The Iron Road (9 page)

James fought the surge of pleasure as he recognized Chloe, revealing only polite affability as he drew alongside, raising his hat. ‘Good afternoon, Lady Radclyff.’

A blush crept up her throat, infusing her complexion with delicate rosy warmth.

‘G-good afternoon, Mr Santana.’

The dark-haired woman’s gaze was bold as it swept over him, her voice low-pitched and husky. ‘Won’t you introduce us, Chloe?’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Mr Santana, may I introduce my friends and fellow committee members, Mrs Price-Ellis, and Mrs Hosking.’

She turned to the women. ‘Diana, Loveday, this is Mr James Santana. He’s a railway engineer.’

‘How absolutely fascinating,’ Diana Price-Ellis purred. ‘Are you anything to do with the line at Trewan?’

James inclined his head. ‘I am.’ He flicked a swift glance at Chloe.
This woman is no friend of yours.

‘This is a most fortunate meeting, Lady Radclyff, for I need your help. There has been an accident at the works.’ He saw her eyes darken in genuine concern.

‘I’m so sorry. How many have been hurt? Do you require a doctor?’

‘That is most generous, but no. One man and a boy were beyond human assistance, and those with broken limbs have been moved to the parish hospital. However, bandages would be most useful. Also any antiseptic lotion or ointment that will help wounds heal without infection.’

‘I will send Polly to the apothecary and have supplies of both brought to the village tomorrow.’

‘You are most kind.’ He saluted. ‘Your servant, ladies.’

‘Mr Santana?’ Chloe cleared her throat, asking as he turned back, ‘The funerals …?’

As his eyes met and locked with hers, he read the same powerful attraction he had been fighting since that first meeting. He also glimpsed bewilderment and fear. Compassion surged in him. He must take care, and not only for her sake.

‘I cannot say, ma’am, for as yet I have been unable to find a clergyman willing to have the navvies in his church. His mouth twisted. ‘It seems that Christian charity is not available to those most in need of it.’ His heart swelled with admiration – and something stronger, deeper – as indignation lit her eyes and heightened her colour.

‘There must have been a misunderstanding, Mr Santana. I believe Tresaer is the church nearest the shanty village. I’m sure, once my husband has fully explained the circumstances to him, Reverend Carter will be happy to conduct the burial service. Meanwhile, please convey my deepest sympathy to the bereaved families.’

‘Thank you, Lady Radclyff.’ James bowed, fighting an almost overwhelming urge to take her hand and kiss it in appreciation of her integrity and generous spirit. But, aware of the other women’s scrutiny – avid stares he found disconcerting – he remained coolly formal, and turned from Chloe to focus on them.

‘Ladies, I appreciate you must have many demands on your time, but it would give great comfort to the families if you were able to attend. Your presence would most certainly generate wider public interest in the work of your charities, and in the welfare of those building the line.’

The two women exchanged a glance. ‘I don’t think I have any pressing engagements that day,’ Loveday Hosking simpered.

‘How could I refuse
you,
Mr Santana?’

Diana said lightly. But Chloe detected subtle undertones, and saw James’s expression harden as he turned again to her.

‘And you, Lady Radclyff?’

He made it sound mere polite enquiry, but his eyes – was he trying to tell her something?
This was foolishness.
She should decline; claim a prior appointment. But how could she after her impassioned plea for his support? She had to go. She had no choice. Not trusting her voice, she gave a brief nod of assent.

Bidding them goodbye he took his leave and rode on. Not daring to watch, Chloe smoothed her gloves, still seeing him clearly.

‘Well!’ Loveday Hosking’s brows climbed above a provocative smile.

‘Chloe, my dear.’ Diana Price-Ellis placed a gloved hand on her bosom and rolled her eyes. ‘Where did you find him?’

‘I didn’t
find
him.’ Chloe struggled with the turmoil rekindled by James’s unexpected appearance. ‘He came to the house to discuss railway business with Gerald.’

‘He’s very handsome,’ Loveday sighed. ‘I confess I do have a weakness for dark men.’

‘And fair men, and those in-between,’ Diana’s dry remark sent Loveday into a fit of giggles. ‘I must say though, he is quite the charmer. And obviously intelligent.’

‘Since when,’ Loveday taunted, ‘have you cared about intelligence?’

‘More often of late. After all,’ Diana drawled with an enigmatic smile that slid like melting ice down Chloe’s spine,
‘some
conversation is necessary, so far better it should be interesting. As my esteemed husband is required to remain in London for weeks at a time, I find myself in growing need of …’ – she arched a brow – ‘stimulating company.’

‘Diana, you wouldn’t,’ Loveday gasped. But there was no disapproval in her voice, only laughter, and an undercurrent of excitement.

