FIC: The Need of Comrades [chapter 16/17]

[splix]

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





*

The nun behind the sweeping marble desk of Mercy Hospital was young, pink-cheeked, and uncommonly pretty. Sean, newly bathed and shaved, doffed his hat and gave her a grave nod. "Pardon, miss," he began, uncertain as to how one should address a nun. "I'm here to see Mr. Viggo Mortensen."

"It's supper time," the nun said in a thick Irish accent. "We can't have the patients disturbed at supper time."

"He's expecting me, I think."

"Is he now? Well, I'll look. What's your name?"

"Sean Bean."

The young nun picked up a thick sheaf of papers and flipped through it. "Right. Here you are. Follow me, then, Mr. Bean." She strode round the desk and beckoned with a finger. "This way."

Sean followed her up three flights of stone stairs and through a bewildering array of corridors that were spotlessly clean, blinding white, and smelled of carbolic soap. She stopped at a door that seemed indistinguishable from any other and knocked.

"Come in."

A foolish grin spread across Sean's face at the sound of Viggo's voice. The nun turned the knob and waved a hand. "Go on, Mr. Bean. You're not permitted to stay for more than an hour."

"Thanks, love. Sorry – miss. Thanks." He pushed open the door and stopped.

Viggo looked up from the book on a tray table. When he saw Sean, his habitual expression of affability slipped, and some of the color drained from his face. "Sean."

"Are you all right, Viggo?"

"All right? I'm alive because of you." Viggo's eyes brightened, and he held his arms out. "Come here." In three steps Sean was across the room. He pushed the wheeled tray table away and took Viggo in his arms. Viggo wrapped his arms around Sean and squeezed weakly. "My blasted arms still aren't working properly," he murmured, his lips against Sean's ear.

"I love you."

Viggo laughed and rested his head on Sean's shoulder. "I love you. I thought I'd never see you again."

"Aye, but I'm right here." Sean took Viggo's face in his hands and examined him. Thinner, bruised, violet hollows beneath the eyes, but still the same dear face he'd missed so much. He gathered Viggo into his arms again and held him, kissing his neck, breathing in his scent. Viggo's body began to tremble against his, and his face hidden against Sean's chest, his arms wrapped around Sean's body. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Sean received no reply, but the trembling became a violent shaking, and a choked, scarcely audible sob forced its way out of Viggo's throat. All at once Sean understood. Wordlessly, his own tears clouding his vision, he wrapped his arms tighter round Viggo's shuddering body and rocked him back and forth, kissing his hair, waiting for the storm to pass.

By and by, it did. Viggo's trembling ceased, and he drew away, clumsily swiping at his eyes with bandaged hands. "Sorry," he rasped.

"Don't be daft." Sean fumbled a handkerchief out and blew his nose.

Viggo grinned. "No, of course not. Sit," he said, patting the bed.

"I don't want to crowd you." Sean took a chair and drew it close. He went to take Viggo's hand and scowled down at the bandages. "What's this, then?"

"Nerve damage, they say. I'm not sure I'll get the use of them back." Viggo shrugged. "It could be worse."

Sean traced the green and gold paisley swirls of Viggo's dressing gown. "It were my fault, Viggo. My fault all this happened. I have to tell you what –"

"Hush," Viggo said. "You don't have to." He fell silent for the span of a few heartbeats. "Harry told me."

"I should have bloody done it!" Sean cried. He couldn't meet Viggo's eyes. "Then he wouldn't have mucked things up at the colliery, and you'd not have been harmed, and your dad wouldn't be out a lifetime of money. God almighty, I should have bloody killed him when I had the chance."

"But you didn't. You're no murderer."

"I planned to, though. It were only that I went lily-livered at the last minute."

"Because you're good at heart, my dear man. Don't you see?"

"I'm not, though." Sean met Viggo's frank and open gaze. "I'm not. If Harry had killed you, I'd have hunted him down and cut his throat. And I'd have been glad to do it."

"There were moments when I would have killed him myself, if I'd been able. Well, I'm happy to be alive, if only because you don't have murder on your soul."

Sean sighed. "You're too good for me, Viggo Mortensen. You deserve someone better, more like you."

"That's a pity, because you're stuck with me, Sean Bean. For good, I hope." Viggo stroked Sean's cheek. "What happened to you? Why the bruises?"

"Nowt. A scrape at the jail, is all." Sean sat back and let his gaze rove over the room. "Got a room all to yourself, I see." He smiled. "Lap of luxury."

"Ha. I've been living on tea and broth. I'm almost ready to gnaw my own arm off, I'm so hungry, but they say I can't eat solid food yet."

"Oh, aye?"

"Digestive woes," Viggo said with a grin. "The less you know, the better." He pointed to a glass, half-full of amber liquid, on the bedside table. "Can you help me with that?"

Sean laughed. "Beer?"

"Alas, no. Ginger ale." Viggo leaned forward, sipped through the candy-striped straw, and settled back against the pillows. "I've been begging for ice cream. I have the worst craving for it."

"Maybe I can sneak a bit in."

"I'd be indebted for life. I suppose it's not good for my stomach, though." Viggo sighed. "Do you know, I can't seem to get enough of looking at you? When you found me, I didn't believe I was actually seeing you. I thought I was dreaming."

"You—" Sean shook his head and wet dry lips. "You weren't yourself."

"Sean," Viggo said quietly. "How did you ever summon the courage to look for me?"

"I had to. Christ, Viggo, I couldn't leave you down there."

"The police would have found me. Pearce came to see me. He said they were on their way, and the police chief said that Mr. King had expressed his concern also. Why on earth would you go underground on your own?"

"I love you, you silly bugger," Sean snapped. "You'd do the same bloody thing, and you know it."

"Do you know how brave you are?"

"I'm not," Sean muttered. "I near pissed myself."

"You are," Viggo insisted. "Kiss me."

Sean rose and leaned over Viggo, resting his hands on either side of him. He bent lower and planted a soft kiss on Viggo's lips, careful of the rawness at the corners of his mouth. Inexpressible joy and gratitude surged through him. He'd have been lost without Viggo.

"More," Viggo whispered, and wrapped his arms round Sean's neck, pulling him closer. His bandaged hands touched Sean's hair, the nape of his neck, the delicate bump at the top of his spine. "Thank you." His lips were soft against Sean's ear. "Thank you."

Sean slipped a hand behind Viggo's head and kissed him again. "I don't want to hurt you."

"You can't hurt me."

Sean pressed his lips to the strong pulse in Viggo's neck, then kissed his earlobe. He let his hands roam, parting the front of the green and gold dressing gown and kissing the little constellation of pale freckles on Viggo's collarbone. Grasping the lapels of the gown, he leaned his head against Viggo's shoulder. "If I'd lost you, I don't know what I –"

Viggo stopped his mouth with a kiss. "But I'm right here." He gave a shuddering sigh. "Perhaps we'd better stop. Can you imagine what would happen if one of the nurses came in and saw us? Especially some of the older ones – their hearts might give out."

"Aye. Can't have that." Sean sat down again, but held a scrap of Viggo's dressing gown in one tight fist. "Just as well. I reckon they'd throw me out and not let me back in."

