FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 8]
Apr. 17th, 2013 12:10 am![[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.
*
Sweat trickled from Sean's temples down to his neck and inside the collar of his shirt. He shifted as noiselessly as he could, but the narrow wooden pew creaked loudly into a gap of silence and he fancied faint disapproval radiating from the people behind him. Sighing, he fished his handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his face, longing to strip off his broadcloth coat or at the very least fan himself with a missal. He stole a look at Viggo, upright, pale, and bone-dry.
Viggo hadn't been himself since Monday afternoon. They'd got to the mine with amazing speed thanks to the Daimler, but there was nothing to be done. Three workers had been pulled from the rubble by the time they'd arrived, and the Black Maria, the colliery's horse-drawn black ambulance, had already gone to the hospital with the injured men in the back. Two screaming, sobbing women stood outside the mine entrance, other women clustering round them, trying to draw them back to the patch village with no success. Some of the miners had formed a rescue team. Viggo had ordered the mine closed for the day, with the workers to receive their full pay. The elder Mr. Mortensen was going to love that, Sean had mused.
Despite the workers' best efforts, it had been three days until enough debris had been cleared to retrieve the bodies of the four miners still trapped within. Sean had prayed that they had been killed immediately. He couldn't imagine a more horrifying fate than being trapped, dying by slow degrees and hoping to the bitter end for rescue. Since then, Viggo had been quiet and morose. Sean had given up trying to brighten the gloomy atmosphere in the office since it was clear all his attempts were falling onto stony ground. "It's not your fault, you know," he had said at last.
Viggo had nodded, though he kept his gaze riveted to his empty desk blotter. "I know."
Sean had hesitated, clumsy and uncomfortable with words of consolation. "Can I do owt for you?"
At that Viggo had looked up. "I'm glad you're here," he'd said simply.
So he sat silent and stiff in this hot, crowded church, in the front pew like a toff, sweating like a racehorse, and awkwardly copying Viggo and Grace's movements as best he could, standing, kneeling, sitting, bowing his head. Going to a Catholic service was like going to a dance, there were so many complicated twists and turns. And not a bloody word of it understandable. He listened to Viggo's brother murmuring in Latin. It was soothing, he supposed, except to the unfortunate families of the dead men whose coffins lay end to end in the center aisle of the church, draped with black and topped with white flowers, courtesy of the Mortensens.
All but one of the victims had been Irish; the fourth man had been a Pole who'd been saving to bring his wife and young child over from Lipsk. He had no relatives in Pennsylvania, and none of his fellow Poles had claimed his body, for the funeral expenses would be too great. Viggo had absorbed the cost himself, as he'd paid for the Irish miners' expenses, and arranged for the man to be buried from St. Mary's with the others.
As if moved by a soundless summons, the congregants knelt for yet another blessing and prayer. It seemed as if it might be the end, though; Father Mortensen had the air of a man concluding his business. A somber tune droned from the organ in the choir loft. There was a sudden burst of sobbing from one woman that momentarily threatened to drown out the music. People began to shuffle around them, collecting hats and shawls and fans, and a number of miners, dressed in their shabby best, stepped forward and carried the coffins from the church.
The air outside was as hot and still as the air inside the church, though unclouded with incense. The first act was over, and there were two more to go: the graveside service and the social hour to follow at the parish hall. Sean peered up at the sky. It was a bright jewel blue, not a wisp of cloud in sight. He made his way to Viggo, Grace, and Charlotte Welles, who stood at the bottom of the church steps beside Viggo's carriage, all in elegant black. He felt like a bit of a fraud, standing with the quality folk.
Grace lifted her veil. "We won't come with you boys. We'll go to the hall and get things ready so that no one has to wait. I'm sure they'll be hungry and tired upon their return. Don't you think, Charlotte?" Viggo had arranged for the luncheon as well. Sean was keeping strict accounts of all costs, and was certain the elder Mr. Mortensen was going to suffer an attack of apoplexy when he saw how much his son was spending.
Charlotte linked her arm through Grace's. "I agree completely." She kept her veil lowered and leveled a cool look at both Viggo and Sean. Her manner, though always polite, was as chilly as her eyes. She seemed utterly oblivious to the admiring glances that came her way by almost every man who passed her. She was a bit of a strange one, Sean thought, and an odd companion for the talkative and friendly Grace, but they seemed devoted.
"Very well," Viggo said. "We'll see you back at the hall."
Grace leaned over and kissed Viggo on the cheek, then smiled at Sean and turned away, leading Charlotte toward the parish hall, the ruffled hems of their black dresses rustling against the sidewalk. Their arms were still linked, their heads close together. Sean watched their departure in wondering envy. How free ladies were to be as affectionate as they pleased.
Viggo climbed into the carriage, and Sean followed, careful not to meet Pearce's inimical stare. He'd made his visits to the Mortensen household scarce, but it seemed he'd run into Pearce's glare every damned time, as if the man were waiting round corners for him. The big Irishman never said an untoward word, but his dark glances would have shriveled the Susquehanna into a mere trickle.
"The cemetery, Pearce," Viggo said, and settled back into the carriage, his arms crossed, his shoulders hunched.
*
It wasn't right, a funeral on a blazingly hot and sunny day, lush green on the trees and the liquid trill of a bird hidden in a shrub. Funerals should be accompanied by bad weather and cold. They'd seemed to be in England, or was Sean's memory already playing tricks on him? He didn't think so. More people died in the winter. If they were ill, they inevitably gave up in the greyness and cold – sensible of them. No one wanted to die in the midst of warmth and blue skies. Summer deaths were for accidents like this one.
Sweat trickled down his back. He itched unbearably. He'd have given his last penny to be able to strip off his clothes and jump into the river a mere block away. Idly, he watched a small party of bees hovering around a honeysuckle bush. Not so much as a leaf stirred, but he could still smell the sticky-sweet fragrance of the pink flowers, so powerful they needed no breeze to carry their aroma.
More Latin, more weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Sean shifted from foot to foot. Father Mortensen's praying seemed to be driving the mourners to frenzy. It was a far cry from the stoic Covenanter funerals he'd attended in England, where the shedding of more than two genteel tears could earn years of silent tut-tutting and disapproving glances. Maybe it was better this way, to bawl and shriek for the dead instead of stepping on grief until it choked. He stole a look at Viggo, who stared straight ahead but whose cheek was wet. Sean would have liked to have put a hand on his arm, but didn't dare.
He let his gaze travel the mourners. There was Gavin Rowe, standing with his head down, his lips moving silently out of time with the prayers. He saw Stephen Farrell, the union representative, sweat trickling from his thatch of ginger hair, his big shoulders slumped. Stephen noticed him and nodded gravely, cutting his eyes left and thrusting his chin toward the cemetery fence, indicating that Sean should meet him there. Sean returned the nod in understanding and was about to bow his head again when he felt someone staring at him. Without moving his head, he peered round and saw Harry Slater, neatly dressed in a black suit and tie, watching him with slitted eyes.
Sean recoiled. He'd never been particularly adept at reading people – he'd never had the merest inkling of what had run through Freddy's head – but it didn't take a genius or a soothsayer to perceive the hatred in Harry's narrowed gaze. He knew. He knew it had been Sean who'd thumped him on the head and left him tied up in the cellar, and he'd come to – to what? To get his bloody letter and cufflinks back? It was hard to believe he'd crossed an entire ocean for that. He could have stayed at home and shaken Freddy down for a bit of cash. Sean frowned. Freddy had never answered his cable. Still angry, he supposed. Sean couldn't blame him for that, and he didn't really need Freddy to confirm what he already knew. It seemed certain now that Harry had sent those men to beat him. He'd have to watch his back.
Harry appeared to realize that Sean had seen him, and schooled his features into dignified sorrow. Sean had the urge to stride up to him and say 'That's right, I took your damned letter, and there's nowt you can do about it, so take your sorry arse back to England.' It wouldn't do a bit of good, but he'd love to see Harry's face.
A sudden murmuring rustled from the crowd across the open grave. One of the women had fainted. A muted cacophony arose – smelling salts, fluttering handkerchiefs in a dozen hands, hip flasks. Viggo craned his neck, frowning. Sean laid a hand on his arm, as much in comfort as restraint. "They'll see to her." Viggo nodded glumly and sank back into his dark reverie.
To Sean's relief, Father Mortensen seemed to understand that matters should be wrapped up quickly. The tempo of his chanting increased in speed, and in moments he gave the final blessing and closed his prayer book. The assembly began filing out of the cemetery in pairs and trios. Some were still openly sobbing. Father Mortensen drew Viggo to one side and engaged him in subdued conversation. Sean moved toward the gate, where Stephen Farrell stood waiting. Harry Slater fell into step beside him.
"Bad business," Harry remarked.
Sean gave him a brief, chill glance. "It is that."
Harry clasped his hands behind his back and slowed his pace, forcing Sean to match Harry's stride. "Generous of Mr. Mortensen to pay the death expenses, though," he went on. "Must have cost him a pretty penny."
"He didn't like to burden the families."
"Oh, I'm sure. Generous, like I said. Rich fellows are lucky, Sean. They can sweep all their troubles away with a smart bit of cash."
"Perhaps that's so."
"No perhaps about it, lad. Why do something yourself when you can pay to have it done, eh?"
So Harry wanted to toy with him the way a cat toyed with a mouse. Well, two could play at that game. Sean halted in his tracks and faced him. "So are you telling me Mr. Mortensen should have dug the graves himself? Read the service? Dressed the corpses, maybe?"
"Oh, now, lad, you know that's not what I mean at all." Harry grinned.
Go on, Sean thought. Spit it out, you bastard. "What, then?"
"I just mean that he's a fortunate man, able to take care of things like that. Fellows like you and I…we've got to settle our own problems. In our own way."
"That's true." Bloody bastard. Sean longed to cram his fist into Harry's face and knock out all his sharp little teeth.
"Fine day." Harry looked up at the sky. "Terrible about those poor blokes." He met Sean's gaze, no longer smiling. "Dreadful how an accident can just happen like that. Out of the blue, like."
Sean wasn't about to take a threat like that lying down. He slid his hands into his pockets and dug his fingers into his thighs until they hurt. "You're right, Harry." He offered a smile of his own and took one menacing step forward. "Maybe we should just thank God we're lucky to be alive."
Surprise and alarm flashed in Harry's eyes for a split second. He didn't move back, but the knowing look was gone from his face. "Could be. I'll have to think about that for a bit."
"Do that," Sean returned, and nodded to Farrell. "Stephen."
Farrell wrung Sean's hand. No amount of scrubbing could remove the coal stains from Farrell's huge, work-roughened paws. "Sean." He slapped his cap against his leg and shook his head. "It's – howeryeh, Harry."
"Hello, Stephen. How are you this day?" Harry smiled, once more the picture of affability.
"As well as can be expected. Sean, can I have a word?"
Sean turned to Harry. "You'll pardon us, Harry. Private bit of business. We'll see you at the parish hall."
Color flooded Harry's face, and his lips thinned. "Righto." He settled his hat and walked away in sharp, fast steps.
"You shouldn't have said that to him, Sean."
"Why not?" Sean snapped. "None of his bloody business, is it?" He watched a number of miners converge around Harry; like magic, the anger melted away and his hail-fellow-well-met exterior was restored. A small shiver of apprehension worked its way down Sean's back. Harry blew hot and cold. That wasn't to be trusted.
Stephen sighed. "I'm already in the soup with that one." He scratched the side of his long, crooked nose. "And everyone else, thanks to him."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he's after stirring up the lads," Stephen said flatly. "Naught I can prove, mind you. But I'm fairly sure he's to blame."
Sean folded his arms. "What do you mean?"
"Well…some of them are complaining because of the accident. That's nothing new. But there's talk that the timbers hadn't been properly inspected."
"Bugger all," Sean said. "We just had the federal inspector out not a month ago. You were there, for Christ's sake. You spoke to him."
"Aye, aye, I know that. But there's some that say he was paid to look the other way." Stephen scratched at his nose again. "Paid to ignore some rotting timbers."
"That's a bloody lie!"
"I know that. But if Harry Slater says it, and he's the outside foreman…." Stephen shrugged. His dark blue eyes bored into Sean's.
Sean looked past the iron cemetery gates. Slater and his crowd had drifted out of sight. Was Slater trying to discredit him? He was Viggo's second, after all. But that seemed ridiculous, too elaborate. He turned back to Farrell. "Why would he do it, Stephen? Say a thing like that?"
"He wants to be head union man. That's my guess."
"You can't prove it, you say?"
"Nay. But I see him whispering to the lads, and cutting his eyes at me. I can't prove it, but I'd stake my life on it."
Sean sighed. "Anything else?"
"Aye. Some of the lads are saying that Jerzy Czarnecki ought to have been buried with his own people."
"Other Poles, you mean," Sean said. "Who's complaining?"
"Some of the Irish and Welsh lads. Some of the Poles."
