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FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 9]
Title: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[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.
*
"More lemonade, Charlotte?"
Charlotte offered Viggo a pained approximation of a smile. "No, thank you. Viggo," she added, as if she'd just remembered his name, and turned away from him, folding her hands on her lap.
Viggo sighed and poured a glass for himself, furtively wishing he had a slug of gin to add to the sickly-sweet stuff. He followed her gaze across the velvety green lawn of her parents' sprawling Tudor Revival house to where Sean, Grace, and a few other people engaged in a lively game of croquet. It would have made a perfect rotogravure for a magazine: Independence Day Frolics. It was a young, handsome group, sporting white linen dresses and cream-colored flannels, straw boaters and broad-brimmed Leghorn hats. Viggo watched Sean, crisp in blue-and-white seersucker, the sleeves of his white cotton shirt rolled up and his tie loosened, make a stroke and groan as his ball struck a wicket. Grace patted his arm consolingly and said something to him, and they both laughed. Viggo tried in vain to suppress a scowl. Despite the beautiful weather and the laughing group across the lawn, he couldn't remember an Independence Day as dreary in years.
It wouldn't be so bad, he reflected, if Charlotte had made some effort to be friendly. To hear Grace tell it, it was Charlotte who had insisted that they pair off for the party, an effort that seemed to please her parents and their friends no end. He knew she wasn't terribly fond of him – nor was he of her, truth be told – but if she wanted to give the impression that they were a courting couple, she might have thawed just a bit, and he could have at least behaved chummily, as Sean and Grace did. Those two seemed to get along like a house on fire, but Charlotte treated Viggo with chilly suspicion, as if she thought he might steal her jewelry when she wasn't looking.
"It does my heart good to see young people enjoying themselves so. Why don't you two join them?" a resonant feminine voice said.
Viggo rose to greet Chester and Florence Welles, then turned to Charlotte. "Would you like to, Charlotte?" he inquired, though he'd asked twenty minutes ago and had received a flat head-shake for his pains.
"Oh – no, thank you, Viggo. I think it's too hot to play, don't you?" She smiled sweetly and fluttered her lashes.
Bewildered, Viggo nodded. "It is a bit hot."
"We'll have ices in just a moment," Mrs. Welles said. Dressed in cool blue dimity, with a wide-brimmed straw hat, she was taller than her husband – who unfortunately did resemble a trout as Grace had once asserted – and even prettier than her daughter. "Your mother was kind enough to invite us to the seashore in August. I'm sure we'll all have a lovely time."
This was the first Viggo had heard of such an excursion. "I'm sure."
"Mrs. Mortensen's reputation as a hostess is so very favorable. I hope we can tempt her away from her glittering circle for a short time, at least, to repay her gracious hospitality. Do you know, several of the better families are building summer cottages in Glen Summit, in the mountains? Young couples especially. It's not Newport, naturally, but there are some lovely homes there. And the woods are so peaceful and charming. Perhaps I should write her about it."
Viggo didn't care for the direction the conversation was taking. "Perhaps. I'm certain she'd be delighted to hear from you. It was very kind of you to invite us today. Thank you both."
Mrs. Welles smiled, then tilted her aristocratic head toward the group playing croquet. "Not at all. That young man, your employee, Mr. –"
"Mr. Bean," Viggo said.
"Yes, of course. Is he your sister's affianced?"
"No," Viggo replied quickly. "That is – they've walked out now and again, but I don't think Grace has her heart set on any particular man as yet. Of course, she hasn't confided in me."
"She confides in you, though, doesn't she, dear?" Mrs. Welles asked Charlotte. "Really, you couldn't find two closer friends. Grace has been so good for Charlotte. It would be a lovely convenience if…well, I mustn't get ahead of myself." She smiled. "I do know of several eligible young men in Wilkes-Barre, though, from good families. Suitable young men. It would be my pleasure to introduce dear Grace to some of them."
"That would be up to her, Mrs. Welles. My sister's a very independent girl." Viggo offered Mrs. Welles a tight smile, bristling inside at the slight to Sean.
"Of course. We'll have a lovely chat sometime."
"Heard you're having some difficulty with your workers." Chester Welles spoke for the first time.
"A bit of restlessness," Viggo acknowledged cautiously. "A resolution is at present being conducted through all the proper channels, though."
"Unions," Welles snorted. "Careful, young man. They'll rook you for every penny you've got. You make a concession here, another concession there, and all of a sudden you're flat broke and the god-damned union's taken every red cent. Mark my words."
"Chester, really," Mrs. Welles chided.
Welles took a chased-silver cigar case from inside his white linen sack coat. He opened it and extended it toward Viggo. "Go on, take one. Let's leave the ladies to their ices and lemonade, and you and I will have a word with the men." He threw a nod toward a group of a dozen or so men clustered under an oak tree, smoking and drinking, perched on folding wooden chairs. "You'll excuse us, my dears."
Viggo loathed cigars, but took one all the same, clipped the end, and drew on it as Welles lit it. He managed to exhale without choking, and Welles, nodding in approval, took Viggo by the arm and led him toward the men, who stopped talking as Viggo and Welles approached. He was acquainted with most of the men present. They were the grand seigneurs of Wilkes-Barre, potentates of local commerce. He counted two bank presidents, the deputy Mayor, the chairman of the Coal Exchange, the president of a prosperous insurance company, a judge, and two attorneys. Welles introduced him to the men he hadn't met. Like the rest, they were Wyoming Valley aristocrats. They were varied in their appearance – some were portly, some cadaverous, dark or pale, mustachioed or clean-shaven; nevertheless, they all had an air of well-bred complacency that lent them a certain similarity, like chess pieces waiting to be placed into formation.
"Managed to tear Mr. Mortensen away from my daughter's side for a moment to have a chat with all of you," Welles said with an expansive gesture.
"Nothing so charming as a pretty girl," one of the attorneys said. "You've made a fine choice, Mortensen."
Viggo smiled, cloaking his frustration. Had someone announced a betrothal while his back was turned? "She's a lovely girl. I'm not sure I'm worthy of her."
"Nonsense! She's smitten with you," Welles chuckled, slapping Viggo on the shoulder.
There had never been a girl less smitten with him, Viggo was sure. He inclined his head politely. "That's very kind of you." A servant glided up with a tray of drinks. Viggo took a glass of bourbon over crushed ice and sipped. "I'm afraid I've interrupted your conversation. Please go on."
"Events of the day," said the chairman of the Coal Exchange, a thick-set man with a vast grey beard. "I hear you're planning to expand south, Mr. Mortensen."
"I haven't any solid plans as yet, but I have been corresponding with an owner in Hazleton who wishes to retire and sell," Viggo replied. "Peter Halloran – perhaps you know him."
"Of course, of course. Halloran. Eccentric old duck. Got mines in Hazleton, Centralia, Sunbury, Bloomsburg – God knows where else. Richer than Croesus. He's made his money, all right."
"He wants to sell his entire operation as a single purchase. I'm sending my assistant to meet with his representatives on Monday. If he thinks it's a worthwhile venture, I'll meet with the gentleman myself." Viggo smiled. "He doesn't care for the telegraph and doesn't have a telephone, so our efforts at communication have been a little slow. Perhaps he is eccentric, as you say."
"And tight-fisted," the chairman commented. "Be prepared for a struggle, young man. Still, I like to see young fellows with ambition. Keep the wheels spinning, eh?"
"I'll do my best, sir."
"No good, though, if your workers are striking." One of the attorneys lit a cigarette and exhaled a blue cloud of smoke. "Bad business. Worse if other miners get wind of it and start to raise a ruckus of their own. That sort of ugliness spreads like a pox. We don't want another 1902 on our hands. But maybe you're too young to remember that."
Viggo clamped his lips shut so that his sigh was filtered through his nose. Aware that each man was staring at him with narrow-eyed interest, he chose his words carefully. "I'm certainly aware of the 1902 strikes, sir. Rest assured that I'm treating this situation with the utmost gravity, and I hope we can reach a solution agreeable to all parties concerned before any serious unrest comes to fruition." He met each man's gaze in turn, and added, "I'd be willing to listen to any advice you have to offer."
"I'll give you some advice," said the deputy Mayor, and tossed back his drink in one swallow. Droplets of bourbon quivered from his waxed mustache. "Don't kowtow to the union, young man. You give them one concession, soon they'll want another. Then another, then another, until they've bled you dry. Why do you suppose Halloran's closing up shop? You're in for a steep climb the minute you buy."
Dismayed, Viggo examined the obdurate faces before him. "Mr. Welles advised me similarly. But surely, gentlemen, there must be a way for organized labor and organized capital to co-exist."
The second attorney snorted. "When you find a way, be sure to let us know."
"There must be a way. If only both sides would meet and try to understand each other's position without a preconception of distrust and hostility –"
"Oh, spare me a bleeding heart," sneered one of the bank presidents.
Hot blood suffused Viggo's cheeks. "It's precisely that sort of attitude that is an obstruction to mutual discourse. In this day and age, neither capital nor labor can survive without each other. How are we to reach any sort of agreement if the –"
"Mr. Mortensen," said Herbert Thornton, the judge, "your sympathy for the plight of the working man is admirable. I doubt any of my colleagues would disagree with me." His colleagues did not look favorably disposed toward his sentiments, but they kept silent. "But the truth is quite simple, as all truths are. Your employees are beginning to grumble, not so? They have boycotted a meeting you called, so I hear."
Laughter from the croquet players floated on the warm summer air. Viggo heard Grace's voice, then Sean's. "They have, yes."
"Their demands may seem small at first. A longer break here, a penny more an hour there. But these small concessions, if you make them, will be as a pebble rolling down a mountainside. A penny more an hour for each man and boy, and you will have to raise your prices in order to meet your expenses. You pass that on to your buyers, and they will have to charge their customers more money – ordinary working folks, like the miners. If the cost of fuel rises, your shopkeepers will have to raise their prices in order to keep heating their premises, and so on, and so forth. This pebble you've set in motion will soon dislodge more pebbles, then larger rocks, and then you have an avalanche. And you, Mr. Mortensen, will eventually be crushed beyond recognition in its deadly path." The judge paused to strike a match on the heel of his shoe and light his pipe. He puffed several times in contentment, clearly secure in the knowledge that no one would interrupt him, then pointed the stem of his pipe at Viggo. "There comes a time in a young man's life when he must tear the blindfold of idealism from his eyes and look clearly at the world in which he lives. Only then can he realize that his quest must invariably lead him to commerce, and that it is in his best interest, and indeed, the best interest of his fellow man and of his country, that he does his part in moving toward a higher purpose."
"More money, you mean," Viggo said flatly. He finished his drink. "Then how do you suggest I cope with this problem?"
Thornton smiled with elaborate patience. "Root out the source. Do you know who your principal troublemaker is?"
"Yes."
"Well then." Thornton shrugged.
"He's the colliery's union representative," Viggo pointed out.
Thornton snorted. "There are ways to get rid of undesirables, Mortensen, no matter how powerful they are."
"You're not suggesting anything illegal, I trust."
"Certainly not." Thornton's left eyelid dropped in a roué's conspiring wink.
Viggo's hand shook; the ice in his glass made a silvery shivering tinkle. He set the glass down on a little table with utmost care and met Judge Thornton's gaze. "I'm glad to hear that. I certainly understand your concerns. If the unions grow steadily in power, they'll become political. Given enough time, they might even usurp your place on the bench. That seems a valid fear to me." Thornton's smile froze, but Viggo did not drop his eyes.
"I never heard the like. Are you a socialist, Mortensen?" Welles demanded. His face was nearly purple with outrage.
"No, sir."
"You are a Catholic, though," one of the attorneys said. He nodded ponderously to his companions. "Union sympathizers, most of them, the Irish especially. Blood will out."
"Perhaps," Viggo said softly. He clasped his hands behind his back to still their trembling. "I apologize if I disturbed your conversation, gentlemen. Thank you for your enlightening remarks." He gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and walked toward the lawn, where the game of croquet had ended.
Grace and Charlotte were already walking arm-in-arm toward the house, oblivious to the other guests. Sean sauntered toward Viggo, grinning, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Grace and I trounced 'em," he said. "They didn't stand a – what's the matter with you?"
Viggo shook his head. "These people – they're soulless. And anyone who disagrees with them must be a fool." He glanced scornfully over his shoulder and saw the group of men, and now a number of women, staring at them. "To hell with them all. I've got to get out of here, Sean. It's getting dark – we'll walk to the Common and watch the fireworks. Come on."
"Shall we collect Grace and Charlotte?"
"No. I want to be alone with you."
"You don't want to wait for supper?"
