There was a brief knock on her closed door, a gentle, tentative tap tap. She stood and crossed the room to open it, and was astonished beyond words to see Lady Henrietta, who looked almost apologetic to be there on the narrow landing of the servants’ quarters.
‘I feel I’m trespassing,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been this far up before.’ The moment they were out, she wished the words unsaid. Mistress and servant, they seemed to say. Your world and mine.
Eve seemed oblivious. She swallowed, tried to speak, failed. Instead she looked down at a piece of paper that Henrietta held in her hand.
‘Do you mind awfully if I come in,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry to barge up here, but Daniel – Mr MacLeod, you know, the gardener – said you’d appreciate a few more details about the accident. And I didn’t want to send them with a maid, in case, well …’
Henrietta’s attractive, open face was clouded with anxiety, and Eve felt ungracious, standing there expressionless and silent, but her mouth was too dry to form words. She managed however to open the door wide enough to admit Henrietta into the room.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Now. I shall stay, at least while you read this. It was an accident involving the winding gear at New Mill – oh!’
Eve had stumbled backwards at this unwelcome information, and was clutching the brass bedstead for support. Lady Henrietta thrust the piece of paper at her.
‘Quickly, look. These are the names of the men who were killed.’
Eve took the paper and, holding it in shaking hands, she read the eight names. She knew them all, but Amos wasn’t there. Amos was alive. She was sorry for the dead, sorrier for the bereaved, but still she was filled with an unfathomable gratitude that manifested itself now in a torrent of tears.
Henrietta stepped forwards and placed an awkward hand on Eve’s arm. She would have liked to gather her in an embrace but felt too acutely the distance between them – not on her part, she was all unspent warmth and sympathy, but she was uncertain of Eve, whose evident sorrow seemed to set them apart. For a short while, she let Eve cry, leaving her hand upon her in the hope that this small human contact would be better than none.
Then she said, tentatively, ‘What is it, Eve? Have you lost someone very dear?’ and Eve, finally able to speak, said, ‘No. No. He isn’t lost. He isn’t named here. Thank you, m’lady.’
She bobbed slightly, deferentially, and Henrietta wished with all her heart that she wouldn’t. There was something so utterly compelling about the woman before her, a spirit of independence and integrity that should, if wealth and privilege mattered less, make them equals. We’re not so different, you and I, thought Henrietta. Except you are infinitely more admirable.
‘I’m so pleased,’ was all she said, for she couldn’t speak her thoughts. ‘I mean – that you’re not personally affected. Too severely, that is. Obviously I’m terribly sorry that eight men are dead. Daddy’s gone up to Netherwood for a couple of days. The funerals take place tomorrow I think, or perhaps the next day, after the inquest. It’s awfully soon, but it’s for the best. To be honest, there’s been some difficulty …’
She tailed off, thinking twice about what she’d been about to say. Eve didn’t need to know that the bodies of the dead men were so badly mutilated that they were barely human, identifiable only from the numbers on the brass checks that were missing from the banksman’s tally. What remains had been salvaged were to be buried together; they would share a grave and a headstone, just as they had shared their horrific end. Henrietta took Eve’s hands in hers.
‘Will you be all right?’
‘I will,’ said Eve. Her face was blotched and wet, but she was beyond caring. She sniffed deeply. ‘I’m so grateful to you.’
‘Not at all, it was the very least … are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?’
‘Well, perhaps …’
‘Yes? Do ask,’ said Henrietta eagerly.
‘Just paper, perhaps, and a pen. There are people in Netherwood I need to write to,’ Eve said.
‘Oh gosh! Of course,’ Henrietta said, pleased at how easily she could oblige. ‘I’ll have some sent up. If you leave them on the silver plate in the hall, they’ll be franked and posted for you.’
This was a great kindness, Eve felt. She had never had to post a letter in her life, had no idea how to go about it. She thanked Henrietta profusely.
