The Lodestone (33 page)

“Do let me go, uncle!” begged Edwina, unable to contain herself any longer. “Please do! Mamma would not object, I am sure of it.”

“Not object!” he sputtered. “She’ll take a fit! You know how she feels about your friendship with the highly improper Lady Houghton-Parker.”

“She wouldn’t have to know,” Edwina countered. “She’s in Paris, consumed with buying the fabrics for my trousseau. She’ll not suspect I’ve been on a journey myself.”

“Trousseau, bah!” the old man snorted. “And no groom in sight, thank God.”

“Come now, Oliver,” Cleome put in. “You do not intend to allow me to travel alone, with only two maidservants for company. How would that look?”

He knew she would be quite content with Jacqueline and Mary to look after her; but he was constantly advising her, for her own good, to keep to her place—in public, at least. Now, he saw, she was putting him to the test. And Edwina seemed a bundle of anticipation.

“Oh, very well then.” Their squeals of delight all but drowned out his consent. “I stand no chance a’tall with the two of you browbeating me, conniving to mold me to your wishes. Now then, how will you manage? Shall I order my carriage made ready? It’ll be more comfortable than a public coach. Cleome, you really must decide about a carriage. The phaeton alone will not serve you, if you intend to make such journeys.”

“I thank you for the offer,” Cleome said. “But we intend to make at least a portion of the journey by rail.”

“Rail, you say! Well, too late I realize my mistake in raving over the infinite possibilities of the locomotive, and convincing you to invest even more in this new mode of shipping and travel.”

“On the contrary, my dear Oliver,” Cleome said. “I consider it a stroke of genius, not a mistake.”

“But dear girl . . . such an uncomfortable contraption,” he protested. “Not at all an acceptable conveyance for your ladyship—”

“Oh, bother, bother, bother!” she broke in as she caught Edwina’s excitement. “You said yourself it will be a marvelous way to travel once some bright engineer figures out how to eliminate the heat. As there’s yet a chill in the air, I expect we’ll welcome it.” She smiled, as if already sure of her victory. “If it’s good enough for me to put my money in, Oliver, it must be good enough to ride in.”

The lawyer shook his head. “The weaker sex, indeed! A woman was the inventor of that timeworn phrase—and for her own base reasons, I wager. Go along then—out with you. I’ll have my clerk make the arrangements.”

It was difficult to deny Cleome anything she asked, for she asked so seldom. When she made a request, it was a sensible one, evidently the result of serious consideration. And when Edwina joined forces with her, he stood not the slightest chance of resisting them. Although he had misgivings about the journey, he was glad to see Cleome push aside her grief and her lonely discontent, at least for the moment.

It was like her to choose the railway—and to want to include Edwina in the adventure. While he admired their spirit, he feared for them, and for all hearty young women of their sort. Their willingness to take risks would effect changes some day but sadly, it would not be in his lifetime.

Oliver had predicted that soon—possibly before the decade was out—there would be a network of railroads covering England. As yet, however, it was a new and unproved means of travel. It would cut the traveling time, though; and it was essential that the young ladies return to London well before Moira Landshire. If any word of this reached her ears, she would have his head and worse. She’d like nothing better than to deny him the pleasure of Edwina’s frequent visits.

**

Cleome and Edwina had a private car for themselves and the two maids, who were incredulous, swallowed up as they were by the black hulk of steel. As Oliver had predicted, it was warm; yet there was a constant draft around the ladies’ ankles and clouds of grimy soot made the air about them thick and dark. Cleome sat in her shroud of dust and cinders, contentedly watching the landscape fall away in the glow of sparks made by locomotive wheels gripping the tracks. By the time they got to Sheffield, where a comfortable coach and four were waiting for them, they were hot, dusty, uncomfortable and infinitely triumphant. The victory was sweeter for Edwina because it was one she’d never expected to have; for Cleome, it validated the sense of control she felt over her destiny.
But
, a nagging, inner voice reminded her,
when it is a destiny that stretches into empty, lonely years, control is not so very difficult.

