FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 12]
Apr. 30th, 2013 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: The Need of Comrades
Author: Alex
Fandom: VigBean
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: No profit made, no harm intended.
Notes: Title courtesy of Walt Whitman. Thanks to the following for alpha-and-beta reading this story for me and giving really swell advice:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite, govi20, yaoichick, mooms, honscot, hominysnark, and lauramcewan. Thank you all.
Summary: In 1906, two young men from very different backgrounds meet and form a friendship.
WARNING: Some violence in this chapter.
*
The library door was locked. Viggo twisted the handle firmly, but it refused to give. Frustrated, he strode across the hall and caught a glimpse of the butler coming toward him with a silver tray. "Edgar, the library is locked. Will you unlock it, please? I must make a telephone call."
The butler shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't have a key."
Viggo scowled. "Well, who does?"
"Mr. Mortensen is the only one who possesses a key, I believe."
"I suppose he's not in there. He'd have heard me rattling the knob. Why is it locked?"
"Mrs. Mortensen ordered it locked, sir."
"Mrs. Mortensen." Viggo glanced back over his shoulder. He half-expected to see his mother standing behind him, hands clenched, eyes snapping with wrath. He'd stayed in his room all morning and most of the afternoon, avoiding further unpleasant discourse with his family. "I see."
"Sir, you have a visitor in the drawing room." Edgar proffered the small silver tray, which held a calling card.
Viggo examined the card. "Oh, dear. Archie." He thanked the butler and moved toward the drawing room. He paused, his hand on the knob. "It's Saturday, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Never mind." Sean wouldn't be at the office on a Saturday; there was no point in attempting to telephone. Perhaps he'd try sending a telegram. Poor Sean – Viggo was inundating him with all sorts of bad news lately. He squared his shoulders and went into the drawing room.
Archie Lockwood sat in a chair, a cigar burning between two fingers, his long, patrician face wreathed in a smile. He wore formal clothes despite the early hour. "Well now!" He rose and held out a hand. "So this is what happens when you leave for the provinces – you forget your old friends entirely. Why didn't you tell me you were back, old man? I had to hear it from Mother, God forbid. She sends her affection, by the way, and so does Charity." He winked broadly, pumping Viggo's hand.
"It's good to see you, Archie. How have you been keeping yourself?"
"Not bad, not bad. My word, you're looking well." Archie stood back and eyed Viggo from head to toe. "The country air must agree with you. Look here, Mother besieged me with exhortations to drag you to dinner, but I wouldn't think of imposing that on you so soon after your arrival. Think about it if you're planning to stay a while, though – it would put me in Mother's good graces for at least a month."
"All right," Viggo said with a smile. "Please give her my very best, and Charity too, of course. What brings you here if it's not to drag me to dinner?"
"Hold on there," Archie said. "I said I wouldn't drag you to Mother's; I didn't say I wouldn't drag you to dinner. Some of the old Penn crew are meeting at the Rittenhouse tonight. A little chowder, a little beefsteak, a little drinking, and then a little who-knows-what. There's a prizefight at the National A.C., or I know of a new cathouse on the South Side. Clean, pretty girls, young too. What do you say, old man? Come on, don't say no."
Viggo thought a moment. He and Grace had planned to walk to the ice cream parlor near the park with the children, but Archie's plan was preferable. It would take him out of himself, and better yet, away from his family. "All right. Can you wait a bit while I wash and dress?"
"That's the boy!" Archie thumped him on the arm approvingly. "Of course I'll wait. Run along, there's a good fellow."
Because formal dinners in the Mortensen household had become commonplace, it was the work of only a few minutes to get ready. Viggo's clothes were already laid out, and he had time for a quick wash and shave in the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Finished, he hurried down the corridor, fiddling with his cufflinks, and nearly collided with Grace. "Gracie, listen. I'm going to dinner with Archie Lockwood. Tell…tell anybody who asks, will you?" He peered more closely at her. "What's the matter?"
Grace's countenance was woebegone, her eyes red and puffy. "Nothing."
"It's not nothing," Viggo said, taking her arm. "Tell me." Belatedly, he suspected the reason for her tears and was proved right.
"I heard Mother shouting at you."
Viggo winced and let go of Grace's arm. "Oh, that. Goodness, I hope you didn't listen. It was silly, over a ridiculous piece of gossip. You know how Mother can be. She's so concerned with…what people think…." He watched Grace anxiously. "Did you – did you hear the whole thing?"
Grace looked down at the floor and shook her head. "Just the shouting."
"Well, it's nothing." He spoke a little roughly. He hated lying to her. But he'd lied to her all summer, hadn't he? What were a few more untruths in the grand scheme?
"Viggo, let's go back to Wilkes-Barre." Tight urgency colored Grace's voice. She grabbed his hand in both of hers. "We can get the early train tomorrow. We can – we should go back." Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I can't, Grace. If I left now, it would look –" It would look as if he were running back to Sean, which was no more than the truth. "It would look bad. I just can't, dear. Not right now. I want to leave within a week, though. You'll come with me?"
"All right." Grace pulled a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket and scrubbed at her eyes. She turned away from him and trudged down the hall.
"Gracie!"
She turned back. "What?"
"Everything will be fine. You'll see."
The hall was dim, but for a moment, the purest bitterness shone on her face. "Will it?"
Viggo bit his lip and turned away. Some lies were too sharply edged to swallow.
*
They hadn't gone to the prizefight after all. The dining and drinking at the Rittenhouse Club had gone on far too long, and by the time the headwaiter asked them to leave, they were all well into their cups. The young men staggered outside, impeccably dressed and scarcely able to stand.
"Let’s count noses. Make sure we're all here," Archie said.
"I have two noses," Chip Hughes giggled.
"Oh, shut up, Chip. You think we haven't heard that one before?" Archie plugged his cigar into his mouth to draw on his kidskin gloves, and bobbed his head unevenly as he counted. "Me, you, Dash, Thom, Percy, Ted, Vig, and Alex. Righto, the gang's all here. Let's go."
Viggo leaned against the wall, just drunk enough to feel pleasantly light-headed, but not nearly drunk enough to forget that he would have to go home soon enough and face his family. The scored stone of the Rittenhouse Club's imposing edifice felt cool and comfortable against his face. "Where'll we go? I don't want to go home." He fumbled in his pockets for his gloves and realized he'd left them in the club.
"You don't have to go home, Vig," Dash Prescott said. "You can spend the night at my place if you want. God, to have to go all the way out to Montgomery County." Dash's parents lived in Chestnut Hill, and Dash had just come into his inheritance and bought a fifteen-room apartment on Walnut Street.
"I used to live in Roxborough," Viggo said.
"I know. I heard. But Jesus Christ almighty, Vig, you needn't trumpet it all over town. They'll bar the door in your face next time you visit this old pile." Dash patted the wall. "Come on. Where to, fellows? Walking distance, if you please. We should clear our heads a bit."
"Did we miss the fights?" Ted Adelson wanted to know.
"It's half past eleven," Archie snapped. "Of course we missed the god-damned fights."
"Where shall we go, then?" asked Chip.
"I was telling Vig about that cathouse on the South Side," Archie said.
"I don't want to go there," Viggo said, too softly to be heard.
"Too far to walk," Thom said. "Besides, it's too late – you want some bunch of dagos to beat the stuffing out of you?"
"Ah, you'd smell the garlic before they got within fifty feet of you," Ted sneered.
"Could be worse," Archie said. "Could be going to the negro neighborhood. You wouldn't even see them coming!"
There was a burst of goatish laughter at Archie's sally. Viggo sat on the steps of the club, burning with sudden hatred for these elegant young men, the cream of Philadelphia society. He wondered if they called him names when he wasn't around: mick, bogtrotter, paddy, mackerel-snapper, potato-eater. He'd heard them use the words before, mocking the immigrants huddled together in their sagging tenements, hanging clotheslines between buildings, wearing the rough homespun of their native Ireland, speaking in the thick accent they thought risible. What would they have said if he'd confronted them? Oh, we don't mean you, Vig. Not you.
To hell with them all.
"Come on, Vig." Chip Hughes grasped Viggo's arm and lifted him to his feet. "Up you go. We're going to Madame Rosemonde's. It's not far. Come on."
"No. I don't want to go." Viggo shook his arm free. He had a sudden urge to hail a cab and go home, and drink half the contents of his parents' liquor stores. Not, he amended, that it would matter much. He'd wake up sick, his parents would be furious, and he'd still be eye-high in the soup.
Archie sighed loudly. "For Christ's sake, are you going to start that again? Come on, let's go." He looped his arm through Viggo's and all but dragged him down the street at a fast trot. "We'll all stay at Dash's tonight."
"I didn't invite you all!" Dash cried, struggling to keep up.
The smell from the river got stronger as they drew closer to the brothel. Hauled along by Archie, Viggo was silent, seething with resentment and oblivious to the vulgar jests of his companions. What would it take to rid himself of these fools forever? Would Chicago be far enough? Perhaps he'd have to go further still – Arizona or California, some place where the Archie Lockwoods and Thom Schuylers of the world would never deign to go.
The thought entranced him. It was a good idea. He would go back to Wilkes-Barre, tell Sean to pack a bag, and steal him away. Sean had no ties to keep him in Pennsylvania. They'd live as cousins, or some rot, and mind their own business. He grinned suddenly. Wouldn't that be one in the eye for his mother. He opened his mouth to say so, then closed it. He wasn't among friends.
He gaped at the buildings, dark, slouching structures that seemed vaguely threatening, even in the light of the coal lamps. Here, the future leaders of Philadelphia walked with confidence, secure in the knowledge that no miscreant would dare to harm so much as a hair on their aristocratic heads, so long as they walked in force. The South Side, however, was a different prospect – too foreign, too unknown. The immigrants there were too new to America; they didn't yet understand the broad argent shield of wealth and power that protected these men.
The streets looked familiar. Viggo brightened. Hadn't he first met Sean on these filthy streets? He had indeed. Seeing Viggo's sudden good cheer, Archie patted his cheek. "You're smiling again, Vig! Good boy."
"Shut up, Archie."
Archie threw his head back and laughed. "That's my Vig. Here we are!"
Madame Rosemonde's was innocuous outside; inside it was monumentally ugly. The walls were flocked in grotesque purplish-red velvet. The furniture was enormous, dark walnut and horsehair and crimson velvet cushions. Heavy blood-red drapes rippled at the windows, half-covering curtains of crocheted lace. A large chandelier hung in the center of the parlor – the receiving room, the madam called it – and mirrors decorated every wall, trapping the occupants in dozens of garish reflections. It was the only whorehouse Viggo had ever visited, and he supposed it was one of the better ones, but its gaudiness and the eager smiles of the girls who paraded for the men's delectation and eventual choice depressed him into near sobriety.
He refused the champagne that was offered, and watched as his companions selected their partners for the evening. Beside Viggo, Archie was the last to choose; he took the hand of a sad-looking girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen and led her to the door, after receiving a room card. "Lots of pretty girls left," Archie said as he left. "Don't be a stick in the mud, Vig."
Viggo slid a little lower on the slick horsehair and tried to sit up. The sofa seemed to repel ordinary posture, preferring to keep him nearly supine. The remaining girls, three or four, clustered closer to him. They wore dresses that uncovered their shoulders and the upper half of their breasts, their necks and ears glittered with paste jewelry, and their hair was half up, half down, as if they'd been surprised in the midst of undressing. They smiled at him, their eyes hollow and ancient.
"Several lovely choices," Madame Rosemonde said. Despite her name, she was as Yankee as could be, and despite her paint and powder, looked more like a governess than a madam. Her dress was dark and conservative, and she wore an old-fashioned jet brooch at its high neck, like a maiden aunt in mourning.
