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.”