The Chain Garden (6 page)

Exhausted, still traumatised, and grateful to be allowed to continue in his vocation, he promised circumspection. A missionary since his ordination he had no experience of life as a circuit minister. He was discovering it required boundless tact and diplomacy. Praise given to one group had to be matched by gratitude to another. Yet it cost little. Their initial shock informed him their efforts had never been considered worthy of mention, let alone deserving of thanks. And they showed their appreciation by working even harder.

He heaved a deep shuddering sigh. He should have declined. He could have found a legitimate excuse. She would have accepted it: believed it. But he didn’t want to lie to her, even though she would not know it was a lie.
You’ll tell her the truth then? You’ll tell her the real reason you were sent back to England?

The image in the glass gazed back at him, hollow-eyed, anguished. He had not known her long. But three and a half months was more than sufficient to recognize that her kindness to the poor of the village went far beyond what might be expected from local gentry. Long enough to sense hurts bravely covered. Long enough to realize the true depth of his feelings for her. Feelings he could never admit.

He knew she was not indifferent to him. When they met in the village, in the chapel, after Sunday school, she always smiled when she returned his greeting. Though she never initiated conversation, never tried to detain him as others did, she would willingly discuss chapel matters provided he took care to look at her only when her own gaze was lowered. For if he caught her eye her colour rose and she shied away like a startled gazelle.

He should have sent his regrets. But he had not. He would go. He would be polite and pleasant to her parents and the other guests: do and say all that was proper. For a little while he would be near her. And perhaps she might look on him as a friend.

In her bedroom Grace frowned at her reflection in the long glass. She had planned to wear the pretty cameo her parents had given her for her twenty-first birthday. But her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the pin level. Her skin prickled with nervous perspiration. She dropped the brooch on her dressing table and snatched up a crumpled handkerchief soaked in lavender water.

Pressing it to her upper lip then her forehead and temples she drew deep breaths and mentally repeated the greeting she had been rehearsing all afternoon.
Good evening, Mr Philpotts.
The villagers called him Reverend. But that term was properly used only in writing.
Good evening, Mr Philpotts. How kind of you to come.
That sounded polite and welcoming without being effusive.

Why was she so flushed? Her bath had been deliberately tepid. Staring into the glass she pressed her fingers to hot cheeks. A lady’s hands were supposed to be cool. Hers were cold, while the rest of her was far too warm. Perhaps if she held her wrists under the cold tap – No, that would mean unbuttoning her cuffs. If fastening one brooch was beyond her she couldn’t possibly manage twelve tiny buttons.

Her mother had wanted her to have a dress specially made for this evening. She had refused. How could she justify an unnecessary luxury when her father was beset by financial problems? Besides, she had worn her blue so seldom it was virtually new.

In her heart of hearts she did not feel she had anything to celebrate. What was different from last year? Or the year before?

Tonight Edwin Philpotts was coming to dinner.
As her heartbeat quickened she re-focused on her reflection. At least the high close-fitting collar hid the hollows at the base of her throat. The dress was white figured net over blue silk, the bodice drawn in by a broad sash of blue satin that emphasised the slenderness of her waist. Full sleeves of pleated chiffon were gathered into deep tight cuffs, and the hem of the deeply gored skirt was edged with a narrow frill that brushed her white kid slippers. Violet had gathered her hair up into a loose topknot of curls.

She glanced at the clock. It was time to go. Her gaze fell on the brooch. She reached out a hand, observed its tremor and left the cameo on her dressing table.

Descending the staircase ahead of her, her father was immaculate in a single-buttoned dinner jacket with silk facings. Against the dense black his stiff collar was starkly white, his face the colour of raw beef beneath close-cropped pewter hair. A gold link gleamed in his pristine cuff.

Elegant lavender silk flattered her mother’s pale complexion. Her hair appeared thicker than usual, and was dressed in a becoming style enhanced by two silk flowers that matched her dress. Realising that Violet had used pads of false hair to create the fullness, Grace was touched that her mother should think the occasion worth such effort.

Following them downstairs and across the hall to the drawing room, Grace drew another tremulous breath.

Louise took a small glass of dry sherry from the tray Patrick offered and smiled at Grace. ‘Darling, you look lovely. Doesn’t she, Henry?’

