Nine

It was an impressive funeral even for Philadelphia, on this gray, damp Wednesday morning. The city was full of people of substance, and it, therefore, hosted many elaborate funerals. Scarcely a day passed without a long funeral processing wending westward along Market Street, across the bridge over the Schuylkill River, and out to the cemetery in West Philadelphia.

But the funeral for Ben Kean was especially notable. Twenty-eight carriages rode behind the funeral hearse. And a hundred and thirty-seven mourners walked. The Keans were a large clan. In addition to Ben’s father, George, and his mother, Melanie, there were two brothers, Matthew and Henry, two sisters, Deborah and Aliene, and a large assortment of aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. And that was just the immediate family. More than a few of George Kean’s teamster friends came to mourn, in addition to numerous other close acquaintances of George’s from various trades and professions. Among these, for instance, was the lawyer Andrew Gibbon and his two spinster daughters; the family physician,

Fleming, and his wife, Dolly.

The deceased had had friends, too, and these—all fourteen of them—trailed behind at the end of the procession feeling somewhat self-conscious, for they knew that this funeral was more of a tribute to the father of the deceased rather than to the deceased himself.

In addition to family, friends, and colleagues, there were journalists who were not as interested in the deceased as they were in fresh tales and gossip of the living about the living. There were also curious rumors about the actual manner in which the deceased had made his exit from the veil of tears in which, up until two nights before, he had dwelled. But the family and friends, clearly at the direction of George Kean himself, said little about that. Everyone uttered the simple statement: “Ben has met with a dreadful accident.” That, of course, was no information at all. It was as good as saying he died of heart failure. The truth—as every journalist is well aware—is that we all ultimately die of heart failure. And for most of us, death comes as a dreadful accident.

However, the journalists knew that Ben Kean, unlike his father, was not well loved. It was, in fact, hard to find anyone—aside from his father, his brother Matthew, and his fourteen reluctantly attending friends—who had cared for him at all. That was a fact from which journalists could make interesting copy: “The young, black-sheep of a prominent family dies under mysterious circumstances.” It was much more intriguing than, for instance, “The young saintly daughter of an impoverished family, having devoted her short life to unremitting prayer, has died after a long, wasting, painful illness.”

Unhappily, as far as the journalists were concerned, their instincts about Ben’s mysterious death were perfectly sound, but their efforts to produce hard facts proved fruitless. Nobody at the funeral who knew the truth was talking, and the one person in Philadelphia who would have talked, had she been asked, was not called upon. That was Bridget O’Dona-hue, Kitty Lancaster’s maid.

It was Bridget, of course, who eventually let the truth out—first to her friends, then to the tradespeople she dealt with. And these people passed it on to others, until, in time, the story was in circulation throughout Philadelphia. But by the time the actual cause of Ben Kean’s death became generally known, the story was no longer news. And journalists were chasing other, more immediately pressing rumors, gossip, and scandal.

George Kean had much greater success than the journalists in chasing down the same story, or at least the aspects of it that interested him. But he had access to better informants than did the journalists. His son Matthew had been an eyewitness to much of what had happened. And his family physician, Fleming, had also been involved. And the lawyer Gibbon had access to the sort of people who could root out that information which Matthew and Fleming could not have known. And George himself, of course, knew still others who could tell him anything else.

The result was that by the morning of the funeral, George Kean had many answers to the questions that had plagued him early the previous morning when he had first learned about Ben’s death. He had immediately discovered a great deal about Graham Carlysle and Teresa Derbyville, as well as about Teresa’s relationship to Ben. George had not known about Teresa until after his son’s death.

He found out who the Carlysles were, where they dwelled, where they came from, and about John’s connection with the Pennsylvania Railroad. He found out that Graham was a much better than average poker player and that he spent a great deal of time at McMullen’s Saloon. And he found out that Graham could not have known Teresa for more than a few days. And he found out all he needed to know about Teresa Derbyville… that is to say, Teresa O’Rahilly, and about the other men in her life besides Ben.

He was confused by one aspect of the story: the connection between the Carlysles and Kitty Lancaster. But that connection did not leave him baffled; rather, it sparked his curiosity. He wanted very much to learn about that, because there was a growing association in his mind between the Pennsylvania Railroad, which he despised, and the death of his son Ben, which he was determined to avenge.

