The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  Perspiration dotted Virginia’s forehead. She should slow down. If it was important enough to send her this note, he would wait. But oh what a sight she must be! Surely by now the heat had spoiled the lovely curls she had taken such pains to create. She had pulled back her hair—to accentuate her high cheekbones and the delicate curve of her chin, though she’d be hard pressed to admit it—then fashioned long curls that cascaded down her back. She fingered her hair. Everything still seemed to be in place.

  Her clothes had been carefully chosen, too: a tan bolero jacket that hugged her slim waist and was partially open to reveal a white blouse and green silk tie. Her long brown skirt was sleekly tailored and swept backward, and boasted a modest bustle. And a straw hat, ornamented only by a thin white ribbon, completed the picture, a picture meant to convey to Patrick that she was no flighty female to be taken lightly.

  But all her fussing seemed silly now. Thankfully, the path was nearly deserted. The Masses were over, and most of the parishioners were home, eating. At least few would see her heading toward the patch, though the ones that passed gave her odd looks.

  Finally, between the thicket of dogwoods and mountain laurels, she saw the church just outside Higgins Patch. The building, itself, was an old brick structure with three arches leading to a narrow portico. Little stain-glass windows dotted the periphery and gave colorful illustrations of the life of Jesus; a useful reminder, Virginia thought, to those heavily burdened, that there was Someone who wanted to carry their load. A red and white brick cupola topped it all off and housed the large bronze bell that announced deaths and Sunday Masses.

  There was no one in sight except for the tall, imposing man who stood among the old headstones of the little adjoining cemetery. His hair was combed back but not oiled, and his face was clean-shaven. And instead of overalls, he wore dark trousers and a jacket. He held a cluster of wild honeysuckles, and Virginia wondered if he was visiting a grave. He saw her too, but stood in place, waiting.

  The little wrought-iron gate creaked as she opened it and stepped inside, then carefully maneuvered the weed-encrusted tombstones. “Is everything all right?” she said, when she reached him.

  “You’re late, Jenny.” He shoved the handful of drooping vines in her face. “But ‘twas worth the wait. ‘Tis a fine sight you make.”

  Virginia looked at the flowers, then realizing they were for her, frowned and took them. “What has happened? What’s wrong?”

  “There’s nothing wrong, lass.”

  “It’s my article, then. You didn’t like it.”

  “Oh, it was a grand piece. I’ve sent it off to my friend and he thinks so too. He’ll be publishin’ it in his paper next week. And he says to send him others, as long as they are as good.”

  “Then why have you sent for me? I don’t understand. I thought something terrible had happened and . . . .”

  She suddenly felt Patrick’s large hands on her shoulders pulling her closer. “I was achin’ for the sight of you, Jenny, and just had to see you. And oh, how lovely you look, too. And I’d like to be thinkin’ it was on account of me that you fixed yourself up so. ‘Tis the image of your face that I’ve been takin’ into the mine with me. The tunnels don’t look nearly so dark now.”

  Virginia pushed against his chest, trying to distance herself, but his hold was too strong. “Please don’t talk that way. I won’t stay another minute if you do.”

  Patrick’s dark eyes smiled into hers as he let her go. “‘Tis no use. It can’t be helped. I’ll be sayin’ what’s on my heart. And you can listen or no.”

  “Patrick, you mustn’t send for me like this. We must confine our correspondences to letters or notes carried by Michael O’Malley, as we agreed. People will talk and . . . .”

  “Ah, ‘tis that awful pride of yours that’s speakin’. Do you not like me, Jenny? Even a wee bit?”

  “Yes, of course I like you but don’t you see . . . .”

  “See what? That you and me are so much alike we are as one breath? That I know your heart and mind better than you do? And that I’m the very man for you. Will you not give me a chance?”

  “What you ask is impossible. Impossible! And we’re not alike. Not at all. We’re from different worlds, we’re . . . well . . . it’s impossible!”