‘Indeed she does.’ Lifting a crystal tumbler containing an inch of whisky he raised it in salute. ‘Happy birthday, lass.’

Grace’s heart swelled. ‘Thank you, Papa.’

Louise extended her free hand to her elder daughter. ‘I want this to be a special evening, my darling. I do wish you had agreed to a dance. I would so like to see you have
fun.
You work so hard.’

‘Wow!’

She turned to see Bryce studying her in open astonishment.

‘You look really nice.’

‘There’s no need to sound
quite
so surprised,’ she teased.

‘Really Bryce,’ Louise scolded.

‘No, I didn’t mean –’ He pulled a face. ‘Sorry. Out of practice, I’m afraid. Evening, Father. How did the meeting go?’

As her father remained silent Grace held her breath.

‘Perhaps this isn’t the right time to ask,’ Bryce said. ‘I just – I was interested that’s all.’ As his father’s eyebrows lifted Bryce continued quietly. ‘I couldn’t do what you do, Father. And God knows you wouldn’t want my life.’ There was a painful edge to his voice that startled Grace. ‘But that doesn’t mean I’m not concerned when I read about mines all over the county closing down. It can’t be easy for you or any mine owner at the moment.’

‘It’s not.’ Henry cleared his throat. ‘I’m much obliged to you.’ He drained his glass and turned away looking for Patrick.

‘Here’s Granny,’ Grace murmured.

‘Good God,’ Bryce whispered. ‘
Still
in mourning?’

In unrelieved black except for her customary pearls, Hester stood in the doorway waiting for someone to escort her to a chair. Spotting Grace she beckoned.

‘No,’ Bryce restrained her. ‘Richard and I will take care of Granny this evening. A couple of glasses of sherry should loosen her up.’

Grace caught his arm, her voice low. ‘Bryce, be careful. We don’t want –’

‘We don’t want to see you running about after Granny. This is your party and your guests will be arriving at any moment. There’s the doorbell.’ He patted her hand. ‘Here they come. Enjoy yourself.’

Grace’s heart had leapt into her throat. She clasped her hands tightly hoping to stop their renewed trembling as the door opened to admit John Ainsley.

‘Happy birthday, Grace.’ John kissed his niece’s cheek and handed her a package. ‘I hope you’ll find this useful.’

She undid the wrappings and found writing case of tooled leather and an elegant fountain pen. ‘Oh, they’re wonderful! Thank you, Uncle John. How very kind.’

‘It was my pleasure.’ Smiling, John Ainsley took a glass of sherry. As he moved away the door opened again to admit Mary Prideaux with Alice Hawkins close behind. Richard turned expectantly towards the door.

‘Happy birthday, my dear,’ Mary kissed Grace. ‘I came via Polwellan and collected Alice. Poor Sophie sends her apologies.’ Her words stopped Richard in his tracks. ‘She has developed a streaming cold and is confined to bed. Mrs Hawkins asked me to tell you how desperately disappointed she is. She was so looking forward to coming.’

‘I’m so sorry she’s not well.’ Seeing Richard’s expression Grace knew Sophie’s disappointment could not be deeper than his.

‘Happy birthday, Grace.’ Alice pressed two flat packages tied with red ribbon into Grace’s hand. These were opened to reveal some embroidered handkerchiefs and a handmade bookmark.

‘That’s so kind of you, Alice. Please tell Sophie I’ll write to her.’

‘Yes. Will you excuse me?’

‘Oh dear,’ Mary said softly beside Grace as they watched Alice approach Bryce with fluttering lashes. Turning to Grace she smiled. ‘I have a feeling the coming year is going to be a very special one for you.’ She pressed a package into Grace’s hand. ‘A small token of my affection and regard.’

Opening the little box Grace gasped. Nestling in midnight-blue velvet was a dainty gold ring set with a turquoise surrounded by seed pearls.

‘Oh, Mary! It’s beautiful.’

‘Here, let me hold the box.’ Mary took it as Grace extracted the ring and slipped it onto the third finger of her right hand.

‘It’s just perfect. I – I don’t know what to say. Except thank you,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s – I’m –’ Shaking her head she gazed at the ring.

