FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 7]

[splix]

Title: 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: 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.





*


Harry Slater crossed his front room in four quick strides, hitching his braces over his shoulders, eager to put a stop to the insistent pounding on his door. He swung it open, then allowed his expression of alert inquiry to melt, leaving behind narrow-eyed calculation. "Right, come in. You didn’t have to beat the bloody door down."

Tom Gwynnett was nearly as tall and broad as the door itself, and had the look of an overgrown choirboy, wide-eyed, handsome, and deceptively innocent. He ambled into the room and took a seat without being asked. The chair creaked under his weight. "Evening, Mr. Slater."

As a boy, Tom had worked for Mortensen Coal as a spragger, controlling the descent of the mine cars by jamming sprags, long pieces of wood, into the wheels. The older he became, the less he was inclined to work, and more inclined to fight and extort pennies from the smaller, weaker boys. Dismissed from Mortensen a few years ago for beating one of his workmates, he had turned to thievery, burgling houses and fencing what he stole, then found more pleasant and profitable work collecting for a local moneylender. Harry, with an unerring talent for seeking out his own kind, had found Tom and cultivated his friendship, recognizing him as a man who might come in handy at times. Now Harry regarded him with mild interest and expectation. "So. Is it done?"

"Yeh. All done. Only thumped him up a bit, just like you asked."

"Took all three of you, didn’t it?"

Tom scowled. "We could have done it with two."

"I doubt it," Harry snorted. "He’s not soft."

"Anyways, it’s done," Tom replied with a shrug of his ox-like shoulders. "So how about the money?"

"Just a minute." Harry was in a good humor now. "Then what?"

"Well, we made it quick. No point attracting too much attention, right? Some fellows found him and took him inside, but he came out again soon enough."

"And did he go to the coppers?"

Tom flapped one huge hand. "Naw. Get this. He went to fancy Mr. Mortensen’s house. We waited for a while, but no coppers showed up."

Harry scratched his chin. "Is that right? That’s interesting. Why would he go there, I wonder?"

Tom had no interest in his victim’s motivations. "Anyways, it’s done. So if you could pay up, I’d be grateful."

"All right." Harry reached in his pocket, pulled out his money clip, and peeled off a few notes. "There you are. Job well done, Tom."

"That’s right," Tom said, heaving himself up from his chair and looming over Harry, nearly a head taller. "In fact, so well done that I thought a bonus would be in order, Mr. Slater, sir." He grinned, revealing teeth that had at best only a nodding acquaintance with a toothbrush, and spoiled the illusion of handsomeness.

Harry gazed up at Tom, returning the smile. "A bonus? What for, Tom, lad?"

"Why –" Tom’s grin widened. "Just because I think I deserve one. Don’t you?"

"Are you threatening me? Is that it?" Harry’s voice became soft, almost gentle.

"Oh now. That’s not a nice word to use, Mr. Slater," Tom said reproachfully. "We’re pals, ain’t we? A man wouldn’t do that to a pal. And I’m not asking anything unreasonable. Maybe just the rest of what you’ve got in that money clip." His gaze wandered around the modestly furnished room. "I suppose that’s all. You haven’t got much else that’s useful to me, looks like. Maybe that Victrola there."

While Tom looked around, Harry slid a hand into his pocket and extracted a folded knife. It had a fly lock that released seven inches of razor-sharp Sheffield steel. In one smooth motion he freed the blade and pressed the tip against Tom’s stomach. "This is pretty useful, Tom. In three seconds I can open that fat gut of yours and spill your insides on my floor, and in another five seconds I can cut your tongue out and feed it to you for your fucking supper. Oh no, don’t step back, Tommy lad. That would be a mistake." His voice was still gentle. His face had settled into serene quietude, a lion watching a slow ruminant with an injured foot.

Tom’s face had become white. "Hold on a moment –"

"You hold on, you fucking muscle-bound twat." Harry’s eyes lit up. "Go on. Make a grab for it, Tommy. I’ll be a few hours cleaning, but I don’t mind that so much. I’m tidy by nature." Casually, he drew his hand back, and whipped it forward, giving Tom a smart crack across the face and leaving a white smear across his ruddy cheek.

"You –" Tom’s hand flew up to investigate the flaming red handprint on his face, and he stumbled back a step. The knife moved with him, pressing deeper, drawing blood now. A red spot welled around the tip, staining his dirty blue shirt. Tom winced in pain and took a half step backward. Rage and humiliation burned in his eyes, and the beginnings of fear.

"Don’t move," Harry said with malicious good cheer. "Don’t even bloody breathe, you cunt. Are you listening to me?"

Tom nodded and mumbled something.

"I can’t hear you. Speak up."

"I’m listening," Tom muttered.

"That’s a good boy. Maybe you’re not quite as stupid as you look." Harry pointed to the chair. "Sit."

Sullenly, Tom dropped into the chair, which creaked ominously. He stared down at his hands sprawled across his thighs.

"Now, let’s get this sorted out between us. If you ever try to double-cross me again, I’ll rip your fucking eyes out and piss on that tiny little brain of yours. And if you think I can’t, just because you’re built like a bloody ox, just try me. Understand – pal of mine?"

"Yeh."

"Good. I may have more work for you very soon, lad. In fact, I’m certain I will. You wouldn’t want to muck up our friendship for the sake of a few dollars when you could stand to gain quite a bit more, would you?"

Tom looked up, suspicious. "How much more?"

Harry perched on the arm of an easy chair and examined the glittering edge of his blade. Sheffield steel, couldn’t beat it. "I don't know yet. Depends on how far you’re willing to go." He waited, watching the insinuation penetrate Tom’s skull and work its way to his upper story. He saw the moment Tom understood; a new light shone in his eyes, a mingling of avarice and cunning. He wasn’t the brightest ball of flame, was Tom, but he was canny enough and greedy enough to comprehend an advantageous situation when it was presented to him.

"For the right price, I’ll go as far as you need."

