Through the Smoke

by Brenda Novak

  Geordie was home alone when Rachel returned. She looked around the sparsely furnished cottage in surprise, then put the tarts and sandwiches she’d taken from Blackmoor Hall on the table. “Where is Mrs. Tate? She said she would keep an eye on you while I was gone.”

  “She’ll be right back.” He was turned away from her, his voice muffled as he worked to clean out the fireplace.

  Rachel poured some water into a basin to wash her sticky hands. “Come clean off the soot,” she said. “I brought you something to eat.”

  His eyes rounded when he saw the food. “How did you come by such fancy fare?”

  Not wanting to think of her recent visit to Blackmoor Hall, or any of the ones before, Rachel made a show of drying her hands. “Don’t worry about that. Just enjoy yourself.”

  She didn’t have to tell him twice. Geordie washed his hands and face, then bellied up to the table and polished off two of the larger pastries before looking questioningly her way. “Have you eaten?” he asked politely. “Because I could stop now. I’m not that hungry.”

  Rachel smiled and took a seat opposite him. “I will halve the last one with you.” If she didn’t eat something, she’d faint. And she couldn’t faint. She had to contact Mr. Cutberth and let him know she’d done what he’d asked her to do. Then maybe the rumors about her would die and everyone would go back to treating her like they always had.

  “Where did Mrs. Tate go?” she asked.

  “Don’t know. We… we had a disagreement. She scolded me and cried and scolded me some more. Then she grabbed her cloak and hurried out just before you got back.”

  Rachel studied her young brother. “She rarely scolds you. What did you do?”

  He shrugged, his face reddening.

  “Geordie?”

  Setting his portion of that third pastry down uneaten, he shoved away from the table and went back to cleaning the fireplace. The shovel clanged as he hung it on a hook. Then the bristles of the horsehair broom swished as he swept out the rest of the cinders. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. “You’ll get angry too.”

  Foreboding flickered somewhere in the back of Rachel’s mind. “I won’t get angry.”

  At first she wasn’t sure he’d heard her. But he finally set his tools aside and turned to face her. “I am going to apply at the mine.”

  His voice sounded older, more like their brother Tommy’s had the year before he died. Already Geordie was beginning to grow up, and because of their mother’s death, he was being forced to do it far too soon.

  Rachel swallowed hard to alleviate the sudden dryness of her throat. “Surely you don’t mean that, Geordie. You are only eight—”

  “I will be nine soon. Mr. Clifton says I am plenty old enough. He said his own son started trapping at five.”

  “Mr. Clifton? What has he got to do with this?”

  “I saw him outside the apothecary today. He told me I am the man of the house now and wanted to know when I would be starting at the pit.”

  Rachel’s temper began to simmer. Clifton had no right putting the responsibility of their situation on Geordie’s young shoulders. “He doesn’t know what’s best for us, Geordie. Next time you see him you can tell him you won’t be starting at the mine ever.”

  Her brother’s chin jutted out. “He used to be one of the best coal hewers at Stanhope & Co. He knows plenty—”

  “He had to give up being a hewer because he couldn’t see anymore. That is what working down in the pit does for a man, Geordie. It clogs his nose and lungs with dust and ruins his eyes.”

  “Well, he can see now. He’s a fireman at the mine, isn’t he? If not for him, who would check the safety of the workings before each shift begins?”

  “I don’t care who or what he is. That’s not the point. The point is…” she struggled to keep her emotions in check “… the point is the pit is dark, dusty, filthy, stuffy and wet. You will work for more than twelve hours a day with sweating, stinking horses and perspiring men, and never see the sun. Surely you do not want to consign yourself to a life like that—”

  “I have to do something to help you,” he said, his eyes imploring. “You haven’t been able to open the shop. The villagers are treating you like a leper.” He blushed, and Rachel feared he already understood far too much about what the villagers were saying, even at his tender age.

