chapter Nine
A wisp of light floated above the uneven floor. The nearby rocks lining the tunnel wall and ceiling were shown in glistening relief, the darkness beyond impenetrable. The ground sloped downwards beneath Mary’s feet. Steep. Rough. And Mary could hear the sea, a roaring grumbling vibration through the rocks.
The figure ahead beckoned. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ it whispered softly.
Sometimes it was right in front of her, sometimes it disappeared around a corner, leaving only a faint glow in its wake, but as long as Mary kept moving forwards, it was always there, just ahead. The White Lady. It could be no one else.
The chill was unearthly. Mary rubbed her bare arms and realised she was dressed only in her nightrail. Her bare feet were numb. She glanced back down the tunnel. She should get her shawl and slippers. Behind her there was only blackness. How far had she come? It seemed better to go on.
A long low moan echoed around her.
Rattling chains.
The glowing figure headed towards her, twisting like smoke. Fear caught at her heart. She turned and ran. Into the black. Ahead she could see a small wedge of light. Her chamber. Her stomach dropped away. She was falling. Into the dark.
A shriek split the air.
Mary jolted. Sat up, shaking.
Where was she? The last of the embers in her fire swam into focus. She shivered and looked around.
She was on her bed, her bedclothes on the floor. The only light in the room was a low red glow from the fire. Shadows clung to the walls. The air was freezing. Was that wretched door to the tunnel open? She shot out of bed. Rummaged for the poker among the sheets.
There. The comforting shape of iron. She grabbed it and held it high above her head. ‘Who is there?’ she quavered.
Her door burst open.
She screamed, backing away, grasping the poker in two hands, staring at the shadowy figure menacing her from the doorway.
‘Get out,’ she warned, her voice full of panic.
The man, for it was a man and not a ghost, plucked a candle from the sconce outside her door and stepped boldly into the room. The light revealed the earl, dressed in naught but his shirt and breeches.
‘You!’ she said.
‘Miss Wilding. Mary. I heard you scream.’ He drew closer, his gaze fixed on her face. ‘Give me that.’
He could not possibly have heard her from his room in the south tower. She gripped her weapon tighter. ‘Stay away.’
In one swift movement he wrested the poker from her hand and flung it aside.
She pressed her back against the wall.
He stared at her as if shocked, then stepped back, hand held away from his side. ‘Take it easy, Miss Wilding.’ He replaced the unlit stub in the candlestick on her dressing table with the lit one in his hand.
Her body was shaking. Her heart racing. She put a hand on the bedside table for balance. ‘What do you want?’
He recoiled, as if startled by her vehemence, but as he looked at her, his eyes widened, and a sensual longing filled his expression as his gaze drifted down her body. Her insides tightened at the heat of the hunger in his eyes.
She gasped and, glancing down, realised how little she was wearing. She shielded herself with her hands. ‘Please. Leave.’
‘I think not.’ He strode for the chest at the end of her bed and picked up her robe that Betsy had left there, ready for the morning. He threw it at her. ‘Put this on.’
She caught it against her, but couldn’t seem to move. He huffed out an impatient sigh, came around the bed and threw it around her shoulders, wrapping it around her. ‘‘What the devil is going on here?’
He sounded genuinely perplexed. And perhaps even worried.
He had come through the door. Not from the tunnel. She had locked her door. She stared at the fire irons sitting neatly on the hearth. No longer her alarm, but simply fire irons. Someone had moved them since she had fallen asleep. Betsy? The light of the candle also showed the wall was exactly where it should be. How could she explain her fear without giving away her knowledge of what lay behind the wall?
Her breathing slowed. And although her body continued to tremble, she managed to catch her breath. If only she could think. She shuddered.
‘Was it a nightmare?’ he asked.
A nightmare. That would explain the vision of the ghost. The sensation of falling and yet awaking to find herself on her bed. It didn’t explain the freezing temperature.
His eyes shifted to the window, then shot back to her face. His jaw hardened. He crossed the room, closed the casement and spun around to face her. ‘What is going on here, Miss Wilding? A midnight visitor?’
She stared at him in astonishment and then at the window. ‘Certainly not. Fresh air is healthy.’ So healthy her teeth were aching with the urge to chatter—but she did not remember opening it.
‘Not in the middle of winter,’ he growled. ‘Why do I have the sense you are not telling me the truth?’
‘What reason do I have to lie?’
‘Because you answer a question with a question.’
He was lying, too. There was no earthly way he could have heard her cry out and arrived so quickly unless he was in the tunnel behind the wall.
She tried to keep her gaze away from the chimney. He must not know she was aware of it. He must have entered her room from there, closed it and gone out by the door. That would explain how he had entered when the door was locked. It did not explain the window.
‘Why did you cry out?’
‘I had a bad dream. I was asleep. Something was chasing me. I fell.’ She shook her head. ‘I thought I fell. A long way down. But when I opened my eyes, I was here. And you came through the door.’
