She shrugged, feeling uncomfortable; his hands on hers were too tight, he spoke too loudly – at this rate, the whole room would know her news. In any case, it had barely sunk in for Eve; her brother’s reaction was quite out of kilter with the way she felt. Around them, dancers had begun to disperse because Clem had abruptly laid down his fiddle to go in search of pale ale. Amos, who still sat by Seth across the room, their backs to the wall, raised his glass at her and smiled. Anna, pink from dancing, appeared by his side and spoke to him, and whatever she said made him laugh out loud.
‘Does he know?’ Silas said, following her gaze.
‘No! I told you, just you, me and Daniel.’
‘So what he’s been whispering about with Seth?’
‘Vegetables probably. When to ’arvest t’beetroot.’
‘I don’t trust him and his ilk. Not sure about her, either.’
He meant Anna, and Eve felt something inside her plummet. She didn’t reply, but stood looking at her friends and her son, who were now talking together. Seth looked up at Anna and told her something. Anna clapped twice then bent down and hugged him. Eve watching, wanted to join them, but Silas spoke again.
‘He’s trouble, Evie. He doesn’t have the best interests of this country at heart. He’s out to bring down capitalists like you and me.’
As usual his face was all smiles, and his voice was light enough. Was he joking, Eve wondered?
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘They’re my friends.’
‘And I’m your brother, and blood’s thicker than water.’
Still he smiled, then he kissed her on the cheek. ‘Let me find you a drink,’ he said. ‘We need to celebrate,’ then, seeing her face, he added, ‘discreetly.’
She watched him weave an elegant path through the crowded room. Behind her, Daniel appeared and encircled her with his arms, pulling her backwards into his chest. He dropped his face into her shoulder and kissed the warm hollow of skin there.
‘Can we leave yet?’ he said, too quietly for anyone but Eve to hear. He was pressed against her and she had to remind herself to breathe.
‘Behave,’ she said. ‘We’ve only been here an hour.’
His mouth found her ear: ‘Mrs Daniel MacLeod,’ he whispered.
She turned in his arms to face him, and Silas was forgotten.
Chapter 35
Before she spoke, Henrietta had had no notion of writing to Emmeline Pankhurst. In any case, she had no idea how to go about it, or what she would say, or why she might bother. Naturally, she was well aware of the campaign for women’s suffrage and, on an academic level, she approved of it. She had followed its emergence, noted its apparent lack of progress; she had formed opinions on the subject, which she aired with lively eloquence when called upon to do so. But to involve herself personally with the movement – well, this had simply never entered her head until, provoked by frustration, she had plucked the idea from her subconscious and flung it at her parents, specifically to sting.
And there it would have ended, an empty threat, nicely timed. Except that as she flounced from the room she heard her father’s words – ‘bluffing’ he’d said – and his unruffled confidence that he had her number turned indignation into anger. She paced the floor in her room, feeling a little ridiculous but too cross to settle to anything. She was twenty-three years old and yet she had no more control over her own life than Isabella. Perhaps she should marry, after all? Perhaps she should put names into a tombola at the next church fête and have someone draw out a husband for her. At least then she might be mistress of her own household, if not her own destiny. But then an image of Thea rose before her and she dismissed all other possibilities. Like Tobias, she was besotted. In the lavender-scented sanctuary of Glendonoch’s great pine linen press, they had silently positioned themselves side by side and Thea, with ingenious cunning and nimble fingers, had managed to pull and secure the double doors from the inside. Henrietta, whose imagination could supply her with nothing more intimate than this, had whispered an endearment and felt in the dark for Thea’s hand, but was stopped and silenced when Thea had leaned in and kissed her, parting her lips with her tongue and running the tip of it along her teeth; she had wet a finger in her own mouth then pushed it down the bodice of Henrietta’s dress, finding a nipple and rubbing gently until it rose and hardened like a little nut under the caress and Henrietta’s breathing came fast and shallow; she had trailed a hand up under Henrietta’s skirts, touching with fluttering fingers the soft flesh of her inner thigh above the top of her stockings. She had seemed to know exactly what she was at and Henrietta felt at once weakened and empowered by the novelty of extreme desire. And then Dickie had galloped along the landing and flung open the doors of the press with a triumphant flourish and Thea, calm as you please, had beckoned him in to join them while Henrietta had panted quietly in the scented darkness and attempted to collect herself.
