Song of the Spirits (69 page)

Elaine directed Banshee to walk the entire way, but she did not manage to avoid every pothole in the dark. Even in his unconscious state, Timothy cried out softly every time, and Elaine gradually came to understand why Berta Leroy had insisted on transporting him that night. As the men carried Timothy into the doctor’s office, Elaine took care of the horses. She followed the Leroys into the house once Banshee and Fellow were contentedly munching on hay.

“Can I help with anything else?”

Berta Leroy cast an appraising eye over the petite girl in her soiled riding dress. Though Elaine looked pale and deathly tired, she had a look in her eyes that told Berta she would not be getting any sleep over the next few hours anyway. Berta herself, however, needed a bed. She would sleep like a rock.

“You can stay by his side, dear,” she said after thinking it over briefly. “Someone should be there when he wakes up. Nothing can happen. His life’s not in danger. And if something comes up, just wake us.”

“What do I do when he wakes up?” Elaine asked hesitantly, following the doctor’s wife into the sickrooms.

Timothy lay motionless on one of the beds.

Berta shrugged. “Talk to him. Give him something to drink. And if he’s in pain, he should take this.” She indicated a cup filled with a milky liquid next to a water carafe on the nightstand. “He’ll go back to sleep again soon after that. It’s strong medicine. Just encourage him a little.”

Elaine pulled a chair up to the bed and lit the lamp on the little night table. Berta had already turned off the main light. Not that Elaine would have minded sitting in the dark. But when Timothy woke up, it shouldn’t be dark. She still had Roly’s words in her ear:
He moaned and talked about how dark it was.

Timothy looked exhausted. Elaine only then realized how sunken his cheeks were, how dark the circles around his eyes. And the coal dust was everywhere. Elaine took a washbowl that she found in the room and poured some water into it. Then she washed the dust out of the corners of his eyes and ran the washcloth gently over all the lines that made his face look so rakish when he laughed. She was fastidious
about touching him only with the cloth. She reeled back as though struck by lightning when her fingers inadvertently stroked his cheek.

She had not touched a man since those horrifying nights with Thomas, nor had she even been alone with one. Certainly not at night in a dark room. She had never wanted to do such a thing again. But now she almost smiled, thinking about her fears. Timothy presented no danger at the moment. And Timothy’s face felt pleasant. His skin was warm, dry, a little raw.

Elaine set the cloth aside and tentatively ran her hand over his forehead, his eyebrows, his cheeks. As she brushed the hair out of his face, she learned how soft it was. Finally, she played her fingers over his hands as they lay still on the sheet. Strong, sunbrowned hands capable of a firm grip. Yet she also recalled how lightly he’d held Fellow’s reins during the race. Timothy’s fingers were dark from coal dust, his nails broken off. Had he actually tried to dig out the buried men with his own hands?

Elaine stroked the backs of his hands. She finally took his right hand—and issued a muffled cry when his fingers closed around hers. It was madness, she knew, but even his weak grip was enough to make her draw her hand away and leap up, out of reach.

Her cry caused Timothy to open his eyes.

“Lainie…” he said quietly. “I’m dreaming. Who just screamed? The boy?” Timothy looked around, confused.

Elaine chided herself for her nonsensical reaction. She stepped closer and increased the lamp’s brightness.

“No one screamed,” she said. “And the boy is safe. You… you’re in Greymouth at the Leroys’. Matt Gawain dug you out.”

Timothy smiled. “And you took care of me.”

With that, he closed his eyes again. Elaine reached for his hand. This time she would hold it tight until he awoke again, and then she would smile at him. She needed to master her absurd fear. She must only take care not to fall in love again.

Morning had just begun to dawn the next time Timothy gained consciousness. Elaine was no longer holding his hand, having fallen asleep in the armchair. She started awake when he said her name. A male voice that ripped her from her sleep. It had always begun that way when Thomas… But this was not Thomas Sideblossom’s hard, domineering voice. Timothy’s voice was higher pitched, kinder, and—at the moment—very weak. Elaine managed to smile at him. Timothy winked in the morning twilight.

“Lainie, can you… do you mind… the window… light.”

Elaine turned the wick of the lamp.

“The curtains.” Timothy’s hand twitched on the sheet as though he wanted to open them himself.

“It’s still quite dark outside,” Elaine said. “But it will soon be morning. The sun is rising.”

Nervously, she got up and drew the curtains aside. The early light of morning cast a weak glow into the room.

Timothy blinked. His eyes were inflamed from the coal dust.

“I was thinking I’d never see you again, or the sun… Lainie?” He tried to move, but winced with pain. “What am I missing?” he asked quietly. “It hurts like hell.”

Elaine sat down again and reached for his hand. Her heart was beating wildly, but Timothy enclosed her fingers very carefully.

“Just a few broken bones,” she claimed. “Here, if you… if you drink this here…” She reached for the glass on the night table.

Timothy tried to sit up and reach for it, but even the smallest movement sent pain shooting through his body. Though he held back a cry with some effort, he could not suppress a small whimper of pain. Elaine saw drops of sweat on his forehead.

“Wait, I’ll help you. You need to lie there without moving.” She carefully slid a hand beneath his head, raising him lightly, and put the cup to his lips. Timothy drank with effort.