  She glanced at the food left over from the meal they had just shared at the earl’s expense and guiltily feared Geordie had guessed where it had come from. “I know the villagers are talking about me, but I haven’t done anything to be ashamed of, Geordie.” That was true, wasn’t it? She hadn’t been in her right mind. Surely she wasn’t responsible for what had occurred in the earl’s bed. But she had let him finish.… “You don’t have to worry about that,” she went on. “I am much older than you, and I can take care of us. You have to trust me.”

  But the cold nights, when she had tried to conserve the last of their wood and coal, and the small or nonexistent meals they had shared over the last few days had, no doubt, left an indelible impression on him, undermining his confidence in her.

  “Mr. Clifton said I can earn enough to buy us the basics,” he said. “And I won’t be down in the mine, not at first. I will be at the pithead, working on the belts, sorting the rocks from the coal. Anyone can do that.”

  “I don’t want you there!” Rachel nearly screamed the words, then regretted her burst of temper when Geordie looked like she’d struck him. Infusing some calm into her voice, she said, “I’m sorry, Geordie. I didn’t mean to yell. It’s just that, if you go to work in the mine, you will have no time to get an education. And if you don’t get an education, you will always be a miner.”

  “Dad was a miner,” he said defiantly. “So was Tommy.”

  Curling her hands into fists, Rachel closed her eyes. How could he possibly understand how easily he could get roped into a life of endless, back-breaking labor? A life rife with strikes and lockouts and short time? From week to week he’d never know what stoppages would be kept from his earnings. Depending upon the whim of Whythe Stanhope, who was steward over the mine, he could be overcharged for the tools, candles and powder he used underground. Fines could be imposed on him for unsatisfactory work. And if he ever chose to live in colliery housing, he could be fined for offences as trivial as keeping dogs, cows, pigs, donkeys—even pigeons!

  Rachel saw more for him in life than that, more for herself than worrying whether there would be another cave-in.…

  “When you get older, we will talk about it,” she said, hoping the idea of future compromise might mollify him.

  “That’s what Mrs. Tate said,” he sulked.

  “And she has the right of it. For now, letting you work at the mine is out of the question; do you understand? If anyone applies there, it will be me.”

  “But if we both—”

  Mrs. Tate rushed in, interrupting their argument. With her was the blacksmith’s apprentice. He took off his hat and wrung it in his hands, hovering just outside the door and going beet red when Rachel looked at him.

  “Mr. Wilson, I am sorry. I wasn’t expecting you.” Rachel stood and brushed the crumbs from her dress. “Please come in.”

  “Mr. Wilson ’as somethin’ ’e’d like to say to ye.” Mrs. Tate held the door and waved the blacksmith’s apprentice on through, then motioned for Geordie to join her on her way back out. “Come, lad. Let’s go see what comfort we can give poor Gilly on this cold day an’ let Mr. Wilson an’ yer sister ’ave some privacy, aye?”

  Geordie frowned but Rachel encouraged him with a nod. “We will only be a moment, Geordie. Then I will come find the two of you.”

  As they left, Rachel felt her palms grow moist. She had never been alone with James Wilson before and wasn’t sure she wanted to be now. After what had been circulating in the village, he had to be wondering if she was really the whore and traitor the miners made her out to be.

  His pained expression told her he was feeling as
uncomfortable and embarrassed as she was. Taking courage from that, she broke the awkward silence. “I am afraid Mrs. Tate came to you without my knowledge. I apologize. Her heart is in the right place, but—”

  “I’ve heard what they are sayin’ about ye,” he blurted, suddenly tightening his grip on his hat. “I don’t believe it, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Rachel’s conscience stirred as, in her mind’s eye, she saw the earl naked above her, limed in firelight. But she shoved the vision away.

  “Mrs. Tate was wise to seek me out,” he said. “I’ve ’ad my eye on ye for a long time, ever since ye were just a girl. Ye already know that, I imagine.” He looked down at the tips of his boots, the walls of the cottage, anywhere but at her face. “I still care for ye an’, if ye would accept me, I’d be willin’ to marry ye, even now.”