She hadn’t seen Thea since Glendonoch, but she thought about her almost all the time. Thinking about her now, Henrietta had to support herself, bracing her arms against the writing desk, light-headed with longing. No young earl-in-waiting, no young tweed-clad eldest son, no top-hatted young viscount had ever made her feel about to buckle at the knees.
The crunch of wheels on gravel brought her back to the present and, looking up, she saw her father swaddled in tweed and wool, driving away from the house. Judas, she thought. If it wasn’t for her, he would never have heard of Mr Garforth and now there he went, off to Long Martley to play the enlightened employer. Well, she would show him. Bluffing indeed. Votes for women! Why the blazes not? Full of purpose, she drew out the chair and sat down at her desk. A crisp, businesslike letter to Emmeline Pankhurst, introducing herself and offering support: with this weapon, she would strike back at her infuriating parents and if the cause of women’s suffrage was advanced by-the-by, then that was all to the good.
She dipped her pen in the ink and with a steady hand she began to write.
In the pit yard at Long Martley, three men were performing chin lifts on an iron bar and another three were running back and forth between two posts with what looked like sacks of wet sand on their backs. A further four, stripped to the waist in spite of the cold, were lifting weights, raising the loaded bars in unison like a display team of strongmen. The earl felt overdressed and not a little feeble. He whipped off his scarf and left it behind in the motorcar before crossing the cobbles to Harry Booth’s office. Inside, William Garforth was holding a piece of breathing apparatus by its leather strap and he held it out to Lord Netherwood.
‘New design,’ he said. ‘We’re very pleased with the early trials.’
It was heavy, and its weight took the earl by surprise so that he dropped it and had to retrieve it from the office floor.
‘Quite a contraption,’ he said.
‘Life saver,’ said Harry Booth. ‘Buys a man another hour in a smoke-filled tunnel.’
‘And how do men communicate when they’re wearing it?’ The earl hoped his question demonstrated his seriousness of mind and purpose. Poor show, dropping the mask, he thought. Puts a fellow on the back foot.
‘Each man carries a horn,’ said Mr Garforth. ‘One blast for safe, two for danger. No Lady Henrietta today?’
‘No. I’m afraid she’s indisposed.’ What a cad he felt, leaving her behind.
‘Oh, what a pity. She’d be fascinated by the progress we’ve made. A remarkable young woman, if I may say so. Would you like to follow me?’
He was heading for the door, so the question seemed rhetorical. Outside, Mr Garforth nodded at the weightlifters.
‘Fitness training,’ he said. ‘The first requirement of an efficient rescue squad.’
‘Indeed.’ The earl wondered whether any of them should be mining for coal at this very moment, but anyway he saluted them as they passed. ‘Working jolly hard,’ he said.
‘At any point they might be called upon to shovel many tons of rock, at speed, or to carry the dead weight of an uncons
cious miner on their backs. Strength and stamina, Lord Netherwood. Strength and stamina. Here we are.’
They had reached a long, low-roofed building by the colliery headgear. It was windowless and, when Mr Garforth ushered him inside, the earl saw a simulated underground roadway, faithful in every detail to the one at the bottom of the Long Martley mineshaft.
‘We can fill it with rubble, pump it full of smoke, throw in a flood for good measure. It’s remarkable, the terrors we can reproduce within these walls. Watch your head now, on the way out.’
He smiled, stepped out again and waited for the earl to follow.
‘Do you know what I believe causes fifty per cent of our underground explosions?’ he said.
Lord Netherwood wished he could answer, crisply and authoritatively. Instead, he shook his head.
‘Coal dust,’ said Mr Garforth.
‘Coal dust?’
‘Coal dust. Bit of a problem, hmm? But I promise you, Lord Netherwood, that if you eliminate excessive coal dust from your underground workings, your collieries will be considerably safer.’
‘Eliminate coal dust from a coal mine?’ the earl said. What madness was this?