‘Really, Eve, it’s nothing. I shall deal with it now,’ she said, and she left the room. Eve, alone again, dropped to her knees and had a word with God for the first time since Arthur died, praying for the souls of the deceased and giving thanks for Amos’s reprieve.
Chapter 49
It was dark when the train pulled into the family station, and Atkins was waiting for the earl on the platform when he disembarked. The chauffeur’s face was sombre, as befitted the purpose of his master’s unscheduled return to Netherwood. For his part, and in spite of the grim nature of his visit, Teddy Hoyland couldn’t help feeling a lightness of heart at being back so soon. He felt at home here in a way he never could in London. He didn’t share Clarissa’s need for endless diversion, and, on the whole, London society bored him.
Atkins opened the driver’s door of the Daimler, and the earl climbed in. His luggage – very little, since he duplicated most of his essentials in the two homes – was deposited on the rear seat, then Atkins got to work on the crankshaft. It was a little recalcitrant and though the earl loved to drive, he preferred to leave the cranking to Atkins, who seemed to have more of a knack. A chap could soon look a perfect fool, sweating over the blessed handle, and in any case it had a nasty habit of kicking back when the pistons got going. Why risk humiliation or personal injury, when Atkins was so adept at the job? He watched his chauffeur’s grimly determined profile as he manfully heaved the engine into life.
No, London might be Clarissa’s spiritual home, but Netherwood was his; he could hold his own at any gathering, but he didn’t rate the trivial flim-flam of cocktail parties and soirées. His meeting with the American ambassador last night had been a different matter, of course. For once his wife had invited someone worthwhile; he planned to speak to his broker later about investment in the Panama project. See what he had to say about it. For a man with such wealth, Teddy was cautious about new ventures. Many was the time he pulled back from the brink of a scheme after weeks of deliberation, as if weighing up the pros and cons had, in the end, been his only objective.
On the fifth attempt the pistons fired, the sparking plugs lit the fuel and the motor car’s engine settled into a regular, promising rumble. Atkins wiped his hands discreetly down the sides of his coat then, puffing a little from his exertions, clambered up into the passenger seat with evident relief.
Teddy looked across at his chauffeur. The earl planned to visit New Mill before he drove home, and he preferred to go alone; he had never been absent when an accident occurred, and it made him edgy that there were details he didn’t yet know about the incident. Henry’s rather barbed comment about safety at the colliery had rattled him, too. A quiet word with Don Manvers would set things right. The inquest into the disaster was to be held tomorrow, swiftly followed, if there were no sticky complications, by the burials. If blame was to be laid at anyone’s door, Don would know by now. The earl needed as much information as possible if scandal was to be averted. Forewarned was very much forearmed in these cases.
‘Actually, Atkins, would you mind walking from here?’ he said now.
His chauffeur didn’t flinch. ‘Of course not, m’lord,’ he said, and promptly climbed out of the car.
‘Thanks, old chap. I’m off to New Mill, no point you tagging along.’
‘Of course not, m’lord,’ said Atkins, again. He wondered, privately, if he might hitch a ride with someone else. The walk to Netherwood Hall was a good two miles from here, and there was something intrinsically humiliating about a chauffeur walking home. People would think he’d mislaid the Daimler.
The earl made to depart, t
hen hesitated.
‘Atkins, change of plan,’ he said.
‘Yes, m’lord?’
‘You motor back to the homestead. I’ll walk back, after visiting New Mill. Been sitting down for the past six hours, could do with a leg stretch, what!’
He climbed out of the car as he spoke, holding the door open for Atkins to take his place. The chauffeur was perturbed.
‘But m’lord—’
‘No, no, no objections, mind’s made up, subject’s closed,’ said Teddy. He was already walking away, in the direction of the colliery.
‘See you anon,’ he called without turning, and he raised one arm in salute.
Atkins, back in the driver’s seat, put the vehicle into gear and drove away slowly. He hoped he hadn’t shown, in his face or his bearing, any reluctance to travel on foot. The thought that the earl might simply be accommodating him with this new arrangement troubled him all the way back to Netherwood Hall.