"That wouldn't be at all acceptable." Viggo smiled, but the shadows beneath his eyes had deepened, and his body seemed to sag with exhaustion.

"I should go. I expect I've overstayed my time here."

"I wish you could stay."

"I'll come back tomorrow. I've plenty of free time now," Sean replied with a rueful grin.

"Oh, dear. Do you need money? I could write a bank draft if I had my book. We've got to do something about –"

"I don't need owt," Sean said firmly. There was no point in tiring Viggo further with a recitation of his job and housing woes. "You rest."

"Sean…he murdered Gavin. Right in front of me. He…it was dreadful." Sorrow and horror weighted Viggo's voice.

"They'll find him, Viggo. He won't bother you again, I promise."

"I'm not afraid for myself." Viggo sank further into the pillows. His lips were colorless. "If he comes looking for revenge, it's you I'm worried about."

"Don't worry. Them detectives went after him. Stubborn bastards, they are. They'll find him if they have to lift up every rock west of the Susquehanna." Sean lifted Viggo's bandaged hand and kissed it tenderly, then laid it back on the bed. He got to his feet and kissed the pale forehead. "You sleep – I'll be back tomorrow."

Viggo acquiesced with a tired nod. "All right. You promise you'll come back?"

"Promise."

"One more kiss." Viggo's voice was thickening with sleep.

Sean bent and kissed Viggo's parted lips. He drew himself away with an effort and went to the door. When he looked back, Viggo was already asleep. Smiling, he let himself out.

He found his way downstairs without too much effort. Maybe wandering around the pit had improved his bump of location. He nodded thanks to the young nun at the desk, and trotted to the door, light-hearted. He stopped and opened the door for a woman entering, and froze.

Katherine Mortensen swept through the door trailing pale grey skirts, then halted in her tracks. Slowly, she swiveled her head until she met Sean's eyes. Her own, so like Viggo's, widened, then narrowed until they were glittering pinpoints of hostility. She lifted her chin, and the plumes on her hat dipped in obeisance. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was cold and precise, with none of the ragged desperation it had carried in Philadelphia.

Sean felt his face becoming warm, but he held his ground. "I came to see Viggo."

Mrs. Mortensen regarded Sean with absolute disdain. "Viggo insists that you had nothing to do with his recent ordeal. He claims that you rescued him."

"Aye, I found him down the pit," Sean said.

"And yet I understand that you're well acquainted with Harry Slater, the man Viggo accuses."

"I'm acquainted with him as a troublemaker and a murdering bastard, if that's what you mean," Sean retorted, forgetting his manners too late.

Rough language appeared to have no effect upon Mrs. Mortensen. She tilted her head to one side. "I see." She examined him a moment longer, holding Sean captive by sheer force of will. "I'm grateful for the service you've rendered my son, Mr. Bean," she said, as if she were thanking Sean for delivering a parcel. "You may consider your duty discharged. My husband wishes to deposit a sum into your bank account, enough to keep you comfortably for some time. After this is done, I expect you to leave Wilkes-Barre."

"I'm not bloody going anywhere," Sean said. He bit his tongue before he could tell Mrs. Mortensen where she could put her comfortable sum. "And you can't keep Viggo caged up for the rest of his life. He's had enough of being in prison."

Mrs. Mortensen's face was white beneath its tender pats of rouge. "You are a deplorable young man. I shan't repeat myself. Good night." She turned on her heel and moved into the hospital lobby without giving Sean a second look.

Shaken, Sean went down the stairs and glared at a carriage driver who sat in his hack at the curb, watching him. "What are you bleeding looking at?" The cab driver shrugged and craned his neck upward, examining the darkening sky.

*



Boiled chicken had never been high on Viggo's list of favorite foods, but as Sister Patrick Eileen whisked the top of the tray away, presenting the small platter of evenly cut cubes of pale meat along with a soggy puddle of mashed potatoes, Viggo found his mouth watering. "A repast for kings," he said with a broad smile, awkwardly unfolding a stiff, starched napkin onto his lap.

The little nun was impervious to Viggo's charm. "And you're to eat it slowly, so. No point in having it all come back up again." She planted herself in the chair next to Viggo's bed. "Up straight, let it go down properly. I've got my eye on you, boyo."

Viggo dipped his head in mock humility. "I'll be good, I promise." A doubtful snort was his only response. He speared up a chunk of chicken and put it in his mouth.

"Hold on there, lad. What are you doing, shoveling it in without thanking the Lord?" the nun demanded.

"Oh – sorry," mumbled Viggo. Hastily, he swallowed, laid down his fork, and folded his hands. "For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen." He peered timidly at the nun, who nodded. Reprieved, he dove back in. The chicken lacked sauce or seasoning of any kind, and had been boiled to stringy toughness, but it was the first solid food he'd had in a week, and it tasted utterly sublime. He groaned with pleasure and spooned up watery potatoes. "Fit for the gods."

Sister Patrick Eileen raised a skeptical brow and folded her arms. "There's a dispensation for you to eat meat today. Father Michael granted it, said you'd earned the right to it just this one Friday."

"I'm glad he didn't force me to eat broth and tea one more day. He didn't have to grant the dispensation, though. I wouldn't have been averse to a nice piece of baked fish with butter. Maybe with potatoes au gratin and a lovely handful of fresh asparagus."

"And where do you think you are, Buckingham Palace? You'll eat that and be glad for it."

"I am, believe me." Viggo forced himself not to wolf down his food. There had been a point in his captivity, likely mere minutes though it had felt like days, when he'd tormented himself thinking of food and drink, regretting every bite he'd wasted, remembering the profligate meals at his parents' mansion and wishing desperately for even a single crust of bread. He took another spoonful of potatoes.

A polite tapping sounded at the door. Sister Patrick Eileen frowned. "Always at suppertime."

"Oh, it's no bother, Sister. Come!" Viggo called. The door opened and Sean peered in. Viggo's heart gave a happy jump. "Hello there."

"Am I interrupting your supper?"

"Not in the slightest. Come in, you can watch me eat the first solid food I've had in a week."

Sean closed the door behind him and strolled close to the bed, hat in hand. He nodded gravely to Sister Patrick Eileen and leaned close. "What is it?"

"Chicken and potatoes," Viggo said. "Delicious."

A diplomatic smile touched Sean's mouth. "Oh, aye. Looks that way."

Viggo glanced at the little nun and winked up at Sean. "Sister, could I have a few moments to speak with my friend? I promise not to bolt my meal."

"Aye, I suppose so," Sister Patrick Eileen sighed, heaving herself from the chair. She addressed Sean sharply. "Do me a favor, boyo. See that he doesn't eat too fast, will you?"

"Yes, ma'am." Sean waited until the nun marched out of the room and turned to Viggo. "Turn you to jelly with a look, that one."

"You can say that again," Viggo replied through a mouthful of chicken. He swallowed, took a drink of water, and wiped his mouth with his napkin. "Proper hello?"

"Right." Sean leaned down and kissed Viggo on the mouth. "You're looking ever so much better."