"Send them away, please," Viggo said. He rubbed at his bleary eyes and sighed. His momentary euphoria at the thought of escaping with Sean had dissolved.
"Go," the woman said. As the girls rustled away, she took a seat near Viggo and leaned close. "Are you looking for something else, sir? Something…extraordinary?"
Viggo let out a soft, ironic laugh. "Yes. I suppose I am."
"I think I can help you. I have two girls…twins, quite young. I can't say how young, but…." She sliced her hands downward in two straight parallel lines.
"No," said Viggo, horrified. He wanted to get up and leave, but the horsehair sofa was beginning to feel comfortable.
"Something else, then," Madame Rosemonde said, unperturbed. "We have a young lady who is quite expert in the use of whip and crop. Or you can do the same to her. It's extra, of course."
Viggo shook his head, fascinated despite himself.
Madame Rosemonde sat back and studied him. "I see, I think. You prefer something even more exotic."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "How ever did you guess?"
The woman shrugged. "So – now that I know, I can help you. I have a young man, fifteen years old. He's the stable boy, takes care of the horse and carriage and whatnot, but he's lovely to look at, and willing to do what you like for a few dollars. What do you say to that?"
A heady rose perfume suffused the air. Viggo remembered it from his last disastrous visit. He stared at the woman. "Anything?"
Her thin painted mouth slanted to one side. "Try not to leave bruises."
"Go get him."
She stood and departed in a rustle of skirts. Viggo covered his face with his hands. He lowered them at the sound of footsteps muffled by thick carpets. Madame Rosemonde stood before him, grasping the arm of a handsome young boy with dark, curling hair and black eyes. "This is Paolo."
Viggo stretched out a hand. "Hello, Paolo. Madame said you'd do whatever I wanted."
The boy watched him uncertainly. "You can't hit me."
"I'm not going to hit you." He looked at Madame Rosemonde. "How much for three hours?"
She calculated rapidly. "Six dollars."
Viggo withdrew his money clip and handed her twenty dollars, then addressed the boy. "I want you to take me home. Go hitch up the carriage. There's another ten for you at the end of the trip."
Paolo frowned, then his eyes widened in comprehension. He nodded vigorously and scampered out of the room.
Madame Rosemonde turned to him in consternation. "You don't find him handsome?"
"On the contrary," Viggo said. "He's very handsome. But I'm afraid that my tastes are so exotic, they're confined to one individual. Good night, Madame." He picked up his hat and walked into the sweltering night to wait for the carriage.
*
"Viggo." A gentle hand closed around his upper arm and shook gently.
"Go away."
The hand moved away from his arm and thumped him on the shoulder. "Viggo!"
Viggo opened one eye to see dim light filtering through the curtains and a figure standing beside his bed. "Who's that?"
"Grace. Sit up for a moment, I have to talk to you."
Viggo struggled to obey. His head spun, and his mouth tasted foul. "What is it, Gracie?"
"You smell like a saloon."
"Did you wake me up at –" He picked up the little carriage clock on his nightstand and squinted at it. "—five-forty to tell me that?" He frowned at her crossly. His mother would likely try to drag him out of bed at eight for mass. Or maybe she'd be too angry to speak to him and leave him blessedly alone. He hoped so.
"No." Grace sat on the bed and waited for him to compose himself.
The sheets felt smooth and cool. With a jolt, Viggo realized he was naked. He pulled the bedclothes up to cover himself more modestly. He ventured a cautious glance down and saw his underwear piled atop his wrinkled trousers and shirt. One gleaming patent leather shoe crowned the pile.
"You must have had quite an evening," Grace said in a dry, amused voice.
"Archie and Thom and Alex and the rest of them – what a pack of idiots they are. And so am I, for thinking they'll ever be different." Viggo leaned against the headboard, a little unnerved by Grace's close scrutiny. "You're up with the birds." She had her pale-green suit on, and a straw hat with green feathers. "Early mass?"
"No. That's what I've come to tell you. I'm leaving."
"Leaving?" Viggo blinked. "What do you mean?"
Grace pointed at a suitcase. "I'm leaving home."
Viggo sat up. "What do you mean? You're – Grace, what's wrong? Has something happened?"
"No, I just – I can't be here any longer, Viggo." Her face crumpled for a moment. She took a deep breath, tilted her face toward the ceiling, and exhaled sharply. "I can't stay. I'm going back to Wilkes-Barre, and then Charlotte and I – we're going, the two of us. Maybe to Boston, or Providence. I'm not certain."
"I can't believe this. You're just going, like –" He reached out and caught her hands, small and strong in their crocheted gloves. "Grace, why?"
"Quiet!" she hissed. "Viggo, I heard what they said to you. I can't stay here, not in this house."
"But that's nothing to do with you. Don't worry about me – I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know. I know that."
"Then why? I don't understand any of this."
Grace bit her lip. "That's very clear." She lifted his hands and squeezed them. "We're more alike than you realize, very much more. Viggo – Charlotte and I are leaving."
"Both of you?"
"Yes. Together." She peered at him, unblinking and serious.
"You and Charlotte. You and –" Viggo gasped. A thousand tiny fragments seemed to fall into place as neatly as a jigsaw puzzle, a thousand subtle hints that had always danced on the edge of his awareness. She was a girl! Surely girls didn't –
He stared at her, at her utter candor, at the truth in her words. "Oh, dear God."
"He sees the light. Alleluia," Grace said with a wry smile, then burst into tears.
"Grace. Gracie, don't." Despite his nakedness and what was likely an unpleasant sweat of alcohol, Viggo pulled her into a fierce hug. "Gracie, Gracie."
She clung to him. "I'm tired of crying, Viggo. Tired of pretending. Aren't you?"
"Yes. Yes." A hoarse sob broke from him, and they held each other tightly until the storm passed.
After a little while, she pulled away gently. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Viggo scrubbed his face with the sheet, and she laughed. "You're horrible. A girl would never do that."
Viggo grinned. "I know. Too dainty for me, girls." He sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "Gracie, why do you have to leave? Why now?"
"I have to." Grace twisted her handkerchief. "Please understand, Viggo. Please. I telephoned Charlotte –"
"Mother let you into the library?" Viggo snorted rueful laughter.
"Yes. I know. Charlotte's meeting me in Wilkes-Barre. You're the only person in the world I –" She glanced at the clock. "I have to go. I'm getting the seven o'clock train, and I have to walk to the station."
"I'll drive you."
"No. Please don't." She slid off the bed and smoothed her rumpled skirt. "I'll send for my trunks when we decide where we're going. Please…please don't say anything to Mother or Father about Charlotte."
"You know better than that. But they'll find out eventually, won't they? People gossip."
"Yes, but they'll never suspect the truth, a couple of maiden ladies living together. Nobody ever suspects the truth. You didn't." She smiled.
"And you knew…about me?"
"I hadn't thought it. It was Charlotte who suggested it, and I thought no, couldn't be. But then I thought again. At least I'll have good company in hell." It was her turn to laugh bitterly.
"You're an angel. I'm the one who's hell-bound." He shook his head. "The shock, I can't get over it. Grace, what'll I do without you?"
"Maybe you'll join us one day. You and Sean."
Viggo swallowed and stared down at the sheets.
Grace leaned down and kissed his stubbled cheek. "You need a shave. Give him my best. I'll write to you in Wilkes-Barre."
His arms went round her again. "Don't leave," he pleaded.
"Oh, Viggo –" She was crying again. "Good-bye." She tore free, picked up her suitcase, and fled, closing the door with a soft click.
Viggo stared at the closed door. His vision blurred, and he swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. She has more courage in her little finger than I do in my whole body. Besides Sean, Grace was his only ally, his only real friend.
He jumped out of bed, swayed, and righted himself unsteadily. He hurried to the window, pushed the curtains aside to raise the sash, and saw her walking down the long balcony, a lonely, gallant figure in the soft grey mists of early morning. "Grace!" he called softly. "Gracie!"
She looked up.
"I love you!"
She smiled and blew him a kiss. Despite the tears in his eyes, he still managed to catch it one-handed.
*
*
"Agnes, your invitations arrived today."
"Oh, why didn't you tell me, Mama?"
"We'll look them over after we finish dinner. I do wish Grace hadn't left so abruptly. I need to arrange a dress fitting for her. Viggo, did she say if she planned to be back this week?"
Viggo broke the edge off his bread and buttered it before replying. "No, Mother. She didn't."
"I see. Well, I suppose there's time enough."
In the aftermath of an unpleasant altercation, Viggo's mother chose to behave as if the incident hadn't occurred at all. That wasn't something that had changed with the surge in their fortunes; it had, in fact, become even more pronounced, Viggo realized. She had either chosen to believe Viggo's assertions, or at least to put her suspicions aside, but she hadn't bothered to apologize to him. Contrition was not in her nature, even after a lifetime of churchgoing and confession. She behaved with studied casualness even in the face of Viggo's sullen silence. For the past three days, he'd spoken to her only when absolutely necessary and had rarely looked her in the eye. To his father he had been somewhat warmer, but then Harald hadn't treated him with scorn and loathing. Viggo was hard-pressed to determine what his father thought about the matter, but short of asking him outright, it seemed impossible. Harald addressed Viggo in the same kindly manner he always had.
The butler appeared at Harald' elbow. "Telephone for you, sir. Urgent."
"At this hour?" Harald frowned and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "All right. Excuse me, Katie. Children."
Viggo watched his father's retreating figure with some complacency and thought of yesterday's brief telephone conversation with Sean. To think Sean had dined with the detectives who were investigating him! He could have charmed the birds from the trees. Viggo had wanted to tell Sean about the letter, and about Grace's departure, but the wire crackled so loudly he would have had to shout the news, and they'd have heard it clear across the house. That night, he'd written a long letter and had posted it himself this morning. The telephone call had cheered him, as had writing, but he was even more firmly resolved to return to Wilkes-Barre as soon as possible.
It didn't matter that he'd likely face a battery of ostracism, that Chester Welles and Harriet McHugh would cut him on the street, that he'd hear pointed and vicious whispers from most directions. He'd work hard and soberly, and show his father that a profit could be humanely made in the coal industry. Once he and Sean had accomplished that, who knew what would come next? The notion of leaving had lingered long past his drunken euphoria of a few nights before. Grace and Charlotte had escaped, why shouldn't he and Sean do the same?
"Would you like us to invite Charlotte to the wedding, Viggo?"
"I beg your pardon?" Nonplussed, Viggo stared at his mother.
"I asked if you'd like us to invite Charlotte to the wedding."
"If you like." Good God, was she still matchmaking?
Katherine turned to Agnes. "I had the most charming letter from her mother. And Grace says she's a truly beautiful girl."
Agnes beamed. "Well, if you've been squiring her all over Wilkes-Barre, Viggo, then we certainly must invite her."
"That would be fine. I'm sure Grace will be pleased too. They're great chums." Viggo suppressed a grin. Only now did he realize how smitten he'd been with Sean, too smitten to notice his sister's extraordinary attachment to Charlotte. She'd always been slow to make friends, but she and Charlotte had got along instantly. Had they maneuvered for solitude the way he and Sean had? Of course, all those trips to Harvey's Lake, just the two of them. For a moment he imagined them as lovers. How did they – Oh, good God! It wasn't decent to think about. He envied them, though. Grace had been right; no one would question them. Maiden ladies lived together all the time, much more frequently than bachelor gentlemen. Was it possible that all those maiden ladies, all those bachelor gentlemen were with their life's companions? It was a tantalizing thought, however unlikely.
