FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 11]

[splix]

Title: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice: kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.





*

"Park 2774, Mortensen."

"Please wait."

Sean rested his head in his hand, listening to the fuzzy hum on the line. His balls still throbbed, and there was an ache in his hip where he'd fallen hard. When he touched his hand to the pain, his fingers encountered a sticky wetness, blood from a piece of slate or a nail or scrap of metal. Gavin had urged him to see a doctor, but he'd waved away the suggestion. He might see one after all, he decided. All he needed now was a good sturdy case of lockjaw to round things out.

The prospect of telling Viggo everything that had happened wasn't a pleasant one. He hated to bother Viggo at home, and realized that nowhere in Viggo's hasty letter had he mentioned the reason he'd been called back to Philadelphia in the first place. Perhaps it wasn't as serious as the telegram had made it out to be. But if that were so, then why was he still there?

He laughed a little despite his aches and pains. He'd become a suspicious bugger in the past few days. Viggo had said he was due for a visit home, hadn't he? His parents were headed across the pond, and naturally they wanted to see him and Miss Grace for a while before they left.

A low, feminine voice came on the line. "Hello? Who is it?"

Sean started. "Miss Grace?"

"No. This is Mrs. Harald Mortensen. With whom am I speaking?"

"This is Sean Bean, Mrs. Mortensen. I work for your son, Viggo." There was a long silence. Sean thought he'd lost the connection. "Hello?"

"I know who you are."

"May I speak with Viggo, ma'am? The younger Mr. Mortensen, that is."

"Why are you calling?"

Sean hesitated at the hostility brimming in Mrs. Mortensen's voice. "There's been a – an incident at the colliery, ma'am. We had to sack the outside foreman, and I thought Viggo should know about it." There was another long pause. "Could I speak with him?"

"My son isn't at home," Mrs. Mortensen said. "I will convey your message. And I ask that you oblige me by not telephoning here in future."

Bewilderment edged Sean's voice. "But it's about the business, ma'am. Couldn't I just –" The connection crackled, and Sean heard the voice of the operator.

"The recipient has rung off. Do you wish to re-connect the call?"

"Nay," Sean said through numb lips. "Thanks all the same." Gently, he replaced the telephone in the receiver and stared at it. "Bloody hell," he whispered. "What was that?"

The detectives. Of course that was it. The Mortensens didn't want their son associating with a molly, and a possible murderer. They were rich, and society, and law-abiding citizens, and they wanted to protect their child. Sean didn't blame them. At least Viggo still believed him, still trusted him. The letter proved that.

But for how long?

He stared out the open window. The day was beginning to get hot; Franklin Street was deathly quiet, not so much as a leaf stirring in the muggy stillness. Unbelievable that it wasn't even ten o'clock, that all the ruckus and commotion had occurred in the early morning.

Enough. The world wasn't going to stop turning because that bloody Harry Slater had got himself sacked. There was work to be done, and a good amount of it, too, piling up while both Viggo and Sean had been gone. He'd promised to talk to the detectives from Leeds, too; they'd be by at one o'clock. He suspected they wouldn't be happy about Harry's departure. It wouldn't look any better for Sean, that was certain, but he'd stand his ground until they dragged him off. He sighed and picked up a silver letter opener to attack the pile of unread mail.

His eyes kept wandering to the telephone, but it never rang.

*

Several endless, dreary days passed. Viggo had been gone more than a week, and Sean felt at loose ends but kept himself as busy as he could. He finished the invoicing and monthly accounting, both receivable and payable. He spoke to an attorney about a lawsuit the Mortensen Coal Company was filing against the Delaware & Hudson railroad for dumping culm into the river and flooding some Mortensen property. He inspected the installation of a telephone in Gavin's office at the colliery. He took care of some neglected tasks – a loose screw on one of the lions' heads knockers on the office door, engaging a cleaning company to take care of the wallpaper and upholstery, settling Viggo's clothing bills with Lazarus Brothers and Jonas Long & Sons' haberdasheries.

He met with the detectives from Leeds, who seemed more sympathetic but no less stern. He wasn't out of the clear, not by a long chalk. The letter he'd given them hadn't been enough to condemn Harry, as there were no particular details to identify him besides his first name; it had been an overwrought love letter, not a list of statistics. Still, inquiries had been made, dispatches sent, and Harry's activities in Winsley would presently bear investigation. The detectives seemed happy that Sean hadn't tried to do a bolt, but wouldn't encourage him with any hopeful news.

No further mischief had occurred at the colliery since Harry's dismissal and by all accounts, Harry was seeking employment at Vulcan Iron Works. Sean knew that should have pleased him, but it seemed that the lack of discord was itself an omen of trouble. Did it mean that Harry had been the author of the disturbances in the first place? He wondered. He wondered, too, about Harry's final words to him, that Sean would regret sacking him. He'd admit it to no one, but the threat sent a chill down his spine. If Harry had been vicious enough to murder Freddy, and so violently and brutally it made Sean's stomach heave to think about it, then he was capable of murdering Sean, wasn't he? Sean was grateful for the long summer days; an attack was less likely in daylight. But Harry was canny, and cautious. It had been mere chance that Freddy's body had been discovered, the detectives said. A boy had rescued one of his sheep from a bog, and had accidentally dragged Freddy onto dry land along with the sheep. Otherwise they'd never have found him. And it was odd, the detectives said, that his poor broken body had been discarded so close to Sean's house.

"If I'd done it," Sean had said, exasperated, "I'd have taken the body further away. Anyone who weren't rock-stupid would do that."

"Perhaps," said McClure. "But there are so many ponds and lakes and bogs nearby, Sean. Who'd think of dragging every single one?"

They weren't convinced, not yet. Sean would have to find some way to prove his innocence, or Harry's guilt.

In between bouts of frantic activity, Sean slid into periods of lethargic depression. He stared at the telephone on Viggo's desk, silently willing it to ring, pouncing on it when it did, only to discover it was the city attorney or one of Viggo's fancy Wilkes-Barre society acquaintances looking for him. Why wasn't Viggo calling? He'd bet Mrs. Mortensen hadn't breathed a word to her son. He wanted to telephone again, but she'd intimidated him, and he knew Viggo was dutiful to his parents. It wasn't fair, putting Viggo in a tight spot, expecting him to be disloyal to them. But couldn't he find a moment, even one, to telephone?

On the fourth day, Sean puttered around the office, listlessly searching for something to occupy his time. He cleaned his desk, inside and out, then started on Viggo's. Every inch of Viggo's desk was covered: books, papers, a lamp, photographs of his parents, brothers, and sisters, an onyx box, a silver and marble inkwell and pen, pen-wipers, four days' worth of post, a perfectly smooth, round rock from the shore of the lake where they'd had their impromptu picnic. Touching those things had reassured Sean, making him feel that Viggo was close by, in the kitchen fetching tea, or dressing a few blocks away in his grand rented house, not sitting in a palace in Philadelphia with a family who despised Sean and who was maybe, possibly, convincing Viggo to do the same.

