Forever and Ever (32 page)

Jenks reached for her hand and helped her down from the cart. “Sophie, thank God,” he muttered. He never called her Sophie—she’d never seen his face so grim. She waited for him to tell her the worst, and when he didn’t, she said, “Mr. Jenks, what’s happening? Are they still trapped? Are you using mules to pull away the rubble? How many men do you have at the forty right now?”

He clawed at his black beard, avoiding her eyes to glance over her shoulder. “Come into the countinghouse. I’ve sommat to tell you and yer husband.”

Oh, Jesus. They were dead, then, she knew it. Instinctively, she wheeled around toward Connor. Across Val’s back, she saw his face turn paper-white, heard him gasp. “Connor? Con?” Swatting Jenks’s hand away, she darted around the pony cart. “What?” she cried. “What is it?” Beside her, Andrewson backed away, head down.

She took Connor’s hands—they were ice-cold. She saw her own panic reflected back in his eyes. “It’s Jack,” he said hoarsely.

“Jack!”

“Andrewson says he went down. They needed a man to load buckets with attle and rock for the animals to haul out, and nobody would go. Because it’s too dangerous, too close to the broken ceiling. Jack said he’d do it, and nobody stopped him!” He let go of her hands when she winced. Fear and anger hardened his face; he turned his stony profile toward the mine entrance. “I’m going down to get him.”

“What?” Her first grab didn’t stop him—the back of his coat slid right out of her hand. The second time, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back on his heels. “Connor—damn it—” He got away again. She had to run and stumble in front of him to block the way. “You can’t go down—”

“Sophie, I have to.”

“No!” When he shouldered past her, she seized his arm and held it. He kept moving, dragging her along, trying to pry her fingers away. “Damn it, Con, you can’t go. It’s my mine, and I’m telling you. Stop!”

He stopped. But only to take her by the biceps and give her a gentle shake. “I’m going. I’ll be all right. I have to get him out.”

“Fine, then I’m going with you.” She turned away from the consternation in his face to shout, “Mr. Jenks! Bring me my hat and boots, I’m going down in the mine!”

“The hell you are,” Connor growled, trying to turn her around by the arm. “Don’t make me angry, Sophie, don’t be a fool.”

“I’m not the fool here. Will you listen to me? Or listen to Jenks—because you don’t know what you’re getting into, Con. Neither do I, and it’s crazy to go down when you don’t know if you can help or not or what the situation—”

He shut her up by pulling her into his arms for a fast, rib-cracking hug. “Sophie, you know I have to go. Jack’s my brother.”

He released her, and she started to cry. Was it right to let him go? Crazy? She couldn’t decide, so she ran after him, and caught him at the top of the first ladder.

“Wait, Con, wear a helmet—go with Jenks, and Tranter, too—please, please, don’t do anything stupid—”

A man popped up, soundless, onto the top platform of the newest extension of the man-machine. Under the grime, the whites of Bob Douthwaite’s eyes gleamed like marbles. Another man, Hector Hardaway, came up after him. “They’re out!” Bob yelled. Sophie, Connor, Jenks, Tranter, and a dozen others crowded around the two miners. “The Cornishman done it, loaded the buckets and cleared a way for ’em to scramble out. There ain’t a scratch on ’em!”

Raucous cheers deafened her; Sophie saw Connor go close to Bob and shout a question in his face. She fought her way to them, in time to hear Douthwaite shout back, “No, he weren’t hurt—there weren’t a cave-in. But afterward, he collapsed—can’t walk, can’t get up—they’re fixing to haul him to grass in the kibble bucket!”

***

The wait for Jack wasn’t long, but it was intolerable. Dr. Hesselius had been at Guelder all morning, and he stood with Sophie and Connor at the mine entrance now. Christy Morrell was absent, gone to Exeter for a bishop’s conference, but the Wesleyan preacher from Totnes lingered with the crowd, waiting to see if his services would be needed. The three trapped men had come up already, greeted with tears and embraces from their families and friends. The drama was over, but hardly anyone had gone home; they were waiting for the last man, the sickly hero they barely knew. Yesterday he’d stolen from them—the story was out; Jack had told Andrewson and the others what he’d done before he went down—and today he’d risked his life to save three of them. Sophie was aware of neighbors, friends, miners, gathered in quiet clusters across the muddy yard, voices subdued and their faces expectant. But she only had eyes for Connor, whose unbearable tension she shared like a twin, or as if invisible cable wires connected them, telegraphing thoughts and emotions instantly.