"Well, let them pay for the bloody funeral. Don't they know that Mr. Mortensen's bent over backward to help them? Christ, he's paid for the funerals, giving the widows and orphans a pension…are they blind?"
"Aye, I hear you," Farrell murmured unhappily. "I'm only after telling you so you'll know. Mr. Mortensen's been more than fair. It's that Slater. Mark me, he'll have my position before the year's out, so he will. I don't mind being voted out if that's what the miners want, but he doesn't care about the lads. You can see it in his eyes. In a year he'll be taking bribes and lording it over them, taking away tea breaks and any privilege he can so he can sell it back at a higher price, and then they'll be sorry, but right now he's got them coming and going with his sweet talk. You knew him back in England, Sean. Was he that way then?"
"I didn't work in the mine," Sean replied. "But I never trusted him, just the same." He saw Viggo coming toward them. "I'll bring this up with Mr. Mortensen myself. What can I do to help you, Stephen?"
"Naught," Stephen said in a low voice. "And don't say aught to Mr. Mortensen, either. It'll look bad, like I was in his pocket. You know that."
"I reckon I do," Sean sighed. "You tell me, though, if you need owt."
"I will." Stephen squeezed Sean's shoulder. "Thanks, lad."
"Good morning, Mr. Farrell," Viggo said, extending his hand.
"Morning, sir. Just having a chat with Sean here."
Viggo smiled a bit listlessly. "I'll have some things to discuss with you on Monday – safety matters and the like. I'll be at the mine by ten. Will that be convenient for you?"
"Aye, Mr. Mortensen, just as you like."
"Thank you. Are you ready to go, Mr. Bean?"
"Yes, sir." He nodded to Stephen and made his way out of the cemetery. They were among the last ones there. The rest had gone back to the parish hall, to eat sandwiches and drink lemonade.
"Will you come by tonight, Sean?"
Sean hesitated, then decided it wasn't the time to agonize over Grace's presence or Pearce's hostility. "If you want me to."
"I want you to." Viggo looked exhausted, and older than his years. "I need you to. Will you come?"
No one was looking. Sean briefly grasped Viggo's hand. "Aye. Aye, I'll come."
*
Mrs. McGuire had made them a cold supper, but the heat was enervating, and neither Sean nor Viggo felt like eating. The girls had gone back to Harvey's Lake, so Viggo went to the kitchen, Sean in tow, took a few quart bottles of beer from the icebox, and slipped out the back door. They went to the iron summerhouse, took off their coats, and sat on the flagstone floor, drinking and watching dusk and blessed coolness overtake the hot afternoon. The clatter of the city around them died down; occasionally the rumble and clang of the streetcar sounded in the distance, but there was a greater noise of birdsong, frogs, and crickets. A few houses down, the voices of children rose and fell. They were playing kick-the-tin, and a rousing game by the sound of it. Here and there, a dog barked.
Sean watched a group of fireflies flashing and twirling lazily around a clump of rhododendron bushes. He fancied he could see trails and patterns in their somersaulting, like the brief, bright scratches falling stars left upon the night sky. "Look there," he said, pointing.
"Lightning bugs," Viggo said. "We used to catch them in jam jars. Michael always made us let them go. He thought he was Saint Francis, I think."
"Who?"
"Saint Francis? He was a monk who loved animals. He tamed a wolf, talked to birds, befriended rabbits…so they say." Viggo took a deep swallow of his beer. "Thank you for coming with me today, by the way. I know it must have been strange to you."
It had been strange indeed. "It were different," Sean admitted. "I'd never been to a Catholic service before."
"Complicated, eh?"
"Aye, you could say that." Sean smiled. "I liked seeing you there, though. I know it were sad and all, but…I liked it." He hesitated, not certain how to say that it felt as if he had received a secret glimpse of Viggo's life, that there was something sweet and lovely about seeing him in prayer. He wished he had the grasp of a poetic or pretty phrase now and again, rather than his blunt mumblings. "And I think the families were glad you went, you and Miss Grace."
"I don't know. I wonder if I wasn't intruding."
"You had every right," Sean insisted. "You paid for it all." He drank the last of his quart and set the bottle down with a decisive clink. He'd never tell Viggo about the grumbling. Ungrateful sods.
Viggo drank again, draining the bottle, and stared at it as if someone else had made off with his beer. "I think that perhaps I shouldn't have gone. What if they think I'm – oh, I don't know – trying too hard to ingratiate myself into their company. Do you know what I mean?"
Sean thought about Frederick Watkins Senior's visits to the brickyard, overlaid with blustering good cheer, and Freddie's as well – he had acted as if putting a toe into the yard would indelibly stain him for life. Both men's appearances had always been greeted with outward deferential politeness and inward sneering suspicion. But Viggo wasn't like either Watkins Senior or Junior; he had a good and generous heart. "I reckon I do. It's hard when all they see of you is your fancy clothes and your new automobile. But they should know better all the same. You're not like the other mine owners, and they know it. Word gets around."
"I should go to the mine offices more. I suppose I shall have to, at any rate. Someone must take responsibility for that accident." Viggo sighed heavily. He set his empty bottle down and rubbed at his eyes.
"Viggo," Sean said softly, "it weren't your fault. Accidents happen every day – you don't know how bleeding lucky you've been not to have had one before now. That's the nature of it. The earth just shifts and buckles at times, and there's nowt anyone can do about it." He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance, but his stomach gave a great, ugly lurch. "Anyroad, that inspector were hard as nails. If there'd been owt wrong, he'd have noticed, and made report. He pegged away at them safety ledgers for hours – you saw him."
"They might blame me just the same. And they might be right. What if there was something I overlooked, something I neglected? Those deaths would be on my shoulders."
"If anyone says owt like that, I'll knock them into next Tuesday," Sean snapped. "Let them try." He thought of Harry and his scandal-mongering. Was it his fault Viggo was being blamed? He looked around for a fresh bottle of beer. They'd drunk them all. He picked up his empty bottle and stared into it bitterly.
Viggo didn't speak or move for a moment. By and by, he cleared his throat. "Sean, you…you constantly amaze me."
"What?"
"It's just that…you're the most loyal friend I've ever had. I've never had anyone offer to knock someone into next Tuesday for me."
Sean squinted into the darkness. He could scarcely make out Viggo's face. "Don't make fun."
"I'm not, I'm not!" Viggo grasped Sean's fingers. "Don't misunderstand me, don't be angry. I meant every word. I can't tell you what you are to me. Sometimes it all feels so fragile, I –" He laughed. "I can't say what I mean without sounding foolish."
"I don't mind." Sean spoke softly, as if spies lurked in the rhododendrons."I've not heard you laugh in awhile. It's good to hear again."
"You make me happy," Viggo whispered, and kissed Sean on the mouth.
Sean yielded to Viggo's kiss. He closed his eyes and listened to the chirruping of the frogs and crickets, the only sound now that the children had been called home, the streetcar shut down for the evening, the birds asleep in the trees, and the dogs placated with soup bones. Now there was the sound of Viggo's breath mingled with his own, the rasp of fabric against fabric as they pressed close together, the faint scrape of Viggo's fingertips against Sean's rough cheek. It filled his ears, and he pulled away, afraid that someone from the house would see them. "Viggo –"
Viggo seemed to understand. "Come on," he said, getting to his feet and pulling Sean up with him. "Behind the summerhouse. There's grass and bushes. It's soft, and no one will notice us. Except the fireflies."
Sean allowed himself to be led and urged to the ground. He lay back and let Viggo unbutton his shirt and trousers, and then sat up. "Viggo." This was the time to tell him about Harry. It was quiet; they had all night to talk. He'd make Viggo understand, in time, that he'd had no choice.
"What is it?" Viggo stripped off Sean's shirt and began unbuttoning his undershirt. He laid Sean's chest bare and kissed his collarbone. "You taste of salt." He put his lips on Sean's throat and suckled, slipping a hand between Sean's legs.
"I –" Sean's prick leapt to attention, ignoring his misery. "I have to –" He stopped, his hips thrusting forward even as he shut his eyes, unable to bear his own guilt. "Oh, God."
"Shh. Let me touch you. I want to touch you." Viggo closed his mouth over Sean's, silencing him.
Sean's hands moved with trembling speed, undressing Viggo between kisses, caressing, stroking, and finally they both lay naked in the cool, lush grass. Viggo thrust two fingers in Sean's mouth, and he sucked eagerly, licking and biting, trying to stifle the moan building in his throat.
Viggo spat in his hand and pushed his fingers inside Sean. "Let me. Please." At Sean's nod he spat again, readied himself, and gently nudged Sean to his belly. He slid in, stopping with a groan. "Am I hurting you?"
"Nay, nay. Keep going…." It took some doing, but at last Viggo was inside him. It hurt. Sean bit his forearm and spread his legs wider as Viggo began to thrust against him. He breathed deeply, slowly, and relaxed; better. Much better. "Aye, that's it, love –" He gasped as Viggo wrapped a strong arm round his waist, pulled him up, and drove himself in to the hilt. He clutched handfuls of grass, tearing it from the earth. Viggo's other hand curled round his cock and stroked him; his teeth sank into Sean's shoulder in a carnivore's kiss. The sound of their breathing and the collision of their sweating bodies seemed impossibly loud in the night's quiet, but Sean was too far gone to care. He grabbed Viggo's lean thigh for balance and bit the heel of his hand to keep from crying out as he tumbled into release. Dizzy, he felt Viggo freeze and then shudder. Viggo bore them both to the grass. They separated, panting and sticky, and lay in silence, recovering themselves.
The moon rode high in the sky, nearly full, glimmering white. Sean's sweat cooled rapidly in the night air. He shivered and turned toward Viggo, lying on his side in the grass, his wide-open eyes shining in the moonlight. He looked so tender, so sweet, Sean felt a surge of love that alarmed him with its strength. He caressed Viggo's bare hip. "That were brilliant."
Viggo pulled Sean close and embraced him. His body trembled. He put his lips to Sean's ear. "I love you. I love you."
Sean closed his eyes and buried his face in the nape of Viggo's neck. His throat tightened.
"What is it?"
Sean shook his head. He opened his eyes, saw nothing but a blackish-green blur of neatly trimmed shrubs, and closed them again. "I love you." He heard Viggo's soft chuckle, felt his body relax.
"Thank God. Kiss me."
"I love you."
"Then kiss me."
Sean opened his mouth and yielded again. He would tell Viggo soon, he promised himself. Soon.
*
*
Viggo shifted forward in his chair, straining to hear the soft Scots burr of Benjamin MacLeod, the mediator from the United Mine Workers. Try as he might, Viggo couldn't accustom himself to the deafening clatter of the coal breaker, even with the office door tightly closed. Perhaps he needed to get his hearing checked, though an ear trumpet would hardly improve the quality of sound in the tiny, stuffy office with its paper-thin walls. The din didn't seem to affect the other men; they seemed completely at ease with the racket, listening to MacLeod with no apparent problem. Frustrated, Viggo watched the young man's lips, hoping to catch more than a word here and there.
Beside him, Sean cleared his throat. "Could you speak up a bit, Mr. MacLeod?" he asked. "It's right noisy in here."
"Of course. Pardon." The young Scotsman was frowning as he examined a piece of much-folded paper. "The vote was carried by an overwhelming margin. There doesn't seem to be any doubt about the matter." He tugged a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his sweating brow. "I hear tell you were a union man back in England, Mr. Slater."
Harry Slater nodded. "That's correct, sir."
"You needn't call me 'sir.'" McLeod seemed a bit nettled. "I'm a working man like yourself."
Slater shrugged. "Fair play to you."
McLeod glanced at Stephen Farrell, who sat hunched over in his chair as if someone had given him a thrashing. "I'm sorry, Stephen," McLeod said. "These things happen."
Farrell shook his head. "Aye, I know. Well, that's what the lads want, I suppose. Congratulations, Harry." He offered Slater his hand.
"Thanks, Stephen," Slater replied warmly, shaking Farrell's hand. "I hope I can come to you for advice and so on."
Farrell's mouth tightened. He exchanged an unfathomable look with Sean and Gavin Rowe. "Aye, of course. Happy to help."
"You seem to be very popular with the miners, Mr. Slater," MacLeod said.
"A fresh pair of ears and eyes, Mr. MacLeod," Slater replied. "Sometimes that's what's needed."
"Nothing in the nature of empty promises, I hope."
Slater cocked his head to one side. "I don't take your point."
"There have been instances where fellows have got themselves elected by making promises they couldn't keep," MacLeod said. "Mind you, I'm not suggesting you've done that. But these lads work hard and soberly, and there have been a few representatives hungry for power or influence who've tried to string them along with empty promises of higher wages or longer breaks or pensions. It's caused a great many problems. I've a habit of telling new fellows that, just to be on the safe side."