She started shaking again. It had all seemed so real. Felt real.
‘Then it was your scream I heard.’
‘I suppose it must have been.’ But she’d heard the scream, too. It had come from somewhere else. Above her head. Hadn’t it?
Or had she screamed in her sleep and frightened him off before he could do whatever it was he had intended? Before he could take drastic action. Before she could disappear in the tunnels below the house. Had he then pretended to burst in to allay her suspicions?
She didn’t dare give voice to her thoughts, in case she was right. Or in case she was wrong. She was just so confused. She pressed her hands together, staring at his face, trying to read his expression.
‘Mary,’ he murmured. Then muttered something under his breath. ‘Miss Wilding. Sit down before you fall.’
When she didn’t move he took her hand and led her to the bed. His large warm hands caught her around the waist and he lifted her easily on to the mattress. He looked down at the tangle of covers at his feet and then back at the window. His mouth tightened.
‘Someone was here,’ he said. His voice harsh. And it wasn’t a question.
She shivered. You, she wanted to say. ‘I saw no one,’ she forced out. She could not let him know what she suspected. Nor could she accuse him without proof. ‘I saw no one. Only...only the White Lady. In my dream.’ It had to be a dream. She did not believe in ghosts. Would not.
He cursed softly, then took one of her hands in his, clearly intending to reason with her. His hands curled around her fingers. He frowned. ‘You really are freezing.’
He crossed to the fire, stirred up the embers and added a few lumps of coal, then came back to her, taking her hands in his and rubbing them briskly. He rubbed at her upper arms and she could feel the warmth stealing through her body. Not just because his rubbing, but because of his closeness, because of the heat from his body.
He stared into her face. His breathing was also less than steady and there was fear in his eyes, as if she had somehow unnerved him. Fear for her? The very idea of it plucked at her heartstrings, made her want to confide in him. She just didn’t dare.
His hands stopped their warm strokes and one came to her chin, tipping her face up, forcing her to either close her eyes or look at him. She chose to be bold, to return stare for stare. She would not show him how much she feared him, or how much she feared her responses to his touch.
‘Mary,’ he whispered, his rough voice containing a plea, as his warm breath grazed the cold skin on her cheek and his hungry gaze sparked heat low in her belly that seemed to trickle outwards.
‘My lord,’ she replied, shocked at the husky quality of her voice, at the difficulty she had breathing around the panicked beat of her heart.
A soft groan rumble up from his chest. Then his mouth covered hers. The storm of sensation racing through her body could not possibly be a dream. The way his hands roved her back, the way hers felt the muscle beneath the linen of his shirt. Nothing in her experience could lead her to imagine anything so wildly exciting.
Slowly he sank backwards on to the mattress. And heaven help her, she followed, not willing to break the magic of his wonderful kiss. His strong arms held her close against his body and he rolled her on to her back. He kissed her mouth, plying her lips softly at first, then his hunger grew more demanding, until she parted her lips and allowed him entry. He teased her tongue with little flicks and tastes until she dared taste him back. Such a heavenly silken slide. Deliciously wicked.
When his tongue slowly retreated, she followed with her own, exploring the warm dark cavern of his mouth, tasting wine and him, mingled in one heady brew.
A sweet ache, trembling inside her with longing, built slowly—a hot, anxious longing.
A low groan rumbled up from his chest and he rolled over her, one knee pressing between her thighs, one hand steadying her at her nape, the other moving to stroke her ribs, to gently cup her breast.
She gasped at the shock of it, at the unfurling pleasure of it that made her breast tingle. As if that light touch was not enough.
She moaned.
He raised his head, looking down into her face. The fire and the candle gave just enough light to see the silver glitter of his eyes, the sensual cast to his mouth as his gaze searched her face, then skimmed down to where his hand rested on the swell of her breast. Slowly he moved his thumb over her nipple. It tightened beneath the fabric of her night rail. And her insides clenched.
Of their own accord her hips arched into him, seeking relief from the tender ache. He closed his eyes briefly, but there was pleasure in the brief wince of pain. And the hunger in his expression intensified.
Again his head lowered and her lips parted in anticipation of his kiss. Only this time his gentle mouth drifted slowly across her cheek in light brushes that made her want more. Until he found her ear and breathed hot moist air that sent shivers sweeping across her breast, down her back, into the very core of her.
She wriggled and moaned.
He laughed softly in her ear, sending another spasm through her body. Then his scorching mouth was moving onwards, to her neck where he licked her and her pulse spiralled out of control, to the hollow of her throat, where he breathed deeply, as if to inhale her essence, across the rise of her breast to the nipple he had stroked with his thumb.
She held her breath.
Then his mouth closed over it. Hot. Wet. His tongue flicking and tormenting while she wriggled and squirmed beneath him, seeking to break the ever-tightening cord inside her.
‘No,’ she gasped.
