Louisa Rawlings (50 page)

“Poison? What are you talking about?”

He laughed bitterly. “The carelessness of the rich. You take what you want and destroy what you don’t. You despoil everything, so there’s nothing left.
You didn’t even know
!” He shook his head. “But if you’re riding in your carriage, how can you see the mud in the street? Even if you put it there.” He rubbed his hand across his eyes. “Oh, the hell with it. Come on. Let’s get started.”

They moved past a large crowd that had gathered—half the town of MacCurdyville. Nat acknowledged the waves and greetings from the people who recognized him; Willough tried to ignore the muttered curses that seemed directed toward a hated Bradford. They reached the large furnace house set into the side of the hill. At the top level, near the charging room door, Nat introduced Willough to Jim Taggert and two of his confederates, who represented the strikers. Taggert turned to the building and shouted. A man with a week’s growth of beard peered cautiously out from the charging room, then stepped out to join them, his hands folded belligerently across his chest.

“We ain’t taking nothing but full amnesty, Stanton,” he growled.

“Agreed, Charlie. Unless you’ve done damage to the property. Then Mr. Bradford will expect to be reimbursed.”

“No deal. Who’s to say that skinflint Bradford won’t come back to us later, saying we owe him?”

Willough stepped forward, her voice ringing clear and strong in the morning air. “I’ll inspect the premises myself, with Mr. Stanton, as soon as you vacate. If there’s no damage, you have my guarantee—as a Bradford—that you won’t be held liable.”

Charlie sneered. “Huh! Bradford! He said he wouldn’t bring in prisoners, neither. But as soon as times got hard, we were out in the cold.”

Nat’s voice was edged with anger. “You have Miss Bradford’s guarantee, Charlie! That still stands for something around here. And you damn well better respect it! Mr. Bradford could bring charges of criminal trespass against the lot of you if he wanted. With or without damage to the furnace! I think he’s being very generous.”

Charlie grumbled and kicked at a pebble. “I don’t know why
you’re
so loyal to the family, Stanton. After what they done to you!” He snickered. “But maybe Miss Bradford there is paying you off…and not in money.”

Nat’s face turned red. Stepping forward, he swung one huge fist into Charlie’s jaw. The man dropped to the ground, clutching his bruised face. Nat glowered above him. “Miss Bradford is a lady. You’ll keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of her! Now get your men out of Number Three!” As Charlie scrambled to his feet, Nat’s face softened. “Appoint a couple of your men to sit in on the strikers’ negotiations. Maybe we can arrange to put you and some of your people back to work.”

At Charlie’s signal, the renegades filed out of the furnace house, carrying blankets and ragged quilts. Their eyes were cast down—men without hope. The women and children who detached themselves from the crowd to run to the men looked equally despairing, with pinched features and hungry eyes. What poor wretches they are, thought Willough sadly. She hoped that she and Nat could manage to find jobs for most of them.

Nat
. How confused and mystifying it all was. He’d defended her honor! She couldn’t believe it. Maybe it was just guilt, because Charlie had come close to speaking the truth. Perhaps that’s why he’d blushed. He certainly couldn’t be softening toward her. Not if he held her responsible for his grandfather’s death! If that was so, it helped to explain his cruelty of last night. Poor Nat. What a dreadful loss his grandfather must have been for him. She bit her lip. How could he blame her for his grandfather? And yet he seemed to think that she should know why he couldn’t get work in the furnaces. But that was absurd! Why wouldn’t they hire him? He’d had more experience than half the men in the region! As a founder, as a clerk… It made no sense. She sighed. After this was over, she’d insist he tell her everything.

They moved into the charging room for serious negotiations. It was a large room, at the hilltop level so that barrows of ore and charcoal and limestone could be trundled in and dumped into the top of the furnace stack. Unused barrows were lined up against both walls, and near the platform-balance that weighed the loads was a tally board, like a giant cribbage board, for keeping track of the number of charges. Willough frowned, remembering the impersonal numbers. But the calculations took on a different meaning now. What was it Nat had said? Despoiling everything. Every twenty-four hours each furnace turned out two tons of pig iron. But to produce that took one barrow of charcoal eighteen to twenty times a day. She remembered more numbers. One acre of forest produced thirty to forty cords of wood, wood that was needed to make the charcoal. Nat had once told her that it took nearly fourteen cords of wood per day to feed just one furnace with charcoal. The numbers had meant little to her. Now, staring at the large charging hole that led into the furnace, she calculated what that hunger meant. Five thousand cords of wood a year. Nearly a hundred and fifty acres of forest stripped bare.
Every year
! For just one furnace. Good God, she thought, we
are
despoilers!