"No. I'll take you to the house afterward and you can eat your fill if you like – please, let's leave."
Sean patted Viggo's upper arm a bit anxiously. "Aye, all right. We'll go."
*
They chose a cool, shady spot beneath a sycamore tree, a short distance from most of the crowds who congregated near the Market Street Bridge. The Susquehanna River curved before them, glimmering in the last blue light of the day. Across the river, on the Kingston Flats, the faint music of a concert band playing patriotic tunes drifted toward them. Viggo sat staring moodily at the river, gnawing on his thumbnail. Sean sat patiently beside him, braiding strands of grass together. Now and then he glanced at Viggo, but said nothing.
At last Viggo sighed. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so surly. I only – they made me so angry, Sean. All of them, looking at me with utter contempt. You'd think they'd at least feign friendliness."
"Well? What were they saying that got you so narky?"
Viggo relayed the gist of the uncomfortable and irritating conversation. "It's plain to see that they just don't care about reaching an equitable solution. Oh, I suppose I knew they didn't care, but they won't even entertain the notion of compromise, for fear they'll lose a point or two on the stock exchange. Chester Welles asked me if I was a socialist, and Judge Thornton said my idealism was a blindfold or some stupid thing. Oh, yes – and as the cherry on the cake, they insulted my heritage and my religion. Marvelous fellows, wouldn't you say? Small wonder that my father doesn't keep their company much." Viggo glared at a party of six or seven people who'd spread blankets on the grass near them and chattered in loud voices.
"He mightn't disagree with some of what they were saying," Sean remarked. "I'm not saying owt against him," he added hastily, "but if the union makes trouble for him, he's the one losing a point or two. More than that, like as not."
"I'll speak to him when I go home," Viggo said. "I've written him, of course, and we've spoken briefly on the telephone, but he must know…it's only that he's always seemed so sympathetic to the workers. He came from nothing, you know. I thought he'd understand. He never has been very approving of the changes I've wanted to introduce, though he never explicitly forbade anything, and the breaker boys – that hasn't been solved…." Viggo trailed off uncertainly. His thumb hurt; he'd bitten the nail beyond the quick. He stuck it in his mouth and tasted blood.
Sean stroked Viggo's free hand. It was dark enough to be a bit bolder with their caresses. "What if he tells you to fall in line with them?"
"We've always understood each other," Viggo said. "I'll persuade him to use reason. I've been reading a marvelous book on the new plutocracy. It's ridiculous to think my family could be a part of that – Father doesn't have lobbyists in Washington or any such thing, but –" He broke off as a bright white flower exploded in the sky.
"Never mind any of that now," Sean murmured, and drew him back against the tree.
Comforted, Viggo relaxed easily against Sean, watching the fireworks bursting high in the sky, dozens of blossoms of white and blue, pink and green, lilac and gold. The concert band had swung into "Stars and Stripes Forever," and people on Common were cheering and waving tiny flags with each brilliant explosion. The scent of gunpowder wafted across the river, acrid, but strangely pleasant and evocative of celebration to innocent noses. Viggo squeezed Sean's hand. "How do you like your first Independence Day?"
Sean leaned close to Viggo's ear. "America's not so bad, as it happens." He nibbled on Viggo's earlobe.
"Not fair." Viggo turned his head to kiss Sean's mouth and slid a hand between his legs.
"Steady on there. We'll get arrested."
"In the dark?"
Sean laughed and nudged him. "Look, it's the end." There were several bright bursts of white, then a shower of glitter and a sizzling noise. Bright fiery flowers sparkled high above, and Roman candles burned lower, sending sparks in every direction. The air was full of haze and fading brilliance, and the band finished with a flourish as the last fireworks exploded across the night sky.
Viggo and Sean applauded along with the whistling, clapping, and whooping crowds. Dark shapes began moving toward them, making their way along the Common. Sean poked Viggo in the side. "Come on, up. My arse is numb."
"What a shame." Viggo laughed, and climbed to his feet. He put a hand out to help Sean up and yanked him close. "I'm feeling amorous, but I suppose it'll be wasted on your numb arse. On the other hand, I could try pinching it if you like."
"Maybe after supper," Sean said, stretching his limbs. He groaned with pleasure. "You did promise supper."
"So I did. Come on." Viggo looped his arm through Sean's in a companionable fashion and pulled him toward West River Street. It was a two-block stroll to the house, and the night was balmy and beautiful. Viggo's mood improved as they fell in with the laughing, chattering crowds. "I wish you didn't have to leave."
"It's only for a few days."
"I know, but then I'll have to leave soon afterward. I'm selfish and greedy and I don't care who knows it."
"And a socialist," Sean reminded him.
"Yes, and a socialist as well." Viggo sobered. "They told me – well, Thornton told me, at any rate – that I should get rid of Harry Slater. Not in so many words, of course."
"Did he? I don't think you can dislodge him now."
"No, but he intimated that I should use unscrupulous methods, if need be. I should have asked him if he thought bludgeoning or stabbing would be more effective." He shook his head and laughed bitterly, then peered at Sean. "Oh, I know. I thought it was appalling too."
"Aye," Sean said, his voice muted. "It is that."
"It doesn't matter," Viggo said. "When I go home next week, I'm going to seek out the United Mine Workers representatives in Philadelphia and ask them how best to proceed. I hope Harry hasn't poisoned the men against me permanently. School never prepared me for this, you know. But if I can unearth some effective bargaining tactics, perhaps I can return to Wilkes-Barre better equipped to deal with him, and the men. Meanwhile, will you keep a sharp eye out for that safety report? The miners must know that our position needn't be adversarial."
"Of course I will. You don't have to ask."
"I know. I know." Viggo nudged Sean affectionately. "I want you at my side for these negotiations, if they're to happen. In fact, I'd like you at my side all the time." He was strangely buoyant, even after the day's bothersome events. The night was exquisite, the air smelled wonderful, the fireflies were waltzing through the trees, Sean looked dashing in his summer clothes, and his body, pressed close to Viggo's, was utterly desirable.
"Come along with me tomorrow," Sean said. "Halloran should be meeting with you, not me."
"Don't tempt me. I'd love to – you know that. But I promised I'd lunch with Mr. Lahr and his friend from Wyoming Valley Trust on Friday. And Mr. Halloran wanted the meeting right away – he must have another potential buyer on the leash. You're perfectly capable of dealing with him."
"I don't know about that."
"Nonsense, of course you are." The house loomed before them. Viggo pushed the gate open and bounded up the steps, Sean in tow. "Come on. Supper awaits."
The air inside the house was explosively hot. Viggo stripped off his coat and hat and tossed them on a red tufted bench. "Good Lord, it's stifling in here, isn't it?"
"Viggo." Grace appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Gracie. Sorry we left earlier. I'll have to tell you about it. It was absolutely –"
"Never mind that." Grace hurried down the steps, a slip of yellow paper clutched in her hand. "We've received a telegram from Father. He wants us to come home."
Viggo froze. "Is someone ill? Or –"
"I don't think so." She held out the paper, and Viggo snatched it from her hand. "It was addressed to you, but Pearce said it was from Father, so I opened it. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Viggo murmured. He scanned the terse message.
YOU AND GRACE MUST COME HOME AT ONCE STOP EIGHT O CLOCK TRAIN THURSDAY MORNING STOP TICKETS AT STATION STOP FATHER
Grace shook her head. "He would have said if someone were ill, don't you think?"
"I suppose. Tomorrow morning?" Viggo glanced at the clock. "That doesn't give us much time. What on earth? I wonder if Michael got a telegram as well."
"I haven't any idea. At any rate, I've packed. I had to send Charlotte home. She's rather upset with you, by the way."
"She's upset with me? What nerve –"
"She said you insulted Mr. Welles."
"He and his cronies are insufferable."
A blush of anger stained Grace's cheeks. "We were their guests."
"You're the one who said he looks like a trout."
"You didn't have to abandon –" She broke off and turned to Sean. "Sean, I'm sorry you have to listen to this squabbling. I realize it's not the height of dignity. I apologize."
"It's nowt," Sean said. He replaced his hat on his head. "I'll go and let you pack, Viggo. I hope all's well at home."
Viggo shot Grace an irritated glare. "Sean, I'm sorry. You're welcome to stay and eat something –"
"Nay, I'll find something in Mrs. Donnelly's kitchen, I reckon."
"I'll see you soon, Sean." Grace stepped forward and brushed a kiss across Sean's cheek. "I'm sure we'll both be back in no time. Thank you for being such a splendid croquet partner."
Sean shook her hand earnestly and smiled. "Aye, you weren't so bad yourself, miss."
Grace laughed and wiggled her fingers in farewell. She favored Viggo with a glare equal in ire to his, and ran lightly up the stairs.
"I hope nobody's sick," Sean said.
"I doubt it, but it is odd. Would you tell Mr. Lahr I was called away? Tell him urgent family business or some such." He sighed and walked with Sean to the door. "Maybe it's nothing. Save your notes on the Halloran purchase, and see if you can find out why he wants to sell so quickly. Lehigh's month-end reports should be delivered Monday – I don't know if I'll be back by then. Lord, I'm sure there's more –"
"Don't worry about owt here." Sean pressed Viggo's hand. "I'll keep an eye on things."
"I know you will," Viggo said warmly. "I trust you. Check in with Gavin when you can. I'm sorry I have to leave so precipitately. I'll telephone you when I find out what this is all about."
"Aye, do that." Sean rested his hand on the doorknob. "Safe travels."
Viggo looked over his shoulder, then kissed Sean on the mouth, a long, light kiss. He traced the outline of Sean's lips with a finger. "I'll miss you."
Sean was bright pink. "Don't be gone too long."
"I won't. That's a promise."
Viggo sighed as the door closed behind Sean. He frowned over the telegram and its abrupt message, then stuffed it in his pocket and trudged upstairs to pack.
*
"Do you suppose Father wanted us to take a cab home?" Grace peered anxiously round Broad Street Station as if she'd never seen its high Gothic windows and bustling crowds before. "He didn't say we'd be met."
"We could, I suppose." Viggo tugged his handkerchief from a pocket and mopped his brow. "Good Lord, isn't it stuffy? I'm about to roast. Surely Wilkes-Barre isn't as hot as this. Let's go out front and see if anyone's waiting." He beckoned to the surly, sweating porters behind him and strode toward the doors, fighting against a tide of humanity – porters struggling with their burdens of trunks and cases behind richly dressed ladies in summer linen and eyelet, knots of men exhaling plumes of cigar smoke and fanning themselves with their hats, urchins thrusting leaflets into empty hands, Spanish-American War veterans, begging in their battered uniforms and forage caps, bootblacks, newspaper boys, peddlers, and ne'er-do-wells. He tripped over the long, trailing black skirt of a woman in widow's weeds and apologized, earning a scathing glare for his trouble.
"Careful," Grace murmured, looping her arm through his.
"These crowds." As he waited for the porters to catch up to them, Viggo peered at the broad white face of a clock on an elaborately scrolled iron column. "It's one o'clock, for heaven's sake. Haven't they anything better to do in the middle of the day?" He scowled and shook his head at a boy who pushed a Tribune at him. "No, thank you."
"No better than we do, I gather." Grace smiled for the first time that day. She'd spent the entire train journey staring out the window, chewing on her lower lip, and shredding her organdy handkerchief into tissue-like ribbons, ignoring her tea and biscuits. She'd hardly spoken a word to Viggo since they'd boarded; now she winked at him in conspiratorial fashion.
"Hmm. You have a smudge on your nose." Viggo swiped at the soot with his handkerchief and tilted her straw hat to a less precarious angle. "Better. Come on, Gracie."
It was almost as hot outside as it was inside. The sun beat down on the dusty cobbles, the din of carriages, carts, pedestrians and automobiles was deafening, and the smells of animal ordure, human effluvia, locomotive smoke, and the faint rotting stink of the river melted into a rich, foul stew that made the eyes water. Viggo blew out a breath and chided himself. Had he become soft already, too accustomed to the gentler pace of northeastern Pennsylvania? He'd always thought of himself as adaptable to any climate and situation, but at the moment he wished he were sitting in his office, pegging away at letter after letter, while Sean sat nearby, scratching out invoices and ledger entries. His college chums would be horrified. He smiled. Perhaps he'd become stodgy at the venerable old age of twenty-two, but love, he decided, made the difference between ordinary contentment and sublime happiness.
"Mr. Mortensen!"
Viggo shaded his eyes and scanned the crowd. "I heard my name."
"I didn't."
A mail truck rumbled by, its wheels drowning out all other sound, and then the call came again. "Mr. Mortensen! Miss Grace!"