Inside the luxurious coach, Mary and Jacqueline fell into exhausted slumber. Edwina sat between them, her head on Mary’s shoulder. Cleome’s eyes traveled to the girl’s exquisite hands, which had long, tapering fingers capable of brilliant maneuvers on the pianoforte. It was a shame that so great a talent would be wasted on the simpering fops of London but Edwina’s mother would never allow her to study music seriously, much less perform in concert. In Moira’s view, it was sufficient for a woman to know a few simple melodies with which to entertain her husband’s guests after dinner.

In spite of her mother’s attitude, Edwina found time every day to compose and play her piano. And there were long spells, sometimes weeks, when she would withdraw into her music completely. Cleome worried about her then, and wondered what Moira Landshire was doing to drive her own child so far inside herself.

While the coach rocked Edwina gently to sleep, Cleome settled back to speculate on the welcome she would receive from her father’s kin—from her kin. But her mind turned again to Drake . . . to wondering where he was and what he was doing, and remembering how warm and sweet and firm his lips had felt against her own.

**

If she had only stopped to think, if she had really taken in the plight of the working class she championed, Cleome would have realized that Jimmy Parker’s family was lost to her. They were not separated merely by years, generations or miles. Poor people who were struggling to stay afloat in the mire of human suffering that threatened daily to engulf them had no interest in a man—be he relative or no—whose name and face they could scarcely recall.

Cleome arrived in Manchester early Friday afternoon, but she decided not to call on the Parkers until Sunday. It would give the travelers a chance to rest and wash the grime of the train and the dust of the road from their bodies; and Sunday was the day she would be likely to find most of her relatives at home.

Early on Saturday, she and Edwina went shopping for household goods and foodstuffs. Since she had no way of knowing the ages of the children, she purchased an assortment of toys and games for she couldn’t resist a tempting display of dolls, trumpets and India rubber balls. When she came to the yard goods, she selected several sturdy and serviceable fabrics, as well as a few less practical ones, and a large supply of needles, scissors, threads and buttons.

She had everything carefully packed into four big baskets and delivered to the hotel. On Sunday morning when the party was ready to set out for the coal country outside Manchester, Cleome’s gifts for her family were loaded onto the coach. Mr. Jameson offered to go along, but Cleome declined. She wanted only her dearest friends to witness the reunion.

When the carriage stopped in front of the humble dwelling, Cleome and Edwina peered out to see two ragged children at play, one hitting with a stick at mud clods tossed by the other. They stopped their game and stared at the fine carriage with hollow, worried eyes. Cleome’s heart skipped a beat as she noted that the hair on their heads was the same dark copper color as her own. The driver got down and opened the door, and Mary put out a protesting hand.

“Do not go inside, milady. They’re likely infested with lice from head to foot.”

Although she shuddered at the thought, Cleome allowed the driver to help her disembark. “You may all wait in the carriage, if you like,” she told Mary and the others.

“If the thought of vermin has not prevented us from going among those less fortunate than ourselves in London, I see no reason it should deter us now,” Edwina declared, following Cleome.

“Well, then,” grunted Mary. “We must all go. But don’t
touch
any of them.”

As Mary and Jacqueline alighted, the door of the cottage flew open and a young man not much older than Cleome strode towards them. His shirt and trousers were as frayed as the clothing the children wore, his hair was the same deep copper shade, and a generous helping of freckles covered his face. He folded powerful-looking arms across his chest and spoke in a stern voice.

“We’ll take naught from the charity wagon,” he said. “Have your man load it right back on again. You’ll not soothe your consciences, nor our anger, that easy.”

The coachman, who had been lifting the heavy baskets out of the carriage, left off his task and came round to stand at Cleome’s side. “You’d do well to take notice of who you address in such insolent tones,” he warned. Cleome silenced him with a look.

“I’m seeking the family of Jimmy Parker,” she told the man who had greeted them so harshly.

“I be Jim Parker, and you can tell ’em what sent you I won’t be bribed. Bring in twice the untrained labor for half the wages and they’ll have half the work out of ’em. The men listen to Jim Parker, and he be the last one to break the strike.”

“I know nothing of the strike,” she persisted, humbled by his fierce pride. “And the Jimmy Parker I speak of would be more than twice your age, sir.”

