The Trainmasters (33 page)

He had no one to give him support and consolation, or even dependable advice.He missed that very much, for he was not a man
who cherished solitude. He had no peers at his level to share his troubles with, and he missed especially the companionship
of Edgar Thomson, who had not left Philadelphia since he had returned there in April. In particular, he missed Kitty Lancaster.
Even though she and John had only been alone together for a few, brief days, John knew that there was—or at least there could
be—something special between them.

If Kitty had been present, John would have felt more confident and at ease in his troubles.

But Kitty Lancaster had departed abruptly for Philadelphia the day after she and her party arrived at Gallitzin. She remained
there with her father.

She had left Gallitzin with scarcely a word of explanation to John. The swiftness and silence of her departure hurt him, though
he was too much the stoic to let on that he was in pain. At the beginning of May Kitty wrote John a long, warm, lively letter,
with a wealth of concrete news and specific details about what she and her father were doing. In it she remained silent about
her abrupt departure from Gallitzin, but she did explain —or give an excuse anyway—why she felt she must not leave Philadelphia.
She was forced to remain close to her father, she told John, during his time of trial.

John did not doubt this; he was well aware that Kitty and Edgar Thomson were deeply attached to one another. But John was
also aware that there was more to Kitty’s absence than she had written. It had to do with the relationship that had once existed
between Kitty and Francis Stockton. He knew, though she never said this to him either directly or indirectly, that she couldn’t
bear remaining in Gallitzin as long as Francis was there.

John sent a quick reply to Kitty’s letter; and that had led to a weekly correspondence between them. It had been from John’s
point of view a good correspondence. Kitty had revealed herself in ways she doubtless would not have done in face-to-face
encounters. She talked about her dead husband, for instance, and about how her early love for him had turned to disappointment.
She repeated in her letters what she had already told John: She was glad she was no longer bound to Charles. She also wrote
about her father’s battles with William Patterson and the directors who supported him. And she talked of her hopes for herself
and her own future. She made it clear that she was looking for a man who could not only share in her life but who could match
her own power, a man who could satisfy her ambitions. And it was also clear that she was beginning to believe that John Carlysle
was probably that man.

Yet, among all these revelations, there was never a hint of the details of the link between Kitty Lancaster and Francis Stockton.

John considered Stockton a fascinating man, handsome and attractive, yet self-willed, conceited, and most difficult. He was
even a man who could be put to many uses. John found himself liking Francis Stockton, even in spite of whatever had once happened
between Francis and Kitty. In fact, as his own thoughts and dreams about Kitty grew stronger and warmer, his liking and respect
for Francis increased. Kitty, after all, had never said a hostile word about Francis.

In a way it would have been easier if Kitty hated Francis Stockton. But she didn’t.

So John’s thoughts and fears swung wildly from hope to disaster, as lovers’ thoughts will do. Could Kitty’s love for Francis
be reignited? he wondered. Could meeting Francis again start up the old, once-rejected feeling?

Whenever the image of the two of them together swam up into his imagination, John started to worry. There were too many unanswered
questions, not just about Francis and Kitty but about Kitty and John Carlysle.

How can I use him? John wondered as he paced about his office. If I can get him away from here, then maybe I can entice Kitty
at least to visit Gallitzin again.

The dark lady waited silently under the shadows of the glade. She was smiling impishly, for she expected lively companions
soon. And she was not disappointed.

In a few moments, there was a rustling in the forest. It was the stalwart tread of noble men at arms entering the glade.

“Hark, who goes there?” cried a high-pitched yet imperious voice.

The dark lady, smiling more broadly now that she knew her presence was recognized, withdrew deeper into the shadows and partially
hid herself in the foliage.

“You there,” cried the imperious voice, “cease your concealment and reveal yourself to your king.”

The dark lady giggled but managed to keep herself from breaking into full laughter. There were three figures on the other
side of the glade searching for her unsuccessfully. Her clothes were green and brown, and they blended into the foliage.

“Do not continue to thwart me,” ordered the imperious voice. “This reckless concealment will go badly for you when ere we
meet.”

The dark lady made a sound like a strangling duck.

“Hark!” cried the great voice. “I hear a sound of varlets in the darkness!”

“Whither is it coming?” asked a smaller person with a less imperious voice.

“Thither,” said an even lesser person, this one a little girl. She was pointing to a young woman covered with shadows.

“Aha!” cried the great voice—it belonged to Alex Car-lysle. “At last, we are met!” And he rushed toward the dark lady, brandishing
his upraised sword—a pine branch.

As he approached her, the lady emerged from the shadows into the sunlight. She was erect and haughty but at the same time
sinuous and cruelly evil.

The boy was now standing in front of the lady, and the point of his sword rested midway between her breasts. She lifted herself
even higher than before and thrust her breasts regally out toward him.

“Your name, lady,” he said, “or your life.”

The lady laughed a great peal that echoed through the forest. “Don’t give your puny commands to me, puny man.” And she laughed
again. “For I am Morgan le Fey…
The
Morgan le Fey.”

“Aha!” cried the boy. “It is you for whom we have searched! For I am Arthur, the king! And this is my sword Excalibur. Prepare
to meet thy doom, le Fey.”

