Six

Egan O’Rahilly woke.

His head ached… throbbed. His muscles felt stiff and sore. His arms and legs hurt when he stretched, but at least he could move them.

It was completely dark now. He fought down the terror.

One side of his face was in mud. And his lower half had somehow landed on higher ground than his head during all the tumbling about.

Cautiously—so as not to dislodge any poorly supported mass of mountain—he moved to an upright, sitting position. And then he realized he was breathing.

For a few moments, he listened to that—to himself taking in air. How wonderful, just to breathe! he thought.

Then he wondered how long he had been unconscious.

He listened for others, and he thanked God that he heard the sound of breathing that was not his own.

Slowly he became aware of crying. Or rather, it was someone making a sound somewhere between a low, sobbing moan and a child’s undulant wail. He realized that the cries had been going on since he’d woken up, but he had blocked them out, so absorbed was he in other, more immediately pressing, sensations.

“Tom, shut up,” he called out.

The cries did not cease.

“Damn it, Tom, shut up so that we can see who is still alive.”

But Henneberry either did not hear, or else he didn’t care.

Egan decided not to waste effort with Henneberry. There was nothing he could do about him in the dark.

“All right,” he said in the calmest, steadiest voice he could manage, “I’m going to call roll. Answer when I say your name.”

He began. “I know Tom Henneberry is here.” At the sound of his name, Henneberry’s wails increased in volume. “Oh, fuck it, Tom, quiet down!” Egan said, but it did no good. So he went on, “Ferdy O’Dowd.”

There was a pause, then a painful, “Aye.”

“Grand,” Egan said. And he continued. “Owen Blake.”

There was no sound.

“Owen?” Egan repeated.

Silence.

“Cornelius Blake.”

Silence.

“Patrick Geraghty.”

Aye, Egan.”

“Thank God.” He continued: “Martin Kinvan.”

Silence.

“Tim McTier.”

Silence.

“Francis Quigley.”

“Aye.”

“Grand, Francis. Dennis Browne?”

Silence.

“Michael Moore.”

“Aye.”

“Grand.”

He went down through the names. But the only ones still among the living were himself, Henneberry, Ferdy O’Dowd, Geraghty, Quigley, and Moore… out of twenty men. And how many in the other gangs? he wondered.

“And so what’s to become of us then, Egan?” Moore asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I guess we’re still alive. For now.”

“Should I make an act of perfect contrition now, Egan?” Geraghty asked, his voice, like Ferdy’s, tinged with pain. “Or is there time yet for me to fill in a few sins?”

Egan smiled. Geraghty will be giggling in his grave, he thought to himself. “If I were you, Pat, I’d work on contrition.”

Henneberry wailed.

“Who’s near Tom?” Egan asked.

“I am,” said Quigley.

“Do you think you can shut him up?”

“I’ll try.”

“I’d be most glad if you would.”

A few seconds later, Egan heard the slap of a stone against what was probably Henneberry’s skull. Then the wailing finally stopped.

“Thank you, Francis,” Egan said. “Now we can think of doing something about the fix we’re in.” As he finished saying that, Egan stifled a sob of his own: The terror was ever only inches from the surface.

But then he remembered he was carrying a bit of candle in his vest pocket. It was always with him down in the tunnel, as a kind of good-luck charm. He also carried a flint and steel.

“All right,” he said. “1 have a candle. I’m going to try to light it.”

“You’re an angel, Egan,” Geraghty said.

“Not yet,” Egan said, “I hope.”

After a few tries, he had the candle going; and he could look around.

What he saw was not encouraging. The six men were apparently trapped in a long, narrow pocket made when the cave floor collapsed. There were a few tools, which was good, and one intact lantern along with an extra can of lamp oil. That was good. They could keep the lantern and oil in reserve for after the candle burned out. But God only knew how much mountain lay between the six of them and life and safety.

Their space was not large. Egan knew that they would soon run out of air.

That left Egan a dilemma: Should they all lie back and conserve their air? Or should they try to do something?

In a moment, he decided to do something.

That meant he had to find out the extent of the others’ injuries. Could they take action, provided there was enough air and that he could think of some action to take?

He checked the others for injuries. Henneberry was unconscious. Ferdy was hurting inside. That could be dangerous, or maybe it wasn’t serious at all. They would just have to wait. Geraghty’s left arm appeared to be broken. Quigley had a separated shoulder. And Moore’s hip was crushed.

Egan himself was the only totally fit man among them.

Damn it to hell!

He looked up the pocket and saw that the end of it away from him bent out of sight. There was not much space there. Still, it was worth exploring, he thought.

But he did not explore it. He snuffed the little candle out and gave in to his despair and terror.

Once the meeting in Edgar Thomson’s railroad-car office ended, John Carlysle and Kitty Lancaster walked out of the rail yard to the spot where Kitty’s carriage was waiting.

On the walk through the yard, Kitty hardly spoke to John. To him, her face looked dark and preoccupied, though not unfriendly. John in fact welcomed her silence, for he himself was not eager for communication. The recent events were too full of tension and drama to encourage easy conversation.

When they reached the carriage and John gave her his hand to help her into it, Kitty trembled slightly, as though she was suddenly startled. But John steadied her, and she was then able to slip easily into her seat. Once there, she looked thankfully at John but still had no words for him. After she was safely settled, he followed after her. And she called out to the driver to take them to Sturdivant’s Hotel.

The carriage was a landau, and John was grateful for this, for it gave him the opportunity to sit opposite rather than beside Mrs. Lancaster. Even though she was now much more subdued than he had yet seen her, he did not want to sit close to the rather vivacious, vivid, and ardent young lady. At least not now.

He was not indifferent to the lovely and fascinating Kitty Lancaster. He just wanted to sort out his feelings. He could easily see himself liking this woman very, very much. But she was also Edgar Thomson’s only daughter. And Edgar Thomson was not only John’s superior; he was also likely soon to become president of the railroad.

Once they were settled into their seats and the carriage was rolling along, Kitty withdrew a linen handkerchief from her bag and dabbed at her cheeks and forehead.

After that she slipped her bonnet off and placed it on the seat beside her, closing her eyes and then shaking her head enough for her hair to toss gently. When she did that, John became acutely aware of the scent she was wearing. It was spicy and sharp, but delicate. Though very much present, it was by no means overwhelming.

