Forever and Ever (23 page)

“No, it’s Roy!” the man yelled, and took off his helmet to prove it. “What do you think of our new machine?”

“Wonderful!” Connor had time to call out, before Roy Donne raised his hat in a salute and disappeared from sight.

After that, miner after miner greeted Connor with surprise and apparent gladness, and Sophie couldn’t help being amused by the names they called him. “Jack, uh, Con—uh, Mr. Pendarvis,” was the commonest construction, and she was “Miss Dee—uh, Pendarvis.” Men he had come to know well, mostly the ascending ones coming off the first core, began to congregate in the mouth of the short level in which they were standing, doffing their helmets to her and shaking Connor’s hand or clapping him roughly on the back. They loved the man-machine and wanted to tell him so, indirectly thanking him for being responsible for its construction. And they just wanted to look at him. Connor had asked her what the miners felt toward him these days, and now it was clear that the answer wasn’t resentment or hostility, it was curiosity. Who was this man who had labored beside them for weeks, authored a fiery exposé on mine conditions, disappeared for a month, and turned up again married to their employer? They didn’t distrust him; they just wanted to figure him out.

She left them to it. No one even noticed, including Connor, when she slipped away from the all-male cluster and glided up and away on a smooth, reciprocating arm of the new machine. In her office, she looked at ore samples and tried to make calculations on the big map for a while, then gave up and went to stand at her window, waiting for Connor. It wasn’t long before she saw him, breaking away from a group of miners and striding toward the countinghouse, waving and calling greetings across the yard as he came. She thought of hurrying to her desk and pretending she was working—but what was the point? When the door to her office opened and he came in, she turned to face him, smiling tensely.

“Where did you go? I turned around, and you were gone.”

She shrugged. “No one was talking to me. My feelings were hurt, so I left.”

He laughed, kicking the door shut behind him. “Sophie.” He came to her, put his hands on her shoulders, and stared at her in the oddest way. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to brag, I suppose. And”—this was the heart of it—“I didn’t want you to think you’d won. Because I didn’t do it for you, Connor.”

“I know that.”

“I did it because it was right.”

“I know.”

“And it made sense from a business standpoint,” she said aggressively, sticking her chin out. “It was expensive, but once the whole system is in place, it’ll
save
money in worker efficiency. In three years it should pay for itself, and in four it will start adding to the profits. So don’t think—”

“Don’t think you did it out of the kindness of your heart.”

“That’s right, because I didn’t.”

“Such a thing would never occur to you.”

“It wouldn’t. I’m a businesswoman, not a philanthropist. Don’t kiss me,” she commanded, dodging his lips. “This is not something I need a reward for, I’m telling you, I’d have done it—”

“Hold still. Shhh.” He shut her up with a sweet, smiling kiss, until her prickliness dulled and softened away to nothing. Closing her eyes, she folded him in her arms, surprise and happiness flooding through her. It was the first time they had kissed—outside of the bedroom, not as a prelude to sex—since their estrangement. It meant the world to her.

“I heard what else you did. The new ventilator. The safety committee. The—”

“I’m telling you, Connor, that was—”

“Nothing, I know. Sophie, I’m not taking credit for any of it. I understand that you didn’t do these things for me, and I don’t in the least feel that I’ve ‘won,’ or that you’ve ‘lost’ or made any sort of concession. I’m just glad. Is that all right? And I just want to kiss you.”

“Oh. Well. Yes, that’s all right, I’ve no objection.” And she slipped her fingers into his hair and drew his head down, and their smiles merged, and she said, “Mmm,” because it was delicious. How lovely, how seductive to touch one another like this, standing up, both of them fully clothed. It meant they liked each other, didn’t it? And she’d missed it so much. “Oh, Con,” she sighed. She put her head on his chest, to feel his heart beat. “Con . . .”

Very loud throat-clearing had her jumping back like a startled hare, and her husband swearing under his breath. “I knocked,” said an aggrieved-looking Tranter Fox in the doorway.
“Twict.”

Connor spoke through tightly clenched jaws. “Didn’t that tell you something?”

“Yes. It telled me t’ come on in, on account o’ nobody could hear me t’ holler out, ‘Come in!’ ”

Sophie turned away to laugh, and smooth her hair, and press her palms to her hot cheeks.

“I heard you was here,
Mister
Pendarvis, and I had t’ come and look at you.”

