The Trainmasters (12 page)

Teresa’s heart stopped. “Game? Name? I don’t understand.”

“You’ve been following me since I left Sturdivant’s Hotel.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I have,” she admitted.

“Stop crying,” he said. “You’re good at it. You’ve proved that.”

“So you know that I followed you,” she said. Her tears refused to stop.

“That’s right. So tell me why. And then we can have a good lunch and enjoy the rest of the afternoon.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Suddenly you are at a loss for words, Miss Teresa Derbyville. You must find that unusual. This is the way I see things: I
noticed you following me almost from the moment I left the hotel. Once I had made sure of that, I decided to lead you here
to McMullen’s by a circular path. I’ve only been in Philadelphia for two weeks, but it took just a few days for me to hear
of McMullen’s reputation.

“So I was not surprised that when we came near McMullen’s that you grew a little panicky and ran ahead of me and found a place
to faint. And then after you ‘revived,’ you grew even more panicky when I dragged you into the saloon. You tried to mask your
face, of course, but you were recognized by the several people… regulars like yourself?”

“You have good eyes,” she said, grim faced.

He grinned. “I know.”

“And that makes you terribly pleased with yourself, doesn’t it?” she said with a sharp, bitter snap in her voice.

“Don’t try to turn the tables on me, girl,” he snapped back. “Don’t be angry at me because you failed in your game and gave
yourself away… But tell me, I still don’t understand why you set about catching me the way you did. Most whores don’t go to
such elaborate efforts to catch a man. They show themselves and let it be known that they are available, no?”

The waiter reappeared bearing two large mugs of beer.

“Hello, Desmond,” she said when he set hers in front of her. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Afternoon, Tess. And it’s nice to see you,” Desmond said, and then left.

“So what is it… Tess?” Graham Carlysle said.

“Teresa, please.” She said Te-ree-sa this time, not Te-ray-sa.

“All right, what is it Teresa? Do you search out wealthy young men and perform your little drama for them? Do you convince
them that you are a lovely, refined girl who is down on her luck? And oh so frail and fragile?” He laughed. “You’re as big
and jolly and alive and healthy an animal as I’ve run into in this country.”

“You’re right. That’s what I do,” she said. “But…”

“No buts… Tess,” Graham said. “You were about to manufacture another story for me—you are such a sweet and believable liar.
But don’t bother. It won’t do you any good. I can’t afford to keep you. I’m not rich, and I don’t even have much money. Though,”
he added, giving her a significant look, “I could probably manage to afford you for the rest of this afternoon.”

“But…”

“No
buts
, Tess,” he said, raising his voice a little. “Save your performance for someone who will pay your price. I don’t want your
stories and lies. I want you to say yes to me for a change.”

She was taken more aback than before. For all his firmness, his tone was not accusing. Rather, he seemed to be enjoying himself,
and
at her expense. He was not passing judgment on her; he was exhilarated at his own success in finding her out. It was as though
he had solved a difficult puzzle or won a hard-fought game.

Teresa’s body wanted to say yes to him. But the experience of her craft was telling her to refuse. She wasn’t very old, but
in her few years she had become quite savvy. All of her intellect urged her to immediately break off from this man: He was
out of her control.

But as she pondered, his face softened. “On second thought,” he said softly, “I think I’ll withdraw my offer.”

“Withdraw? What do you mean?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you.”

“What?” she said, scarcely more than whispering. She wasn’t sure whether she should be relieved or alarmed.

“You’re not a woman I want to pay for.”

“Are you too good for me?” she flared.

“No,” he said, again very softly. “
You’re
too good for
that
. I don’t want to buy your flesh.”

Then tears came into her eyes. Genuine tears this time.

“Thank you, Mr. Graham Carlysle,” she said, meaning it.

“Those are real teats, aren’t they?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. ‘T told you before that you have good eyes.”

He laughed. “I’m a card player. I need good eyes.”

“You? A card player?” she asked. “You don’t look like a card player.”

“Why not? Why else would someone like me be spending so much time in McMullen’s famous saloon?”

“I still can’t believe it,” she said. “You don’t look like a gambler. You look like a boy fresh from the university, untouched
and innocent. It’s the reason I followed you.”

“Really?” he smiled. “Good. I’m glad that’s what you see in me. And you know, Teresa, I like you.” He paused. “And now tell
me your name.”

At that moment Teresa realized that she liked him, although she couldn’t bring herself to say it. But she could bring herself
to tell him her name: “Teresa O’Rahilly,” she said in a whisper.

“Lovely. I like that name. And now here’s our dinner,” he said, for Desmond had returned with two plates. “Enjoy it.”

After they left McMullen’s, Graham offered to walk her back to the house where she lived, and she accepted. She led him to
the place where she rented her room. When they reached the front step, he began to say good-bye. “I think I’d like to see
you again, Miss Teresa O’Rahilly,” he said to her as he was turning to leave.

She looked at him as he spoke. And then she answered, “I’d like very much to see you again, too, Mr. Carlysle.”

“Good!” he said. “Would you like to go to the theater tomorrow evening?”

“I’d love it,” she said, grinning. “I’d love it like nothing else.”

“Then that’s what we will do.” He began to walk away.

