The Iron Road (11 page)

Chloe was surprised. ‘You don’t have any already prepared?’ It was only a mild tonic. Knowing how many of her committee colleagues depended on such aids, she would have expected him to prepare it by the gallon, and have rows of full bottles lined up on the shelf.

‘I regret not, Your Ladyship.’ He seemed about to say more, but changed his mind.

Chloe smiled. ‘Never mind, I’ll come back later.’ At least she could be sure her tonic would be fresh. ‘Would half an hour give you sufficient time?’

‘Most kind, Your Ladyship. Most kind.’ He continued to nod gently like a marionette as he disappeared into his dispensary.

Gathering up the heavy folds of her riding habit, she turned. As she reached for the handle, the door opened. A soft gasp caught in her throat. James Santana stared at her, his quick smile and the sudden warmth in his eyes turning to concern. ‘Are you quite well?’ His voice was low, intense. He glanced over her shoulder. ‘Forgive me,’ he added before she could reply. ‘That was hardly polite. But
are
you?’

‘According to Dr Treloar,’ – still smarting from the unfairness and inaccuracy of the diagnosis, she attempted a wry smile – ‘I have lingered too long in overheated rooms and need more fresh air and exercise.’

‘You look tired,’ he said softly.

Looking up, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of tension bra cketing his mouth, she blurted, ‘So do you.’

‘I can’t sleep.’

She looked away. ‘We shouldn’t – This is not at all a suitable conversation –’

‘I know. Believe me, I know. But I can’t –’ He stopped, making a visible effort to control himself. ‘Will you take some refreshment with me?’

Surging pleasure was immediately swamped by guilt. ‘I – I don’t think –’

‘Please. Something’s happened at the village. You did say you wanted to help.’ At that point the apothecary appeared, apologizing profusely. He hadn’t heard the bell and so was unaware there was a customer waiting.

Chloe waited by the door as James collected a sma ll package, then, sure the apothecary was watching and wondering, preceded him into the street.

They didn ’t speak again until they were sitting at a small, pink-clothed table in Mrs Eddy’s Tea Shop. Waitresses in black dresses with white aprons and frilly white caps bustled to and from the kitchen carrying trays of pretty china, plates of dainty sandwiches, cream-filled sponges, and iced dainties.

Suddenly ravenous, but fearing food would c hoke her, Chloe declined everything but hot chocolate. James ordered two. As the waitress hurried away Chloe glanced up.

‘I really had hoped to take the clothes and other things out to the village before now, but …’ She made a small movement with her shoulders. ‘Mrs Fox reminded me that there are channels and procedures which must be observed.’

‘Ah, yes. Of course.’ His mouth quirked wryly.

His look of complicity, the shared understanding, made her shiver with delight. She was acutely aware she should not be experiencing such pleasure at being in his company. She ought to have refused his invitation. Spending time with James Santana  – even in as public and innocuous a manner as this – was courting precisely the danger that Gerald had warned her about.

Happiness, shame, longing and self-reproach writhed and coiled inside her. She felt as fragile as glass. The waitress arrived with a tray. When she had gone, Chloe removed her gloves to avoid looking at him.

‘You said something’s happened? There hasn’t been another accident?’

‘Do you remember the young woman who asked you for books? Her hut burned down. As it happened while most of the people from the surrounding shanties were at the funeral; no one appears to know what happened, or who might be responsible.’

Chloe stiffened. ‘Are you saying it was
deliberate?’

James shrugged. ‘As nobody will talk about it – and that includes her – I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out. The point is she lost everything but the clothes she was wearing.’

‘The poor girl.’ Chloe tried to imagine what it must feel like to own so little and then to lose even that. ‘Of course I’ll help. I’ll sort out some of my own things as soon as I get home. It might cause difficulties for the girl if it appears she’s being favoured over the others, so it would probably be best if I sent Polly.’

The way he looked at her brought heat to her face. ‘You’re very perceptive,’ he observed softly. ‘And very kind.’

She bent her head, and stirred sugar into her chocolate. She had no right to ask; it was none of her business, but she couldn ’t help herself. ‘Is the young woman a particular friend of yours?’

‘Her name is Polmear. Veryan Polmear. And no, she isn’t. It’s a tragic irony that her misfortune should be giving me such pleasure.’ As relief turned to shock, jerking Chloe’s head up, he gave a small helpless shrug. ‘Would we be sitting here otherwise? Nothing since my return to Cornwall has given me as much pleasure as our conversations.’

Chloe fought terror and delight. She pushed back her chair. ‘I think I should –’

‘Chloe, look at me. Are you happy?’

She swallowed. ‘My husband is … kind and generous, and constantly concerned for my well-being.’

‘How did you meet him?”

‘He was a close friend of my father’s.’

