The Iron Road

by Jane Jackson

  James managed to hold his tongue, but he couldn’t stop the ironic lift of his brows.

  ‘I know. I know.’ Chloe was despairing. ‘But I cannot simply walk out on him. Though he’s recovering, the doctor isn’t sure yet what the long-term effects will be. Can you imagine public reaction if I were to leave the husband who has treated me so well just when his need of me is greatest? I would be an outcast, shunned by all society.’

  ‘A society that connived at your ignorance,’ James lashed out in anger. ‘Whispering rumours to each other behind your back, mocking you even as they accepted your hospitality.’

  ‘Diana Price-Ellis and Loveday Hosking certainly suspected all was not well,’ Chloe said wearily. ‘But I never said a word, so they couldn’t have known why.’

  ‘You think not?’ James’s tone left no doubt as to his opinion of the two women. ‘Chloe, of course they knew. Women like them thrive on gossip and intrigue. They would want to know what you knew, but would be very careful not to reveal how much they had heard. Sir Gerald is a very powerful man. That is what has protected him all these years. Chloe, you cannot stay.’

  ‘I cannot leave. Where would I go?’

  ‘I will take care of you.’

  ‘Oh James.’ She rested her hand on his sleeve, quickly bending her head but not before he had seen the glitter of tears. ‘Don’t you realize what would happen to your reputation? You would find it almost impossible to obtain the commissions you deserve.’

  ‘Chloe –’

  ‘No, please listen. Believe me it is as difficult for me to say as it is for you to hear. But I have thought very hard about this. You told me yourself the circumstances surrounding your departure from Spain. And I know how conscientiously you have applied yourself since joining the Railway Company. James, do you think I would willingly destroy all you have worked for?’

  ‘No, of course not, but –’

  ‘If I leave Gerald and come to you, you will lose everything. My dearest James,’ her voice quivered, ‘you mean too much … I cannot –’

  He gathered her in his arms with infinite care, wary of frightening her, and pressed his lips to her temple. He could feel her trembling, hear her quickened breath.

  ‘Oh, Chloe,’ he whispered against her hot cheek. She turned her head and he saw her eyes were brimming. He could not stop himself, and cupped her face gently in one hand as he bent to her mouth. Her lashes closed and he heard a soft jerky catch in her throat.

  Her lips were soft and sweet and innocent, and when, reluctantly, he eased back, tears had left silver tracks down her flushed face, but her eyes shone bright as stars.

  Her quiet inhalation was barely audible. ‘James, I was so frightened.’

  ‘Of what?’ He frowned. ‘You must know I would never do anything to hurt you.’

  ‘No, I didn’t mean … not frightened of you. What scared me was what I felt – feel – when I’m near you.’ She pressed her palm to the centre of her ribcage beneath the swell of her bodice. ‘I thought it meant I was wicked or depraved.’

  Trying to contain his fury as he speculated on the source of those lies, he shook his head and smiled.

  ‘Chloe, I never have, nor am I likely to, meet anyone less wicked or depraved than you. Those feelings are right and natural. That is the way a man and woman should feel about each other.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘You mean you – ? ’

  He nodded, his smile self-mocking. ‘Oh yes. Me too. So much so that – well, never mind.’ He watched her blush deepen and she eased away. He let her go. They dared not risk discovery by the servants. Besides which, so great was his hunger for her, his self-control was perilously close to breaking. Physical distance was necessary if he was not to frighten her with the strength of his passion.

  Yet, as she moved slowly about the room, straightening ornaments already perfectly positioned, he could feel himself connected to her as if by some invisible cord. He knew that, despite all she had said, the kiss had taken them another step down a path from which there was no retreat. But she would need time to recognize this.

  Reaching the fireplace she turned and faced him, still flushed with shy radiance. Yet beneath it the strain of recent weeks was all too visible. They needed to talk. But now was not the time. And this was certainly not the place.

  She cleared her throat. ‘How is everything on the line?’

  He knew she had chosen the topic as much to justify her decision, by reminding him of his responsibility to the men and their families who depended on him to fight on their behalf, as to show her interest in his work. He longed to tell her what was happening, about the battles he was having with the directors. But to add his worries to the terrible burden she already carried would be selfish and cruel.

