North and South: The North and South Trilogy (38 page)

Stanley was unperturbed. “Simon Cameron will be a power in Pennsylvania. In the nation, too. He just had a few temporary setbacks.”

“Well, don’t help him overcome them with our money. If you continue, I’ll be forced to put the matter before Mother. Regrettably, that’s the only way I can stop you short of mayhem.”

His brother glowered, not finding the sarcasm funny. George intimidated him. Stanley chewed his lip, then muttered, “All right. I’ll consider your objection.”

“Thank you,” George snapped, and walked out.

He knew he had won. He had used a weapon, a threat he had never employed before. He disliked using it; only a fool subjected other men to humiliation. A humiliated man often struck back—and in vicious ways. That risk was increased with someone like Stanley, who was inwardly aware of his own ineptitude.

Still, in this case, George had no other choice.

Constance was right, he thought as he trudged uphill toward the furnaces. The endless battles were wearing him out. This morning, standing in front of his shaving mirror, he had spied several white hairs above his forehead. And he was not yet twenty-five.

When Isabel heard about the latest argument, she erupted.

“Will you let him get away with it, Stanley? When the senator has reestablished himself, he’ll certainly remember your generosity. Then you’ll get that political appointment we both want. It’s our chance to escape from this grubby little village for good.”

Stanley sank down in one of the bedroom chairs. He unfastened his cravat with a listless hand. “If I don’t agree to stop the donations, George will approach Mother.”

She sneered. “The little boy running for help?”

“I don’t blame him. While I control the funds, he has no other recourse.” Short of turning on me with bare fists, Stanley thought as a thrill of fear chased down his back. George had a temper. He had fought a war and was no stranger to brawling. It wasn’t hard to imagine him attacking his own brother. Stanley would not run that risk.

Isabel stormed over to his chair. “Well, by heaven, you’d better not surrender control of the purse to that godless little wretch.”

“No, I won’t give in on that,” Stanley promised.
It’s my last bit of authority.

“And you find some way to keep sending Cameron donations, do you understand?’ ‘

“Yes, my love. I will.” Stanley let out a pained sigh. “I fear I’m learning to hate my own brother.”

“Oh, I don’t think you should go that far,” she countered. Secretly, she was pleased.

He blushed and stepped behind a screen to remove his shirt. “I know. I don’t always mean it. Just sometimes.”

“The trouble between you and your brother is that idolater he married.” She looked at her reflection in a decorative mirror but saw only the beautiful face of the red-haired chatelaine of Belvedere. “That Papist bitch. It’s time to take her down a few pegs.”

Stanley poked his head out from behind the screen. “How?”

Isabel’s only response was a cold smile.

T
HE MORAVIAN SEMINARY FOR
Young Ladies was situated on the bank of Monocacy Creek in nearby Bethlehem. Established in 1742, it had the distinction of being the first boarding school for young ladies in the colonies. Virgilia had attended the seminary for two terms but had then been sent home for refusing to obey the rules of the institution.

Late in September each year, ladies in the area conducted a bazaar to raise funds for the school. The affair was held on the lawn outside Colonial Hall. Planning began in the summer. To be asked to chair one of the numerous committees was a sign of social acceptance. Isabel had been a committee head the preceding year.

Constance believed in education for women—as much education as they were equipped to handle, even if it placed them in competition with men. George found the attitude a bit startling but didn’t disagree with it. Constance told him she would like to help with the September bazaar; her pregnancy did not yet hamper activity or travel on the rough highland roads. George promised to mention her interest to Stanley but forgot.

Constance waited. She had plenty to occupy her. She tended little William several hours a day, believing that if babies didn’t receive sufficient patting and handling when they were tiny, they grew up to be warped, disagreeable adults. More to the truth, she loved caring for the pink, plump little boy.

She had household duties as well. She was a good manager of the servants at Belvedere, mediating their quarrels in a firm, fair way and helping them to accomplish more in less time by showing them how to plan their chores and do them efficiently. They soon came to respect and admire her—and fear her a little, too. She had an Irish temper and displayed it when she saw sloppy work or heard it defended with flippancy or fibs.

