As it happened, the company did not require Dorcas’ presence at their delicate tea. She had no idea where they eventually took it, but it wasn’t in her orangery. Neither would it be for some time to come. Her lips firmed as she tamped the soil down over a carefully planted group of seeds. They would probably call her gauche and stupid, but she didn’t care—much. No, not much at all.
Why should she? Those people meant nothing to her. The Duchess of Beauchamp had tried to lord it over her, and as far as Dorcas was concerned, she’d failed. That meant nothing.
But she was grateful to Lord David, and he’d opened a new avenue for her to attempt reconciliation between the brothers without putting herself in the firing line. She settled to her work.
Until the outer door burst open again. She spun around, preparing to deal with the new intruder, but she stopped short. It was Armstrong, although the burly foreman was only just recognizable, as he was black. Smears on his face and clothes, and the smell of coal filled the air, reaching even to where Dorcas stood. “It’s the master,” he said, his chest heaving. “A fall in the mine.”
Dorcas dropped her trowel. It fell to the floor with a clatter. “Grant has fallen in the mine?”
“No. A fall inside. Shouldn’t have happened. Should’ve been safe.”
“How is he?” Ignoring the state of his clothes, she ran forward and grasped his sleeve. “Where is he?”
“Still down there. Six men, as far as we can tell.”
Dorcas didn’t wait to hear anything more. Picking up her skirts, she raced out of the building and headed for the stile.
The camp was in chaos. The fire still burned, but the fumes were less noxious than the yellow cloud that had attracted her over to complain a lifetime ago. Men raced about shouting, but as her eyes grew accustomed to the chaos, order could be discerned.
The yawning mouth of the mine was the scene of frantic activity. Men ran in as others ran out, bearing buckets of dirt and coal, which they tipped on to a growing pile. “What’s happening? Where is he?” Dorcas yelled.
One man paused long enough to say, “Digging them out,” before he returned to his task.
Armstrong pushed past her and took control. “Human chain, now!” he yelled. He set to organizing the men more efficiently, lining them up between the mine and the heap. Buckets passed from hand to hand, to be tipped out on the heap and then passed to a man heading for the mine.
Dorcas tugged Armstrong’s sleeve. “I want to help.”
He glanced down at her. “Not now. Time’s important. Get to the tent. Or sort out the water over there. Boil some.” He jerked his head, indicating the area set aside for cooking. A few men were making themselves busy, but the area was cramped, and they were getting in each other’s way.
Dorcas went over to them and with a few swift instructions put order into the chaos. Women set to boiling water and drawing cold water from a nearby well to tip into the barrels set aside. A raised stand held beer barrels that had been tapped, and a row of mugs on a shelf above. She set a woman to drawing mugs of beer. Men toiling down a mine would get thirsty.
And all the time, she tried not to fret. That wouldn’t do any good. But however much she told herself that, she couldn’t help despair coloring her thoughts, blackness descending on her spirits.
“You should come away, ma’am.” Gorman had followed her to the mine and stood on duty, protecting her.
“Go and help the men. Don’t say stupid things,” Dorcas muttered. “Do you really think I’ll go anywhere while my husband is down there?” She made a wild gesture at the great maw of the mine’s opening.
“With all respect, ma’am, your brother will have my guts for garters if I don’t do my duty. And there are enough men digging. I’d only get in the way. Armstrong seems to have it in hand, and they’re doing all they can.”
But not fast enough.
Hour followed hour. Dorcas sent to the house for more beer, together with a note to her brother to say she was fine, but she was going nowhere. That brought Gerald down to the site. “Come back to the house,” he said. “Wait there.”
She laughed in his face, or she would have if she could have made herself laugh. But she was nearer tears. How could she bear it? Her husband of two days was gone—or maybe he wasn’t.
A disturbance in the lines had her starting forward. Armstrong had made some men fashion makeshift stretchers, boards lashed together with rope, and one of these was being carried out of the mine. A black lump lay on it. A man, only distinguishable as such by his bright eyes, which squeezed shut at the bright light, then winked open again.