He neatened a stack of letters, tapping the edges to even them. One in the very back remained stubbornly misaligned. Sean pulled it from beneath the pile. It was the note Viggo had written to him about Freddy and the detectives; pity he'd received it too late to prepare himself for their visit. He scanned it, then sat up straight. "Jesus Christ," he muttered. "You stupid arse!"

He reached for the telephone and rang for the operator. His breathing quickened as static and a nasal voice answered. "Number, please."

"Park 2774, Mortensen."

"Wait, please."

Sean wiped sweat from his face. Somewhere upstairs in a closet, Viggo had said, there was an electric fan. He'd have to bring it downstairs. The mercury had stood at ninety degrees at noon, and the office felt as hot as a tinderbox ready to explode.

"Mortensen residence." It was a male voice, English, posh-sounding.

Sean moved away from the mouthpiece and let out a shuddering sigh. Was that Mr. Mortensen? No; he was from Ireland. Wouldn't sound like that, unless he was putting on airs. Nothing for it but to reply, Sean decided. He inhaled sharply and replied, scrubbing as much Yorkshire out of his voice as he could. "Peter Smith calling. May I speak with Viggo Mortensen?"

"One moment, please." There was a clunk, and Sean was left with the sound of static and distant clicking. He rested the earpiece against his shoulder, picked up a blank sheet of paper, and began tearing it into long, even strips.

"Viggo Mortensen speaking." The voice was cautious, wary.

Relief and naked adoration flowered in Sean's chest. "Viggo!"

"Peter! Just a moment, please." There was another click, more static, and then Viggo's voice came over the wire again, hushed, careful, but not, thank God, angry. "Sean! For God's sake, why haven't you telephoned before now? I've been frantic!"

"I'm sorry. I did telephone a few days ago. I spoke to your mam." No point in concealing the truth, Sean decided. "She said she'd tell you. I were sitting here, waiting for you."

"Good Lord. She didn't tell me. Naturally." Bitterness edged Viggo's voice. "I'm sorry, Sean, I can't tell you how sorry I am. I'm so glad to hear your voice again. I do miss you dreadfully."

Sean grinned. A pleasant heat prickled in his cheeks. "Aye, I miss you too."

"Look here, I can't talk long. We're in the middle of luncheon, and they'll get suspicious."

"Sorry –"

"No, don't apologize." Static crackled on the line. "Listen, Sean. Those detectives were here, and they were insinuating…well, I'm certain you can guess."

"I know," Sean replied grimly. "They're still here. I had supper with the two of them yesterday. Bloody nuisance."

"Supper!"

"Aye. Told them I thought it were Harry who done it. I gave them that letter. Viggo – I've got to tell you the whole story. There's more to it than you think."

"You think Harry Slater killed him? Good God, Sean –"

"Aye." Their voices collided on the wire, and Sean waited for the reverberation to cease. "I can't tell you on the telephone. When are you coming back?"

"That's just it. I can't leave right away. Things are complicated at the moment. I'll write you about it, now I know you're there and all's well. I was afraid you'd been carted off to prison."

"I didn't kill him, Viggo."

"I know that, you great fool," Viggo said warmly.

Sean's eyes filled with tears. He swallowed. "Thanks." He swallowed again, past the lump in his throat. "All's not well, though. I had to sack Harry. And Gavin and I, we think he's behind some trouble that's been happening at the colliery."

"What sort of trouble?"

Sean told him briefly. "I'm not trying to frighten you, or owt. But I wish you'd come back. Did you find the UMW fellow?"

"No. Father tells me his lawyers are taking care of things and I'm not to interfere." Viggo sighed; it came out as a crackle. "It makes me feel quite incompetent, and I'm afraid that the lawyers might undo any good I've been able to do there thus far. I dislike not being there, not knowing what's happening. It gives him an excuse – well, never mind, I suppose. Write to me, Sean. Tell me what's happening, and I'll do the same."

"Aye, I will." Sean hesitated. "Viggo."

"Yes?"

The words I love you sprang to his lips with startling ease, but he bit them back. The only time they'd spoken those words to each other they'd been in the most intimate embrace, and it seemed strange to say them in an empty room, without seeing Viggo's face. It seemed strange to say them at all, in fact; not even his parents had professed their love for each other that he had ever heard. "Take care, will you?"

"I will," Viggo replied. "And you be careful as well. I have to ring off now. Write to me."

"All right. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Sean set the earpiece in the receiver with a gentle click and smiled for the first time in days.

*

Though they didn't wear uniforms, Thomas McClure and Angus Hart dressed with the precise, unvarying regularity of policemen, and their manner remained the same no matter what the circumstance: courteous, professional, and suspicious. Sean leaned back in his chair, regarding them with narrow displeasure. "Why don't you take off your coats, lads? Bleeding hot today."

"Thank you, Sean, but we're quite comfortable," McClure replied. "Last night's rain brought a pleasant respite from the heat, wouldn't you say, Angus?"

"I would." Angus Hart was as rigidly postured as a plank and as expressionless as same.

"Suit yourselves," Sean shrugged. "So tell me, how long can I expect to have the pleasure of your company? I can't reckon you're doing much in the way of digging up clues laiking about Wilkes-Barre."

"We're hardly laiking about, Sean," McClure reproved him gently. He rose to his feet and strolled to the mantel. "We are, in fact, conducting multiple inquiries, both here and in England." He reached in his pocket and pulled out a silver cigarette case. "Cigarette? No?" Finding a match, he lit up, puffed, and deposited the match behind the fire screen. "You must realize how your hasty and secretive departure from England throws a rather unflattering light upon you."

"Aye, I know that," Sean said. "I'm not stupid."

"I realize that. You're simply our most…." McClure drew on his cigarette and groped for a word. "Our most useful source of information at this time."

"Oh, aye." Sean shook his head in disgust. "And Harry? What about him?"

"Obviously he's one of the avenues we're pursuing, Mr. Bean," Hart said.

"Not obvious to me," Sean said. "He could run off at any time. Why aren't you dogging his steps, eh?"

McClure returned to his chair and sat. It was a generous wing chair upholstered in striped satin, but his bulk dwarfed it, rendering it slightly absurd. "We're making all the usual inquiries. It's not as if we can simply place a telephone call to Scotland Yard. You did us no favors when you scuffled with him, you know. Come to it, you didn't do yourself any favors, either."

Sean groaned. "If you'd seen him, you'd have arrested him on the spot. He laughed at me. Guilty as bleeding sin and he laughed at me."

"If you'd been patient and let us do our work, we could have confronted him together. Now…." McClure sighed. "I do find it intriguing that he hasn't left town. If he's guilty, that is."

"He's not left because he thinks he's in the clear. He thinks you've not got anything to pin on him." Now Sean looked from one detective to another. "Have you?" He tried to keep the pleading note from his voice and didn't quite succeed.

Hart remained expressionless, but McClure seemed to thaw a bit. "I promise you, lad, we're making inquiries. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to discuss the evening Mr. Watkins offered you a sum to kill Mr. Slater." McClure nodded at Hart, who fished his notebook from a pocket and sat with pencil poised.