Kean did not want to involve the state and its justice system as Dr. Fleming had advised because he felt that official authorities could never repay him for his loss. Kean did not give a damn about the state’s justice system. He personally wanted to make certain that Ben’s killers paid for what they did. He also realized that by ordinary standards, his son had brought his death upon himself. And ordinary justice would let the killers go free. But George Kean could never allow that. Graham Carlysle and Teresa O’Rahilly must be made to pay-George was fascinated to learn on Tuesday that Carlysle and O’Rahilly had fled Philadelphia for an unknown destination. That simply confirmed for him that they knew what he knew. It proved the correctness of the course of action he must inevitably follow.

The funeral procession wound through the cemetery and finally reached its destination. And Ben Kean, after the usual words were pronounced over him, was consigned to the dust from which he and every other man had originated. Afterward, George and Matthew and a few of George’s most trusted teamster friends retired to a private dining room in the Fairhope Hotel. And there they embarked on preliminary discussions about sabotaging the Pennsylvania Railroad.

Another subject they discussed was the debt that Graham Carlysle and Teresa O’Rahilly had contracted with George Kean and the manner in which it was to be repaid.

But George, to everyone’s surprise, was not anxious to take immediate action on that matter. He was patient. He wanted to wait and let interest and dividends build up.

The train that left Philadelphia at nine o’clock on Tuesday morning was scheduled to reach Tyrone at eleven the same evening. But it did not arrive in that town until sometime after ten Wednesday morning.

The train was delayed because the hard rains of the previous day had washed away a partly finished cut some forty miles east of Tyrone, and so there was a wait of several hours until it was repaired. And then there was another wait for over two hours while the westbound train was shunted onto a siding. This was to allow the passage of an eastbound train. After the westbound train had stood on the siding for over two hours, the passengers in it finally saw the cause of their delay: a locomotive and tender and a single car, the private car of Mr. Edgar Thomson, raced by them at full throttle toward Philadelphia. Thomson was doing his best to reach the city in time to attend the board of directors meeting scheduled for that afternoon.

One of the passengers on the westbound train was Tom Collins. He was the least disturbed by the long delay. In fact, the delay turned out to be an opportunity for him. When the train departed from Philadelphia, he found himself in the same car with a fascinating group of fellow travelers. There were three women, two of whom were surpassing beauties, a young man who was recovering from a gunshot wound, two young boys, and a very young girl.

One of the beauties was Kitty Lancaster, the daughter of the chief engineer of the railway. The other was an Irish lass named Teresa O’Rahilly, with whom Tom managed to spend a great deal of time, even though she seemed closely attached to the wounded man. The less comely woman, it turned out, was Teresa O’Rahilly’s sister-in-law; the little girl belonged to her. The man with the wound was called Graham Carlysle. It became apparent that his father had something to do with Thomson, though Collins could not ascertain what; whatever it was would doubtless repay further research. And the two boys were his brothers.

This little group had been in quite a dither when they embarked in Philadelphia; they had made their departure from the city in a breathless, hectic, furious scramble. Collins had overheard whispers that intrigued him: One name, Kean, was repeated over and over.

There was only one Kean that mattered in Philadelphia, and that Kean was soon to become Tom Collins’s partner in Mr. Abraham Gibbon’s railroad project.

Thus, before the nine o’clock westbound train had left the Philadelphia suburbs, Tom had made himself useful to the little group. No man could insinuate himself into the confidence of others quite as well as an expriest who is onto a mark. Little acts of thoughtful attention go a long way in winning over those who were susceptible to his charm (in the event it was card games with the children and errand running during station stops that did the trick). And by the time the train had reached Harrisburg some hours later, Collins was convinced that the women in the party considered him to be not only a kind companion but a true friend. The man, Graham, spent most of his time asleep or dozing.

When the train finally arrived in Tyrone on Wednesday morning, Collins found the town all atwitter with the news that a few of the men caught in the tunnel disaster up at Gallitzin had survived. Two of these men had miraculously made what was already becoming in the telling an epic journey through the caves inside the mountain. They had actually met their rescuers at the cave’s entrance.

There were no details about any of these men. No one in Tyrone even knew their identities.

But this news seemed to inspire the group around Kitty Lancaster to even greater haste. And so they were all hurried aboard their coach connection to Gallitzin as soon as the train had come to a halt. They expected to arrive at the tunnel by noon.