"Why, it's Molloy," Grace said, pointing. Across the street sat a handsome touring car, its doors, bonnet, and wheel spokes painted bright red. Beside it stood the Mortensen family's coachman, Molloy, in a smart black uniform and peaked cap, which he was waving frantically in an effort to get Viggo and Grace's attention. Sweat gleamed on his bald head.
"Father got a new automobile," Viggo remarked.
"It looks that way. At least we needn't take a hack. Hello, Molloy!" Grace called, waving her kerchief. "We'll be right over!" She turned to the porters and bestowed a sweet smile upon them. "Would you take the bags to that motorcar? Thank you so much."
What the porters did with sullen reluctance for Viggo, they did willingly for Grace. They heaved the bags to the touring car and stacked them on the floor of the back seat, then bowed and tugged on their caps. "Anything else, ma'am?"
Grace tipped them and smiled again. "No. Thank you very much indeed."
"How do you do that?" Viggo asked when the porters had departed.
"Do what?"
"They'd have crossed the Schuylkill on foot if you'd asked them."
Grace shrugged."I'm a girl."
"I should take you to the union meetings," Viggo said dryly, then nodded to Molloy and shook his hand. "How do you do, Molloy? It's a pleasure to see you again."
"Mr. Mortensen. Miss Grace." Molloy replaced his cap and handed Grace into the motorcar. Viggo followed. It was a tight fit among the luggage.
"You should," said Grace, settling her pale-blue skirts. "I'd have them eating out of my hand."
"Charlotte wouldn't approve," Viggo said.
Grace pinched his leg. "Oh, hush."
*
The huge, coldly ornate hallway was the same but for the addition of a life-sized portrait of Viggo's mother. Viggo stared at it dispassionately. Katherine was dressed in the height of fashion: pompadour, white satin Worth gown, pearl choker, diamond pendants in her ears. The painter had flattered her figure and softened her face, giving her the hourglass shape and benign, sleepy-eyed expression of a Gibson girl, but capturing none of her snapping vitality. Viggo decided he didn't like it at all.
"Haven't you seen this?" Grace was beside him, unpinning her hat. "Oh, no, you haven't, have you? It was delivered right after you left, I think. Do you like it?"
"Not particularly."
"Well, don't let her hear you say that. She adores it." Grace tossed her hat on an ebony console and craned her neck upwards, peering into the murky depths of the upper floors. "No one to meet us?"
"Mother! Father!" Viggo called. He turned to the butler who'd bowed them into the house, a short, slim man in black broadcloth. "Are my – are Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen at home?"
Before the butler could answer, a paneled door opened and Katherine emerged, stately in pale-grey lawn. "Viggo. Grace." She swept forward and embraced Viggo, kissing him on the cheek. "You're looking wonderful. Country life suits you."
Wilkes-Barre wasn't precisely the country, but Viggo didn't bother to correct her. "Hello, Mother." He hugged her tightly. "You're looking lovely as well."
She smiled and patted him on the cheek, but her eyes held his for a moment. She turned and took Grace in her arms. "Sweet girl. Are you all right?" Katherine held Grace off and examined her from head to toe.
"Of course, Mama. Why wouldn't I be? I've been having a wonderful time with Viggo." Grace flashed a smile at them both.
"You look lovely too, I must say. I'm glad to have you both back."
"Mother, that telegram," Viggo said. "You frightened the wits out of both of us. Is there something wrong?"
Katherine's expression hardened. She addressed the butler. "Edgar, have you seen to their things?"
"Molloy's driven them round back, Madam," the butler replied in a crisp English accent. "Bridie and Theresa will unpack."
"Fine." Katherine pivoted on her heel. "Have you two had luncheon?"
"We had a late breakfast on the train," Grace said.
"Very well. I'll have a tray sent up. Have some dinner clothes set out for them, and tell Theresa to run Miss Grace a bath and fetch a tray. Tea, cakes, sandwiches. That will be all, Edgar."
"Madam."
The butler glided away, and Viggo considered his mother's performance with raised eyebrows. In the months since he'd departed Philadelphia, she'd clearly developed a greater ease in her position, a glossy carapace of privilege. He wasn't sure he approved of the change, but Katherine had never sought her children's approval, which was probably as it should have been. Still, the lady-of-the-manor abruptness with which she addressed the butler was jarring. He folded his arms. "Mother, we've come all this way."
"I don't care to discuss family matters in front of the servants. Viggo, your father's in the library, waiting for you."
"And what about me?" Grace frowned.
"I'll explain everything to you later. Go up and have your bath."
Viggo watched Grace's fair brow turn red. She'd grown accustomed to her independence in Wilkes-Barre. He stepped close to her in solidarity. "Surely we can hear whatever this news is together. Why didn't you ask Michael to come home?"
"This doesn't concern him. Besides, he has his duties. Go on, Grace. I'll be up shortly."
Grace stood poised between Viggo and their mother, her cheeks mottled crimson. She seemed about to protest, and then nodded like any well-bred daughter of a wealthy family. "All right, Mama." She trudged up the stairs without a backward glance.
Viggo noted the marked slump in her shoulders with dismay. "Mother, I think she –"
"Not now, Viggo." Katherine grasped Viggo's sleeve and steered him toward the library, the only room in the house that held a semblance of warmth or friendliness. "Best behavior, now," she murmured.
Harald stood at the mantel, examining a delicate porcelain figurine of a shepherdess. When he saw his wife and son, he opened his arms and crushed Viggo to him in a fierce hug. "Son."
"Father." Viggo returned the embrace. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his father's hearty, comforting presence.
"Grand to have you home again, lad." Harald released Viggo and gestured toward a gold brocade sofa where two somberly dressed men sat like wax statues. "Viggo, this is Mr. McClure and Mr. Hart of Leeds. They are, ah, with a corporation there in an investigatory capacity. Gentlemen, my son Viggo."
Investigators? Leeds? A cold arrow of foreboding lodged in Viggo's stomach, but he managed to nod politely to the two men, who rose to shake his hand. "Gentlemen, a pleasure."
"Mr. Mortensen." McClure, a fellow with a stiff handlebar mustache and the build of a prizefighter, drew a notebook from his pocket and settled back onto the couch, which creaked beneath his weight. "We should like to ask you some questions, if we may." His accent was like Sean's, oddly comforting. Sweat gleamed on his pink brow and on the fleshy folds of his neck above his stiff collar.
"Certainly." Viggo seated himself in a wing chair of striped brown satin and folded his hands.
"You have in your employ a young man by the name of Sean Bean."
Viggo's heart sank. "That's correct."
"And how long has he been with your company, sir?"
"A few months now. Since March."
"And he traveled from Philadelphia to join you in your Wilkes-Barre office as your secretary?"
"Yes."
McClure nodded ponderously. "And how would you describe Mr. Bean's performance in the months he's been in your employ?"
"He's proved himself to be quite capable. In fact, I've been thinking of naming him office manager and giving him an increase in salary."
"He's competent, then."
Viggo frowned. "I've said so."
"We just need to make certain of these things, Mr. Mortensen," McClure said in a placating tone. "Now – how would you describe Mr. Bean's affect?"
"His affect? In what respect?"
Hart, a compact man with glossy black hair and large black eyes, spoke for the first time. "Has his behavior seemed unusually agitated? Does he seem secretive, or furtive?"
"Indeed he does not. I've found him to be pleasant and candid. In fact – " Viggo cleared his throat. "In fact, we've become friends." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother sink into a chair, shaking her head. He stared directly at the two detectives. "Is Sean in some sort of trouble? Are you representing the police?"
"No, sir," McClure replied. "I see that I had better lay the matter before you bluntly. How to begin? We are employed by the Watkins family of Winsley. Mr. Bean was once employed in one of the several companies owned by Mr. Frederick Watkins. Some three months ago, the body of Mr. Watkins' son, Frederick Junior, was discovered in the moorlands outside Winsley." He glanced at Katherine. "I shall spare you the worst of the details, but he had been…quite brutally murdered."
Viggo's stomach lurched. "Freddy?"
The detectives glanced alertly at each other. "That's right," Hart said. "Did Mr. Bean refer to him as such?"
"Yes. That is – I think everyone called him Freddy." Viggo bit his lip and cursed himself.
McClure leaned forward. The sofa creaked. "Is Mr. Bean in the office at present, sir?"
"No. No, he's investigating some potential purchases for me in Hazleton. I still don't understand what this is all about." Though it did seem eminently clear, Viggo wanted to hear a straightforward response. Dread gnawed a hole in his belly.
"Again I shall be candid, Mr. Mortensen. The younger Mr. Watkins was notorious for…well, it was known in certain circles that he kept company with young men of – let us say questionable character." McClure stole a look at Katherine, who had her eyes closed, and her palm resting upon her forehead. "There was some evidence that – that he had fallen afoul of one of these men."
Viggo hoped that his expression was free of guilt and embarrassment. Questionable character – there was no mistaking what McClure meant by that. Interesting that Freddy's character wasn't questionable, only the young men with whom he consorted. And why had they come after Sean? Sean hadn't been employed personally by Freddy since he was eighteen.
For a moment Harry Slater's slyly insinuating words reverberated in Viggo's head. People always did wonder why he left Freddy’s employ so abruptly. Was a good job, you know. Easy work, fair wages, didn’t come home every night covered in mud. Must have had a right good reason to leave. Then he frowned. Sean was no murderer, and Harry Slater was a damned liar. "If you're suggesting that Sean had anything to do with Mr. Watkins' murder, I fear you're very much off the mark, gentlemen. I can personally vouch for Mr. Bean's integrity and decency."
"We'd like to have a word with him," Hart said.
"Are you planning to arrest him?"
"Just a word, Mr. Mortensen," McClure replied mildly. "You said he was in…." He consulted his notebook. "Hazleton?"
"Yes." Viggo realized he had no way to warn Sean of the detectives' impending visit. They hadn't discussed Sean's travel arrangements. Sean had planned to check into the most convenient hotel and telegraph Mr. Halloran's representatives upon arrival. Perhaps he could send a note via a special courier, or communicate with the mine office to send a messenger to Hazleton. If only the right people knew of the errand….
Abruptly, Viggo rose to his feet. "Have you thought about –" He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He'd been about to mention Harry Slater's name. Wasn't it conceivable, if unlikely, that Harry had had something to do with Freddy's murder? Those damnable letters he'd paid Sean to steal from Harry, a bit of blackmail gone bad, perhaps? But to implicate Harry would be to further implicate Sean.
Hart stared at him with raised eyebrows. "About, sir?"
"About some of Mr. Watkins' so-called questionable friends in England?" Viggo strolled toward the window to gain time. "As I understood it, Mr. Bean was Mr. Watkins' clerk for only a few years."
"Ah, but we have a witness statement from the Watkins' butler asserting that Mr. Bean visited Mr. Watkins shortly before his death." McClure smiled at Viggo. "So you see, there is a recent connection."
"I can't believe that Mr. Bean would do such a thing."
"That may be, Mr. Mortensen, but we are bound to pursue every avenue of this investigation. May I ask you a few more questions?"
"If you like." Viggo shrugged as if further inquiry was pointless. He answered their questions truthfully: What was Sean's demeanor at work like? Was he inclined to quarrel with his fellow workers? What did they think of him? Did he frequent ordinary taverns? With whom else had he been keeping company? Did Viggo feel that he was odd or peculiar in any way? Viggo suppressed a rueful smile at that last.
After a half hour or so of questioning, the detectives rose to their feet. McClure offered Viggo his hand. "I think that's all, Mr. Mortensen. I trust that we may rely upon your discretion until we speak to Mr. Bean personally."
"You mean don't warn him that you're coming," Viggo said.
"That's right," Hart replied.
Viggo sighed. "The truth is that I don't know exactly where he is, Mr. McClure. You'll simply have to take me at my word."
"Then we will. Good day, Mr. Mortensen. Sir, madam." McClure bowed to Viggo's parents. "We may wish to communicate with you again."
"We're going to England and Ireland in a few weeks," Katherine said. "But the household will be informed as to our whereabouts."
"Very good, madam. Thank you." Harald ushered the two detectives out, and Viggo and his mother were left alone.
"What on earth is the matter with you?"
Viggo turned from his contemplation of the absurdly luxuriant lawn. "What?"
"I asked you what the matter is. How could you be so obstinate toward those men? They're trying to find a murderer." Katherine stood and rustled toward Viggo. "You're protecting that young man."
Viggo folded his arms and glared at his mother. "I certainly am. He's my friend, and he's no murderer. Whose idea was it to order me and Grace to Philadelphia? Couldn't they have spoken to me in Wilkes-Barre? I'm trying to keep Father's business in some semblance of organization."
"It was for your own safety, young man," Katherine snapped.