Those were the words Harry wanted to hear. It wouldn’t do to let Tom finish the job altogether, as Harry chose to reserve that pleasure for himself, but a little extra muscle never hurt. Sean Bean was no Freddy Watkins, after all. "Good man." He pulled out his money clip and withdrew another twenty dollars. "There you are, Tom. I think you deserve a bonus after all."

Tom took the money tentatively, as if Harry were a hissing snake. He learned fast. "No hard feelings?" The choirboy expression was back.

"No, not to worry, lad." Harry rose, and Tom took that as a sign to do the same. He escorted Tom to the door. "I don’t believe in holding grudges." He held out a hand, and Tom shook it. "Come see me in a week or so, eh? But come here, not to the mine office. And come at night. So long, Tommy." He watched Tom lumber down the street and become lost in the haze of trees and lamp posts, then shut the door and locked it.

He’d make sure to stop by Mr. Mortensen’s office on Monday. Any pretext would do. He wanted to see Tom’s handiwork for himself. He wanted to see Sean in pain and discomfort, squirming under Harry’s solicitous inquiries and wondering if it was a put-up job. Wasn’t a thing he could do about it, either. Harry would bide his time, moving in for the kill slowly. Next task was to find the bloody letters. No matter that his history meant nothing here in Pennsylvania; it was a matter of pride now. Nobody stole from Harry Slater, let alone knocked him senseless and trussed him up in his own cellar.

Harry’s hands clenched into fists, and red rage bloomed across his cheeks at the still-fresh memory. He’d pissed himself before he’d been able to get free. Pissed himself like a fucking infant in nappies. He held grudges, no question. Freddy had found that out. And Sean-bloody-thieving-Bean would find out as well. Freddy’s lily-boy. Oh yes, Freddy had spilled that through tears and pleas. Maybe Sean-bloody-thieving-Bean might enjoy a pound of meat shoved up his arse and then down his throat before Harry slit it.

He crossed to his bedroom door and paused, his hand on the knob. Why had Sean gone to Mr. Mortensen’s, though, and not to the police? That was an odd thing. It would bear thinking about, maybe. Later.

Harry opened the bedroom door and stood still for a moment, watching the naked, sleeping form of Andrzej Sokolowski, golden in the lamplight. Didn’t speak much English, true, but he had big blue eyes and blond hair and an arse like a ten-year-old boy’s, and when Harry had caught him slipping coal into his pockets, he’d understood the necessity for restitution. Or he did now, at least.

"Wake up, lad."

Andrzej awoke, blinking his big, sleepy blue eyes, and cringed.

Harry smiled gently, and began to unhitch his braces. Restitution often took a long time coming.

*


Sean awoke to birdsong filtering through the window, where a soft spring breeze stirred the lace curtains to gentle undulations. He opened his eyes, saw that it was still dark outside, sighed, and turned on his side. A sudden wrenching pain in his abdomen drove him onto his back again, and he bit his lip to keep from crying out. Christ, had he broken something in the fight and not realized it? Tentatively, he brushed his fingers over his ribs, then took a deep breath. It hurt, but not so badly he couldn't breathe. Maybe he'd got off lucky and only cracked it. He yawned, trying not to stretch too much, and suddenly realized where he was.

With utmost caution, he turned his head toward the still figure beside him. Only Viggo's head was uncovered, and his face was buried in the pillow so that all Sean saw was a wild tangle of hair. How did he sleep like that? No wonder Sean hadn't heard snoring. He groped under the blanket with exploratory fingers and let his hand rest on the lower curve of Viggo's wonderfully tight backside. Almost immediately his prick decided, independent of his brain, that it wanted another go. Sean drew his hand away with a sigh and pushed the bedclothes aside.

He strained to see in the first faint light, shuffling forward like a blind man but bumping into a bureau and a chifforobe nevertheless. Had they brought his clothes in here? Viggo had worn the nightshirt he'd taken into the bathroom, and Sean Viggo's robe, and they'd shed both garments as soon as the bedroom door was safely locked. They'd had the whiskey, and the oil…Sean's face flamed. No, they hadn't bothered with clothes at all. Twice more they'd gone at it, taking turns; fair was fair. The whiskey had blurred the edge from the pain in his belly and face, but he'd have done it without the whiskey. Sated and exhausted, they'd fallen asleep, too shy to even whisper a good-night, but oddly not too shy to cling together. Funny, the way a roll in the hay changed people.

Sean tiptoed to the door, feeling for the discarded robe or nightshirt.

"Why are you skulking about in the dark?"

Startled, Sean wheeled toward the bed, just able to make out Viggo's silhouette. "Didn't want to waken you."

"Too late." Viggo's shadow moved, there was a brief flare of a match, and he was illuminated in the soft glow of a lamp. "Were you leaving?" His tone was jocular, his voice soft, but hurt flickered briefly in his eyes.

"Won't it make your servants suspicious if I stay?" He sounded more defensive than he'd intended. He had meant to leave. It wouldn't do to hang about like a lovesick dog. Viggo would grow tired of him inside of a day.

"I think they'd be more suspicious if you crept out at the break of dawn." Viggo got up and walked toward Sean. Naked, he was splendid, his skin tawny in the lamplight, his shoulders broad, his hips narrow. He stood close enough for Sean to feel the warmth of his body. "Besides, Sunday is their day off. Mrs. McGuire makes me dinner, but that's all. Are you really eager to go?"

A sigh shuddered from Sean's chest. "No, I just –" He shivered as Viggo's lips touched the base of his throat, and felt himself getting erect as the tip of Viggo's tongue traced his collarbone. "It were – oh, God."

"I'd hate to think that I was a single night's rendezvous, easily conquered and easily discarded." Viggo took a step forward, pressing his lower body against Sean's.

Sean almost swooned at the faint pressure of teeth and the more intense pressure of Viggo's prick. "Not that – never that."

"Good." Viggo chuckled. "Then let's do it again."

"Bold as brass, you are," Sean replied, and all but dragged Viggo to the bed. They fell upon it, stifling their laughter and laughing harder in consequence, and Sean hitched in a pained gasp. "Christ."