‘How long have you been married?’

‘Four years.’ She saw his shock.

‘You must have been a child bride.’

‘Indeed, I was.’ Knowing her own smile lacked conviction, and was in danger of betraying things he had no right to know, she stood up. ‘I really must go.’

On the narrow pavement, Chloe inhaled deeply, and saw a frantic Polly running towards her.

‘Oh, ma’am, I’m some sorry. The time went so fast and –’ Catching sight of James, she stumbled to a halt, her widening eyes darting from one to the other.

Appearing not to notice the maid, James turned to Chloe with a bow. ‘May I thank you again, Lady Radclyff. Few could aspire to your kindness.’

Grateful for his formality, Chloe matched it with a brief inclination of her head. ‘I’m pleased to be able to help. Good afternoon, Mr Santana.’

Resisting the desire to watch him go, she turned to her maid. ‘Come, Mr Bell should have my prescription ready by now. How is your mother? I hope you found her in good spirits?’

After dinner that evening Chloe took her first dose of the tonic. After half an hour she was aware of a slight discomfort in her stomach, but she also felt beautifully tranquil, as if all her nerves were wrapped in velvet. A little while later, finding it impossible to keep her eyes open, she begged Gerald to excuse her and went up to bed.

Chapter Nine

Checking his watch, James quickened his pace. He would only just make it in time. But his thoughts, instead of being on the coming meeting, kept returning to his unexpected encounter with Chloe, and her reaction. He no longer had any doubts. Her attraction to him was as strong as his was to her. Clearly she was clearly suffering because of it. Her loyalty to her husband was all the more remarkable for being utterly genuine. Yet he sensed something not right.

Natalia drifted briefly across his mind, confusing him. Then, clear and startling as a lightning flash, he recognized the similarity: both Natalia and Chloe were sexual innocents.
But Chloe Radclyff was a married woman.

The implications stunned him. But there was no time to explore further. He had reached Harold Vane’s offices in Church Street. Halfway up the staircase, hearing the murmur of voices, he deliberately stopped and took a slow, deep breath. Then, mentally checking his ammunition in preparation for the battle ahead, he opened the panelled door to the boardroom.

‘Ah, Mr Santana has deigned to grace us with his presence at last.’ Harold Vane’s soft wet mouth puckered like a sea anemone.

James ignored the comment. He took the seat left for him at the far end of the polished mahogany table, and the chairman opened the meeting. Forty minutes later, after various discussions, none of which involved James, Ingram Coles beamed down the table.

‘Mr Santana, I hope you are going to tell us that progress is being made at last?’

‘Not enough, unfortunately.’ As Clinton Warne sniffed, James rested his forearms on the gleaming wood. He didn’t need notes. His impressions of the line were etched deep on his memory. ‘There are three major problems.’

‘Only three?’ Harold Vane enquired sarcastically.

‘The first,’ James continued, ‘is the contractor. I recommend that you replace Pascoe as soon as possible.’

‘With whom?’

‘We can’t do that.’

‘On what grounds?’

‘The man’s doing his best.’

The weather’s been against him right from the start.’

James had expected resistance. His criticism of Pascoe was indirectly a criticism of them for having hired him. So, knowing they would demand reasons and examples, he had rehearsed both. But from the vehemence and immediacy of their objections, it was obvious that convincing them was going to be far harder than he’d anticipated.

He pressed on. But his detailed instances of Pascoe’s carelessness and greed were greeted with shaking heads, arid impatient gestures.

‘Every line has its share of fatalities.’

‘It’s a hazardous job, injuries are inevitable.’

‘Navvies are always taking chances. It’s a hard job, but they are hard men. And they certainly get paid enough.’

It began to dawn on James that nothing he said was going to make any difference. For reasons he could not fathom, the directors had no intention of dismissing Horace Pascoe.

Not so long ago, he too would have responded with similar irritation. But now, after meeting Chloe, after inspecting conditions on the line and in the shanty village, and having seen the way men, women, and children were forced to live, the directors’ attitude repelled him.

‘The other problems, Mr Santana?’ Ingram Coles raised his voice above the mutters of opposition.

‘I see that my predecessor specified Barlow rail?’

‘That is correct,’ Ingram Coles nodded. ‘I believe he was influenced by the fact that Mr Brunel chose it in preference to other rails for the Truro to Penzance line. In Mr Brunel’s opinion, it compared most favourably in terms both of initial cost and subsequent maintenance. As that line has been operating with great success since 1852 the choice would appear justified.’

Despite Ingram Coles’s genial smile, James sensed growing reserve.

‘Not any longer,’ he said carefully.

‘Are you questioning the judgment of one of the great railway engineers of the age?” Harold Vane demanded.