All in all, Tom Collins was most pleased with himself and the way things were going. The tunnel cave-in—even though he had not had a hand in it—couldn’t have worked out better for his purposes if he had planned it himself. And now he was journeying to the tunnel site with a company of people he was convinced he could put to good use in the weeks and months to come.

During the course of Tom Collins’s training for the priesthood, he had been taught to avoid expressions of joy and gaiety. But as the coach lurched and jounced up the rocky road to Gallitzin, a huge grin—half-silly, half-seraphic— spread over his face.

He was an icon of heavenly delight and satisfaction. No kid was happier after his first secret and illicit taste of tobacco smoke behind the hedge. No boy of sixteen was more rapturous when he first touched his tongue to an adolescent girl’s tan and trembling nipple.

William Patterson, like Edgar Thomson, was rushing toward Philadelphia on that Wednesday morning. He had set out from New York City on the six o’clock ferry to Jersey City, and from there he had embarked on the southbound train.

As he sat back in his seat and watched the countryside speed by, Patterson looked like an ideal picture of delight and accomplishment. After several hours of hard bargaining the evening before, he had achieved his goals in a deal with Daniel Drew and Cornelius Vanderbilt.

The beauty of it all for William Patterson was that he had obtained rather more from Drew and Vanderbilt than they thought they were giving, and they had obtained rather less from him than they thought they were receiving. Patterson had issued to himself a block of five thousand shares of Pennsylvania stock with a par value of $50. He then used half of the block to secure a note in the amount of $100,000 with Cornelius Vanderbilt. And the other half secured a note of the same amount with Daniel Drew. Both men, in addition, had agreed to subscribe to $1,000,000 apiece of the bond issue that the board of directors would authorize at the Wednesday meeting. They would purchase the $930,000 they had each agreed to acquire in ten equal installments.

With these two men thus participating, Patterson was confident that the railroad would have no difficulty selling the balance of the six-million-dollar bond issue. Thus his future as president of the Pennsylvania Railroad was now assured.

At this moment he carried in his bag two bank draughts from each man in the amounts of $100,000 and $93,000, for a total of $386,000.

Of this, $186,000 belonged technically to the railroad, but the railroad was not going to see that money immediately, for Patterson had other more pressing uses for it. The block of five thousand shares that he had issued to himself in order to secure the loans with Drew and Vanderbilt was not actually his to issue.

But these were both problems for another day.

His immediate concern was a mine near Angels Camp, California, of which he was half owner. Without $350,000 to reimburse creditors and to pay for new equipment and labor, the mine would close down. But with it, the gold seam the mine lay on top of could be profitably exploited; and the mine would soon return for William Patterson at least ten times the $386,000 he was “borrowing” now to keep it in operation. The additional $36,000 was for expenses and contingencies.

This $386,000 was not a bad day’s work, he thought to himself as he savored a cigar and observed the New Jersey fields and pastures the train raced by at a fabulous fourteen miles per hour. And so it was with delighted anticipation that he contemplated the triumph over Edgar Thomson that he would soon reap.

If he was apprehensive about his prospects beyond the immediate future, he did not betray it either then or later that afternoon when he watched Thomson’s humiliation before the board.

It was not long after the coach from Tyrone arrived that John Carlysle learned who had arrived on it. He quickly walked up to the camp groggery, where the passengers had been deposited.

That he did not expect these people—his three sons, Kitty Lancaster, and the wife, daughter and sister of Egan O’Rahilly—to arrive at this time in this place was an understatement. He was utterly astonished to find them at Gallitzin.

But it turned out that their astonishment on hearing the news from the camp was even greater than his in finding them there.

Egan O’Rahilly alive and well! After surviving the cave-in, he and a friend had embarked on an incredible underground odyssey! That John Carlysle had actually met Egan at the mouth of the caves seemed equally incredulous. And since Egan had led John and three other men back through the caves so that they could bring out those men who still remained appeared to them to be yet another miracle. It was incredible! Simply incredible!

Kitty herself was thoroughly struck dumb when she first heard John’s story, while the O’Rahillys were all in tears. As the story proceeded, Kitty was moved to join them, but she held back that impulse, for she felt it was right for the O’Rahillys to experience their moment of elation and release unencumbered by her presence. Before long, however, she found that her body could no longer resist the deeper motions of her soul, and she, too, burst into tears.

