by Zoë Archer
Murmured agreements rose up from the other men.
“Women don’t just manage the larder,” Simon felt obliged to point out. “They’ve got the keys to another important place.”
Edgar chuckled. “Company town, lad. There are ladies here who’ll take chit in exchange for time in their beds. Fine, churchgoing women. They just add a little something to their earnings. It’s all kept on the quiet, but I can point ’em out to you if the need … arises.”
More snickering came from the men. Simon couldn’t pretend to be shocked at the commerce of sex, even in a little village like Trewyn. It was a constant, no matter if one found himself in Bombay or Birmingham.
“Generous of you,” Simon replied. “I don’t think I’ll be a regular customer, though. It might be kept on the quiet, but all the same, I don’t want word getting out.”
“So you’re looking to settle down,” Nathaniel said.
“God, no,” answered Simon immediately, instinctively. “I’ve settled down behind a barricade with my Martini-Henry and a box of cartridges. I also settled down in India with a row of stitches in my leg and a month of fever.”
“A wife would feel like a seaside holiday after that,” Edgar said.
“I’m not carrying a bride across my threshold.” Even if he didn’t work for Nemesis, he couldn’t imagine himself with one woman for the rest of his life. Perhaps his reluctance stemmed from his youth, when it had been made clear that one day he’d make a strategic Society marriage.
“Ah,” Nathaniel said, waving at the long dining hall, full of the men hunched over their bowls, the air thick with the scent of grease, “but what young lass wouldn’t find this a bridal paradise?”
The idea of being anyone’s pawn repelled him down to his very bones. For his parents’ marriage had been organized by their famiies with all the care and tenderness of a military invasion. They didn’t hate each other, his parents, but after his mother had produced the requisite number of heirs, she and his father treated each other like acquaintances who occasionally shared a house.
He’d left home before anyone could make definite plans for him.
“You ass,” Fred said to Nathaniel. “Married men don’t live with their wives in the bachelors’ lodging.”
Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Smart as a vole, you are.”
“I don’t know,” Simon mused. “We could honeymoon by the water pump at the end of the lane. Then come back to this glorious nuptial palace.”
He needed freedom. To go where he wanted, when he wanted, and be responsible only to himself and his duties to Nemesis. He had a few regular paramours in London: rich, sophisticated widows who asked few questions, made no demands. A countess who’d lost her husband after a decade of marriage and felt no inclination to replace him. A wealthy woman who happily existed on her settlement. Her importer husband had died from fever in Sumatra. For Simon and his widows, it was a mutually beneficial arrangement. All a man could ask for.
“I can just see a woman’s dainties hanging from the rafters,” Edgar snickered.
“Right across from Nathaniel’s flannel combination with the holes worn through in the arse,” Fred added.
Simon laughed, but he was only half paying attention as the men continued to badger each other. What if he did have someone, a woman who was entirely his, and to whom he belonged completely?
No rise of terror greeted this idea. And damn him, he knew the culprits behind this sudden shift of attitude.
Jack and Eva Dutton.
Nemesis had blackmailed Jack into helping them ruin a corrupt nobleman, partnering him with Eva for the job. She was the daughter of missionaries, a tutor by profession. A skilled operative.
Having learned as much as he could that day about the mine, Simon allowed his thoughts to linger over Jack and Eva.
Jack was no missionary’s son. Not by birth, and sure as hell not by deed. A mean and tough bastard, he’d been spawned in Bethnal Green, earning coin as a bare-knuckle brawler, then a bodyguard. Prison had been his next destination after he’d tried to kill that shady nobleman. But even Dunmoor Prison hadn’t been able to hold Jack. He’d broken out to try to wreak his revenge against Lord Rockwell.
“Vengeance at any cost”—that was Nemesis’s unofficial motto. And they’d proven it by sinking their claws into Jack. They’d forced him to work with them to bring Rockwell down. Not the precise formula for romance, but somewhere along the way, Eva and Jack—the two most disparate souls that ever walked the earth—fell arse over teakettle in love. Only weeks ago, they’d gotten married in a small London ceremony attended only by Nemesis agents. Simon had served as best man.