Harald returned to the dining room and sat in his chair with a thump. One of the footmen moved behind him to ease his chair to the table, but Harald waved his hand with an abrupt anger that caught Viggo's attention. "Father? What is it?"
Harald was pale and drawn. He lifted his wine goblet and upended it into his mouth. The footman came forward to pour, and Harald wheeled on him. "Get away, man! For Christ's sake!"
Katherine and Agnes ceased their conversation. "Harald?"
Harald put his hands over his face for a moment, then addressed Viggo. "The Lynwood colliery. There's been an explosion."
"Oh, no…were there men hurt? Killed?"
"Five dead. So far. More missing." Harald took the wine bottle himself and poured himself a full glass. "That was Gavin on the telephone. He tells me it was deliberate, like as not."
"Agitators," declared Katherine.
Viggo glanced anxiously at his mother and turned to Harald once more. "Is there an investigation? When did it happen?"
"This morning. The county inspectors were there today, but until all the debris has been cleared, it's impossible for them to make any firm decisions." The haze of shock seemed to clear, and he focused his attention on Viggo. "I understand the outside foreman was abruptly dismissed. A man called Slater."
"Why – is that so?" Viggo bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn't say he already knew.
"Yes. And he had some dealings with those detective fellows from Leeds. Or so Gavin said. Said this Slater had cause to be unhappy, maybe mischievous. And he's got the backing of a great many of the miners. Gavin said he attacked your clerk." Harald peered at Viggo. "Why would that be?"
Viggo could have cheerfully throttled Gavin. "Harry Slater and Sean both lived in Winsley. But what connection they might have beyond that –" He shrugged. "Sean worked in the brickyards. Slater worked in the mines." He was becoming an old hand at deceitfulness, with nary a twinge of remorse.
"Gavin tells me that Slater's the union representative."
"So I understand."
"I'm going to hire a contingent of the Coal & Iron Police."
"Father, no!" Viggo threw his napkin on the table. "We don't know that this is the work of agitators. If it is, you might only anger them – provoke them into further action. Let me go back to Wilkes-Barre. I'll meet with the union men. Perhaps some concessions would –"
"Concessions?" Harald shook his head. "Listen to yourself. Listen to reason, for God's sake. Don't you see I'm in for it either way? If it was an accident, I'll have the Mine Safety Commission on my back. If it was deliberate, I look like a weakling if I give in to them."
"But the Coal & Iron Police, Father…they're nothing but a pack of hired toughs. The moment you permit them to use force, they'll run roughshod over the miners, the innocent and the guilty alike."
Harald sat quietly for a few moments. Viggo watched him, not daring to interrupt his thoughts, hoping his father would eventually incline toward decency.
At last Harald sighed. "I'm sorry, son. I'm going to have to go back on my word."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm closing the mine for a time. And I shall send Nathaniel King to Wilkes-Barre to supervise."
"Father, you can't. You can't put those men out of work." Viggo paused. "What do you mean – supervise?"
"It was wrong of me," Harald said heavily, "to send you out there with so little experience."
An unbelieving laugh escaped before Viggo could prevent it. "You're dismissing me?"
Harald fixed his gaze on his plate. "I'm sorry, Viggo. I've already telephoned Nathaniel. He's leaving on the five o'clock train tomorrow morning."
"But…I'm not incompetent, Father. I've made a greater profit. I've – Sean and I have put the office in order. It was a shambles, didn't you know that? For God's sake, Father, don't dismiss me as if it were just some silly game. Let me help to make things right."
"Stop it!" Katherine's voice was a whipcrack in the hushed elegance of the dining room. "Will you stop it? I don't want to hear one more word about that young man. As far as I'm concerned, he's likely the cause of all this trouble. Harald, I want you to dismiss him. He's a criminal. I don't want him an employee of Mortensen Coal when he's hauled back to England. Have you any idea how that will look? Telephone Mr. King and have him dismissed now, before there's more trouble."
Viggo turned on his mother. "None of this is Sean's fault."
"I knew you'd defend him." Katherine's eyes brimmed with contempt. "I knew it. You didn't fool me at all."
"Oh, for Christ's sake! I wish you could hear yourself, Mother."
"What? Tell me, you impertinent young man. Tell me. How do I sound?"
Viggo stared at her coldly. "Triumphant."
"Triumphant?" Katherine laughed, a high, spiraling sound, like crystal splintering. "Oh, yes, I'm happy to see my son admit that he's a…a catamite. Oh, I'm just delighted. Your sister's wedding will be utterly ruined, and we'll be drummed out of decent society because of you, but why should I worry?" The brittle laugh erupted again. "And he's filled your head with these ridiculous socialist ideals, too. I won't stand by and watch you give away everything your father's slaved for."
"Sean's far more cautious and conservative than I. You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." Viggo clenched his hands. "You're so concerned about what people think, Mother? How will it look when the Coal & Iron Police beat and kill a number of innocent miners and perhaps their families too, at the behest of Mortensen Coal? Won't we look like fine upstanding citizens? Whatever will the neighbors say?"
Agnes gaped at him, then at Katherine. Harald sat with his head in his hands. The two footmen and the butler appeared to be doing their utmost to become invisible.
"I'm not talking about that and you know it!" Katherine rose to her feet. All pretense of gentility was gone; her face was flushed, her eyes wide with rage. She directed a glare at the butler and footmen. "Get out!" Once they had fled, she returned her attention to Viggo. "Your father is going to dismiss that young man and provide whatever evidence necessary to see that he's returned to England. And you are not going to Wilkes-Barre. You're going to stay here where we can keep an eye on you, and you're not going to offer one word of argument. Do you hear me? Not one."
"You can't be serious."
"Try my patience and see."
"I won't, thank you." Viggo pushed back his chair and stood.
"Where do you think you're going?" Katherine demanded.
"You don't think I'm going to stay in this house one more minute, do you? I'm going back to Wilkes-Barre."
"Viggo—" Harald said.
"Don't worry, Father. I won't interfere with the colliery. I just want to collect my things. Then I'll be out of your way."
"Out of the way? Viggo, wait."
"And where'll you go?" Katherine inquired. "If you think you're going to receive one penny –"
"Katie," Harald said in a soft voice, "that's enough. Sit you down, now."
"Harald!"
Harald extended his hand, palm up, in a last appeal. "Viggo, I wish you wouldn't go. I know this…all this is a misunderstanding, like as not. Stay here. You can come to England with us, if you wish, and you can meet…young ladies. A change of scenery is what's needed, perhaps."
"I can't stay here, Father." Viggo pushed his chair toward the table. "I'm sorry. I'll stay in a hotel tonight, and leave for Philadelphia in the morning. I'll get Josiah to drive me into the city."
"Well, perhaps we can send you somewhere else for the summer. The Adirondacks or the seaside. Would you like that?"
Viggo gazed stonily at his father. Katherine thought his inclinations would be cured by keeping him under house arrest. Harald believed he could cure them by sending him away. What an absurd dance all this was. "No. But thank you." He looked at his mother. "And I don't require your money."
"Viggo, anything I have is yours," Harald said. "You needn't even ask."
He should have expected this sooner or later. It was too much, he realized, to ask his parents to accept his predilections. He never thought to have to fight his own family for common dignity, though; it cut to the heart. "Thank you all the same," he said. "Sorry, Agnes. I hope I haven't spoiled your wedding."
Viggo mounted the stairs slowly, half hoping that someone would come after him and tell him all was forgiven. He looked back over his shoulder, but there was no one; he was alone.
*
"Hello?" Viggo paused at the top of the staircase of the Franklin Street house, faintly annoyed that no one had greeted him. He hoped that his brief stay in Philadelphia hadn't tainted him with his family's ridiculous and overweening notions of entitlement. Even the younger children had acquired it, he'd noticed; they'd ignored the servants as if they were furniture, and addressed them only when necessary, and with a bored hauteur that infuriated him. It was as if they'd known their extraordinary privilege since birth, so easily did they slip on the mantle of wealth. When he'd tried to correct them, they'd only stared at him as if he were speaking some peculiar foreign tongue.
Still, a greeting would have been pleasant. He supposed that they were out and about, doing errands or enjoying the beautiful late-July weather. He couldn't say they'd neglected the house, as it was immaculate. He was feeling lonely, and tired from his journey. After a cool bath and some lunch, he'd be himself again.
"Pearce? Noreen?" Frowning, he went down the hall to his room. He was happy to see that the room was tidy and aired. The windows were open, and screens had been set into the sills. It was hot, but not unbearable. He began to undress, placing each piece of discarded clothing onto a chair.
The train had broken down near Bethlehem, and he'd been obliged to spend the night in a dingy hotel. He'd chafed at the delay, but it had given him time to think as well. His departure had been perhaps too hasty. Maybe there was time to repair the breach. He intended to meet with Mr. King at the office and persuade him that his services were still needed. He had met the man on a few occasions; King was a bit stuffy and phlegmatic, but not, Viggo suspected, altogether intractable. He might see reason, given time and the opportunity to realize that Viggo and Sean's contributions had been worthwhile. He hoped that King hadn't dismissed Sean. It would be some time before he could forgive his mother for that spate of viciousness.
His long, sleepless night at the hotel had had the dual effect of settling his mind and churning up his emotions. He was as eager as ever to see Sean – two weeks without him had been dreadful – but his family's disfavor gnawed at him. They'd always been contentious, the lot of them, and noisily so, but there had never been anything so terrible it had split them asunder. That he had been the source of the rift caused him no little guilt. Surely there had to be a way to mend things. Perhaps the only solution was leaving; perhaps his absence would soften their hearts. One thing was certain: he'd not give Sean up, even if it meant losing his family's affection.
Naked, Viggo walked to the little mahogany secretary in the corner where his mail was stacked in a neat pile. At the very top was a folded and wax-sealed note in Michael's distinctive back-slanting script. He broke the seal and read:
Viggo,
Mother is in a perfect fit. She sent me a telegram insisting that I speak to you. I didn't know you'd gone home. For that matter, I hardly knew you'd gone as I see you so infrequently. What have you done, old chum? Come to the rectory when you have a moment. Or shall I come to you? I'm free for dinner Monday evening.
M.
The note was dated the previous day, the nineteenth. Viggo sighed, laid it on the secretary, and shrugged into his dressing gown. The very last complication he needed was Michael lecturing him on the evils of relations with men. Of all the awkward scenarios! Did his mother want him to confess? He'd have died before he went to Michael for confession; on the infrequent occasions when he did go, he used St. Nicholas down the street from St. Mary's. The priests there were far sterner than Michael, but their stringent penances were infinitely preferable to listing his sins to his brother. And if he never told the priests at St. Nicholas that he engaged in intimate congress with another man, he certainly wasn't going to tell Michael. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it's been three weeks since my last confession. I've buggered my male secretary and fallen in love with him besides.
He wondered what Katherine had written. Clearly she hadn't been too explicit. He pictured the telegram she had likely wanted to send:
YOUR BROTHER VIGGO CATAMITE STOP SPEAK TO HIM IMMEDIATELY STOP MOTHER
He laughed despite his irritation and went to run himself a bath.
*
Viggo turned the key in the lock and opened the office door. Sean must have had it repaired; the pin that had squeaked now rolled silently in its hinge. "Sean?"
There was no forthcoming reply. Viggo closed the door and went into the office, noting with dismay that it seemed to be utterly deserted. He tried again. "Sean?"
