Through the Smoke (35 page)

Her neighbor frowned. “I hate to see ye leave. With yer mum gone and yer brother out at Blackmoor Hall, it’s gettin’ mighty lonely ’ere in this ’ouse.”

She had her two sons, but they were married, worked long hours and lived across town. She saw them and their families every Sunday, but it was Rachel’s family that had given her daily company and purpose. “I’ll miss you. But it will be better for me to start over somewhere else.” It
had
to be better. She didn’t see how her prospects could get any worse.

“I suppose he saw your injury.”

Mrs. Tate had been angry over that since Rachel returned from the shop yesterday with her face red and swollen. “How could he miss it? Cutberth must’ve hit me just right for it to look so bad.” He’d hit her hard, too—hard enough to rattle her teeth—but she was trying to calm the troubled waters, not make them worse.

“What kind of cad strikes a woman? I wish yer dad was still around. ’E’d take care of Cutberth.”

With a smile for the love her protective anger proved, Rachel decided to ask Mrs. Tate about Jillian and the earl’s mine clerk. “He would indeed. Especially if he heard what I just did.”

She put down the knife she’d been using to cut up a chicken. “Which was… ?”

“Mrs. Cutberth claims that her husband had an affair with my mother.”

Mrs. Tate blinked several times before she could find words. “Gah! Jillian never even liked ’im. ’E made her nervous, comin’ ’round the ’ouse, spendin’ so much time with you. She didn’t want ye to get caught up in what ’e was doin’, didn’t want ’im to lead ye into trouble—an’ she saw ’im as trouble, I assure ye. An agitator—that’s what she called him.”

Mrs. Tate would know. She’d spent long hours with Jillian in that final week, caring for her while Rachel worked. They’d had nothing to do but talk, at least when Jillian was lucid. “Did she
tell
you that?”

“Several times. She’d ask me almost every day if ’e’d been by.”

He’d stopped in at the shop quite often. Her mother didn’t know about those visits and neither would Mrs. Tate. But had he also been secretly visiting Jillian?

It didn’t seem plausible.

“Mum agreed with the need for a union,” she said.

“That could be true,” Mrs. Tate responded. “Most of us ’ere in the village agree. But she didn’t want ye to ’ave any part in the fight.”

“I understood why at the time. She’d had enough of the mine and everything connected to it and wanted it out of our lives. But now I wonder how she could feel that way when Mr. Cutberth was helping to pay the bills.” Rachel wasn’t convinced he and her mother had ever slept together, but she had to believe he was the one who’d given them the money, or he wouldn’t have been so interested in finding the ledgers.

“Maybe it wasn’t Cutberth who was ’elping,” Mrs. Tate said.

Rachel didn’t give this much credence. “Mrs. Cutberth admitted as much to Lord Druridge.”

“It could be that they’re both protectin’ someone.”

This was an interesting thought. “Such as whom?”

After drying her hands on a towel, she sat at the kitchen table. “Once, when yer mother was tossin’ an’ turnin’ with fever, she was arguin’ with the earl’s own cousin, she was. I ’eard ’is name clear as a bell. ‘Wythe,’ she said, ‘you’ll protect my children when I’m gone. Promise me you’ll protect my
children.’ I wasn’t sure what business she’d ’ave with Mr. Stanhope, or why she might be on a first-name basis with ’im. But I knew it was none of
my
business, so I said nothin’. I figured it was the delirium talkin’.” She gazed across the room, eyes unfocused, as if reliving the incident. “But after ’earing such rubbish about ’er and Cutberth… I wonder.”

Rachel had never heard her mother speak of Wythe in any particularly passionate way. It was always the earl. “Stay away from him,” Jillian had told her, over and over. Had Mrs. Tate witnessed the nonsensical ramblings of a very sick woman? Or was there some meaning behind them? “Did Mr. Stanhope ever come to the house when I wasn’t there?”