Busy as she was, Constance still thought about the bazaar. She finally asked George about the message he had promised to pass along. He whacked his forehead and groaned in such a melodramatic way that she laughed. She said his forgetfulness didn’t matter; she would speak to Isabel herself. That required a special arrangement, since the two women seldom saw each other except by accident. That was Isabel’s design, Constance thought in occasional moments of pique.

She invited Maude and Isabel to tea. First they discussed her pregnancy. Constance said she felt sure she was carrying a girl this time; she and George had agreed to name her Patricia Flynn Hazard. Hearing that, Isabel pursed her lips and gazed at some distant point.

Constance mentioned her interest in the bazaar. Maude immediately said, “How good of you. I’m sure the ladies would be pleased to have you volunteer. I’ll be glad to mention your interest, although I no longer have an active part. I served on my last committee two years ago. I felt it was time for younger women to take the helm.”

”I shall mention it, dear,” Isabel said to Constance, “at the meeting of the organizing group next Monday.”

“Thank you,” Constance said, trying to detect insincerity in Isabel’s sweet smile. She couldn’t.

Isabel brought up her sister-in-law’s name at the Monday meeting. “I thought that perhaps she might chair the quilt committee—” she began.

“Perfect choice,” one of the other ladies declared.

“But when I mentioned the idea, she refused.”

That produced some frowns of displeasure among those seated in the circle. “On what grounds, Isabel?” one inquired.

Another asked, “Is she opposed to female education?”

“I can’t say,” Isabel answered. “She told me she couldn’t participate because the, ah, religious orientation of the seminary violates many of the precepts of her own church, which of course she considers the only true church.”

The woman chairing the group spoke up. “Well, that’s the last time we need consider her. About anything.”

Isabel shook her head. “It’s a pity. Constance is a bright person. She has several fine qualities. I’ve been told Catholics are a queer, bigoted sort, but I never believed it until I became acquainted with her. I’m sure her attitudes are the result of the influence of priests and nuns. How can anyone who lives eternally in a dark cell be quite—well—right? And one does hear the most frightful stories about what goes on in nunneries.”

Sage nods greeted that statement. It was popular cant in the country just then, and exciting to believe.

Isabel called on Constance the following afternoon. Her face reflected dismay as she said:

“There is no easy way to tell you this, my dear. I tendered your very generous offer, but the ladies of the organizing group declined to receive it. Not because of any personal flaws in yourself, please understand, but it is, after all, a bazaar to raise funds for a religious denomination different from your own.”

Constance twisted a lace handkerchief. “You mean they don’t want the help of a Catholic.”

Isabel sighed. “I’m so sorry. Perhaps next year.”

Ever afterward, she knew, she would savor the memory of her sister-in-law’s face just then.

While Isabel was calling on Constance, George was running to the rail mill, summoned by a frightened foreman. A quarrel had led to an accident. Stanley always deferred to his brother when such things happened. With a straight face he had said it was because George possessed the common touch. If Isabel had made the remark, George would have been sure it was an insult.

The summer had been exceptionally hot, and the advent of autumn brought no relief. Tempers were frequently frayed in the Hazard family, and George could imagine the tensions that rose in the mill where the heat was infernal.

The rail mill was of the type the trade called Belgian. The long, fast-moving ribbon of red-hot metal was gradually reduced in thickness and shaped to the proper configuration by passing through a series of grooved rollers mounted on stands. Between the stands, burly men called catchers seized the metal with tongs and guided it into the next set of rollers. It was hard, dangerous work, and much of it would be eliminated if anyone could design a mill that passed the metal continuously through the rollers. A mill owner named Serrell in New York had almost done it several years ago, but his design was flawed. George had also attacked the problem, unsuccessfully so far.

George ran as fast as he could. All work had come to a halt in the mill. The iron being fed into the first set of rollers had already cooled, he saw as he neared the scene of the accident. One of the catchers lay on the dirt floor, moaning. George choked when he smelled scorched clothing and burned flesh.

