The Iron Road (19 page)

Feeling as if he’d been punched hard in the stomach, James’s glance flicked involuntarily to Chloe. He glimpsed wretched despair before she bent her head once more.

‘C – congratulations to you both.’ He forced the words past stiff lips.
What was going on?

‘Thank you.’ Reaching out, the baronet tugged the braided bell-pull. ‘Well,’ he sighed briskly, ‘we mustn’t detain you any longer. Hawkins will show you out.’

James swallowed his fury. ‘Your reply, sir? May I tell the directors you will be joining them?’

‘I suppose so. Yes, why not? It will be most interesting. Tell them we accept with pleasure. Ah, Hawkins, Mr Santana is leaving now.’

Thus dismissed, James was left with no alternative. With a brief bow, he preceded the butler into the hall and heard him close the door, shutting Chloe in and himself out.

‘Mr Santana seemed somewhat on edge. Did you not think so, my dear?’

It was like walking on ice, Chloe thought. Very thin ice: all that lay between her and drowning. She made a stitch, pricking her finger as she pushed the needle through the fine cloth, too nervous even to flinch.

‘He did say he is very busy, particularly so since the contractor’s sudden departure.’

‘You could be right. Yet my impression was that he seemed somewhat startled by our good news. Why would that be do you think?’

Was this some sort of test? Or was he simply playing?
Like a cat with a mouse.
Chloe adjusted her needlework so the tiny bright crimson patch was hidden in a fold. ‘Mr Santana came on a business matter. The topics of marriage and a family are very personal. Perhaps they came as a surprise.’

‘Really? Oh well.’ Sir Gerald Radclyff’s eyes were half-closed, his mouth satisfied. ‘It does no harm to shake people’s expectations occasionally. It ensures they talk. I would not want my business acquaintances thinking my illness has left me incapacitated in any way. Shall we have some tea?’

‘There we are, ma’am. All done.’ Polly stood back, wiping the residue of scented pomade from her hands onto a small towel kept for the purpose.

Opening her eyes, Chloe looked at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She turned her head and the morning sunlight gilded her hair, drawn back from a centre parting into a complicated chignon.

‘Thank you, Polly.’

‘You decided which it’s to be then, ma’am?’ Neatly replacing the silver-backed brushes and comb, Polly held the padded velvet boudoir chair as Chloe discarded her lacy peignoir.

She could feel a pulse throbbing in her temples. ‘The blue.’ Beneath her chemise, corset and petticoats, her skin was damp with perspiration yet her arms as she hugged them across her aching stomach felt icy. She stood still while Polly fastened the ties of her crinoline and ensured the hoops hung correctly. Then a silk scarf was laid lightly over her face and hair before Polly lifted the silk and taffeta dress carefully over her head. The band around her skull tightened.

‘I can’t,’ she whispered.

Polly paused in her buttoning. ‘Beg pardon, ma’am?’

‘I can’t go on the train.’

The maid’s eyes met hers. ‘I know, ma’am,’ she said softly. ‘Do you want me to tell the master?’

Chloe swallowed the tightness in her throat. ‘No, Polly. I’ll tell him myself.’ After all, what could he actually
do?

‘Anyone could see you aren’t well, ma’am.’

Chloe looked quickly at her maid, not sure whether to laugh or cry. Outside the breakfast-room she paused for a moment to flex painfully stiff shoulders. Then, steadying herself with a deep breath, she went in.

He was still at the table. The plates containing the remains of his breakfast had been pushed aside. A cup half full of coffee sat close to hand. But a wrinkled skin on the surface suggested it had been forgotten. Two newspapers lay to one side folded with a carelessness alien to her fastidious husband. He was still intent on the third.

She cleared her throat. ‘Good morning, Gerald.’

Turning a page he gave the paper a quick shake and resumed reading without even glancing in her direction. His only response a preoccupied, ‘Morning, my dear.’

She sat down and shook her head as Hawkins approached with the coffee pot.

