by Jane Jackson
Chloe Radclyff had drunk her morning tea out of bone china so fine it was almost transparent. She had taken her morning bath in water fragrant with attar of roses. Now she sat at the toilet table in her dressing-room wearing fresh, sweet-scented linen beneath her embroidered silk wrapper. Polly’s sweeping strokes with the silver-backed brush had reduced her headache to a dull pressure at the base of her skull. She was desperately tired, yet jumpy as a cat.
She watched Polly dip her fingertips in a pot of pomade, rub it between her palms, and smooth it lightly over her hair leaving a glossy shine. A fire burned brightly in the grate, and downstairs a variety of dishes were being prepared for breakfast. For the hundredth time that morning she reminded herself of how fortunate she was, how much she had to be grateful for.
Brought up a gentlewoman, marriage had been her destiny. But after … Everyone said her father had done the honourable thing. There was no place in society for a man who couldn’t settle his gambling debts. So he had taken his leave with characteristic flamboyance and a duelling pistol to the temple. While his friends praised his sense of honour, she, with no mother to turn to for comfort and explanations, struggled to come to terms with his abandonment.
Well-meaning friends had lost no time in pointing out the precariousness of her position, for there would be no dowry to compensate for the stain on her father’s name. Their shock when Gerald married her had been profound. As her own had been the evening he proposed.
They had dined early. He had returned that day from London having been away for almost a week. She had noticed immediately his pallor and the dark circles under his eyes.
‘Gerald, are you ill?’ she had blurted, concern overriding good manners. ‘You look so tired.’ If anything happened to him, what would become of her?
‘I’m fine.’ He had patted her hand and smiled reassurance, but his eyes had glittered strangely. That evening as they dined he had seemed preoccupied. Assuming he was still suffering the after-effects of the long journey she had taken the burden of conversation on herself, talking lightly of her activities during his absence, and relaying snippets of gossip she had heard at a committee meeting. He had not bothered with brandy, but had accompanied her to the drawing-room.
Seating herself at one side of the blazing fire she had felt an odd shiver of anticipation as he sat down opposite. She had taken extra care while pouring the coffee aware that her hand was less steady than usual, yet unsure why she should be feeling so nervous.
He had crossed one leg over the other and flicked a speck of ash from his immaculately pressed trousers. ‘As you know, just before he … died … your father entrusted your welfare to me.’
Replacing the silver coffee jug on the tray she had clasped her hands in her lap.
‘It’s been two years. In that time I have become very fond of you, my dear. You possess many admirable qualities. But the one I find most appealing is your gentle nature. I have noticed of late a growing stridency among women, a militancy which I find grating and unpleasant.’ The down-turned corners of his mouth conveyed his distaste. ‘Whereas you, my dear Chloe, are all sweet acquiescence: femininity personified.’
‘Thank you, Gerald.’ Relief had increased her delight at his compliment, for he demanded the very highest standards and quickly distanced himself from people or projects that failed to measure up. But that hadn’t been the end of it.
‘Chloe, my dear, I should like you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.’
She had been sixteen years old.
‘Begging your pardon, ma’am, but are you all right?’
Suddenly aware that Polly’s hands had ceased their coiling and pinning, Chloe looked up, saw her maid’s anxiety reflected in the mirror, and felt a rush of affection. Polly clucked over her like a mother hen.
‘Shall I fetch you something?’
‘No. I’m all right.’ If she said it often enough it would be so. Nervous afflictions were for other women, not for her. She did not want to be like them.
‘Not that time again is it, my lady?’ An expression of horrified guilt crossed the maid’s face. ‘You should have said. Look, don’t you worry. When we were in Falmouth last week I got some more of those special pills from the apothecary.’
