Chapter Six
On a frosty evening in late winter, the Enright carriage stopped on the sweeping driveway of Clayton, Henry Clay Frick's palatial residence in Homewood. Now there's a mansion as grand as its reputation, Lisa thought as she alighted from the carriage and walked along the sweeping driveway. Smiling, she entered the magnificent reception room on William's arm to greet Henry Frick and his pretty wife, Adelaide. They made light talk for several minutes while other voices swelled in the background. She tried not to gawk at all the choice paintings crowding the walls, the pieces of fine porcelain, the tapestry hangings.
As they moved on, she gently nudged William's arm. "Did you ever see so much wealth in one room?" she whispered.
He shrugged his shoulders, speaking under his breath. "This is how society lives, my dear. We've been in other fine homes." He gave her an indulgent smile. "We've entertained many important people, too, and that didn't seem to bother you."
"No, of course not," she replied with absolute confidence. "It's been a pleasure." While her father was alive, her parents had entertained often, but never on such an imposing scale as this. Since her marriage, Lisa had enjoyed having company at their mansion on Ellsworth Avenue, whether or not the people who came to visit were "those who mattered," as William always said.
Within the past few weeks, Lisa had found, if not happiness, at least a sense of purpose, losing much of her shyness and gaining considerable poise. She knew she looked her best tonight in her emerald green silk gown, its black Alencon lace embellishing the bodice and bordering the hem, black velvet butterflies trailing down the front. The décolletage revealed only a hint of the valley between her breasts, modest but in style. She smoothed her hand down the side of the gown, loving its silky texture, aware she'd never before owned such a luxurious gown.
If only William had told her how nice she looked, his compliment would have made her evening complete, but of course, she expected too much. Dismissing that thought, she moved along on William's arm and mingled with the other guests, the cream of Pittsburgh society.
"Excuse me," William murmured, leaving her so he could join a group of prominent businessmen who stood in a far corner of the room, engaged in earnest discussion.
Her gaze covering William and the other men, she accepted a glass of champagne from a waiter who hovered at the edge of the crowd. She chafed at the restrictions placed on her sex as she stopped to chat with the ladies, wishing she could join the men. If given the chance, she could add something worthwhile to the male conversation. How shocked those gentlemen would be if she joined them! She smiled and nodded at the people she knew and tried not to look bored while one of the ladies regaled the others with her tale of a recent shopping trip to Paris.
"I swear I bought everything I saw at Worth's," the lady declared. "I had to buy more trunks, just so I could bring everything home."
Sallie Heinz left a circle of ladies to greet Lisa. "Mrs. Enright, isn't it?" She stood back to admire Lisa's gown. "You look so lovely, dear. Your husband must be proud of you. And that color," she raved, her gaze sweeping over the elegant creation. "It brings out your peaches and cream complexion."
Ignoring the talk and laughter around them, Lisa and Sallie Heinz covered a wide range of subjects, finally settling on the Heinz pickle and relish factory north of Pittsburgh.
"Do you know," Sallie remarked with a glance in Frick's direction, "my husband believes in taking good care of his workers. He gives them an hour for lunch. And I'll tell you something else," she said, tapping Lisa's gloved arm for emphasis, "they even have their own swimming pool."
"A swimming pool for the workers! Mrs. Heinz, that's truly revolutionary."
"Perhaps, but my husband believes--and I agree--that one's workers perform well if one treats them well."
Lisa nodded toward the back of the room, where Henry Clay Frick had joined the other men. "I fear Mr. Frick doesn't see things your way--about taking care of the workers, not if tales I've heard about him are true."
"Yes, and I fear there'll be trouble with the steelworkers if this union problem isn't resolved. That would be most unfortunate." Sallie frowned, then turned as the butler stood at the room's entrance to announce dinner. "Sorry we can't talk more now. We must get better acquainted later."
Silver-plated lighting fixtures complemented the gleaming mahogany furniture in the dining room, said to be the most sumptuously-furnished room in all of Clayton. Yet, everything was in good taste, Lisa mused as she took her seat. The room's decorations weren't nearly as opulent as those she'd seen in other mansions.
