"Right you are," Hugh said with a scowl. "Who needs the National Guard? We don't."
"I have an idea." Owen paused, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Let's go to Harrisburg and try to convince the governor that Homestead doesn't need the militia. You and I can go, along with any other members of the Advisory Committee who'd be willing to. How about it?"
"Sounds like a good idea to me," Hugh said with a slow nod. "Yeah, sounds good."
Owen waved his hand dismissively. "To hell with union business. I read in the Gazette that the Pirates beat the Phillies 5-4. Must have been a good game."
"And we'll beat Carnegie and Frick. All of Pittsburgh backs us. Hell, the whole country is behind us. We can't lose. . ."
Owen met Hugh at the Allegheny County Courthouse a week later, both men having been summoned to preliminary hearings for the murder of the Pinkerton guards. Their footsteps echoed on the marble floor as they approached the steps to the second floor, where Criminal Court was located.
"A damn shame we failed in Harrisburg," Hugh said, mounting the steps. "Looks as if the governor will send the militia to Homestead after all." They turned a corner where a sign pointed to Criminal Court. "And if that isn't bad enough, do you know what else I heard?"
"No need to ask. Some damn fool anarchist tried to kill Frick."
"And didn't succeed," Hugh said with a snort. "So where does that leave us? You know the Amalgamated will get blamed for it."
"It won't help us, that's for certain." Owen sighed. "Let's hope things get better soon. Can they get any worse?"
Chapter Nineteen
“How much longer must we go on like this?” Lisa faced Owen across the table at the hotel restaurant, the same one they’d visited so many months ago, at the time of the Amalgamated Convention. She ignored the talk of other patrons around her, the clink of glass and the aromas of food. “Just the same, I’m thankful for every minute I can spend with you, for whatever time we can have together.” She and Owen had agree ahead of time to meet at this restaurant, while he was out of work and William was at his office. Yet she knew Owen must watch every cent, that there would be precious few times when they could dine together.
He touched her hand, sending a lush tide of longing throughout her body. “If you were my wife now . . .”
She tried to smile. “If I were your wife, we wouldn’t be meeting like this. We’d have a home of our own.”
Owen sat back and sighed. “Ah, will that day ever come?”
“It has to, darling. We must keep our hopes up, must know that some day I’ll be free of William.”
“But how? If he won’t grant you a divorce?”
Lisa ran a hand across her forehead and stopped talking while the waiter left their orders. She dipped her fork in her mashed potatoes, her mind definitely not on food. “Elizabeth and I discussed an annulment, a decree that negates the marriage, as if it never existed.”
“Which is a good description of your marriage. How could I forget the night you first told me about your empty marriage. Do you remember the night of the thunderstorm, when you nursed me after the my accident?”
“How could I forget?” Countless regrets taunted her. She should have surrendered herself to him, should have let him make love to her. Ah, if she could relive that night . . . She snatched her mind back to the topic. “Lawrence told Elizabeth that people who are granted an annulment are treated most unkindly by the press. And that’s putting it mildly. Their names are dragged through the dirt, all their secrets bared. They have no secrets. The reason for their annulment becomes public record.”
“That must not happen to you!” His eyes flashed. “I will not have your name dragged through the mud.”
She dipped her fork in her peas. “But you see the dilemma we are in.”
“I see that I want you so much, Lisa. The waiting is near unbearable.” He caressed her hand.
“The same for me!” Her voice broke and she sought calmness. “You’re all I can think about, night and day, all I want.” She drew a deep breath. “There must be a way for us to find happiness, a way for us to be together, not just in bits and snatches like this, but for all time.”
“And how will that happen, while you remain married to a man who can’t even make you a true wife?” His movements desultory, he cut through a slice of ham, and she knew he couldn’t concentrate on food, either.
“Owen, I’ve been thinking . . .” Could she say it? What would he think?
He looked up. “Yes?”
“What if I moved to Homestead . . .” She paused.