"I feel better. I feel wonderful, in fact. More wonderful now." He squeezed Sean's hand. "I had a walk today, around the grounds. It hurt and I moved at a ridiculous snail's pace, but I've been feeling so horribly shriveled that even the pain felt good. Do you mind if I keep eating? No, don't let go of my hand. I can eat perfectly well with one. I can't curl my fingers tightly, but I can hold a fork if I'm careful."

"They took the bandages off your hands." Sean sat on the chair that Sister Patrick Eileen had vacated and gestured at Viggo's plate. "Christ almighty, that looks disgusting."

"It's delicious, really. They're trying to get me to move slowly."

"I should have smuggled in that ice cream, eh?"

"Maybe now that I'm eating solid food, you can bring some tomorrow. I can't see how it would hurt."

"How long do they plan to keep you here, anyroad?"

"A good question." Viggo ate another cube of chicken. "When I asked the doctor, he harrumphed at me and said 'That depends on you, young man.' Which is no answer at all, of course. But I'm feeling much stronger and I don't see why I should be cooped up here a moment more." He polished off the last of his chicken. "I don't feel full. Do you think they'd give me seconds?"

"I doubt it."

"Oh, well. I suppose I shouldn't overdo it." Viggo pushed the wheeled tray table away. "These things are convenient. I think I'll order one when I go home." He brought Sean's hand to his lips. "You're looking rather serious. Handsome, though."

Sean gave a wan smile and plucked at the lapel of his black broadcloth suit. "I were at Gavin's funeral."

"Oh." Viggo folded the napkin in his lap and stared down at it. "I didn't know."

"No, I expect your mam and dad didn't want to upset you. Nor did I." Sean stroked Viggo's green-and-gold silk sleeve over and over. "They went to the funeral, though – your parents."

"Did they?"

"Sorry," Sean said softly. "I weren't sure I should say owt."

Viggo kept his eyes fixed on the napkin. "He died trying to save my life. I was so happy to see him, but so peremptory. I wanted him to untie me, and bother the rest. I should have told him to watch for Harry. I was so selfish – so stupid."

"That's daft, that is. Christ, if I'd been down the pit for two days, I'd be a raving madman. Or dead, and that's a fact. It weren't your fault Harry murdered him, Viggo."

"I see him in my dreams. The pickax is embedded in his chest, and he bleeds from his mouth and begs me to help him, but I can scarcely hear him, and I can't…I can't do anything." Angrily, Viggo dashed tears from his eyes. "Sorry. Sorry. I seem to be leaking at the eyes quite a bit lately."

"You needn't apologize."

"It's foolish, I know. I haven't wept in my parents' presence, or Michael's, but I fall to pieces in front of you, when I should be stronger. I feel like a ninnyhammer."

"Nay. You're just being yourself, like. Not that you weep all the time," Sean amended, "but you don't hide owt. You never have. That's nice."

Touched by the heartfelt, clumsy declaration, Viggo examined Sean carefully. How had he ever found the courage to charge to the rescue in defiance of his worst fears, to follow his own course of action despite every obstacle? How was it possible to ever repay such a debt? He leaned back against the pillows. "Would you kiss me again?"

"Oh, aye." Sean got up and leaned over the bed. "Like this?" He brushed his lips against Viggo's.

Viggo opened his mouth and let his tongue drift over Sean's. Sean responded by kissing him deeply, sliding a hand behind his head to pull them closer. Viggo wrapped his arms round Sean's neck. "That's it," he whispered at a pause for breath. "Like that. Just like that." And after a moment: "Lock the door."

Sean drew back, flushed. "God's sake, no. What if your mam and dad came by? That there nun knows I'm in here. You'd have a whole new scandal on your hands."

"Let them come. It's none of their damned business what I do."

"I reckon you'd have to do some explaining if the nun let them in with the key and saw you with your bloody ankles in the air."

"Me? You'd be the one with your ankles in the air."

Sean laughed. "Oh, aye." He gave Viggo a kiss on his forehead. "You hurry up and get out of here, and I promise I'll go ankles-up for you if you want."

"It's a bargain." Viggo stuck out his hand and Sean shook gingerly. "You mustn't worry, it doesn't hurt. Don't frown so, please. Oh! Mother brought my correspondence from the house. I received a letter from Grace. Mother wanted to read it to me, but I persuaded her to let me read it on my own, thank goodness."

Interest sparked in Sean's eyes."Why? What did she have to say?"

"Nothing overtly scandalous, just that she and Charlotte were blissfully happy. Evidently Charlotte has an elderly aunt in Boston in need of a companion – companions, I suppose, since she and Grace are both living with her."

"Is the old lady deaf?"

"I don't know, why would that – oh, you reprobate!" Viggo laughed. "I'm not going to think about that."

"It's a pity she's gone, though," Sean said soberly. "She's a brave lass – Charlotte too, though she didn't think much of me."

"She didn't think much of me, either. Come to think of it, I don't suppose she thought much of anyone except Grace. I feel a bit foolish now. There were so many signs that I ignored. But then I had my mind on other matters."

Bright pink spread on Sean's cheeks, along with a bashful grin. "Oh, aye. Well now."

"Sean, I want to ask you a question."

"Aye, go on, then."

"Grace and Charlotte are living together. I know there are plenty of maiden ladies who do that. Do you think that…that two bachelors could get away with such a thing?"

"I don't know. Do you want to try?"

The door creaked. Sean's eyes widened and he snatched his hand away as if Viggo had bitten him. He backed up and bumped into the bedside table, nearly knocking it over.

And not a moment too soon, Viggo thought bitterly as the door opened widely and his mother and father walked over the threshold. His stomach tightened. Michael had said they'd given Sean short shrift in Philadelphia. "Mother, Father – come in."

Harald stepped forward, gave Katherine a pleading glance, and offered Sean his hand. "My son tells me that you're responsible for saving his life, Mr. Bean. I can't thank you enough."

Sean shook Harald' hand, blushing to the tips of his ears, and muttered something inarticulate.

"Yes indeed," Katherine said. She too moved closer, took Harald' arm, and gave Viggo a tight-lipped smile. "I've informed Mr. Bean of our gratitude. Now, young man, I hope you'll do the decent thing."

"The decent thing?" Viggo inquired sharply. "What's that, Mother?"

"Mr. Bean is going to accept a reward for the heroic effort he performed on your behalf. Then he's going to leave Wilkes-Barre, and you'll accompany us back to Philadelphia. I think it's best for everyone concerned."

Viggo struggled to sit up straight. "Reward! How can you – Sean isn't a commodity to be bought and sold, Mother. I think it would be best if you restored him to his former position."

Katherine turned on Viggo, her eyes blazing. "You're not yourself, Viggo. You haven't a notion of what you're saying."

"I know that what you're doing is utterly vulgar, Mother." Viggo's voice brimmed with anger and an edge of derision. "I know that you're cheapening my plight by offering Sean a sum – how much, by the way? Two hundred dollars? Three?"

"Viggo," Harald said in a soothing voice, "don't excite yourself."

"Father, this isn't right." Viggo glanced at Sean, who was standing as if frozen and whose expression was pure misery. "He saved my life; you can't simply throw money at him and send him away as if he were a beggar. He's not. He's fine and decent and a far better man than I. I can't expect you to understand, but it's the truth."

