Through the Smoke (11 page)

Rachel, ye ’ad me good an’ frightened last night; that ye did.

The words Mrs. Tate had spoken early this morning when Rachel returned from Blackmoor Hall still rang in Rachel’s ears as she moved pensively around the bookshop, battling a thundering headache and a pair of blistered feet. Last night, after finding her clothes piled haphazardly on a chair in the earl’s room, she’d dressed and walked home. She’d hoped to sneak into bed unnoticed, but she’d found Mrs. Tate keeping an all-night vigil, pacing and worrying and craving the reason for her long absence.

Rachel had blundered her way through several lies, eventually tying them into a neat package that centered on Gilly bolting while she tried to hide in the trees from a late-night passerby. Unfortunately, she’d gone on to apologize for losing Gilly, only to find out that the donkey had been fully restored and was munching hay in the small pen behind Mrs. Tate’s house. For that, she could offer no explanation. Wythe had seen to it that he was returned, of course. Who else could have done it? She’d pieced together enough to know
that he had found her, likely drugged her and taken her to the earl’s bed. She guessed it was his revenge for hitting him with the lantern. But she wasn’t about to mention the earl’s cousin to Mrs. Tate, for fear of the questions it would raise. Neither did she plan to admit to another living soul what had happened to her at Blackmoor Hall. That was her secret, and she was determined to carry it to her grave. The accident, and probably a good draught of laudanum or something else, had stolen her wits, or she would’ve escaped the moment she realized it wasn’t a dream. Instead, she’d clung to Druridge, somehow craving what he offered despite that brief flash of pain. There’d been something so satisfying about the way his body joined with hers—that delicious stretch, that sense of fullness. But she couldn’t hold herself accountable for something she didn’t rightly know was happening, even if, in her more honest moments, she had to admit she’d enjoyed all but a few seconds.

The bell rang over the door and Rachel felt herself blush, as if others could read her thoughts.

“Mistress?”

Hoping for a patron—money would indeed be short this month—Rachel pasted a polite smile on her lips and rounded a table piled high with books. But it was only a servant, a tall, young man of no more than eighteen. He wore the blue livery of the Earl of Druridge, which made her more than a little apprehensive. What now?

“Mistress, my master bid me bring ye this,” the boy said as soon as he saw her.

Rachel stared at the envelope he extended toward her. Its wax seal bore the earl’s insignia.

“What is it?” she asked numbly.

“Sorry, mum?” The boy looked surprised, even confused by her question because, of course, he wouldn’t know. He wouldn’t presume to involve himself in the earl’s business.

Rachel accepted the envelope but asked the footman to wait. He hovered at the door as she broke the seal.

Inside she found twenty pounds and the deed to her cottage, along with a note written in what appeared to be the earl’s own hand.

Dear Rachel,

You must have forgotten your money. The balance please accept as my gift.

Sincerely,
Truman Stanhope

So now she knew the price a low-born woman like herself had to pay to get on a first-name basis with an earl.

The knowledge of it, the guilt, turned her stomach. If only she’d had the presence of mind to spurn him…

Shoving the money, and the deed, back into the envelope, Rachel handed the lot of it to Druridge’s servant. “Please return this to your master. Tell him I do not want his money. Tell him”—she took a deep breath, wondering what she could say that would keep the earl from involving himself in her life again—“tell him there is no debt between us and no need to contact me again.”

The servant’s eyes rounded. “That’s a lot of money yer ’andin’ back.”

It
was
a lot of money, but the deed to the cottage tempted her more. To know Geordie would always have a roof over his head… But her self-respect wouldn’t allow her to compromise her principles, at least not to that degree. She might have made a mistake, might’ve succumbed to a moment of wanton desire. But she wasn’t a whore. “It doesn’t belong to me. See that your master gets it.”

“Yes, mum.” Slipping the envelope inside his coat, the servant gave her a slight bow and left.

“Looks like you have been making friends in high places, Miss McTavish.”

Startled, Rachel whirled around to see Jonas Cutberth standing next to her desk. She didn’t have to ask how he’d gotten there—for her sake as much as his own the union organizer never used the front door. He came and went through the back, by way of the alley.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Cutberth?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

His delicate eyebrows—delicate enough to belong to a woman—arched above black, bird-like eyes that rarely blinked. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair that fell, unkempt, across his brow. At forty, his once muscular build was going soft, but he wasn’t unhandsome. Not more than a year ago, Rachel had secretly fancied herself in love with him—at least she’d been in love with his ideals.

“Nothing too serious. Have I come at a bad time?”

Rachel rubbed the knot on the back of her head—her souvenir from Blackmoor Hall—and drew a deep breath against the unremitting pain. “No. It has been a difficult week is all. In case you haven’t heard, my mother passed away.”

His mustache twitched as he offered her a brief, sad smile, but his eyes remained as watchful as ever. “I heard, and I am terribly sorry. Jillian was a good woman, always true to the cause.”

That was how Mr. Cutberth measured people, according to their passion for the working class. Normally it didn’t bother Rachel. But this morning she felt as though her own loyalty was somehow in question—a symptom, no doubt, of a guilty conscience.

“Wasn’t that Lord Druridge’s footman here just now?” He picked up a compilation of eighteenth-century poetry and leafed through its yellowed pages.

“It was.”

“I thought I recognized him. Come to collect rent, has he?”

Mr. Cutberth was in charge of the accounting at the mine and knew Lord Druridge’s business better than Rachel did, which meant he also knew the earl’s solicitor took care of his rents. He wanted to know why a servant of the earl’s would visit the bookshop.

