by Jamie Carie
Serena roused herself enough to lift her head. “Oh dear, no breakfast please.” Just the thought of food made her stomach queasy. “I am not feeling just the thing this morning . . . again.”
The maid nodded and dipped again. “He said if you weren’t feeling well, to ask if a doctor should be sent for. I think he is worried about you, your grace.”
Serena gave her a weak smile. “No doctor, but have Richard come up at his convenience. I do need to speak with him. And wake me ten minutes before, so that I may dress.”
She had been putting off telling him. As a bachelor she doubted he suspected, but it would be obvious soon enough and she wanted to tell him before he guessed.
Richard arrived a little while later with a soft knock. She was wearing a dressing gown and cap, sitting up in the bed, her back propped up with pillows. When he entered she smiled at him and patted the mattress beside her. He had been so kind. How would he take the news that he was to become a grandfather?
“How are you feeling?”
She laughed a little at the anxiety in his eyes. “Not so bad, now. I am so very sorry for putting thee and thy household to such a degree of trouble. I–I am not unwell, really.”
He took her hand. “Are you overcome with sadness? Is there anything I can do?”
Serena shook her head. “Richard, I am not depressed . . . I am with child.” There, she’d said it. She watched the emotions—first surprise, and then utter delight—cross his face.
“You are certain?”
Serena nodded. “My mother had seven of us, of which I am the eldest. I have seen the signs many times before and am quite certain. The babe will be born in the month of May, I believe.
Richard squeezed her hand, laughing. “Spring. That’s wonderful!” His brow creased. “It is wonderful, is it not? Are you happy?”
She nodded. “Yes, I–I used to daydream about having a child with Drake. I used to think about how I would tell him and imagine his reaction.” She smiled sadly. “My dreams never envisioned this. I know I shall have to talk to Drake soon. This is not something I can keep from him.”
Richard shook his head. “I expected him to find his way here by now. I know you said you left no clues, but I thought perhaps . . . he would find us out.”
“I suppose I will have to write to him. Much as I dread it.”
“Let me write to him on your behalf. It’s the least I could do.”
Serena was relieved, but unsure. “Let me think about it. We shall decide tomorrow.”
Richard nodded. “You must rest. I had planned a little excursion that I thought you might like this afternoon, but you should stay abed.”
Serena brightened. “Oh no, I feel much better. ’Tis only in the mornings that I feel so unwell. The remainder of the day I only feel as if I have been run down by a carriage.” She grinned at him. “Please, I would love to get out and enjoy some fresh air.”
“Very well. Meet me downstairs in an hour and we will go. I think you will enjoy this.”
DRAKE RODE A fresh horse as he galloped toward the little seaside town of Bristol. It had been years—decades, even—since he’d seen it, and he wondered if his memory would serve. He tried to drum up a picture of Richard. He had only seen him once, when his grandmother, the dowager duchess, had died. He cringed remembering how he had treated Richard, rather like he was below Drake in rank and status, which, at the time, he thought was true. Richard had been younger and much quieter than his father, but he’d had a kind smile for Drake. Now Drake would see him in a new light.
Drake was hardly a mile from the town when he came upon a coal mining site. Coal, he knew, was becoming more and more important to England and new uses were being discovered for it all the time. With the rise in demand had come the need for people to work in the deep tunnels in the earth.
Curious, he turned his horse toward the site. As he rode into the miners’ camp, he had to wonder if his eyes were deceiving him. He felt as if he’d stumbled upon a poor village in Africa. Men, women, and children—many of the latter naked and covered in black from the coal—swarmed the camp. As he neared, there was a sharp cry to his right. Drake turned his head and saw a young boy of about ten being set loose from a metal girdle. Long, thick chains hung from the girdle between his legs and lay for many more feet in a pile on the ground. Behind him, attached to the ends of the chain was a large tub full of black coal. Had the child dragged that load of coal out of the mine’s tunnels on his own? Drake could hardly tear his eyes away from him, so strong was his shock. Outrage boiled within him as he rode over and dismounted in front of the boy. Drake could see the boy’s bloody hips through the torn shreds of a cloth he wore around his waist. Naked, stark pain shone from his sunken eyes.
