the lift, the whirring of the fans, and told himself to breathe normally. He wasn’t dying, and no matter that the last time he’d been down a mine he’d humiliated himself by shrieking and clawing at the walls. He’d been nine, just a nipper, and his dad had taken him back to the surface and dried his tears. Sean had gone to work in the brickyard after that, in the open air, in safety.
The lift stopped.
"Here we are." Viggo’s voice sounded far-away and hollow.
Sean’s legs shook. His heart slammed against his ribcage so violently it seemed that Viggo and Stancavage would hear it above the heavy drone of the fans. A spasm of nausea forced the breath from his body. He stared at the black ground and stepped onto the lift. His fingers hooked into the wire mesh that surrounded them.
The lift began to descend. There was a rush of air, then solid blackness except for the glint of the carbide lamps. Sean opened his mouth to suck in the cool air and heard a soft, strangled moan from his own lips. Viggo and Stancavage, absorbed in conversation, didn’t notice.
Nothing to be afraid of. Not a blessed thing.
It wasn’t working. Fear slithered around his chest and constricted with iron bands. His heart stuttered in rapid beats that seemed to come from the pit of his stomach. His chest expanded as he tried to suck in more air, but his throat had closed to a pinpoint and bright sparks of red flashed in his vision. He felt his knees buckle, heard a faint tinkling noise, and Viggo’s voice, raised in anger or distress. Then he heard nothing at all.
*
He started awake to see Viggo’s face hovering inches above his. Sean blinked and hitched in a short, sharp gasp of a breath. He saw the red stars again, then realized he was outside, in the sweet daylight, and that he was lying on the ground in a patch of prickly yellowish grass.
Viggo moved back. "Sean?"
"Aye."
"You frightened the wits out of me." Viggo rested the palm of his hand against Sean’s cheek and then laid it on his forehead. "You fainted."
Ashamed, Sean tried to sit up, but Viggo held his shoulders down. "No, I’m fine, sir."
"Please lie still a moment. You’re as white as a sheet. Mr. Stancavage has gone to get you some water."
"Oh, Christ." Sean wanted to writhe in humiliation. "It’s nowt, sir. It’s only…I can’t be in those small spaces. I get panicky, like. I know it’s stupid."
"Why in God’s name didn’t you tell me?"
A grim little chuckle escaped Sean’s lips. The worst had happened. No point in concealing the truth now. "Didn’t want you to know." He turned his head to escape the compassion in Viggo’s eyes and realized his head was pillowed on Viggo’s good coat. He sat up, pushing Viggo’s hands away. "I’m mucking up your coat."
"That doesn’t matter," Viggo said, but allowed Sean to sit up. He touched Sean lightly on the arm. "Do you still feel faint?"
Sean shook his head. "As long as I don’t have to go back in there, I’m right as rain." He dared to look into Viggo’s eyes again, and knew the familiar, hateful blush was rising to his cheeks. "I’m sorry about that, sir. I feel like a right fool."
"Nonsense," Viggo replied. His eyes were bright, and his own cheeks were pink. "I’m just glad you’re not hurt. Ah, here’s Mr. Stancavage. Thank you so much, sir." He took a glass of water from Stancavage’s outstretched hand and gave it to Sean. "Drink it. You’ll feel better."
Obediently Sean took the water and drained it. Oddly, it did make him feel better. He tried to stand, but Viggo pressed a hand to his shoulder.
"You stay here. I still need to see that equipment, but I shan’t be long. Will you be all right?"
"Aye, I will." Sean handed Viggo his coat. "Isn’t there anything I can do for you, sir?"
"Yes. Rest, please." Viggo touched Sean's shoulder. "We’ll be back directly." He strode off toward the mine entrance.
Stancavage crouched beside Sean. "This happens sometimes," he said philosophically.
"I’m a right idiot," Sean muttered.
Stancavage shrugged, then took a small flask from his hip pocket and handed it to Sean. Sean uncapped it and took a deep swallow. The whiskey burned a raw trail down his throat toward his stomach and left a bloom of warmth in its wake. He capped the flask and handed it back. "Thanks."