Sean rubbed his eyes. "Nay, I don't mind. Why should I? It's only the fourth or fifth bloody time I've told you about it." The telephone shrilled, and he picked it up. "Hello?" He frowned. "Aye. Is that Gavin? Slow down, man. What's –" He listened in silence. The detectives watched him openly. "Have you telephoned Mr. Mortensen? Right. Right. Straight away, then. As soon as I can. Goodbye, then." He replaced the set and stared at the two detectives. "Explosion down in one of the chambers," he said softly. "Five dead, men and boys. Seven more missing. They're still looking. The roof came down in the chamber, the tunnel. Gavin thinks it was deliberate."

"I'm terribly sorry," McClure said. Hart made an inarticulate grunt.

Sean slammed his hand on the desk. "Are you happy now? Doesn't take a bleeding blind man to see who's behind this, does it?"

"Sean, if you're suggesting that Harry Slater has –"

"I'm not suggesting it, I'm saying it outright," Sean snarled. "If it were just me, it wouldn't matter, don't you see? But Harry Slater doesn't care who he kills when his frigging pride is wounded. Next time it'll be ten dead, or twenty. And then he'll come after me if he's not satisfied, and you'll still be sending your bloody inquiries to Scotland Yard. Freddy, he –" Sean broke off as furious tears clouded his vision. He stared down at the desk, letting a tide of guilt submerge him. Your fault. All this is your fault. "Freddy got in Harry's way." He placed his hands on the smooth mahogany of the desk and pushed himself up like an old man. "I've got to go out there."

The detectives remained in their seats, watching him. Slowly, Hart slid his little notebook back into his pocket. "We'll go with you," he said. "We can hire a hack. It's faster than the streetcar."

Too heartsick to reply, Sean merely nodded and trudged toward the door.

*

"Well, that's it, then. We're in the soup." Gavin pursed his lips, took off his glasses, set them carefully on the polished surface of Viggo's desk, and wearily scrubbed at his eyes.

"Aye, what else? What did you expect?" Sean clamped his lips shut. He hadn't meant to sound so cynical, but he was too disgusted to conceal the truth of his feelings. "Sorry, Gavin. I suppose I'm sorry. Not all of those lads are bad sorts, but that's not keeping the lot of them from calling a strike."

"Easily led, they are," Gavin sighed, then peered at Sean. "You really think it was Harry?"

"Who else? You heard what he said to me. If I see him skulking about here –"

"You'll do nothing," Gavin said sharply. "Look, lad. I understand how you feel. I know those fellows from Sheffield –"

"Leeds."

"Leeds, then. I know they're haunting your steps. And I believe you, for what little that's worth. But you can't do anything rash. Harry wasn't caught red-handed – nobody was. Mr. Mortensen said he was planning to take decisive action. I'm not sure what that means, but you're not to spoil anything by going off and thrashing him. Understand?"

Chastened, Sean scowled at Gavin. "Did you speak to Viggo?"

Was it a speculative gaze that Gavin leveled at him? "No. Only Mr. Harald."

"Well, one or the other should be here, wouldn't you say?" Sean struggled to keep from blushing. "If there's going to be a strike, surely one of them should make an appearance."

Gavin shook his head. "You don't know owners, lad. They don't come themselves. They send agents. Or the Coal and Iron Police. Or Pinkertons. They don't mix and mingle with the common laborers."

I do know owners. I knew Freddy, Sean thought. Gavin was right about fellows like Freddy and his dad – neither of them would have bothered to come to the pits, to make an attempt to negotiate or placate the workers. Mr. Watkins, Senior, was too indifferent, and Freddy too disdainful. But Viggo wasn't like that.

"I know what you're thinking." Gavin's voice interrupted Sean's thoughts. "Mr. Viggo isn't as cold-hearted as a good many of the owners hereabouts. Good God, he'd probably give the men what they demanded and no questions asked." He held up a placating hand, forestalling Sean's disgruntled retort. "He's a kind young fellow, is Mr. Viggo. A good-hearted man, none better. But he's a bit of a bleeding heart. You can't deny that. And in any case, it's his dad as owns the colliery, not Mr. Viggo."

Indignant, Sean glared at Gavin and then sighed in defeat. Viggo was soft-hearted, maybe too much so for the mining business. Was it disloyal of him to admit that? Viggo's gallant and generous heart was the very reason Sean loved and admired him with such ferocity. There was a hard streak in himself, Sean knew, that often kept him apart from people. Folk liked him well enough after a while, but aside from his parents, no one but Viggo had got past his outermost shell. Without Viggo's tender insistence, Sean might have gone the rest of his life with that shell intact, too proud and stiff-necked to admit his loneliness.

"Maybe you're right," Sean acknowledged. "And maybe the lads didn't trust Viggo's good nature because they've been beaten down most of their lives and wouldn't know a decent man if they saw one. They think that they have to be cruel and sneaky like Harry to get owt."

"Sean, Sean," Gavin sighed.

The bell shrilled, and the front door opened. Sean rose to his feet, his pulse quickening. Viggo often strode in without ceremony. His hopes were dashed when he saw a man in a sober, dark suit and carrying a large valise enter the office and plant himself firmly inside the threshold.

Gavin replaced his spectacles. "Good morning, sir. Anything we can do to help you?"

The man sniffed and removed his hat, revealing a bald head with a closely cut tonsure. "Who are you, please?"

"I'm Gavin Rowe. I'm the mine boss at the Lynwood colliery."

The man nodded shortly, then turned inscrutable dark eyes on Sean. "And you?"

"Sean Bean. Mr. Viggo Mortensen's secretary."

"Very good. Attend, please." Without asking permission, the man folded his tall, gaunt frame into a chair next to Gavin, placing his hat neatly on the desk. He set the valise upon bony knees and undid the clasp, withdrawing a thick sheaf of papers. With an ease that exceeded nonchalance, he put the valise on the floor, fished a pair of glasses from the inside pocket of his coat and settled them on his nose, then examined the papers in his hand. Finally, he looked up at Sean. "Mr. Bean, my name is Nathaniel King, and I've come as a representative of Mr. Harald Mortensen. I have been authorized by him to secure management of this office, and of the Lynwood colliery." He glanced over at Gavin. "I'm pleased that you're here, Mr. Rowe. It saves me a great deal of time and trouble. The miners' strike has not yet been officially called, has it?"

"No," Gavin said. "They'll call it tomorrow, though, sure as eggs is eggs."

"Very good. Effective today at seven o'clock in the evening, for a period of no less than four weeks, the Lynwood colliery will be closed down. Key employees will remain. You –"

"Wait just a bleeding minute!" Sean said. "What do you mean, secure management? What does that mean? Viggo Mortensen manages this office and the colliery."

"The younger Mr. Mortensen is indisposed."

"What!"

"Let's hear him out, lad," Gavin murmured, his face grey and unhappy. "Could you explain, Mr. King? Is it because of the strike? Is that why Mr. Mortensen's chosen to close up?"

