She was so busy with her confused thoughts and emotions, she did not hear any of the proceedings. It was not until questions were invited from the floor that she felt able to pay attention. The audience hurled questions at the speakers, particularly Myles, but he fielded them well, being patient and knowledgeable, answering frankly, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humour, which had his listeners laughing. ‘It is the conveyance of the future,’ he told one questioner. ‘Unless a man wishing to do business lives or works near a railway line, he will be left behind. He will be reliant on road transport for everything. His goods cannot be sold except in his own locality. He will pay twice as much for his coal to be delivered. And when he travels by road he will find it increasingly difficult to find post houses.’
‘Yes, yes, we understand all that,’ his questioner put in. ‘But do we need so many lines, all vying with each other for business? Why can’t they get together and agree about who goes where? At the moment, we have to stop and get out to cross to other lines every time we come to a town or a junction. It is as bad as changing horses. Worse, in some instances, because there are gaps and passengers have to walk or find other means of transport from one line to the next. The government should step in.’
‘I agree,’ Myles said. ‘And one day it will happen. The lines will amalgamate and they will work to a common timetable with a standard fare…’
‘Much hope of that when London time is not the same as York time,’ someone called out and everyone laughed.
‘That, too, will have to be addressed,’ Myles said. ‘But it is not the business of this meeting to decide on government policy, but to explain about the Leicester to Peterborough line, which will be an important connection between this city and the west, linking the east with the Midlands Railway. It is an important section for everyone and will repay investment in the years to come.’
‘Ah, it’s our money he wants,’ someone cried out amid laughter.
‘It is not my function to ask for your money,’ Myles said. ‘My fellow directors will tell you about that. I am here to talk about the works.’
‘The navvies, you mean. Is it true you were once a navvy yourself?’
‘I pride myself on being able to undertake any work I ask my men to do,’ he said.
‘Your men! Heathen rabble, you mean. I don’t want them anywhere near my home.’
There were cries of ‘Here! Here!’
Myles smiled and held up his hand for silence. ‘The men under my command are not rabble. They are hardworking and skilled men and they are certainly not heathens. Many of them are devout.’
‘They are made to work on Sundays, so how can they be devout?’
‘There is no work on Moorcroft projects on Sundays.’ This was a rule his father had insisted on right from the beginning. The men needed a break from unending toil, he had said; they worked the better for it the other six days of the week.
‘Better if they did,’ someone else shouted. ‘Less time to go drinking.’
Myles smiled at the speaker. ‘Do you not enjoy a glass of beer occasionally, sir?’
‘’Course I do. But I don’t go mad with it.’
‘Neither do my men.’
‘Can you guarantee that?’
That was a tricky one and Myles knew his answer would determine whether he won them over or not, but he also knew that if he lied he would be called to account later if any of his men imbibed too freely and caused trouble. ‘The navvies are the same as any other working man,’ he said. ‘Their work is hard, much harder than most, and frequently dangerous. They are paid well for it and occasionally they like to celebrate. Trouble often comes because there are so many of them crowded together, cut off from basic amenities like dry shelter, clean water and wholesome provisions. What I can guarantee is that on Moorcroft works, these things are provided. Also, the men are paid every two weeks and the temptation to drink their wages away is much reduced.’
Mr Masters intervened to tell them that Mr Myles Moorcroft was beloved and respected by his men and they would follow him anywhere. Anyone living along the Leicester to Peterborough line would have nothing to fear from the navvies.
There were a few more questions put to Lord Moorcroft about stocks and shares and expected returns and the mayor closed the meeting. The audience applauded politely and began to file out. Lucy rose, but could not move until the others in the row had gone. It was then that Myles saw her and his eyebrows rose in surprise, then a broad smile lit his features. This was the last place he had expected to see her, and the drab assembly rooms seemed suddenly light and cheerful. He excused himself from his companions on the platform and made his way down the aisle, arriving at the end of her row just as she did.
‘Lady Lucinda, what a surprise to see you here. Is Lord Luffenham with you?’
‘No, Mr Moorcroft.’ She addressed him clearly and correctly, making him smile. ‘I am with my friend, Lady Brotherton, and Sir Gerald Brotherton.’ She turned to her companions. ‘May I present Mr Myles Moorcroft?’
Georgina bowed her head and Sir Gerald shook his hand. ‘Very interesting meeting,’ Sir Gerald said. ‘But it has left me curious to learn more. Perhaps we could meet?’
‘Delighted,’ Myles said, casting a glance in Lucy’s direction. She was looking enchanting in a pale green dress with a narrow pointed bodice that emphasised a neat waist. Her forest-green hat sat on her curls and framed a face that was looking decidedly flushed. It was hardly surprising, since she had caught him out for what he really was.
‘I did not know you knew Mr Moorcroft, Lucy,’ Georgie said. ‘You did not say so when you said you would like to come to the meeting.’
Lucy’s colour deepened. ‘I did not know Mr Moorcroft was to be one of the speakers.’
Georgina looked from one to the other and read the signs accurately. ‘Mr Moorcroft, you must come and take tea with us while Lucy is with us,’ she said, delving into her reticule for a calling card to give him. ‘Then Gerry can ask all his questions and you can tell us all about working on the railways. I am sure it is a fascinating story. You will accept, won’t you, sir?’