‘Would you care for tea instead, madam?’

‘No – yes. Yes, I would, Hawkins. Thank you.’

‘I’ll fetch it directly, madam.’

As the door closed behind him, Chloe leaned forward. ‘Gerald? I’m very sorry, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to go with you on the train. I have a terrible headache.’ She waited, rigid with tension, for the questions.

He lowered the newspaper and studied her silently.

Her lips were paper dry. ‘I’m very disappointed. But to attend the celebrations feeling as I do would be selfish and unfair, and I have no desire to spoil the party. I shall spend the day in my room.’

He nodded. ‘You do not look your usual self. Perhaps a rest will restore the roses to your cheeks, and refresh your spirits.’ Folding the paper he picked up the others and rose from the table. ‘Naturally, I’m sorry you are unwell, but it is not the inconvenience it might otherwise have been. Some matters have arisen which require my urgent attention: business matters. So I shall be leaving earlier than planned.’ He took out his watch. ‘In fact …’ He glanced round as the butler came in with fresh tea. ‘Hawkins, tell Robbins to bring the carriage at once, please.’

Ten minutes later, the clop of hooves and crunch of wheels had receded into the distance. Chloe sat alone in the breakfast-room sipping hot sweet tea. Gradually the knots in her stomach started to loosen.

* * *

The dining-room of the Royal Hotel was noisy and busy as people came and went. Waiters moved among the tables with loaded trays for those catching early coaches. Conversations ranged from excited arguments over various places of interest to be explored by those on holiday, to more intense discussions by men with important business to transact.

James sat alone at a small table in one corner toying with a spoon. He had spent a restless night: the little sleep he’d had filled with vivid fragments of dreams from which he had woken sweating and anxious. He had washed and shaved, barely conscious of doing so. Coming down to the bustle of the dining-room he had eaten knowing he needed fuel, but he’d tasted nothing.

Thinking of the day ahead he visualized the train ride. He had no idea if the directors had worked out a seating plan. But the arrangement of the carriage – which was really a combination of three wooden stagecoach bodies resting on an iron framework riding on eight iron-spoked wheels – meant that each pair of padded and but-toned seats facing one another would hold six to eight people.

If he were seated near Chloe there would be no opportunity for them to talk, and he desperately needed to find out what had happened. If they were separated it would be even worse. To be in such close proximity and have to watch Sic Gerald claim ownership, when all three of them knew the marriage was a tissue of lies and deceit, would be intolerable. As if that were not enough, he would be expected to make polite conversation, to join in the jollity and self-congratulation. How could he when he was utterly opposed to the whole idea?

He picked up the letter lying beside his plate. The thick creamy envelope was addressed to
Miss Veryan Polmear, c/o Mr James Santana.
Obviously from Edward Lumby, he hoped it confirmed her entitlement to the legacy. He would take it out to her. Then, while in the village, he would make sure the tally shop had sufficient food. He also needed to see the gangers, and to check all the materials had arrived on-site. Together with a growing pile of paperwork there was more than enough to keep him busy,
but never enough to drive Chloe out of his thoughts.

Chapter Seventeen

‘Will you be requiring anything else, ma’am!’

Glancing up, Chloe replaced her cup carefully on the saucer. ‘No, thank you, Hawkins, I’m not hungry.’ She pushed back her chair and stood up. Her head still throbbed, but the crushing pressure had eased.

She had the day to herself, but what to do with it? Under Mrs Mudie’s expert management the house ran like a well-oiled machine. In a couple of weeks’ time it would crank up a gear for the annual spring-clean. Mattresses and carpets would be taken out and beaten, winter curtains changed for lighter summer ones, blankets and counterpanes would be washed, linen bleached, cupboards turned out, and furs and woollen clothes carefully laid by until required again in the autumn.

Claiming cleanliness, punctuality, order and method to be essential in a well-run house, Mrs Mudie was invaluable. Towards her mistress her manner was one of punctilious respect, but no warmth. Chloe had realized very quickly that in relation to the house her position resembled that of a ship’s figurehead: decorative, but not really necessary.

