The Iron Road (14 page)

He rode in the dappled shade of beeches and sycamores, past clumps of rhododendron bushes whose deep pink trumpet-like flowers were just starting to open. Entering Trewan land, he rode through a carpet of bluebells that stretched across the park from the edge of the drive, surrounding elms, oaks and copper beeches like a fragrant rippling sea. Above the sighing wind he could hear blackbirds and robins, and the raucous squabbling of crows.

As he approached the front door, conscious of his boots crunching on the gravel, he was aware of an unusual tension beneath his ribs, and knew a moment’s bitter amusement as he thought of all the reasons he might claim as its cause.

While he waited in the hall for the butler to return, he mentally rehearsed the points he hoped would persuade the baronet against pressing for compensation.

‘This way, sir, if you please.’ Opening the drawing-room door, the butler stood aside to let him pass.

Taking a breath, James walked into the sunlit room. As the door closed quietly behind him, formal words of greeting died unuttered, on his lips.

Chloe sat alone, straight-backed, her hands clasped tight, at one side of the blazing fire. Despite the room’s comfortable warmth, her face was devoid of colour except for plum shadows like bruises beneath each eye.

He hurried forward, his carefully prepared speech forgotten. ‘What’s wrong? Have you received bad news? Are you unwell?’ He saw her throat work.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Santana.’ Her voice sounded husky and nasal, as if she were suffering from a cold.
Or had been crying.
‘I’m quite well, thank you.’ Her cheek muscles twitched and her lips parted briefly, baring her teeth in what he realized with terrible compassion was an attempted smile. ‘I’m afraid my husband isn’t available right now. But as Hawkins said the matter was urgent, if you would care to leave a message with me –’

‘Chloe, in God’s name –’ the words burst out, then he stopped, To press her would be tantamount to bullying. She was so tense she was practically vibrating, and her superficial calm was more unnerving than a scream.

‘Forgive me. Concern is no excuse for bad manners.’ He indicated a chair, facing hers but not too close. ‘May I?’

Her brief nod was almost imperceptible. But, as he sat, her shoulders lost a little of their rigidity.

So, at least she was not anxious for him to leave. Nor did he intend doing so until he found out what was troubling her. But it would need extreme care.

‘I only wish my visit was for a happier purpose. Though seeing you –’

‘Please, Mr Santana, I have never sought compliments. False ones demean both of us.’

‘I swear to you’ – he deliberately held her gaze – ‘that I have never been more sincere.’ He saw her eyes widen, saw confusion in their depths, and sensed he was a step closer. ‘Seeing you makes the most difficult day easier to bear. And these are difficult days indeed.’ As she searched his face warily, he forced his thoughts away from kissing her soft mouth, and tried to concentrate. ‘I’m afraid the Railway Company is now without a contractor.’ He watched it register.

‘Why? What’s happened?’

‘Horace Pascoe has absconded with a large sum of money. Obviously this will have serious consequences for the line. The directors held an emergency meeting this morning, and I’m here to ask … Sir Gerald,’ he could not bring himself to say
your husband,
‘not to press for compensation.’

‘I’m so sorry.’ As he told her about the problems Pascoe had left behind, and the directors’ refusal to pay the men, her hand crept to her mouth.

‘But they can’t
not
pay them.’

‘Wages are the contractor’s responsibility. So the directors are not legally bound –’

‘You cannot support that argument.’ Her passionate cry mingled horror with a plea for reassurance.

‘I don’t. But I have no voting rights, and mine was the only dissenting voice.’

‘But what about the children?’

‘Exactly. Look, I hesitate to ask as you’ve done so much already –’

‘There’s no question we will help. This is clearly an emergency. I will send messages to the committee this very afternoon.’

‘Until I met you,’ he said, ‘navvies were simply the means by which my surveys and plans were transformed from figures and lines on paper into the reality of a railway track. But your generosity and your compassion have forced me to rethink my attitudes. My whole life has changed because of you.’

She stared at him, digging with unconscious savagery at the broken skin around her thumbnail. Then her tongue snaked out to moisten her lips.