"Well now. You needn't worry on that account. I never make a promise I can't keep, especially to a brother miner." Harry Slater offered Viggo a slow smile, then he fixed his gaze on Sean. His smile widened. "You can stake your life on that."
Viggo frowned severely. Slater had committed no wrongdoing. Perhaps he'd been telling the truth the day he'd stood in Viggo's office and declared that the miners no longer trusted Stephen Farrell. But had their distrust sprung from Farrell's neglect or Slater's rumor-mongering? Slater had come tale-carrying about Sean as well, sidling, baseless insinuations that had fallen upon stony ground. Viggo's heart hardened. "Mr. MacLeod," he said, "I would like it stated for the record that Mr. Whittaker, the federal inspector, conducted his findings in an entirely honest and straightforward fashion."
"I'm sure he did, Mr. Mortensen," MacLeod replied wearily, "but ultimately that decision is in the hands of our representatives in Washington. Allegations of this sort must be investigated, particularly in the aftermath of an accident. When their analysis and review is concluded, you'll be notified."
"I would further like it stated that my dealings with Mr. Farrell have been similarly candid, and that the safety and well-being of his fellow miners have been his chief concern. I don't wish to cast doubt upon Mr. Slater's intentions or character, but I feel that Mr. Farrell's reputation may be tarnished by his peremptory replacement."
"I'll make certain that observation is noted in the records, Mr. Mortensen," MacLeod sighed. "Meanwhile, I think our business is concluded, gentlemen. I'll have a word with you, Mr. Slater, about some paperwork you'll need to complete. Could I trouble you for the use of this office for a while, Mr. Rowe? Mr. Mortensen?"
Viggo was less than satisfied as the men, with the exception of Slater and MacLeod, shuffled to their feet and proceeded outside. "Let's have a short walk," he said to the others, and moved to the far end of the yard near the railway tracks. A train sat steaming on the tracks, churning and hissing as if it were eager to depart. For a moment they all watched as a gleaming river of coal pieces was poured from a long chute into a hopper car. Viggo shook his head, refusing Rowe's offer of a Woodbine, then scrutinized Sean, Rowe, and Farrell in turn. "Well?"
Rowe exhaled a stream of smoke. "Well…no surprises, Mr. Mortensen. Now comes the trouble, though. You'll see."
"I was afraid of that. Be specific, Gavin."
"Where to begin? We've not had problems since the last series of great strikes – that would be four years now. Your dad's a fair enough fellow, for an owner – at least much more so than some of the robber barons in these parts."
"Not a very generous assessment," Viggo snapped, stung.
Rowe shrugged, unrepentant. "You've got to remember how the lads see it, Mr. Mortensen. The richest of them don't make more than three dollars a day plus sixty pence a ton. Don't get me wrong – he's been good to them, and you've been better. But there's a world of difference between you and them, and the sooner you see it…" He trailed off and watched the train, now loaded, chug down the tracks.
"Yes, I can see that." Michael would have used this opportunity to deliver a sermon – 'the poor will always be with you' or some such. "He's my father, though, and you understand that I'm protective of him. And all the improvements I've undertaken have been with his approval – you know that."
"Aye. But a clever man – and mind you, I think Harry Slater's a clever one – a clever man will use that money to drive a wedge between the lads and the owners. They ought to have more of the owner's money and so on. And I may as well tell you the rest of it…your improvements, sir."
"What about them?" Viggo folded his arms and stared at the mine boss.
"The lads aren't best pleased with some of them." Rowe glanced at Farrell, who nodded.
"It's true, sir," Farrell volunteered. "Even I've heard it from the lads."
"Why ever not?" Viggo demanded. "All the improvement has been for their benefit."
"Well, it's the modern machinery, first off, coal cutters, the new exhaust fans and lamps, and the like. They're afraid they'll be replaced altogether, being that the new-fangled equipment is so efficient."
"But we don't even have the bloody cutters, Gavin," Sean broke in. "The machines won't fit in the tunnels, and it isn't safe to widen them. You know that. Can't you tell the men that?"
"That may be so, Sean lad, but will they listen to me? I'm a company man, not one of them."
"I told them," Farrell said. "It was all right until Harry showed up with his whisperings. And he's the one who got them up in arms over the breaker boys, too."
Viggo sighed impatiently. He could scarcely credit one man with so much malice. "What has he to do with that?"
Rowe shook his head. "It got round that you wanted to pull the lads, put them in school. That's money from pockets, sir."
"But I was seeking alternatives that wouldn't impoverish the families," Viggo protested.
"They might believe it when they see it, but not before – and no one wants to be the first to volunteer, I can tell you that," Rowe said. "That's a dollar a day out of their pockets – a dollar they badly need, mind you – and a whole pile of book learning that'll get them kids nothing but a lot of misery when they haven't the money to be mine owners themselves."
Viggo gave Sean a despairing glance. None of his changes, real or proposed, had been taken in the spirit he'd intended. "I'm going to call a meeting," he announced, "to discuss these problems. Paid, so that the men will be certain to show up."
"If you point fingers at Harry, the men won't believe a word you say," Farrell warned. "I don't know how, but he's weaseled his way into their good graces."
"I have no intention of pointing fingers," Viggo said. "I simply want the air clear." He looked around at the men walking back and forth in the yard; they all gave Viggo and his companions a wide berth, along with some muttering behind hands and dark glances. "Perhaps if we discuss the possibility of a pay raise. I'll be going to Philadelphia within the month, and I plan to bring up the matter with Mr. Mortensen, Senior."
"Don't breathe a word of that, sir, not until it's a sure thing," Farrell said. "There's naught worse than having a prize dangled before you and then snatched away."
Viggo nodded. "That's true. Oh – here's Mr. MacLeod. I promised I'd take him back to the city. We'll discuss all this at another time, gentlemen."
"I'm ready to go back if you are, Mr. Mortensen," the young Scotsman said. He consulted his pocket watch. "I've plenty of time, however. My train doesn't leave until five-thirty."
"I'm certainly ready to leave, Mr. MacLeod," Viggo replied truthfully. "Mr. Bean, if you've completed your business?"
The ride back to town was a glum one for Viggo. He tried to make pleasant conversation, but the effort proved strenuous. Sean seemed to sense Viggo's dismay, and gamely waded in, asking MacLeod when he'd come to America. Soon the two were chatting about Scotland and England and Viggo was left to brood in peace.
Presently they pulled to a stop in front of the Hotel Sterling at the intersection of River and Market Street. Benjamin MacLeod alighted from the carriage and turned to shake Sean's hand, then Viggo's. He peered intently at Viggo. "You have some misgivings, Mr. Mortensen."
Viggo flushed. "Mr. MacLeod, it's only that –"
MacLeod waved a hand. "Never mind. You needn't say anything. In fact, you probably shouldn't say anything. But I'm not a blind fool, I assure you. It's an unfortunate truth that sometimes men don't elect leaders who are fit to lead."
"You see it, then," Sean said. "You see that Slater's up to no good somehow."
"Mr. Bean, I cannot trade in the currency of hunches and suspicions. It isn't my job to do so, and besides, I simply can't afford to. I have to work with what's factual, what is documented, what can be proved. There isn't a scrap of evidence to suggest that Mr. Slater is incapable of representing the men. Therefore, I'll give you the same advice I gave him: if you have doubts, your best course of action is to keep written, truthful, and verifiable documentation. Being a union man is less a job for a firebrand than a bank clerk." MacLeod smiled mirthlessly.
"So Mr. Slater had similar misgivings, did he?" Viggo inquired.
MacLeod shook his head. "There's often a sense of animosity between labor and management, Mr. Mortensen, and I'll wager you know it better than I do."
"I suppose I do now."
"That's inevitable, I'm afraid. Good day to you, and good luck. I'll do my best to keep both sides apprised of the results of the investigation." MacLeod tipped his hat and walked into the hotel.
Viggo waited for the streetcar to pass, then shook the reins. "Most of the day's gone. I'll drop you off at home."
Sean didn't respond immediately. He took off his Panama hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. A drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. "Why didn't you bring the motorcar?"
"It's too conspicuous," Viggo replied. "We can take it on outings, but I won't drive it out to the mine. It looks as if I'm lording it over the men." He glanced sideways at Sean. "What? Speak up."
"It's nowt," Sean said.
"You want to say something, I can tell. Go ahead, say it."
Sean sighed. "It's – all right, then. They know you're rich, Viggo. It's not a bleeding secret. Why bother trying to hide it from them?"
"Because I don't like to throw it in their faces," Viggo said. "Can't you see that? It's the worst sort of ostentation."
"You wanted the bloody car, didn't you?"
Reluctantly, Viggo nodded.
"Well then, drive it. No point in having a guilty conscience about it now. You're not the worst of the lot – time to stop thinking that you are."
"I don't know. Lately it feels as if every decision I make is the wrong one."
Sean patted his arm. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad. Look here, there's always going to be someone resentful of your good fortune. Doesn't matter how much you have. If I had nowt but two pennies to rub together, there'd be some fellow with one penny hating me like poison. It's not as if you're going to give it all away, though I'll say you've made a fine beginning of it."
"Don't you start in on me," Viggo said, though some of his good nature was restored. "I'm going to hear enough of that from Father when I go home. By the way – have you given any more thought to that? Coming home with me, that is?"
"Aye, I have. I don't know that I ought to. It mightn't look good, you dragging your secretary along. I should be holding up my end of the business while you're gone. Especially if your dad's going to give you all sorts of hell." Sean grinned, then sobered. "Besides, someone's got to keep a sharp eye on Harry."
"You truly don't trust him," Viggo murmured.
"Nay," Sean said, then fell silent. After a moment, he went on. "Harry were with Freddy Watkins, you see. They –" He waved his hand. "You know."
Viggo was stunned. "Harry was?"
"Aye, I know. You wouldn't think it. Then again, I wouldn't think it, looking at you."
"Nor you, I suppose," Viggo said.
"Right. But Freddy…with Freddy, you knew straight away. He had a wife, and a little girl, but you knew all the same. Oh, my parents didn't know – they thought he were a right proper gentleman – and perhaps your parents wouldn’t see it either. But you'd know."
Viggo nodded. That elusive, unnamed quality remained, the signs that a man preferred other men, invisible to ordinary society, but clear and present to those who knew the signs, like an animal discerning its own kind at a glance or sudden scent. The horse whinnied and tossed his head, and Viggo realized he'd been gripping the reins too tightly. He loosened his grasp. "But him and elegant Freddy – it's hard to believe. I'm interrupting you, sorry. Go on."
"The letter I put in your safe – you remember it?"
They had come to Mrs. Donnelly's boardinghouse. Viggo stopped at the curb and slackened the reins. He turned toward Sean. "I remember that you asked to store something in there, but I haven't been in the safe since. No need."
"Well, it's a letter from Freddy to Harry. A shocking one. You might read it sometime." Sean's face had flushed scarlet.
Viggo frowned, digesting this information. Slowly, a troubling question dawned. "Sean, does Harry know that you have this letter?"
"Aye," Sean said. "I think he does."
"I suppose you obtained it from Freddy somehow?" Viggo would have given his eyeteeth to clap eyes on Freddy Watkins. He must have been quite dashing. He suppressed an ugly prickle of jealousy. "How on earth did you get hold of it?"
"Harry had a whole packet of them." Sean fiddled with the edge of his hat brim. "He blackmailed Freddy with the letters. Freddy paid me to…to steal them. I owed him a great sum of money." In a low voice, he briefly described surprising Harry at his home, and the burglary, all to pay off the debts his unfortunate parents had incurred.
"Good God." Viggo was amazed. "That was terribly risky. But I can't blame you – it was the only way to get out of debt."
"Aye," Sean muttered unhappily.
"You mustn't worry about it any longer," Viggo said. "And you don't suppose Harry came all this way just to get the letter back? How could he have known that you had one?"
"I don't know," Sean admitted. "He might have. If Freddy told him…I think he can hold a grudge, that one."
Viggo sat in silence for a moment. Something else occurred to him. "Do you suspect that Harry arranged to have you beaten?"
"You're not thick, are you?" Sean smiled wryly. "Could be. There's no way of knowing for certain."
"I'm going to have him discharged," Viggo declared. He drew himself up in indignation. "If you're in danger from him, I'm going to do something about it. I'll make certain every door in town is closed to him."
"Christ almighty, you can't do that. He's a union man now, and you'll get nothing but trouble for it. You can't, and I won't let you. Besides – I think he's calmed a bit. He's had his fun. It's been a few weeks and nowt's happened since. Let sleeping dogs lie."
"He's a dog, for certain," Viggo said. "If he hurts you again –"
Sean touched Viggo's leg. "Now, now. Mustn't get bent out of shape, sir." He gave Viggo a charmingly lopsided grin.
"It's no laughing matter. I insist that something be done."
"He'll slip up," Sean assured him. "You'll see. Then everything can be handled proper like. You can knock him into next Tuesday with the law."