Stancavage patted Sean's arm, rose to his feet, and trudged away.
Sean leaned back on his elbows. He still felt like twenty kinds of fool, but counted himself fortunate that Viggo didn’t think the less of him for having a silly affliction that was all in his head. He watched Viggo and Stancavage re-enter the mine, but the fear had trickled away. As long as he was far from it, he was fine. It was ridiculous, but true.
He remembered Viggo’s face so close to his, and gently, in imitation of Viggo, touched his cheek, then his forehead. His face grew hot, and there was a stirring between his legs. Suddenly miserable, he drew his knees up, wrapped his arms round them, and lowered his head.
*
His step was quick and light as he strode down Franklin Street, and he balanced his parcels with ease – books, flowers, and a paper-covered, twine-wrapped box containing the ingredients for the trifle Mrs. Donnelly had promised to make. It was a beautiful Saturday, he had two days all to himself, and the prospect of a pleasant night of conversation, ale, and darts at his favorite local pub. Life was as grand as it could be.
May had arrived, bringing blue skies, sweet, warm weather, and for the citizens of Wilkes-Barre, a palpable sense of excitement. Wilkes-Barre’s centennial jubilee was fast approaching, and preparations were in full swing. Every household that could afford it gave their house a lick of paint or whitewash, scrubbed their steps, planted flowers. Colored bunting, banners, and flags hung from windows. The city fathers had planned a three-day celebration, with parades, concert band performances, fireworks displays, sporting contests, talent shows, and picnics, including the Centennial Ball on Saturday night. The stores and market stalls advertised ‘jubilee sales’ exhorting customers to make their purchases in time for the celebrations. The pubs were doing a brisk business, filled with early revelers, and the temperance societies and some of the more scrupulous local churches, not to be outdone, were already distributing pamphlets that trumpeted the evils of drink and the moral perils of too-boisterous carousing. If they were to be believed, the jubilee would be a bacchanal not seen since the days of Nero and Caligula.
Sean viewed it all with bemusement. After all, even Winsley was a few hundred years old and cities like York and Sheffield had been around for more than seven hundred years. It seemed a bit daft to celebrate being an incorporated town for a mere hundred years, but then, Americans seemed to love their fairs and picnics, and so it was as good a reason to kick up their collective heels as any. Not that he minded. The townspeople’s enthusiasm was infectious and he found that he was looking forward to the festivities himself.
His rented evening suit, the first he’d ever worn, was hanging in his little cedar-lined wardrobe at Mrs. Donnelly’s, and he’d even gone to Lazarus Brothers for a set of plain silver shirt studs and cufflinks. It was so different from his meager collection of clothing in England. His mother had firmly discouraged physical vanity and dressing like a peacock. The family had had its Sunday best, of course, but that was worn out of respect for the Lord and not to preen and strut in front of other churchgoers. Nevertheless, Sean had discovered he was partial to handsome clothing. He’d admired Freddy’s costly clothes – he’d been taller and broader than Freddy and so the only garment that had fit him was a dressing gown of midnight blue silk with a violet and gold paisley design. Freddy hadn’t permitted him to wear it often; he’d noticed how reverently Sean had touched the silk, how obvious was his pleasure in wearing it, and he’d hidden it away, preferring Sean to clothe himself in a crumpled sheet, his own clothes, or to simply go naked. It was a small cruelty, but Freddy had had a staggering repertoire of small cruelties that he'd exercised on every possible occasion.
Viggo’s clothes were as expensive as Freddy’s, if less foppish and dramatic. The materials were elegant, though – wools in grey and dark blue and fawn, waistcoats in brocade and herringbone tweed, crisp shirts of pure white cotton, gleaming silk ties in wonderful colors, felt hats with grosgrain ribbon trim, kid gloves as soft as velvet, glossy leather shoes. As well-dressed as he was, though, Viggo didn’t appear to give a fig about clothes. Sean never caught him glancing in a mirror, and the only time Viggo had brought up the topic of clothing was when he’d commented favorably on one of Sean’s new suits.
