The Miner's Lady (2 page)

“Celebrate what?” Chantel asked.

Isabella threw her a look of amusement. “Something different. We were just happy to have a diversion. We danced and ate and made merry.”

Chantel could well understand that. As they crossed Chapman Street, Chantel felt her boots sink in the muddy ruts of the road. She hurried to regain solid footing on the boardwalk, carrying what felt like five pounds of muck on each foot. Wiping her boots against the edge of the walk, she shook her head.

Isabella was unfazed. “See over there? We've been told that a fruit and candy store will open there in January. I, for one, am quite excited.”

Chantel smiled, knowing her sister's penchant for sweets. “Nonna taught me to make some wonderful family recipes, including some candy that Mama used to make when she was a little girl.” To her surprise Isabella gave her an impromptu hug.

“It's so good to have you home. I missed you so much.”

Chantel returned the embrace. “I'm glad to be home.” It wasn't exactly a lie, but neither was it the truth.

“It's got to stop,” Dante Calarco told his younger brother Orlando. “You can't go on sneaking around to meet that Panetta tramp.”

“She's no tramp!” Orlando shot up to stand nose to nose with his brother. “I love her and intend for her to be my wife.”

Dante rolled his eyes heavenward. “You're nineteen and have no business even thinking about marriage. You've only been working the mine for the last year. You have nothing to your name and certainly cannot afford a wife. Not only that, but you know our father will never allow you to marry a Panetta. And for good reason.”

“Reason, good or otherwise, never has figured into this ridiculous feud.” Orlando pushed back thick black hair and reclaimed his seat at the dining room table. “Am I the only one bothered by the fact that our families are at odds over a stupid mule? I mean, think about it. Two families hate each other because a mule accidentally got killed.”

“Our grandfather apparently didn't believe it to be an accident. Besides, you know as well as I do there were already problems between the two families.”

“But I don't have any problem with the Panettas, and I don't see why I should.”

Dante wanted very much to get his brother to acknowledge the truth. “It matters little whether or not you agree with the two families being at odds. The fact is, Father believes in loyalty to our family.”

“What about loyalty to his sons? What about learning to live in peace like the Good Book says? What about that?”

Dante had never been much for religious nonsense. He believed in God. He even believed that He had a Son named Jesus who died on the cross in some sort of sacrifice for all of mankind. What he didn't believe in was the nonsense that took place in the church. As far as he'd ever been able to tell, church was useful for one thing and one thing only: heaping guilt upon the weak-minded.

“I'm not going to argue with you about religion. I'm not even going to challenge you on the whole concept of trying to be at peace in a world filled with warring people.” Dante took the seat opposite his brother while their grandmother scurried around to put supper on the table. “But you know how our father feels regarding family. Family is everything. For you to sneak around with her is like putting a knife in his back.”

“That has never been my intention.” Orlando met Dante's gaze. “You know that. I love my family, but I love Isabella, too.”

“Ora ragazzi
,
”
said their Nonna Barbato in her native Italian.
Il papá sarà qui presto
.
”

Dante squared his shoulders. She was right. Their father would be here any moment, and it wouldn't serve either of them well to have him question their discussion.

“I'm sorry, Orlando. I'm sorry that you love her, and I'm sorry that nothing can ever come of it.”

Just then they could hear their father scraping his boots outside the back door. Both young men straightened in their chairs as if they were boys awaiting parental inspection. Nonna put the last of the food on the table and took her seat.

Vittorio Calarco rubbed his hands together and entered the kitchen. “The wind has a bite to it. Hopefully we'll get a hard freeze and that muck they call a road will harden up.”

Dante couldn't help but smile. His father stood bootless in his dirty socks. He took orders from the mining captain and no one else . . . except his mother-in-law. Nonna Barbato insisted the men take their boots off before entering the house, and even Vittorio Calarco was obedient. Of course, Dante knew his father had been dependent upon the older woman since losing his wife in childbirth. Nonna had been newly widowed, and the trip to America to care for her daughter's newborn and eight-year-old sons gave her a new lease on life. Dante's father had struggled to find the money for such a trip, but with the help of family he had managed to bring Nonna to America only weeks after he'd buried Dante and Orlando's mother.

Their father took a seat at the table and reached for his bowl of
zuppa de zucca
, his favorite pumpkin soup. Nonna waggled a finger and admonished him. “First we pray,” she said as she always did.

His father gave a nod. When Nonna said they would pray first, they prayed.

Nonna offered grace for the food, then poured her heart out in prayers for the family. She asked forgiveness for each
of her men, pleading with God for their protection. Dante knew this never boded well with his father, but he found it somewhat comforting. Even if he wasn't given to praying himself, it was nice to know that someone else was offering up prayers on his behalf.

“Amen,” said Nonna.

Dante and Orlando murmured the word in return, but their father only grunted and reached again for the soup.

Supper was always a time for Nonna to share the latest information from family or the ongoing affairs of neighbors. Dante's father would chime in on politics and matters of the town, while Dante and Orlando picked up the conversation when they had something to add. And always, it was in Italian. Nonna could speak English, though not well. She considered it a vulgar language. It was a rare occasion when Anna Teresa Barbato spoke what she called “that American garble.”

Ely was a town of many nationalities, but the far east side was predominantly settled by Slavic-Austrians and Italians. Nonna knew every man, woman, and child in their neighborhood and thought it her duty to keep up on the details of their lives. Often the women washed clothes or sewed together, and while they did they told news from the old country or spoke of problems with their families. Nonna had become something of a matriarch among the women, and she held the position with the authority of a queen.