“What is the meaning of this? You men, do you use the backs of children for work such as this?” He stalked over to the tub and lifted one side. It must have weighed over two hundred pounds.
A man, standing naked except for the rag that hung from his lower body, looked up into Drake’s eyes. Old eyes, tired as the earth he had been working in, stared back at Drake. He coughed suddenly before he answered, and Drake’s heart sank to see black spittle in the man’s hand.
“The boy’ll be aright. He’s new is all, sir.”
Drake’s eyes swept the community, taking in the details, each one piercing him as nothing he had ever seen—and Drake had seen much. Poverty, filth, the dregs of humanity—he had seen it all. And yet this sight gripped him as nothing before.
The men stared back at him, frozen by his presence, as though he were some other being—a god, perhaps—and they couldn’t make out what he was doing there. So many children, some looked as young as five, their eyes ranging from lifeless to wretched. The women were as bad off, one round with child and so tired, swaying where she stood, that he found he could not continue looking at her. The men were at least men! They could handle hard, even terrible work . . . then he really looked at them, saw their misshapen bodies—short, stooped, with long arms that seemed almost deformed despite bulking musculature from the years of pounding the earth. Drake wanted to sit among them and cry.
He walked back to the boy. The lad stood in front of him, shivering in spite of the late summer heat. The cloth that hung about his waist was wet and dripping dirty water onto the thin patch of grass below his bare feet.
Drake squatted down. “What is your name, son?”
“Robbie,” he said in a frightened voice.
“How long have you been working in the mines, Robbie?”
“About three months, sir. Came over with four other lads from Gloucester.”
“Why did you come? Are your parents here?”
He shook his head, his hair a ragged crop of brown. “They died in a fire, my da and mum. Me and some boys heard of the work here and decided it was better ’n the streets.”
Drake nodded, stood, and patted the boy on the head. Looking at the men around him he asked, “Where is the overseer? I would speak with him.”
One of the men pointed toward the town. “Gone to hear the preacher, I expect. Word just came that George Whitefield is preaching in a field north of town. Not enough room for all that wants to hear him in those fancy churches, I guess.” He motioned to the people around the camp. “Most of us are headed there. We were quitting early today. Most days we are in the mines twelve, fourteen hours and don’t come out till dark. But Mr. Henley, he said we could quit early today and go and hear the preacher.”
Drake took a long breath. “How many children would you say work in these mines?”
The man shrugged. “I guess about thirty, countin’ the older ones. About twice as many women.” He squinted up at Drake. “You never seen a mine before, mister?”
How could Drake tell this man that he was a partner in several mining companies? It sickened him to think that those might be like this one. “Not firsthand.” Drake looked around again. “Are they all like this?”
The man shrugged. “I guess so. Can’t
rightly say. This is the only mine I’ve worked in.” He pointed to a stooped man. “’Enry, over there, he’s a well traveled sort. Worked in all kinds of mines.”
Drake nodded to the man. “Thank you.” He looked at the boy again. “I would like to take you to a doctor in town. Will you come with me?”
The boy grinned up at him, showing surprisingly white teeth against the dirty face. “I wouldn’t want to miss the preacher, sir. Can we go there first?”
How could he disappoint the first light he’d seen in the lad’s eyes. “Of course.”
Drake questioned the “well traveled” Henry, heart dropping as the man confirmed that, yes, this was the typical condition of the mines. Then he looked into the main tunnels, gauging their size and depth. There was no doubt in Drake’s mind. Something drastic had to be done. The air was dank and probably full of gases. He would not be surprised if lung damage showed up early and permanently. Some of the tunnels had standing water. And, so he was told, the further down one went, the worse the conditions became. Disgusted, Drake made his way back to the boy. Lifting him onto his horse, he mounted behind him. The boy moved stiffly but didn’t complain as he grasped the gelding’s mane and smiled up at Drake.