To stop him from further inquiry, Rachel said, “The earl sent him to offer me money in exchange for what I know about the fire at Blackmoor Hall. He has made the offer before, remember?”

“I do. You told me you turned him down. Have you changed your mind?”

“Of course not. I know nothing that could help Lord Druridge.”

Cutberth set the book aside. “Your mother never spoke of the tragedy?”

“Only to say my father was innocent.”

He offered her a smile too obviously engineered to placate her. “Of course he was. But have you thought what it could mean to you and your young brother if you told the earl your father set the blaze? Jack’s been in his grave for what… eighteen months? You no longer have to worry about your mother, God rest her soul. Druridge would have his answers. And you, my dear, would have a sizeable purse.”

Rachel propped one hand on her hip. “And what would you get out of it, Mr. Cutberth?”

He grimaced at her demand for honesty. “I would get nothing, directly. But if I must spell out
all
the advantages, you would be doing our labor efforts a great service. Given the way the earl keeps nosing around, asking questions and hiring investigators, he is sure to discover the identity of some, if not all, of our supporters. If that happens, a lot of good men stand to lose their jobs.”

“Including you.”

He inclined his head. “Including me. I am rather fond of my wife and five children. I would like to be able to continue to support them.”

Rachel waved him off. “I can’t lie or tarnish my father’s reputation in exchange for money. What would that make me?”

“A brave girl who is doing all she can to improve the miners’ lot. Think of your poor, deceased brother. With a few precautions, accidents like the one that took his life could be avoided in future. But only if the workers unite, come together more powerfully than ever before, and demand the earl and his Fore-Overman make drastic changes.”

The ache in her head escalated until it felt like her brain was trying to escape her skull. So much, too much, was riding on her shoulders. She felt herself bending under the weight of it all, even as she fought to carry the burden. “The wrong thing for the right reasons,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“If you like.”

Rachel rubbed her eyes. She needed sleep. She wanted to curl up in her bed while her mother moved around in the kitchen. She wanted to smell the aroma of roast chicken and homemade bread, hear Jillian humming softly to herself. But that was a luxury she would never know again. “Is that all?”

“No. There has been another accident, in Derbyshire. A nine-year-old boy was running the engine that raises and lowers the miners into the pit and was distracted by a mouse. Four older boys traveling in the cage were killed when he failed to stop its descent in time.”

Rachel clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. A cave-in had taken Tommy’s life, but any tale of an accident in the mines made her blood run cold.

Cutberth said nothing to ease her distress. He paused, letting the full force of his words sink in. “How many deaths will it take, Miss McTavish, before we rally and stop the earl and others like him? The men who are getting rich off the labor of the working class? Surely public outcry over this latest accident will be enough to persuade the villagers to band together and create a formal chapter of the union.” He ran a finger and thumb over his mustache. “That is, if you will do
your
part.”

“Why me?” she asked. “Anyone can go to the earl and claim my father was the guilty party. They could even drum up some sort of proof, if they wanted.”

“No. Druridge will believe you. I feel confident of it. You have held out just long enough to make your story convincing, and what with your mother’s death and your current situation… Can you not see how perfect it is?”

She
could
see. That was the problem. She wanted to help the miners. She wanted the accidents to stop, which was why she’d supported Cutberth thus far. But for some reason that she wasn’t willing to examine, she didn’t want to lie to the earl about the death of his wife. Not after seeing how much the truth meant to him. Even after last night.

Especially
after last night.

“I’m not feeling well,” she told Cutberth. “Give me some time. I have to think about it.”

“We don’t have long. We need to ride the crest of this cage incident.”

For the first time, Rachel felt a healthy dislike for the accountant. After all his professed distress over such incidents, he acted almost gleeful about this one. “I said I will think about it.”

He studied her. “Fine. But do not forget Tommy. He is counting on you. We all are.”

Something disturbed Rachel’s sleep. Her head snapped up from the table, and she rubbed her face, trying to come to her senses enough to place her surroundings. She was at the bookshop, where she’d been trying to get a true picture of her financial situation. But a sixth sense told her she was no longer alone.

Was it Mrs. Tate coming to check on her progress? A mouse, like the one that had distracted that young trapper? Some other small animal?

Swiveling in her chair, Rachel looked behind her, squinting into the dark recesses of the shop, but the candle she’d left burning began to gutter out. Its small flame flickered and disappeared into a wisp of smoke, plunging her into blackness.

“Hello?” Her spine tingled as she stood. She kept very little money in the till, but her inventory was worth a great deal to the right people. She felt confident no one in Creswell would bother her or her business. But there were bands of thieves that roamed the northern counties. Perhaps they’d grown weary of sacking the big houses. Perhaps they were looking for an easier target.… “Who is it?”

“It’s freezing in here. Why are you not at home?” The earl’s voice, deep and resonant, carried across the room, providing Rachel with the focal point she needed. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dark, she could make out her visitor, but just barely. Most of his body appeared as a murky shadow draped against the far wall.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, without bothering to answer his question.

“I saw the light burning.”

In an effort to regulate her pulse, she took slow, even breaths, but the earl made her almost as nervous as the prospect of facing a band of thieves. What was he doing here in the middle of the night? Especially after what had previously passed between them? “You didn’t bother to knock?”

She thought she saw his teeth flash in a smile. “I own the place, remember? And you were sleeping so peacefully.”

“Most people are asleep at this hour, my lord. Is it your usual wont to haunt the village by night? No wonder everyone is so frightened of the great Lord Druridge.”