“How the hell are you, Tranter?” Connor said, grinning now, his composure restored. They shook hands and smacked each other on the back and shoulders, in that strange way men had of showing affection to each other.

“I’m kilt, I’m ruint. Ee’ve destroyed me, I’m naught but bones and skin, no heart left inside, and all on account o’ you. How could ee do it, Jack? Or whatever yer name is. It ain’t only me ee’ve trampled on, neither. ’Tis the soul o’ every man who ever set eyes on our own fair and lovely Miss Deene. Ee’re a snake in the grass is what you are, and there’m only one way ee could begin to start makin’ amends.”

“What might that be?”

Tranter’s big, gap-toothed grin looked like a trap about to spring. “Why, stand us all fer drinks at the George, what else?”

Connor gave a guffaw, to Tranter’s delight. “I see I’ve got no choice,” he told Sophie, holding out his hands with humorous fatalism. “A man’s got to begin his rehabilitation somewhere.”

“Oh, indeed, a man’s got to rehabli—reha—rebuild ’imself somewheres. Come along, Jack, so’s ee can get a early start on’t. Come on,” he urged, hauling on Connor’s arm, “time’s wastin’. There’m never a time like the present. Time waits fer no man. A stitch in time—”

“I may be late,” Connor threw back at Sophie, half in and half out of the doorway. Ignoring Tranter, he added softly, “Will you wait up for me?”

She nodded slowly, with great conviction, and her reward was his devastating smile.

***

Sophie’s father’s study was a precious dowry. Connor, who didn’t take the gift lightly, sat in Tolliver Deene’s comfortable old leather chair, behind his broad maple desk with the scarred and ink-stained top, turning a smooth, thick, teakwood fountain pen around and around in his fingers. Sophie had given her father the pen, as well as the matching inkstand, pencil, and blotter, on his fiftieth birthday, a year before his death. Sometimes Connor felt unworthy of the legacy, because Sophie had all but canonized Deene, and he was a hard example to follow; but at other times he felt comfortable among the man’s books and other effects, even soothed by them. At all times, he wished he could have met him.

But right now, Connor was bored. It was a Wednesday evening, not very late; after dinner, Sophie had gone off to do her chores, household duties, conferences with Mrs. Bolton, so on and so forth, female things he was shut out of in the natural order. Which was fine with him, but it meant he had to work, too, or at least make some show of being usefully employed. But at times like this, when he’d been cooped up in this pleasant room for hours already, it was especially hard to keep from admitting to himself an embarrassing truth: the work he was engaged in these days bored him to death.

How drearily ironic. At a time in his life when he’d never been more ambitious—and that was saying something—his interest in the law seemed to be drying up. He stared at his law books by the hour, trying to feel the old connection, that calm sense of purpose and anticipation that had stood him in good stead over the bad years, when there had been no money and few prospects and not much hope. And now when there
was
hope, because he was determined to make something of himself so that Sophie could be proud of him, his professional future looked like a great black yawning hole. She was unknowingly a more potent influence on him than his family had ever been, and still he couldn’t bring himself to care about torts and pleadings, common law versus statute law, demurrers and writs of certiorari. Of course he would study them anyway, and tell himself he was a lucky man to have the luxury to do it. But this new disinterest frightened him. He hid from it, called it a phase, scolded himself for thinking of it at all—when had he gotten so spoiled? But the dissatisfaction wouldn’t go away; it lurked like a winter chill in the back of his mind, persistent and cold, and profoundly unwelcome.

Well, life wasn’t perfect, and for now, the professional part of his was the imperfect part. The rest . . . He pushed the chair back and stuck his legs over the corner of the desk, folding his hands over his belt, sighing. The rest—was perfect. Or, if not altogether perfect, as close to it as he’d ever thought he would come. It had started the day he’d seen the improvements Sophie had made in the mine. It embarrassed her to talk about it, and he’d had to rein in his surprise and gratitude, but in his heart he had been deeply moved. After that, everything had changed, and finally it was possible to remember why they had fallen in love. The relief was . . . extraordinary.

The difference was the most striking when they were in bed. Sex had become joyful again. They’d added laughter to their lovemaking, and inventiveness, and the most exquisite tenderness. Sometimes Sophie cried afterward, and he never needed to ask why; if weeping weren’t an unmanly thing to do, he might have joined her. Neither of them could
speak
of love yet, and there were still reminders of the bitter past littering the path they were treading. But at least they were treading it side by side, and at last they had the same destination.

