Ken Follett: A Place Called Freedom (1995)

“The law is the law!” said another miner.

“Aye, but the laird is the laird,” said a more cautious one.

As Mack calmed down he began to wonder realistically what he had achieved. He had stirred everyone up, of course, but that on its own would not change anything. The Jamissons had flatly refused to acknowledge the law. If they stuck to their guns what could the miners do? Was there ever any point in fighting for justice? Would it not be better to touch his forelock to the laird and hope one day to get Harry Ratchett’s job as viewer?

A small figure in black fur shot out of the church porch like a deerhound unleashed. It was Lizzie Hallim. She made straight for Mack. The miners stepped out of her way with alacrity.

Mack stared at her. She had looked pretty enough in repose, but now that her face was alive with indignation she was ravishing. Her black eyes flashing fire, she said: “Who do you think you are?”

“I’m Malachi McAsh—”

“I know your name,” she said. “How dare you talk to the laird and his son that way?”

“How dare they enslave us when the law says they may not?”

The miners murmured their agreement.

Lizzie looked around at them. Snowflakes clung to the fur of her coat. One landed on her nose and she brushed it off with an impatient gesture. “You’re fortunate to have paid work,” she said. “You should all be grateful to Sir George for developing his mines and providing your families with the means to live.”

Mack said: “If we’re so fortunate, why do they need laws forbidding us to leave the village and seek other work?”

“Because you’re too foolish to know when you’re well off!”

Mack realized he was enjoying this contest, and not just because it involved looking at a beautiful highborn woman. As an opponent she was more subtle than either Sir George or Robert.

He lowered his voice and adopted an inquiring tone. “Miss Hallim, have you ever been down a coal mine?”

Ma Lee cackled with laughter at the thought.

Lizzie said: “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“If one day you do, I guarantee that you’ll never again call us lucky.”

“I’ve heard enough of your insolence,” she said. “You should be flogged.”

“I probably will be,” he said, but he did not believe it: no miner had been flogged here in his lifetime, though his father had seen it.

Her chest was heaving. He had to make an effort not to look at her bosom. She said: “You’ve an answer for everything, you always had.”

“Aye, but you’ve never listened to any of them.”

He felt an elbow dig painfully into his side: it was Esther, telling him to watch his step, reminding him that it never paid to outsmart the gentry. She said: “We’ll think about what you’ve told us, Miss Hallim, and thank you for your advice.”

Lizzie nodded condescendingly. “You’re Esther, aren’t you?”

“Aye, miss.”

She turned to Mack. “You should listen to your sister, she’s got more sense than you.”

“That’s the first true thing you’ve said to me today.”

Esther hissed: “Mack— shut your gob.”

Lizzie grinned, and suddenly all her arrogance vanished. The smile lit up her face and she seemed another person, friendly and gay. “I haven’t heard that phrase for a long time,” she said, laughing. Mack could not help laughing with her.

She turned away, still chuckling.

Mack watched her walk back to the church porch and join the Jamissons, who were just emerging. “My God,” he said, shaking his head. “What a woman.”

4

JAY WAS ANGERED BY THE ROW IN THE CHURCH. IT INFURIATED him to see people getting above their station. It was God’s will and the law of the land that Malachi McAsh should spend his life hewing coal underground and Jay Jamisson should live a higher existence. To complain about the natural order was wicked. And McAsh had an infuriating way of speaking as if he were the equal of anyone, no matter how highborn.

In the colonies, now, a slave was a slave, and no nonsense about working a year and a day or being paid wages. That was the way to do things, in Jay’s opinion. People would not work unless compelled to, and compulsion might as well be merciless—it was more efficient.

As he left the church some of the crofters offered congratulations on his twenty-first birthday, but not one of the miners spoke to him. They stood in a crowd to one side of the graveyard, arguing among themselves in low, angry voices. Jay was outraged by the blight they had cast on his celebratory day.

He hurried through the snow to where a groom held the horses. Robert was already there, but Lizzie was not. Jay looked around for her. He had been looking forward to riding home with Lizzie. “Where’s Miss Elizabeth?” he said to the groom.

“Over by the porch, Mr. Jay.”

Jay saw her talking animatedly to the pastor.

Robert tapped Jay on the chest with an aggressive finger. “Listen here, Jay—you leave Elizabeth Hallim alone, do you understand?”

Robert’s face was set in belligerent lines. It was dangerous to cross him in this mood. But anger and disappointment gave Jay courage. “What the devil are you talking about?” he said.

“You’re not going to marry her, I am.”

“I don’t want to marry her.”

“Then don’t flirt with her.”

Jay knew that Lizzie had found him attractive, and he had enjoyed bantering with her, but he had no thought of capturing her heart. When he was fourteen and she thirteen he had thought she was the most beautiful girl in the world, and it had broken his heart that she was not interested in him (or, indeed, any other boy)—but that was a long time ago. Father’s plan was for Robert to marry Lizzie, and neither Jay nor anyone else in the family would oppose the wishes of Sir George. So Jay was surprised Robert had been upset enough to complain. It showed he was insecure—and Robert, like his father, was not often unsure of himself.

Jay enjoyed the rare pleasure of seeing his brother worried. “What are you afraid of?” he said.

“You know damn well what I mean. You’ve been stealing my things since we were boys—my toys, my clothes, everything.”

An old familiar resentment goaded Jay into saying: “Because you always got whatever you wanted, and I got nothing.”

“Nonsense.”

“Anyway, Miss Hallim is a guest at our house,” Jay said in a more reasonable tone. “I can’t ignore her, can I?”

Robert’s mouth set in a stubborn line. “Do you want me to speak to Father about it?”

Those were the magic words that had ended so many childhood disputes. Both brothers knew that their father would always rule in favor of Robert. A long-familiar bitterness rose in Jay’s throat. “All right, Robert,” he conceded. “I’ll try not to interfere with your courting.”

He swung onto his horse and trotted away, leaving Robert to escort Lizzie to the castle.

Castle Jamisson was a dark gray stone fortress with turrets and a battlemented roofline, and it had the tall, overbearing look of so many Scottish country houses. It had been built seventy years ago, after the first coal pit in the glen began to bring wealth to the laird.

Sir George inherited the estate through a cousin of his first wife’s. Throughout Jay’s childhood his father had been obsessed with coal. He had spent all his time and money opening new pits, and no improvements had been made to the castle.

Although it was Jay’s childhood home he did not like the place. The huge, drafty rooms on the ground floor—hall, dining room, drawing room, kitchen and servants’ hall—were arranged around a central courtyard with a fountain that was frozen from October to May. The place was impossible to heat. Fires in every bedroom, burning the plentiful coal from the Jamisson pits, made little impression on the chill air of the big flagstoned chambers, and the corridors were so cold that you had to put on a cloak to go from one room to another.