The funeral tea was at the mill. It had been Ginger’s idea and the earl had approved it, sending word via Absalom Blandford that the cost of the food would be borne by him, and that he would be attending the gathering following the funerals. None of the usual fare was to be provided, just sandwiches and sponge cakes. And there would only be tea to drink, though it would be provided in limitless quantities. If folk wanted something stronger, said Ginger, they could take themselves off to the ale house. She had the girls tie black ribbons on some of the beams, and there were eight wreaths of hothouse lilies sent up from the hall, which Ginger had Alice hang on the doors and the walls. In just the few days she’d been in charge, Ginger’s authority had become natural and unquestioned, even by hard-nosed Nellie.
The only person she didn’t issue orders to was Anna, who had a status all of her own. Her determined, diminutive figure was a common sight, marching briskly up to the mill to lend a hand, shopping on the high street or at the market for provisions, buying cloth from the drapers. She was still, and would always be, a foreigner in Netherwood and as such was always under suspicion. But the black looks of gainsayers and tittle-tattlers made no impact on her; she was protected by a belief not so much in her superiority as in her own unassailable place in the world. It showed in her expression, and in the way she held herself. Lady Muck, some people called her, yet whatever you thought of her uppity tendencies, you couldn’t call her idle; she ran Eve’s home like clockwork, cooked for and cared for the children and, in the quiet of the evenings, ran up garments with the same ease that other people buttered a slice of bread or peeled a potato. And when she was needed at the mill, there she would be. Certainly she’d be on duty for the wake, because it was all hands to the pumps. There was nothing quite like a funeral – and free food, said Nellie – to make folk hungry.
The inquest, hurriedly convened in the upstairs function room of the Cross Keys, had been presided over by the district coroner and had swiftly concluded a verdict of accidental death due to a series of ‘unfortunate occurrences that, in conjunction with each other, had deadly consequences’. The New Mill winding gear had not been faulty, there was no dereliction of duty on the part of the earl or the pit managers, and there were no recommendations to be made as to the prevention of future such accidents. The blame was placed at the door of Fred Mackie, the engine winder on the day of the accident; the cage had been overwound, and he had failed to react to any of the warning signs. He was laid off work immediately after the incident, and was said to be suffering from an affliction of the nerves. There were no charges brought against him, since a drawn-out court case was considered to be in nobody’s best interests.
‘No blood on t’earl’s ’ands then,’ muttered Amos to Sidney Cutts as they both sat listening at the back of the room. ‘All that carnage and it’s old Fred Mackie we’re blamin’.’
‘Aye, well, it were old Fred Mackie fell asleep on t’job,’ hissed Sidney.
‘Or so they say. Did you ’ear ’im defend ’imself?’
Sidney rolled his eyes at Amos, but what he said was true. Fred Mackie, principal witness, was safely out of the way at home. The word was that the earl had been generous, severing Fred’s thirty years’ employment with a lump sum of six months’ pay.
‘Half a year’s wages to carry t’can,’ Amos said, none too quietly now. ‘I should ask a lot more’n that, if it were me.’
He found, as he stood in the courtyard at the do after the funeral, that his job as recruiting agent had been done for him, though it was the nailing of Fred Mackie that was the catalyst, rather than the tragedy itself. There was disquiet at the rumour, rapidly setting into a hardened truth, that the old man, whether he knew it or not, had been paid off to take the rap. Nobody could usefully examine the winding gear, since it was smashed beyond recognition. But there were safety devices fitted which were meant to prevent what had happened at New Mill, and none of the pit men could recall when they were last tested for efficacy. It stank of a cover-up, and now here was the earl, moving among the mourners with his customary ease and charm, and there was a general feeling among the miners that his wealth and position had protected him from awkward questions. So without even trying, Amos was being approached time and again by men who felt, finally, that representation and the backing of the YMA might be no bad thing. He couldn’t be sure, because the paperwork was at home, but nigh on a hundred and fifty men were now in favour of a New Mill Colliery trade union. When life returned to normal, and the earl was properly back from his stay in London, Amos would approach him with enough hard evidence to support the claim. There’d be branch meetings at New Mill before the autumn. He wondered if Anna might make them a banner. Something fine in red and gold. Something to reflect their pride in what they had achieved.