‘No. It isn’t. Polly, don’t worry so.’ Gerald worried about her. Polly worried about her. Yet she could not confide in either of them. She could not bear even to imagine the horror they would be unable to hide. She must turn her thoughts outward: away from the shameful fevered dreams, the yearnings she didn’t understand. If she focused on her charity work, concentrated on helping those less fortunate, then maybe …
Seeing her maid’s face in the mirror fraught with genuine concern, Chloe made herself smile. What would she have done without Polly? Having no close female relatives there had been no one to prepare her, no one to ask. Polly had explained to the terrified fourteen year old that she was now a woman, and that the accompanying pains would ease in time. Only they hadn’t. In fact, over the last two years they had grown worse, confining her to bed for twenty-four hours where she curled in white-faced agony around a stone hot-water bottle sipping the hot gin Polly promised would help. And it did: though she loathed its perfumed taste, and shuddered violently as she forced it down.
There had been ten applicants for the post of lady’s maid. Gerald had interviewed them in her presence, permitting her the final choice. She had chosen Polly, her pleasure at the prospect of a companion doubled by Gerald’s approval. In the ensuing six years Polly had proved herself utterly devoted. And yet …
Chloe pressed her fingertips to her forehead. Such suspicions were wicked and unworthy. No one could have shown her more kindness or looked after her better than Polly. As for Gerald, she owed him everything. He was the kindest, most generous of husbands. He deserved her total loyalty. She must not even think –
‘Ma’am?’ Aware she was in danger of betraying the turmoil that had kept her awake for most of the night, Chloe straightened her back and, clasping cold fingers more tightly in her lap, stretched her mouth into a smile.
‘I was thinking about the next committee meeting,’ she improvised. ‘What do you think, Polly? My blue? Or the new lilac with my aubergine jacket?’
‘The lilac is very becoming, ma’am.’
‘It is certainly the more sophisticated.’ Chloe made a wry face. ‘Yes, definitely the lilac. Who knows, it might even persuade Mrs Fox to stop talking over my head.’
She had been thrilled to receive invitations to join various charitable organizations. It hadn’t occurred to her then that they were issued only out of deference to her husband. It was several months before she was informed, by one of her colleagues on the committee, that Sir Gerald would have considered it a serious breach of courtesy had such invitations not been forthcoming. She also learned that her title on the letterhead encouraged generous donations from his many acquaintances.
She’d felt foolish, and a little disappointed, especially when it was subtly made clear that apart from use of her name, plus regular contributions, no further involvement was expected of her. But with Gerald committed to the business affairs which took him regularly to London, and the house run with clockwork precision by Mrs Mudie, she needed something to do.
Even before their marriage, while he was still her guardian, Gerald had enjoyed her passionate curiosity, and had taken great pleasure in indulging her hunger for knowledge. She had only to express interest in a subject for him to engage someone to instruct her. Naturally these tutors had all been women. He owed her protection, he explained, from unscrupulous men for whom her youth and beauty might prove too much of a temptation.
Her early education had been sporadic, received from private tutors when her father could afford them, and at small academies run by middle-class spinsters when he could not. So, over the years, as well as absorbing the political importance of dinner-party seating plans and the grace under pressure required of a hostess, she had learned every dance from Scotti
sh reel to military two-step. She could do fine embroidery, play the piano and flute, follow an opera sung in Italian, and ride any horse in her husband’s stable. Her life was one of privilege and luxury. But constantly reminding herself of how fortunate she was didn’t help.
She was consumed with guilt, made worse because she didn’t know what it was she wanted, only that there was an aching void within her. She had to keep busy, deny herself time to brood. Given her rank and status, charity work had been the only option. It had taken several weeks, and much polite but firm insistence. But her determination had been stronger than their reluctance, and she had achieved an active useful role.
But last night had been the worst yet. Even with the herbal draught Polly had prepared it had taken her a long time to fall asleep. She had heard Gerald pass her door, heard quiet murmurs and soft laughter. Then the dreams had begun: strange, fragmented, shaming. For the first time she had seen a face: sun-darkened, with eyes like liquid honey.