“That tastes terrible,” he said, trying to smile.

“But it will help,” she said.

Timothy lay still and looked out the window. He couldn’t see much from his bed, not much more than the silhouettes of the mountains,
one or two roofs, and a headframe tower. But it was getting light quickly.

Elaine washed the sweat from his brow.

“In a moment, it won’t hurt anymore,” she said, trying to comfort him.

Timothy looked at her inquisitively. She was keeping something from him. But she was there. He opened the hand he had balled into a fist at the rush of pain and held it out to her.

“Lainie, even if it isn’t bad, it feels pretty bad. Could you… could you maybe just hold my hand again?”

Elaine blushed but laid her hand in his. And then they watched in silence as an exceptionally beautiful sunrise bathed the town outside the window, first in fiery reds and then in radiant sunlight.

T
he sun rose over a shaken, grieving town. The citizens of Greymouth, including the traders and artisans who had no connection to the mine, seemed worn out and disheartened. Life went on in fits and starts, but it was as though the people and vehicles were moving in a thick fog.

Most of the private mines did not close, however. And the workers who had helped dig the day before had to enter their own mines again unless they wanted to forfeit their meager pay. Profoundly exhausted, they signed in for their shifts and could only hope that an understanding foreman assigned them to an easy job or put them to work aboveground.

Matt and his colleagues, however, did not want to stay aboveground. If the men remained idle too long, the images of the victims would sear into their minds, and they would fear the mine from that point on. A few men always quit after mining accidents, but the majority continued to enter the mine day after day, some of them full of fear, though few would admit as much. Most of these men came from generations of mine workers. Their fathers and grandfathers before them had toiled in the mines of Wales, Cornwall, and Yorkshire, and their sons would enter for the first time at thirteen. All the Paddys, Rorys, and Jamies could not imagine anything else.

Matt and his people dug the last corpses out that day. It was a demanding and arduous job, but there were still women and children in front of the mine waiting for a miracle.

The pastor attempted to stand with them while simultaneously trying to make arrangements for the sixty-six dead. He sent the ladies of the women’s association to visit the families of the dead—and pacified
them when they returned afterward, horrified at the conditions of the miners’ residences. The grime, the poverty, and neglected-looking children were all conditions for which Greymouth’s matrons held the miners’ paltry wages and the cupidity of the mine owners less responsible than the miners’ wives’ lack of domestic skills.

“No sense of aesthetics whatsoever!” Mrs. Tanner exclaimed, becoming riled. “And yet you can make even the poorest shack cozy if you only place a cushion here and there and sew some curtains.”

The pastor held his tongue and thanked heaven for Madame Clarisse, who was offering meaningful assistance to the two widows who had once worked for her as prostitutes. She loaned them both money for the burial, then promised the younger one another job in the pub and the older one, who had three children hanging from her apron strings, a position in the kitchen. Clarisse’s girls also helped identify the dead who did not have any family. The parish would have to scrape together the money to bury almost half the victims. In addition, their affairs needed to be placed in order and their relatives in Ireland, England, and Wales identified and informed. It would be difficult, tedious, and bitter work.

More than anything, however, the pastor dreaded visiting Marvin Lambert. Whether the man liked it or not, he needed to take some responsibility for the victims’ families. The women and children needed support. Of course, Nellie Lambert would likely be mourning only the great calamity that had befallen her own family—this despite the fact that the younger Lambert’s life was no longer in danger, according to Dr. Leroy. The pastor had taken a detour through town specifically to ask about Timothy.

“Naturally, anything could still happen,” the pessimistic doctor informed him. “He’ll be in bed for quite a while, which promotes lung infections. Nevertheless, he’s a strong young man.”

When he arrived at the Lamberts’ home, the pastor did not bother with lengthy explanations, and instead simply attempted to placate Nellie Lambert with the news that her son was doing well under the circumstances. The message did not get through to her, however, and Marvin Lambert likewise proved unreasonable.

“Let’s await the results of the investigative committee first,” he grumbled. “I’m not going to promise anyone money before that. That would be an admission of guilt. We can consider a donation fund later.”

The pastor sighed and hoped to be able take care of the most urgent expenses with the collection. The ladies of the parish were already fervently planning the first bazaars and picnics to raise funds in addition to taking up their own collections.

The mining authority didn’t take long to appear—in fact, the inspectors arrived at the very moment that Matt Gawain, after working for two days straight without a break, was about to finally go home to bed. Instead, he led the men through the mine and he did not mince words. Though the final report chastised the mine operator for a lack of safety precautions, it found that he had not flagrantly violated the standard regulations. The new air shaft that he had so reluctantly granted Timothy—and to which he owed his son’s life—had saved him in that respect as well. Only a small monetary fine was levied, because the mining teams were insufficiently equipped.

Marvin Lambert went into a rage when he read that, as the inspectors could not have known that from their tour of the mine. Someone had talked—he suspected Matt Gawain—and naturally, Marvin was indignant. He threatened to let Matt go several times, not seeming to recognize how much the prospect of losing Matt frightened his remaining workers.

“Many of them are already asking about work in the other mines,” Matt complained. He had finally gotten some sleep and was visiting Timothy before returning to work. “Until now, I never really noticed, but your father lives in another world.”