Sean had purchased the suits at Lazarus Brothers, where he’d rented his evening clothes. He’d had only a few items that he’d managed to salvage from his unfortunate escapade on the crossing to America, and his heavy tweed was rapidly becoming too hot for springtime. When he’d saved enough, he had taken himself to the shop and bought two broadcloth suits – one grey, one navy – five shirts, and three neckties. Not so fancy as Viggo’s, but not bad for all that, Sean had mused, looking at his reflection in the store mirror. The following Monday, Viggo had looked Sean up and down. "New clothes?"
Sean had nodded coolly. "Yes, sir."
"Very handsome indeed."
And that had been the end of it. But that small compliment had felt like the knightly touch of a sword on his shoulder; he’d been hard-pressed to keep from beaming for the rest of the day.
Things were a bit easier now that he’d admitted the truth to himself. It was simple, if unsatisfying, to desire someone without any hope or expectation of it being returned. It was like wishing to be a millionaire or to live forever: impossible, but a pleasant daydream while he waited for his emotions to subside. For the littlest things made his chest ache now unless he tamped them down fiercely. Watching Viggo frowning over an inventory roster, biting his lower lip in thought. Listening to him talk with employees and higher-ups alike in his low, polite, faintly graveled voice. The scent he exuded when he sat close to Sean, a compound of lemon verbena and clean, healthy young male. It didn’t do to dwell on any of those things – that was a recipe for misery. One day, he supposed, if he didn’t get over this liberated tide of feeling, he’d have to remove himself from the source, but until then….
Over the past few weeks he’d become ruthlessly proficient in his nighttime habits. After the house was asleep, he stole down the stairs barefoot to the bathroom on the second floor. Once inside, he locked the door, turned the gaslight on to a flicker, and stroked himself to a quick and joyless climax. If all the while he was thinking of Viggo’s mouth on his prick or Viggo’s voice crying out in ecstasy as Sean thrust inside, that was his own affair. He had to think of something, after all.
No, it didn’t do at all to dwell on something so hopeless. Nor did it do to spend any more time with Viggo than was necessary. Viggo had tried to draw Sean into his own social circle, but Sean had politely refused a number of times. He didn’t belong with the moneyed crowd; they were stiff and formal and a bit self-important, pursing their mouths when Viggo introduced them. Sean preferred the informality of McGerrity’s Tavern, a small pub choked with tobacco fumes and the smells of stale beer and the working-class lads who frequented the place. Several were miners for Mortensen Coal, and they recognized in Sean a kindred spirit despite his suits and groomed hair. His accent was familiar and appealing to many of them, displaced Welshmen and Northerners, as was his reserve. The Wilkes-Barre fancy set thought he was a snob himself, a jumped-up overdressed pleb too haughty to engage in conversation, but the miners knew better. They treated him kindly. And while Sean had never thought himself particularly social, he relished their company.
Sean tipped his face to the breeze and shifted his packages. Home was only two blocks away. It was a lovely thing to live within walking distance of a library. He had a passion for reading that he hadn’t been able to indulge in Winsley, which had no library to speak of, and he couldn’t afford the car fare that would take him to the library in Philadelphia. As he crossed the street at the intersection of Northampton and South Main, he heard a familiar voice.
There was Viggo, in the driver’s seat of his carriage. Beside him was a young lady clinging tightly to his arm, leaning close to him and speaking almost in his ear. She was expensively dressed, in a grey-green traveling suit and a black feathered hat, and although she wasn’t beautiful or extraordinary in any particular detail, her face was lively and alert. Viggo leaned in just as intimately, obviously riveted by her every word. Suddenly they both burst into laughter, sagging against each other in helpless merriment.
