A Gentleman Of Substance

Chapter Six

It took Lucy several hours to calm herself sufficiently to get to sleep. Tossing and turning in her bed, she thought of all the scathing remarks she wished she’d hurled at Drake. Worst of all, she knew with galling certainty that he had marched off to his own bed for a peaceful, untroubled night.

She woke late the next morning, having scarcely slept at all. In a particularly rebellious mood, she dressed in a serviceable old gown she’d brought to Silverthorne from the vicarage. Phyllipa or no Phyllipa, she intended to pay some calls on her friends in Nicholthwait today.

Descending the stairs, she looked forward to a quiet breakfast without the company of her husband and his cousin.

She nodded to the butler. “Mr. Talbot? Since I’ve come late to breakfast, tell Mrs. Maberley not to bother with a full meal for me. Tea and bread will be quite sufficient.”

“Are you certain, ma’am? It would be no trouble.”

“Quite certain, Mr. Talbot. In fact you may tell Mrs. Maberley that from now on I will take tea and bread for my breakfast.”

As the butler set off for the kitchen, Lucy let out a long, shaky breath. There, that hadn’t been so difficult. Her stomach felt less upset already.

Slipping into the quiet breakfast room, she startled at the sight of Drake sitting at the head of the table. He acknowledged her with a cool nod. She replied in kind. For a wild instant, Lucy found herself wishing Phyllipa had been there to ease the tension with her prattle.

As she took her seat, she noticed the rise and fall of Drake’s fork picking up tempo. As rapidly as humanly possible, he consumed his breakfast. Evidently, he was as eager to get away from her as she was to see him go. With a flush of vindictive satisfaction, Lucy noted the dark shadows beneath his eyes. Perhaps he hadn’t slept as soundly as she’d assumed.

She was beginning to fidget and wonder how soon Talbot would bring her tea, when she heard the muted sounds of a commotion in the entry. Drake must have heard it, too, for he looked toward the door. At first Lucy could make nothing of the words, except their tone of anger and urgency. Then, quite clearly, she heard mine and cave-in. Dropping his cutlery in midbite, Drake rose from his chair and strode out of the room. Lucy followed.

In the entry hall stood Talbot, Silverthorne’s normally phlegmatic butler, engaged in a shouting match with a stranger—by far the dirtiest individual Lucy had ever seen. Spying Drake, he tried to shoulder his way past Talbot.

When Drake approached, the stranger lunged forward, clutching the lapels of his coat. “Cave-in at High Head, sir! A whole shift of men trapped!”

Drake responded immediately. Grabbing the stranger by the arm he propelled him out the door. Lucy presumed they were headed for the stables. As she stood there, momentarily stunned by the turn of events, Talbot brushed off his coat where the stranger had laid hands on it.

“Why did you not show the man in at once, Mr. Talbot?”

“As I informed the caller, ma’am—” he thrust back his shoulders and drew himself into a severely straight posture “—a few minutes either way wasn’t going to matter. His lordship slept poorly last night, and I felt he should be able to enjoy his breakfast in peace.”

“His lordship slept poorly?” Lucy savored the taste of those words. Innocently, she asked, “What was the trouble?”

“His lordship did not choose to confide that information.”

Hearing the clatter of hooves in the forecourt, she looked outside just in time to see Drake and the messenger riding off at full gallop. With a pang of shame, Lucy remembered the cave-in at High Head, the trapped miners and their families. She had no business gloating over a minor victory in her running battle with Drake when there might be something she could do to help.

Immediately an idea came to her. It would mean issuing orders to the Silverthorne servants—particularly the formidable Mr. Talbot and the cook, who wore a constant frown of disapproval. In the end she would likely receive a stern lecture from Drake as well, for breaking any number of edicts on the proper conduct of a viscountess.

Both considerations gave her pause. Life at Silverthorne had been intolerable enough for the past month. Did she need to make it worse? On the other hand, who else had the means and the authority to bring relief to the people of High Head?

Swallowing a lump in her throat and wiping moist palms on the skirt of her gown, Lucy gave her first true order as Mistress Silverthorne. “Mr. Talbot, kindly inform the hostlers I want a sturdy wagon and a good strong team. Have them harness up the little tilbury as well. In the meantime, I want the household staff to round up supplies for me.”

“Supplies, ma’am?” The butler looked bewildered.

