FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 5]
Apr. 4th, 2013 10:23 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.
*
Sean whistled an Irish air, tunelessly but with unfettered delight. He was in no particular hurry, and didn’t bother to nudge Viggo’s carriage horse into a faster walk. The horse, who Viggo had christened Roland, was only three years old, a fine-looking, fifteen-hands-high healthy beast, according to the veterinarian, but never displayed the energy for much more than munching oats. Sean had never seen a young horse so indifferent to exercise, and had never been able to prod him into anything beyond a brisk trot. Today, even Roland seemed to be enjoying the weather; there was a sparkle in his eye, and occasionally he tossed his head and snorted good-naturedly – although, Sean noted, his gait remained stately and slow.
It had been his habit of late to go to the mine once or twice a week on Viggo’s behalf, sometimes acting as courier, sometimes as inspector, two or three times as unofficial mediator. It was a courtesy that Gavin Rowe appreciated, for it meant that he didn’t have to waste time traipsing back and forth between the mine and the Mortensen office. Sean and Rowe had taken to each other immediately. Sean liked the man’s plain-spoken manner; it reminded him of home. And Rowe seemed to relish Sean’s company. He was a regular at Sean’s pub, and though neither of them were given to garrulity, they were chums of a sort. Occasionally Viggo accompanied him to the colliery, especially when he had blueprints of new machinery that was the latest word in safety and modernity. But most often it was Sean who made the short trips, and the mine bosses, and to some extent the miners themselves, had come to trust him.
Before the Mortensens had taken over, the mine had been owned by a Mr. Jonas Albright, whose motto might have been ‘One bad turn deserves another.’ Albright’s tyranny and outright cruelty had been legendary, and the workers had rebelled by slow degrees: falsifying quotas, anonymous threats, tampering with machinery, and vandalizing the company store. His response had been to strike back by withholding their pay and raising prices at the company store so high that the miners could barely afford to feed their families. At last the workers had simply laid down their tools and refused to work, enlisting the aid of the United Mine Workers. Albright’s colliery had lain idle for thirty days, and on the thirty-first day he had been found dead in his bed. No fingers were specifically pointed, though there had been some speculation as to the cause of death in the Wilkes-Barre Times, and it was the general opinion that Albright had received his just deserts. For a few years the mine lay vacant and abandoned and was regarded as bad luck, but then Harald Mortensen had dug nearby, found another rich vein, and decided to use the old colliery instead of building a new one. Slowly, the miners returned to the colliery, and soon business was booming again.
Upon inheriting the management of the mine, Viggo had embarked on an earnest campaign for modern machinery. He traveled to mines throughout northeastern Pennsylvania, talked to owners and operators, procured plans and prints and the newest catalogues and leaflets on mining technology, and finally persuaded his father that new machinery was necessary if Mortensen Coal was to prosper in the industry. The week after the centennial celebrations promised to be a busy one; Viggo had appointments with several engineers and a man who claimed to have built a digging and loading device that would minimize risk to the miners. "I’m a terrible businessman, Sean," he’d confided laughingly. "I care more about safety than profits."
"Well, if you can keep the lads alive and make a profit too, it’s not a bad bit of work, I say," Sean had replied, and they’d shaken hands on it. If Sean thought that Viggo was at times a trifle sheltered, he was by no means the idle rich boy Sean had initially suspected him to be. Viggo worked tirelessly, managed to convince his father to modernize in the space of a month, and there were occasional glimpses of a steely will under his affable exterior. He hadn’t forgotten the breaker boys, for one thing. He was still looking for a way to free them from their jobs and provide some sort of support for the more destitute families – that was to say, those lacking an able-bodied adult male provider. There was no way to raise the boys’ salaries that wouldn’t involve a raise for every other employee of the colliery, and that was too much of an expense at present, according to Viggo’s father. Discreet inquiries had indicated that outright charity would be unwelcome, if not blatantly scorned, and the excuse of the boys needing an education would have been laughed at. Still Viggo pondered the question, and was determined to see his way through it. "My bleeding heart," Viggo had said ruefully. Sean had only smiled, yearning to say something encouraging, something tender and lover-like, and at the same time, yearning to take liberties, to put his hands and his mouth on the warmth of Viggo’s lean body, to spread Viggo’s legs apart and take him – and only then had he discovered that Viggo was watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he’d hastened to some trivial task, hating the blush that rose to his cheeks, hating his inability to stop his fantasies. You can’t go on the rest of your life like this, he’d told himself, but even if that were true, it was impossible to stop. He had never wanted to be so deeply in thrall to another person. Freddy had manipulated Sean’s young body and his inexperienced heart; Viggo, in all innocence, had wrought a deeper, a more devastating change.
The breaker loomed into view. Sean tamped his natural aversion and drew closer, waving to the fire boss, Ronnie Jones, and the driver boss, Karol Czerwinski, tin dinner pails swinging from blackened hands. "Finished up already, lads?"
"Lunch," Karol replied, petting Roland’s nose. "What brings you here, Sean?"
"Dropping off some tallies for Gavin. I’ll leave it inside for him." After the unfortunate incident at the Glen Lyon mine, Sean had decided to make no secret of his aversion to cramped spaces. He expected to be teased, but the men took his refusal to go into the mine with equanimity. They had, Sean supposed, other things to think about than his fears.
"Oh, he’s in there already," Ronnie said, gesturing toward the breaker. "He’s talking with the new outside foreman."
"Oh, bloody hell, and I left his damned paperwork at the office." Sean scowled. "Truth is, I haven’t even looked at it yet."
"I don’t think he starts until next week – he’s just having a look about," Ronnie said. "No harm done, lad."
"Ah, well. In the office there?"
"Aye, that’s it."
"Right. Enjoy your lunch, Ronnie. Karol." Sean drove to the far side of the breaker, past a gang of dirty-faced breaker boys and butties playing a scratch game of baseball with sticks and a frayed leather ball wrapped in twine to keep the cover on. He swung down from the trap, tethered the horse, and in a gesture now familiar to the boys, casually lifted his hand. One of the boys threw the ball, and it wobbled across the yard, where he caught it neatly. Sean strode to the middle of the pitch to the boys’ cheers. He sized up the batter – one of the butties, a tall, lanky boy named Herbert – aimed, and threw the ball.
Herbert swung. The ball connected with a crack, and went sailing overhead. An outfielder who looked to be no more than seven missed, and the boy’s piping curses went unheard beneath the cheers of the other boys as Herbert rounded the bases, his hobnailed boots kicking up clouds of dust. He skidded home, yanked off his cap, and threw it in the air. "Thanks, Mr. Bean."
"No fair!" another boy bellowed. "Mr. Bean has to pitch to us now." He held up the ball, now sadly denuded of twine. "Hell, look at that."
"Next time, lads," Sean called. "Look here." Like a magician performing a trick, he produced a shining white leather ball from his pocket and tossed it to Herbert. The boys whooped and whistled. Sean grinned as he trotted back to the carriage. The cover would be gone in two weeks. He might put himself in the poorhouse buying baseballs, but their laughing, dirty faces made it well worth his while.
He’d gained the boys’ affection in fairly short order, even if his methods had been unconventional. Wandering alone on his first visit to the breaker, he’d passed the chutes and felt a sharp twinge of pain in his arm. Glancing down, he’d seen a chunk of rock about half the size of his fist. He’d glared up at the boys, who were snickering openly, and judging the trajectory of the missile, had quickly winnowed out the culprit, a handsome little sprite picking rocks with the air of an indifferent cherub. Without hesitation Sean had reached down, scooped up a handful of dirt and a pebble, made a hard ball with the pebble in the center, and hurled it at the boy. Bit of your own medicine, brat. With a startled roar, the erstwhile cherub clutched his arm and stared open-mouthed at Sean as the other boys howled with delight. It had been exactly the right thing to do, even if Viggo wouldn’t quite have approved.
He understood Viggo’s urge to protect the breaker boys; he’d been one of them himself, and it wasn’t right, little boys working like grown men, bent and exhausted, hands bloody or callused, coughing up black phlegm and sounding like consumptives. But when the choice was work or starve – and not just them, but their families as well – they understood well enough, and toughened up as best they could. It wasn’t fair, but life often wasn’t fair. Viggo’s gentle disposition came from a gentle life.
But then, Sean’s dad Jack had been gentle as well, and his life had been anything but. Sweet-natured and kind, he was, and scarcely a word of complaint from his lips, even when times were hardest. Sean realized with a sudden pang of mingled sorrow and pleasure that Jack would have liked Viggo, and Viggo would have been fond of Jack. He would have liked to have introduced them.
Shaking off his melancholy, Sean got his papers from the carriage pocket and went into the breaker, wincing at the din of the machinery. Viggo claimed that the new machinery was much quieter. Sean couldn’t see how, but anything would be an improvement. He nodded here and there as he made his way to the front office. He knocked briskly and walked in. "Gavin, I’ve brought the –" he called, and then froze.
Sitting in the chair opposite Gavin’s desk was Harry Slater.
"Well, well, well – if this just isn’t the long arm of coincidence." Harry stood up and extended his hand with a broad smile. "Gavin mentioned the name Sean Bean and I thought ‘twas merely a fellow with the same name. How are you, lad?"
Gavin rose as well. "Great God! You two know each other?"
"You could say that," Harry replied, grasping Sean’s hand and shaking it vigorously. His blue eyes narrowed as his smile widened. "Lived in the same town, we did, and me and his dad were great pals. Now he’s second in command here, eh? A right toff, you are, Sean, moving up in the world. I thought you were headed for New York."
Sean felt the blood draining from his face. He shook Harry’s hand numbly, unable to think of anything but the night he’d tried – and failed – to kill him. How blithely and coolly he’d accepted Freddy’s money, the job undone, and how quickly afterward he’d fled. The money was gone, of course, but he still had Freddy’s letter to Harry in a drawer at the boarding house. He recovered himself quickly and managed a smile. "A coincidence to be sure, Harry. No, I ended up here. What brings you to Mortensen Coal?"
"Well, looks as if I’ll be working here. I’m your new outside foreman."