“As my mistress?” He shook his head, an expression of absolute misery on his face. “Darling, it would never do. Don’t ever think Homestead is any more tolerant than Shadyside. It isn’t. Besides, what would your husband do or say about your absence? Just accept it? Or had you forgotten you have a husband?” he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm.
She scoffed. “Forget!” She sipped her tea, giving herself time to think. “I could tell him I’m going to Philadelphia–I have relatives there–and he wouldn’t know the difference. Nor would he care,” she said after a pause.
“But I would care. And Lisa, as much as I love you, as much as I want you, I can not permit you to do such a thing. My neighbors would ostracize you. I fear such a move would bring you nothing but unhappiness.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I just wasn’t thinking. It’s only that I love you so very much.” She crumpled her linen napkin in her lap. “But what are we going to do?”
“We’ll find a way. Sooner or later, William will grant a divorce.”
She knew he spoke with false optimism and feared true happiness would never be theirs. And until union problems were solved and Owen working again, she saw no way he could support her, even if a miracle happened that allowed them to marry.
* * *
"Why in hell did the governor decide to send the militia to Homestead?" Owen asked Hugh on a sweltering summer day. He'd opened every window in his house; still the parlor remained unbearably hot and stuffy. He stretched his long legs out and brushed away a pesky fly that buzzed around his head. "We managed fine without the National Guard. Out of the frying pan into the fire," he said, wanting to forget union problems. If Lisa were with him now, he wouldn't be discussing union affairs. If only he could see her again, touch her, take her into his arms . . .
Hugh stroked his thick mustache. "The militia won't stay long. The people of Homestead won't stand for it. You mark my words. They'll be gone within a few weeks."
Owen scoffed. "I'll believe it when I see it." He mopped his handkerchief across his perspiring forehead, then tucked it in the pocket of his blue serge trousers. "We have enough troubles now. I heard Frick is filling up the mill with more scabs every day. He'll never be able to run the mill with untrained workers."
"Agreed." Hugh lit the cigar with measured calmness, and soon the aroma of cigar smoke filled the air, the smoke drifting upward. "Those scabs don't understand the first thing about steel manufacture. But it's only a matter of time before most of the workers return to the mill--"
"Not the Amalgamated."
Hugh puffed on his cigar. "No, the unskilled. How long do you think they can live on the pittance we give them?"
Owen snorted. "Not long. When the vice chairman opens the mill again, those workers will run back to the mill quicker than you can say 'Benedict Arnold'."
"True." Hugh stood and stretched. "You're right, but the union will win eventually. I fear I must leave now," he said with a self-conscious grin. "My wife will have dinner on soon, and I mustn't be late." He reached for his hat on the parlor table and clamped it on his head, then headed for the front door.
"Did you hear about the fight yesterday?" Owen asked, brushing away the annoying fly again.
Hugh's eyebrows shot up. "Did I hear about the fight! Who would have thought that Jim Corbett would beat John L. Sullivan? Do you see an analogy here?" he asked with a grin.
Owen slap
ped his palm to his forehead. "I knew it! I knew you'd think of that. Yeah, we'll beat Frick, too." He opened the door onto dazzling late afternoon sunlight, the air seeming as hot as the open hearth. A slight breeze carried the scent of freshly-mowed grass and his roses in bloom. Several young boys whizzed past on roller skates, arguing over who'd get to pitch at the softball game that evening.
After watching the boys for a few seconds, Hugh turned back to his friend. "We'll beat them, Frick and Carnegie. Depend upon it." Without another word, he sped out the front door and across the front porch.
Owen closed the door and returned to his seat, determined to forget union troubles. Only Lisa could make him forget the mill and the union, all his thoughts about the future. Only she could drive him crazy with longing, make him happy to be alive. He imagined she were with him now, sitting on his lap, her arm wrapped around his neck. He saw her smile, as if she were smiling just for him, and of course, she would be.
