Rock and wood pelted him; he gritted his teeth to bear the pain, and waited for the last one. A deafening boom, loud as a cannon, came from his left, and the ground shifted sideways. No, it wasn’t the ground—he realized it as his body slid backward helplessly, scraping across sharp addle and slippery clay. The stamping mill pestle had moved, and when he uncovered his head and peered over the long iron cylinder, he saw why. The huge ceiling beam had come down on top of it, and the crushing weight had shifted the rod’s angle fifteen degrees higher on the far end.
Tranter’s end.
“Tranter!”
Cursing was all the answer he got—joyous, hopeful curses punctuated by the smash, smash of boot heels against rubble. He knew it was boot heels, because just then one came crashing through the wreckage that the pestle had been wedging against Tranter’s premature grave. Another boot followed. Before Christy could think about scrambling up and trying to help, the little miner slipped and slithered through a child-size hole in the heaped tangle of metal and ore, clambered to his feet, and let out a whoop of pure jubilation.
Christy began to laugh. Nothing hurt; everything was perfect. “Bleeding miracle!” he shouted back at Tranter, echoing him. With the nimbleness of a ballet dancer, the miner negotiated the obstacles that still separated them, and they fell into each other’s arms like long-parted lovers.
“Yer candle’s still lighted,” Tranter marveled, plucking it from the rubble. “A good thing, for we’ll need it and another miracle to get safe out o’ this hellhole, Vicar, beggin’ yer bleedin’ pardon fer my bloody bleedin’ language!”
“Don’t mention it!”
Jenks’s candle, forty feet away through a veritable minefield of hazards that had only worsened in the cave-in, illuminated the way out. “Take ‘old o’ my shirttail, Christy, an’ follow along behind me. Step where I step, an’ whatever ee do, don’t look up,” Tranter advised. “If the Lord changes ’is mind, we might get brained anyway betwixt ’ere an’ that candle.”
It was a definite possibility, one that ought not to be dismissed. But Christy couldn’t believe it. There was no accounting for it, but somehow he knew they were going to be fine.
XXII
ANNE COULDN’T LET GO of Christy’s horse. The big animal was tethered to a tree within sight of the engine house and the other outbuildings, around which twenty or so miners and their families were keeping a quiet vigil. The rain had stopped; a warm wind was blowing the mist away. Through the lingering fog, she could make out Sophie Deene, pacing in front of the mine office with her head down, arms folded tight across her middle. That was her way of dealing with the awful, unbearable anxiety. Anne’s was to hang on to Doncaster’s thick mane like a lifeline. And keep out of sight, so no one could look at her.
A man broke away from one of the huddled groups close to the engine house and moved toward her. She recognized William Holyoake’s tall, broad frame, and stood straighter, waiting for him. But she didn’t let go of Don, and the fine, calm animal never moved, never twitched a muscle. So unlike Geoffrey’s high-strung stallion. Dead now, with a bullet through the brain. Like Geoffrey. She clutched harder at the horse’s bristly mane, so the terrible, body-wracking shudders couldn’t start again.
“What news, William?”
“Still nothing, m’lady. Miss Deene asks again that you please come inside the mine office where you can be dry.”
“Thank her for me. Tell her I should only be in the way.” That was true, but the real reason was because she only had eyes for the lantern-lit mine entrance thirty yards distant and couldn’t have borne anything obstructing the view. “How long since he went down?” She already knew the answer, but she was sick of solitude and needed to share her misery with someone she trusted.
“Nearly an hour now, m’lady.”
A low rumble from deep in the earth froze her in place. “It was worse that time,” she whispered. She dropped the horse’s mane and reached out for Holyoake’s arm. “He’s got to come up. It’s suicide to stay down any longer!” The bailiff nodded once and bowed his head, too respectful of her, too discreet to acknowledge the naked fear she didn’t have the strength to hide anymore. She wondered again if Holyoake knew everything. She suspected that he did. Curious, after all she and Christy had done to keep their affair a secret, that the idea didn’t trouble her. In fact, at this moment she took a measure of comfort from it. It helped her feel not quite so alone.
