Lady of the Lock

by Bancroft, Blair

  “He’s making sure the cord is burning.”

  “But Papa . . .?”

  Mandy would ever after swear Mr. Tharp ambled up the hill at a snail’s pace, evidently fully confident he would be out of harm’s way by the time the powder exploded. Reaffirming that men were impossible, inscrutable, and immensely aggravating. Yet, sure enough, he was standing next to her papa when the blast went off and the water rushed into the Challenor Tunnel to shouts of triumph from navvies and engineers alike. Mandy blinked, looked again. It was really happening. The Kennet and Avon canal was now flowing through the tunnel.

  Two hours later, with the remains of the coffer dam now littering the riverbank, the narrowboat slipped its moorings and the horse pulled it right up to the edge of the tunnel. There, the tow rope was unhitched and dropped into the water. While the horse was led above ground to the far end of the tunnel, the boatmen propelled the narrowboat through the tunnel’s fifteen hundred feet by the chains set into the brick wall. As the boat disappeared into the tunnel’s maw, John Merriwether took off at a run on the same overland route used by the horse. Startled, Mandy followed, with the duke, huffing a bit, close behind.

  When the bow of the narrowboat appeared on the other side, they were all waiting, Mandy with tears in her eyes. She watched as the tow rope was pulled out of the water and reattached to the horse’s harness, the poor beast probably enjoying the brief shower of cool river water.

  They’d done it. The Challenor Tunnel worked. Now, only the Caen Hill locks held up the completion of the K&A canal. Yet Mandy’s feet were leaden as she walked back to the pavilion. She had moved from project to project for more years than she cared to remember, but this move would hurt. For her heart lay buried in the depths of the tunnel at High Meadows, never to be found again.

  And Montsale had not even come to the opening. Cornwall might be the tail end of England, but it wasn’t that far. More likely, Mandy surmised, Carewe didn’t tell him. Why risk another meeting between two people forever destined to live apart? She could almost hear the duke thinking, No sense twisting the knife.

  That night at the Cross Keys Inn, John and his engineers celebrated into the wee hours. Mandy went to her room at half-ten and soaked her pillow with tears.

  Leaving Alan Tharp and Peter Prescott to supervise the permanent closing of the old riverbed and deal with any problems that might arise with narrowboat traffic through the newly opened tunnel, the Merriwethers embarked on a detailed survey of the K&A. They began with the eastern section leading to Reading, a journey which should have been tedious, Mandy thought a week later as they took supper at a riverside inn in Hungerford. After all, how many times had they done this? Yet it was not. Every moment on the canal was different. The ducks, swans, and herons might be the same, but they kept popping up in new places. The seasons changed and with them the crops in the fields beside the canal, the wild flowers, even the density of the shrubbery. And then there was the constant challenge of negotiating the locks and the tricky maneuvers necessary when a narrowboat passed, moving in the opposite direction. With the tow path only along one side of the canal, the boats had to use a maneuver similar to a narrowboat negotiating the tunnel. The boat farthest from the tow path dropped its rope and glided past the other, then fished the towline out and reattached it to the horse’s harness before continuing on its way.

  In between these maneuvers, Mandy basked in the complete serenity of the canal, so silent she could hear the hum of insects in the air, the gentle lap of water against the hull and the faint jingle of the tow horse’s harness. In addition to the ever-changing scenery from field to town and back again, they passed under beautifully constructed stone bridges, no two alike, and traversed several minor aqueducts (as compared to the giant span of the Dundas). And then there was the constantly changing array of people living and working along the canal.

  Mandy’s favorite spot was a bench seat fitted into the open bow, from which she waved to every person she saw—lockkeepers, farmers, innkeepers, women sweeping their back stoops or tending their gardens, children hanging over the parapets of stone bridges and boatmen passing in the other direction. Truly, here along this narrow ribbon of water was her family. Here, her world, her life, and she would sorely miss it if she married away from it.

  If she married at all.

  Amanda Grace Merriwether! Aunt Tynsdale’s horrified voice seemed to boom from the fluffy white clouds above. You will not dwindle into a spinster. Neither your father nor I will allow it. You were born for family, children, happiness.

