by Zoë Archer
From a narrow alley, three blue-uniformed constables suddenly appeared, including barrel-chested Tippet, the head of Trewyn’s constabulary. A murmur of unease rippled through the crowd. Alyce sensed Simon tensing beside her. Curious. Had he been in trouble with the law before?
Tippet and his colleagues—Oliver, heavy-jawed and small-eyed, and Freeman, nearly handsome in a unfinished kind of way—shouldered their way through the column of returning workers. They tugged two men from the throng, dragging them roughly to the side, as everyone else could only look on.
“Here, now,” Tippet said, shaking one of the men by his collar. Alyce recognized him as Joe Hocking, and the other miner was George Bevan, who grimaced as Oliver clenched his shoulder. “Did you think you’d get away with it? Think the masters are stupid, do you?”
“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe said. Though he’d been a miner all his life, the hard work and lack of enough food had taken its toll, prematurely aging him. His whole body was thin and shrunken. In another year or two, he wouldn’t be able to go down into the pit anymore.
By contrast, Tippet was almost obscenely robust, filling out the jacket of his uniform with sturdy brawn.
Tippet smirked. “Right. ’Course you don’t.” His smirk twisted into a sneer. He flung Joe against a wall, and the older man grunted and went ashen. Joe looked like a fragile weed, clinging to the side of the building.
Tippet dug one end of his truncheon into the underside of Joe’s jaw, and the miner grimaced.
Fury roiled up inside Alyce. Tippet never wasted an opportunity to rough up the villagers, even someone who presented no physical threat, like Joe.
Men and women gathered in a semicircle, jockeying to get a view. Restless anger rumbled through the crowd, like thunder before a storm. They were closing the ten-odd feet of distance between themselves and the constables.
“Everyone, keep back,” Oliver growled.
“Not a step forward,” Freeman added. He shoved back one man who tried to edge closer.
She had to take action—help Joe and keep the crowd from turning ugly. She took a step forward, ready to push the truncheon off Joe’s neck.
Simon suddenly emerged from the throng. He tripped over the bags he carried, colliding with Tippet. Both men stumbled.
Tippet whirled around, face twisted in anger. She felt the crowd collectively hold its breath—just like her. What would Tippet do?
Then she saw the hard gleam in Simon’s eyes as he faced the constable. Tippet wasn’t the only threat, here. Simon was just as dangerous.
CHAPTER 2.
Growling, Tippet shoved the end of his truncheon into Simon’s shoulder. As if defending himself, Simon quickly stepped to the side, one hand upraised. His other hand pushed against Tippet’s outstretched arm, right into the constable’s elbow. Tippet’s hand gave a small spasm, causing him to let go of the truncheon. Suddenly, the heavy cudgel was in Simon’s hand.
“Easy now,” Simon murmured. “No harm meant, Constable. Just being clumsy.”
“Who the hell are you?” Tippet demanded.
“Simon Sharpe,” he answered. “New machinist.”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Sharpe,” Tippet snapped, though a faint tremor of uncertainty sounded beneath his words. “Give me back my baton and go about your own sodding business.”
Yet Simon did neither. He turned the truncheon over and over in his hands. “I’ve held a Zulu kerrie before, but never something like this.” He hefted its weight, letting one end slap against his open palm. “Could cause a big man a serious injury with this weapon.” With a puzzled frown, he glanced at Joe and George. “They don’t look that big to me.”
“It’s not the size of the man, but the crime he’s committed.” Tippet jutted his chin at Joe. “The company’s got fine ways of running things. Everything’s set up so they’re dealt with fairly.”
“This one made a good arrangement with the bosses,” Freeman added. “The lode he’s working is a poor one, so he gets thirteen shillings out of twenty shillings’ worth of ore he digs.”
“And that one”—Tippet jerked his head toward George—“he’s working a rich lode, so he only gets one shilling out of twenty shillings’ value. Keeps things honest.”