“Word’s gotten out everywhere about is lordship, m’lady. Some have asked me to convey their sympathies to you—Miss Deene and Dr. Hesselius, as well as some o’ the common folk, miners and their families and whatnot.”
“I suppose . . .” She took a deep breath and tried to order her thoughts. “I suppose it must be a great shock to them. They lost Geoffrey once before, and now they’ve lost him again.”
“Aye,” he said slowly. “But ’tis really yourself they’ve got feelings for now, m’lady. They say ’tis not fair and a great tragedy that you must suffer so again. They asked me to say that you’re in their hearts an’ in their prayers.”
Tears stung behind her eyes. “I’m blessed to have such friends.”
“Aye,” William agreed softly. “Indeed, I think you are.”
Another low, trembling sound came from the mouth of the mine, just under the throbbing of the pumps, and this time it didn’t fade away after a few seconds. Anne came up onto her toes, her fingers digging into Holyoake’s sleeve like talons, when the next sound was a muffled boom, deep-throated and sustained. She gave a frightened cry and stumbled forward, compelled to go closer to the source of the dreadful noise; even though it meant showing her ravaged face in the murky lantern light. Men and women made way for her, snatching off their hats and bowing, greeting her with subdued shyness and respect. They kept their distance, but she fancied they were being kind, not remote. A lonely, forlorn affection for them welled up, warming her.
Sophie had stopped pacing and was in the midst of a fierce-looking conference with one of her subordinates. No one was allowed to go down in the mine until Christy and the man who had gone with him came back up, and the miners were clustered around the fencelike wooden scaffolding that surrounded the main shaft entrance, waiting. The ominous subterranean roar had ceased; once again, the only sound was the steady, monotonous driving of the water pumps in the engine house. Overhead, the high chimney stacks puffed steam that evaporated immediately in the misty air. It wasn’t cold, but Anne pulled her hooded cape tighter around her shoulders. Holyoake stood at her back, and she felt grateful for his strong, silent presence. But she was coming apart inside; if there wasn’t news soon, she was afraid she would break down.
Footsteps on the ladder. Holyoake came around to stand beside her. She took his hand unthinkingly and crept nearer, shivering with hope and dread. She couldn’t see anything past the shoulders of the men crowding around the mine entrance. Then someone called out, “It’s the captain!” She dropped her head and shut her eyes tight, whispering, “Thank God. Oh, thank God.”
The miners cleared a path for Sophie, who met the captain at the top of the ladder. Anne waited for Christy to come up behind him.
“. . . wouldn’t listen,” she heard Jenks saying to Sophie, and then the words “some privacy.” She felt Holyoake’s hand under her elbow, supporting her as she took a shaky step closer. “So I waited, and when I come back he was gone.”
“Gone!”
“Aye, gone. Somehow he got at least halfway across the gallery while I’m down-shaft waitin’ for him. It ain’t my fault, and there wasn’t nothing I could do on my own to get him back. I waited as long as I could, half an hour almost, then I started up to get fresh men to help. I was at the fifty-fathom when I heard it go. Had to be the whole damn gallery. Had to be.”
The fog closed in. Anne swayed. Holyoake caught her and kept her from falling.
A man called out, “Are
they dead, then?”
“I don’t know,” said Jenks.
Sophie was issuing orders. Anne heard her as if from a great distance away, vaguely aware that men were dispersing, moving off toward the changing shed. Are they dead, then? The ground came as a hard, damp surprise on her knees, but the act of kneeling felt completely natural. Natural, too, to fold her hands and bow her head, and then to pray. The words came to her as easily as a child’s prayer, simple and unconsidered, unself-conscious. Please, dear God, don’t let him he dead. Christy’s your finest work, your best creation, don’t take him away. Please, God, give him back to the ones who need him. Think how much good he can do here. Give him back to us, please, God, because I’ll do anything, just give him back, oh, God, I’m asking you on my knees . . .
