The Iron Road (8 page)

Veryan shut her eyes tight, tensed every muscle, and held her breath, waiting for the slippage that would tumble her down the steep face in an avalanche of earth, mud and rock. Her heart was hammering so hard it hurt. Tom Reskilly’s large hand gripped hers. She knew with absolute certainty that no matter what happened he wouldn’t let go. But the threatened earthslide didn’t happen. After a few seconds Tom’s warm grip loosened and he released her.

Feeling weak and horribly shaky she began crawling up the slope. Smeared with earth and blood from numerous cuts and grazes, Davy flung his arms around her, clinging like a limpet. She held him for a moment. His right foot was already twice its normal size and turning purplish blue.

‘Come on,’ Tom said. ‘We got to get off of this.’

At the top of the embankment they saw the little boy and several men lying in the dirt. One was William Thomas. Veryan felt Davy flinch. Then he hid his face in her neck. She could feel him trembling. One of the men was badly mutilated and, as they passed, someone laid a piece of tarpaulin over him and the boy. But though his eyes were closed William had no visible injuries. Then his mouth fell open emitting a loud snore.

‘Bastard’s drunk,’ Tom muttered. A little way away, the tip boys huddled in a shivering group. Beyond them, surrounded by navvies and labourers, Veryan could hear the contractor demanding explanations and issuing orders. He spotted Tom.

‘Get rid of the woman and get back to work!’ he bellowed.

Tom ignored him and turned to Veryan. ‘All right are you?’

‘Can you lift Davy onto my back?’

‘You can’t carry him all that way –’

‘Well, he can’t walk, and I don’t see any carriage waiting for us.’ She didn’t want his concern. She couldn’t handle it. It was too tempting.

‘Dear life,’ he grinned wryly. ‘You got more prickles than a hedgehog.’

She felt a twinge of shame, and quickly stifled it. Not since her father had anyone cared about her wellbeing. Tom Reskilly was a decent man. But she had no choice. For a few moments back there
 – No, she mustn’t allow herself even to think.
He was a navvy.
His grip had been warm and strong, steadfast as a rock.
She had to focus on escape.

‘You all right, Davy?’ she said over her shoulder, clasping her forearms behind her back to support his weight. He was still trembling, and his wet trousers were clammy on her arms. She half-turned to Tom, careful not to meet his eyes. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She owed him that. ‘You’d better grab your dinner before the others have it.’

‘You’re some rare woman,’ he murmured. ‘The boy’s not even yours.’

‘So I should have left him there?’

‘Of course not. I didn’t mean –’

Already walking away, Veryan just caught his snort of frustration. Let him be angry and impatient with her. It was better that way.

Chapter Six

Stopping to catch her breath, Veryan hitched Davy a little higher. Her back ached fiercely, and her arms burned with the strain. Though he was small and skinny, the longer she carried him the heavier he grew. She dare not put him down. She would never find the strength to lift him up again. Nor must he realize what a struggle she was having. He had known too much guilt and blame in his short life.

‘You all right back there?’ she called.

‘Mmm,’ he mumbled, his head resting in the curve of her shoulder.

‘It’s not far now.’ This was as much to convince herself as for his benefit. She had stayed on the hillside as long as she could, but the angle had put too great a strain on her leg muscles and she’d been forced to rejoin the path.

She plodded on, squelching through the mud and puddles, too tired to think, just taking the next step, and the next. Her breath rasped and the ache in her shoulders drilled deep into her bones.

The horse was almost upon her before the sound of hoof beats registered. She looked over her shoulder, almost losing her balance as she stumbled to the side of the path. Too weary for more than mild surprise, she watched James Santana rein in, frowning with concern.

‘Is the boy badly hurt?’

She shook her head. ‘No, but he can’t walk.’

‘He’d better ride then. You too.’

Startled, she watched him dismount. He landed in a puddle, splashing muddy water over his shiny boots and across her already soaked and filthy skirt.

‘Sorry.’

‘I don’t think it will show.’ She pulled a wry face and felt her heart lift at his swift grin and the genuine amusement in his eyes. He seemed to shed some of his formality. ‘Come on.’ He reached for Davy who tightened his arms around Veryan’s neck and hid his face.

‘It’s very kind of you,’ she began, ‘but –’

‘Don’t be silly. And don’t tell me he’s not heavy. Look, I’m on my way to Falmouth. But first, Hetty Briggs and Flora Kessell have to be told –’

‘Surely that’s the ganger’s job,’ Veryan interrupted, hating to appear rude, but anxious to spare Davy any more reminders of the terrible sights he’d witnessed.

‘It is, but every man who can hold a shovel is working to shore up the embankment, so I said I’d do it. Now, you mount first and I’ll pass the boy up to you.’

‘He has a name,’ Veryan said sharply. ‘It’s Davy.’

‘Well now, Davy.’ James bent towards him. ‘If you will allow your mother –’

‘I’m not –’ She stopped.
Too late.
She started again. ‘I’m not Davy’s mother. But if I were, I’d be really proud to have him for a son.’