"Viggo Mortensen's obligations in Philadelphia prevent him from returning at this time." King's voice was dry and matter-of-fact, as if he were reciting a grocery list. "Mr. Bean, I'm afraid it's my unpleasant duty to inform you that your employment with Mortensen Coal has been terminated."

Sean sat abruptly, stunned into silence.

"Here, now," Gavin said. He stole a look at Sean. "That can't be right. Mr. Bean has been a loyal and valuable worker. Maybe there's been a –"

"Mr. Rowe," King sighed, "If you'll forgive me, I'm merely delivering the message, and it is a certain and unmistakable one. Mr. Bean, your contribution to Mortensen Coal has not gone unnoticed." He reached into his valise and produced a folded piece of paper. "This is a check for two months' salary. Mr. Mortensen's bank here in Wilkes-Barre is First National; you may draw upon it there." He held the check out, waited a moment for Sean to take it, then set it upon the desk.

"I know where his bank is," Sean said through numb lips.

"Very well. I shall be taking up residence here in the office, as I understand there are living quarters, but I will stay at the Wyoming Valley Hotel for the next week. Today is Monday; I expect you to have your personal effects removed from the office by Friday at the very latest. Anything remaining will be boxed and delivered to your home."

Blinding shame and anger pushed a short, sharp, mirthless laugh from Sean's throat. "Got it all sorted, haven't you?"

Nathaniel King regarded Sean in silence for a moment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Bean."

"I want to telephone Mr. Mortensen. Viggo."

King shook his head. "Mr. Bean, I really don't see –"

"I want to talk to him!" Sean insisted thickly.

"As you wish," King replied with a shrug. "I assure you it won't do any good. This decision comes from Mr. Harald Mortensen. It is his company, after all."

Sean shot the man a scathing glare. "In private."

King lifted greying eyebrows and rose to his feet. "Perhaps we could adjourn to another room, Mr. Rowe. We have a great deal to discuss."

"Right." Gavin's eyes were full of sympathy and bewilderment. "The parlor, then. Sean, we'll –" He broke off, flushing. "We'll just be in there, lad. I'm sure it's some sort of mistake." He patted Sean awkwardly on the hand, then shuffled out of the office behind the sure, rapid steps of Nathaniel King.

Sean scarcely registered Gavin's kindness. He took down the telephone earpiece and rang for the exchange. "Park 2774, Mortensen."

"Please wait." The operator's voice was as colorless as King's had been.

Sean squeezed his eyes shut and waited. Sacked. The humiliation of it burned like hot metal against tender skin. Why, for Christ's sake? He'd done nothing wrong. He'd been scrupulously honest; he'd balanced the books to the penny and had even begun to ferret out someone's underhanded scheme of cream-skimming. Didn't that make him a key employee? Was he so easily dismissed?

Maybe he was. Maybe his head had swelled, like Harry had said.

He hadn't been the one to sack Harry, though he'd have been happy enough to claim the credit. Gavin had been the one to tell him to leave, and Gavin was clearly staying. It wasn't money trouble – Mortensen Coal was making brass hand over fist. Closing the mine for a few weeks, underhanded as it was, would be no hardship to the company. They had stores to last months. Sean would lay odds that closing hadn't been Viggo's idea; somehow, Viggo was being railroaded, cut out of the business. Viggo would have never approved of sacking Sean. Never. He tamped the small ember of doubt lodged inside and straightened as static crackled on the telephone.

"Mortensen residence." It was the same fellow who answered the telephone the last time – a butler, or footman.

"Viggo Mortensen, please." Sean didn't trouble to disguise his voice.

"May I ask who's speaking?"

"Peter Smith."

The voice on the other end hesitated perceptibly. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "Mr. Mortensen isn't at home."

"Do you know when he'll be back?"

"I really couldn't say, sir."

Sean clenched his teeth. "Could you pass along a message?"

There was another hesitation. "Yes, sir."

"Tell him…tell him…." Sean groped for something to say. Suddenly, a gentle wave of certainty enveloped him, and he felt calmer. "Tell him to meet me at Broad Street Station Saturday evening. I'm taking the three o'clock train."

"Very well, sir."

Sean held the earpiece away as a burst of static erupted over the wire. "You'll tell him?"

"Yes, sir." The voice sounded resigned. "I shall tell him."

"Thanks." Sean broke the connection and stared at the instrument. He stood and picked up the check, then strode into the parlor. Gavin and King sat hunched on the flowered sofa, papers spread out on the low table before them. "I'm off," he announced.

Gavin frowned. "You all right, lad?"

"I'm going to Philadelphia on Saturday," Sean said with studied composure. "I'm going to speak with Mr. Mortensen."

Nathaniel King stood. "Mr. Bean, if I may say so, that's an ill-advised decision. I presume you did not speak with Mr. Mortensen just now."

"No."

"May I be blunt? Your presence in Philadelphia would be most unwelcome at this time."

"And why's that?" Sean inquired coldly.

King's mouth turned downward. "Let us say that there have been reports of your character that are, ah, questionable." He shook his head in reproof. "You would only embarrass yourself by intruding upon the Mortensen family, Mr. Bean."

Sean's face burned. Questionable. He knew what that meant. He pressed his shaking hands together and looked at Gavin, who stared miserably down at the papers on the table. "Right." His voice was surprisingly steady. "Thanks for the advice."

"Please take it, Mr. Bean. Take the check and what dignity remains to you."

"I'll not take a penny I didn't earn," Sean said. He wanted to tell King where he could shove his check but bit the inside of his cheek until it ached. "So long, Gavin."

"I'm sorry, lad," Gavin mumbled.

"Aye. Me too." Sean pivoted on his heel and marched into the hallway.

"Mr. Bean, your effects!"

Sean closed the door on King's protest and trotted down the stairs. Though it was still cool at ten o'clock, the sun's punishing light not yet permeating the thick canopy of trees on North Franklin Street, the heat in his face had spread down to his chest and stomach. He felt feverish, dizzy, a little sick. How had they found out? Had Harry sent them a malicious letter? Had Viggo blurted something accidentally? No, he'd never do that. Poor Viggo, trapped in his house with his parents' fury. Mr. and Mrs. Mortensen were probably keeping him locked up in his bedroom on a diet of bread and water and a whole lot of Hail Marys.

Sean stopped on the sidewalk. An old man with a cane nearly ran into him and muttered dire imprecations as he limped away, but Sean scarcely heard him. What if that were true? What if Viggo couldn't leave the house? He mightn't be able to meet Sean at the station. How would Sean ever manage to speak to him?

It didn't matter, he decided. He'd do what he had to do.

*

Each house on Old York Road was grander than the one preceding it, vast palaces of stone and brick on rolling green lawns. Sean stared in wide-eyed wonder, leaning out the windows of the cab on each side for a better look. He'd seen his fair share of grand homes in Sheffield and Leeds, and the Watkins house in Winsley had been sprawling and impressive, but these houses – fifty rooms each if there were one, and enough beautifully manicured land on each estate to hold a village of its own. He'd known Viggo was rich, but he hadn't realized just how rich. That three-story house in Wilkes-Barre must have seemed like a hovel in comparison to these American castles.