Mary squeezed her arm. ‘Happy birthday, my dear. Your mother’s calling me. I see you have another guest.’

Chapter Six

Grace looked up as Edwin walked in. A head taller than Richard whose hand he was shaking, he looked thin and pale in his black frock coat and clerical collar. Brown hair, silky as a spaniel’s, flopped over his forehead. Her heartbeat thundered, drowning the babble of conversation. Her mouth was suddenly dry. Aware of telltale heat climbing her throat she bent her head. She had been so afraid he wouldn’t come.
Go and welcome him.
She forced herself forward, saw him excuse himself to Richard. She swallowed.

‘Good evening, Mr Philpotts. How kind of you to come.’ Hearing her own voice sounding perfectly calm lifted a great weight from her shoulders. Shyly she offered her hand. As he took it she was astonished to feel his fingers as cold as her own.

‘Good evening, Miss Damerel. It was generous of you to invite me.’

Though brief his clasp was firm. Suddenly she felt immeasurably better.

He cleared his throat. ‘Given our short acquaintance I cannot presume to call myself a friend.’

Yes you can. I wish you would.
Acutely conscious of an audience she felt her face burning.

‘However, in honour of your birthday I hope you will accept this small gift with all – with my best wishes.’

Raising her eyes she glimpsed agony in his brown gaze. Seeing beads of perspiration on his upper lip her heart went out to him. For an instant she was reminded of Bryce. At village fetes he would address the crowd with confidence. Yet on a personal level he was quiet and reserved. It had never occurred to her that a minister might be shy.

‘Th–thank you.’ Grace knew everyone was watching. It must be difficult for Edwin Philpotts, still very much a newcomer, to join a family party.
He had known that and still come.
The villagers were used to having a new minister every three years. That was the way it had always been. Old or young, with or without family, a minister stayed three years then moved on to a new circuit.

The Cornish were wary of outsiders. Because of their calling ministers met with less suspicion than most. Even so, it could take several months to be accepted as part of the community. Then all too soon it was time to move on and face the same situation all over again. The demands on a shy man would be immense.

She fumbled with the wrapping, her fingers clumsy. She looked up, speechless, before dropping her gaze to the slim volume.

Edwin cleared his throat. ‘Being so busy you probably don’t have much spare time in which to read. However these poems are quite short.’

She couldn’t resist opening the cover to see if he had written anything inside.
To Miss Grace Damerel,
she read,
on the occasion of her birthday, with kind regards, Edwin Philpotts.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated; the words hopelessly inadequate.
Kind regards.
But he had given her poetry.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Bryce nodded at his brother and everyone drew back so Grace could see.

Richard was holding a framed painting, sixteen inches by twelve, of a pale cream rhododendron with dark green glossy leaves.

‘This is one of several previously unknown species we discovered in Tibet,’ he explained.

‘Richard, it’s beautiful,’ Grace exclaimed in delight. ‘Whenever did you find time to do it? Thank you so much. I shall hang it on my bedroom wall.’

‘That’s not all.’ Richard looked at Bryce who held out a rolled parchment tied with red ribbon.

‘Percy has germinated the seeds,’ Bryce announced. ‘At this moment twenty young plants are thriving in the nursery at Polwellan.’ As everyone clapped and called out congratulations Bryce raised his hand for silence. ‘It has a sweet fragrance. Because it was a new discovery we had the privilege of naming it. We have called it
Grace.
’

‘Oh!’ Grace’s eyes filled and she threw herself into Bryce’s arms. ‘Oh, what a wonderful – you shouldn’t – I don’t deserve–’

Laying a finger on her lips he muttered hoarsely as he hugged her, ‘No one deserves it more, Gracie.’

Wiping away tears with her fingertips Grace smiled, her vision misted and her heart full as Patrick announced that dinner was served.

Taking his place at the head of the table, Henry Damerel fought impatience. Ignoring Grace’s quiet prompting Hester Chenoweth was peering at each place card, obstructing everyone as they tried to take their seats.

Looking away – Grace would deal with it – he took a large mouthful of his second whisky. The neat spirit burned its way down his throat as he surveyed the dining room. Elegant, tasteful, stylish, it was the result of
his
efforts. Rebuilt, restored and redecorated thanks to
him. His
vision and
his
hard work had hauled the estate back from the brink of ruin.