She inclined her head against the top of the seat cushion. She remained that way until they had ridden past one block, and John, aware that he, too, was very tense, let his own limbs and muscles relax. He absently watched the street traffic that they passed.

The landau rocked tranquilly, and the gentle motion, the quiet, partial solitude induced John to drift into a light trance.

When he found his attention once again directed at Kitty Lancaster, he saw that her eyes were gazing intently on his face.

“Do you ever grow accustomed to tragedy?” she wondered in a low voice, nearly a whisper.

“Do I ever grow accustomed, do you mean?” he asked. His voice was no louder than hers. “Or are you asking whether anyone can?”

“Either actually—or both. I really wasn’t thinking that precisely,” she said.

“I wonder whether the tragedy is worse for the ones who actually experience it, or the ones who have to go on after it.”

“You’re thinking of the accident at the tunnel,” he said.

“Yes, the accident,” she said, and her head slipped back against the seat, but her face was still tilted toward John. “It must be unimaginably horrible for the men trapped in the tunnel,” she said. “Tons of dirt and stone falling down on top of you. Or else a slow death by suffocation or starvation.” Her eyes were marked by real concern, which surprised John, for she had seemed up until now much more concerned with the tunnel disaster’s impact on her father’s chances to become president of the railroad than on the fate of the trapped men.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“And yet, what about the wives and mothers and children who remain? Aren’t their lives shattered more?”

A flower girl carrying bunches of tulips appeared beside the landau. She walked along in pace with them. “Lovely tulips,” she said. “Bright flowers for your table?” The girl thrust a particularly pretty and fresh-looking bunch over the side of the carriage. “Take these, miss,” she said to Kitty.

And then Kitty said, with a sudden smile, “I believe that I will.” And she searched in her bag for a coin.

“How much?” she said to the girl.

“A nickel, miss.”

“Here, let me buy them for you,” John offered, searching in his pants for the right amount. He kept forgetting what a nickel was, half a dollar, he thought.

“No, no, please,” she said, producing finally a dull gray coin and handing it to the girl. The girl then passed the tulips to Kitty.

“They are lovely, aren’t they?” she said.

“Yes, they are,” he agreed.

She laid the flowers across her lap. “There,” she said. “Yes, I like that—flowers.” She looked fondly at them for a moment. Then her somber mood returned.

“You must know what I mean,” she said.

A look of incomprehension filled his face. “I must know what you mean?”

“You lost your wife.”

“Yes. She died.”

“Did you ever get over that?”

His eyes left her face when she asked that, and he glanced first at the tulips in her lap, then outside at the traffic in the street, then back at the tulips.

He didn’t like her question, which he thought was much too forward and personal for someone whom he had known so briefly. And yet her obvious earnestness, sincerity, and sympathy disarmed him.

And so he brought himself to answer her. “No,” he said. “I have never gotten over losing her.”

“How did she die?”

“Cholera.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was over swiftly,” he said. “Her pain was brief.”

“Yes,” she said. “For her. For you the pain goes on, doesn’t it?”

“Really, Mrs. Lancaster,” he said abruptly, “I’d rather not… talk about this.”

Then she turned away from him and looked at the flowers. A blush spread over her face, and she reached out for his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ve embarrassed you.”

“No, not really,” he said, not daring to admit that she had. “The direction of your conversation has only caught me off guard, that’s all.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.” She released his hand and sat farther back in her seat.

When Kitty released his hand, John felt freed within himself, although he didn’t understand why.

Consequently, he suddenly felt the urge to talk to Kitty Lancaster about his lost wife. Somehow Kitty had opened one of the deepest, most hidden, most closely guarded strongholds of his memory.

“She was not beautiful,” he said. His eyes were on the flowers. Her fingers idly stroked the crimson, gold, and indigo petals, delicately, the way she might have fondled a kitten’s chin.

“Your wife?” she asked, wondering at his sudden willingness to discuss his marriage.

“Yes, Julia,” he said. “That was her name.”

“Will you tell me more about her?”

He shrugged and opened his hands, which he had been resting on his knees. “As I said, she was not beautiful. Not so tall as you …” He stopped a moment, then went on. “Not so at ease out of her home… out in the world of men. But,” he paused again, “she had chestnut hair and a quick smile. And she was full-bodied. Stocky, not fat.”

Images of Julia flashed across his memory: Julia’s Christmas pudding, flaming with blue fire as she set it down before him on the table; Julia bathing an infant son, splashing warm water over a boy’s pink-white bottom; Julia on her knees in the kitchen garden, working the soil with her hands; Julia’s head against the pillow, her face in a frozen shudder of passionate release.

“And she gave you three boys?” Kitty asked.

“Yes,” John said, “Graham, Alex, and David. They are twenty, twelve, and eight.”

“And you said they all came with you?”

“Yes, all three are here.”

“Why didn’t the oldest choose to remain at home in England?”

John smiled, but not because he felt pride or pleasure. John loved his son Graham, but he did not approve of the kind of life he had chosen so far to live. “Graham is probably the boldest of the Carlysles. Or the most restless at any rate, the most exhilarated by movement and change. Perhaps, in time,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “he’ll send down roots…”

“You don’t seem entirely pleased with him.”

“I don’t always like what he does… He’s out of my control.” A slight tremor of rage now appeared in his voice.

“He should be out of your control. He’s twenty years old. In fact, he ought to be away from you working for himself … or even married.”

“Yes, I know. I misspoke,” he said, correcting himself. “It’s not simply that I can’t give him orders that he will obey. Graham is wild. He’s dangerous. And yet he feels responsible to me, and for his two brothers. He felt he owed me more of himself after his mother died. So he remains close to us.”

Then she looked up at him. “And so your Graham is at once wild and untamed and yet fanatically devoted to you.”

He laughed and gave a nod of assent.

“I’d very much like to meet your Graham,” she said.

“I’m sure you will in time.”

“And so,” Kitty said, moving on, “when did Julia die?”

“Two years ago.”

“How did the other two take it?”

“They lost their mother.” His hands spread apart helplessly. “It hasn’t been easy for them.”

“I should think not,” she said. And she repeated her words again, this time much more slowly, “I… should … think … not.” As she spoke, her face clouded. A new thought had caught her mind.

“Do you really think there is a chance for them?” she asked.

“For my sons?”