His heart quailed. What in the name of God was he doing here? He'd been so confident and methodical. He hadn't said a word to Mrs. Donnelly about being sacked; he'd left early in the morning on Tuesday and come home in the evening as usual, but instead of going to work, he'd gone to the River Common and sat under a tree, watching the Susquehanna flow sluggishly by as he made his plans. On Wednesday morning, he'd packed a small bag and purchased a return ticket to Philadelphia. He didn't expect to persuade Viggo to return with him; he only wanted to see him, to reassure himself that Viggo hadn't hardened his heart. If Viggo returned with him, grand – if not, Sean would wait. It was a risk, he knew, but he'd not be able to rest until they spoke.

Twenty minutes before his train departed, Sean had left a note at the front desk of the Wyoming Valley Hotel, where the detectives were lodged. They'd be angry, but he'd been truthful and explicit about his destination. He'd hoped they wouldn't telegraph the Philadelphia police to wait for him, that he'd at least had a chance to see Viggo first. So much rested on Viggo.

There had been no waiting policemen in Philadelphia, nor was Viggo there. Disappointed but not surprised, Sean had hurried out of the station, boarding an omnibus that would take him to Montgomery County. At the omnibus station, he'd hired a hack, giving the Mortensen address.

Now, as he neared his destination, Sean leaned out the window, letting the cooling air rush past, swallowing back his apprehension. It was half six, and the bright light of day was mellowing to a deeper blue, with gilt-edged clouds low in the sky. He had no idea what time the posh people of Montgomery County ate their supper, but he guessed it was later rather than sooner, and prayed that Viggo didn't have a dinner engagement elsewhere.

The cabdriver's whip tapped the box. "This here's the place, sir, up on the right."

Sean gaped in astonishment as they turned into the drive. I might have known, a wry voice in his head piped up.

Freddy Watkins had kept a large oil painting of Venice on his office wall. He'd looked at it often and sighed longingly, saying that Venice was the loveliest city on earth. The Mortensen house could have been lifted intact from that painting. It was the biggest house on the road, set far back at the end of a long cobblestone drive, bordered by rigidly clipped and fancifully shaped shrubs of glossy boxwood. It was three stories high, constructed of sprawling grey stone. Massive chimney stacks, at least a dozen, rose from the red tile roof. Every surface seemed decorated with arches, columns, and balconies. Huge ornamental urns stood at intervals on a low balustrade. Beyond the house were gardens bursting with brilliant flowers, and a pond twinkling serenely in the early evening light.

Viggo was an heir to all this. Sweet, unassuming Viggo, never ostentatious or boastful, Viggo with his openhanded generosity and his socialist principles. Little wonder that the Wilkes-Barre fathers thought him a traitor to his class, that his parents wanted him married to a rich, pretty girl like Charlotte Welles, that they'd summarily banished Sean from any further contact. If Sean were a rich man, he'd like as not want the same thing for any sons he might have.

It was too late to turn back now, though. The carriage ceased its jolting passage and stopped before the balustrade that bordered the house. Sean alighted, craning his neck upwards. He'd done some stupid things in his life, but this topped them all.

"You want me to wait?" the cabbie inquired.

Sean bit his lip. "Nay," he said. "Thanks all the same." He paid the driver, tipping generously. The driver touched his ragged cap and drove away, leaving Sean at the mouth of the world's fanciest lion's den.

Summoning his tattered courage, he trotted up the steps of the low balcony and boldly yanked on the bell. He waited only a handful of heartbeats before the door opened to reveal a compact man in butler's togs. Sean pulled off his cap. "Evening. I'm here to see Mr. Viggo Mortensen, please."

The butler's eyes widened slightly, but he nodded and opened the door wider. "Come in." He ushered Sean inside and indicated a couch upholstered in pale grey satin brocade. "Wait here, please."

Sean seated himself gingerly and peered around. The inside of the house was even richer than the outside, all shining, carved marble and elegant carpets and fine pictures. The floor beneath his feet was inlaid stone, a swirling pattern of flourishes and medallions. Even the ceiling was decorated with paintings and trimmed with more carvings and gilt. Bewildered by the dazzling splendor all around him, Sean searched for a plainer object upon which to fix his attention and was drawn to a large portrait in the modern style of a woman in a white gown. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and her mouth curled at the corners in a knowing cupid's bow.

"Who are you?"

Jolted from his examination of the picture, Sean stood rapidly and swayed a little. He hadn't eaten since breakfast and now wished he'd had dinner in Philadelphia. He took in the man and woman coming toward him – Viggo's parents, they had to be. They were both in evening clothes. The woman, who'd spoken, was the same woman in the portrait, though slightly plumper. She wore a dress the color of freshly churned butter, and long strands of creamy pearls wrapped around her throat and cascaded down her generous bosom. She was handsome rather than pretty, with thick, dark hair and silvery-grey eyes very like Viggo's. The man had fading ginger hair, a bristly mustache, and an expression of weariness. The butler followed behind them, but there was no sign of Viggo.

"Sorry," Sean said, hoping they didn't think him drunk. "I'm Sean Bean, ma'am. I'm here to speak to your son."

Mrs. Mortensen stopped in her tracks and placed balled fists on her hips, a gesture at odds with her elegant clothes. Her pearls swayed. "You," she breathed. "You're Sean Bean."

"Yes, ma'am. I know it's bold of me to come uninvited, but if I could just see him for a moment –"

"He's not here, Mr. Bean," Mr. Mortensen said.

Sean didn't believe them. "If I could just speak to him. Just for a moment."

"Are you hard of hearing?" Mrs. Mortensen demanded. "My husband said he's not here." She took a step forward, and Sean involuntarily stepped back. "Shame on you for coming here. Bold as brass, you are. Have you any idea of the misery you've caused, you –"

Mr. Mortensen rested a hand on her arm. "Darling, don't –"

She shook off the well-meaning hand. "You should be in prison. Prison, or worse." Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she'd been crying for hours, or days. "You filthy, filthy…degenerate. Corruptor of children. Murderer."

"I'm no murderer," Sean heard himself saying in a strange, squeezed voice. "And Viggo's no child."

"Get out," Mrs. Mortensen said. "Get out before I call the police."

Mr. Mortensen stepped behind her and placed gentle hands on her shoulders. "Viggo left the house yesterday, Mr. Bean. We assumed…well, we assumed he'd gone back to Wilkes-Barre."

Sean shook his head, stunned. "He didn't…I didn't see him."

"He…Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, lad, wasn't the money enough? Did you have to come round here making more trouble? Haven't you caused enough for a bloody lifetime?" Mortensen's voice was low, clenched with pain. "My wife's right. Go on. Go. Never come here again."

Numb, Sean moved back another step. He picked up his case, then turned to them both in one last desperate appeal. "I meant no harm," he whispered.

