The Daughters of Jim Farrell

by Sylvia Bambola

  “I never meant to spoil your evening.” Virginia turned to Charlotte. “I knew how important it was to you, but I warned you. I knew there would be a backlash from my articles; that Benjamin’s railroad friends might feel compelled to comment. And you know how difficult it is for me to remain silent in the face of gross stupidity.”

  “You thought only of yourself.” Charlotte’s eyes clouded with anger. “You made everyone uncomfortable by arguing with Mr. Hill. And once he began raising his voice, well . . . I’ve never seen people eat so fast. And then when Mr. Hill started flailing his arms like a . . . .”

  Kate bit her lip to keep from laughing at the thought of Mr. Hill’s long spider-like arms thrashing about and overturning his wine goblet, soiling the Gaylord’s expensive tablecloth in the process.

  “Well . . . when he began acting like a madman, no one knew where to put his eyes from embarrassment. And then when the butler came to clean the spillage and accidently overturned the soup onto Mr. Hill’s lap, it was spoiled. No one had any appetite after that. They all became dyspeptic and barely touched the rest of their meal.”

  A thin smile managed to evade Kate’s efforts as she remembered how the soup had dripped down Mr. Hill’s starched white shirt and onto his trousers. And then when he left to wash, how fish fragments dropped from his clothing and left a trail on the floor. And how throughout it all Virginia had remained calm and ladylike.

  “But what upset me most,” Charlotte said, blowing her nose, “is how you took the part of those ruffians at the Mattson Colliery. How could you defend them against your own kind? Sometimes Virginia . . . sometimes I don’t understand you.”

  Virginia nodded. “I know, dearest. Sometimes I don’t understand myself.”

  “No one even stayed for the parlor games, and Benjamin had such a wonderful evening planned.”

  “Yes, and I so wanted to play ‘Poor Pussy’ and meow like a cat,” Virginia said, managing to keep a straight face.

  At this, Kate could no longer control herself and burst out laughing at the thought of Virginia crawling on all fours and meowing until she forced someone to take her place by making them either smile or laugh. When Virginia began laughing too, it made Charlotte giggle—a soft ladylike giggle which finally escalated into full throaty laughter. Now the three were on their feet, laughing. And soon they were hugging and kissing and asking forgiveness.

  Charlotte walked up the steps of the large wooden porch clutching the wrapped package under her arm. She knocked on the white paint-chipped door, timidly at first, then more forcefully. Finally, a tall, middle-age woman with graying hair opened it.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  “I . . . well . . . that is . . . .”

  “Yes?”

  Charlotte jutted her chin. “I’m Miss Charlotte Farrell, member of the Women’s Benevolent Society of Greater Pottsville and I . . . .”

  “Oh, yes! One of Mrs. Gaylord’s ladies. Come in. Come in.” The matron slipped her hand under Charlotte’s arm and pulled her through the doorway. “You must thank Mrs. Gaylord for that last batch of blankets she sent over. As ever, we are grateful for her kindness.”

  Charlotte scanned the parlor and was disappointed that the intended object of her visit was nowhere to be seen. She was about to make a hasty departure when suddenly there she was, entering from another room, and taking a chair in the corner. “I will be happy to convey your gratitude,” Charlotte said, without looking at the matron. “I’ll also mention the superb manner in which your establishment appears to be run.”

  “We do our best with the little we have.” The matron’s face reddened. “I mean . . . well, I didn’t mean to imply . . . . Of course the generosity of your Society is without peer and we don’t take it lightly.” She cleared her throat. “Perhaps you’d like a tour of our facilities? I can’t remember the last time a member of the Society came for a visit. I would be happy to show you around.”

  Charlotte shook her head. “I shall save that for another time. Today, I’d prefer to sit and just visit with some of your guests.”

  “I . . . suppose . . . that would be . . . fine, yes, as you wish.” With that she led Charlotte into the parlor and offered her a chair by the window.