As Sean watched, the girl threw her arms around Viggo’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. He poked her in the ribs, and the girl shrieked and swatted at him, upsetting her hat. That sent them into new gales of laughter. The young lady pulled the brim of Viggo’s hat down and made a grab for the reins. The placid horse looked over his shoulder and kept moving at the same patient, plodding pace. Strangely, the horse’s innocuous reaction made Viggo and the girl laugh even harder. People were beginning to look at them now, but they were far too absorbed in each other, and in the wonderful time they were having, to notice. Certainly they took no notice of Sean as they drove past.
Numbly, Sean walked the rest of the way to the boardinghouse. He went into the kitchen and set the groceries and flowers on the countertop. Mrs. Donnelly, her face, arms, and apron dusted with flour, was putting the finishing touches on a huge chicken pie, deftly scalloping the edges with a paring knife. "You didn’t have a hard time finding anything, did you, lad?"
"No, ma’am." Sean’s voice was the merest shadow of a whisper.
"How did the berries look? I hope you found some nice ones. It’s so early, I may have to sugar them more than usual to get the tartness out. Still, I –" She broke off as she noticed Sean moving out of the kitchen. "Mr. Bean?"
Sean ignored her and went up to his little third-floor room. He locked the door, dropped his books on the carpet, and lay on the bed, fully dressed, dry-eyed, drenched in cold sweat, shriveled and sick with disappointment. That was reality, that laughing girl. Not Sean’s dreamy meanderings or hopes, so deceitful that he’d fooled even himself for a while. Despair settled into his skin and weighed him down like stones in a suicide’s pockets.
Hours passed, and he remained motionless on his bed. He ignored the dinner bell. Some time afterward, there was a soft knock on the door. "Sean." It was Mrs. Donnelly, who’d never called him by his Christian name before. "Are you ill, lad?"
Stiff, slit-eyed with exhaustion, Sean rose and stumbled to the door, opening it a crack. "Aye, Mrs. Donnelly," he croaked. "I’m feeling a bit sick."
"A stomach ailment? Or something else? I can mix a cordial for you."
"Nay, nay. I don’t need owt. Just sleep."
"Are you certain, lad?"
"I’m certain," Sean replied. He flexed his mouth into a smile. "Ta all the same, ma’am."
Mrs. Donnelly frowned. "Well…knock on my door if you need aught. I won’t mind."
"Aye, I will. That's kind of you." Sean closed the door quietly and went to the mirrored dresser. Slowly, he disrobed, letting his clothes lie where they fell, watching himself in the waning light. At last he stood naked, his body dappled by the shadows of the tall chestnut tree outside his window.
Long ago, after Freddy had abandoned him, he’d promised himself that he’d never be ashamed by who he was, even if the whole world wanted to make him ashamed of himself for wanting men and not women. If there was a God, then God had made him so, and it was God’s problem, not Sean’s. He wasn’t obvious the way Freddy was, almost asking for taunting and mockery and arrest. Sometimes it had seemed that Freddy relished his plight – that was how he’d put it, his plight – but Sean chose to take a more practical view of things. He’d not court disaster by making a spectacle of himself, but he’d be damned if he’d apologize or cower, either.
Now he felt small and craven and disconsolate. It wasn’t Viggo’s fault, not at all, but it had been years since Sean had felt so utterly outside of things, some fundamental part of him broken and disfigured.
Tears brimmed on his lashes, mercifully blurring his reflection. He went back to the bed, drew the covers aside, and lay down. There was nothing now but to withdraw. There were other jobs to be had in Wilkes-Barre, or even in Scranton or further north, in New York, perhaps.
He’d give his notice on Monday.