“The Dicellos have a new baby,” Nonna announced. “A fat, healthy boy.” She extended a rose-colored glass serving bowl to Dante. “You should marry and have children, Dante. Goodness, but you are twenty-seven years old. Well past the
time a man should settle down. You need children of your own to carry on the family name.”

Orlando opened his mouth as if to comment on that, but Dante quickly silenced him. “Nonna, you always said that marriage was the hardest work a man and woman would ever do. Frankly, the mine exhausts me. I don't have the energy to marry.”

She laughed and motioned to the bowl he'd just taken. “Eat up and you'll have energy aplenty. This is your favorite
agnolotti
.”

Dante smiled and began to spoon himself a healthy portion of the ravioli. Each little pasta pocket was filled with tender roast beef and seasoned vegetables. His grandmother had such a way with the dish that he had to admit he'd rather eat extra helpings of this than have dessert.

The table talk continued with Nonna telling of her visit to the meat market with several other women. She spoke of new families moving to the area to accommodate the growing mine industry. At this Dante's father joined in.

“Papers have already been drawn up to make Ely an incorporated town,” he told them. “Once this officially happens, we will see many more changes. There are plans to put in sewer and water lines, as well as better streets.”

“That is good,” Nonna said, nodding. She tore off a piece of bread from a large round loaf. “The streets here are terrible.”

Dante paid only a token interest to the conversation. His mind was focused on Orlando's interest in Isabella Panetta. Dante had had suspicions for some time that his brother was sneaking off to meet with a young lady, but never could he have imagined it would be a Panetta.

The boy was insane. He had to know the relationship would never be allowed, and if Orlando insisted, their father would simply disown him. And then what? Would the two marry and move in with her family? The shame of it would cause their father no end of grief, and that in turn would trickle down to affect Dante and Nonna.

As he ate, Dante tried to reason how he might best deal with the situation. There was always the chance that Isabella's family didn't realize what was going on. Perhaps if Dante cornered one of her brothers at the mine, he could explain what was happening and get their help on the matter. Of course, it wasn't likely that a Panetta would give him the time of day, much less listen to him.

“They say the Pioneer Mine will deliver the same quality Bessemer ore that the Chandler has,” Dante heard his father declare. “And there are other mines opening, as well. If they're all Bessemer quality, we'll be making the owners quite wealthy.”

Bessemer ore held the richest iron content. The problem with some iron ore was a high percentage of phosphorus. Henry Bessemer, an English iron master, had created a way to burn away the impurities from iron to make steel. Because of this wondrous contribution, the finest ore had been named after him.

One benefit of the Chandler Mine and the rich Bessemer ore was that it didn't require a great deal of processing in order to make it useful. Not only that, but the vein of ore had endured a massive folding during its creation. This resulted in the ore breaking naturally into pieces very nearly the right size for the mills, which eliminated the need to run
it through a crusher first. This, along with the fact that the ore was readily available and not at all laborious to mine—at least not in the early pit mining years—proved very valuable to the stockholders. It was said that the mine paid out $100,000 a month net profit. Of course, Dante found that hard to believe, but if the growth of the city and digging of new mines was any indication, it must be true.

“Dr. Shipman intends to see those terrible houses of ill repute closed,” Nonna declared. “He makes a good village president, even if he isn't Italiano.”

“He is a good man,” Father replied, “but if they close down the brothels, how will they fund the town?” He gave a laugh. “It's only the fines brought in by the marshal that pay Ely's bills.” It was a well-known fact that the marshal visited the brothels on a monthly basis to “arrest” the madams. They simply paid a large fine and returned to business. It served to give the pretense of law and order, make money for the town, and keep the miners happy.

“Bah!” Nonna said, waving him away with her hand. “We will be a better city without them.”

“Well, if they have their way and incorporate the mines into the city limits,” Father said, reaching for the bread, “they will have money enough. The state may receive a penny a ton on what is shipped out of the mines, but the city gets nothing. That will change soon enough if the incorporation goes through.”

Dante tired of the politics and again found himself thinking about Orlando's situation. His brother had crossed a line that would not easily be forgotten if their father learned the truth. So the trick would be to find a way to get Orlando back on the right side before he could be found out.

I could just threaten him
, Dante thought, then very nearly smiled. His brother was not easily intimidated. They had endured many a brawl in their younger days, and Orlando could put up quite a fight. He was strong and muscular like Dante, although he was shorter by two or three inches. If anything, that only served to give his brother an advantage in maneuvering around Dante's attacks.

I could bribe him to let her go.
But Dante knew that wouldn't work, either. He knew his brother couldn't be bought off. Not when he fancied himself truly in love.

He was still lost in thought well after Nonna had served dessert. When his brother and father got up from the table, Dante continued to pick at the pear tart his grandmother had put in front of him.

“You no like?” she asked in English.

Dante, surprised by her change of language, glanced around the room. Seeing his father and brother gone, he shook his head. “I'm just worried about Orlando.”

Nonna waggled a finger at him. “You worry too much.” She switched back into Italian and began clearing the table. “Your brother will be fine.”

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Dante replied, “Not if he keeps thinking with his heart instead of his head.”

His grandmother straightened for a moment and shook her head. “Ah, Dante, the heart it cannot be controlled by anyone save God. It will choose whom it will choose. It's
amore
.”

“It's dangerous,” Dante said, getting to his feet. “And it's foolish.”