Diana’s sloe eyes glittered. ‘Oh, I would,’ she said softly. ‘In fact, I think I probably will.’

Having never experienced jealousy, Chloe was unprepared for its scalding, corrosive intensity.

‘Why, Chloe, my dear, whatever’s wrong?’ Diana leaned forward. ‘Have I shocked you?’

Aware both women considered her lacking in sophistication, and had for a long time regarded her with mild amusement, Chloe had made huge efforts to ensure they attributed her naivety to shyness and a sheltered upbringing. What had begun in ignorance she had continued out of a sense of loyalty. Then, convinced the fault must somehow be hers, her self-esteem demanded she let no one discover the truth. This past year maintaining the facade had grown increasingly difficult. And now … now suddenly her whole world was coming apart.

Chapter Seven

Tom stood to one side of the other navvies and their women as they moved slowly through the little churchyard, and looked for Veryan. He’d glimpsed her in the church, but then she had disappeared in the crush. The service had been short, but at least the vicar had got the names right. A couple of the other gangs who helped in the rescue had come to pay their respects. Over the press of people, Tom watched James Santana escort the three elegant ladies to a carriage with a coat of arms emblazoned on the glossy black door.

His glance passed briefly over the two strangers. He’d never seen them before but they were easy enough to recognize – all hot-eyed and hungry for a bit of excitement. A wink or a quick squeeze was often enough to send that type into a swoon. Not the dark one though. She was a hard case: courting attention in a gown of some shiny blood-red material that rustled, and a matching hat with plumes. Only the black velvet jacket that curved where she did gave a passing nod to the fact that she was attending a funeral. The other one – a silly, flighty piece, all twitches and giggles, wore a black fringed shawl over her green and lemon frills.

He looked past them to Lady Radclyff, sombre in midnight blue with a matching wool cape. Young she might be, but a true lady. There was no side to her, none of the usual arrogance he’d come to expect in women of her class. Just coming to the church would have been enough. But not for her: she’d gone over and said a few words to the families. She hadn’t stayed long. He heard her say she didn’t want to intrude on their grief. She didn’t look down her nose at shanty people, like they were no better than dirt.

He wished he could see her face, but it was hidden behind the fine veil attached to the brim of her hat. As she climbed into the carriage her foot slipped off the step. Immediately, the engineer caught her elbow to steady her. She seemed to go totally still for a moment, like she was holding her breath. Then she got into the carriage and turned to thank him.

Why couldn’t Veryan Polmear say thank you, just once? Independence was all well and good, and he admired a woman with spirit, but she was more stubborn than a dozen mules. Frustration bubbled like boiling water. A feeling new to him, it was becoming unpleasantly familiar. What the hell was the matter with her? He’d seen the day he arrived that Queenie and the men were giving her a hard time. He’d put a stop to it, but she’d given him precious little thanks – except on the embankment.

They had worked well together, and he’d sensed that she trusted him. But it had all been for the boy. Once they’d got off the embankment, she’d shut him out again. He blew down his nose in frustration.

All the other women he’d known had
enjoyed
being treated like they were someone special. All right, it had got him what he wanted at the time, but so what? He had done no harm, and it had made them feel good. He liked women. He liked her. Well, maybe like was too soft a word for what he felt. She was different. She stirred him like no other woman ever had; not even Annie. She also made him so mad he couldn’t think straight.

Queenie wasn’t the first to say he had a silver tongue. But Veryan Polmear was doing her best to pretend he didn’t exist. Why? What had he done? What
hadn’t
he done? He’d tried being friendly. He’d taken her at her word and left her alone. Neither had got him very far. If he had a lick of sense he’d give her up as a bad job. But, damn it,
he couldn’t.
He’d never been turned down before. But it wasn’t that. It was her. She was …
different.
And whether she liked it or not he was going to know her better.

The carriage rolled away. The engineer turned, starting along the path to the lych gate to fetch his horse. He stopped for a moment to speak to someone. The stream of people shifted, parted, and Tom saw it was Veryan. But not the thorny, self-contained girl he knew. He had never seen her smile before. He couldn’t hear what they said, but, watching the way she moved, the way she lowered her eyes, the faint colour on her cheekbones, he wanted to hit the engineer. The anger died. But jealousy lingered, an ache in his gut.

Then the engineer moved on. Veryan seemed momentarily at a loss. It was, Tom decided, the best chance he’d get. She didn’t have her arms full of washing, nor was she in the middle of dishing-up food: her usual excuses to avoid talking to him.