She had woken with a gasp, her throat dry, her body burning. Freeing herself from the tangled sheet she had straightened her night-gown and sipped some water. Then turning the pillow over she had lain down, her heart still thumping, and gazed wide-awake into the darkness, listening to the roaring wind and drumming rain. The sound of his voice, his changing expressions had swirled in her head like roiling water. She had tried to stop them, to shut them out by telling herself over and over again she was a married woman. Was she going mad?
‘There we are.’ Inserting the final pin, Polly ran a critical eye over her mistress’s coiffeur. ‘You look handsome, ma’am.’
Abruptly Chloe stood up. Turning away from the mirror she untied her wrapper. ‘No, not that,’ she said as Polly lifted the pearl-grey morning gown. I want my riding habit.’
Sir Gerald looked up, lowering his newspaper as Chloe entered. ‘Good morning, my dear,’ he smiled. ‘You look charming. Forest green suits you. But do you think it wise to ride today? The ground will be very slippery.’
After dropping a kiss on his cheek, inhaling the fragrance of lemon verbena, Chloe slipped into her chair. ‘I’m not going far: only to the shanty village.’
‘You have a kind heart, my dear. I would not like to see it abused. The lower classes are not renowned for their gratitude.’
‘That is no reason to deny them help, surely? They have so little and we have so much.’
‘Which is just as well.’ He smiled, folding his newspaper. ‘For otherwise your desire to right the world’s ills would see us in the poor house.’ He stood up. ‘Now I must go. I am in Truro today. Is there anything you would like me to bring you?’
Chloe shook her head, wrenched by guilt. ‘You are so generous,’ she blurted. ‘I don’t deserve it.’
He laughed lightly. ‘What nonsense. Of course you do. You have brought me great happiness.’
‘Will you be home for dinner? Please say you will. It’s lonely eating by myself.’
‘Chloe, we had dinner guests on three occasions last week.’
‘I know. But –’
‘I’ll do my best, though I can’t promise. Why don’t you bring a book to the table?’
She had tried that. The butler and footmen had behaved impeccably as always while radiating such strong disapproval that she had been totally unable to concentrate.
‘Yes, perhaps I will. Have a safe journey.’
He stopped behind her chair and rested his free hand on her shoulder. ‘Just one thing, my dear: compliments are pleasant to receive, but men’s flattery of a pretty young woman always has an ulterior motive. Be careful whom you trust.’
Chapter Five
Sunshine slanted across the hillside spangling lacy cobwebs that veiled the hedgerows with fragments of rainbow. The previous night’s rain glittered in the grass like scattered diamonds. Gorse blossom released melted-butter fragrance into the cool morning air. Overhead, the sky was a clear pale blue, but towering white clouds formed buttresses and ramparts on the horizon.
The workings were still in deep shadow. Riding through them James was appalled. The chaos had looked bad enough from a distance: up close it was far worse. Horses limped dispiritedly through the stodgy muck. The boys leading them were hard-pressed to keep their boots on in the sucking calf-deep filth. To walk was difficult: running impossible. Navvies glanced up, surly-faced, as he passed; then spat and swung their picks in a manner that suggested they would as soon bury them in him as in the recently blasted earth and rock.
Carefully expressionless – for if they misinterpreted his anger, assumed it was directed at them, a riot could all too easily erupt – James rode on. He understood their sense of grievance. Navvies were proud of their skills. Cutting new excavations was difficult hazardous work at the best of times. Conditions like these were an invitation to disaster.
Some of the labourers shovelling the heaps of loosened muck into wagons swayed and staggered as they worked, still drunk from the previous night. The wagons themselves listed dangerously on buckled rails beneath which badly laid ballast had sunk.
He had seen enough. Guiding his horse up the steep rocky incline he turned back down the line towards confrontation with the man responsible for this shambles.
Riding into the shanty village, his senses assaulted by the dilapidation and squalor, James recalled Clinton Warne’s claim that the company was providing the navvies with healthy outdoor work, and his mouth curled in disgust. A pall of smoke and stale cooking overlay the stench of human sewage and garbage rotting where it had been thrown. The smell would linger, trapped in the hollow between the two hills until the wind rose.
