by Zoë Archer
She might not know such a world existed. But if she did, was it something she longed for? Or maybe she sneered at it? Maybe it was a complex mixture of both for her. The devil knew Simon’s labyrinthine feelings about his different lives.
As he made an adjustment on a valve, the nerves along the back of his neck tightened. Someone—a man—approached him. It took all his willpower not to give in to ingrained habit and spin around, brandishing his wrench like a weapon. Instead, he continued on with his work until he heard a familiar voice behind him.
“Sharpe, is it?”
“Constable Tippet,” he answered, turning around.
“Chief Constable Tippet,” the man reminded him sharply. He gripped his badge-adorned hat with thick fingers.
Abel and Bill stared from the other side of the pump engine, their own tasks momentarily forgotten.
“Something you need, Chief Constable Tippet?” Simon glanced past the lawman. Two other constables stood off to the side. He recognized one from the other night, the one with the blockish, thick jaw and eagerness to hurt someone. The other constable had his hands clasped behind his back. Simon didn’t remember him from last night. He wore his uniform like someone forced to attend a fancy dress party, and his gaze continually shifted to the side, as though avoiding looking at an old man dressed like a Casanova—embarrassed for both of them.
“You’re a long way from the village,” Simon noted. “I thought the mine had its own men for keeping order.”
Tippet’s face darkened. “I’ve got permission from the managers to patrol here, if I think it necessary.”
“If you think there’s something threatening or dangerous.”
The constable gave a clipped nod.
“So you’re here,” Simon went on, “in the pumping engine house.” He glanced over at the giant machine. “Just take a look around, Chief Constable. Everything’s in working order. Nothing a bit threatening or dangerous.”
“It needs to stay that way.” Tippet’s eyes narrowed as he stared at Simon. “Things have a certain order here at Wheal Prosperity and in Trewyn. For everyone’s safety. When things don’t function right, if, say, one little cog decides it’s got other ideas about how the machine works, then everything falls apart. People get hurt. I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”
“The cog winds up getting crushed, too,” Simon noted.
The constable gave a thin smile. “No wonder they hired you, Sharpe. Got a good understanding of how these things operate.”
“Naught to trouble you over here, Chief Constable. A man can get clumsy, but that doesn’t make him foolish. You and me, we want the same things.”
Simon’s glance moved to the other constables.
“That’s my deputy, Oliver,” Tippet said, “and the other one’s Bice.”
Bice’s attention whipped to the constable, just as his posture snapped upright. The chief constable added, “Reports anything dodgy to me.”
Bice’s mouth pinched into a line, and once again his gaze danced around the interior of the engine room, keeping from focusing on any one item.
Wonder if they have a typewriter in the constabulary’s office. And who uses that typewriter most often.
“You’ve made a long walk from the village for no reason,” Simon finally replied. “As I said, I have no intention of letting anything get out of line. I’m just doing the job they hired me for.” He kept his expression pleasant, inoffensive. But this was a part of the job he always enjoyed. Letting the target believe one thing, when Simon had his own ideas.
Tippet’s thin smile widened, but it was no more pleasant than it had been before. “Good lad.”
Much as he liked stringing along his quarry, Simon silently gave thanks that the constable didn’t try to slap him on the shoulder in a gesture of patronizing approval, or else the wrench Simon held would have to be removed by a blacksmith from Tippet’s skull.
Instead, Simon said, “Wouldn’t want to keep you and Deputy Oliver and Constable Bice from your duties. I figure a man of consequence like you must have many responsibilities.”
Tippet puffed out his chest. “That I do. Can’t waste any more time here.” He set his hat on his head and stalked from the engine room, self-importance wafting from him like an invisible toxin. Oliver followed in his wake.
For a moment, Bice stared directly at Simon, his mouth opening and closing. “You—”
“Bice!” Tippet shouted from outside.
At once, the young man jammed on his cap and trotted out after the constable. He didn’t even cast a glance over his shoulder in parting. Simply ran off, too afraid.