At last, over the low, rhythmic rumble of the steam pumps, she heard the creak of the bell crank as the huge winding machine began to turn. The great chain, thick as a tree limb, rattled slowly around and around the wooden wheel. After an eternity, the lip of the iron kibble appeared in the shaft and rose fast, its muddy, six-foot sides blocking her view of the occupants. Moody Donne scrambled out onto the bucket platform, and the other men in the kibble lifted Jack’s limp, wasted body down into his arms.

They laid him on a blanket on the ground. Connor knelt on one side, holding his hand, while the doctor took his pulse and listened to his heart on the other. He was wide-awake, but his voice when he spoke didn’t carry; Connor had to bend over him to hear. “Mucked up again,” he said in a raspy whisper, trying to grin. “Can’t seem t’ do anything the right way.”

“Shush, Jack.”

“They were s’pose to bring me out feet first, Con. Not go through all this. Ha’n’t got the strength for this.”

Dr. Hesselius stood up. “Bring that wagon closer. I want four men to lift him, and I want more blankets.”

Sophie asked softly, “Will you take him to the hospital in Tavistock?”

He shook his head. “There’s no point, nothing I can do for him. Take him home, Sophie. Make him comfortable. That’s all.” His mournful eyes told her everything.

Sidony Timms had taken the doctor’s place at Jack’s side. Small and lovely, tears streaking down her cheeks, she held his hand in both of hers and told him how proud she was of him. “What a brave thing you did, Jack, truly. When you’re well and strong, we’ll have a celebration. Think of it—you might get a medal!” Her voice broke; she had to wipe her face with her sleeve.

Jack looked over her shoulder and crooked his finger, smiling weakly. Sophie hadn’t noticed William Holyoake before; he was standing behind Sidony, and now he knelt down next to her. “Take good care of ’er,” Jack croaked, still holding up his index finger. “She’ve chose the better man, but if I hear of any wicked treatment, I’ll come back to haunt you, Mr. Holyoake.”

William leaned in close. “I’ll be as kind to ’er as you could wish, Mr. Pendarvis. I swear that.” And he watched, still and patient, while Sidony put a soft, lingering kiss on Jack’s gray cheek.

Connor helped them lift him into the wagon. “Drive it slowly,” he ordered Tranter Fox, who was a good man with horses. “I’ll ride in the back with him. Watch the ruts, Tranter, and go slow.”

“Right you are,” said the little miner, hopping onto the seat and gathering up the reins.

“You’ll come in the pony cart, Sophie?”

She could feel his suffering, and the panic fluttering just below the surface calm. She touched his hand, whispering urgently, “He may not die, Con. He may not!”

“No, he can’t die,” he muttered against her hair, voice low and determined. “Hurry home, Sophie. I need you.”

She watched him climb into the wagon and settle down next to his brother. Jack’s eyes were closed now. On his other side, the Methodist preacher, Reverend Ewell, was bending over him, murmuring, a prayer book in his hand. Tranter jostled the reins, and the big workhorses started up, plodding out of the mine yard.

XXIII

The theme of this year’s Midsummer Day children’s play was the same as last year’s—Saint Peter at the Gate—but the production had been greatly expanded, chiefly by making it twice as long, and Sophie had to compose music for twelve of Miss Margaret Mareton’s dramatic poems instead of only one. Directing from the wing—the wings being a shady, low-branching oak tree that partially shielded her from the audience—Sophie couldn’t help thinking that these mini-operas were getting to be too much, and that Miss Mareton had over-reckoned her talents, not to mention the choir’s.