She looked at him. “No… I’m sorry,” she said. “I confused you. I was thinking of the men in the tunnel. I was wondering if they have a chance.”

“I’ll do all I can to make sure they do,” he said, without much conviction.

“But is there really much hope for them?”

He paused and turned away from her probing eyes. “No,” he said at last, “there is not much hope. The telegraph reports say that at least thirty or forty feet of tunnel has collapsed. If any are still living on the other side of the collapse, there seems little chance of breaking through to them.”

“What a horror for them!”

“Yes.”

“Nothing like that has happened to my father before, you know,” she said. “He is the most careful engineer.”

“It’s not his fault,” John assured her. “Acts of God are out of our hands. We can only deal with the consequences.”

“But he designed the railroad, surveyed it, determined where the tracks would go, decided where to build the tunnel. Should he not have known that the mountain was unstable?”

“I imagine that he would not have chosen that mountain if he had been aware of what was inside it,” he said gently.

“But could he not have drilled, taken core samples, tested?”

“Yes,” John admitted. “And I’m sure he did. But really,” he repeated again, “the accident was entirely an act of God.”

“I wonder, still, if it will hurt Father at the board meeting on Wednesday.”

“That, Mrs. Lancaster, is a matter entirely of money,” he assured her. “Or rather, of who controls it.”

“But I do worry about him so,” she said.

“Your devotion is admirable,” he said evenly, but wondered why she was so devoted to her father.

“There’s a question on your face,” she said, noticing.

“You’re very perceptive,” he said. “Or else I am very obvious,” he smiled.

“You are not obvious, Mr. Carlysle,” she said, returning his smile. “Anything but. However, do you care to tell me what your question’s about?”

“Actually,” he said, “I’d rather not.”

“Then it’s about me?” she asked quickly.

“A safe guess,” he said. “You are a very intriguing woman, Mrs. Lancaster. There’s much about you that excites curiosity.”

“Perhaps I could satisfy some of your curiosity… if you told me what you were curious about?”

“Perhaps,” he said to her, “I prefer to remain curious.”

She smiled, then said, “You know, Mr. Carlysle, you excite my curiosity, too.”

He nodded his head in acknowledgment, but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t wish to pursue that line of conversation.

She, too, sensed it was time to move to another topic.

“How do you find this country so far, Mr. Carlysle?” Kitty Lancaster asked.

“You’d like my impression after only two weeks?”

“I’d think your impression after two weeks would be especially strong… unclouded by details.”

“Strong? Perhaps, though not deep,” he said. “Or wide.”

“No,” she agreed with a smile. “Neither deep nor wide.”

“I like what I’ve seen so far,” he said cautiously. “I’m glad I came.”

“And why did you come to this country?”

“What do you mean?”

“You appear on our doorstep with one thousand shares of Pennsylvania stock—and the blessings of that old scoundrel Sir Charles Elliot. Those facts have made me exceedingly curious about you.”

“Do you know Sir Charles?” John asked.

“I’ve been to England with my father,” she said. “I met Sir Charles there. Father and Sir Charles got along famously. And I got along famously with him, too, I might add.”

“I’m not surprised. I also know Sir Charles well.”

“But,” she said, raising a finger and pointing it at him half in good humor and half in accusation, “he is still an old scoundrel. And”—she moved her finger closer to John—”he gave you the thousand shares. Why? That old scoundrel would do nothing like that unless he expects something at least as substantial in return.” She withdrew the finger. “Are you his spy?” she asked with a smile.

“You don’t think I’m his spy, do you?”

“No…”

“I’m not his spy,” he said, but then he thought he should amend that. “Or at least I’m not a spy in the usual way that word is understood. But Sir Charles did ask me to act as his agent… in order to make sure that the Pennsylvania is a success.”

“Sir Charles thought that you could do that?”

“He thought I could help.”

“And do you think you will help?”

“Of course.”

“And the shares came with only that condition?”

“There were other conditions.”

“But you don’t care to tell me about them?”

“I don’t.”

“Perhaps you will allow me to guess?”

“Clearly, you have already guessed,” he said, smiling. “If you would like to inform me what you have guessed, by all means go ahead.”

“Sir Charles has a daughter, Diane. I know her,” Kitty said. “And I like her. She is very good. Very kind. And very sweet.”

“I also liked her,” he said softly.

“Is Diane not the other reason you are in Philadelphia today? Were not the thousand shares insurance that you would never become Sir Charles’s son-in-law?”

John looked at her with greater admiration than ever. “You are perceptive,” he said. His eyes were lit with amusement. And chagrin.

“It had to be some such explanation,” Kitty said, shaking her head. “My, my, poor Diane. He must have been very worried about her indeed to have to give you a thousand shares of our stock. Ours is the best railroad in this country.” And then she caught his eye.

“And then there’s you. The old scoundrel must have thought a great deal of you to feel he had to pay you off so royally…”

“You make it sound like a bribe,” he said.

“Some people would believe it was a bribe.”

“In fact, my relationship with Diane had not really progressed far enough—”

“Oh, come, Mr. Carlysle,” she interrupted. “It had progressed far enough, or else you would have arrived in Philadelphia without a penny.” Her hand went up to her mouth in a gesture that indicated that she knew deep secrets. “Actually,” she whispered, “Diane was in love with you.”

“How can you say that?” he snapped.

“Because she told me.” Kitty laughed. “In a letter. We have corresponded since we met eight years ago.”

“God,” he said, shaking his head in exasperation. “Women! So that’s how you guessed about the reason for the shares.”

“I knew there was someone coming from England—she didn’t reveal your name. But then you arrived. And who else could it be?”

“God,” he repeated. “So how long have you known?”

“Oh, not long!” she said. “Only just now! Don’t get angry, or start thinking that I know all your secrets. I know nothing about you, really, except what I have told you.”

He laughed. “You already know me better, I fear, than I can handle.”

“Than you can handle?”

“That’s another line of conversation I’d rather not pursue.”

“All right,” she said with a smile, “I’ll wait until you can handle me.” As she said that, she inclined toward him.

“That is not what I said, Mrs. Lancaster,” John said, blushing like a boy.

“Oh?” Her smile widened, and her face grew radiant.

And then she moved slightly closer to him. He stretched his hand toward her, and his fingers touched her cheek, lingering there while they each took several breaths.

