The Trainmasters (16 page)

“Thank you, Francis,” Egan said. “Now we can think of doing something about the fix we’re in.” As he finished saying that,
Egan stifled a sob of his own: The terror was ever only inches from the surface.

But then he remembered he was carrying a bit of candle in his vest pocket. It was always with him down in the tunnel, as a
kind of good-luck charm. He also carried a flint and steel.

“All right,” he said. “1 have a candle. I’m going to try to light it.”

“You’re an angel, Egan,” Geraghty said.

“Not yet,” Egan said, “I hope.”

After a few tries, he had the candle going; and he could look around.

What he saw was not encouraging. The six men were apparently trapped in a long, narrow pocket made when the cave floor collapsed.
There were a few tools, which was good, and one intact lantern along with an extra can of lamp oil. That was good. They could
keep the lantern and oil in reserve for after the candle burned out. But God only knew how much mountain lay between the six
of them and life and safety.

Their space was not large. Egan knew that they would soon run out of air.

That left Egan a dilemma: Should they all lie back and conserve their air? Or should they try to do something?

In a moment, he decided to do something.

That meant he had to find out the extent of the others’ injuries. Could they take action, provided there was enough air and
that he could think of some action to take?

He checked the others for injuries. Henneberry was unconscious. Ferdy was hurting inside. That could be dangerous, or maybe
it wasn’t serious at all. They would just have to wait. Geraghty’s left arm appeared to be broken. Quigley had a separated
shoulder. And Moore’s hip was crushed.

Egan himself was the only totally fit man among them.

Damn it to hell!

He looked up the pocket and saw that the end of it away from him bent out of sight. There was not much space there. Still,
it was worth exploring, he thought.

But he did not explore it. He snuffed the little candle out and gave in to his despair and terror.

Once the meeting in Edgar Thomson’s railroad-car office ended, John Carlysle and Kitty Lancaster walked out of the rail yard
to the spot where Kitty’s carriage was waiting.

On the walk through the yard, Kitty hardly spoke to John. To him, her face looked dark and preoccupied, though not unfriendly.
John in fact welcomed her silence, for he himself was not eager for communication. The recent events were too full of tension
and drama to encourage easy conversation.

When they reached the carriage and John gave her his hand to help her into it, Kitty trembled slightly, as though she was
suddenly startled. But John steadied her, and she was then able to slip easily into her seat. Once there, she looked thankfully
at John but still had no words for him. After she was safely settled, he followed after her. And she called out to the driver
to take them to Sturdivant’s Hotel.

The carriage was a landau, and John was grateful for this, for it gave him the opportunity to sit opposite rather than beside
Mrs. Lancaster. Even though she was now much more subdued than he had yet seen her, he did not want to sit close to the rather
vivacious, vivid, and ardent young lady. At least not now.

He was not indifferent to the lovely and fascinating Kitty Lancaster. He just wanted to sort out his feelings. He could easily
see himself liking this woman very, very much. But she was also Edgar Thomson’s only daughter. And Edgar Thomson was not only
John’s superior; he was also likely soon to become president of the railroad.

Once they were settled into their seats and the carriage was rolling along, Kitty withdrew a linen handkerchief from her bag
and dabbed at her cheeks and forehead.

After that she slipped her bonnet off and placed it on the seat beside her, closing her eyes and then shaking her head enough
for her hair to toss gently. When she did that, John became acutely aware of the scent she was wearing. It was spicy and sharp,
but delicate. Though very much present, it was by no means overwhelming.

She inclined her head against the top of the seat cushion. She remained that way until they had ridden past one block, and
John, aware that he, too, was very tense, let his own limbs and muscles relax. He absently watched the street traffic that
they passed.

The landau rocked tranquilly, and the gentle motion, the quiet, partial solitude induced John to drift into a light trance.

When he found his attention once again directed at Kitty Lancaster, he saw that her eyes were gazing intently on his face.

“Do you ever grow accustomed to tragedy?” she wondered in a low voice, nearly a whisper.

“Do I ever grow accustomed, do you mean?” he asked. His voice was no louder than hers. “Or are you asking whether anyone can?”

“Either actually—or both. I really wasn’t thinking that precisely,” she said.

“I wonder whether the tragedy is worse for the ones who actually experience it, or the ones who have to go on after it.”

“You’re thinking of the accident at the tunnel,” he said.

“Yes, the accident,” she said, and her head slipped back against the seat, but her face was still tilted toward John. “It
must be unimaginably horrible for the men trapped in the tunnel,” she said. “Tons of dirt and stone falling down on top of
you. Or else a slow death by suffocation or starvation.” Her eyes were marked by real concern, which surprised John, for she
had seemed up until now much more concerned with the tunnel disaster’s impact on her father’s chances to become president
of the railroad than on the fate of the trapped men.

“Yes, it is,” he agreed.

“And yet, what about the wives and mothers and children who remain? Aren’t their lives shattered more?”

A flower girl carrying bunches of tulips appeared beside the landau. She walked along in pace with them. “Lovely tulips,”
she said. “Bright flowers for your table?” The girl thrust a particularly pretty and fresh-looking bunch over the side of
the carriage. “Take these, miss,” she said to Kitty.

And then Kitty said, with a sudden smile, “I believe that I will.” And she searched in her bag for a coin.

“How much?” she said to the girl.

“A nickel, miss.”

“Here, let me buy them for you,” John offered, searching in his pants for the right amount. He kept forgetting what a nickel
was, half a dollar, he thought.

“No, no, please,” she said, producing finally a dull gray coin and handing it to the girl. The girl then passed the tulips
to Kitty.

“They are lovely, aren’t they?” she said.