‘M-Miss Polmear told me of your great kindness to her. She is very appreciative of all you have done. The credit for that is yours alone.’

He shook his head. ‘It’s you who provided her with clothes and books.’

‘At your request,’ she reminded him. Looking down, she fingered the material of her skirts. She is looking forward with particular pleasure to your company when she visits the solicitor’s office.’

‘Oh Lord, I forgot.’

‘Forgot?’ she echoed.

‘To tell them she’s been found. She has no proof of identity, you see. So I offered to vouch for her. It seemed the least I could do, as it was I who had brought the notice to her attention. But this business with Pascoe put it right out of my head.’

The bewilderment on her pale face evolved slowly into realization, and he sensed she was replaying certain scenes and conversations in the light of what he had just said. Just as he glimpsed dawning hope, she looked quickly away. Suddenly he understood.
He and Veryan Polmear?

The urge to take her in his arms was overpowering. He restrained himself, but the effort was considerable. He chose his words with great care.

‘You have spoken to the young woman almost as often as I have. I’m sure you would agree she has many fine qualities. Let us both hope that someday soon she will be fortunate enough to meet a man worthy of her, someone with whom she can be truly happy.’

Chloe’s eyes widened. ‘You mean … it’s not –?’ The first faint touches of colour appeared along her cheekbones.

‘No.’ He was quietly firm. ‘It never was. Never could be.’

Nibbling her lower lip, she averted her head.

An ormolu clock on the marble mantle struck the hour, reminding James of the responsibility now resting on him. Yet something had changed. It did not weigh quite as heavily as it had an hour ago. He leaned towards her.

‘There is so much I want to discuss with you. But as soon as I’ve spoken to Sir Gerald I must –’

‘He isn’t here.’ Her colour deepened. ‘He’s in Truro attending a business meeting. He wasn’t sure if he would be back tonight. But the moment he returns I will tell him about Mr Pascoe. Though regarding the penalty clauses and so on, I think you, or one of the other directors, will need to speak to him personally.’

James rose to his feet, his mouth twisting. ‘It will be me.’ After a pause he said, ‘I am staying at the Royal Hotel in Falmouth until I find permanent lodgings. Perhaps Sir Gerald could send word there when it’s convenient for him to see me?’

She nodded. ‘I should have offered you some refreshment.’

He smiled. ‘Next time?’

They both moved towards the door. He reached it first and turned to face her. Her lashes fluttered down.

‘Thank you for coming.’ Her manner was formal, correct, but in her tone he detected relief and gratitude.

He waited, knowing courtesy demanded she offer her hand, understanding – probably better than she did – her reluctance. When she did, he held her fingers lightly for a moment then lifted them to his lips.

He saw her breath catch; saw the warm wash of colour rise from her throat to her hairline as she turned her head away. Her mouth quivered and she began to tremble.

Moved beyond words, James covered her hand with his.

‘No,’ she whispered, rigid.

He stood perfectly still, neither tightening nor loosening his hold. It had to be her choice. Watching her inner battle he suffered for her, biting his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

She looked up at him, shaking, agonized. ‘This is wrong. I am married. I made my vows before God.’

‘You live in his house. You bear his name. But you do not share his bed.’

He watched the colour drain from her face. She swayed, and reached blindly for a chair. He helped her sit then crouched beside her, still holding her hand. Her response spoke for itself.

‘Is it so –? Have I –? Does it
show
in same way? I’ve been so careful –’ Her fingers tightened convulsively. She looked up, her face gaunt with dread. ‘Do other people know?’

He was tempted to deny it, purely to comfort her. But she had lived with lies for too long. Only the truth could free her. But the truth would hurt. He had to be gentle. ‘No one can
know,
unless you’ve told them.’

‘I haven’t, I haven’t.’ She shook her head violently.

‘But Chloe, there’s more than a little
suspicion.
’

‘Diana and Loveday,’ she murmured.

He remained silent. The perplexing rumours Gilbert Mabey had mentioned could wait.

‘How – how did
you
know?’