“Call me Kitty,” she said, after he had finally removed his hand.

“All right, Kitty,” he said.

As John expected, Graham was not with the two other boys when they arrived at Sturdivant’s. But Alex and David wanned up to Kitty instantly, so John had no hesitation about leaving them in her care.

After they had collected enough gear and clothes to hold them for a few days, he and Kitty took the boys to her home. And then John returned to the rail yard and Edgar Thomson’s private car.

Before he left Sturdivant’s, John left a note for Graham with the room clerk. In it he explained where he was going and instructed Graham to look in on Mrs. Lancaster as soon as he could.

His tone was not friendly.

An hour before Kitty Lancaster had brought John Carlysle back to Sturdivant’s Hotel, Graham Carlysle had stood in his hotel room looking over the clothes hanging in the wardrobe. He had been standing there for some time, unsure about how to dress for his engagement that evening with Teresa O’Rahilly. He was taking her to dinner, to the theater, and then to a dance hall. His impulse was to wear his best, most tasteful things, for he liked dressing like a gentleman. He liked to look cool and poised.

But he didn’t know what Teresa would wear. And he didn’t want a severe mismatch between them.

Could an Irish refugee girl living on her wits in a strange city have the style and the grace to turn herself out looking like a lady? He didn’t have an answer to that question.

It did not occur to him, as he stood undecided before the wardrobe, that Teresa had dressed the day before so that she would look like a nice but down-on-her-luck young lady, and that she could just as easily turn herself into an attractive young woman dressed for an evening on the town.

He was certain she would not have the bad taste to make an appearance that would shame or disgrace him. She would never arrive as, say, a waif or a whore—Teresa was much too smart for that. But there were vast nuances between whore and waif and lady; and Graham had no notion as to exactly how Teresa would look.

Graham Carlysle’s appetite for fine clothes, elegant women, and the pleasures of city nightlife were a learned rather than inherited characteristic. His father was a man of the daytime and of the outdoors, who enjoyed above all else hard work under the open sky. Thus he adored his work supervising the building of railroads. His hobbies were hunting, fishing, riding, or just plain strolling down country lanes.

Consequently John Carlysle greatly disapproved of Graham’s nighttime activities. And there had been many bitter fights with Graham about them, all of which had so far remained unresolved, for John could not bring himself to take the ultimate step of excluding Graham from his household —partly because he did not feel that Graham was committing an ultimate sin against himself and the family and partly because John felt that he needed his oldest son close by him. In fact sometimes John thought Graham’s behavior was nothing more than youthful exuberance and high jinks. John was convinced that the Carlysles—strangers in a new land, with no wife and mother to hold the family together—had to stay together.

Graham was by no means a burden on the family’s resources. He financed his personal activities himself, for he was a skillful poker player, amazingly so for such a young man. Part of his skill, of course, came from his clever exploitation of his age. Older players were astonished that someone so cool and capable could be only a few months over twenty. They expected weaknesses and impulsive mis-plays of which Graham was never guilty.

Graham knew that the conflict between his father and himself would not continue forever, but he did nothing to immediately change the situation. Nor did his father. And although Graham’s skill with cards gave him access to pleasures that would otherwise have been denied to him, he also knew that if all went well, his father could set him up in a good career with the railroad. Graham’s education at the University of Glasgow had prepared him for that, and it was not something he laughed at or ignored. He just didn’t want it now.

Graham Carlysle would be loose and wild, but he could also be as solid and practical as his father.

Flipping through the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, he finally decided to follow his first instincts and wear his best —a dark navy blue broadcloth suit, a white linen shirt, satin waistcoat, silk cravat, and boots of soft pigskin. Not quite as an afterthought, he slipped a small, slender knife into a sheath in his right boot, not because he expected trouble or danger—Philadelphia was more civilized than most of Liverpool or Manchester—but because it gave him comfort to do so.

When Graham met Teresa not far from the Walnut Street Theater, he almost didn’t recognize her. The Teresa he recalled was a pallid-faced girl dressed in gray, shy and sober and helpless-looking. But tonight Teresa was no longer that. She had transformed herself into a lively, radiant, resplendently beautiful, but very proper young lady, one who would not at all seem out of place in an orchestra seat of the theater, or in the drawing room of one of the old Philadelphia families. She wore a dusty pink satin dress with a full skirt. Across her shoulders she had draped a wide, ivory colored woolen shawl. And she held in her hand a tiny silk handbag that was a shade darker than mother of pearl.

His fears about her were clearly unjustified. She was, he realized, breathtaking. He stopped and stared at her for a time, letting his heart drink her in.

When Teresa saw him, her eyes lit up, and she rushed over to where he was standing.

“Graham!” she said, smiling and stretching her hand out to him, obviously delighted to see him.

“Miss O’Rahilly,” he said formally, with a profound nod of his head. “You look fabulously lovely this evening.” It was not a mere compliment. He was marveling at her transformation … or rather her ability to transform herself.

Her smile grew wider. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m delighted that you approve.”

“Approval is hardly the word, Tess,” he said.

“I wanted to look as fine for you as I expected to find you,” she said.

“That you have done, girl,” he said. He could not take his eyes off her.

“And there was more than that,” she added. “I’m not often taken to plays; and I love them more than I love my own life, I think. So I wanted to show you how grateful I am.”

“That you have also done,” he said, offering her his arm. “But let’s find someplace where we can dine,” he said. “And while we eat, I’d like you to tell me about yourself. I’m very curious about a girl from—” he stopped, searching for a word that was not insulting, “from deep in the Irish countryside.”

“From the bogs and the mires? Is that what you mean, Graham?” she asked with a light, silvery laugh.

“All right, have it your way, from the bogs,” he said, laughing with her. “I’m curious how a girl from the bogs could have developed a love for plays. And I’m also curious about how a girl from the bogs developed such good taste in clothes.” He was not, however, curious about how she afforded them; he was aware of the way she earned her living. But that, in his present state of dazzlement, did not disturb him.

They ate at a restaurant on Walnut Street, not far from the theater. And as they ate, she told him about herself—about how her family had been part of a theatrical company that traveled around Ireland, about the Jesuit member of the company who had taught her and her brother Egan how to read and write, and most importantly, how to appreciate what was fine and moving in what they read. And she told him about the famine, and the terrible boat trip to America, when all of her family died except herself and Egan. And finally, she talked for a time about Egan himself, whom she adored, even though he despised the life Teresa was leading.