  ‘Very busy, as I’m sure you can imagine. Especially as I am now doing Pascoe’s work as well as my own.’ One corner of his mouth lifted in a wry grin. ‘Sleep was difficult before he left. Now,’ he shrugged, ‘it has become something of a luxury.’ As her face clouded with anxiety he continued, meaning every word, ‘But nothing could have restored my spirits as much as seeing you. Even so, I must go now. You need to rest.’

  She twisted her hands. ‘I cannot leave the house –’

  Hearing a sound in the hall, he touched his lips with his index finger in silent warning, indicating the door with a slight sideways nod. ‘I understand perfectly, Lady Radclyff. As you’ll appreciate, the directors are most anxious about Sir Gerald’s health. They are keen to receive news of his progress as often as possible. So, with your permission, I will call again soon?’

  He could see new tension in her shoulders. Her face, now the rosy blush was fading, looked small and pale and tired.

  ‘I shall be happy to receive you, Mr Santana.’

  ‘Meanwhile, if there is anything you need, or any way in which I might be of service, just send word to the Royal Hotel in Falmouth, and I will come at once.’

  ‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

  Turning away was one of the hardest things he had ever done. He hated to leave her but he had no choice. For the moment.

  Tom sat with the rest of the gang on the flat-bed wagon as it clattered along the line, pushed by the little engine. The morning sun was still low in a pale-blue sky. Crows and jackdaws flapped and squabbled; seagulls wheeled overhead before dropping to a newly ploughed field. High overhead, a buzzard soared in a lazy spiral. The air was cool and dew-fresh, a breeze just beginning to stir. It caught the plume of steam and smoke that rose in puffing bursts from the funnel, stretching and shredding it until it dissolved.

  ‘Well, if you want to know what I think –’ Nipper began.

  ‘We all know what you think,’ Paddy interrupted. ‘You’ve talked of little else since the engineer told us. You think they’re mad.’

  ‘Well, so they are,’ Nipper defended. ‘Bleddy line isn’t half finished, and they want to run a train on it?’ He spat over the side. ‘What’s the point of it? That’s what I’d like to know.’

  ‘Aye, well, they’re no’ likely tae tell ye,’ Mac grunted. ‘So gi’ us all a rest.’

  ‘It’s about money,’ Yorky declared. ‘They’re doing it to prove that Pascoe sloping off hasn’t dropped them in the midden.’

  ‘They told you that did they?’ Paddy enquired drily.

  ‘Obvious, isn’t it? Put on a big show so people can see everything is fine and dandy.’

  ‘Here, Paddy,’ Fen shouted from the far end of the wagon. ‘How long are we off the cutting?’

  ‘Engineer said just today. Arf’s gang is up there blasting this morning. If they can shift that rock we’ll be back tomorrow.’

  Tom looked out across the patchwork of fields and woods. He didn’t understand how people could talk about trees being green, like it was just one colour. From where he was sitting he could see beech leaves as pale as seawater, aspens that were silver-grey, young oak leaves with an orange tint, sycamores as bright as new grass, and holly so rich and glossy
the leaves seemed almost black.

  Beyond the dark-brown earth and outcrops of rock through which the permanent way had been cut, the hedgerows were laced with cow parsley and hawthorn blossom. Foxgloves were beginning to unfurl tall, pink spears. Pools of bluebells lingered in the shadows beneath stands of trees, and buttercups dotted grazing pastures with brilliant yellow.

  He wished … he wished she was here with him, just the two of them. He wanted to share it with her, to make her understand that though he couldn’t read or write yet, it didn’t mean he was ignorant, or stupid. He recognized beauty. It wasn’t just something you saw: it was something you felt.

  She hadn’t said a word this morning. Dropping his head forward he lifted his cap, shoved a hand through his hair and settled the cap once more as the wagon trundled towards the viaduct. She’d dished-up the porridge like she always did. But she hadn’t even looked up. Probably planning what she was going to do with the money. Who could blame her?