Mentally he undressed her, his eyes closed to heighten his visual enjoyment. He pictured her long hair flowing down her back, his fingers itching to lift each silky strand and kiss it. Above all, he ached to kiss her full breasts and rosy nipples until she moaned with pleasure as she lay beneath him.
Owen shifted his position, wanting her as never before. Lost opportunities taunted him. Last winter, and a play at the Alvin Theater, seeing Lisa there . . . a raging blizzard, a stay overnight at the Hunters. Oh, to turn back the clock . . .To have her in his arms now. And when she had stayed at his house and nursed him after his injury, when she had come into his bedroom. So close, so close! they’d come to making love. But she, a married woman, was untouched, and he mustn’t violate her chastity, not until she was his own. Would that day ever come? Would she ever be his wife? Day after day and night after night, he wondered if his dreams would forever remain out of reach.
Chapter Twenty
October came, bringing drizzly rain and falling temperatures. Lisa pressed her forehead against her bedroom’s cool windowpane and peered at the gray, hazy day where light raindrops misted the pane, turning the houses across the street into vague shadows.
She wrenched away from the window, determined to settle the problem of her marriage once and for all. She couldn't continue to live with William, could no longer endure this parody of a marriage. One frantic idea after another churned in her head, obscuring her sense of reason. Tempted to scream, she decided to look over her jewelry, see how much money she might gain from her fine pieces. She would leave William and find a house for herself, a place where Owen could come see her as often as possible, with no fear of social disapproval. She’d tell her neighbors she would visit an aunt in Philadelphia, and only her housekeeper and Elizabeth and Lawrence would know the truth.
She hated this deceit but what else could she do? Her husband had left her with little choice. Just thinking about William made her head pound and filled her mind with despondent thoughts and recriminations, with a yearning for what might have been. If she had only met Owen first, if she hadn’t been desperate for money to save her mother’s house. She should have opened her own shop, as she’d suggested to her mother. And she certainly should never have worried what friends and neighbors would think if she earned her own money. So, she would make up for past mistakes and leave her husband, be free of his upsetting presence. She would find a place for herself and Owen.
But how can I resist him when we’re alone? she wondered, her thoughts taking her to undreamed of heights, to passionate kisses and lovemaking, to intimacies she could only imagine. How wonderful lovemaking would be with Owen, she thought, wanting him now, this very moment, more than she’d ever thought possible. A rush of warmth washed over her, a desperate need for her beloved. She ached for him and had to brace herself against her dresser, so weak she feared her legs would fail her. She raised her hands to her breasts and caressed them as images of Owen and memories of his touch taunted her. Taking a deep breath, she sank to a chair and strove to drive her yearnings from her mind, because for now, they would gain her nothing.
She looked out the window to find that the rain had stopped and a slow sun paled the sky. Well, she couldn’t sit here all day, she resolved, rising from the chair. Better to accomplish a necessary task.
Relieved with her decision, she retrieved her garnet choker from her jewelry drawer. How much would this fetch? She held it under the lamplight, turning it this way and that to admire the glitter of its crimson beads. She'd tend to that transaction tomorrow, but she had to visit shut-ins today. Clasping the jewelry drawer in both hands, she frowned. Something appeared amiss with the arrangement of her jewelry boxes. Never a stickler for neatness, just the same, she kept her boxes in order. Now it seemed that something was out of place. Perhaps a piece was missing? What piece? Her opal pendant? That was it! Where could it be? Frantically, she rummaged through the boxes but didn’t find it. After looking one more time, she sank down on the bed and closed her eyes in concentration, but no answer came to her. Forget about the monetary value–and that was substantial–it had been a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday. She pressed her hands to her eyes and wanted to cry, with the question of its whereabouts still unresolved. And if the missing opal pendant wasn’t enough of a quandary, she had another problem she must deal with. William would be coming home tomorrow.