Viggo relented. "Very well. But only because you've asked me so sweetly."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes. Oh – I forgot. Grace has invited you to picnic with us on Independence Day. We've been invited to the Welles' house. It might give Charlotte a chance to thaw towards us."
"Oh, aye. Out at the lake?"
"No, here in town. Will you come? We'll walk to the Common afterwards. They'll have a concert band, and fireworks. It'll be a fine time."
"Why not? Better than ligging about here." Sean swung himself to the ground and leaned into the carriage. "Maybe Grace will spend the night with Charlotte."
"I'll make sure to suggest it," Viggo replied. He longed to kiss Sean. "Off you go. See you tomorrow."
"Aye. Ta'ra, sir." Sean winked and ran up the steps of the boardinghouse.
Viggo watched him go, in far better spirits than before. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see Harcourt Earley, the school principal, framed in the lace curtains of the open window. Viggo tipped his hat. "Good evening, Mr. Earley."
Earley simply frowned and let the curtains flutter closed.
Smiling, Viggo picked up the reins again. As he drove toward home, he found himself whistling.
*
"If you wind that thing one more time, you're apt to break it."
Viggo tucked the sturdy silver watch into his vest pocket and offered Sean a wan, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm anxious." He peered at the cornflower blue of the summer sky and then at the empty, silent coal yard. "It's three minutes before seven. They're not coming, are they?" He laughed a little at the absurdity of his question.
Sean kicked absently at a clump of dirt. "Aye, well, it's –" He kept his eyes lowered. "It's hard to get the lads to come out on a Saturday night."
"At a day's pay, for an hour-long meeting?"
"Well – you want me to say it, I'll say it. We're not thick, neither of us. You know why they're not here. Just the company fellows." Sean nodded toward the small knot of men clustered at the far end of the yard, smoking and talking in low voices – Gavin Rowe, Pasko Omashel the fire boss, Ignace Borokowski the driver boss, Joe Schwab, one of the hoisting engineers, and Stephen Farrell – five out of three hundred and twelve men and boys. "Harry's got them in his pocket, all right. It's not your fault, not a bit of it."
"I suppose you can say 'I told you so' now." Viggo tried to keep the bitterness from his voice and couldn't.
Sean's shoulders hunched. "I'd not say that," he muttered. "I'd never say that." Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, and he scuffed his toe against the ground.
"Sean –" Viggo grasped Sean's shoulder. "Sean, I'm sorry. Of course you'd never say that. You mustn't pay any attention to me. I'm –" He watched the reddening nape of Sean's neck. "I'm angry, and I say foolish things when I'm angry. Forgive me, please."
"You didn't say owt that was dreadful," Sean replied softly. "It's only that – I feel as if I'm to blame."
"Because of the letter? That's ridiculous."
"Maybe it is." Sean turned and looked Viggo full in the face. "But maybe not."
"It is." Viggo tightened his grip on Sean's shoulder, turning the caress into a reassuring squeeze. "I'm perfectly willing to believe that he knows, or thinks he knows that you have the letter, but it's simply inconceivable to believe that he's willing to turn three hundred-odd miners against me because of it. You mustn't blame yourself. Come along." He walked toward the group of company men. "Gentlemen, I won't waste any more of your time this evening. Thank you for coming nevertheless."
"I'm sorry about it, sir," Gavin said, dropping his cigarette into the dirt and carefully grinding it out with his toe. "And I'm sorry to say it, but I think you've a fight ahead of you, and a dirty one at that. You mustn't be surprised or upset that nobody showed. The unions are tight. If they heard tell of one man coming, why, they might brand him as a scab, and after the troubles a few years ago, no one wants that on his back. It's as good as painting a target on him." He shook Viggo's hand. "I'll do what I can to help, but I'm only one man."
"I'm grateful," Viggo said warmly. "Thank you." He shook each man's hand in turn. "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry it was a fruitless venture. Good night." He watched the men clamber aboard Gavin's wagon, then turned to Sean. "Well. I didn't anticipate having any free time. Why not come over for a cold supper and a game of cards?" Sean smiled, and Viggo knew he'd been forgiven. "It's a pity Charlotte is spending the night."
"There's that bedroom atop the office," Sean said. "It's kept dusted but never used. Now that's a pity, don't you think?"
Viggo chuckled. "I knew I'd hired you for a good reason. You're resourceful."
"A fellow needs some talents," Sean replied modestly.
"Very well. We'll have that supper, and afterward…." He offered Sean a lecherous grin.
"Afterward I'll see what I can do about ridding you of that filthy mood of yours. Come on, then." He opened the passenger door of the Daimler and bowed low. "Get in the bleeding motorcar, if you please, sir. I'm driving."
Not far from the colliery gates, a young man sat on the culm bank, watching Viggo and Sean approach. As Viggo nodded politely, the man, tall, fair, and heavily built, doffed his cap, bobbed his head, and grinned, revealing a mouthful of broken and half-rotted teeth. Viggo turned in his seat to catch another glimpse of the man as he faded into the distance.
Sean caught his arm. "Careful, you'll take a tumble."
"Did you recognize him?" Viggo settled back into his seat.
"Nay, but I weren't looking hard." Sean shrugged. "He seem funny to you?"
"No…but it occurred to me that there might be mischief, if the men are unhappy."
"Shall we go back?"
Viggo sighed. "No, I suppose not. He'd only run off if he heard the motor."
"He'd be right daft to try anything tonight. Too obvious."
"That's probably true," Viggo conceded. "Very well. Homeward, my good man." He rested his hand on Sean's thigh.
The automobile accelerated ever so slightly.
*
"Grace! Grace, are you in there?" Viggo knocked on her door. "Have you eaten? I asked Mrs. McGuire to make supper now. Grace?"
The door opened a foot or so, and Grace stuck her head out. She was flushed and her hair was loose. "What are you doing here? I mean – I thought you would be at that meeting."
Viggo waved a hand. "Nobody showed. Have you eaten yet? I'm starving and – are you in your nightclothes already?" He peered at her shoulder, the only visible part of her anatomy besides her head, clad in lace-trimmed voile. "What a lazybones you've become. Did Charlotte go home?"
"No, she's – she's here, but she's not feeling well. She's sleeping. Or was trying to, until you came pounding on the door and bellowing." Grace brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Please tell her I said so. Are you ill?" Viggo leaned close to see his sister's face in the dim hallway.
Grace pulled back. "Why?"
"You look all red to me. You don't have a fever, old thing?" Viggo reached out to place an affectionate hand on Grace's brow and stopped when she flinched away. "I'm only joking, dear. What's the matter with you?"
"Sorry. I do feel a little feverish. I think I'll try to sleep as well."
"Do you want me to have a tray brought up?"
"No! That is – I'm not at all hungry. If I want something, I'll go downstairs later. I don't want to trouble anyone."
"You should eat something. Soup?"
Grace let out a little laugh, but her brow was knotted in consternation, and her mouth was tense and unsmiling. "I tell you, I'm perfectly capable of getting something to eat on my own."
"Very well. Hope you're feeling better soon. After dinner, Sean and I are going to the office to get some work done. I may sleep there if it gets too late. I hope you're both feeling better."
"Thank you." Grace lowered her eyes and retreated a few inches.
"Oh – do you think you'll be able to attend mass tomorrow morning?"
"The latest one, I should think. Viggo, I'm really very tired –"
"Sorry, sorry. Good night, dear." The door closed, and Viggo went slowly down the corridor, feeling curiously brushed aside.
Pearce was in Viggo's bedroom, stacking some freshly laundered shirts in the chifforobe. "Pearce, will you pack up my pale-grey broadcloth, please? A shirt and tie as well, and my shaving things. I'm going to be working late this evening and I may sleep in the room over the office and go directly to church from there."
"Yes, sir." Pearce busied himself with his tasks. "Will you be taking the automobile, sir, or shall I drive you over?"
"I'll drive. Or rather, Mr. Bean will. He's terribly fond of that car."
"As you please, sir. Nightclothes as well?"
"No, I – what? Oh, of course." Viggo laughed to hide his confusion. "I didn't hear you. It's so warm that a nightshirt seems a burden on nights like these."
"I sleep in the raw myself," Pearce replied cheerfully. "There's always the sheet if a fire breaks out, so."
Viggo smiled. "How admirably practical." He sat on the bed. "Tell me, Pearce, what do you think of unions?"
"Sure I think they're grand and glorious things, sir, so long as they're run by honest men. Trouble with yours?" Pearce lifted a pair of stockings from a drawer and folded them neatly.
"It's not precisely mine, but yes, some trouble," Viggo admitted. "I haven't seemed to inspire confidence in the men. I don't want to let Father down."
"Well now, sir, it isn't my place to say it…."
"But you will all the same," Viggo said with a smile. "Go on. I value your honesty."
"You might show your face about there a wee bit more, sir. Could be the lads don't care to be ordered about by a Sassenagh."
Viggo gaped in frank astonishment. "A – you can't possibly mean Sean."
Pearce shrugged. "Plenty from the auld sod hereabouts. They mightn't like it."
"Mr. Bean is far more popular than I am, Pearce."
"Then perhaps you ought to make yourself seen a bit more."
"That's exactly what I attempted to do this evening, to explain the recent changes to the men and to solicit their remarks. The men – whose union leader is a Sassenagh, might I add – chose not to attend. En masse."
"Well, I'm sorry for it, sir."
"So am I." Viggo heaved himself up from the bed, suddenly exhausted. "Can you take my things down to the motorcar, Pearce?"
"Aye, sir, I'll do that."
"Thank you. And Pearce –"
"Sir?"
Viggo felt his cheeks burning a little. "Sean may be an Englishman, but he's one of the kindest souls it's been my privilege to know. You mustn't think ill of him."
Pearce dropped his eyes. "Sorry, sir." He continued packing, his eyes on his work.
Sighing, Viggo went downstairs, tired and dispirited and curiously injured. Pearce couldn't be right about Sean – the men seemed to like him very much. Or had they cooled since Harry's arrival? Maybe Pearce was right about Viggo needing to be more present at the mine.
He stifled a rueful chuckle. Ought he to dress in rough clothes and go down into the tunnels daily, to supervise and harangue like a foreman? His father hadn't needed to resort to such antics to inspire respect and confidence in the men. Was it his age? Or did he seem snobbish? Gavin didn't seem to think so, but perhaps the man was protecting his own skin.
"Penny for your thoughts." Sean was standing at the foot of the stairs.
Viggo mustered a smile. "They're worth a nickel lately. Mortensen Coal's turning a greater profit."
Sean tutted. "High cost of thinking. I thought Grace were here."
"She's not feeling well. We'll have a snack and then leave."
"There's nowt wrong, is there?" Sean peered intently at Viggo.
"I think the day's taken its toll, that's all." Viggo sighed again, feeling as if he'd been peppered with too much discontentment and unhappiness, too little of it his own. He wanted to trudge back upstairs, drop into his bed, and sleep for days.
Sean lifted Viggo's hand and kissed the palm, a sweetly tender and surprisingly arousing gesture. "Is there owt I can do to make it better?" He flashed one of his wide, extravagant grins.
Viggo's mood brightened. "Yes. Yes, I think so."
*
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.
*
Sweat trickled from Sean's temples down to his neck and inside the collar of his shirt. He shifted as noiselessly as he could, but the narrow wooden pew creaked loudly into a gap of silence and he fancied faint disapproval radiating from the people behind him. Sighing, he fished his handkerchief from his pocket and blotted his face, longing to strip off his broadcloth coat or at the very least fan himself with a missal. He stole a look at Viggo, upright, pale, and bone-dry.
Viggo hadn't been himself since Monday afternoon. They'd got to the mine with amazing speed thanks to the Daimler, but there was nothing to be done. Three workers had been pulled from the rubble by the time they'd arrived, and the Black Maria, the colliery's horse-drawn black ambulance, had already gone to the hospital with the injured men in the back. Two screaming, sobbing women stood outside the mine entrance, other women clustering round them, trying to draw them back to the patch village with no success. Some of the miners had formed a rescue team. Viggo had ordered the mine closed for the day, with the workers to receive their full pay. The elder Mr. Mortensen was going to love that, Sean had mused.
Despite the workers' best efforts, it had been three days until enough debris had been cleared to retrieve the bodies of the four miners still trapped within. Sean had prayed that they had been killed immediately. He couldn't imagine a more horrifying fate than being trapped, dying by slow degrees and hoping to the bitter end for rescue. Since then, Viggo had been quiet and morose. Sean had given up trying to brighten the gloomy atmosphere in the office since it was clear all his attempts were falling onto stony ground. "It's not your fault, you know," he had said at last.
Viggo had nodded, though he kept his gaze riveted to his empty desk blotter. "I know."
Sean had hesitated, clumsy and uncomfortable with words of consolation. "Can I do owt for you?"
At that Viggo had looked up. "I'm glad you're here," he'd said simply.