“You know, Teresa O’Rahilly,” Graham said to her when he had pried out of her all that he could manage at one sitting, “you are a most unusual and amazing woman.” She beamed at that, so shyly and self-consciously, so distinctly different from the carefully orchestrated act that she had tried to put on for him the day before, that Graham’s mind was left in a spin. “Would you like to join another theatrical company?” he asked. “Would you like to act again?”

“There’s nothing I want to do more,” she said with quiet intensity.

“If your performance yesterday is any indication of your talent, you could be a leading lady in London.” He said this to her lightly, but Teresa did not respond in kind. She caught his eye, and then her shoulders drooped and eyelids closed in resignation and hopelessness.

“Why don’t you try?” he persisted.

Her eyes flashed with anger. “Have you ever been Irish?” she spit out. “And a woman?”

“But you have a brother, Egan,” Graham said, choosing to ignore her outburst. “Why can’t the two of you—”

“Egan hates me,” she interrupted. Then she threw up her hands, imploring him. “Please, Graham! Please talk about something else.”

But Graham would not be shaken from the track he was on. “Do you really believe that his hostility to you can be permanent?”

She nodded. Her face flushed, and she turned away from him.

“But you aren’t certain that he will ever forgive you?”

She nodded again, with her face still turned. “He has a soul of iron,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” he said kindly, thinking of his own father’s attitude toward him, “but I understand.”

They saw that night an operetta called Clari, or the Maid of Milan, with a script by John Howard Payne and a score by Sir Henry Rowley Bishop. Clari had first been performed at London’s Covent Garden Theater nearly thirty years earlier, but it remained popular with theatergoers, especially in America, Payne’s home country.

The play itself was about a beautiful, rustic lass Clari, who so attracted the eye of the wandering traveler Duke Vivaldi that he was overwhelmed with love for her. Promising her his hand, he took Clari back to his palace. There the girl was surrounded by luxuries. But even so she grew increasingly disconsolate. She had been deceived, and even worse, she was homesick for her family and her rustic village.

The duke showered rich gifts upon her—gowns, jewels, the frilliest of Paris bonnets—everything a young beauty could possibly desire, except matrimony. But Clari only pined away. Finally, left alone in a magnificent apartment of the palace, she sadly sang the operetta’s famous aria, and then intermission soon followed.

Graham had not much liked the play so far. He thought it was silly and unreal, and thus he felt superior to it. But when the lights came up, he saw that Teresa’s face was flushed with emotion and her eyes were bright with tears. When Clan sang “Home sweet Home,” Teresa’s hand had reached over the arm rest between their seats and firmly gripped his. And after the curtain fell, she did not let his hand go or rise to her feet, even as the others in their row of seats tried to pass her.

“Tess,” he said, shaking her hand gently, “let the others pass.”

She looked at him, released his hand, and stood up mechanically, like a windup toy. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically as the other people slipped by her. Then she came to her senses and gave Graham a wide smile.

“You like Clarit he asked, making a strong effort to sound indifferent. But he could not succeed in hiding his dislike for the play itself. Teresa caught the distaste in his voice.

“You’re not enjoying yourself,” Teresa said.

“I like it well enough,” he said without conviction.

“I adore it,” she said, turning to face him, and then raising her hands and laying them upon his shoulders. “It’s beautiful. She is so beautiful. And the duke so thick and empty of feeling.” She took his hand again. “Why don’t you like it?”

Graham smiled. “Don’t let me spoil your pleasure,” he said, trying to dismiss her question.

She looked at him. Her face was full of dismay at his insensitivity. But he was full of the arrogance of his own youthful opinions.

“You don’t sympathize with Clari?” she asked.

“Sympathize with Clari? I guess,” he said, “that if I liked her, I might sympathize with her. But to me she is empty-headed and weak. And you?”

“Naturally I like Clari, and I sympathize with her. She is a lovely, sweet, and innocent girl who is held by the duke against her will. She is so lonely. And so bereft. And she has a home, Graham, a home and family to return to, people who would take her in and cherish her, if he would only let her! Or else, if the duke would only really take her in, marry her, accept her in his heart, then both of them could be truly happy.”

“Home?” He was confused. “What does her home have to do with anything? How does that matter?”

“It does, Graham! Don’t you see? Clari has a home, and a family… and I don’t! Do you know what it means, Graham, not to have a home?”

Graham saw a depth of longing in her eyes that he had never seen before. But he didn’t know how to interpret what he saw. Teresa baffled him right now. What was going on within her? And how could they each be seeing such a different play? But especially, how could she have an opinion different from his? How could she, a woman, be so argumentative? That disturbed him very much.

He didn’t know what to do about it, however, so he did nothing. Or rather, he tried to change the subject.

“The duke would not make the same mistake with you, would he?” Graham chuckled.

“No,” Teresa said fervently, deliberately missing his meaning. “I would never make that mistake with a man like him.” She looked away from Graham for a time, gazing at the closed stage curtain, lost in thought.

At that moment, Graham suddenly realized that he had just caused her great pain, and he was deeply shamed. He looked around the auditorium, angry and disgusted at himself for his callousness toward her.

When I play cards, he thought, can conceal my feelings. But with this girl, I’m transparent.

Will she get over my cruelty soon?

Several minutes later, she turned to him again. The audience was now starting to return to their seats.

“Do you miss England?” she asked.

“England? No,” he said. “I don’t miss it. England meant very little to me, especially after my mother died.”

“I don’t miss Ireland either. I’ve never been homesick once, nor do I ever want to see the place again. If I ever create a home and a family, it will be in this country.”

He looked at her but said nothing, afraid he might cause her further pain.

What was she thinking of when she told me she longed fora home? Graham wondered. And why did she tell me she has never been homesick for Ireland?

The others in their row were now back in their seats, and so Graham and Teresa sat down.

“Tess,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.” The gas lights on the walls and those suspended from the high ceiling of the auditorium were beginning to dim. “I don’t like to be cruel.”

She looked at him for a time before she spoke. “Yes,” she said finally, “I’m sure you regret it now.”

Graham wondered what she meant by that, but the curtain was rising, so he could not ask.