‘Where possible, yes. Or dilute its power with stone dust or chippings. Pure coal dust, at certain temperatures and in certain conditions, will explode into a lethal fireball. Might well have been the case here last month, but it won’t say as much in the report. Is it out yet?’
‘Imminent,’ said the earl.
‘Coal dust,’ Mr Garforth said again. ‘Don’t underestimate it.’
He set off towards the manager’s office, and the earl followed in his wake. The leather soles of his Bond Street brogues had little purchase on the weathered stone-set pit yard and he walked gingerly, in fear of falling. Mr Garforth, of course, had boots with a grip like Michelin tyres. Why, thought the earl, did he always feel such a bally flyweight in the man’s company? Ahead, Mr Garforth was still talking.
‘Doesn’t need toxic gas to ignite it, you know. I’ve proved it time and again, back at my own colliery. But the only people who’ll listen to me on the subject are the continentals. German collieries are years ahead. Years ahead. Well, here we are.’
He stopped by the Daimler, which stood conspicuously yellow and incongruously clean among the coal wagons at the edge of the yard. The earl was pleased to see a little black Wolseley, however, tucked away in another corner: the fellow hadn’t ridden here, then, on a white charger.
‘Mr Garforth,’ he said, ‘it’s been instructive, as ever, and progress has been simply remarkable.’
‘Thanks to you, Lord Netherwood.’
‘Well, good of you to say but …’
‘Your resources, my vision and a loyal workforce. A winning combination, wouldn’t you say?’
The earl hauled the crankhandle and blessed the patron saint of motorists when the engine sparked into life at the first attempt. He opened the door and climbed inside. Leather, walnut, chrome; this was his world, and in it, he began to relax.
‘Until next time,’ he said. Luncheon: rare beef and a glass of claret. This thought cheered him further.
Mr Garforth, straight-backed and soldierly, saluted him by way of a farewell. The car moved away, jolting on the uneven surface of the yard, and an arm emerged from the driver’s side window, returning the gesture. Mr Garforth smiled. He liked the earl. A willingness to learn was a rare commodity among the landowning class, in his experience. Not to mention a willingness to spend money on people other than themselves. Lord Netherwood hadn’t even queried the last set of accounts, and he knew from Harry Booth that they were hefty. Guilt money, according to Booth, but this seemed ungenerous to William Garforth, who looked for the best in everyone he met and generally found something to admire. Respectfully, he waited until the Daimler had disappeared up the cinder track before he turned once again towards the manager’s office.
Seth was free. When Eve and Daniel had left the party – one night away in a Sheffield hotel and Seth didn’t want to dwell on the matter – he had seized the moment and walked straight to New Mill Colliery still clad in tailcoat and pinstripes, afraid that he if he turned up for the afternoon shift in work clothes he’d end up losing his nerve and be condemned to the screens for all eternity. Of course, the second he walked into the pit yard he regretted the strategy, but anyway he ran the gauntlet of hooting, taunting and attempts on his dignity, and made it unscathed to the offices, where he stood for a moment, adjusted his waistcoat, then knocked at the door. It was opened at once by Sidney Cutts, who wasn’t actually answering the knock, but merely exiting the colliery manager’s office. He stopped though, when he saw Seth, and took a step back, the better to enjoy the spectacle.
‘Don,’ he said, deadpan. ‘Little Lord Fauntleroy to see thi.’
Don Manvers looked across at Seth.
‘Bugger me,’ he said. Sidney and Seth switched places; the boy came in, the man left for the stores and Seth could see him shaking his head as he went, as if he’d never seen the like. Mr Manvers took a noisy slurp from a mug on his desk; tea, the colour of dark terracotta, furred the inside of his mouth. Unsmiling, unnerving, he said: ‘Well?’
‘Sorry, Mr Manvers,’ Seth said. ‘I came straight from my mam’s wedding.’
‘Is that right? Well, tha looks a right barmcake and no mistake. That’s no get-up for a working lad.’
‘I’m givin’ notice, Mr Manvers. ‘I’m not cut out for t’job.’
The pit manager sucked the tea off his teeth and stared at Seth. The lad had taken off the top hat, at least; he held it like a begging bowl, clutching the rim with his two hands.