*
The double doors of Mortensen Coal were painted a glossy black, perhaps to remind the visitor of the sheen of anthracite. Handsome steel knockers shaped like lions were affixed to each door. Sean had never really noticed them before, but now he stared at them as if they’d come to life, snarling and roaring a warning to stay away. Daunted, he paused on the doorstep, seized by a wild impulse to turn and walk back down the steps, to simply never show up at Mortensen Coal again. It was cowardly of him, but there were worse things – staying, for one. Viggo was persuasive when he chose to be. He might well plead with Sean, begging him to stay at Mortensen Coal, and what if Sean didn’t have the strength to resist him? It wasn’t an impossible thought; several times over the weekend he’d argued with himself, torn between packing a bag and taking the next train out, and remaining in Wilkes-Barre just to be close to Viggo. Cowardly, despicable. He conjured a picture of Viggo’s wedding to that laughing girl. Of course Sean would be invited. Viggo would invite him in a spirit of good-will and friendliness, radiant with joy, blithely unaware of Sean’s yearning. He imagined Viggo carrying his young bride to their wedding bed, both of them smiling and whispering, their words sweet and tender. He saw Viggo covering her with kisses, touching her with his hands, and finally taking her, both of them transported with rapture.
Sean touched the door handle, then snatched his fingers away as if he’d been burned. A fool he might be, but he wasn’t foolish enough to punish himself like that. As he turned, the door opened.
"Sean, what on earth are you doing out here? I saw you come up the walk and I’ve been waiting – do you realize you’ve been standing out there for five minutes?"
Hot blood filled Sean’s cheeks. "I couldn’t find my key."
"Then why didn’t you knock?" Viggo smiled at him, brimming with cheer.
Mortified and unable to speak, Sean wet his lips and cast about for some excuse. He couldn’t very well run now, although it seemed the only sensible solution – turn tail and dash away like a frightened rabbit, like the utter fool he was.
Viggo took hold of Sean’s sleeve and pulled him inside without ceremony. "Come in, I’ve a guest I want you to meet."
Sean turned to stone, suddenly quite sure who Viggo’s guest was. He recalled their laughing intimacy with sickening clarity. She was the last person in the world he wanted to meet. "If you please, sir, could I have a brief word with you first?"
There must have been something amiss in Sean’s tone. Viggo stopped and scrutinized Sean’s face. "Are you ill? You were flushed a moment ago, but now you’re terribly pale."
Sean shrugged. "Had a bit of a fever the other day. Just a word, sir."
"Of course. This won’t take a moment, and she’s quite eager to meet you. Come on."
Viggo tugged at Sean’s sleeve like a small boy. Resigned, Sean trudged inside and closed the door behind him. He allowed Viggo to pull him into the parlor, where the young lady from Saturday’s carriage ride was seated on the horsehair sofa.
"Grace, may I present Sean Bean. Sean, this is my sister, Grace Clodagh Mortensen."
Grace Mortensen rose from the sofa, picked up Sean’s half-heartedly extended hand, and wrung it with great energy. "How do you do, Mr. Bean? Viggo has written reams about you. I’m delighted to meet you at last."
Sean hitched in a quick breath and shook her hand with caution, not certain he’d heard correctly. "Miss Mortensen?"
Viggo laughed. "Well, not reams, Sean. Grace is prone to exaggeration. Now, pages – that, perhaps, is true." He gave the girl a look of mock exasperation and swatted her on the shoulder. She laughed.
"Oh, please call me Grace. I get tired of formality, don’t you?" She smiled at him. Her eyes were blue-grey, not as striking as Viggo’s, but they twinkled agreeably and creased at the corners the way Viggo’s did. Her cheeks were vividly pink without the aid of rouge, and her brown hair was pulled into a simple chignon, topped by a netted hat of honey-colored straw. The severity of her blue jacket and skirt was relieved by a frilly white blouse and a cameo brooch at her throat.
A massive and sweeping relief overwhelmed Sean. He broke into a grin, and shook her hand with renewed enthusiasm. "Aye, I do that. I’m Sean. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, miss."
"Oh, the pleasure’s all mine, I assure you. And he has written reams. Every word of it a compliment." Grace Mortensen removed her white crocheted gloves and dropped back onto the sofa.
"Well, it’s all true." Viggo was busying himself with the ashes heaped in the fireplace.
"Let me get that, sir."
