Through the Smoke (16 page)

The refusal that came instantly to Rachel’s lips hovered there without making the leap into words. She couldn’t turn him down again. Mr. Wilson was a humble, generous man, who obviously cared a great deal for her. She believed he would be a kind husband. He said he would take care of her
and
Geordie. She could certainly do worse.…

“What do ye say, Rachel?” He came close, took her hand, and went down on one knee. “Will ye marry me?”

Love could grow from respect, couldn’t it? She definitely respected James Wilson. She always had. And she would do anything to keep Geordie out of the mine.

Silently vowing to make him a good wife, she gazed into his earnest face. “Yes,” she said, but the creak and groan of iron wheels on pavement sounded outside, drawing their attention to the front window where a wagon, loaded with food, pulled up to the fence. Its driver was one of the earl’s servants.

No!
Rachel couldn’t move as she watched the man jump to the ground and approach the house. The power of his knock seemed to rattle the walls around her, yet she stood rooted to the same spot.

It was James who answered the door.

“Lord Druridge sends this with his compliments,” the footman announced and rushed back to unload everything.

James shut the door and together they listened to the thud of the servant’s feet hit the wooden steps of the porch, again and again, followed by the thump and scrape of whatever he carried.

“The earl sent it,” James repeated. He sounded incredulous, as though he couldn’t quite absorb the meaning of it.

Rachel cringed and had to turn away. She’d known the moment she’d seen the wagon who’d sent the food.

Behind her, she heard the blacksmith’s apprentice draw a bolstering breath. “Tell me ’e’s never touched ye,” he said. “I’ll believe ye, if ye just say the words.”

Rachel squeezed her eyes shut. She wanted to tell him what he hoped to hear but couldn’t. The food called her a liar before she even got started. Besides, Druridge
had
touched her. He’d made her giddy with his hands and his lips and his body. He’d taken her virginity and, heaven help her, she’d enjoyed it. Even now, just the thought of pressing her lips to his mouth left her warm and tingly and slightly breathless.

What kind of woman did that make her? Certainly not one who deserved to marry a decent man like James Wilson. What had she been thinking?

“Rachel,” he pleaded. “Just tell me it’s not what it looks like.”

“I can’t,” she said, choking back a sob. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m sorry.”

She didn’t know how long she stood there, face averted, tears sliding down her cheeks, but the servant and the earl’s wagon were gone when James spoke again.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said and, with his head down and his hat still off, he left.

Chapter 9

The Fore-Overman’s office was not far from the pithead of the mine. Rachel knew right where to find it. She’d often walked with her father to pick up his pay. When Tommy was alive, he had received his wages there too, at the hand of Mr. Tyndale, who had long handled all the labor issues at the mine. He was the one who’d sacked her father, but she didn’t hold it against him. The order had come from above, from the earl himself. Tyndale had told Jack so at the time.

Knowing Mr. Tyndale would’ve kept her father on if possible made her feel slightly hopeful. It meant she’d be applying to someone likely to treat her well. If anyone would be fair, surely it would be the man who had so often winked and called her a “pretty little girl” when she was a child.

Despite the fact that she was expecting to meet a friendly face, she hesitated before entering the building. Mr. Tyndale’s attitude could have changed toward her, given recent events. Not only that, but after tossing and turning the past three nights—ever since the blacksmith’s apprentice had left her standing in the middle of her own kitchen feeling absolutely bereft—she was too fatigued to deal with such an emotional situation. Here she was, about to sue for work at the very place she’d sworn no one in her family would ever work again. That made her feel as if she was reneging on everything she believed.

But what else could she do? Word had spread that the earl had delivered an expensive amount of food, even wine, to her house, negating any relief she might’ve obtained by cooperating with Mr. Cutberth’s demands. Even Cutberth seemed unable to believe she’d followed through, especially
because the earl hadn’t reacted to what she’d told him as Cutberth had expected. Instead of accepting her at her word and blaming Jack for the fire, Druridge had sent Linley on another round of inquiries. Geordie had heard the earl’s butler prattling about that Bruegel painter Druridge had asked her about—although she had no idea what a Flemish painter had to do with the fire. She might’ve been curious, except she had such pressing problems. She got the impression that Cutberth somehow blamed her for the way the earl had responded, as if she’d made him
more
suspicious instead of less. As a result, she was becoming acquainted with what it meant to wind up on Cutberth’s bad side and no longer admired him.

You can’t worry about Cutberth. Not now
. Taking care of Geordie had to be her first priority. She didn’t have a lot of time to adjust to the setbacks she’d experienced. Once the earl’s food was gone, she would have no means to buy more. Unless she wanted her little brother to starve—unless she wanted to starve herself—she had to find a way to provide.

Throwing back her shoulders, she told herself her stint in the mine would be temporary, just until she could figure out a better solution, and opened the door.

At her unexpected intrusion, Mr. Tyndale glanced up from his oversize desk.

“Rachel!” The flame of his lamp threatened to gutter out, thanks to the sudden rush of outside air. He protected the opening at the top with one hand, then stood and gave her a welcoming smile.

That he didn’t seem to hate her like all the others nearly brought tears to her eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Tyndale.” Somehow she managed to talk despite the lump in her throat.

He walked around his desk and motioned to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”

She’d worn her tattered cloak to help cut the biting cold. He held out a hand as she passed by—an offer to take it from her—but she was so chilled she didn’t dare relinquish the garment. She also didn’t want him to comment on her dramatic weight loss. “I will keep it, thank you.”