"My safety? Were you afraid Sean would kill us in our beds?"
"Don't be impertinent! Suppose that man realized that he was being watched. What's to stop him from trying to harm you or your sister for revenge?"
"It's about as likely as either of us being held up by desperadoes or kidnapped by gypsies in the middle of Montgomery County. I won't countenance any insults toward Sean. He's my friend. And you're being a bit theatrical about all this, Mother."
"Mind your manners, Viggo," Harald said, coming back into the library and closing the door behind him. "Your mother's concerned for your well-being, and it's not at all good of you to mock her."
Viggo rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Father. Mother. I'm not trying to be impertinent. But this fear of yours is ridiculous. Sean is perfectly innocent of any wrongdoing. I'm sorry Freddy Watkins is dead, but Sean had nothing to do with it. In my opinion, those men should be back in England, looking for his murderer there."
"Grace wrote that she'd walked out with him a few times, alone, and with you and Charlotte Welles."
"Yes." Viggo sat on the sofa the detectives had vacated. "He's above reproach, I promise you that. You don't suppose I'd allow Gracie to walk out with someone I didn't trust?" Would a telegram work? But he would have to find out the name of every hotel in Hazleton. Perhaps contacting Gavin at the mine would be a better idea.
"We're not blaming you, lad. You hadn't any notion. You hired him in good faith."
"Harald, please. I think Viggo could have exercised more caution. Mr. Bean is hardly a suitable escort for Grace. She has enough trouble securing a beau as it is. Can you imagine the scandal if the young man's found guilty? If all this comes out in the open? I'd never be able to hold my head up in public again."
Viggo's bitten tongue throbbed and his head ached. "She wasn't particularly interested in him, Mother. I think his interests lay elsewhere as well." He rose to his feet. "I'm terribly hungry. I'm going to find something to eat."
"I'll have a tray sent up to your room," Katherine said, all brisk business. "Come along, Harald." She strode to the door, then turned back to gaze at Viggo. "Viggo, I only want you to be safe and happy."
"I know that, Mother. I know." He smiled wearily at Katherine.
"I'm glad you're home, my dear. It's been far too long since we've seen you. Go on up to your room and I'll have a bath drawn."
Harald took her arm. "I'll have a word with you after supper, my boy. It's good to see you."
"Thank you, Father. It's good to see you as well."
His parents closed the library door, leaving him alone.
Viggo hurried to the desk and rummaged in the drawers until he found paper and a pencil. He scratched out two hasty notes, folded them, and tucked them in a pocket.
On the way to his room he stopped on the stairs, realizing he couldn't remember where his room had been. He'd only occupied it for a matter of weeks before leaving for Wilkes-Barre. He let his gaze wander upward, to the high-flung ceiling adorned with nymphs, cherubs, ribbons, and scrollwork in melting pastels. It was certainly grand, it was lovely in its way, and it was clearly a place where his parents felt comfortable, but it wasn't home.
Home was elsewhere.
*
Dinner that evening was endless. Viggo had submitted to his mother's decree that he dress for dinner and readied himself with the help of one of the junior footmen appropriated for the purpose. He'd entered the dining room and been dazzled by the splendor of snowy table linens, delicate Sèvres porcelain, enormous bunches of peonies, hollyhock, and trailing vines, and silver and crystal that glittered beneath the light of the enormous chandelier. Candles burned in two large candelabra near each end of the table. The dining room was hot despite its twelve-foot ceiling and cool seafoam damask-covered walls. "Goodness, we must be having awfully grand guests this evening," he'd said, slipping into his chair.
"No. Just the family." Katherine had looked annoyed with his remark, and Viggo had said no more. And indeed it was only the Mortensen family who ate at the long table that evening: Viggo, Grace, Harald, Katherine, Patrick, Jonathan, and Molly. Adam was at his home on Rittenhouse Square, and Agnes was dining with her betrothed's sister and her husband, a DuPont – quite a coup, evidently. They sat through seven courses of increasing complexity – oysters, garnished consommé, filet of sole, pâté de foie gras, champagne sorbet, asparagus wrapped in linen and served on small silver plates, and poached duckling with applesauce. Each course had its own wine, served in deft silence by uniformed footmen. Viggo, marveling that this seemed to be ordinary fare and thinking wistfully of Mrs. McGuire's tasty if ordinary roasted chicken and potatoes, ate with muted appetite and noticed that Grace, in a beige satin dress as richly ornamented as a ballgown, did the same, but everyone else seemed perfectly content. The younger children were unusually quiet, as were his parents. Viggo was beginning to feel like a stranger in his own family.
"How were the fireworks this year?" he ventured, setting down his fork, exhausted by the effort of cramming down so much food.
"Cracking!" said Jonathan. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and he seemed relieved that Viggo had broken the icy quiet. "Papa let us shoot some off near the pond the night before, too." Patrick grinned and nodded assent.
Katherine frowned."Ridiculous and dangerous, and wholly unnecessary." She picked up a small crystal bell and rang it vigorously.
"Was it crowded?"
"Was it! We could hardly move," Patrick said. "Wish you'd been here, though, Viggo. You too, Gracie."
"We had a rather splendid celebration in Wilkes-Barre," Grace replied. "Not as large as Philadelphia's, of course, but there was a concert band and a fair earlier in the day, and Viggo and I were invited to a lovely picnic." She crinkled her nose at Viggo, forgiving him for that day's transgressions.
Viggo patted his mouth with his napkin. "Oh, yes, it was delightful." Particularly the quarrel with his host and the rest of the Wyoming Valley plutocrats, he added to himself.
"I'm glad you have a few respectable friends," Katherine said. "Molly, stop slouching. I'm eager to meet Mr. and Mrs. Welles. They seem like lovely people."
Grace lifted one shoulder in a shrug reminiscent of Charlotte's habitual indifference. "They're kind to me. They've been very generous in allowing me to stay at their lake house so often. But if you're talking about Sean, Mother, you couldn't be more wrong. He's a lovely person and a great friend to Viggo. And Michael's fond of him too."
Patrick winked at Viggo. "You have inappropriate friends?"
"Quiet, Patrick," Katherine ordered. "We'll discuss Viggo's choice of friends another time. And that reminds me, Viggo – I've invited some of your real friends to a small gathering in honor of your return. Saturday next, seven o'clock."
"Next Saturday? Mother, I need to be back in Wilkes-Barre. I can't afford to be absent for so long."
"I'm pleased you've taken such an interest in the business, lad," Harald murmured. His face was crimson above his winged collar.
"Harald," Katherine said in a warning tone, then fell silent as two footmen entered the dining room, one with a layered crème gateau decorated with crystallized flowers and curls of chocolate, another with a wheeled cart holding an elaborate coffee service.
"I have, Father. And I'm sure you understand that things are delicate right now. I must make myself available as often as I can." Viggo broke off as Katherine coughed noisily into a handkerchief. Jonathan and Molly stared down at their plates and Grace looked impatient, but Patrick caught Viggo's eye and cocked his head toward the footman. Viggo comprehended that he was committing a breach of etiquette and sipped at the last of his wine, hiding a sigh. This rigid formality was choking him. He waited until the footmen had served them and departed. "I'd like to speak to you about it before I go, Father. I'm hoping you'll have some suggestions for me. Mother, I'm sorry – you'll have to call off the party, or hold it without me. I know it's inconvenient. I wish I could stay, but I can't."
"Harald," Katherine said sharply.
Harald set down his fork with a sigh. "I've been speaking with my lawyers, Viggo. It seems there have been rumors of unrest, and, well, those rumors seem to be spreading."
"That is precisely why I need to return as soon as possible, Father. I intend to find a UMW representative here in the city and consult with him. Escalating antagonism can only lead to problems. I'm going to nip this in the bud."
"I can't afford to have union problems, son. They're too powerful now. A well-organized outfit can bring a company down if it's got a mind to. But my lawyers have given me a solution that I think will work for everyone."
"That's wonderful! What is it?"
Harald dropped his eyes for a second, then held Viggo's gaze. "We're going to close the Wilkes-Barre mine for three weeks. Possibly four."
"I don't understand."
"You've been managing things well, Viggo, even with some of your odd expenditures. A funeral for some accident victims? Companies don't pay for that sort of thing."
"It was necessary," Viggo said. "But if you think I've been profligate in that regard, I'll be happy to pay for it out of my own pocket."
"I suppose there's no harm done, but the accountants brought it to my attention. Can't make a habit of that, lad. At any rate, back to business. We have a sizeable stockpile that we can use without harming our profits."
"But why reduce it if it's not necessary?"
"We'll announce a closure for safety improvements. You've already added a few, so it won't come as a surprise."
"We didn't need to close the mine for them, Father. Forgive me for seeming a bit thick – what sort of safety procedures will you be undertaking?"
Harald's cheeks had become very red. "You're not seeing things clearly, son. In midsummer, usage is down anyway. There's a slump. And in a few weeks, the miners will realize that they need steady employment."
"Perhaps we can send them to some of the other collieries," Viggo suggested.
"No," Harald said, and took a sip of port. "I don't think that's a good idea, son. They can certainly seek outside work if they wish, though."
"But without work for that long, they'll –" Viggo broke off, finally understanding. Blood pounded in his ears. "You intend to starve them into submission."
"Nonsense," Katherine said. "He's not preventing them from working somewhere else."
Viggo stared at his mother, then turned back to Harald. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Father, how can you? They have homes to pay for, children to feed – "
"It's only for a few weeks. They'll be glad for their jobs, and less likely to stir up trouble."
"They'll call a strike!"
"Not if there's a legitimate reason for closure."
"And exactly how do you plan to legitimize it? Are you buying off the federal safety commission?" Viggo rose to his feet. Grace smiled at him and Patrick frowned; the other children stared, uncomprehending.
"Sit down!" Harald snapped, thumping his fist on the table. "Confound it, Viggo, I don't need wretched idealism and stars in your eyes. I need practicality, and I need your visible support. You've done a good job so far; don't make a hash of things now."
Viggo sat and tried to compose himself. "You want to put those men out of work for a month," he said quietly. "Have you any idea what the loss of a month's wages will do to those men, or have you lived long enough in this mausoleum to utterly wall yourself off from the problems of the poor?"
"You mind your tongue, young man." Katherine's face was white with anger. "Your father worked like a demon to provide for us."
"We never lacked for comfort," Viggo shot back.
"You never lacked for comfort," Katherine said. "You had everything we could give you, but we had our share of lean years before you came along. The world was not created at your birth, Viggo Peter Mortensen."
"If that's true, then how can you so easily forget what it's like to be hungry, or to worry about whether your children will have proper clothing for winter? You had family who survived the Famine, for Christ's sake, Mother. How can you deliberately condone depriving a man of a living wage?"
Harald passed a hand over his eyes. "For the love of God, Viggo. Don't." He shook his head. "All right. I'll speak to the damned lawyers again. Perhaps we can come up with another solution."
"Please, Father." Viggo traversed the absurd length of the dining table and knelt beside his father's chair. "You're not a cruel man – I know it, and Mother knows it too. Give me a chance to manage this problem without resorting to double dealing on either side. We'll come up with a solution together. I'll stay as long as you need me."
"Very well. I'm putting my trust in you, lad."
Viggo nodded. He rose and looked down the table at his mother, who was watching them silently, her face inscrutable except for a slight paleness beneath her rouge. "I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn, Mother. I'll be happy to attend the party."
"I'd prefer we avoid this sort of altercation at table," she said. "You're excused, children."
Grace got to her feet. "Take a turn in the garden with me, Viggo."
It was a beautiful night, not sweltering, with a faint breeze carrying the fragrance of some unfamiliar flower and thousands of stars in the night sky. Viggo and Grace strolled on the footpath arm in arm, then sat on a stone bench beside an ornamental pond.
"That was quite something," Grace said at last.
"I know, I know." Viggo blew out a breath. "I'm supposed to be the dutiful son, and I'm not."
"No. But I'm proud of you." She squeezed her brother's arm. "You are grown up, after all."
Viggo peered down at her in surprise. It was difficult to gauge her expression, but he thought she looked pleased. "Thank you, dear."
Grace leaned her head against his arm. "Everyone seems different. Don't they?"
"Maybe we're the ones who are different."
"Maybe." Grace was quiet for a moment. "I wish we were back in Wilkes-Barre."
Viggo put his arm round Grace's shoulder and planted a tender kiss on her cheek. He hoped his note to Sean would arrive in time. "So do I, Gracie. So do I."
*
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.
*
"More lemonade, Charlotte?"
Charlotte offered Viggo a pained approximation of a smile. "No, thank you. Viggo," she added, as if she'd just remembered his name, and turned away from him, folding her hands on her lap.