Simon returned to his tasks, ignoring the curious stares of Bill and Abel. The machine on which he worked was somewhat old, but it was still a complicated and intricate engine that required careful operating. Yet the dynamics of Wheal Prosperity were far more convoluted, and demanded much more subtle handling. It wasn’t just grease and gears, but blood and bone, the people of the mine and the village. Good people like Edgar, and Nathaniel. Alyce and her family. None of them knew it, but it was his job to keep them safe. And he wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail.
CHAPTER 4.
Energy and rhythm moved through Alyce’s shoulder as she swung her hammer. It was a familiar, practiced movement. The metal head crashed down onto the bread-loaf-sized rock at her feet, sending a jolt up her arm and shattering the rock into smaller pieces. Reddish mud spattered, clinging to her boots and her apron.
All around her came the sounds of women softly grunting with effort, rocks breaking, and the scrape of shovels. Almost soothing, in its way—the noises repeating over and over again. Every day but Sunday was spent just like this.
Prisoners break rocks, too, she thought with a grim, inward smile.
Leaning on her hammer gave her a welcome moment of rest, and she breathed deeply as she waited for Deborah Mayne to shovel up the pile of stones and load it into a cart. A girl of twelve, her face grimy and expression set, pushed the cart toward the stamp mill. Was it Vera Devon? Alyce could hardly tell beneath the red dirt streaking her face. It seemed like only a month ago she’d been a little girl, kicking balls made of rags down the lane.
She watched Vera push the cart to the stamp mill. The machine ground up and down, relentless as life, as it crushed the ore into even smaller pieces.
We all start out big as boulders, and we’re hammered at until nothing but dust remains.
Evelyn Fields pushed another cartful of ore chunks toward her. She tipped the cart, and more lumps of rock, freshly pried from the earth, clattered at Alyce’s feet.
“Ah, you’re a angel,” Alyce said. “Here I was worrying I’d have nothing to do for the rest of the morning.”
Evelyn snorted. “Just be grateful there’s ore in the pit to mine. Once these stop coming, we’re all hobbled.”
A sad truth, that. And one that the managers had pointed out whenever Alyce had voiced a complaint. Be grateful you even possess employment, Miss Carr. There are many who would envy your lot, for they have nothing.
Even so, as Alyce raised her hammer once more, the rocks heaped at her feet turned into the smirking faces of the managers Gorley, Murton, and Ware. Her hammer smashed against the stone with so much force, the rocks turned into tiny pebbles. She grinned to herself. If she could only take her hammer to the walls of the count house, smashing the granite to dust, splintering the desk behind which the managers shielded themselves, and sending the men running in terror for the hills. What a glorious vision: herself as a hammer-wielding angel of destruction.
“Isn’t that Chief Constable Tippet, Deputy Oliver, and Constable Bice?” Evelyn asked.
Alyce’s hammer stopped in midair, and she frowned as she lowered it. Tippet, Oliver, and Bice formed dark blue silhouettes against the rock-strewn yard. Like the other above-ground workers, she stared as the lawmen deliberately made their way across the mine, with Tippet and Oliver striding ahead and Bice following at a distance like a reluctant hound.
> “They don’t come out here,” Deborah muttered. “Not unless there’s trouble.” Fear tightened her voice. With good cause. George and Joe hadn’t come to the mine today. If Tippet wanted to haul someone else to gaol, or give them a cautionary thrashing, not a soul could stop them.
When the chief constable and two other lawmen entered the pump engine house, Alyce’s heart leaped into her throat.
“Who do you reckon they’re going to see?” someone asked.
“I’ll be blessed if I know,” Evelyn said. “Only machinists and the boiler men in there, and none of them have been causing any disturbances.”
“That new lad’s in there, too,” Deborah noted. “I forget his name…”
“Simon,” Alyce said through numb lips. “Simon Sharpe.”
A whole night had passed since Simon had accidentally tripped against the chief constable. A night could last a long while, giving Tippet ample time to mull and stew, to nurse a grudge. Tippet wielding a grudge was an ugly thing—he’d nearly lamed a man a week after the poor sod had made a joke about the constable within hearing distance. Tippet had given some thin pretext as to why the man deserved a beating. Something about respect for the law kept the village safe. Not a soul contradicted him. Including the man he’d almost crippled.
