by Jane Jackson
In the morning-room, knowing she had to keep busy if she were to keep dangerous, tempting thoughts at bay, she went to her writing-table. Letters from various organizations of which she was a patron needed replies. Once they were done she would reward her-self with a ride. Fresh air and physical activity would offer at least the illusion of escape. Might they also ease the tension that strained every nerve and muscle so painfully tight?
A brisk knock made her look up as the door opened and the housekeeper entered carrying two ledgers. ‘Excuse me, madam, but I wonder if now would be a convenient time for you to look at the accounts. I have checked the tradesmen’s bills. They are all correct.’
No tradesman who valued Trewan custom would dare overcharge. Mrs Mudie had an encyclopaedic memory for prices. About to suggest leaving it for a day or two, Chloe didn’t get the chance.
‘I didn’t like to ask while Sir Gerald was ill. But he has always been most particular about prompt settlement. And we are now over a week into the new month.’
Too drained to argue, Chloe nodded. ‘Leave the books with me, Mrs Mudie. I’ll look at them directly.’
‘Thank you, madam. I’m much obliged. Perhaps though, if it is not too much trouble, I could have the money now? I’m going into Penryn to do some shopping. I could pay the tradesmen at the same time.’
Aware from previous experience that the housekeeper wouldn’t leave until she got what she wanted, Chloe stood up. ‘I’ll fetch it at once.’
With Mrs Mudie following two paces behind, Chloe went down the hall to her husband’s study. Turning the doorknob, she paused. Gerald had told her where he kept the cash tin. He’d said it was important she knew in case of an emergency. But he had made it clear that the rule of respecting each other’s privacy also applied to his study. She never entered without an invitation. And invitations were extremely rare. To have the housekeeper watching would make her feel even more of an intruder.
‘I’m sure you have things to do before you leave for town, Mrs Mudie. Why don’t you come to the morning-room in fifteen minutes? I’ll have the money ready for you.’
As the housekeeper hovered, obviously reluctant, Chloe went into the study and closed the door behind her. It was a small, almost petty victory, but to Chloe it was significant. She was changing.
Standing by the door she looked around the decidedly masculine room, as if the deep glowing colours, the Persian carpet, the glass-fronted bookcases, the leather button-back armchair with its attendant side table beside the fireplace, might somehow help her understand the man to whom she was married. They didn’t.
She crossed to the large roll-top desk that stood at right angles to the window. The lid was open, the leather-framed blotter almost hidden by copies of The Times and the Western Morning News all of which were folded to pages showing share prices and financial reports.
Inside the desk were two tiers of small drawers, and above them a row of slots contained folded papers, opened letters, and other documents she assumed related to business and the running of the estate.
Wary of disturbing anything, she crouched, her dress billowing around her, and opened the deep drawer on the right-hand side. Placing the cash tin on top of a leading article headed Bankers’ concern she opened it. There was no key. It wasn’t necessary. Theft was unheard of at Trewan. No one who valued their job here would take as much as a biscuit without permission.
The tin contained several slim bundles of folded paper held by narrow red or blue strips of ribbon and, on top of these, a wad of banknotes secured by a silver clip. As she lifted out the clip it caught one of the red ribbons and pulled a package with it.
Disentangling the ribbon, Chloe laid the package on the newspaper while she extracted five notes. Setting the notes aside she picked up the package. About to replace it on top of the others, she noticed the handwriting. It seemed oddly familiar. She tilted her head to look more closely and, with a shock, recognized her father’s flamboyant signature.
Easing out the folded sheet, she opened it. It was an IOU for 200 guineas. She gazed at it nonplussed then extracted another sheet. It was another IOU, this time for 400 guineas. There were no dates on the papers, and no names, other than her father’s. Then they were no longer for money, but for parcels of land belonging to the Polglase estate, and last of all, for the house itself.
Why would Gerald have her father’s IOUs? Unless … had he, out of some sense of moral obligation, redeemed them on her father’s behalf? That would mean he now owned … But if that was the case why hadn’t he told her? Because it would have been a cruel reminder of her father’s hopeless addiction to gambling? Because he hadn’t wanted to belabour her indebtedness to him?