The words wouldn’t stop. Fluent, utterly sincere, she kept praying, and from somewhere an absolute conviction came that she was heard. She felt that there was a God, and it was Christy’s God, loving and kind, merciful and forgiving. She felt herself giving up, giving herself to him; a heavy weight seemed to lift, rise up, fly off. Your will and not mine, she prayed, the way Christy did. Into your hands, Lord. Your hands.
A noise made her lift her head. Looking around in amazement, she saw that other people were on their knees too, hands clasped, praying with her for their minister. She saw Jenks and three other men in miner’s gear, waiting at the shaft entrance, ready to descend, listening intently.
Steps—the noise she’d heard was steps. Steps on the ladder.
“Hold up, Christy,” came a querulous voice in a thick Cornish accent. “Tedn seemly for a layman to ’ave that much wind left on the last ladder. Hold up, I said! Wait for a poor tutman, or my mates’ll rag me hollow!”
Shouts of relieved laughter rang out all around, punctuated with hearty exclamations of “Thank God! Oh, thank God!” William Holyoake, who had been on his knees beside her, pulled Anne to her feet and gave her a hard, swift hug—then blushed to the roots of his sandy hair. He took her arm in a respectful clasp and started to move her toward the others crowding around the scaffolding—but she hung back. He sent her an understanding look and left her, going up alone.
Through the bobbing heads, she saw Christy emerge and step off the ladder. He had on a miner’s hat, and he whipped it off with a flourish and threw it in the air. People cheered. Lamplight fired his golden hair; his teeth gleamed bright white in his sooty face, and she thought he looked like the dearest, dirtiest angel God had ever made. Everybody wanted to touch him. Tranter Fox came next, looking like a little black elf, and a frail, tiny old man rushed forward to embrace him. Then his mates gathered round, and she heard their rough backslaps on Tranter’s skinny shoulders, gentler ones for the broader back of Reverend Morrell. She could have gone to him then, but she stayed where she was, feasting her eyes on him. She didn’t forget to thank God for saving him.
William went closer, whispered something in his ear. She watched his body go rigid. His eyes found hers. There was a breathless moment of sweet, fierce connection—before someone got in the way, and the tension broke. She backed up slowly, never losing sight of him. People were drifting away in clusters, talking and laughing with relief and excitement. Now Christy was speaking to Sophie Deene. Anne saw him gesture in her direction, saw Sophie nod in understanding. He was telling her he must go and console the widow, she knew. And then he turned away from the remains of the crowd and came toward her.
She wanted to throw her arms around him and never let go. Instead, they took hands. “William has just told me about Geoffrey,” he said, and all she could do was nod. “Are you all right?”
“I need to be alone with you.”
“Yes.” His voice, his eyes, everything said he needed it, too. “Will you ride Don with me, Anne?”
“Yes,” she answered, and they moved together to his patiently waiting horse.
***
A three-quarter moon rode in the gaps of cloud the warm wind blew. Spring was a subtle perfume of budding trees and newly turned earth. From a hedgerow came the twitter of a willow wren who’d forgotten to go to bed. Doncaster trod the worn, moon-dappled path at a sedate pace, and Christy thought of the day, a year ago, when he and Geoffrey had raced along this same abandoned track. A lifetime ago. Anne turned in his arms, and he moved his lips from the crown of her head to her temple, hearing her soft sigh. Neither spoke. The deep quiet between them was soothing, healing. Necessary.
A trickling stream came and went at intervals alongside the path, widening under a willow grove at the edge of the woods. Christy reined the horse to a stop, slid off his bare back, and reached up to help Anne dismount. He took Don’s bridle off so the horse could graze, then knelt down by the creek and began to scrub the dirt from his face and hands. The ground was damp; Anne took off her cloak and spread it out on the grassy bank. When Christy finished bathing, he turned to find her sitting close by, watching him. Still without speaking, he sat down beside her. She gave him her handkerchief—his was filthy—and he used it to dry his wet face.
Leaning lightly against his shoulder, she murmured, “You’re all right, aren’t you, Christy? Not hurt or anything?”
