by Sally Orr
Yes, she was grumpy. She had been grumpy all morning, for that matter. Why did Mr. Thornbury insist they visit the mine today? She had asked Henry to join them, but this morning he had called off, citing an urgent need to consult with a client in Hale. Since she owed Mr. Thornbury for Berdy’s care, she must keep the appointment. Somehow she suspected this journey, to view the smoke from a steam engine on the east side of Macclesfield, would not alleviate her grumps.
Mr. Thornbury bounded up to greet her, handed her into the landau, and joined her on the seat facing the horses. His tall frame seemed to fill more than his share of the carriage’s interior.
She wouldn’t feel so close if his shoulders were narrower—she peeked over and examined him—by at least a half a foot. William had perfect shoulders, at least four inches less, and would have moved to the opposite seat before imposing upon a lady of such short acquaintance. Then one minute later, she remembered Mr. Thornbury’s speaking voice was a warm baritone. Lower than William’s clear tone by at least five notes. She supposed her life would be like this now. Whenever she was in the company of another man, she couldn’t help but compare him to the wonderful man she had lost.
She grabbed the carriage’s handle, and the scenery outside soon blurred as the coachman drove, if not to the inch, at least to the foot.
The reckless speed seemed to have no detrimental effect upon Mr. Thornbury’s spirits, as he whistled a lively tune.
“You are very happy this morning,” she said.
“How can I not be? You are here, and in a few minutes we’ll reach the coal mine. There you will see a working ten-horsepower steam engine in situ. A machine similar to the one purchased for our foundry. You’ll then discover the truth about how much smoke is actually produced. It’s only just that you witness this for yourself and not depend upon hearsay.” He winked at her.
Elinor focused on his bright gilt-colored waistcoat and tried to capture some of his enthusiasm but failed. Like every person suffering from the grumps, she was quick to anger after witnessing the happiness of others. “Why is this lease so important to you?”
He examined her face, possibly because he couldn’t believe anyone could ask something so foolish. “Many reasons. Foremost, Mother will be pleased. The profits from the foundry will allow her to furnish Blackwell to her taste and…don’t ask me to explain, but it’s essential for her happiness.”
Even though it did not seem possible a minute ago, her grumpiness increased. If she rejected his lease now, it would cause his mother grief. She would never willingly cause sorrow in another human being, but she still had her reasons to be skeptical about the foundry. So in case the day ended in disagreement, she resolved to plead on Berdy’s behalf before they reached the mine. “I have a favor to ask of you. I’d be grateful if you would introduce Berdy to your business interests, since I’d dearly love for him to find a respectable occupation that will keep him in Cheshire.”
He inhaled deeply and scanned her face. “Perhaps, although this month I’m busy. My business partner, his daughters, and several of my friends will be visiting Blackwell for a house party. I want to introduce one of the daughters to my mother. There will be many parties and amusements to entertain everyone. I’ll invite the whole neighborhood, so I hope both you and Deane will join us.”
Elinor nodded and repeated his vague reply. “Perhaps.” The news of his obvious sweetheart did little to alleviate her grumpiness. If he married and brought a wife to Blackwell, she should be pleased that a new female friend would reside within such an easy distance, especially if Berdy left Cheshire permanently. Except all she could do this moment was stare at him. Was he a man in love, and would he spend the journey talking about his sweetheart? Now she discovered a mood below grumpy, called “unjustified anger,” and could not determine its exact cause. After all, Mr. Thornbury meant nothing to her other than a future friend.
Seconds later, he acknowledged her brazen stare with a lifted brow. She had no desire to turn away or blush, so she examined him closely for any betrayal of affection concerning his sweetheart, and he made no move to stop her perusal.
Without warning, the carriage stopped, throwing her forward toward the opposite seat. She stretched out her hands to brace herself, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back. She found herself sitting on his knee, and he failed to let her go. Holding her breath, she waited for him to release her.
