Forbidden Love

by Shirley Martin

  Besides, she reminded herself, as if she needed the reminder--this much she'd do for Owen, even if she never saw him again. Their love enclosed her like a warm cloak, an enduring love to last for all time.

  Her marriage to William had collapsed, neither of them maintaining the barest of civilities. She escaped his company as much as possible, not even having dinner with him, that is, on the rare occasions when he stayed home for the evening meal. Often they went for days without seeing each other. And that was fine with her.

  Divorce. The word crept into her thoughts, like a slow sip of poison. To be free of William, free of this parody of a marriage! A divorce, and then what? Her friends would disown her, except Elizabeth and Lawrence. Everyone else would consider her a fallen woman, and society would ostracize her.

  In her gray muslin dress, Lisa dotted a linen handkerchief across her damp forehead and entered the building, rehearsing what she'd say to Henry Clay Frick. The worst thing he could do was refuse to see her, but she considered him too much of a gentleman to do that.

  She reached the vice chairman's office, where he rose from his desk to greet her with his cold, mechanical smile, overshadowed by a look of surprise. Her spirits fell, but she quickly recovered her courage with an appearance of outward calm. My goodness, she'd known this man for years. Surely she could handle him. With his obviously forced smile, his look of stoic patience, she realized her presence annoyed him. Too bad, because she intended to accomplish her goal. She took the proffered chair, resolved to conceal her inner qualms.

  "And what can I do for you, Mrs. Enright?" he asked as he claimed his chair across the desk. No pleasantries, he got straight to the point. He combed his fingers through his thick beard, a look of puzzlement on his face as he sat back, his swivel chair creaking. He gave her a level look across the short space that separated them.

  "Mr. Frick, I'm concerned about a possible strike at Homestead--"

  "No one said there would be a strike, Mrs. Enright. We're doing everything possible to prevent such an eventuality."

  "Indeed, sir. I said a possible strike."

  "May I ask what prompts your concern?" he asked, leaning forward and playing with a fountain pen on his desk. "Of course, I realize your husband is one of our major stockholders. That fact alone would be cause for worry." He smiled briefly. "But I believe I can set your mind at rest. Our shareholders will continue to collect dividends. We intend to keep the mill open, strike or no."

  "Yes, Mr. Frick, my husband has spoken a good deal about the situation in Homestead. But one of my maids has a brother who works at the mill, and she's very worried about him should a strike occur." She spoke with resolve. "I must confess I feel some sympathy for the workers, too."

  A stunned look came over his face, but he set his features into an expression of calm acceptance. "Your concern does you credit, madam. Indeed, compassion is a trait a greatly admire in a lady." He toyed with the blotter on his desk and rearranged some papers, forming them into neat piles. "But I fear your sympathy is misplaced. The steelworkers remain obstinate and refuse to understand the company position in regard to many of the issues."

  "Such as the tonnage rate?"

  His expression of surprise deepened to shock as he tapped his fingers on the desk. When he spoke again, his voice was a trifle cooler. "Mrs. Enright, I'm truly pleased that you've followed the aspects of this controversy. Such erudition is rare in a woman. But at the same time, I must say you don't understand all the issues involved. The union has been quite

  stubborn--"

  "But the company hasn't?"

  Frick crushed the blotter, then tossed it aside. "Madam, I shall repeat that you don't comprehend the matters in this dispute. Possibly you don't realize it, but the company has bent over backwards to meet the workers halfway. We've done everything we can to avert a strike, however remote that possibility might be."

  "Perhaps not so remote, Mr. Frick."

  He shrugged, a look of irritation on his face. "That's up to the workers, Mrs. Enright. The responsibility rests with them."

  Lisa returned the handkerchief to her purse and prepared to leave this sizzling hot office. Her cotton dress was plastered to her, with no breeze through the open window. She assumed a look of cool insouciance that belied her inner dejection.