In the midst of the joyful weeping, Deirdre O’Rahilly asked John if she could go to her husband’s side. John told her that he would be glad to take her shortly, as soon as he could free himself from the other people who had just arrived. John explained that Egan was asleep and had been so for hours. The doctor who had treated his wounds had forbidden visitors until the following morning at the earliest. But John told her that he would be able to take her in to see Egan much sooner than that. He knew how much she longed to be reunited with her husband.

Deirdre nodded her understanding, and then she began weeping once more.

With a mask of stoic patience, John waited for the tears to subside. But beneath his patience he was in turmoil. The weeping itself did not disturb him; he could appreciate the emotions that gave rise to it. But he was able to be only partially attentive to the women as they cried. He was too worried about what he was going to do about them.

Taking care of women and children was the last thing John wanted in this rough, comfortless camp. Where would they sleep? How could he assure them privacy? How could he protect them?

Yet, as he waited he remained calm. He did not let himself become angry toward any of those who were now thrust upon him—even toward Kitty Lancaster, who was clearly the group’s leader. He wanted to hear their story before he made a judgment.

And in truth, he was glad to see his sons. For he had come to miss them since the camp had calmed down after the excitement of the discovery of the caves and of his successful expedition through them. He wanted his boys to share with him his joy and triumph.

He was even glad to see Graham, even though it was evident that Graham had been in serious trouble back in Philadelphia. That was, indeed, the proximate cause of the presence of the women and children.

The gunshot wound Graham had suffered looked to be clean; it was not suppurating, and it would probably heal soon.

John was greatly interested in the beautiful young woman who had chosen to accompany Graham and nurse him. He was especially interested in her after he learned that she was Egan O’Rahilly’s sister. That passionate and sensitive young man had fascinated John Carlysle from the first moment John met him in the caves, even though O’Rahilly had not once yielded in his hostility to John. John was British, and in Egan O’Rahilly’s mind there could be nothing but hatred for him.

John was especially glad to see Kitty. Her presence pleased and warmed him. Although she had come on what appeared to be a thoughtless impulse, John admired her ability to take control of a situation and make decisions.

At first John hadn’t particularly noticed the older man who was accompanying them. He seemed to be just another Irish railroad worker. But Kitty made a point of introducing Tom Collins to John and to explain that he had been kind and helpful on the long and arduous journey to Gallitzin. That information did not rate more than a polite nod from John. But when the man turned out to be the labor contractor with whom he would be dealing most often during the construction, John took notice. He would be dealing with this man; he better get to know him.

What he saw, he decided, he didn’t much like. But he ignored his assessment for the moment. He had other, more pressing, concerns.

After the initial greetings and exchange of information, John suggested that the entire present company, including Collins, try to rest and refresh themselves as much as possible in the filthy groggery, since there was no other place nearby that was more suitable. After they had relaxed a little, everyone could be brought completely up to date.

So they all retired into the building.

There was little light within the groggery, only what filtered through the unglazed, shuttered windows and the open doorway. But the group found places to sit and made themselves as comfortable as they could in the chill and gloom. Before long they had begun to relate their stories in full:

First, Kitty, Graham, and Teresa O’Rahilly told John about the clash with the Kean brothers that led to Graham’s wound and Ben’s death.

Once he’d heard the whole of that exciting, sordid tale, John understood Kitty’s reasons for bringing Graham and Teresa to Gallitzin. He realized that she had been right in doing that. And it was of course most compassionate of her to offer to take O’Rahilly’s wife and daughter along with the others.

Kitty Lancaster was quite a lady! John thought to himself.

After Kitty and the others finished with their stories, John recounted his. As was his manner, John’s tale was painstakingly, relentlessly thorough and complete. Perfectionism had made John a success in his profession though it could be an annoying habit to his family and friends on occasion. Yet everyone listened intently to John’s detailed account of the tunnel rescue. No one paid more rapt attention to the entire tale than Kitty. She was fascinated with every aspect of the disaster and John’s discovery. But at only two points in its telling did she betray an emotion other than interest and concern. At the first mention of Francis Stockton’s name, Kitty gave a start and subtly clasped her hands together. And then again, when John was speaking about Stockton’s part in the ascent of the rapids, she shuddered ever so slightly. Both times, however, she quickly controlled herself. She was sure, each time, that John had not noticed her.