“Not that I remember.” Mrs. Tate smoothed her apron. “The only place ’e bothers to go ’ere in the village is the brothel. An’ ’e goes there so often they should rent ’im a room.”

That had to be at least part of the reason Elspeth felt she could claim to know so much about the goings-on at Blackmoor Hall and the colliery. Was it also why she’d refused to see Rachel? Was she afraid of what Wythe would do if he thought she might share his secrets?

As far as Rachel was concerned, that was a strong possibility.
She
was certainly frightened of the earl’s cousin.

But if Elspeth really did know something that could help Lord Druridge, and Rachel could get her to talk, maybe it wouldn’t be so all-important to find those missing paintings.

Chapter 20

Lady Penelope smiled whenever he looked at her, but Truman couldn’t help feeling as if her eyes were a bit… vacant. She was so placid, so quiet, which added to the feeling that her mind was somewhere else. Her father carried the conversation at dinner. He even spoke for her whenever Truman tried to draw her out.

Richard Mayberry, the Duke of Pembroke, sat on his right, across from Penelope, and had a booming voice for such a small man. He barely came up to Truman’s shoulder and was often bedridden with gout, but when he could get around he carried himself like a king. “I thought we might see Wythe for dinner,” he said, “but I suppose what I’ve heard is true.”

Truman had just lifted his wine glass. He paused before drinking. “That depends. What have you heard, Your Grace?”

“That he is no longer staying at Blackmoor Hall.”

“Yes. We’ve had some… difficulty at the mine. I felt it would be in my best interest to have my steward stationed closer—for the time being.”

“So you had him move in with your Fore-Overman because of unrest at the mine?”

Truman ignored the skepticism in his voice. “More or less, Your Grace.”

The duke frowned when Truman wasn’t more forthcoming. It wasn’t any of His Grace’s business where Wythe was staying, but Truman could understand why he would be interested. The duke had been digging for information on Rachel ever since he arrived. While Lady Penelope was dressing for dinner, he’d admitted he was vastly curious about “the Creswell shopkeeper”
who had caught Truman’s eye. This latest question told him the rumors circulating about her included some account of Wythe’s banishment.

The duke stuffed another bite of roast duck into his mouth. “What kind of difficulties are you facing at the mine?”

Truman barely refrained from exchanging a glance with Linley, who entered the room with their dessert. “The usual struggle, Your Grace, over pay and benefits.”

“Miners are a bunch of greedy buggers, aren’t they?”

Since he’d always made the lion’s share of the income from the colliery, Truman wasn’t sure he could call the miners greedy, but the last thing he wanted was an argument with the duke. He was already anxious, waiting to hear some word from his cousin regarding whether his offer of a reward would recover the paintings. “Greedy or justified, they are trying to create a union to force my hand.”

He made a face. “Good Lord, you have to quash that immediately. Make sure they understand if they don’t want to work, you’ll find others who do. Once they start to go hungry, they’ll change their minds, I assure you.”

“Fortunately, there should be enough common ground to avoid a starve out.”

“Excuse me?”

The duke didn’t seem to have detected the sarcasm in Truman’s voice. Truman made more of an effort to eradicate it as he explained. “The price of coal is up. I don’t see any reason we can’t all benefit.”

“You’re going to give in to their demands?”

“As far as I see fit. I need workers; they need work. A fair trade should solve both problems.”

The duke washed the rest of his meal down with a swallow of wine as Linley took his plate. “They’re paid by what they produce, are they not? What could be more fair than that?”

Truman knew this conversation could not be interesting to Lady Penelope, but her father didn’t seem to care. He didn’t seem to consider her any more than he would a potted plant. But, again, Truman got the impression that she wasn’t listening, so maybe she didn’t care.

“Some of the stronger hewers do quite well during their most productive years,” he explained. “But it’s a difficult life, which makes it incumbent upon me, as the colliery owner, to insure that everyone gets what he needs.”

