“Will she return soon?”
“Hard to say. She went on an errand, and no one can lose track of time like that woman.”
Kate’s heart dropped. So much for her plan. The only reason she had come this late in the afternoon was because Martin was usually at the Tavern by now, downing his first beer of the day, and talking politics. Oh, why did Hester have to leave? She was ever so much easier to deal with than her husband.
“I’ve come to sell my quilt,” Kate said, marshaling her resolve. “Hester has always favored my work.” She lifted the quilt carefully over the round-headed nails lining the inner edge of the long wooden counter; nails that served to measure the yard goods. “She has always liked my interesting patterns and small, even stitching.”
“Well, she doesn’t have the most discerning eye.” Martin had maneuvered behind the counter and now stood gathering the quilt in his hands as he examined the seams. “Adequate. It’s adequate.”
As he ran his hand over the spot where Joshua Adams’ muddy boots once stood Kate smiled. Thanks to some good strong soap and white vinegar, no trace of the footprints remained.
Martin looked up, his eyes as emotionless as the buttons in his jars, his lower lip forming a thin rigid line beneath the mustache. His “poker face” she had heard Hester call it. “I’ll give you three fifty for it.”
“It’s worth five.”
“Then try getting it from someone else.”
As Kate began folding the quilt, Martin chuckled. “You always were headstrong. I once had a horse like you. Stubborn as a board, but I broke him. Yes, sir, I finally got him to see things my way.”
“Good day, Mr. Roach.” Kate draped the quilt over her arm and was about to leave when he reached across the counter and stopped her.
“Now hold on there. I never said I disliked stubbornness. Turned out that horse was one of my favorites. Well . . . before I broke him, anyway. Yes, sir, I like a little fight, a challenge. So this is what I’m going to do, seeing I’m in a generous mood. I’ll give you four dollars, four dollars even.”
“Kindly remove your hand,” Kate said, squinting at Martin Roach’s chubby fingers that were crushing the sleeve of her upper arm. She had always found him disagreeable, even when Father was alive, but lately he had become insufferable, trying to set himself up as unofficial head of Sweet Air and dictate policies no one wanted.
“I won’t take four dollars.” She pulled against his hand. “But I’m willing to split the difference. Make it four fifty and we have a deal.”
Martin Roach released her. “What I find irritating about you, Miss Kate, is that you don’t know when you’re licked. You still think you have a big important daddy to make you into someone significant. Not like your sister, Miss Charlotte. She knows where she stands. She knows that she needs to keep her hooks into that rich Benjamin Gaylord if she’s ever going to be anything now. She understands that he’s the only reason she’s ever invited to our dinner parties. You should have seen her last time she was there. What a timid little mouse! Hanging on young Gaylord’s arm like she couldn’t take two steps on her own. But she knew her place, I’ll give her that. She thanked Mrs. Roach and me most proper and grateful like.”
“I’ll hear no more about my sister. If you want the quilt, it will cost you four-fifty.”
“You’re daddy’s gone, Missy.” He ran his fingers over the back of Kate’s bare hand, violating a basic rule that says a gentleman should never touch a lady’s skin. He laughed when she pulled away. “You’re a little nobody now. But I can change that. If you were to be more sociable, that is. I could open doors for you. Bring you back into polite society.”
He unlocked his money box and began counting out the coins. “It always galled me the way your daddy pampered you three girls, like you were princesses or something. Well, you’re not a princess anymore, are you?” He placed four dollars and fifty cents in the palm of his hand. “Things have changed. These days, it’s my wife and I who entertain the important people. I dare say our guest list rivals yours when your father was alive. You could be part of that again, if you had a mind to.” He leaned over the counter, holding out his palm, his eyes daring her to take the money from his hand.
Kate glanced at the coins, then at his disagreeable face. “I’ve changed my mind, Mr. Roach. I’m not selling my quilt today. I’ve decided to try to get five dollars for it after all.”
Kate was still fuming when she stormed through the front door of her house, nearly knocking the pair of leather fire buckets off their pegs. “If I were a man I’d . . . .”
“I thought I heard your voice. Talking to yourself, Miss Kate?” Joshua Adams grinned as he exited the front parlor, his mop of blond hair tousled as usual. “You look mad as a hornet. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing!”
“Well . . . if you say so.” Joshua raked his hair. “I’ve been waiting. I thought you’d be home long before this. Your mother said you just went to the dry goods store to sell your quilt.” He looked sheepish. “I’m happy you were able to get the mud . . . .” He stopped when he noticed the quilt dangling from her arm. “You didn’t sell it?”
“No!” Kate pushed passed him
“What happened?”
“Nothing!”
Joshua stepped in front of her. “Something happened. You want to tell me about it?”
“No.”
Joshua stood his ground for a minute, then shrugged good-naturedly. “All right, then let me tell you my news. Can we go somewhere private?” He glanced at Widow Clayton and Miss Rodgers who were hovering near the front parlor door inspecting a piece of lace.
Kate nodded, then led him down the hallway to the empty back parlor. Once inside, she draped her quilt over the back of an armchair and sat down. She should be in the kitchen helping her mother and sisters get dinner ready. Meal time in a large boardinghouse was always hectic.