He looked along the mahogany table, past gleaming crystal, polished silverware, crisp white napery and bowls of cream and yellow roses. He was a man of substance. Reassured, he drained his glass, feeling the tension ease in his neck and shoulders as the fear that threatened to engulf him retreated.

His gaze fell on his wife seated at the foot of the table talking to her mother. She enjoyed company and certainly looked cheerful enough. No doubt tomorrow she would be confined to her bed, prostrate with exhaustion. Louise’s pleasure carried a heavy price.
Thirty-one years.
It seemed like forever.

On his left Mary and John were laughing together while Alice Hawkins simpered at Bryce. On his right Grace was scarlet as she replied to some remark of the minister’s. She was a good girl. Ran the house like clockwork and took care of her mother. But blushing at her age? She had never been easy in company. Not like Zoe who had been born knowing how to charm. Zoe was a minx: stubborn and infuriating. But she defied anyone not to adore her.

His gaze slid back to Mary. A strange woman: could make herself invisible, yet not in the least shy. Assured: that’s what she was. Why wouldn’t she be? She was gentry and had money: a combination that bred confidence.

As she laughed she caught his eye. A brief yet unmistakable
frisson
startled him. He’d never thought of her in that way. Yet there was definitely more to her than the subdued clothes and quiet manner suggested. He let his gaze drift.

It still rankled that the twins had preferred to go chasing off around the world gathering plants instead of following in his footsteps, as he had followed in his father’s. Yet he had to admit the experience had matured them, particularly Bryce. He’d always been boisterous, hurling himself into any challenge, forever in trouble and usually sporting at least one bandage.

In the past Bryce had provided entertainment, both at dinner and afterward, reducing the family and any guests to helpless laughter with tales of disaster. Tonight he was virtually silent. After a long and tiring journey home, not to mention three years of travelling, they would need time to recover.

He’d always had a soft spot for Bryce. A fine shot and a bruising rider Bryce reminded him of himself: a man’s man. Whereas Richard… Henry frowned. Richard had talent. Dorcas had left him in no doubt of that. But painting was hardly a
manly
occupation. Photography was different. Involving science and technology it was far more acceptable.

After melon came asparagus soup, then salmon cutlets. The main course of roast lamb was accompanied by dishes of new potatoes, spinach, peas and baby carrots. Draining his glass Henry motioned to Patrick for more wine. Down the table Alice Hawkins was trying to hold Bryce’s attention by asking what part of India he had found most interesting.

Watching Bryce divert her questions to Richard, Henry experienced a pang of envy. Not for the travelling: the thought of the noise, heat, filth, and slow swaying trains packed with people made him shudder. What he envied,
resented
, was their freedom. No business worries denied them sleep. Neither of them had a wife who had ailed nearly the whole of her marriage, nor a mother-in-law who had bought her way into the house and would never leave.

Plates were removed and Kate brought in Charlotte Russe, strawberry cheesecakes, cherry tarts and dishes of clotted cream.

Ignoring Louise’s reproachful glance Henry called for more wine.

Oaks and sycamores cast dappled shadows across the road as Dr John Ainsley, his leather bag beside him on the wooden seat, clicked his tongue and urged the pony into a trot. To his right, flat and glassy in the sun, the river stretched from just beyond the hedge to the overhanging trees on the far side a hundred yards away.

The high tide had totally submerged the twisting channels and grassy banks. Swallows skimmed and swooped over the water’s surface feeding of spiraling clouds of insects. The clop of hoofs and creak of the trap’s wheels disturbed a heron and it took off with heavy flapping wings.

In his capacity as the mine’s medical officer appointed by the adventurers, John made this journey every month so that any mine employee with a medical problem could see him without having to take time off work and so lose pay. These regular visits had given him chilling insight into the repercussions of dry drilling.

Crossing the bridge he turned left off the main road then took a right hand fork. As he reached the top of the hill the thunder of the stamps grew louder. Ahead of him trees gave way to a wasteland of red-tinged rubble and spoil heaps, piles of wood for props and shuttering, and discarded pieces of rusting machinery.