  Is it not wrong to marry where there is no love? How can I offer but a shadow of myself to a man? Does a husband not deserve more than that?

  Love comes, child. Propinquity works in wondrous ways.

  Mandy snorted. And sometimes not. Sometimes there is only accommodation, sometimes worse.

  You know quite well your father would never force you into marriage where there was no possibility of anything but sorrow.

  Mandy sighed and thrust her aunt from her head. How could any marriage but the one she wanted not bring sorrow? However . . . she had to admit it wouldn’t hurt to consider her meager alternatives. Thanks to regular correspondence from Aunt Tynsdale, Mandy knew Mr. Rutherford had recently been made a full partner in his father’s legal firm. Lady Tynsdale also reported that Mr. Farnborough had not yet fixed his interest with anyone. And then there was Alan, dear Alan. Except marrying him would almost feel like incest. The same with Luke, whose frequent proposals had always seemed more tinged with good-natured humor than heartfelt devotion.

  One by one, Mandy attempted to picture married life with each of her suitors. On the surface she liked them all. But when it came to the intimacies of the marriage bed, her imagination balked. In truth, it felt as if her brain exploded. Not because her papa had not imparted the realities of the matter, but rather because he had done so, illustrating his words with some rather vivid sketches. Enough to make Mandy certain love was absolutely essential to render such a process appealing.

  Spinster it would be.

  But she had no brothers or sisters on whose children she might dote. And if she wanted children . . . children on whom she could lavish the love that filled her heart . . .

  Late next year. This time Tyler Holcombe’s voice invaded her head, predicting the end of the last herculean task on the K&A, the completion of the Caen Hill locks. Giving her slightly more than a year before she must make up her mind.

  And like so many women through the ages faced with a similar choice, Mandy thrust all thoughts of men to the back of her mind. Time enough to agonize another day. Grimly, she returned to her task of surveying the water ahead for any obstructions and the banks of the canal for erosion. If her papa spotted a problem she had missed . . .

  It was going to be a long way to Reading, after all.

  Devizes, October 1809

  Although Mandy suspected the word hotel—borrowed from the French word for a large private residence—was a recent addition to its name, The Bear Hotel had existed on the same site in the center of Devizes since 1559. Perhaps, Mandy speculated, “hotel” had been added in an effort to distinguish it from The Bear Inn in Hungerford. And, as one would expect from an establishment that had managed to stay in business for two hundred and fifty years, they welcomed the Merriwethers with the best rooms the inn could offer.

  Devizes, a market town since Norman times, was also considerably larger than Great Bedwyn, providing a feast of shops to explore, as well as narrow walkways that dated back to Medieval times and architecture that ranged from timbered cottages in the Tudor style to impressive foursquare homes of red brick. And, best of all, the great cascade of twenty-nine locks was only a short walk from the Bear. The only challenge, Mandy discovered—if she walked the two miles to the bottom of the steep flight of locks, it was necessary to walk back up again.

  On the positive side, with Tyler Holcombe and his men firmly in charge of building what her papa had designed, Mandy’s duties
were considerably reduced. She could explore the town, drive Esmerelda and the gig through the picturesque Wiltshire countryside, try her hand at sketching the city’s many ancient churches, or if brave enough, attempt to record the colorful chaos of Market Day. There was also the matter of rendering Castle Carewe in watercolors.

  Or she could simply curl up in a comfortable chair in her sitting room and re-read the letter Luke Appleton had sent from Portugal. General Sir Arthur Wellesley, after seizing victory from defeat at Talavera, had been named Viscount Wellington. Luke could not praise the leader of the British forces too highly. And, he added, he was now engaged in the project her father had hinted at back in February. To protect the land British troops had won back from the French, the general had ordered four lines of fortifications built from the Tagus River to the sea, sealing off southern Portugal from invasion. They called them “the lines of Torres Vedras,” after a town at the forefront of the lines. A remarkable project, Luke said, though it would take but a tenth of the time spent on the K&A. The lines at Torres Vedras would change the face of Portugal forever, he admitted. But he could hardly wait until the Frenchies attacked, expecting a rolling plain, and finding, instead, an undulating line of fortifications, manned by 25,000 men.