  "Mr. Frick, I had harbored the hope--a vain hope, I see now–that possibly I could

  dissuade you from the course you seem intent to take. I fear there will be trouble at Homestead, for the workers and their families." She spread her hands in a helpless gesture. "But it appears there's nothing to be done."

  Scarcely a trace of emotion crossed his rigid features. "No one ever said a strike was inevitable."

  "Let us hope not, sir." She rose and smoothed the folds of her dress. "I shall bid you good-day, and I shall surely pray that this strike never materializes."

  "That is my wish, also, Mrs. Enright," he said as he stood and walked her to the door. "Believe me, I have no desire to see the steelworkers or their families suffer. I'd like to see this dispute settled amicably."

  She gave him a long, cool look, accepting his words with a grain of salt, for she considered him a heartless strikebreaker whose only thought was company profit. Hadn't Owen said the very same? In spite of her disappointment, she managed a smile as she exchanged final pleasantries with him, anxious to escape his office.

  Emerging into the bright sunlight of a torrid June day, she mentally scolded herself for her failure to dissuade the man from his course. Yet, how could she have expected otherwise? How naive she was, she realized with a clarity that further dampened her spirits. What in the world had made her think she could change his mind?

  * * *

  "Strange, isn't it?" Owen remarked to Hugh O'Donnell as they walked home from the mill on a blistering hot summer day. "Frick is trying to break the union, and I can't remember when the open hearth has been so busy."

  Hugh nodded. "Same thing in the rolling mill. I understand he's pushing to have work completed on the battleship Maine." He paused for a few moments as a freight train sped past on its way north to Pittsburgh. Then he raised his voice to speak above the clamor. "And as far as what's going to happen after that, your guess is as good as mine. But the entire situation looks rotten. We'll be lucky if we have a job by the end of the month. Let's see what happens by the twenty-fourth, when we must reach an agreement."

  After the caboose clattered past, both men crossed the tracks to head for the Homestead business district. "That doesn't leave us much time," Hugh muttered.

  "You don't need to remind me," Owen said with a grim smile. He indicated all the stores and businesses on Eighth Avenue. "Just look, almost all the stores are empty--even Harrigans," he said, nodding toward the ice cream parlor across the street. "No one's buying anything. Who wants to spend their money now, when they don't know what will happen from one day to the next?"

  "And the saloons. Never thought I'd see the day when the saloons would be deserted. Everyone's waiting for the blow to fall."

  * * *

  Anton Hrajak waited for Emil Zeleznik outside the mill gate in Rankin as the smoke from the mill blanketed the sky and burrowed into his throat. He cursed Emil for the tenth time, wondering why the man could never be on time. Monday, he'd start at the open-hearth department in Homestead, and then they wouldn't even see each other.

  He congratulated himself for the change from the blast furnace in Rankin to the open-hearth in Homestead. He knew it was his past experience in Slovakia that had persuaded Owen Cardiff to hire him for the open-hearth. And Mr. Cardiff would be a damn good man to work for, not demanding any more from his workers that he was willing to do himself. Honest, too. Why, he hadn't even had to bribe Mr. Cardiff with $3.00 for his job. And now--

  “Ahoj. Sorry I'm late," Emil yelled above the din. "Did you think the blast furnace had exploded?" Clutching their lunch buckets, they headed home, trudging past the track-tangled yards. Whistles screeched and metal clanged on metal, t
he sounds heightened by the early morning stillness.

  "Blast furnace exploded?" Anton shook his head. "Not funny, Emil. That has happened, you know. I can think of better ways to die."

  Anton pulled his wide-brimmed hat lower on his head to protect his eyes from flying cinders. The sulphur fumes from the blast furnaces made his eyes water, and he quickened his step, wanting to escape the stench. He remained silent for a long while, immeasurably worried that a strike could come very soon, and his job at the open-hearth might be short-lived. Holy Mary, he prayed, please don't let a strike occur.