During the second act, Clan pined away more than ever, until Duke Vivaldi, having become worried about her health, decided that she needed a break from her melancholy. And so he decreed that Clan should be entertained. A band of traveling players arrived and put on a play. As chance would have it, it was about a country girl who was enticed by a wealthy suitor from the splendors of home and family.

The play finally tore asunder Clari’s already wounded heart. She fled the palace and returned to her native village.

But she was not made welcome there by her father, who could not accept her life of sin with the duke. The duke, however, had meanwhile come to his senses. And, before matters could deteriorate even further, he arrived in the village and asked Clari’s father for her hand.

After the play, Graham and Teresa went to a dance hall. It was a short walk, but it had started to rain, so the walk wasn’t pleasant. In a way, though, Graham was grateful for the rain; he didn’t much want to converse about the play.

He was also grateful that Teresa seemed to have forgotten the bad moment they’d had during the intermission. She seemed indifferent to the rain, moving easily, only covering her head with her shawl; and she laughed freely and gaily.

Soon they reached the building that housed the dance hall. The hall itself was reached by walking down a long entrance corridor with private dining rooms on either side. When they stepped into it, they found the entranceway was empty, as were the dining rooms. When Teresa saw that she stopped and caught Graham’s hand.

“Look at me,” she said.

“All right.”

Then she took his head in her hands and pulled his face down toward hers so that she could kiss him.

“There,” she said. “That’s better. Thank you for taking me to the theater, Graham. I’ve enjoyed myself more than you’ll ever know.”

He was like a little boy when she did that. And his face grew red with embarrassment.

“You’re not mad that I didn’t like the play?” he asked.

“I’ll permit you not to like it,” she said with a grin. And then she laughed. “But I may not like you if you don’t like the play. I insist that my men agree with me.”

“How strange,” he said, his mood growing instantly lighter. “I’m exactly the same. I insist that my women agree with me.”

“So what do we do, now that we disagree?” she asked.

“I don’t know, though I must tell you that I’ve been known to get violent with my women.”

“Really? Several of my men are dead. Did you know that?”

“I’m not surprised,” he said. Then took her face in his own hands and stared at her, liking what he saw. “So we should dance, then, no?” He could not take his eyes off of hers.

“Yes,” she said, “let’s dance.”

Though it was Monday, the dance hall was more than half full. Americans loved dancing. And Graham loved dancing every bit as much as they did. So, it proved, did Teresa O’Rahilly.

As soon as the two of them had entered the hall and removed their outdoor clothes, he swung her out onto the floor.

“You do this well,” she said breathlessly, a dance or two later.

“I enjoy it,” he agreed. Then, more emphatically, he said, “I enjoy it tremendously!”

“You danced often in England?”

“Whenever I could find the freedom to do it. And you?”

“My mother and father taught me, in Ireland.”

‘They taught you well. You are… urn, delightfully responsive and light on your feet.”

She smiled. “You were about to say ‘surprisingly light on your feet,’ weren’t you?”

“Yes,” he said, with an embarrassed look. “How did you read my mind?”

“I’m Irish. I’m sure you expected my feet to be still mired in the bog.”

“Don’t be so sensitive,” he said. “You’re a glorious dancer. And I don’t give a damn whether you are Irish or German or French or Cherokee or Chinese.”

“But I care that you are English,” she said, suddenly serious. “And yet, even so, I think I like you.”

“You have extraordinarily good taste then,” he said, taking her hands and drawing her into a faster rhythm.

They swept around the floor, enjoying themselves like children on a carousel, laughing gaily.

Then Teresa suddenly and unexpectedly froze. She was staring across Graham’s shoulder.

“Why did you stop?” he asked.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and then faced him again. “I saw someone I know.”

“An old lover?” he asked with very little concern. They were moving again.

“Yes,” she said. “An old lover… I think we should leave soon.”

“Really? What does an old lover have that I do not?”

“His name is Ben Kean. And he imagined that I cared for him more than I do, or than I did. I’m sure he still believes that our relationship will continue.”

“And you want to avoid an unpleasant scene?”

“Ben is dangerous, Graham. He’s passionate. He has no control. And he likes to hurt.”

Graham’s manhood was aroused. “What would happen if we met him here? If he’s capable of making trouble, now is as good a time as any to get it over with.”

“Trust me, Graham. I know Ben Kean.” She was urging him toward the door with her hand. “There’s nothing to be gained from provoking him.”

 

If Teresa’s judgment of Ben Kean was right, she was too late to do anything about it. For Kean had seen them, and he was making his way across the dance floor.

He was a man of average height, slim and languid, and just a bit feminine, with a soft face, thin, sandy hair, and a wispy, somewhat bedraggled-looking beard. He looked to be in his midthirties, but he was actually ten years younger than that.

“Why, here we have little Tessy,” he said when he had reached them. “What a surprise.” There was a cool but savage smile on his face. “And she has found herself a new, young boy.” He looked Graham up and down with greatly exaggerated attention, as though he were examining a slave on a block, a slave that he found in every way wanting.

Graham moved closer to him. “You told me you know this man?” he asked Teresa.

“Yes,” she said, tight-mouthed. “I know him.”

“Has he always been such a lout?”

“Graham!” she warned.

Ben Kean bristled, but he did not respond directly to Graham’s insult. Rather, he turned to Teresa. “Is that what you’ve told your boy about me, sweet Tessy?” He moved closer to her as he spoke. “Have you told the boy I’m a lout? We can’t have that, can we, Tess? We can’t leave him believing that, can we? Tell him that I’m no lout, Tessy. Answer him, darlin’. And then tell him that you’re coming away with me.” His voice was no longer savage. His tone, instead, was filled with longing, and his face had an expression of helpless, doglike adoration. “Tell this boy that I’m your man.”

The man’s mad, Graham thought as he watched the change come over Ben Kean. And dangerous.

“Ben, please,” she said, pleading. “You know I’ve told you that I don’t belong to you any longer.”

“You’re coming with me, my girl,” Ben said, once again.

Teresa shook her head and turned to Graham. “Let’s go quickly,” she said. And he took her hand and started to return to the place where they were keeping his topcoat and her shawl.

Ben followed them, talking all the while, insulting Graham and imploring with Teresa.

And then another man slipped up beside Ben Kean. The second man was older than Ben, and they were clearly related. Yet, where Ben was slight and somewhat delicate, this man was paunchy and hard. Teresa groaned when she saw him.