Wiping sweaty palms down the sides of his moleskin trousers, he shoved them in his pockets and sauntered over. ‘All right then?’ Her swift intake of breath as she glanced up told him he’d caught her off-balance. ‘How’s young Davy? His foot coming on all right?’

She nodded, looking anywhere but directly at him as she retreated behind the all-too-familiar mask. ‘I have to go –’

Pique goaded him. ‘That was some pretty smile you gave the engineer.’

She glared up at him, her cheeks rosy. ‘He was asking after Davy. Not that it’s any of your business. And a smile is merely polite. At least I didn’t go all cow-eyed over Lady Radclyff.’

Tom grinned in delight. ‘Well now, if I’d have known you was watching me –’

‘I was doing nothing of the kind. As a matter of fact, I was looking at Lady Radclyff.’ The mingled sadness and yearning she couldn’t quite conceal snagged his curiosity.

‘She’s certainly worth looking at,’ he agreed. ‘But handsome is as handsome does. She’s rare. There’s plenty of good-looking ladies around, but few with her sweet nature.’

Veryan tossed her head. ‘It’s very easy to look beautiful and do good works when you have plenty of money and too little to occupy your time.’

Tom frowned, taken aback and silent for a moment. ‘Why so bitter, girl?’

Startled, her face twisted and she gave a brief laugh that sounded like something tearing. ‘Bitter? Me?’ Suddenly her eyes filled. Whirling round she pushed her way through the milling people.

‘Hey,’ he shouted. ‘Wait. Veryan, I didn’t mean –’ But she had disappeared. Exasperation seethed. Aware of curious stares he forced a grin and shrugged. But inside he was furious with himself.

‘Yo, Tom.’ Paddy clapped him on the shoulder, then murmured, ‘Forget her, boy. You’re wasting your time.’

‘I need a drink,’ Tom growled.

The daily tramp of feet between the untidy huddle of shacks and the new stretch of line had worn a clear track across the fields and scrubland. Walking ahead of the others who clustered in support around the bereaved women, Veryan was first to see the smoke. She took little notice, her head full of her encounter with James Santana and angry confusion inspired by Tom Reskilly. But as she drew closer to the village she realized the smoke was too thick, too dark. It wasn’t a cooking fire. One of the shanties was burning.

A sudden tightness, like a clenched fist in her chest, stopped her breath. Then she was running down the hill, weaving between the squalid dwellings, dodging the washing flapping on lines held high by a notched sapling to catch the wind. Even before she rounded the far corner of Queenie’s shanty, she knew with dreadful certainty that the hut on fire would be hers.

Stumbling to a halt she stared helplessly at the bright, leaping flames and the charred wood. Black smoke, acrid with the smell of burning pitch roiled skyward. It was far too late to save anything.
Davy.
She had left him inside sleeping while she went to the funeral.

‘Davy!’ she screamed.

‘All right, all right.’ Queenie waddled out of the shanty and caught her arm, pulling her away from the other women who had just arrived and were crowding round to watch the blaze and whisper. ‘No need for all that. The boy’s all right.’

‘Who did it?’ Veryan indicated the blaze.

‘Who?’ Queenie repeated, startled. ‘I’ll tell you who done it.’ She licked her lips. ‘That bleddy gypsy’s brother, that’s who. An’ with all the men gone and me here on me own, there wasn’t nothing I could do. Good job you was at the church. He’d have killed anyone who tried to stop him.’

Veryan looked at her. ‘But how did he know which hut was mine? How did he know it was me who –?’

‘No good asking me,’ Queenie sniffed. She jerked a thumb towards the big shanty. ‘I’ve had some job here with that boy. Little bugger wouldn’t come out. W – the gypsy didn’t care. Said he could burn with the hut.’

Veryan was horrified. ‘No one went in for him?’

‘Kid put the bolt across, didn’t he?’ Queenie retaliated. ‘What was I s’posed to do? Shouted meself hoarse, I did. Anyhow, when the roof caught he came out by hisself, coughing and choking with the smoke. He couldn’t hardly walk, but the daft little twerp had his arms full of your books. Silly sod; if he wanted to save something why didn’t he bring clothes? What good is bleddy books if you ’aven’t got a rag to your back?’

‘Davy?’ Racing into the shanty Veryan saw him hunched on the floor by the fire, his shoulders jerking with sobs.

Kneeling, she held him close. ‘Oh, Davy, I’m so glad you’re safe.’ She rocked him. ‘Hush now. It’s all right.’ He shook his head. She had never seen him cry like this. ‘Queenie said you saved my books.’

‘Don’t be angry,’ he whispered.

‘
Angry?
Why should I be – well maybe I am, just a little bit. But only because of the terrible risk you took. Davy, nothing –
nothing
is more important than you.’ Tilting his chin the words dried in her mouth as she saw the dried blood caking his split lip and the red and purple bruising on the left side of his small tear-stained face.

