Authors: Jo Goodman
Beatrice’s hands came together; her fingers twisted. She moved to the edge of the sofa cushion, perching there like a fluttering bird. “Oh, but I had not realized. Ann, you are
such a good hostess to your father’s guests. You always know what to say to make them welcome. I am certain you impress them. And these are important people to Stonechurch Mining. My chatter embarrasses me when they are around. I can say quite truthfully that I am happy to excuse myself when Ramsey wants to discuss business matters.”
Ann said, “It is not hard to be gracious to them when they expect nothing from me except that I be gracious. They would be alarmed if I expressed an interest in the company, and I am not certain their alarm would be any greater than my father’s.”
“Are you interested, Ann?” asked Beatrice.
“Of course I am, but that is for another discussion. Right now I want to talk about Boone Abbot. What do you know about him? Besides the fact that he is the third son?”
Beatrice waved at Calico again to resume her exercises. “Well, he is certainly a nice young man. And conscientious. He has that in his favor. When I rent a rig, he always goes over the leather seat with a cloth and helps me manage that first step. I would even go so far as to call him gallant.”
Ann closed her book and put it aside. She leaned in, her expression earnest as only a youthful countenance can be. “I thought the very same thing, Aunt Beatrice. The very same.”
Calico continued to rotate her arm in smaller circles as she quietly excused herself. She was careful to walk around the back of the sofa and not between Ann and Beatrice. She smiled to herself when neither aunt nor niece made a conversational pause to bid her good night, and that smile was still lingering when she reached her bedroom.
* * *
Quill turned up the collar of his coat. Tonight the wind seemed strong enough to tunnel through the mountain. It would not, of course, but as it came roaring through the crevice under his feet, he thought it was capable of lifting the ramshackle footbridge off its moorings. It was an unsettling thought, and he picked up his pace to reach solid ground.
George Kittredge was not at home. Quill had already stopped there with a basket of warm crullers for the entire Kittredge clan. Beatrice had given him the idea when she mentioned her activities the day before. Ramsey had been unusually quiet at dinner that night and merely pushed his food around his plate while Beatrice held court with her news about the men and their families. Quill could not tell if Ramsey was uninterested or if he was on the cusp of not feeling well. Ann broached the subject of his health at one point, but Ramsey dismissed her concerns. After that, no more was said.
Quill approached the entrance to the tunnel where the dynamite was stored. This was George Kittredge’s domain. He could often be found within a few yards of the entrance, speaking to one or more of his crew. It was typical for him to be leaning over a survey map of the mountain and the mines, pointing out where the charges would be placed for the next blast. He was meticulous, and Quill had seen firsthand that he was respected not only for the breadth of his knowledge but also for his willingness to share in the difficult and dangerous tasks.
That meant, Quill supposed, that Kittredge was deep inside the tunnel where storage for the dynamite had been carved out of the rock. Because of the nitroglycerin’s sensitivity to freezing temperatures, underground storage was a necessity in the mountains. There was no one at the entrance, which was not the general practice. Several lanterns were hanging on pegs driven into the mountainside for the purpose of lighting the way. Quill took one down and held it out as he stepped inside the timbered adit.
Lanterns lighted the passage at regular intervals, but Quill estimated he had been making a gradual descent over fifty yards before he encountered a light moving toward him. He stopped, waited. There was one lantern, but two men. He recognized both of them when they came upon him, but he only knew the name of the shorter of the pair.
“Mr. Cavanaugh,” he said, nodding once. His eyes swiveled to the other man. “I’m sorry. Mr.—”
“Shepard. Jim Shepard.” He regarded Quill doubtfully.
“I have to say, Mr. McKenna, that our boss isn’t going to like that you’re here. It wouldn’t be right for me not to warn you to turn around.”
“I stand warned.” He pointed to the crate in Cavanaugh’s hands. “It’s a little late for blasting, isn’t it?”
“Trying to prevent one,” Dave Cavanaugh said. He set the crate carefully on his shoulder. “If you need to know more than that, you’ll have to talk to Mr. Kittredge.”
Quill eyed the crate. “I plan to.”
Shepard said, “If you don’t mind me asking, if you don’t know what’s going on, then what brings you here? It’s a little late for lawyering, isn’t it?”
“Mr. Stonechurch works day and night, same as you. There is no such time as a little late when he takes to an idea.” Quill observed that this seemed to satisfy both men. He hoped they would be well outside of the tunnel when they realized he had provided no real information. He, on the other hand, had been given a tidbit that whet his appetite.
Quill found George Kittredge in one of the deeper storage chambers. There was only one other man working with him. Quill had seen him around, but like Jim Shepard, he could not put a name to the face. He nodded a greeting when the young man looked up from his task. He was kneeling beside an open crate of dynamite but had been examining the upside-down lid.
