by Jane Jackson
You can ’t, she thought, but of course she couldn’t say so. She had once overheard him saying he had little patience with women’s vapourings. It was important he be reminded that she had never been prone to such behaviour.
‘I normally enjoy excellent health, and would not be here now, only my husband insisted. It’s just … Lately I’ve … I haven’t been quite myself,’ she finished lamely.
‘Indeed? Could you perhaps be a little more specific?’
‘I have no appetite. I’m not sleeping well.’
‘I see.’ He nodded slowly, any irritation or impatience well hidden. ‘Anything else?’
Her sma ll dismissive gesture made light of the distress that was driving her to the edge of exhaustion. He simply waited. She began to describe the tension in her stomach, her difficulty in falling asleep, waking in the early hours, the sudden heart flutters that made her gasp for breath, and headaches that encircled her skull like an iron band.
As she spoke she twisted her wedding ring round and round, trying to pluck up the courage to tell him what she had never told a living soul. But it was incredibly difficult to speak of such an intimate matter, especially to a man. Yet if she did not, how would she ever find out why?
When she had consulted him about her monthly problems he had been sympathetic and, anticipating what she was trying to say, he had spared her blushes.
She raised her eyes, silently begging him to help by asking the right questions. His gaze slid away.
‘What you need, young lady, is to stop lingering in overheated rooms.’ Had he slapped her she could not have been more shocked. ‘A wife who dwells on every minor indisposition will forfeit her husband’s affection. You should get out and about more: find some worthy occupation to keep your mind busy.’
As Chloe choked down hysterical laughter he turned to his desk, and picked up a pen.
‘I prescribe a mild tonic.’ He scribbled on a sheet of headed paper. ‘But the best treatment for neurasthenic conditions is plenty of fresh air and exercise.’ He folded the sheet and handed it to her. ‘Mr Bell will make this up for you. Might I also suggest’ – his courteous choice of words did not entirely hide his impatience – ‘that you take a few minutes each day to meditate upon the good fortune of your position in life?’
Indignation brought Chloe to her feet. ‘You are impertinent, sir. I came to you for advice on my health, not a lecture on gratitude. No one knows better than I how much I have to be thankful for.’ She felt breathless: hardly able to believe she had just spoken so to her husband’s doctor. She didn’t regret a single word.
He stood: his palms rasping softly as he rubbed them together. ‘You misunderstand me, Lady Radclyff.’ His smile was butter-smooth. ‘My intention – though perhaps I failed to make myself clear – was to indicate that, even in the best of marriages, differences between the sexes mean that men and women do not always understand one another. A wife’s duty is to accept this, and to follow her husband’s lead in these matters.’
‘Thank you, Dr Treloar. I assure you I have always fulfilled such duties as my husband required of me.’
As she walked back into the town Chloe still seethed. But her anguish came as much from conflict between her loyalty to Gerald and her disappointment at being no wiser, as from dismay at the doctor ’s strange behaviour.
In the apothecary ’s shop, surrounded by the earthy aroma of dried plants, the delicate fragrance of rosewater, and traces of something sharp and chemical, she was greeted with smiling deference. Unfolding the paper, Mr Bell read it: glanced up at her over his wire-rimmed spectacles and read it a second time.
‘Is something wrong, Mr Bell?’
‘No, no, Your Ladyship. I’ll go and prepare it at once.’ He grimaced in apology. ‘It may take some time.’
Chloe was surprised. ‘You don’t have any already prepared?’ It was only a mild tonic. Knowing how many of her committee colleagues depended on such aids, she would have expected him to prepare it by the gallon, and have rows of full bottles lined up on the shelf.
‘I regret not, Your Ladyship.’ He seemed about to say more, but changed his mind.
Chloe smiled. ‘Never mind, I’ll come back later.’ At least she could be sure her tonic would be fresh. ‘Would half an hour give you sufficient time?’
‘Most kind, Your Ladyship. Most kind.’ He continued to nod gently like a marionette as he disappeared into his dispensary.
