Spirit of the Valley (6 page)

“Really?” Cessie said thoughtfully. “I'm surprised, as good a mother as you are.”

Lizzie shrugged. “I did everything the opposite of them. And I love being a mother. I think that's the key to being a good parent.”

Cessie nodded.

“I think, had my mother married someone else, she might have been different. More loving. But my father associated gentle and nurturing with spoiling a child, and my mother obeyed his every command and thought.” She walked over and put the platter away. “I must have been about five or six when the dreams began.”

“The dreams?”

“A recurring dream I would have. It lasted only seconds. It was my mother and father—not the ones I grew up with, but my
real
mother and father. My dream mother and father.” Lizzie shrugged and grinned. “I really came to believe that the people who ruled my household had adopted me from these people. I reasoned my real parents must have died, maybe in an accident. A train derailment or a ship sinking. You see, the dreams were so real, I thought they must be a memory from early childhood. I can still see their faces in my mind.”

“What did they look like?”

“They both had dark hair. They were very attractive. In fact, she was beautiful. The dream only lasted a few seconds, just long enough for them to turn back to look at me and extend their hands to me, but I saw them clearly.”

Cessie reached for the towel and dried her hands but didn't look away from Lizzie.

“In the dream, we're outside, walking, but I've lagged behind. They turn toward each other and look back at me, urging me to catch up. They're smiling and so happy. Her hair is just to her shoulders and she wears it loose. It is dark and wavy and the wind blows some into her face. And that was it. That's all there was to it, but it was enough to convince me they were my real parents.”

Cessie cocked her head thoughtfully, knowing more was coming.

“I don't know how to say this without you thinking—”

“What?” Cessie asked tenderly. “I won't think anything. Just tell me.”

“The mother in my dream . . . was you,” Lizzie said, finishing in a whisper. Tears filled her eyes, especially when Cessie looked stunned. “I saw the picture of you as a young woman and that's her. I mean you. You were my dream mother.”

“Oh, honey,” Cessie breathed, overwhelmed at the statement. She reached out and they grabbed each other's hands.

“Rebecca mentioned John, and I wondered if he was my dream father, but it wasn't him.”

“No, he . . . he didn't have dark hair.”

“I know who he was though,” Lizzie said, reaching into her pocket for the photograph of a young Lionel. “It was him,” she said, handing it to Cessie.

Cessie sucked in a breath as she looked at the photograph. She smiled first and then tears welled in her eyes. She turned and made her way to the table and sat. “He showed me this once. I wondered where it was.”

Lizzie followed her and sat. “It's yours.”

“Oh no. I want you to have it. After all, he was your papa,” she said with a smile. “And I have him here,” she said, tapping her chest. “And here,” she added, pointing to her head. She looked at the picture again and then handed it back. “Tell me the dream again,” she said wistfully.

“You believe me,” Lizzie said wonderingly. It wasn't a question because she could see the truth in Cessie's eyes.

“Of course I do. Oh, honey, I know the power of dreams. I know how the other side reaches through to touch us and guide us. It's happened to me, too.” She leaned back. “Just think of all the significance in your dream. At the time, it gave you a feeling of belonging that you needed. Now, it proves you're in the right place. That you've come home.”

Lizzie took hold of Cessie's hand.

“What was I wearing?” Cessie asked.

The question was delightful, and Lizzie laughed even as she had to blink back tears.

Chapter Eight

In a coal mine known as Six, at a depth no sunlight penetrated, the blackness so dense it was palpable and disorienting, Jeremy worked with a pick and a wedge to extract the last chunks of coal from the wall without shattering it. He was lying on his side in a narrow seam, his concentration complete, and the only light came from the not quite three-inch kerosene lamp in his hat and the hat and lantern of Liam Baskerville, his helper. Liam assisted mainly by piling extracted coal into a bin, but at present he wasn't doing much more than providing company. He'd been Jeremy's partner in the mine from the beginning, almost eight years now, and he'd been a reliable one. But these days, this late in the day, Liam's vigor was shot. He started the work day well enough at six a.m., but by four, he was done for.