Silence greeted him. "Damnation." His enthusiasm at seeing Sean thwarted, he went to his desk and thumped into the chair. Idly, he leafed through the paperwork on the desk. Evidently Mr. King had been at work already, for the mail had been sorted, the month's ledger was sitting open to July, and the other items that had lain in careless profusion were stacked or tidied in little groups. Viggo picked up a pretty piece of quartz that Sean had found in Bear Creek. It had had pride of place on the desk; now it was on the far corner with his fountain pen and a small malachite clock that Michael had given him. Viggo frowned. It hadn't taken King long at all to make himself comfortable, had it? More importantly, where was Sean? Dismissed already?
He went to Sean's desk, searching for clues. Sean's space was in apple-pie order as usual. He found no correspondence, notes, or ledger entries dated later than Tuesday. He did find Sean's notes pertaining to his visit to Peter Halloran, and took them to his own desk to look them over.
The telephone jangled, and Viggo picked it up. "Hello?"
Static hissed on the wire, and then a female voice said, "I'm sorry, the party has rung off."
"Never mind, then," Viggo said. "Thank you." He set the instrument down and gazed at it. Perhaps Sean was at the mine with King. Eagerly, he grasped the telephone and rang for the exchange. "Lynwood 1020, please." He waited, full of anticipatory warmth.
"I'm sorry, there is no answer."
"I see. Thank you. Goodbye." Viggo rang off glumly. He'd hoped to take Sean to lunch at the Sterling Hotel. Mr. King too, if necessary. He was getting hungrier by the moment, and irritable. He'd take himself to lunch, and then go to the boarding house to look for Sean. He paged through Sean's notes, taking solace in his handwriting and the terse style he'd come to know as well as his own.
He was so absorbed that he hardly noticed the passage of time. The doorbell shrilled, and Viggo looked at the clock, startled. One-thirty! No wonder he was famished. He got up and went to the door. It swung open easily, revealing Harry Slater and a large, fair man standing behind him.
Viggo raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Slater."
Harry Slater removed his cap. "Afternoon, Mr. Mortensen. I wonder if I might have a word."
"What about?" Viggo was in no mood to be polite, and if Sean's suspicions were correct, Slater was a murderer. "I don't think I have anything to say to you. If you've come to plead for reinstatement, I'm afraid you'll find me rather hard-hearted. I understand you attacked Mr. Bean without provocation."
"He made some terrible accusations, sir. I defended myself." Slater shook his head. "And now the mine's shut down, on account of the accident. The men are starting to grumble. I came to see if there wasn't a way to work things out reasonably, before matters get out of hand."
Viggo didn't answer at once. He shifted his gaze to the man with Slater. His blondness and height seemed familiar. "And who are you, please?"
"Tom Gwynnett, sir. I came to see if you had a job for me, maybe. Harry said you were a kind fellow."
Viggo sighed. "Very well. Come in. I only have a few moments, though." He turned and went into the office, resuming his place behind the desk. His stomach protested its deprivation. It seemed as though lunch would elude him altogether today. "Well, Mr. Slater? Speak your piece."
"It's like this, sir." Harry glanced at Gwynnett, who stood just over the threshold. "Like I said before, Sean made some nasty accusations. Insinuated I'd been a party to murder back in England. Maybe you know something about it."
"If you're referring to the murder of Frederick Watkins, yes," Viggo said. He folded his arms and offered Harry a very cool stare. "The detectives came to my parents' home in Philadelphia, and I spoke to them briefly. It seems to me that you overreacted if Sean accused you of anything. Particularly if you're innocent."
Harry exchanged another look with Gwynnett. "Well, that's just it, sir." He laid his cap on the desk and clasped his hands behind his back. "The thing is, you've got…well, the coppers would call it incriminating evidence, and I'm going to need it."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," Viggo replied icily, though a faint prickle of apprehension crawled down his spine at Harry's tone. Letting him in had been a mistake.
"Oh, I think you do, sir." Harry brought a pistol from behind his back and pointed it at Viggo. "Now…hands up, please. Wouldn't want to hurt you."
Apprehension curdled into terror. Viggo stared at the weapon in horrified fascination and slowly lifted his hands. "Don't be a fool, Slater. Are you going to shoot me here, in broad daylight?" He marveled at the steadiness of his voice.
"I've done worse, you bloody molly." Harry smiled gently and cocked the pistol. "Much worse. Now stand up or I'll shove this up your arse before I shoot you."
Viggo calculated quickly. The blond hulking man still stood in the threshold of the office, his posture alert and eager. The windows were closed; it was unlikely that anyone would hear Viggo if he shouted for help, and Harry might well shoot him if he tried to cry out. What a fool he was. He had to cooperate now, and hope that Harry left him alive.
"Come on, you. Up."
"All right." Viggo rose to his feet, his hands still raised, and walked around the desk. He watched Harry's face rather than the weapon, and saw dark, brilliant malice and glee churning in his eyes. "What is it you want?"
"Open the safe."
Viggo walked to the safe, which sat below a pretty, bosky landscape of the Wyoming Valley. He stared at the heavy gilt frame. Was it heavy enough to knock Harry out if he brought it round quickly?
Harry seemed to anticipate his thoughts, for he took a step backward. "Kneel down nice and slow, Mr. Mortensen."
Viggo knelt on the floor. He spun the dial on the outer door of the safe, grasped the handles, and twisted it open. It held five cabinets, each with its own separate lock. "I…I don't remember them all."
Harry laughed shortly and pushed the barrel of the weapon into Viggo's ear. "Will that help?"
"All right – all right." Viggo wet his lips, tasting salt. His fingers slid over the dials, but he managed to open them and remove the contents to hand them to Gwynnett, who had come over to investigate.
"I'm looking for a letter, Tom," Harry said. "One or more. Hand-written. Never mind that typed stuff." As Gwynnett leafed through the documents, letting them fall to the floor, Harry prodded Viggo with the weapon again. "Go on."
"Get that thing out of my ear," Viggo muttered through his teeth.
"You want it up your arse, do you?" Harry grasped a handful of Viggo's hair and yanked his head back, jamming the pistol beneath his chin. "You know what I did to Freddy? Did they tell you?"
"No." How pathetically weak his voice sounded. Brutally murdered, the detectives had said. Brutally. That meant more than a simple bullet wound. It meant pain and suffering and desperate fear. Terror weakened his legs, and he would have swayed if Harry's grasp on him hadn't been so painful. "No."
"Pray you don't find out. Keep opening those drawers."
Viggo obeyed, praying for help and trying to conquer the sudden trembling of his hands. A dreadful awakening sank its roots into the depth of his heart and held fast. Had Harry done something to hurt Sean? He would not voice the question for fear of the answer, but rage began to eclipse his fear, and he jerked open the last drawer, withdrew two large handfuls of cash, and thrust them into Gwynnett's waiting hands.
"Whooee! Look at this. How much is here?" Gwynnett asked.
"About two thousand dollars," Viggo snapped. "Why don't you take it and get out?"
"Not so fast, lad," Harry said. "No letter. Sean was telling the truth. Now that's a shame for you, I should say."
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Why, that was easy enough, sir." Harry caressed the last word, all pretense at respect stripped away. "I telephoned your house in Philadelphia, said I was from the mine. The fellow who answered said you were headed back here. So we waited for you. Easy enough."
"What have you done with Sean?"
Harry laughed. "Sean? Not a blessed thing."
Viggo clenched his fists helplessly. "Liar."
"No, it's true. I don't know where he is. But when I find him…." Harry released Viggo's hair and made a cutting motion across his throat. "If he hasn't run off like a scared little rabbit, that is. In fact, I had a notion that he went to see you."
Was that possible? If it were true, his parents would run Sean out of town on a rail. Viggo's heart sank. "You have the money. You could live the rest of your life on that. If you go now, I won't tell the police what's happened."
"Oh, no, Vig me lad. You've a lot more than this."
"I assure you, I don't."
"Not here, maybe. But in your dad's banks – plenty more, I should think, eh? I think your dad would pay a pretty penny to make sure you were safe, wouldn't he? Now, on your feet. You can come quietly, or you can kick up a fuss and we'll give you a sore head. What do you say, lad?"
Viggo rose to his feet, staring at the awful black bore of the pistol. Gwynnett was still counting the cash, chuckling to himself, and Harry Slater was grinning at him. Viggo calculated for an instant, then fixed his eyes on the doorway and let out a gasp of relief and joy, as if someone had come to the rescue.
The ruse worked. Harry and Gwynnett both wheeled around. Viggo sprang forward, knocking Harry off his feet, and dashed toward the double doors.
"Stop him!" Harry roared.
God help me! Viggo's perspiring fingers fumbled with the knob. He cursed under his breath and finally managed to yank it open. Pushing the door outward, he threw himself forward and stumbled to his knees. There was a horrid cracking noise, and instantaneous blinding pain.
Three little girls jumping rope stopped to stare at him. Viggo struggled to catch his breath. One healthy yell, and the girls would run for their parents – he hoped. A hand grasped the back of his coat and dragged him inside. For one endless moment, he locked eyes with one of the little girls, then he was pulled back into the house. He opened his mouth to cry out, but a blow to his stomach drove the air from his lungs. The door slammed shut.
Gwynnett wrenched Viggo's arm behind his back and dragged him back into the office. Viggo clawed at the man's other arm, locked around his neck. He kicked viciously, heedless of the pain in his knee, but it availed him nothing.
Harry Slater stood before him, face white, mouth writhing with rage. He held the gun by the barrel and smashed it into Viggo's jaw.
Viggo sagged in Gwynnett's arms. Through a red haze of agony, he felt himself lowered to the floor. The carpet was rough against his face, and the throbbing in his knee and jaw was excruciating. He tried to push himself up and received a kick in his ribs for his efforts. He fell again. The pain was enough to make him want to vomit. He heard voices, deep and dragging.
---Do with him now? Can't take
---With us. Carpet. It's
---Quiet.
Viggo fought to understand what the words meant. His arms were wrenched behind his back. Someone was pulling at his coat. He lifted his aching head and called for help, but something was smothering him. His coat, wrapped round his head, the smell of orange water and his own sweat. He couldn't breathe properly. He shouted again.
---Shut him up before
Something crashed against his temple hard enough to send him spiraling into blackness.
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.
WARNING: Some violence in this chapter.
*
The library door was locked. Viggo twisted the handle firmly, but it refused to give. Frustrated, he strode across the hall and caught a glimpse of the butler coming toward him with a silver tray. "Edgar, the library is locked. Will you unlock it, please? I must make a telephone call."
The butler shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir. I don't have a key."
Viggo scowled. "Well, who does?"
"Mr. Mortensen is the only one who possesses a key, I believe."
"I suppose he's not in there. He'd have heard me rattling the knob. Why is it locked?"
"Mrs. Mortensen ordered it locked, sir."
"Mrs. Mortensen." Viggo glanced back over his shoulder. He half-expected to see his mother standing behind him, hands clenched, eyes snapping with wrath. He'd stayed in his room all morning and most of the afternoon, avoiding further unpleasant discourse with his family. "I see."
"Sir, you have a visitor in the drawing room." Edgar proffered the small silver tray, which held a calling card.
Viggo examined the card. "Oh, dear. Archie." He thanked the butler and moved toward the drawing room. He paused, his hand on the knob. "It's Saturday, isn't it?"
"Yes, sir."
"Never mind." Sean wouldn't be at the office on a Saturday; there was no point in attempting to telephone. Perhaps he'd try sending a telegram. Poor Sean – Viggo was inundating him with all sorts of bad news lately. He squared his shoulders and went into the drawing room.