“What’s your news?” She gestured for him to take the damask-covered chair next to her, and hoped he would be quick.
“I’ve been checking out your father’s notebook.” Joshua pulled the book from his rumpled coat. “And what I’ve discovered is that the listings of the collieries are not random. They are all collieries that have sold out to the railroad, and are, in fact, listed according to the land agent that brokered the deal. But I still don’t know why some names are checked and others not. But I’ll figure it out soon enough.”
He opened the book, and leaning closer to Kate’s chair drew her attention to one of the columns. “See? Here and here . . . how they’re grouped?” He flipped through several pages. “It took me awhile but I discovered that five different land agents handled these sales for the railroad. I’ve written the name of each agent above their column as well as the number of collieries they sold.”
Kate took the book. “William Carter, nine collieries; Richard Church, fourteen collieries.” She turned the page. “Martin Roach, thirty-one collieries.” She turned additional pages. “Jim Farrell . . . twelve collieries; Samuel Baxter, Samuel Baxter? Two collieries.”
“You sounded surprised by that last one. Who’s Samuel Baxter?”
“A cooper who owns a small house just outside Sweet Air, with a shack in the back where he makes his barrels. And yes, I was surprised. The others are men of substance, with standing in the community. Which is why the railroad enlisted them. But Samuel Baxter just doesn’t fit in with the rest.”
“Hmm . . . wonder why his name is underlined?”
Kate shrugged.
“Well, tell me about the others.”
“William Carter is a wealthy dairy farmer who owns three different farms in Schuylkill County. Richard Church owns the tavern in Sweet Air, and Martin Roach is owner of the town’s dry goods store. And of course, my father.”
Joshua tilted his head as if studying her. “I understand he had deep ties to the area. That
his father, your grandfather, ran the Little Schuylkill Railroad when it operated between Port Clinton and Mahanoy Junction, and that he operated it for nearly twenty years before your father took his place and before the Philadelphia and Reading purchased it. And your great-grandfather settled in these parts and worked at the anthracite-fired iron furnace owned by John Pott, Pottsville’s namesake.”
“You’ve done your homework.”
“I’m trying to earn my keep,” Joshua said smiling. “But getting back to the notebook, what I find strange is the sales figures. Your father, William Carter, and Richard Church brokered about the same number of deals. But then comes Martin Roach, who’s way at the top, and Samuel Baxter, who trails at the bottom. You’d think there’d be a more even spread among them.”
“Martin Roach is ambitious. I’m not surprised to see his figures exceed the rest. And Samuel Baxter, well, he just doesn’t have the influence of the others. Like I said, I’m surprised he was able to broker any sales.”
“Hmm . . . warrants further investigation.” Joshua slipped the notebook into his pocket. “Now . . . what happened at the dry goods store?”
“Nothing.” Kate rested her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath before entering the mayhem in the kitchen. “I just decided not to sell my quilt.”
“Really?”
Kate heard rustling and opened her eyes in time to see Joshua pull his chair closer.
“And just why not?”
“A woman’s prerogative,” she said with a frown, “and you needn’t sit so close, Mr. Adams.”
“The move is symbolic, Miss Kate. It’s meant to tell you I need to be allowed into your inner circle. Are you ever going to trust me?”
She didn’t know why she did it. Perhaps it was the sweet, earnest look on his face, or the resolute way he sat in his chair as if to say he would sit here until he got his answer. Maybe it was just because she was still upset and needed to share it with someone but didn’t want it to be her mother or sisters. Whatever the reason, she relayed everything that had happened. It wasn’t so much an emotional tirade as it was the repeating of a story, with emphasis on a few words here and there. When she finished she felt a wonderful sense of relief as though the burden of this disagreeable incident had lifted, and could now be forgotten.
“Thank you for listening,” she said, rising from her chair. “I don’t know why, but telling you has made me feel better.” Then she hurried out the room to take up her duties in the kitchen, all the while wondering why he looked so angry.
Pots boiled on the stove, and the smell of baking bread and roasting lamb permeated the kitchen when Kate arrived.
“Finally!” Charlotte said, looking flustered and ready to cry. “How could it take you this long to sell one quilt?”
“I didn’t sell it.” When Kate saw Charlotte’s face drop and her mouth ready to form a string of questions, she quickly added, “But never mind that now, just tell me how I can help.”
“I . . . I don’t know.” Charlotte stood wringing her hands. “Everything is all topsy-turvy. Maybe . . . maybe . . . the table. Should she set the table, Virginia?”
“Yes, set the table, Kate.” Virginia stood by one of the long wooden tables breaking up lettuce and dropping the pieces into a deep bowl. “I’ve already pressed the cloth and it’s in the dining room folded across one of the chairs.”
“Where’s Mother?” Kate said, looking around.
“At Higgins Patch.”
“Now. So close to dinner?” It wasn’t like Mother. She would never leave at this hour unless it was important. “What happened? I heard no breaker whistle.”
Virginia dropped another handful of torn lettuce into the bowl, then wiped her fingers on a rag. “She’s at Mary O’Brien’s. She took them soup and fresh bread and some cheese. She just heard about Mary’s husband, Tom, taking ill. He hasn’t been to the mine in days. With Tom losing all that pay, Mother figured they could use the food.”