Jack and Eva were currently in the process of moving to Manchester, to start a new branch of Nemesis, and establish a school for the poor and unwanted children of the city.
What would it be like, to have what Eva and Jack had? What if it wasn’t a loss of freedom, but companionship and a shared sense of purpose? Purpose that went beyond just missions for Nemesis. A true partner, in every sense of the word.
A strange ache set itself up in the center of his chest, as though the wind had crept through a previously unseen fissure in a wall, spreading its chill.
He shook his head. What Jack and Eva possessed was as rare as a water lily in the depths of winter. Singular. Unrepeatable.
He was content with his life as it was, and wouldn’t waste time thinking on impossibilities. Still, that cold ache continued to pulse between his ribs. Something had to warm him, but he didn’t know what.
“Oi, Simon.” Edgar waved his hand in front of Simon’s face. “We’ve been asking you for the past five minutes if you want to go to the pub.”
“A drink or two sounds bloody perfect,” he said.
CHAPTER 3.
“My one-woman battle for fresh butter was trounced,” Alyce said, stepping into the cottage. “They won’t give in.”
Sarah, Henry’s wife, looked up from stirring a pot of nettle soup, steam wafting around her face in curls as delicate as the blond ones tumbling around her face. “Did you tell them that it’s on the verge of spoiling?”
“It was like yelling at a wall of macassar oil and arrogance.” Alyce hung her apron on a hook by the front door, then bent to untie her boots. She lined them up next to Henry’s. Sarah always insisted that they change out of their work boots immediately after setting foot inside the door, or else she’d spend her every waking hour sweeping up the tracked-in grime.
It was no punishment to take off her heavy footwear, and Alyce sighed as she slid her feet into a pair of worn, often-mended slippers. She pulled tin plates down from the cupboard and set them down on the table at the center of the room. “It made no difference. A matter of economics, so said the smug brigade.” Bitterness edged her voice.
Sarah eyed the pieces of sausage frying in a cast-iron pan, then turned her gaze to the ceramic jar next to the stove. “Guess we’ll have to make do with drippings. It won’t be the first time.”
Grabbing bowls from the cupboard as well, Alyce forced a smile, though her anger hadn’t dissipated. “Drippings or butter, nobody cooks better in Trewyn than you do. Henry’s got to fight the other men from his pasties, don’t you, Henry?” she called up the stairs.
“There’s fisticuffs at every luncheon,” he shouted back down.
“A pair of foolish flatterers, the both of you,” Sarah chided, but she grinned and continued to stir the soup. Her other hand rested on the bulge of her stomach, where the next generation of Carrs awaited its entrance into the world. Another two months, the doctor had said, provided everything went well with mother and child.
No one—not Henry, or Sarah, not even Alyce—dared voice their fears. More than a few headstones marked tiny graves in the churchyard. Or worse, some graves accommodated two. One of Henry and Alyce’s siblings had been stillborn, and two more hadn’t survived their first five years.
A perilous thing, to be a pregnant woman or a small child, especially in Trewyn.
But it was a testament to human resiliency that more survived than didn’t.
As she set the cutlery beside each table setting, Alyce eyed her own flat belly. So it would remain, for she’d bring no new life into this world of hardship. A small twist of sadness threaded in her stomach, that she’d never know what it was to be a mother, but she’d made her choice and refused to regret it.
Henry clomped around upstairs, doing God knew what, but even the lightest tread in this cottage sounded like the rattling of hippopotami. Granted, Alyce had never seen a hippopotamus, but she’d looked at pictures, and had an imagination. The creatures wouldn’t lightly caper across an African plain.
They were lucky enough to have a two-story cottage. Many families lived in a single room—father, mother, children, and sometimes even grandfolks. Granted, the Carrs’ home was simply two tiny rooms stacked one atop another, with a rickety wooden staircase connecting them. The only door in the entire cottage was the front door. Upstairs was for Sarah and Henry, and, eventually, the baby. Downstairs was the kitchen, and where Henry smoked his pipe each night as Sarah did her knitting and Alyce read and reread the few books she owned. It was also Alyce’s bedroom, her cot shoved into a corner and hidden behind a curtain of faded calico. A miserly attempt at privacy.
