Marblestone Mansion, Book 7

by Marti Talbott

  “Yes, well,” Claymore continued, trying to get the discussion back on track, “there is nothing good to be said about a union strike.”

  “For which side?” Cameron asked.

  “Both,” Claymore answered. “As you know, after that dreadful accident in our gold mine, we sold it and just in time too. By then, the owners had already granted an eight hour work day in Cripple Creek. Unfortunately, owners in other districts did not do the same, and now what have we? Organized union mutiny.”

  Hannish tried to explain it further, “The Colorado City smelter workers have been on strike since February. The union wants three dollars a day for eight hours, instead of the ten or twelve hour days.”

  “How much do they make now?” Cathleen asked.

  “Some are paid a mere one dollar and eighty cents. Others pay as much as two twenty-five. Of course, the voters approved eight hour days for all workers in November of last year, but we wait still for the legislature to enact it into law,” Claymore added. “According to our constitution, the governor is required to enact the law according to the will of the people, but we suspect he is on the side of the owners, who contribute quite liberally to his campaign.”

  “We must take them a basket,” said Abigail.

  “Who?” and astonished Claymore asked.

  “The wives and children of the striking workers, of course.”

  “My love, we cannot feed the world,” Claymore said. “Let the unions feed them, as they are so fond of promising when they call a strike.”

  “But we must do something,” Abigail argued.

  “Mrs. Whitefield, I beg of you, if you must do something, do it from afar. I am too old to be put upon to rescue you.”

  “Why should we fear them?” Abigail asked. “They are not heathens.”

  “My dear, a man does not know what he is until he is forced to watch his family starve. Promise me, Abigail. Promise me this day, in front of all these witnesses, that you shall stay out of Colorado City.”

  She smiled her sweetest smile. “I promise.”

  The ease with which she agreed made his eyebrows shoot up. He was more than a little suspicious, but he let it go.

  Leesil giggled. “I voted for an eight hour work day.”

  Cathleen’s mouth dropped. “I thought lasses dinna have the right to vote here.”

  “So did I,” Leesil answered, “but ‘twas given before we came to Colorado. ‘Twas Maude Goodwin who enlightened me.”

  Cathleen smiled. “The banker’s wife. I cannae wait to see the members of the sewin’ circle again. I have missed them all so.”

  “As I was saying,” Claymore continued, “the unions promised to provide quite well for the families of the striking workers, paid for with the dues collected from those who still have a job, naturally. Oh, there are some benefits to joining the union, such as knowing your widow and children will be looked after if you die. Not only that, the unions hold yearly balls, picnics, ball games, and they even have clubhouses. It is an elite institution to which only union members may belong.”

  “To tempt the lads to join,” Hannish explained to his wife.

  “Precisely,” said Claymore.

  “Tis the same in Scotland,” Cameron mentioned.

  “Yes, well, it won’t be long now,” said Claymore.

  “Not long for what?” Cameron asked, eating his last bite of roast beef, and his favorite creamed turnips.

  “The union closed down the mines at Cripple Creek in support of the men in Colorado City,” Claymore explained. “The strike cannot last much longer. The owners shall give in, for they cannot do without the income from both Cripple Creek and Colorado City much longer.”

  “More families to feed?” Abigail asked. “How can the unions afford it?”

  “They shall borrow from the banks, I suppose,” said Hannish.

  “Against future union dues, no doubt,” Claymore threw in. “Well, it is no bother of ours.”

  Abigail sighed. “How happy we all are, now that the unions are out of our lives completely.”

  “Indeed we are,” Claymore agreed, covering her hand with his. “Of course, the unions say the owners do not care about the men or their families. The owners have clean, un-callused hands and only care about their ill-gotten gains.”

  Cameron frowned. “Ill-gotten? ‘Tis the owners who must supply all that is needed to make a business successful – keep the books, buy tools, pay wages, and…”

  “Right you are,” Claymore interrupted, “but the man in the mine sees none of that. The cost of railcars needed to haul the ore from place to place alone would astound the average man.”