‘Not at all. Mr Brunel made his choice based on what was known at the time. It’s only in the past few years we have discovered that under certain conditions the Barlow rail can become unstable. On a few occasions this has resulted in derailment.’

‘Well, I’ve never heard about it,’ Harold Vane snorted, ‘so it can’t have occurred that often.’

‘It hasn’t,’ James admitted. ‘But my concern is –’

‘Besides,’ Harold Vane cut him short, ‘companies wouldn’t have continued using it if there were serious doubts about its safety.’

‘Actually, the South West Railway began replacing all their Barlow rail five years ago,’ James said. ‘But I take your point. The problem can be overcome with careful attention to ballast work and regular maintenance. However, I have an obligation to bring the matter to your attention. And I’d ask you to consider whether it might not be wiser in the long term to replace the Barlow with steel rails?’

‘With six miles of track already laid?’ Clinton Warne’s voice climbed.

‘I really don’t think the company can afford that,’ Victor Tyzack, the deputy chairman, stated quietly.

‘How do you suggest we explain the cost to our shareholders?’ Gilbert Mabey arched a laconic eyebrow.

‘In any case, such a move is totally unnecessary,’ Harold Vane added. ‘Maintenance is the obvious answer. Labour is far cheaper than steel rails. Let’s move on, for goodness’ sake.’

‘The third problem, Mr Santana?’ The chairman’s smile was considerably cooler.

‘The locomotives.’

‘What about them?’ Clinton Warne’s chin jutted belligerently. ‘The agreement I negotiated with Evans and Company obtained us a most favourable price.’ He glanced around the table for confirmation.

James spoke over the murmurs and nods of approval. ‘Indeed, the terms are excellent,’ James agreed. ‘The problem is, this particular locomotive is too heavy for the line.’

In the tense silence, street sounds seemed suddenly loud: clopping hooves, the rumble of carriage and cart wheels, their drivers bellowing at street urchins to get out of the road; dogs barking, gulls screaming, and the raucous laughter of women working on the fish quay below.

‘You’re quite wrong.’ Stretching his neck like a turkey, Warne glanced round his colleagues. ‘He’s wrong. Do you think I didn’t check? Of course I did. And the company assured me that the weight of the engine is within the capability of the rails.’

But were their calculations based on steel or Barlow rails? And did they include the weight of carriages in addition to that of the locomotive?

‘Gentlemen.’ Ingram Coles raised his hand for silence. But he gave James no chance to raise these points. ‘We are indebted to Mr Santana for his diligent investigation. He has not suggested how we are supposed to finance his proposals. I imagine he considers that to be our responsibility, which indeed it is. Now, before moving on to other business, we should perhaps applaud his thoroughness and concern for safety?’

As the other directors gazed at the table and made vague noises in their throats, Harold Vane clapped his hands, twice, in slow calculated insult.

Masking angry frustration with a bland smile, James inclined his head and addressed the fat, fair-haired company secretary. ‘Mr Mabey, I’d be obliged if you would record my recommendation that, in the event of these locomotives being used, all curving viaducts should have extra shoring on their outer sides? Without this additional support the outward pressure of the trains could push them over sideways.’

He heard a soft intake of breath, but continued without pause. ‘Will you also note my concern that every point I raised was overruled? I’m sure you understand.’

‘I do, Mr Santana.’ Gilbert Mabey’s heavy-lidded eyes gleamed with ironic amusement. ‘Perfectly.’

The meeting continued, but James’s opinions were neither sought nor offered. When it ended he excused himself and left quickly. He had just reached the street door when someone called his name. He turned to see Gilbert Mabey giving the lie to the assertion that fat people were light on their feet.

‘Are you expected somewhere?’ he panted, thumping, flat-footed and clumsy, down the stairs.

‘No.’

‘Care for a drink?’

In spite of his still-simmering anger, James suddenly grinned. ‘Does it show?’

‘You do realize,’ Gilbert puffed, following him out onto the street, now crowded as shops and businesses closed and people made their way home or into the ale-houses and taverns, ‘that you are ruffling a lot of feathers.’

James raised an eyebrow. ‘What did they expect?’

‘I’m supposed to tell you to ease off.’

‘Why you?’

‘Ingram doesn’t like confrontations: Victor has another appointment: and you’ve already crossed swords with Clinton and Harold.’ He shrugged. ‘There’s only me left.’

‘My reputation is on this line.’

‘Ah, but it’s their company.’

‘Is that what this is all about?’ James stared at him. ‘Wounded pride?’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe it.’

‘No one likes being made to look foolish.’

‘It’s not me who’s done that; they managed it all by themselves. Can’t they see what risks they’re taking?’

‘Maybe when they’ve calmed down, had time to think.’