Still holding her fast, he lowered the window with one hand and called to his coachman. “George, why did we stop?”
Snorting noises from outside the carriage indicated George was having trouble with the horses. “Sorry, sir, a rabbit,” replied a booming voice from the direction of the coachman’s seat. “Hercules is mighty afeared o’ rabbits when they hop.”
Mr. Thornbury raised the window and lifted her to sit fully upon his lap. “Mighty Hercules, indeed.” The carriage jerked forward on its journey.
Aware of her scandalous situation—his warm body underneath her—she began to pant.
He readily observed this. “You’re not like other clergymen’s widows, who would immediately take a seat on the opposite side. Since we are alone, and you have not moved, shall I read you chapter three? The title is: ‘A Witty Lady Becomes Witless.’”
“You just mentioned a sweetheart. So your rake’s handbook is obsolete.” Elinor smiled at his startled expression. “You will be writing a new handbook, of course.” She relaxed, her lack of response to his handbook and swift change of subject worked well. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, her grumpiness vanished, and she found herself quite happy sitting where she was. They were alone in a carriage, so she saw no immediate reason to change.
He rolled his eyes. “And that handbook would be?”
“Why, The Handbook of Marital Happiness.”
“That book, madam, will never sell.”
“You are right. As the author, you must think of a more appealing title. I’m sure the handbook will prove very popular and published more than three times too. Let’s see, the titles of chapters one through four will describe the courtship: ‘Gifts of Roses,’ ‘Whispered Promises,’ ‘Alluring Blushes,’ and ‘Stolen Kisses.’”
He lifted her over to sit on the opposing bench facing him. “Is this road too rough? I fear it is making me ill.”
She laughed, even though she regretted the loss of his warm lap. “The titles of five and six will describe the thrill of being presented to society as a couple: ‘The Tender Betrothal,’ ‘Private Winks and Giggles.’”
“Humph, a mile longer on this road and we will both be ill.”
“Chapter three—”
“Hell’s fire. How many chapters does this handbook have?”
She fanned her face and batted her eyelids. “Ten.”
“Ten!” He frowned at the repetition of his own words spoken at the lake. “No, like you, I plan to stop reading after the table of contents. Unless the pages v and i stimulate further reading.” Now he sported a wily grin—a mocking challenge.
Time to teach him a lesson. She leaned forward and traced the vee forming the edge of his gold waistcoat. She made sure the pressure of her finger was hard enough for him to feel. “Your favorite page is not a vulgar one, is it?”
With one swift motion he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him.
She found herself on his lap again, her face within inches of his. She held her breath.
“No, the vulgar pages are the main text of the handbook and always come after the table of contents,” he said, focusing on her mouth, then inhaling once before engaging in an unyielding kiss.
Desire instantly claimed her from the movement of his lips. She recognized her urgent need for what it was—a disarming effect created by a masterful rake. She took courage in that thought, but—to her chagrin—found she was not offended. Surprisingly, she rather enjoyed the sudden excitement. A full mi
nute passed before she lifted her lips. She needed to gulp air, stop her racing blushes. Heavens, if he still didn’t wear that victorious grin.
“I enjoy our handbook discussions.” His grin expanded into a broad smile. “Let’s talk about books some more.” He enclosed her within a tight embrace. “Binding.” He kissed her once again.
Smiling, she shoved him back. “End papers.”
He softly stroked her lips with the back of his forefinger. “Rubbed.”
She shoved his hand away and pointed to her forehead. “Unbound.”
He leaned forward in an attempt to kiss her again. “Broadside.”
“Spine.” She giggled and pulled away. “Your endpapers are definitely cut. Berdy was right. You are a complete hand.” She composed herself, ignored her blushes, and felt no guilt about the kisses whatsoever. All this flummery meant nothing more than a professional rake playing females like a fiddle to get whatever he desired. In this case, a fun exercise, like six-year-olds holding hands, but not any action of significance. She wondered if he would cease his teasing games once he was wed. “The number of chapters in the book of marriage are endless,” she said, stopping any further action by sitting as far from him as the landau would allow. “Don’t you agree? My love for William will never die.” The carriage turned a corner behind a row of cottages, and a busy colliery loomed ahead. She took a deep breath to compose herself. “We’ve arrived.”