  Rachel had to catch her jaw to keep it from hitting the floor. She had considered petitioning Mr. Wilson to stand by her as a friend, so someone would break ranks with the rest and possibly pave the way for her life to return to normal. But she had never dreamed he would offer to take her on as his wife, not after she rejected him once before.

  “I cannot offer ye much, but it’s more than ye got,” he went on, evidently reading her stunned silence as reluctance. “I’ll always take care of ye, and I’ll take care of young Geordie, too, just like ’e was my own son.” He blushed more furiously at the mention of a son, but blundered on, “I’ll treat ye tenderly, Rachel. An’ though I might not be so smart with letters, like ye are, I will do my best to learn. An’ I will work ’ard an’ not spend all my money on drink. Ye got my word on that.”

  The refusal that came instantly to Rachel’s lips hovered there without making the leap into words. She couldn’t turn him down again. Mr. Wilson was a humble, generous man, who obviously cared a great deal for her. She believed he would be a kind husband. He said he would take care of her and Geordie. She could certainly do worse.…

  “What do ye say, Rachel?” He came close, took her hand, and went down on one knee. “Will ye marry me?”

  Love could grow from respect, couldn’t it? She definitely respected James Wilson. She always had. And she would do anything to keep Geordie out of the mine.

  Silently vowing to make him a good wife, she gazed into his earnest face. “Yes,” she said, but the creak and groan of iron wheels on pavement sounded outside, drawing their attention to the front window where a wagon, loaded with food, pulled up to the fence. Its driver was one of the earl’s servants.

  No! Rachel couldn’t move as she watched the man jump to the ground and approach the house. The power of his knock seemed to rattle the walls around her, yet she stood rooted to the same spot.

  It was James who answered the door.

  “Lord Druridge sends this with his compliments,” the footman announced and rushed back to unload everything.

  James shut the door and together they listened to the thud of the servant’s feet hit the wooden steps of the porch, again and again, followed by the thump and scrape of whatever he carried.

  “The earl sent it,” James repeated. He sounded incredulous, as though he couldn’t quite absorb the meaning of it.

  Rachel cringed and had to turn away. She’d known the moment she’d seen the wagon who’d sent the food.

  Behind her, she heard the blacksmith’s apprentice draw a bolstering breath. “Tell me ’e’s never touched ye,” he said. “I’ll believe ye, if ye just say the words.”

  Rachel squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to tell him what he hoped to hear but couldn’t. The food called her a liar before she even got started. Besides, Druridge had touched her. He’d made her giddy with his hands and his lips and his body. He’d taken her virginity and, heaven help her, she’d enjoyed it. Even now, just the thought of pressing her lips to his mouth left her warm and tingly and slightly breathless.

  What kind of woman did that make her? Certainly not one who deserved to marry a decent man like James Wilson. What had she been thinking?

  “Rachel,” he pleaded. “Just tell me it’s not what it looks like.”

  “I can’t,” she said, choking back a sob. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m sorry.”

  She didn’t know how long she stood there, face averted, tears sliding down her cheeks, but the servant and the earl’s wagon were gone when James spoke again.

  “I’m sorry, too,” he said and, with his head down and his hat still off, he left.

  Chapter 9

  The Fore-Overman’s office was not far from the pithead of the mine. Rachel knew right where to find it. She’d often walked with her father to pick up his pay. When Tommy was alive, he had received his wages there too, at the hand of Mr. Tyndale, who had long handled all the labor issues at the mine. He was the one who’d sacked her father, but she didn’t hold it against him. The order had come from above, from the earl himself. Tyndale had told Jack so at the time.

  Knowing Mr. Tyndale would’ve kept her father on if possible made her feel slightly hopeful. It meant she’d be applying to someone likely to treat her well. If anyone would be fair, surely it would be the man who had so often winked and called her a “pretty little girl” when she was a child.