  “Impossible is it? Do you want to know what’s impossible, Jenny? What’s impossible is a man going into the bowels of the earth, and diggin’ and scrapin’ out a livin’ with his hands, then walkin’ out alive. Every day a man goes into a mine could be his last. Every day is precious. And I’ll not be wastin’ any part of it. I love you, lass, and you’ll not be changin’ it, say what you will.”

  “I . . . I won’t be coming again. Either we correspond by mail or not at all.” She headed toward the gate.

  “I suppose it will have to do, for now at least,” he said, coming up beside her and taking her arm. “But might I walk you home? Part way at least?”

  Virginia shook her head. “We’ll say good-bye here.”

  He looked at her so intensely that for a second Virginia feared he was going to kiss her. “Ah, how cruel you are, lass,” he finally said. “Not even willin’ to give a few crumbs to a starvin’ man.”

  “God speed.” She turned to leave.

  “One more thing, Jenny,” he said, stopping her. “I’ve been lookin’ for those two men I told you and your sister about, the two who said it was your father who wanted to hire me for a bit of mischief. And when I find ‘em I’ll be havin’ a nice long talk with the pair. Who knows what I’ll be shakin’ out of ‘em?”

  “You . . . won’t do anything rash, will you? You won’t make trouble for yourself by assaulting them?” She thought of the accusations Kate had leveled against him. They would be watching him now. “And these men . . . they could be dangerous, you know.”

  A big grin split across Patrick’s face. “Ah, Jenny, I fear your heart has betrayed you. ‘Tis plain you care about me for otherwise you wouldn’t fret so.”

  “You’re a ridiculous man!” The muscles of her face tensed with anger as she opened the wrought-iron gate and stepped onto the path, all the while tightly clutching the flowers in her hand.

  Charlotte was as nervous as a cat. Any minute, Benjamin Gaylord would come walking through that door. She glanced around the back parlor for the hundredth time, seeing if everything was in place. Her sisters had helped tidy up, and even helped organize the tea table beside her. It was covered with a lovely embroidered cloth, and arrayed with two delicate gold-rimmed English tea cups, a plate of buttered bread which Kate had helped her make, a nosegay of four purple pansies in a crystal bud vase, and Mother’s best teapot hidden beneath a handsome quilted bonnet.

  Charlotte had been planning this since yesterday, after Benjamin stopped to present his calling card and ask that he be allowed to visit Charlotte promptly at four the following afternoon during tea. And oh, how it made Charlotte fly into a tizzy! What was she to wear? And should her buttered bread be left flat, or rolled as Mrs. Gaylord was prone to do?

  She finally settled on rolled bread and her prettiest tea gown; a ruffled green dress with long puffed sleeves and tight bodice of expensive polished cotton. Around her high collar was the string of pearls Benjamin had given her, and around her wrist, a simple gold bracelet; both in keeping with the time of day and the custom dictating that glittering gems only be worn for more significant occasions.

  But her hair had caused her no end of grief until Kate came to the rescue and helped create the elaborate braiding Charlotte desired; skillfully securing them in attractive loops across the back of her head.

  All this had taken hours, and Charlotte marveled at Kate’s patience, for it was time spent away from doing the many chores required to properly maintain their large house, a house that once boasted a staff of five servants. Charlotte hoped, by all her effort, to give Benjamin something pleasant to remember whe
n he was surrounded by this year’s bevy of London debutants. And it seemed worth it, for even Virginia, who preferred casual living and plain fashion, complimented her by saying that she and her tea table had never looked lovelier.

  Now, Charlotte sat in one of the damask-covered chairs, smoothing the ruffles of her skirt and thinking how kind Benjamin was to make time for a visit. Tomorrow, he and his mother would leave for New York, and from there board an ocean liner to England. Surely, he still had much to do in preparation. And she had been careful to point that out to her sisters, who agreed it was most congenial of him to think of socializing today. She was certain this visit was meant to allay her fears; to tell her all was well with them in spite of his mother’s protestations; that he still loved her and wanted her to be waiting for him when he returned.