"Get out," Mortensen said raggedly. "Now."

The tall doors stood open; the butler waited beside them. Sean stumbled over the threshold, across the wide courtyard and down the stone steps. He picked up speed, walking rapidly over the uneven and unwelcoming cobblestones of the drive. He turned onto Old York Road and began the journey back toward the Montgomery County depot.

The gilded light was fading from the sky, the broad boulevard all but deserted. Lamps shone in the windows of the great houses. The first timid calls of frogs and crickets reverberated in the cooling air, in steady counterpoint to the pounding rhythm of Sean's footsteps.

Sean tripped over a large stone in the road, tottered, and lost his balance. He crashed to the ground, catching himself with both hands and one knee. Groaning, he pulled himself into a crouch and squinted at the torn knee of his good trousers, then at his palms, scratched and bleeding, bits of gravel embedded in the skin.

He picked a piece out and winced. "Bloody hell," he muttered. "Bloody –" The word became a hoarse sob. He put his bleeding hands to his face and wept, shaking with rage and humiliation.

*

Dawn touched the edge of the horizon with pink. As Harry squinted out his eastward window, the spout of the teapot chattered against the rim of his cup. He steadied it, replaced the pot on its trivet, and sat at the oilcloth-covered table. It was his fifth cup, or maybe his sixth; he'd lost count. He cradled it in both hands and stared at the tea things, then aligned them: pot, cream, sugar, toast rack, spoon. His fingers itched to sweep everything onto the floor. Steady on, he told himself. You'll only have to clean the mess.

Things were falling apart.

It wasn't an admission Harry would make to another living soul, but nevertheless, nevertheless. If he were altogether honest with himself, nothing had gone his way since he'd arrived in bloody Wilkes-Barre. Oh, not the union business, to be sure. That was a kid's game, and it had distracted Harry from his purpose. He should have killed Sean straight away, coshed him on the head and had his fun, dumped his body in the Susquehanna, weighted with stones. Then the bloody detectives from Leeds would have come to a dead end. Shiftless, those molly lads, Harry would have said with weighty regret. Drifters and layabouts. Where might he be? No idea, inspectors. So sorry. But no, Sean had been alive and well enough to take a risk with the bastards.

Smart lad. But Harry was smarter. The detectives had come back yesterday, as he'd guessed they would. Didn't catch him on the hop, but they weren't stupid. They'd sized him up with cold little eyes, staring, assessing him, and waiting for him to trip himself up. The big one had come right to the point. "Mr. Bean has been telling us a rather interesting story, Mr. Slater."

"And what's that?" Harry had kept his face still and calm as they'd told him. They had showed him the letter, and he'd read it curiously, shaking his head in slight disgust. "Sorry, gentlemen. I'm afraid I don't know why he'd say such dreadful things about me. And he certainly never assaulted me. Why, I'd go straight to the coppers if that happened. Wouldn't you?"

They would, they'd said. Naturally. And Harry had nodded firmly, longing to ball up the two deckle-edged, damning sheets of expensive paper and ram it down their throats. The bloody letter. Bloody stupid Freddy and his outpourings of passion. Harry shouldn't have held on to the frigging things and now couldn't remember why he had in the first place.

Sean had been too smart to keep it in his room at the boarding house. On the Fourth of July, when all of Wilkes-Barre was celebrating Independence Day at the river, Harry had jimmied the lock on one of the back windows of the Mortensen office and hunted for it carefully, not displacing a hair, but hadn't found it, and the safe was locked tight. He'd crept out again and loitered near the boarding house. He couldn't break inside – there were boarders within, talking and laughing. It would have been too risky. So he'd waited. When Sean had come home, whistling, a decided spring in his step, most likely from fucking his rich toff sweetheart, Harry had almost dragged him off right there. It would have been heaven to see Sean's shock and fear.

Something had stopped him, though, some blind and stupid instinct telling him to wait. And then the bloody coppers had shown up, and they didn't believe him. Somehow, despite the lack of identifying details in the letter, they didn't believe him.

Things were falling apart, and he didn't know how to salvage them. Run, maybe. Just take his money and go – west, or to Canada, or Mexico. Sean wasn't off the hook yet, and maybe he'd be collared. It would be easier than hunting for Harry, and the detectives knew it better than he did. That would be revenge sweet enough for Harry, knowing that Sean was swinging from a rope.

As soon as the thought took shape, it dissolved in a burst of dull red fury. It wouldn't be enough. Not nearly enough.

He realigned the cream pitcher and sugar bowl into a perfect straight line, and kept thinking.

Some hours later, as coolness bled from the morning, a wild pounding filled the room. Harry rose and glided to the door. He opened it and nodded pleasantly at Tom Gwynnett. "Tom. What brings you round so early?"

Tom's big, handsome face was nearly purple with exertion. "They closed the mine," he panted. "After they called the strike, they closed it. And they sacked Sean Bean, Harry. You did it."

Harry frowned. "How's that, lad? Slow down, now. One thing at a time." He hardly listened as Tom told him the pertinent details, but when Tom came to the topic of Sean again, he held a hand up. "So he was sacked? On account of what, exactly?"

Tom no longer worked in the mines, but he had a knack for keeping his ear close to the ground. "Some of the fellows are saying incompetence. Others are saying it was personal, that Mr. Mortensen, Senior, had a lawyer come and do it for him as Mr. Mortensen, Junior, isn't back in town yet."

A smile touched Harry's mouth. Trouble in paradise? Had Papa found out about the two of them? Pity, that. "And where's Sean now?"

"No one knows. Not at home, leastways."

"And is Mr. Mortensen, Junior returning to Wilkes-Barre?"

"They say so. I hear Gavin Rowe spoke with him." Tom grinned. "You'll get your job back, Harry."

"Come on in, Tom. Let's not be giving the neighbors a show." He held the door open wider, and watched as Tom seated himself on the flimsiest chair, as usual. The damned thing was going to break under his weight one day.

He didn't want his job back. Truth be told, he was happy to be shut of the mines forever. Lately his restlessness had been percolating with more than a desire to kill Sean. He would go to his bedroom and pry up the loose floorboard, and count the money he'd taken from Freddy.

Again, the thought of running tickled the back of his mind. He could live like a king in Texas or New Mexico – buy a ranch, raise cows, pay other people to do his work for him. But that still left the problem of Sean. Where had the little bastard gone? Had he run off for good? He had run from Freddy, or so Freddy had said, and Harry had believed him – a man rarely told lies when his toes were twisted round with pliers. If he'd run once, he might run again. Or had he gone to Philadelphia, to see his rich nancy boy? That didn't seem right. Sean was a coward at heart. And maybe fancy Mr. Mortensen didn't want to see him any longer.

Tom was babbling something about the colliery, about how the unions would show the filthy rich Mortensen family where they could go with their closures, that they'd have the Mortensens against the wall, it was like the old days of coffin notices, the death threats sent to the mine owners who abused their employees. Harry frowned in annoyance. Tom Gwynnett, to hear it told, hadn't wanted to contribute a single penny to the union when he'd worked there.