‘They don’t
have
time. If things don’t improve pretty damn quickly –’

‘My dear chap, you mustn’t take it all so personally. You said your piece – which came as something of a shock to my esteemed colleagues. I don’t imagine for one moment they were expecting quite such a drubbing.’

‘Is that how it sounded?’

Gilbert nodded. ‘You’re young, you see.’

‘I’m right.’

‘Probably.’ Gilbert sighed, leading the way up the steps into the Royal Hotel. Over a glass of Madeira they began to talk about their respective backgrounds. James found Gilbert amusing and irreverent. One glass was followed by a second. Gilbert suggested dinner and James accepted. He had nothing to go back to, and knew he would only brood about Chloe. After a meal of spring lamb, followed by apple tart with clotted cream, and a bottle of St Emilion, Gilbert grew even more expansive.

Seeing his chance, James refilled Gilbert’s glass. ‘Do you know Sir Gerald well?’

‘I don’t think anyone knows him
well.
He’s a strange cove. Certainly not one to cross.’

‘Oh.’ James raised his glass to his lips, feigning mild interest while every nerve tensed with a compelling desire to know more.

Gilbert leaned forward. ‘One hears rumours,’ he confided. ‘Not that I believe them. It’s all just gossip, I’m sure.’ He bent to the water biscuits and Stilton on his plate.

‘What kind of rumours?’

Glancing round to make sure they couldn’t be overheard, Gilbert whispered, ‘About his
private
life. Mind you, the man has known his share of tragedy.’

‘Oh?’ James prompted, forcing himself to relax.

‘Mmm,’ Gilbert nodded, chewing. ‘His first wife died, you know. Only been married a couple of years. Took her own life. No children.’ Knifing a crumbly lump of cheese onto a piece of biscuit, Gilbert crammed it into his mouth, spraying crumbs as he continued. ‘Of course, women love a tragic figure. Within months he was the target of every widow and match-making mother in the district. But he told everyone that after the shock of his bereavement he would not remarry. No one believed him. They thought it was just the grief talking. But the years went by. Eventually everyone assumed he would remain single. He had an excellent housekeeper and staff. He took care always to attend important social occasions with a different partner. Of course, by that time, we’d all heard the odd whisper. But there was never any proof. So we simply assumed they were just malicious stories put about by people he’d bested in business deals.’

‘What
is
his business?’ James asked, pouring a tiny amount of wine into his own glass before generously topping up Gilbert’s. ‘What does he do?’

Gilbert shrugged. ‘He has a finger in any number of pies. He’s also a serious gambler. He rarely loses. The man has nerves of iron.’ He wiped his mouth. ‘You see, it wasn’t just the
fact
of his remarriage that raised eyebrows, it was how he got his wife.’ He leaned forward, his eyes bright with alcohol and enjoyment of the story. ‘On the turn of a card would you believe?’

‘
What?’
It would have been impossible to hide his shock. Fortunately, his reaction delighted Gilbert.

‘You never heard this from me.’

‘No, no, of course not. Go on.’

‘Well, apparently Richard Polglase, Chloe’s father, lost his wife to pneumonia when the girl was very young. Anyway, Polglase was a close pal of Sir Gerald’s, and a gambler as well. But he didn’t have Radclyff’s luck, or his self discipline. Over the years he gambled away large chunks of his estate. One night, in a high-stakes game, he lost the rest. After scribbling a note entrusting care of his daughter – she was only fourteen – to Sir Gerald, he shot himself.’

‘But –’ James had to clear his throat. ‘Why him? Why Radclyff?’

Gilbert shrugged. ‘Polglase’s gambling had caused a lot of bad feeling on both sides of the family. With no money for a dowry, none of his – or his late wife’s – relatives were willing to take her on.’

Chloe.
Incandescent with fury at her feckless father, James stared blindly at the inch of blood-red wine in his glass, twisting the stem round and round. He had never been closer to losing his self-control.

‘Everyone expected him to hire a companion for her. But as soon as she reached sixteen, damn me if he didn’t up and marry the girl. Caused quite a stir, I can tell you. Still, it did put a stop to the rumours.’

What rumours?
But James didn’t dare interrupt Gilbert’s wine-induced confidences to ask.

‘Of course, there were plenty ready to say he was asking for trouble: what with the age difference and her being such a pretty little thing. But there’s not been as much as a whisper. Not about
her,
at any rate.’ He shook his head. Amazement? Disbelief? Envy? James couldn’t tell.

‘Mind you, he’s extremely protective. She’s a superb horsewoman, but he won’t let her ride to hounds. Though when you hear what goes on during a hunt, who’s to blame him? She seems to think the world of him. It would be a foolhardy man who entertained any ideas in that direction. I certainly wouldn’t like to cross him. In fact, if you want the truth, I think he could be dangerous.’