The Trainmasters (45 page)

“So why are you here?” she asked, trying to sound matter-of-fact.

“I’ve been asking myself the same question for hours.”

“Yes?”

“And I concluded that we had to talk.”

“What’s to talk about?” she asked nervously.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “It’s not what you’re afraid I’ll talk about.” And then he gave her a wistful, boyish look. “Not that
I don’t want to do that.” It became a long, lingering look, and not at all boyish any more. “I’ve often believed it was a
mistake for us to stop seeing one another.”

“Don’t talk about that.”

“I still believe that, I think.” He stared at her again. “I still love you; you know that don’t you?”

“
Don’t!
” she warned again. “Or I’ll ask you to leave.”

He laughed. “So you’re seeing John Carlysle now?” He changed the subject.

“Yes.”

“And you like him?”

“Yes. Very much.”

Suddenly he was serious once more. “I like him, too.”

It was her turn now to stare at him.

“You don’t believe me?” he asked. “Are you surprised?”

“No, actually, I’m not,” she said. “He told me he likes you. He even respects you.”

“You don’t respect me?”

“Don’t ask me questions like that, Francis.”

“Why not?”

“I won’t talk to you about such things. I won’t discuss like or respect or love. It’s forbidden ground.”

“Doesn’t that—the forbiddenness—make such things all the more attractive, then?”

“No,” she said. “Not since Boston.”

He looked at her, started to say something, then stopped.

“Anyhow,” he said, “what I came to tell you, Kitty, is that I’m glad you and John are together. I hope you’ll be happy with
him.”

Her glance plummeted to the desktop. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Yes, my love, I truly do.”

Francis, near the edge of his reserve, had trouble keeping his own voice steady. But, with difficulty, he asked, “Do you think
I’m here, Kitty, to try to get you back?”

“Aren’t you?”

He caught her eye and held it. “Well, my love, I’m not here for you. I’m here for him. I meant what I told you. I’m glad for
the two of you.”

“And you have no regrets? About him?”

“Of course I have regrets, Kitty. I can’t deny that I still want you.”

Their eyes were still locked together, and hers were now glistening with tears.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what?”

“Do you have anything to say to me?”

“No,” she said. “Should I?” But then words did come to her. “All right then, yes, I do. Thank you, Francis, for your … blessing.”

He looked at her.

“Well, what do you want from me now?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Then perhaps you should leave.”

“Not yet,” he said.

“Oh, for God’s sake, please.”

“Was it Boston that turned you against me?”

“For God’s sake, Francis, go!
I will not talk about Boston.’
”

“Was it?” he persisted.

“No, Francis,” she said stiffly but spilling out what she had vowed never to say, trying—and succeeding—to make her voice
hard and cruel. She wanted to hurt him now, knowing at the same time, obscurely, that the words that hurt him would hurt her
even more. “I went to Boston because I knew I could never love you the way I needed to love a man. It wasn’t Boston, Francis,
it wasn’t the child; it was you. I chose to go to Boston—in spite of the pain and the shame that came during and after it—because
I chose to separate myself from you. And if I had chosen to keep the child, then there would have forever been that child
to unite us.”

“And so you chose not to keep it? To give the child away?” he shouted.

“Yes! Goddamn you. There wasn’t any other way! If I did not give the child away, it would have always reminded me of you.
And I needed more than anything else to forget you. Until I went to Gallitzin, I’d very nearly succeeded!” Then she flung
herself out of her chair. “Now leave! This time! Get out!”

His voice was a whisper when he spoke next, “Don’t think you are the only one who’s suffered because of all this.” At that
moment he finally chose to rise and leave.

As he proceeded to the door, she said, “I sincerely hope that I wasn’t the only sufferer. It pleases me that I wasn’t alone.
I’m glad you were in pain, too.”

At that, he turned to face her. “You are, dear Kitty, hateful sometimes. You enjoy hurting your men, don’t you?”

“You are not one of
my
men,” she said fiercely. “And if I’ve hurt you this morning, you only have yourself to blame.”

“I came here to congratulate you and John Carlysle,” he shot back. “But now I think it’s more fitting to express my condolences—to
him.”

“Did you really come here,” she cried, bursting at last into the sobs that she had been stifling, “to do that? Or was it to
reopen all our old wounds? That’s what always happens when we’re together, Francis. Every time. Rip, rip, rip; tear, tear;
gnaw, gnaw.”

He stood staring at her, momentarily transfixed. She had succeeded in breaking through the defenses of his spirit, and now
his soul lay naked and defenseless.

“That was the reason for Boston,” she said. “That and no other.”

“I’m…” he started to say, then fell silent, all the fight out of him. All the words in him had drained away.

The fight was all out of her, too. Only the guilt remained. She knew she was at least as responsible as he was for the ugly
moment they’d just had.

“Sit down again, Francis,” she said.

“What’s that?” he asked, uncomprehending.

“Please sit down. I don’t want us to part like… we were about to.”

“I should go.”

“No, please stay. A little longer.” And she rose from her chair and began to lead him back to where he’d been sitting. He
made a show of resistance; but he was not in fact ready to leave yet. There was something between them that was unfinished;
and now that the battling mood had left both of them, perhaps they could bring that thing to a conclusion.