‘Your eyes. Certain experiences change a woman. It’s a change that shows in her eyes. You don’t have that look. Your eyes, my sweet Chloe, are innocent. I see in them not cynicism or dissembling, but sadness, and a longing to be loved. And I do love you, Chloe, just as you love me.’

‘Stop it. Please. It’s impossible. I can’t –’ Pressing her fingers against her mouth she shook her head.

‘You love me, Chloe,’ he stated quietly. He had never expected, hadn’t imagined ever feeling like this. As she raised exhausted, tear-bright eyes, he saw how the battle she’d been fighting with herself had taken her to the limits of her strength.

A deep sigh shuddered through her. ‘Yes. But it makes no difference.’ She stood up, porcelain pale but erect. ‘I gave my word.’

He rose, facing her. ‘Chloe, it’s not a marriage, it’s a sham.’

‘I cannot leave him.’ She tugged the bell-pull.

‘I won’t accept that.’ His voice roughened and he tried to swallow the stiffness in his throat. You cannot continue with this charade. It is destroying your health.’

Her fragile composure cracked. ‘I was managing until you came.’

‘Were you? Was that why you were at the apothecary’s? Because you are managing so well?’

‘A tonic – the doctor suggested – I
was
managing. I knew no different. But now … Do you know what you’ve done?’ Her voice was a strangled whisper. ‘The cruelty? Showing me something I can never have?’

‘Chloe, my dearest –’

‘Shh.’ She tensed then drew a deep breath and folded her hands.

The door opened. ‘Hawkins, will you ask Nathan to bring Mr Santana’s horse, please?’

The butler bowed and retreated, leaving the door open. Chloe walked out into the hall. James’s hat and gloves lay on a side table. She stopped beside them, avoiding his eye, and spoke for anyone who might be listening.

‘Food will be delivered to the shanty village as soon as arrangements can be made, certainly no later than the day after tomorrow.’

‘You’ll come yourself.’ He wanted to lift her in his arms, put her on his horse, and carry her away forever from this elegant, soulless house of lies. ‘I’m sure the men and their families would welcome the opportunity to show their appreciation.’

‘I – ah –’ She turned her head, and he realized she was trying to blink away tears before they spilled over and betrayed her.

He couldn’t leave her.
He couldn’t stay.
‘Please?’ Sensing the butler’s flicker of surprise he forced jovial concern into his voice. ‘You really should. Your committee will want confirmation that their gifts are going where they are most needed.’

‘I’m sure Lady Diana and Mrs Hosking will come if their other engagements permit. Apparently they were much impressed by their last visit.’ Her wry tone almost disguised the tremor in her voice. ‘On the journey home they talked of little else.’ She walked to the open front door and stood waiting, leaving him no alternative but to leave.

‘I’m sorry you had a wasted journey, Mr Santana. But rest assured, even if I am not here, my husband will be told of your visit the moment he returns.’ Those words, and their implication, echoed in his mind long after he had left Trewan land.

Chapter Twelve

‘What the hell d’you call this?’ Nipper stared at the contents of his bowl. ‘Where’s the veg? Where the meat? There’s nothing here but potatoes and gristle.’

‘And dumplings,’ Veryan pointed out. ‘You’ve got the same as everyone else.’

‘This isn’t
food,
it’s just slop. I seen dishwater with more meat in it.’

‘I can only cook what’s available.’

‘How’s a man supposed to work without proper food in his belly?’

‘Stop your moaning,’ Queenie snapped from her chair by the beer barrels. ‘If I hadn’t stood in that bleddy queue for hours, all you’d have is bleddy nettle soup. So just shut up, all right? Bleddy Pascoe. If I got my hands on him, he’d know what for.’

‘What about our money?’ Mac fretted. ‘If they’re not going to pay us –’

‘It’s all that engineer’s fault,’ Yorky growled. ‘Ever since he came –’

‘How can it be his fault?’ Tom showed rare impatience. ‘It wasn’t him who ran off with the money. Would you have had the nerve to come on the line like he did this afternoon, and tell us what had happened? No, you wouldn’t. If it wasn’t for him, we’d still be in the dark. You can’t say the man haven’t got guts.’