Gathering up the heavy folds of her riding habit, she turned. As she reached for the handle, the door opened. A soft gasp caught in her throat. James Santana stared at her, his quick smile and the sudden warmth in his eyes turning to concern. ‘Are you quite well?’ His voice was low, intense. He glanced over her shoulder. ‘Forgive me,’ he added before she could reply. ‘That was hardly polite. But are you?’
‘According to Dr Treloar,’ – still smarting from the unfairness and inaccuracy of the diagnosis, she attempted a wry smile – ‘I have lingered too long in overheated rooms and need more fresh air and exercise.’
‘You look tired,’ he said softly.
Looking up, seeing the dark circles under his eyes, the lines of tension bra cketing his mouth, she blurted, ‘So do you.’
‘I can’t sleep.’
She looked away. ‘We shouldn’t – This is not at all a suitable conversation –’
‘I know. Believe me, I know. But I can’t –’ He stopped, making a visible effort to control himself. ‘Will you take some refreshment with me?’
Surging pleasure was immediately swamped by guilt. ‘I – I don’t think –’
‘Please. Something’s happened at the village. You did say you wanted to help.’ At that point the apothecary appeared, apologizing profusely. He hadn’t heard the bell and so was unaware there was a customer waiting.
Chloe waited by the door as James collected a sma ll package, then, sure the apothecary was watching and wondering, preceded him into the street.
They didn ’t speak again until they were sitting at a small, pink-clothed table in Mrs Eddy’s Tea Shop. Waitresses in black dresses with white aprons and frilly white caps bustled to and from the kitchen carrying trays of pretty china, plates of dainty sandwiches, cream-filled sponges, and iced dainties.
Suddenly ravenous, but fearing food would c hoke her, Chloe declined everything but hot chocolate. James ordered two. As the waitress hurried away Chloe glanced up.
‘I really had hoped to take the clothes and other things out to the village before now, but …’ She made a small movement with her shoulders. ‘Mrs Fox reminded me that there are channels and procedures which must be observed.’
‘Ah, yes. Of course.’ His mouth quirked wryly.
His look of complicity, the shared understanding, made her shiver with delight. She was acutely aware she should not be experiencing such pleasure at being in his company. She ought to have refused his invitation. Spending time with James Santana – even in as public and innocuous a manner as this – was courting precisely the danger that Gerald had warned her about.
Happiness, shame, longing and self-reproach writhed and coiled inside her. She felt as fragile as glass. The waitress arrived with a tray. When she had gone, Chloe removed her gloves to avoid looking at him.
‘You said something’s happened? There hasn’t been another accident?’
‘Do you remember the young woman who asked you for books? Her hut burned down. As it happened while most of the people from the surrounding shanties were at the funeral; no one appears to know what happened, or who might be responsible.’
Chloe stiffened. ‘Are you saying it was deliberate?’
James shrugged. ‘As nobody will talk about it – and that includes her – I don’t suppose we’ll ever find out. The point is she lost everything but the clothes she was wearing.’
‘The poor girl.’ Chloe tried to imagine what it must feel like to own so little and then to lose even that. ‘Of course I’ll help. I’ll sort out some of my own things as so
on as I get home. It might cause difficulties for the girl if it appears she’s being favoured over the others, so it would probably be best if I sent Polly.’
The way he looked at her brought heat to her face. ‘You’re very perceptive,’ he observed softly. ‘And very kind.’
She bent her head, and stirred sugar into her chocolate. She had no right to ask; it was none of her business, but she couldn ’t help herself. ‘Is the young woman a particular friend of yours?’
‘Her name is Polmear. Veryan Polmear. And no, she isn’t. It’s a tragic irony that her misfortune should be giving me such pleasure.’ As relief turned to shock, jerking Chloe’s head up, he gave a small helpless shrug. ‘Would we be sitting here otherwise? Nothing since my return to Cornwall has given me as much pleasure as our conversations.’
Chloe fought terror and delight. She pushed back her chair. ‘I think I should –’
‘Chloe, look at me. Are you happy?’
She swallowed. ‘My husband is … kind and generous, and constantly concerned for my well-being.’