“You’ve found Teresa Derbyville at last, have you Ben?” the man asked.

“Who are you?” Graham interrupted.

“And who are you, limey?” the other said, spitting out the words.

“Graham,” Teresa said quickly, her hand clutching his. “This man is Matthew Kean. He is Ben’s brother.” And then she looked from Graham to the Keans and back to Graham. “This is Graham Carlysle,” she said nervously.Matthew was direct and firm. “Tessy,” he said, “you come on home with Ben, now. And then there won’t be trouble.”

Graham drew Teresa closer, but his eyes were on the two other men. “No,” he said. “That’s not going to happen. The lady doesn’t want that. And neither do I.”

Matthew looked at Graham with a sad face. “I’m sorry for you, Mr. Graham Carlysle,” he said in a slow, laconic, confident voice. “But the way it is is this. This lady can’t stay with you any longer. She has already been taken… by my brother Ben.”

As he spoke, Graham was working out what he must do. He knew now that Teresa was right; there was no advantage to staying here. The question was whether he could escape with her without getting into a brawl.

Graham looked at the Keans, weighing his chances if a fight broke out. Matthew was about two inches taller than Ben, which put him at just about five feet eight or nine. And Graham was an inch over six feet, which made him the same height as his father.

That was good. But Graham knew that his height advantage wasn’t enough to make a difference against two men, especially since one of them was hard and heavy.

His knife was in its sheath in his boot, but he was loathe to use the weapon.

He put his hand on Teresa’s back, driving her forward. As he did that he nodded at the two Keans.

“I’ve been listening to the two of you tell me and this lady what we are both going to do,” he said to the Keans in a soft, husky—but menacing—voice. “I don’t want to do that. And neither does she. We’re going to leave.” Then he turned his back on the other men.

“Stop,” one of the Keans said. “Both of you.”

They kept moving.

Graham noticed Teresa starting to look back. “Don’t,” he said. She turned her face to his. Her face was filled with fright.

“Tessy,” Ben Kean said, his voice rising to a wailing cry, “don’t leave with that boy! You stay with me! Do you hear me? You stay with me!”

“Keep going and don’t answer him,” Graham said.

They were at the door to the long entrance corridor now. It was a double swinging door. Teresa pushed through.

“Don’t run!” he said to Teresa, resisting the urge to race away from the two other men. And he added unconvincingly, “Keep calm.” They did not run, but they did hurry down the hall to the exit, and then they burst out into the night.

Outside, they heard feet pounding after them on the cobblestones. They didn’t need to look back to see who it was.

“Are you going to run away from me, Tessy, you and your new boy?” Ben called after them, and then he laughed a deep-throated, mocking laugh.

“He’s crazy, isn’t he?” Graham said to Tess.

“Yes,” she said, squeezing his hand. “He is absolutely mad … And do you know I could have married him?”

He shook his head. “You’re better off the way you are.”

“No,” she said. “But I’m better off not married to Ben Kean.”

Ben called out. “Where are you two going now? Do you think you’ll find some place that’s private from us?”

Then Matthew’s deeper voice added, “Do you hope to put in a little lovin’?”

“Don’t answer them,” Graham said.

It was pouring rain now, the dim, ill-lighted street was even more obscure than usual. Perhaps, if they were lucky, they could slip away into the darkness.

“Is Matthew insane, too?” Graham asked.

“Matthew? Oh no. Most of the time Matthew is all right. He works with his father—they’re teamsters, they operate many wagons, they’re well off.” She was breathing hard, but continued. “He works like an ox. But he protects Ben. He tries to take care of him. And so he thinks I would be good for Ben, that I could turn Ben Kean into a steady, church-going, family man.”

“Why don’t you spread your legs for him here, in the street?” Ben yelled. “What’s to stop you, Tessy darlin’? You don’t mind doin’ it in front of me and Matthew, do you? You’re not the kind of girl that minds men watchin’ you rut?”

“Hey!” Matthew shouted gaily. “I’d like to see that! Show us, Tess. Go ahead.”

And then Ben yelled, once again with his mocking laughter, “How much is your boy payin’ you for your pleasures, Tessy? How much, Tessy girl? I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay you double that if you’ll both do it here and now.” And then he added,

“And I’ll pay him, too.”

“You won’t get a good offer like that soon, Tess,” Matthew said.

Graham couldn’t stand their insults any longer. He twisted around to face them. “Ignorant, stupid bastards!” he shouted. “Get out of here! Both of you get out of here!”

The Keans just laughed.

Then they started closing in.

“Tessy? Tessy? Tessy?” Ben called, jeering, derisive and yet imploring. “Tessy!”

Teresa looked at Graham. “Run!” she whispered, and then dashed away.

Graham thought a moment, considering whether he wanted to risk staying and fighting. He soon realized that it would be crazy to stay and fight them. He dashed after her.

They ran a block, turned, ran half a block, and then raced up an alley, came out onto another street, ran up it a short way, and then slipped into another alley. They hoped to hide there.

For a moment, they stood gasping for breath. Then Teresa fell into his arms.

“Oh, Graham!” she sobbed. “Graham!”

The alley was as dark as a tunnel. Its outlet to the street, though, was a bit brighter. Graham stared at the outlet and remained coiled, alert, waiting.

The rain pounded on them.

Without taking his eyes off the dim area at the mouth of the alley, he whispered to her. “Are all your other lovers like Ben Kean?”

“Oh, Graham,” she said, her voice throbbing with shame, “I’m so sorry about him. I never thought he would come after me that way. And I never thought that Matthew would be mad enough—or devoted enough—to help him.”

Graham shook his head. “I admire his taste in choosing you,” he said. “But I wonder about you choosing him.”

“Wait!” she flashed. “Just wait, Mr. Graham-superior-Carlysle. When I took up with Ben Kean, he was the gentlest man I’d ever met. And later, when I saw his other side, I left him. If you know of a way I could have stopped him from refusing to let me go, then you tell it to me.”

Graham had no reply to that. So he took her head in his hands and kissed her full on the mouth.

“That’s better,” she whispered.

“Hush,” he whispered.

Someone passed the alley’s entrance.

The figure moved beyond visibility, but Graham held his hand over Teresa’s mouth.

Then they heard shouts between the two Keans. Then another figure passed across the mouth of the alley. This one carried an oil lantern.