Jesus Christ. Sean’s knees felt like jelly. He perched on the edge of Gavin’s desk and nodded. "Welcome, then. What made you leave England?" He searched Harry’s face for some crack in the façade, some indication that he knew the identity of his attacker, but his countenance was jovial, his eyes twinkled, and his posture was relaxed. He can’t know, Sean reassured himself. Freddy valued his own skin too much to betray that sort of confidence.
"Why did you, laddie?" Harry laughed. "Same as you, I reckon – came to seek my fortune in Amerikay." He imitated a broad Irish accent. "Christ, you wouldn’t believe all the bloody bogtrotters on the crossing. I imagine you’ve got your fair share of Irish here," he said to Gavin.
"Bit of everything," Gavin replied amiably. "Irish, Welsh, Italian, Poles, Swedes – even a couple of black fellows and red Indians."
"I’ll whip them into shape," Harry promised. "No worries there."
Sean frowned. "They’re good workers already, Harry."
"Just an expression, lad," Harry said soothingly. "Now, as I’ve just arrived, maybe you can help me, introduce me about. What do you say?"
"Oh, aye. ‘Course I will," Sean said, lying through his teeth. "How is everyone in Winsley?"
"Sound as can be. We’ll have a drink or dinner and catch up on old faces and places."
Sean felt a fine sweat on his brow. "Perhaps next week, while Mr. Mortensen is meeting with the engineers. Meantime, I’ve got to go. Gavin – your tallies."
"Thanks, Sean," Gavin said, accepting the sheaf of paper. "Fancy that, the two of you knowing each other."
"It’s a small world," Sean said desperately. "Have a good afternoon. Harry, I’ll be seeing you."
"Oh, that you will."
Sean drove back to the office in a daze. It scarcely mattered that the money he’d taken for murdering Harry was gone. The fact was…well, what were the facts? Freddy would never say a word for fear of retribution. Harry wouldn’t betray his inclinations by so much as a whisper, and if he missed his letters, why, Sean had taken some other things, too, so the whole incident had seemed to be a simple act of robbery. Harry hadn’t seen his face. There was nothing to connect him to the incident.
He had an impulse to write to Freddy, to see if he’d talked, but the truth was he was ashamed of his treachery. The money was long gone, but he’d still taken it for a job he hadn’t done.
Murder.
"Christ," Sean muttered, wiping his brow. What a bleeding mess it all was. He forcibly composed himself before entering the office.
Viggo was at his desk in his shirtsleeves. "Did Roland manage a canter?"
"Sorry, sir?" Sean blinked, confused.
"It’s just that you’re back so quickly. I thought you got the horse to canter for once."
"Oh." Sean went to his desk and took off his own coat. "Nay. I forgot the working papers for the new outside foreman, so I didn’t stay long. Turns out I know him." Word would get around quickly enough; he might as well tell Viggo before he found out from another source.
"From Winsley?"
"Aye," Sean described Harry in a few listless sentences.
"Not a close friend, I gather," Viggo remarked quietly.
Sean had a sudden urge to pour out the whole ugly story. But it was too ugly, that was the problem. Viggo would never understand, not that Sean deserved understanding. Accepting money for murder – who deserved the slightest sympathy for that, no matter what a nasty, blackmailing bugger Harry might have been? "Nay, not close."
"Well, never mind him, then. I have an idea. Would you come to my house on Saturday evening before the ball? We can have dinner and then drive over with the girls. I’d like to invite Charlotte Welles – that way we can all scrape acquaintance beforehand."
It had always seemed to exceed propriety to visit Viggo’s house, though Viggo had invited him any number of times and Sean secretly longed to go. Now it didn’t seem such a terrible idea. The presence of a couple of chattering girls would likely dispel any awkwardness – and besides, Sean had become fond of Grace as she’d taken to dropping in during the day. She brought out a playful side of Viggo that was both painful and beguiling to behold. She’d make the evening bearable. Sean nodded. "Sounds lovely, sir. Thank you."
"I’ll expect you at six o’clock."
Sean nodded and set back to work, but even the prospect of an evening in Viggo’s company didn’t quite diminish a growing sensation of unease deep in the pit of his belly. "Sir?"
Viggo looked up. "Yes, Sean?"
"Could I – that is, would you mind if I stored some papers in the safe here? Some…personal documents?"
"Oh, of course. You needn’t even ask. You have the combination."
"I didn’t want to presume. Thank you, though."
He’d keep the incriminating letter here, locked up in the office. Just to be on the safe side.
*
Three firm raps landed on Viggo’s bedroom door, followed by a muffled inquiry. "Are you decent?"
"Decent as I’ll ever be." He surveyed himself in the mirror, gave a final twist to his white tie, which was slightly crooked and resisted every effort to straighten it, and then strode to the door and flung it open. "Don’t you look ravishing, old thing." He drew his sister into the bedroom by one hand and twirled her around, letting out a low whistle. Grace wore a dress of cream batiste, its low back, skirt, and train heavily embroidered with palest lilac and green. A choker made up of rows of tiny pearls encircled her throat. Her hair was piled into a pompadour, she wore a touch of rouge on her cheeks and lips, and she looked polished, elegant, and…womanly, Viggo realized. He’d seen her dressed up on other occasions, to be sure, but this was the first time she looked like a lady, rather than a girl unwillingly masquerading as a lady.
Grace frowned. "What is it? Too much rouge? Mother said I should wear a little, but I never tried it on my own before."
"It’s not that." Viggo shook his head. "You’re –" He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "You’re grown up, Gracie."
"Oh, dear. Is it awful?"
"No. You look very pretty. It’s just – it’s a bit odd to see. I tend to think of you in short dresses, with a bow in your hair and your stockings torn from climbing trees."
"Yes – and in my mind’s eye, you’re eleven, swinging upside-down on old Mrs. Pettigrew’s fence and throwing crickets into my hair." Grace laughed. She swept to Viggo’s mirror, her pearl-embroidered cream silk-satin shoes peeping from beneath her hem, and examined her reflection. "I don’t feel grown up. When does one get to feeling grown up? Do you feel that way?"
"Sometimes," Viggo admitted, sitting on a tufted, over-tasseled ottoman. "When I’m in the office, pegging away at a dozen price lists for blasting powder or wage sheets for the miners – I suppose I feel grown up then, though only after the fact, if you follow. It's an odd thing, I must say."
Grace shrugged. "At least you work at something and you’re a productive member of society. Mother would have a fit if I suggested getting a job of some sort."
"Plenty of respectable women work."
"Not according to Mother."
"Well," Viggo said, "I have a feeling you won’t need a job, the way you look. I’ll wager you get half a dozen proposals tonight."
"Oh, indeed. And what about you? Are you looking forward to seeing the lovely Charlotte?"
"Grace, you promised you’d stop calling her that. You’ve been doing it all week – you’re going to trip yourself up and embarrass both of us."
"I will not. Besides, it’s just appalling how Mr. Welles maneuvered you into escorting her. Or worse, how the lovely Charlotte maneuvered him into asking you because she didn’t have the backbone to speak to you herself."
"Girls don’t ask fellows to dances," Viggo frowned.
"Why? Oh, don’t tell me – it’s just not done. The four most infernally stupid words in the English language." Two spots of natural color appeared beneath Grace’s rouge. "Honestly, if a girl fancies a man, she has to sit demurely and wait for him to notice her – and then if he doesn’t, act as if everything is perfectly fine. It’s the silliest thing."
Viggo thought about it. It was a bit stupid, on the face of things. "Maybe you’re right. Do you fancy anyone?"
Grace rolled her eyes. "You know me – spinster for life. I’m not interested in proposals tonight. If Sean’s any sort of gentleman, he’ll keep any nincompoop shortsighted enough to fancy me at bay. What on earth are you making those faces for?"
"Am I?" Viggo forced his features into an approximation of a smile. It was a terrible and humiliating thing to be jealous of one’s own sister. "I suppose I don’t like the idea of someone, shortsighted or not, trying to carry off my dear sister."
She let out a peal of genuine mirth. "You’re a terrible liar. And your tie’s askew."
"I know. I can’t get the fool thing right. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I sent Pearce for Charlotte and she should be here any moment now."
"What about Sean?"
"He said he’d walk. Come on." Viggo ushered Grace out of his bedroom and they walked downstairs, their footfalls noiseless on the thick carpet. Outside, the early evening was cool, misted with rain, but Viggo was overheated and uncomfortable. He ran a finger beneath his stiffly starched collar; already it was beginning to rub his skin raw. By the end of the night, there’d probably be a red ring around his throat, as if he’d escaped the hangman. But not even the discomfort of his evening clothes eclipsed the nervous roiling of his stomach. He’d never spent an entire evening in Sean’s company before, and the thought of it filled him with anxiety. Time after time he’d tried to convince Sean to join him on some social outing, and time after time Sean had demurred. Only when he’d offered the possibility of a quartet that included feminine company had Sean accepted. Had Viggo pushed too hard? He thought he’d been subtle, well within the bounds of propriety, but perhaps Sean simply wasn’t comfortable socializing with his employer. Or worse, found him dull – disheartening thought.
He hoped not. Even though Sean maintained a certain formality, there was, Viggo believed, a slowly developing familiarity between them. They worked easily together. Sean had a quick, precise intelligence as well as a practical turn of mind that Viggo appreciated, even if it sometimes dampened his more idealistic moments. The miners and bosses liked his bluntness and honesty; with Sean as emissary, Viggo had no difficulty with his own employees. If Sean's demeanor was generally somewhat sober, there were also flashes of wit and humor that broke through at times, like sunlight through a cloud. Now and then Viggo found himself trying to coax a smile from him, for no other reason than that he loved seeing Sean’s smile, and no matter that Viggo felt a sharp pain every time he saw it.
He’d had temptations since coming to Wilkes-Barre. It would have been easy to lose himself in the breathless, perfumed attentions of the twenty or so girls who had been thrust at him with unceasing regularity and enthusiasm so intense it first alarmed him, then made him suspicious, then finally dismayed when he realized it was chiefly his money that attracted them and their parents. It was naïve of him not to realize it at once, but even so, he’d had a few encounters that flattered his vanity and excited him physically. Alicia Roderick had kissed him in the iron summerhouse of her parents’ Harvey’s Lake house, slipping her tongue in his mouth with clumsy but determined ardor. Two weeks ago, at a tea dance, Cornelia Walker, one of Wilkes-Barre’s leading hostesses, had propositioned him in French during a quadrille. Her soft body had pressed against his, and her lips had grazed his ear.