  He’d only been on the line a few weeks, but it was plain as day she’d had a hell of a life. She deserved better. He’d have worked night and day to give it to her. She certainly had no reason to trust men, but he’d have won her over. He’d have done anything. But what chance did he have now? A good navvy was a skilled man. But in her eyes he was just a navvy. Before the money that hadn’t mattered, because he had ambition, he had plans. But those were no longer enough.

  The engine slowed as it rounded the bend and approached the viaduct.

  ‘What will you do, Tom?’ Fen nudged him.

  Tom glanced round. ‘What about?’

  ‘When we finish here. Mac says he’s going to try for canal work.’

  ‘I’ve heard there’s plans for more drainage on the Somerset Levels,’ Fen chipped in. ‘That might be worth a look.’

  ‘Prob’ly all be finished by the time we get off of this line,’ Nipper grumbled.

  ‘Dear life,’ Tom snorted, ‘you’re some happy soul.’

  ‘All right,’ Nipper challenged, ‘so where’re you going then? There’s no more main-line work. Even branch lines like this is hard to come by.’

  ‘In this country, maybe,’ Tom said. ‘But what about France and Germany? Or America? They’re building railways thousands of miles long in America.’

  ‘That’s abroad.’ Nipper shuddered. ‘I’ve heard about abroad. They eat frogs and stuff like that. Yeugh!’

  ‘You eat cockles and eels,’ Fen said. ‘What’s the difference?’

  With squealing brakes and a hissing cloud of steam, the little engine jerked to a halt. The men reached for picks, shovels, iron bars and wheelbarrows, and clambered off the wagon. As they gathered at the side of the track, Paddy signalled the driver. Releasing another cloud of steam and an explosion of snorts and belches, the engine trundled across the viaduct. Picking up speed it headed back to Penryn to collect wagonloads of stone and rails.

  ‘What are we doing here anyway?’ Nipper demanded plaintively, as the men split into their usual pairs and headed towards the pile of stone chippings to load the barrows.

  ‘Engineer said to check the ballast and the levels.’

  ‘That’s the inspection crew’s job,’ Mac objected.

  ‘What inspection crew?’ Paddy pulled a face. ‘They’ve been laying sleepers and rail with the other gangs to try and make up for time lost to the rain.’

  As the morning passed and the sun climbed higher, the temperature rose with it. The breeze died, and the men sweated and cursed. Tom and Mac were working on the right-hand side of the track, the outer curve of the viaduct. Nipper and Fen were a few feet behind them on the left.

  Tom poked his iron bar into a zig-zagging gap in the stone chippings. ‘What do you think?’ He glanced at the Scot who had more experience of ballast work.

  Mac shoved his own bar in and hammered it down hard, testing the resistance. ‘Och, dinnae fash yersel’. It’s just settlement after all yon rain.’

  ‘That four cracks in the last ten yards,’ Torn reminded him.

  ‘Aye, and given this heat we’ll likely see another four in the next. It’s only surface, lad. The base is solid and the rails have no shifted. We’ll fill in and level off and it’ll be fine.’

  A dull crump made them both look up as the rock blocking the cutting was dynamited. Then Paddy whistled, signalling the dinner break. Dropping their tools, they sat down with their backs against the parapet and waited for the rest of the gang to join them.

  As Paddy shared out bread and cheese, they passed the beer keg from hand to hand, each swallowing a long cooling draught. Far below, the still-swollen stream swirled and eddied as it raced towards the sea. The weeds and new grass spreading across the bare earth on either side of the massive stone pillars were lush and bright.

  But beneath the arch where the men rested, wet black dust trickled out from cracks in the mortar and fell like fine rain, darkening the fresh new growth beneath.

  Chapter Sixteen

  ‘Mr Santana, I am the traffic manager.’ Clinton Warne’s face was red with anger, and his chin jutted aggressively above his stiff collar. ‘My decision was made after long and careful consideration, bearing in mind that the locomotive will, at different times, be required to pull both passenger carriages and goods wagons. The Evans locomotives are admirably suited to both.’

  ‘Mr Warne –’

  ‘No; having questioned my professional judgment, you must allow me to finish.’