The talk buzzed around her while she tried to concentrate on her dinner partner's conversation, a young man who rhapsodized on the joys of Vienna in the wintertime, laughing at his own anecdotes, tapping his fingers on the table for emphasis. Tilting her head in his direction, she attempted to look interested, but her thoughts sped miles away. What was Owen doing now? Did he think of her often? She took a bite of salmon mayonnaise, pretending an enjoyment she didn't feel as she recalled the last meeting of the literary club. How she looked forward to those meetings, the only times she ever saw him.
Will it always be like this, she wondered, raising her wine glass to her lips, to live only for these few precious times she saw him, week after week, month after month? Above all, did he feel the same way about her? As she sipped her Chablis, she recalled the warm look in his eyes, the special smile he had only for her.
Only wishful thinking, she quickly reminded herself. And just suppose, by the wildest stretch of the imagination, she were free of William, and Owen loved her. If she were married to Owen and he lost his job, could their love withstand the strain? She didn't know, but she did know she couldn't risk poverty again. If William hadn't married her, no doubt she would've had to support her mother and herself.
"Don't you agree, Mrs. Enright?"
"Oh, yes, of course." She jerked her mind back to the present, hoping she'd made the appropriate comment. Apparently she had, for the man appeared satisfied.
Her partner finally fell silent, giving her the opportunity to glance around the table and catch bits of conversation. Glancing in Frick's direction, she heard a pronouncement about the steelworkers.
"I don't intend," Frick was saying, "to let the union have its way in this matter of tonnage rates." He made a slashing motion; his jutting beard seemed to emphasize his sheer stubbornness. "They'll take a reduction in their wages, and that's all there is to it."
"But what if they don't agree to this reduction?" a prominent city doctor asked. The entire table became quiet, all eyes on Frick.
He snorted. "They'll have to go along with it, or else they'll be out of a job." He took a sip of wine, then carefully set his glass on the table, as if its placement was very important. "Make no mistake about it. Neither Mr. Carnegie nor I will tolerate any union nonsense." A grim smile flitted across his face. "I intend to break the back of the Amalgamated Association. By the time I'm finished with the steelworkers, there'll be no union left."
Finished speaking, Frick caught Lisa's worried expression. "But I fear we're upsetting the ladies. Shall we discuss something more congenial, gentlemen?"
The talk turned to culture, prompting one of the ladies to remark that Pittsburgh should some day have a first-class museum, as New York and Philadelphia had.
"Perhaps we eventually shall," he replied, the considerate host once more.
Hours later, the horses' hooves clattered along the asphalt streets while the carriage followed the twists and turns of the winding thoroughfares. The front wheels hit a rut in the street, prompting Lisa to grasp the strap beside her. Observing William's face across from her, she wondered if he agreed with Frick's harsh warnings about the steelworkers' union.
"William, why is Mr. Frick so determined to cut the wages of the steelworkers?" With a shiver, she drew her woolen cape closer around her shoulders, her breath frosting in the frigid air.
"If that question isn't like a woman," he said in
his condescending manner. "Obviously, if Mr. Frick granted the workers what they wanted, it would reduce the profits of the Carnegie Steel Company."
"But Mr. Frick is already a millionaire," she pointed out with truth. "Why, his paintings must be worth a fortune."
"Yes, and he's earned every cent he's made, don't you agree? He's done quite well by virtue of hard work!" William's face held a look of amused exasperation. "Such a heavy subject for a young lady . . ."
"And Mr. Carnegie, living like a king in Scotland, not even bothering his head about the company he owns." For heaven's sake! One would think Carnegie might at least stay in this country to oversee possible trouble at the mill.
"Carnegie?" William repeated. "He keeps in touch with Frick by telegraph. It's not as if he has no idea of what's happening here. Scotland isn't darkest Africa, you know." He heaved an exaggerated sigh. "In any event, I'm banking on Frick's promise to keep wages low so that profits remain high."
"Why should their wages matter to you?"
"I thought you knew, my dear. Didn't I ever tell you? I'm one of the biggest stockholders in the Carnegie Steel Company." He reached inside his vest pocket for a cigar and matches as they neared Ellsworth Avenue.