“My nephew started work today,” Liam said. “Newest breaker boy.”

“Yeah?”

“Nine years old,” Liam lamented.

This caused a moment's pause. “Nine?”

“He lied,” Liam said with a shrug of his bony shoulders. “Said he was twelve. Family needs the money since William took sick.”

Jeremy knew, of course, that William, Liam's brother-in-law and a fellow miner, had miner's asthma so bad he could no longer work. Liam had it too, although he hadn't fully admitted it yet. His struggle to breathe and the coughing fits made it obvious, but not as obvious as it would become as the condition progressed. Miner's asthma wasted a man down to skin and bone. It was as if a vise slowly closed around the throat so a person couldn't draw enough air into the lungs. In the end, a man had to choose between breathing and eating; they simply couldn't do both. It was a bad way to die.

But
nine
years of age. It wasn't shocking, exactly, but it was sad. Jeremy had seen the breaker boys at play on their breaks. They were the only ones with the vigor to play or fight among themselves. They were skinny, scrappy lads in filthy clothing, with coal-blackened faces and limbs, who worked for eight cents an hour. Their job was to sort rock from coal and to separate pieces of coal according to size. Most of them labored six days a week, ten hours a day. The dream of every breaker boy was to become a door boy and then a mule boy, and eventually a full-fledged miner. Jeremy took aim with his pick again and struck with precision. “Should be in school.”

“Since when the hell does
should
have anything to do with anything?” Liam said tiredly. “We
should
see the sun on occasion. William's not yet fifty. He
shouldn't
look eighty and be struggling for the little bit of air he can wheeze in.” He paused. “Eh, Charlie's all right. Not the smartest, but he'll make do. His brother'll look out for him best he can.”

“The girls still in school?”

“No. Maura pulled Kate out this year to help at home and you know Mary's in service at Smythe House.”

Jeremy nodded. There were three dynasties or moguls in these parts who owned mines, farms, ranches, and businesses, and who seemed to amass wealth exponentially: Landreth, whom they worked for; the Smythes; and Howerton. They were rich men no one liked but everyone either feared, worked for, or wanted something from. Howerton was the possible exception since he was generally respected and even genuinely liked by some, including most of his own men. Old man Landreth certainly couldn't say that.

Of course, they hadn't all led charmed lives. Landreth was a hard man who'd lost two wives and two of his four sons. Pete had died in a strange accident as a young man, when he fell off a train while engaged in drunken horseplay, and Ted had suddenly gone missing years ago; no one had ever seen or heard from him again. He'd been with a friend, Stan Thomas, who had also gone missing. It was widely suspected that they'd gone off to the city to gamble, where they'd fallen into trouble that turned fatal, but no one ever knew for sure.

For years, Landreth had owned most of the mines in the area. The one they toiled in was the sixth opened, thus its name. But then, less than a decade ago, Smythe had begun an operation that did well enough to start speculation, and in came others, including Greg Howerton. His mines had uncovered the richest veins yet, and Landreth despised him for it.

The wonder of casual observers was that Six kept a workforce at all. It was poorly constructed and Landreth paid less than the other mine owners. The majority of the workforce stayed because of indebtedness, because Landreth paid part of the wages in script that was good only for the company-owned general store or rent for company-owned housing. He rented out hovels to his workers and overcharged for goods at the company store, the only place his employees and their families could get goods on credit. The deeper the debt became, the more trapped the men became. Meanwhile, Landreth made money coming and going.

The one and only benefit of staying at Six for the long haul was that if a man labored at the mine for twenty years, he was awarded a pension for the next ten years. The pension was only a quarter of his usual pay, but at least it was something. Not that many lived to enjoy the benefit.

Liam fell into another coughing fit, and when it subsided, Jeremy said, “Why don't you go on? Get some air. It's close enough to quitting time.”

“I got this to finish,” Liam said, referring to the pile of coal not yet picked up.

“I'll get it.”

Liam barked a final cough, turned his head and spat, and then sniffed. “It's not right.”