"I'm sorry. I forgot," Viggo said humbly, his mirth dissolving in an instant. "You're injured. I'm a thoughtless fool." He combed his fingers through Sean's hair. "Sorry."

"Nay, it's fine."

"I want you to see a doctor."

"There's no need –"

"Stop being so damned stoic," Viggo interrupted. "You're white as a sheet, and your bruises look worse than ever. Suppose you're…I don't know, bleeding internally."

Sean snorted. "Oh, aye, that's cheerful."

"I'm frightened for you, you – nincompoop. The least you can do is oblige me."

"Can't resist when you call me names like that."

"I'm quite serious. I'm fond of you, and I'd be very upset if you were gravely injured." Viggo plucked at the embroidered hem of the sheet, staring down at the fine silky threads worked into intricate convolutions of flowers and leaves. "Very upset indeed."

Freddy had never said anything as sweet to him. Sean yearned to reach out and embrace Viggo, but he was still twisting the edge of the sheet in his hands and refusing to meet Sean's eyes. "Thanks for that," he murmured. Viggo seemed to vacillate between fits of shyness and moments of affectionate candor, but until Sean figured out the rhythm of it all, he'd be cautious. No point in having his heart broken by moving too quickly.

"Last night was…lovely," Viggo said, finally looking up. "I had a wonderful time."

"Did you?" A broad grin stretched Sean's mouth. It twinged painfully, but he didn't give a sixpence. "So did I. It were grand."

"Will you come back?"

"Aye, if you want me to."

"I want you to."

"Then I will." Sean leaned forward – Christ, it hurt – and planted a kiss on Viggo's cheek. It was hard to be careful when his heart felt like singing.

Viggo slipped a hand into Sean's hair. "Don't go. Not just yet." He spoke in a whisper, his lips brushing against Sean's ear. "I promise I'll be gentle with you." He slipped a hand between Sean's thighs.

Sean was hard again, just like that. "You're right persuasive when you've a mind to it." Letting Viggo guide him back to the pillows, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the warm pressure of Viggo's hand.

*

Silvery chimes roused Sean to force his head up from dreamless comfort. Light poured into the bedroom. He blinked and stared at the clock. Half ten already! They'd slept the morning away. He lurched out of bed, freshly aware of a baker's dozen of new aches and pains, and grabbed Viggo's green-and-gold dressing gown from the floor.

Viggo sat up and yawned loudly. "What is it?" he asked in the midst of another yawn.

"It's late. I've got to go."

"Stay for breakfast. Or lunch, rather." Viggo pressed his hands to his eyes.

"Nay," Sean said. "Might look odd. I'll see myself out. You sleep."

"Wouldn't you like to spend the afternoon together?"

Sean hesitated. "What if your sister comes home? If she sees me –"

"If she sees you, she'll merely think you're visiting. Why would she presume otherwise?"

"There's some what can tell about two people, if they're sharp-witted enough," Sean said. "Your sister doesn't strike me as a fool."

"She's hardly worldly enough to discern…well, who knows. She is awfully clever."

"And your brother might notice you're not at church."

Viggo winced at the late-morning light slanting into the room. "I daresay he's already noticed."

"If he comes looking for you, I shouldn't want to still be here." Sean managed a faint smile despite the stirring unease in his belly. "He might wonder why I stayed so long. Might blame me for setting you on the path to damnation."

"Well." Viggo leaned back on one elbow. "You'd be worth a little damnation, Sean Bean." He sighed. "Families are such a lot of bother, aren't they? I suppose you're right. But I'll see you at work in the morning, at least."

"Nine sharp."

"Don't think I've forgotten the doctor."

Sean rolled his eyes. "Aye, I wouldn't forget." He held up the dressing gown. "Can I borrow this to go to the bathroom? Left my clothes there last night."

"Of course. Sean.…"

Sean had already shrugged into the robe. It felt heavy and luxuriously soft against his skin. "Aye?"

Viggo shook his head. "Never mind. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Ta." Sean slipped out with a last regretful look over his shoulder. Viggo was still watching.

*

He was whistling as he let himself out the kitchen door. It seemed cheeky, somehow, to waltz out the front door as if he were gentry, especially if Viggo wasn't accompanying him. He trotted down the back stairs, jarring his bruised ribs and cursing himself for forgetting his injuries so quickly. He'd scarcely recognized himself in the bathroom mirror. Perhaps a doctor would be a good idea after all. Not even the beating could spoil his mood, though. He took a shallow breath of sweet spring air and started up the path to the brick walk when a flash of movement caught his eye.

Viggo's manservant, Pearce, was sitting on the low step of the gazebo, paring the skin from a green apple. The peel hung from the fruit in a neat, springy coil. Pearce glanced up without surprise and gave Sean a cool stare.

"Fine morning," Sean ventured.

"Almost noon," Pearce replied. He cut the final bit of skin and let the spiraling peel drop to the ground.

"Is it?" Sean looked skyward, shading his eyes. "I suppose it is at that."

Pearce's gaze wavered not an inch. "Will you be needing a lift home – sir?"

Sean froze at the undisguised mockery of the question. Christ almighty, how did the man know already? "Nay," he managed. "Nay, that's not necessary."

"As you like, sir." Pearce took a bite of his apple, still staring.

"Good day, then." Sean nodded stiffly, his cheeks burning, and wheeled on the brick path. He hurried to the gate and let himself out. He felt the man's eyes boring into his back. Hating his own cowardice, he hastened his steps until he knew he was out of Pearce's sight. Finally he slowed and tried to whistle again, but couldn't seem to shape his lips properly.

He slowed to a trudge and stared down at the pavement. The zest had gone out of the day.


*

"What do you suppose 'softening of the brain' is like?"

Sean looked up from his ledger. "What?"

"Softening of the brain." Viggo indicated his newspaper. "There's a story about a fellow, a coal entrepreneur, who died of softening of the brain. Apparently the business was far too nerve-wracking. Do you think the brain actually softens?"