“The miner’s asthma?”
Virginia looked glum. “The note didn’t say, but what else? And there’s nothing to be done for that. It always ends in . . . death. What will happen to Mary and her children then? I can’t bear the thought of her out in the street with her little ones, and no roof over their heads. How can any woman endure such hardship?”
“What is it? What’s wrong? You never cared about the patch before or what happened there. Not even about the people. What has changed?”
Virginia’s eyes welled. “You’re right, and I’m ashamed. You always said I was a born crusader, only now I believe I’ve been crusading for the wrong things. I believed getting the vote for women was paramount. And yes, it is important. But . . . now . . . after being there in the patch, and hearing, really hearing about the many abuses, I understand there are far worse things for a woman than being denied a vote. I’m just beginning to realize how difficult it is for women in coal country. I never thought about it before. Not really. But these women are so brave, and they endure so much, and work so hard to keep their families and homes together. But how can any woman survive if her husband dies and leaves her with half a dozen children, and no money, and no house to live in? What is she to do? Must Mary beg in the streets? Where will she sleep? We’ve all had to give up our rooms, you and Charlotte and I. But we still have a nice clean space to call our own. Oh, Kate! It’s not right! It’s just not right!”
“I know.” Kate put her arms around her sister.
“Oh no . . . oh no! The bread! It’s burning!” Charlotte shrieked. “Oh, how are we ever going to get dinner ready without Mother?”
“We’re more than capable of doing it,” Kate said, grabbing a handful of rags and rescuing the bread. She placed the three loaves, which were browner than usual but not burnt, on one of the long tables. “Now, baste the lamb while I set the table. When you’re finished, take the vegetables off the corner bench and wash them. I’ll help cut them up.”
With that Kate rushed to the dining room and began draping the white linen cloth over the long mahogany table that could easily seat a dozen. Her laced boots moved noiselessly over the green and mauve Wilton carpet as she took pains not to snag the edges of the crumb cloth with her heels. She smiled when she glanced at the green woolen cloth beneath the table. Crumb cloths had gone out of fashion years ago, but boarders could be messy, and Mother was practical.
When the linen was placed, Kate went to the polished mahogany sideboard and pulled out ten sets of sterling silver knives, forks and spoons. The hallmark of a good boardinghouse was that it maintained a dependable routine, one that could be counted on by all. Here at their house, boarders expected dinner to be served promptly at five. And Kate would see that tonight was no exception. But tomorrow, tomorrow she would sit with Virginia and discuss how they might help the O’Briens.
Virginia could feel his eyes. They were like a hot wind on her face. Even the simple black dress she wore seemed to flutter beneath his gaze. It had been like this for three days now, though she had done her best to ignore it. She tried keeping her focus on the large black ribbon nailed to the door, and was glad today would be the last time she needed to come. She took comfort in Kate’s arm firmly entwined in hers, and Mother’s stout body in front like a shield of protection, but from . . . what? Why should his attention unsettle her? If Kate knew, surely she’d laugh. Or would she? Kate could be priggish in her way. She might find Patrick O’Brien’s interest, offensive.
They threaded their way through the crowd of mourners, then passed the tall hulking figure of Patrick O’Brien. He spoke in low tones to the other miners but his eyes were fixed on her. Mother was the first to the door, and already knocking. Within seconds it was opened by a distraught Mary O’Brien, all clad in black.
Virginia followed her mother and Kate into the house, happy to escape those burning eyes, and found the room full of
women. Today, being a Sunday, and the last day of the wake, a larger than usual crowd had gathered. Yesterday, Mary O’Brien had told her how it would be: that many men, who couldn’t afford to take time off from the mine, would come today to join the other men in the street while their wives gathered in the house. Already, a wide circle had formed around the crude wooden box that lay across two chairs. Several women were weeping—friends and not the customary paid funeral criers often seen at an Irish wake. Mary had told her she couldn’t afford such luxury.
And there would be no funeral because Mary had told her she couldn’t afford that, either. But with the help of the “fund” Mary saw to it that her Tom had his wake, where people could come for three days and eat bread buttered with roasted chicken fat and drink cheap Indian tea; where they could come and see Tom in the open pine box lined with canvas and packed with ice. See his hair combed back, his face scrubbed, though still tattooed by coal dust; see his hands lying by his sides, and the coal stained fingers that had worked the Mattson Colliery for nearly ten years.
They could see him in his best clothes, too: a short Albert jacket, a waistcoat and trousers all of the same black inexpensive material. And across his chest they could see the black rosary he prayed every Sunday during Mass.
Virginia, along with her mother and Kate, walked toward the casket to see it all for themselves one last time. Mother told them they didn’t need to come since they had been here twice before. But only Charlotte stayed home; Charlotte who had come the first day and was so irritable and fussy throughout it all that both Virginia and Kate were happy she never returned.
When some of the mourners saw the trio approach, they parted to make room. Mother spent a few quiet moments in front of the casket, then disappeared.
The Daughters of Jim Farrell Page 8