John, in fact, did notice. But he said nothing.

Not long after all the stories had been told—even Alex and David recounted their breathtaking train ride—and all the questions had been asked and answered, Francis Stockton himself arrived in the groggery, along with Egan O’Rahilly, who was staggering, bleary-eyed, and hardly able to support himself unaided. But he walked directly across the floor toward his wife completely on his own When he first appeared Deirdre simply stared at him. She could hardly believe what she saw, for Egan seemed hardly more substantial than a ghost. But by the time he was actually halfway to her, Deirdre herself was on her feet, and she was crying out again and again with joy, “Egan!… Egan! … Egan! Oh, my Jesus! My love! You’re here!”

And then they were in one another’s arms. And so, too, was Peg. The three of them held each other so closely and so powerfully one wondered whether or not they could be separated.

While this was going on, Francis Stockton had made his way across the room to the place where Kitty Lancaster was sitting.

When he was standing beside her, he spoke to her in a low voice. But John Carlysle, who was sitting on the other side of Kitty, could nonetheless hear them. Though very little was said, John would think rather frequently about this exchange during the following days and weeks.

“Hello, Kitty,” Stockton said.

“Hello, Francis,” she replied. Her face did not tilt to look at him. She stared fixedly in front of her, apparently seeing nothing.

“I heard you had arrived. And I was, of course, surprised,” he said.

“I should think you would be,” she said.

He smiled at that, a smile that was intended to show superiority and indifference. But it resembled instead a rictus of longing.

“I hope you are well, Kitty,” he said.

“I’m very well, thank you, Francis. And you?”

“Glorious,” he said, with some of his habitual sarcasm back in his voice. “I just couldn’t be better.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” she said. She took a deep breath, and resolutely rose. “I think I’ll go outside for some fresh air.” Once she was on her feet, she offered her hand to John. “Would you care to join me?” she asked. “Excuse me, Francis,” she added, without turning to look back at him.

Meanwhile, John took her hand, and together they walked out of the groggery. The hand was like iron. And more than once after they were outside she leaned against him. Each time he very gently held her, and then, like the proper gentleman that he was, he stepped away from her.

Once they were far from the groggery, the two of them wordlessly gazed up at the road that led from the camp over the ridge and down to the western end of the tunnel. In silence they set out upon it toward the top of the ridge.

Back inside the groggery, Egan O’Rahilly for the first time noticed that his sister was in the room, though Deirdre had reminded him a number of times that Teresa was here with her. In fact, Egan had not at first recognized her since he had not seen her in months. The battle he had had with her over the life she chose to lead had closed his mind to her. He had never wanted to see her again; he did not want to be related to that kind of woman. Yet the woman he saw today was a woman greatly transformed from the raw, young girl he had last seen. Teresa was now a very impressive woman indeed.

When she became aware that her brother was staring at her, Teresa left Graham, who was half-asleep, crossed over to Egan, and greeted him.

“Hello, Egan,” she said. “It’s been a long time.”

“Teresa,” he said coolly, inclining his head.

She was on the point of moving to embrace him, but when she saw that he would never accept that, she stopped herself.

“You’re looking well, Egan, considering what you’ve been through.”

“I could, but won’t, say the same for you,” he said.

She laughed. It was either that or anger. Egan could simply never give in, or give up.

But then, she was his sister. And that meant that she could no more give up on him than he could accept her.

She moved closer to him, close enough to touch him lightly on the shoulder. He flinched, wincing as though her fingers were on fire.

“Can we sit down together and talk for a while, Egan?” she asked, her hand still lightly, but determinedly, on his shoulder. “I came hundreds of miles to be with you.”

“I wish that you had stayed in Philadelphia, Teresa,” he said. “I don’t want you here.”

“Egan, you are a stubborn man,” Deirdre said. She had been hovering behind Egan, but now she decided to make her presence felt.

“My sister has made choices that I can’t accept,” he said. “I don’t want to be with her.”

“Egan.” It was Francis Stockton speaking now. The two men had struck up a friendship during their adventures. In the short time they had known one another, Stockton had gotten to know Egan fairly well. And of course, it was not only as a friend that Stockton was speaking, it was also, and more importantly, as a man. When Stockton addressed him, his voice was imperative, commanding. “Egan O’Rahilly, climb down off of your white charger and calm down. She’s your sister, man, and she came to be with you when she heard you were in trouble. Can’t you receive her now that you’re alive and safe? After all, she expected to be praying over your grave.”