Viggo had extricated himself from each situation with enough tact to preserve the peace and the ladies’ collective virtue. The last temptation, though, had been the worst. He’d taken Grace to dinner at the home of Stanley Beckwith, another mine owner. His son Randall had just returned from Princeton, and they’d traded college stories and discovered some mutual acquaintances. At the end of the evening, Randall had followed Viggo into the cloakroom and, under the guise of helping Viggo on with his coat, had stepped close behind him, close enough for Viggo to feel Randall’s erection. There had been a moment of hesitation; he’d almost capitulated. Randall was handsome in a blond college-athlete way, and Viggo had sensed no emotional attraction, merely the practical pressure of physical arousal. An assignation would have been uncomplicated and pleasurable, like the affairs he’d had in college, certainly more pleasurable than the quick, necessary manipulation that gave him release night after night. And there was no indication that Sean had an interest in him. It was a sad and lonely thing to pine for the unattainable.
But it was Sean that he wanted, and if thwarted desire made him as chaste as his brother Michael, so be it. It wouldn’t have been fair to substitute Randall for Sean, no matter how handsome Randall was. And so, after a few long seconds, he’d stepped away, his own prick painfully hard, and had given Randall a friendly if shaky smile. Randall had accepted that with equanimity, and the night had ended without further incident. Viggo had escorted Grace home, bid her a good night’s sleep, then marched into the bathroom and stroked himself to hasty completion, biting his lip hard to keep from crying out.
He found himself watching Sean at odd but ordinary moments – working at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose the scant gold hair on his arms, the long fingers of one hand curled over the edge of the desk, the tip of his tongue sometimes clenched firmly between his teeth when he was particularly deep in concentration. His observations took place covertly, through lowered eyelashes, employing a trick his brother Adam had taught him to discreetly look at girls.
There were times when the pressure of longing became almost too much to bear, when he was sure he had to declare himself or explode from the effort of withholding his emotion. He’d come dangerously close the day they’d gone to the Glen Lyon mine and Sean had collapsed. After he and Stancavage had hauled Sean’s inert body into warmth and daylight and Stancavage had run for water, Viggo had hovered close, scrutinizing Sean’s fitful attempts toward consciousness, shamed and excited by the knowledge that he could press his lips to Sean’s, and Sean, in his helplessness, couldn’t prevent it. He’d bent close enough to feel the warmth of Sean’s breath, and then, of course, Sean had opened his eyes.
Viggo had begun to stutter out some passionate expression of yearning, then clamped his lips together. His opportunity had disappeared. But even if he had summoned the courage to speak, it might have ended in disaster. He’d touched Sean’s arm, and Sean had flinched slightly, making Viggo fearful that Sean found him repellent. He should have stopped then, but since that occasion he’d found a dozen excuses to touch Sean, small caresses disguised as friendly pats or tugs on the sleeve. He knew it was a risky and foolish game that he played, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop.
Grace’s voice interrupted Viggo’s reverie. "I hear the carriage."
Viggo nodded and opened the door just as the carriage stopped. He ran lightly down the steps, extending his hand. "Good evening, Miss Welles."
"Good evening, Mr. Mortensen." Charlotte accepted his assistance and allowed him to lead her into the house. She was a very pretty girl, with curling hair the color of dark honey, hazel eyes that glinted with gold, and the sort of full, pouty lips that encouraged Viggo’s college friends to make ribald jokes about a particular erotic feat. Beneath the evening cape she handed to the maid, she wore a dress of sea-foam green and a necklace of gold filigree. Despite her airy gown, she looked as grim as if she were attending a funeral. "Thank you for inviting me."
"It’s my pleasure." Viggo wondered if Chester Welles had informed his daughter that he’d orchestrated the entire affair. "May I present my sister Grace? Grace, this is Charlotte Welles."
"How do you do, Miss Welles?" Grace swept forward in a rustle of skirts and clasped Charlotte’s gloved hand in hers. "Thank you so very much for coming. I’m delighted that you joined us this evening." Her tone and words were so reminiscent of their mother’s that Viggo glanced swiftly at her face, anxiously searching for signs of mockery. But her smile was warm and she seemed sincere. "I hope the drizzle didn’t spoil that lovely dress."
Palpable relief spread over the young woman’s face. "Oh, no indeed. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Mortensen."
"Please call me Grace." Beaming, Grace linked her arm with Charlotte’s and led her toward the drawing room. "There’s a fire in here. The night’s quite cool. I was worried about freezing at the ball – it’s in an armory, isn’t it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Odd place for a party. I’m sure it’ll be quite warm though, what with the crowd."
Bemused, Viggo stared after them. For all her protestations, Grace was a confident and gracious hostess. He made a mental note to tell his mother that her vehement chiding hadn’t gone unheard. He smiled, and then jumped a little at the jangling din of the doorbell. "I’ll get it," he told the maid, and stalked to the door. He took a deep breath and threw it open with reckless force.
Sean removed his high silk rain-spattered hat. "Evening, sir."
Viggo’s throat contracted. If Sean was handsome in his everyday clothes, in evening clothes he was dazzling. Or did a person become more attractive with familiarity? It was no more extraordinary a costume than he’d seen a hundred times in a hundred different ballrooms: white tie, tailcoat, narrow trousers, patent-leather dance pumps, white gloves. "You look splendid," he managed.
A grin spread over Sean’s face. "Ta very much. So do you."
"Thank you. Oh, good God almighty, I’m leaving you standing in the rain," Viggo said, forgetting that there was a covered portico above Sean’s head. "Come in, please."
"Thank you." Sean stepped inside, handed his hat and gloves to the maid, and brushed a few drops from his coat. "It’s a bit nippy out."
"You should have let me send the carriage for you."
"Nay. I like walking. Helps me think."
"Solvitur ambulando."
"Is that Latin?"
"Yes," Viggo said. "It means It is solved by walking. One has to keep moving to work out one’s problems."
"Aye, that’s it." Sean's gaze traveled over the heavy, dark, Italian furnishings of the entrance hall, its red-painted ceiling with gilt scrollwork. "Grand place."
Viggo wondered what Sean would make of his parents’ fifty-room Philadelphia mansion. Would he be impressed or disgusted by all the excess? "It’s a bit large for me." He took a step closer and noticed that Sean was freshly barbered, his hair recently cut, his smooth skin smelling faintly of bay rum. "I’d love to show you the whole house, but my sister and Miss Welles are waiting. Perhaps you could come back soon? For luncheon one day, for instance?"
Sean’s eyes dropped for a second, then he nodded. "All right."
"Marvelous. And Sean – I really would be obliged if you would call me Viggo. At least for the evening." He watched a faint flush spread on Sean’s cheeks. "If that makes you uncomfortable –"
"Nay, it weren’t that, sir, it just –" Sean broke off. "Can’t seem to help it, though."
If Viggo took another step forward, they would be close enough to kiss. "I won’t press you, then." He wanted to touch his lips to the spot just under Sean’s ear, to suckle his earlobe, to taste the salt of his skin. "The last thing I want is to cause you discomfort."
Sean’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but no words emerged. They stood in a silent, motionless waltz of vacillation as the ebony-cabineted grandfather clock loudly ticked the seconds away. At last Sean cleared his throat. "I suppose we should find the ladies."
A pang of disappointment echoed in Viggo’s chest, as if something lovely had slipped through his fingers. "Yes. Yes, let’s do that." He smiled and gestured for Sean to precede him into the drawing room.
*
The Ninth Regiment Armory was a gloomy, drafty monstrosity of grey stone and red brick, but it was one of the only buildings in Wilkes-Barre with rooms large enough to accommodate seven hundred guests, tables laden with food and drink, as well as an orchestra and waiters and attendants enough to serve the guests’ needs. And a glittering assemblage it was. The hierarchy of the pioneer families, the Revolutionary War families, the early builders and city fathers’ families, and the Civil War veterans eyed the newly rich merchant class – retailers, coal barons, mill owners, railroad successes – with suspicion and contempt, but took care not to do so too openly, for the new trades were a necessary evil, keeping the old-guard bankers, lawyers, and land agents employed. The merchants, chafing but ambitious, pretended not to notice, and turned their scorn upon the ordinary working folk who had scrimped and saved to buy tickets. The working folk took no notice at all, and had a splendid time cavorting in rented and borrowed, patched and threadbare finery. It was ten o’clock; supper was over, the dancing had begun in earnest, and everyone seemed to be having a splendid time except for Viggo, who had taken refuge behind a potted palm with a bottle of champagne.
The evening had not gone at all as Viggo had anticipated. They’d arrived in the midst of what seemed like hundreds of other couples, and had been herded up the red carpet and thrust into a tumult of whirling bodies, laughter, blazing lights, and music. Grace had laughed and clapped her hands. "The Emperor Waltz! I adore this."
Sean had bowed low. "Then may I have this dance, miss?" They joined hands and twirled fleetly and gracefully away. Viggo had bowed to Charlotte and followed Sean and Grace’s lead. He had kept a sharp eye out for Sean – not difficult, for his bright, un-pomaded hair was easy to spot under the lights, and his tall, lithe figure had seemed to be the center of a little pocket of admiration. What was difficult was making conversation with Charlotte Welles, who appeared to be ill at ease. The friendliness that Grace had coaxed out of her had disappeared as soon as his sister waltzed off with Sean.
But he had tried. "You’re a marvelous dancer, Charlotte."
Charlotte had seemed to be watching Sean and Grace as well. "What? Oh – thank you."
"Are there many balls here?"
"I’m not really certain, I’m afraid."
And that had been the end of it. He’d attempted a few more conversational gambits that went nowhere, and then resigned himself to silence. When the dance was over, he’d led her to the punch table where a cluster of young people – girls, mostly, Viggo had noted – were talking to Sean and Grace. Grace had seen Charlotte, grasped her about the waist, and led her off, chattering, and the other girls had gathered around Sean, bright as butterflies in their gauzy dresses, giggling and tossing their heads, bold as brass. Viggo had glanced up at the newly unveiled city flag – a cluster of bees around a hive, symbolizing industry – and snorted. Beehives indeed. Then his attention had been claimed by Arthur Wharton of Delaware & Hudson, who wanted Mortensen Coal to increase its stock, and he’d lost sight of Sean.