  “Then you come down on the side of the owners?” Cameron asked.

  “Half and half. I understand the owner’s plight well enough, but Colorado Springs could not boast of so many millionaires if greed played no part in the equation.”

  “We have had a letter from Margaret Ann,” Leesil told her sister.

  Relieved that her sister so expertly changed the subject, Cathleen grinned. “I cannae wait to read it. Do they like Oregon? Are they well?”

  “Aye, but a terrible flood nearly wiped out the town of Heppner. ‘Twas a flash flood no one was expectin’.”

  “Speakin’ of water,” said Cameron. “The London paper reports Amundsen has begun his quest to find a Northwest Passage.”

  “Whatever for?” Abigail asked. She had hardly touched her dinner, but that was not too unusual.

  “To find an easier trade route to the west,” Claymore answered. “As it is, British goods are landed on the east coast and then must be taken by train across this vast land. Sailing, if it is possible, would shorten the time and the expense.”

  “Just now, I am reminded,” Cameron said. He excused himself and left the room.

  “Blair has grown so this past year,” Leesil mentioned as she chose from the dessert tray Brookton held for her. The cherry cobbler looked especially tempting.

  “Aye, and she looks more like her mother every day,” Cathleen said.

  “Do not mention that dreadful woman,” Abigail complained. “The very thought of what she has done to both our families makes me queasy.”

  Cathleen noticed her half-eaten plate. “You are unwell?”

  “Not as long as the duchess keeps completely away from us,” Abigail answered.

  When Cameron came back, he set a bell and a sheathed sword on the table in front of Hannish.

  “What have we here?” Claymore asked.

  “You brought them?” Hannish delightedly asked.

  Cathleen rolled her eyes. “He brought all that he could think of, and then some. He even brought a jar of itchin’ powder from the attic.”

  “Itching powder?” Abigail asked.

  “‘Tis an ancient recipe,” Hannish explained. “I doubt it still works after all these years.”

  “I assure you it does,” Cameron argued. Just thinking about the powder made his arm itch, so he rubbed it.

  “It shall be handy to have…should the British attack again,” Leesil teased.

  “And the bell?” Claymore asked.

  “Tis Uncle’s dead bell,” Hannish answered. He picked up the bell and softly rang it.

  Abigail frowned. “If you ring it, someone dies?”

  “Nay,” Hannish answered. “Tis to rid the place of evil. In days of old, the laird also rang it outside the Keep to let the clan know of a death.”

  “And the sword?” Claymore asked.

  Hannish set the bell down, carefully untied the aged strings, and then just as carefully pulled the sword out of the sheath. The gold blade shimmered in the electric light and brought a smile to Hannish’s face.

  “A golden sword?” Claymore gasped.

  “Aye,” said Cameron, “It was made generations ago for Laird MacGreagor, and then ‘twas lost.”

  Hannish turned to Leesil and grinned. “How he loves tellin’ the story.”

  “Indeed, I do,” Cameron admitted.


  “It does not look lost to me,” said Abigail.

  “Ah, but it has not been seen since Laird Neil MacGreagor hid it behind a false wall in a cottage.”

  Abigail was bewildered. “Yet, here it is.”

  “Aye, but we say ‘tis lost to keep it safe, you see. Many a clan wished to claim it, but once ‘twas lost, there was no cause to fight over it.” Cameron went back to his chair and sat down. “The legend says he that finds it must, with all due haste, take it to the MacGreagor laird.”

  Hannish stood up, held the sword upright and looked all around. “And, accordin’ to the legend, I am to hide it again, but just now, I cannae think where.”

  Mesmerized by the shine, Claymore had not yet taken his eyes off it. “My boy, you may hide it at my house any time you like.”

  “Well, I care not where ‘tis hidden so long as the children cannae find it,” Cathleen muttered.

  “I say we hang it above the paintin’ of Glenartair Castle in the parlor,” said Leesil.

  “Splendid idea,” Cameron agreed.

  Hannish shook his head. “I disagree. In Scotland, a clan’s possession is well respected, but here…”

  “You think Americans would steal it?” Abigail asked.