‘You hear that, Davy?’ The engineer’s gaze lingered on her for a moment, surprise evolving into curiosity. Then he moved forward, plucked the child from her back, and lifted him into the saddle. After a glance at Veryan’s mud-caked boots, he turned back to the boy. ‘You just hang on there a moment while I find somewhere suitable –’

‘It’s all right, I can manage. I’ve ridden before.’ Placing her foot in the stirrup, Veryan swung herself up behind Davy, and put an arm around him. Isn’t this comfortable?’ she whispered. ‘It’s much nicer than my back.’

As he led his horse along the path, James looked up. ‘I heard someone call you Veryan. May I ask your full name?’

‘Polmear.’ Veryan cleared her throat, flustered and thrilled by his interest. ‘Veryan Polmear.’

‘Well, Miss Polmear, I must own that you intrigue me greatly.’

Shock zinged through her. But it wasn’t unpleasant. Nor did she feel threatened or afraid.
On the contrary.

‘Oh, forgive me. I should have introduced myself properly. James Santana. I’m –’

‘The new engineer. I know.’

He smiled up at her. ‘News travels fast.’ Perplexity drew his brows together. ‘You know, I’m sure your name is familiar to me. I recall seeing or hearing it recently.’

Veryan’s heart lurched into her throat. She felt sick. He couldn’t know – Queenie had promised – no one wanted the magistrates involved.
She still couldn’t believe –
But how could she prove her innocence when she couldn’t even remember? Slamming a mental door on her terror, she moistened suddenly dry lips.

‘Perhaps you heard mention of my father. He was a soldier. He died in the Crimea.’

‘My condolences. I lost an uncle there. He was one of twenty-six officers killed at Alma.’

Before he could ask – as she sensed he was about to – what had brought her to the shanty village and life with a woman like Queenie, she cut in. ‘Thank you for the ride. It was most kind. But I think it best if Davy and I walk now.’

‘Why? It is still some distance to –’

‘It’s really not far. Besides,’ – she looked him in the eye – ‘it will not enhance your reputation to be seen with me. Nor,’ she added before he could speak, ‘will it do me any good among the village women. I am already an outsider.’

He frowned. ‘Why do you stay?’

Sliding to the ground she reached up for Davy and settled him on her hip. Ruffling his hair she looked over his head at James Santana. ‘I am alone, Mr Santana. Where can I go?’

She wouldn’t allow herself to watch him mount up and ride on ahead. Instead she talked to Davy, telling him nursery rhymes, and reciting little poems she knew so well they rolled off her tongue, leaving her mind free to review her encounter with James Santana.
Well, Miss Polmear, I must own that you intrigue me greatly.
Clearly, he recognized that, regardless of her ragged clothing, she was different from the other navvy women.

Yearning quickened her breath. Was it possible that
he –
a professional man of substance and standing in society – She hardly dared clothe the thought in words.
His interest could change everything for her.
Forgetting her aching arms and back, she mulled over the times she had seen him, dissecting each moment for evidence that might encourage the tiny bud of hope to open another petal.

Entering the village a little while later she heard wailing, and saw women bustling in and out of the shanty where the dead boy had lived. Davy’s arms and her own tightened simultaneously.

Outside his shanty she told him to stand on one foot and reached for the latch. At least she wouldn’t have to face his father. Pushing the door open, almost gagging at the stench, she peered into the gloom. A huddled figure lay on a makeshift bed against one rough wall.

‘Stay there a moment, Davy.’

Head down, he leaned against the doorpost, his gaze fixed on the earth floor. Veryan bent over the curled figure and touched a shoulder. Bessie Thomas snorted and groaned. One hand rose a few inches then fell back onto the dirty blankets. Turning her over, Veryan recoiled at the sour stench of vomit. Bessie Thomas’s eyes were blackened and swollen to mere slits, her nose and mouth crusted with blood.

‘Is she dead?’ A small voice pierced her boiling anger.

Veryan stood up. ‘No, Davy. But she’s not well enough to help –’

‘I tried to make him stop.’

‘I’m sure you did, my love.’ Holding him close, Veryan walked out, shutting the door behind her. ‘I know how brave you are.’

She managed to reach her own hut without Queenie seeing her and put Davy down on the strip of frayed canvas beside her bed. He crumpled and lay on his side, his eyes blank.

Fetching hot water from the wash-house copper, she took off his wet clothes. Then, using her preciously hoarded soap, she washed off the mud and carefully cleaned all his cuts and grazes. Some wouldn’t stop bleeding. He shivered, teeth chattering.

‘Nearly finished.’ Patting him dry, she draped a blanket over his shaking body. She needed a bandage for his ankle, and others for an elbow and knee. With a sigh she reached for her clean chemise and began tearing it into strips. With luck she might find a replacement among the clothing Lady Radclyff had promised.

Picturing the elegant riding habit and intricately dressed blonde hair, envy twisted her insides like red-hot pincers. She’d had pretty dresses once, clothes nobody else had worn first. She would have them again. She would leave Cornwall and make a new life for herself. A vivid image of James Santana filled her mind.
You intrigue me greatly.
He was the key.

After she had buttoned the boy into an old blouse that reached to his knees, Davy turned away and, without a word, curled up in a corner of her bed like a wounded animal.