Still, she had it better than most, and she wouldn’t begrudge her cot and her corner.
Henry came down the stairs, the wood groaning beneath his feet. He immediately crossed the room and pressed a kiss to his wife’s temple. “The best part of my day,” he said.
“Because you know supper’s almost on the table,” she countered.
“Ridiculous lass. I’ll go to bed with an empty stomach, so long as you’re beside me.”
As Sarah and Henry kissed, Alyce looked away, sensing once again that dull ache. Bad enough to feel that she didn’t quite belong in her own village, but even at home, she sensed herself out of place, set apart. From the time Henry and Sarah had known each other as children, they’d been mad for each other. Two years of marriage hadn’t changed that. But there had been no one like that for Alyce. No one whose face she couldn’t wait to see, whose voice made her heart speed up.
Strangely, Simon’s face flashed into her mind. He had been flirting with her—hadn’t he? And wouldn’t it be nice if he had?
Sarah announced that the meal was ready, and she and Alyce dished up the soup and sausages as Henry waited. Once all the food had been distributed—Alyce making certain that Sarah received more than herself—everyone bent their heads and said grace, thanking the Lord for the bounty they were about to receive.
A very unreligious thought crept into Alyce’s mind—doubtless the Carrs’ definition of “bounty” differed from the masters’. Those men lived in a large house a quarter mile from the village, and she’d seen the delivery wagons carrying huge sides of beef, fresh vegetables, and even crates of fine imported liquor all headed out toward the house. Despite Sarah’s attempts to stretch their food, there never seemed to be quite enough. What would it be like to go to bed with one’s belly aching because it was full, not empty? Things would only get more difficult once the babe was born.
Everyone began to eat. Alyce tried to pace herself, though she could’ve simply tipped her plate to her mouth and devoured everything at once. But she’d take a bite and carefully set her fork down, making sure to chew slowly, as though she could fool her stomach into thinking it was getting more than it really was.
“Tell me of the outside world.” Sarah dipped her spoon into her nettle soup and looked back and forth between Henry and Alyce. “I never thought I’d miss being a bal-maiden, but staying at home and doing piecework leaves a lass cut off from society.”
“Things are just as they always were,” Henry said.
Sarah rolled her eyes. “And you say that every night. Do I have to torture news out of you?” She dug her finger into his ribs, and he snorted a laugh. Always ticklish, poor Henry. And too cautious of his wife’s condition to fight back.
Alyce decided to spare him. “They’ve hired a new machinist.”
Immediately, Sarah stopped tickling Henry. “Promoted someone, you mean?”
“No, a new hire from elsewhere.”
Sarah’s eyes widened, her face alight with excitement. “An outsider!” She gave Henry a playful swat. “You weren’t going to say a word about it. Haven’t you any pity for your poor, housebound, pregnant wife?”
Despite her teasing, Henry shrugged. “Not much to say about him. His name’s Simon Sharpe, and he’ll be maintaining the pump engines.”
Alyce stared at her plate and carefully cut herself another piece of meat, chewing it with more deliberateness than usual.
“Where’s he from? Is he young or old? Handsome or homely?”
“Bless me, Sarah, how in goodness’ sake should I know?” Henry answered gruffly. “He’s a man with two legs, two arms, and a face. What else is there to say?”
With an exasperated sigh, Sarah turned to Alyce. “I know bal-maidens don’t usually rub elbows with machinists, but did you get a look at him?”
Alyce kept her gaze on her soup, watching the nettles swirl on the surface of the broth as though it were the most fascinating thing in the world. “I did. Walked with him back from the mine to the village.”
Sarah threw her hands up into the air. “Lord preserve me from these lead-tongued Carrs!”
Best to just get it over with, like tearing off a sticking plaster. Alyce spoke quickly. “He’s from Sheffield. Looks to be in his early to middle thirties. He spent time in the army.”