“No, no. Nothing to speak of.”
“What was it like? How did you get Mr. Fox out?”
“I didn’t do anything.” He told her about how the ceiling had collapsed, freeing Tranter from his rock cell.
“I agree with Mr. Fox,” she said when he’d finished. “It was a miracle.”
“It was . . . a wonder,” Christy conceded, taking her hand.
“Were you afraid?”
“Yes.”
“I was wild. When Jenks came up alone, I couldn’t—I felt—I thought I’d lost you, Christy, and there aren’t any words to tell you how that felt. It was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” She brought his hand to her cheek and held it there for a moment, then put her lips on the beating pulse in his wrist. She sent God another fervent Thank you.
The moon rose higher. The stream made a soothing gurgle, and somewhere in the treetops an owl hoo-hooed, but otherwise the night was intensely still. Anne dropped her head when she felt Christy’s fingers at the back of her neck, caressing her. “Tell me about Geoffrey,” he suggested, and gradually, haltingly, she began to speak of what had happened. She told him about everything except one thing—that last act of love. And it had been an act of love, no matter that it had begun in violence and desperation. She couldn’t regret it; she could only be grateful for it, now that Geoffrey was gone and she couldn’t help him anymore. She would tell Christy about it someday—perhaps—but for now she would bear the secret weight of it alone, because she was strong enough.
“My God,” he whispered in distress when she told him that Geoffrey had found out about them. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have sent the letter to the house. I’m sorry, Anne, I don’t know what to say to you.”
“It hurt him,” she said truthfully. “But it’s not what drove him to take his life. The doctor had told him he was dying, and he didn’t want it to happen slowly—piece by piece, he said. And at the end, Christy, he forgave us. He loved you, truly he did. And me. I know he forgave us.” She put her arms around him and held him close.
A feeling of peace stole over her, a gentle closing of the circle. She felt as if she and Christy were in a quiet space, an out-of-time interval between the past and the future. But he was solid and real, no illusion, his hard body warm and vital in her arms. She slid her fingers into his sooty hair, molding the noble shape of his skull, massaging his scalp. With a sigh, she laid her head on his shoulder, breathing in the earthy scent of him, the salt tang of his skin.
It was he who pulled away first, somewhat hastily. In the dimness of the moonlight, she thought he blushed when she asked him what was wrong. He drew a pattern with one finger on the satin lining of the bit of cloak between them. “I’m a bit . . . I’m feeling a
little . . .”
“What?”
He was looking down, but she thought he might be smiling. “Ever since I saw you, I . . . it’s something about coming up from the mine, realizing I wasn’t going to die after all . . .” He stopped, and she stared at his bowed head, bewildered. Then he looked at her, and he was definitely smiling. “Sweetheart, I’m randy as a goat, and there’s not a thing I can do about it.”
It was her turn to blush, something she never did. And she couldn’t think of anything to say—another first. She felt like laughing because of the gladness rising up inside, pure happiness, overwhelming relief because their bodies, at least, weren’t constrained anymore by mourning and trouble and guilt.
Christy leaned over and kissed her softly, lingeringly. She’d have held on, made love with him right here, right now, but he straightened—he’d always been the strong one—and said with great seriousness, “Anne, there’s something I have to tell you, something that happened to me when I was down in the mine. I learned a lesson about myself. A revelation.”
“What, Christy?”
“I don’t know if you’ll like this or not, but—it’s turned out that I’m a minister after all. There’s no help for it. I’ve . . . I’ve consecrated myself to it.” He said the word self-consciously, as if he thought she might mock him for it. “I’ve found my way back, through my own weakness and powerlessness. I’d lost my faith, but I’ve got it back again, and now it’s as if everything’s become clear. I know what it is to be blessed, and to bless others. Can you understand this at all? My service to God can be free, because I’ve been given the grace to see the joy at the heart of things. I’m not afraid anymore. I’ve felt what God’s love is like, truly felt it. No—I’m not saying it right, it’s too—”
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