He raised his head, looking into her eyes with that penetrating stare as if he could see right into her mind, as if he knew what was happening inside her body. ‘No? Shall I stop?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, though it took all of her will.
But as he started to move, she couldn’t bear it. ‘I must not. It isn’t right.’
‘It feels right,’ he said in that deep raspy voice. Seductive. Enticing. ‘You feel right.’ He cupped her breast. ‘Perfect, in fact.’ He squeezed his eyes shut. ‘But you are right. This must wait until we are married.’
Married. But she hadn’t agreed they would be married.
He kissed her mouth. Chastely. Sweetly. Preparing to leave.
Hot with desire and hunger, her lips clung to his. Her hands grasped his shoulders, pulling him down to her, as she lifted her body to press her breasts against his wide chest. It felt so good to be close to him. To feel his strength. To feel connected.
Her thighs parted to press her mons against that beautifully heavy and hard-muscled thigh. She rocked her hips. Sweet pleasure, stole her breath and made her want more.
He broke away.
‘You must make up your mind, Mary,’ he said, his voice a low growl. ‘Marry me and finish this, or...not.’
She stared up at him. He was speaking of lust, not love. He was being forced into this by a grandfather he hated. Once they were wed, would he resent her? How could he not? But what was the alternative?
She turned her face away, trying to think, trying to make sense of it all.
The mattress shifted as he stood. The door clicked shut.
He had left without a word, quietly. Like a ghost. Did he assume she’d given her answer?
If so, what did that mean for her future?
The heat of her body slowly returned to normal and she rose from the bed, feeling the damp chill at her breast where he had suckled. The heat of embarrassment washed through her. How could she be so wanton with a man who—who might well prefer her dead?
She limped across the room and turned the key in the lock. She balanced the fire irons on the vase and stepped back. Had she forgotten to set them there last night? Had Betsy moved them? She couldn’t seem to remember.
Could she have moved them herself and wandered down the tunnel? In her sleep? Was she indeed hysterical, her fears getting the better of her once she fell asleep? Could she also have opened the window?
She swallowed the dryness in her throat. Was it her mind playing tricks? Or was she just trying to find an excuse for him, for the earl, because she didn’t want to believe he intended her harm?
Was she foolish enough to want to say yes to his offer of marriage?
She crawled back into her bed, her mind going around and around with questions she couldn’t seem to answer.
* * *
The next morning she felt so listless, so tired, she had asked Betsy to bring her breakfast in bed. She just could not face the Beresford family. Not the earl. Not the cousins. And definitely not Mrs Hampton.
Betsy returned with a tray looking as cheerful as always. ‘Eat up, miss,’ she said. ‘You’ll soon feel more the thing.’
‘Thank you.’ She glanced out of the window at a bright-blue sky. ‘The weather looks fine today.’
‘Snow’s on the way,’ Betsy said. ‘The calm before the storm.’
Mary laughed, but said nothing. She was used to local predictions of weather. They invariably turned out wrong. There seemed to be this feeling among country folk that good weather heralded bad. She tucked into the tea and toast she had requested while Betsy set out her gown.
‘His lordship is off to the mine,’ Betsy said, shaking out the creases in the blue muslin. ‘I heard him asking for that there black beast of his. Joe says it’s a vicious animal. The stable lads are all scared of it.’
Mary frowned. ‘The earl never mentioned he was going to the mine.’
‘He arranged it with the manager, Mr Trelawny, yesterday.’
And both men knew she wanted to go, too. Did the earl think she wouldn’t find out, or had he decided that she would be his wife and therefore the mine would soon be under his control? ‘Has his lordship left already?’
‘I wouldn’t know, miss.’
‘Go and find out, would you? And ask him to wait, if he hasn’t gone. Ask him to have the carriage readied for me.’ And if he had left? Might it be an opportunity for escape? ‘Betsy, if I missed him, please ask that the carriage be put to so I can follow on. He must have forgotten I was to go with him.’
Betsy stared at her. ‘But your foot, miss.’
‘It is well enough. Please hurry.’ She’d taken off the bandage before Betsy had come back with the tray and, though her ankle was still discoloured by the bruise, the swelling had quite gone and it only really hurt if she moved carelessly. It was strong enough for a carriage ride and a short walk. She wanted to see the condition of the children at the mine. She’d read a great deal recently by some forward-thinking women about the cruel conditions of such places. She could not bear the thought that those kind of conditions existed at something for which she was responsible.
While Betsy hurried off to do her bidding, Mary dressed. Fortunately for her, she’d been wearing her front-closing stays when the rest of her things had gone over the cliff, so she managed fairly well, and only needed Betsy to fasten the back of her gown when she returned with the news that his lordship was waiting. But not for long.
‘I can’t say he was pleased, miss, but he ordered up the carriage.’
Mary wrapped her woollen cloak around her, tied on her bonnet and pulled on her gloves. ‘And I am ready. Now if you would be so good as to lead me to the front door, I can make sure I am not delaying his lordship any more than necessary.’