In the morning-room, knowing she had to keep busy if she were to keep dangerous, tempting thoughts at bay, she went to her writing-table. Letters from various organizations of which she was a patron needed replies. Once they were done she would reward her-self with a ride. Fresh air and physical activity would offer at least the
illusion
of escape. Might they also ease the tension that strained every nerve and muscle so painfully tight?

A brisk knock made her look up as the door opened and the housekeeper entered carrying two ledgers. ‘Excuse me, madam, but I wonder if now would be a convenient time for you to look at the accounts. I have checked the tradesmen’s bills. They are all correct.’

No tradesman who valued Trewan custom would dare overcharge. Mrs Mudie had an encyclopaedic memory for prices. About to suggest leaving it for a day or two, Chloe didn’t get the chance.

‘I didn’t like to ask while Sir Gerald was ill. But he has always been most particular about prompt settlement. And we are now over a week into the new month.’

Too drained to argue, Chloe nodded. ‘Leave the books with me, Mrs Mudie. I’ll look at them directly.’

‘Thank you, madam. I’m much obliged. Perhaps though, if it is not too much trouble, I could have the money now? I’m going into Penryn to do some shopping. I could pay the tradesmen at the same time.’

Aware from previous experience that the housekeeper wouldn’t leave until she got what she wanted, Chloe stood up. ‘I’ll fetch it at once.’

With Mrs Mudie following two paces behind, Chloe went down the hall to her husband’s study. Turning the doorknob, she paused. Gerald had told her where he kept the cash tin. He’d said it was important she knew in case of an emergency. But he had made it clear that the rule of respecting each other’s privacy also applied to his study. She never entered without an invitation. And invitations were extremely rare. To have the housekeeper watching would make her feel even more of an intruder.

‘I’m sure you have things to do before you leave for town, Mrs Mudie. Why don’t you come to the morning-room in fifteen minutes? I’ll have the money ready for you.’

As the housekeeper hovered, obviously reluctant, Chloe went into the study and closed the door behind her. It was a small, almost petty victory, but to Chloe it was significant. She was changing.

Standing by the door she looked around the decidedly masculine room, as if the deep glowing colours, the Persian carpet, the glass-fronted bookcases, the leather button-back armchair with its attendant side table beside the fireplace, might somehow help her understand the man to whom she was married. They didn’t.

She crossed to the large roll-top desk that stood at right angles to the window. The lid was open, the leather-framed blotter almost hidden by copies of
The Times
and the
Western Morning News
all of which were folded to pages showing share prices and financial reports.

Inside the desk were two tiers of small drawers, and above them a row of slots contained folded papers, opened letters, and other documents she assumed related to business and the running of the estate.

Wary of disturbing anything, she crouched, her dress billowing around her, and opened the deep drawer on the right-hand side. Placing the cash tin on top of a leading article headed
Bankers’ concern
she opened it. There was no key. It wasn’t necessary. Theft was unheard of at Trewan. No one who valued their job here would take as much as a biscuit without permission.

The tin contained several slim bundles of folded paper held by narrow red or blue strips of ribbon and, on top of these, a wad of banknotes secured by a silver clip. As she lifted out the clip it caught one of the red ribbons and pulled a package with it.

Disentangling the ribbon, Chloe laid the package on the newspaper while she extracted five notes. Setting the notes aside she picked up the package. About to replace it on top of the others, she noticed the handwriting. It seemed oddly familiar. She tilted her head to look more closely and, with a shock, recognized her father’s flamboyant signature.

Easing out the folded sheet, she opened it. It was an IOU for 200 guineas. She gazed at it nonplussed then extracted another sheet. It was another IOU, this time for 400 guineas. There were no dates on the papers, and no names, other than her father’s. Then they were no longer for money, but for parcels of land belonging to the Polglase estate, and last of all, for the house itself.