  Soon, they reached a nameless two-story building where pots and pans and clothes dangled outside, as lifeless and still as the summer air. Basins of water sat outside for the men to wash their hands in after coming home from the mill. The odor of stale urine from the privy wafted in the air, an assault on their nostrils.

  "Home," Anton said with a bitter smile. Maybe his new job would help him escape this slum . . . if the union didn't strike.

  * * *

  In the last week of June, Frick wrote a letter to Robert Pinkerton of the Pinkerton Detective Agency, asking for three-hundred guards as a precaution against interference with his plans to keep the mill open . . . with or without the Amalgamated workers. Within the same week, he made his first menacing move. He had a fence built around the Homestead Steel Works--a dozen feet high, three miles long with three strands of barbed wire stretched on top.

  The workers ridiculed the fence:

  There stands today with great pretense

  Enclosed within a whitewashed fence

  A wondrous change of great import

  The mill transformed into a fort

  * * *

  The mill stood idle now. Henry Clay Frick had shut the mill down, putting hundreds of men out of work. Owen left O'Brien's Tavern with Hugh one sizzling, humid day after both men had downed a shot of whiskey with several other Homestead workers. They headed for home, discussing union strategy as they walked. The railroad tracks glistened like silver in the brilliant sunshine, and he shielded his eyes against the bright light. The air was still and quiet, with scarcely a breeze.

  Owen shot his friend a look of grim purpose. "The sooner we challenge Frick the better we'll be, every worker among us. Time we showed him, and yeah, Carnegie, too, that they can't push us around. Hell, they can't keep the mill closed for long. They need the money. They need us."

  "Correct me if I'm wrong," Hugh said with a wry smile, "but didn't you say a few months ago that the vice chairman might have some tricks up his sleeve?"

  "Maybe I did say that, but now I think it's time we showed him we've got a few tricks, too. Look, we already know he's hired several hundred Pinkerton guards to keep the mill open. Our spies in New York and Chicago have told us that much. So what are we going to do about it? Lay out the red carpet and greet them with a brass band? Hell, no!

  "Listen, Hugh! The Pinkertons will arrive any day now. Let's post lookouts all along the Monongahela and blockade all the roads into Homestead."

  "Good ideas. How about making those suggestions at the union meeting tonight?"

  "I intend to," Owen said. "Two can play this game as well as one. It may be the bottom half of the ninth inning, but the game isn't over yet." Nearing Hugh's house, he stopped and clapped him affectionately on the back. "See you tonight."

  Owen continued up the steep hill, past the ailanthus trees that glistened with a brilliant green after a recent rain, instead of their usual mill-blighted gray. Perspiration banded his collar and trickled down his back, staining his cotton shirt. He rubbed sweaty palms on his corduroy pants as he agonized again if he'd ever be able to leave the mill for good--assuming the labor dispute could eventually be settled. If he couldn't get out of the steel business--if he couldn't attend Western University to study civil engineering . . . He clenched his fists, reluctant to consider how long the mill might be closed before this dispute was ever settled.

  As he reached his house, a stray thought entered his mind, unbidden and unwanted because it caused such pain. Could Lisa be happy here? He cursed himself for such a hopeless thought. She was another man's wife, damn it! And when would he ever realize that Lisa could never be happy married to a steelworker, stuck in a grimy house in a steel town!

  He jerked the front door open and strode into his parlor. The house was rich with the aroma of onion soup Emma had left simmering on the stove, but he had no appetite. He slumped into a chair as memories of Lisa overwhelmed him. He recalled all her sweet, lovely traits that made her so dear to him, that made him want to crush her in his arms, take her to bed. How long could he live without her? He had to see her again. Nothing and no one could keep her from him, now or ever. She was his!

  * * *

  Perched on her desk chair, Lisa looked out from the bedroom window and watched the sky turn from an orangish-rose to lavender to tea color as the last of evening slipped away. A few minutes later, Mary came into the room with a long pole to light each gas jet of the chandelier, a time-consuming and laborious task. Always interested in each member of the household staff, Lisa asked about her family while she worked, then bade her good-night after she finished.

