The Trainmasters Read online

  “You know, Teresa O’Rahilly,” Graham said to her when he had pried out of her all that he could manage at one sitting, “you are a most unusual and amazing woman.” She beamed at that, so shyly and self-consciously, so distinctly different from the carefully orchestrated act that she had tried to put on for him the day before, that Graham’s mind was left in a spin. “Would you like to join another theatrical company?” he asked. “Would you like to act again?”

  “There’s nothing I want to do more,” she said with quiet intensity.

  “If your performance yesterday is any indication of your talent, you could be a leading lady in London.” He said this to her lightly, but Teresa did not respond in kind. She caught his eye, and then her shoulders drooped and eyelids closed in resignation and hopelessness.

  “Why don’t you try?” he persisted.

  Her eyes flashed with anger. “Have you ever been Irish?” she spit out. “And a woman?”

  “But you have a brother, Egan,” Graham said, choosing to ignore her outburst. “Why can’t the two of you—”

  “Egan hates me,” she interrupted. Then she threw up her hands, imploring him. “Please, Graham! Please talk about something else.”

  But Graham would not be shaken from the track he was on. “Do you really believe that his hostility to you can be permanent?”

  She nodded. Her face flushed, and she turned away from him.

  “But you aren’t certain that he will ever forgive you?”

  She nodded again, with her face still turned. “He has a soul of iron,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” he said kindly, thinking of his own father’s attitude toward him, “but I understand.”

  They saw that night an operetta called Clari, or the Maid of Milan, with a script by John Howard Payne and a score by Sir Henry Rowley Bishop. Clari had first been performed at London’s Covent Garden Theater nearly thirty years earlier, but it remained popular with theatergoers, especially in America, Payne’s home country.

  The play itself was about a beautiful, rustic lass Clari, who so attracted the eye of the wandering traveler Duke Vivaldi that he was overwhelmed with love for her. Promising her his hand, he took Clari back to his palace. There the girl was surrounded by luxuries. But even so she grew increasingly disconsolate. She had been deceived, and even worse, she was homesick for her family and her rustic village.

  The duke showered rich gifts upon her—gowns, jewels, the frilliest of Paris bonnets—everything a young beauty could possibly desire, except matrimony. But Clari only pined away. Finally, left alone in a magnificent apartment of the palace, she sadly sang the operetta’s famous aria, and then intermission soon followed.

  Graham had not much liked the play so far. He thought it was silly and unreal, and thus he felt superior to it. But when the lights came up, he saw that Teresa’s face was flushed with emotion and her eyes were bright with tears. When Clan sang “Home sweet Home,” Teresa’s hand had reached over the arm rest between their seats and firmly gripped his. And after the curtain fell, she did not let his hand go or rise to her feet, even as the others in their row of seats tried to pass her.

  “Tess,” he said, shaking her hand gently, “let the others pass.”

  She looked at him, released his hand, and stood up mechanically, like a windup toy. “I’m sorry,” she said automatically as the other people slipped by her. Then she came to her senses and gave Graham a wide smile.

  “You like Clarit he asked, making a strong effort to sound indifferent. But he could not succeed in hiding his dislike for the play itself. Teresa caught the distaste in his voice.

  “You’re not enjoying yourself,” Teresa said.

  “I like it well enough,” he said without conviction.

  “I adore it,” she said, turning to face him, and then raising her hands and laying them upon his shoulders. “It’s beautiful. She is so beautiful. And the duke so thick and empty of feeling.” She took his hand again. “Why don’t you like it?”

  Graham smiled. “Don’t let me spoil your pleasure,” he said, trying to dismiss her question.

  She looked at him. Her face was full of dismay at his insensitivity. But he was full of the arrogance of his own youthful opinions.

  “You don’t sympathize with Clari?” she asked.

  “Sympathize with Clari? I guess,” he said, “that if I liked her, I might sympathize with her. But to me she is empty-headed and weak. And you?”

  “Naturally I like Clari, and I sympathize with her. She is a lovely, sweet, and innocent girl who is held by the duke against her will. She is so lonely. And so bereft. And she has a home, Graham, a home and family to return to, people who would take her in and cherish her, if he would only let her! Or else, if the duke would only really take her in, marry her, accept her in his heart, then both of them could be truly happy.”

  “Home?” He was confused. “What does her home have to do with anything? How does that matter?”

  “It does, Graham! Don’t you see? Clari has a home, and a family… and I don’t! Do you know what it means, Graham, not to have a home?”

  Graham saw a depth of longing in her eyes that he had never seen before. But he didn’t know how to interpret what he saw. Teresa baffled him right now. What was going on within her? And how could they each be seeing such a different play? But especially, how could she have an opinion different from his? How could she, a woman, be so argumentative? That disturbed him very much.

  He didn’t know what to do about it, however, so he did nothing. Or rather, he tried to change the subject.

  “The duke would not make the same mistake with you, would he?” Graham chuckled.

  “No,” Teresa said fervently, deliberately missing his meaning. “I would never make that mistake with a man like him.” She looked away from Graham for a time, gazing at the closed stage curtain, lost in thought.