“Just in time too,” he said in a wry tone. Glancing out the window, he pointed. “Look.”
In front of them rose a spinning flywheel at least ten feet in diameter. Next she caught sight of the steam engine’s rocking beams, all moving together in a choreographed cotillion of iron. Lastly, probably because it didn’t move, a brick chimney belching smoke riveted her gaze. The soot-tinged smoke rose in a powerful plume before the wind proved stronger and pushed it to the south. The entire colliery emitted a symphony of clangs, whistles, and hissing steam.
“The chimney is smaller than I expected,” she said, “but the smell—”
“The flue is a standard height, so you will smell the smoke only close to the mine.”
***
After a brief tour of the workings, they walked to a small hill overlooking the colliery. Even at a hundred yards from the flue, the smoke made the sun look like a disk without rays. This and the smell of sour steam convinced her of the impossibility of a similar chimney close to Pinnacles. If she asked him now, would he end his plans to build a foundry?
Mr. Thornbury pointed to the brick chimney, directing her attention back to the colliery. “I trust you observed the smoke. This Watt engine is similar to the steam engine I expect to purchase, so you can see that with a machine of this size, the smoke clears rapidly. The best part of our plan is that we expect to generate profits approaching ten thousand per year.” He chuckled. “I cannot wait to give Mother carte blanche with the house.” The boyish expression now crossing his features might be as fatal to some ladies as his remarkable smile. “You should be pleased. My foundry will have little impact on the surrounding area.”
Once again she glanced at the gray plume spewing from the colliery’s chimney, and the acrid smell somehow grew worse. She remained silent and unmoving until a piece of soot blew into her eye, forcing her to remove it with her finger. “How many chimneys do you need? Will your chimneys be this size or smaller?”
“One of this size. We are closer to the smoke here than your house would be. But even at this distance, the air is fresh, and the smoke is barely noticeable.”
She decided her ears were defective, either that or his nose. She stared in disbelief, unable to formulate a coherent sentence. Without a word in response, she started back to the carriage.
Nearing the landau, she found a small boy of eight or nine years petting the horses. He carried a sack, tin cup, and inky soot clung to every inch of his person. She bent to face the child at eye level and struck up a conversation.
Within minutes she learned the child rose at two in the morning and worked twelve hours standing still in the dark. The bright lad explained that the mine was built like a ladder, with two long pits representing the ladder’s frame. Cool air went down one pit, while hot air rose in the other after being heated by a fire. To get air all the way down to the miners at the bottom, doors were closed at each rung. His job as a trapper was to keep his door shut, so air flowed to the lowest depths. The closed door he tended also stopped the spread of firedamp, the major cause of lethal explosions. He opened his door only to let the coal wagons pass on the burrow-ways. For six days a week, the boy stood in his small alcove. He was one of many boys doing the same job. In the blackness. Alone.
Her heart sank, and she became close to tears. She had no idea the type of jobs the children undertook. Like others of her acquaintance, she assumed they worked close to their father or attended the pit ponies. What kind of future would England have if a large number of her children engaged in labor? Reaching into her reticule, she gave the boy two shillings. “Here’s a shilling for you,” she said, captivated by his wide white eyes shining from his soot-covered face. “And another shilling for your mother, because of her son’s fine answers to my questions.”
The boy tugged on his forelock. “Thank you, mum.” Then he held up his pants with one hand and ran toward the row of cottages.
She glared at Mr. Thornbury.
Slapping his gloves on his thigh, he raised his voice. “Don’t give me that female how-could-you look. In some families, a son may be the only source of income, so mining is better than starving.”