Tommy Wooten had the coveted role of Saint Peter this year. The thrust of the plot was who he would let through Heaven’s Gate (an impressive construction of papier-mâché, painted with whitewash to look “pearly”) and who he would send down to the other place. Waiting to be judged, the children were queued up in pairs, boys and girls together. There wasn’t much suspense; most of the dramatic tension had been dissipated by the costumes—dark colors for the sinners destined to be turned away, pastels for the lucky prospective angels. Saint Peter asked each heavenly arrival a few leading questions; a short song was sung, having to do with the good or bad life the child had led as the case might be, and Saint Peter made his judgment.

It was Birdie’s turn at the Gates—she was the last. For weeks she’d been vacillating over whether she wanted to be a saint or a sinner, the choice resting entirely on whether she felt she looked better in a dark or light color. She had finally settled on midnight blue, very becoming, but her prolonged indecision meant that instead of learning both parts—the Heaven– or Hell-bound knocker at the Gate—she had never really learned either. Sophie was nervous.

Knock, knock, knock.
(The papier-mâché lacked that sharp resonance Miss Mareton was after, and so Jeddy Nineways’ job, behind a colorful screen depicting Heaven, was to smack a piece of wood with a hammer, in approximate time with the knocker’s fist beating on thin air.)

“Who’s there?” said Saint Peter, holding the Gate in both hands and peering over the top.

“Florence.” (The children had been allowed to name themselves, and Birdie’s idol this year was Florence Nightingale.)

“Florence, did you lead a good life?”

“Yes.”

Saint Peter looked confused, as well he might; the answer was supposed to be no. “What were you on earth?” he demanded.

“I was a work shirt.”

Saint Peter shuffled his feet and darted a glance at Miss Mareton, who was “offstage” behind another oak tree. Sophie felt a grim satisfaction as she bit her lips, trying not to laugh: she’d told Margaret more than once that “work shirker” was too hard to pronounce, and Birdie ought to be allowed to say “lazybones.”

“Did you always study your lessons?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you make your bed every morning?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Did you always keep your clothes neat and tidy?”

“Yes.”

Saint Peter swallowed audibly. Apparently Birdie couldn’t lie, even for art. “Did you take time to feed the hungry, help the needy, and clothe the people who didn’t have any?” (Tommy was at an age, ten, when he found it excruciatingly embarrassing to say the word “naked.”)

“Well, I always give my sister the rest of my sucker when I’m tired of it.”

Saint Peter whispered something.

“No, I didn’t,” Birdie repeated dutifully.

“Then I cannot let you into the Kingdom of Heaven. You poor work shirker, you must go down to Hades.”

This was Birdie’s cue to turn around and sing. She turned—but stood silent, having forgotten her first word.

“Oh,” Sophie sang softly. Hopefully.

Birdie’s face cleared.

“Oh, I wish I’d been a better girl,

I wish I’d said my prayers.

I could’ve gone to Heaven now,

Right up those pearly stairs (gesturing).

“If I’d obeyed my mum and dad

And stayed away from evil,

I could’ve been with Jesus now,

Not roasting with the devil.”

And so on, for two more verses. Miss Mareton’s lyrics might not be inspiring, but they were always to the point. When she finished, Birdie couldn’t refrain from bowing and curtseying to the onlookers, even though Miss Mareton had specifically forbidden these kinds of acknowledgments. Now all the players reassembled on either side of the Gate, right for the saints, left for the sinners, to sing the final song. Sophie came out of hiding to direct them, the final song being complicated and somewhat long. Then Saint Peter stepped forward with a last speech—short and didactic, Miss Mareton at her most direct—and the play was over.

Over the heads of the audience, whose applause struck Sophie as a mixture of relieved and amused, she saw Connor. He was laughing. He gave her a humorous salute with his hat, turned, and jogged back to his quoits match, which he had temporarily abandoned in order to watch her little choristers. His reaction tickled her; taking her bows with the children, she had to pretend she was laughing with pleasure at all the clapping and cheering, not her husband’s silent drama review.

“That was charming,” Rachel Verlaine told Sophie with a twinkle in her eye. “No, truly,” she insisted—Sophie must have looked skeptical—“it was a delight. I can’t wait until William’s old enough to join your choir.” They looked down at William, two months old, nothing but his face showing among the swaddling and blankets in his mother’s arms.