Egan, feeling a bit deflated, nodded, first toward Francis, and then to Teresa. But he still could not bring himself to speak to her.

“Sit down, both of you,” Francis said, continuing with the commanding tones he had learned at West Point. “No, not across from one another,” he went on when he saw where they intended to place themselves, “next to one another. Side by side, like brother and sister.”

Reluctantly, Egan accepted Teresa beside him. He had been sitting near the center of a long wooden bench. He moved over to allow her to sit, although he did not look at all comfortable when she sat next to him. He was like a boy at his first dancing class.

“There. Good. Well done,” Francis said. “A fine example of family love and loyalty.” He looked at Teresa. “And now you can place your hand across his.” She lifted her hand but stopped, waiting for Egan to allow it. “No, don’t stop,” Francis said. “Go ahead. Gently. Easily. That’s right—not like a lover, like a sister.” When Teresa’s hand was safely on Egan’s, and he had not pulled his hand away, Francis smiled. “There, that wasn’t painful, was it?”

They stayed that way for a time, and then Teresa spoke.

“Egan?”

“Yes, Teresa.” He sighed.

“I want you to meet someone.”

“All right.”

“Graham?” she called. “I’d like you to meet my brother Egan O’Rahilly.”

After a few seconds, Graham opened his eyes, rose, and walked over. Egan stood up and offered his hand.

“Egan,” Teresa said, “this is Graham Carlysle.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Egan,” Graham said.

“Graham,” Egan said, shaking Graham’s hand. And then, “Carlysle, did you say?”

“That’s right,” Teresa said. “Graham Carlysle.”

“John Carlysle’s son?”

“That’s right,” Graham said.

“Jesus, Mary, Joseph,” Egan O’Rahilly said. “I not only sit down with my sister, I find out that she has taken up with the son of John Carlysle.”

“There are indeed signs and wonders in these times,” Francis said in a mockery of a preacher’s portentous tones. “I wonder what’s in the stars for me.” As he said that, he glanced at Teresa O’Rahilly. He found her a damnably attractive woman.

John and Kitty, by this time, had reached the crest of the ridge. The late afternoon was turning glorious. The rain had stopped, the clouds that had persisted for the past two days had finally begun to break, and the sun now lit the moun-taintop with liquid, golden light.

Kitty stood for a long time, holding John’s hand, her eyes closed, her face lifted up so it captured the light and heat of the sun. Then, raising her other hand to shield her eyes, she began to speak.

“I’ve known Francis Stockton for quite some time,” she said. “We were very, very… close.” Her voice was unwavering, deep, and resonant. But John Carlysle had no doubt that the admission she was making was coming painfully to her.

“I sensed something like that,” John said, “when we were inside.”

“But I broke with him. I want you to know that, John. I’ve had nothing else to do with him after that. I had almost forgotten that he was here in Gallitzin.”

“You don’t have to tell me about this,” John said carefully and gallantly, although he wanted very much to hear her story if she cared to talk about it.

“I’d like very much to tell you. It’s very important for me that you know.” And then she stopped, and, turning away from the sun, she looked at John.

“We haven’t—you and I—known each other for very long,” she said. “But ever since you and I were in the carriage the other day, I’ve felt that we were … or could be, at least… close.” She caught his eye, searching for acknowledgment.

He gave her a slow nod. “Yes,” he said, cautiously, “I think so. I think we could—”

“My husband and I,” she interrupted, her eyes still locked in his, “were not close. I’m sorry Charles died, but I’m not sorry that he’s no longer in my life. Francis came after Charles… and I was not sorry for that. He’s a fascinating, vital, exciting man.”

“Your father doesn’t like him,” John couldn’t resist saying. “He tells me Francis is undependable.”

“You’ve talked to Father, then, about Francis… and me?” There was a trace of alarm in her voice at that.

“No,” John said, assuring her. “Hardly. Your father hasn’t breathed a word about Francis and you. But he didn’t fail to give me his opinions about Francis. He doesn’t have much use for him.

Now I’m beginning to understand why.”

“Father is protective.”

“He has a daughter worth protecting.”