  Her heart jumped when she heard his familiar voice offering all manner of polite salutations and warm felicitations to her mother who ushered him into the parlor.

  Charlotte rose, allowed Benjamin to salute her with a shallow bow, then resumed her seat. He placed his black silk top hat on the empty rocker before taking the damask-covered chair beside her. Before Charlotte could remove the bonnet from the teapot, her mother disappeared, leaving the parlor door slightly ajar.

  “Your visit is timely.” Charlotte poured tea into the cup containing a slice of lemon, which Benjamin favored. “I was planning to send a note wishing you God-speed on your journey. Now I can wish it in person. How excited you must be! The Derby is sure to be thrilling. I understand that even now Parliament is preparing to adjourn in anticipation of this year’s racing season.” She was glad she had overheard Colonel Smyth mention this.

  Benjamin took the cup from Charlotte’s extended hand but said nothing, making her wonder why he was so quiet when normally he was a fountain of polite conversation. She offered him the plate of bread, and was disappointed when he refused. “I made these especially for you.”

  He placed his cup, untouched, on a nearby table, then began drumming the arm of his chair. “If you must know, I am far too upset to partake. It is best I come right out and tell you that this is not a pleasant social call. I’m here to discuss the rumors circulating around town.”

  “What rumors?”

  “I am too much of a gentleman to repeat them. But I shall skirt the edges and leave it to you to fill in the rest.” He straightened in his chair. “For one thing, I’ve heard about the disgraceful way your sister, Kate, has been conducting herself with your cousin, Joshua Adams. I’ve been told that undeniable improprieties have occurred of such a delicate nature I dare not repeat them, but you can well imagine.

  “And as for this cousin of yours, in addition to his ungentlemanly comportment toward Miss Kate, other aspects of his behavior must be called into question. What does he mean by running all over town? Stirring things up? Prodding and poking into matters best forgotten? How are we ever to get past the disgrace of your father’s hanging if these unseemly relatives of yours continue to bring it up?”

  “I . . . I think we . . . I think our family has every right to try and clear its name. And as for Kate, she is the picture of feminine virtue. I resent your implication and . . . .”

  “But that’s not the half of it. Your mother is not without stain. Always traipsing off to the mines or Higgins Patch, and associating with riffraff. Has she forgotten she is still a woman of some stature?”

  “I will not hear another word against my mother! She is . . . .”

  “And imagine my shock when I heard that you, too, actually visited that dirty pesthole. What reason could you possibly have for doing such a thing?”

  “I attended a wake. He was a friend of . . . .”

  “But worst of all is your sister, Virginia! When I heard she was writing for the Anthracite Monitor I refused to believe it. Then her article came out. An article that criticizes the Mattson Colliery, the colliery recently acquired by the railroad. The very railroad from which I derive my employment! In addition, I am told your sister has taken up with one of the miners, a rough, coarse man, I understand. How is such a thing to be tolerated? You know my family enjoys great standing in the community.”

  He was sitting on the edge of his chair now, and Charlotte found herself half expecting him to fall off.

  “You know how hard I’ve worked. First at my studies; trying to finish strong at Harvard, then for the past two years at the railroad.” His hand pulled on his beard. “Don’t you understand that the very eyes of Franklin B. Gowen are on me! And he has great plans, Charlotte, and I am to be part of them. My family has plans, too. I’m expected to follow in my father’s footsteps. To be a captain of industry. And my father left large footprints, to be sure. Footprints that can only be filled with an understanding wife by my side. A wife worthy of the honor. How then am I to countenance all this behavior?”

  Benjamin rose and began shifting his weight from one polished black boot to the other. “In truth, my mother believes you and your family have breached all bounds of proper behavior, and she has even suggested I consider a more suitable wife.”

  Charlotte’s cup and saucer rattled in her trembling hand as she placed them on the table. “Then sir, I suggest when you are in England you search out a possible bride from among the many debutants you shall encounter!”