Coffin notices.

Harry no longer heard Tom's babbling. A hazy idea simmered deep in his stomach, taking shape like molten pig iron, coalescing until it filled every empty space inside him. The restlessness coiled, a waiting serpent. "Coffin notices," he said softly.

"What's that, Harry?"

"Coffin notices," Harry repeated. It was beautiful, perfect. "Tommy, lad…how would you like to be rich beyond imagining?"

Tom's eyes lit up. How well he'd performed, like a wind-up toy; it had been Tom's hand that had placed the dynamite in the pit, killing ten and injuring twelve more. His greed far outstripped any loyalty he might have had toward his former workmates. He'd never questioned Harry's morals, not once. And he was content with so little, for the boundaries of his imagination were pitifully small. "Yeh. You've got an idea, Harry?"

Harry was exhausted, but once Tom left, he would sleep for hours. There would be no need to look beneath the floorboards. The detectives from Leeds no longer mattered. He would sleep, and then he would plan to the last detail.

But first he needed information.

"Tommy, tell me. Did they say how long the mines would be closed?"

*



Only a few days after rashly promising he'd stay in Philadelphia, Viggo found himself regretting his hasty, consoling words to Harald and Katherine. The house, spacious and luxurious as it was, seemed like a prison, and except for Grace, he found conversations with his family trying. It wasn't their fault, he told himself; it was his. The combination of Sean, independent living, and the responsibilities of his job had changed him in some essential fashion, and he was impatient at his relegation to the status of son and sibling again. They were honorable and worthy titles, but the fit was off, like a suit of clothes he'd outgrown, and a new rhythm of living struggled to impose itself upon him. He felt it pulsing in his blood, willful and rebellious, each time he attempted to talk with his family. He sensed it now, straining at its constrictions of propriety as he sat eating breakfast in the sunroom with Grace and his parents late on an overcast, humid Saturday morning.

"Mother?"

"Hm?" Katherine was leafing through the copy of Ladies' Home Journal that had just arrived with the morning post.

"What happens to the uneaten food?"

She set down her magazine and frowned at Viggo. "I'm sorry, dear. What did you say?"

Viggo waved his spoon in the general direction of the table, loaded with food: bowls of peaches and grapes, platters of bacon, eggs, hashed potatoes, popovers, beaten biscuits, a tray of scones, a rose-and-fern patterned china dish of broiled fish drenched in butter, an assortment of vegetables, and a vast tureen of hot cereal. It was enough to feed an army, or at least a hungry platoon. "The food that doesn't get eaten. What happens to it?"

Katherine looked at the food as if she'd never seen it before, then picked up her teacup and took a dainty sip. "Why, I imagine the servants eat it."

"I see." Viggo stared down at his bowl of cereal. "It's just that there's so awfully much of it."

"We have a great many servants," she replied with a touch of frost in her voice.

"Oh – I know that. It's a gigantic house, of course it requires a huge staff." His mother's eyes narrowed, and Viggo realized he'd said the wrong thing again. He hastened to repair the damage. "It's just that I was thinking about the old house in Roxborough, and Sunday breakfasts there. Oatmeal, bacon, eggs, and tea, remember? And Adam never wanted his oatmeal. You'd shake your big wooden ladle at him." He imitated her now-lost Irish lilt that even in his childhood had only emerged when she was excited or upset. "'You'll eat that, begod. Your father slaved all week to feed you, you ungrateful wee amadan.'" He grinned. "Every Sunday morning, the same argument. You could set your watch by it."

Harald had laid down his newspaper. He chuckled. "That was her, yes indeed. I remember it well."

"So do I," said Grace. "The rows you'd have! And Adam still hates oatmeal."

Viggo peered at his mother. Two spots of red were high on her cheeks, and though her countenance was turned toward Viggo, her eyes were unfocused. A note of pleading crept into his voice. "Don't you remember, Mother?"

"Of course I remember." Katherine's eyes focused on him sharply, and she bestowed a sudden smile on him. "Of course I do. I'm not in my dotage yet."

"It's only that things were so much…simpler then, I suppose."

"Simpler for whom?" Katherine sniffed. "For you, perhaps. I was too busy cooking and cleaning and looking after you children to think about simple or fancy."

"You're right. Sorry," Viggo mumbled, and returned to his cereal. And she was. He couldn't dispute her, or begrudge her the comforts she enjoyed. She'd worked hard, as had Harald, and they deserved their luxuries. It wasn't fair to goad her. But every day she seemed more distant, grander, less the mother that he remembered, the woman who sang old airs to him, and served potato cakes at the church bazaars with her sleeves rolled up and a kerchief round her head, and laughed, her face flushed and pretty, at some private joke with Harald over a pitcher of ale. Now she sipped champagne from crystal glasses and wore elaborate lace-trimmed dresses of silk and figured voile every day, and the closest she got to a church bazaar was the check she handed to the priest to ensure that the Mortensen family was publicly thanked for their generosity at the opening and closing of the festivities. And despite all that, Viggo knew it wasn't his place to criticize her.

Her feathers ruffled again, Katherine laid her magazine aside to shuffle through the pile of letters, her loud rustling expressing her disapproval.

Viggo wanted so badly to be back in Wilkes-Barre. He spooned up cereal slowly, methodically.

"It's good to have you two home again," Harald said. "The other children are gone all day, and your mother and I seem to rattle around here like two lonely peas in a tin."

Guilt sank tiny cat's claws into Viggo's heart. He kept his eyes on his plate, unable to meet his father's absent, kindly visage. "It's good to be home." God forgive him for that lie.

Katherine examined an envelope covered in swirling penmanship, then handed it to Grace. "From Charlotte Welles. She's certainly diligent in her correspondence. You've received a letter nearly every day, haven't you?"

"Nearly." Grace patted her mouth with her napkin and folded it. "May I be excused?" At Katherine's absent nod, she rose and snatched up the letter. Resisting all her mother's efforts to dress her like a fashion plate, she wore a plain, pale blue linen dress with white trim at collar and cuffs, and her hair was dressed simply, twisted into a knot at the nape of her neck. Freckles had popped out on her face and neck, and sunburn tinged the top of her cheeks. She grinned at Viggo, and trotted into the main house.

"One for you, Viggo," Katherine said. Her brow furrowed as she inspected the return. "That young man."

"Thank you." Viggo kept his face still and held out his hand for the envelope. He opened it casually and couldn't repress a smile as he read the few hastily scrawled lines.

Viggo:

Still in Hazleton. Peter Halloran is a brick. He's from Leeds, imagine! It's Old Home Week all over again. All's well, and you needn't worry. He wants to sell to you, I think. I'll arrange what I can. I shall be home in two days. Will you be there?

Yours,
Sean

Viggo's smile widened as he re-read the last two words. Carefully, he folded the note and tucked it in his pocket. "Father, Sean writes that things are going well with Peter Halloran. He expects Mr. Halloran to sell to us."