“I’ve dreamed of riding, sir. We’re so high off the ground.”
Drake looked into those deep brown eyes and felt some piece of a wall inside him crumble. His childhood . . . his life, so full of self-indulgence, every desire gratified before he had had the chance to really feel it—it all seemed so horrifying in the face of this child’s simple joy.
He didn’t want it anymore. He wanted something real, something important to live for. He wanted to help someone.
Starting with this boy.
IT WASN’T LONG before Drake and his new charge began to merge with the streams of people going to hear George Whitefield. There must have been thousands riding and walking and driving carriages toward the vast grassy clearing. Curious now, Drake directed his mount over toward the main crowd.
Thousands sat on the warm grass, listening to the young man who was already speaking. Amazing how well the man’s voice carried. He stood upon a large, wooden platform, hands upraised, hair blowing in the breeze. Drake felt himself pulled in by the man’s voice, so full of fervor and authority.
Drake dismounted and helped Robbie down to the grass.
Whitefield was speaking of his own life, how he had joined a group of young men at Oxford University called the Holy Club. They were diligent, holding to a disciplined life of early devotions, journaling to examine their spiritual life, fasting, and visiting the prisons and poorhouses. They read voraciously and studied every translation of Scripture. He asked the audience of miners, farming men, and townspeople if they didn’t think such a man would please God?
The crowd shouted a hearty “Yes, preacher!”
But the young man shook his head.
His eyes flashed, so piercing and bold Drake thought they were directed right at—and through—him. Whitefield told them that even after such efforts, he still felt something was missing. Drake nodded inwardly. He knew that feeling.
Whitefield’s voice rang out. “I believed that, somehow, I was not doing enough. And so I took a new resolution upon myself, to work harder. I even stopped attending the Holy Club, for fear I loved it too much.” His words brought to life the image of nights spent in sweaty prayer, of eating less and less to the point of constant fasting. This young man gave everything he could to the poor.
“One frosty morning,” he said, “after hours of prayer outdoors, I realized one of my hands had turned black. I scarcely cared, but my friends urged me to my bed, and there I lay for the next seven weeks.”
Drake was appalled and, at the same time, admired this man’s devotion. He looked about him, saw the engrossed faces, saw how quiet all around him were, how they strained to catch every word.
The preacher began laughing. It was as if joy bubbled up within him and overflowed. Robbie laughed too, looking up into Drake’s face. Those around him smiled, and a few laughed for no apparent reason other than basking in Whitefield’s joy.
“While I lay on my bed near death,” Whitefield went on, “unable to do anything to please God, I began to hear God speak. ‘If any man thirst, let him come to Me . . . ’ The words pierced my whole being and I broke, crying out, ‘I thirst!’ It was so simple—absurdly simple.” Whitefield’s voice rang out like a liberty bell. “To finally be saved by such a simple prayer. And then . . . I laughed. And once I began laughing, the floodgates of heaven burst upon me.
“Listen, now, my friends, to Ezekiel 36:26: ‘A new heart also will I give you, and a new spirit will I put within you: and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh, and I will give you a heart of flesh.’”
Tears streaked the blackened faces around Drake. Some stood, but many had fallen to their knees and were crying out, hands lifted to the heavens. Drake looked down at Robbie—the boy’s eyes shone, full of hope. A deep shaking started within Drake, frightening him with its intensity.
Then he, too, collapsed to his knees in the grass. His heart rushed so in his chest, he thought he might die. Eyes closed, he saw his life, all the events leading to this moment. He saw his mother, glowing and smiling down at him, so very pleased. He saw himself as a child playing in a stream, with his shirt and socks hidden on the bank so he wouldn’t be caught. He saw his father, Ivor, a stern face glaring down at him. But then he saw beyond the face into his father’s eyes—and saw Ivor as a frightened little boy.