They laid him near the cooking area. He was well-built, average height, with a shock of hair currently coated in coal dust. In short, not Grant. But he was alive. Heedless of her appearance or anything else, Dorcas slipped her arm under his head and held a mug filled with cool beer. She spilled as much over him as he drank, but eventually the man nodded, and she put the mug down. “Ta, missus.”
“What happened, Perry?” Armstrong was standing over her. The man was laid on the ground now, the men going back to their duties. Dorcas was on her knees next to him.
“Creak, crack, fall.” Perry’s voice was hoarse. “I was on the other side.”
“Accident?”
Perry shrugged. “Dunno. Think so.”
“How big a fall?”
“Hard to say. Maybe half a ton, maybe a quarter. Rock, mostly. Heard it, saw it, ran. Fell, but not broken.”
Armstrong bent and touched his shoulder. “Thanks. Take care.”
Dorcas moved away, leaving another woman to care for the man. He had come out of the mine intact. “We dug through the fall. It’s in a narrow part of the mine.”
“What was my husband doing there?”
“Looking at the seam.” He bit his lip. “We think it’s a false alarm. The seam isn’t as good as we thought. At least, it looks that way. I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“For what?” she snapped. Bile rose in her throat. Was he about to tell her that Grant had perished?
“We can’t get through. It could take days, but that fall was a big one. There’s one chance, but I don’t want to give you a false expectation.”
She wanted all the expectation he could give her, false or not. “What? Tell me.” She took his sleeve, tugged.
“There might be another way out. I’ve sent a couple of men to take a look. And he was buried with some experienced men, so if anybody can do it, they can. The mine’s a shallow one, pretty much. About twenty feet deep. And that hill yonder is part of it.”
He motioned to the hill Dorcas had climbed that first day, where Armstrong had captured her, thinking she was a spy. She didn’t hold it against him. Not any longer.
That word—buried. It sent chills down her spine. Oh, why had she let him go? What could she do to save him? It couldn’t end here—it just couldn’t.
For another hour, she worked, driving herself to help prepare food for the men, chopping vegetables and tossing them into a pot suspended over a fire. Nobody was leaving.
Gerald was back at the house, arranging to send firewood, food, any servant he could spare. Dorcas imagined the guests wouldn’t appreciate that, or her absence at dinner. They’d have to take it.
There had been no word from his mother, but Lord David had sent a note, wishing he could come to help and warning her to take care of herself.
She didn’t care anymore.
If Grant never came out of that mine, she wouldn’t care about anything. She’d burn down the orangery without a second thought if it would bring Grant back.
Exhaustion swept over her, but she ignored it. Eventually, twilight fell, and then night. The sound of hacking and hammering continued to come from the mine. Another man was brought out, but he was dead. Crushed. They wouldn’t let her close enough to see. But it wasn’t Grant.
She had no idea what time it was when Armstrong took her arm, none too gently, and guided her to the tent Grant had occupied while he’d been here. �
�They know who he is now,” Armstrong told her. “You need to rest.”
Too tired to resist, she went with him. Half an hour would suffice. She’d eaten, stuffing a few pieces of stew down, only to ensure she could carry on working. Her limbs ached, as did her head, but what weighed her down the most was sorrow. It lay over her like a pall.
Armstrong held back the opening of the tent so she could go in. A candle was already lit there, placed on the traveling chest.
She wasn’t alone.
Grant sat on the bed, his arms out to receive her.
She flew into them.
A storm of tears overtook her. Exhaustion and grief overtook her, and while her husband held her, Dorcas sobbed in his arms. She cried so much she couldn’t speak but, eventually, he put his hand under her chin, tilting it up. With a damp cloth, he gently wiped her face, soothed her sore eyes, kissed her forehead, then her mouth.
Only then did Dorcas believe he was alive, and here, and with her. “What happened?” she whispered, her voice reduced to a croak.