* * *
Owen slid his chair back and gazed out his window, arms folded across his chest. After countless minutes, he sighed and turned back to his desk, resting his head in his hands. He thought of his dream of becoming a civil engineer. He wondered if he’d ever achieve his goal, considering all the problems that threatened the Amalgamated and him, personally. What if he never regained his job? What if he had to dip into his savings just to get by from day to day? Oh, to be sure, the union provided living expenses for those who’d lost their jobs, but he agonized over how much longer that money would last. Despair and anger swelled inside him, a fierce combination that made his head pound, his hands shake.
He slammed his fist on the desk. Damn that Frick! The son of a bitch union buster!
Striving for calm, he rolled his desktop down and rose to get a book from his glass-fronted bookcase. He twisted his back from side to side, his muscles cramped from sitting so long. He raised one of the glass doors and withdrew Houston's Principles of Soil Mechanics. Maybe some day he'd teach himself civil engineering. A foolish plan, perhaps, but it wouldn't hurt to be prepared . . . .
The sun was sinking low in a hazy sky when he returned the book to the case. Leaning against the case, he sighed, his murder trial a constant fear. What if the jury found him guilty? He could face death, but a bleak future stretched ahead for Lisa. Even if he didn’t get the death penalty, how would he and Lisa manage if he got life in prison? He couldn’t expect Lisa to stand by him, even if she would be willing.
Memories of Lisa drove all other thoughts from his mind, his beloved, the only woman he’d ever wanted or ever would want. He closed his eyes, recalling everything about her, all the dear and tender traits that made him love her so. He remembered her smile, her touch, that sweet voice of hers that he could never tire of hearing. Everything about her made him want to sing for joy, that this woman had come into his life and that her love matched his. If she were in his arms now, he’d kiss her, caress her, feel her warm breasts and know that no other man had ever touched her as he had, that no other man had ever known any of the joys her body promised. To have her with him now, to hold her in his arms.
He opened his eyes to face desolate reality again, to realize that Lisa might never be his, that he might die before they could ever bring their love to fruition. Lisa, Lisa, I don’t want to live my life without you.
No jury in Pennsylvania would find him guilty, he convinced himself. He was innocent, damn it! The jury wouldn't--
A loud knock on the front door startled him out and sent him rushing downstairs. He opened the door and stared, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. A uniformed poli
ceman faced him, an envelope in his hand. God, almighty!
Distress was plain on the policeman's face. "I have a warrant for your arrest, sir."
"My God! What is it this time?"
Owen stepped onto his front porch and read the warrant. "Treason!" A cool breeze rippled his cotton shirt and lifted his dark hair from his forehead as he tore the envelope open. "How in God's name can I be charged with treason?" he demanded as he glanced up from the paper. The sick feeling intensified, a fear that he would spend the rest of his life in prison, if he wasn’t hanged! His hands shook, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
Staring down at his shoes, the officer shook his head. "I don't draw up the warrants, sir. I only deliver them." He looked neat and professional in his dark blue uniform, his silver badge glinting by the setting sun, but he shifted from one foot to another. "I'm sorry about this, sir."
"Of course." Owen touched the man's shoulder. "Not your fault." Silent for a long moment, he gave the officer a careful look. He tried to calm his frantic heartbeat and clenched his hands at his side to stop their shaking. “Don’t tell me I’m the only one who’s been charged with treason.”
. “No, sir. I’ve delivered several other warrants here in Homestead.” The policeman shuffled his foot on the porch, glancing up and down the long row of frame houses.
“All right,” Owen said with a nod. “I’ll turn myself in shortly, as soon as I take care of some business.” He tried to give the impression of nonchalance, to act as if nothing had changed, as if life would continue as normal.
"Very good, sir." With a nod, the policeman turned away and descended the stairs.
Owen stepped into the parlor and shut the door, his appetite gone. What had prompted this new, inexplicable charge? He dashed upstairs to his bedroom, taking the steps two at a time. After grabbing the dictionary from his bookcase, he leafed through the pages.
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