"Oh, no – it’s fine. The cleaning ladies will be here early tomorrow." Viggo rose and dusted his hands, his face a bit pink. "Grace is visiting from Philadelphia for a few weeks. Apparently she expects me to entertain her even though she descended upon me with practically no notice at all, so I thought -- what could be more exciting than an outing to the offices of Mortensen Coal, Incorporated?"
Grace looked around doubtfully. "Watching grass grow, maybe. Or Mass! Sean, have you met my brother Michael? Father Michael?"
"Yes, miss."
"Of course he did," Viggo snorted. "Michael talked his ear off."
"Naturally. Well, Viggo’s idea of entertainment yesterday was taking me to ten o’clock Mass, at which our brother presided. Then we all went to luncheon at a hotel."
"A new hotel," Viggo interposed.
"Pardon me, I’m sure it was the latest word in hotels. I’m not demanding, Sean. I’m not part of the social whirl back home. But honestly – Mass and lunch? I expect more imagination from my brothers."
A brief twinge of shame needled Sean, followed by embarrassment at his frank thoughts of the two of them as a married couple. Wedding day indeed! "Well, miss, you certainly came at the right time if it’s entertainment you're after. There’s a carnival coming up this weekend to celebrate the town’s centenary."
"That’s right!" Viggo smote his forehead. "Hang it if I didn’t forget to tell you, Grace. It should be pretty spectacular."
"I wondered what all the fuss and hoopla was about," she remarked.
"Yes. Also – there’s a ball on Saturday night." Viggo stuffed his hands into his pockets. "I suppose I should tell you the rest, Gracie. You too, Sean. Yesterday when we were at luncheon, I met Chester Welles, the president of Wyoming Valley Trust. You remember?"
Grace frowned. "No. Oh, wait. The one who looked like a carp?"
"Grace!"
"Well, he did. If I’m thinking of the right gentleman, of course."
Viggo shook his head in mock despair. "Yes, the one who looked like a carp. At any rate, he asked if I’d escort his daughter Charlotte to the ball."
"Does she look like a carp too?"
"Actually, Miss Smarty, she’s very pretty. That’s just it, though," Viggo frowned. "She’s supposed to be quite popular, but her father acted as if she were a wallflower who never leaves the house. I don’t really know her well myself. I met her at a tea dance, or a dinner, I think."
"So what did you tell him?"
Sean, who had been listening to the siblings’ rapid banter with mild amusement, steeled himself for the disappointment that he knew was coming.
"Well, what could I say? I said yes, obviously. It was all a bit embarrassing, being asked so bluntly. I wasn’t in any position to refuse. And the worst part is that I had planned to go footloose and fancy free with Sean." He sent a quick, shy smile Sean’s way. "But your arrival’s saved the day, Grace. If I escort Charlotte, Sean could escort you, and we’d be a foursome. What do you say?"
Grace’s pale brows knitted. "I say you’re putting a terrible burden on Sean." She turned toward Sean and sighed. "I’m sorry, Sean. You needn’t feel obliged to escort me. I can’t abide those things, and I didn’t bring a ball gown in any case."
Sean sank down onto a chair. A few moments ago he’d been ready to offer his resignation. Then he’d been swept to dizzying relief, and now Viggo’s sister was being offered as a replacement for Viggo himself. Not that he’d thought the evening at the ball would be the pair of them talking to the exclusion of all else…or had he? Perhaps he had, at that. Daft as a brush, he was. He opened his mouth to politely decline, and heard himself say "I’d be delighted to escort you, miss, if you’re interested." Horrified, he closed his jaws with a snap and groaned inwardly. If you’re in a hole, stop digging, you arse, he berated himself. What if this was an attempt at matchmaking? He smiled at Grace, silently begging her to refuse him.
Her face was puckered in consternation. "Well, I don’t know. I feel awful that Viggo’s maneuvered you into asking me."