Sophie thought he looked like his father; something about the curve of his lips, she thought, or the snooty arch of his little eyebrows. “Well, if he’s going to be as musical as Lord Moreton, I can’t wait either,” she replied. “Heaven knows, we could use the talent.” Sebastian was an accomplished pianist, she’d been surprised to discover. After a dinner party at Lynton Great Hall last week, he’d played for nearly an hour, beautifully and without a single page of music.

“William get down? Get down?” The yellow-haired toddler grabbing fistfuls of Rachel’s skirt was Elizabeth Morrell—and here came her mother, out of breath from chasing her. The three women walked over to the leafy shade of the trees, where Rachel put William down on the soft grass, unwrapped him from his flannel bunting, and, under three pairs of watchful eyes, let Lizzy play with him.

“I broke down and bought your cousin’s camera at the rummage sale, Sophie,” said Anne, repinning her reddish hair, which had come down.

“So I heard. Did you get a bargain?”

“No, I did not. She wouldn’t come down one penny, which I think was extremely crass of her.”

“Well, it is for charity.”

“Yes, but that’s not the point. One
bargains
at a rummage sale, anyone knows that. Honoria’s a skinflint, and I told her so.”

Sophie and Rachel sent each other amused looks. Who would have thought Anne, of all people, would be tight with a shilling?

“But Lizzy’s getting so big, I wanted to start making photographs of her before she’s all grown up.” She smiled at her daughter, who was kissing William’s chubby cheeks and tickling him under his chin, making the baby gurgle. Sophie waited for the stab of pain that still pierced her occasionally when she wasn’t on guard. But this time it didn’t come.

The church bell struck two. “When are they going to dedicate the plaque, Sophie?” asked Rachel.

“Soon, I think.” The town counsel had voted unanimously to erect a bronze plaque on the green to honor the bravery of Jack Pendarvis.

“Will Connor make the speech?”

“No, Uncle Eustace. He wanted to.” She and Anne traded a significant glance. Her uncle’s turnaround about Connor was a continuing source of wonder to them. He’d repudiated Robert Croddy and thrown his support, political and personal, to his nephew-in-law. Robert, desperate to reingratiate himself, had invited Honoria to the Navy Men’s Ball, the social event of the season in Devonport. But Honoria had turned him down, showing unusually keen judgment when she’d called him, to his face, a “social-climbing son of a brewer.”

“Look at the newlyweds,” Rachel said softly, waving. Sophie and Anne turned to see Sidony and William Holyoake strolling across the green, arm in arm. William was the Verlaines’ baby’s namesake. “Don’t they look happy?”

“Very,” said Anne, smiling, waving.

Sophie smiled automatically. She was happy for William and Sidony—who wouldn’t be?—but sadness for Jack tempered the gladness, and she thought it always would. They did look blissful together, though, and that was nothing but a good thing. They deserved it.

“Is it true they’ve moved into the old caretaker’s cottage on the grounds?” asked Anne.

“Yes,” said Rachel. “Sebastian had it repainted and fixed up for them. William’s rooms in the house were too small for two.”

“I suppose.” Anne had a dreamy, wistful look in her gray eyes, and Sophie wondered what she was thinking.

Just then William the younger let out a squeal—Elizabeth had hugged him with too much exuberance. Before Rachel could pick him up to comfort him, her husband appeared out of nowhere and snatched up his son, crooning to him. Now Lizzy was wailing, too. Anne bent to console her, but just then Christy swooped down and picked up his daughter. Immediately both children stopped crying.

The fathers were sweaty and disheveled from their cricket match, which, Christy announced with undisguised elation, his side had won. Besides cricket, the two men had a love of horses in common, and Sophie enjoyed watching their unlikely friendship grow—the worldly, sophisticated earl and the simple country preacher. But those were only clichés: Christy wasn’t really simple, and Sebastian Verlaine was nothing like the jaded “degenerate” some of the villagers had dubbed him not all that long ago. Right now they looked like ordinary proud papas, and smug ones at that, as if they saw no reason not to attribute their children’s suddenly angelic behavior to themselves alone.