“Think they’re in here?” the one with the lantern called out. It was Matthew Kean. Ben appeared next to him. Through the rain and mist, Graham could see that Ben was carrying a pistol in his hand. It gleamed dully and coldly in the lantern light.

Teresa and Graham retreated farther back into the alley. But soon they were forced to stop. The alley came to an end against a faceless brick wall, probably the rear of a warehouse.

On the right side of the alley there was a high, stout wooden fence. Graham knew that he could probably scramble up it, but he doubted that Teresa could, especially dressed as she was. But the other side of the alley was more promising, a large, open yard. They moved into it, carefully, for it was filled with junk and abandoned scrap… as well as tall, massive, finished and unfinished stone blocks—monuments. Tombstones.

“This is a stonemason’s yard,” Graham said.

“How pleasant,” she said, shivering.

“We can hide here,” he said.

They threaded their way through the junk and the half-finished tombstones. Among all the detritus was a large, broken-down, four-wheeled wagon, turned upside down. Graham led Teresa behind it and made her crouch down. “Stay there,” he whispered.

Then he bent over and slipped his knife out of its sheath. After that he drifted like a shadow over to the side of the yard.

The two Keans were now standing at the end of the alley, peering through the rain into the yard.

“Come out, Carlysle,” Matthew Kean said, raising the lantern above his head to see better.

‘Tess,” Ben called. “Tessy. Let me see you. Let me see your face.”

“Carlysle,” Matthew said, louder this time, “we’re going to let you go by us, safe and sound, if you leave Tess. But,” he paused significantly, “if you stay, we’ll tear your ass off.”

There was a rustling noise, like a body slipping and falling. Teresa cried out, then rose and stood at the edge of the lantern’s glow. Then she vanished.

“Stop, Tess, for God’s sake!” Ben said, without moving.

But Matthew, more alert, strode quickly after her.

Graham had not expected Teresa to show herself; and he had no idea why she did so. Yet her movement served Graham’s purposes. It distracted the Keans.

Both brothers were now rushing to the spot where they last saw Teresa.

In a second, Graham was at Matthew’s back with his knife edge at the side of the other man’s throat.

“Drop the lantern,” he ordered.

“Damn you,” Matthew snarled.

“Just drop it.”

The lantern fell and shattered. Oil spilled, the flame caught and flared, and for a moment there was a pool of yellow-blue flame; but the rain quickly drowned that out.

There was very little light now. But Graham could hear Ben moving closer through the stony rubble. And there were other sounds farther away. Surely that was Teresa.

“What now, Carlysle?” Matthew asked, breathing heavily.

Graham said nothing… in fact, he didn’t know what move he ought to make next. His own heart was pounding, and he, too, was breathing in great, sucking gulps.

And then Ben was upon him. With a piercing, angry cry, he crashed into Graham and his brother, sending Graham sprawling onto the ground. As Graham fell, his knife slashed the side of Matthew’s neck, but it was not a deep wound Graham, aware of Ben’s gun, rolled, and then he twisted up onto his feet.

Ben had followed him as he rolled. And he was now no more than six feet from Graham. The gun was leveled at Graham’s face.

“I warned you,” Ben said. The madness that Graham had heard earlier was in Ben’s voice. “Tessy is not yours. You can’t have her.”

The gun was a small one, a double-shot derringer. There was a possibility that it would not fire in the rain.

Matthew now stood at Ben’s side, but a few feet behind him. He was holding a rag to the slash on his neck.

As Graham watched him, Matthew suddenly staggered and made a sharp, brief cry. Then he fell on his face.

Teresa had come up behind Matthew and struck the back of his head with a piece of marble the size of a melon.

Ben, distracted, looked in her direction… and, as he did that, Graham dove toward him, with his knife arm extended in front of him.

Ben fired the pistol, and the bullet passed Graham harmlessly. But the action checked Graham’s rush. And then, after he fired, Ben quickly backed away. He raised the pistol again. He fired, and this time the bullet struck Graham’s right side, just above the top of the hip bone. He staggered, swept by a wave of agony. But he kept driving at Ben; and the knife found the other man’s body and penetrated.

Graham had braced himself, expecting resistance. But that did not happen. The knife passed into Ben’s body with no more effort than if it had been plunged into a loaf of bread.

Graham stumbled and fell. And lost consciousness.

When he awoke, Teresa was holding his head in her lap. Her back was propped against a partly formed marble funeral obelisk.

Words started to form on his lips, but she placed her fingers on his mouth. “Hush,” she said. “Rest a minute.”

But he shook away her hand. In spite of the flaming pain in his side, he had to know about the Keans.

“Are they …?”

She stroked his head, combing his wet hair back with her fingers. At last she answered him. “Ben is dead. Matthew is only unconscious, I think.”

“God!” He looked at her, asking for more information.

“You stabbed Ben in the heart or lungs. A lot of blood came out of his mouth.”

Graham raised his head a little. “I can’t… !” he said. “I didn’t… !”

“I know,” she said, stroking his face. “Don’t try to explain. This was not your doing.”

“But…” His head sagged back into her lap. “Then we must go and…”

“Hush. You’ve lost blood… a lot of blood. It seems to have stopped now, but I don’t know whether we can risk moving you.”

“We can’t stay here.”

“No, we can’t,” she admitted. “But I don’t know what else to do.”

“And we can’t wait for help,” he said, raising himself painfully up to a sitting position.

“Don’t do that,” she said. But he ignored her; he struggled to his feet.

“There,” he said, trying to smile, “I’m not as injured as I look. Let’s go.” He lurched toward the alley.

“You’re mad, Graham Carlysle,” she said and shook her head in exasperation. But she offered him her arm to lean on. And he realized then for the first time that she had somehow bound his wound. She had either done a good job dressing it, or else he was lucky, because the blood did not start flowing again.

Then he pulled her to a halt. “What about them?” he asked. His voice shook, and his words were slurred with pain. “Shouldn’t we tell someone about this? Shouldn’t we tell a law officer?”

“Graham, darlin’, your mind’s not clear. Don’t waste your thinking on such thoughts. Leave the thinking to me for now.” She urged him to take a step forward. One foot moved. Then the other followed.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asked, staring at his legs move as though he were more than a little surprised that they were obeying him.

“I’m going to find a way to get you taken care of. Did you have something else in mind?”