Why would Gerald have her father’s IOUs? Unless … had he, out of some sense of moral obligation, redeemed them on her father’s behalf? That would mean
he
now owned … But if that was the case why hadn’t he told her? Because it would have been a cruel reminder of her father’s hopeless addiction to gambling? Because he hadn’t wanted to belabour her indebtedness to him?

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Mrs Mudie would be waiting. Quickly folding the sheets and replacing the ribbon, Chloe returned the package and the rest of the money to the tin.

After the housekeeper had gone, Chloe turned once more to her letter writing but found it impossible to concentrate. Leaving the writing-table, she hurried upstairs. She couldn’t stay inside a moment longer.

In the dressing-room, surrounded by Chloe’s winter dresses, skirts and jackets, Polly was examining hems, trimmings, and buttons, and making minor repairs before brushing and folding the garments, and storing them away for the summer in the huge cedar chests that would protect them from moths.

‘I’d like my riding habit, please.’ Chloe was already unfastening her cuffs and bodice.

‘Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to come?’

‘No, you carry on here. I won’t be leaving the grounds.’

‘If you’re sure, ma’am?’ Polly’s tone contained a hint of relief.

‘Quite sure,’ Chloe was firm. ‘You have more than enough to do. I need some fresh air and will be perfectly content by myself.’

Half an hour later, having also refused Nathan’s offer to accompany her, she set off along the drive, inhaling the scents of spring: the lingering perfume of bluebells, now almost over, and the sharp fragrance of young grass. It had never occurred to her before how rarely she ever did anything alone. In the house, out riding, paying calls, or at her charity work, there was always someone with her, Yet, despite constant company – or maybe because of it as, more often than not, she was accompanied by a servant – she had always felt slightly
apart.
She hadn’t recognized it as loneliness. Not then, not until she met James.

After a short walk to warm and loosen the mare ’s muscles, she turned off the drive onto the grass and clicked her tongue. The mare broke into an easy canter. She hadn’t been ridden for a few days and was alert and full of energy. Gathering the reins, Chloe gave a single kick with her heel. Ears pricked, the mare leapt forward and set off across the rolling parkland at a gallop. The sun was warm and the combination of speed and the crisp breeze made Chloe’s eyes water. It was like riding the wind.

James held out the letter. ‘A messenger brought it to the hotel late yesterday afternoon.’ Aware of Queenie watching with avid curiosity from the shanty doorway, Veryan wiped her hands on the torn shirt tied around her waist to protect her dress.

‘Thank you.’ Taking the envelope she turned it over, looking at her name and the address penned in flowing script and purple ink.

‘Silly, isn’t it?’ She darted him a nervous smile. ‘I’m afraid to open it.’

His brows rose. ‘You? Afraid? I can’t believe that. Look at it this way, whatever it says you’ll be no worse off.’

He was right. She tore open the flap, holding her breath as she unfolded and scanned the letter. She looked up at him ‘The family has accepted my claim.’

‘I’m really pleased for you. Though it’s no more than you deserve.’

‘Mr Lumby –’ she held the letter out to James. ‘Here, you read it.

‘Well, well. He apologizes for having appeared to doubt you. And would be delighted to provide any legal or financial advice you may require.’ He glanced up, his expression mocking.

‘At a price,’ Veryan sniffed. ‘I think not.’

He handed back the letter. ‘So, what are your plans?’

Veryan hugged her arms across her body. ‘I’m – I don’t know. I dreamed about this, about getting off the line. But I never really thought – and now – I’m not sure where to go or what to do.’

He nodded, and she saw sympathy in his eyes. ‘It’s possible someone I know might be able to help. Would you like me to find out?’

Guessing who he meant and suppressing the twinge of envy, she nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She saw him tense and lift his head as the sound of a train whistle was carried towards them on the breeze.