The rest of the evening had followed in depressingly similar fashion. He’d sought Charlotte out as often as courtesy demanded, but she was ensconced in a corner with Grace, both of them talking in low, intimate voices, shutting out the rest of the assembly. Grace had laughed at him and told him to go dance with some of the girls that were pining for him, and Charlotte had nodded, plainly happy to be free of his company. So Viggo had danced with acquaintances and strangers, and then had joined the platoons of cigar-smoking, pigeon-breasted men talking coal and steel and canals. And all the while he’d kept looking for Sean, becoming more and more annoyed when he caught a glimpse of him dancing with one girl after another, straight-backed and elegant. After a few hours of smiling pretense, he escaped to hide behind the palm and brood.
Viggo drained the rest of his champagne and put the glass on the floor beside the half-empty bottle. He crossed his legs at the knee and folded his arms, staring into the crowd, scanning endlessly. He knew he looked unfriendly and forbidding and didn’t care a fig. Finally, his efforts were rewarded; he found the object of his search, talking to, of all people, his own brother Michael. They were smiling and laughing and seemed to be having a wonderful time. Viggo’s pique increased in equal measure to his admiration.
The evening clothes that made every other man present a dull replica of each other lent Sean marvelous distinction. The glazed shirtfront, tie, and waistcoat gave his face, flushed from dancing, an Apollonian glow. Somewhere – presumably from some over-attentive girl – he’d acquired a lush, creamy gardenia in his buttonhole. For a terrible moment Viggo had found himself unreasonably angered. Sean looked so marvelous and danced so well that he seemed positively aristocratic, as if his ordinarily humble dress and manner were a disguise, or a sham. Or was this new elegance the sham?
Two young men stopped beside the palm, obscuring Viggo’s view. He frowned and half-stood to ask them to move, then sat down again. He was torturing himself, constantly looking for Sean, and it was probably best that he accepted the moment for the blessing it was. He leaned back and inspected the young men. With their backs turned to him, they could have been brothers in their identical tailcoats and sleekly pomaded hair. Idly, he listened to their conversation.
"Same old faces. I told you we should have stayed in New York, Newt. This is strictly small potatoes."
"New York has the same old faces, too, Bax. Besides, it’s not all the same. There’s a new party – the one over there, talking to Charlotte Welles."
"Chilly Charlotte’s back from Miss La-di-Da’s school? Well, well. Who is it? Classmate?"
They could only be talking about Grace. Viggo tensed, ready to spring up and fight if one of them insulted his sister.
"Don’t know. Hmm – whoever it is, she’s got style, at least. The face is all right. She doesn’t look like a horse, at any rate. Give me a drink, will you?"
The young man called Bax took a handsome silver flask from his pocket and handed it to his friend. "Chilly doesn’t look like a horse either. What about the breastworks?"
Viggo’s mouth dropped open.
"Who can tell?" Newt sounded aggrieved. "Those damned corsets hide everything worth seeing or grabbing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I saw her dance two or three with that blond chap over there, the one talking to the Roman."
"Who’s he?"
"English, but not the right sort. Talks like he has a mouthful of hot rocks."
"Damned good-looking, though."
"Rented suit." Newt’s voice dripped scorn.
"No!"
"Bax. Trust me. I can spot a rental at fifty paces."
"Christ almighty, you’re a snobby bugger." Bax punched his friend in the arm. "Come on, let’s go talk to Chilly and her friend. I’m bored stiff." They moved off, still talking companionably.
Viggo’s disposition worsened. He reached down, grasping the champagne bottle, then pushed himself out of the little gilt chair and stalked toward Sean and Michael. As he approached, Sean beamed, and a thorn of remorse and embarrassment pricked Viggo’s conscience. The remorse couldn’t dim the irritation he now recognized as jealousy, however, and it took an exertion of will to nod and greet them. "I didn’t expect to see you here tonight," he said to Michael.
"Didn’t I tell you I was coming?"
"No, you didn’t."
Michael’s eyebrows were pale red, and one arched expressively as he looked his younger brother up and down. "You’re in a fine mood. Sean and I were having a grand conversation before you thundered in, you know. Perhaps you’d better have a bit more of that cheer you’re holding," he said, nodding at Viggo’s champagne bottle.
"Perhaps I’ll do that," Viggo retorted.
"What’s got you in such a lather?"
"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Go find Grace, Michael, she’ll want to see you." Michael’s presence – Roman, Viggo snorted inwardly – would discourage those two young louts from bothering Grace too much.
"Very well. You had better be in more agreeable spirits next time I see you."
Sighing, Viggo turned to Sean. "I find myself in need of some fresh air. Do you want to step outside for a moment?"
"Aye, it’s a bit warm," Sean agreed, and stepped back so Viggo could precede him. "Shall I fetch your cloak?"
Again Viggo felt a surge of peevishness. "No, that's not necessary." He patted Sean’s shoulder, an inadequate gesture to take the waspish temper from his words. "Come along."
The evening was blessedly cool after the stifling press of bodies in the Armory. A fine mist settled against Viggo’s cheek, and fog shrouded the dark neighboring buildings, swathing the gaslights in an eerie glow. Only the Armory was alive with light and noise, but even that was almost silenced by the dark, still wetness wrapping itself around the city streets. They walked west, down the slope of the hill, their footsteps muted in the gloom.
"You seemed to be having a fine time." The words spewed from Viggo’s mouth like a bitter accusation. Silently, he cursed himself. "I had no idea you could dance so well."
"My mam taught me," Sean said. "Before my dad took sick." He stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. "Your sister’s a fine dancer."
"You didn’t dance with her alone, I noticed." Why was it so impossible to contain his ill humor? It wasn’t as if Viggo could ask Sean for a dance in the middle of the ballroom floor, or drag him away from the girls claiming his attention. Though that was exactly what he’d done, wasn’t it? He took a long pull from the champagne bottle and attempted a lighter tone. "You were quite popular this evening."
"Nice enough lasses, I suppose."
Viggo’s heart contracted. "Any in particular strike your fancy?"
"What?" Sean halted, and then resumed walking. "Nay, nay. They’re – they’re friendly and all, but a bit silly. Except for Miss Grace," he amended. "She’s got a solid head on her shoulders."
"Naturally." Viggo clenched his teeth, fervently wishing he’d never allowed the pair of them to meet. "She’s a wonderful girl. You two looked grand dancing together."
"She told me you used to dance with her." Sean laughed a little.
A spasm of jealousy lurched in Viggo’s stomach. He imagined Sean smiling down at Grace as she regaled him with stories of their childhood. Suddenly he felt the need to be alone, to walk off his bitterness. He would likely make it back to Philadelphia on foot before it fell away altogether. "Well, I can tell you that you make a much better partner for her. I’ve all the grace of a toad." He took another drink from the bottle, stopped in his tracks, and held it out to Sean. "So should I offer you congratulations?"
Sean frowned. "Congratulations, sir?"
"Well – you fancy Grace, don’t you?" Viggo tried for gallantry. "I don’t mind. You’re a grand fellow, and you looked altogether splendid with her. I think you might suit each other." He envisioned a long future of Sean as his brother-in-law, establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with at Mortensen Coal, standing tall and golden beside Grace and tormenting him at every holiday, producing children and then grandchildren as Viggo grew old, alone, yearning for him, a tottering ancient bachelor feigning a sugary crust of friendliness and fraternal affection to mask his desperate, bitter adoration.
"I don’t – that is – nay, sir, she doesn’t fancy me at all."
"She might, given time. I've seen engagements spring from lesser acquaintances." For God’s sake, why am I doing this to myself? Viggo wondered. He turned away, resting his hand on the low, thick branch of a sycamore tree, and then sat on it, unmindful of its dampness. "I have a headache," he announced softly.
"Sir?" Sean stepped closer. "Sir?"
"I’m sorry I was cross, Sean. I’m not feeling well at all." Viggo screwed his eyes tightly shut and swallowed a lump in his throat.
"Can I get you owt?" A diffident touch fell on Viggo’s arm. "Sir?"
Viggo turned with a dragging, dreamlike slowness. Sean’s face was half obscured by shadow, but near enough that Viggo saw concern etching his brow. Without stopping to think, he rose and closed the distance between them, kissing Sean lightly.
Sean’s lips were unexpectedly soft and sweet, made sweeter by the faint, excitingly masculine prickle of shaven chin and jaw. He made a faint noise, but neither moved away nor protested. Shaking, clutching the champagne bottle as if it were a lifeline, Viggo closed his eyes and stepped closer still, so that their bodies touched.
A burst of laughter from nearby dragged them apart. Startled, Viggo dropped the bottle, and it shattered on the sidewalk. A quartet of young people were running toward them, two young men pursuing two girls, all shrieking with merriment. They bounded past Viggo and Sean without appearing to take notice of them and disappeared into the fog.
Viggo looked helplessly at Sean. Sean’s eyes were wide and shocked, and his fingers had drifted up to cover his mouth. "Sean…." Sean took a step backward, illuminating himself beneath the dull diffused gold of a gas lamp. Flushing, humiliated, Viggo followed. "Sean, please, listen a moment –"
"Viggo Mortensen!" a familiar voice trilled.
Unwillingly, Viggo turned toward the voice, cursing under his breath when he saw the petite, bejeweled figure of his neighbor Harriet McHugh hurrying toward him. "Mrs. McHugh." Had she actually followed them outside?
"I’ve been looking for you all evening, Mr. Mortensen. Do say you’ll dance with me at least once before the night’s over." She looped her arm through his and pulled him back toward the armory.
"Mrs. McHugh, I really –" Viggo scowled, and turned back to urge Sean to rescue him.
But Sean was nowhere to be seen.
*
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.
