Deborah Hale - A Gentleman Of Substance

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.