  At that moment, Graham suddenly realized that he had just caused her great pain, and he was deeply shamed. He looked around the auditorium, angry and disgusted at himself for his callousness toward her.

  When I play cards, he thought, can conceal my feelings. But with this girl, I’m transparent.

  Will she get over my cruelty soon?

  Several minutes later, she turned to him again. The audience was now starting to return to their seats.

  “Do you miss England?” she asked.

  “England? No,” he said. “I don’t miss it. England meant very little to me, especially after my mother died.”

  “I don’t miss Ireland either. I’ve never been homesick once, nor do I ever want to see the place again. If I ever create a home and a family, it will be in this country.”

  He looked at her but said nothing, afraid he might cause her further pain.

  What was she thinking of when she told me she longed fora home? Graham wondered. And why did she tell me she has never been homesick for Ireland?

  The others in their row were now back in their seats, and so Graham and Teresa sat down.

  “Tess,” he said quietly, “I’m sorry.” The gas lights on the walls and those suspended from the high ceiling of the auditorium were beginning to dim. “I don’t like to be cruel.”

  She looked at him for a time before she spoke. “Yes,” she said finally, “I’m sure you regret it now.”

  Graham wondered what she meant by that, but the curtain was rising, so he could not ask.

  During the second act, Clan pined away more than ever, until Duke Vivaldi, having become worried about her health, decided that she needed a break from her melancholy. And so he decreed that Clan should be entertained. A band of traveling players arrived and put on a play. As chance would have it, it was about a country girl who was enticed by a wealthy suitor from the splendors of home and family.

  The play finally tore asunder Clari’s already wounded heart. She fled the palace and returned to her native village.

  But she was not made welcome there by her father, who could not accept her life of sin with
the duke. The duke, however, had meanwhile come to his senses. And, before matters could deteriorate even further, he arrived in the village and asked Clari’s father for her hand.

  After the play, Graham and Teresa went to a dance hall. It was a short walk, but it had started to rain, so the walk wasn’t pleasant. In a way, though, Graham was grateful for the rain; he didn’t much want to converse about the play.

  He was also grateful that Teresa seemed to have forgotten the bad moment they’d had during the intermission. She seemed indifferent to the rain, moving easily, only covering her head with her shawl; and she laughed freely and gaily.

  Soon they reached the building that housed the dance hall. The hall itself was reached by walking down a long entrance corridor with private dining rooms on either side. When they stepped into it, they found the entranceway was empty, as were the dining rooms. When Teresa saw that she stopped and caught Graham’s hand.

  “Look at me,” she said.

  “All right.”

  Then she took his head in her hands and pulled his face down toward hers so that she could kiss him.

  “There,” she said. “That’s better. Thank you for taking me to the theater, Graham. I’ve enjoyed myself more than you’ll ever know.”

  He was like a little boy when she did that. And his face grew red with embarrassment.

  “You’re not mad that I didn’t like the play?” he asked.

  “I’ll permit you not to like it,” she said with a grin. And then she laughed. “But I may not like you if you don’t like the play. I insist that my men agree with me.”

  “How strange,” he said, his mood growing instantly lighter. “I’m exactly the same. I insist that my women agree with me.”

  “So what do we do, now that we disagree?” she asked.

  “I don’t know, though I must tell you that I’ve been known to get violent with my women.”

  “Really? Several of my men are dead. Did you know that?”

  “I’m not surprised,” he said. Then took her face in his own hands and stared at her, liking what he saw. “So we should dance, then, no?” He could not take his eyes off of hers.

  “Yes,” she said, “let’s dance.”

  Though it was Monday, the dance hall was more than half full. Americans loved dancing. And Graham loved dancing every bit as much as they did. So, it proved, did Teresa O’Rahilly.

  As soon as the two of them had entered the hall and removed their outdoor clothes, he swung her out onto the floor.

  “You do this well,” she said breathlessly, a dance or two later.

  “I enjoy it,” he agreed. Then, more emphatically, he said, “I enjoy it tremendously!”

  “You danced often in England?”

  “Whenever I could find the freedom to do it. And you?”

  “My mother and father taught me, in Ireland.”

  ‘They taught you well. You are… urn, delightfully responsive and light on your feet.”

  She smiled. “You were about to say ‘surprisingly light on your feet,’ weren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he said, with an embarrassed look. “How did you read my mind?”

  “I’m Irish. I’m sure you expected my feet to be still mired in the bog.”

  “Don’t be so sensitive,” he said. “You’re a glorious dancer. And I don’t give a damn whether you are Irish or German or French or Cherokee or Chinese.”

  “But I care that you are English,” she said, suddenly serious. “And yet, even so, I think I like you.”

  “You have extraordinarily good taste then,” he said, taking her hands and drawing her into a faster rhythm.

  They swept around the floor, enjoying themselves like children on a carousel, laughing gaily.

  Then Teresa suddenly and unexpectedly froze. She was staring across Graham’s shoulder.