  Oh, Luke. If only he stirred her heart as did his news from a distant battlefield. She cared about him, feared for him, as she did for Alan and Peter. As a sister loves her older brothers. But marriage? Once again, she shuddered and locked all thoughts of men away.

  In the past ten years Mandy had watched the construction of what seemed like an infinite number of locks, but the cascade of locks at Caen Hill were unique. Each time Papa inspected the progress of the construction, the scene was so chaotic she had difficulty making sense of it all. Puddling clay to make it firm she could understand, placing stone on stone for the Dundas Aqueduct was perfectly clear. Digging a tunnel, smoothing the rock, bricking the sides and overhead arch were also understandable. As was the extremely clever basic design of a lock. But how on earth anyone could figure out the design, the sheer mathematical as well as physical challenges, of twenty-nine stairstep locks that could raise or lower boats a distance of 237 feet in just over two miles . . .

  Today, Mandy stood on Foxhanger Wharf and looked up, wonder in her eyes, at the now completed series of seven locks at the bottom of Caen Hill. Pride swelled. Montsale could not have designed them. He and his father were good for nothing but giving orders. And ignoring the consequences. But John Merriwether, a man of irregular parentage, had managed it. His name would go down in history as the man who created the Kennet & Avon canal. Mandy smiled at a passing swan before beginning the uphill walk back to Devizes.

  The six locks nearest town were also complete, with only the sixteen locks down the steepest part of the hill holding up the final completion of the K&A. When Mandy reached that section, where many of the navvies from the tunnel had been added to the work force, she paused, looking for familiar faces. But found herself caught between chaos and cacophony—canal construction on one side, the tram railway on the other. Until the locks were completed, the cargo of every narrowboat had to be offloaded onto the tram, lowered downhill, or pulled up, on railway tracks, then loaded onto another boat for transportation to its final destination. To put it mildly, the canal investors could hardly wait for the opening of the entire flight of locks at Caen Hill.

  As far as Mandy was concerned, the Duke of Carewe could wait forever for a return on his investment.

  She’d let it happen again. The Challenor men intruding on her life, popping up like jack-in-the-boxes when least expected. Silently, Mandy mouthed a few words learned from the navvies.

  Look around. Pay attention. Make sense of it all.

  She stood between the lock construction and the tramway and turned in a slow circle. The scene might appear helter-skelter, but she knew quite well it was not. Diggers, framers, masons, woodworkers each bent to their tasks, while others loaded or unloaded cargo and still others coaxed the horses pulling loads up the railway or helping ease the trajectory of the loads coming down. Oh very well, she had to admit there was far more drama on Caen Hill than at the Challenor Tunnel. Here, the navvies did not disappear into the ground every day but labored where everyone might see. Then again, there was no tunnel to shelter them from wind and rain, extreme heat or cold. If the sky turned charcoal, she could hurry back to the warmth of her room. They could not. Six days a week, the men worked on, with only the thought of the winter break to brighten their lives.

  Not true, Mandy conceded, lips twitching. The tunnel navvies thoroughly enjoyed being camped close to a real town. And the less she knew about what they got up to in the evenings the better. Bless them. Whatever it was, they deserved it.

  Winter break. This year she had agreed to go back to Bath. Papa had even managed to arrange for apartments in the same building. And this time . . . yes, this time she was going to have to take the whole process of husband-hunting much more seriously. Time was running out.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  “Oh, Miss, you do look a treat!” The chambermaid pulled out the puff of Mandy’s right sleeve so it exactly matched the left, then stood back, regarding her handiwork with shining eyes.

  “You’re a treasure, Bess,” Mandy told her. “I’m certain I never looked so fine, even when assisted by the maids in Bath.”

  “Oh, thank’ee, Miss!” Smiling from ear to ear, Bess bobbed a curtsey. “I’ve helped many get ready for the Assemblies, but none such a grand lady as yourself.”