Viggo sighed and poured a glass for himself, furtively wishing he had a slug of gin to add to the sickly-sweet stuff. He followed her gaze across the velvety green lawn of her parents' sprawling Tudor Revival house to where Sean, Grace, and a few other people engaged in a lively game of croquet. It would have made a perfect rotogravure for a magazine: Independence Day Frolics. It was a young, handsome group, sporting white linen dresses and cream-colored flannels, straw boaters and broad-brimmed Leghorn hats. Viggo watched Sean, crisp in blue-and-white seersucker, the sleeves of his white cotton shirt rolled up and his tie loosened, make a stroke and groan as his ball struck a wicket. Grace patted his arm consolingly and said something to him, and they both laughed. Viggo tried in vain to suppress a scowl. Despite the beautiful weather and the laughing group across the lawn, he couldn't remember an Independence Day as dreary in years.
It wouldn't be so bad, he reflected, if Charlotte had made some effort to be friendly. To hear Grace tell it, it was Charlotte who had insisted that they pair off for the party, an effort that seemed to please her parents and their friends no end. He knew she wasn't terribly fond of him – nor was he of her, truth be told – but if she wanted to give the impression that they were a courting couple, she might have thawed just a bit, and he could have at least behaved chummily, as Sean and Grace did. Those two seemed to get along like a house on fire, but Charlotte treated Viggo with chilly suspicion, as if she thought he might steal her jewelry when she wasn't looking.
"It does my heart good to see young people enjoying themselves so. Why don't you two join them?" a resonant feminine voice said.
Viggo rose to greet Chester and Florence Welles, then turned to Charlotte. "Would you like to, Charlotte?" he inquired, though he'd asked twenty minutes ago and had received a flat head-shake for his pains.
"Oh – no, thank you, Viggo. I think it's too hot to play, don't you?" She smiled sweetly and fluttered her lashes.
Bewildered, Viggo nodded. "It is a bit hot."
"We'll have ices in just a moment," Mrs. Welles said. Dressed in cool blue dimity, with a wide-brimmed straw hat, she was taller than her husband – who unfortunately did resemble a trout as Grace had once asserted – and even prettier than her daughter. "Your mother was kind enough to invite us to the seashore in August. I'm sure we'll all have a lovely time."
This was the first Viggo had heard of such an excursion. "I'm sure."
"Mrs. Mortensen's reputation as a hostess is so very favorable. I hope we can tempt her away from her glittering circle for a short time, at least, to repay her gracious hospitality. Do you know, several of the better families are building summer cottages in Glen Summit, in the mountains? Young couples especially. It's not Newport, naturally, but there are some lovely homes there. And the woods are so peaceful and charming. Perhaps I should write her about it."
Viggo didn't care for the direction the conversation was taking. "Perhaps. I'm certain she'd be delighted to hear from you. It was very kind of you to invite us today. Thank you both."
Mrs. Welles smiled, then tilted her aristocratic head toward the group playing croquet. "Not at all. That young man, your employee, Mr. –"
"Mr. Bean," Viggo said.
"Yes, of course. Is he your sister's affianced?"
"No," Viggo replied quickly. "That is – they've walked out now and again, but I don't think Grace has her heart set on any particular man as yet. Of course, she hasn't confided in me."
"She confides in you, though, doesn't she, dear?" Mrs. Welles asked Charlotte. "Really, you couldn't find two closer friends. Grace has been so good for Charlotte. It would be a lovely convenience if…well, I mustn't get ahead of myself." She smiled. "I do know of several eligible young men in Wilkes-Barre, though, from good families. Suitable young men. It would be my pleasure to introduce dear Grace to some of them."
"That would be up to her, Mrs. Welles. My sister's a very independent girl." Viggo offered Mrs. Welles a tight smile, bristling inside at the slight to Sean.
"Of course. We'll have a lovely chat sometime."
"Heard you're having some difficulty with your workers." Chester Welles spoke for the first time.
"A bit of restlessness," Viggo acknowledged cautiously. "A resolution is at present being conducted through all the proper channels, though."
"Unions," Welles snorted. "Careful, young man. They'll rook you for every penny you've got. You make a concession here, another concession there, and all of a sudden you're flat broke and the god-damned union's taken every red cent. Mark my words."
"Chester, really," Mrs. Welles chided.
Welles took a chased-silver cigar case from inside his white linen sack coat. He opened it and extended it toward Viggo. "Go on, take one. Let's leave the ladies to their ices and lemonade, and you and I will have a word with the men." He threw a nod toward a group of a dozen or so men clustered under an oak tree, smoking and drinking, perched on folding wooden chairs. "You'll excuse us, my dears."
Viggo loathed cigars, but took one all the same, clipped the end, and drew on it as Welles lit it. He managed to exhale without choking, and Welles, nodding in approval, took Viggo by the arm and led him toward the men, who stopped talking as Viggo and Welles approached. He was acquainted with most of the men present. They were the grand seigneurs of Wilkes-Barre, potentates of local commerce. He counted two bank presidents, the deputy Mayor, the chairman of the Coal Exchange, the president of a prosperous insurance company, a judge, and two attorneys. Welles introduced him to the men he hadn't met. Like the rest, they were Wyoming Valley aristocrats. They were varied in their appearance – some were portly, some cadaverous, dark or pale, mustachioed or clean-shaven; nevertheless, they all had an air of well-bred complacency that lent them a certain similarity, like chess pieces waiting to be placed into formation.
"Managed to tear Mr. Mortensen away from my daughter's side for a moment to have a chat with all of you," Welles said with an expansive gesture.
"Nothing so charming as a pretty girl," one of the attorneys said. "You've made a fine choice, Mortensen."
Viggo smiled, cloaking his frustration. Had someone announced a betrothal while his back was turned? "She's a lovely girl. I'm not sure I'm worthy of her."
"Nonsense! She's smitten with you," Welles chuckled, slapping Viggo on the shoulder.
There had never been a girl less smitten with him, Viggo was sure. He inclined his head politely. "That's very kind of you." A servant glided up with a tray of drinks. Viggo took a glass of bourbon over crushed ice and sipped. "I'm afraid I've interrupted your conversation. Please go on."
"Events of the day," said the chairman of the Coal Exchange, a thick-set man with a vast grey beard. "I hear you're planning to expand south, Mr. Mortensen."
"I haven't any solid plans as yet, but I have been corresponding with an owner in Hazleton who wishes to retire and sell," Viggo replied. "Peter Halloran – perhaps you know him."
"Of course, of course. Halloran. Eccentric old duck. Got mines in Hazleton, Centralia, Sunbury, Bloomsburg – God knows where else. Richer than Croesus. He's made his money, all right."
"He wants to sell his entire operation as a single purchase. I'm sending my assistant to meet with his representatives on Monday. If he thinks it's a worthwhile venture, I'll meet with the gentleman myself." Viggo smiled. "He doesn't care for the telegraph and doesn't have a telephone, so our efforts at communication have been a little slow. Perhaps he is eccentric, as you say."
"And tight-fisted," the chairman commented. "Be prepared for a struggle, young man. Still, I like to see young fellows with ambition. Keep the wheels spinning, eh?"
"I'll do my best, sir."
"No good, though, if your workers are striking." One of the attorneys lit a cigarette and exhaled a blue cloud of smoke. "Bad business. Worse if other miners get wind of it and start to raise a ruckus of their own. That sort of ugliness spreads like a pox. We don't want another 1902 on our hands. But maybe you're too young to remember that."
Viggo clamped his lips shut so that his sigh was filtered through his nose. Aware that each man was staring at him with narrow-eyed interest, he chose his words carefully. "I'm certainly aware of the 1902 strikes, sir. Rest assured that I'm treating this situation with the utmost gravity, and I hope we can reach a solution agreeable to all parties concerned before any serious unrest comes to fruition." He met each man's gaze in turn, and added, "I'd be willing to listen to any advice you have to offer."
"I'll give you some advice," said the deputy Mayor, and tossed back his drink in one swallow. Droplets of bourbon quivered from his waxed mustache. "Don't kowtow to the union, young man. You give them one concession, soon they'll want another. Then another, then another, until they've bled you dry. Why do you suppose Halloran's closing up shop? You're in for a steep climb the minute you buy."
Dismayed, Viggo examined the obdurate faces before him. "Mr. Welles advised me similarly. But surely, gentlemen, there must be a way for organized labor and organized capital to co-exist."
The second attorney snorted. "When you find a way, be sure to let us know."
"There must be a way. If only both sides would meet and try to understand each other's position without a preconception of distrust and hostility –"
"Oh, spare me a bleeding heart," sneered one of the bank presidents.
Hot blood suffused Viggo's cheeks. "It's precisely that sort of attitude that is an obstruction to mutual discourse. In this day and age, neither capital nor labor can survive without each other. How are we to reach any sort of agreement if the –"
"Mr. Mortensen," said Herbert Thornton, the judge, "your sympathy for the plight of the working man is admirable. I doubt any of my colleagues would disagree with me." His colleagues did not look favorably disposed toward his sentiments, but they kept silent. "But the truth is quite simple, as all truths are. Your employees are beginning to grumble, not so? They have boycotted a meeting you called, so I hear."
Laughter from the croquet players floated on the warm summer air. Viggo heard Grace's voice, then Sean's. "They have, yes."
"Their demands may seem small at first. A longer break here, a penny more an hour there. But these small concessions, if you make them, will be as a pebble rolling down a mountainside. A penny more an hour for each man and boy, and you will have to raise your prices in order to meet your expenses. You pass that on to your buyers, and they will have to charge their customers more money – ordinary working folks, like the miners. If the cost of fuel rises, your shopkeepers will have to raise their prices in order to keep heating their premises, and so on, and so forth. This pebble you've set in motion will soon dislodge more pebbles, then larger rocks, and then you have an avalanche. And you, Mr. Mortensen, will eventually be crushed beyond recognition in its deadly path." The judge paused to strike a match on the heel of his shoe and light his pipe. He puffed several times in contentment, clearly secure in the knowledge that no one would interrupt him, then pointed the stem of his pipe at Viggo. "There comes a time in a young man's life when he must tear the blindfold of idealism from his eyes and look clearly at the world in which he lives. Only then can he realize that his quest must invariably lead him to commerce, and that it is in his best interest, and indeed, the best interest of his fellow man and of his country, that he does his part in moving toward a higher purpose."
"More money, you mean," Viggo said flatly. He finished his drink. "Then how do you suggest I cope with this problem?"
Thornton smiled with elaborate patience. "Root out the source. Do you know who your principal troublemaker is?"
"Yes."
"Well then." Thornton shrugged.
"He's the colliery's union representative," Viggo pointed out.
Thornton snorted. "There are ways to get rid of undesirables, Mortensen, no matter how powerful they are."
"You're not suggesting anything illegal, I trust."
"Certainly not." Thornton's left eyelid dropped in a roué's conspiring wink.
Viggo's hand shook; the ice in his glass made a silvery shivering tinkle. He set the glass down on a little table with utmost care and met Judge Thornton's gaze. "I'm glad to hear that. I certainly understand your concerns. If the unions grow steadily in power, they'll become political. Given enough time, they might even usurp your place on the bench. That seems a valid fear to me." Thornton's smile froze, but Viggo did not drop his eyes.
"I never heard the like. Are you a socialist, Mortensen?" Welles demanded. His face was nearly purple with outrage.
"No, sir."
"You are a Catholic, though," one of the attorneys said. He nodded ponderously to his companions. "Union sympathizers, most of them, the Irish especially. Blood will out."
"Perhaps," Viggo said softly. He clasped his hands behind his back to still their trembling. "I apologize if I disturbed your conversation, gentlemen. Thank you for your enlightening remarks." He gave a curt nod, turned on his heel, and walked toward the lawn, where the game of croquet had ended.
Grace and Charlotte were already walking arm-in-arm toward the house, oblivious to the other guests. Sean sauntered toward Viggo, grinning, hands stuffed in his pockets. "Grace and I trounced 'em," he said. "They didn't stand a – what's the matter with you?"
Viggo shook his head. "These people – they're soulless. And anyone who disagrees with them must be a fool." He glanced scornfully over his shoulder and saw the group of men, and now a number of women, staring at them. "To hell with them all. I've got to get out of here, Sean. It's getting dark – we'll walk to the Common and watch the fireworks. Come on."
"Shall we collect Grace and Charlotte?"
"No. I want to be alone with you."
"You don't want to wait for supper?"
"No. I'll take you to the house afterward and you can eat your fill if you like – please, let's leave."
Sean patted Viggo's upper arm a bit anxiously. "Aye, all right. We'll go."