"But what about the steelworkers?"
"Don't tell me you support those laborers! Expendable, that's what they are . . . easy to replace. And if memory serves me, your father lost a great deal of money when the coke workers went on strike in '86."
"I'll admit you have a point there. That's one of the reasons why we were in such precarious financial condition when my father died." As she looked out the carriage window, she noted the familiar mansions on her street, visible in brilliant clarity by the silver light of a full moon. "On the other hand," she felt the need to say, "the steelworkers have a right to a decent wage."
He sneered. "They have the duty to do their job and not complain."
Snowflakes tapped against the window, and Lisa shivered again, whether from the cold or worry, she didn't know. Happy to be home, she hugged her cape around her, preparing to leave the carriage.
So many conflicting thoughts raged through her mind. Despite her attraction for Owen, she agreed with William's and Mr. Frick's attitude toward the Amalgamated. If the steelworkers went on strike, the results would be unfortunate for everyone, workers and stockholders alike. And what if William lost much money? Would she face the threat of poverty again?
* * *
The darkness of the long winter night enveloped Homestead as Anton Hrajak wended his way through the twisting alleys of the Second Ward, his stocky body braced against the cold. On his way to a double shift at the Rankin mill, he'd be working twenty-four hours straight. How he dreaded the double shift, yet he considered it a mixed blessing. After he came home Monday morning, he'd be free for one whole day. Thank God!
Turning his coat collar up, he waited outside a nameless, faceless tenement house on Third Avenue, standing near an outdoor privy that served several families. Covering his nose, he wished his friend Emil Zeleznik would hurry outside, so they could be on their way. He tried to ignore the cats' screeching over piles of garbage as he stamped his feet on the cinder-strewn courtyard and cursed under his breath. What the hell was taking Emil so long this time?
Anton paced the courtyard, nearly bumping into pots and pans that hung, along with pants and shirts, from pegs outside the building. From a ground floor window, he heard a baby cry, heard its mother yell for it to shut up.
"Hovno!" he snapped, his bushy mustache wiggling. "Shit!" He slammed his lunch bucket down and hugged himself for warmth, wondering, as he had so many times, if he'd done the right thing by leaving Slovakia to come to the new world with Emma, his young bride.
He aimed a vicious kick at a stray beer bottle near a pile of garbage. Holy Mother, what did a man have to do to be accepted in this country? He shook with cold and anger, recalling the countless snubs of the American workers, aware they called him "hunky" behind his back, and to his face.
Owen Cardiff was the only American who'd shown him any kindness, and they didn't even work at the same mill. He'd met Mr. Cardiff for the first time when he'd stopped by the man's house to give Emma an important message. Mr. Cardiff's good will meant much to him, but besides that, the money Emma earned as his housekeeper went a long way toward their food and rent.
Hearing a door creak open, he turned, nearly slipping on the snow.
"Ahoj." The light of a dim kerosene lamp beamed into the murky darkness, giving the filth-layered yard an ugly illumination.
"Hello yourself, Emil. Why so late this time?" Anton spoke in his native Slovak to make conversation easier for his friend but would have preferred polishing his English. He grabbed his lunch bucket, both men trudging toward the bridge that led to Rankin, heads bent to protect their eyes from flying cinders.
"Ach!" Emil replied, "my youngest one burned himself on the kerosene stove, and that made Anna late packing my lunch. Jesiz! One thing after another."
The two men plodded along in the early morning darkness, cinders crunching beneath their heavy-soled shoes. Others walked in front and behind, a straggling procession of weary men, exhausted before the day's work had even begun. After several minutes, they crossed the bridge and trudged toward the black, lifeless millyard, heading for the blast furnaces. The sulphur smell intensified as they neared the mill, and Anton wondered if he'd ever get used to the stink.
Eighty, ninety, one-hundred feet tall, gaunt and insatiable, the furnaces loomed like monsters in the dreary darkness. Anton looked up to see the rushing flames, oddly soundless, leap from tops of furnaces at regular intervals as charges were dumped inside. Then the furnace tops closed, extinguishing their fiery charges, a never-ending process that went on three-hundred and sixty-five days of the year.