*
Sean whistled an Irish air, tunelessly but with unfettered delight. He was in no particular hurry, and didn’t bother to nudge Viggo’s carriage horse into a faster walk. The horse, who Viggo had christened Roland, was only three years old, a fine-looking, fifteen-hands-high healthy beast, according to the veterinarian, but never displayed the energy for much more than munching oats. Sean had never seen a young horse so indifferent to exercise, and had never been able to prod him into anything beyond a brisk trot. Today, even Roland seemed to be enjoying the weather; there was a sparkle in his eye, and occasionally he tossed his head and snorted good-naturedly – although, Sean noted, his gait remained stately and slow.
It had been his habit of late to go to the mine once or twice a week on Viggo’s behalf, sometimes acting as courier, sometimes as inspector, two or three times as unofficial mediator. It was a courtesy that Gavin Rowe appreciated, for it meant that he didn’t have to waste time traipsing back and forth between the mine and the Mortensen office. Sean and Rowe had taken to each other immediately. Sean liked the man’s plain-spoken manner; it reminded him of home. And Rowe seemed to relish Sean’s company. He was a regular at Sean’s pub, and though neither of them were given to garrulity, they were chums of a sort. Occasionally Viggo accompanied him to the colliery, especially when he had blueprints of new machinery that was the latest word in safety and modernity. But most often it was Sean who made the short trips, and the mine bosses, and to some extent the miners themselves, had come to trust him.
Before the Mortensens had taken over, the mine had been owned by a Mr. Jonas Albright, whose motto might have been ‘One bad turn deserves another.’ Albright’s tyranny and outright cruelty had been legendary, and the workers had rebelled by slow degrees: falsifying quotas, anonymous threats, tampering with machinery, and vandalizing the company store. His response had been to strike back by withholding their pay and raising prices at the company store so high that the miners could barely afford to feed their families. At last the workers had simply laid down their tools and refused to work, enlisting the aid of the United Mine Workers. Albright’s colliery had lain idle for thirty days, and on the thirty-first day he had been found dead in his bed. No fingers were specifically pointed, though there had been some speculation as to the cause of death in the Wilkes-Barre Times, and it was the general opinion that Albright had received his just deserts. For a few years the mine lay vacant and abandoned and was regarded as bad luck, but then Harald Mortensen had dug nearby, found another rich vein, and decided to use the old colliery instead of building a new one. Slowly, the miners returned to the colliery, and soon business was booming again.
Upon inheriting the management of the mine, Viggo had embarked on an earnest campaign for modern machinery. He traveled to mines throughout northeastern Pennsylvania, talked to owners and operators, procured plans and prints and the newest catalogues and leaflets on mining technology, and finally persuaded his father that new machinery was necessary if Mortensen Coal was to prosper in the industry. The week after the centennial celebrations promised to be a busy one; Viggo had appointments with several engineers and a man who claimed to have built a digging and loading device that would minimize risk to the miners. "I’m a terrible businessman, Sean," he’d confided laughingly. "I care more about safety than profits."
"Well, if you can keep the lads alive and make a profit too, it’s not a bad bit of work, I say," Sean had replied, and they’d shaken hands on it. If Sean thought that Viggo was at times a trifle sheltered, he was by no means the idle rich boy Sean had initially suspected him to be. Viggo worked tirelessly, managed to convince his father to modernize in the space of a month, and there were occasional glimpses of a steely will under his affable exterior. He hadn’t forgotten the breaker boys, for one thing. He was still looking for a way to free them from their jobs and provide some sort of support for the more destitute families – that was to say, those lacking an able-bodied adult male provider. There was no way to raise the boys’ salaries that wouldn’t involve a raise for every other employee of the colliery, and that was too much of an expense at present, according to Viggo’s father. Discreet inquiries had indicated that outright charity would be unwelcome, if not blatantly scorned, and the excuse of the boys needing an education would have been laughed at. Still Viggo pondered the question, and was determined to see his way through it. "My bleeding heart," Viggo had said ruefully. Sean had only smiled, yearning to say something encouraging, something tender and lover-like, and at the same time, yearning to take liberties, to put his hands and his mouth on the warmth of Viggo’s lean body, to spread Viggo’s legs apart and take him – and only then had he discovered that Viggo was watching him out of the corner of his eye, and he’d hastened to some trivial task, hating the blush that rose to his cheeks, hating his inability to stop his fantasies. You can’t go on the rest of your life like this, he’d told himself, but even if that were true, it was impossible to stop. He had never wanted to be so deeply in thrall to another person. Freddy had manipulated Sean’s young body and his inexperienced heart; Viggo, in all innocence, had wrought a deeper, a more devastating change.
The breaker loomed into view. Sean tamped his natural aversion and drew closer, waving to the fire boss, Ronnie Jones, and the driver boss, Karol Czerwinski, tin dinner pails swinging from blackened hands. "Finished up already, lads?"
"Lunch," Karol replied, petting Roland’s nose. "What brings you here, Sean?"
"Dropping off some tallies for Gavin. I’ll leave it inside for him." After the unfortunate incident at the Glen Lyon mine, Sean had decided to make no secret of his aversion to cramped spaces. He expected to be teased, but the men took his refusal to go into the mine with equanimity. They had, Sean supposed, other things to think about than his fears.
"Oh, he’s in there already," Ronnie said, gesturing toward the breaker. "He’s talking with the new outside foreman."
"Oh, bloody hell, and I left his damned paperwork at the office." Sean scowled. "Truth is, I haven’t even looked at it yet."
"I don’t think he starts until next week – he’s just having a look about," Ronnie said. "No harm done, lad."
"Ah, well. In the office there?"
"Aye, that’s it."
"Right. Enjoy your lunch, Ronnie. Karol." Sean drove to the far side of the breaker, past a gang of dirty-faced breaker boys and butties playing a scratch game of baseball with sticks and a frayed leather ball wrapped in twine to keep the cover on. He swung down from the trap, tethered the horse, and in a gesture now familiar to the boys, casually lifted his hand. One of the boys threw the ball, and it wobbled across the yard, where he caught it neatly. Sean strode to the middle of the pitch to the boys’ cheers. He sized up the batter – one of the butties, a tall, lanky boy named Herbert – aimed, and threw the ball.
Herbert swung. The ball connected with a crack, and went sailing overhead. An outfielder who looked to be no more than seven missed, and the boy’s piping curses went unheard beneath the cheers of the other boys as Herbert rounded the bases, his hobnailed boots kicking up clouds of dust. He skidded home, yanked off his cap, and threw it in the air. "Thanks, Mr. Bean."
"No fair!" another boy bellowed. "Mr. Bean has to pitch to us now." He held up the ball, now sadly denuded of twine. "Hell, look at that."
"Next time, lads," Sean called. "Look here." Like a magician performing a trick, he produced a shining white leather ball from his pocket and tossed it to Herbert. The boys whooped and whistled. Sean grinned as he trotted back to the carriage. The cover would be gone in two weeks. He might put himself in the poorhouse buying baseballs, but their laughing, dirty faces made it well worth his while.
He’d gained the boys’ affection in fairly short order, even if his methods had been unconventional. Wandering alone on his first visit to the breaker, he’d passed the chutes and felt a sharp twinge of pain in his arm. Glancing down, he’d seen a chunk of rock about half the size of his fist. He’d glared up at the boys, who were snickering openly, and judging the trajectory of the missile, had quickly winnowed out the culprit, a handsome little sprite picking rocks with the air of an indifferent cherub. Without hesitation Sean had reached down, scooped up a handful of dirt and a pebble, made a hard ball with the pebble in the center, and hurled it at the boy. Bit of your own medicine, brat. With a startled roar, the erstwhile cherub clutched his arm and stared open-mouthed at Sean as the other boys howled with delight. It had been exactly the right thing to do, even if Viggo wouldn’t quite have approved.
He understood Viggo’s urge to protect the breaker boys; he’d been one of them himself, and it wasn’t right, little boys working like grown men, bent and exhausted, hands bloody or callused, coughing up black phlegm and sounding like consumptives. But when the choice was work or starve – and not just them, but their families as well – they understood well enough, and toughened up as best they could. It wasn’t fair, but life often wasn’t fair. Viggo’s gentle disposition came from a gentle life.
But then, Sean’s dad Jack had been gentle as well, and his life had been anything but. Sweet-natured and kind, he was, and scarcely a word of complaint from his lips, even when times were hardest. Sean realized with a sudden pang of mingled sorrow and pleasure that Jack would have liked Viggo, and Viggo would have been fond of Jack. He would have liked to have introduced them.
Shaking off his melancholy, Sean got his papers from the carriage pocket and went into the breaker, wincing at the din of the machinery. Viggo claimed that the new machinery was much quieter. Sean couldn’t see how, but anything would be an improvement. He nodded here and there as he made his way to the front office. He knocked briskly and walked in. "Gavin, I’ve brought the –" he called, and then froze.
Sitting in the chair opposite Gavin’s desk was Harry Slater.
"Well, well, well – if this just isn’t the long arm of coincidence." Harry stood up and extended his hand with a broad smile. "Gavin mentioned the name Sean Bean and I thought ‘twas merely a fellow with the same name. How are you, lad?"
Gavin rose as well. "Great God! You two know each other?"
"You could say that," Harry replied, grasping Sean’s hand and shaking it vigorously. His blue eyes narrowed as his smile widened. "Lived in the same town, we did, and me and his dad were great pals. Now he’s second in command here, eh? A right toff, you are, Sean, moving up in the world. I thought you were headed for New York."
Sean felt the blood draining from his face. He shook Harry’s hand numbly, unable to think of anything but the night he’d tried – and failed – to kill him. How blithely and coolly he’d accepted Freddy’s money, the job undone, and how quickly afterward he’d fled. The money was gone, of course, but he still had Freddy’s letter to Harry in a drawer at the boarding house. He recovered himself quickly and managed a smile. "A coincidence to be sure, Harry. No, I ended up here. What brings you to Mortensen Coal?"
"Well, looks as if I’ll be working here. I’m your new outside foreman."
Jesus Christ. Sean’s knees felt like jelly. He perched on the edge of Gavin’s desk and nodded. "Welcome, then. What made you leave England?" He searched Harry’s face for some crack in the façade, some indication that he knew the identity of his attacker, but his countenance was jovial, his eyes twinkled, and his posture was relaxed. He can’t know, Sean reassured himself. Freddy valued his own skin too much to betray that sort of confidence.