*
They chose a cool, shady spot beneath a sycamore tree, a short distance from most of the crowds who congregated near the Market Street Bridge. The Susquehanna River curved before them, glimmering in the last blue light of the day. Across the river, on the Kingston Flats, the faint music of a concert band playing patriotic tunes drifted toward them. Viggo sat staring moodily at the river, gnawing on his thumbnail. Sean sat patiently beside him, braiding strands of grass together. Now and then he glanced at Viggo, but said nothing.
At last Viggo sighed. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be so surly. I only – they made me so angry, Sean. All of them, looking at me with utter contempt. You'd think they'd at least feign friendliness."
"Well? What were they saying that got you so narky?"
Viggo relayed the gist of the uncomfortable and irritating conversation. "It's plain to see that they just don't care about reaching an equitable solution. Oh, I suppose I knew they didn't care, but they won't even entertain the notion of compromise, for fear they'll lose a point or two on the stock exchange. Chester Welles asked me if I was a socialist, and Judge Thornton said my idealism was a blindfold or some stupid thing. Oh, yes – and as the cherry on the cake, they insulted my heritage and my religion. Marvelous fellows, wouldn't you say? Small wonder that my father doesn't keep their company much." Viggo glared at a party of six or seven people who'd spread blankets on the grass near them and chattered in loud voices.
"He mightn't disagree with some of what they were saying," Sean remarked. "I'm not saying owt against him," he added hastily, "but if the union makes trouble for him, he's the one losing a point or two. More than that, like as not."
"I'll speak to him when I go home," Viggo said. "I've written him, of course, and we've spoken briefly on the telephone, but he must know…it's only that he's always seemed so sympathetic to the workers. He came from nothing, you know. I thought he'd understand. He never has been very approving of the changes I've wanted to introduce, though he never explicitly forbade anything, and the breaker boys – that hasn't been solved…." Viggo trailed off uncertainly. His thumb hurt; he'd bitten the nail beyond the quick. He stuck it in his mouth and tasted blood.
Sean stroked Viggo's free hand. It was dark enough to be a bit bolder with their caresses. "What if he tells you to fall in line with them?"
"We've always understood each other," Viggo said. "I'll persuade him to use reason. I've been reading a marvelous book on the new plutocracy. It's ridiculous to think my family could be a part of that – Father doesn't have lobbyists in Washington or any such thing, but –" He broke off as a bright white flower exploded in the sky.
"Never mind any of that now," Sean murmured, and drew him back against the tree.
Comforted, Viggo relaxed easily against Sean, watching the fireworks bursting high in the sky, dozens of blossoms of white and blue, pink and green, lilac and gold. The concert band had swung into "Stars and Stripes Forever," and people on Common were cheering and waving tiny flags with each brilliant explosion. The scent of gunpowder wafted across the river, acrid, but strangely pleasant and evocative of celebration to innocent noses. Viggo squeezed Sean's hand. "How do you like your first Independence Day?"
Sean leaned close to Viggo's ear. "America's not so bad, as it happens." He nibbled on Viggo's earlobe.
"Not fair." Viggo turned his head to kiss Sean's mouth and slid a hand between his legs.
"Steady on there. We'll get arrested."
"In the dark?"
Sean laughed and nudged him. "Look, it's the end." There were several bright bursts of white, then a shower of glitter and a sizzling noise. Bright fiery flowers sparkled high above, and Roman candles burned lower, sending sparks in every direction. The air was full of haze and fading brilliance, and the band finished with a flourish as the last fireworks exploded across the night sky.
Viggo and Sean applauded along with the whistling, clapping, and whooping crowds. Dark shapes began moving toward them, making their way along the Common. Sean poked Viggo in the side. "Come on, up. My arse is numb."
"What a shame." Viggo laughed, and climbed to his feet. He put a hand out to help Sean up and yanked him close. "I'm feeling amorous, but I suppose it'll be wasted on your numb arse. On the other hand, I could try pinching it if you like."
"Maybe after supper," Sean said, stretching his limbs. He groaned with pleasure. "You did promise supper."
"So I did. Come on." Viggo looped his arm through Sean's in a companionable fashion and pulled him toward West River Street. It was a two-block stroll to the house, and the night was balmy and beautiful. Viggo's mood improved as they fell in with the laughing, chattering crowds. "I wish you didn't have to leave."
"It's only for a few days."
"I know, but then I'll have to leave soon afterward. I'm selfish and greedy and I don't care who knows it."
"And a socialist," Sean reminded him.
"Yes, and a socialist as well." Viggo sobered. "They told me – well, Thornton told me, at any rate – that I should get rid of Harry Slater. Not in so many words, of course."
"Did he? I don't think you can dislodge him now."
"No, but he intimated that I should use unscrupulous methods, if need be. I should have asked him if he thought bludgeoning or stabbing would be more effective." He shook his head and laughed bitterly, then peered at Sean. "Oh, I know. I thought it was appalling too."
"Aye," Sean said, his voice muted. "It is that."
"It doesn't matter," Viggo said. "When I go home next week, I'm going to seek out the United Mine Workers representatives in Philadelphia and ask them how best to proceed. I hope Harry hasn't poisoned the men against me permanently. School never prepared me for this, you know. But if I can unearth some effective bargaining tactics, perhaps I can return to Wilkes-Barre better equipped to deal with him, and the men. Meanwhile, will you keep a sharp eye out for that safety report? The miners must know that our position needn't be adversarial."
"Of course I will. You don't have to ask."
"I know. I know." Viggo nudged Sean affectionately. "I want you at my side for these negotiations, if they're to happen. In fact, I'd like you at my side all the time." He was strangely buoyant, even after the day's bothersome events. The night was exquisite, the air smelled wonderful, the fireflies were waltzing through the trees, Sean looked dashing in his summer clothes, and his body, pressed close to Viggo's, was utterly desirable.
"Come along with me tomorrow," Sean said. "Halloran should be meeting with you, not me."
"Don't tempt me. I'd love to – you know that. But I promised I'd lunch with Mr. Lahr and his friend from Wyoming Valley Trust on Friday. And Mr. Halloran wanted the meeting right away – he must have another potential buyer on the leash. You're perfectly capable of dealing with him."
"I don't know about that."
"Nonsense, of course you are." The house loomed before them. Viggo pushed the gate open and bounded up the steps, Sean in tow. "Come on. Supper awaits."
The air inside the house was explosively hot. Viggo stripped off his coat and hat and tossed them on a red tufted bench. "Good Lord, it's stifling in here, isn't it?"
"Viggo." Grace appeared at the top of the stairs.
"Gracie. Sorry we left earlier. I'll have to tell you about it. It was absolutely –"
"Never mind that." Grace hurried down the steps, a slip of yellow paper clutched in her hand. "We've received a telegram from Father. He wants us to come home."
Viggo froze. "Is someone ill? Or –"
"I don't think so." She held out the paper, and Viggo snatched it from her hand. "It was addressed to you, but Pearce said it was from Father, so I opened it. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," Viggo murmured. He scanned the terse message.
YOU AND GRACE MUST COME HOME AT ONCE STOP EIGHT O CLOCK TRAIN THURSDAY MORNING STOP TICKETS AT STATION STOP FATHER
Grace shook her head. "He would have said if someone were ill, don't you think?"
"I suppose. Tomorrow morning?" Viggo glanced at the clock. "That doesn't give us much time. What on earth? I wonder if Michael got a telegram as well."
"I haven't any idea. At any rate, I've packed. I had to send Charlotte home. She's rather upset with you, by the way."
"She's upset with me? What nerve –"
"She said you insulted Mr. Welles."
"He and his cronies are insufferable."
A blush of anger stained Grace's cheeks. "We were their guests."
"You're the one who said he looks like a trout."
"You didn't have to abandon –" She broke off and turned to Sean. "Sean, I'm sorry you have to listen to this squabbling. I realize it's not the height of dignity. I apologize."
"It's nowt," Sean said. He replaced his hat on his head. "I'll go and let you pack, Viggo. I hope all's well at home."
Viggo shot Grace an irritated glare. "Sean, I'm sorry. You're welcome to stay and eat something –"
"Nay, I'll find something in Mrs. Donnelly's kitchen, I reckon."
"I'll see you soon, Sean." Grace stepped forward and brushed a kiss across Sean's cheek. "I'm sure we'll both be back in no time. Thank you for being such a splendid croquet partner."
Sean shook her hand earnestly and smiled. "Aye, you weren't so bad yourself, miss."
Grace laughed and wiggled her fingers in farewell. She favored Viggo with a glare equal in ire to his, and ran lightly up the stairs.
"I hope nobody's sick," Sean said.
"I doubt it, but it is odd. Would you tell Mr. Lahr I was called away? Tell him urgent family business or some such." He sighed and walked with Sean to the door. "Maybe it's nothing. Save your notes on the Halloran purchase, and see if you can find out why he wants to sell so quickly. Lehigh's month-end reports should be delivered Monday – I don't know if I'll be back by then. Lord, I'm sure there's more –"
"Don't worry about owt here." Sean pressed Viggo's hand. "I'll keep an eye on things."
"I know you will," Viggo said warmly. "I trust you. Check in with Gavin when you can. I'm sorry I have to leave so precipitately. I'll telephone you when I find out what this is all about."
"Aye, do that." Sean rested his hand on the doorknob. "Safe travels."
Viggo looked over his shoulder, then kissed Sean on the mouth, a long, light kiss. He traced the outline of Sean's lips with a finger. "I'll miss you."
Sean was bright pink. "Don't be gone too long."
"I won't. That's a promise."
Viggo sighed as the door closed behind Sean. He frowned over the telegram and its abrupt message, then stuffed it in his pocket and trudged upstairs to pack.
*
"Do you suppose Father wanted us to take a cab home?" Grace peered anxiously round Broad Street Station as if she'd never seen its high Gothic windows and bustling crowds before. "He didn't say we'd be met."
"We could, I suppose." Viggo tugged his handkerchief from a pocket and mopped his brow. "Good Lord, isn't it stuffy? I'm about to roast. Surely Wilkes-Barre isn't as hot as this. Let's go out front and see if anyone's waiting." He beckoned to the surly, sweating porters behind him and strode toward the doors, fighting against a tide of humanity – porters struggling with their burdens of trunks and cases behind richly dressed ladies in summer linen and eyelet, knots of men exhaling plumes of cigar smoke and fanning themselves with their hats, urchins thrusting leaflets into empty hands, Spanish-American War veterans, begging in their battered uniforms and forage caps, bootblacks, newspaper boys, peddlers, and ne'er-do-wells. He tripped over the long, trailing black skirt of a woman in widow's weeds and apologized, earning a scathing glare for his trouble.
"Careful," Grace murmured, looping her arm through his.
"These crowds." As he waited for the porters to catch up to them, Viggo peered at the broad white face of a clock on an elaborately scrolled iron column. "It's one o'clock, for heaven's sake. Haven't they anything better to do in the middle of the day?" He scowled and shook his head at a boy who pushed a Tribune at him. "No, thank you."
"No better than we do, I gather." Grace smiled for the first time that day. She'd spent the entire train journey staring out the window, chewing on her lower lip, and shredding her organdy handkerchief into tissue-like ribbons, ignoring her tea and biscuits. She'd hardly spoken a word to Viggo since they'd boarded; now she winked at him in conspiratorial fashion.
"Hmm. You have a smudge on your nose." Viggo swiped at the soot with his handkerchief and tilted her straw hat to a less precarious angle. "Better. Come on, Gracie."
It was almost as hot outside as it was inside. The sun beat down on the dusty cobbles, the din of carriages, carts, pedestrians and automobiles was deafening, and the smells of animal ordure, human effluvia, locomotive smoke, and the faint rotting stink of the river melted into a rich, foul stew that made the eyes water. Viggo blew out a breath and chided himself. Had he become soft already, too accustomed to the gentler pace of northeastern Pennsylvania? He'd always thought of himself as adaptable to any climate and situation, but at the moment he wished he were sitting in his office, pegging away at letter after letter, while Sean sat nearby, scratching out invoices and ledger entries. His college chums would be horrified. He smiled. Perhaps he'd become stodgy at the venerable old age of twenty-two, but love, he decided, made the difference between ordinary contentment and sublime happiness.
"Mr. Mortensen!"
Viggo shaded his eyes and scanned the crowd. "I heard my name."
"I didn't."
A mail truck rumbled by, its wheels drowning out all other sound, and then the call came again. "Mr. Mortensen! Miss Grace!"
"Why, it's Molloy," Grace said, pointing. Across the street sat a handsome touring car, its doors, bonnet, and wheel spokes painted bright red. Beside it stood the Mortensen family's coachman, Molloy, in a smart black uniform and peaked cap, which he was waving frantically in an effort to get Viggo and Grace's attention. Sweat gleamed on his bald head.