"Thought it already was soft," Sean said, gingerly rubbing his eye. The cut over it itched like the very devil.

"Perhaps it leaks out one's ears."

"Disgusting." Sean considered a moment. "Though I've known a few lads who seemed brainless to me. Happens more than you think, maybe."

"Sounds like a terrible affliction. Do you think I'm in danger? It might affect physical function somehow." Viggo gazed at Sean, the picture of innocence.

Sean stayed in his seat with a mighty effort, but a naughty grin twitched at the corners of his mouth. "Hope not. You need your brain once in a while."

"For things like puzzling over monthly bills, you mean."

"'Course that's what I mean." Sean bit his lip and buried his head in the ledger again. He heard Viggo get up, but kept his nose to the book until he felt a touch on his knee.

"I've been a model of restraint for hours, but my forbearance is at its end," Viggo announced. "I insist upon kissing you."

Sean leaned back, stretching. "Took you long enough." He tilted his face upward and opened his mouth to Viggo's kiss. Viggo's hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him deeper and taking what he wanted. Freddy had never been keen on kissing, preferring to get to the shagging straight away. Sean found himself slipping into the rhythm of the kiss. Desire surged fierce and blood-red. He grasped Viggo's free hand and put it between his legs.

"Too tempting," Viggo whispered into Sean's mouth. Red-faced, breathing heavily, he moved away and dropped to his knees, resting his forehead against Sean's shoulder. "I've wanted you all day. God help me."

What did that last mean? Sean frowned. "Are you sorry for what we did?"

"Sorry? Good Lord, no. I only – I haven't the foggiest notion of how I'm going to be able to concentrate every day with you sitting in such close proximity." Viggo looked up, mischievous lights dancing in his eyes, and darted a quick kiss on Sean's cheek. "Tell me how, and I'll do it."

"You could send me to the mine offices," Sean offered.

"I should think not!"

"I could find a screen and put it up between us. Or I could go into that little office down the hall."

Viggo laughed. "Never mind concentrating, then. I'll suffer. Speaking of suffering, how are you feeling?"

"Not so bad." Sean stretched experimentally. "They bandaged me nice and tight. And the aspirin's doing its job, I reckon."

"I'm glad." Viggo patted Sean's thigh, then let his hand linger. "Grace came home yesterday afternoon."

"Thought she might."

"She said I looked much happier than usual and wanted to know if I'd got over my quarrel with you."

"Were we quarreling?"

"Well, it was uncomfortable for a bit. Don't you agree?"

Sean regarded Viggo for a moment, pausing to contemplate the handsomeness of his straight nose. "Aye, for a bit. But not any longer."

"No. No longer. Sean, if Grace goes to Harvey's Lake this weekend, you'll come to spend the night again, won't you?"

The thought of Viggo's hulking, gimlet-eyed valet extinguished the glowing embers of pleasure in Sean's chest. "I don't know that I ought to visit again so soon."

"Why ever not?"

Would it do to tell about Pearce's obvious contempt? Likely not. Better not to worry Viggo. It was Sean Pearce disliked, after all. Probably thought Sean was corrupting his employer, and maybe he wasn't all wrong at that. He settled for a half-truth. "Wouldn't want the servants gossiping."

"But I can't very well come to the boardinghouse. Mrs. Donnelly wouldn't approve of that at all," Viggo replied, sliding his hand a little further up Sean's thigh. "And besides, my house is enormous. Plenty of bedrooms. No one would be the wiser. The servants aren't upstairs after dark. We can dig out a pile of paperwork and pretend to peg away at it. Please come. Even last night was a torment – all alone. I wanted to be with you."

Sean marveled at Viggo's candor. Where did he get the stomach to be that unguarded? It fortified Sean's courage. "Aye, I wanted to be with you too."

"Then you'll stay? Friday night?"

Pulled along in the wake of Viggo's enthusiasm, Sean found himself nodding. "All right." He'd have to tolerate Pearce's scorn one way or the other. "Friday."

"Good. Splendid. Come for dinner, and don't stop at any taverns beforehand." Viggo took Sean's face in his hands and kissed him again, then drew back with a thunderous scowl as the doorbell shrilled. "Good God, who's that? And at this hour."

"I'll answer it."

"You'll do no such thing." Viggo sprang to his feet and winked. "You're an invalid, Mr. Bean. It wouldn't do for you to over-exert yourself." He was out the door before Sean could reply.

Sean sighed and settled back in his chair. Viggo was right about the distraction. He hadn't done anywhere near a proper day's work because he was too busy watching Viggo through his eyelashes and thinking of what they'd done between the sheets – and longing to do it again. He supposed the newness would wear off in time. It had with Freddy. Then again, it had become clear in fairly short order that Freddy was only interested in rogering him over the sofa arm in his office. He'd begun to teach Sean about poetry and literature, but boredom had set in and soon enough conversation had come to a dead stop. With Viggo, the conversation had come first. That was new and heady stuff.

A familiar voice filtered from the hallway. "Hope I'm not bothering you, sir."

"Not at all," Viggo replied, leading the way into the office. "Do come in."

Sean's stomach roiled as, too late, he recognized the voice of Harry Slater. He remembered a piece of Scripture that Reverend Pomeroy had loved to bellow: Be sure your sin will find you out. Well, his sin had come home to roost, by God.

Harry strolled into the office, spruce in a grey coat and blue tie. "Well, hello there, Sean lad. How – good Lord, what happened to you?" He moved closer to Sean's desk and peered intently at him. "You haven't been fighting, have you?"

"Mr. Bean was assaulted outside a tavern," Viggo said, with a reproving glance at Harry. "In broad daylight, no less. It's an outrage, really. What tavern was it, Sean?"

"McGerrity's," Sean replied. He eased back a little, away from Harry's penetrating stare.

"Was it? I must say, that's a bit of a rough place for a toff like you."

Sean met Harry's eyes coolly. "I'm no toff."