‘Listen, you lot,’ Queenie interrupted, ‘I been thinking.’

‘Dear life,’ someone groaned. ‘What now?’

She could not have missed the sighs and mutters but chose to ignore them. ‘Seeing you aren’t going to get paid this month, I’ll give you tickets for your board and beer.’

‘Oh aye?’ Mac’s dour face was even more gloomy than usual. ‘So how much extra will that cost us?’

‘Nothing
extra.
I aren’t greedy. No, I won’t ask no more than the ten per cent Pascoe charged. That’s fair, isn’t it? After all, it’s my money, and my risk. I still got to pay the brewery. So I reckon you’re doing all right. But I’m warning you now: all tickets are to be paid off the day you get your wages. Anybody don’t like it, they know what they can do.’

‘Some choice,’ Paddy grumbled, and the queue shuffled forward.

During their meal the men continued to discuss Pascoe’s disappearance and the likely repercussions. Even after they finished eating, they were still so absorbed they virtually ignored Veryan when she began collecting the dirty dishes. As Queenie levered herself out of her chair and disappeared out to the latrine before the evening’s drinking started, Veryan carried half the bowls to the small table to be washed up. Picking up the rest, Tom followed her.

‘Can I see you later?’ He kept his voice low and his back to the men. ‘There’s something –’

‘No.’ She felt aggrieved that he so obviously wanted to hide the fact he was speaking to her. She knew it was irrational, and the knowledge increased her confusion and her anger. She wasn’t even sure who she was angry with: herself or him. ‘I promised Davy a story.’ Head bent she plunged the bowls into hot water. First he deliberately ignored her; now all of a sudden he wanted – What exactly did he want?
Don’t let Queenie be right.

‘Ah. Tell you what, how don’t I come and listen? I wouldn’t mind.’

‘No, that’s Davy’s special time. He gets little enough attention as it is. I don’t –’

‘Oh yes? What’s going on here, then?’ Queenie demanded, loud and sickeningly coy, as she collapsed with a grunt into her chair. Immediately the men looked round.

Veryan flushed. ‘Nothing.’

She glared at Tom who shrugged and returned to his seat amid muttered warnings.

‘Wasting your time there, boy.’

‘You mad? What do ’e want with a bitch like she?’

‘I wouldn’t touch it with yours.’

‘Better not turn your back on her.’

Flame-faced, Veryan kept her head down. As soon as she had finished, she headed for the door.

‘Told you, didn’t I?’ Queenie hissed with malevolent delight. ‘You don’t get nothing for free. When a man do you a favour, he want twice as much back.’

‘What a nasty suspicious mind you have.’

‘Think so? We’ll see.’ Smug and gloating, Queenie settled herself.

Veryan left the shanty without a backward glance.

An hour later as Davy’s head drooped and she felt him slump against her, she closed the book.

‘Come on, time you were in bed.’

He struggled up, bleary-eyed and blinking in the lamplight. ‘Can I have another one? I’m not tired, honest.’

Setting the heavy book beside her on the blanket, she cupped his small face between her hands and shook her head. ‘Davy Thomas, you need twigs to prop your eyes open.’

‘Go on. Just a short one? You read lovely.’

Laughing, she shook her head. ‘And you –’
have the charm of the devil.
A knock on the door made them both jump. She realized that she had been half dreading, half expecting it.

‘Who’s that?’ Davy whispered, his eyes huge.

‘I can’t see through the door.’

Rolling his eyes, Davy pushed her arm. ‘Ask, then.’

‘Who is it?’ she called, knowing already.

‘Tom.’

She was about to say
Tom who,
just to make a point, but Davy had scrambled off the bed and was already pulling back the bolt.

‘You should’ve come sooner.’ He grabbed the big hand and pulled the man inside. Suddenly the hut felt much too small. ‘Veryan been reading me a story.’

‘She has? Like stories, do you?’ Torn ruffled the boy’s hair.

Davy nodded. ‘Ask her to read us another one. Go on. Please?’

She glanced from the child’s face, where eagerness battled with exhaustion – and lost – to the man’s. Tom’s brows lifted a fraction. He grinned wryly, and waited.