‘I’m s-s-sorry.’ His chest heaved.

‘It’s all right.’ She pressed his head very gently against her shoulder and rocked some more, clenching her teeth as surging fury made her tremble.

‘Did the gypsy do that to you?’ He stiffened momentarily, then burrowed closer.

‘What happened?’ she asked softly.

‘H-he tore them up. I t-tried to stop him. H-he said it was my fault. I shouldn’t have stayed with you. He said you had to p-pay.’

‘But how would he have known you stayed …?’ Suddenly she realized; it wasn’t the gypsy who had hit him.

‘It was your father, wasn’t it?’

He sniffed and shuddered. ‘I’m s-sorry.’ He hid his face against her arm.

‘Davy, listen to me.’ Veryan smoothed his hair. ‘You did your very best. Do you remember how in the stories the heroes do brave things? Like Nathaniel rescuing the colonel’s daughters? Well, you’re a hero.’ She went on talking quietly and felt his small body growing limp and heavy as relief and exhaustion overtook him.

‘Poor little mite.’ Queenie stood, hands on massive hips, shaking her head. ‘But it’s like I told ’er Ladyship, no good comes of all this book-reading and such. You’re only making it worse for him.’

Still holding Davy close, Veryan struggled to her feet, wincing at the sharp protest from her strained muscles. Carrying him to the empty bunk that had been Gypsy Ned’s she laid him down gently, untied her shawl and spread it over him.

Queenie watched. ‘He’s not yours.’

‘I know.’

‘Where you going now? It’ll soon be time to start their tea.’

‘I won’t be long.’

‘Look, I don’t want no more trouble –’

Veryan swung round.
‘Trouble?
Everything I own has just been destroyed, and that child’ – she pointed a shaking finger – ‘was beaten just because he’s fond of me. What am I supposed to do? Pretend it didn’t happen?’ Storming out, she almost collided with Tom Reskilly who nodded towards the smoking ruins of her hut.

‘Accident?’

‘What do you think?’ She strode past him towards the Thomas’s shanty. Davy’s father and another man emerged, half-drunk and laughing from the shack next door.

William Thomas blinked like an owl then sniggered. ‘Whose bed will you be in tonight, then? Looks like yours will be a bit too hot. All your books gone too, shame.’

Taking a step forward, Veryan slapped his face with all her strength. The shock travelled the length of her arm, jarring her bruised shoulder. ‘Never mind the books. That’s for hitting Davy.’ Her hand stung fiercely and she tucked it under her arm.

‘Bitch.’ William spat. ‘Better if he’d died under the wagon. You too.’ Lashing out with snake-like speed his fist caught the side of her head and sent her sprawling in the mud.

Through the ringing in her ears she heard Tom’s roar of anger and realized he must have followed her. It took her several sick, shaky seconds to stagger to her feet. Upright, if unsteady, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and turned ready to face the bully again. But someone else had got there first.

Fights were part of everyday life in the village. Fuelled by drink, they were usually noisy, erratic and, apart from the odd broken nose, did little lasting damage. This was different. William cringed and grunted as, with cold efficiency, Tom Reskilly beat him senseless. It didn’t take long.

Granite-faced, Tom came towards her absently rubbing his knuckles. Grateful to him for doing what she lacked the physical strength to do herself, she was about to thank him. He didn’t give her the chance.

‘You don’t have to say anything. I didn’t do it for you.’ His voice was rough. ‘It was for the kid, and for myself.’ He licked the blood from his grazed knuckles. ‘I had a child once, a boy. He –’ Abruptly he spun round and headed for the shanty.

Veryan watched him go. She couldn’t afford to ask. Knowing more would only make it harder. She mustn’t weaken. Not now. Reluctant, but with chores waiting and nowhere else to go, she followed him.

‘Where – ?’ she began, looking round and seeing no sign of Davy.

‘Bessie come for him,’ Queenie replied. ‘It’s all right, she haven’t been drinking. Well, not much. Anyhow you just leave them be. She’s his mother, not you.’

Veryan didn’t respond. What could she say that any of them would understand?

Standing at the table, peeling potatoes, carrots and turnips, she was very aware of Tom. He had gone directly to his bunk and seemed to be moving things around. Curiosity needled, but she refused to look.

‘I suppose you’ll have to come in with me tonight,’ Queenie grudged. Passing the table she waddled across to the ragged armchair and flopped down.

Picturing the filthy, smelly, cluttered little lean-to backing onto the wash-house and reached through a door in the corner behind the dresser, Veryan felt her stomach heave. But what choice did she have?