Harald pulled the chair close and sank into it. "Viggo, Viggo, you're not being reasonable. We're grateful to Mr. Bean. I'm not throwing money at him. I'm providing for him. We're trying to protect you, don't you see that? And Mr. Bean too, though you mightn't realize it." He leveled an imploring stare at Sean. "Can't you see what we're trying to do, Mr. Bean? Please…Viggo tells me you were an invaluable employee. I'll be happy to write a letter of introduction for you, if that's what you want."

Sean swallowed and glanced at Viggo. Perhaps instinctively, he moved closer to him. Viggo yearned to take Sean's hand in his, but didn't quite dare. "I don't need your money, Mr. Mortensen," Sean said softly. "I don't want it. I didn't go looking for Viggo so that I could collect a reward."

"Young man," Katherine said, her voice as soft as Sean's, and strangely, tinged with gentleness, "do you want to make my son unhappy?"

"No, ma'am," Sean murmured.

"Don't you understand? If you stay here, if you continue this…friendship, you'll bring nothing but unhappiness upon yourself, and upon him. People are already gossiping. Is that what you want? A lifetime of side glances and whispers, strangers laughing at you behind your back? Do you want to be cut in the street by people of good family, by business associates? You may even suffer violence. I do not want that for my son, and whatever you may think of me, I would not wish it upon you. I am asking you to think about this clearly. If you care for Viggo at all, you won't make his life a ruin by dragging him into a life of vice."

Sean bowed his head. His face was still bright red. "It mightn't be so bad." His voice was so soft Viggo had to lean forward to catch it.

"You're wrong, young man. It would be the purest unhappiness."

"For God's sake, Mother," Viggo said hoarsely, "stop. Stop it now."

Sean turned to him. "I'd best be off."

"Come back tomorrow," Viggo pleaded. "Sean, don't listen to them."

"Do listen," Harald said. He turned to Sean. "The money will be in your account tomorrow, Mr. Bean. I advise you to take it and go. If you attempt to return tomorrow, I'll have you deported."

"Father!"

"Go now, young man," Katherine said. "Now."

Sean's mouth trembled, but he stood straight and tall as he faced Viggo's parents. "I'll be back tomorrow," he said, addressing them. He moved closer to Viggo, bent, and quickly kissed his cheek. He glared at Harald, then at Katherine, gave them a stiff nod, and walked out quickly, slamming the door behind him.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," Harald muttered, resting his head in his hands.

"Now you go," Viggo said through clenched teeth.

Katherine stared at him. "Viggo, you –"

"Go. Get out." As Katherine reached out to touch him, he twitched away. "Get out, now. Both of you."

"We'll come to see you tomorrow," Katherine said. "When you're feeling better."

"You needn't bother. In fact, I'd prefer it if you both returned to Philadelphia."

Katherine's eyes slitted into icy pinpoints. "I did not raise my son to speak to me like that." She gathered her skirts in one hand and spun on her heel. "Come along, Harald."

Viggo's father rose and walked over to the bed. "Forget all this," he said. "For your own good, lad."

"How, Father?"

Harald' lips tightened, and he shook his head as he made his way across the room. He looked, suddenly, like an old man. "We'll be back tomorrow." He opened the door for Katherine, gave Viggo one more reproachful glance, and left.

Viggo pressed his numb hands to his face. Outside, the sky darkened to violet. Sister Patrick Eileen came in and gave him a cup of bitter-tasting tea. Night fell quickly; he stared into the darkness, and time slowed. He listened in vain for the dripping of water. When he slept, he dreamt it, irregular, maddening, terrifying in the blackness.

*

The bed swayed beneath him, and there was a steady, familiar, comforting click-click in his ears underscored by a deep thrumming. He lay quietly, soothed by the motion, then made an attempt to open his eyes. They were heavy, weighted as if someone had pasted them shut as a joke. He finally struggled them open and saw a woman in a starched cap and a blue dress with a pinafore. "Hello," he mumbled.

"Don't try to speak, Mr. Mortensen." The woman was young, with large, thickly lashed brown eyes; her cool fingers rested on his brow. "Lie still. I'll bring you some water."

Viggo turned his head and felt a sudden surge of nausea. He saw square, curtained windows, walnut paneling, and an armchair upholstered in moss-green velvet. It was all strangely familiar. "Where am I?"

"Please don't excite yourself," the young woman said.

The soothing motion beneath him went on and on, and the repetitive clicking established its place in his memory. "Train?"

"Your parents' private car. Hush now, please." The nurse held something small and bright in one hand, something large and dark in the other.

"Where's Sean?"

"I don't know who that is, I'm sorry. Now hold still just a moment, please." She set the dark object down and slipped an arm beneath his head, holding it up.

Viggo turned his head and saw the inside of her sleeve, thin blue and white stripes, not all-blue as he'd first thought. "I've got to. Speak to him. Please."

"Shh. Now…think of something nice. Open your mouth, please." She held the bright object against his lips and pushed it in. Viggo tasted something cold and sweet, and swallowed convulsively. "That wasn't so bad, was it? Now you'll sleep like a top." She brushed his hair from his face and rested her hand on his cheek. "You mustn't worry, Mr. Mortensen. Viggo. You're going to be fine very soon now."

"Where. Are we. Going?"

"Shh." The hand stroked his cheek. Small, not like Sean's long, strong fingers.

"Sean?"

"Hush now."

Viggo's eyelids were heavier. He closed them. The clicking went on and on, following him back into the dark.

*


Sean paused at the corner of Church and Hanover Streets, praying he wouldn't see the Mortensen carriage waiting at the curb. He didn't have the strength to withstand another attack; he'd been defiant for Viggo's sake, but Harald and Katherine Mortensen were a formidable couple. He was surprised Viggo hadn't collapsed beneath the weight of filial obligation years before. However rebellious he'd felt toward his own parents, Sean had always been dutiful, and he had been shocked to see Viggo so openly truculent. Behind the shock had been a tiny thrill of pride, though – Viggo was willing to risk their good will for him. Sean suspected that they wouldn't give up without a rousing fight, though, especially while Viggo was ill and more easily manipulated. He'd have to be strong for both of them, frightening as the thought was.

He trotted up the stairs and went into the hospital, assailed at once by the odor of antiseptics and carbolic soap. He approached the curving desk as if he were in church, and indeed the high-flung stone walls felt oddly like a temple: a large, bloody crucifix hung on one wall, a statue of the Virgin Mary, its base bedecked with flowers, adorned a niche near the staircase, and a portrait of the hospital's founding nun stared forbiddingly from another wall. Silence rippled around him, and nuns glided past him with burdens of trays and blankets, like black and white-robed ghosts. Sean slowed his steps in deference to the hushed atmosphere. A young man with a bandaged head sat on the broad, sweeping stairway, talking to an older man who wore a morning coat, striped trousers, pearl-grey gloves, spats, and a top hat. A woman in a white dress and a straw hat with netting sat beneath the lobby clock, reading a magazine. There was a different nun on desk duty at this time of day, older, with sharp little blue eyes. All the nuns seemed to regard Sean with the suspicion of housewives examining day-old bread for mold spots. Could they tell he wasn't Catholic in a single glance?