She followed Betsy along the corridors and realised she no longer needed a guide. She was becoming quite familiar with the old house’s twists and turns. But this morning it was better to be safe than sorry.
Losing her way and arriving late would be all the excuse his lordship needed to leave without her. And this would be a chance to survey the roads around the house. The next time she left, she intended to follow the road across the moors to Helston where his lordship had not warned the inhabitants they must not sell her a ticket for the stagecoach.
As much as she wanted to trust him when he was kissing her senseless, the answer had finally come to her just before she fell asleep. If she agreed to marry him, she would be wholly in his power. He would be able to do anything he wanted and she would not be able to object. A very bad idea while she had no idea why his grandfather had pushed them together.
The first order of business was to find Sally Ladbrook and find out what she knew. Then perhaps she could think about what to do in regard to the earl. Because the last thing she wanted was to be at the mercy of a vengeful husband in a damp and draughty house where ghosts seemed to roam at will and, according to legend, people could disappear without a trace.
Beresford was standing beside the carriage when she exited the house into the sunshine. His face was set in its usual grim lines as he looked up at her approach. There was no sign of his horse. ‘Good morning, my lord,’ she said brightly.
‘Good day, Miss Wilding.’
There was nothing of the passionate man he had been in her room last night in the icy gaze he bestowed on her. She half-wondered if she had imagined the whole thing. But she hadn’t. Nor had she imagined the scream that had awoken her from her horrible dream. ‘You knew I wished to go with you, my lord. You might have sent word.’
‘You weren’t at breakfast, Miss Wilding,’ he said, with a slight nod of his head, ‘or I would have told you of my plans.’
Oh, yes, she really believed that.
His raised a brow. ‘I thought you might prefer to wait until your ankle is perfectly well.’
By then it might be too late. By then she might have succumbed to his powers of seduction. ‘I prefer to go today. And here I am. Ready to go.’
Something hot flared in his eyes. Anger, no doubt. No man liked a woman with a will of her own. He bowed slightly. ‘Your carriage awaits, but time does not.’
One of the grooms leapt forwards to open the carriage door and she climbed inside and settled herself against the squabs. He climbed in after her.
Startled, she edged deeper into the corner. ‘I thought you planned to ride?’
‘I did.’
‘Don’t feel you must keep me company.’ Oh dear, that sounded rude.
‘I never do anything I don’t wish to do, Miss Wilding,’ he drawled and stretched out his legs, brushing against her skirts in a way that felt all too intimate. But what could she say? He was playing the perfect gentleman, sitting opposite her on the seat, facing backwards.
She winced inwardly. She had intended to make a note of any landmarks she saw as a means of finding her way—she’d brought along a notebook and pencil for the purpose. She could hardly do so with him sitting there watching her. She would just have to try to hold them in her memory.
She stared out of the window, trying to look as if her interest was idle curiosity. Here there was a large barn. There an oddly twisted tree, but they were moving so quickly it was hard to keep track.
‘What do you think of Cornwall?’ he asked.
Be quiet, I’m trying to follow our route, she wanted to snap. Instead, she pursed her lips as if giving consideration to his question. ‘It’s very different from the countryside in Wiltshire.’
‘How?’
She turned to face him. ‘The sea. The moors. The mining. Even the way the people speak. I can barely understand some of their words.’
‘It is not so very different from Wales,’ he murmured, as if remembering. ‘They also have their own language.’
‘Did you live in Wales?’
He nodded. ‘For a while. When I was young.’
His willingness to talk about the past surprised her. ‘Did you like it there?’
His eyes turned the colour of a winter sky. Bleak. Cold. Clearly she’d touched a nerve and she expected him to withdraw into his usual chilly distance.
‘No.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Not true. There were good times as well as bad.’ He turned his face to look out of the window as if he preferred to hide his thoughts, but the way the light shone on the window, she could make out his reflection. Not the detail, but enough to see him close his eyes as if shutting a lid on memories their conversation had evoked. ‘It was a hard life,’ he murmured. ‘But I learned about mining and the men who risk their lives below ground.’
‘Tin mining?’ she asked in the awkward silence.
He turned back, his expression once more under control. ‘Coal.’
‘Did you work in the mine?’
‘As a hewer?’ He shook his head. ‘I wasn’t strong enough, then. I did later. Alongside the men in my uncle’s mine. My mother’s brother. He believed a man should learn every part of a business he intended to follow. The way he had.’
‘Even the heir to an earldom?’
He smiled a little, as if amused by a recollection. The atmosphere in the carriage lightened. His face looked younger, more boyish. ‘Especially the heir to an earldom. He is not a great respecter of nobility. He thinks they are all soft and idle.’
‘Is that what you think?’ she dared to ask.
He gave her question consideration. ‘I think there is good and bad in every class of society.’