The duke arranged what he’d bumped of his silverware as if he couldn’t bear to see any of it out of alignment. “You sound quite liberal, Truman. You shock me. These are grown men. And you already pay prevailing rates, do you not?”

“I do.”

“Then, if they aren’t making enough, let them work harder. You’re not running a charity.”

Truman clenched his teeth so he wouldn’t say what rose to his lips. He didn’t feel the need to make others suffer, especially men who had women and children depending on them. He possessed far more than what one person needed.

But he had to remember that the duke wasn’t only criticizing his labor relations. His Grace obviously assumed that to have gotten involved with Rachel, Truman must be too “liberal” with the lower classes on a more general basis. His attitude toward the miners’ demands was just further proof of it.

“A union could be very damaging to your interests,” His Grace pointed out. “If you allow the miners too much power, you will be sorry.”

“I don’t particularly like being sorry, which is why I plan to fight the union immediately and with the most reliable of tactics.”

The duke took another swallow of his claret. “And those are… ?”

“To make sure the men feel as if they have no need of one.”

“What’s a union?” Lady Penelope surprised Truman by speaking up. Apparently she’d tuned in to the conversation. The fact that she didn’t know what a union was seemed slightly odd, but she had lived a very sheltered and traditional life—and maybe he was judging her against the exceptionally well-read and intelligent Rachel.

Whether she should have known the term or not, he would’ve been happy to explain, except her father didn’t give him the chance.

“Leave the business to us, dear,” he said. “You don’t need to trouble your pretty head about any of it.”

“Yes, Father. Of course you’re right.” She smiled and fell silent again but Truman got the impression the duke had embarrassed her, which was probably why she quit eating and started doing a lot more drinking.

“You’ve had enough spirits for one evening,” His Grace snapped when Linley came to refill her glass for the third time.

Truman thought he saw anger flash in her eyes, but it disappeared so quickly he assumed he must’ve been mistaken. With a nod of acquiescence, she slid her glass to the top of her plate. “The long journey has made me excessively thirsty.”

Eager to see if he might enjoy speaking to her any more than her father, Truman shifted to face her. “Did you see anything interesting during the ride?”

“It was long and grueling,” the duke piped up. “You know what travel is like. You’ve gone between here and London often enough.”

Truman said nothing; neither did Lady Penelope. The duke didn’t seem to care that he’d interrupted before she could answer a question that had been posed directly to her.

“Shall we talk about the wedding?” His Grace asked.

That was the last subject Truman wanted to discuss, but if settling those details would bring on the conclusion of their visit, he was willing to make the sacrifice. He’d known he wasn’t looking forward to seeing them, but he hadn’t realized just how much he’d hate every minute of their stay. The past four hours had required more self-control than any four hours previous. Maybe it was because he resented the way the duke seemed so ready to capitalize on his misfortune.

Or was he really trying to help? To support the son of an old friend, as he said?

Regardless, Truman kept seeing Rachel in his mind’s eye, kept wishing she were here instead of them. Her presence made even monumental concerns seem light. His current company made every minute feel like another step toward the gallows. Maybe it was a different type of gallows than the wooden platform in London, but he hardly thought he’d be “saved” if he went along with the duke’s wishes. Saved from one type of misery only to become well-acquainted with another, perhaps.

“I’d like a June wedding,” the duke said.

It was already late February. “That soon?” Truman asked.

“June leaves enough time for preparations to be made, if we start immediately, so why wait? You both have reason to take your vows as soon as possible.”

“We are all aware of
my
current predicament,” Truman said. “But why would Lady Penelope have any reason to hurry?”

He would’ve directed this question to her, but he knew she would defer to her father.

The duke’s face reddened as if he’d spoken without thinking. “She doesn’t have any reason to hurry, exactly. She just doesn’t have any reason to wait.”

Truman got the impression he’d meant what he said the first time. “You have no qualms about promising your daughter to a man who is in the midst of such a terrible scandal? I can’t imagine many men, especially men of position, who would want to tie their daughter to such a poor wretch.”