Reluctantly she shook her head. She would have liked to keep Davy with her, at least until Tom went. But her own selfishness disgusted her. How could she even contemplate using the child as a barrier? ‘Not tonight, Davy. You’re out on your feet. Shall I take you back?’

‘No!’ The boy hitched up his too-large trousers, glowering. ‘I aren’t a baby. Anyhow, you know what’d happen if me pa catch me with you.’

‘All right.’ She nodded. ‘I’ll leave the door open so you can see your way across. I don’t want you tripping over and hurting that ankle again.’

With a shrug intended to show he wasn’t scared of the dark, Davy snatched up his torn jacket and shoved his bare feet into the broken-down boots. ‘See you tomorrow, Tom.’

‘Mind you go straight to sleep now.’

Veryan watched him scamper across the open ground to his own shanty. Standing in the open doorway, she listened intently. But there was no roar of anger, no drunken demand to know where he’d been. Either William was already in a drunken stupor, or he hadn’t returned home yet.

With a sound like a sigh, rain began to fall, pattering onto the muddy ground. Aware of Tom close behind her she felt edgy and darted a sidelong glance at him.

‘’Tis only a shower.’ Hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched, he peered past her. ‘There was another one earlier. Didn’t you hear it? Quite heavy it was.’

Just for an instant she wondered. Nervous? Tom Reskilly? A man who, the first time she’d met him on the path, had given the impression he didn’t just think – he
knew –
himself God’s gift to women? Her hand on the bolt, she turned to face him. But he didn’t give her the chance to speak.

‘Look, I know you said I shouldn’t come.’ He stood, strong and solid as a granite slab.

‘So why did you?’ He shrugged. ‘I thought, if you didn’t mind, like, I could have a look at the books you got from Lady Radclyff. I like a good story.’ His gaze wavered then dropped to the wrinkled canvas. ‘I’ll see if I can find a bit better piece. This don’t fit proper. But I wanted to get something down quick.’

Veryan looked at his bent head. His hair was wet and dishevelled. He must have been outside during the earlier shower. Near the crown a small tuft stuck up at an angle. It reminded her of Davy. She caught herself. This was no vulnerable child: Tom Reskilly was a grown man: a
silver-tongued charmer.
He knew what he was doing. Suspicion snaked through her.

‘Is this supposed to be a joke?’

He seemed thrown. ‘What?’

‘Was it your idea? Or did the men put you up to it?’ What was the bet? I suppose they’re drinking themselves silly while they wait for you to go back and –’

‘No!’ His anger shocked her. ‘It’s not – I wouldn’t –’ He snatched the book from the blanket and brandished it at her. She recoiled. ‘I want to learn to read, all right?’

Flushed, he dropped the book and turned away, rubbing one hand over his unshaven jaw with a dry rasping sound. She had never seen him lost for words. He swung round on her. ‘You think I’m just like the rest of them. All right, so I like a drink and a laugh. But that’s not
all
I am, no more than you’re just a slave for that old besom, Queenie Spargo.’

Closing the door on the blowing rain, Veryan leaned back against her hands. ‘So why did you –?’

‘Lie.’ He snorted impatiently. ‘Bleddy obvious, isn’t it? Because I thought you’d laugh at me.’ He gestured, shamefaced. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t’ve swore.’

Still wary, she was also curious. ‘Why?’

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you want to learn to read? I mean, why now?’

‘Last line I was on I didn’t get paid. Now that bastard Pascoe have run off with my money. I tell you straight, maid, I’m pi – I’m fed up tramping round the country for jobs like these. I know I can do better.’ He paused. ‘It’s like the engineer …’ He looked down, picking at a scab on one of his knuckles.

She tensed. ‘What about him?’

‘People respect a man like that. You do. I seen the way you look at him.’

She didn’t believe it. ‘You want to learn to read because of
me?
’

‘Isn’t that a good enough reason, then?’ He grinned. ‘You’re right though; it isn’t the only one. Like I told you, my lovely, I want to better myself. But I got to be able to read, and sign my name proper.’