Quill took a step closer to see what he was studying, and it was then that Kittredge noticed him and ordered him back.
“Can’t say that I am surprised to see you, but I thought it would be earlier,” said Kittredge. “I wondered if she would say something. God knows, I haven’t had the time. I suppose she did.”
Quill figured he was referring to Beatrice. He had no idea what she was supposed to have said. She had shared odds and ends about the men and their families, but nothing specifically about the mining operation. Ramsey had not mentioned anything, so if he knew what was going on, which seemed unlikely, he was keeping it to himself for now, which seemed even more unlikely.
Quill said, “She did say she was here yesterday afternoon. I take it you did not get your fair share of crullers. I dropped a basket off at your home.”
“Well, you can be sure I won’t get my fair share of those.” He lifted his hat, ran a hand through his hair, and darted a glance sideways at the man kneeling on the ground. “Joshua. Seems like you could use a break to stretch your legs about now. Go on. Leave that. I’ll tend to it. See if you can do anything to help the other two.”
Neither man spoke until Joshua’s footfalls had faded in the corridor. Quill said, “He’s one of the Abbots, isn’t he?”
“Uh-huh. Good lad. All the Abbots are; most of them work for Stonechurch. One of the boys works in the livery.”
Quill realized that’s why Joshua seemed especially familiar. “Boone. Why doesn’t he work here?”
George Kittredge pointed to the open crate. The lantern light was sufficient to make the dynamite sticks sparkle. “Nitro,” George said succinctly. “Boone Abbot should be dead.”
Calico slipped lower into the tub when she heard the door to the bedroom open and close. “In here,” she called out. She almost added Quill’s name, but held back on the sudden suspicion that he was not the person who had just entered. She stared at the open bathing room doorway waiting to see who would appear.
“Beatrice.” Calico blinked, sat up straight, and drew her knees toward her chest. She hugged them. “Has something happened? Is it Ann? Mr. Stonechurch?”
Beatrice politely stepped back from the doorway. “I asked Mrs. Pratt to steam some towels. I have them here. You should wrap them around your arm. They will relax and soothe your muscles. Where shall I put them?”
“There is a stool in here. You can bring them in and put them on it.” She smiled faintly as Beatrice hurried and set the towels down. Her eyes remained averted for the whole of her intrusion. “Thank you,” said Calico. “It was thoughtful of you to bring them yourself. I hope you are on your way to bed and did not make a special trip.”
Beatrice cast her eyes at the floor. Her hands were knotted. “I am on my way to bed, but I had a reason other than
the towels for coming here. I truly need to speak to you about what you did on Ann’s behalf today.”
“There’s really no need to thank me. I was happy to—” She stopped because Beatrice was shaking her head. “Oh, you are not here to thank me, are you?”
“No. No, I am not, and I am sorry for it because I know your intentions were the very best.”
“Well, I thought they were. Would you mind waiting for me in the other room? I will only be a few minutes.”
Beatrice’s answer was to scurry out. Calico finished washing and wrung out her hair. She dried off, finger combed her hair, and slipped into a sleeveless shift. She tested one of the steamed towels for heat before she wrapped it around her arm. She left the others on the stool when she went out to greet Beatrice.
Calico expected to find that Beatrice had at least tried to make herself comfortable, but the woman was standing beside the armchair instead of sitting in it. Calico did not comment and went straight to the wardrobe, where she chose a pair of gray woolen socks. She sat on the window bench and put them on.
Sighing almost inaudibly, she asked, “What have I done?”
“Perhaps I am making something out of nothing,” said Beatrice. “Before I go on, I suppose I should ask you if you spoke to Ramsey about Boone Abbot.”
“No. I didn’t. It never occurred to me.”
“I was afraid of that, although certainly I hoped I was wrong. My brother-in-law will never approve any connection between Ann and the young Mr. Abbot. He is likely to be apoplectic when he hears they spoke.”
“I don’t understand. I know I left the conversation early, but you were speaking favorably of Boone while I was still present.”
“Oh. Oh, I see. You are confusing what I think about Boone with what Ramsey will think. Oddly enough, we are not of similar minds. In my estimation, Boone Abbot is a perfectly fine young man, wholly acceptable as a friend to Ann. I regard him as one of my husband’s saviors. Ramsey
regards him as an unwelcome reminder of the tragedy that eventually claimed Leo.”
“I have noticed that Boone limps, but I never inquired about the cause. I might have guessed that it had something to do with the horses, but I think you are telling me it was the mines.”