  Instead of taking it, Charlotte walked over to the woman with the disheveled hair and took the empty seat beside her. “I will sit here awhile, if you don’t mind. And . . . I’ll call if I need anything.”

  The matron hesitated, then walked away. When she was out of sight, Charlotte placed the package on her lap then turned to the woman beside her. Sitting this close made Charlotte see that the woman wasn’t as old as she originally thought, and something else, too—that she had been pretty once. Despite the unruly hair, outdated dress, and worn look on her face, Charlotte could see that, yes, this woman had been very very pretty. She fingered the package. “I hope you don’t think me forward, but I have brought you a little something, and hope you will accept it.”

  The woman smiled sweetly. “I remember you from last time. And judging from your fine clothes, you must be one of the Society ladies.”

  Charlotte frowned. She had worn one of her simplest dresses, wanting to draw as little contrast as possible between her and the ladies here. So she was surprised that this woman thought her finely dressed. “My name is Miss Farrell, Miss Charlotte Farrell.”

  “And I’m Elizabeth Mills, but my friends call me Betsy.”

  “I shall not be so presumptuous, but may I call you Elizabeth?”

  The woman shook her head. “If you feel friendly enough to bring a gift then you must call me Betsy. It’s only fitting.”

  “Yes, well, then please accept this, Betsy.” Charlotte handed her the package. “It’s just a small thing, but I hope you like it.”

  In seconds, Betsy removed the brown paper and held the mirror and comb in her hands. “They’re beautiful! It’s been awhile since I’ve had anything this nice.” Her eyes brimmed with tears. “Thank you.”

  “I . . . didn’t know how best to decorate it. I wasn’t sure if you preferred birds to flowers or . . . .”

  “You painted this?”

  Charlotte nodded.

  “I . . . don’t know what to say.”

  “There’s no need to say anything.” Charlotte rose. “I . . . must go now.”

  Betsy’s eyebrows knotted as she fingered the painted mirror. “Why did you do this? You don’t even know me. Why would you be so kind to a stranger?”

  “I’m not sure. I . . . I . . . think because every woman needs to feel loved and valued and special. And because I thought if I . . . if I were in your place, I’d like it very much if someone did this for me.”

  Betsy took Charlotte’s hand. “Will you come back? Will you come and visit me again?”

  The gesture and request embarrassed Charlotte, but when she saw the longing in the woman’s eyes as if remembering better days, she smiled and nodded. “Yes, I’ll come again.” And then Charlotte was out the door and down the porch stairs feeling as light as that butterfly she had painted on the back of Betsy’s mirror.

  Kate was busy stripping sheets off beds for the second time this week, all the while dreading the ordeal of the washing and bluing to follow. Charlotte was already boiling water; and since it was a beautiful day, Virginia was in the back yard, rather than in the laundry room off the kitchen, laying out the needed wash tubs, scrub brushes, soap and bleaching agents. At least the fresh air and sunshine would be pleasant.

  With one final fluffing of the down pillows, Kate finished Mr. Thumbolt’s bed, then proceeded to the hall where a pile of dirty sheets lay in a corner. She added Mr. Thumbolt’s to the pile then glanced at Joshua’s room. The door was still closed. It had been closed since she first came upstairs. Now, his was the only bed left and there was nothing to do but knock. She picked up the last remaining set of clean sheets from the half-table nearb
y, then knocked on his door.

  “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you,” she said as she entered. “But I need to change your bedding. Charlotte and Virginia are waiting . . . .” She stopped when she saw him hunched over the desk. And instead of going to the bed, she walked to where he sat. “What’s wrong?”

  At once, Joshua placed his arms over the papers scattered across the desktop.

  “What’s wrong?” Kate repeated.

  “I’m busy, Kate. You need to leave me to my work.”

  “You’ve found something, haven’t you? It’s about Father, isn’t it?”

  He scooped the papers into a pile. “I’m trying to codify my notes. Make sense of them.”

  Kate walked to the nearby Windsor chair and draped the clean sheets across the back, then returned to stand over his shoulder. “May I see? Perhaps I can help.” She bent over trying to read the top page of the stack.