Tucking blankets around his small, shaking body she sat and stroked his head, watched his lashes flutter and close, and wondered what on earth she was going to do. She couldn’t send him back to a bullying father and a mother who couldn’t cope. But to keep him here with her would invite disaster on both of them.

When he reached Falmouth, James rode directly to the Royal Hotel in Market Street. A regular stop for the mail coaches until a few months ago when the post office had begun using the newly opened rail link to Truro and thence to Bristol and London, it was right in the middle of town.

Handing his horse over to an ostler, he ordered food and a pint of ale and while he waited, scrawled a note to each of the directors asking them to attend as soon as possible on a matter of great urgency. He dispatched them by messenger. Within half an hour he had finished his meal and they had all arrived from their banks and offices.

‘You’d better have a very good reason for this summons,’ Harold Vane warned. Snapping his fingers, he ordered the servant to bring a cup of hot chocolate. ‘I’ve had to rearrange several appointments at great inconvenience to myself and my clients.’

The other directors nodded agreement, adding their own tales of hastily cancelled meetings and schedules thrown into disarray.

‘I’m sure,’ Ingram Coles tried to calm the stormy waters, ‘Mr Santana would not trouble us unnecessarily.’

‘I should think not,’ Harold Vane muttered, ‘considering what we’re paying him.’

‘There’s been an accident on the works,’ James stated baldly. Having got their total attention he continued. ‘Part of the new embankment collapsed causing two fatalities and several serious injuries.’

‘What’s the actual damage?’ Clinton Warne shot his chin forward. ‘Has any equipment been lost?’

‘One section is badly twisted. Those rails will have to be scrapped. And one of the wagons went over. But when I left, Pascoe was already organizing a recovery team.’

‘How long will it be before they can resume laying track?’ Harold Vane demanded, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Time is money.’

‘I understand your concern,’ James said. ‘But it’s vital the embankment is made completely safe first. Especially,’ – he raised his voice slightly above the murmuring – ‘as insecure rails were the cause of the accident at Rednall back in June. Thirteen people were killed and forty injured. If something like that were to happen on
this
line, the company’s reputation would suffer incalculable damage.’

‘Did you have a further reason for this meeting, Mr Santana?’ Victor Tyzack, the deputy chairman, enquired. ‘Other than to inform us of the unfortunate occurrence?’

‘Speaking for myself, I’m damn glad he was so quick off the mark,’ Gilbert Mabey, the company secretary, announced. ‘The moment the newspapers hear about it – and they will, you mark my words – they’ll be baying at our doors, demanding a response. There are still a large number of people, don’t forget, who have strong reservations about the spread of the railway.’

‘Well, Mr Santana?’ Harold Vane demanded, ignoring his colleague.

With a total absence of expression James enquired, ‘Is there a contingency fund?’

The directors exchanged blank glances.

‘For what purpose?’ Ingram Coles enquired politely.

‘Hardship payments to the families of those killed while working on the line.’

‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ The solicitor glared at James. ‘Charities take care of that sort of thing. We are running a business. I must say, Mr Santana, I am beginning to wonder if such liberal tendencies are conducive to the best interests of this company.’

‘I was seeking information, Mr Vane,’ James replied. ‘Not passing judgement or making a suggestion.’ His loathing of the solicitor increased each time they met, sorely testing his ability to conceal it. He turned to the deputy chairman.

‘In response to your question, sir, we need more labour. Sir Gerald has allowed us a month, only because of the appalling weather. We won’t get another extension. You’ve seen conditions on the works. The gangs at the front of the line are now three men and one boy short.’

‘And the wages they would have earned will be paid to their replacements,’ Clinton Warne pointed out. ‘So why do you need more money?’

‘Replacing those lost won’t be enough. We need at least one more gang –’

A storm of protest erupted. Argument raged for a further fifteen minutes only ceasing when Ingram Coles reminded them that they all had clients and customers waiting. To be late – or worse still, to miss an appointment – might result in speculation that something was seriously wrong.

‘Gentlemen, surely the last thing any of us wants is for the company’s image of success to be compromised.’

‘Yes, but –’ Clinton Warne began, his chin jutting.

‘I suggest that Mr Santana submits a written proposal stating the sum he has in mind, and details of how it would be used.’

‘It will be on your desk within forty-eight hours,’ James promised. ‘I would stress that this is a matter of some urgency, so if –’

‘You give us the figures,’ Harold Vane cut in, ‘we will make the decision.’

The hotel entrance was set back from the street. As he walked down the steps into the covered yard and waited for his horse to be brought from the stables, James fought growing frustration. It was becoming increasingly obvious that the directors had little understanding of, and even less interest in, the practicalities of railway construction. The caution which made them good lawyers and bankers worked against them as businessmen. Immersed in detail, they had lost sight of the whole.

Riding towards Kergilliack, James was deep in thought when an open carriage containing three women emerged a few yards ahead from the drive to Bosvallon Manor. The woman facing him wore a crimson high-necked jacket. A matching hat was perched on dark, upswept hair. She said something to her companions who both looked over their shoulders.