“Shame,” another bal-maiden said, and tsked. “He’s a comely chap.”
Evelyn shook her head. “Well, he likely won’t be, after Tippet’s done with him. And Oliver likes to give a good beating, too.”
Cold sickness wrapped itself around Alyce’s stomach. Should she do something? Run to the engine house and try to talk the chief constable out of his anger? Talk hardly worked on Tippet. He seemed uninterested in thought and logic—a guard dog fed on a diet of resentment and bullying. Alyce’s presence might make him angrier.
And you don’t want to risk your own neck, a sly voice whispered in her head.
She barely knew Simon and owed him nothing. Even so, shame burned her cheeks. A fine champion of the people she made, rooted to the ground like an old stump because she feared what Tippet might do to her if she intervened. No woman had been hurt by him, not yet. There could always be a first time.
Tippet and Oliver suddenly marched from the building. Seconds later, Bice followed. All three mounted their horses tethered nearby and rode toward the village.
“That didn’t take long,” Deborah said.
“Maybe Tippet only boxed his ears,” somebody offered.
Her legs demanded that she run to the engine house. Her mind kept her stuck in place.
Then, like a gleam of sunlight, Simon appeared in the doorway of the engine house. He didn’t sport a single bruise, nor favor a leg. Unexpected dizziness threatened to drag Alyce to the ground, but she used her hammer for support until her head cleared.
“If it was that Sharpe lad Tippet wanted,” Evelyn said, “seems like he only wanted a talk. Lucky for Sharpe.”
“Lucky for us.” Deborah winked. “It’d be a pity if anything happened to his face.”
“Or other important parts,” another bal-maiden said and snickered. The rest of the women added their laughter. Alyce couldn’t force a chuckle, or any noise. Relief robbed her of sound.
Casual as a cat, Simon rolled himself a cigarette, using tobacco and paper he kept in a pocket in his waistcoat. He shook a match from a box and struck it against the wall, then lit the cigarette. For several moments, he leaned against the door frame, leisurely smoking. His gaze swept over the yard, past her, where it lingered for a second, then moved on. Despite his easygoing pose, and the distance separating them, she felt his alertness.
He pushed away from the door and ambled across the yard. Though he walked at an easy pace, he still moved with direction and purpose.
“Pinch your cheeks and bite your lips, lasses,” Evelyn said. “He’s heading this way.”
The older, married bal-maidens just chuckled, but some of the young, single girls tugged off their heavy gloves to smooth their hair and straighten their clothes. Deliberately, Alyce did none of these things. She lifted her hammer and struck the chunks of ore heaped in front of her. Even when Simon came nearer, threading his way through the giggling, smiling bal-maidens, she kept on with her work.
For several minutes, he simply watched her. Every so often, he’d lift the cigarette to his lips and take a drag, then slowly exhale smoke. He held the end between his index finger and thumb, which mysteriously fascinated her. All the chaps in Trewyn wedged their cigarettes between their index and middle fingers, but he made this ordinary action exotic. She tried not to watch him, focusing instead on her task, yet from the corner of her eye she caught small details: the shape of his lips as he drew on the end, the way he let his arm casually drop after each inhalation, how his fingers curled around the cigarette itself to keep it protected from the slight breeze. How smoke drifted up from his mouth in a way that was almost … sensuous.
She’d seen dozens, maybe hundreds of men smoking. But only he made it look like a rough seduction.
“You can’t smoke on the dressing floor,” she said without looking at him. It felt vitally important to act indifferent to him—a kind of balm after the fear that had twisted through her earlier.
He immediately knocked off the cigarette’s smoldering end and pinched it shut, then tucked it in his pocket. “Still learning the rules.”
“Is that why Constable Tippet came to see you?”
One of his eyebrows rose. “Five other men work in the engine house. Tippet could’ve been talking with any of them.”