"I’m not asking him to marry you, for heaven’s sake," Viggo exclaimed with uncharacteristic impatience. "It’s just a dance. And as for the dress, you can wire Mother to send one on the train, and it’ll be here by Wednesday. Shoes and gloves and all that rot. She'll be beside herself with happiness that you're going to a ball." He seated himself with a thump. "None of this was my idea, you know." His voice was slightly petulant.
"All right," Grace conceded with a valedictory wink in Sean's direction. "It isn’t that you wouldn’t make a charming companion, Sean –"
"Which you’d discover if you let him get a word in edgewise," Viggo retorted.
Grace lifted her eyebrows in delicate disdain. "You’re the one steaming this conversation along. As I was saying, Sean, I’m sure the ladies will cluster around you like bees to honey. You’re even handsomer than Viggo said."
Viggo surged from his chair as abruptly as he’d sat. "Grace, you really do exaggerate at times. Sean, didn’t you say you had to speak to me about something?" He turned and stalked out of the parlor, leaving Sean and Grace to stare after him in wordless consternation.
Sean rose awkwardly and made a short bow to the girl. "I’d better be about my duties. It was a pleasure to meet you, miss. I’m looking forward to Saturday evening."
"So am I. Well, as I said, Sean, I can’t abide balls and tea dances and all that sort of thing, but at least I’ll have someone congenial to talk to, if you’re not dancing with every girl in sight. Viggo is so very fond of you – I know I shall be as well." She smiled.
Sean burned to ask Grace about the contents of Viggo’s letters. "We can avoid the honeybees." He grinned and put out his hand.
"It’s a bargain. Tell him he’s going to have to take me to the telegraph office at once if I’m to have a dress."
"I’ll tell him, miss." Sean went into the office, closing the door behind him.
Viggo was at the desk, writing busily. He glanced up at Sean and then bent back to his work. "I’m sorry about that. She’s sweet and awfully intelligent, but she can be a bit…well, you know what girls can be like."
"She seemed lovely, sir, not a bit toffee-nosed. She asked could you take her to the telegraph office."
Viggo put down his pen and seemed to study Sean. Sean gazed back steadily. There were times – just snatches of moments, really – when it seemed as if Viggo watched him with a peculiar look in his eye, and he had been embarrassed about Grace’s remark. But perhaps that was just a brother’s customary exasperation with his sister, a long-standing brew of familiarity, fondness, and irritation. Sean hadn’t the experience to know for certain. It was mad of him to yearn for some sort of reciprocation. A look here and there was nothing upon which to pin a hope.
Presently Viggo laughed and shrugged. "I’ll wager she demanded it, not asked. You’re sure you don’t mind escorting her?"
"I’d be delighted, sir."
"Well, thank you. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, truly. I just wanted us all to go together. Now then, I’m sorry that took so long. What did you want to talk about?"
Sean sat at his desk to give himself a moment to collect his thoughts. He wouldn’t leave; he knew that now. Seeing Viggo with Grace reminded him more and more how bitterly lonely he was. He had no ties in the world. If he left, he’d be adrift, perhaps briefly missed but certainly not mourned. Might as well go back to Freddy, where he was known if not loved. The acknowledgment was wounding, but nothing rang as true as the truth, however painful. Even if Viggo didn’t regard him with affection, he was at least fond of Sean. Even Grace had said so.
He fumbled through the sheaf of notes on his desk, looking for something suitably important. "Mr. Lernard cancelled Tuesday’s luncheon. An errand boy stopped by on Friday and I forgot to tell you. I’m sorry about that."
Viggo shrugged. "No harm done. The telephone installers haven’t cancelled, have they?"
"No, sir. That’s still set for Wednesday."
"Won’t that be exciting? My father wrote that he’s getting one installed as well. I’ll be able to speak to him over the wire. No more need for telegrams. What times we live in!" Viggo’s face shone with enthusiasm.
"Indeed we do, sir." Sean smiled wistfully and let out a silent exhalation of breath. It was more than desire. Head over heels, he was, and no mistake. There’d be no budging until Viggo Mortensen was gone for good.
*
TBC....