The clock on the mantelpiece chimed. Mrs Mudie would be waiting. Quickly folding the sheets and replacing the ribbon, Chloe returned the package and the rest of the money to the tin.
After the housekeeper had gone, Chloe turned once more to her letter writing but found it impossible to concentrate. Leaving the writing-table, she hurried upstairs. She couldn’t stay inside a moment longer.
In the dressing-room, surrounded by Chloe’s winter dresses, skirts and jackets, Polly was examining hems, trimmings, and buttons, and making minor repairs before brushing and folding the garments, and storing them away for the summer in the huge cedar chests that would protect them from moths.
‘I’d like my riding habit, please.’ Chloe was already unfastening her cuffs and bodice.
‘Yes, ma’am. Do you want me to come?’
‘No, you carry on here. I won’t be leaving the grounds.’
‘If you’re sure, ma’am?’ Polly’s tone contained a hint of relief.
‘Quite sure,’ Chloe was firm. ‘You have more than enough to do. I need some fresh air and will be perfectly content by myself.’
Half an hour later, having also refused Nathan’s offer to accompany her, she set off along the drive, inhaling the scents of spring: the lingering perfume of bluebells, now almost over, and the sharp fragrance of young grass. It had never occurred to her before how rarely she ever did anything alone. In the house, out riding, paying calls, or at her charity work, there was always someone with her, Yet, despite constant company – or maybe because of it as, more often than not, she was accompanied by a servant – she had always felt slightly apart. She hadn’t recognized it as loneliness. Not then, not until she met James.
After a short walk to warm and loosen the mare ’s muscles, she turned off the drive onto the grass and clicked her tongue. The mare broke into an easy canter. She hadn’t been ridden for a few days and was alert and full of energy. Gathering the reins, Chloe gave a single kick with her heel. Ears pricked, the mare leapt forward and set off across the rolling parkland at a gallop. The sun was warm and the combination of speed and the crisp breeze made Chloe’s eyes water. It was like riding the wind.
James held out the letter. ‘A messenger brought it to the hotel late yesterday afternoon.’ Aware of Queenie watching with avid curiosity from the shanty doorway, Veryan wiped her hands on the torn shirt tied around her waist to protect her dress.
‘Thank you.’ Taking the envelope she turned it over, looking at her name and the address penned in flowing script and purple ink.
‘Silly, isn’t it?’ She darted him a nervous smile. ‘I’m afraid to open it.’
His brows rose. ‘You? Afraid? I can’t believe that. Look at it this way, whatever it says you’ll be no worse off.’
He was right. She tore open the flap, holding her breath as she unfolded and scanned the letter. She looked up at him ‘The family has accepted my claim.’
‘I’m really pleased for you. Though it’s no more than you deserve.’
‘Mr Lumby –’ she held the letter out to James. ‘Here, you read it.
‘Well, well. He apologizes for having appeared to doubt you. And would be delighted to provide any legal or financial advice you may require.’ He glanced up, his expression mocking.
‘At a price,’ V
eryan sniffed. ‘I think not.’
He handed back the letter. ‘So, what are your plans?’
Veryan hugged her arms across her body. ‘I’m – I don’t know. I dreamed about this, about getting off the line. But I never really thought – and now – I’m not sure where to go or what to do.’
He nodded, and she saw sympathy in his eyes. ‘It’s possible someone I know might be able to help. Would you like me to find out?’
Guessing who he meant and suppressing the twinge of envy, she nodded. ‘Thank you.’ She saw him tense and lift his head as the sound of a train whistle was carried towards them on the breeze.
* * *
‘Paddy!’ Tom’s shout rebounded off the steep hillsides at either end of the viaduct. ‘Over ’ere a minute. Look.’ He frowned at the crack snaking through the stone chippings. ‘We filled that in a couple of days ago. He shouldn’t have opened up again like that.’
‘Why would you be thinking it’s the same one?’ Paddy prodded the crack with his iron bar.
‘Well, if it isn’t, they’re opening up faster than we can fill them, and that can’t be right.’