  James made a polite gesture of acquiescence, ignoring Harold Vane ’s smirk. The other directors carefully avoided looking at him. Instead they read or pretended to make notes on the agenda each had in front of him.

  ‘There are several excellent reasons for choosing an engine that carries both fuel and water on top of its wheels.’ Clinton Warne held up one hand and ostentatiously ticked them off. ‘One, it does not require a separate tender. Two, it can be driven in either direction without being turned around which is an important advantage on journeys of relatively short distance. And three, the weight of fuel and water add to the engine’s own weight, providing valuable extra traction on gradients.’ With a brisk nod of satisfaction at having proved his point, he settled back, looking around at his fellow directors who were also nodding.

  Like mindless echoes, James thought. He took a breath. ‘I know the design, and it is indeed an excellent one. However –’

  ‘Enough!’ Harold Vane slapped his hand down on the polished mahogany, causing Ingram Coles to jump and shoot him an irritated glance. ‘Mr Santana, this matter was investigated, and a decision made before you joined the company. So as well as wasting valuable time you are also calling into question the competence of a valued member of the board.’

  ‘Neither was intended, Mr Vane. But it appears both are unavoidable, as I would be failing in my professional duty if I did not reiterate my concern.’ Switching his gaze to the traffic manager, James continued, ‘Mr Warne, I assure you, my only reservation is over the weight.’ Vane was right. He was indeed wasting his time. None of them would look at him. Except the solicitor whose small eyes glittered with malevolent pleasure.

  ‘Then might I suggest, Mr Santana, that instead of criticizing Mr Warne, you devote your attention to ensuring the track is laid correctly? That is your responsibility. If you attend to it properly then the weight of the locomotive becomes irrelevant. Now, with the chairman’s permission, I move that we turn to the matter of the guest list.’ Murmurs of agreement and a general quickening of interest greeted his suggestion.

  James sat back. Outwardly calm, he was inwardly seething with anger and frustration. He had said what needed saying. He had sent a gang to check potential weak spots. What more could he do?

  ‘I am negotiating hire of a single first-class carriage from Great Western,’ Clinton Warne announced importantly, ‘which will accommodate between fifteen and twenty guests, depending on the number of ladies in the party. Their gowns do require rather a lot of space.’

  ‘So,’ Ingram Coles,
beamed around the table, ‘who should we include? Ourselves, obviously. I would also suggest a journalist?’ This time the murmurs of agreement were louder, and anticipation sharpened the atmosphere.

  Victor Tyzack raised a finger. ‘I move we invite Sir Gerald Radclyff. Obviously acceptance will depend on his state of health. But Dr Treloar assures me this is improving daily.’

  ‘A capital idea!’ Ingram Coles nodded enthusiastically. ‘If Sir Gerald is paid the compliment of being one of the first to ride the line, he might well be persuaded to increase his investment.’

  Catching Gilbert Mabey’s eye, James glimpsed a reflection of his own weary cynicism and concurred with a barely perceptible shake of his head.

  ‘It’s possible,’ the deputy chairman agreed. ‘But I suspect an additional incentive will be required.’

  ‘A directorship?’ Ingram Coles suggested, looking around the table. ‘Of course Lady Radclyff’s presence will ensure the interest of other ladies.’

  ‘Not only the ladies.’ Harold Vane and Clinton Warne spoke simultaneously.

  Carefully expressionless, James glanced up, but neither man was looking at him. Clearly the comment had been a general observation rather than an accusation directed specifically at him. Common sense said he should be relieved that his relationship with Chloe was still a secret known only to the two of them. But he loathed the deceit, hated the subterfuge.

  As the debate continued amid growing animation, the rest of the agenda faded into insignificance. Tired, heartsick and anxious, aware of Gilbert Mabey’s silent sympathy, and glad not to be entirely friendless, James stared blindly at the paper in front of him.

  * * *

  ‘There is nothing to discuss.’ Sir Gerald Radclyff’s tone, eminently reasonable, defied argument. Bathed, shaved, and fully dressed, his only concession to his condition was a blanket over his knees. ‘I will soon be completely well again, and everything will be as it was.’