“Wait!” she called out before he had gone more than ten paces.

He looked back at her.

“Come back.”

“Come back?” he repeated, a bit puzzled.

Teresa reached up and brushed the back of her hand against his cheek. He caught her hand in his and squeezed it slightly.
Then his lips met hers as Teresa kissed Graham lightly on his mouth once, then again, and suddenly his arm was around her
waist as they held each other tightly. Both were a bit overwhelmed, but neither wanted to let go.

“Will you come with me? Will you come upstairs to my room?” Teresa asked shyly.

“To your room?”

“Yes. Come with me,” she said more firmly.

“All right,” he said, smiling warmly. “I’d like that. Very much.”

He followed her through the door and up the dark and narrow stairs to the top floor. She lived in a garret in the back of
the building. Her space was tiny, but clean and neat. And there were scarcely any furnishings, just a bed, a hard chair, a
chest for her clothes, and a washstand with basin.

And
a few books. This clearly surprised Graham, but he did not say anything. Nor did he pay any attention to the poverty of her
home, for almost as soon as they entered it, Teresa began to remove her dress and underthings. And from that moment Graham’s
complete attention was directed toward Teresa.

When their lovemaking was over, he fell asleep like a child. But Teresa remained awake, with her head lying across his breast.
She was confused, baffled. She didn’t know what to make of this strange young man from England… this strange young man whom
she had wanted very much to bring up to her bed, and who clearly wanted just as much to be with her.

Just then, she raised herself up so that she could look at Graham’s face. For a moment the face she saw was not Graham’s,
but her brother Egan’s.

“God!” she cried out, but it came out as a gasp rather than a shout, and Graham only shifted his position and mumbled.

Focusing more clearly, she realized it was not her brother after all. It was a tall, good-looking, dark-haired Englishman,
not her blond, small, lithe brother.

Then she imagined the two men together.

She knew that if they met, Egan would despise Graham Carlysle just because he is English. He was even likely to become violent.

But such a meeting is most unlikely, she realized, for her brother had not met her other men.

Graham Carlysle himself was a much bigger problem, perhaps a much more dangerous one than even Ben Kean had presented, for
Teresa knew she liked him. She liked Graham much more than she wished to like any of the men she had taken home.

Five

On Monday morning, Egan O’Rahilly and the other men in Tom Henneberry’s gang climbed into the steel cage for their daily descent
into the tunnel. At the bottom, they picked up their tools from the wooden boxes where they’d been locked for safekeeping.
Then they trouped to the heading they were working on.

Henneberry was as silent, sullen, and mean as always, but at least he was not as voluble as usual, which was a blessing. He
was detoxing from a massive intake of rum that had started on Saturday evening and had not stopped until he passed out late
on Sunday night. His head throbbed painfully, his body was weak and unsteady, and he gave orders in a slurred, scarcely audible
mumble. The orders were unnecessary, however; everyone knew what to do.

It was Henneberry’s gang’s turn to work in the pilot heading, a twenty-foot section of tunnel that was drilled in advance
of the main tunnel.

The pilot tunnel, as it was used at the Gallitzin summit tunnel, had been developed by British engineers in the 1830s for
use in drilling through shifty, wet, and unstable soil. The pilot heading was about twenty feet long, ten feet wide, and eighteen
feet high; and it was dug along the top, or crown, of what would become the main runnel. The function of the pilot was to
allow the miners to make a firmly founded roof, beneath which the tunnel builders could safely dig the main tunnel. As the
pilot tunnel was dug, the heading was supported by heavy timbers. Once these were securely in place, the heading was gradually
widened, deepened, and enlarged, becoming in due course the main tunnel.

The especially hazardous moment in this process was the transfer of the roof load from the original pilot shoring to the permanent
shoring of the main tunnel. Holes had been dug down to what would be the floor of the main tunnel. These would accommodate
the permanent vertical posts. As they were dug, the holes were immediately lined in order to prevent slippage. After this
was done, the weight of the roof would be transferred from the temporary to the permanent posts.

Once that was accomplished, masons were brought in to cover the roof and sides.

Henneberry’s gang had to start shifting the load from the temporary to the permanent shoring. True to his word on Saturday,
Tom Henneberry gave Egan O’Rahilly the most dangerous job of all, working the jack.

As they began, the lanterns were dim at best. There wasn’t nearly enough light for the men to see clearly, and the floor of
the tunnel was made of mud that came up to their ankles. Pumps throbbed in the distance, pulling out some but not all of the
water that drained out of the mountain into the new hole that the men were boldly—or else foolishly— digging. Lagging covered
the tunnel roof and walls, but that did not stop the steady trickle of water from pattering down on top of the men like rain.
The best thing about the lagging, as far as Egan was concerned, was that it covered most of the raw face of the tunnel, and
thus hid from sight the visual evidence of the tremendous weight of the mountain above them.

Egan, Geraghty, Ferdy O’Dowd, and the twins worked the jack, while the rest of the crew set the huge thirty-inch posts into
place.

As they worked, Tom Henneberry leaned against one of the posts that was already set down, complaining now and again. Otherwise
he was harmless.

“Damn it all to hell!” Geraghty said, struggling with the huge and cumbersome jack. They were having a hard time making a
firm foundation to place it on.