‘It’ll be all that rain, so it will.’ Paddy sighed and shook his head. ‘We can’t spend any more time on this bloody viaduct. We’ve checked it twice now.’ He peered across the narrow valley. ‘They’re finished on the far side. Well, so have we.’ He turned to the rest of the gang. ‘All right, lads. That’ll do. We’re skilled men, not a bloody maintenance crew. Ah, there’s the boy. Sure, he’s done well to be back so soon.’
‘He’s a good lad,’ Tom agreed.
Paddy hammered the bar down twice more. ‘It’s solid enough. Fill it in.’ A shout made both men glance round.
Davy was coming across the viaduct riding one of the tip-head horses and leading two others. The shout had made him look back.
‘Will you be getting a move on, boy,’ Paddy yelled. ‘The train will be along any time.’
Even as his shout died away they heard the shrill warning blast of the whistle. Davy kicked his horse into a trot, hauling on the halter ropes attached to the other two.
Another bellow echoed around them, and Tom saw one of the navvies on the far side, weaving after the animals, flailing his arms. He tripped and fell. Tom watched him stagger to his feet.
At both ends of the viaduct, navvies gathered their tools and moved to the side of the line.
‘What was all that about?’ Tom squinted up at Davy. Dangling against the animal’s shaggy coat the boy’s skinny legs were mottled with bruises.
‘Pa wanted a ride back.’
Tom and Paddy exchanged a brief glance. Paddy rubbed the blaze on the horse’s forehead. ‘Their hooves all sound? No cracks?’
Davy shook his head. ‘Shoes went on a treat.’
‘Get them over to the side of the track,’ Tom urged. ‘You’d best get off and hold them on a short rein until the train’s gone by.’
In the distance Chloe heard the whistle blast. She reined in and the mare danced restlessly, reluctant to stop. There was a second blast, clearer this time. She pictured her husband sitting with some of the directors, a cynical smile hovering about his lips as they tried to persuade him to invest more money in the company. Was James sitting with them? Or was he among the other guests? Was he missing her? Did he understand why she had not been able to face being there?
She wheeled the mare and urged her forward. They flew down over the undulating grass, passing the brown scar of the embankment, heading for the bottom of the park from where she would be able to see the train come over the viaduct.
As the huge locomotive steamed slowly and majestically over the viaduct, Tom saw William Thomas lurch forward as the carriage passed, his arms raised. What was he doing? Then, seeing the man’s leg swing wildly out to one side, Tom realized. Determined to get a ride back, Davy’s father had jumped onto the buffers and was hanging onto the back of the coach.
The locomotive was barely twenty feet away, a gleaming black monster hissing steam, when it seemed to shiver. Tom blinked. Was it a distortion of the air caused by heat rising from the stone ballast? Then a sharp crack like a gunshot made him start. It was followed by a low ominous rumble. He looked round quickly, but saw nothing untoward as, towering above him, the massive engine came closer, snorting like some primeval beast, iron wheels grinding on iron rail.
This was no mirage. He could feel the ground vibrating beneath his feet. It was a strange sensation, unnerving. He gazed up as it drew level, deafened by the screeching and hiss of high-pressure steam. Glimpsing movement from the corner of his eye he glanced from the leviathan back towards the viaduct.
A block of stone from the rampart wall edging the supported track toppled slowly inward. It missed the rail, falling onto the outer edge of a sleeper. Then, as he watched, the ballast beneath the rails at the centre of the viaduct suddenly disappeared. For a split second Tom didn’t believe what he was seeing. Then, as the noise reached him like distant rolling thunder, he realized the central arch had collapsed, crumbling into the valley far beneath.
He stared, speechless with horror as the other arches began to follow.
The monster steamed slowly past, unaware of the yawning chasm opening up behind as the rest of the viaduct began to break apart faster than the train was moving. The air was filled with yells and shouts as the other navvies registered what was happening. Tom saw Yorky and Nipper waving wildly at the driver.
‘No!’ he roared, too late. ‘Keep going! Don’t stop!’
But the locomotive was already slowing. By the time it stopped, brakes shrieking like souls in torment, and clouds of steam billowing around the huge driving wheels, the locomotive was out of danger, but the rear end of the carriage was still on the supporting pillar built partly into the valley side.