  “I think they would see only the gold and the money it would bring,” Hannish answered.

  “He is right,” said Claymore. “I best take it home with me.”

  Hannish chuckled. “Perhaps another false wall is in order.”

  “Or a hollow marble post with the lid carefully sealed,” Leesil suggested.

  “My dear,” said Hannish, laying the sword down in the middle of the table, “you are right dead brilliant. No one would ever think to look in a marble stand.”

  CHAPTER 3

  For the servants, the work increased considerably. There were now four MacGreagor adults and four children to care for in the family. At first, young cousins, Blair and Justin spent long hours together playing with Traitor, exploring and trying to stay out of trouble. Justin was four years younger and Blair tired of him before long, but that was to be expected. The babies needed constant care, especially the newborn and Leesil needed time to sleep between feedings, so the servants did their best to work quietly.

  Yet, an enormous house filled with love and laughter was a pleasure, especially for those who were already acquainted with Cameron and Cathleen. From the time Cathleen arrived, the sisters thought nothing of popping into the kitchen to chat with the cooks, snack on whatever was set out for them, and pop right back out again.

  Each time, Elaine was expected to stop what she was doing, stand up if she was sitting, and curtsey to Cathleen, who normally ignored her. It irked Elaine no end, and she did not hold her tongue once they were gone. “They are like children,” she muttered. She was unhappy anyway now that there were more places to set, more laundry to do and far more dishes to wash.

  Exasperated once more, Cook Halen asked, “Must you complain about everything?”

  “Well, they are.”

  Jessie put her hands on her hips. “And they are both feeding babies. They need to eat as often as they like. Be grateful they dinna ring the bell constantly and make you run up and down the stairs.”

  “It would be better than…”

  “Scoot, Missy,” Halen interrupted. “I know you have laundry to do.”

  Elaine huffed and then walked out.

  *

  Each morning, Elaine intentionally neglected to set a place for Mr. Lester, until Cook Jessie finally stood in the doorway and glared at her. Elaine puffed her cheeks and went to get the extra place setting.

  “You best resign yourself to his comin’ each morn,” Jessie said, taking her place behind her chair at the table. It was Cook Halen’s turn to make breakfast. The work was nearly done and all the other servants were already waiting.

  “I might as well,” Elaine admitted, “for you’ll never let me forget, no matter how much I hate the man.”

  “Hate is a bit of a harsh word, lass,” said Dugan. “I say you fancy him and he fancies you.”

  Elaine came back from the kitchen with a platter of Graham Gem muffins, stuck her tongue out at Dugan, and then stood behind her chair. This morning, the cooks were serving her favorite cherry tarts with thick sweet cream and tree ripened apricots. “I’m hungry. Must we always wait for Mr. Lester?”

  “Hush, child,” said Cook Halen, “lest we do not hear him coming and he hears you complaining.”

  “I do not care if he does,” Elaine mumbled. Jessie’s stern look did not go unnoticed, but Elaine only shrugged and looked away.

  It wasn’t long before Halen whispered, “I'll take you home again, Kathleen.” She grinned when, sure enough, she was again right about the song the milkman was singing.

  Brookton stood by the door, opened it right on time, and then relieved Mr. Lester of his three bottles of milk, plus one more just as Cook Halen requested. “Good day to you all,” he said, removing his hat and then taking his place at the table. As they sat, he sat down as well and then scooted his chair forward. He tucked his napkin in place, and then eyed the muffins that were being passed down the other side of the table.

  “Mr. Lester,” Elaine started, “why do you come each morning?”

  The look on his face betrayed his doubt she had any intelligence at all. “To bring the milk, Miss Elaine.”

  “I mean, why…”

  “Elaine, pass the apricots and let Mr. Lester eat in peace,” Jessie scolded.

  “I only wanted to know…” Elaine tried again.

  Jessie tried to interrupt again, but Mr. Lester beat her to it. “Go on, what fascinating question have you to ask me this morning, Miss Elaine?”