‘How did you meet him?”
‘He was a close friend of my father’s.’
‘How long have you been married?’
‘Four years.’ She saw his shock.
‘You must have been a child bride.’
‘Indeed, I was.’ Knowing her own smile lacked conviction, and was in danger of betraying things he had no right to know, she stood up. ‘I really must go.’
On the narrow pavement, Chloe inhaled deeply, and saw a frantic Polly running towards her.
‘Oh, ma’am, I’m some sorry. The time went so fast and –’ Catching sight of James, she stumbled to a halt, her widening eyes darting from one to the other.
Appearing not to notice the maid, James turned to Chloe with a bow. ‘May I thank you again, Lady Radclyff. Few could aspire to your kindness.’
Grateful for his formality, Chloe matched it with a brief inclination of her head. ‘I’m pleased to be able to help. Good afternoon, Mr Santana.’
Resisting the desire to watch him go, she turned to her maid. ‘Come, Mr Bell should have my prescription ready by now. How is your mother? I hope you found her in good spirits?’
After dinner that evening Chloe took her first dose of the tonic. After half an hour she was aware of a slight discomfort in her stomach, but she also felt beautifully tranquil, as if all her nerves were wrapped in velvet. A little while later, finding it impossible to keep her eyes open, she begged Gerald to excuse her and went up to bed.
Chapter Nine
Checking his watch, James quickened his pace. He would only just make it in time. But his thoughts, instead of being on the coming meeting, kept returning to his unexpected encounter with Chloe, and her reaction. He no longer had any doubts. Her attraction to him was as strong as his was to her. Clearly she was clearly suffering because of it. Her loyalty to her husband was all the more remarkable for being utterly genuine. Yet he sensed something not right.
Natalia drifted briefly across his mind, confusing him. Then, clear and startling as a lightning flash, he recognized the similarity: both Natalia and Chloe were sexual innocents. But Chloe Radclyff was a married woman.
The implications stunned him. But there was no time to explore further. He had reached Harold Vane’s offices in Church Street. Halfway up the staircase, hearing the murmur of voices, he deliberately stopped and took a slow, deep breath. Then, mentally checking his ammunition in preparation for the battle ahead, he opened the panelled door to the boardroom.
‘Ah, Mr Santana has deigned to grace us with his presence at last.’ Harold Vane’s soft wet mouth puckered like a sea anemone.
James ignored the comment. He took the seat left for him at the far end of the polished mahogany table, and the chairman opened the meeting. Forty minutes later, after various discussions, none of which involved James, Ingram Coles beamed down the table.
‘Mr Santana, I hope you are going to tell us that progress is being made at last?’
‘Not enough, unfortunately.’ As Clinton Warne sniffed, James rested his forearms on the gleaming wood. He didn’t need notes. His impressions of the line were etched deep on his memory. ‘There are three major problems.’
‘Only three?’ Harold Vane enquired sarcastically.
‘The first,’ James continued, ‘is the contractor. I recommend that you replace Pascoe as soon as possible.’
‘With whom?’
‘We can’t do that.’
‘On what grounds?’
‘The man’s doing his best.’
The weather’s been against him right from the start.’
James had expected resistance. His criticism of Pascoe was indirectly a criticism of them for having hired him. So, knowing they would demand reasons and examples, he had rehearsed both. But from the vehemence and immediacy of their objections, it was obvious that convincing them was going to be far harder than he’d anticipated.
He pressed on. But his detailed instances of Pascoe’s carelessness and greed were greeted with shaking heads, arid impatient gestures.
‘Every line has its share of fatalities.’
‘It’s a hazardous job, injuries are inevitable.’
‘Navvies are always taking chances. It’s a hard job, but they are hard men. And they certainly get paid enough.’
It began to dawn on James that nothing he said was going to make any difference. For reasons he could not fathom, the directors had no intention of dismissing Horace Pascoe.
Not so long ago, he too would have responded with similar irritation. But now, after meeting Chloe, after inspecting conditions on the line and in the shanty village, and having seen the way men, women, and children were forced to live, the directors’ attitude repelled him.