A dark mutter moved through the crowd when Tippet said “honest.” Alyce’s own stomach clenched at the ironic use of the word. The constables seemed to be trying Joe and George right here in the street—justifying why they were dragging the two men off.
“But them two tried to get the better of the masters,” the head constable continued. “Hid themselves off in some dark corner of the mine and did an exchange, then divided the gross profits.”
“We didn’t!” George protested, but his voice trailed off in a hiss when Oliver gripped his shoulder harder.
“Managers don’t seem to think so,” Oliver said.
“It’s all trumped up,” Alyce interjected hotly.
Many pairs of eyes, including Simon’s, turned to her. Voice inquisitive, he said, “You sound certain of that.”
“I am.” She took another step forward. “George and Joe have been telling the managers that the lodes they’re working aren’t safe and should be closed down. This is the bosses’ way of shutting them up.”
Tippet snorted. “More baseless rabble-rousing from Miss Carr. We’ve got a witness who saw everything.”
“Who?” she demanded. There had been rumors for a while that some of the miners were paid eyes for the managers, but so far, no one had been able to figure out the spies’ identities.
“That’s not our burden to prove.” Tippet glared at Simon. “Unless you want to get hauled off to the clink, too, you’ll give me back my baton.”
Though his posture and affable expression didn’t change, Alyce sensed Simon coiling, readying to fight. Though he had the same muscular build as any other laborer, it seemed as though he could do more than brawl—he could actually fight, maybe even kill, if he had to.
Then, just as subtly, the tension eased from him. He took a step back. The head constable held out his hand for the return of his truncheon.
Just before Tippet’s fingers could close around the baton, the weapon dropped from Simon’s hand. It clattered onto the ground.
“Clumsy, again,” Simon said with a self-deprecating chuckle.
Tippet muttered and groaned slightly as he bent down to retrieve his truncheon. Once he had it back in his hand, he straightened and puffed out his chest. “Trewyn’s a decent place. A safe place. I make sure it stays that way. So do everyone a favor and learn to be less clumsy. Or I might not be so lenient next time.”
“Yes, sir,” Simon answered, though he didn’t appear cowed in the slightest.
Tippet hauled Joe up, and Oliver shoved George in front of him, with Freeman bringing up the rear. “The rest of you, head on back to your homes,” the head constable said, addressing the gathered crowd. “But know that the company only wants what’s best for everyone. When you step out of line, you make things troublesome and dangerous for everybody else.”
Folding her arms across her chest, Alyce scowled as the three constables dragged George and Joe away. Oh, Tippet cloaked his actions with pretty rhetoric, pretending that he protected the miners and workers from themselves. But they were only meaningless words. All that mattered was that two innocent men who’d dared to speak out were now being punished.
No one moved until the five figures disappeared around a corner. As soon as they were gone, mutters churned up from the crowd, and most everyone resumed their walks home. Some faces wore expressions of fear, others anger, but most looked resigned. This was their lot, and there wasn’t anything to do but accept it.
Simon picked up his tool bag and satchel. His movement was swift and nimble.
Realization hit her. “Nothing clumsy about you,” she said in a low voice, stepping close so no one but Simon could hear her. “You didn’t trip against Tippet and accidentally take his ba
ton. It was all on purpose.”
“Maybe I am clumsy,” he answered casually. Yet his voice was also pitched low, keeping their conversation private despite the people nearby. “Haven’t seen me try to dance. It’s like a second Waterloo on the dance floor.”
“I know what I saw. I was the only one standing close enough to notice—all of that was deliberate.” When he gave no response, she pressed, “Why’d you do it? Defend two men you don’t know?”
He only shrugged. “It seemed an unbalanced fight. I like balance.”
She stared at him, trying to puzzle him out. “Joe and George could’ve been guilty, and you’d have stood up for them.”
“Were they?”
“God, no!” The idea appalled her. “The company’s using them as an example. Of what happens when you speak out.”
A corner of his mouth turned up. “And yet you’re still roaming free.”