“Lord Silverthorne has set off for High Head and I mean to follow. I’ll need blankets, cotton for bandages. Food, of course. I’ll speak to Mrs. Maberley about that. Well, Talbot, don’t just stand there. We have work to do.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The butler acknowledged her with a twitch of his head. Then he blew a shrill whistle that brought several young footmen scurrying.

For the next hour the elegant halls of Silverthorne echoed with footsteps proceeding far more quickly than their usual sedate pace. From her headquarters in the front entry hall, Lucy marshaled her supplies, diverted only briefly to don her gloves, her bonnet and a thick shawl. The wagon appeared without delay and was soon piled high with commandeered food and other supplies.

“One more thing, Mr. Talbot.” Lucy stood on the tips of her toes and whispered in his ear.

The butler’s face went white. “B-b-but your 1-1-ladyship,” he sputtered. “That’s the last of his lordship’s French stock. God knows when we shall see decent brandy again as long as Boney’s got a stranglehold on the Continent.”

Lucy put her hands on her hips. “I have every confidence in General Wellington, Mr. Talbot. Now, go and get me that brandy. I will take full responsibility for disposing of it.”

Talbot trudged away with the air of a man ordered to present his children for ritual sacrifice. Lucy turned her attention back to the wagon.

“What a fine idea,” she commended the two footmen who covered her load with a heavy sheet of canvas.

When she ordered the driver off the tilbury gig, the man gave her a puzzled look. “Who’s to drive you, ma’am?”

“I shall drive myself, of course.” Lucy tried her best to look confident—and taller. “I’m very good with horses.”

“I must protest, madam.” Mr. Talbot reappeared with a small wooden crate lovingly cradled in his arms. “That’s no journey for a lady to make by herself. I feel certain his lordship would not approve.”

Lucy felt equally certain, but she had no intention of letting that stop her. There were people in trouble who needed her help. For the first time in weeks, she felt strong, confident and alive. “As you see, Mr. Talbot, his lordship is not on hand to consult.”

The butler began to sputter again. Lucy relieved him of the crate of brandy, tucking it under the driver’s seat of the gig. “If it will put your mind at rest, Talbot, I do not intend to go all the way to High Head by myself.”

The butler’s craggy features betrayed visible relief.

“No indeed.” Lucy accepted a hand up into driver’s seat. “I’ll stay close to the supply wagon at all times. I also mean to stop at the vicarage and enlist my father to accompany me.”

“What is all this to-do? Where is Viscount Silverthorne? Will someone kindly tell me what is going on?” Phyllipa emerged from the entry hall. She stared at the supply wagon and Lucy’s gig, as though the whole scene were some kind of apparition.

Talbot briefly explained the situation.

“This is ridiculous! Lucinda, come down at once. Rest assured I would never have let you get this far if I had known what was going on. I was in the nursery with Reggie. The poor child has suffered a dreadful bilious attack.”

Undoubtedly brought on by eating too many stolen sweet buns, Lucy thought. She wished Phyllipa would be quiet for a minute so she could get a word in.

“I’ve finally got him settled,” Phyllipa continued with no foreseeable break, “only to discover that in my absence Silverthorne has been turned upside down and the lady of the house is preparing to drive off to some dreadful mine. Really, Lucinda, you must remember your new station. It is out of the question for a viscountess to undertake such a madcap escapade. Whatever will his lordship say when he finds out?”

She finally paused for breath.

“He can say what he likes,” replied Lucy. “I’m going and that’s all there is to it. As you are so fond of reminding me, Phyllipa, I am Lady Silverthorne, now. Short of throwing ing yourself in front of my horse, there isn’t much you can do to stop me.”

With that, Lucy twitched the reins against the rump of the bay gelding, who set off smartly. Unfortunately, Lady Phyllipa did not accept the invitation to hurl herself into its path.

It was well into the afternoon by the time Lucy and her father reached High Head. The wind felt chillier at this altitude than down in the valley around Mayeswater. It had blown in a bank of fat, dark-bottomed clouds that were beginning to spit heavy drops of rain.

A crowd had collected some distance from the mouth of the mine—a shaft cut horizontally into the side of a steep hill, now choked with fallen earth and rock. Lucy could see boys running back and forth with barrows and handcarts, tipping what debris the digging crews had unearthed. The rescuers must have made a good start, for they had managed to tunnel their way out of sight.