  Despite the fact that she was expecting to meet a friendly face, she hesitated before entering the building. Mr. Tyndale’s attitude could have changed toward her, given recent events. Not only that, but after tossing and turning the past three nights—ever since the blacksmith’s apprentice had left her standing in the middle of her own kitchen feeling absolutely bereft—she was too fatigued to deal with such an emotional situation. Here she was, about to sue for work at the very place she’d sworn no one in her family would ever work again. That made her feel as if she was reneging on everything she believed.

  But what else could she do? Word had spread that the earl had delivered an expensive amount of food, even wine, to her house, negating any relief she might’ve obtained by cooperating with Mr. Cutberth’s demands. Even Cutberth seemed unable to believe she’d followed through, especially because the earl hadn’t reacted to what she’d told him as Cutberth had expected. Instead of accepting her at her word and blaming Jack for the fire, Druridge had sent Linley on another round of inquiries. Geordie had heard the earl’s butler prattling about that Bruegel painter Druridge had asked her about—although she had no idea what a Flemish painter had to do with the fire. She might’ve been curious, except she had such pressing problems. She got the impression that Cutberth somehow blamed her for the way the earl had responded, as if she’d made him more suspicious instead of less. As a result, she was becoming acquainted with what it meant to wind up on Cutberth’s bad side and no longer admired him.

  You can’t worry about Cutberth. Not now. Taking care of Geordie had to be her first priority. She didn’t have a lot of time to adjust to the setbacks she’d experienced. Once the earl’s food was gone, she would have no means to buy more. Unless she wanted her little brother to starve—unless she wanted to starve herself—she had to find a way to provide.

  Throwing back her shoulders, she told herself her stint in the mine would be temporary, just until she could figure out a better solution, and opened the door.

  At her unexpected intrusion, Mr. Tyndale glanced up from his oversize desk.

  “Rachel!” The flame of his lamp threatened to gutter out, thanks to the sudden rush of outside air. He protected the opening at the top with one hand, then stood and gave her a welcoming smile.

  That he didn’t seem to hate her like all the others nearly brought tears to her eyes.

  “Hello, Mr. Tyndale.” Somehow she managed to talk despite the lump in her throat.

  He walked around his desk and motioned to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

  She’d worn her tattered cloak to help cut the biting cold. He held out a hand as she passed by—an offer to take it from her—but she was so chilled she didn’t dare relinquish the garment. She also didn’t want him to comment on her dramatic weight
loss. “I will keep it, thank you.”

  With a slight nod, he moved back to his customary place. “What brings you out to the mine on this cold day?” he asked, obviously surprised that she would show up.

  She blinked several times, trying to hold back tears. Her mouth felt so dry she wasn’t sure she would be able to speak, but she managed a rather wobbly, “I was hoping that… I was hoping you might have a bit of work for me, Mr. Tyndale.”

  His eyes widened. “Here? You mean, at the colliery?”

  She held her head high. In the West of Scotland, they’d quit hiring women in the coal mines in an effort to save those jobs for the men, but not here, not entirely. She knew of at least a handful of women who drew a paycheck from Stanhope & Co. “Yes, please. I-I will be a good worker. Do you… happen to have a position on the sorting belts, perhaps?”

  He hesitated long enough that she clutched the fabric of her cloak. Would he turn her away? She feared that was the case, but he must’ve read her panic because he smiled again and seemed to change his mind.

  “Of course. I am sure I can find room on the payroll for one more. But”—he leaned forward—“screeners make only a schilling or two per day. You realize that.”

  Rachel’s heart sank. That was even less than she’d expected. Her father, as a hewer, had brought home as much as twenty schillings a week. Even Tommy had made fifteen. She would be working for a fraction of their wages, and that simply wouldn’t be enough—not to pay the monthly rent and support her and Geordie.

  She bit her lip. “Is-is housing included?”

  He shook his head. “Not for a screener.”

  “Is there any binding money if I agree to stay for a year or more?”

  “You don’t want to commit yourself for so long. We don’t need screeners enough at the moment to be offering binding money anyway.”

  “Then… maybe there’s another position… something else you think I could do?”

  Before he could reply, the door opened and Wythe Stanhope stepped inside. “What a miserable day,” he grumbled.