Her own mouth flattened into a line. “Better watch any more instances of your clumsiness, or else you’ll make an enemy of Tippet.”
“I’ll cry myself to sleep if that happens.”
“Alyce! Alyce!”
She turned at the sound of her brother’s voice. He edged his way through the crowd until he stood before her and Simon, scowling. Though he glanced briefly between her and Simon, the majority of his ire was for her.
“Heard there was a dustup between the constabulary and George and Joe,” he said angrily. “Yet I’m not surprised to find you in the middle of it.”
Her cheeks heated. Henry was only three years older than her, but since their parents’ death, he often treated her as if she were a reckless girl in danger of tumbling down the mine shaft. Being spoken to like a child in front of Simon didn’t make her feel very charitable toward her brother. “Tippet’s made false accusations about Joe and George divvying up their ore.”
Henry’s expression clouded. “That’s daft.”
“Exactly what I said.”
“No reason, though, for you to shove yourself in the middle of someone else’s fight.”
“I didn’t shove myself into the middle of anything.”
He rolled his eyes. “‘Shove’ or ‘push’ or ‘stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.’ Whatever words you use, the upshot’s the same.”
“I’m telling you,” she said through gritted teeth, “I wasn’t involved.”
But he wasn’t listening to her. As usual. “Haven’t I said it again and again? Don’t get mixed up with these brawls. Damn it, Alyce, you want me to sound like a chattering parrot?”
“Parrots are prettier.”
Henry opened his mouth as if readying to give her a blistering set-down, but Simon spoke first.
“Begging your pardon—Mr. Carr, is it?—but it wasn’t your sister who got between the constables and the accused. It was me.” He set down his tool bag and offered his hand. “Simon Sharpe. Got hired today as a machinist.”
Henry warily shook Simon’s hand, and Alyce couldn’t help but note the contrast between the two. Both Henry and Simon were young, strong men who worked hard for a living, but Henry stood several inches shorter than Simon—lack of height being an advantage when crawling around in dark tunnels all day—and had dark hair, where Simon was blond. But these were only superficial differences.
“Welcome to Trewyn,” Henry said stiffly. “I’m Henry Carr. Alyce’s brother.”
Wide as Henry’s shoulders were from wielding a pick six days a week, they were still bent, bowed from an invisible burden. He kept his chin lowered, his expression cautious.
Simon stood fully upright, chin high, his face and posture free of timidity. “You share the same frown,” he noted, and Alyce had to stifle a sudden laugh.
That frown deepened. “Married, Simon?”
“Not that I know of,” he answered with a smile. “Never woke up from a binge with a ring on my finger.”
Again, she found herself fighting a giggle.
Henry, however, was much less amused. “Then it’s the bachelor lodgings for you. Edgar here can show you the way.” He tugged on the sleeve of Edgar Hayne, an unmarried man who was passing by. “Edgar, be a lad and escort Simon here to the bachelor housing.”
“Sure thing, Henry,” he agreed. Turning to Simon, he said brightly, “Come along, then. Supper’s in half an hour, and they won’t tolerate anybody being late. Got your chit to cover it, I hope.”
Simon patted his pocket. “I’m ready to receive the bounty of Trewyn.”
Chuckling at that, Edgar started up the high street, but stopped when he saw that Simon wasn’t following. Instead, Simon gave another nod to Henry, then turned his attention to Alyce.
“No one’s had a more interesting introduction to a place,” he said wryly. “Cheers for that.”
“I’ve given you plenty of warnings,” she answered. “There’s still time.”
He lifted his shoulders dismissively. “And I said it before: I don’t have any other choice. Besides,” he added, his gaze warming as he looked at her, “maybe I’ll find something that makes this place worthwhile.”
For a woman who heard the rough language of men without so much as a blush, her cheeks now flamed.
“Oi,” Henry said darkly.
Simon ducked his head, but it was just a small gesture. “No disrespect intended. The people of Wheal Prosperity seem like good-hearted folk, and I’m glad of it.”