Harry smiled. "No? Well, I thought with a plum job like this, you'd be rolling in it. In any case, I'm sorry to hear it, lad. I hope you're not too badly hurt."

"Nay, not too badly."

"Good, good, I'm glad of that. We've not had that drink yet. Let's have one tomorrow, shall we? Though maybe not at McGerrity's, eh?"

"Tomorrow?" Sean searched for a reason to say no and couldn't find one. Harry was watching him with those bright blue eyes, smiling as if he knew exactly what was bothering Sean. He couldn't, could he? "Sorry, Harry. Working late tomorrow."

"Well, that's a pity. Another day, then, and next time I won't take no for an answer." Harry wagged his finger at Sean, then turned to Viggo. "Can't have your employees working all the time, can you, Mr. Mortensen?"

"Mr. Bean's dedication is admirable, Mr. Slater. Was there something in particular you wanted to talk about?"

Harry ducked his head. "Of course, sir. Wouldn't intimate otherwise. And yes, I did come to talk about something else. It's about tea breaks, sir."

Viggo seated himself behind his desk. "Tea breaks."

"That's right. The lads are thinking that considering the work they do – and the profits the mine's making – that maybe another tea break is in order, sir. Or maybe making their current breaks longer."

"It's not a far-fetched request." Viggo folded his hands. "They have, what, two ten-minute breaks now?"

"Yes, sir."

"I can certainly consider it. But I wonder, Mr. Slater, why you've delivered the request and not Mr. Farrell." Stephen Farrell was the United Mine Workers representative, an Irish giant who looked bellicose but who was actually one of the most sweet-natured, reasonable fellows Sean had ever met.

Harry twisted his hat in his hands. "Well now. Some of the lads have taken a shine to me, sir. Can't altogether blame them, sir – there's talk that Farrell maybe doesn't have their best interests at heart."

"In what way?"

"I can't say for certain, sir, not without pointing fingers, but there's been some talk of Farrell's pockets lined with company money. Not to cast any doubt upon you, sir," he added hurriedly.

"Who, then?"

"Well, he's got pals who are bosses in some of the other mines, sir."

"I can't see what's so terrible about that," Viggo said.

"Not at first glance, sir. But it could be that he took some cash and slowed our production down deliberately by having those timbers ignored. Some of the other owners, they mightn't be as scrupulous as yourself. And some of the lads are thinking they can't trust Farrell now, you see."

Viggo seemed abstracted for a moment, then came back to himself. "That may be, Mr. Slater, and I'll surely give the matter due consideration. But I'm not comfortable attending to questions concerning the workers outside the auspices of the union. That's not unreasonable, I think. The last thing I want to do is stir up any sort of trouble by not adhering to the proper form."

"Oh, I understand that perfectly, sir. I just thought I'd mention it to you, seeing as how the lads weren't comfortable talking to Farrell. You've a reputation for taking good care of your employees, sir, and I should hate to see you lose it because of another fellow's dishonesty."

Sean watched Harry carefully. The man seemed sincere enough, but his every move seemed tainted with deceit. He wondered if Freddy's allegations of negligence and cream-skimming were true, or if he was only exaggerating to hide their personal quarrel.

"Your concern for my reputation is very much appreciated, Mr. Slater." Viggo rose to his feet and extended his hand. "Thank you very much."

Harry seemed to understand that the conversation was terminated. "Thank you, sir. It's good of you to think about this before it becomes a problem." He turned to Sean. "You take care of yourself, lad." He beamed, a queerly sunny smile for such an inconclusive end to his visit, nodded, and allowed Viggo to usher him out.

Sean fumbled his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat above his upper lip. Bloody Harry Slater, he was a frosty bastard. It was impossible to tell whether he knew about Freddy and Sean's arrangement. That friendly smile, that jaunty demeanor…it was a puzzlement, all right. He stuffed his kerchief back in his pocket and bent over the ledger again.

Viggo came back into the office and shut the door behind him. He leaned against it, his face working as if he wanted to say something and couldn't. At last he spoke quietly, as if Harry were still in the building. "Just how well do you know that man?"

"Not as well as he seems to think. He's a bit over-familiar, if you follow."

"Indeed." Viggo was silent for a moment. "You didn't seem terribly eager to have a drink with him."

"Nay. He's shifty. Anyroad, we don't have much in common besides being from England. He's not even from Yorkshire." Sean shook his head and dropped his gaze to the ledger. When Viggo didn't reply, Sean looked up to see Viggo watching him with a speculative gleam in his eye. He felt guilty sweat forming on his upper lip again. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I'm not certain he's altogether trustworthy, though. Nothing I can put my finger on, mind you – just a feeling."

"Aye, don't I know it," Sean muttered. "Some said that he strong-armed the miners in his own way when he had the post of union man. Nowt that I can prove – I were in the brickyard. Just rumors. Still…." He lifted one shoulder in the most nonchalant shrug he could muster and winced as his ribs gave a nasty twinge. "Christ."

"You're pale," Viggo said, crossing the room to kneel beside Sean again. "It's almost five o'clock. Forget Harry Slater. Go home and rest, Sean. Perhaps I'm working you too hard. Would you feel better staying in bed tomorrow?"

"Not unless you're planning to stay there with me." Sean grinned in mingled relief and devilry.

Unexpectedly, two spots of color stained Viggo's cheeks. "Mr. Bean, you shock me. Pray continue."

Sean leaned forward and kissed Viggo lightly on the mouth. "I'll see you tomorrow, sir."


*


He waited until Viggo's carriage had rolled out of sight, then hurried to the Western Union telegraph office by the train station on Market Street. He stumbled into the office, sweating, his ribs on fire, just before the clerk hung the "Closed" sign on the door. As the clerk glared at him through a green visor, drumming his fingers against the desk and sighing loudly, Sean composed his message.

HS HERE STOP THINGS AMISS STOP DOES HE KNOW STOP WIRE REPLY STOP SB

It was ruinously expensive, but Sean paid every penny willingly. It was possible, however unlikely, Sean thought, that Freddy, angry that Sean hadn't done his job, had told Harry an effective lie or two and now Harry wanted his revenge. If that was the way things were going to be, fine, but Sean wanted to be prepared. It was possible, too, that Freddy wouldn't bother to answer the wire. Still, he had to try.