"That's good," Harald replied soberly. "I hope no news of scandal reaches his ears. I'd hate to have him withdraw the offer. Looks bad for everyone."

"I'm sure he won't." Viggo glanced at Katherine, but she was absorbed in reading a letter of her own. "The gentlemen from Leeds will be discreet, I'm certain. They didn't seem the sort to proclaim the news of a scandal all over town. Besides – Sean's perfectly innocent. I'd stake my life on it."

"I hope so, son. I do hope so. You know how people talk, though. Ah well, we'll hope for the best, won't we?" Harald sighed and retreated behind his newspaper.

His disposition much improved, Viggo longed to pull the note out and read it again. Instead, he attacked his breakfast with a more vigorous appetite. Sean hadn't received his warning note yet, he was sure, but he would, soon enough, and all this unpleasantness would blow over. He wondered if he could manage to leave within a week.

"Give me that note."

Viggo started at the emotion thrumming in his mother's voice. "What?"

All the color had fled Katherine's face, leaving it as white as the lace that decorated her apricot-colored morning dress. Her generous mouth was folded into a grim line, the flesh around it white. When she spoke again, her teeth clenched together. "I said give me that note. Now."

Harald looked over his paper. "Katie? What's wrong?"

Katherine ignored Harald's entreaty, rose to her feet, and held out one imperious hand. Her eyes kindled with rage.

Hesitantly, Viggo drew the note from his pocket and put it in her outstretched palm. "Mother, what in heaven's name is going on?" A little worm of fear and suspicion burrowed through him. Something in the letter she'd been reading, something appalling. He watched her scan the note once, twice. Surely she'd see it as the innocuous note it appeared to be.

After a moment she stared at him, tears brimming in her eyes. Viggo saw them form with incredulity. His mother had wept in his presence three, perhaps four times in his life, and none of that weeping could be blamed on him. She lifted her hand, and before he realized what she intended, she slapped him across the face, the weight of her entire body behind the blow.

Viggo jerked back in his chair, his hand automatically moving to his stinging cheek. He gaped at his mother's fury, too shocked and hurt to speak.

"Jesus Christ!" Harald was up and around the table in a surprising flash of movement, grabbing Katherine's wrist before she could strike Viggo again. "What's got into you, woman?"

"Let go of me!" She struggled to wrench her hand free. Harald caught her other hand and pulled her close, trapping her against him. "Let me go!"

Transfixed with horror, Viggo watched his parents grapple. He pushed his chair back and gained his feet cautiously. His stomach roiled. "Mother…Father.…" He shook his head and held out his hands, helpless.

Still caught in Harald's grip, Katherine wheeled on him, dragging her husband a step forward. The anger in her face was terrible to see. Her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl. "Don't you say a word! You – you filthy boy!" Her face was blotched now, an angry mottled red across her cheeks and brow.

"Katie, Katie!" Harald cried. "God's sake, what is it?"

"That!" she shrilled, thrusting her chin toward Sean's note, which had fallen to the table. "That! Read it!"

"Stop shouting, I can hear you just fine." Harald let go of one hand and picked up the note. He read it, and offered Viggo a glance of bewilderment.

Viggo would have said nothing, even if he'd had the strength to speak. He had dreaded this day for years and hoped that it would never come to pass. A foolish, futile hope.

Harald turned to Katherine, who was hiding her eyes with her free hand. "All right, what about it?"

She turned and snatched up the other letter. "Now read this." She yanked her wrist free and stalked to the long windows that overlooked the wide green expanse of lawn and the pond where her younger children frolicked and screeched at each other as their summer tutor sat under a tree, napping.

Frowning as if engaged in some laborious task, Harald read the letter. His lips moved slightly. He turned a page over, shook his head, and turned it back. He sank into a chair, then placed the letter on the table as if it were a sheet of fragile crystal. "Is this true, son?"

"Since I haven't the slightest idea what it says, I couldn't say, Father." Viggo was surprised at the strength and coldness in his voice. Harald gave him the letter, and Viggo turned it over briefly to look at the signature. Harriet McHugh, the wife of the city attorney, his neighbor. He flipped the letter to the beginning and read rapidly and with a sinking heart.

It was a dreadful imposition for her to write as she and Mrs. Mortensen hadn't been properly introduced, but she felt it her duty to inform, et cetera. She had caught a glimpse of Viggo and his friend Sean Bean at the fireworks display on Independence Day, and the pair of them had been – well, decency forbade an explicit description. Suffice to say there had been children about, and she had been shocked to her core. And so she had taken it upon herself to write, again with a thousand pardons, et cetera, et cetera.

Choking back his rage, he laid the letter on the table. "And you believe this?"

Harald sagged in relief, and Katherine stared at him. "Are you telling me she's lying?"

"Of course she's lying." Viggo stabbed the letter with a finger. China and silver rattled. "This woman is a vicious, inveterate gossip. You'd be ashamed to keep her company."

"Louisa Temperley says she's one of the most respected ladies in Wilkes-Barre." Katherine stumbled over uncertainty for a moment, then shifted ground. "And besides, that young man has a reputation. I can't believe that I have to hear this from a perfect stranger. I imagine my friends are too ashamed to write." A spasm of mingled wrath and embarrassment crossed her face.

Viggo sneered. "Her husband has a sizeable interest in Liberty Coal. One of our direct competitors."

"Katie," Harald said quietly. "I think this is all a misunderstanding, don't you? You don't even know the woman."

Katherine shifted again. "What about that letter? Why did he ask when you were coming home?" Her voice lingered over the last word with anger and contempt.

"He regards Wilkes-Barre as home. So do I." Viggo pushed his chair in and collected Sean's note from the table, refolding it and placing it in his pocket. "You'd do better not to listen to malicious gossip, Mother. And I'm – I'm sickened that you would take the word of a stranger over mine." He nodded stiffly to both his parents and left, marching through the hall and up the stairs to his room.

He saw himself reflected in the cheval mirror. How proper he looked in his cream linen suit. His jaw was tight, clenched; a muscle worked in his cheek. The fading marks of the slap still burned red on his face. He reached up and touched the redness.

Never before had he been struck so. He'd received the usual childhood swats on the backside with a broom or a rolled newspaper for some mischievous transgression, and Adam and Michael had both walloped him in fights, but never had either parent struck him in anger. Her reaction had been so quick and brutal, Harald's almost unsurprised – did they know? Had they suspected? It didn't seem possible.

Viggo took out the note again and reread it.

I shall be home in two days. Will you be there?

His mother was perceptive, even behind her new fortress of wealth and privilege. She'd known. Somehow she had known.

Yours,
Sean

Sudden shame and guilt pierced him. How easily he'd lied and betrayed Sean. Not in his heart, perhaps, but even giving utterance to the lie was dreadful. That Sean, far more pragmatic than Viggo could ever be, would have approved, even encouraged Viggo to lie made it no better; in fact, it made the lie worse.

"Sean, I'm sorry," he whispered, but the words sounded lifeless and foolish.

*

tbc....