"Father got a new automobile," Viggo remarked.
"It looks that way. At least we needn't take a hack. Hello, Molloy!" Grace called, waving her kerchief. "We'll be right over!" She turned to the porters and bestowed a sweet smile upon them. "Would you take the bags to that motorcar? Thank you so much."
What the porters did with sullen reluctance for Viggo, they did willingly for Grace. They heaved the bags to the touring car and stacked them on the floor of the back seat, then bowed and tugged on their caps. "Anything else, ma'am?"
Grace tipped them and smiled again. "No. Thank you very much indeed."
"How do you do that?" Viggo asked when the porters had departed.
"Do what?"
"They'd have crossed the Schuylkill on foot if you'd asked them."
Grace shrugged."I'm a girl."
"I should take you to the union meetings," Viggo said dryly, then nodded to Molloy and shook his hand. "How do you do, Molloy? It's a pleasure to see you again."
"Mr. Mortensen. Miss Grace." Molloy replaced his cap and handed Grace into the motorcar. Viggo followed. It was a tight fit among the luggage.
"You should," said Grace, settling her pale-blue skirts. "I'd have them eating out of my hand."
"Charlotte wouldn't approve," Viggo said.
Grace pinched his leg. "Oh, hush."
*
The huge, coldly ornate hallway was the same but for the addition of a life-sized portrait of Viggo's mother. Viggo stared at it dispassionately. Katherine was dressed in the height of fashion: pompadour, white satin Worth gown, pearl choker, diamond pendants in her ears. The painter had flattered her figure and softened her face, giving her the hourglass shape and benign, sleepy-eyed expression of a Gibson girl, but capturing none of her snapping vitality. Viggo decided he didn't like it at all.
"Haven't you seen this?" Grace was beside him, unpinning her hat. "Oh, no, you haven't, have you? It was delivered right after you left, I think. Do you like it?"
"Not particularly."
"Well, don't let her hear you say that. She adores it." Grace tossed her hat on an ebony console and craned her neck upwards, peering into the murky depths of the upper floors. "No one to meet us?"
"Mother! Father!" Viggo called. He turned to the butler who'd bowed them into the house, a short, slim man in black broadcloth. "Are my – are Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen at home?"
Before the butler could answer, a paneled door opened and Katherine emerged, stately in pale-grey lawn. "Viggo. Grace." She swept forward and embraced Viggo, kissing him on the cheek. "You're looking wonderful. Country life suits you."
Wilkes-Barre wasn't precisely the country, but Viggo didn't bother to correct her. "Hello, Mother." He hugged her tightly. "You're looking lovely as well."
She smiled and patted him on the cheek, but her eyes held his for a moment. She turned and took Grace in her arms. "Sweet girl. Are you all right?" Katherine held Grace off and examined her from head to toe.
"Of course, Mama. Why wouldn't I be? I've been having a wonderful time with Viggo." Grace flashed a smile at them both.
"You look lovely too, I must say. I'm glad to have you both back."
"Mother, that telegram," Viggo said. "You frightened the wits out of both of us. Is there something wrong?"
Katherine's expression hardened. She addressed the butler. "Edgar, have you seen to their things?"
"Molloy's driven them round back, Madam," the butler replied in a crisp English accent. "Bridie and Theresa will unpack."
"Fine." Katherine pivoted on her heel. "Have you two had luncheon?"
"We had a late breakfast on the train," Grace said.
"Very well. I'll have a tray sent up. Have some dinner clothes set out for them, and tell Theresa to run Miss Grace a bath and fetch a tray. Tea, cakes, sandwiches. That will be all, Edgar."
"Madam."
The butler glided away, and Viggo considered his mother's performance with raised eyebrows. In the months since he'd departed Philadelphia, she'd clearly developed a greater ease in her position, a glossy carapace of privilege. He wasn't sure he approved of the change, but Katherine had never sought her children's approval, which was probably as it should have been. Still, the lady-of-the-manor abruptness with which she addressed the butler was jarring. He folded his arms. "Mother, we've come all this way."
"I don't care to discuss family matters in front of the servants. Viggo, your father's in the library, waiting for you."
"And what about me?" Grace frowned.
"I'll explain everything to you later. Go up and have your bath."
Viggo watched Grace's fair brow turn red. She'd grown accustomed to her independence in Wilkes-Barre. He stepped close to her in solidarity. "Surely we can hear whatever this news is together. Why didn't you ask Michael to come home?"
"This doesn't concern him. Besides, he has his duties. Go on, Grace. I'll be up shortly."
Grace stood poised between Viggo and their mother, her cheeks mottled crimson. She seemed about to protest, and then nodded like any well-bred daughter of a wealthy family. "All right, Mama." She trudged up the stairs without a backward glance.
Viggo noted the marked slump in her shoulders with dismay. "Mother, I think she –"
"Not now, Viggo." Katherine grasped Viggo's sleeve and steered him toward the library, the only room in the house that held a semblance of warmth or friendliness. "Best behavior, now," she murmured.
Harald stood at the mantel, examining a delicate porcelain figurine of a shepherdess. When he saw his wife and son, he opened his arms and crushed Viggo to him in a fierce hug. "Son."
"Father." Viggo returned the embrace. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed his father's hearty, comforting presence.
"Grand to have you home again, lad." Harald released Viggo and gestured toward a gold brocade sofa where two somberly dressed men sat like wax statues. "Viggo, this is Mr. McClure and Mr. Hart of Leeds. They are, ah, with a corporation there in an investigatory capacity. Gentlemen, my son Viggo."
Investigators? Leeds? A cold arrow of foreboding lodged in Viggo's stomach, but he managed to nod politely to the two men, who rose to shake his hand. "Gentlemen, a pleasure."
"Mr. Mortensen." McClure, a fellow with a stiff handlebar mustache and the build of a prizefighter, drew a notebook from his pocket and settled back onto the couch, which creaked beneath his weight. "We should like to ask you some questions, if we may." His accent was like Sean's, oddly comforting. Sweat gleamed on his pink brow and on the fleshy folds of his neck above his stiff collar.
"Certainly." Viggo seated himself in a wing chair of striped brown satin and folded his hands.
"You have in your employ a young man by the name of Sean Bean."
Viggo's heart sank. "That's correct."
"And how long has he been with your company, sir?"
"A few months now. Since March."
"And he traveled from Philadelphia to join you in your Wilkes-Barre office as your secretary?"
"Yes."
McClure nodded ponderously. "And how would you describe Mr. Bean's performance in the months he's been in your employ?"
"He's proved himself to be quite capable. In fact, I've been thinking of naming him office manager and giving him an increase in salary."
"He's competent, then."
Viggo frowned. "I've said so."
"We just need to make certain of these things, Mr. Mortensen," McClure said in a placating tone. "Now – how would you describe Mr. Bean's affect?"
"His affect? In what respect?"
Hart, a compact man with glossy black hair and large black eyes, spoke for the first time. "Has his behavior seemed unusually agitated? Does he seem secretive, or furtive?"
"Indeed he does not. I've found him to be pleasant and candid. In fact – " Viggo cleared his throat. "In fact, we've become friends." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his mother sink into a chair, shaking her head. He stared directly at the two detectives. "Is Sean in some sort of trouble? Are you representing the police?"
"No, sir," McClure replied. "I see that I had better lay the matter before you bluntly. How to begin? We are employed by the Watkins family of Winsley. Mr. Bean was once employed in one of the several companies owned by Mr. Frederick Watkins. Some three months ago, the body of Mr. Watkins' son, Frederick Junior, was discovered in the moorlands outside Winsley." He glanced at Katherine. "I shall spare you the worst of the details, but he had been…quite brutally murdered."
Viggo's stomach lurched. "Freddy?"
The detectives glanced alertly at each other. "That's right," Hart said. "Did Mr. Bean refer to him as such?"
"Yes. That is – I think everyone called him Freddy." Viggo bit his lip and cursed himself.
McClure leaned forward. The sofa creaked. "Is Mr. Bean in the office at present, sir?"
"No. No, he's investigating some potential purchases for me in Hazleton. I still don't understand what this is all about." Though it did seem eminently clear, Viggo wanted to hear a straightforward response. Dread gnawed a hole in his belly.
"Again I shall be candid, Mr. Mortensen. The younger Mr. Watkins was notorious for…well, it was known in certain circles that he kept company with young men of – let us say questionable character." McClure stole a look at Katherine, who had her eyes closed, and her palm resting upon her forehead. "There was some evidence that – that he had fallen afoul of one of these men."
Viggo hoped that his expression was free of guilt and embarrassment. Questionable character – there was no mistaking what McClure meant by that. Interesting that Freddy's character wasn't questionable, only the young men with whom he consorted. And why had they come after Sean? Sean hadn't been employed personally by Freddy since he was eighteen.
For a moment Harry Slater's slyly insinuating words reverberated in Viggo's head. People always did wonder why he left Freddy’s employ so abruptly. Was a good job, you know. Easy work, fair wages, didn’t come home every night covered in mud. Must have had a right good reason to leave. Then he frowned. Sean was no murderer, and Harry Slater was a damned liar. "If you're suggesting that Sean had anything to do with Mr. Watkins' murder, I fear you're very much off the mark, gentlemen. I can personally vouch for Mr. Bean's integrity and decency."
"We'd like to have a word with him," Hart said.
"Are you planning to arrest him?"
"Just a word, Mr. Mortensen," McClure replied mildly. "You said he was in…." He consulted his notebook. "Hazleton?"
"Yes." Viggo realized he had no way to warn Sean of the detectives' impending visit. They hadn't discussed Sean's travel arrangements. Sean had planned to check into the most convenient hotel and telegraph Mr. Halloran's representatives upon arrival. Perhaps he could send a note via a special courier, or communicate with the mine office to send a messenger to Hazleton. If only the right people knew of the errand….
Abruptly, Viggo rose to his feet. "Have you thought about –" He bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. He'd been about to mention Harry Slater's name. Wasn't it conceivable, if unlikely, that Harry had had something to do with Freddy's murder? Those damnable letters he'd paid Sean to steal from Harry, a bit of blackmail gone bad, perhaps? But to implicate Harry would be to further implicate Sean.
Hart stared at him with raised eyebrows. "About, sir?"
"About some of Mr. Watkins' so-called questionable friends in England?" Viggo strolled toward the window to gain time. "As I understood it, Mr. Bean was Mr. Watkins' clerk for only a few years."
"Ah, but we have a witness statement from the Watkins' butler asserting that Mr. Bean visited Mr. Watkins shortly before his death." McClure smiled at Viggo. "So you see, there is a recent connection."
"I can't believe that Mr. Bean would do such a thing."
"That may be, Mr. Mortensen, but we are bound to pursue every avenue of this investigation. May I ask you a few more questions?"
"If you like." Viggo shrugged as if further inquiry was pointless. He answered their questions truthfully: What was Sean's demeanor at work like? Was he inclined to quarrel with his fellow workers? What did they think of him? Did he frequent ordinary taverns? With whom else had he been keeping company? Did Viggo feel that he was odd or peculiar in any way? Viggo suppressed a rueful smile at that last.
After a half hour or so of questioning, the detectives rose to their feet. McClure offered Viggo his hand. "I think that's all, Mr. Mortensen. I trust that we may rely upon your discretion until we speak to Mr. Bean personally."
"You mean don't warn him that you're coming," Viggo said.
"That's right," Hart replied.
Viggo sighed. "The truth is that I don't know exactly where he is, Mr. McClure. You'll simply have to take me at my word."
"Then we will. Good day, Mr. Mortensen. Sir, madam." McClure bowed to Viggo's parents. "We may wish to communicate with you again."
"We're going to England and Ireland in a few weeks," Katherine said. "But the household will be informed as to our whereabouts."
"Very good, madam. Thank you." Harald ushered the two detectives out, and Viggo and his mother were left alone.
"What on earth is the matter with you?"
Viggo turned from his contemplation of the absurdly luxuriant lawn. "What?"
"I asked you what the matter is. How could you be so obstinate toward those men? They're trying to find a murderer." Katherine stood and rustled toward Viggo. "You're protecting that young man."
Viggo folded his arms and glared at his mother. "I certainly am. He's my friend, and he's no murderer. Whose idea was it to order me and Grace to Philadelphia? Couldn't they have spoken to me in Wilkes-Barre? I'm trying to keep Father's business in some semblance of organization."
"It was for your own safety, young man," Katherine snapped.
"My safety? Were you afraid Sean would kill us in our beds?"
"Don't be impertinent! Suppose that man realized that he was being watched. What's to stop him from trying to harm you or your sister for revenge?"