As did she. Strange how they were in accord on some things and so at odds on others. Like the inheritance, for example, she thought grimly.
He leaned forwards, picked up her gloved hand from her lap and held it his. He massaged her palm with his thumb. The bleakness was entirely gone from his face, and now his expression was pure seduction. ‘Have you thought any more about our future?’
The stroke of his thumb was scrambling her thoughts. Her body was vibrating with longing, her pulse jumping. She swallowed. Forced her mind to focus. ‘Our future? I have certainly thought about my own.’
His eyes danced, as if she amused him. ‘You cannot think about one and not dwell on the other. Don’t take too long to come to a decision.’
‘Why?’
The caress ceased, though he did not release her hand. If anything, his fingers closed tighter around it. He fixed her with his inscrutable gaze. ‘It’s a matter of life and death, isn’t it?’
Dumbly she stared at him, taken aback by his frankness.
‘What is holding you back?’ He moved from his side of the carriage to hers and suddenly the seat felt a great deal smaller. The way his shoulders took up all the space and his thigh pressed against hers. He still had her hand, too. She gave it a gentle tug, but he didn’t seem to notice. Instead, he eased down the leather at her wrist. ‘You can’t deny the spark of attraction between us.’ He raised her hand to his mouth and breathed on the sensitive skin where he had pulled the leather apart. She shivered.
He kissed the pulse that now raced beneath her skin. Traced the fine blue veins of her inner wrist with his tongue. ‘What can I do to persuade you?’
‘You didn’t want this marriage,’ she managed to gasp.
‘The benefits are becoming more and more apparent.’ His voice was deep and dangerously seductive. Her eyelids drooped, her limbs felt heavy. She forced herself to straighten.
‘I would never be your choice of a wife, if your grandfather hadn’t drawn up his will this way. Would I?’ Breathlessly she waited for his answer, hope a small fragile thing in her breast.
He raised his gaze from her wrist to her face. His silver eyes glittered. ‘If we had met somewhere, you mean—in a ballroom in London?’ His mouth quirked downwards. ‘I will not do you a disservice and lie. I had no intention of marrying. Not yet. Not until the future was secure. But given the circumstances, it is not such a bad arrangement.’
Cold rippled across her skin. ‘And what of love, my lord?’
He chuckled then, deep and low. It was a surprisingly pleasant sound. And his face looked more handsome, less of a devil.
‘Miss Wilding. Mary. May I call you Mary?’
Breathless to hear his reply, she nodded her assent.
He tilted his head as if seeing her for the first time, then shook it. ‘My dear Mary, you will not convince me that a rational logical woman such as yourself believes in such romantic nonsense.’
Oh, but she did. She did not think she loved this man, though she knew she was attracted to him. Desired him. But was it enough on which to base a marriage? Others did. But she wasn’t others.
She gazed up into his dark features, searching those silver-grey eyes, and realised that this was not the sort of man she had ever imagined in her life. She’d dreamed of a scholarly man. A gentle man, who would listen to her thoughts. Who would respect her ideas. Not this dark dangerous man who set her pulse fluttering and her body longing for wicked things.
Her insides gave a tiny little pulse of pleasure at the thought of those wicked things.
But she should think with her mind. Her rational mind. Just as a man would.
‘What if at some time in the future you meet a woman you really wished to marry? Will not your resentment be great?’
He cupped her face in his hands, his large warm hands, and she felt the tremble in his fingers, as if he was struggling under some emotion as his gaze searched her face.
She could not help but look at his finely drawn lips before she raised her gaze to look at his face where she found the heat of desire in his eyes. ‘My lord,’ she whispered.
‘Bane,’ he rasped. ‘Call me Bane.’
But she couldn’t speak, because his mouth had taken hers in a ravening kiss and, lord help her, she was kissing him back, running her hands over his shoulders, tangling her fingers with his hair. He lifted her on to his lap and she felt his strong thighs beneath her bottom. The way he rocked lightly into her, and the deep groan from his throat, stirred her blood and made her heart beat too fast.
It felt as if his hot mouth was all over her and her skin was on fire from its touch.
‘Marry me, Mary,’ he whispered against her throat. ‘Marry me,’ he said, undoing the buttons of her coat and pressing his lips to her clavicle.
The carriage jolted, swaying over to one side, and he grabbed her around the shoulders to prevent her from falling. Then it came to a halt.
Bane cursed softly. ‘We will continue this conversation later.’ He lifted her off his lap and set her back on the seat.
The hard cold man was back. The man she recognised. And as she did up her buttons and straightened her hair, she could not help but wonder how much the passionate man was really him.
The groom opened the door. Bane picked up his gloves and his hat and stepped out. He reached up to help her down. His glance was swift and assessing. His brief nod assured her that she did not look as if she’d been ravished, though her lips still tingled from his kiss and her cheeks glowed from the scratch of his jaw.
And then the noises assaulted her ears.