Archie Lockwood sat in a chair, a cigar burning between two fingers, his long, patrician face wreathed in a smile. He wore formal clothes despite the early hour. "Well now!" He rose and held out a hand. "So this is what happens when you leave for the provinces – you forget your old friends entirely. Why didn't you tell me you were back, old man? I had to hear it from Mother, God forbid. She sends her affection, by the way, and so does Charity." He winked broadly, pumping Viggo's hand.
"It's good to see you, Archie. How have you been keeping yourself?"
"Not bad, not bad. My word, you're looking well." Archie stood back and eyed Viggo from head to toe. "The country air must agree with you. Look here, Mother besieged me with exhortations to drag you to dinner, but I wouldn't think of imposing that on you so soon after your arrival. Think about it if you're planning to stay a while, though – it would put me in Mother's good graces for at least a month."
"All right," Viggo said with a smile. "Please give her my very best, and Charity too, of course. What brings you here if it's not to drag me to dinner?"
"Hold on there," Archie said. "I said I wouldn't drag you to Mother's; I didn't say I wouldn't drag you to dinner. Some of the old Penn crew are meeting at the Rittenhouse tonight. A little chowder, a little beefsteak, a little drinking, and then a little who-knows-what. There's a prizefight at the National A.C., or I know of a new cathouse on the South Side. Clean, pretty girls, young too. What do you say, old man? Come on, don't say no."
Viggo thought a moment. He and Grace had planned to walk to the ice cream parlor near the park with the children, but Archie's plan was preferable. It would take him out of himself, and better yet, away from his family. "All right. Can you wait a bit while I wash and dress?"
"That's the boy!" Archie thumped him on the arm approvingly. "Of course I'll wait. Run along, there's a good fellow."
Because formal dinners in the Mortensen household had become commonplace, it was the work of only a few minutes to get ready. Viggo's clothes were already laid out, and he had time for a quick wash and shave in the bathroom adjacent to his bedroom. Finished, he hurried down the corridor, fiddling with his cufflinks, and nearly collided with Grace. "Gracie, listen. I'm going to dinner with Archie Lockwood. Tell…tell anybody who asks, will you?" He peered more closely at her. "What's the matter?"
Grace's countenance was woebegone, her eyes red and puffy. "Nothing."
"It's not nothing," Viggo said, taking her arm. "Tell me." Belatedly, he suspected the reason for her tears and was proved right.
"I heard Mother shouting at you."
Viggo winced and let go of Grace's arm. "Oh, that. Goodness, I hope you didn't listen. It was silly, over a ridiculous piece of gossip. You know how Mother can be. She's so concerned with…what people think…." He watched Grace anxiously. "Did you – did you hear the whole thing?"
Grace looked down at the floor and shook her head. "Just the shouting."
"Well, it's nothing." He spoke a little roughly. He hated lying to her. But he'd lied to her all summer, hadn't he? What were a few more untruths in the grand scheme?
"Viggo, let's go back to Wilkes-Barre." Tight urgency colored Grace's voice. She grabbed his hand in both of hers. "We can get the early train tomorrow. We can – we should go back." Tears spilled down her cheeks.
"I can't, Grace. If I left now, it would look –" It would look as if he were running back to Sean, which was no more than the truth. "It would look bad. I just can't, dear. Not right now. I want to leave within a week, though. You'll come with me?"
"All right." Grace pulled a crumpled handkerchief from her pocket and scrubbed at her eyes. She turned away from him and trudged down the hall.
"Gracie!"
She turned back. "What?"
"Everything will be fine. You'll see."
The hall was dim, but for a moment, the purest bitterness shone on her face. "Will it?"
Viggo bit his lip and turned away. Some lies were too sharply edged to swallow.
*
They hadn't gone to the prizefight after all. The dining and drinking at the Rittenhouse Club had gone on far too long, and by the time the headwaiter asked them to leave, they were all well into their cups. The young men staggered outside, impeccably dressed and scarcely able to stand.
"Let’s count noses. Make sure we're all here," Archie said.
"I have two noses," Chip Hughes giggled.
"Oh, shut up, Chip. You think we haven't heard that one before?" Archie plugged his cigar into his mouth to draw on his kidskin gloves, and bobbed his head unevenly as he counted. "Me, you, Dash, Thom, Percy, Ted, Vig, and Alex. Righto, the gang's all here. Let's go."
Viggo leaned against the wall, just drunk enough to feel pleasantly light-headed, but not nearly drunk enough to forget that he would have to go home soon enough and face his family. The scored stone of the Rittenhouse Club's imposing edifice felt cool and comfortable against his face. "Where'll we go? I don't want to go home." He fumbled in his pockets for his gloves and realized he'd left them in the club.
"You don't have to go home, Vig," Dash Prescott said. "You can spend the night at my place if you want. God, to have to go all the way out to Montgomery County." Dash's parents lived in Chestnut Hill, and Dash had just come into his inheritance and bought a fifteen-room apartment on Walnut Street.
"I used to live in Roxborough," Viggo said.
"I know. I heard. But Jesus Christ almighty, Vig, you needn't trumpet it all over town. They'll bar the door in your face next time you visit this old pile." Dash patted the wall. "Come on. Where to, fellows? Walking distance, if you please. We should clear our heads a bit."
"Did we miss the fights?" Ted Adelson wanted to know.
"It's half past eleven," Archie snapped. "Of course we missed the god-damned fights."
"Where shall we go, then?" asked Chip.
"I was telling Vig about that cathouse on the South Side," Archie said.
"I don't want to go there," Viggo said, too softly to be heard.
"Too far to walk," Thom said. "Besides, it's too late – you want some bunch of dagos to beat the stuffing out of you?"
"Ah, you'd smell the garlic before they got within fifty feet of you," Ted sneered.
"Could be worse," Archie said. "Could be going to the negro neighborhood. You wouldn't even see them coming!"
There was a burst of goatish laughter at Archie's sally. Viggo sat on the steps of the club, burning with sudden hatred for these elegant young men, the cream of Philadelphia society. He wondered if they called him names when he wasn't around: mick, bogtrotter, paddy, mackerel-snapper, potato-eater. He'd heard them use the words before, mocking the immigrants huddled together in their sagging tenements, hanging clotheslines between buildings, wearing the rough homespun of their native Ireland, speaking in the thick accent they thought risible. What would they have said if he'd confronted them? Oh, we don't mean you, Vig. Not you.
To hell with them all.
"Come on, Vig." Chip Hughes grasped Viggo's arm and lifted him to his feet. "Up you go. We're going to Madame Rosemonde's. It's not far. Come on."
"No. I don't want to go." Viggo shook his arm free. He had a sudden urge to hail a cab and go home, and drink half the contents of his parents' liquor stores. Not, he amended, that it would matter much. He'd wake up sick, his parents would be furious, and he'd still be eye-high in the soup.
Archie sighed loudly. "For Christ's sake, are you going to start that again? Come on, let's go." He looped his arm through Viggo's and all but dragged him down the street at a fast trot. "We'll all stay at Dash's tonight."
"I didn't invite you all!" Dash cried, struggling to keep up.
The smell from the river got stronger as they drew closer to the brothel. Hauled along by Archie, Viggo was silent, seething with resentment and oblivious to the vulgar jests of his companions. What would it take to rid himself of these fools forever? Would Chicago be far enough? Perhaps he'd have to go further still – Arizona or California, some place where the Archie Lockwoods and Thom Schuylers of the world would never deign to go.
The thought entranced him. It was a good idea. He would go back to Wilkes-Barre, tell Sean to pack a bag, and steal him away. Sean had no ties to keep him in Pennsylvania. They'd live as cousins, or some rot, and mind their own business. He grinned suddenly. Wouldn't that be one in the eye for his mother. He opened his mouth to say so, then closed it. He wasn't among friends.
He gaped at the buildings, dark, slouching structures that seemed vaguely threatening, even in the light of the coal lamps. Here, the future leaders of Philadelphia walked with confidence, secure in the knowledge that no miscreant would dare to harm so much as a hair on their aristocratic heads, so long as they walked in force. The South Side, however, was a different prospect – too foreign, too unknown. The immigrants there were too new to America; they didn't yet understand the broad argent shield of wealth and power that protected these men.
The streets looked familiar. Viggo brightened. Hadn't he first met Sean on these filthy streets? He had indeed. Seeing Viggo's sudden good cheer, Archie patted his cheek. "You're smiling again, Vig! Good boy."
"Shut up, Archie."
Archie threw his head back and laughed. "That's my Vig. Here we are!"
Madame Rosemonde's was innocuous outside; inside it was monumentally ugly. The walls were flocked in grotesque purplish-red velvet. The furniture was enormous, dark walnut and horsehair and crimson velvet cushions. Heavy blood-red drapes rippled at the windows, half-covering curtains of crocheted lace. A large chandelier hung in the center of the parlor – the receiving room, the madam called it – and mirrors decorated every wall, trapping the occupants in dozens of garish reflections. It was the only whorehouse Viggo had ever visited, and he supposed it was one of the better ones, but its gaudiness and the eager smiles of the girls who paraded for the men's delectation and eventual choice depressed him into near sobriety.
He refused the champagne that was offered, and watched as his companions selected their partners for the evening. Beside Viggo, Archie was the last to choose; he took the hand of a sad-looking girl who couldn't have been more than fourteen and led her to the door, after receiving a room card. "Lots of pretty girls left," Archie said as he left. "Don't be a stick in the mud, Vig."
Viggo slid a little lower on the slick horsehair and tried to sit up. The sofa seemed to repel ordinary posture, preferring to keep him nearly supine. The remaining girls, three or four, clustered closer to him. They wore dresses that uncovered their shoulders and the upper half of their breasts, their necks and ears glittered with paste jewelry, and their hair was half up, half down, as if they'd been surprised in the midst of undressing. They smiled at him, their eyes hollow and ancient.
"Several lovely choices," Madame Rosemonde said. Despite her name, she was as Yankee as could be, and despite her paint and powder, looked more like a governess than a madam. Her dress was dark and conservative, and she wore an old-fashioned jet brooch at its high neck, like a maiden aunt in mourning.
"Send them away, please," Viggo said. He rubbed at his bleary eyes and sighed. His momentary euphoria at the thought of escaping with Sean had dissolved.
"Go," the woman said. As the girls rustled away, she took a seat near Viggo and leaned close. "Are you looking for something else, sir? Something…extraordinary?"
Viggo let out a soft, ironic laugh. "Yes. I suppose I am."
"I think I can help you. I have two girls…twins, quite young. I can't say how young, but…." She sliced her hands downward in two straight parallel lines.
"No," said Viggo, horrified. He wanted to get up and leave, but the horsehair sofa was beginning to feel comfortable.
"Something else, then," Madame Rosemonde said, unperturbed. "We have a young lady who is quite expert in the use of whip and crop. Or you can do the same to her. It's extra, of course."
Viggo shook his head, fascinated despite himself.
Madame Rosemonde sat back and studied him. "I see, I think. You prefer something even more exotic."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "How ever did you guess?"
The woman shrugged. "So – now that I know, I can help you. I have a young man, fifteen years old. He's the stable boy, takes care of the horse and carriage and whatnot, but he's lovely to look at, and willing to do what you like for a few dollars. What do you say to that?"
A heady rose perfume suffused the air. Viggo remembered it from his last disastrous visit. He stared at the woman. "Anything?"
Her thin painted mouth slanted to one side. "Try not to leave bruises."
"Go get him."
She stood and departed in a rustle of skirts. Viggo covered his face with his hands. He lowered them at the sound of footsteps muffled by thick carpets. Madame Rosemonde stood before him, grasping the arm of a handsome young boy with dark, curling hair and black eyes. "This is Paolo."
Viggo stretched out a hand. "Hello, Paolo. Madame said you'd do whatever I wanted."