"It's about as likely as either of us being held up by desperadoes or kidnapped by gypsies in the middle of Montgomery County. I won't countenance any insults toward Sean. He's my friend. And you're being a bit theatrical about all this, Mother."
"Mind your manners, Viggo," Harald said, coming back into the library and closing the door behind him. "Your mother's concerned for your well-being, and it's not at all good of you to mock her."
Viggo rubbed at his eyes. "I'm sorry, Father. Mother. I'm not trying to be impertinent. But this fear of yours is ridiculous. Sean is perfectly innocent of any wrongdoing. I'm sorry Freddy Watkins is dead, but Sean had nothing to do with it. In my opinion, those men should be back in England, looking for his murderer there."
"Grace wrote that she'd walked out with him a few times, alone, and with you and Charlotte Welles."
"Yes." Viggo sat on the sofa the detectives had vacated. "He's above reproach, I promise you that. You don't suppose I'd allow Gracie to walk out with someone I didn't trust?" Would a telegram work? But he would have to find out the name of every hotel in Hazleton. Perhaps contacting Gavin at the mine would be a better idea.
"We're not blaming you, lad. You hadn't any notion. You hired him in good faith."
"Harald, please. I think Viggo could have exercised more caution. Mr. Bean is hardly a suitable escort for Grace. She has enough trouble securing a beau as it is. Can you imagine the scandal if the young man's found guilty? If all this comes out in the open? I'd never be able to hold my head up in public again."
Viggo's bitten tongue throbbed and his head ached. "She wasn't particularly interested in him, Mother. I think his interests lay elsewhere as well." He rose to his feet. "I'm terribly hungry. I'm going to find something to eat."
"I'll have a tray sent up to your room," Katherine said, all brisk business. "Come along, Harald." She strode to the door, then turned back to gaze at Viggo. "Viggo, I only want you to be safe and happy."
"I know that, Mother. I know." He smiled wearily at Katherine.
"I'm glad you're home, my dear. It's been far too long since we've seen you. Go on up to your room and I'll have a bath drawn."
Harald took her arm. "I'll have a word with you after supper, my boy. It's good to see you."
"Thank you, Father. It's good to see you as well."
His parents closed the library door, leaving him alone.
Viggo hurried to the desk and rummaged in the drawers until he found paper and a pencil. He scratched out two hasty notes, folded them, and tucked them in a pocket.
On the way to his room he stopped on the stairs, realizing he couldn't remember where his room had been. He'd only occupied it for a matter of weeks before leaving for Wilkes-Barre. He let his gaze wander upward, to the high-flung ceiling adorned with nymphs, cherubs, ribbons, and scrollwork in melting pastels. It was certainly grand, it was lovely in its way, and it was clearly a place where his parents felt comfortable, but it wasn't home.
Home was elsewhere.
*
Dinner that evening was endless. Viggo had submitted to his mother's decree that he dress for dinner and readied himself with the help of one of the junior footmen appropriated for the purpose. He'd entered the dining room and been dazzled by the splendor of snowy table linens, delicate Sèvres porcelain, enormous bunches of peonies, hollyhock, and trailing vines, and silver and crystal that glittered beneath the light of the enormous chandelier. Candles burned in two large candelabra near each end of the table. The dining room was hot despite its twelve-foot ceiling and cool seafoam damask-covered walls. "Goodness, we must be having awfully grand guests this evening," he'd said, slipping into his chair.
"No. Just the family." Katherine had looked annoyed with his remark, and Viggo had said no more. And indeed it was only the Mortensen family who ate at the long table that evening: Viggo, Grace, Harald, Katherine, Patrick, Jonathan, and Molly. Adam was at his home on Rittenhouse Square, and Agnes was dining with her betrothed's sister and her husband, a DuPont – quite a coup, evidently. They sat through seven courses of increasing complexity – oysters, garnished consommé, filet of sole, pâté de foie gras, champagne sorbet, asparagus wrapped in linen and served on small silver plates, and poached duckling with applesauce. Each course had its own wine, served in deft silence by uniformed footmen. Viggo, marveling that this seemed to be ordinary fare and thinking wistfully of Mrs. McGuire's tasty if ordinary roasted chicken and potatoes, ate with muted appetite and noticed that Grace, in a beige satin dress as richly ornamented as a ballgown, did the same, but everyone else seemed perfectly content. The younger children were unusually quiet, as were his parents. Viggo was beginning to feel like a stranger in his own family.
"How were the fireworks this year?" he ventured, setting down his fork, exhausted by the effort of cramming down so much food.
"Cracking!" said Jonathan. His eyes sparkled with excitement, and he seemed relieved that Viggo had broken the icy quiet. "Papa let us shoot some off near the pond the night before, too." Patrick grinned and nodded assent.
Katherine frowned."Ridiculous and dangerous, and wholly unnecessary." She picked up a small crystal bell and rang it vigorously.
"Was it crowded?"
"Was it! We could hardly move," Patrick said. "Wish you'd been here, though, Viggo. You too, Gracie."
"We had a rather splendid celebration in Wilkes-Barre," Grace replied. "Not as large as Philadelphia's, of course, but there was a concert band and a fair earlier in the day, and Viggo and I were invited to a lovely picnic." She crinkled her nose at Viggo, forgiving him for that day's transgressions.
Viggo patted his mouth with his napkin. "Oh, yes, it was delightful." Particularly the quarrel with his host and the rest of the Wyoming Valley plutocrats, he added to himself.
"I'm glad you have a few respectable friends," Katherine said. "Molly, stop slouching. I'm eager to meet Mr. and Mrs. Welles. They seem like lovely people."
Grace lifted one shoulder in a shrug reminiscent of Charlotte's habitual indifference. "They're kind to me. They've been very generous in allowing me to stay at their lake house so often. But if you're talking about Sean, Mother, you couldn't be more wrong. He's a lovely person and a great friend to Viggo. And Michael's fond of him too."
Patrick winked at Viggo. "You have inappropriate friends?"
"Quiet, Patrick," Katherine ordered. "We'll discuss Viggo's choice of friends another time. And that reminds me, Viggo – I've invited some of your real friends to a small gathering in honor of your return. Saturday next, seven o'clock."
"Next Saturday? Mother, I need to be back in Wilkes-Barre. I can't afford to be absent for so long."
"I'm pleased you've taken such an interest in the business, lad," Harald murmured. His face was crimson above his winged collar.
"Harald," Katherine said in a warning tone, then fell silent as two footmen entered the dining room, one with a layered crème gateau decorated with crystallized flowers and curls of chocolate, another with a wheeled cart holding an elaborate coffee service.
"I have, Father. And I'm sure you understand that things are delicate right now. I must make myself available as often as I can." Viggo broke off as Katherine coughed noisily into a handkerchief. Jonathan and Molly stared down at their plates and Grace looked impatient, but Patrick caught Viggo's eye and cocked his head toward the footman. Viggo comprehended that he was committing a breach of etiquette and sipped at the last of his wine, hiding a sigh. This rigid formality was choking him. He waited until the footmen had served them and departed. "I'd like to speak to you about it before I go, Father. I'm hoping you'll have some suggestions for me. Mother, I'm sorry – you'll have to call off the party, or hold it without me. I know it's inconvenient. I wish I could stay, but I can't."
"Harald," Katherine said sharply.
Harald set down his fork with a sigh. "I've been speaking with my lawyers, Viggo. It seems there have been rumors of unrest, and, well, those rumors seem to be spreading."
"That is precisely why I need to return as soon as possible, Father. I intend to find a UMW representative here in the city and consult with him. Escalating antagonism can only lead to problems. I'm going to nip this in the bud."
"I can't afford to have union problems, son. They're too powerful now. A well-organized outfit can bring a company down if it's got a mind to. But my lawyers have given me a solution that I think will work for everyone."
"That's wonderful! What is it?"
Harald dropped his eyes for a second, then held Viggo's gaze. "We're going to close the Wilkes-Barre mine for three weeks. Possibly four."
"I don't understand."
"You've been managing things well, Viggo, even with some of your odd expenditures. A funeral for some accident victims? Companies don't pay for that sort of thing."
"It was necessary," Viggo said. "But if you think I've been profligate in that regard, I'll be happy to pay for it out of my own pocket."
"I suppose there's no harm done, but the accountants brought it to my attention. Can't make a habit of that, lad. At any rate, back to business. We have a sizeable stockpile that we can use without harming our profits."
"But why reduce it if it's not necessary?"
"We'll announce a closure for safety improvements. You've already added a few, so it won't come as a surprise."
"We didn't need to close the mine for them, Father. Forgive me for seeming a bit thick – what sort of safety procedures will you be undertaking?"
Harald's cheeks had become very red. "You're not seeing things clearly, son. In midsummer, usage is down anyway. There's a slump. And in a few weeks, the miners will realize that they need steady employment."
"Perhaps we can send them to some of the other collieries," Viggo suggested.
"No," Harald said, and took a sip of port. "I don't think that's a good idea, son. They can certainly seek outside work if they wish, though."
"But without work for that long, they'll –" Viggo broke off, finally understanding. Blood pounded in his ears. "You intend to starve them into submission."
"Nonsense," Katherine said. "He's not preventing them from working somewhere else."
Viggo stared at his mother, then turned back to Harald. "I can't believe I'm hearing this. Father, how can you? They have homes to pay for, children to feed – "
"It's only for a few weeks. They'll be glad for their jobs, and less likely to stir up trouble."
"They'll call a strike!"
"Not if there's a legitimate reason for closure."
"And exactly how do you plan to legitimize it? Are you buying off the federal safety commission?" Viggo rose to his feet. Grace smiled at him and Patrick frowned; the other children stared, uncomprehending.
"Sit down!" Harald snapped, thumping his fist on the table. "Confound it, Viggo, I don't need wretched idealism and stars in your eyes. I need practicality, and I need your visible support. You've done a good job so far; don't make a hash of things now."
Viggo sat and tried to compose himself. "You want to put those men out of work for a month," he said quietly. "Have you any idea what the loss of a month's wages will do to those men, or have you lived long enough in this mausoleum to utterly wall yourself off from the problems of the poor?"
"You mind your tongue, young man." Katherine's face was white with anger. "Your father worked like a demon to provide for us."
"We never lacked for comfort," Viggo shot back.
"You never lacked for comfort," Katherine said. "You had everything we could give you, but we had our share of lean years before you came along. The world was not created at your birth, Viggo Peter Mortensen."
"If that's true, then how can you so easily forget what it's like to be hungry, or to worry about whether your children will have proper clothing for winter? You had family who survived the Famine, for Christ's sake, Mother. How can you deliberately condone depriving a man of a living wage?"
Harald passed a hand over his eyes. "For the love of God, Viggo. Don't." He shook his head. "All right. I'll speak to the damned lawyers again. Perhaps we can come up with another solution."
"Please, Father." Viggo traversed the absurd length of the dining table and knelt beside his father's chair. "You're not a cruel man – I know it, and Mother knows it too. Give me a chance to manage this problem without resorting to double dealing on either side. We'll come up with a solution together. I'll stay as long as you need me."
"Very well. I'm putting my trust in you, lad."
Viggo nodded. He rose and looked down the table at his mother, who was watching them silently, her face inscrutable except for a slight paleness beneath her rouge. "I'm sorry if I spoke out of turn, Mother. I'll be happy to attend the party."
"I'd prefer we avoid this sort of altercation at table," she said. "You're excused, children."
Grace got to her feet. "Take a turn in the garden with me, Viggo."
It was a beautiful night, not sweltering, with a faint breeze carrying the fragrance of some unfamiliar flower and thousands of stars in the night sky. Viggo and Grace strolled on the footpath arm in arm, then sat on a stone bench beside an ornamental pond.
"That was quite something," Grace said at last.
"I know, I know." Viggo blew out a breath. "I'm supposed to be the dutiful son, and I'm not."
"No. But I'm proud of you." She squeezed her brother's arm. "You are grown up, after all."
Viggo peered down at her in surprise. It was difficult to gauge her expression, but he thought she looked pleased. "Thank you, dear."
Grace leaned her head against his arm. "Everyone seems different. Don't they?"
"Maybe we're the ones who are different."
"Maybe." Grace was quiet for a moment. "I wish we were back in Wilkes-Barre."
Viggo put his arm round Grace's shoulder and planted a tender kiss on her cheek. He hoped his note to Sean would arrive in time. "So do I, Gracie. So do I."
*
TBC.....
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I'm glad you like Grace! You know, I had totally blanked on that being his mother's name, but I must have known subconsciously. Sheesh.
I'm delighted you think it's vivid! Thank you so much. :D