With a slight nod, he moved back to his customary place. “What brings you out to the mine on this cold day?” he asked, obviously surprised that she would show up.

She blinked several times, trying to hold back tears. Her mouth felt so dry she wasn’t sure she would be able to speak, but she managed a rather wobbly, “I was hoping that… I was hoping you might have a bit of work for me, Mr. Tyndale.”

His eyes widened. “
Here
? You mean,
at the colliery
?”

She held her head high. In the West of Scotland, they’d quit hiring women in the coal mines in an effort to save those jobs for the men, but not here, not entirely. She knew of at least a handful of women who drew a paycheck from Stanhope & Co. “Yes, please. I-I will be a good worker. Do you… happen to have a position on the sorting belts, perhaps?”

He hesitated long enough that she clutched the fabric of her cloak. Would he turn her away? She feared that was the case, but he must’ve read her panic because he smiled again and seemed to change his mind.

“Of course. I am sure I can find room on the payroll for one more. But”—he leaned forward—“screeners make only a schilling or two per day. You realize that.”

Rachel’s heart sank. That was even less than she’d expected. Her father, as a hewer, had brought home as much as twenty schillings a week. Even Tommy had made fifteen. She would be working for a fraction of their wages, and that simply wouldn’t be enough—not to pay the monthly rent
and
support her and Geordie.

She bit her lip. “Is-is housing included?”

He shook his head. “Not for a screener.”

“Is there any binding money if I agree to stay for a year or more?”

“You don’t want to commit yourself for so long. We don’t need screeners enough at the moment to be offering binding money anyway.”

“Then… maybe there’s another position… something else you think I could do?”

Before he could reply, the door opened and Wythe Stanhope stepped inside. “What a miserable day,” he grumbled.

He hadn’t yet noticed her so he was probably remarking on the weather. When he looked up, he froze.

“Miss McTavish.” He gave her a mocking bow. “What a shock to find you here.”

Fear crept up her spine. The last time she’d come face to face with Wythe she’d felt compelled to escape him any way she could. He’d exacted a painful and lasting revenge. But, certainly, after all he had done he would be satisfied.

She forced herself to stand and curtsy. “Mr. Stanhope.”

He studied her for a moment. “Are you, by any chance, seeking Lord Druridge?”

His allusion to her connection with the earl came off as a purposeful reminder of the night she’d lost her virginity—which was something he’d
caused
to happen.

“No, I-I am applying for work, sir.”

He laughed softly. “Ah… I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant surprise. Perhaps today
isn’t
so bad.”

She remained silent.

“What has Mr. Tyndale arranged?” he asked.

The Fore-Overman began to straighten the items on his desk. “Actually, sir, I-I was thinking she would make a dependable screener.”

He waved that suggestion away. “A job for children. You don’t have very high expectations of Miss McTavish, Tyndale.”

“Of course I do. She is very capable. But… anything else would put her down in the mine.
With the men
,” he added to drive home his point.

“And why would that be so terrible? Certainly she’s no better than her fellow villagers.”

When Tyndale went red in the face, Rachel guessed he understood how the miners felt about her. Working with them in such dark, dank and close quarters would not be a pleasant experience, especially for her.

“I didn’t say ‘better,’ sir.”

“You did, Tyndale. In so many words.”

Rachel’s heart thumped against her chest. Why did Wythe hate her so much? He’d asked for what she’d done to him.

“So… you’re suggesting she become a trapper?” Tyndale asked.

No. Rachel could’ve answered that herself. She was tall for a woman, too large to be a trapper. Only children sat in the small recesses behind the ventilation doors, pulling the ropes that would open the doors for the wagons to pass through. She couldn’t drive the teams either. Her lack of experience with horses barred her from that. And she’d never have the physical strength to be a hewer. Only the toughest and most seasoned men faced the rock with pick and shovel.

Wythe folded his arms as his eyes ranged over her. “I think… a putter.”

Tyndale came to his feet. “But, sir! Putters have to haul as much as two hundredweight. And the men in the shaft, they often remove their clothes in the summer when it’s hot. The pit wouldn’t be the best place for such a lovely—”

“Apparently you haven’t heard the rumors I have, Mr. Tyndale,” Wythe interrupted. “Putting her in the dark with a lot of sweaty, naked men is exactly where she would be most comfortable.”

Rachel wanted to speak up, to defend her honor, but she couldn’t. Gaining employment at Stanhope & Co. was her last hope of providing for Geordie.

“Sir, please.” Tyndale tried again, but Wythe would have none of it.

“Do as I say, Tyndale, or you too will be looking for a job.” With that he removed his gloves and walked into the next office.

Staring at a spot somewhere behind her, as if it was all he could do to hold his tongue, Tyndale slowly took his seat. “It’s sorry I am,” he murmured. “Surely you cannot accept such a position.”

She could tell he wanted her to refuse, to take away Wythe’s power. She wished she could. “How much does it pay?”

Two lines formed between his eyes. “It would be
grueling
work.”

“How much, Mr. Tyndale?”

“Three shillings a score.”

She lifted her chin. “So I could make as much as… what? Six shillings a day?”

“Possibly. Paired with strong hewers.”

That was more than she would make all week as a screener. “I’ll do it.”

He shook his head. “Miss McTavish, if I could discourage you—”

She stood. “I appreciate your concern, but… I must cope with certain realities. When can I start?”

Tossing a frown at the office Wythe had disappeared into as if he didn’t like his boss any more than she did, he said, “When would you like to start?”

“Would now be too soon?”

“Not if you’re set on it,” he said with a sigh.

She smiled to reassure him. “Thank you.”