“Oh! A military man! How dashing!”
Henry grumbled.
“Which isn’t to say that a copper miner isn’t dashing, of course,” Sarah added hastily. “Soldiers can be downright unmannerly and coarse.” She turned to Alyce. “Was he?”
“No.” She poked her spoon into her soup. “His manner was … nice.”
“He wasn’t so nice when he nearly came to blows with Constable Tippet,” Henry fired back.
Sarah clapped her hands over her mouth. “Never say! He sounds like an unpleasant character to me, going up against the law like a hooligan.”
“He wasn’t being a hooligan. It was … an accident. And would it have been so bad if he’d stood up for Joe and George, which was a sight more than you would’ve? Always with you it’s keep the peace, head down, don’t make noise.”
“You’d rather rattle the bars and get a beating for your trouble,” he retorted. “Da and Granda knew the best way, but you’re a mule-stubborn girl who thinks she knows best. I’m upholding the family name, the tradition that’s been ours. Peace at Wheal Prosperity.”
“Look at the cost, damn it.” She waved at the bowls of soup and plates of sausage. “Hardly enough to feed the three of us, and Sarah’s eating for the babe, too. And we’re the lucky ones. Vera and Charles Denby have five little ones, with another on the way. The youngest looks as frail as thistledown. Another bad winter and that little boy won’t survive.”
“Hush,” Sarah said. “We don’t talk of those things.”
Alyce dipped her head. “Sorry,” she muttered, humbled.
Henry spread his hands. “What would you have me do, Alyce? None of us have leverage against the masters. There’s no choice but to make peace with it and hold out hope.”
“Hope for what? Butter that doesn’t make us sick?”
“Hope that through common sense and talk, we can get the bosses to see what needs to be done. That won’t happen if you keep shrieking at them like a hawk protecting her nest.”
“I don’t shriek. And I won’t wait and smile and plead for the masters’ attention. Those pompous dolts don’t listen. Not unless we pry their ears open.”
Brother and sister glared at each other across the table in a stalemate. Minutes ticked by.
“You Carrs are stubborn as cats,” Sarah exclaimed in frustration. “And it doesn’t say much about me that I’ve married into this madness. Can we please ju
st calmly finish our supper and save the sulking for later?”
Grudgingly, Henry and Alyce returned to their meals, and Sarah sighed in relief.
Another few minutes passed before anyone spoke. Sarah murmured to Alyce, “So, this Simon Sharpe—is he handsome?”
Alyce’s face heated as images of Simon’s patrician features and dashing grin flitted through her mind. “It’s wise to be wary of him. He is new to the village, after all.”
“Maybe you’re wary of him because he’s handsome,” Sarah answered, smiling.
“I didn’t say that.”
“Your red cheeks did.”
Alyce resisted the impulse to press her palms to her face, as if she could hide what Sarah had already seen.
“Accidentally or no,” she said, “Simon Sharpe caused trouble today. When Tippet gets riled, things get rough for all of us.”
“That’s Tippet’s problem,” Sarah noted, “not Simon’s.”
“I don’t like Sharpe,” Henry answered. “He could be a bad influence on you.”
Alyce rubbed her hand across her eyes, where a headache brewed. “I’m four and twenty, Henry. Nobody influences me but me. And I just met Simon. I’m not so pudding-brained that a handsome stranger turns me into his puppet.”
“If we don’t change the subject,” Henry growled, “I will run over to Adam Peeler’s and herd his pigs right through our house—dirty, dirty pigs with filthy trotters.”
Sarah turned ashen. She stared at her scrupulously clean floors, then back at Henry. “The weather’s been pleasant lately,” she managed.
Satisfied that the subject of Simon Sharpe had been dropped, Henry continued eating. Alyce did her best to avoid Sarah’s knowing look, focusing instead on finishing her meal. But that didn’t keep thoughts of Simon from circling inside her like magpie moths on a warm summer afternoon. As a little girl, she’d never been able to resist their pull, dancing with the moths until the sun sank below the horizon and she was called home.
* * *
