Valentines Heat II Read online

  CHAPTER THREE

  February, 1790

  Dear Toby,

  I’d be honored to still call you friend. It was furthest from my intent to hurt you. The fault is entirely mine for having you think my affection for you is anything less than you believed. But marriage? I confess to having entertained the thought, but it still seemed too soon after Robert’s death.

  Had you stayed, you might have persuaded me, but after this time apart, should you ask again I can now answer without divided loyalties.

  Thank you for the sketch of St. Paul’s Cathedral. It hangs framed in the parlor.

  As to your none-too-subtle enquiry, Mr. Neville is on the road plying his trade elsewhere. I don’t expect to see him until spring.

  Now it is my turn to offer unsolicited advice. Please take care of your friend, James. He seems lost. Far be it from me to school you on women, but beware this Lady Abigail. Women have weapons you men have utterly no defense against!

  Yours,

  Ann

  Thirty-three Months Earlier

  July 1787

  The letter came a month ago to let her know the date of the inquest. It came from James Mitchell’s solicitors. It was formally written and addressed to the Widow Sellars.

  She cried that day, seeing such a bold declaration of her state. Robert may be buried and she arrayed in black, but it was still a playact, a thing not yet real.

  A second letter accompanied the first.

  Dear Mrs. Sellars,

  On behalf of the Honorable James Mitchell, Esq. and myself, please accept once again our condolences and sincere regret at your husband’s death.

  I humbly request that should you be in any need, you contact us at your earliest convenience.

  Yours faithfully,

  Tobias Jackson

  * * *

  “You can’t mean to go?”

  “Why, it would be too upsetting for you!”

  “Why not accept Reverend Greenwood’s offer to go in your stead? Constance has.”

  Ann looked at the well-meaning church ladies’ group one by one until her eyes fell on Connie Peterson, a young woman of her age, but a fragile little thing, prone to burst into tears at the slightest provocation, as she did now. Her pretty blonde curls bobbed and trembled under her black lace veil. She too had been widowed in the mine explosion.

  “I appreciate your kindness, truly I do,” Ann began. How could she make them understand that she had to be mistress of her own destiny for her son’s sake? For her own sake.

  Her beautiful little boy was such a comfort. Although he had only just turned three years old, he too mourned his father. There were nights he wouldn’t settle and became fractious. Ann would hold him for hours, singing and rocking him to sleep.

  Then there were the days when she felt overwhelmed by grief, and Andrew would look at her with his big, blue eyes and rush over to hug her tight. Darling, darling boy.

  Another month passed, and Ann accepted the offer from Reverend Greenwood to accompany her to the Savoy, the largest hotel in town and the only one suitable for the inquest’s number of witnesses and interested parties.

  She sat at the back of the room with the only other woman in attendance. Mrs. Morrow, an older woman with thin, bright white hair, was already a widow of many years. She had not lost her husband to the mine but to his unsteady saddle and one drink too many. She was accompanied by her eldest son, a man himself approaching middle age, there to hear of the last moments of her youngest son’s life.

  The inquest was convened to settle the facts surrounding the explosion, apparently caused when a lamp ignited firedamp in the new branch. Evidence was heard from the men who survived the blast and escaped the subsequent cave-in. Witnesses described the scene afterward as chaotic and dire. But witness after witness praised the bosses who worked shoulder to shoulder with the rescuers and did not hesitate to venture first into the most unstable areas. An engineer from Valentine Mine testified that the Penventen pit was usually safe and the miners well trained and equipped. Mine explosions, he said, were unpredictable and unavoidable, firedamp often being found in new explorations.

  The magistrate, having heard the evidence, announced the verdict.

  Twelve men working the Penventen Mine had lost their lives in an industrial accident. Special commendation was given posthumously to Robert Andrew Sellars and Wallace Morrow, whose swift and decisive actions in the immediate aftermath of the blast saved the lives of another thirty men at the cost of their own, which were lost in the subsequent roof collapse. The Penventen Mine would be allowed to reopen as soon as it was safe to do so.

  A few people recognized Ann and offered their condolences, reiterating their respect and admiration for her husband. She nodded politely and accepted their words with quiet thanks.

  She watched the room slowly empty, waiting for Reverend Greenwood to finish a conversation with another family. Spotting James Mitchell, she watched him approach and speak to Mrs. Morrow and son. She couldn’t hear the exchange, observing only that while he spoke, the son’s posture changed from stiff and hostile at the beginning to relaxed enough at the end to accept an outstretched hand of conciliation.

  “How are you bearing up, Mrs. Sellars?” Ann started and turned to the voice. Toby Jackson stood there, freshly shaven and clean this time, dressed in a dark grey jacket and breeches with polished, black boots. He fingered his gloves as though nervous.

  “Quite well, under the circumstances, Mr. Jackson,” she answered. “Hearing my husband died saving others has given me some comfort.”

  Jackson hesitated. “I’ve become aware that you have no other family to speak of. I meant what I said in the letter. If I can…that is, if Mr. Mitchell and I can be of service…”

  His awkwardness made her feel less so. For the first time in more than two months, a smile edged her lips.