  Once more Joshua covered the papers. “Nothing you can do. I need more time, and then we’ll talk.”

  Instead of backing away, Kate reached for the top sheet but Joshua caught her wrist.

  “No, Kate. Not yet. Let me sort this out. I’ll tell you everything in due time.”

  “Don’t you know that’s the worst thing you could have said?” She pulled free. “You know how the mind works, Joshua. How it always conjures up the worst scenarios. I’ll torture myself for hours. No, you must tell me for I’ll not leave until you do.”

  “Must you always have your way?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “All right, I’ll tell you. But you have to promise you won’t go on a gallop. I know how you are, and I don’t want you running wild with this. Will you promise?”

  “I dislike making open ended promises. Just tell me and be done with it.”

  Joshua rose from his chair and stood tugging on his rumpled waistcoat as though deciding what to do. “I’ve investigated sixteen of Martin Roach’s colliery sales and not one was coerced,” he finally said.

  “What? That’s . . . impossible . . . isn’t it?”

  “However, two of them voiced their displeasure over the price. They claimed they got far less for their collieries than other owners they know, and were still angry about it. But Gowen’s hauling practices had nearly bankrupted them so they had no choice but to sell, even for a sum below what their collieries were worth. After hearing this, I went back to some of those I questioned previously. I’ve only had time to revisit five, and found the same complaint. And early this morning I went to the railroad office in Pottsville. And after showing the office manager my identification and swearing him to secrecy, I pulled Martin Roach’s last two contracts, the ones that have yet to be sent to the Philadelphia headquarters. I was looking them over when you came in.”

  “What are you searching for?”

  “The amounts don’t match; the amounts between what the two colliery owners said they received and the amounts specified in their contracts.” He turned to the desk and thumped the stack of papers. “These contracts list a higher sale price. Tomorrow, I’ll take the train to Philadelphia and look at the rest of Mr. Roach’s contracts, compare the sale prices and see if there’s a discrepancy in what the other five colliery owners said they were paid. If the numbers don’t match, I’ll speak with the remaining owners on the list.”

  Kate frowned. “I don’t understand. What does it mean?”

  “It could mean a great deal. We’re talking vast sums of money here when you consider that the largest of these collieries was purchased for three million dollars! But I can hardly take my suspicions to Mr. Gowen until I have proof.”

  “But you have a theory, Joshua. What is it you suspect?”

  Joshua took her hand. “You can’t run with this, Kate. You must allow me to investigate thoroughly.”

  “You think he was swindling the railroad. Don’t you?” She pulled away. “But how is that possible? How could he . . . ? Unless . . . he made up separate contracts, one for the owners, the other for the railroad. And what? Pocketed the difference? No . . . that’s too fantastic. No sane person would attempt such a thing. It’s just not possible.”

  “It could be. Mind you, I said, could be. The contracts appear boilerplate, easy enough to duplicate. It wouldn’t be difficult to fill out two copies with different prices, and forge the signature on the bogus one.”

  “Maybe this was what Father and Mr. Blakely were investigating.” Kate thumped the desk. “It makes sense now. Yes, all of it. They must have found out, or at least suspected Mr. Roach’s double dealings, as you did, from conversations with ex-owners. Samuel Baxter must have found out, too. But he was easy to handle. He could be bribed. That’s obviously why Martin Roach had to come up with two quick colliery sales, sales he gained through intimidation and threats, so he could turn them over to Baxter and let him make the commission as a payoff. But it wasn’t so easy with Father and Mr. Blakely. Oh, is it possible? Joshua, is it possible that Martin Roach hired the two thugs to make Father appear desperate to have Mr. Blakely sell and willing to use force to do it?”

  Kate shook with rage. “He must have killed Mr. Blakely, too, or hired someone to do it. He could have sent Father that note. Then timed the murder just before Father’s appointment, implicating him as the killer. In one stroke it would rid him of the threat both Mr. Blakely and Father posed.” She balled her hands into fists. “Oh, how could he be so diabolical? How could he kill one man, then send another to the gallows, all for profit, for filthy profit?”