He stopped in the middle of counting out his money. Had the beating been a put-up job? He'd never seen the blokes who'd pounded him in McGerrity's before. Had Harry paid them to do it? And would he be satisfied with just a beating?

A loud harrumph interrupted Sean's thoughts. The clerk stared down at the money, then at Sean. "There's two dollars and thirty cents owing, sir."

Sean paid the rest and left the office. He walked slowly up Market Street, glad that it was almost summer and still full daylight.

Nevertheless, he glanced over his shoulder every now and then.


*

"It's an outrage, pure and simple," Harcourt Earley thundered, "an outrage!"

Sean stopped just outside the dining room and closed his eyes. Mr. Earley's morning diatribes had become the bane of his existence at the boarding house, and he was particularly unwilling to listen to ranting this morning. He'd stayed awake far too late reading, the bathroom tap had only given him cold water for shaving, and the new silk tie he'd been so proud of wouldn't knot properly. Slit-eyed and cross, he trudged into the dining room and took his place, barely mumbling a greeting to his fellow boarders, who seemed transfixed by Mr. Earley's rage. Only Craig Lahr was eating with gusto. He took a huge bite of porridge and passed the tureen to Sean with a wink.

"What's this, then?" Sean murmured.

"Surprised you couldn't tell from your room," Lahr replied with a grin. "Apparently Harcourt caught two of his students canoodling behind the school yesterday afternoon."

"Caught them what?"

"Caught them…ah, you know…smooching and so forth." Lahr chuckled and waggled his eyebrows expressively.

"Oh." Sean started on his porridge and tried to shut out the sounds of Mr. Earley squawking and hissing like an irate goose, but by and by gave it up for hopeless. He gnawed on a tough piece of bacon and inspected his tablemates, all but Mr. Lahr wide-eyed and seeming to agree with Earley's shouting.

"I tell you, mixed-sex education will bring this nation down. It chips away at the very foundation of our republic's hard-won ideals. It breeds persons of moral turpitude and wanton repute – Mr. Lahr, you have something to add?" Mr. Earley's face squeezed itself into a pucker, as if he'd bitten into a lemon.

Lahr wiped his mustache with his napkin. "Really, Harcourt, don't you think you're being a bit bullheaded? Surely a couple of kids aren't going to bring down the entire nation, and as for mixed-sex schools – why, up in Massachusetts, they've had mixed schools for ages. And I daresay Massachusetts is a state of upright citizens."

"You miss my point entirely. The disruption may not happen today, nor tomorrow, nor even in this generation. But as an educator – as principal of an entire high school – I am pledged to safeguard the sanctity and well-being of our young people. How am I to defend the citadel of a young man's purity against the assaults of the world if he faces temptation at every turn?"

His spoon poised in mid-air, Sean gaped at Earley. "You're blaming it all on the lasses?"

"Mr. Bean," Earley sighed, "you come from England, where I am assured that education is administered sensibly. I can't expect you to understand the perils of our system."

"I went to a church school," Sean replied. "Mixed."

Earley's mouth tightened so much it nearly disappeared. "Is that so? Well – I'm certain discipline was firm, it being a church school. Surely your headmaster didn't put up with the least bit of nonsense. Surely you and your fellow students did not so readily fall prey to wickedness." He nodded, satisfied with this explanation.

"Give it up, old man," Lahr whispered. "You can't win with him."

"It is true, Mr. Bean," Dorothy Knorr said. "It does seem that young ladies today are somewhat…fast."

"Just so," Earley said, setting down his coffee cup with a bang. "The young lady I apprehended yesterday, if indeed she can be called such, was quite shameless at first, adamantly refusing to acknowledge she'd been caught in any wrongdoing. But she came around in short order, I can tell you that. I expelled her at once."

His gaze fixed on his plate, Sean ate steadily. His porridge was congealing into a hard lump in his stomach and he was afraid that if he looked up, Harcourt Early would see the full measure of his disgust. He could well imagine the bastard taking pleasure in reducing some poor lass to tears.

"I can't imagine how her parents will hold their heads up from now on," Miss Knorr said. "And as I was saying, young ladies are fast. I don't like to pry, Mr. Bean, but I happened to be in the parlor when your flowers arrived on Saturday." She nodded at the great bunch of red tulips in the center of the table. "I observed the lack of a note."

Sean bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "That's true, miss," he replied with an air of innocence. "Anonymous, it was." What a Nosy Parker she was underneath all that propriety.

Miss Knorr frowned. "It's rather forward, wouldn't you say, to send such an ardent message? Perhaps the young lady thought she was being prudent in her anonymity, but still, it is shocking."

"I'm not following you, miss."

"Red tulips are a declaration of love, Mr. Bean. Shocking for a single man to receive such. I fear your admirer is no lady."

Too bloody right, Sean thought, and only prevented a bray of laughter by taking a deep swallow of scalding coffee. "That may be, Miss Knorr, but I think they grace the table, don't you? Perhaps we should just enjoy them and thank whoever sent them for making our home a bit prettier." He beamed behind his coffee. A declaration of love, was it?

"That's true," Mr. Specht ventured. All heads turned toward him, and he paled, but struggled on. "There's little enough love in the world today, isn't there? What does it matter where it comes from? It was kind of you to share the flowers, Mr. Bean." The effort of so many words rendered him mute again; he returned to his breakfast, avoiding the stares of his tablemates.

"I agree," Emmaley Adamson said with a firm nod. "I think it's rather romantic."

"In my day," Mrs. Newcomb said, "it was proper for a young lady to give a flower to a man. Usually just one, though."

"Well…." Deflated, Miss Knorr frowned again and forked up the last of her eggs. She chewed thoughtfully, gazing at the flowers.