Sean doffed his hat. "Good morning. I'm here to see Viggo Mortensen."

The nun sniffed and removed a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles. "You're too late, I'm afraid. Mr. Mortensen's parents arranged for his release quite early this morning."

"That's news," Sean said with a smile. "He's home, then?"

"No. He was removed to a sanitarium for more protracted care."

Sean's smile dissolved. "Protracted? What's that mean?"

"Lengthy," the nun replied, and folded her hands atop the desk.

Cold fear and suspicion darted quick thrusts into Sean's belly. "Where's he gone?" he asked with far more firmness than he felt.

The nun slanted an upward, questioning gaze at him, then shrugged and paged through a list of names, running a pale finger down the handwritten sheets. "It doesn't say."

Sean suppressed the urge to tear the sheets from her hands. "You mean you won't tell me."

"No, young man. I mean it doesn't say. His parents didn't give us that information. Now if there's nothing more I can do for you…." The nun rose to her feet. She was at least a head shorter than Sean, but still daunting in her black gown and stiff, medieval wimple.

"Nowt. Thanks," Sean replied shortly. He spun around in a tight circle and moved blindly toward the doors, then stopped and turned back. "What time did they leave?"

"I'm not certain exactly, but it was before six o'clock."

Sean stood in silence, letting his gaze drift to the enormous, ornate clock on the west wall. It was eleven-thirty-five. They'd been gone five hours already – more than enough time to get to Philadelphia, if that was where they were headed.

*

"Thank you for seeing me, sir."

"Not at all, not at all, lad. I don't get much company these days." Peter Halloran clapped Sean on the shoulder. "Take the lad's hat, Elsie, and bring us some tea, there's a good lass," he said to the maid who hovered in the entryway, then steered Sean down the gloomy corridor into a room paneled in ebony and filled with such a profusion of furniture that taking two steps in any direction would ensure bruised shins. Halloran indicated that Sean should sit on a sofa covered in burgundy horsehair, and tenderly shooed a large marmalade cat from a deep wing chair. The cat mewed plaintively, and Halloran picked the creature up and settled into the chair, stroking the cat's golden head. "Now, lad. What can I do for you? I can't think this is about the sale. Mortensen rescinded their offer."

Sean leaned forward on the edge of the slippery couch. "I didn't know, sir."

Halloran shook his head. "Bad business with the agitators, and I suppose he hasn't the walking-around money. But the papers are saying you're a hero now, saving Mr. Mortensen's life. Well done there."

"Aye, some hero," Sean snorted. "I got a letter from the immigration bureau yesterday. They're going to deport me because I jumped ship, so I'm here illegal, like. If they kick me out, I won't get back in."

"Ah," Halloran sighed. "Times are changing, lad. Used to be that if a man wanted a new life, he'd simply come to America, no questions asked, make something of yourself and good luck to you. Now they won't let an honest man in, scared of the Chinese or sommat. Christ almighty. Never mind – you're needing a job, aren't you?"

"I don't like to ask, sir," Sean mumbled. "But there's nobody in Wilkes-Barre that will hire me on, hero or no."

"Oh, aye? And why would that be?" Peter Halloran leaned forward, his dark eyes alight with curiosity.

Sean swallowed. Instinct told him to be truthful, but if he were too truthful, everything would be lost. "I were too friendly with Viggo…with the younger Mr. Mortensen, that is, and his mam and dad couldn't abide it. They sent him off to some other hospital, I don't know where. I've been looking for him for two weeks – I've spent a hundred on train tickets if I've spent a halfpenny. I can't find him, and his parents made sure I'd not find work again, at least in Wilkes-Barre. They gave me money to go away, but I sent it back to them. Now I – I didn't know where else to go. If I haven't a job, they'll boot me out. I'll do anything, sir – muck out your stables or drive your carriage, or…I'm fair with my hands if you needed some help with repairs..." He stared down at his trousers, plucking at the crease that bisected his knee. Embarrassment and desperation drummed inside him, and he longed to flee.

"Shall I tell you something about the rich, lad? They do what they bloody well please, whenever and however it pleases them. They thought they could buy you, and when they found that they couldn't, they decided to punish you for it. Isn't that so?"

"Aye," Sean said softly, bitterly. "That's so."

"Folk round here think I'm a miser and a hermit. Truth is, I can't tolerate other rich people. My wife, God rest her, she were from a poor family too. She understood me. We were happy. Comfortable. We had a daughter, a gorgeous little lass, but she died as a bairn."

"I'm sorry, sir."

Halloran shook his head and scratched beneath the cat's chin. It purred loudly. "It's in the past, lad. The Mortensens – I hear they came from nowt, and that's worse than old money. They'll be scrambling for years, never sure of where they stand. Doesn't matter how much money they have. And because they're scrambling, they're clumsy. If they had done the least bit of thinking, they'd have ignored you altogether and taken your friend away. The old rich don't bother buying folk off."

"Could be," Sean said. But they had been grateful to him – at least Mr. Mortensen had seemed so.

"I've a piece of advice for you. Give up looking for young Mr. Mortensen. You won't find him. His parents will make certain of that. And you're only going to make yourself unhappy."

Mrs. Mortensen had said the same thing. And maybe she was right, and Peter Halloran was right. Maybe men like him could never be happy. There was no place in the world for him, or for Viggo, unless they lived awash in lies. But Sean's thoughts had traveled a long distance as he'd gone from hospital to hospital in Pennsylvania, in New Jersey, even up to New York. He had passed through anger, fear, uncertainty and resignation, and somehow he had returned to the essential truth. He'd lost Viggo once. He couldn't bear to lose him again. And somewhere, Viggo was waiting for him. If he couldn't travel, he could write letters, make telephone calls. He couldn't consign Viggo to forgetfulness.

Sean shook his head, unable to speak.

Halloran flapped a hand, startling a mew from the cat. "I'm blathering. If you want a job, you can have one. I'm not long for this world, and my affairs need tidying. Never got round to hiring a new clerk after my last one left two years ago. You can clerk for me, if you've a mind. There's plenty of work, that's certain. Elsie will ready a room for you. It'll be nice to have a bit of life in the house again."

Sean sank back on the uncomfortable sofa, weak with relief, defenseless in the face of the old man's kindness. "Thank you, sir. Thank you."

*


"I can't think why you don't trouble to dress, Viggo."

Viggo glanced at Sarah Van Cortlandt over his fan of cards. "I realized the King of England wouldn't be stopping by for tea today and decided not to bother."

"One never knows. I hear one of the sons of Tsar Nicholas is in residence here. Of course we'll never see him if that's true. He's supposedly mad as a hatter, and he has his own house on the property." Sarah laid down a card. "At any rate, isn't it terribly boring to go about in pajamas and a dressing gown all day? And besides, it's going to get cold soon. This warm weather is sure to break, and you'll be shivering in your gown and slippers."

"Maybe the Tsar's son will lend me a fur blanket."