“Excuse me,” Lucy called to a man on the fringe of the crowd. It was obvious why he had not joined in the rescue effort, for one of his shirt sleeves hung empty below the elbow. “I have food and supplies. Is there anywhere I can set up to get these people out of the rain?”

“Aye, miss. There’s the overseer’s office. Though I don’t imagine he’d care for folks crowding in there.”

“Where is he? I shall ask him myself.”

An old man in the crowd cackled, “We ain’t seen aught of Mr. Crook since last night. Skinned out for parts unknown if you ask me. Didn’t want the new owner breathing down his neck. Still, you’d best not take over his office without permission, lass.”

“The lass is Lady Silverthorne,” barked the driver of the supply wagon. “Her husband owns this mine.”

The old man exchanged a glance with the one-armed fellow. He shrugged. “If you’re t’new owner’s wife, lass, I reckon you can go wherever you please. Can we show you the way and give you a hand getting set up?”

“By all means. Thank you.” Lucy uttered a silent prayer that she would not find Drake in possession of the overseer’s office. He would surely pack her off back to Silverthorne before she had a chance to climb down from the gig.

In fact, the building was eerily empty. Lucy could see her breath in the still, cold air. The five-room dwelling, which evidently served as both office headquarters and residence for the overseer, had certainly been vacant all day.

“Let’s get some fires going.” Lucy issued her first order. “This being a colliery, we’ll have no shortage of fuel.”

Her two drafted helpers looked at each other for a moment, then turned on Lucy with eager smiles. “Right, ma’am. Fires. Unload the wagon. See to the horses.”

“A commendable set of priorities, gentlemen. I will be along to help you in few minutes.” Lucy turned to her father. “I need you to go out to the crowd and bring back anyone who has relatives trapped in the mine. It will be a while before I can do much for them, but you can be of help immediately. Besides, filling this building with bodies might help to warm it up.”

“What’s that you say, my dear? Oh, the people outside.” Vicar Rushton looked altogether confounded by the flood tide of events that had overtaken him. “We must get them out of the weather, by all means.” At the door he hesitated, looking back at Lucy. “Do you think I’ll be able to make myself heard over that wind?”

Lucy dropped a fond kiss on her father’s cheek. His fluffy white side-whiskers tickled her nose. “Use your lectionary delivery.”

“Of course.” The vicar’s ruddy countenance blossomed with a confident smile. “Reading from the gospel according to Saint John.” he declared in tones of clerical resonance.

“That’s the way.” Lucy patted his shoulder. “Now go round them up. If they’re nervous about coming, tell them it’s all been approved by the new owner.”

“Has it, indeed?” The Reverend Rushton gave Lucy a shrewd questioning look. Perhaps he understood more of what was going on around him than he cared to let on.

Lucy held her head high. “Once his lordship hears what we are doing, I believe he will endorse the idea.” Everything but her own part in it, she silently reminded herself.

The vicar nodded. His long fringe of white hair danced wildly around his red face. “I expect you’re right. I’ve known few men with so genuine a concern for the working people.”

Lucy scarcely looked up from her work for the next several hours. When she finally had a moment to do so, she glanced around the room with a flush of pride and satisfaction. Kettles of coffee, tea and soup steamed away on the hob of every hearth. Relatives of the trapped miners sat huddled in small groups, talking amongst themselves in tones of quiet encouragement. A short time ago she had dispatched baskets of cake and sandwiches to the rescue crew, along with three bottles of Drake’s French brandy. Lucy hoped the men she had sent with those provisions would return soon with heartening news of the rescue effort.

As she wended her way through the crowded rooms of the building with a fresh tray of sandwiches, Lucy noticed one young woman sitting off by herself. Her thin fingers clenched around a mug, the woman stared listlessly out the window. Even her high-waisted dress did not conceal her bulging belly. Lucy’s heart immediately went out to her.

Sinking down onto a stool beside the woman, she held out her tray. “Would you care for a sandwich? They aren’t very dainty I’m afraid, but they’re good and nourishing. You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

The woman set her cup down on the wide window ledge beside her. She took a sandwich from the plate and nibbled at one corner of it.

“I’m Mrs. Strickland. The vicar who brought you in here is my father. I hope we won’t have to wait much longer for good news of your husband.”