He surveyed her with suspicion. “Why do ye want him?”

“He was my father.” Extending her hand, she added, “I am your cousin, Cleome Parker, from down Oakham way.”

He took the proffered hand, much to Mary’s great agitation. “You, Minna,” he called out to one of the children. “Go in and fetch me da. Tell ’im a lady’s come from Uncle Jimmy. At least,” he added dubiously, “she’s got up like a lady.”

Jacqueline bridled at his rudeness while Minna’s feet took flight. Soon she raced back outside with an older man who, Cleome soon learned, was her father’s brother. Cleome told him about the marriage and subsequent estrangement of her parents. He nodded in confirmation at certain points in her story and he bowed his head briefly on hearing of Jimmy’s death in the war. After a moment of silence, he said, “I be your Uncle Martin,” and invited her to come inside.

There were more than a dozen of them squeezed into five rooms. As Martin introduced Cleome all around, a feeble knock sounded from the other side of the wall.

“Me ma’s sick, miss,” Jim’s sister spoke up. “She’s not long for this world, doctor says.” Her weary words held no welcome, and she stared resentfully at Cleome’s fine clothes before disappearing into the sickroom.

With an offer of tea, Martin ushered them out to the kitchen, where Jim’s bride of two months cooked and fed the others. In spite of Mary’s frantic gesturing, Cleome accepted, as did Edwina. It was a strained, uncomfortable visit, for the Parkers were incredulous that someone as obviously well to do as Cleome wished to establish a relationship with them. As they drank the tea, Cleome remembered the basket of food she had brought. In view of Jim’s continued skepticism, however, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she inquired about conditions at the mine and the reason for the strike.

“‘Tis not more wages we’re demanding, though God knows we need ’em,” he replied. “We be after better equipment and more safety lookouts. They’re to be had, in spite of what old Dunwelle says. He don’t consider a man’s life as important as the extra expense. And I’ll not be saying anything here and now that I fear to own up to later.”

“Of course not,” she replied. A weak rapping came again on the wall and Jim’s sister came back into the kitchen. “She wants to have a look-see, milady,” she told Cleome. “Yer pardon, miss, but she won’t be making many more requests.”

Cleome went into the sickroom, with Mary following closely, to see a frail woman lying motionless in bed. She raised her head weakly and looked at Cleome a moment.

“Aye,” she murmured, resting her head again on the pillow. “Aye, you be Jimmy’s.” And she closed her eyes.

When Cleome rejoined the others, she turned again to her father’s namesake, who remained stern and disapproving. “I have brought some things for your family,” she said. “Now that you know I am kin, please accept them—”

Jim cut her off sharply. “Nay. Kin or no, I know what game ye be playin’. Givin’ us charity, and then goin’ back to your warm featherbed will not do away with the reason we need it. Killing with kindness may not be painful but ’tis killin’ all the same. Best take that stuff back where you got it and tell ’em what sent you—them up at Dunwelle’s—that it didn’t work. Tell ’em blood will run but this time it’ll be theirs, and it will cover England if they go on starving honest men. You tell ’em that. Now ye’d best be off and let decent folk go about their business.” Cleome looked to his father for assistance but the older man turned away. “Now,” Jim continued, “I’ll go along to the meeting. Comin’ with me, Da?”

“Aye,” the older man said. “I’ll be along. Go on. They cannot start wi’out you.”

When his son was out of sight, Martin shrugged into a tattered old coat. “Leave the things, miss,” he said and followed his son. “And God bless ’e for it.”

Looking after the men, Jim’s wife added, “He won’t like it, my Jim, but naught will go to waste, milady. And whatever it was that brought you here, God bless.”

“I’ll send a doctor out to see Jim’s mother,” Cleome told her. “If there’s anything more you need, you have only to ask for it in town. Credit has been arranged for you. It is my wedding present, so tell my cousin he must not refuse. Tell him that wars are not won by men who look more like bone than flesh, and that soldiers must be strong in order to fight. Tell him . . .” here she faltered, for there really was nothing more to be said. How she dared presume to understand their suffering, she did not know.