He reached for a pottery mug, and held it to her lips. “Drink.”
It was the beer she’d been serving all day. She took a sip of the cool liquid, letting it run down her aching throat. While she drank, he talked.
“There was another way out. Summers and I found it. The fall separated three of us from everybody else.” His short sentences, spoken in a low, uneven tone told their own story. Grant was exhausted, too.
For two pins, she would have fallen asleep in his arms, but she had to stay awake a little longer. “Was it an accident?”
“I think so.” He understood. “It seemed to be. These things happen sometimes, love.”
“You shouldn’t have been there.” It was a statement of fact. She was too tired to scold him, and too relieved to find him alive.
“Someone needed to go down and look.” He sighed. “I fear the mine isn’t possible.”
“Thank God for that,” she said. “Is it worth it?”
“More than worth it. An enterprise like this means higher wages and more people coming to this part of the world. It provides employment and that is one of our duties, providing for the people who depend on us.”
“Oh.” She needed time to digest that. Not that she wouldn’t have realized it if she’d ever considered it. She had just never thought about it before.
Gainful employment. The government was always complaining about vagrants, and passing laws to deal with them. Although born into a comfortable existence, Dorcas wasn’t unmindful of the people who had to work for a living, or starve, and there weren’t always enough jobs to go around. She closed her eyes, easing the soreness from her storm of tears. A familiar tension tightened behind her eyes. She ignored it for now.
“This is an area rich in coal, but I fear this mine isn’t one.” He rocked her for a while, and she was almost asleep when he said, “Nobody but you, Armstrong and the two men I came out of the mine with know I’m alive and well. I want it to stay that way for a while.”
Her eyes flicked open. “You mean you want people to think you’re dead? Why?”
“To end this.”
She didn’t see it for a moment, but as she ascended from the half-sleep, she understood. “Leaving me alone.”
“Precisely. We will see if our would-be assassin strikes while we’re weak.”
She yawned. “I thought he wanted you.”
“No, sweetheart, he wants you. The roses, remember? Someone doesn’t want you to cultivate them. I’ll put a guard on the orangery, and another in the house.”
“How can you do that if you’re dead?”
He chuckled again and stood up, lifting her with him. “We got everyone out. There were six of us. Two got out with me, and they brought three out the other way.”
“One was dead.” Tears sprang to her eyes again, but she seemed to have cried herself out, at least for the time being.
“I know,” he said soberly. “I’ll do everything I can for his family. It’s all I can do now.”
He drew back, held her face in his hands. “And you are getting a headache. I want you in bed as soon as possible. Not for the usual reasons, either.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Under cover of darkness, they made their way back to the house, Dorcas forcing every step. As far as she knew, Grant did, too. They remained in their filthy state, the better, Grant said, to disguise him. His height alone would have made him conspicuous, so Dorcas had sent ahead for Gerald to meet them. He did so, and ensured nobody saw them go up to their room, via a set of little-used stairs.
Dorcas was still trying to get hold of reality. She’d lost him, then she’d gotten him back…and nobody knew. Except Gerald, who was waiting for them in their room. Dorcas enjoyed Grant’s startled grunt when Gerald hugged him, but she returned her brother’s embrace with gratitude and relief.
“Not a widow,” Gerald said, flicking up his coat tails and taking a chair. “Now, you’re in charge. We can’t keep this secret indefinitely, can we?”
Grant scratched his nose. “It’s tempting.”
Dorcas stepped in front of her husband when the job-door opened. Not that it would have done much good, because he was nearly a foot taller than her. But it was Trace and Gorman, bearing a bath that they set in front of the fire, despite the fire not being lit. They bowed, and left. Then Johnson entered, holding hot water cans in both hands.
“So only the three of us know?” Dorcas said, sarcasm edging her voice.
“And the servants we can trust,” Gerald said. “Let’s see—the three men, and the three of us, plus Annie. Do you want your maid to know?”