The boy watched him uncertainly. "You can't hit me."
"I'm not going to hit you." He looked at Madame Rosemonde. "How much for three hours?"
She calculated rapidly. "Six dollars."
Viggo withdrew his money clip and handed her twenty dollars, then addressed the boy. "I want you to take me home. Go hitch up the carriage. There's another ten for you at the end of the trip."
Paolo frowned, then his eyes widened in comprehension. He nodded vigorously and scampered out of the room.
Madame Rosemonde turned to him in consternation. "You don't find him handsome?"
"On the contrary," Viggo said. "He's very handsome. But I'm afraid that my tastes are so exotic, they're confined to one individual. Good night, Madame." He picked up his hat and walked into the sweltering night to wait for the carriage.
*
"Viggo." A gentle hand closed around his upper arm and shook gently.
"Go away."
The hand moved away from his arm and thumped him on the shoulder. "Viggo!"
Viggo opened one eye to see dim light filtering through the curtains and a figure standing beside his bed. "Who's that?"
"Grace. Sit up for a moment, I have to talk to you."
Viggo struggled to obey. His head spun, and his mouth tasted foul. "What is it, Gracie?"
"You smell like a saloon."
"Did you wake me up at –" He picked up the little carriage clock on his nightstand and squinted at it. "—five-forty to tell me that?" He frowned at her crossly. His mother would likely try to drag him out of bed at eight for mass. Or maybe she'd be too angry to speak to him and leave him blessedly alone. He hoped so.
"No." Grace sat on the bed and waited for him to compose himself.
The sheets felt smooth and cool. With a jolt, Viggo realized he was naked. He pulled the bedclothes up to cover himself more modestly. He ventured a cautious glance down and saw his underwear piled atop his wrinkled trousers and shirt. One gleaming patent leather shoe crowned the pile.
"You must have had quite an evening," Grace said in a dry, amused voice.
"Archie and Thom and Alex and the rest of them – what a pack of idiots they are. And so am I, for thinking they'll ever be different." Viggo leaned against the headboard, a little unnerved by Grace's close scrutiny. "You're up with the birds." She had her pale-green suit on, and a straw hat with green feathers. "Early mass?"
"No. That's what I've come to tell you. I'm leaving."
"Leaving?" Viggo blinked. "What do you mean?"
Grace pointed at a suitcase. "I'm leaving home."
Viggo sat up. "What do you mean? You're – Grace, what's wrong? Has something happened?"
"No, I just – I can't be here any longer, Viggo." Her face crumpled for a moment. She took a deep breath, tilted her face toward the ceiling, and exhaled sharply. "I can't stay. I'm going back to Wilkes-Barre, and then Charlotte and I – we're going, the two of us. Maybe to Boston, or Providence. I'm not certain."
"I can't believe this. You're just going, like –" He reached out and caught her hands, small and strong in their crocheted gloves. "Grace, why?"
"Quiet!" she hissed. "Viggo, I heard what they said to you. I can't stay here, not in this house."
"But that's nothing to do with you. Don't worry about me – I can take care of myself."
"Oh, I know. I know that."
"Then why? I don't understand any of this."
Grace bit her lip. "That's very clear." She lifted his hands and squeezed them. "We're more alike than you realize, very much more. Viggo – Charlotte and I are leaving."
"Both of you?"
"Yes. Together." She peered at him, unblinking and serious.
"You and Charlotte. You and –" Viggo gasped. A thousand tiny fragments seemed to fall into place as neatly as a jigsaw puzzle, a thousand subtle hints that had always danced on the edge of his awareness. She was a girl! Surely girls didn't –
He stared at her, at her utter candor, at the truth in her words. "Oh, dear God."
"He sees the light. Alleluia," Grace said with a wry smile, then burst into tears.
"Grace. Gracie, don't." Despite his nakedness and what was likely an unpleasant sweat of alcohol, Viggo pulled her into a fierce hug. "Gracie, Gracie."
She clung to him. "I'm tired of crying, Viggo. Tired of pretending. Aren't you?"
"Yes. Yes." A hoarse sob broke from him, and they held each other tightly until the storm passed.
After a little while, she pulled away gently. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Viggo scrubbed his face with the sheet, and she laughed. "You're horrible. A girl would never do that."
Viggo grinned. "I know. Too dainty for me, girls." He sniffed and rubbed his eyes. "Gracie, why do you have to leave? Why now?"
"I have to." Grace twisted her handkerchief. "Please understand, Viggo. Please. I telephoned Charlotte –"
"Mother let you into the library?" Viggo snorted rueful laughter.
"Yes. I know. Charlotte's meeting me in Wilkes-Barre. You're the only person in the world I –" She glanced at the clock. "I have to go. I'm getting the seven o'clock train, and I have to walk to the station."
"I'll drive you."
"No. Please don't." She slid off the bed and smoothed her rumpled skirt. "I'll send for my trunks when we decide where we're going. Please…please don't say anything to Mother or Father about Charlotte."
"You know better than that. But they'll find out eventually, won't they? People gossip."
"Yes, but they'll never suspect the truth, a couple of maiden ladies living together. Nobody ever suspects the truth. You didn't." She smiled.
"And you knew…about me?"
"I hadn't thought it. It was Charlotte who suggested it, and I thought no, couldn't be. But then I thought again. At least I'll have good company in hell." It was her turn to laugh bitterly.
"You're an angel. I'm the one who's hell-bound." He shook his head. "The shock, I can't get over it. Grace, what'll I do without you?"
"Maybe you'll join us one day. You and Sean."
Viggo swallowed and stared down at the sheets.
Grace leaned down and kissed his stubbled cheek. "You need a shave. Give him my best. I'll write to you in Wilkes-Barre."
His arms went round her again. "Don't leave," he pleaded.
"Oh, Viggo –" She was crying again. "Good-bye." She tore free, picked up her suitcase, and fled, closing the door with a soft click.
Viggo stared at the closed door. His vision blurred, and he swiped at his nose with the back of his hand. She has more courage in her little finger than I do in my whole body. Besides Sean, Grace was his only ally, his only real friend.
He jumped out of bed, swayed, and righted himself unsteadily. He hurried to the window, pushed the curtains aside to raise the sash, and saw her walking down the long balcony, a lonely, gallant figure in the soft grey mists of early morning. "Grace!" he called softly. "Gracie!"
She looked up.
"I love you!"
She smiled and blew him a kiss. Despite the tears in his eyes, he still managed to catch it one-handed.
*
*
"Agnes, your invitations arrived today."
"Oh, why didn't you tell me, Mama?"
"We'll look them over after we finish dinner. I do wish Grace hadn't left so abruptly. I need to arrange a dress fitting for her. Viggo, did she say if she planned to be back this week?"
Viggo broke the edge off his bread and buttered it before replying. "No, Mother. She didn't."
"I see. Well, I suppose there's time enough."
In the aftermath of an unpleasant altercation, Viggo's mother chose to behave as if the incident hadn't occurred at all. That wasn't something that had changed with the surge in their fortunes; it had, in fact, become even more pronounced, Viggo realized. She had either chosen to believe Viggo's assertions, or at least to put her suspicions aside, but she hadn't bothered to apologize to him. Contrition was not in her nature, even after a lifetime of churchgoing and confession. She behaved with studied casualness even in the face of Viggo's sullen silence. For the past three days, he'd spoken to her only when absolutely necessary and had rarely looked her in the eye. To his father he had been somewhat warmer, but then Harald hadn't treated him with scorn and loathing. Viggo was hard-pressed to determine what his father thought about the matter, but short of asking him outright, it seemed impossible. Harald addressed Viggo in the same kindly manner he always had.
The butler appeared at Harald' elbow. "Telephone for you, sir. Urgent."
"At this hour?" Harald frowned and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "All right. Excuse me, Katie. Children."
Viggo watched his father's retreating figure with some complacency and thought of yesterday's brief telephone conversation with Sean. To think Sean had dined with the detectives who were investigating him! He could have charmed the birds from the trees. Viggo had wanted to tell Sean about the letter, and about Grace's departure, but the wire crackled so loudly he would have had to shout the news, and they'd have heard it clear across the house. That night, he'd written a long letter and had posted it himself this morning. The telephone call had cheered him, as had writing, but he was even more firmly resolved to return to Wilkes-Barre as soon as possible.
It didn't matter that he'd likely face a battery of ostracism, that Chester Welles and Harriet McHugh would cut him on the street, that he'd hear pointed and vicious whispers from most directions. He'd work hard and soberly, and show his father that a profit could be humanely made in the coal industry. Once he and Sean had accomplished that, who knew what would come next? The notion of leaving had lingered long past his drunken euphoria of a few nights before. Grace and Charlotte had escaped, why shouldn't he and Sean do the same?
"Would you like us to invite Charlotte to the wedding, Viggo?"
"I beg your pardon?" Nonplussed, Viggo stared at his mother.
"I asked if you'd like us to invite Charlotte to the wedding."
"If you like." Good God, was she still matchmaking?
Katherine turned to Agnes. "I had the most charming letter from her mother. And Grace says she's a truly beautiful girl."
Agnes beamed. "Well, if you've been squiring her all over Wilkes-Barre, Viggo, then we certainly must invite her."
"That would be fine. I'm sure Grace will be pleased too. They're great chums." Viggo suppressed a grin. Only now did he realize how smitten he'd been with Sean, too smitten to notice his sister's extraordinary attachment to Charlotte. She'd always been slow to make friends, but she and Charlotte had got along instantly. Had they maneuvered for solitude the way he and Sean had? Of course, all those trips to Harvey's Lake, just the two of them. For a moment he imagined them as lovers. How did they – Oh, good God! It wasn't decent to think about. He envied them, though. Grace had been right; no one would question them. Maiden ladies lived together all the time, much more frequently than bachelor gentlemen. Was it possible that all those maiden ladies, all those bachelor gentlemen were with their life's companions? It was a tantalizing thought, however unlikely.
Harald returned to the dining room and sat in his chair with a thump. One of the footmen moved behind him to ease his chair to the table, but Harald waved his hand with an abrupt anger that caught Viggo's attention. "Father? What is it?"
Harald was pale and drawn. He lifted his wine goblet and upended it into his mouth. The footman came forward to pour, and Harald wheeled on him. "Get away, man! For Christ's sake!"
Katherine and Agnes ceased their conversation. "Harald?"
Harald put his hands over his face for a moment, then addressed Viggo. "The Lynwood colliery. There's been an explosion."
"Oh, no…were there men hurt? Killed?"
"Five dead. So far. More missing." Harald took the wine bottle himself and poured himself a full glass. "That was Gavin on the telephone. He tells me it was deliberate, like as not."
"Agitators," declared Katherine.
Viggo glanced anxiously at his mother and turned to Harald once more. "Is there an investigation? When did it happen?"
"This morning. The county inspectors were there today, but until all the debris has been cleared, it's impossible for them to make any firm decisions." The haze of shock seemed to clear, and he focused his attention on Viggo. "I understand the outside foreman was abruptly dismissed. A man called Slater."
"Why – is that so?" Viggo bit the inside of his cheek. He couldn't say he already knew.
"Yes. And he had some dealings with those detective fellows from Leeds. Or so Gavin said. Said this Slater had cause to be unhappy, maybe mischievous. And he's got the backing of a great many of the miners. Gavin said he attacked your clerk." Harald peered at Viggo. "Why would that be?"
Viggo could have cheerfully throttled Gavin. "Harry Slater and Sean both lived in Winsley. But what connection they might have beyond that –" He shrugged. "Sean worked in the brickyards. Slater worked in the mines." He was becoming an old hand at deceitfulness, with nary a twinge of remorse.