‘Nothing would please me more,’ he said. And he certainly looked pleased. Lucy had a feeling he was laughing at her and she squirmed inwardly and wished she could put a curb on her friend’s tongue.
‘Tomorrow afternoon at four o’clock,’ Georgina said, and then gave a trill of a laugh. ‘Peterborough time.’
‘I shall be there.’ He bowed and left them and Georgina took Lucy’s arm and they left the hall in the wake of Sir Gerald.
‘He’s the one, isn’t he?’ They had had supper and said goodnight, but Georgina had come to Lucy’s room to quiz her. Sarah had come and gone after helping Lucy undress. Now she was sitting at the dressing-table mirror in her nightgown, brushing her hair, and her friend was seated on the bed, watching her. ‘He’s the one you said was unsuitable.’
‘Who?’
‘Mr Moorcroft.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘It was as plain as day to me. You could hardly look at him and your face was scarlet.’
‘It was warm in that room.’
Georgie laughed. ‘Oh, Lucy, don’t try deceiving me. I know you too well. But why is he unsuitable? He seemed perfectly civilised to me, though to be honest I found his size overwhelming.’
‘He is a navvy.’
‘Don’t be silly, he is Lord Moorcroft’s son.’
‘I know, but Lord Moorcroft is only a second-generation peer and Papa despises him. He hates having to do business with him.’
‘How did you meet him? Go on, tell me everything. I can’t help you if I don’t know the whole.’
‘Help me? How can you help me?’
‘I do not know unless you tell me all about it. Has he declared himself?’
‘Goodness, no. He laughs at me.’
‘I didn’t see him laughing at you. He was perhaps sharing a joke with you. That’s what it looked like to me.’<
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‘The joke is on me. I made a mistake. He told me his name was Myles and I thought it was his surname and he really was a navvy. He says he is and he’s proud of it.’
‘He is certainly built like one. When did you discover who he really is?’
‘Tonight.’
‘Oh, no wonder you were hot and bothered.’
‘I wish you had not asked him to tea. I must excuse myself.’
‘You will do no such thing. Lucy, you have an ideal opportunity to get to know him better without your papa being any the wiser. Surely you are not going to turn that down?’
‘I can’t see what good it will do.’
‘Neither do I at the moment, but no doubt something will occur to me. I am not going to stand by and watch you throw yourself away on someone you do not care for simply because your papa has picked him out for you, when with a little contrivance you can have the man you really want.’
‘But he doesn’t want me. At least, I do not think so. Not as a wife.’
‘How do you know? Has he told you so?’
‘No, of course not. He would not be so ungentlemanly.’
‘Oh, so you do believe he is a gentleman.’
‘Georgie, you are confusing me. I do wish you would go to bed. I am tired.’ She put down her brush and left the dressing table.
Georgie got up and kissed her. ‘I am a brute, aren’t I? But I want you to be as happy as I am. Go to sleep now and have pleasant dreams and in the morning you will be more optimistic.’ And with that she picked up the lamp she had brought with her and left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Lucy, left with the light of a flickering candle, got into bed and pinched it out. Pleasant dreams. Yes, she would concentrate on pleasant thoughts. Myles, no longer Mr Myles, rowing her into the middle of the lake and talking nonsense to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her. The memory of that made her squirm farther down the bed. She had thought she was being kissed by a navvy and that should have repulsed her, but she must have known, deep inside her, he was no ordinary navvy. She ought certainly to have realised it when he came with Lord Moorcroft to the house. But it made no difference; her father had made it perfectly clear what he thought of Lord Moorcroft and his son.
Myles, trying not to betray his eagerness, arrived at exactly four o’clock and was shown into the drawing room, to find the two ladies apparently engrossed in a discussion about the relative merits of flowers and feathers for decorating a bonnet. They rose and Georgie made him welcome.
‘Do sit down, Mr Moorcroft. I’ll go and tell Gerald you are here. I don’t suppose he heard the doorbell. His study is at the back of the house and he becomes engrossed in his work and hears nothing.’ And she was gone.
‘Mr Moorcroft,’ Lucy said, after several seconds’ silence, during which they simply stood and looked at each other.
‘I liked it better when you called me Mr Myles.’
She wished he had not reminded her of that. ‘You knew I had misunderstood and yet you did nothing to correct me. That was unkind of you.’
‘I am sorry. I would not for the world be unkind to you. I liked to hear you use the name and it meant you took me for what I am, an ordinary man who works for his living, and perhaps liked me the better for it….’
‘There is nothing ordinary about you, Mr Moorcroft. You like to deceive and tease and play tricks. You assured me you were a navvy.’
‘So I am.’
‘But you are also the son of a peer and presumably his heir.’
‘That, too. I am a man divided. Sometimes it is not very comfortable.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘To men like your father I am a contemptible upstart, pretending to be a gentleman and making a poor hand of it. To the navvies, I am one of the privileged rich who likes to think he is one of them.’
‘Which would you rather be?’
‘Neither. I would rather people accept me for what I am. I hoped that you would.’