"Pshaw. Oh, that's a good card. You play without strategy, don't you?" Sarah smiled, showing two rows of small, pearly teeth. She was in her late thirties, with a long, stringy body and a plain face, but she had ferocious intelligence and wit, and the sort of aristocratic bearing that his mother would have adored. His mother would have been disappointed to learn that Sarah was, in her own words, "an unrepentant drunkard, darling," but had she been perfectly normal, Viggo would never have met her.

"It keeps you off-balance, doesn't it?"

"It does! Never mind, I'll work it out. I'm just pleased I got you to step outside for a change."

"I'd be a fool to ignore a day as pretty as this," Viggo admitted. He glanced at the trees, ablaze with yellow and orange and red beneath a perfect azure sky.

"You are aware, of course, that you'd have a much better chance of escaping successfully in ordinary clothes. Oh, don't look so cross. I saw those attendants – they look like pugilists, don't they? I saw them hauling you away from the fence. I'll bet you didn't even know there was a fence, did you? Poor dear. And I'll bet they dosed you with opium afterward."

Viggo scowled and slapped down a card. She was right. After he'd tried to climb the fence he hadn't known existed, the nurses had given him something that had made him stupid and docile. He'd stared at the changing trees, the rolling green lawn, the nurses and attendants and patients strolling along the corridors and paths as if all his surroundings were part of a not particularly interesting play. His thoughts had drifted with cloudlike impermanence. That had been two weeks ago. Since then he'd waited and watched for another opportunity, but none had arisen. In the meantime, he'd met Sarah, and of all the patients, she seemed lively and witty, and she'd taken to him on sight. She'd made the days bearable. The nights were another thing altogether. "Sarah, doesn't it drive you mad to be cooped up in a place like this?"

"Oh, it's not so bad. I don't have to cope with the pity or impatience of my family. I don't have to watch my husband make a fool of me with his mistress. I don't have to suffer the companionship of the tedious women who make up my circle. I needn't shop or embroider or approve menus. And best of all, I'm not drinking and making embarrassing overtures toward the nearest male dinner guest." She tossed off a shrug and hitched a shawl of green woolen lace higher onto her bony shoulders. "And since you've arrived, the company here has been much more interesting. Even if you won't tell me why you're really here. I know it can't just be your hands. Nobody comes to Saint Luke's for a simple illness or injury."

"Why do they come, then?"

"Mostly because they're embarrassments to their families." Sarah pointed unobtrusively across the lawn to a girl of perhaps sixteen, sitting on a bench between two grim-looking nurses. She was angelically lovely, with thick, curling auburn hair. "That young lady is a Tate, of the Providence Tates. She's seduced half the young men at Brown, if rumor is to be believed. And I hear a number of male attendants here have been bewitched as well. Her parents would put her in a convent if they were Catholic. Pity there aren't any Presbyterian convents. And there –" She indicated an older man in an old-fashioned frock coat and top hat, playing chess with an elderly woman. "He's a Keller, of the Westchester County and Bar Harbor Kellers. He seems to believe that there is a conspiracy to kill him – he's reportedly shot half a dozen servants in the dead of night. All hushed up, naturally. The woman with him is Estelle Grovenor, of the Fairfield Grovenors. She tried to kill herself by drinking the contents of a bottle of perfume. This must be her third or fourth attempt. She's in here almost as frequently as I am. And down on the south lawn – look." She nodded at a tall, plump young man in a woolen jumper and flannel trousers. An attendant tossed him a ball; he missed the catch and went stumbling after it, cornsilk hair flying. "Do you see him? He's a Roosevelt."

"Of the Washington Roosevelts?" Viggo inquired.

"Well, of New York originally, of course. But late of Washington, yes."

"He's not actually related to the President?"

Sarah cocked a feathery brow. "You don't think Teddy would actually acknowledge any weakness in the Roosevelt blood?"

"He's not his son, surely?"

"Well, they say not, they being the nurses and attendants. But I don't know. He does rather resemble Edith, if you look closely. He's been here since he was an infant. His name is Leland, and he's a sweet thing. Has the mind of a five-year-old, alas. The long and short of it is that none of us are here of our own free will – this is a prison for American aristocrats, my dear. You've arrived – welcome to the club."

"You certainly have a wealth of information at your fingertips."

"Oh, I ought to – I've been in and out of this place often enough. Still, I don't know why you're here, dear. I know your parents are the Mortensens of Philadelphia, and your sister Agnes is marrying a Biddle, and you were recently abducted by a disgruntled employee of your father's, according to the papers. Oh, gracious, is that it? Did the experience leave you shattered? I must say you don't seem shattered."

Viggo stared at her, nonplused. "Sarah, if I confide in you, I have the feeling anything I say will be all over the asylum the moment I turn my back."

"Rest home, dear – rest home. Mustn't call it an asylum. And I promise not to break a confidence. I don't make promises I can't keep. For instance, I've never promised anyone I'd stop drinking. And I haven't anyone else to talk to in this old pile of rocks, do I?"

Her honesty was disarming. "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter anyway, since I'm going to be here for the rest of my life. If you must know, it wasn't that my ordeal left me shattered, although it was terrible. As it happens, I'm passionately in love with the young man who rescued me."

Sarah's grey eyes gleamed. "Quel scandale!"

"Sarah, you did promise."

"I did indeed, and I won't tell. Still, it's quite a story. Couldn't it just be a bit of hero-worship?"

"I've been in love with him since spring, well before I was abducted, so I doubt it."

"Ah. So your parents put you here to remove you from his sinister clutches?"

"They're hardly sinister. Sean is decent and hard-working and brave. And he loves me."

"He must, to have saved you from such a horrible fate. I read the account in the paper. And handsome, too? Adonis buttoned into human flesh?"

Viggo smiled. "Yes. Handsome, too. I think so, at any rate."

"Ah, l'amour! I think it was Tolstoy who said 'It is not beauty that endears, but love that makes us see beauty' or some such. Tell me, would he recognize you in those ghastly whiskers? Oh, you've won the hand. Drat. You distracted me with your scandal. Another game, I insist."

"I haven't any idea. They won't let me shave myself, and I'll not be treated like a child. I'll wait until I'm a free man to shave, even if I grow the dratted beard to my knees. You're right, though – I've got to be clever about it. I'll start wearing regular clothing tomorrow."

"I wish you all the best. I had an uncle who was that way, you know. Sweet man. Nobody ever understood why he tolerated his butler, or his factotum I suppose one would have called him, because they had the noisiest rows, or why he was so heartbroken when the man died. In any case, I don't know why it's such a terrible thing. In my day, a man like that was simply a bachelor, and if he was inordinately fond of other men, he was discreet about it."

"Well, we did try to be discreet," Viggo said. "But word got out nonetheless."

"Young people always think they're being discreet. In point of fact, they bumble around dreadfully, making an awful racket. Discretion is a thing that comes with age. I still have difficulty drinking discreetly, and I'm almost forty."

"I'm sorry."

"Bless you, Viggo dear. There isn't a thing to be sorry about. I've been in and out of here so often I think of it as my second home. Sometimes I think Mother and Father wish I'd run away and drink myself to death, but I'm too clever – at least, I'm clever enough to know that I'd run through my trust in no time at all." She laid down a card. "How do you like that?"