Mr. Earley seemed annoyed that the table's focus had shifted away from him. "I shudder to think what might have happened had I not arrived in time," he said, leaving the impression that he had performed some heroic deed.

"Oh, aye," Sean snorted under his breath. Harcourt Earley had saved some pure, innocent boy from the evil wiles of a heartless little round-heels trollop. All in a day's work, no doubt.

"You ought to be glad that your schools are mixed-sex, Harcourt," Lahr said. "Imagine the alternative, eh?"

Earley set down his fork. "Mr. Lahr," he said in a soft, ominous voice, "there are ladies present."

Miss Knorr and Miss Adamson gazed round in confusion. Mrs. Newcomb appeared not to have heard. Only Mr. Earley was near purple with indignation.

Sean pushed his plate away and rose from the table. "If you'll excuse me," he said.

"Alternative?" Miss Knorr asked.

Lahr laughed uneasily. "Now, now…I only meant that you'd have an entirely different sort of problem on your hands."

Sean fumbled his coat off the rack and hurried down the porch steps, waving away the bees that hovered lazily near the honeysuckle. He'd forgotten his hat, but he'd be damned if he'd go back inside. What a crew – smug and self-righteous, the lot of them sitting in judgment on the rest of the world. He'd bet that each of them had his or her own filthy secret. Most people did, when all was said and done.

He hated the shame that burned in his cheeks. It didn't come from within, not the worst part of it. It was sanctimonious, priggish bastards like Earley, who talked easily enough about a boy and girl groping each other behind the school, reveled in it even in his own nasty way, but who regarded the idea of a couple of boys together as a sin so monstrous it couldn't even be mentioned in public. And Lahr felt the same way, underneath his friendliness and joking. Well, sod them all. He'd find a flat on his own, do his own cooking and cleaning. Or he'd hire someone. Viggo paid him a decent wage, and he was frugal. To hell with them.

His shoulders slumped and his steps grew heavier as he walked toward work. Maybe moving wasn't the answer. One had to get along in the world, after all. If he reacted so strongly to every little slight, he was going to have a very hard time of things indeed. Nearly everyone on the face of the earth would think him evil and unnatural if they knew the truth about him; he couldn't fight that. But it was a bloody bitter pill to swallow, that was certain.

The blare of an automobile horn startled him out of his dark thoughts. He looked up to see a long cream-colored car hurtling toward him. The vehicle lurched to a stop, and the driver stood up and waved. "Sean!"

Sean shaded his eyes with his hand. "Viggo? That you?"

The driver laughed and yanked off his cap and motoring goggles. "In the flesh!" He opened the door and jumped to the ground. A long canvas coat flapped around his ankles. "Look at this get-up. Isn't it the bee's knees?"

"Never mind the get-up – is this yours?" Sean demanded, walking around the automobile. It was long and graceful, open to the sky. Reverently, he touched the smooth painted surface, the quilted leather seats. "It's a beauty."

"Isn't it? Daimler, brand-new. It arrived late Saturday afternoon. Gracie made me drive her around all day yesterday. We came by looking for you, but you weren't home."

"No. I took a book to the Common and spent the day," Sean replied, enrapt by the beautiful machine. "Christ, look at this." He got on hands and knees and peered beneath the vehicle. "Gorgeous."

Viggo grasped his arm and pulled him up. His eyes danced with excitement. "Come on. We're playing hooky today. I got Mrs. McGuire to pack a picnic lunch. We'll go out to Bear Creek and I'll teach you to drive this thing. There's a lake – it's going to be a scorcher today. We could have a swim. Come on, what do you say?"

"I know how to drive," Sean said with his cheekiest grin. Viggo's enthusiasm was infectious. Sean felt his anger and worry dissolve – at least for the moment.

"Ah!" Viggo put his goggles in Sean's hand. "Let's waste no time, then."

*

Sean hauled himself onto the dock and lay on his back, shading his eyes from the sun. The hot wooden planks felt luxurious beneath his chilled skin. It was every bit as hot as Viggo had predicted, and this side of the lake was blessedly deserted but for a doe and yearling who timidly drank at the edge of the blue-green water. There was a resort at the far side of the lake, and Sean could hear the shrieking of children. He saw the bathers as little more than pink dots and was reasonably certain their innocent eyes were safe from his and Viggo's nakedness.

Viggo climbed onto the dock and smoothed his wet hair out of his eyes. "Hungry?"

Squinting, Sean peered up. Beads of water glistened in the hair on Viggo's chest and lower belly. Freddy, smooth as a baby's arse, had always held that hairy bodies were unsightly; Viggo's lithe form was anything but. "Famished."

"I'll get the basket."

"Do you want help?" Sean called.

"No – back in two shakes of a lamb's tail."

Sean basked in the hot sunshine. It was grand to have a day to themselves, no work or hovering siblings or surly valets. The bare handful of nights they'd spent together had been wondrous, but furtive somehow. There were so many discoveries yet to make; conversation and ordinary tenderness had been discarded in favor of frantic kissing, touching, and coupling. To have a day free of encumbrance was a gift Sean was determined not to waste. He stretched lazily and sat up as Viggo returned with the picnic basket. "What have you got there?"

"The entire kitchen, I think. It's heavy." Viggo set the basket down with a thump and dropped a cotton blanket on the dock. "Now you can help me. Spread this out, would you?"

Together they spread the blanket, then a linen tablecloth. They ate hugely of cold roast beef sandwiches and potato salad, washing it down with two generously sized bottles of beer. Drowsy and pleasantly stuffed, Sean stretched out on the blanket and yawned. "I wouldn't object to doing this every day."

"I wouldn't either, but my father might," Viggo laughed. "You keep the entire office in order, Sean. He'd notice if it fell apart all at once. Oh, drat. Drat. I knew there was something I wanted to tell you. I got a letter from my mother on Saturday. My parents are insisting I go home for a week or so in July. Apparently they're leaving for Ireland and England in August, so they want me home for a bit before they leave." He shrugged. "It's such a bother. Evidently I'm to bring Grace as well. I'll have to drag her away from Charlotte Welles. They're utterly inseparable."