Dorcas sighed. “Yes. She’ll work it out anyway. She knows me too well. I still miss Murray sometimes, but Brigstock is loyal and discreet. She won’t tell anyone.” She’d shared Murray with her sisters, but when they plunged into the choppy waves of society, they’d needed one each. At first, Dorcas had thought it an unnecessary extravagance, but she soon learned better. At least that meant each sister developed her own style. Their father had dressed them identically for a few years, and each sister had hated it. Being treated as one, Damaris had called it.
She paced while the men talked and Johnson prepared the bath. At last, she could give way to the megrims that were fast overtaking her. If necessary, she would do the terrible thing and take the opiates she hated. If any time merited that, this did.
Grant got up and peeled off his filthy jacket, dropping it on the polished floorboards at the edge of the rug. The casualness of the action made Dorcas blush, aware of her presence as never before.
“I’ll stay here,” he said. “We can have meals served up here by the footmen and Brigstock. I think we can give it a week.”
“Of you being dead?” Gerald exclaimed.
Grant shook his head. “No. I’ve reconsidered. We’ll say I’ve been injured and I’m at death’s door. That will do, probably better than my being dead.” He grinned and spread his hands wide. “Do I look dead?”
When tears sprang to Dorcas’ eyes, he crossed the room to pull her into his arms. “I’m sorry, my darling. That was thoughtless of me.” With his arms still around her, he lifted his head and addressed them all. “Tell everyone I’m likely to die. I’m helpless, unconscious and Dorcas is waiting by my bed, keeping vigil. But there’s a shred, a faint chance I might survive. Yes, tell them that. If anything hurries our enemies along, that will do it.”
“Better,” Gerald agreed. “Then we don’t have to hide you like a guilty secret.” He got to his feet. “I’ll see to all that, and make sure the rumor spreads. Let’s face it, the servants’ hall will do that on its own. We’re twenty miles from Chatsworth. I wouldn’t take odds against the news reaching there by morning.”
At the door, he turned, his hand on the panel. “What shall I say to your mother?”
Grant looked up from unbuttoning his waistcoat. “The same as you say to everyone else. If she wants to see me, then warn me, and I’ll be i
n bed with Dorcas putting wet cloths on my brow. Or something like that.” He winked at her.
Finally, Dorcas was with them. Her mind had crawled, but now she seemed to have caught up with everyone. And everything. So she winked back, and he laughed. But quietly because he was supposed to be at death’s door.
Dorcas’ megrims proved bearable. Sometimes that happened, but she was better off in bed. Grant slid away a couple of times, but she was barely aware of it.
At midnight, they received the report from the mine. Armstrong said that the dead man was the only one. They recovered the others, all alive, but one man was gravely ill. The mine itself was probably not worth continuing with.
“I’m sorry for the men,” he said. “The mine is a lesser concern. Except that it will leave people worse off.”
He was lying in bed, his wife in his arms. When Johnson entered to bring the message in, after using a pre-arranged knock, Dorcas turned, burying her head in his shoulder, making Grant laugh heartily, then stop abruptly when her headache made her wince.
“We have the two footmen outside, sir, but they will go off duty in the next half-hour.”
“Hmm.” The men were to use Dorcas’ room, waiting in case anything happened.
Grant put Armstrong’s note aside. “I’ll have to find some other work for the men. I brought them here. Do you think they would be interested in rebuilding the manor house?”
“I have no doubt some of them will, sir.” Johnson picked up the note and placed it carefully on the dressing table, using a crystal dish to weigh it down. “There are builders amongst them, and general laborers looking for work.”
Dorcas’ breath was disturbing his thoughts, blowing hot across his skin. Especially when he considered what they had been doing since they came to bed.
“What do you think, my love?”
“I have no opinion.”
He smiled. “That would make a change.”
Red-faced, her hair tousled, Dorcas leaned up. She was never more beautiful. “What do you mean?”
Gently, he pulled the covers up over her naked body. With a stifled, “Oh!” she went back to hiding against his shoulder.
A Trace of Roses Page 24