So he sat silent and stiff in this hot, crowded church, in the front pew like a toff, sweating like a racehorse, and awkwardly copying Viggo and Grace's movements as best he could, standing, kneeling, sitting, bowing his head. Going to a Catholic service was like going to a dance, there were so many complicated twists and turns. And not a bloody word of it understandable. He listened to Viggo's brother murmuring in Latin. It was soothing, he supposed, except to the unfortunate families of the dead men whose coffins lay end to end in the center aisle of the church, draped with black and topped with white flowers, courtesy of the Mortensens.
All but one of the victims had been Irish; the fourth man had been a Pole who'd been saving to bring his wife and young child over from Lipsk. He had no relatives in Pennsylvania, and none of his fellow Poles had claimed his body, for the funeral expenses would be too great. Viggo had absorbed the cost himself, as he'd paid for the Irish miners' expenses, and arranged for the man to be buried from St. Mary's with the others.
As if moved by a soundless summons, the congregants knelt for yet another blessing and prayer. It seemed as if it might be the end, though; Father Mortensen had the air of a man concluding his business. A somber tune droned from the organ in the choir loft. There was a sudden burst of sobbing from one woman that momentarily threatened to drown out the music. People began to shuffle around them, collecting hats and shawls and fans, and a number of miners, dressed in their shabby best, stepped forward and carried the coffins from the church.
The air outside was as hot and still as the air inside the church, though unclouded with incense. The first act was over, and there were two more to go: the graveside service and the social hour to follow at the parish hall. Sean peered up at the sky. It was a bright jewel blue, not a wisp of cloud in sight. He made his way to Viggo, Grace, and Charlotte Welles, who stood at the bottom of the church steps beside Viggo's carriage, all in elegant black. He felt like a bit of a fraud, standing with the quality folk.
Grace lifted her veil. "We won't come with you boys. We'll go to the hall and get things ready so that no one has to wait. I'm sure they'll be hungry and tired upon their return. Don't you think, Charlotte?" Viggo had arranged for the luncheon as well. Sean was keeping strict accounts of all costs, and was certain the elder Mr. Mortensen was going to suffer an attack of apoplexy when he saw how much his son was spending.
Charlotte linked her arm through Grace's. "I agree completely." She kept her veil lowered and leveled a cool look at both Viggo and Sean. Her manner, though always polite, was as chilly as her eyes. She seemed utterly oblivious to the admiring glances that came her way by almost every man who passed her. She was a bit of a strange one, Sean thought, and an odd companion for the talkative and friendly Grace, but they seemed devoted.
"Very well," Viggo said. "We'll see you back at the hall."
Grace leaned over and kissed Viggo on the cheek, then smiled at Sean and turned away, leading Charlotte toward the parish hall, the ruffled hems of their black dresses rustling against the sidewalk. Their arms were still linked, their heads close together. Sean watched their departure in wondering envy. How free ladies were to be as affectionate as they pleased.
Viggo climbed into the carriage, and Sean followed, careful not to meet Pearce's inimical stare. He'd made his visits to the Mortensen household scarce, but it seemed he'd run into Pearce's glare every damned time, as if the man were waiting round corners for him. The big Irishman never said an untoward word, but his dark glances would have shriveled the Susquehanna into a mere trickle.
"The cemetery, Pearce," Viggo said, and settled back into the carriage, his arms crossed, his shoulders hunched.
*
It wasn't right, a funeral on a blazingly hot and sunny day, lush green on the trees and the liquid trill of a bird hidden in a shrub. Funerals should be accompanied by bad weather and cold. They'd seemed to be in England, or was Sean's memory already playing tricks on him? He didn't think so. More people died in the winter. If they were ill, they inevitably gave up in the greyness and cold – sensible of them. No one wanted to die in the midst of warmth and blue skies. Summer deaths were for accidents like this one.
Sweat trickled down his back. He itched unbearably. He'd have given his last penny to be able to strip off his clothes and jump into the river a mere block away. Idly, he watched a small party of bees hovering around a honeysuckle bush. Not so much as a leaf stirred, but he could still smell the sticky-sweet fragrance of the pink flowers, so powerful they needed no breeze to carry their aroma.
More Latin, more weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. Sean shifted from foot to foot. Father Mortensen's praying seemed to be driving the mourners to frenzy. It was a far cry from the stoic Covenanter funerals he'd attended in England, where the shedding of more than two genteel tears could earn years of silent tut-tutting and disapproving glances. Maybe it was better this way, to bawl and shriek for the dead instead of stepping on grief until it choked. He stole a look at Viggo, who stared straight ahead but whose cheek was wet. Sean would have liked to have put a hand on his arm, but didn't dare.
He let his gaze travel the mourners. There was Gavin Rowe, standing with his head down, his lips moving silently out of time with the prayers. He saw Stephen Farrell, the union representative, sweat trickling from his thatch of ginger hair, his big shoulders slumped. Stephen noticed him and nodded gravely, cutting his eyes left and thrusting his chin toward the cemetery fence, indicating that Sean should meet him there. Sean returned the nod in understanding and was about to bow his head again when he felt someone staring at him. Without moving his head, he peered round and saw Harry Slater, neatly dressed in a black suit and tie, watching him with slitted eyes.
Sean recoiled. He'd never been particularly adept at reading people – he'd never had the merest inkling of what had run through Freddy's head – but it didn't take a genius or a soothsayer to perceive the hatred in Harry's narrowed gaze. He knew. He knew it had been Sean who'd thumped him on the head and left him tied up in the cellar, and he'd come to – to what? To get his bloody letter and cufflinks back? It was hard to believe he'd crossed an entire ocean for that. He could have stayed at home and shaken Freddy down for a bit of cash. Sean frowned. Freddy had never answered his cable. Still angry, he supposed. Sean couldn't blame him for that, and he didn't really need Freddy to confirm what he already knew. It seemed certain now that Harry had sent those men to beat him. He'd have to watch his back.
Harry appeared to realize that Sean had seen him, and schooled his features into dignified sorrow. Sean had the urge to stride up to him and say 'That's right, I took your damned letter, and there's nowt you can do about it, so take your sorry arse back to England.' It wouldn't do a bit of good, but he'd love to see Harry's face.
A sudden murmuring rustled from the crowd across the open grave. One of the women had fainted. A muted cacophony arose – smelling salts, fluttering handkerchiefs in a dozen hands, hip flasks. Viggo craned his neck, frowning. Sean laid a hand on his arm, as much in comfort as restraint. "They'll see to her." Viggo nodded glumly and sank back into his dark reverie.
To Sean's relief, Father Mortensen seemed to understand that matters should be wrapped up quickly. The tempo of his chanting increased in speed, and in moments he gave the final blessing and closed his prayer book. The assembly began filing out of the cemetery in pairs and trios. Some were still openly sobbing. Father Mortensen drew Viggo to one side and engaged him in subdued conversation. Sean moved toward the gate, where Stephen Farrell stood waiting. Harry Slater fell into step beside him.
"Bad business," Harry remarked.
Sean gave him a brief, chill glance. "It is that."
Harry clasped his hands behind his back and slowed his pace, forcing Sean to match Harry's stride. "Generous of Mr. Mortensen to pay the death expenses, though," he went on. "Must have cost him a pretty penny."
"He didn't like to burden the families."
"Oh, I'm sure. Generous, like I said. Rich fellows are lucky, Sean. They can sweep all their troubles away with a smart bit of cash."
"Perhaps that's so."
"No perhaps about it, lad. Why do something yourself when you can pay to have it done, eh?"
So Harry wanted to toy with him the way a cat toyed with a mouse. Well, two could play at that game. Sean halted in his tracks and faced him. "So are you telling me Mr. Mortensen should have dug the graves himself? Read the service? Dressed the corpses, maybe?"
"Oh, now, lad, you know that's not what I mean at all." Harry grinned.
Go on, Sean thought. Spit it out, you bastard. "What, then?"
"I just mean that he's a fortunate man, able to take care of things like that. Fellows like you and I…we've got to settle our own problems. In our own way."
"That's true." Bloody bastard. Sean longed to cram his fist into Harry's face and knock out all his sharp little teeth.
"Fine day." Harry looked up at the sky. "Terrible about those poor blokes." He met Sean's gaze, no longer smiling. "Dreadful how an accident can just happen like that. Out of the blue, like."
Sean wasn't about to take a threat like that lying down. He slid his hands into his pockets and dug his fingers into his thighs until they hurt. "You're right, Harry." He offered a smile of his own and took one menacing step forward. "Maybe we should just thank God we're lucky to be alive."
Surprise and alarm flashed in Harry's eyes for a split second. He didn't move back, but the knowing look was gone from his face. "Could be. I'll have to think about that for a bit."
"Do that," Sean returned, and nodded to Farrell. "Stephen."
Farrell wrung Sean's hand. No amount of scrubbing could remove the coal stains from Farrell's huge, work-roughened paws. "Sean." He slapped his cap against his leg and shook his head. "It's – howeryeh, Harry."
"Hello, Stephen. How are you this day?" Harry smiled, once more the picture of affability.
"As well as can be expected. Sean, can I have a word?"
Sean turned to Harry. "You'll pardon us, Harry. Private bit of business. We'll see you at the parish hall."
Color flooded Harry's face, and his lips thinned. "Righto." He settled his hat and walked away in sharp, fast steps.
"You shouldn't have said that to him, Sean."
"Why not?" Sean snapped. "None of his bloody business, is it?" He watched a number of miners converge around Harry; like magic, the anger melted away and his hail-fellow-well-met exterior was restored. A small shiver of apprehension worked its way down Sean's back. Harry blew hot and cold. That wasn't to be trusted.
Stephen sighed. "I'm already in the soup with that one." He scratched the side of his long, crooked nose. "And everyone else, thanks to him."
"What do you mean?"
"I think he's after stirring up the lads," Stephen said flatly. "Naught I can prove, mind you. But I'm fairly sure he's to blame."
Sean folded his arms. "What do you mean?"
"Well…some of them are complaining because of the accident. That's nothing new. But there's talk that the timbers hadn't been properly inspected."
"Bugger all," Sean said. "We just had the federal inspector out not a month ago. You were there, for Christ's sake. You spoke to him."
"Aye, aye, I know that. But there's some that say he was paid to look the other way." Stephen scratched at his nose again. "Paid to ignore some rotting timbers."
"That's a bloody lie!"
"I know that. But if Harry Slater says it, and he's the outside foreman…." Stephen shrugged. His dark blue eyes bored into Sean's.
Sean looked past the iron cemetery gates. Slater and his crowd had drifted out of sight. Was Slater trying to discredit him? He was Viggo's second, after all. But that seemed ridiculous, too elaborate. He turned back to Farrell. "Why would he do it, Stephen? Say a thing like that?"
"He wants to be head union man. That's my guess."
"You can't prove it, you say?"
"Nay. But I see him whispering to the lads, and cutting his eyes at me. I can't prove it, but I'd stake my life on it."
Sean sighed. "Anything else?"
"Aye. Some of the lads are saying that Jerzy Czarnecki ought to have been buried with his own people."
"Other Poles, you mean," Sean said. "Who's complaining?"
"Some of the Irish and Welsh lads. Some of the Poles."
"Well, let them pay for the bloody funeral. Don't they know that Mr. Mortensen's bent over backward to help them? Christ, he's paid for the funerals, giving the widows and orphans a pension…are they blind?"
"Aye, I hear you," Farrell murmured unhappily. "I'm only after telling you so you'll know. Mr. Mortensen's been more than fair. It's that Slater. Mark me, he'll have my position before the year's out, so he will. I don't mind being voted out if that's what the miners want, but he doesn't care about the lads. You can see it in his eyes. In a year he'll be taking bribes and lording it over them, taking away tea breaks and any privilege he can so he can sell it back at a higher price, and then they'll be sorry, but right now he's got them coming and going with his sweet talk. You knew him back in England, Sean. Was he that way then?"
"I didn't work in the mine," Sean replied. "But I never trusted him, just the same." He saw Viggo coming toward them. "I'll bring this up with Mr. Mortensen myself. What can I do to help you, Stephen?"
"Naught," Stephen said in a low voice. "And don't say aught to Mr. Mortensen, either. It'll look bad, like I was in his pocket. You know that."
"I reckon I do," Sean sighed. "You tell me, though, if you need owt."
"I will." Stephen squeezed Sean's shoulder. "Thanks, lad."
"Good morning, Mr. Farrell," Viggo said, extending his hand.
"Morning, sir. Just having a chat with Sean here."
Viggo smiled a bit listlessly. "I'll have some things to discuss with you on Monday – safety matters and the like. I'll be at the mine by ten. Will that be convenient for you?"
"Aye, Mr. Mortensen, just as you like."
"Thank you. Are you ready to go, Mr. Bean?"
"Yes, sir." He nodded to Stephen and made his way out of the cemetery. They were among the last ones there. The rest had gone back to the parish hall, to eat sandwiches and drink lemonade.