The baby was bringing them closer, too. They spent hours, usually in bed, thinking up names for it. If it was a boy, Sophie wanted to name him after her father, but Connor didn’t care much for the name Tolliver. “We could call him Tolly,” she offered, but he pointed out that that wouldn’t serve the child very well past the age of ten or so. “Well, it’s better than Egdon,” she retorted, and of course he had no argument; his father’s name was even worse than her father’s. If it was a girl, things would be simpler—they could call her Mary after his mother, or Martha after hers—but they weren’t really happy with those names, either. They started making lists, and the longer into the night the discussion went, the sillier the suggestions got. Sometimes they worried that Mrs. Bolton, all the way down in the basement, would hear their whoops of laughter and wonder what in the world they were up to now.

“Connor?”

There she was, his beautiful wife, poking her head in the study doorway. The perfect distraction. He took off his glasses, grinning at her with pleasure and relief. “Come in, Sophie, I was just—”

“You have a visitor,” she said in her company voice, interrupting him before he could say something personal.

He took his feet off the desk. “I do?”

She widened the door, and he saw who was behind her. “It’s Mr. Braithwaite.”

“Ian,” he exclaimed, jumping up. They shook hands. “This is a surprise,” Connor said, adding truthfully, “I’m very glad to see you.”

Braithwaite had a shy smile that lit up his thin, studious face. “Sorry to pop in on you at night, and with no notice. I found myself in the neighborhood,” he said, coughing behind his hand, “and wondered if we might have a bit of a chat. But I can come again if I’ve chosen a bad time.”

“No, not at all. You’ve met Sophie, have you?”

“Indeed, I’ve had that pleasure.”

“Ian’s a friend of mine,” Connor explained, choosing “friend” for lack of a better word, to a politely smiling Sophie. Actually he was more of a business associate, although he wasn’t quite that either. In truth, Connor wasn’t sure what Ian was. He’d only met him once, the night he and his friend Thacker had stood him to a meal in Exeter.

“Would you care for something to drink, Mr. Braithwaite?” Sophie inquired. “Coffee, or a glass of wine?”

“No, nothing, thanks, I’ve just had dinner.” He waited, and it took Sophie all of half a second to interpret his expectancy.

“Then I’ll leave you two to your chat,” she said smoothly, backing out of the room. Connor saw the curiosity behind the social facade, but only because he knew her so well. Before the door closed, he tried to convey a message himself—
I haven’t the slightest idea
—by raising his eyebrows at her. Those were the kinds of subtleties that tested a couple’s true intimacy, he mused to himself before she disappeared. Marriage certainly was a wonderful institution.

He drew up another chair in front of his desk and gestured for Ian to take the one beside it. “How about some cognac? I’ve got a bottle in my desk.”

“That sounds fine,” he said readily, confirming Connor’s hunch—that Braithwaite had declined Sophie’s offer of refreshments so that she would go away sooner. His curiosity mounted. He poured two glasses of brandy and handed one to his visitor, who toasted him and said, “Cheers.” Then he got down to business. “I wasn’t just in the neighborhood, of course.”

“No?”

He adjusted his silver-rimmed spectacles, crossed one long, thin leg over the other. “I came up from Plymouth specifically to speak to you. Thacker would’ve come with me, but his wife’s having a baby. Right about . . . now,” he estimated after a glance at his pocket watch. He looked around at the comfortable study, the bookshelves and the warm wood paneling, the photographs on the wall. “We heard about your marriage to Miss Deene,” he mentioned casually. “Congratulations—your wife is very charming.”

“Thanks. Who’s ‘we’?”

“I meant the party organization.”

Connor frowned at him, at a loss to understand what he was driving at. What did his marriage have to do with Braithwaite’s Whig cronies in Plymouth? Jack always said he was too prickly, too quick to take offense when none was intended; but Connor couldn’t help thinking that Braithwaite had to be comparing Sophie’s house with the mean little room in Exeter where they’d first met, and if so, he must also be speculating that Connor had done pretty well for himself. The implication put his back up. He liked Ian, though, so he hid his temper and kept the suspicion out of his voice when he asked directly, “Was there something in particular you came to tell me?”