"Gavin tells me that Slater's the union representative."
"So I understand."
"I'm going to hire a contingent of the Coal & Iron Police."
"Father, no!" Viggo threw his napkin on the table. "We don't know that this is the work of agitators. If it is, you might only anger them – provoke them into further action. Let me go back to Wilkes-Barre. I'll meet with the union men. Perhaps some concessions would –"
"Concessions?" Harald shook his head. "Listen to yourself. Listen to reason, for God's sake. Don't you see I'm in for it either way? If it was an accident, I'll have the Mine Safety Commission on my back. If it was deliberate, I look like a weakling if I give in to them."
"But the Coal & Iron Police, Father…they're nothing but a pack of hired toughs. The moment you permit them to use force, they'll run roughshod over the miners, the innocent and the guilty alike."
Harald sat quietly for a few moments. Viggo watched him, not daring to interrupt his thoughts, hoping his father would eventually incline toward decency.
At last Harald sighed. "I'm sorry, son. I'm going to have to go back on my word."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm closing the mine for a time. And I shall send Nathaniel King to Wilkes-Barre to supervise."
"Father, you can't. You can't put those men out of work." Viggo paused. "What do you mean – supervise?"
"It was wrong of me," Harald said heavily, "to send you out there with so little experience."
An unbelieving laugh escaped before Viggo could prevent it. "You're dismissing me?"
Harald fixed his gaze on his plate. "I'm sorry, Viggo. I've already telephoned Nathaniel. He's leaving on the five o'clock train tomorrow morning."
"But…I'm not incompetent, Father. I've made a greater profit. I've – Sean and I have put the office in order. It was a shambles, didn't you know that? For God's sake, Father, don't dismiss me as if it were just some silly game. Let me help to make things right."
"Stop it!" Katherine's voice was a whipcrack in the hushed elegance of the dining room. "Will you stop it? I don't want to hear one more word about that young man. As far as I'm concerned, he's likely the cause of all this trouble. Harald, I want you to dismiss him. He's a criminal. I don't want him an employee of Mortensen Coal when he's hauled back to England. Have you any idea how that will look? Telephone Mr. King and have him dismissed now, before there's more trouble."
Viggo turned on his mother. "None of this is Sean's fault."
"I knew you'd defend him." Katherine's eyes brimmed with contempt. "I knew it. You didn't fool me at all."
"Oh, for Christ's sake! I wish you could hear yourself, Mother."
"What? Tell me, you impertinent young man. Tell me. How do I sound?"
Viggo stared at her coldly. "Triumphant."
"Triumphant?" Katherine laughed, a high, spiraling sound, like crystal splintering. "Oh, yes, I'm happy to see my son admit that he's a…a catamite. Oh, I'm just delighted. Your sister's wedding will be utterly ruined, and we'll be drummed out of decent society because of you, but why should I worry?" The brittle laugh erupted again. "And he's filled your head with these ridiculous socialist ideals, too. I won't stand by and watch you give away everything your father's slaved for."
"Sean's far more cautious and conservative than I. You haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about." Viggo clenched his hands. "You're so concerned about what people think, Mother? How will it look when the Coal & Iron Police beat and kill a number of innocent miners and perhaps their families too, at the behest of Mortensen Coal? Won't we look like fine upstanding citizens? Whatever will the neighbors say?"
Agnes gaped at him, then at Katherine. Harald sat with his head in his hands. The two footmen and the butler appeared to be doing their utmost to become invisible.
"I'm not talking about that and you know it!" Katherine rose to her feet. All pretense of gentility was gone; her face was flushed, her eyes wide with rage. She directed a glare at the butler and footmen. "Get out!" Once they had fled, she returned her attention to Viggo. "Your father is going to dismiss that young man and provide whatever evidence necessary to see that he's returned to England. And you are not going to Wilkes-Barre. You're going to stay here where we can keep an eye on you, and you're not going to offer one word of argument. Do you hear me? Not one."
"You can't be serious."
"Try my patience and see."
"I won't, thank you." Viggo pushed back his chair and stood.
"Where do you think you're going?" Katherine demanded.
"You don't think I'm going to stay in this house one more minute, do you? I'm going back to Wilkes-Barre."
"Viggo—" Harald said.
"Don't worry, Father. I won't interfere with the colliery. I just want to collect my things. Then I'll be out of your way."
"Out of the way? Viggo, wait."
"And where'll you go?" Katherine inquired. "If you think you're going to receive one penny –"
"Katie," Harald said in a soft voice, "that's enough. Sit you down, now."
"Harald!"
Harald extended his hand, palm up, in a last appeal. "Viggo, I wish you wouldn't go. I know this…all this is a misunderstanding, like as not. Stay here. You can come to England with us, if you wish, and you can meet…young ladies. A change of scenery is what's needed, perhaps."
"I can't stay here, Father." Viggo pushed his chair toward the table. "I'm sorry. I'll stay in a hotel tonight, and leave for Philadelphia in the morning. I'll get Josiah to drive me into the city."
"Well, perhaps we can send you somewhere else for the summer. The Adirondacks or the seaside. Would you like that?"
Viggo gazed stonily at his father. Katherine thought his inclinations would be cured by keeping him under house arrest. Harald believed he could cure them by sending him away. What an absurd dance all this was. "No. But thank you." He looked at his mother. "And I don't require your money."
"Viggo, anything I have is yours," Harald said. "You needn't even ask."
He should have expected this sooner or later. It was too much, he realized, to ask his parents to accept his predilections. He never thought to have to fight his own family for common dignity, though; it cut to the heart. "Thank you all the same," he said. "Sorry, Agnes. I hope I haven't spoiled your wedding."
Viggo mounted the stairs slowly, half hoping that someone would come after him and tell him all was forgiven. He looked back over his shoulder, but there was no one; he was alone.
*
"Hello?" Viggo paused at the top of the staircase of the Franklin Street house, faintly annoyed that no one had greeted him. He hoped that his brief stay in Philadelphia hadn't tainted him with his family's ridiculous and overweening notions of entitlement. Even the younger children had acquired it, he'd noticed; they'd ignored the servants as if they were furniture, and addressed them only when necessary, and with a bored hauteur that infuriated him. It was as if they'd known their extraordinary privilege since birth, so easily did they slip on the mantle of wealth. When he'd tried to correct them, they'd only stared at him as if he were speaking some peculiar foreign tongue.
Still, a greeting would have been pleasant. He supposed that they were out and about, doing errands or enjoying the beautiful late-July weather. He couldn't say they'd neglected the house, as it was immaculate. He was feeling lonely, and tired from his journey. After a cool bath and some lunch, he'd be himself again.
"Pearce? Noreen?" Frowning, he went down the hall to his room. He was happy to see that the room was tidy and aired. The windows were open, and screens had been set into the sills. It was hot, but not unbearable. He began to undress, placing each piece of discarded clothing onto a chair.
The train had broken down near Bethlehem, and he'd been obliged to spend the night in a dingy hotel. He'd chafed at the delay, but it had given him time to think as well. His departure had been perhaps too hasty. Maybe there was time to repair the breach. He intended to meet with Mr. King at the office and persuade him that his services were still needed. He had met the man on a few occasions; King was a bit stuffy and phlegmatic, but not, Viggo suspected, altogether intractable. He might see reason, given time and the opportunity to realize that Viggo and Sean's contributions had been worthwhile. He hoped that King hadn't dismissed Sean. It would be some time before he could forgive his mother for that spate of viciousness.
His long, sleepless night at the hotel had had the dual effect of settling his mind and churning up his emotions. He was as eager as ever to see Sean – two weeks without him had been dreadful – but his family's disfavor gnawed at him. They'd always been contentious, the lot of them, and noisily so, but there had never been anything so terrible it had split them asunder. That he had been the source of the rift caused him no little guilt. Surely there had to be a way to mend things. Perhaps the only solution was leaving; perhaps his absence would soften their hearts. One thing was certain: he'd not give Sean up, even if it meant losing his family's affection.
Naked, Viggo walked to the little mahogany secretary in the corner where his mail was stacked in a neat pile. At the very top was a folded and wax-sealed note in Michael's distinctive back-slanting script. He broke the seal and read:
Viggo,
Mother is in a perfect fit. She sent me a telegram insisting that I speak to you. I didn't know you'd gone home. For that matter, I hardly knew you'd gone as I see you so infrequently. What have you done, old chum? Come to the rectory when you have a moment. Or shall I come to you? I'm free for dinner Monday evening.
M.
The note was dated the previous day, the nineteenth. Viggo sighed, laid it on the secretary, and shrugged into his dressing gown. The very last complication he needed was Michael lecturing him on the evils of relations with men. Of all the awkward scenarios! Did his mother want him to confess? He'd have died before he went to Michael for confession; on the infrequent occasions when he did go, he used St. Nicholas down the street from St. Mary's. The priests there were far sterner than Michael, but their stringent penances were infinitely preferable to listing his sins to his brother. And if he never told the priests at St. Nicholas that he engaged in intimate congress with another man, he certainly wasn't going to tell Michael. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned; it's been three weeks since my last confession. I've buggered my male secretary and fallen in love with him besides.
He wondered what Katherine had written. Clearly she hadn't been too explicit. He pictured the telegram she had likely wanted to send:
YOUR BROTHER VIGGO CATAMITE STOP SPEAK TO HIM IMMEDIATELY STOP MOTHER
He laughed despite his irritation and went to run himself a bath.
*
Viggo turned the key in the lock and opened the office door. Sean must have had it repaired; the pin that had squeaked now rolled silently in its hinge. "Sean?"
There was no forthcoming reply. Viggo closed the door and went into the office, noting with dismay that it seemed to be utterly deserted. He tried again. "Sean?"
Silence greeted him. "Damnation." His enthusiasm at seeing Sean thwarted, he went to his desk and thumped into the chair. Idly, he leafed through the paperwork on the desk. Evidently Mr. King had been at work already, for the mail had been sorted, the month's ledger was sitting open to July, and the other items that had lain in careless profusion were stacked or tidied in little groups. Viggo picked up a pretty piece of quartz that Sean had found in Bear Creek. It had had pride of place on the desk; now it was on the far corner with his fountain pen and a small malachite clock that Michael had given him. Viggo frowned. It hadn't taken King long at all to make himself comfortable, had it? More importantly, where was Sean? Dismissed already?
He went to Sean's desk, searching for clues. Sean's space was in apple-pie order as usual. He found no correspondence, notes, or ledger entries dated later than Tuesday. He did find Sean's notes pertaining to his visit to Peter Halloran, and took them to his own desk to look them over.
The telephone jangled, and Viggo picked it up. "Hello?"
Static hissed on the wire, and then a female voice said, "I'm sorry, the party has rung off."
"Never mind, then," Viggo said. "Thank you." He set the instrument down and gazed at it. Perhaps Sean was at the mine with King. Eagerly, he grasped the telephone and rang for the exchange. "Lynwood 1020, please." He waited, full of anticipatory warmth.
"I'm sorry, there is no answer."
"I see. Thank you. Goodbye." Viggo rang off glumly. He'd hoped to take Sean to lunch at the Sterling Hotel. Mr. King too, if necessary. He was getting hungrier by the moment, and irritable. He'd take himself to lunch, and then go to the boarding house to look for Sean. He paged through Sean's notes, taking solace in his handwriting and the terse style he'd come to know as well as his own.
He was so absorbed that he hardly noticed the passage of time. The doorbell shrilled, and Viggo looked at the clock, startled. One-thirty! No wonder he was famished. He got up and went to the door. It swung open easily, revealing Harry Slater and a large, fair man standing behind him.