"Why did you, laddie?" Harry laughed. "Same as you, I reckon – came to seek my fortune in Amerikay." He imitated a broad Irish accent. "Christ, you wouldn’t believe all the bloody bogtrotters on the crossing. I imagine you’ve got your fair share of Irish here," he said to Gavin.
"Bit of everything," Gavin replied amiably. "Irish, Welsh, Italian, Poles, Swedes – even a couple of black fellows and red Indians."
"I’ll whip them into shape," Harry promised. "No worries there."
Sean frowned. "They’re good workers already, Harry."
"Just an expression, lad," Harry said soothingly. "Now, as I’ve just arrived, maybe you can help me, introduce me about. What do you say?"
"Oh, aye. ‘Course I will," Sean said, lying through his teeth. "How is everyone in Winsley?"
"Sound as can be. We’ll have a drink or dinner and catch up on old faces and places."
Sean felt a fine sweat on his brow. "Perhaps next week, while Mr. Mortensen is meeting with the engineers. Meantime, I’ve got to go. Gavin – your tallies."
"Thanks, Sean," Gavin said, accepting the sheaf of paper. "Fancy that, the two of you knowing each other."
"It’s a small world," Sean said desperately. "Have a good afternoon. Harry, I’ll be seeing you."
"Oh, that you will."
Sean drove back to the office in a daze. It scarcely mattered that the money he’d taken for murdering Harry was gone. The fact was…well, what were the facts? Freddy would never say a word for fear of retribution. Harry wouldn’t betray his inclinations by so much as a whisper, and if he missed his letters, why, Sean had taken some other things, too, so the whole incident had seemed to be a simple act of robbery. Harry hadn’t seen his face. There was nothing to connect him to the incident.
He had an impulse to write to Freddy, to see if he’d talked, but the truth was he was ashamed of his treachery. The money was long gone, but he’d still taken it for a job he hadn’t done.
Murder.
"Christ," Sean muttered, wiping his brow. What a bleeding mess it all was. He forcibly composed himself before entering the office.
Viggo was at his desk in his shirtsleeves. "Did Roland manage a canter?"
"Sorry, sir?" Sean blinked, confused.
"It’s just that you’re back so quickly. I thought you got the horse to canter for once."
"Oh." Sean went to his desk and took off his own coat. "Nay. I forgot the working papers for the new outside foreman, so I didn’t stay long. Turns out I know him." Word would get around quickly enough; he might as well tell Viggo before he found out from another source.
"From Winsley?"
"Aye," Sean described Harry in a few listless sentences.
"Not a close friend, I gather," Viggo remarked quietly.
Sean had a sudden urge to pour out the whole ugly story. But it was too ugly, that was the problem. Viggo would never understand, not that Sean deserved understanding. Accepting money for murder – who deserved the slightest sympathy for that, no matter what a nasty, blackmailing bugger Harry might have been? "Nay, not close."
"Well, never mind him, then. I have an idea. Would you come to my house on Saturday evening before the ball? We can have dinner and then drive over with the girls. I’d like to invite Charlotte Welles – that way we can all scrape acquaintance beforehand."
It had always seemed to exceed propriety to visit Viggo’s house, though Viggo had invited him any number of times and Sean secretly longed to go. Now it didn’t seem such a terrible idea. The presence of a couple of chattering girls would likely dispel any awkwardness – and besides, Sean had become fond of Grace as she’d taken to dropping in during the day. She brought out a playful side of Viggo that was both painful and beguiling to behold. She’d make the evening bearable. Sean nodded. "Sounds lovely, sir. Thank you."
"I’ll expect you at six o’clock."
Sean nodded and set back to work, but even the prospect of an evening in Viggo’s company didn’t quite diminish a growing sensation of unease deep in the pit of his belly. "Sir?"
Viggo looked up. "Yes, Sean?"
"Could I – that is, would you mind if I stored some papers in the safe here? Some…personal documents?"
"Oh, of course. You needn’t even ask. You have the combination."
"I didn’t want to presume. Thank you, though."
He’d keep the incriminating letter here, locked up in the office. Just to be on the safe side.
*
Three firm raps landed on Viggo’s bedroom door, followed by a muffled inquiry. "Are you decent?"
"Decent as I’ll ever be." He surveyed himself in the mirror, gave a final twist to his white tie, which was slightly crooked and resisted every effort to straighten it, and then strode to the door and flung it open. "Don’t you look ravishing, old thing." He drew his sister into the bedroom by one hand and twirled her around, letting out a low whistle. Grace wore a dress of cream batiste, its low back, skirt, and train heavily embroidered with palest lilac and green. A choker made up of rows of tiny pearls encircled her throat. Her hair was piled into a pompadour, she wore a touch of rouge on her cheeks and lips, and she looked polished, elegant, and…womanly, Viggo realized. He’d seen her dressed up on other occasions, to be sure, but this was the first time she looked like a lady, rather than a girl unwillingly masquerading as a lady.
Grace frowned. "What is it? Too much rouge? Mother said I should wear a little, but I never tried it on my own before."
"It’s not that." Viggo shook his head. "You’re –" He made a helpless gesture with his hands. "You’re grown up, Gracie."
"Oh, dear. Is it awful?"
"No. You look very pretty. It’s just – it’s a bit odd to see. I tend to think of you in short dresses, with a bow in your hair and your stockings torn from climbing trees."
"Yes – and in my mind’s eye, you’re eleven, swinging upside-down on old Mrs. Pettigrew’s fence and throwing crickets into my hair." Grace laughed. She swept to Viggo’s mirror, her pearl-embroidered cream silk-satin shoes peeping from beneath her hem, and examined her reflection. "I don’t feel grown up. When does one get to feeling grown up? Do you feel that way?"
"Sometimes," Viggo admitted, sitting on a tufted, over-tasseled ottoman. "When I’m in the office, pegging away at a dozen price lists for blasting powder or wage sheets for the miners – I suppose I feel grown up then, though only after the fact, if you follow. It's an odd thing, I must say."
Grace shrugged. "At least you work at something and you’re a productive member of society. Mother would have a fit if I suggested getting a job of some sort."
"Plenty of respectable women work."
"Not according to Mother."
"Well," Viggo said, "I have a feeling you won’t need a job, the way you look. I’ll wager you get half a dozen proposals tonight."
"Oh, indeed. And what about you? Are you looking forward to seeing the lovely Charlotte?"
"Grace, you promised you’d stop calling her that. You’ve been doing it all week – you’re going to trip yourself up and embarrass both of us."
"I will not. Besides, it’s just appalling how Mr. Welles maneuvered you into escorting her. Or worse, how the lovely Charlotte maneuvered him into asking you because she didn’t have the backbone to speak to you herself."
"Girls don’t ask fellows to dances," Viggo frowned.
"Why? Oh, don’t tell me – it’s just not done. The four most infernally stupid words in the English language." Two spots of natural color appeared beneath Grace’s rouge. "Honestly, if a girl fancies a man, she has to sit demurely and wait for him to notice her – and then if he doesn’t, act as if everything is perfectly fine. It’s the silliest thing."
Viggo thought about it. It was a bit stupid, on the face of things. "Maybe you’re right. Do you fancy anyone?"
Grace rolled her eyes. "You know me – spinster for life. I’m not interested in proposals tonight. If Sean’s any sort of gentleman, he’ll keep any nincompoop shortsighted enough to fancy me at bay. What on earth are you making those faces for?"
"Am I?" Viggo forced his features into an approximation of a smile. It was a terrible and humiliating thing to be jealous of one’s own sister. "I suppose I don’t like the idea of someone, shortsighted or not, trying to carry off my dear sister."
She let out a peal of genuine mirth. "You’re a terrible liar. And your tie’s askew."
"I know. I can’t get the fool thing right. Come on, let’s go downstairs. I sent Pearce for Charlotte and she should be here any moment now."
"What about Sean?"
"He said he’d walk. Come on." Viggo ushered Grace out of his bedroom and they walked downstairs, their footfalls noiseless on the thick carpet. Outside, the early evening was cool, misted with rain, but Viggo was overheated and uncomfortable. He ran a finger beneath his stiffly starched collar; already it was beginning to rub his skin raw. By the end of the night, there’d probably be a red ring around his throat, as if he’d escaped the hangman. But not even the discomfort of his evening clothes eclipsed the nervous roiling of his stomach. He’d never spent an entire evening in Sean’s company before, and the thought of it filled him with anxiety. Time after time he’d tried to convince Sean to join him on some social outing, and time after time Sean had demurred. Only when he’d offered the possibility of a quartet that included feminine company had Sean accepted. Had Viggo pushed too hard? He thought he’d been subtle, well within the bounds of propriety, but perhaps Sean simply wasn’t comfortable socializing with his employer. Or worse, found him dull – disheartening thought.
He hoped not. Even though Sean maintained a certain formality, there was, Viggo believed, a slowly developing familiarity between them. They worked easily together. Sean had a quick, precise intelligence as well as a practical turn of mind that Viggo appreciated, even if it sometimes dampened his more idealistic moments. The miners and bosses liked his bluntness and honesty; with Sean as emissary, Viggo had no difficulty with his own employees. If Sean's demeanor was generally somewhat sober, there were also flashes of wit and humor that broke through at times, like sunlight through a cloud. Now and then Viggo found himself trying to coax a smile from him, for no other reason than that he loved seeing Sean’s smile, and no matter that Viggo felt a sharp pain every time he saw it.
He’d had temptations since coming to Wilkes-Barre. It would have been easy to lose himself in the breathless, perfumed attentions of the twenty or so girls who had been thrust at him with unceasing regularity and enthusiasm so intense it first alarmed him, then made him suspicious, then finally dismayed when he realized it was chiefly his money that attracted them and their parents. It was naïve of him not to realize it at once, but even so, he’d had a few encounters that flattered his vanity and excited him physically. Alicia Roderick had kissed him in the iron summerhouse of her parents’ Harvey’s Lake house, slipping her tongue in his mouth with clumsy but determined ardor. Two weeks ago, at a tea dance, Cornelia Walker, one of Wilkes-Barre’s leading hostesses, had propositioned him in French during a quadrille. Her soft body had pressed against his, and her lips had grazed his ear.