"Will you come by tonight, Sean?"
Sean hesitated, then decided it wasn't the time to agonize over Grace's presence or Pearce's hostility. "If you want me to."
"I want you to." Viggo looked exhausted, and older than his years. "I need you to. Will you come?"
No one was looking. Sean briefly grasped Viggo's hand. "Aye. Aye, I'll come."
*
Mrs. McGuire had made them a cold supper, but the heat was enervating, and neither Sean nor Viggo felt like eating. The girls had gone back to Harvey's Lake, so Viggo went to the kitchen, Sean in tow, took a few quart bottles of beer from the icebox, and slipped out the back door. They went to the iron summerhouse, took off their coats, and sat on the flagstone floor, drinking and watching dusk and blessed coolness overtake the hot afternoon. The clatter of the city around them died down; occasionally the rumble and clang of the streetcar sounded in the distance, but there was a greater noise of birdsong, frogs, and crickets. A few houses down, the voices of children rose and fell. They were playing kick-the-tin, and a rousing game by the sound of it. Here and there, a dog barked.
Sean watched a group of fireflies flashing and twirling lazily around a clump of rhododendron bushes. He fancied he could see trails and patterns in their somersaulting, like the brief, bright scratches falling stars left upon the night sky. "Look there," he said, pointing.
"Lightning bugs," Viggo said. "We used to catch them in jam jars. Michael always made us let them go. He thought he was Saint Francis, I think."
"Who?"
"Saint Francis? He was a monk who loved animals. He tamed a wolf, talked to birds, befriended rabbits…so they say." Viggo took a deep swallow of his beer. "Thank you for coming with me today, by the way. I know it must have been strange to you."
It had been strange indeed. "It were different," Sean admitted. "I'd never been to a Catholic service before."
"Complicated, eh?"
"Aye, you could say that." Sean smiled. "I liked seeing you there, though. I know it were sad and all, but…I liked it." He hesitated, not certain how to say that it felt as if he had received a secret glimpse of Viggo's life, that there was something sweet and lovely about seeing him in prayer. He wished he had the grasp of a poetic or pretty phrase now and again, rather than his blunt mumblings. "And I think the families were glad you went, you and Miss Grace."
"I don't know. I wonder if I wasn't intruding."
"You had every right," Sean insisted. "You paid for it all." He drank the last of his quart and set the bottle down with a decisive clink. He'd never tell Viggo about the grumbling. Ungrateful sods.
Viggo drank again, draining the bottle, and stared at it as if someone else had made off with his beer. "I think that perhaps I shouldn't have gone. What if they think I'm – oh, I don't know – trying too hard to ingratiate myself into their company. Do you know what I mean?"
Sean thought about Frederick Watkins Senior's visits to the brickyard, overlaid with blustering good cheer, and Freddie's as well – he had acted as if putting a toe into the yard would indelibly stain him for life. Both men's appearances had always been greeted with outward deferential politeness and inward sneering suspicion. But Viggo wasn't like either Watkins Senior or Junior; he had a good and generous heart. "I reckon I do. It's hard when all they see of you is your fancy clothes and your new automobile. But they should know better all the same. You're not like the other mine owners, and they know it. Word gets around."
"I should go to the mine offices more. I suppose I shall have to, at any rate. Someone must take responsibility for that accident." Viggo sighed heavily. He set his empty bottle down and rubbed at his eyes.
"Viggo," Sean said softly, "it weren't your fault. Accidents happen every day – you don't know how bleeding lucky you've been not to have had one before now. That's the nature of it. The earth just shifts and buckles at times, and there's nowt anyone can do about it." He shrugged, the picture of nonchalance, but his stomach gave a great, ugly lurch. "Anyroad, that inspector were hard as nails. If there'd been owt wrong, he'd have noticed, and made report. He pegged away at them safety ledgers for hours – you saw him."
"They might blame me just the same. And they might be right. What if there was something I overlooked, something I neglected? Those deaths would be on my shoulders."
"If anyone says owt like that, I'll knock them into next Tuesday," Sean snapped. "Let them try." He thought of Harry and his scandal-mongering. Was it his fault Viggo was being blamed? He looked around for a fresh bottle of beer. They'd drunk them all. He picked up his empty bottle and stared into it bitterly.
Viggo didn't speak or move for a moment. By and by, he cleared his throat. "Sean, you…you constantly amaze me."
"What?"
"It's just that…you're the most loyal friend I've ever had. I've never had anyone offer to knock someone into next Tuesday for me."
Sean squinted into the darkness. He could scarcely make out Viggo's face. "Don't make fun."
"I'm not, I'm not!" Viggo grasped Sean's fingers. "Don't misunderstand me, don't be angry. I meant every word. I can't tell you what you are to me. Sometimes it all feels so fragile, I –" He laughed. "I can't say what I mean without sounding foolish."
"I don't mind." Sean spoke softly, as if spies lurked in the rhododendrons."I've not heard you laugh in awhile. It's good to hear again."
"You make me happy," Viggo whispered, and kissed Sean on the mouth.
Sean yielded to Viggo's kiss. He closed his eyes and listened to the chirruping of the frogs and crickets, the only sound now that the children had been called home, the streetcar shut down for the evening, the birds asleep in the trees, and the dogs placated with soup bones. Now there was the sound of Viggo's breath mingled with his own, the rasp of fabric against fabric as they pressed close together, the faint scrape of Viggo's fingertips against Sean's rough cheek. It filled his ears, and he pulled away, afraid that someone from the house would see them. "Viggo –"
Viggo seemed to understand. "Come on," he said, getting to his feet and pulling Sean up with him. "Behind the summerhouse. There's grass and bushes. It's soft, and no one will notice us. Except the fireflies."
Sean allowed himself to be led and urged to the ground. He lay back and let Viggo unbutton his shirt and trousers, and then sat up. "Viggo." This was the time to tell him about Harry. It was quiet; they had all night to talk. He'd make Viggo understand, in time, that he'd had no choice.
"What is it?" Viggo stripped off Sean's shirt and began unbuttoning his undershirt. He laid Sean's chest bare and kissed his collarbone. "You taste of salt." He put his lips on Sean's throat and suckled, slipping a hand between Sean's legs.
"I –" Sean's prick leapt to attention, ignoring his misery. "I have to –" He stopped, his hips thrusting forward even as he shut his eyes, unable to bear his own guilt. "Oh, God."
"Shh. Let me touch you. I want to touch you." Viggo closed his mouth over Sean's, silencing him.
Sean's hands moved with trembling speed, undressing Viggo between kisses, caressing, stroking, and finally they both lay naked in the cool, lush grass. Viggo thrust two fingers in Sean's mouth, and he sucked eagerly, licking and biting, trying to stifle the moan building in his throat.
Viggo spat in his hand and pushed his fingers inside Sean. "Let me. Please." At Sean's nod he spat again, readied himself, and gently nudged Sean to his belly. He slid in, stopping with a groan. "Am I hurting you?"
"Nay, nay. Keep going…." It took some doing, but at last Viggo was inside him. It hurt. Sean bit his forearm and spread his legs wider as Viggo began to thrust against him. He breathed deeply, slowly, and relaxed; better. Much better. "Aye, that's it, love –" He gasped as Viggo wrapped a strong arm round his waist, pulled him up, and drove himself in to the hilt. He clutched handfuls of grass, tearing it from the earth. Viggo's other hand curled round his cock and stroked him; his teeth sank into Sean's shoulder in a carnivore's kiss. The sound of their breathing and the collision of their sweating bodies seemed impossibly loud in the night's quiet, but Sean was too far gone to care. He grabbed Viggo's lean thigh for balance and bit the heel of his hand to keep from crying out as he tumbled into release. Dizzy, he felt Viggo freeze and then shudder. Viggo bore them both to the grass. They separated, panting and sticky, and lay in silence, recovering themselves.
The moon rode high in the sky, nearly full, glimmering white. Sean's sweat cooled rapidly in the night air. He shivered and turned toward Viggo, lying on his side in the grass, his wide-open eyes shining in the moonlight. He looked so tender, so sweet, Sean felt a surge of love that alarmed him with its strength. He caressed Viggo's bare hip. "That were brilliant."
Viggo pulled Sean close and embraced him. His body trembled. He put his lips to Sean's ear. "I love you. I love you."
Sean closed his eyes and buried his face in the nape of Viggo's neck. His throat tightened.
"What is it?"
Sean shook his head. He opened his eyes, saw nothing but a blackish-green blur of neatly trimmed shrubs, and closed them again. "I love you." He heard Viggo's soft chuckle, felt his body relax.
"Thank God. Kiss me."
"I love you."
"Then kiss me."
Sean opened his mouth and yielded again. He would tell Viggo soon, he promised himself. Soon.
*
*
Viggo shifted forward in his chair, straining to hear the soft Scots burr of Benjamin MacLeod, the mediator from the United Mine Workers. Try as he might, Viggo couldn't accustom himself to the deafening clatter of the coal breaker, even with the office door tightly closed. Perhaps he needed to get his hearing checked, though an ear trumpet would hardly improve the quality of sound in the tiny, stuffy office with its paper-thin walls. The din didn't seem to affect the other men; they seemed completely at ease with the racket, listening to MacLeod with no apparent problem. Frustrated, Viggo watched the young man's lips, hoping to catch more than a word here and there.
Beside him, Sean cleared his throat. "Could you speak up a bit, Mr. MacLeod?" he asked. "It's right noisy in here."
"Of course. Pardon." The young Scotsman was frowning as he examined a piece of much-folded paper. "The vote was carried by an overwhelming margin. There doesn't seem to be any doubt about the matter." He tugged a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and mopped his sweating brow. "I hear tell you were a union man back in England, Mr. Slater."
Harry Slater nodded. "That's correct, sir."
"You needn't call me 'sir.'" McLeod seemed a bit nettled. "I'm a working man like yourself."
Slater shrugged. "Fair play to you."
McLeod glanced at Stephen Farrell, who sat hunched over in his chair as if someone had given him a thrashing. "I'm sorry, Stephen," McLeod said. "These things happen."
Farrell shook his head. "Aye, I know. Well, that's what the lads want, I suppose. Congratulations, Harry." He offered Slater his hand.
"Thanks, Stephen," Slater replied warmly, shaking Farrell's hand. "I hope I can come to you for advice and so on."
Farrell's mouth tightened. He exchanged an unfathomable look with Sean and Gavin Rowe. "Aye, of course. Happy to help."
"You seem to be very popular with the miners, Mr. Slater," MacLeod said.
"A fresh pair of ears and eyes, Mr. MacLeod," Slater replied. "Sometimes that's what's needed."
"Nothing in the nature of empty promises, I hope."
Slater cocked his head to one side. "I don't take your point."
"There have been instances where fellows have got themselves elected by making promises they couldn't keep," MacLeod said. "Mind you, I'm not suggesting you've done that. But these lads work hard and soberly, and there have been a few representatives hungry for power or influence who've tried to string them along with empty promises of higher wages or longer breaks or pensions. It's caused a great many problems. I've a habit of telling new fellows that, just to be on the safe side."
"Well now. You needn't worry on that account. I never make a promise I can't keep, especially to a brother miner." Harry Slater offered Viggo a slow smile, then he fixed his gaze on Sean. His smile widened. "You can stake your life on that."
Viggo frowned severely. Slater had committed no wrongdoing. Perhaps he'd been telling the truth the day he'd stood in Viggo's office and declared that the miners no longer trusted Stephen Farrell. But had their distrust sprung from Farrell's neglect or Slater's rumor-mongering? Slater had come tale-carrying about Sean as well, sidling, baseless insinuations that had fallen upon stony ground. Viggo's heart hardened. "Mr. MacLeod," he said, "I would like it stated for the record that Mr. Whittaker, the federal inspector, conducted his findings in an entirely honest and straightforward fashion."
"I'm sure he did, Mr. Mortensen," MacLeod replied wearily, "but ultimately that decision is in the hands of our representatives in Washington. Allegations of this sort must be investigated, particularly in the aftermath of an accident. When their analysis and review is concluded, you'll be notified."
"I would further like it stated that my dealings with Mr. Farrell have been similarly candid, and that the safety and well-being of his fellow miners have been his chief concern. I don't wish to cast doubt upon Mr. Slater's intentions or character, but I feel that Mr. Farrell's reputation may be tarnished by his peremptory replacement."
"I'll make certain that observation is noted in the records, Mr. Mortensen," MacLeod sighed. "Meanwhile, I think our business is concluded, gentlemen. I'll have a word with you, Mr. Slater, about some paperwork you'll need to complete. Could I trouble you for the use of this office for a while, Mr. Rowe? Mr. Mortensen?"