Bemused, Veryan spread her hands. ‘Look –’

‘But if you don’t want to teach me, I’ll find someone else.’

‘Not on the works, you won’t.’

He shrugged. ‘I could ask Lady Radclyff. She’s bound know someone.’

‘Fine. Ask her then.’

‘I would, only she isn’t here and I want to start now. Look, I see you every day. So don’t it make better sense for you to do it? Go on, maid,’ he urged.

She knew she owed him, not just for rebuilding the hut, but for all the extras like the bed and the canvas on the floor.
And stopping the men’s insults? Saving her on the embankment? Beating William Thomas?

‘Come on, girl. I’m a quick learner, and I got a good memory. Tell you what’ – he pointed upward – ‘that tarpaulin isn’t going to last long. An easterly gale will rip ‘n right off the timbers. Tar and felt is what you need. See if I can get some, shall I?’

How could she say no? Yet if she accepted, how could she refuse to teach him? ‘All right. Thank you.’

‘You don’t have to thank me. ‘’Tis a fair swap.’ Wiping his hand on his trousers, he held it out. Though scarred and calloused, it was clean. She could smell soap. ‘This is how the gentry do deals, isn’t it? On a handshake?’

‘Yes, but it’s not necessary,’ she blurted. He had gone to the trouble of washing before coming to see her. ‘I trust you to keep your word.’

‘So I shall. But I want to be certain you’ll keep yours.’

‘How dare you! Of course I will.’

He turned his palm and cocked an eyebrow.

It was only a handshake.
Why did he stir up such confusion?
Irritated, she took his hand intending the contact to be a fleeting formality, but as they touched, something leapt inside her. Her shock must have shown for his grin faded. Pulling free she brushed off the front of her dress. He wasn’t the only one with ambitions. She had plans too: plans that could not include him. He might be –
was –
different from the other navvies, but for all his grand ideas he would be on the line forever. That was a future she refused even to contemplate.

‘So –’ She cleared her throat. ‘When would you want to start?’

He shifted from one foot to the other then grinned. ‘Now?’

She glanced round the hut in dismay. About eight feet square, the blissful privacy made it seem almost spacious when she was alone. His presence made it feel like a cupboard. ‘You mean – here?’

‘You got a better idea?’ She chewed her lip. He was right. The shanty offered only noise, taunts and ridicule for both of them. ‘You’d better sit down. That end.’ She pointed to the foot of the bed.

As he lowered himself, legs akimbo, she crouched in front of the wooden box and took out paper, pen and a bottle of ink. ‘We’ll start with the alphabet. You have to be able to recognize letters before you can read words.’

Eighteen hours later Tom swung his pick, felt it bite into the stony soil, twisted it loose, and swung again. Between white-painted posts that marked the intended line, Nipper, Mac and he were excavating a gullet for the wagons that would carry the earth away. Behind them the rest of the gang shovelled the loose muck into carts.

The sun was high and hot. There was a breeze, but the steep sides of the little cutting prevented it from reaching them. Tom blinked as sweat stung his eyes. His shirt hung open at the front, and clung to his back. Wiping his forehead with the back of a grimy hand, he resettled his cap then swung the pick once more. Beside him, Nipper leaned on the haft and groaned.

‘I need a drink. ‘Tid’n right, expecting a man to work in this heat
and
pay for his own beer. So where was you last night then?’

‘Out.’ Tom resumed the easy efficient rhythm that kept the men behind him busy. Sweat trickled down his chest and soaked into the waistband of his trousers.

‘I know that, don’t I,’ Nipper scoffed. ‘You wasn’t in, so you had to be out. But
where?
Bleddy ’ell, what’s on ’ere, then? Think they might be looking for a bit o’ rough?’

Alerted by Nipper’s lascivious tone, Tom glanced round. The rest of the gang had stopped work to stare at the two women who had appeared at the top of the cutting. One, in a gown of garnet red and a jaunty hat of feathers and ribbons, had walked right to the edge and was gazing boldly down.

‘Get back.’ Tom waved. ‘It’s not safe.’