  Startled, Mandy stared at the girl, who seemed to be about her own age. “I, a grand lady?”

  “Yes, indeed, Miss. For all you’re ever so kind, you have the air, don’t you know? Like one o’ them grand misses from Lunnun. The kind what stay here for a night but never go to the Assemblies.”

  Mandy thanked Bess for the compliment and sent her on her way before turning to the room’s pier glass, which was mounted above the fireplace mantel, perhaps to keep it from harm. It took some maneuvering but at last she could see herself full length. She studied the glass, attempting to see what Bess saw. If she were not so familiar with the girl in the glass—the young lady who was about to turn twenty—what would she see?

  Bronze hair coaxed into soft waves with the aid of curling tongs. Green eyes enhanced by the azure of her columnar gown. Features regular enough to be deemed pretty by all but the most malicious. “Not a stunner,” Luke had once declared, “but more than well to pass. A true lady,” he’d added. “Why else would the men call you, Lady of the Lock?”

  Mandy examined her gown with a critical eye. Simple but beautifully cut, the gown was eminently suitable for an assembly in Devizes. Elegant but not elaborate, it would put no other woman’s gown to shame. The bodice, however, was larger than was fashionable, but if it were not, far too much of her would be on display. Mandy sighed. At one time she had heartily wished there were not so much of her, but the multitude of male glances she had received through the years, few of them directed at her face, had mellowed her viewpoint. Evidently men admired full bosoms, even if they did not fit the current fashions.

  The overall effect?

  Perhaps Bess was right. The pearls around her neck and in her ears were of the finest quality, a gift from her Papa on her eighteenth birthday. Jewelry suitable for a young miss or for a young lady of the ton. Dressed as she was, she could pass for a lady of quality anywhere—

  She was a lady of quality! She needed to remember that. She was the daughter of John Merriwether who built a canal across England. Granddaughter of a duke, great-granddaughter of an earl. Head high, shoulders straight, Mandy found her white lace fan and picked up her reticule of heavily beaded silver cloth just as a knock sounded on her door, undoubtedly her papa ready to escort her to the assembly rooms. She sneaked one last look at the girl, the lady, in the mirror. Is this a marchioness I see before me? A duchess?

  It could be, truly it could.

  Fool!

  “Am
anda!”

  “Coming, Papa.” Mandy took a deep breath and headed for the door.

  It is difficult to be melancholy, Mandy discovered, in a room full of people dancing to tunes such as “The Merry Merry Milkmaids,” “Rufty Tufty,” and “The Wherligig.” Although she could have done without the oddly bright notes of “Dissembling Love” when she would have preferred the strains of “Heart’s Ease.” Having danced her way through three straight sets with barely a moment to catch her breath, she welcomed the orchestra’s short break, unfurling her fan and leaning back in her chair while a fresh-faced young farmer fetched her a glass of punch. Merciful heavens, was nearly twenty so ancient she should be winded by dancing? Mandy plied her fan in front of her face, hoping to hide what she was certain were cheeks as red as apples.

  “Might I have the next dance, Miss Merriwether?”

  Her hand jerked, snapping the carved ivory sticks of her fan before her fingers opened, allowing the broken fan to slide off her lap onto the floor. Like the most underbred country bumpkin, she gaped.

  “Forgive me if I startled you,” said the Marquis of Montsale, as aggravatingly cool and composed as always. “I had hoped to surprise you but not send you into an apoplexy.” He reached down and picked up her fan. “Double apologies, Miss Merriwether. I will replace it, of course.”

  Outrage. How perfectly amazing—all she was feeling was outrage. “How dare you?” Mandy hissed, all too aware of the many people around them. “How can you disappear off the face of the earth for more than a year, then simply turn up at a country assembly in Devizes? Devizes, of all places, Montsale. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  With his customary sangfroid, the marquess intercepted the young farmer, removing the cup of punch from his hand as casually as he blocked the empty seat next to Miss Merriwether. A cool nod of thanks and the young man fled.