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped to cover his ears as a dinky engine rattled past to carry smoking ladles of slag toward the Monongahela River. Purple arc lights played an erratic pattern through the gloomy haze that was so heavy with coal dust it caught in his lungs, making him cough.
After the engine rumbled past, he turned to Emil. "How long do you think this job will last?"
A puzzled expression crossed Emil's round face. "What the hell do you mean?"
"Well, if the union goes on strike . . ."
"Yeah, that's what I heard, but the Amalgamated had better not." He kicked a rusty pipe that blocked his path. "God! They'd better not!" The two men stumbled over the remaining tracks, nearing the mill entrance. "How the hell can we live if we're out of a job? And we can't even belong to the union, damn it!" Emil shot his friend a hopeful look. "Maybe Mr. Frick and Mr. Carnegie will give in to the workers."
Anton spat. "Yeah, and maybe pigs can fly! Hovno! You think they give a damn about the workers? Devil take me! They live like emperors while we work like dogs and live like animals for our miserable fourteen cents an hour. If the skilled workers go on strike, then we do, too. We have no choice. But God, how can we get along without our wages?" He made a futile attempt at humor. "It's like they always say--no work, no pork; no money, no baloney." With a grim smile, he bade his friend goodbye, bracing himself for the long double shift.
* * *
Tight-lipped, Owen strode into the library of the Enright mansion. Enright looked up from his wide mahogany desk, a sheet of paper in his hand, a frown on his face. Despite Owen's irritation, he studied the man in front of him, noting his oiled hair, sleekly-parted at the side, his fingernails--manicured!--his hands, soft as a baby's.
"Ah, Cardiff. So you received my letter," Enright said, not offering him a chair. His blue eyes held no warmth but reflected a soul as cold as the snow on the frozen ground. This man was Lisa's husband, the one who had the right to hold her in his embrace, make love to her . . .
Owen stood with his arms held loosely at his side. "Yes, and frankly, I'm at a loss to understand the purpose of your message. You mentioned you wanted to discuss the land I bought in Munhall, bu
t I've been making regular payments."
Enright scoffed. "At three percent interest. Highway robbery! Let's make that seven percent."
"Now just a minute! Mr. Bradley and I had an agreement--"
"A written agreement?"
His heart sank, but he quickly recovered. "No, a gentlemen’s agreement."
Enright flicked his forefinger at the paper he held. "That's what I think of gentlemen's agreements."
"Very well! You'll get your payments at seven percent." He shot Enright a hard look. "Why didn't you call me on the telephone?"
Enright smirked. "Call you? You keep different hours than I do." He gave him a twisted smile. "Besides, I wanted to make sure you understood."
"Understood! It's fairly plain, isn't it? And talk about highway robbery--" Owen spun away and left the room, resisting the temptation to slam the door. Striding down the long hall, he didn't at first see Lisa by the front door. When he caught sight of her, all anger was forgotten, leaving only happiness, as if he'd been granted everything wonderful in life.
"Owen, what are you doing here?" She raised her arms to remove her hat, her cheeks rosy from the cold, a look of pleased surprise on her face. She placed her hat on the coat rack, where a black coat already resided. He observed the ripple of the sensuous white silk blouse across her full breasts, the hug of the black skirt around her slim waist and slender hips, its supple swing about her ankles as she stepped forward. He saw all these things and wanted her like he’d never wanted anything or anyone. He ached for her, every beat of his heart pounding for her.
"Not now," he murmured, swallowing hard. "I'll tell you later."
"Are you coming to the literary group tomorrow night?" She slowly removed her hatpin and set the hat on a table, her vibrant brown eyes fixed on him the entire time. He thought it oddly pleasant how she could imbue every motion with a certain grace, an innate charm all her own.
"Yes, I'll be there," he said, afraid to tarry, fearful of what he might say, what he might do . . . take her in his arms, kiss her sweet lips. "I must be going. Good-bye, Lisa," he said after a pause.
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