The fallen man was a wiry Slav whose last name George couldn’t pronounce. He was a fine worker, unlike his partner at this station, a wide-shouldered hulk named Brovnic.

“We sent for Dr. Hopple,” said the foreman.

“Good.” George knelt between the injured man and the twisted ribbon of dark, cold iron lying nearby. Evidently the iron had fallen diagonally across the right side of the man’s body, burning away his shirt front and deeply searing his chest and bare forearm. The man’s charred flesh resembled half-cooked meat. George fought down vomit that rose in his throat. God knew whether the man would ever use the arm again.

George rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, then asked, “How did it happen?”

“Accident,” Brovnic blurted. His jutting jaw threatened anyone who denied it, but the intimidation failed. A sweaty, begrimed worker stepped forward.

“Accident, hell. Brovnic’s been bothering Tony’s wife. Tony told him to quit it, and—”

Brovnic cursed and lunged. Three men grabbed him and held him back as the speaker pointed to the ribbon of iron. “Brovnic knocked him down with it, then dropped it on him.”

“Fucking liar,” Brovnic screamed, writhing to get free of his captors. He would have if George hadn’t stormed up to him and jabbed a finger into his filthy shirt.

“You’ve done nothing but cause trouble since the day I hired you, Brovnic. Collect your wages and get off this property. Now.”

George’s heart was beating fast. Brovnic squinted down at him. “You better not do this—”

George had to tilt his head back to return the other man’s stare. “I said leave
right now.”

“I fix you for this,” Brovnic promised as he stalked off.

A minute after Isabel left, Constance bowed her head and wept. She stood by a tall window in the parlor. Beyond it spread the panorama of the town, the sultry glitter of the river below. She didn’t see any of it. She clutched a drapery as if she feared she’d fall.

The sobs went on and on. She despised herself for crying. She had done it very seldom while growing up in Texas, but here things were different. Sometimes, despite her love for George, she hated Lehigh Station and wanted to flee. Instead, she wept.

She was sure Isabel had engineered the snub. Stanley’s wife hated her. There was no other word for it but hate. When George came home, she’d tell him what had happened. She tried never to put her troubles on her husband, but this was too much for her to bear by herself. Isabel had made an issue of her religion, but there were probably other reasons the haughty woman despised her. Isabel was a twisted, unhappy person—and she had the power to wound Constance deeply.

“Ma’am, is there something wrong? I thought I heard—”

The servant girl stopped. She tried to draw back out of the parlor door, which she had opened, without Constance’s being aware of it. Constance felt more embarrassed for the girl than for herself. She swept tears off her face with both palms.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, Bridgit. I just wasn’t myself for a moment or two. Please don’t mention it to anyone. Would you bring little William down if he’s awake?”

“Right away, ma’am.” Relieved, Bridgit withdrew.

A short time later, with her plump, gurgling son in her arms, Constance felt much better. She was sorry she had allowed Isabel to break her down. Of course she would say nothing to her husband. She would fight her own battles, as she always did. She had chosen to come to this part of the world because she loved George, and she wouldn’t let Isabel or a legion of the bigoted, for that matter, defeat her.

She was angry with herself for having let down in front of Isabel, even for an instant. She knew Stanley’s wife had seen that her cruel little strategy had succeeded. But it’s the last time that shrew will ever have the satisfaction, she thought as she snuggled William on her shoulder.

“We should give some thought to buying a summer residence,” Maude said. “The weather the past few months has been perfectly dreadful.”

“I agree,” said Stanley. “Isabel complains of the heat day and night.” Bent over a ledger, George shot him a look as if to say Isabel was always complaining about something.

“We can certainly afford a summer cottage,” Stanley went on.

“Do you have any thoughts about where we might look for one, Mother?”

“The Atlantic shore would be pleasant.”

The little office was stifling. Two hours had passed since Brovnic had stormed away from the mill; Maude had just arrived for her weekly visit. She had begun those visits immediately after her husband died. Prior to that, she had never set foot on the grounds of Hazard Iron.