They began their discussions, sitting around a large table that had been set up hurriedly in the middle of the charging room. Taggert and his men were clearly more desperate than they wanted to appear; Willough couldn’t help but notice that Nat was prepared to bend over backward to give them as much as he could. How like Nat, she thought. In a few days he would be a part owner of the ironworks, and yet his first concern today was for the men.

The negotiations went on for hours. There was so much to be decided. How many men could be rehired, how deep a pay cut they could afford to take, whether closing one of the furnaces would be best. Fewer men at more pay, or more men taking less pay. The arguments went back and forth. Again and again Willough reiterated the Bradford promise: no reprisals against the renegades, no Clinton prisoners to take away anyone’s job. Mrs. Walker brought over a basket of sandwiches and hot coffee. While Taggert and his men, sandwiches in hand, stretched their legs, Willough and Nat sat silently eating at the table, carefully avoiding each other’s eyes.

Willough couldn’t bear the mystery any longer. “Nat,” she said softly. “You said you couldn’t get work in the forges.”

He smiled, an ugly smile, his lip curling in disgust. “That’s right. I’m a gardener now. For a nice little old widow in North Creek. I know more about compost piles than I ever thought I would!”

“But
why
, Nat?”

He leaned forward, his amber eyes burning into hers. “Because every door in every furnace was closed to me. You did a better job than you supposed!”

She was near tears. “Nat! I never knew what happened to you. I swear it! I thought you’d gone away for good.” She swallowed hard, feeling the old pain. “I kept hoping…you’d come back.”

He stared at her, a bewildered frown on his face. “I don’t understand.”

“Mr. Stanton, can we get back to our talks?”

Nat looked up. “Of course, Taggert.” He turned to Willough. His eyes were cold again, his expression unreadable. “We’ll discuss it later.”

At last, after hard bargaining, they concluded the agreement. Number Four would be closed, but there’d be jobs for everyone. At reduced pay. There were handshakes all around, and Taggert and his men went out to tell the waiting workers, who greeted the news with glad shouts.

Nat stood up from the table and rubbed the back of his neck. He looked at Willough. He seemed almost friendly. “You did a good job. Your father would be proud of you.”

She felt a twinge of bitterness toward Daddy. “Would he?” She rose from her chair, smoothed down her skirts. “Are you hungry? I’m sure Mrs. Walker can fix us a little something.”

“I want to take a look around first. Make sure the furnace will be ready to blow in tomorrow. Why don’t you go back to the house?”

“No. I did promise Charlie that I’d inspect the place for damage. I’d better come with you.” They took the stairs down to the second level, walking out across the footbridge that overlooked the massive water wheel. The footbridge was narrow. Willough put her hand out to the railing to steady herself. Nat did the same, and their hands touched. She felt a thrill course through her body. She hadn’t known she could still feel this way about him. Why did he hate her? She had to know!

“Nat. I want to talk…”

His eyes were on her lips. “I want to talk to you too,” he said hoarsely. “About…last night.”

Her heart was pounding. “Nat…” she whispered.

There was an ugly laugh behind them. “What a lovely scene!” They turned. Arthur was there, on the steps that led down to the walkway. He nodded to Willough. “My dear wife. It was bad enough you left me to deal with our guests alone. But to find you making sheep’s eyes at this crude bumpkin…”

Cursing softly, Nat made a move toward Arthur, but Willough blocked him on the narrow footbridge. “Go away, Arthur,” she said in a steady voice. “I came here to do a job for Daddy. I’ll be home when the job is finished.”

“I’ll wait. There’s a train for Crown Point in about an hour. I’d hate for there to be any…lingering farewells.”

