"Of course, I cannot force you to do anything. You are, after all, a grown man. You can do what you will. But know this now and forever. If you fail to heed my advice, and shame your mother by marrying this librarian girl, you will be ruined. You will be expunged from society, from your job, and from your family. You will not get one penny from us--ever--living or dead. If you marry that girl, you will marry her life. Take a look at yourself and your fine clothes, and this house, and your friends, and your world. Marry her, and all this will be lost to you. What would you do? Where would you go? Think on it. And when you have thought, make your decision. And you'd sure as hell better be ready to live with it."
Charles paused to savor the victory as his words settled, but he could not let go of the weapon. If words were daggers, he pierced Andrew's heart slowly, and twisted them, just to be sure. He moved close, and in hushed tones said, "You wouldn't survive on your own. Without me to lead you, you're nothing. Without Samuel to do all your work, you are useless. Yes, I know what goes on. You're lucky he's a Negro. No white man would have put up with that--doing somebody's work, taking no credit for himself."
"Charles!" Lillian leaned forward in her chair.
"Don't feel sorry for Samuel. I pay him well to do Andrew's work. But, Andrew, you'd better hope he never finds a firm willing to hire a Negro attorney."
"Well it won't be your firm, will it, dear?" said Lillian softly, for Samuel was--in spite of his law degree--a clerk.
Charles faced Andrew and returned to his point. "You'll never leave the life you have here, because you can't." He gripped Andrew's shoulder and grinned amiably. "So, let's stop all this nonsense about marriage. It's over. You understand that, don't you?"
Charles held his son's gaze until Andrew responded with a meek nod. With that, Charles withdrew and began to pace as he fleshed out a plan to unravel the mess into which his son had entangled himself.
Andrew had bravely assumed control of his own destiny. But with one taste of glorious command over his life, he did not know what to do. He had never been taught to assume responsibility. The freedom frightened him. He was ashamed to admit to himself how relieved he now felt to revert to his former role in the family. His destiny now was assured.
Charles was talking. "Of course, you have exposed yourself to a breach of contract suit by entering into a betrothal. But we should be able to resolve this easily enough. She doesn't seem like the sort to make trouble."
Andrew sank deeper into his chair with abject resignation. His eyes looked dull as doused embers.
Charles continued. "Now, what I need from you is a letter--a kind letter. The last thing we want is to give rise to rancor."
Lillian leaned back with her hand to her brow and sighed.
Andrew lowered his head and listened to his father's instructions.
"There's a good man," said Charles. "You see? We'll get you through this."
Andrew nodded his head mechanically. Charles did not notice his son's vacant eyes.
Chapter 15
Hank walked through the back door, wearing sweat and grime from the steel mill. On his way to the water closet he shed two hats and a shirt. He closed the door and pulled off his woolen trousers, woolen underwear, and heavy socks. Having donned a fresh change of clothing, Hank walked into the kitchen and put his arms around Beth in a familiar embrace. It was welcome, but not warming. The pain she had suffered at Hank's hand had so numbed her that his touch brought no pleasure--only a false impression of tenderness that she would never know. In her gentle, forgiving way, she patted the hand that touched her, but moved away from his reach, on her way to some unnecessary chore. She would accept his kindness as a respite from the raging storm. She kept a watchful eye, though, for the signs of the tempest that would follow in time.
The portrait of a loving father, Hank mounted the stairs to go check on his sick daughter. From the sick girl's room, Beth heard the welcome sound of her little girl's voice, "Daddy!"
Beth dropped her dishtowel and ran up the stairs. "Mama, I'm thirsty," were the most welcome words Beth had heard in days. Beth's unspoken fears rose to the surface and caught in her throat. She fell to her knees and buried her face in Robin's bedding.
"Mama, can I have a drink of water?"
"My precious Robin, you can have anything you want," she said, beaming. She rushed out of the room, pausing at the bottom of the steps to look to heaven in thanks.
"So she's out of the woods, is she?" said Maeve with a radiant smile. Beth poured her some tea and sat down next to Maggie.
With a smile and new light in her eyes, Beth said, "Her fever's gone and her skin is beginning to clear up." She thought back on the past three weeks. Tears clouded her vision as she added, "How do we get through such times?"
"It's best not to ask. Just take the blessings as they come and the strength when they don't."
Maggie passed the sugar to Maeve. "There's been no sign of fever in your children yet?"
"No, thank Heaven. It's the little one I've been watching most. But she's healthy as a horse, knock on wood." Maeve rapped her knuckle against the oak table.
"It's been a trying summer for everyone," said Beth.
"Oh, I know," said Maeve. So many have come down with it."
"Too many," said Maggie.
"And then, of course, all the rich folks I wash for have packed up and gone home to Pittsburgh, so we're pinching the pennies again." As she finished speaking, she caught Maggie's eye. A troubled look passed over Maggie's face, but was soon gone. "Well, would you look at me, prattling on like I've got nothing better to do. I'll be on my way now. I just came by to bring back these Mason jars. A couple of them are full of that jam I just put up." Maeve's voice trailed off as she followed Beth down to the root cellar to put them away.