Viggo had extricated himself from each situation with enough tact to preserve the peace and the ladies’ collective virtue. The last temptation, though, had been the worst. He’d taken Grace to dinner at the home of Stanley Beckwith, another mine owner. His son Randall had just returned from Princeton, and they’d traded college stories and discovered some mutual acquaintances. At the end of the evening, Randall had followed Viggo into the cloakroom and, under the guise of helping Viggo on with his coat, had stepped close behind him, close enough for Viggo to feel Randall’s erection. There had been a moment of hesitation; he’d almost capitulated. Randall was handsome in a blond college-athlete way, and Viggo had sensed no emotional attraction, merely the practical pressure of physical arousal. An assignation would have been uncomplicated and pleasurable, like the affairs he’d had in college, certainly more pleasurable than the quick, necessary manipulation that gave him release night after night. And there was no indication that Sean had an interest in him. It was a sad and lonely thing to pine for the unattainable.
But it was Sean that he wanted, and if thwarted desire made him as chaste as his brother Michael, so be it. It wouldn’t have been fair to substitute Randall for Sean, no matter how handsome Randall was. And so, after a few long seconds, he’d stepped away, his own prick painfully hard, and had given Randall a friendly if shaky smile. Randall had accepted that with equanimity, and the night had ended without further incident. Viggo had escorted Grace home, bid her a good night’s sleep, then marched into the bathroom and stroked himself to hasty completion, biting his lip hard to keep from crying out.
He found himself watching Sean at odd but ordinary moments – working at his desk, shirtsleeves rolled up to expose the scant gold hair on his arms, the long fingers of one hand curled over the edge of the desk, the tip of his tongue sometimes clenched firmly between his teeth when he was particularly deep in concentration. His observations took place covertly, through lowered eyelashes, employing a trick his brother Adam had taught him to discreetly look at girls.
There were times when the pressure of longing became almost too much to bear, when he was sure he had to declare himself or explode from the effort of withholding his emotion. He’d come dangerously close the day they’d gone to the Glen Lyon mine and Sean had collapsed. After he and Stancavage had hauled Sean’s inert body into warmth and daylight and Stancavage had run for water, Viggo had hovered close, scrutinizing Sean’s fitful attempts toward consciousness, shamed and excited by the knowledge that he could press his lips to Sean’s, and Sean, in his helplessness, couldn’t prevent it. He’d bent close enough to feel the warmth of Sean’s breath, and then, of course, Sean had opened his eyes.
Viggo had begun to stutter out some passionate expression of yearning, then clamped his lips together. His opportunity had disappeared. But even if he had summoned the courage to speak, it might have ended in disaster. He’d touched Sean’s arm, and Sean had flinched slightly, making Viggo fearful that Sean found him repellent. He should have stopped then, but since that occasion he’d found a dozen excuses to touch Sean, small caresses disguised as friendly pats or tugs on the sleeve. He knew it was a risky and foolish game that he played, and yet he couldn’t seem to stop.
Grace’s voice interrupted Viggo’s reverie. "I hear the carriage."
Viggo nodded and opened the door just as the carriage stopped. He ran lightly down the steps, extending his hand. "Good evening, Miss Welles."
"Good evening, Mr. Mortensen." Charlotte accepted his assistance and allowed him to lead her into the house. She was a very pretty girl, with curling hair the color of dark honey, hazel eyes that glinted with gold, and the sort of full, pouty lips that encouraged Viggo’s college friends to make ribald jokes about a particular erotic feat. Beneath the evening cape she handed to the maid, she wore a dress of sea-foam green and a necklace of gold filigree. Despite her airy gown, she looked as grim as if she were attending a funeral. "Thank you for inviting me."
"It’s my pleasure." Viggo wondered if Chester Welles had informed his daughter that he’d orchestrated the entire affair. "May I present my sister Grace? Grace, this is Charlotte Welles."
"How do you do, Miss Welles?" Grace swept forward in a rustle of skirts and clasped Charlotte’s gloved hand in hers. "Thank you so very much for coming. I’m delighted that you joined us this evening." Her tone and words were so reminiscent of their mother’s that Viggo glanced swiftly at her face, anxiously searching for signs of mockery. But her smile was warm and she seemed sincere. "I hope the drizzle didn’t spoil that lovely dress."
Palpable relief spread over the young woman’s face. "Oh, no indeed. It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Miss Mortensen."
"Please call me Grace." Beaming, Grace linked her arm with Charlotte’s and led her toward the drawing room. "There’s a fire in here. The night’s quite cool. I was worried about freezing at the ball – it’s in an armory, isn’t it?"
"Oh, yes."
"Odd place for a party. I’m sure it’ll be quite warm though, what with the crowd."
Bemused, Viggo stared after them. For all her protestations, Grace was a confident and gracious hostess. He made a mental note to tell his mother that her vehement chiding hadn’t gone unheard. He smiled, and then jumped a little at the jangling din of the doorbell. "I’ll get it," he told the maid, and stalked to the door. He took a deep breath and threw it open with reckless force.
Sean removed his high silk rain-spattered hat. "Evening, sir."
Viggo’s throat contracted. If Sean was handsome in his everyday clothes, in evening clothes he was dazzling. Or did a person become more attractive with familiarity? It was no more extraordinary a costume than he’d seen a hundred times in a hundred different ballrooms: white tie, tailcoat, narrow trousers, patent-leather dance pumps, white gloves. "You look splendid," he managed.
A grin spread over Sean’s face. "Ta very much. So do you."
"Thank you. Oh, good God almighty, I’m leaving you standing in the rain," Viggo said, forgetting that there was a covered portico above Sean’s head. "Come in, please."
"Thank you." Sean stepped inside, handed his hat and gloves to the maid, and brushed a few drops from his coat. "It’s a bit nippy out."
"You should have let me send the carriage for you."
"Nay. I like walking. Helps me think."
"Solvitur ambulando."
"Is that Latin?"
"Yes," Viggo said. "It means It is solved by walking. One has to keep moving to work out one’s problems."
"Aye, that’s it." Sean's gaze traveled over the heavy, dark, Italian furnishings of the entrance hall, its red-painted ceiling with gilt scrollwork. "Grand place."
Viggo wondered what Sean would make of his parents’ fifty-room Philadelphia mansion. Would he be impressed or disgusted by all the excess? "It’s a bit large for me." He took a step closer and noticed that Sean was freshly barbered, his hair recently cut, his smooth skin smelling faintly of bay rum. "I’d love to show you the whole house, but my sister and Miss Welles are waiting. Perhaps you could come back soon? For luncheon one day, for instance?"
Sean’s eyes dropped for a second, then he nodded. "All right."
"Marvelous. And Sean – I really would be obliged if you would call me Viggo. At least for the evening." He watched a faint flush spread on Sean’s cheeks. "If that makes you uncomfortable –"
"Nay, it weren’t that, sir, it just –" Sean broke off. "Can’t seem to help it, though."
If Viggo took another step forward, they would be close enough to kiss. "I won’t press you, then." He wanted to touch his lips to the spot just under Sean’s ear, to suckle his earlobe, to taste the salt of his skin. "The last thing I want is to cause you discomfort."
Sean’s lips parted as if he wanted to say something, but no words emerged. They stood in a silent, motionless waltz of vacillation as the ebony-cabineted grandfather clock loudly ticked the seconds away. At last Sean cleared his throat. "I suppose we should find the ladies."
A pang of disappointment echoed in Viggo’s chest, as if something lovely had slipped through his fingers. "Yes. Yes, let’s do that." He smiled and gestured for Sean to precede him into the drawing room.
*
The Ninth Regiment Armory was a gloomy, drafty monstrosity of grey stone and red brick, but it was one of the only buildings in Wilkes-Barre with rooms large enough to accommodate seven hundred guests, tables laden with food and drink, as well as an orchestra and waiters and attendants enough to serve the guests’ needs. And a glittering assemblage it was. The hierarchy of the pioneer families, the Revolutionary War families, the early builders and city fathers’ families, and the Civil War veterans eyed the newly rich merchant class – retailers, coal barons, mill owners, railroad successes – with suspicion and contempt, but took care not to do so too openly, for the new trades were a necessary evil, keeping the old-guard bankers, lawyers, and land agents employed. The merchants, chafing but ambitious, pretended not to notice, and turned their scorn upon the ordinary working folk who had scrimped and saved to buy tickets. The working folk took no notice at all, and had a splendid time cavorting in rented and borrowed, patched and threadbare finery. It was ten o’clock; supper was over, the dancing had begun in earnest, and everyone seemed to be having a splendid time except for Viggo, who had taken refuge behind a potted palm with a bottle of champagne.
The evening had not gone at all as Viggo had anticipated. They’d arrived in the midst of what seemed like hundreds of other couples, and had been herded up the red carpet and thrust into a tumult of whirling bodies, laughter, blazing lights, and music. Grace had laughed and clapped her hands. "The Emperor Waltz! I adore this."
Sean had bowed low. "Then may I have this dance, miss?" They joined hands and twirled fleetly and gracefully away. Viggo had bowed to Charlotte and followed Sean and Grace’s lead. He had kept a sharp eye out for Sean – not difficult, for his bright, un-pomaded hair was easy to spot under the lights, and his tall, lithe figure had seemed to be the center of a little pocket of admiration. What was difficult was making conversation with Charlotte Welles, who appeared to be ill at ease. The friendliness that Grace had coaxed out of her had disappeared as soon as his sister waltzed off with Sean.
But he had tried. "You’re a marvelous dancer, Charlotte."
Charlotte had seemed to be watching Sean and Grace as well. "What? Oh – thank you."
"Are there many balls here?"
"I’m not really certain, I’m afraid."