* * *

‘Paddy!’ Tom’s shout rebounded off the steep hillsides at either end of the viaduct. ‘Over ’ere a minute. Look.’ He frowned at the crack snaking through the stone chippings. ‘We filled that in a couple of days ago. He shouldn’t have opened up again like that.’

‘Why would you be thinking it’s the same one?’ Paddy prodded the crack with his iron bar.

‘Well, if it isn’t, they’re opening up faster than we can fill them, and that can’t be right.’

‘It’ll be all that rain, so it will.’ Paddy sighed and shook his head. ‘We can’t spend any more time on this bloody viaduct. We’ve checked it twice now.’ He peered across the narrow valley. ‘They’re finished on the far side. Well, so have we.’ He turned to the rest of the gang. ‘All right, lads. That’ll do. We’re skilled men, not a bloody maintenance crew. Ah, there’s the boy. Sure, he’s done well to be back so soon.’

‘He’s a good lad,’ Tom agreed.

Paddy hammered the bar down twice more. ‘It’s solid enough. Fill it in.’ A shout made both men glance round.

Davy was coming across the viaduct riding one of the tip-head horses and leading two others. The shout had made him look back.

‘Will you be getting a move on, boy,’ Paddy yelled. ‘The train will be along any time.’

Even as his shout died away they heard the shrill warning blast of the whistle. Davy kicked his horse into a trot, hauling on the halter ropes attached to the other two.

Another bellow echoed around them, and Tom saw one of the navvies on the far side, weaving after the animals, flailing his arms. He tripped and fell. Tom watched him stagger to his feet.

At both ends of the viaduct, navvies gathered their tools and moved to the side of the line.

‘What was all that about?’ Tom squinted up at Davy. Dangling against the animal’s shaggy coat the boy’s skinny legs were mottled with bruises.

‘Pa wanted a ride back.’

Tom and Paddy exchanged a brief glance. Paddy rubbed the blaze on the horse’s forehead. ‘Their hooves all sound? No cracks?’

Davy shook his head. ‘Shoes went on a treat.’

‘Get them over to the side of the track,’ Tom urged. ‘You’d best get off and hold them on a short rein until the train’s gone by.’

In the distance Chloe heard the whistle blast. She reined in and the mare danced restlessly, reluctant to stop. There was a second blast, clearer this time. She pictured her husband sitting with some of the directors, a cynical smile hovering about his lips as they tried to persuade him to invest more money in the company. Was James sitting with them? Or was he among the other guests? Was he missing her? Did he understand why she had not been able to face being there?

She wheeled the mare and urged her forward. They flew down over the undulating grass, passing the brown scar of the embankment, heading for the bottom of the park from where she would be able to see the train come over the viaduct.

As the huge locomotive steamed slowly and majestically over the viaduct, Tom saw William Thomas lurch forward as the carriage passed, his arms raised.
What was he doing?
Then, seeing the man’s leg swing wildly out to one side, Tom realized. Determined to get a ride back, Davy’s father had jumped onto the buffers and was hanging onto the back of the coach.

The locomotive was barely twenty feet away, a gleaming black monster hissing steam, when it seemed to shiver. Tom blinked. Was it a distortion of the air caused by heat rising from the stone ballast? Then a sharp crack like a gunshot made him start. It was followed by a low ominous rumble. He looked round quickly, but saw nothing untoward as, towering above him, the massive engine came closer, snorting like some primeval beast, iron wheels grinding on iron rail.

This was no mirage. He could feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet. It was a strange sensation, unnerving. He gazed up as it drew level, deafened by the screeching and hiss of high-pressure steam. Glimpsing movement from the corner of his eye he glanced from the leviathan back towards the viaduct.

A block of stone from the rampart wall edging the supported track toppled slowly inward. It missed the rail, falling onto the outer edge of a sleeper. Then, as he watched, the ballast beneath the rails at the centre of the viaduct suddenly disappeared. For a split second Tom didn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, as the noise reached him like distant rolling thunder, he realized the central arch had collapsed, crumbling into the valley far beneath.