“You son of a bitch,” growled Nat.

“Ah, Stanton. I thought you’d left the state by now. It’s a surprise to see you back in an ironworks. I thought I’d got rid of you for good!”

Willough frowned. “What do you mean?”

Nat looked at Willough. His eyes widened in shock and sudden comprehension. “Oh my God!” He turned on Arthur. “It was
you
! You were the one!”

Willough wrung her hands. “What are you talking about?”

“The one who blackballed me! Saw to it that I couldn’t work in iron. Ever again!”

A sneering laugh from Arthur. “Yes. Of course I made it very clear to Brian and the others that the request came from Mrs. Arthur Gray, who was too much a lady to disclose the nature of her grievance against Mr. Stanton. And I hinted at other things. Irregularities in the books, et cetera. Mrs. Gray requested it, I said. Brian Bradford’s daughter. It was a powerful combination. Those who didn’t mind crossing me were afraid to cross Brian.”

Willough gasped, her hand to her mouth. “You bastard, Arthur,” she whispered.

He shrugged. “Why
didn’t
you leave New York, Stanton? Though I can’t say I was sorry to hear about the accident at the lumber camp. Pity it didn’t kill you. Then I would have been sure that Willough wasn’t still pining for you.”

Nat clenched his jaw, his muscles twitching convulsively. “If you didn’t think you could keep your wife, Gray, you shouldn’t have married her. My grandfather is dead because of you. He froze to death—while they were still patching me up.”

“Ah. A grandfather. I always wondered why you didn’t leave the North Woods.”

Nat’s eyes narrowed in fury. “You’ll regret I didn’t leave, Gray. I’m going to kill you!” He pushed Willough aside and lunged at Arthur. But his crippled leg slowed him for a moment. In that second, Arthur had leaped aside, snatched up a heavy shovel, and swung it at Nat’s head. There was a sickening thud. Willough screamed. Nat toppled backward over the railing and fell into the spokes of the giant wheel. He lay twisted near the massive hub, some eleven feet below the walkway. There was blood on his head, and his eyes were closed. His skin had gone pale; he was breathing with some difficulty.

Willough gasped and rushed to the stairs leading down into the pit that housed the wheel. But Arthur was there, blocking her way. He clutched savagely at her arms. “Let me go, Arthur,” she spat. “Damn you, let me go!”

His eyes burned with an unholy light. “No! You’re coming home with me! You’re my wife! You have a responsibility to me! And to our child! There’ll be no more yearning for Stanton or anyone else! You’ll behave yourself if I have to take a horsewhip to you! By God, I’ve worked too hard to get where I am to have it destroyed by the likes of you!”

She tore herself free of his arms and faced him defiantly, her bosom heaving in anger. “You’re finished, Arthur. You bastard. I know about everything. The bribes to the legislators on behalf of your so-called clients, like William Davis. Or is it Tim O’Leary? The favors you’ve received from contractors to build your house, in exchange for city contracts. And Zephyr Realty with its purchase of the New Church Street land, just before the city decided to allow an overhead railroad to be built there! I know all about what you’ve been up to!”

“Don’t be a fool, Willough,” he growled. “A wife can’t testify against her husband.”

“I don’t have to. I’ve kept records. Every bit of money you’ve given me, along with a list of your visitors and the checks you’ve had me write. A smart man can put that all together and come up with a pretty ugly picture of Arthur Bartlett Gray! Particularly if the smart man works for
Harper’s
or
The New York Times
. In no time at all you’ll be joining your old friend Mr. Tweed in the penitentiary!”

His face had turned white. “Willough, you wouldn’t… Think of the scandal! Think of how it would look!”

“For the first time in my life, Arthur, I don’t give a damn. About propriety or anything else! Nat’s grandfather is dead and he’s crippled because of you. You’re the worst thing that’s ever happened in my life.”

He clutched at her wrist. “You can’t do it! I won’t let you! I’ll kill you first!”

She sneered her contempt. “You should have stayed in the gutter where you belong,
Artie Flanagan
!” The look in his eyes told her she had guessed the truth. She shook off his grasp. “Now get out of my way. A
real
man needs me!”