Short brown ringlets framed Beatrice’s face. They bounced as she nodded. “Boone worked in the Number 3 mine where Leonard was visiting the day of the accident. He was learning about how to handle dynamite and set charges under George Kittredge’s guidance, but on that particular day he was a laborer in Number 3. I have this account of what happened from my husband so I have no reason to doubt it. Young Boone Abbot, and he was just seventeen then, spied a bundle of dynamite wedged between timber and rock in the side tunnel where he was digging. Most of the bundle was buried, so the fact that he saw it at all I’ve always believed is akin to a miracle.”
“It was sabotage?”
“No. No, nothing of the sort. An oversight. It had been set there months earlier by George and his men. For whatever reason, it did not detonate with the other charges. The tunnel was excavated, timbers erected, and no one found the bundle until Boone. He did what he was supposed to do. He alerted men deeper in the tunnel to get out, and he went to find Mr. Kittredge.”
Beatrice paused. “You should have a robe on, dear. You’re shivering.”
Rather than argue, Calico began to rise.
“I will get it. Stay where you are.”
It was then that Calico understood that Beatrice needed something to do. She needed a distraction from her own story before she could continue. Calico took the robe, thanked her, and waited patiently for her to begin again.
Beatrice sat in the armchair, perched much as she had been on the parlor sofa except that she was still now, not fluttering. “Mr. Kittredge was at one of the other mines, too far away to fetch quickly. Boone found Ramsey and asked him to come
and look at what he had found. Ramsey was occupied on another matter and asked Leonard to go instead.”
Beatrice’s head tilted as she regarded Calico. “Do you know anything about dynamite, dear?” When Calico shook her head, Beatrice said, “Of course you don’t. Why would you? It’s only when mining has been in your blood as long as it’s been in mine that you begin to learn things you mostly wished you did not know.” She shrugged and her smile was rueful. “Over time, dynamite sweats. I’ve heard the men say it weeps like the newly widowed, but I have never cared for that expression. Dynamite is a man’s invention, and so it sweats.”
“Nitroglycerin,” said Calico.
“Yes. So you do know something. It sweats nitro and forms explosive crystals. That’s what Boone saw on the bundle in the rock. He understood it had to be extracted with expert care. My husband understood that as well, but he was under the misapprehension that he could do it himself. It is hard to say if Ramsey would have chosen a more cautious course and waited for Mr. Kittredge to return, but since Ramsey did not accompany Boone, it is only a matter of speculation. Leo never asked that question. I do. I keep it in my heart, but I have asked myself it many, many times.”
Moved by Beatrice’s confession, Calico nodded slowly. In her place, she would ask the same question, and she would ask it aloud.
“Leonard had the good sense to send Boone away while he worked, but Boone either did not get far or did not go far, and the collapse of the tunnel trapped him as well. My husband was not standing close to the dynamite when it exploded. He had started back to get a tool. He and Boone were separated by three yards of rock and timber. They could hear but not see each other. They thought they would die there and each man prayed independently that he would be the first to go. Neither wanted to die alone, you see. Sometimes I think it was the fear of that that kept them alive. Boone’s leg was trapped in a gap between the rocks. It was horribly twisted, they said when they found him, but it
wasn’t crushed. He did not want to leave Leo, but they had to take him out of the tunnel. His poor mother. She waited with me and we both wept when he was carried out. She did not want to leave my side just as her boy did not want to leave Leo. I insisted that she go, of course, but her oldest boys stayed with me. It was another thirty-six hours before they lifted Leo out of the rubble.”
Imagining the horror of it, Calico closed her eyes briefly. “How awful for all of you.”
“It’s past,” Beatrice said after a moment. “It’s behind us. Most of us.”
Calico said, “Mr. Stonechurch.”
“Yes, my brother-in-law is changed. He must live with the fact that Boone came for him and he sent his brother in his stead. Leo never blamed Ramsey. My husband told Ramsey many times that there was nothing to forgive except that Ramsey forgive himself and forget about what might have been.”
“But he cannot.”
“Cannot. Will not. Thinks he should not. I have no answer for how he chooses to grieve.”
Calico scooted into a corner of the bench and drew her legs up and to the side. “Why doesn’t Ann know about Boone Abbot?”
Beatrice’s blue eyes clouded briefly as she frowned. “Oh, I see. Yes. I did not explain that as well as I might have. I see that now. Ann doesn’t know because Ramsey forbade talking about the accident around her. He believed that she did not need to know details because she would be frightened that the same might happen to him. He did not want to spend hours, days, weeks, reassuring her.”
“Isn’t it possible the opposite could be true? That by knowing details, she would understand how unlikely it was that this particular accident would happen again.”
“There was no reasoning with him, and frankly, I did not try very hard. I did not like talking about it either, so keeping Ann away from it suited me as well.”