There was also a question on his face, betraying doubt about her reasons for wanting him to remain. He was afraid she wanted
to renew their battle. But that wasn’t her mind now at all. She was telling the truth. She didn’t want them to part bitter
enemies.

“You
do
like John, don’t you?” she asked, once they’d both settled again >n their chairs. “You really do.” This last was a statement,
not a question.

“That’s right.”

“Good. Thank you, Francis… for trying to tell me that.”

“We do put our knives in,” he said slowly, totally exhausted, “under each other’s skin, don’t we? You’re right about that.”

“Yes.”

“I wish …” he stopped.

“But it’s what we do, and I can’t stop myself when I’m with you.”

“I know,” he said with a long, grieving shake of his head.

“So what will you do?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Will you stay with the railroad?”

“Why not?” he shrugged. “Now that John Carlysle stands between me and your father, I might have a future with the Pennsylvania.”
He said this last with more than a trace of his old wicked grin.

“I would have thought…” She left the thought unfinished.

“That I would leave?” he said, finishing it.

“Yes,” she said, “something like that.” She caught his eye. “I would help me. Make it easier.”

“I suppose,” he said, with another shrug. “And easier for John, too, I imagine. I’m sure my presence must make him uncomfortable
sometimes.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But he would never say that to you. Not as long as he thinks you’re a competent engineer.”

“I’ll think about it,” he said.

“About leaving?”

“Yes,” he said seriously. “I will.” And then he laughed. But it was a somber, sardonic laugh. There was no joy or play in
it. “But then again, I might not have to make the decision to go or stay.”

“What do you mean?”

“There may not be a Pennsylvania soon.”

“You know … about… that.”

“All of it,” he nodded. “The shorting of the stock, the attacks, the sabotage.”

“Do you think—” she was edgy, agitated, frightened, “that there’s … hope, a chance … for us?”

“For the railroad, you mean?”

“For the railroad, yes.”

He smiled. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have stayed on. Or at least if I’d lived up to my reputation, I wouldn’t have stayed on.
If I’d followed the script I’ve been labeled with, I would have run.”

“But you didn’t, did you?”

“I told you, I like John Carlysle. And I think if anyone can save it he can… and your father. Though don’t let him hear that
I’ve given him an ounce of credit.”

“Why do you think they’ll pull it off?” she asked, still full of doubt and fear.

“Because we’re pretty damned close to knowing who is behind all the attacks. You’ve heard that Vanderbilt has joined us?”

“Yes, John told me.”

“He will be a huge help to us, I think. He’s going to lead the investigation into the source of the attacks.” And then he
stopped, grinning. “And I’ve become one of the investigators.”

“You? A what?”

“An investigator. I’m checking into the doings of Mr. Abraham Gibbon. Gibbon is the man who hired Tom Collins and George Kean.”

“Why did he do that?”

“That’s what I aim to discover in my investigation.”

“Really? You’re telling the truth?”

“Would I lie to you, Kitty?”

She just stared at him without comment. Then she asked, “What have you found out so far?”

“Nothing. Abraham Gibbon seems to have disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“He left his office yesterday for home, and he never arrived.”

“So what will you do?”

“After I leave here, I’ll try his office again.”

“And then?”

“His home and the people he knows.”

“And then?”

“I’ll quit and find someplace where I can drink quietly and for a very long time,” he laughed, “as a reward for my failure…
as an investigator. And,” he paused, “with you.”

“Francis, for God’s sake, don’t… go back to that.”

“I know. I should leave,” he said, lifting himself wearily out of the chair.

“I’ll show you out,” she said, agreeing. It was time, at last. The border had been finally and successfully crossed.

“Don’t bother. I know the way.”

“I insist,” she said. “I want to.”

He gave her a look. “Why?”

“You will forever ask questions, Francis Stockton. Would you stop being so inquisitive, and let me have my last whim?”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“There you go again.”

And then they were at the door.

“Good-bye then, Kitty,” he said. “I’m sorry that I caused you pain a few moments ago.”

She smiled at that, and her face softened and grew warmer. “I’m sorry, too,” she said, “that I… that we both can’t stop ourselves
from… doing what we always do.

“But,” she added, “I am grateful to you, Francis, for wishing me and John well. I suspect that coming here and doing that
took more than a little courage.”

He said nothing to that, for he had no ready answer.

“And,” she continued, opening the door, “in spite of everything, I think I’m glad that you came.”

“You’re what?” he said, incredulous.

“I needed to make an end to…” She stopped, began again, stumbled. “To finish with… I don’t know how to say it.”

“But whatever you can’t say is over and done?”

“Yes.”

“Good … I suppose,” he said. “Anyhow, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, Francis.”

After he left her, he tried to do what he’d said he’d do. He tried to find Abraham Gibbon.

But Gibbon was nowhere to be found.

Fourteen

United States Independence Day fell on a Sunday in 1852. That day John Carlysle’s first look at the peculiar American mixture
of religious fervor, public self-congratulation, and exuberant patriotic display that characterized the celebration of America’s
separation from the mother country. In England, of course, John’s fellow countrymen had felt every bit as much devotion to
their own nation as these Americans. Most Englishmen were filled with boundless reverence and pride for queen and country,
but few among the English would have ever brought themselves to display their patriotism with the same wild enthusiasm as
their American cousins.