A constant thumping she could feel vibrating under her feet and pounding through her head.
His lordship shook hands with Mr Trelawny, who was standing waiting for them. The poor man’s eyes widened when they rested on her, but he smiled manfully. ‘Miss Wilding,’ he said, shouting to be heard above the noise of the great machine some distance away. ‘I was not expecting you today, but welcome to Old Men’s Wheal, as it was called once. I hope your...’ He glanced down at her feet, then coloured. ‘I hope you are quite recovered from your unfortunate accident.’
She smiled at the young man. ‘But for you, Mr Trelawny, I doubt I would be here to tell the tale,’ she said, leaning close to his ear to make herself heard.
The young man’s colour deepened.
Bane surprised her by swiftly catching her hand, pulling her close and putting it on his arm. ‘Show us the workings, Trelawny.’ He did not raise his voice, but clearly the manager heard for he nodded and gestured for them to follow. He led them to the machine making all the noise.
‘Stampers,’ he yelled.
Bane’s gaze swept over the monstrous structure, a beam supported on legs. Heavy metal tubes hanging from the beam on chains, rising up and down alternately, each one crashing down to crush the rocks shoved beneath it by a couple of men.
Driving the whole was an enormous waterwheel that clanked and creaked, adding to the cacophony. Beyond it three large pools were being stirred by women with long rakes and shovels.
Compared to the beauty of the countryside through which they had passed, it was ugly and dirty. And the noise was horrendous. She could not imagine working with that sound all day.
As far as she could see there were no children.
She put her hands over her ears, but it did nothing to lessen the noise. ‘From here, the black tin is taken to the foundry at Hayle. You should visit it some time,’ Mr Trelawny shouted.
Bane nodded. ‘Where do they get the coal?’ This time even he had to raise his voice.
‘Wales.’
He grimaced.
‘The mine is this way,’ Mr Trelawny said. ‘Up the hill. The carriage will take you up to the entrance, Miss Wilding.’
‘We will all go in the carriage,’ Bane said when they reached it.
How strange. She let him help her back in. Mr Trelawny climbed up with the driver, citing the dust and dirt he had gathered from his visit to the workings earlier that morning. Getting ready for the new owner’s visit, no doubt.
Bane dropped the window and the noise of the stamper continued to assault their ears. ‘Imagine living with that din day after day,’ she said. ‘Those poor men. They must go home with a headache.’
He cast her a sharp glance. ‘They are paid well enough.’
She pressed her lips together. She had no wish to start an argument, but she had to be glad there had been no children working near that noisy machine.
As the carriage wound its way to the other side of the hill, the thumping faded to a bearable level. It was more like the sound of a heart beating loudly from this distance.
The carriage once more halted and they stepped down. The view of the surrounding countryside was breathtaking—open common, trees in the valley, sheep on the moor—but right here, on the side of the hill, industry was an ugly scar. Bare rock. Gravel. A horse walking steadily round and round a revolving drum. Every now and again, a bucket full of rocks would appear at the surface to be emptied into the back of a cart by a couple of workers. No doubt those rocks would end up at the stamper.
Another horse went round and round, pulling a chain, and beside it a strange-looking object spurted water into a ditch.
‘A rag-and-chain pump,’ Mr Trelawny explained, ‘to remove water from the shafts. Let us go down. The men are expecting us. Please be careful where you walk, Miss Wilding. The ground is rough and there are some disused shafts here and there from the ancient workings.’
At her nervous glance, he smiled. ‘If you stay close to me at all times, you will be fine.’
Bane shot him a glare and Trelawny flinched.
‘This way,’ he said, hustling them towards a stone structure. It looked a bit like a square Norman tower, without crenellations or arrow loops. He ducked inside and, after glancing around, Bane urged her to follow with his hand at the small of her back. The stone chamber was lit by candles.
Mary immediately recognised the greasy smell of melting tallow. They’d been forced to use tallow in the kitchens and working areas at the school when money was in short supply—or apparently in short supply. She felt a little trickle of resentment at the thought, but had no time to think about it, because Mr Trelawny was directing her to a wooden trestle around the wall. ‘You’ll need boots,’ he said, sorting through a small pile. ‘It is muddy down there.’
As she sat down and her eyes adjusted to the smoky light, she noticed the large gaping hole before her and the flimsy-looking rope ladder leading down into the depths.
‘You will need a hat, my lord,’ Trelawny said, handing him a battered-looking felt object with a candle stuck in a lump of something nasty-looking on the front of it. ‘You, too, Miss Wilding.’ He frowned. ‘You will have to remove your bonnet.’
She looked at him and looked at the ladder and looked back at him. ‘How far down does it go?’
‘The first adit is about twenty feet down. Not far at all, miss. Old Jem is waiting at the bottom for us. There’s other parts of the mine where the depth is close to one-hundred-and-eighty feet.’