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing, Shef. You got your job—”

“It's fine,” Jeremy interrupted. “Not like you wouldn't do it for me.”

Liam conceded with a sigh that turned into another cough. “All right, then.” He rose, scooted from the seam, and walked away slowly. When Jeremy finished the area he was working on, he also scooted from the seam. As he stood and stretched, he watched the small orange and yellow lights floating toward him from the tunnel ahead. They were the lights in other miners' hats as they came in his direction, finished for the day.

He moved his stiff neck from side to side, then went back in to finish. He collected the loose coal and put it in the bin, then began setting up for one more blast. He'd set it off just before he left, and excavate in the morning. He bored holes and was almost finished setting the explosives when he heard the familiar clopping of mine mules and the squeak of the wheels of a loaded car on rails.

“Whatcha say, Shef?” called Timmy Wayne, the driver of the mule team. Timmy, a lanky, dark-haired boy of almost fourteen with an easy, infectious smile, walked ahead of the animals, leading them with the heavy load.

“Not much,” Shef replied as he set the last explosive.

“Nope.” Timmy laughed. “Never do.” His face was so coal blackened that his teeth, which probably weren't all that white, shone bright in the low light.

Shef crawled back out of the hole to help dump their bin of coal into the car.

“I saw Liam. He looks done in.”

“It's that time of day,” Jeremy replied noncommittally.

“You ready to call it a day?”

“I was ready when I got here.”

Timmy grinned. “I know whatcha mean. So, uh, whatcha doin' tonight?” The boy had a fascination with the life of single men. Coming from a near-destitute family of seven, he found it hard to imagine having no one but yourself to tend to. It was highly appealing, to his way of thinking. “Is this the night you go to the resternt?”

“I go on Fridays. Only decent meal I have all week.”

“I ain't had nothing but cabbage and potatoes for a durn week, and I ain't never been to no resternt.”

“Maybe I'll take you with me for your birthday. It's coming up, isn't it?”

“First of October.”

Jeremy nodded. “'Kay, then. We'll go.”

“You mean it?”

“'Course I mean it.”

“That's right nice of you, Shef. What kind of food they have there?”

“All kinds. Beefsteak, fried chicken, ham steak. Whatever you want.”

“Beefsteak. That's what I'd pick.”

“How about the Friday after your birthday then?”

“Well, all righty, then,” Timmy said excitedly. “If you're sure you mean it. I'd like that.”

“I don't say what I don't mean.”

Timmy nodded. “I'd best get on, I guess. See you tomorrow, Shef.”

“See you tomorrow.”

The boy walked around to the front of the mules and tugged on the reins of the lead mule. “Getty up, Stubborn. Let's finish.”

“His name really Stubborn?” Jeremy asked as they started off.

“It's what I call him,” Timmy said over his shoulder.

“'Cause he's a sight more stubborn than the rest. Might have to get the mule lady down here to talk some sense into him.”

Jeremy waited until boy and mule were a good enough distance away before he gathered his tools and then lit the fuse for the explosives. Afterwards, he walked away calmly, knowing precisely how long he had before it blew. Like all miners, he knew the right amount of explosives to use for the task at hand. Tomorrow, he'd extract the coal he'd loosened from the blast. As he walked toward the lift, the light from his hat picked up points of coal in the walls, making them glisten and shine like shards of diamonds.

He'd made it all the way to the cage when the blast happened. The men waiting for the elevator didn't bat an eye at the explosion; they were inured to a continual cacophony. Nor did anyone think it odd to see smoke from the blast, eerie and shimmering, floating toward them like a phantom mass. The elevator arrived, the weary men trudged on, and the bell was rung, signaling the hoister to raise the cage.

Once in motion, it moved surprisingly fast, the black walls flying by for more than eleven hundred feet before light assailed their senses. On this trip, twelve men emerged, each black faced, with slumped shoulders and a dour expression, squinting at the light, many of them still carrying formidable-looking tools—sledges, tamping bars, and picks. It was an everyday occurrence and yet they were a fearful sight to the uninitiated.