There was a sharp edge to Beatrice’s tone that Calico had
not heard before. “I apologize. I did not mean to sound critical.” Calico watched as Beatrice seemed to draw in on herself, somehow becoming smaller than she had been a moment earlier. Her shoulders hunched, her chin dropped, and her fingers folded in a gentle handclasp. She looked uncertain, not anxious.
Beatrice sighed quietly. “It is still difficult to discuss, but I came here to do that. I should not shy away from the unpleasantness. I do not want you to think Ramsey is unfeeling or inattentive, and I think I may have given you that impression.”
“I have some idea of how much he cares for his daughter.”
“Yes. He certainly does, which is why I believe he will be unhappy to learn she has been introduced to Boone Abbot. You should not mention it to him.”
“But you said—”
“It doesn’t matter. To Ramsey he is a reminder. I cannot say it more plainly than that. Boone would be working with George Kittredge if Ramsey would stand for it. He won’t. Boone seems to have made peace with it. I have noticed he has a way with the animals, and his mother is certainly glad he is no longer working in the mines.”
“Did you try to discourage Ann at all after I left you downstairs?”
“No. Heavens no. Coward that I am, I left that for you to do.”
Calico smiled wanly. Why were there no problems here that she could settle with a gun?
* * *
The house was quiet when Quill entered. From outside, he had seen lamps burning in Ramsey’s study and Calico’s bedroom, but when he knocked lightly on the pocket doors of the study, there was no answer. He parted them, looked inside, and did not see Ramsey at his desk. The lamp, he thought, would extinguish itself soon enough so he let it be
and headed upstairs. He paused outside Calico’s room but elected to go to his own to change first.
The first thing he did when he was inside his room was to cross to the bed and light the lamp beside it. He shook out the match and tossed it into the fireplace. No one had laid a fire for him, so he did it now to stay warm while he stripped out of his clothes and cleaned up. He was dusty from his trek into the tunnel but at least he was not carrying nitro crystals on his clothing. George Kittredge could not say the same. The man could not return home until he had been picked clean of every one of them.
Quill took the lamp into the bathroom, where he stripped down and washed up. He left everything in a pile on the floor, pulled on clean drawers and warm woolen socks, and padded back into the bedroom. He was glad he was holding the oil lamp in both hands; otherwise he might have dropped it when he was brought up short by the sight of Calico curled under the covers on his bed.
He could not imagine how he had not seen her earlier, but he also hadn’t heard her enter. Her hair was fanned out across the pillow in all its brilliant color. Her eyes were closed, and her cheek rested against the back of one hand. Quill turned back the lamp until only a thread of light was visible. He set it down and went around to the other side of the bed. Raising the blankets, he slipped under them and carefully stretched out. He had just finished making a comfortable depression for himself when Calico turned over and faced him. Her eyes did not open just then. That happened when she drew up her knees and bumped his.
“Hello,” he said. He was unreasonably glad he had left that slender flame burning in the lamp. She was beautiful in the cast of golden light and Quill’s eyes drank her in.
“Hello,” she said, smiling sleepily. “I did not think you would be gone so long.”
“Neither did I.”
“Is everything all right?”
“That’s a conversation that can wait until morning.”
She nodded faintly. “I suppose that’s an answer of a kind.”
“Hmm. Sleep. That’s what can’t wait.”
Her eyes roamed his face and finally settled on his mouth. “Or . . .”
“Yes, well, there is always ‘or’ . . .”
She laughed without making a sound, and the vibration of it was still on her lips when he leaned forward and kissed her. They edged closer, looking for accommodation of knees and thighs. He raised her shift. She loosened the string on his drawers. His fingertips sought the velvet smooth skin of her hip; she searched out the flat of his belly.
They kissed slowly, deeply, drawing out the pleasure, finding the nuances of taste and smell and touch. Their play was sweetly erotic. He bit gently down on her lower lip. She made a sweep across his upper lip with her tongue. He hummed against her mouth; she whimpered against his.
She tugged at the ribbon that held the neckline of her shift in place, and then she took his hand and laid it over her breast. She guided his thumb across her nipple. He teased it until it was a bud before he replaced his hand with hers. He waited, and the color of his eyes turned smoky in the waiting. Her fingers were still for a long time, but then her hand slowly began to move and she grazed her skin with her nails.
“Oh,” she said on a thread of sound, and he answered in kind.
She raised her knee when he nudged her with his. He made room for his thigh between hers. She was conscious of the opening he created, conscious of the way she had parted her legs for him. He did not press his advantage, if indeed he had one. He simply stayed as he was, perfectly composed, watching her touch herself in all the ways he liked to touch her.