She swung her hammer again, splitting apart another hunk of rock. “Abel, Bill, and the others, they know their place. The rules. Not you. There’s something about you that warrants keeping an eye on.”
“I’m harmless as eiderdown,” he answered, sticking his hands in his pockets.
She laughed at that. “Don’t forget, I saw everything last night.” Lifting her hammer once more, she said, “You’re anything but harmless.” She swung again and smashed apart more hunks of ore.
He eyed the pieces of rock. “I could say the same about you. My arms ache just watching.”
“Can’t get paid if I don’t keep swinging. Besides,” she added, “I’ve been spalling nearly seven years now, ever since I got big and strong enough to wield the hammer. Before that, I was carting away deads.” She nodded toward a group of girls carrying barrows heaped with the discards and rubbish that remained after the ore had been cleaned and sorted. “That’s not light work, either.”
Lifting her arm, she flexed. “This isn’t a fine lady’s arm. Not a bit soft.”
She almost jumped when he reached out and gently squeezed her bicep. It was a quick, impersonal touch, but it made her heart leap like a miner catching his first sight of daylight.
“It’s a powerful arm,” he said. “Much better than a limb that’s yielding and weak.”
Was he having her on? From what he’d said about himself, he’d been around working women for years, so he wouldn’t be shocked by a female with muscles. But, outside of mines and factories, women were supposed to be supple, delicate creatures. She’d seen a few fashion journals—though they’d been at least two years out of date. All the ladies in those magazines had smooth, white arms. One could hardly think they had bones, let alone muscles.
Proud as Alyce was of her strength, she knew she wasn’t the height of femininity. Dainty women didn’t put bread on the table. Men did have their fantasies about what women were supposed to be, and that didn’t necessarily mean a woman who could wield a bucking iron.
Yet she thought she saw real admiration in Simon’s gaze, and his voice was low and earnest.
He liked that she was strong. Just as much as she did. A quick, swift pleasure coursed through her.
The constant thump and clatter of the dressing floor stopped. All of the bal-maidens and the other workers stared at her and Simon with open fascination. Women normally didn’t go about flexing their arms and men didn’t squeeze the
ir biceps. Especially not a man and a woman who’d met just the day before.
Damn, we’ll be the talk all over the village.
“You’d best be getting back to manning the pump engine. We can’t have our lads swimming down there.”
“That we can’t.” He started to turn from her, then stopped. “Does Tippet report to anyone?”
“Why? Do you want to lodge a complaint against him?” The very idea made her laugh.
He shrugged. “Just wondering if he’s the final word here.”
“It’s the managers who run the circus,” she answered.
“Not the owners?”
She snorted. “They’re snug and oblivious in Plymouth. So long as their profits keep coming, they don’t give a parson’s belch what happens at Wheal Prosperity.” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s why you came out here, to ask me about Tippet and the fat-bellied owners?”
It was his turn to chuckle. “I’m just a machinist. As the good constable phrased it, I’m only a cog in the engine. If I’m desperate enough to take this job, I wouldn’t do a bloody thing to make me lose it.”
She had to admit, that made sense. Still, she pressed, “Then why’d you come out here?”
He grinned, and she thought she heard some of the other women sigh. “Maybe I find a nice bit of sunshine in your company.”
He tipped his cap at her, and then at the other bal-maidens, before strolling back to the engine house. He didn’t look back.
Once he’d gone, Alyce felt dozens of eyes on her. She stared them all down, until everyone returned to their hammering, shoveling, and carting. She, too, got back to work, but the arm he’d touched continued to pulse with the echo of sensation, and she turned the words over and over, like pretty, smooth stones.
Much better than yielding and weak. I find a nice bit of sunshine in your company.
Careful, she warned herself. He’s still just a stranger. A flirtatious stranger, but unknown, just the same. And if the eyes of the law were on him, she needed to keep a protective distance. She couldn’t make a difference at the mine if the managers and constabulary watched her every move. Better to keep away from Simon—the bright blue of his eyes and his warm grins and the way he matched her, thought for thought, the way no other man in the village had ever done.