The woman gave Lucy a queer look. “My name is Alice Leadbitter, ma’am. And it ain’t my husband who’s down the mine. In fact, he’s helping them dig. Only wish I could. It’s so hard to wait and not be able to do anything. My boy’s down in that mine, Mrs. Strickland. Poor little mite. He’ll be that scared.” Her lower lip began to quiver, and Lucy could see Alice Leadbitter’s eyes misting with tears.

“Your son? Mrs. Leadbitter, you can’t be any older than I am. How could you have a son working in a coal mine?”

“I’m twenty-four. My Geordie is eight years old. He only started working last month.”

A boy of eight employed at such dangerous, backbreaking work. Lucy could hardly believe her ears. She’d heard tales of child labor in the big industrial cities to the south, but here in the Penines? Drake would soon put a stop to that practice. But where was Drake? She’d seen him ride out for High Head at a furious speed. All afternoon she’d kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting him to blaze down on her with a stern lecture about her conduct.

“I didn’t want him to go.” Mrs. Leadbitter wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I told John the lad was too young to be working. John said he’d started working on his pa’s farm when he was a good bit younger than our Geordie. We needed the money, with another mouth to feed soon.

“So there was nothing for it but to put Geordie to work. Then this happened. How long will their air last? What if the gas builds up and explodes? I’ll never forgive myself if…if…”

Lucy reached for the woman’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

Lucy glanced up to see Anthony Brown returned from delivering food to the rescuers. “The fellows up to the mine shaft nearly tore me to pieces getting at that grub. They said could you send more?”

“That we shall, Anthony. But first, what is the news? Mrs. Leadbitter’s boy is in the mine, so she’s naturally anxious to know how soon he’ll be out.”

The man flashed Alice Leadbitter an apologetic glance. “Fraid I wouldn’t know that, ma’am. Don’t know as the chaps doing the digging have any notion how soon they’ll break through. They’ve shifted a pile of earth and rock, though, I can tell you. There’s one fellow there—a stranger. Big tall man, digging for all he’s worth.”

“My husband,” Lucy cried, barely aware of the pride in her voice.

“Oh, that explains it,” said Anthony. “I offered him a drink from one of them bottles. Well sir, he takes a swig and then he says, ‘Best use this brandy’s ever been put to.’ Another swig and a sandwich and he was right back to shoveling again.”

Lucy nodded. “Go ask the women over at that table to refill your basket, Anthony. I’ll be with you directly.” She turned to Mrs. Leadbitter. “You heard what Anthony said. My husband is personally leading the dig. He’s a very determined man, Mrs. Leadbitter. He’ll get your Geordie out safe and sound.”

Alice Leadbitter’s reply was drowned out by a low, rumbling sound in the distance.

Someone cried, “There’s been another rock slide!”

A furor erupted in the overseer’s office as anxious women rushed to the windows. Lucy sat rooted to her chair. Drake was out there now, burrowing toward the trapped miners. What if he was now entombed, himself? Or crushed by a falling boulder? With a start Lucy came to herself again. She and Mrs. Leadbitter were holding each other’s hands so tightly, their knuckles had gone white.

Chapter Seven

The first of the injured rescue crew arrived at Lucy’s makeshift aid station within minutes. She pushed down her paralyzing fear for Drake’s safety by concentrating on her duties.

“Bring him this way. Put him on the bed. Shift that settee into this room as well. Has anyone seen my basket of bandages?”

Peering closely at her first patient, Lucy recognized him as the stranger who had appeared at Silverthorne that morning. Had it been this very day? Lucy felt as though she’d been at High Head for a week at least. The man’s leg was distended at a painful-looking angle below the knee. Fortunately the fractured bone had not pierced the flesh of his leg.

Lucy glanced around, hoping to spy the doctor she had sent for. She did not feel confident to set a broken bone. The man’s other injury, a gash on the forehead, she immediately tended with a clean cloth and hot water.

“Will he be all right, Mrs. Strickland?”

Lucy looked into the anxious face of Mrs. Leadbitter, who now held the man’s hand as tightly as she’d recently held Lucy’s.

“It could have been much worse, Alice. Once the doctor gets here, he can set your husband’s leg.” Lucy handed over her cloth and water basin. “Since you’re here, I’ll leave you to wash and bandage his forehead while I see to the others.”

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