‘I could ’ave told thi that when tha came to ask for a place,’ he said, slowly and after an uncomfortable pause. ‘In fact, I think I did tell thi that. Or words to that effect.’
‘Yes, Mr Manvers.’
‘Back to school, is it?’
‘If they’ll ’ave me.
‘Go on then. Get gone. An’ if them lads outside ’ave thi guts for garters, there’s nob’dy to blame but thisen.’
The boy walked backwards from the manager’s desk like a royal flunky. Don Manvers, hiding a smile, picked up a stack of timesheets and placed a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose.
‘Thank you, Mr Manvers,’ said Seth at the door. It was done. He felt lighter, actually lighter; he felt like he’d just deposited a sack of coal on the office floor.
Mr Manvers regarded him over the top of his lenses and said: ‘Does thi mam know?’
‘No, Mr Manvers. I’ll tell ’er when she’s back.’
‘Did tha buy ’er a wedding present?’
Seth coloured. ‘No, Mr Manvers.’
‘Well, tha won’t ’ave to now,’ he said, then he took up a pen and resumed his paperwork, and Seth closed the door then turned and ran pell-mell through the pit yard before anyone could get their hands on him.
Chapter 36
The earl, enjoying the drive home, had taken a spontaneous detour, running the motor up and around the narrow, twisting lane to the top of Harley Hill, where he got out and leaned on the bonnet, feeling the warmth of the engine through his coat. The scrubby green sward of the common rolled out beside him to his right and before him lay Netherwood, in a hundred shades of grey. At the centre of the town the groundwork for the miners’ memorial had begun. The plan had changed since its conception; it was to be bronze now, not granite, and not an obelisk but the figure of a miner carrying a lamp. Henry’s idea, like so much else. A stone monument was impersonal, she had said, and not a fitting tribute to the men who had died in the earl’s service. There was to be a granite plinth, however, and a great granite tablet bearing the names of the men claimed by the Netherwood mines. The mason had asked – politely, with no edge – should he leave space for other names, perhaps? No, the earl had said, we must assume the best, and in the event of the worst, then … tailing off, the earl had left the yard in the grip of a bleak reverie. The mason had reach
ed P and already there were well over two hundred men and boys remembered there, in the stone. They weighed on the earl’s conscience, these souls. Sometimes he saw them in his sleep.
In the distance the town hall clock struck half-past twelve and the earl stirred himself for the homeward leg. Once again, he hoiked the engine back into action, then slapped the wheel arch in an encouraging, friendly way – a horseman’s habit that he had brought to motoring.
‘Home, James,’ he said to himself, then climbed in and pointed the Daimler down the hill, releasing the throttle and letting the car pick up a bit of speed, just for the joy of it. He felt the rush of cold air in his face and allowed himself a short, conservative whoop of exhilaration, the thought crossing his mind that there was more of Tobias in him than he sometimes cared to acknowledge. He took one hand from the wheel and yanked at the earflaps of his leather hat, tugging them lower. Hawthorn whipped the sides of the car as he sped downhill. At each bend, he gave a blast on the horn, to announce his imminent appearance to anyone in his path, though he didn’t actually expect to encounter anyone. A startled rabbit, perhaps, or a fat pheasant, running idiotically into his path instead of taking to the air; he’d certainly flattened a few of those in his motoring career. Damned waste it was too, when they’d been lovingly reared for the shoot.
‘What’s the difference,’ Isabella had asked him once, ‘killing them with the car or with a gun? Either way they end up dead.’ He had laughed.
‘Dear child,’ he had said. ‘The difference is this; method one is an unfortunate accident: method two, a sporting assault, and a planned one.’
‘Not entirely sporting. The birds can’t shoot back,’ she had said. Isabella had her mother’s pretty pout and the same coquettish, endearing, irresistible way of conducting an argument. Henrietta, however – ah, she might learn a thing or two about womanly wiles from her mother and sister. She had stalked out of the morning room this morning with a face like a stormy sky, just as she had done since childhood. Henry’s rages had always clouded her face and made her plain. The earl smiled at the recollection of her parting shot. Mrs Pankhurst indeed! Clever old Henry; she had always known the precise weapons to use against her mother. He would find her the moment he returned and …
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