“Never!” she cried and stepped quickly backward out of reach of the sword. “You’ll never take me, little man. For I am stronger
than you … I am the Queen of the Night… I have the powers of darkness and witchcraft at my command!” The dark lady then seized
her own sword (recently oak) that she had laid against the trunk of an elm tree. “Prepare to die, Arthur!”

Arthur rushed in for the attack. And seconds later, the glade sang with the clatter of wood upon wood.

Around and around the glade the two combatants swirled, never retreating, never yielding. No quarter was asked for, and none
was given. Each pressed the other without mercy, yet neither was able to find the ultimate deadly advantage.

In the end, it was not the two foes who brought a finish to the combat; it was the least of the knights.

“Teresa, I’m tired,” she said. “Would you stop playing please, Teresa, and read to us?”

Arthur lowered his sword in disgust. “You’re always tired,” he said. “Every time I bring you along, you promise you won’t
make trouble, and then you get tired, or hungry, or you want to be read to.”

“You never let me play the king or the queen,” she said. “I’m always just the page or a slave or a man at arms.”

“You’re a knight right now! What more could you want?”

“I want to
do
something besides stand around and watch you fight.”

“You have to wait your turn.”

“I’ve waited my turn. And I still don’t get to fight. It’s not fair.”

“Me, too,” said David, taking her side. “I want to fight, too.”

“You fought yesterday.”

“But what about today?”

“Today,” Teresa said, slipping out of her role, “I am going to read.” There was no way, she knew, to resolve the children’s
argument. So she did what she always did when they grew bored; she found something else for them to do. “I brought the book.”

“We didn’t finish fighting,” Alex complained.

“Tomorrow,” she promised, knowing that tomorrow would bring a totally different game.

“All right, you can read,” Alex said, as if it was he who gave the orders.

When he said that, Teresa gave him a playful cuff on the side of his head, as she always did when Alex presumed to take command
from her.

“Come,” she said, “let’s all sit on that flat rock. It’s sunny and pleasant, and we can all have a nice, quiet, enjoyable
read. And you, Peg,” she continued, directing her gaze at the girl, “would you fetch my bag for me, please? It’s next to the
elm tree where I kept my sword.”

“Yes, Teresa,” the little girl said sweetly, pleased that she had been honored with the errand.

By the time she returned with the bag, the others had spread themselves out on the wide, flat rock. Teresa had not forgotten
Peg, however. She had made certain there was a special place for the girl next to her when she returned.

All around the rock, carpeting the glade, were hundreds of wildflowers, red and orange and yellow and indigo. Teresa had never
before felt so deliciously joyful and content.

Teresa opened her book to where she had left her mark and began to read aloud.
The True Legend of Prince Bladud
.

Egan O’Rahilly liked what he saw when he entered the glade. His sister and the children sprawled happily on the rock reading
a book was the proper and excellent thing for them to be doing.

He approved of these lessons for the children. The sunlight and wildflower-filled glade were irresistible. But it was actually
seeing his sister this way that brought him the greatest happiness. He liked most of all the vast transformation in Teresa
which he had witnessed during the past weeks. She was no longer a tainted woman. She had left the life of a courtesan behind
her and was now doing what Egan considered responsible work. Somewhat to his surprise, she was superb in this capacity,
and
the children loved her.

Egan was grateful to John Carlysle for causing the change in Teresa’s lifestyle. Built into Carlysle’s very being were potent
springs for Egan’s loathing to drink upon, deep wells of hatred whose source was his place of birth, his upbringing, and his
education. And yet, very much in spite of himself, Egan admired the man, even though he could probably never bring himself
to like him.

It wasn’t just Carlysle’s treatment of his sister that changed Egan’s view of the Englishman. John’s attitude toward the other
construction workers and the conflict between John and Tom Collins had significant impact on Egan. He was aware of John’s
battles to have the vicious work rules lifted. And Egan could not fail to notice that John, though a strong, hard, unbending
man, had a strong, hard, unbending sense of justice. Egan realized that all the men
wanted
to do their best when they worked for Carlysle. He was not an easy boss, but he was fair.

As Teresa laid the book aside, Egan saw that she was smiling broadly at him, for she, too was glad that he and she had reconciled.

She rose, straightened herself up, and smoothed out her skirt, taking her time to leave the warmth of the rock. But Peg was
not so languid; she was already wrapped in her father’s arms. The two boys remained where they’d been seated, though Alex
had David’s neck clasped in a hammer-lock.

Without taking her eyes off her brother, Teresa gave Alex a sharp snap with the toe of her shoe, and, crying out with exaggerated
pain, he released the hold.

“Get up,” she said. “It’s getting late, and it’s time to go in… time for the two of you to make a treaty of peace… at least
until tomorrow.”

“Never,” Alex muttered and reached out for David. But his brother had already squirmed away and was on his feet.

“How are you doing, darlin’?” Egan said to Peg. “How is my biggest girl?”

“I’m wonderful, Papa,” Peg said, beaming. “We’ve been playing and reading.”

“Grand,” Egan said. “Then are you ready to come home with me?”