‘The other problems, Mr Santana?’ Ingram Coles raised his voice above the mutters of opposition.
‘I see that my predecessor specified Barlow rail?’
‘That is correct,’ Ingram Coles nodded. ‘I believe he was influenced by the fact that Mr Brunel chose it in preference to other rails for the Truro to Penzance line. In Mr Brunel’s opinion, it compared most favourably in terms both of initial cost and subsequent maintenance. As that line has been operating with great success since 1852 the choice would appear justified.’
Despite Ingram Coles’s genial smile, James sensed growing reserve.
‘Not any longer,’ he said carefully.
‘Are you questioning the judgment of one of the great railway engineers of the age?” Harold Vane demanded.
‘Not at all. Mr Brunel made his choice based on what was known at the time. It’s only in the past few years we have discovered that under certain conditions the Barlow rail can become unstable. On a few occasions this has resulted in derailment.’
‘Well, I’ve never heard about it,’ Harold Vane snorted, ‘so it can’t have occurred that often.’
‘It hasn’t,’ James admitted. ‘But my concern is –’
‘Besides,’ Harold Vane cut him short, ‘companies wouldn’t have continued using it if there were serious doubts about its safety.’
‘Actually, the South West Railway began replacing all their Barlow rail five years ago,’ James said. ‘But I take your point. The problem can be overcome with careful attention to ballast work and regular maintenance. However, I have an obligation to bring the matter to your attention. And I’d ask you to consider whether it might not be wiser in the long term to replace the Barlow with steel rails?’
‘With six miles of track already laid?’ Clinton Warne’s voice climbed.
‘I really don’t think the company can afford that,’ Victor Tyzack, the deputy chairman, stated quietly.
‘How do you suggest we explain the cost to our shareholders?’ Gilbert Mabey arched a laconic eyebrow.
‘In any case, such a move is totally unnecessary,’ Harold Vane added. ‘Maintenance is the obvious answer. Labour is far cheaper than steel rails. Let’s move on, for goodness’ sake.’<
br />
‘The third problem, Mr Santana?’ The chairman’s smile was considerably cooler.
‘The locomotives.’
‘What about them?’ Clinton Warne’s chin jutted belligerently. ‘The agreement I negotiated with Evans and Company obtained us a most favourable price.’ He glanced around the table for confirmation.
James spoke over the murmurs and nods of approval. ‘Indeed, the terms are excellent,’ James agreed. ‘The problem is, this particular locomotive is too heavy for the line.’
In the tense silence, street sounds seemed suddenly loud: clopping hooves, the rumble of carriage and cart wheels, their drivers bellowing at street urchins to get out of the road; dogs barking, gulls screaming, and the raucous laughter of women working on the fish quay below.
‘You’re quite wrong.’ Stretching his neck like a turkey, Warne glanced round his colleagues. ‘He’s wrong. Do you think I didn’t check? Of course I did. And the company assured me that the weight of the engine is within the capability of the rails.’
But were their calculations based on steel or Barlow rails? And did they include the weight of carriages in addition to that of the locomotive?
‘Gentlemen.’ Ingram Coles raised his hand for silence. But he gave James no chance to raise these points. ‘We are indebted to Mr Santana for his diligent investigation. He has not suggested how we are supposed to finance his proposals. I imagine he considers that to be our responsibility, which indeed it is. Now, before moving on to other business, we should perhaps applaud his thoroughness and concern for safety?’
As the other directors gazed at the table and made vague noises in their throats, Harold Vane clapped his hands, twice, in slow calculated insult.
Masking angry frustration with a bland smile, James inclined his head and addressed the fat, fair-haired company secretary. ‘Mr Mabey, I’d be obliged if you would record my recommendation that, in the event of these locomotives being used, all curving viaducts should have extra shoring on their outer sides? Without this additional support the outward pressure of the trains could push them over sideways.’
He heard a soft intake of breath, but continued without pause. ‘Will you also note my concern that every point I raised was overruled? I’m sure you understand.’