Viggo raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Slater."
Harry Slater removed his cap. "Afternoon, Mr. Mortensen. I wonder if I might have a word."
"What about?" Viggo was in no mood to be polite, and if Sean's suspicions were correct, Slater was a murderer. "I don't think I have anything to say to you. If you've come to plead for reinstatement, I'm afraid you'll find me rather hard-hearted. I understand you attacked Mr. Bean without provocation."
"He made some terrible accusations, sir. I defended myself." Slater shook his head. "And now the mine's shut down, on account of the accident. The men are starting to grumble. I came to see if there wasn't a way to work things out reasonably, before matters get out of hand."
Viggo didn't answer at once. He shifted his gaze to the man with Slater. His blondness and height seemed familiar. "And who are you, please?"
"Tom Gwynnett, sir. I came to see if you had a job for me, maybe. Harry said you were a kind fellow."
Viggo sighed. "Very well. Come in. I only have a few moments, though." He turned and went into the office, resuming his place behind the desk. His stomach protested its deprivation. It seemed as though lunch would elude him altogether today. "Well, Mr. Slater? Speak your piece."
"It's like this, sir." Harry glanced at Gwynnett, who stood just over the threshold. "Like I said before, Sean made some nasty accusations. Insinuated I'd been a party to murder back in England. Maybe you know something about it."
"If you're referring to the murder of Frederick Watkins, yes," Viggo said. He folded his arms and offered Harry a very cool stare. "The detectives came to my parents' home in Philadelphia, and I spoke to them briefly. It seems to me that you overreacted if Sean accused you of anything. Particularly if you're innocent."
Harry exchanged another look with Gwynnett. "Well, that's just it, sir." He laid his cap on the desk and clasped his hands behind his back. "The thing is, you've got…well, the coppers would call it incriminating evidence, and I'm going to need it."
"I haven't the slightest idea what you're talking about," Viggo replied icily, though a faint prickle of apprehension crawled down his spine at Harry's tone. Letting him in had been a mistake.
"Oh, I think you do, sir." Harry brought a pistol from behind his back and pointed it at Viggo. "Now…hands up, please. Wouldn't want to hurt you."
Apprehension curdled into terror. Viggo stared at the weapon in horrified fascination and slowly lifted his hands. "Don't be a fool, Slater. Are you going to shoot me here, in broad daylight?" He marveled at the steadiness of his voice.
"I've done worse, you bloody molly." Harry smiled gently and cocked the pistol. "Much worse. Now stand up or I'll shove this up your arse before I shoot you."
Viggo calculated quickly. The blond hulking man still stood in the threshold of the office, his posture alert and eager. The windows were closed; it was unlikely that anyone would hear Viggo if he shouted for help, and Harry might well shoot him if he tried to cry out. What a fool he was. He had to cooperate now, and hope that Harry left him alive.
"Come on, you. Up."
"All right." Viggo rose to his feet, his hands still raised, and walked around the desk. He watched Harry's face rather than the weapon, and saw dark, brilliant malice and glee churning in his eyes. "What is it you want?"
"Open the safe."
Viggo walked to the safe, which sat below a pretty, bosky landscape of the Wyoming Valley. He stared at the heavy gilt frame. Was it heavy enough to knock Harry out if he brought it round quickly?
Harry seemed to anticipate his thoughts, for he took a step backward. "Kneel down nice and slow, Mr. Mortensen."
Viggo knelt on the floor. He spun the dial on the outer door of the safe, grasped the handles, and twisted it open. It held five cabinets, each with its own separate lock. "I…I don't remember them all."
Harry laughed shortly and pushed the barrel of the weapon into Viggo's ear. "Will that help?"
"All right – all right." Viggo wet his lips, tasting salt. His fingers slid over the dials, but he managed to open them and remove the contents to hand them to Gwynnett, who had come over to investigate.
"I'm looking for a letter, Tom," Harry said. "One or more. Hand-written. Never mind that typed stuff." As Gwynnett leafed through the documents, letting them fall to the floor, Harry prodded Viggo with the weapon again. "Go on."
"Get that thing out of my ear," Viggo muttered through his teeth.
"You want it up your arse, do you?" Harry grasped a handful of Viggo's hair and yanked his head back, jamming the pistol beneath his chin. "You know what I did to Freddy? Did they tell you?"
"No." How pathetically weak his voice sounded. Brutally murdered, the detectives had said. Brutally. That meant more than a simple bullet wound. It meant pain and suffering and desperate fear. Terror weakened his legs, and he would have swayed if Harry's grasp on him hadn't been so painful. "No."
"Pray you don't find out. Keep opening those drawers."
Viggo obeyed, praying for help and trying to conquer the sudden trembling of his hands. A dreadful awakening sank its roots into the depth of his heart and held fast. Had Harry done something to hurt Sean? He would not voice the question for fear of the answer, but rage began to eclipse his fear, and he jerked open the last drawer, withdrew two large handfuls of cash, and thrust them into Gwynnett's waiting hands.
"Whooee! Look at this. How much is here?" Gwynnett asked.
"About two thousand dollars," Viggo snapped. "Why don't you take it and get out?"
"Not so fast, lad," Harry said. "No letter. Sean was telling the truth. Now that's a shame for you, I should say."
"How did you know I'd be here?"
"Why, that was easy enough, sir." Harry caressed the last word, all pretense at respect stripped away. "I telephoned your house in Philadelphia, said I was from the mine. The fellow who answered said you were headed back here. So we waited for you. Easy enough."
"What have you done with Sean?"
Harry laughed. "Sean? Not a blessed thing."
Viggo clenched his fists helplessly. "Liar."
"No, it's true. I don't know where he is. But when I find him…." Harry released Viggo's hair and made a cutting motion across his throat. "If he hasn't run off like a scared little rabbit, that is. In fact, I had a notion that he went to see you."
Was that possible? If it were true, his parents would run Sean out of town on a rail. Viggo's heart sank. "You have the money. You could live the rest of your life on that. If you go now, I won't tell the police what's happened."
"Oh, no, Vig me lad. You've a lot more than this."
"I assure you, I don't."
"Not here, maybe. But in your dad's banks – plenty more, I should think, eh? I think your dad would pay a pretty penny to make sure you were safe, wouldn't he? Now, on your feet. You can come quietly, or you can kick up a fuss and we'll give you a sore head. What do you say, lad?"
Viggo rose to his feet, staring at the awful black bore of the pistol. Gwynnett was still counting the cash, chuckling to himself, and Harry Slater was grinning at him. Viggo calculated for an instant, then fixed his eyes on the doorway and let out a gasp of relief and joy, as if someone had come to the rescue.
The ruse worked. Harry and Gwynnett both wheeled around. Viggo sprang forward, knocking Harry off his feet, and dashed toward the double doors.
"Stop him!" Harry roared.
God help me! Viggo's perspiring fingers fumbled with the knob. He cursed under his breath and finally managed to yank it open. Pushing the door outward, he threw himself forward and stumbled to his knees. There was a horrid cracking noise, and instantaneous blinding pain.
Three little girls jumping rope stopped to stare at him. Viggo struggled to catch his breath. One healthy yell, and the girls would run for their parents – he hoped. A hand grasped the back of his coat and dragged him inside. For one endless moment, he locked eyes with one of the little girls, then he was pulled back into the house. He opened his mouth to cry out, but a blow to his stomach drove the air from his lungs. The door slammed shut.
Gwynnett wrenched Viggo's arm behind his back and dragged him back into the office. Viggo clawed at the man's other arm, locked around his neck. He kicked viciously, heedless of the pain in his knee, but it availed him nothing.
Harry Slater stood before him, face white, mouth writhing with rage. He held the gun by the barrel and smashed it into Viggo's jaw.
Viggo sagged in Gwynnett's arms. Through a red haze of agony, he felt himself lowered to the floor. The carpet was rough against his face, and the throbbing in his knee and jaw was excruciating. He tried to push himself up and received a kick in his ribs for his efforts. He fell again. The pain was enough to make him want to vomit. He heard voices, deep and dragging.
---Do with him now? Can't take
---With us. Carpet. It's
---Quiet.
Viggo fought to understand what the words meant. His arms were wrenched behind his back. Someone was pulling at his coat. He lifted his aching head and called for help, but something was smothering him. His coat, wrapped round his head, the smell of orange water and his own sweat. He couldn't breathe properly. He shouted again.
---Shut him up before
Something crashed against his temple hard enough to send him spiraling into blackness.
TBC.....
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2013-05-01 05:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 06:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 06:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 06:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 06:20 am (UTC)I must say that I adored this part, because it is so painful and probably true:
He wondered if they called him names when he wasn't around: mick, bogtrotter, paddy, mackerel-snapper, potato-eater. He'd heard them use the words before, mocking the immigrants huddled together in their sagging tenements, hanging clotheslines between buildings, wearing the rough homespun of their native Ireland, speaking in the thick accent they thought risible. What would they have said if he'd confronted them? Oh, we don't mean you, Vig. Not you.
It's sad that Grace left, but I'm glad for her at the same time. It's nice to see the siblings finally come to an understanding and no more lies.
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Date: 2013-05-01 06:42 am (UTC)I'm glad you liked that bit. I've heard that hypocrisy more than once in my life, for various reasons.
Grace is brave, and it was good to get them on the same page. Thank you so much!
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Date: 2013-05-01 08:48 am (UTC)Oh, my poor Viggo!
I am so glad that he and Grace have each other and know now how much they have in common apart from their family relationship, even though Viggo is alone and in big trouble right now.
Come on Sean and resue him, please.
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Date: 2013-05-02 01:39 am (UTC)Can't wait to read your newest, btw!
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Date: 2013-05-01 09:53 am (UTC)Poor Grace..but she is lucky in that respect, maiden ladies living together is perfectly correct! At least Mother and Harald have one 'straight' daughter (I HOPE!)
Oh god, Slater has admitted, and Gwynnett heard it... so he might be useful about chapter 998!!!! dammit. DId Sean take the letter, or has Viggo hidden it elsewhere, can't remember....aaoh ohh dear oh dear.
But How in HELL is Sean going to find out about Viggo's kidnapping and get reinforcements from the mine to rescue him and sort that Slater??? aaannnnddddaaaarrrghhhhhh oh god, hurry hurry.
And please, don't hurt Vig's lovely jawline.... god that HURT!
and the pic of 15 Streets Bean.. perfect! absolutely - no wonder Viggo fell in love with THAT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
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Date: 2013-05-02 01:38 am (UTC)Yeah, the rest of the kids are straight.
Here's hoping Sean or someone can come to the rescue soon! Trouble's definitely afoot. Glad you like the pic! I wanted to make one ages ago but I didn't have the resources until I got back to my house.
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Date: 2013-05-01 10:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-02 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 12:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-02 01:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 06:49 pm (UTC)Charlotte might come to the rescue yet! yikes!
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Date: 2013-05-02 01:41 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-01 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-02 01:42 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-02 09:02 pm (UTC)I had my suspicious about the girls - it's great that they're going to defy everyone to be together. I hope the same for Sean and Viggo.
(Fabulous photographs!)
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Date: 2013-05-03 01:37 am (UTC)I'm glad you like the photos! :D Thank you. Such handsome lads.
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Date: 2013-05-06 03:59 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-06 04:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-05-23 04:20 pm (UTC)That NEEDS to be made into a Sharpe fic! He used to work at an Inn as the stableboy!!! *gets down on knees* *does puppy eyes* and *BEGS*
And Riflemen needed to march with Sean to rescue Viggo here...
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Date: 2013-05-23 07:04 pm (UTC)