‘How could I, when I did not know the truth? How long would you have kept it from me, if I had not been in your audience last night?’
‘Ah, there you have me. I don’t know. It would have depended on how close we became, how often we met.’
She felt herself colouring. ‘Close, Mr Moorcroft?’
He smiled. ‘I live in hope.’
‘I am not sure I understand you.’
‘Oh, my lady, you cannot be so naive. I wish to know you better. I wish you to know me for the man I am, perhaps to grow to like me a little.’
‘Stop! Stop this instant.’ She put her hands over her ears. ‘You know that isn’t possible.’
He stepped forward and took her hands in his, pushing them away from her face. ‘Not possible? Why not? Am I so dislikeable?’
‘Yes. No. Oh, you are confusing me.’ He still held her hands, but his grip was gentle. She knew she had only to pull away and he would release her, but she did not even try. He was supporting her, for one thing; for another, it meant she was held close to him, the warmth of his body warmed her and gave her a kind of comfort. But it was a false comfort, because soon he would let her go and she would have to stand alone. ‘I don’t know what you are asking of me. I do not understand.’
He wanted to tell her what was in his mind, that he wanted to make her his wife, but he remembered his father’s request and bit off the words. ‘You are the only young lady I have met who could help me to reconcile my two halves. You do not look down your nose at me because I am a navvy.’
‘I never thought you were one. You are too clean, too well spoken.’
‘And how do you know how clean navvies are? How do you know that some of them might not be educated?’
‘I don’t.’
‘There you are, then. I am a navvy and therefore far beneath you. I acknowledge it. But I am also a stubborn man and not easily discouraged.’
She did pull herself away then and stepped back, breathing erratically. ‘You are talking nonsense, Mr Moorcroft, and I do not want to hear any more of it.’
He understood that she was afraid, afraid of her own feelings, and he might talk all day and she would not admit to them. He had been an idiot to expect anything different. She had been brought up to know her place in society; it had been bred into her over generations and she would never defy her father. He could only admire her for it, but his frustration made him irritable. ‘But mark my words, there will come a time when the working man will come into his own,’ he said, repeating something his grandfather had told him when he was a small boy. ‘Those that endeavour to work with their brains and hands to make their fortunes will become the country’s elite, not the aristocracy. Birth will matter less than achievement. It is already happening. Men like Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Morton Peto and Thomas Brassey are already paving the way. Sooner or later, the Earl of Luffenham, and those like him, will have to come to terms with that.’
‘Mr Moorcroft, I beg of you not to speak of my father in that way.’
‘I beg your pardon, my lady.’ It was said with stiff formality.
‘I am surprised at you when your own father is a peer of the realm.’
‘He will tell you, were you to ask, that his late father had earned the title and it is in deference to his father he continues to use it.’
‘I understand your mother is a lady born and bred.’
‘So she is, so she would be, even if her father had not been a Viscount. I adore her and you will when you meet her.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘I did tell you that I was not always comfortable with myself.’
‘Then you have my sympathy.’
‘That is a step in the right direction. Only a little one, to be sure.’
The humour was back in his eyes and she found herself smiling. He grinned back at her and picked up her hand, lifting the back of it to his lips. ‘Shall we be friends?’
She nodded. Oh, how she longed to give way, to tell him what he wanted to hear, but she was too afraid.
The door open
ed a crack and Georgie put her head round it before coming into the room. Myles dropped Lucy’s hand and went to stand looking out of the window to recover his equilibrium. Lucy, now that his large frame had distanced itself from her, felt the seat of a sofa behind her knees and sat down suddenly. She felt drained. The whole episode had been so unreal, the stuff of novels, and her head was spinning.
‘Gerry is just coming,’ Georgina said, looking from one to the other. ‘Wherever has Thomas got to with the tea things?’ She picked up a bell from a side table and rang it vigorously. When the servant appeared, she said, ‘Thomas, you may serve tea now. Sir Gerald is just coming.’
The spinning slowed; Lucy found that she was back in the real world, listening to the conversation, hearing Georgie ask if Myles liked milk and sugar, offering him cake, and his polite replies. When Sir Gerald came into the room, she heard the men greet each other and talk about the weather and then go on to speak of the railway. It was all so normal, she began to think she must have imagined that she and Myles had been alone together and had that strange conversation. Her heart was singing with the sheer joy of it, but even as she felt she would burst with happiness, her head spoiled it all, bringing her back to earth. Nothing could come of it unless her father softened and she could not see that happening. Marrying the son of Lord Moorcroft was only marginally better than marrying a common navvy in his eyes. She could not marry against her father’s wishes; he would disown her if she did, cut her off from her mother, her sisters and Johnny—and that would break her heart. She had been brought up on the Bible’s teaching, ‘honour thy father and thy mother,’ and it would take more courage than she possessed to go against it. Besides, Myles had not asked her to marry him and it was well known that half the women who lived with the navvies were not married to them. Did his strange philosophy embrace that, too? Did he think she would be like the other women and live in a hut with him without benefit of clergy? He had sadly misjudged her character if he did. Had she misjudged his?
Mary Nichols Page 11