And that had been the end of it. He’d attempted a few more conversational gambits that went nowhere, and then resigned himself to silence. When the dance was over, he’d led her to the punch table where a cluster of young people – girls, mostly, Viggo had noted – were talking to Sean and Grace. Grace had seen Charlotte, grasped her about the waist, and led her off, chattering, and the other girls had gathered around Sean, bright as butterflies in their gauzy dresses, giggling and tossing their heads, bold as brass. Viggo had glanced up at the newly unveiled city flag – a cluster of bees around a hive, symbolizing industry – and snorted. Beehives indeed. Then his attention had been claimed by Arthur Wharton of Delaware & Hudson, who wanted Mortensen Coal to increase its stock, and he’d lost sight of Sean.
The rest of the evening had followed in depressingly similar fashion. He’d sought Charlotte out as often as courtesy demanded, but she was ensconced in a corner with Grace, both of them talking in low, intimate voices, shutting out the rest of the assembly. Grace had laughed at him and told him to go dance with some of the girls that were pining for him, and Charlotte had nodded, plainly happy to be free of his company. So Viggo had danced with acquaintances and strangers, and then had joined the platoons of cigar-smoking, pigeon-breasted men talking coal and steel and canals. And all the while he’d kept looking for Sean, becoming more and more annoyed when he caught a glimpse of him dancing with one girl after another, straight-backed and elegant. After a few hours of smiling pretense, he escaped to hide behind the palm and brood.
Viggo drained the rest of his champagne and put the glass on the floor beside the half-empty bottle. He crossed his legs at the knee and folded his arms, staring into the crowd, scanning endlessly. He knew he looked unfriendly and forbidding and didn’t care a fig. Finally, his efforts were rewarded; he found the object of his search, talking to, of all people, his own brother Michael. They were smiling and laughing and seemed to be having a wonderful time. Viggo’s pique increased in equal measure to his admiration.
The evening clothes that made every other man present a dull replica of each other lent Sean marvelous distinction. The glazed shirtfront, tie, and waistcoat gave his face, flushed from dancing, an Apollonian glow. Somewhere – presumably from some over-attentive girl – he’d acquired a lush, creamy gardenia in his buttonhole. For a terrible moment Viggo had found himself unreasonably angered. Sean looked so marvelous and danced so well that he seemed positively aristocratic, as if his ordinarily humble dress and manner were a disguise, or a sham. Or was this new elegance the sham?
Two young men stopped beside the palm, obscuring Viggo’s view. He frowned and half-stood to ask them to move, then sat down again. He was torturing himself, constantly looking for Sean, and it was probably best that he accepted the moment for the blessing it was. He leaned back and inspected the young men. With their backs turned to him, they could have been brothers in their identical tailcoats and sleekly pomaded hair. Idly, he listened to their conversation.
"Same old faces. I told you we should have stayed in New York, Newt. This is strictly small potatoes."
"New York has the same old faces, too, Bax. Besides, it’s not all the same. There’s a new party – the one over there, talking to Charlotte Welles."
"Chilly Charlotte’s back from Miss La-di-Da’s school? Well, well. Who is it? Classmate?"
They could only be talking about Grace. Viggo tensed, ready to spring up and fight if one of them insulted his sister.
"Don’t know. Hmm – whoever it is, she’s got style, at least. The face is all right. She doesn’t look like a horse, at any rate. Give me a drink, will you?"
The young man called Bax took a handsome silver flask from his pocket and handed it to his friend. "Chilly doesn’t look like a horse either. What about the breastworks?"
Viggo’s mouth dropped open.
"Who can tell?" Newt sounded aggrieved. "Those damned corsets hide everything worth seeing or grabbing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter, I suppose. I saw her dance two or three with that blond chap over there, the one talking to the Roman."
"Who’s he?"
"English, but not the right sort. Talks like he has a mouthful of hot rocks."
"Damned good-looking, though."
"Rented suit." Newt’s voice dripped scorn.
"No!"
"Bax. Trust me. I can spot a rental at fifty paces."
"Christ almighty, you’re a snobby bugger." Bax punched his friend in the arm. "Come on, let’s go talk to Chilly and her friend. I’m bored stiff." They moved off, still talking companionably.
Viggo’s disposition worsened. He reached down, grasping the champagne bottle, then pushed himself out of the little gilt chair and stalked toward Sean and Michael. As he approached, Sean beamed, and a thorn of remorse and embarrassment pricked Viggo’s conscience. The remorse couldn’t dim the irritation he now recognized as jealousy, however, and it took an exertion of will to nod and greet them. "I didn’t expect to see you here tonight," he said to Michael.
"Didn’t I tell you I was coming?"
"No, you didn’t."
Michael’s eyebrows were pale red, and one arched expressively as he looked his younger brother up and down. "You’re in a fine mood. Sean and I were having a grand conversation before you thundered in, you know. Perhaps you’d better have a bit more of that cheer you’re holding," he said, nodding at Viggo’s champagne bottle.
"Perhaps I’ll do that," Viggo retorted.
"What’s got you in such a lather?"
"Oh, nothing. Sorry. Go find Grace, Michael, she’ll want to see you." Michael’s presence – Roman, Viggo snorted inwardly – would discourage those two young louts from bothering Grace too much.
"Very well. You had better be in more agreeable spirits next time I see you."
Sighing, Viggo turned to Sean. "I find myself in need of some fresh air. Do you want to step outside for a moment?"
"Aye, it’s a bit warm," Sean agreed, and stepped back so Viggo could precede him. "Shall I fetch your cloak?"
Again Viggo felt a surge of peevishness. "No, that's not necessary." He patted Sean’s shoulder, an inadequate gesture to take the waspish temper from his words. "Come along."
The evening was blessedly cool after the stifling press of bodies in the Armory. A fine mist settled against Viggo’s cheek, and fog shrouded the dark neighboring buildings, swathing the gaslights in an eerie glow. Only the Armory was alive with light and noise, but even that was almost silenced by the dark, still wetness wrapping itself around the city streets. They walked west, down the slope of the hill, their footsteps muted in the gloom.
"You seemed to be having a fine time." The words spewed from Viggo’s mouth like a bitter accusation. Silently, he cursed himself. "I had no idea you could dance so well."
"My mam taught me," Sean said. "Before my dad took sick." He stripped off his gloves and stuffed them in his pocket. "Your sister’s a fine dancer."
"You didn’t dance with her alone, I noticed." Why was it so impossible to contain his ill humor? It wasn’t as if Viggo could ask Sean for a dance in the middle of the ballroom floor, or drag him away from the girls claiming his attention. Though that was exactly what he’d done, wasn’t it? He took a long pull from the champagne bottle and attempted a lighter tone. "You were quite popular this evening."
"Nice enough lasses, I suppose."
Viggo’s heart contracted. "Any in particular strike your fancy?"
"What?" Sean halted, and then resumed walking. "Nay, nay. They’re – they’re friendly and all, but a bit silly. Except for Miss Grace," he amended. "She’s got a solid head on her shoulders."
"Naturally." Viggo clenched his teeth, fervently wishing he’d never allowed the pair of them to meet. "She’s a wonderful girl. You two looked grand dancing together."
"She told me you used to dance with her." Sean laughed a little.
A spasm of jealousy lurched in Viggo’s stomach. He imagined Sean smiling down at Grace as she regaled him with stories of their childhood. Suddenly he felt the need to be alone, to walk off his bitterness. He would likely make it back to Philadelphia on foot before it fell away altogether. "Well, I can tell you that you make a much better partner for her. I’ve all the grace of a toad." He took another drink from the bottle, stopped in his tracks, and held it out to Sean. "So should I offer you congratulations?"
Sean frowned. "Congratulations, sir?"
"Well – you fancy Grace, don’t you?" Viggo tried for gallantry. "I don’t mind. You’re a grand fellow, and you looked altogether splendid with her. I think you might suit each other." He envisioned a long future of Sean as his brother-in-law, establishing himself as a force to be reckoned with at Mortensen Coal, standing tall and golden beside Grace and tormenting him at every holiday, producing children and then grandchildren as Viggo grew old, alone, yearning for him, a tottering ancient bachelor feigning a sugary crust of friendliness and fraternal affection to mask his desperate, bitter adoration.
"I don’t – that is – nay, sir, she doesn’t fancy me at all."
"She might, given time. I've seen engagements spring from lesser acquaintances." For God’s sake, why am I doing this to myself? Viggo wondered. He turned away, resting his hand on the low, thick branch of a sycamore tree, and then sat on it, unmindful of its dampness. "I have a headache," he announced softly.
"Sir?" Sean stepped closer. "Sir?"
"I’m sorry I was cross, Sean. I’m not feeling well at all." Viggo screwed his eyes tightly shut and swallowed a lump in his throat.
"Can I get you owt?" A diffident touch fell on Viggo’s arm. "Sir?"
Viggo turned with a dragging, dreamlike slowness. Sean’s face was half obscured by shadow, but near enough that Viggo saw concern etching his brow. Without stopping to think, he rose and closed the distance between them, kissing Sean lightly.
Sean’s lips were unexpectedly soft and sweet, made sweeter by the faint, excitingly masculine prickle of shaven chin and jaw. He made a faint noise, but neither moved away nor protested. Shaking, clutching the champagne bottle as if it were a lifeline, Viggo closed his eyes and stepped closer still, so that their bodies touched.
A burst of laughter from nearby dragged them apart. Startled, Viggo dropped the bottle, and it shattered on the sidewalk. A quartet of young people were running toward them, two young men pursuing two girls, all shrieking with merriment. They bounded past Viggo and Sean without appearing to take notice of them and disappeared into the fog.
Viggo looked helplessly at Sean. Sean’s eyes were wide and shocked, and his fingers had drifted up to cover his mouth. "Sean…." Sean took a step backward, illuminating himself beneath the dull diffused gold of a gas lamp. Flushing, humiliated, Viggo followed. "Sean, please, listen a moment –"
"Viggo Mortensen!" a familiar voice trilled.
Unwillingly, Viggo turned toward the voice, cursing under his breath when he saw the petite, bejeweled figure of his neighbor Harriet McHugh hurrying toward him. "Mrs. McHugh." Had she actually followed them outside?
"I’ve been looking for you all evening, Mr. Mortensen. Do say you’ll dance with me at least once before the night’s over." She looped her arm through his and pulled him back toward the armory.
"Mrs. McHugh, I really –" Viggo scowled, and turned back to urge Sean to rescue him.
But Sean was nowhere to be seen.
*
TBC.....