“‘Scuse me, Mrs. Pendarvis.” Tranter Fox snatched off his cap, bowing to everyone like a miniature courtier. “Beg pardon fer intrudin’ my nose in this important group.”

“What is it, Tranter?”

“Ma’am, yer team ’ave won again, and are waitin’ to bestow upon you the game quoit. Not least of all yer very own husband, our friend and new leader, so to say.” Whom Tranter had taken to calling R. H., for Right Honorable.

Amid the laughter and congratulations, Sophie told her friends she would see them later, and went off with Tranter to claim her quoit.

The Guelder Hurlers wanted Connor to make the presentation speech, seeing as how he was a Member of Parliament now as well as a champion ring tosser. But he modestly declined, and insisted that Roy Donne, the team captain, do the honors.

“Mrs. Pendarvis, it gives me great pleasure to present—”

“And happiness,” Tranter embellished. “Pleasure and happiness.”

“It gives me great pleasure and happiness to present to you—”

“Fer the second year in a row.”

Roy paused for a long beat, gathering himself. “For the second year in a row,” he resumed slowly, “I’m pleased and happy to present to you this—”

“To you our beloved owner. Say that.”

“Goddamn it, who’s giving this speech?” cried the captain, and not a single man blamed him for cursing.

“Well, me, if ee can’t do any better’n that,” said Tranter, snatching up the iron ring and shouldering the beefy captain out of the way. “Mrs. Pendarvis, me and the rest o’ the Hurlers take pride, pleasure, happiness, and delight in presenting to you, our beloved owner and leader, without who we’d be just a bunch o’ tutmen and tributers looking fer work, which even if we found it wouldn’t be as good as if you was the one in charge, you bein’ the fairest and most evenhanded, so to say, of bosses which any miner could ask for—and miners ask fer plenty, for they’m a pesky lot in general, not given to takin’ things as they come, you might—” Loud groaning all around brought him back to the point. “Anyways, here’s yer quoit, ma’am, which we presents to you in all ’umbleness and gratefulness fer yer great goodness, beauty, and general perfectness. The Guelder Hurlers remain yer faithful servants in all things. Amen.”

It was hard to keep a straight face when Connor was laughing out loud barely six feet away. Sophie kept her acceptance speech short, and didn’t forget to wind it up with the part about free drinks at the George for the Hurlers and their friends—that always guaranteed a rousing cheer.

“Tranter has a new lady friend,” Connor confided to her when the presentation was over. “Look.”

“Oh, my word.” She had to turn around and hide her face behind Connor’s broad shoulder. “Rose? Rose from the George and Dragon?”

“He says they were made for each other.”

Surreptitiously they watched the odd couple stroll off together, holding hands. Rose was pretty, but she was a big girl, no two ways about it. And Tranter—Tranter was almost a midget. From behind, they looked like a mother and her little boy.

“Did you know Jack had a fling with Rose last summer?” Connor said, taking Sophie’s hand and starting to walk in the other direction.

“No! Jack did? What happened? Were they really fond of each other?”

“I suppose so, for a little while. Jack never stayed with one woman for long.”

“But he loved Sidony,” she said softly.

Conner squeezed her hand. “He did.”

“I saw her today, with William.”

“I did, too. They look right together. Happy.”

She nodded. It was true, and it was a good thing. But it still made her sigh.

“Want a funnel cookie?” Connor asked to cheer her up.

She smiled. “You bought me funnel cookies last year—do you remember?”

“Of course. I remember everything about that day. You had on a yellow dress.”

“And you had on a blue shirt with no collar. And suspenders.”

He laughed, throwing his head back to the clear blue sky. “You gave all your funnel cookies to the ducks.”

“I thought you were the handsomest man I’d ever seen.”

“You were the prettiest girl in the world. Still are.”

“You let me talk about my father.”

“You let me kiss you in the churchyard.”

They stopped walking. Sometimes the way he looked at her could make her toes curl. “I’d like to kiss you right now,” she confessed in a whisper. “And that’s not all.”