  “Why did you stop?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and then faced him again. “I saw someone I know.”

  “An old lover?” he asked with very little concern. They were moving again.

  “Yes,” she said. “An old lover… I think we should leave soon.”

  “Really? What does an old lover have that I do not?”

  “His name is Ben Kean. And he imagined that I cared for him more than I do, or than I did. I’m sure he still believes that our relationship will continue.”

  “And you want to avoid an unpleasant scene?”

  “Ben is dangerous, Graham. He’s passionate. He has no control. And he likes to hurt.”

  Graham’s manhood was aroused. “What would happen if we met him here? If he’s capable of making trouble, now is as good a time as any to get it over with.”

  “Trust me, Graham. I know Ben Kean.” She was urging him toward the door with her hand. “There’s nothing to be gained from provoking him.”

  If Teresa’s judgment of Ben Kean was right, she was too late to do anything about it. For Kean had seen them, and he was making his way across the dance floor.

  He was a man of average height, slim and languid, and just a bit feminine, with a soft face, thin, sandy hair, and a wispy, somewhat bedraggled-looking beard. He looked to be in his midthirties, but he was actually ten years younger than that.

  “Why, here we have little Tessy,” he said when he had reached them. “What a surprise.” There was a cool but savage smile on his face. “And she has found herself a new, young boy.” He looked Graham up and down with greatly exaggerated attention, as though he were examining a slave on a block, a slave that he found in every way wanting.

  Graham moved closer to him. “You told me you know this man?” he asked Teresa.

  “Yes,” she said, tight-mouthed. “I know him.”

  “Has he always been such a lout?”

  “Graham!” she warned.

  Ben Kean bristled, but he did not respond directly to Graham’s insult. Rather, he turned to Teresa. “Is that what you’ve told your boy about me, sweet Tessy?” He moved closer to her as he spoke. “Have you told the boy I’m a lout? We can’t have that, can we, Tess? We can’t leave him believing that, can we? Tell him that I’m no lout, Tessy. Answer him, darlin’. And then tell him that you’re coming away with me.” His voice was no longer savage. His tone, instead, was filled with longing, and his face had an expression of helpless, doglike adoration. “Tell this boy that I’m your man.”

  The man’s mad, Graham thought as he watched the change come over Ben Kean. And dangerous.

  “Ben, please,” she said, pleading. “You know I’ve told you that I don’t belong to you any longer.”

  “You’re coming with me, my girl,” Ben said, once again.

  Teresa shook her head and turned to Graham. “Let’s go quickly,” she said. And he took her hand and started to return to the place where they were keeping his topcoat and her shawl.

  Ben followed them, talking all the while, insulting Graham and imploring with Teresa.

  And then another man slipped up beside Ben Kean. The second man was older than Ben, and they were clearly related. Yet, where Ben was slight and somewhat delicate, this man was paunchy and hard. Teresa groaned when she saw him.

  “You’ve found Teresa Derbyville at last, have you Ben?” the man asked.

  “Who are you?” Graham interrupted.

  “And who are you, limey?” the other said, spitting out the words.

  “Graham,” Teresa said quickly, her hand clutching his. “This man is Matthew Kean. He is Ben’s brother.” And then she looked from Graham to the Keans and back to Graham. “This is Graham Carlysle,” she said nervously.Matthew was direct and firm. “Tessy,” he said, “you come on home with Ben, now. And then there won’t be trouble.”

  Graham drew Teresa closer, but his eyes were on the two other men. “No,” he said. “That’s not going to happen. The lady doesn’t want that. And neither do I.”

  Matthew looked at Graham with a sad face. “I’m sorry for you, Mr. Graham Carlysle,” he said in a slow, laconic, confident voice. �
�But the way it is is this. This lady can’t stay with you any longer. She has already been taken… by my brother Ben.”

  As he spoke, Graham was working out what he must do. He knew now that Teresa was right; there was no advantage to staying here. The question was whether he could escape with her without getting into a brawl.

  Graham looked at the Keans, weighing his chances if a fight broke out. Matthew was about two inches taller than Ben, which put him at just about five feet eight or nine. And Graham was an inch over six feet, which made him the same height as his father.

  That was good. But Graham knew that his height advantage wasn’t enough to make a difference against two men, especially since one of them was hard and heavy.

  His knife was in its sheath in his boot, but he was loathe to use the weapon.

  He put his hand on Teresa’s back, driving her forward. As he did that he nodded at the two Keans.

  “I’ve been listening to the two of you tell me and this lady what we are both going to do,” he said to the Keans in a soft, husky—but menacing—voice. “I don’t want to do that. And neither does she. We’re going to leave.” Then he turned his back on the other men.

  “Stop,” one of the Keans said. “Both of you.”

  They kept moving.

  Graham noticed Teresa starting to look back. “Don’t,” he said. She turned her face to his. Her face was filled with fright.

  “Tessy,” Ben Kean said, his voice rising to a wailing cry, “don’t leave with that boy! You stay with me! Do you hear me? You stay with me!”

  “Keep going and don’t answer him,” Graham said.