  “Thank you, sir, your generosity already has you both in my prayers. Every time I go to purchase anything, I find my account is already paid.”

  Jackson dipped his head, and Ann thought he might be hiding a blush.

  “You weren’t supposed to notice.”

  “Ah, but I do notice when accounts are delivered with ‘paid in full’ written across them. As a widow, I have to notice these things now, don’t I?”

  “Well, that brings me to another matter.”

  Ann bristled. Surely the man could not be so uncouth as to demand a return on his generosity. James Mitchell came to his rescue.

  “Mrs. Sellars.” He bowed formally. “In no way can we compensate you for the loss of your husband or your child’s father, but we would like to settle a sum upon you. An amount of two hundred dollars in his name.”

  It was Ann’s turn to flush. “That’s an extraordinarily generous sum.”

  James neither agreed nor disagreed. Both men looked at her soberly, expectantly, waiting for her acceptance.

  “The account is in your name at my bank,” he told her. “Some of the other widows have already withdrawn the compensation and moved away to join family.”

  “Have you helped with those arrangements too?” Ann queried.

  The two men glanced at one another but stayed silent. Despite the words of the coroner absolving them from blame, it was clear these two felt deep guilt and heavy responsibility for their men.

  Ann regarded them closely. They were but two young men, only a few years older than herself, but they looked as lost as she. They seemed defeated, even a little sorry for themselves.

  Ann’s pity for them withered even as it blossomed. Why should she feel sorry for them? She was the one who had lost her husband. She was the one forced to raise a boy on her own. She looked James Mitchell and Toby Jackson in the eye.

  “I appreciate your sympathy, gentlemen, but remorse and money are a poor substitute for a loving husband and father, so stop feeling sorry for yourselves. Better that you accept the coroner’s verdict as I have and go back to work.”

  The men were taken aback, and
Ann continued before either interrupted her.

  “This town needs you. The men who rely on the jobs you create need you, and all their families ask is that they are as safe as they can be. We women aren’t fools—we know it’s dangerous work.”

  Her strong words seemed to be having an effect. James Mitchell frowned but Toby Jackson held her eye, and she was sure she didn’t imagine him squaring his shoulders.

  “Mr. Mitchell, Mr. Jackson,” she said, “you would honor my husband’s memory more if you made Penventen Mine the most profitable and safest mine in Pennsylvania. I want something I can point out to my son and tell him his father made that happen.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  May, 1790

  Dear Ann,

  Dare I hope from your reply that should I ask again for your hand, I might receive a more favorable answer?

  Please don’t say anything now. That can wait until I return. Regarding that, however, I have some bad news. My return will be delayed.

  We had hoped to have concluded our business and be already on our way home to Pittsburgh, but James has been called for assistance by a friend, and I must stay with him. I am afraid I cannot explain more; it is something of a confidential matter.

  Meanwhile, James is also still tolerating the attentions of Lady Abigail despite my best advice as his friend. Better news, however, is that James has recently struck up a business association with a merchant fleet owner, a Mr. William Rosewall. Mr. Rosewall has a sister, Selina, about whom there’s much to admire. I suspect she is sweet on James. I wish James would notice her instead of Lady Abigail!

  Enough gossip. As per your request, I have dispatched a shipment of Worcester porcelain for your stock. My apologies—Royal Worcester porcelain, if you please. Who would have thought people back home would be willing to pay double for chinaware simply because its town of manufacture was recently visited by a king we rebelled against? But you always did have an eye for the latest fashion, my dear Ann.

  Speaking of which, I have included in the shipment case several of the latest editions of The Lady’s Magazine. I draw your attention to the March edition and challenge you to imagine the Brewer sisters in the hat illustrated on page sixteen.

  Yours always,

  Toby

  London, May 1790

  * * *

  Twenty-five Months Earlier

  14 February 1788

  It was Ann’s first month in half-mourning. The New Year had brought changes. She could no longer sit at home doing nothing, and the idea of permanently existing on the charity of others was unconscionable.

  Since Christmas she had been helping out old man Ebenezer at his small mercantile. The man was nearing seventy years, and with every passing day he seemed more frail and forgetful. Mrs. Greenwood, the reverend’s wife, suggested he would appreciate the assistance of a trustworthy woman to help him out at the store, and offered to put in a word for her.

  Ann was thrilled with the idea. The work wasn’t demanding for a young woman, and best of all, it allowed her to earn an income without touching the compensation money at Penventen’s bank. After her first week at the store, it became evident why Mrs. Greenwood had made the introduction.

  The man was nearly blind and his accounts were a mess. Too many people were on credit and taking too long to pay. By Ann’s reckoning, nearly five hundred dollars were owed. By keeping the cash flowing, she could begin to negotiate better terms with the suppliers. The old man was glad of the assistance. The next Saturday afternoon, after the doors were closed at the end of that first week, Ebenezer admitted he was too old for the business and would love nothing better than to enjoy his final years with his granddaughter in Philadelphia.