Maggie remained behind. So Andrew had gone. That explained it. But why had he not tried to contact her. He could have written or wired. Maggie's bitterness began to overwhelm her need for an explanation. She'd spent three weeks in search of an acceptable excuse, but there was none. Andrew would not return. There would be no wedding. Maggie tried to comfort herself with the knowledge that only Jake knew of the wedding plans, so at least she was spared the pity and embarrassment of having the whole town watch her heart break.
The next afternoon, a letter arrived with law office letterhead embossed on fine cotton designed to impress or intimidate, depending upon the recipient. Maggie looked at the letter and recalled the magical day in July when she'd walked among people who wrote on such paper. So much had changed since she'd sat on a perch and observed them.
She eased onto the porch swing and read. Her face was soon veiled with a solemn expression. While she read, something slipped from the envelope and flitted to the floor. Maggie stooped to retrieve a check, stunned to see it was made out to her for a sizable sum. Confused, she read on. The second page was not from Andrew, but from his father's law firm. It explained the check and, by its implication, the first letter, as well. In exchange for the check, she was to release him from his contractual obligation to marry her. They were buying back Andrews promise.
Maggie stared at the words until they looked like mere letters running together in a meaningless blur on a watermarked paper. It was only paper, she told herself. But that paper was all she had left to hang onto. Like the watermark on it, her dreams could barely be seen anymore, and then only if one looked very hard. No one would. No amount of tears would change that.
For a long time, she sat watching the wind brush through the trees, and the birds glide against the background of billowing smoke from the stacks of the iron works. "How could he? How could I have let him?" She wanted her pained heart just to stop, but it was made more alive by the sadness. Too strong to break, the ache swelled. What she had opened in trust, lay cruelly used and cast off. No, this was not what she had read about love.
"Love is a fiction that fills poems and hearts, but not lives--not my life." Maggie said, as she looked up with an expression as gray a
s the sky. She wondered how the birds of the mountain survived in the air amid the encroaching smoke. And yet they did.
After many hours and more regrets, Maggie sat at the kitchen table, alone. She looked again at the check. She reread the two letters. How she hated herself for trusting a man who would do this. This was how his kind sailed through life, she now realized. They bought and sold hearts as though they were property, with acts of conveyance and deeds of ownership. Cold acts. Cruel deeds. And they made it looks easy.
She signed the paper and, with that act, legally released Andrew from his promise of marriage. She slipped the document into its return envelope, and then dropped the check into the awaiting fireplace. She sank into a chair, and impassively watched the fire consume Andrew's final promise to her: to pay the bearer to forget his promises. And for this, she would never forget him. She watched the paper curl and blister until it was ashen. When it was done with its burning, her heart was cold.
Maggie faced the next day with dulled senses. The library had spurts of activity, and when it was quiet, she busied herself. Shelves were dusted and polished and rearranged until the day had somehow passed. Once home, she kept herself busy taking care of Robin, who was beginning to regain some color in her face. Late in the afternoon, Maggie brought Robin out onto the porch to soak in the fresh air and remnants of late afternoon sun, but the too cool air hinted at autumn to come. Maggie sat beside Robin and tucked in her blanket and read.
Up into the cherry tree
Who should climb but little me?
I held the trunk with both my hands
And looked abroad in foreign lands.
I saw the next door garden lie,
Adorned with flowers, before my eye,
And many pleasant places more
That I had never seen before.
I saw the dimpling river pass
And be the sky's blue looking-glass;
The dusty roads go up and down
With people tramping in to town.
If I could find a higher tree...
"I'd look right up your dress and see--"
"Jake!" Maggie dropped the book into her lap and looked up to find Jake leaning against the porch pillar, arms folded, and grinning.
Robin burst into laughter, but covered her mouth when she caught Maggie's eye.
Maggie handed the book to Robin, with instructions to ignore Jake, and to look through the pages and count all the vowels. She leaned closer and showed her the first few.
Jake's smile faded as he found himself staring at Maggie. Her eyes, while she was reading, had been soft with a guileless vision that made him long to go where her mind was and to see what she saw, in the way that she saw it. He yearned for that soft gaze to fall on him. She so seldom revealed it, that when he caught glimpses he was undone. And, as always, he masked his true feelings with humor.
Maggie stood and pulled Jake by the arm to the opposite side of the porch. "Really, Jake. In front of Robin."
"Why not? She's the only one here with a sense of humor."
Maggie's eyes widened. "So I'm humorless? That's how people see me?"
"No, not people. Just me." He looked at her with a teasing expression, but was surprised when she did not react as expected. They'd always teased each other. " Maggie, calm down. I was just having some fun."
"At my expense."
Jake put his hands on her shoulders and lowered his chin to look up into her eyes. "Maggie." He measured his words. "I'm sorry." He might have said more, but with Robin there, this clearly was no time for a heart-to-heart about whatever it was that was bothering Maggie. And there was something. He had a pretty good idea of what--or who--it was.