Her thoughts became disordered and distracted. “Is it? Yes, of course it is.” She resolved to spend more time considering the consequences of steam engines upon others. She then attempted to formulate the appropriate words to explain she was incapable of reaching a decision today. “Will children work in your foundry?”
“Boys are usually employed as ironstone-getters.” He gave her a hard squint. “Maybe someday children will not have to work to put food on the table. Then everyone will live in wealth. Our steam engines will lead us to that future, I’ll wager.”
She made no comment, and they stood for several minutes without speaking, the distant rhythmic sound of the engine surrounding them. She noticed a piece of sod that he had absentmindedly kicked was blackened only on one side. What first appeared to be uniform dark earth on the surface, revealed itself to be coal soot on top and brown dirt underneath. Two years of this colliery’s operation had smothered the ground in a blackened mantle. She wondered if her lovely garden would become blackened too. He noticed the black sod, and her spirits lifted a little. He must now see the impossibility of building his foundry close to her home.
He pulled his hat’s brim lower upon his brow. “The mine is exciting, is it not?”
She swallowed. “Exciting? No. Look around. Smell the air. The expression on people’s faces. Are you blind?”
“I do not understand. The smoke is tolerable. Perhaps if I show you some figures of the estimated profits, the number of men employed—”
“Children, you mean.” She experienced one of those moments when women instantly look around for an object to throw. Since they were alone in a field, nothing presented itself. She stomped back toward the carriage.
He hurried after her, caught her arm, forcing her to face him. “Excuse me. You are refusing my lease then?” His voice choked on the end of his question.
Elinor resisted kicking his shin. “Sir, please.” She begged him with her eyes not to continue the subject.
He panted and said nothing.
“My home is everything. You have a future. Family—”
“Madam, a house is a house.”
“No!” Her anger escalated, a knot forming in her chest. “My home is a place to hold my memories of William, a place for Berdy’s future children to play around my hearth.”
“A
house is a pile of stones. It’s not a family or a future.”
“How can you say that when your mother feels the same about her home?”
“You mistake me. If you knew my mother better, you would understand. She’s heartbroken over your refusal. To her it’s not the house, it’s a way to stop…” He paused and removed his beaver hat to brush the nap smooth with his elbow. A muscle in his jaw tightened; he looked down.
Sadness? Did she truly see sorrow in his features? Instantly mortified, she asked for his forgiveness. “Sir, we have both said enough. Perhaps I do not understand you, and I had no intention of causing Lady Helen distress, but let me make myself clear. My husband died over a year ago now. A mourning brooch, a marble bas-relief in the church, and our home are all I have to remember him by.” She paused. “All I have, except for Berdy. I cannot agree to your lease, and I prefer we leave here this minute. For Berdy’s sake, I wish to put this unpleasantness behind us. I offer you an olive branch, Mr. Thornbury. Will you take it?” She offered her hand and held her breath.
“No!” He stared at her, his stormy blue eyes as turbulent as the plume of billowing smoke. “I’ve the right to justly develop my land as I see fit for the happiness of my family. I will build my foundry as planned, and you are correct, madam.” He pointed to the distant chimney. “This chimney flue is too small. My stack will be bigger—much bigger.”
Nine
Ross stood on his portico watching a mud-covered traveling chaise pull into Blackwell’s circular drive. Inside the carriage, two of his closest friends could be seen in profile. One of them caught sight of Ross and attempted to lean out the window, but stopped when his hat was knocked off.
After the carriage came to a full stop, a tall, lanky man with curly brown hair and jesting green eyes jumped out first. Lord Boyce Parker violently shook Ross’s hand before slapping him on the back several times. “Yes, yes, hallo, hallo.”
“Good to see you,” Ross said. His friends had arrived in time to join Lucy Allardyce, her father, and her younger sisters for a dinner party the next evening. Later in the week, more guests were expected, then a large house party would formally get under way. The monthlong festivities would end with an extravagant ball, the entire county invited to attend.