She felt a little faint at the thought of going into the bowels of the earth a mere twenty feet. ‘Why don’t I wait up here for your return? I am not really dressed for climbing down ladders.’
‘I should have loaned you a pair of my breeches,’ Bane said and there was a teasing note to his voice.
When she looked at him, he was smiling. And looking quite at home. ‘Come now, Miss Wilding, I thought you had more gumption. It was your idea to come.’ He actually looked as if he was enjoying himself. And he seemed to want to include her. It was quite a revelation.
‘I didn’t know about the ladder,’ she said weakly. ‘I don’t think my ankle is up to it.’ It was the first thing that came into her mind.
‘You haven’t let that stop you in the past. I will carry you down.’
Why was he being so insistent? ‘You couldn’t possibly.’ She shuddered.
‘You are no heavier than a hod of coal and I have carried a few of them in my time. Come on, Miss Wilding. Buck up.’ Before she knew what he was about, he had lifted her off her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. ‘Don’t move now, Miss Wilding, or we will both fall.’ He heaved one leg over the side of the hole, grasping on to the railing. He paused. ‘Light my candle for me, would you, Trelawny?’ he said with great good cheer.
Never had she felt so undignified. Or so foolish. Oh lord, that was his hand on her posterior. Holding her steady? Was he going to climb down using only one hand? ‘Really, my lord. I would be quite happy to wait up here for your return.’
‘You must think I am a complete fool, Miss Wilding, if you think I am letting you out of my sight for more than a minute so far from the Abbey.’
Oh, drat. He thought she intended to run away. He began to descend and she pressed her teeth into her lip to stop herself from crying out in fear and clutched on to the tails of his coat. The walls of the shaft glowed softly in the light of the tallow candle on his hat and after a while she began to relax. His movements were lithe and sure and his body in perfect balance. She trusted him. In this, at least.
After what seemed like a very long time with his shoulder pressing beneath her ribs and making it hard to breathe, but was probably only a minute or so, another light appeared. Several, in fact, dotted here and there on ledges around a wide cave.
Her ears were filled with the sound of rushing water. It echoed off the walls, yet sounded far off.
Bane set her carefully on her feet, held her for a moment while she found her balance, then stepped back.
Mr Trelawny jumped down beside her.
A bent and bowed figure appeared out of the dark. He had a clay pipe in one hand and a disapproving expression. ‘For what brought ’ee a woman down here? Bad luck it is.’
Mary stared back up the ladder and was able to see a faint glimmer way above them. The candles.
‘Don’t be foolish, man,’ Bane said. ‘Miss Wilding is the owner of this mine. If she wishes to look at her property, she has every right. Besides, women are only unlucky on ships.’
Mary’s jaw dropped at his quick defence and at his announcement of her ownership.
The old man grumbled under his breath. ‘She ain’t got a light.’
‘She does,’ Mr Trelawny said, producing another of the hats. ‘If you would just slip your bonnet off, Miss Wilding, let it hang by the strings, if you will, and you can put this on.’
She did as he suggested and he tied on the stiff felt hat, pushing it down hard, then lighting the candle. She was surprised at how much better she could see around her. ‘Thank you.’
‘Try to keep you head down as we go through the tunnels. They are low in places and while the hat will protect you somewhat, you can still get a nasty bruise if you are not careful. Follow Old Jem there and I will bring up the rear. Not too fast, now, Jem. I don’t want anyone getting lost.’
‘No indeed,’ Bane said. ‘Miss Wilding, hold on to my coat-tails if you please. I shall feel better if I know where you are at all times.’
The strange little cavalcade set off, stopping now and then when Mr Trelawny called out to Jem to stop so he could point out items of interest. Bane seemed greatly interested in each tiny detail.
‘Where are the men working?’ she asked on the third-such stop.
‘Further along, Miss Wilding. They are hewing and hauling today. I thought it best we didn’t use any black powder during your visit. We will find them near the horse-whim stope.’
When she looked at him blankly, he smiled. ‘Whim means the drum turned by the horse to bring the buckets up. Stope refers to where we dig it out. There is a significant lode of ore in that part of the mine.’ He pointed to a dark seam of rock running along the tunnel. ‘This is also ore. Blue peach, we call it. But it is pretty well worked out and what is left is of poor quality. Further on, the lode is heavy with tin.’
‘Then let us go there, since it is what Miss Wilding wishes to see,’ Bane said.
And they set off again. In places the tunnel was narrow and low and both she and Bane had to duck to avoid the sharp rocks in the roof. Once her bonnet got hooked up on a promontory and Mr Trelawny had to set her free. They laughed about it, while his lordship, unable to help from where he stood, simply glowered at them. And what a glower it was with the flickering light of their candles bouncing off the rough granite walls and the brim of his hat throwing his eyes into deep shadow. Why, he looked almost jealous.
She shivered. And it wasn’t an entirely unpleasant sensation. It seemed that his seductive words in the carriage had infected her body.