And then he saw her. Serena. A bright light illuminated her face and then faded, and he saw her as warm and living and real. He could almost reach out and touch her. But she vanished, replaced in his mind’s eyes by the coal miners and the filthy wretchedness of the children, of Robbie—
And suddenly, Drake knew.
His mission was as clear as if God had spoken it aloud. In those few moments, everything fell into place: the man he had tried to be and the man he was created to be. It was as though a key were turned, a locked-up place opened, and all the people, all the events that led to this moment suddenly made sense as never before.
Throwing his eyes open, he gulped in air. The preacher was praying for the souls of all those in the audience, and Drake grasped hold of that prayer with all that he had. Yes. The word resounded within him. Yes! Yes! His spirit soared, his hands lifted toward heaven without any fear or shame.
Save me, Lord Jesus. Save me, too!
God’s response came, swift and sure, and Drake had never felt so light . . . so alive.
So deeply, deeply loved.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Drake rose from the damp earth, laughing. He couldn’t seem to stem the tide of joy that had overtaken him. He hugged Robbie’s thin, broken frame and felt nothing but overwhelming love for the lad. He would help him. He would help them all.
It was then that he saw her. Serena. Across the way, sitting in a carriage beside Richard.
His father.
At first Drake didn’t know if she was real or some further apparition of his mind. But everything within him silently called out to her, Serena! Wife of my heart. And as he stared, he knew. She wasn’t in his mind, she was here! I’m sorry. I am so sorry. He stumbled toward them, forgetting all but the woman before him.
When he was but a few feet away, she turned her head and their eyes locked. He saw her inhale sharply, shock on her face, and then Richard saw him too. Drake traversed the crowd, desperate to reach her, watched in despair the hurried gestures she was making, asking Richard to take them away.
“Wait!” He stumbled, righted himself, and then began to run. “Serena . . . wait!”
The glossy black carriage flashed in the sun as it turned and spun away, jostling over the bumpy ground.
He tried to catch them, ran after them, then slowed to a walk and finally stopped. “I am so sorry!” He said it to the wind, but not with despair. He would find her and beg her forgiveness. He would win her ba
ck.
It took a little time to find his horse and Robbie. The boy chattered about Whitefield’s preaching all the way into town.
The Bristol doctor was not surprised by the boy’s wounds. After examining Robbie and putting salve where the chains had worn the skin raw, he took Drake into the outer room and spoke in low anger. “He will be lucky to live to see twenty. I must tell you, sir, the cases only get worse, and the little girls . . .” He shook his head.
“I do not imagine many of them even seek your care.”
“No, they don’t. Not until it’s too late.” He motioned toward the closed door where the boy lay. “What he needs is rest and decent food. The children that work these mines are so tired, they fall asleep while walking home at night and their parents have to go and search for them alongside the road. They haven’t the strength even to eat. They sleep all day on Sunday to rest for the week ahead. It is absolute barbarity.”
Drake could only agree. “I plan to see the king hears of this. I will speak to Parliament myself.”
The doctor squinted at him. “You are of the nobility, then? Good, good, we need men like you to take up the cause of these children. I would be glad to help . . . write up my findings, appear before Parliament, anything at all.”
Drake patted him on the shoulder. “Yes, any cases you can document would be helpful. The boy can stay here overnight? I have other business that needs attending, but I would like to check on him tomorrow.”
“Certainly. He will be given the best care.”
Drake handed the man some coins and returned to the boy. He picked up Robbie’s bony hand and squeezed it, something he wouldn’t have done even yesterday. “You stay here and rest, Robbie. The doctor is going to take good care of you.”
“But sir, if I don’t return, they’ll dismiss me. I have to have work.”
Drake shook his head, near tears. That the child wanted to go back proved how destitute he really was. “No, you won’t be going back, Robbie. As soon as you are able, I am going to give you a job, a good job, with plenty of food and a good place to sleep at night. And you will go to school. You will learn to read and write and do sums so that someday you can have a life of your own choosing. Does that sound fair, son?”