"I think you're the one who plays without a strategy," Viggo said. He was soothed by her incessant chatter; it helped him to avoid thinking. "Sarah – do you really crave a drink all the time?" It was not a question he could ask anyone, particularly a lady, under ordinary circumstances, but they were about as far from ordinary circumstances as it was possible to get. He'd never known a woman who was a drunk, and certainly never anyone as educated and refined.

Sarah smiled ruefully. "Shall I be honest? I cherish your company, my dear boy – you're absolutely charming and witty and handsome, even with that beard, but at any given moment, I'd gladly trade you for a bottle of gin."

She surprised Viggo into a laugh. "If I ever leave this place, I'm going to miss you."

"You can write to me. I'm probably here more often than I'm at home or in Newport."

A uniformed maid glided up to their table. "Mr. Mortensen, you have a visitor."

Viggo set down a card. "I'm not seeing anyone." His parents had visited him three times since imprisoning him at St. Luke's. Each time he'd refused to see them.

"It's a young lady. Your sister, Grace, she says."

"Grace?" Viggo set his cards down. "She's here?"

"Yes, sir."

"Sarah, I must go. We'll continue our game later?"

"Oh, by all means. Go. You're lucky. I wish someone would visit me once in a while."

Viggo lifted Sarah's hand to his lips, then bounded toward the hospital, a sprawling pile of New England granite built to look like a Parisian barracks. He ran up the broad staircases and into the building toward the visitors' parlor. He paused at the threshold, drinking in the sight of his younger sister.

Grace put both hands up to her mouth, then darted forward and threw herself into Viggo's arms. "Viggo, Viggo!" They clung together for a long, silent moment. When she drew back, tears stood in her eyes. "You look terrible. So thin. And that beard – you look like a prospector!"

Viggo chuckled. "It's nice to see you, too."

"Oh, I didn't mean that. I didn't! I'm sorry. But – oh, never mind. I'm a ninny." She gathered him close again.

"I've missed you." Viggo buried his nose in her hair. It smelled faintly of lilies of the valley. He stood her away and inspected her from head to toe. She wore a smart tailored suit of raspberry wool with black frogging and velvet piping, and a dashing little black hat with feathers. "You look marvelous, even if I don't."

"Oh, do you like it?" She executed a tight spin. "I think it's absolutely the bee's knees."

"It's not just the dress. You look wonderful."

"I've been happy." Her face fell. "Oh, Viggo, what you've been through. I didn't know, and by the time I found out, they'd brought you here and Mother said not to come. I feel awful."

"You still talk to them, do you?"

"Well…it's not as if I've confided in them."

"Don't mind me, Gracie." Viggo sank into a chair and gestured toward a sofa. "Sit, please. I've been in this place far too long. I'm glad you've been happy. Very glad. I want you to tell me all about Boston. How's Charlotte?"

"Oh, she's lovely, as ever. She sends her best. Don't make that face! She does. She was genuinely concerned about you. We all were. Oh, Viggo!" She pulled off her black gloves and grasped his hand. Tears trembled on her lashes and spilled down her cheeks. "I wish I'd been in Wilkes-Barre."

"Don't say that. I'm glad you were far away."

"I'm not." She drew a handkerchief out of a jet-beaded black drawstring bag and blew her nose. "I'd have gladly gone in your place. And how brave and lovely of Sean to save you." Her mouth closed abruptly and she stared down at her hands. "Viggo – before anything else is said, I must tell you why I'm here."

A chill foreboding overtook him. "Something's wrong, isn't it? Is someone ill? Father –"

"No. Nobody's ill." Grace twined her gloves in nervous fingers. "Mother and Father are arranging to have you released. Today. You're to come home with me."

Viggo sat back in his chair, inexplicably depleted. "And this isn't good news, I take it. They've had second thoughts, but they still disapprove, is that it? Am I to live under their roof and swallow their chastisements every day?"

"It isn't that." Grace still refused to meet his eyes. "It's Sean."

"He's ill! You said nobody was –"

"He's alive and well. It's only that he's – he's been deported, Viggo. He – it seems he entered the country illegally, and once that came to the attention of the authorities…."

"That's a lie."

"No. I heard Father talking about it on the telephone. I don't know whom he was speaking with, but it's true, really –"

"No!" Viggo slammed a fist onto the padded arm of the wing chair.

Grace's hands writhed together. "Viggo, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. But there are all those new laws –"

"With a little help from Father and Mother." Viggo's voice was a frigid expanse of ice. "Because it wasn't enough to pay Sean off and order him to leave me alone. So Father bought off the immigration bureau, did he?"

"I knew you'd be angry. So did they. That's why –"

"I'm surprised you agreed to be their messenger. They can rot in hell for all I care." He glared at Grace, but bit the inside of his cheek before the words 'So can you' spilled from his mouth in an ugly torrent of rage.

Grace dropped to her knees beside Viggo's chair and took his hand, gripping it tightly when he tried to pull away. "I knew you'd be angry," she repeated, "and I want you to listen to me. The only reason I'm here, Viggo, is because I insisted that I be the one to tell you."

"Why?" He wouldn't look her in the face.

"Because no one else would tell you to go to him." Her words were so innocent, without doubt or fear.

"Just like that," he spat.

"How else?"

Viggo didn't answer. Stillness settled over them. He gazed out the window, watching the cool blue of daylight gradually darkening to indigo. It would be October soon. And Sean was on his way across the ocean, or was already in England, perhaps. Back to his home, and with no way to return. How would Viggo ever locate him? There was nothing, Sean had said, to ever bring him back to Winsley. Even if he did manage to find him, so much time would have elapsed, perhaps months or a year; would whatever they'd had be lost in the interim? And even if they found themselves again, could they truly be happy, or would his mother's dark prediction of the future come to pass? Perhaps there was no place in the world for them after all. It was easy for Grace; she'd found her way without humiliation or defeat.

Grace's voice interrupted his thoughts, but so softly it was hardly an intrusion. "You've been dutiful, Viggo, and unselfish, and now…I don't know how many chances at happiness come along in a lifetime, but I suspect they're remarkably few and fleeting, don't you?"

He looked at her small hand. "Maybe."

"Shouldn't we take them when they come?"

*

The New Haven Railway served its first-class passengers tea in hand-painted bone china cups that rattled musically as the train click-clacked its way from Dutchess County, New York, toward Stamford, Connecticut. Viggo sipped absently, ate a few tiny watercress and chicken sandwiches, and watched the passing picturesque scenery, painted in glorious autumn colors. "I'm not going back to Philadelphia," he announced abruptly.

"Not even to get your things?"

"No," Viggo said, folding his arms and crossing one knee over the other. "And I'm not taking a penny from them. I have a little cash – I'll rent rooms in Wilkes-Barre and get a job there. I don't plan to shame them. I've no intention of mingling in their sort of society, so they needn't worry."

"You're being quite foolish." Grace brushed cake crumbs from her blue serge skirt. "You'd get to England faster if you didn't have to scrimp and save for a ticket. I'll give you money. Michael will, too."