  Time passed, heavy clouds drifting in front of a gibbous moon. Lisa shifted her position and toyed with her fountain pen, every thought on Owen. What in the world was going to happen in Homestead? How would he and all the workers manage now that Frick had closed the mill? Each day the newspapers carried fresh reports and rumors from Homestead, news she read hungrily, always anxious for any news about the mill.

  This much she knew--the situation couldn't continue. The steelworkers wouldn't stand for it. They needed their jobs. Rage and resentment had been building up for a long time, about to explode, like the oppressive heat before an electrical storm.

  Her thoughts segued to her own dilemma. She couldn't--wouldn't--go on with her life as it was. Something had to change. She could no longer stay in this wretched parody of a marriage. As soon as Lawrence returned from New York, she'd make arrangements for a divorce. And after that--

  The door banged back and William barged into the room, disturbing the peaceful silence on this sultry summer evening. Lisa swallowed hard as she threw him a look of pained disgust.

  Hooking his thumb in his vest pocket, he rocked on his heels. "Just think! I'll be away for two weeks." He ran a stubby finger across his mustache. "It's Denver this time, my dear . . . mining stocks."

  Good riddance! Wild, wonderful fantasies rampaged through Lisa's head, every dream centered on Owen. Somehow, she'd see him again--never mind how or where. Now was her chance and she'd make the most of it. Her heart pounded, her pulse racing.

  "Well, I see the prospect of my absence pleases you." He shook his head in mock sorrow. "And here I thought you'd grieve to see me gone." William eyed her keenly. "Or maybe you've taken a lover, my dear wife. I've heard of upper class ladies who've taken lovers. Not too unusual, actually. Is that what makes you so happy?"

  Alarm chilled her stomach, but she recovered quickly. "Nonsense. I was merely thinking about the children at the orphanage, where I spent several hours today. They're such a pleasure, and I flatter myself that they enjoy my company, too."

  "You'd better be telling the truth." His face assumed a look of cruel cunning. "If you're lying . . ."

  "Get your mind out of the gutter, William. Who are you to talk about taking a lover!"

  His eyes narrowed. "So what do you intend to do while I'm gone?"

  As if she needed his company! "Not that it's any of your business, but I may stay with Elizabeth for a few days. She's been asking me to since Lawrence is still in New York."

  William threw her a look of angry disappointment, as though sorry he'd been deprived of an argument. "Very well, then. Just so we understand each other."

  Divorce. Say it now. What can you lose? She took a deep breath. “William, why don’t we divorce? Why–“

  ”What!”

  “Why do we continue with
this charade of a marriage when neither of us is happy?” Her heart pounded, but she would persevere. “Give me a divorce, William.”

  “So you have taken a lover.” He snickered. “I should have known.”

  “No, I haven’t, but you are the last person to accuse me. What do you gain from this marriage? Why continue, when–“

  ”Because that’s how I want it. I need a hostess, someone to help me entertain–“

  ”To make you look respectable when all the time you have your mistresses–“

  ”A man’s prerogative, my dear. It is the way of the world.”

  “And you would condemn us both to unhappiness, rather than obtain a divorce?”

  “You’re the one who is complaining. My life is fine, as it is.”

  After a curt nod, he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Lisa leaned back in her chair, willing the tension from her body. Elbows on her desk, she buried her face in her hands, wanting to weep. But crying would solve nothing, would not deliver her from this appalling excuse of a marriage, nor bring Owen any closer. Sitting up straight, she switched her mind to more positive thoughts. She saw her chance to go to Homestead, no matter how crazy the idea. She sensed--knew--something momentous, something crucial was about to happen there. The word was out that the vice chairman had hired Pinkerton guards to keep the mill open for non-union labor. The Amalgamated would never stand for that, and what would happen then? She didn't know, but she had to be with Owen.

  * * *

  "Homestead!" Elizabeth's eyes widened with shock. "Are you sure you want to go there, Lisa?"