Viggo was less than satisfied as the men, with the exception of Slater and MacLeod, shuffled to their feet and proceeded outside. "Let's have a short walk," he said to the others, and moved to the far end of the yard near the railway tracks. A train sat steaming on the tracks, churning and hissing as if it were eager to depart. For a moment they all watched as a gleaming river of coal pieces was poured from a long chute into a hopper car. Viggo shook his head, refusing Rowe's offer of a Woodbine, then scrutinized Sean, Rowe, and Farrell in turn. "Well?"
Rowe exhaled a stream of smoke. "Well…no surprises, Mr. Mortensen. Now comes the trouble, though. You'll see."
"I was afraid of that. Be specific, Gavin."
"Where to begin? We've not had problems since the last series of great strikes – that would be four years now. Your dad's a fair enough fellow, for an owner – at least much more so than some of the robber barons in these parts."
"Not a very generous assessment," Viggo snapped, stung.
Rowe shrugged, unrepentant. "You've got to remember how the lads see it, Mr. Mortensen. The richest of them don't make more than three dollars a day plus sixty pence a ton. Don't get me wrong – he's been good to them, and you've been better. But there's a world of difference between you and them, and the sooner you see it…" He trailed off and watched the train, now loaded, chug down the tracks.
"Yes, I can see that." Michael would have used this opportunity to deliver a sermon – 'the poor will always be with you' or some such. "He's my father, though, and you understand that I'm protective of him. And all the improvements I've undertaken have been with his approval – you know that."
"Aye. But a clever man – and mind you, I think Harry Slater's a clever one – a clever man will use that money to drive a wedge between the lads and the owners. They ought to have more of the owner's money and so on. And I may as well tell you the rest of it…your improvements, sir."
"What about them?" Viggo folded his arms and stared at the mine boss.
"The lads aren't best pleased with some of them." Rowe glanced at Farrell, who nodded.
"It's true, sir," Farrell volunteered. "Even I've heard it from the lads."
"Why ever not?" Viggo demanded. "All the improvement has been for their benefit."
"Well, it's the modern machinery, first off, coal cutters, the new exhaust fans and lamps, and the like. They're afraid they'll be replaced altogether, being that the new-fangled equipment is so efficient."
"But we don't even have the bloody cutters, Gavin," Sean broke in. "The machines won't fit in the tunnels, and it isn't safe to widen them. You know that. Can't you tell the men that?"
"That may be so, Sean lad, but will they listen to me? I'm a company man, not one of them."
"I told them," Farrell said. "It was all right until Harry showed up with his whisperings. And he's the one who got them up in arms over the breaker boys, too."
Viggo sighed impatiently. He could scarcely credit one man with so much malice. "What has he to do with that?"
Rowe shook his head. "It got round that you wanted to pull the lads, put them in school. That's money from pockets, sir."
"But I was seeking alternatives that wouldn't impoverish the families," Viggo protested.
"They might believe it when they see it, but not before – and no one wants to be the first to volunteer, I can tell you that," Rowe said. "That's a dollar a day out of their pockets – a dollar they badly need, mind you – and a whole pile of book learning that'll get them kids nothing but a lot of misery when they haven't the money to be mine owners themselves."
Viggo gave Sean a despairing glance. None of his changes, real or proposed, had been taken in the spirit he'd intended. "I'm going to call a meeting," he announced, "to discuss these problems. Paid, so that the men will be certain to show up."
"If you point fingers at Harry, the men won't believe a word you say," Farrell warned. "I don't know how, but he's weaseled his way into their good graces."
"I have no intention of pointing fingers," Viggo said. "I simply want the air clear." He looked around at the men walking back and forth in the yard; they all gave Viggo and his companions a wide berth, along with some muttering behind hands and dark glances. "Perhaps if we discuss the possibility of a pay raise. I'll be going to Philadelphia within the month, and I plan to bring up the matter with Mr. Mortensen, Senior."
"Don't breathe a word of that, sir, not until it's a sure thing," Farrell said. "There's naught worse than having a prize dangled before you and then snatched away."
Viggo nodded. "That's true. Oh – here's Mr. MacLeod. I promised I'd take him back to the city. We'll discuss all this at another time, gentlemen."
"I'm ready to go back if you are, Mr. Mortensen," the young Scotsman said. He consulted his pocket watch. "I've plenty of time, however. My train doesn't leave until five-thirty."
"I'm certainly ready to leave, Mr. MacLeod," Viggo replied truthfully. "Mr. Bean, if you've completed your business?"
The ride back to town was a glum one for Viggo. He tried to make pleasant conversation, but the effort proved strenuous. Sean seemed to sense Viggo's dismay, and gamely waded in, asking MacLeod when he'd come to America. Soon the two were chatting about Scotland and England and Viggo was left to brood in peace.
Presently they pulled to a stop in front of the Hotel Sterling at the intersection of River and Market Street. Benjamin MacLeod alighted from the carriage and turned to shake Sean's hand, then Viggo's. He peered intently at Viggo. "You have some misgivings, Mr. Mortensen."
Viggo flushed. "Mr. MacLeod, it's only that –"
MacLeod waved a hand. "Never mind. You needn't say anything. In fact, you probably shouldn't say anything. But I'm not a blind fool, I assure you. It's an unfortunate truth that sometimes men don't elect leaders who are fit to lead."
"You see it, then," Sean said. "You see that Slater's up to no good somehow."
"Mr. Bean, I cannot trade in the currency of hunches and suspicions. It isn't my job to do so, and besides, I simply can't afford to. I have to work with what's factual, what is documented, what can be proved. There isn't a scrap of evidence to suggest that Mr. Slater is incapable of representing the men. Therefore, I'll give you the same advice I gave him: if you have doubts, your best course of action is to keep written, truthful, and verifiable documentation. Being a union man is less a job for a firebrand than a bank clerk." MacLeod smiled mirthlessly.
"So Mr. Slater had similar misgivings, did he?" Viggo inquired.
MacLeod shook his head. "There's often a sense of animosity between labor and management, Mr. Mortensen, and I'll wager you know it better than I do."
"I suppose I do now."
"That's inevitable, I'm afraid. Good day to you, and good luck. I'll do my best to keep both sides apprised of the results of the investigation." MacLeod tipped his hat and walked into the hotel.
Viggo waited for the streetcar to pass, then shook the reins. "Most of the day's gone. I'll drop you off at home."
Sean didn't respond immediately. He took off his Panama hat and wiped his brow with a handkerchief. A drop of sweat trickled down his cheek. "Why didn't you bring the motorcar?"
"It's too conspicuous," Viggo replied. "We can take it on outings, but I won't drive it out to the mine. It looks as if I'm lording it over the men." He glanced sideways at Sean. "What? Speak up."
"It's nowt," Sean said.
"You want to say something, I can tell. Go ahead, say it."
Sean sighed. "It's – all right, then. They know you're rich, Viggo. It's not a bleeding secret. Why bother trying to hide it from them?"
"Because I don't like to throw it in their faces," Viggo said. "Can't you see that? It's the worst sort of ostentation."
"You wanted the bloody car, didn't you?"
Reluctantly, Viggo nodded.
"Well then, drive it. No point in having a guilty conscience about it now. You're not the worst of the lot – time to stop thinking that you are."
"I don't know. Lately it feels as if every decision I make is the wrong one."
Sean patted his arm. "I'm not trying to make you feel bad. Look here, there's always going to be someone resentful of your good fortune. Doesn't matter how much you have. If I had nowt but two pennies to rub together, there'd be some fellow with one penny hating me like poison. It's not as if you're going to give it all away, though I'll say you've made a fine beginning of it."
"Don't you start in on me," Viggo said, though some of his good nature was restored. "I'm going to hear enough of that from Father when I go home. By the way – have you given any more thought to that? Coming home with me, that is?"
"Aye, I have. I don't know that I ought to. It mightn't look good, you dragging your secretary along. I should be holding up my end of the business while you're gone. Especially if your dad's going to give you all sorts of hell." Sean grinned, then sobered. "Besides, someone's got to keep a sharp eye on Harry."
"You truly don't trust him," Viggo murmured.
"Nay," Sean said, then fell silent. After a moment, he went on. "Harry were with Freddy Watkins, you see. They –" He waved his hand. "You know."
Viggo was stunned. "Harry was?"
"Aye, I know. You wouldn't think it. Then again, I wouldn't think it, looking at you."
"Nor you, I suppose," Viggo said.
"Right. But Freddy…with Freddy, you knew straight away. He had a wife, and a little girl, but you knew all the same. Oh, my parents didn't know – they thought he were a right proper gentleman – and perhaps your parents wouldn’t see it either. But you'd know."
Viggo nodded. That elusive, unnamed quality remained, the signs that a man preferred other men, invisible to ordinary society, but clear and present to those who knew the signs, like an animal discerning its own kind at a glance or sudden scent. The horse whinnied and tossed his head, and Viggo realized he'd been gripping the reins too tightly. He loosened his grasp. "But him and elegant Freddy – it's hard to believe. I'm interrupting you, sorry. Go on."
"The letter I put in your safe – you remember it?"
They had come to Mrs. Donnelly's boardinghouse. Viggo stopped at the curb and slackened the reins. He turned toward Sean. "I remember that you asked to store something in there, but I haven't been in the safe since. No need."
"Well, it's a letter from Freddy to Harry. A shocking one. You might read it sometime." Sean's face had flushed scarlet.
Viggo frowned, digesting this information. Slowly, a troubling question dawned. "Sean, does Harry know that you have this letter?"
"Aye," Sean said. "I think he does."
"I suppose you obtained it from Freddy somehow?" Viggo would have given his eyeteeth to clap eyes on Freddy Watkins. He must have been quite dashing. He suppressed an ugly prickle of jealousy. "How on earth did you get hold of it?"
"Harry had a whole packet of them." Sean fiddled with the edge of his hat brim. "He blackmailed Freddy with the letters. Freddy paid me to…to steal them. I owed him a great sum of money." In a low voice, he briefly described surprising Harry at his home, and the burglary, all to pay off the debts his unfortunate parents had incurred.
"Good God." Viggo was amazed. "That was terribly risky. But I can't blame you – it was the only way to get out of debt."
"Aye," Sean muttered unhappily.
"You mustn't worry about it any longer," Viggo said. "And you don't suppose Harry came all this way just to get the letter back? How could he have known that you had one?"
"I don't know," Sean admitted. "He might have. If Freddy told him…I think he can hold a grudge, that one."
Viggo sat in silence for a moment. Something else occurred to him. "Do you suspect that Harry arranged to have you beaten?"
"You're not thick, are you?" Sean smiled wryly. "Could be. There's no way of knowing for certain."
"I'm going to have him discharged," Viggo declared. He drew himself up in indignation. "If you're in danger from him, I'm going to do something about it. I'll make certain every door in town is closed to him."
"Christ almighty, you can't do that. He's a union man now, and you'll get nothing but trouble for it. You can't, and I won't let you. Besides – I think he's calmed a bit. He's had his fun. It's been a few weeks and nowt's happened since. Let sleeping dogs lie."
"He's a dog, for certain," Viggo said. "If he hurts you again –"
Sean touched Viggo's leg. "Now, now. Mustn't get bent out of shape, sir." He gave Viggo a charmingly lopsided grin.
"It's no laughing matter. I insist that something be done."
"He'll slip up," Sean assured him. "You'll see. Then everything can be handled proper like. You can knock him into next Tuesday with the law."
Viggo relented. "Very well. But only because you've asked me so sweetly."
"Good. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yes. Oh – I forgot. Grace has invited you to picnic with us on Independence Day. We've been invited to the Welles' house. It might give Charlotte a chance to thaw towards us."
"Oh, aye. Out at the lake?"
"No, here in town. Will you come? We'll walk to the Common afterwards. They'll have a concert band, and fireworks. It'll be a fine time."
"Why not? Better than ligging about here." Sean swung himself to the ground and leaned into the carriage. "Maybe Grace will spend the night with Charlotte."
"I'll make sure to suggest it," Viggo replied. He longed to kiss Sean. "Off you go. See you tomorrow."
"Aye. Ta'ra, sir." Sean winked and ran up the steps of the boardinghouse.
Viggo watched him go, in far better spirits than before. A movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see Harcourt Earley, the school principal, framed in the lace curtains of the open window. Viggo tipped his hat. "Good evening, Mr. Earley."
Earley simply frowned and let the curtains flutter closed.
Smiling, Viggo picked up the reins again. As he drove toward home, he found himself whistling.
*
"If you wind that thing one more time, you're apt to break it."
Viggo tucked the sturdy silver watch into his vest pocket and offered Sean a wan, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm anxious." He peered at the cornflower blue of the summer sky and then at the empty, silent coal yard. "It's three minutes before seven. They're not coming, are they?" He laughed a little at the absurdity of his question.
Sean kicked absently at a clump of dirt. "Aye, well, it's –" He kept his eyes lowered. "It's hard to get the lads to come out on a Saturday night."
"At a day's pay, for an hour-long meeting?"