"That's still Mother and Father's money, and I tell you I won't take one red cent."

"What if I got a loan from Charlotte's Aunt Louella?"

"Good God! No, Grace. I won't hear of it. I doubt Sean's going anywhere. I'll try wiring him in Winsley, and I can send a letter to Leeds, perhaps, or York. Do you think Sean Bean is an awfully common name there?"

"I haven't any idea. I don't know why you're being so stubborn." She stared at him. "And why didn't you shave off that horrid beard before you left?"

"They wouldn't let me shave myself, not even in the last moments before leaving." Viggo stroked the growth of hair. "You don't think it's attractive?"

"I told you. You look like a prospector. Shave it off."

"Maybe I'll keep the mustache."

"Ugh. Well, never mind. At the risk of sounding mercenary, why don't you simply take their money and use it to buy a first-class ticket to England? You could get a luxury suite of rooms. That would be sauce for the goose, don't you think?"

"No. Oh, it's not that I don't see the sense in what you're saying, and I understand the notion, but the truth is that I don't want to accept anything else from them." He finished his tea. "They drove Sean off, Grace, and I'll never forgive them for that."

"They still love you. I know it's difficult to believe, but it's true."

"I know," Viggo said with a sigh. "I believe it. And as ludicrous as it sounds, I still love them. But I can't forgive them."

"Not ever?"

"You don't understand. What if they discovered the truth –" Viggo lowered his voice. "The truth about you and Charlotte? If they forced you into some asylum, or drove Charlotte off?"

Grace's eyes darkened. "I'm afraid of that every day." She smiled wryly. "That's why I live in Boston. It seems to be overflowing with eccentric maiden ladies."

"I pray it never happens to you. And I'm sorry to force you to break the news to Mother and Father."

"Well, I suppose I owe you a favor or two for keeping my secrets."

Viggo leaned over and took Grace's hand. "You'll never have to buy my silence, Grace. Never."

"I know. I was only joking." Grace squeezed Viggo's fingers gently. "How do your hands feel?"

"Stronger," Viggo said. "The only good thing that came from the stay at St. Luke's was that the doctor was impassioned about his work. I'm doing some fairly radical exercises. And since I've begun, I can dress myself and hold objects without dropping them. I managed the tea, as you saw."

"You're going to be fine," Grace said.

Viggo bit his lip and looked out the window again. He thought of perilous ocean voyages, of Sean coming to some harm in England because of Harry, of someone older, more assured, wealthy, attracting his attention, of the further interference of Viggo's parents, of the thousand misfortunes that might plague them.

"Yes," he said with far more assurance than he felt. "I'll be fine."

*

Comments

[rubyelf.livejournal.com]

I can't believe the sneaky evilness of Viggo's parents... ugh. And I hope he finds Sean quickly...

[splix.livejournal.com]

Ugh indeed. Protectiveness can be smothering. Stay tuned, one more chapter to go. Thank you for reading.

[alex-quine.livejournal.com]

There's one more storm coming, but I've faith in Viggo and Grace and Charlotte and I think, Mr. Halloran.
great fun and many thanks for sharing.

[splix.livejournal.com]

Yes indeed, one more storm to weather! Thank you so much for reading and commenting!

[ladymarshy.livejournal.com]

You should see me, wriggling about in my study chair in front of the computer, shouting "But ... but ...." What a lovely subtle sort of cliffhanger - Viggo thinks Sean's been sent back to England so he's going to get himself to England somehow, while Sean is in fact tucked quietly away with old Mr Halloran, steadily making himself invaluable. And Halloran is older than God (he's already said he's not much longer for this world, hasn't he?) and I suspect he may be richer than God too, far richer than anyone else suspects, especially the older Mortensens. Thanks for regular updates of such a fine story.

[splix.livejournal.com]

Well, I'm so glad you're enjoying it! There are some complications to work out for sure. Thank you so much for reading and commenting, I appreciate it!

[221b-hound.livejournal.com]

Well, I'm not hyperventilating any more but I'm quite prepared to slap the Mortensens Senior. :(

[splix.livejournal.com]

Not very nice of them, was it? Hmph.

[airian-reesu.livejournal.com]

Wonderful chapter! :) Compared to the previous few chapters, this all appears relatively calm, but there's still so much going on... *wait patiently for more*

Sorry for the many edits. My brain is in a fog. I'm also sorry to see you aren't feeling well. :(

[splix.livejournal.com]

Things have settled down a bit, but there's a bit more turmoil to work through. More soon!

No worries. I'm a bit foggy myself. Chemo kind of wipes me out. :)

[mooms.livejournal.com]

Thank heavens for Mr Halloran and for Grace! At least Viggo's parents have agreed to his release, because they think Sean has been deported, so boo sucks to them!

It's sad that we are nearing the end of this story and yet I long for them to be together at last.

[splix.livejournal.com]

They've come a long way, and not without help! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story again. *hug*

[bluegerl.livejournal.com]

What a stinker of a chapter!!

All relieved and happy one minute then I'm jumping up in horror. Shock... and then calming down and reading some more, and then DAMMIT you do it again!!

And AAAAhhh the thort that Sean was actually being deported. oh Lordy me.

Am all of a twitter now. But I did LOVE the nun who made him say grace before his awful chicken that tasted so GOOD.

Oh whisking him away, and DRUGGING Viggo. (with the nun's connivance! NORTY NUN!)

Oh these two are enchanting as they are so young (I keep dashing to the bottom of the chapter to drool at these two photos (they should be in a sort of miniature oval frame facing each other... can you do that???)

And Mr. Halloran... I wonder, after a few years... yes, mmm. The Collieries will improve ..

Why don't Grace and Charlotte come and set up house for Sean and Viggo and it would all be terribly terribly respectable. Sean and Grace, and Viggo and Charlotte (ostensibly teehee oh I am enjoying myself!!!)

Thanks again Alex for a truly truly super story. My mind has been thoroughly enjoying the 'props' too, and the wardrobe!

I am sad sad sad that there's only one more chapter.

I wonder... do they find Harry, or does he get deaded and all the money stolen by another villain.????

[splix.livejournal.com]

Events have settled down somewhat, but there are still a few twists and turns.

I'm glad you liked the nun!

I wish I could put them in a nice frame and manip them close, but I'm not that talented, alas.

It would be nice if they could all settle in together! I'm glad you're enjoying it and the props and costumes as well. :D We'll find out what happens to Harry in the last bit, I promise. It's a long chapter, I'll have to split it into two parts. Thanks so much for reading and the lovely comments!

[rifleman-s.livejournal.com]

What a bitter-sweet chapter; Viggo safe again and well cared for, but then comes the most heartbreaking separation.

I feel sure "fate" will bring them together, but you're such an inventive story writer, and surprise us at every turn, I know it will be a wonderful surprise, working out how!

[splix.livejournal.com]

Oh, I'm so happy you're enjoying the fic! I hope the resolution won't disappoint you.

[msdavidwenham.livejournal.com]

Poor Viggo and Sean. Viggo parents are really mean but then he still has Grace on his and Sean side. I do hope that they do find each other again. Off to read more.