  Benjamin appeared taken back. “I . . . I’m not going to England, much to my mother’s strenuous objection. I have told her I must stay and guide you through this rash and foolish time before it’s too late. Thus far I’ve been able to convince her that this is all a product of you and your family’s great loss, and that a proper Christian attitude would be one of forgiveness and a willingness to steer you and yours away from these unfortunate indiscretions and back onto a more proper path.”

  Charlotte rose, gripping the arms of her chair. “Since I and my family are so repugnant to you, I see no reason to continue our relationship. I release you from your pledge. You are free, Mr. Gaylord, to find the suitable wife both you and your mother so crave.”

  The color drained from Benjamin’s face. “My only thought was to avert a possible disaster for both of us. I assure you, it was never my intention to break our engagement.”

  “Then I shall break it, sir. I pray you and your mother have a pleasant voyage. Good day.”

  Benjamin picked up his hat. “As I said, I shall not be going to England. My one hope is that you will come to your senses and consider my position. When you do, perhaps we can work things out.”

  Long after Benjamin Gaylord left, Charlotte remained in the parlor, weeping inconsolably, and nothing her sisters or mother said could comfort her.

  Kate’s head felt so heavy she could barely move it. And why was it so difficult to see? Yes . . . that was the problem. The dense fog. And was that a prison yard? Everything looked gray. Was it raining? No. Only a shower of pebbles being scattered about the yard by the crowd of people—important people, by the look of them. Why had they come? Her heart pounded when she saw the gallows. Oh . . . yes . . . it was today. She heard other voices, hundreds of them outside the prison walls, voices of those not important enough to be allowed to attend the hanging but who would be allowed entrance after the execution, when the gates were opened to the public. Even so, she could see some enterprising onlookers in nearby treetops, those who had come early enough to get a place on one of the limbs.

  The mist was so heavy now it almost felt wet. Surely it was raining. Through it, she managed to see others filing into the yard. Who are . . . ? Oh, the jurors. She knew their faces: every line, every contour, every blemish. Hadn’t she watched them all throughout the trial? Searching for signs of how it was going?

  Her eyes returned to the gallows. There it was in front, where everyone could see, tall and solid; a single rope dangling from the center of the crossbeam. On the scaffolding floor laid a white hood and two sets of steel manacles. And what was that on the ground just below
? A coffin? Had the undertaker already come to measure the prisoner? Yes . . . he must have . . . and now the coffin sat open and empty, waiting . . . waiting.

  Suddenly, there was a stir as heads turned and bodies rose up on toes to see. Kate tried to push up too, but couldn’t. Who was coming? She had to wait until the little procession reached the gallows. And there he was, wearing a black waistcoat and dark gray trousers beneath a black velvet-collar frock coat. His collared shirt was so white it looked almost blinding in the mid-morning sun. And his shoes . . . how polished! How they glinted in the sun as he walked! Oh, what a fine figure of a man! Tall, strong, dignified. But how could he look so calm? Didn’t he know what was about to happen? Didn’t he understand? In his hand was a small, black Bible. Oh . . . and there was her pastor walking alongside him, whispering. Words of comfort? Perhaps that explained it. Oh Lord, thank you for pastors! But she didn’t like the look of the two men leading the procession: the stately prison warden appeared far too pleased with himself, and the beefy middle-aged sheriff staggered when he walked. Surely he wasn’t drunk?

  When the prisoner reached the steps, he hesitated, but only for a second. Then he began his climb. How many steps were there? She couldn’t count. But it seemed to take the prisoner forever to climb them. When he gained the platform, a large man, who now held the steel manacles, took the Bible, handed it to the pastor who had finally arrived at the top, then began shackling the prisoner. Oh, how rough he was. No, don’t . . . . You needn’t be so forceful! He won’t run away. He’d never run away.

  Now his hands and feet were fettered. Oh, what a sight! She couldn’t bear to see anymore. Close your eyes, just close your eyes. No use. There was the hangman, clear as day, taking the noose and tightening it around the prisoner’s neck. Next came the white hood. Take it off! Let me see his face, his kind, dear face one more time! Just one more time.