Guiding the pony through the open gate at the entrance, John drove down to the count house. A skinny boy, his clothes covered in thick red dust, was kneeling on the ground, coughing and gasping. John halted the pony.

‘Are you all right, lad?’

Trying to heave air into his lungs, the boy looked up and nodded, tears streaking his grimy cheeks. He scrambled to his feet.

‘Yes, sir.’

His jacket and trousers had been cut down but were still too big for him, as were his boots.

John looked harder. ‘You’re Annie Banks’s son, aren’t you? Luke, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, sir,’ the boy repeated, touching his cap again. He turned his head, covering his mouth with a filthy hand as another bout of coughing shook him.

‘Don’t you usually drive one of the ore carts for the small stamp mill?’ John nodded towards the waterwheel. ‘What were you doing underground?’

‘Kenny’s home sick, sir, and they didn’t have no one to work the air pump while they was drilling.’ His lower lip quivered. ‘I stuck it so long as I could, sir, honest. But I aren’t used to it, see?’ He coughed again, wheezing as he dragged air into his lungs.

John tried to imagine the ninety-degree heat in the lower levels, the noise of the drills in the confined space, the candles dimmed by dense swirling red dust that filled eyes, nose and mouth. Familiar impotent anger swelled inside him. That was no place for a child.

‘I’m sure you did your best.’ Stepping down from the trap he lifted his bag from the seat. ‘Take Clover to the shed, will you? Then I want you to stand where you can feel the breeze and brush that dust off your clothes. When you’ve finished, take ten deep breaths and blow the air out as hard as you can. All right?’

The boy lifted one shoulder. ‘If you say so, sir.’

John could see from his expression that while he understood the instructions he didn’t see the point of them.

Touching his cap the boy reached for the bridle to lead the pony to an open-sided shed where hay and water waited.

John turned away, hesitating as memory stirred. ‘How is your mother? Is she still brewing her nettle and herb beer?’

The boy nodded. ‘Yes, and she’ve started selling chips, dinner times and evenings.’

‘Has she indeed? How very enterprising.’ Seeing the boy’s uncertainty John winked at him. ‘That means she’s brave and clever. Tell her I said so.’

The boy’s teeth flashed white in his grubby face. ‘I will too, sir.’ He led the pony away.

John watched them go. Annie Banks lived in Miner’s Row in a cottage the sun never penetrated. In the past ten years she had lost a five-year-old son to post-measles encephalitis and her longed-for baby daughter to pneumonia. Her thirty-eight-year-old husband was bed-ridden and in the final stages of tuberculosis. With medicines to buy and Luke’s wage as a pump boy only a pittance, Annie had turned brewing skills learned from her mother into a thriving business. But Annie was exceptional.

A short queue had already formed outside the count-house. Many years ago, when the mine was thriving, the room where now he held his surgery had been an additional office. At that time the purser had required an assistant and a clerk. It was large enough for two straight-backed chairs and the table on which he wrote up his notes. But once he had erected the folding trestle table that, when padded with a pair of blankets covered by an old clean sheet, served as an examination couch, the room was very cramped.

However, it possessed two useful advantages. The west-facing window let in plenty of light. Also it adjoined the lavatory containing a wash-hand basin fed with hot water piped from the boiler house.

During the next two hours John checked the progress of several crushed fingers, a badly gashed leg and a powder burn. Because it was necessary to thoroughly clean these wounds of any purulent discharge and the inevitable gritty dust before applying fresh bandages, his hands reeked of carbolic.

Five years ago almost all the injuries he dealt with were the inevitable by-product of physical labour in cramped conditions: cuts, bruises, sprains, burns, crushed fingers and toes, and the occasional broken limb.

Now, though these still made up a good proportion of cases, many more men came to him with breathing difficulties, bronchitis and wet, rattling coughs. These were men in their twenties and thirties. Men with corded muscles, their bodies strong-looking, their lungs already damaged beyond repair. As he examined them, looking and listening for the inevitable signs of TB, he found it hard to contain his anger.

These men worked in hellish conditions to give their families a decent standard of living. They were proud to be miners for it gave them status no other manual work could match. They were in the prime of life, possessing skills and knowledge the mine could ill-afford to lose. Yet they were dying like flies, leaving widows and young children in desperate straits. Something had to be done.