  “You don’t know that, Kate. Such talk is imprudent.”

  “But it makes perfect sense. You must think so, too, or you wouldn’t be going to Philadelphia. Mr. Gowen might not care how an agent made his sales, but he’d care if that agent swindled the railroad in the process. Martin Roach was desperate to keep his dealings secret, and in your line of work you know that desperate men do desperate things.” Kate shook her head. “I always thought Mr. Roach of low character but I never imagined . . . I never imagined . . . it would cost Father his life.”

  Joshua put his arms around her, and when he drew her close she leaned against his chest and sobbed.

  “Promise me you won’t do anything foolish while I’m away,” he whispered when she stopped crying. Then cupping her chin, he tilted her face upward. “I’ll only be gone a day or two at the most.” When she didn’t answer, he sighed. “Kate, you are so prudent and sensible, and yet . . . at times when you let your heart rule, you can be so . . . foolish.”

  “I know,” she said, bringing her face closer to his, and after the briefest hesitation, kissed him.

  Kate hadn’t planned it, but here she was, the heels of her black boots rat-tat-tatting along the plank sidewalk; her hair bare of bonnet; her faded work dress flapping in the breeze; her heart pounding like one of Samuel Baxter’s hammers. The thought only came to her an hour ago when Joshua left for Pottsville to catch the train to Philadelphia. She had tried talking herself out of it, had told herself Joshua would be furious, call her “reckless,” perhaps worse, when more than ever she didn’t want him thinking ill of her. But nothing worked. Anger shaped her now; anger bordering on a rage that made her mouth sour.

  Martin Roach was responsible for Father’s death.

  How could she let that go? She hadn’t even told her mother and sisters what she planned to do. She didn’t want to be dissuaded.

  She hurried down the walk, ignoring those who smiled and greeted her. A kind reply would only soften her, and that too was a dissuasion. She ignored the gay chirping of the birds in nearby trees as well as the sun streaming in golden waves across her path. She mustn’t consider God’s blessings. Considering them would force her to consider God Himself. And she refused to think about Him now. If she did, He would speak to her of love. And it wasn’t love she wanted filling her heart.

  She burst through the door, then scanned the room. Hester w
as behind the counter waiting on two women—a widow and her daughter who Kate knew had a small farm on the outskirts of town, and who made fine women’s corsets and petticoats for extra money. Only one other person was present, an elderly woman examining a cast-iron skillet. But where was Martin Roach?

  She stormed up to the counter and glared at Hester who was showing the women a wide strip of fine linen whitework full of embroidered eyelets.

  “As you can see it’s a superb sample of broderie anglaise and would make a lovely decoration on any petticoat. Your ornamented undergarments always fetch a good price so you’ll have no trouble recovering the added expense.”

  Before either woman could answer, Kate leaned over the counter. “Where’s your husband?”

  “Why . . . in the back.”

  Without a word Kate headed for the stockroom, ignoring Hester’s cries of, “You can’t go there! Customers are not allowed! Kate!” and ducked through the open door. It was the first time she had ever been in back and was surprised by its size, by how tall and fully stocked the shelves were. But Martin Roach could afford to keep a large and varied inventory. He no longer had to worry about money, did he? She walked down one of the long rows and found him at the end, pulling bolts of heavy woolen fabrics from a box, obviously supplies for the coming colder weather.

  He dropped one of the bolts when he saw her. “Why . . . Miss Kate, what are you doing here? Hester’s out front. She’ll help you if you require assistance. I’m quite busy, and . . . customers aren’t allowed back here.”

  “It’s you I’ve come to see.” Her breathing was heavy, her eyes slits. “Tell me, did you think you’d get away with it?”

  “Get away with what? What are you talking about?”

  “You hired Samuel Baxter to make tight-cooperage barrels, didn’t you? As a further bribe? Weren’t the two collieries enough?”