Maggie stared off down the street. "I've given up hope of being treated like a lady--"
A lady? Now Jake was confused. While they had done their fair share of teasing over the years, she had never seemed to mind it. She'd been one of the boys, so this talk of being treated like a lady was new.
Maggie continued, "But Robin's just a young girl. You ought to watch what you say."
"Maggie, I never meant--"
"Never mind." Maggie turned for just a second and brushed a fingertip over eyelid. Without making eye contact, she turned back and looked at his hands. He was holding a package wrapped in Sears catalog pages and string. "What's that?"
Jake looked and remembered why he had come over in the first place. He glanced at it and held it out for her to take.
"I've been hunting. My mother thought you could use this. It's venison."
Maggie thanked him as she took it and turned. "I'd better put this in the ice box. I'll be right back." She nodded toward the porch swing where Robin was reading.
He knew very well that his mother's main goal in getting him over here had little to do with the venison. But he didn't mind the excuse to see Maggie. Now he wished he had simply stayed away. But he sat down beside Robin. By the time Maggie returned to the porch, Robin had fallen asleep. She was regaining her strength from the fever, but still needed a good deal of rest.
As Maggie smoothed the covers about Robin, Jake walked to the side of the porch and sat on the rail looking out as the light faded into the dusky sky. The creaking floorboard tore him from his reverie. Maggie stood beside him.
"I'm sorry, Jake."
"For what?"
"It's possible that I might have been a little too sensitive." She gave him a peeved look. "For what. You knew very well what I meant."
"Yeah, I did. But I wanted make you say it."
Their eyes met and he grinned. She could not help but join him. But Jake's smile dimmed. "Maggie?" He looked suddenly serious.
She grinned and mimicked his tone. "Jake?" Now her humor was back but he seemed to have lost his. She laughed a small laugh, like an echo of better times that lingered between them.
"I'm leaving," Jake said bluntly.
"Okay, but I think you'll find the steps over there make for an easier exit," she said glibly.
He half smiled, but it faded. "I'm leaving town."
He had her attention. "For how long?"
"Forever. I'm moving. I've taken a job at the Homestead Works."
"Homestead? Near Pittsburgh?"
Jake nodded and watched the realization sink in.
"When?"
"Monday."
Maggie's eyebrows rose as she nodded mechanically. "Oh."
Jake studied her reaction.
She looked into his eyes, but they revealed too much understanding of what she was feeling. She meant to look away, but her eyes made it only as far as the stray clumps of thick brown hair that hung on his forehead. Dismay and other unwelcome feelings arose. For an entire day, she had confined her emotions, but now the tears burned her eyes. How could he leave her now, when she needed him near? Jake was her closest friend--so close they seemed to know each other's thoughts. If he knew how she felt, how could he leave her alone, when her heart had just broken?
Uncomfortable, Jake looked away. "It's one of the finest mills in the country. The truth is I want to go there to be part of it. The workers have organized--" He glanced at Maggie, who did not react.
She forced herself to nod, but Jake did not see. He had already turned toward the stacks and the smoke spewing from them, his eyes bright with dreams. "They've formed a union, the Amalgamated Association of Iron and Steel Workers. Sooner or later, Carnegie and Frick--and all the bosses across the country--are going to have to realize that workers are human beings. If we unite, we have a voice. We can make the plants safer and get a fair wage. It's going to be grand, and I want to be a part of it." Jake pivoted to face her with a body springing with the readiness of a prizefighter. His face was flushed with purpose.
He took her breath. Maggie nodded stiffly. "Of course you do." She wished he would hold her. How could she be so close she could touch him, and yet feel she could not ever reach him? It was the worst kind of loneliness, to see what she wanted out of reach, and to know it was she who had made it so. But w
hat did she want? Andrew? His letter had damaged something so deep that she wondered if she'd ever loved him, really. Could she have truly loved someone who could hurt her as he had? Jake would never have hurt her like that. No, but here he was, leaving. Leaving her. For a union.
Jake looked into Maggie's eyes, deep down to the sadness. He wished he could tell her the truth: that he was leaving to escape her--that he could not stand by and see her in someone else's arms--that he knew he could not compete with Andrew Adair, with his wealth and his education. He wished he could, but he would always be a working man who'd quit school to help support his family. An ordinary man who did ordinary things. With ordinary love for Maggie. He looked into her eyes and said nothing.
There he was, in her eyes, a bitter reflection. He could see it all, the warmth and regret and the things she was too kind to say, but he saw it--sweat and grime and an unwavering future. His strong arms held out empty hands. And her hands--what would become of that silky skin if he took her in marriage? How could he turn that gentle hand into some sort of dried flower faintly reminiscent of its former beauty, yet ready to crumble? And yet that was how their sort lived their lives. They worked hard, endured hardship and heartache and joy. They had families and grew old together. And they loved. And his love was fierce.
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