Sean yawned again, concealing his disappointment behind a mask of nonchalance. "That won't be easy."

"You can say that again. In fact, I suspect an ulterior motive. One of my school chums wrote to tell me there's some wretched cotillion or promenade or some such the week my mother demands I visit. The search for a suitable helpmeet continues. I could conveniently leave my evening clothes in Wilkes-Barre, but Mother would just have more made up." Viggo lay back, shielding his eyes from the sun, his head resting on Sean's thigh. "I wish there were a way I could refuse."

"Nay, you mustn't do that. They're your parents. You won't always have them about, you know."

Viggo shifted. His wet hair tickled Sean's leg. "No, that's true." His voice softened, and he reached down and rubbed Sean's ankle. "You're right. But they will keep pestering me about finding a wife. Mother will, anyway. Doubtless some of her friends have already written that I'm refusing invitations. Father might believe that I'm working more, but Mother never would."

"You think you will?" Sean slapped at a mosquito with feigned idleness. "Get married, that is?"

Viggo sat up and turned to face him. The sun had climbed a little higher, and Sean saw melancholy in his clear eyes. "I don't want to get married. Do you?"

"Nay. But nobody's bothering me to find a wife. It's different when you've got money. It's fine for rich people to have babies." Sean gave a bitter snort. "When my dad came down with the black lung, our vicar stopped by one day. Tending the sick, like. But he told my mam that it were good they only had me. Otherwise there might be more of a burden on the parish. Pretty talk from a man of God, eh?"

"People can be cruel. Even men of God."

Sean shrugged and sat up, embarrassed that he'd revealed so much bitterness. "It's nowt. Anyroad, I don't want to marry. I don't want to trap some poor girl into a marriage with someone who doesn't want her. I could manage –" He shrugged again, blushing. "I could put her up the stick, I expect, but I couldn't lie to her for long. I'd hate myself, and I'd hate her by and by through no fault of her own. Wouldn't be fair."

"Yes. Yes, of course, you're right. You know, I'm acquainted with at least half a dozen perfectly respectable bachelors – can you imagine, Sean? What if they all fancied men? Heavens, the oldest gentleman must be ninety if he's a day. Suppose he had a lover. Two men in, oh, 1835 – think of it! It's rather romantic, isn't it?"

"Rather daft if you ask me. Weren't they still hanging fellows for buggering back then?"

"Such a pragmatic soul," Viggo laughed. "So you'd have ignored me seventy years ago for fear of being hanged?"

"Aye. I'd have walked right by you, nose in the air." Sean grinned.

Viggo pounced, tackling Sean and pinning him to the boards, his hands locked around Sean's wrists. "Take it back."

Sean felt an insistent hardness pressing against his thigh. "Ha. What'll you do if I don't?"

"I'll show you." Viggo's lips and tongue found Sean's throat.

"Fair enough." Sean's body arched, cleaving to Viggo's, and that was the end of their conversation.

*

They stopped on Northampton Street to let a shabby omnibus pass. The passengers, driver, and horses all looked sluggish and uncomfortable, resentful of the June heat, irritated with the clattering of wheels, the creaking of the hard wooden seats, and the clouds of dust raised by their slow progress. Well, of course they were miserable – they hadn't had a day of swimming, picnicking, and shagging, poor sods. Sean leaned back against the hard tufted-leather seat and sighed in utter bliss.

"Why don't you come to Philadelphia with me?" Viggo leaned close to be heard above the noisy bus.

Jolted from his fog of contentment, Sean swiveled to face Viggo, but couldn't make out his expression beneath the absurd goggles. "To Philadelphia? What, to stay with you?"

"Why not? We'd have a grand time, don't you think?"

"In your house?" He sounded like a right idiot, but it was impossible to bury his shock. "Right there, with your mam and dad?"

"Well, I'm not saying that we – you know. That likely wouldn't be possible. But I'd love to have you visit. My father would be delighted to talk with you. I've told him so much about your contributions." Viggo set the car in motion again, and they were silent until they drew to a stop at Mrs. Donnelly's boardinghouse. Viggo stopped the automobile and pulled off his cap and goggles. "Just give it some thought," he said. "Don't say no right away, Sean."

"Good Christ." Sean went cold at the thought of being in Viggo's house. He hadn't seen a picture of it, but from Viggo's description it was like a palace, and his parents ruled over it like a king and queen. His mother, especially, sounded like she saw through walls and around corners. What if she wormed the truth out of him somehow? He groped for an excuse. "What about the office?"

"Surely it won't fall apart in a week. Look, we'll say no more about it for now. I won't be leaving for nearly a month. That's plenty of time for you to decide." Viggo touched the back of Sean's hand. "Thank you for coming with me today. I had a marvelous time."

"Aye, so did I." Sean hesitated. Viggo looked so winsome, it was impossible to deny him anything. "Perhaps I'll –"

"Mr. Mortensen!" The voice came from up the street, a high-pitched shriek. A boy, black with coal dust, wobbled toward them on a bicycle. "Mr. Mortensen! Mr. Bean!"

"It's Matty Doyle," Sean murmured. Matty was a company hand, a junior supervisor in the breaker. Sean stood up and leaned over the windscreen. "What's wrong, lad?"

The boy screeched to a halt. His breath came in sobbing gasps. "Cave-in, sir. Peachtree tunnel. Seven trapped, sir. They sent me to look for you, or Mr. Bean. I couldn't find you, so I came here."

Sean froze. "Jesus Christ." Fear pounded in his chest. Seven trapped! He and Viggo stared at each other.

Viggo recovered first. "Get in, Matty. Quickly. Sean, you'll come?" His eyes searched Sean's anxiously.

"Aye. Aye. Let's go." Sean sat back on the leather seat, his heart slamming against his ribcage. Matty scrambled into the back seat, and Viggo accelerated with a lurch and sped toward the horrors that surely awaited them. As they rattled down the street, Sean remembered that he hadn't thanked Viggo for the flowers.

*