“Yes, they are,” he agreed.

She laid the flowers across her lap. “There,” she said. “Yes, I like that—flowers.” She looked fondly at them for a moment.
Then her somber mood returned.

“You must know what I mean,” she said.

A look of incomprehension filled his face. “I must know what you mean?”

“You lost your wife.”

“Yes. She died.”

“Did you ever get over that?”

His eyes left her face when she asked that, and he glanced first at the tulips in her lap, then outside at the traffic in
the street, then back at the tulips.

He didn’t like her question, which he thought was much too forward and personal for someone whom he had known so briefly.
And yet her obvious earnestness, sincerity, and sympathy disarmed him.

And so he brought himself to answer her. “No,” he said. “I have never gotten over losing her.”

“How did she die?”

“Cholera.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It was over swiftly,” he said. “Her pain was brief.”

“Yes,” she said. “For her. For you the pain goes on, doesn’t it?”

“Really, Mrs. Lancaster,” he said abruptly, “I’d rather not… talk about this.”

Then she turned away from him and looked at the flowers. A blush spread over her face, and she reached out for his hand.

“I’m so sorry,” she said, squeezing his hand. “I’ve embarrassed you.”

“No, not really,” he said, not daring to admit that she had. “The direction of your conversation has only caught me off guard,
that’s all.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.” She released his hand and sat farther back in her seat.

When Kitty released his hand, John felt freed within himself, although he didn’t understand why.

Consequently, he suddenly felt the urge to talk to Kitty Lancaster about his lost wife. Somehow Kitty had opened one of the
deepest, most hidden, most closely guarded strongholds of his memory.

“She was not beautiful,” he said. His eyes were on the flowers. Her fingers idly stroked the crimson, gold, and indigo petals,
delicately, the way she might have fondled a kitten’s chin.

“Your wife?” she asked, wondering at his sudden willingness to discuss his marriage.

“Yes, Julia,” he said. “That was her name.”

“Will you tell me more about her?”

He shrugged and opened his hands, which he had been resting on his knees. “As I said, she was not beautiful. Not so tall as
you …” He stopped a moment, then went on. “Not so at ease out of her home… out in the world of men. But,” he paused again,
“she had chestnut hair and a quick smile. And she was full-bodied. Stocky, not fat.”

Images of Julia flashed across his memory: Julia’s Christmas pudding, flaming with blue fire as she set it down before him
on the table; Julia bathing an infant son, splashing warm water over a boy’s pink-white bottom; Julia on her knees in the
kitchen garden, working the soil with her hands; Julia’s head against the pillow, her face in a frozen shudder of passionate
release.

“And she gave you three boys?” Kitty asked.

“Yes,” John said, “Graham, Alex, and David. They are twenty, twelve, and eight.”

“And you said they all came with you?”

“Yes, all three are here.”

“Why didn’t the oldest choose to remain at home in England?”

John smiled, but not because he felt pride or pleasure. John loved his son Graham, but he did not approve of the kind of life
he had chosen so far to live. “Graham is probably the boldest of the Carlysles. Or the most restless at any rate, the most
exhilarated by movement and change. Perhaps, in time,” he said, shaking his head sadly, “he’ll send down roots…”

“You don’t seem entirely pleased with him.”

“I don’t always like what he does… He’s out of my control.” A slight tremor of rage now appeared in his voice.

“He
should
be out of your control. He’s twenty years old. In fact, he ought to be away from you working for himself … or even married.”

“Yes, I know. I misspoke,” he said, correcting himself. “It’s not simply that I can’t give him orders that he will obey. Graham
is wild. He’s dangerous. And yet he feels responsible to me, and for his two brothers. He felt he owed me more of himself
after his mother died. So he remains close to us.”

Then she looked up at him. “And so your Graham is at once wild and untamed and yet fanatically devoted to you.”

He laughed and gave a nod of assent.

“I’d very much like to meet your Graham,” she said.

“I’m sure you will in time.”

“And so,” Kitty said, moving on, “when did Julia die?”

“Two years ago.”

“How did the other two take it?”

“They lost their mother.” His hands spread apart helplessly. “It hasn’t been easy for them.”

“I should think not,” she said. And she repeated her words again, this time much more slowly, “I… should … think … not.” As
she spoke, her face clouded. A new thought had caught her mind.

“Do you really think there
is
a chance for them?” she asked.

“For my sons?”

She looked at him. “No… I’m sorry,” she said. “I confused you. I was thinking of the men in the tunnel. I was wondering if
they have a chance.”

“I’ll do all I can to make sure they do,” he said, without much conviction.

“But is there really much hope for them?”

He paused and turned away from her probing eyes. “No,” he said at last, “there is not much hope. The telegraph reports say
that at least thirty or forty feet of tunnel has collapsed. If any are still living on the other side of the collapse, there
seems little chance of breaking through to them.”

“What a horror for them!”

“Yes.”

“Nothing like that has happened to my father before, you know,” she said. “He is the most careful engineer.”

“It’s not his fault,” John assured her. “Acts of God are out of our hands. We can only deal with the consequences.”

“But he designed the railroad, surveyed it, determined where the tracks would go, decided where to build the tunnel. Should
he not have known that the mountain was unstable?”

“I imagine that he would not have chosen that mountain if he had been aware of what was inside it,” he said gently.

“But could he not have drilled, taken core samples, tested?”

“Yes,” John admitted. “And I’m sure he did. But really,” he repeated again, “the accident was entirely an act of God.”

“I wonder, still, if it will hurt Father at the board meeting on Wednesday.”

“That, Mrs. Lancaster, is a matter entirely of money,” he assured her. “Or rather, of who controls it.”