“Lively, now,” Edgar called from up the street. “Or we go to bed hungry tonight.”
Giving them each a little bow, Simon murmured, “Henry, Alyce. Sure we’ll be seeing each other soon.”
“It’s a village of five hundred,” Alyce replied, “and four hundred thirty of us work at the mine. Chances are good we’ll run into each other.”
“Right, then.” With a final, wry smile, Simon turned, and hastened after Edgar. He had a fluid way of moving, sleek and direct. Unable to look away, she watched him walk up the high street. Disappointment flickered in her chest when the two men vanished inside the large house reserved for bachelors.
Henry snorted beside her.
“What?” she snapped.
“In the generations of Carrs that have lived in Trewyn and worked Wheal Prosperity, not a one of them drew trouble as you do.” They both walked down one of the narrow lanes, heading toward home.
“And look where that got them.” She glanced over her shoulder, toward St. Piran’s and its churchyard full of worn stone tablets commemorating brief lives. The name Carr had been chipped into many of them. Every Sunday, she’d leave church, and there it was—the reminder of how short a time one walked this rough earth. Hardly more than the beat of a moth’s wings, and then it was over. “Maybe if some of them caused a little trouble, we’d all be in a different place.”
Lights ahead signaled that they were almost home. Sarah, Henry’s wife, made sure to keep a lamp in the window so that their homecoming was always a warm one.
“Think that all you like,” Henry said. “But nothing changes our path. Rattling bars only makes things noisy.” He stopped in front of the door to their house. Inside, they could hear Sarah bustling—as fast as a heavily pregnant woman could bustle—with the sounds of her getting their supper onto the table and humming to herself.
Henry’s usually serious expression turned even more sober. “Stay away from that Simon Sharpe.”
“Warning me off him?” Alyce’s eyebrows climbed. “We’re not wee children anymore, Henry. Both of us are full grown, and we make our own decisions.”
“He’s already gotten mixed up in strife.”
“It was an accident,” she said, though she knew it hadn’t been.
“Still don’t trust him. We have plenty of explosives at the mine, Alyce. We don’t need any more.”
“Good thing I know my way around a stick of dynamite.”
Muttering to himself, he opened the front door and stepped inside, greeting his wife. But Alyce didn’t follow him in. Instead, she stood out on the stoop, breathing in
the cold evening air and looking up at the emerging stars. How many different skies had Simon seen? Had he looked up at different constellations? Had he wished for impossible things, as she did now?
“Alyce?” Sarah called. “Don’t let all the warm air out, darling. We’re down to our last bits of coal until the next pay packet.”
Heading inside, Alyce turned her gaze from the sky and her musings from the blue-eyed stranger. But her mind was never at rest, and she knew he’d be in her thoughts later. A little-heard, almost girlish voice in the back of her mind murmured, It’d be nice if he thought of me, too.
* * *
With each step away from Alyce, Simon cursed himself. He shouldn’t have done anything when the constables had dragged those miners from the line. Just watched, gathered information, and kept quiet. He couldn’t afford to attract attention to himself, not when he needed to gather intelligence.
But his impulses had gotten the better of him. The two miners wore the gray skin and thin frames of the prematurely aged. Beaten down by life. Whatever the law had accused them of doing, it didn’t warrant being thrown around like sacks of meal. He’d had to stop it somehow. A well-timed stumble, and he’d been able to keep those men—briefly—from more abuse at the hands of the bully of a chief constable. Trouble was, now the law had taken notice of Simon.
Marco always warned Simon about that—despite his time as a soldier, his gentlemanly impulses to defend the weak could get him into trouble when on assignment. Easy for Marco to stick to keeping a low profile. Working in intelligence for the English government for nearly two decades could make a man slippery as an oiled kipper. Silence and subversion came naturally to him.
For now, Simon needed to keep his head down, blend in with the other workers of Wheal Prosperity, and learn what he could.