There was another grating rumble. Then, with a long groan, the rails beneath the carriage began to twist as the pillar gave way and subsided in a tumbling avalanche of wood and stone and mud.
‘Mother o’ God,’ Paddy gasped as the carriage tilted backward at an angle and stopped with a jerk, attached to the locomotive only by the coupling chains. Stricken faces peered through the windows. But the directors and their guests were not yet fully aware of the peril they were in.
A wail of terror rose to a scream as William Thomas slipped from his precarious perch on the buffers. Even as Tom darted forward towards the rear of the carriage, automatically reaching for the arm that clawed desperately for a handhold, William lost his grip and pitched headlong into the void. Tom stopped abruptly, closing his eyes as he heard the body land.
Behind him, Paddy clambered up the side of the locomotive to shove the wide-eyed, trembling driver back onto the footplate. ‘Blow the whistle! Keep blowing the whistle!’
Chloe stared in disbelief at the empty space where the viaduct had been, her mouth dust-dry with shock. The sound of the whistle, short shrill blasts, galvanized her. James was in the carriage. So too was Gerald. She slammed her heel into the mare’s side, leaning forward to urge her on. As they flew down the slope at breakneck speed she saw a gang of navvies swarming round the front part of the carriage. The door nearest the locomotive was opened and slowly, too slowly, figures began to emerge. But they were too far away for her to identify.
As the final rumble died away, Veryan looked at James. ‘I thought … the men said you’d finished dynamiting.’
‘We have.’ His forehead creased in a puzzled frown. ‘It can’t be the quarry. Tomorrow’s their day –’ The train whistle cut him short. At the third urgent blast James turned towards the sound. Veryan watched the colour drain from his face.
‘Oh no,’ he whispered. ‘Please, no.’ He spun round, already running for his horse.
She raced after him. Paddy’s gang was working on the viaduct. Tom. ‘Take me with you,’ she begged. ‘Davy took horses to be shod this morning. He’ll be on his way back. If anything’s happened … I’m strong. I can help.’
All around them
, women were emerging from the shanties. The younger ones were merely curious. The older ones, more experienced, were anxious. Seeing James they started forward.
‘What’s all the noise?’
‘What’s going on?’
‘That’s what I’m going to find out.’ Quickly astride his horse he tucked free of the stirrup to give Veryan a foothold and, seizing her elbow, hauled her up behind him. She barely had time to grab hold of his waist before they were hurtling out of the village.
Ashen and trembling, the directors and their guests were helped down onto the track, urged on by cries of, ‘Don’t you worry, that old carriage isn’t going nowhere till you’re all out, safe and sound. Come on now, we won’t let you fall. Jump, my handsome. ’T’id’n as far as it looks.’ They were glad now of the grimy calloused hands belonging to men who, a few months ago, they had denounced as drunken heathens, unfit to live in decent society.
Amid the noise and melee, Tom glimpsed Davy who was losing his battle to hang onto the three horses. Terrified by the whistle blasts and gushing steam, their eyes rolled wildly, and each jerk of their heads threatened to wrench his arms out of their sockets. Still he hung on, leaning back as they skittered and tugged, dragging him over the stone ballast.
Ripping off his shirt as he ran towards the boy, Tom caught the material between his teeth and tore it into rough strips. ‘All right, my handsome. You hang on now.’
The horses twisted violently, pulling the ropes through Davy’s small palms. His face screwed up and with a cry of pain he clutched his seared hands to his chest. Tom grabbed the ropes and tugged hard, yanking the animals’ heads down.
‘Here, lad.’ He passed over the strips. ‘Tie these over their eyes. They’ll soon calm down.’
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, the boy did as he was told.
Tom talked soothingly to the horses, stroking and patting them. But all the time he was watching Davy. Had the boy seen his father fall?
Reaching the bottom of the long slope about fifty yards from the locomotive, Chloe jumped off the sweating mare. Her legs felt weak and shaky as she looped the reins over a post. Please let him be safe. She would let him go, never see him again, and do her best to be a good wife to Gerald. She would never ask for anything else. Just let him be unharmed.