The best of the dwellings were built of wood. They had glass windows and tarred felt roofs. Some, he knew, would house over a dozen people. Smaller huts – and there were far more of these – had been put together from whatever was handy. The crudest of all had walls of piled-up turf and roofs made from scraps of tarpaulin stretched over odd bits of timber.
Up ahead, a young woman carrying a huge basket of washing emerged from a lean-to attached to one of the bigger shanties. Though she had her back to him, that dark-red hair tied on the nape of her neck with a strip of cloth was unmistakable. Recalling her feisty reaction and her pride, a quality rare among navvy women, his curiosity about her was rekindled. He called out.
‘Good morning.’
Starting, she glanced round, revealing a deathly pale face and shadows like bruises under her eyes.
Damn Harold Vane. ‘You shouldn’t be carrying that,’ he indicated the heavy basket.
‘It won’t walk out by itself.’ Abruptly, as if regretting her retort, she turned her head, avoiding his gaze.
He hesitated. She seemed different: changed in some way. ‘I saw what happened,’ he said quietly. ‘The man responsible should be horsewhipped.’ Her eyes widened and he saw fear. ‘Is your shoulder causing you much pain?’
After a moment ’s blankness, realization was followed swiftly by relief. ‘It’s sore. But I’ve been told’ – she hefted the washing basket – ‘if I keep busy I won’t have time to think about it.’ Irony flickered across her mouth and he glimpsed a flash of her old spirit. ‘Thank you for asking.’
‘It’s the least –’
‘Veryan?’ a voice screeched from inside the shanty. ‘What’re you doing? You’ve had time to knit that bleddy clothes line.’
She darted a panicky glance over her shoulder, whispered, ‘Please excuse me,’ and turned quickly away.
‘Where will I find the tally shop?’ he called after her. According to one of the gangers the contractor used the storeroom as his office.
Veryan jerked her head, indicating the direction. ‘It’s the one with the shutters.’ She strode away across the muddy ground, clearly anxious not to be seen talking to him. He clicked his tongue urging his horse forward. She was a strange girl. There was so much about her that seemed wrong for this place. And while he speculated about her he was able to avoid thinking about that other young woman whose cand
id blue eyes and gentle smile had haunted his dreams.
He could hear babies wailing and the shouts of harassed mothers. Odd shrieks of laughter set his teeth on edge like fingernails scraped down a blackboard. He was aware of being watched. Young children stopped playing and women appeared in doorways as he passed.
He nodded briefly. They stared back. Some were tight-lipped and suspicious: others made lewd comments. Girls in their mid teens waggled their tongues and bared their breasts at him, giggling as they kept pace, asking if he saw anything he fancied.
Quashing both irritation and faint embarrassment he ignored them. They were what this life had made them. So why was that other girl, Veryan, so different?
Eventually one of the older women yelled at the girls to go back to their kids or she’d tell their men and they’d get the thrashing they deserved.
James reached the tally shop. The heavy shutters were down and it looked deserted. He rode round to the back. Seeing the horse tethered to a wooden rail he smiled grimly and tied his own mount alongside. Instead of returning to the front he hammered on the back door.
‘Go away,’ shouted a bad-tempered voice. ‘It’s not time yet.’
‘Mr Pascoe?’ James pitched his voice loud enough to be heard through the thick wood. ‘My name is James Santana. I’m the new engineer. I’d be obliged if you’d let me in.’ After a few moments he heard thuds, scraping noises, a metallic clang, then the sound of bolts being drawn. The door opened.
Horace Pascoe was of average height with sloping shoulders, a belly that strained the buttons on his waistcoat, and a sunburst of fine ginger hair. His face was round with a snub nose and pouches of pale flesh beneath eyes as sharp and cunning as a weasel’s.
‘Sorry about that, but it’s a job to get a minute’s peace.’ Standing back to let James enter, Pascoe closed the door behind him and shot one of the bolts across. ‘You can’t be too careful around here. They’d have the fillings out of your teeth before you finished yawning.’