She looked at him. “I’m grateful, of course, that he is protective,” she said, passing over John’s observation without acknowledging it in words. But the look she gave him as she spoke showed her actual feelings. “But he has never accepted Francis for what he is.”

“What is that?”

Her lips curled into a smile. “Lovable and impossible,” she said. “Father only saw his impossible side. And it was that same side that made me realize I could never live with him.” At that her voice trailed away, and her eyes clouded. All the old memories and painful moments seemed to flood her mind. “And then,” she added under her breath, “there was Boston…” She stopped herself, realizing she had let slip out more than she wanted to.

“Boston?” he asked.

She caught his eyes again. “It was a very bad time.”

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

“Would you hate me,” she said earnestly, “if I don’t?”

“If you won’t hate me for being curious about it,” he said.

And then her fingers reached up to his face, and she touched him in exactly the same way he had touched her in the carriage the other afternoon.

“Thank you, John,” she said. “Someday…” She did not finish that thought.

And before John could begin to collect himself, he became aware of the sounds of other people talking and laughing, climbing up toward the place where he and Kitty were standing. He twisted around until he could see who was coming. And what he saw strung out down the hillside was the entire company of those who were inside the groggery. In the lead were Alex and David, rushing headlong, overwhelmingly delighted to be finally released from their confinement of the past two days. They were closely followed by Peg O’Rahilly, who was gamely trying to keep up with the boys. Then Francis Stockton, solitary, preoccupied, taking long, smooth, effortless strides. Then Teresa O’Rahilly and Graham Carlysle, who were smiling and chatting happily as they approached. Graham moved carefully, now and again wincing with pain. But John was still gratified to see him up and about. After Graham and Teresa came Egan and Deirdre O’Rahilly. And last, Tom Collins.

Off in the distance, down below the groggery, John could make out still another man he recognized—Harold Harrison. He had what appeared to be a paper in his hand and he was moving in John’s direction.

“Father, Father, there you are!” David called out. “We’ve found you. Where have you been?”

John smiled and held out his hand to David, then he stretched his other hand out to Alex. When the boys reached him, they each slipped under an outstretched arm.

“David, Alex, 1 haven’t seen much of you for the past few days.”

“No, you haven’t,” David said.

“But I’m sure you’ve been well attended to.”

Both boys nodded yes.

“They have both been completely polite and well behaved,” Kitty Lancaster said.

“I’m glad to hear that,” John said.

“Let go of us, Father,” the boys demanded. And so, with a smile, he released them. And the two of them bounded off into the trees, closely pursued by Peg O’Rahilly.

“You stay here with us,” Deirdre O’Rahilly called out to her, but Peg did not seem to hear her mother.

Francis Stockton, Graham, Teresa, Egan, and Deirdre now reached the crest, and then Tom Collins. And they all gathered around John and Kitty.

Everyone chatted gaily and amiably—with obvious exceptions—until Harold Harrison arrived, breathless, bearing a telegram for John.

It was from Edgar Thomson. It read:

MEETING OF DIRECTORS COMPLETED STOP WILLIAM PATTERSON HAS SUCCESSFULLY ACQUIRED FINANCING AND HAS BEEN GIVEN VOTE OF CONFIDENCE AS PRESIDENT STOP WILL COMMUNICATE FULLY SOON STOP THOMSON

After reading the message, he handed the paper to Kitty.

“Oh, my,” she said when she finished reading. Her voice sounded like doom. “Oh, my,” she repeated. “Those words are so cold and empty on their surface, aren’t they? But I can sense so much fire… These few, simple words are so like him… Beneath his cool surface, there is headstrong will and a drive to command and to lead and to dominate … I wonder what he will do now.”

“Your father?”

“Yes, my father.”

“He’ll survive this setback,” John said. “I’m sure he’ll prevail in time.”

“He will, won’t he?” she said. Then she took his hands in hers and her eyes held his in a bond steel could not break, compelling him to unwavering, absolute concentration upon her. “He trusts you, doesn’t he?” she said. It was not a question but an act of faith.

“I’d like to believe it.”

“It’s that,” she said, “that gives me hope.”

And then the children reappeared from out of the forest, whooping and hollering like Indians. At their front raced Peg O’Rahilly, leaping and twirling and cavorting as she ran, her face painted with yellow clay—chevrons across her forehead and lightning streaks below her eyes. The boys had made her their Indian queen.