‘Penny for your thoughts.’
Amos laughed. The familiar phrase, in Anna’s heavy accent, sounded a little sinister. She bridled.
‘What? Have I said it wrong?’
‘No, no,’ Amos said. ‘Spot on.’
‘So? What makes you laugh?’
‘Oh, just that you said it at all. Not what you expect from a Russian.’
‘I am Yorkshire as well as Russian,’ she said. ‘So. What was you thinking about?’
He smiled again, but didn’t correct her grammar. ‘I was thinkin’ about t’cabbage parcels you fed me on Tuesday,’ he said.
She beamed. ‘Come any time,’ she said. ‘Come this evening. I make stroganoff.’
He raised a quizzical brow.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Then you learn what is stroganoff.’ She leaned in, dropping her voice to a stage whisper. ‘It’s foreign muck,’ she said.
He laughed. She was a good woman – he’d often thought it. Not much of her, but what there was was grand.
Chapter 50
The Tideaways were on the move, and the Hoyland Arms locked and shuttered until someone else took it on. It wasn’t much of a prospect; Harry’s early enthusiasm and entrepreneurship had withered and died; he would be glad to see the back of it. There was a position at the Lady’s Bridge Brewery in Sheffield, he had heard, and he was confident that he was the man for the job. Nobody knew more about beer than he did. Granted, he’d never brewed it, only sold it, but what did that figure? A fellow of his experience wouldn’t be turned away, of that he was certain. Yes, Sheffield was the place for him. Netherwood was a dead loss and everyone in it could rot in hell.
Their belongings, including the old piano for which he’d had such high hopes, were loaded on to a dray and tied under two great tarpaulin sheets. There was no one there to see them off. This, Harry told Agnes, was because half the town was at the funeral. Agnes, who knew the funeral was already over, nodded. She sat, pale to the point of transparency, on the passenger side of the dray, all wrapped up in wool in spite of the warm sunshine. She was always cold, was Agnes. Thin-blooded, like her dear, departed mother, Harry said. Ada Tideaway’s thin blood had killed her in the end, at least that was Harry’s story. Agnes, whose white face often bore the imprint of
her father’s hand, sometimes wondered if there might not have been another cause.
She was waiting for him now. He had an errand to run before they left, and she was to sit up on the cart and steady the horse until he returned. To be honest, there wouldn’t be a lot Agnes could do to stop the old grey nag if he decided to leave town without Harry, but this was an unlikely scenario; he was a placid steed, too elderly to make sudden, impetuous dashes. Agnes sat, gazing at nothing, wondering where she would be sleeping tonight. Speaking for herself, which was something she never managed to do out loud, she quite liked Netherwood and was sorry it hadn’t worked out. But she and her father had moved many times, so there was nothing new in these feelings. Privately she thought their itinerant life was bad for her health; a plant that never puts down roots can’t be expected to thrive.
She could see her father now, toiling back up Victoria Street. She watched closely, waiting to pick up the crucial clues that would indicate his mood. She shivered, wrapped the shawl tighter around, and swallowed, though she found her mouth was dry. Closer he came with his rolling gait, puffing with the effort required to negotiate the slight incline. He seemed pleased, she thought, with a cautious lift of her heart. She looked on, as he was still a safe distance away. Yes, certainly pleased. There were no tell-tale furrows between his eyes and his mouth was slack, not tight-lipped with anger. He had something in his hand and his progress, though laboured, was purposeful. Agnes, perfectly attuned to the vagaries of her father’s moods, allowed herself to relax, and redirected her gaze to her folded hands before he could catch her eye and clout her for it.
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