  That was the reason Ann now stood outside the offices of the Penventen Mining Company. She brushed a few late season snowflakes off her cloak and rehearsed her speech one more time. Her audacious plan would not work without the support of the men inside. Could she play on their sense of honor? She did so hope she hadn’t extinguished that flame after the inquest.

  The door opened with a tinkle of bells. At the nearest of three desks, a young clerk looked up and rapidly stood at the sight of a lady in the doorway.

  “I wish to see Mr. Mitchell and Mr. Jackson.”

  The lad blinked uncomprehendingly for a moment, seemingly dumbfounded by the appearance of a woman in such a male place of work, and then recovered his powers of speech.

  “Ah, Mr. Mitchell is up at the workings. Mr. Jackson is here,” he stammered out.

  Exhibiting more courage than she actually felt, Ann raised her chin. “Then I shall see Mr. Jackson. Tell him Mrs. Sellars wishes to speak with him.”

  The young man stared for a moment longer, forcing her to raise an imperious eyebrow at him. At that moment, the young man was saved; Toby Jackson walked out of an inner office.

  “Chester, can you—” He stopped as he saw the other person in the room. Several expressions crossed his features. Surprise? Pleasure? Interest? Ann didn’t know him well enough to tell which, and the polite, formal mask she recognized from the inquest returned to his face.

  “Mrs. Sellars! An unexpected pleasure. How might I be of service?”

  Ann decided to take a different approach with him than the others she’d spoken to about this matter. This time, she would be direct. “I have a business proposition to discuss.”

  The expression of surprise on his face was unmistakable this time. Impatience ticked through her as she waited for the polite condescension, the dismissal of her because of her sex. Instead, Jackson’s eyes turned to his secretary.

  “Copy this document and get it to the postmaster this afternoon.” When the lad hesitated, Jackson’s voice firmed. “Today, Chester.”

  Jackson turned to her, and a warm genuine smile lit his grey eyes. “Mrs. Sellars, shall we discuss business in my office?” She dipped her head and, shifting her trim leather satchel to her right hand, followed his direction.

  His office was not what she expected. Dominating one wall was a framed topographical map of Pittsburgh and its three rivers, the Monongahela, the Allegany and the Ohio, with the Penventen Mine on Coal Hill bounded in red ink. There was his desk and two chairs for visitors, and a filing drawer. However, a part of the room was curtained off, hiding, she suspected, a cot. Her suspicion was based on the presence of a travelling trunk beside the curtain, adding an odd touch of domesticity to a room otherwise all business.

  To cover her nervousness, Ann commented, “Do you not have a home to go to, Mr. Jackson?”

  He looked around as if noticing the dichotomy of his furnishings for the first time. When he turned to face her, it was with a wry smile. “The last eight months have been difficult for all.” He did not elaborate, this time deliberately appearing to note her grey half-mourning dress as he bade her sit.

  “You’re looking well, Mrs. Sellars, but it’s not pleasantries you’re here to exchange. You said you have business to discuss.” He stopped and frowned. “Is it your son? Is he well? Or are you in financial difficulties? You can still draw on your settlement. I am aware it’s not yet touched.”

  Ann recognized times were still hard for the company, even though she knew the mine had reopened at the beginning of the year, and the first order of coal was now making its way down the Ohio River to West Virginia.

  “I wish to buy the Main Street Mercantile,” she said simply and was a little disappointed when surprise colored his eyes. Ann told herself she should have anticipated his response; it would be the same as the others.

  “What do you know about running a business?”

  “A woman can’t run a business on her own.”

  “Leave that sort of thing to the men. You have a son to raise.”

  She steeled herself.

  “The mercantile isn’t profitable,” Jackson frowned. “Stock sits there for months.”

  “It could be profitable if properly managed. Mr. Ramsay is elderly and tired. He doesn’t have the vigor to chase accounts or n
egotiate with vendors. Cash flow has improved by nearly twenty percent since I took over the accounts. I know with full control, I can pay Mr. Ramsay full value for his business and turn a profit for myself in six months.”

  “What’s the stock-on-hand value?”

  She told him and noted yet another hint of surprise in his eyes at the immediacy of her answer, surprise that gave way instantly to admiration.

  He smiled almost imperceptibly, and then his expression was lost as he volleyed a series of questions—the level of debt to creditors, the balance sheet, the debtors’ list. Ann warmed to his inquiries, returning each with thorough, detailed answers, not needing to reference the papers in her satchel. This was her passion. She was sure she could make it work and was conceited enough to believe she had convinced Jackson of the same when her answers were met with an encouraging grin.

  It threw her off balance.

  He was a very handsome man.

  The revelation hit her like the icy winds that blew down from the Great Lakes. She had not considered anything of the sort before. The pain of Robert’s death had lessened—especially as she busied herself in running the mercantile—but could she be ready to look at another man and think of such things?

  Too soon! her mind screamed. She tamped down the stirrings of attraction. Instead she licked her dry lips and took a deep breath. She was are here on business.

  “I have documentation and a business plan projected to two years,” she told him, ignoring the way his eyes encouraged her to think in directions far from business-like.

  A hint of a smile played around his mouth. “You’re very well prepared.”

  Ann frowned. “Do you wish to see the numbers?”