To prevent getting hooked up again, she untied the ribbons of her bonnet, retied them and hung it over her arm. ‘I’m ready,’ she said at his lordship’s impatient sigh.
A short while later, the tunnel opened out and all around her were moving pinpoints of light and the sounds of shovelling overpowering the background noise of running water. It was a bit like watching Oberon’s fairies, until you realised that the sparkling lights were attached to rough felt hats worn by men shovelling rocks into iron buckets. And lads running from smaller tunnels and crevasses with wooden wheelbarrows. Small boys of eight or nine.
Work stopped as they realised that their visitors had arrived. There were some startled looks between the miners as they realised they had a woman in their midst and then some touching of forelocks and awkward bobbing of heads at her and Bane.
‘This is the shift foreman, Michael Trethewy,’ Mr Trelawny said. ‘Lord Beresford. Miss Wilding.’
Another very Cornish name. These people had lived in this isolated part of the country for centuries. The man himself was big and brawny. He bowed to Mary and looked surprised when Bane held out his hand, but shook it anyway with a ham of a hand. The two men stared into each other’s eyes for a moment with a measuring look and then released the shake. Both looked satisfied with what they had discovered from that brief contact.
A meeting of like minds. Mary inwardly shrugged. Men had their own secret codes, Sally had said. This must be one of them. She was more interested in the condition of the boys pushing those heavy barrows. While the foreman introduced Bane to the other men and they talked about lodes and weights and percentages and even black powder, Mary followed one of the boys into a side tunnel. It came to a dead end. A man lying on his back picked away at the roof. Rock fell around him and the boy shovelled it into his barrow.
They looked up at the appearance of Mary’s light. The man struggled to stand. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Don’t let me interrupt, but the rest of the men are back there, meeting his lordship. The new earl.’
‘Aye. I ought to have come.’ He wiped his face on his sleeve. ‘Me and the boy had a bet on that we could finish out this stope by day’s end. I forgot about the visit.’ To her surprise, he sounded a little resentful.
‘Are we interrupting?’
‘The lad is paid by the barrowful. He’s the only one in his family working after his da’s accident.’
The boy ducked his head. He looked healthy enough, if a little pale. So why was he anxious?
She crouched down to meet his gaze full on and to ease the ache in her back from stooping over. ‘Do you find it hard, pushing that barrow?’
‘I’m stronger than I look,’ he said defensively. ‘I don’t need Peter to break the rocks, not really.’ He looked anxiously at his companion.
‘I do my share.’ The man’s face looked sullen.
‘I am sure you do. Both of you.’ She couldn’t quite grasp why she was ruffling their feathers. ‘Is it good working here at this wheal?’ She was proud that she had remembered the correct word. ‘Are you treated well?’
If anything the man looked even more sullen, perhaps even suspicious. Perhaps because she was a woman. Perhaps he was worried about bad luck.
‘We haven’t had our pay this month,’ the boy blurted out. ‘The men aren’t happy.’
The man hushed him with a look.
‘Why is that?’
‘We hear the old earl’s will is all tied up,’ the man said.
Oh, Lord, did that mean there was no money to pay these men until she was married? She couldn’t believe that was so. She would have to tackle Bane about it. No, not Bane, his lordship.
‘I am sure Lord Beresford will sort something out as quickly as possible,’ she said. Was this the reason for his emphatic proposal?
The man shrugged. ‘We best be going to pay our respects, lad, or be found lacking.’ He sounded a little bitter. ‘After you, miss.’
She could do no more than make her way back to the cavern, where she found Bane and Trelawny deep in conversation with a couple of men as they stared at yet another of those blue veins in the rock. There were pink veins, too, she noticed, and white ones. The veins did not run straight along the walls but at an angle. She followed one of the pink ones with her gaze, it glistened in the light of her candle as it disappeared into another, even smaller tunnel. She decided to see where it led.
A short way along was another of those horrid shafts, with a ladder disappearing into the darkness above her head. No candles glimmering up there from this one. An old disused entrance, perhaps.
With her fingertips running along the rough rock, she turned a sharp corner. Here the tunnel divided. Something about this configuration seemed familiar, as if she had been here before. Was that a light she saw in the distance? Another man working, unaware that the new earl had arrived and wishful to meet him?
Should she let him know? Would he be equally unfriendly? She decided to take the other fork.
This tunnel was much darker, the air stuffy, yet cold. The sound of running water drowned out any noises from the cavern behind her. The tunnel was getting lower and narrower and the terrain rougher under her feet. Time to go back. This must be a disused part of the mine.
As she halted, she saw the lip of yet another shaft. This one right in front of her feet, going down. Only a small ledge on one side allowed for passage. Ugh. She was not going to think about going around it.
The air stirred behind her. The hair on her nape rose. She started to swing around. ‘Who—?’
‘You little fool,’ a harsh voice whispered in her ear. A hand shoved her in the middle of her back and she was falling.