  She glanced at Jessie’s frown, noticed everyone was watching her, and decided to ask it a different way. “I wondered…I mean…is it true you are hoping to find a wife?”

  “Well now, I see that cat is out of the bag. Indeed I am, Miss Elaine, but not just any wife will do.”

  “What sort of wife do you want?” Gretchen asked, ignoring Shepard’s searching eyes. Gretchen wore her golden hair in two braids with ribbons tied on the ends. She had a pleasant face, a soft voice and when she first came, rarely spoke unless spoken to. These days, she didn’t seem to have a shy bone in her body.

  Mr. Lester took a bite of muffin, thoughtfully chewed and swallowed before he answered. “I desire an honest wife, and I’ll have no other. If she can cook, so much the better, and if I see she will be a good mother, then she is the wife for me.”

  “You care not what she looks like?” Elaine probed.

  “Well, I do hope she keeps herself as presentable as you do, Miss Elaine.”

  Elaine was not pleased with his comment and it showed in her disgusted expression. “Presentable, am I?”

  “Not all women are beautiful and not all men are handsome. Yet, it has been my experience there is someone for everyone in this world.”

  The servants continued eating their breakfast, but none of them said a word. If he meant to insult Elaine by not commenting on her good looks, his expression did not show it, but it wasn’t hard to tell Elaine took it that way. For once, she had nothing to say in return, and instead, concentrated on her tart.

  “I agree,” Gretchen said at length. “Do you attend the town dances, Mr. Lester?”

  The milkman grinned from ear to ear, “I do indeed. The Labor Day dance is coming up soon, Miss Gretchen. If you are of a mind, I’d be pleased to take you.”

  “She is spoken for,” Shepard blurted out. He stood up, left his breakfast on his plate and headed for the door. “You have gone too far this time, Gretchen.”

  Taken aback, Mr. Lester looked from face to face. “I would not have asked if…”

  “Pay him no mind, Mr. Lester,” Gretchen comforted. “However, if it upsets him that much, I best refuse your kind offer. I’d not like seeing the household in disarray.”

  “I quite understand.” Adam Lester took a second muffin and passed the
platter to Prescot.

  “Mr. Lester,” Butler Prescot asked, “have you heard about the train station bell?”

  “I was there, and I do not mind saying I had a good laugh over it. Mr. Merth pulled the rope, as he always does when the train arrives, and it fell to the ground.”

  “The bell?” Elaine asked.

  “No, the rope,” he answered without even looking at her. “The railroad is sending a new bell in a day or two, if the rail workers here do not go on strike.”

  “What could anyone want with all those bells?” Dugan asked.

  “I suspect the strikers are stealing them,” Mr. Lester answered, “and who can blame them? Once you sell all you have to feed a family, thievery is the only other choice.”

  Prescot nodded. “Makes as much sense as anything we have guessed.”

  “Do you deliver to Colorado City?” Dugan asked.

  “No one does just now. It is too dangerous,” Mr. Lester answered. “Where might that pretty wife of yours be this morning, Mr. Dugan?”

  “She is helpin’ with the babies so Miss Leesil can rest. The little one was fussy all night again.”

  “That reminds me,” Elaine said, “how is the Crestwood baby?”

  Mr. Lester raised an eyebrow and looked directly at her. “A civil question, Miss Elaine? I am astonished.”

  She rolled her eyes, lowered her gaze and took another bite of her muffin.

  “Since you asked, the poor lad passed in his sleep last night and his mother cannot be consoled.”

  “Oh,” was all Elaine said.

  He turned his attention to Prescot. “Will you tell Mrs. MacGreagor? I have already said to Mrs. Whitfield – the Crestwoods cannot afford the burying box and I was hoping…”

  “You have a kind heart, Mr. Lester. Of course, we shall see to it, if we have to make the box ourselves,” said Prescot to the nods of the other men. For a time, it was silent as everyone contemplated the loss of yet another child to tuberculosis.

  Finally, Shepard asked, “Any other news this morning?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. Mr. Green’s milk cow is missing her bell this morning.”