"Well – you want me to say it, I'll say it. We're not thick, neither of us. You know why they're not here. Just the company fellows." Sean nodded toward the small knot of men clustered at the far end of the yard, smoking and talking in low voices – Gavin Rowe, Pasko Omashel the fire boss, Ignace Borokowski the driver boss, Joe Schwab, one of the hoisting engineers, and Stephen Farrell – five out of three hundred and twelve men and boys. "Harry's got them in his pocket, all right. It's not your fault, not a bit of it."
"I suppose you can say 'I told you so' now." Viggo tried to keep the bitterness from his voice and couldn't.
Sean's shoulders hunched. "I'd not say that," he muttered. "I'd never say that." Two spots of color appeared on his cheeks, and he scuffed his toe against the ground.
"Sean –" Viggo grasped Sean's shoulder. "Sean, I'm sorry. Of course you'd never say that. You mustn't pay any attention to me. I'm –" He watched the reddening nape of Sean's neck. "I'm angry, and I say foolish things when I'm angry. Forgive me, please."
"You didn't say owt that was dreadful," Sean replied softly. "It's only that – I feel as if I'm to blame."
"Because of the letter? That's ridiculous."
"Maybe it is." Sean turned and looked Viggo full in the face. "But maybe not."
"It is." Viggo tightened his grip on Sean's shoulder, turning the caress into a reassuring squeeze. "I'm perfectly willing to believe that he knows, or thinks he knows that you have the letter, but it's simply inconceivable to believe that he's willing to turn three hundred-odd miners against me because of it. You mustn't blame yourself. Come along." He walked toward the group of company men. "Gentlemen, I won't waste any more of your time this evening. Thank you for coming nevertheless."
"I'm sorry about it, sir," Gavin said, dropping his cigarette into the dirt and carefully grinding it out with his toe. "And I'm sorry to say it, but I think you've a fight ahead of you, and a dirty one at that. You mustn't be surprised or upset that nobody showed. The unions are tight. If they heard tell of one man coming, why, they might brand him as a scab, and after the troubles a few years ago, no one wants that on his back. It's as good as painting a target on him." He shook Viggo's hand. "I'll do what I can to help, but I'm only one man."
"I'm grateful," Viggo said warmly. "Thank you." He shook each man's hand in turn. "Thank you for coming. I'm sorry it was a fruitless venture. Good night." He watched the men clamber aboard Gavin's wagon, then turned to Sean. "Well. I didn't anticipate having any free time. Why not come over for a cold supper and a game of cards?" Sean smiled, and Viggo knew he'd been forgiven. "It's a pity Charlotte is spending the night."
"There's that bedroom atop the office," Sean said. "It's kept dusted but never used. Now that's a pity, don't you think?"
Viggo chuckled. "I knew I'd hired you for a good reason. You're resourceful."
"A fellow needs some talents," Sean replied modestly.
"Very well. We'll have that supper, and afterward…." He offered Sean a lecherous grin.
"Afterward I'll see what I can do about ridding you of that filthy mood of yours. Come on, then." He opened the passenger door of the Daimler and bowed low. "Get in the bleeding motorcar, if you please, sir. I'm driving."
Not far from the colliery gates, a young man sat on the culm bank, watching Viggo and Sean approach. As Viggo nodded politely, the man, tall, fair, and heavily built, doffed his cap, bobbed his head, and grinned, revealing a mouthful of broken and half-rotted teeth. Viggo turned in his seat to catch another glimpse of the man as he faded into the distance.
Sean caught his arm. "Careful, you'll take a tumble."
"Did you recognize him?" Viggo settled back into his seat.
"Nay, but I weren't looking hard." Sean shrugged. "He seem funny to you?"
"No…but it occurred to me that there might be mischief, if the men are unhappy."
"Shall we go back?"
Viggo sighed. "No, I suppose not. He'd only run off if he heard the motor."
"He'd be right daft to try anything tonight. Too obvious."
"That's probably true," Viggo conceded. "Very well. Homeward, my good man." He rested his hand on Sean's thigh.
The automobile accelerated ever so slightly.
*
"Grace! Grace, are you in there?" Viggo knocked on her door. "Have you eaten? I asked Mrs. McGuire to make supper now. Grace?"
The door opened a foot or so, and Grace stuck her head out. She was flushed and her hair was loose. "What are you doing here? I mean – I thought you would be at that meeting."
Viggo waved a hand. "Nobody showed. Have you eaten yet? I'm starving and – are you in your nightclothes already?" He peered at her shoulder, the only visible part of her anatomy besides her head, clad in lace-trimmed voile. "What a lazybones you've become. Did Charlotte go home?"
"No, she's – she's here, but she's not feeling well. She's sleeping. Or was trying to, until you came pounding on the door and bellowing." Grace brushed a strand of hair from her face.
"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Please tell her I said so. Are you ill?" Viggo leaned close to see his sister's face in the dim hallway.
Grace pulled back. "Why?"
"You look all red to me. You don't have a fever, old thing?" Viggo reached out to place an affectionate hand on Grace's brow and stopped when she flinched away. "I'm only joking, dear. What's the matter with you?"
"Sorry. I do feel a little feverish. I think I'll try to sleep as well."
"Do you want me to have a tray brought up?"
"No! That is – I'm not at all hungry. If I want something, I'll go downstairs later. I don't want to trouble anyone."
"You should eat something. Soup?"
Grace let out a little laugh, but her brow was knotted in consternation, and her mouth was tense and unsmiling. "I tell you, I'm perfectly capable of getting something to eat on my own."
"Very well. Hope you're feeling better soon. After dinner, Sean and I are going to the office to get some work done. I may sleep there if it gets too late. I hope you're both feeling better."
"Thank you." Grace lowered her eyes and retreated a few inches.
"Oh – do you think you'll be able to attend mass tomorrow morning?"
"The latest one, I should think. Viggo, I'm really very tired –"
"Sorry, sorry. Good night, dear." The door closed, and Viggo went slowly down the corridor, feeling curiously brushed aside.
Pearce was in Viggo's bedroom, stacking some freshly laundered shirts in the chifforobe. "Pearce, will you pack up my pale-grey broadcloth, please? A shirt and tie as well, and my shaving things. I'm going to be working late this evening and I may sleep in the room over the office and go directly to church from there."
"Yes, sir." Pearce busied himself with his tasks. "Will you be taking the automobile, sir, or shall I drive you over?"
"I'll drive. Or rather, Mr. Bean will. He's terribly fond of that car."
"As you please, sir. Nightclothes as well?"
"No, I – what? Oh, of course." Viggo laughed to hide his confusion. "I didn't hear you. It's so warm that a nightshirt seems a burden on nights like these."
"I sleep in the raw myself," Pearce replied cheerfully. "There's always the sheet if a fire breaks out, so."
Viggo smiled. "How admirably practical." He sat on the bed. "Tell me, Pearce, what do you think of unions?"
"Sure I think they're grand and glorious things, sir, so long as they're run by honest men. Trouble with yours?" Pearce lifted a pair of stockings from a drawer and folded them neatly.
"It's not precisely mine, but yes, some trouble," Viggo admitted. "I haven't seemed to inspire confidence in the men. I don't want to let Father down."
"Well now, sir, it isn't my place to say it…."
"But you will all the same," Viggo said with a smile. "Go on. I value your honesty."
"You might show your face about there a wee bit more, sir. Could be the lads don't care to be ordered about by a Sassenagh."
Viggo gaped in frank astonishment. "A – you can't possibly mean Sean."
Pearce shrugged. "Plenty from the auld sod hereabouts. They mightn't like it."
"Mr. Bean is far more popular than I am, Pearce."
"Then perhaps you ought to make yourself seen a bit more."
"That's exactly what I attempted to do this evening, to explain the recent changes to the men and to solicit their remarks. The men – whose union leader is a Sassenagh, might I add – chose not to attend. En masse."
"Well, I'm sorry for it, sir."
"So am I." Viggo heaved himself up from the bed, suddenly exhausted. "Can you take my things down to the motorcar, Pearce?"
"Aye, sir, I'll do that."
"Thank you. And Pearce –"
"Sir?"
Viggo felt his cheeks burning a little. "Sean may be an Englishman, but he's one of the kindest souls it's been my privilege to know. You mustn't think ill of him."
Pearce dropped his eyes. "Sorry, sir." He continued packing, his eyes on his work.
Sighing, Viggo went downstairs, tired and dispirited and curiously injured. Pearce couldn't be right about Sean – the men seemed to like him very much. Or had they cooled since Harry's arrival? Maybe Pearce was right about Viggo needing to be more present at the mine.
He stifled a rueful chuckle. Ought he to dress in rough clothes and go down into the tunnels daily, to supervise and harangue like a foreman? His father hadn't needed to resort to such antics to inspire respect and confidence in the men. Was it his age? Or did he seem snobbish? Gavin didn't seem to think so, but perhaps the man was protecting his own skin.
"Penny for your thoughts." Sean was standing at the foot of the stairs.
Viggo mustered a smile. "They're worth a nickel lately. Mortensen Coal's turning a greater profit."
Sean tutted. "High cost of thinking. I thought Grace were here."
"She's not feeling well. We'll have a snack and then leave."
"There's nowt wrong, is there?" Sean peered intently at Viggo.
"I think the day's taken its toll, that's all." Viggo sighed again, feeling as if he'd been peppered with too much discontentment and unhappiness, too little of it his own. He wanted to trudge back upstairs, drop into his bed, and sleep for days.
Sean lifted Viggo's hand and kissed the palm, a sweetly tender and surprisingly arousing gesture. "Is there owt I can do to make it better?" He flashed one of his wide, extravagant grins.
Viggo's mood brightened. "Yes. Yes, I think so."
*
tbc.....
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2013-04-17 10:38 am (UTC)And all this union stuff is ugly business... but at least Viggo knows that certain people have a reason to go after Sean.
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Date: 2013-04-17 09:01 pm (UTC)Viggo's definitely more in the know now. Thanks so much for reading!
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Date: 2013-04-17 12:01 pm (UTC)Harry is such a hissable villain, Boo! Poor Viggo, trying to do his best for the men and their families, but finding his efforts misunderstood and rebuffed. I am sure than Sean will make it better in the short term, but they have hard times ahead.
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Date: 2013-04-17 09:01 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-17 12:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-17 09:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-17 01:00 pm (UTC)”It's just that…you're the most loyal friend I've ever had. I've never had anyone offer to knock someone into next Tuesday for me."
It’s great that they’re both recognising how much they can do for each other. It's taken them time to get there, but they’re truly starting to discover much more about themselves now. I’m glad Sean has told Viggo about the letter and why he has it.
” Viggo sighed impatiently. He could scarcely credit one man with so much malice.”
Viggo needs to, though!!
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Date: 2013-04-17 09:03 pm (UTC)Yes, they've definitely reached more of an understanding. And Viggo is still a babe in the woods when it comes to villainy.
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Date: 2013-04-17 03:07 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-17 09:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-18 10:51 am (UTC)Oh this is so GOOD. So meaty. And that wonderful way you've caught that reluctance to use modern methods, that fear they will be displaced, unemployed (and in those days, no welfare) that stubbornness to not allow ANY change in their workhabits, and even a sideways glance at offers of change.. The breaker boys - its just light talk now, but already they're building walls against it. God - it was like ... Sisyphus... rolling the damn stone up the hill - such hard work, almost impossible.
And even today when the car-making robots first came out... 'WE'll all be unemployed'... was the scream.
And Harry Slater... with Maggie Thatcher just being buried, I recall the miners' strikes in the UK. and how some of the Union Men... Red Robbo, and Scargill etc were organising the miners, with sneaky words but bad promises about disasters...(although they turned out to the correct, she did close 80 per cent of the working mines!!) But the bitterness, the snide nasties... the almost impossibility of getting 'through' with reasonable words, with commonsense, ... this you have caught SOOOO well.
I do NOT like Harry and you've made him deliciously horrible. 'Can't put a finger on it'..stuff. Glad Stephen and Gavin aren't idiots, they'll be needed before long. And Pearce... he's a bit odd? the way he looks as Sean, and yet seems 'kind' to Viggo... is he jealous? Golly. I am enjoying this.
Hsahah Viggo.. you eejit... Grace and Charlotte... caught in the nearly!
And the sweating in the broadcloth suit...BLoody perfect. A stiff collar and that heavy cloth in a stifling airless church....
Maybe it was better this way, to bawl and shriek for the dead instead of stepping on grief until it choked.
a lovely phrase.. but soo right for then. You went all stoic. Did all the 'doings'.. but you never let go! Never!!! If you broke your nights inwardly screaming the pains of loss, 'yer mek sure the childer never heerd!!!' Oh golly.
Oh thanks so much Splix. This is absolutely perfect for me, I lived almost in a place like that... during the war, and gosh.... takes me back.
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Date: 2013-04-18 11:40 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-04-19 01:15 am (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-04-22 08:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-23 03:06 am (UTC)