My Only Love (23 page)

Explosive.

If
only he were a little drunker now ... he could forget how she had manipulated—controlled—castrated
him before the entire village of Gunnerside.

But
he was too damned angry.

Removing
his hand, he allowed the dress to fall down her legs, then he stepped away,
flashing her a smile that kept her pinned against the door as forcefully as his
body had seconds before, her entire being visibly trembling, her face suddenly
pale. How young and vulnerable she appeared in that moment. Had she been any
other woman—a virgin—he might have given her credit for appearing shaken and
frightened by his sexual aggressiveness. No doubt it was simply her own
wantonness that made her face flush with the blood-heat of passion. No doubt
she was thinking of another time and place, possibly another man. Still, she
faced him. Her eyes were unflinching, yet as the silent moments passed she
regained her equilibrium and regarded him with her old defiance. And with
challenge. As if saying, I dare you to take me. I dare you to want me,
regardless of what I am, or what I was.

"Sweet
dreams, dear heart," he said, and stepped around her for the door.

Love is a deep well from
which you may drink often, but into

which you may fall but
once.

—Ell ye Howell Glover

CHAPTER TWELVE

Olivia
awoke to the deep, distant melody of church bells. Wearily (for she had had
little sleep) she left her bed and peered out the window.

Along
the village streets, and stretching off across the downs, came a mass of
black-clad folk, all with their heads bowed and their weather-ruddy faces
somber. Silently, they moved in groups toward the church: the youths neatly
dressed, their parents walking in melancholy array, expressions of sorrow
deeply creasing their faces.

Olivia
hurried down the stairs until she located the innkeeper, who was pulling on a
black jacket over his dark gray shirt and waistcoat. "Good sir," she
said, "why are these people descending on the church?"

"Why,
there's to be a buryin', ma'am. A miner's buryin' for poor Billy and Ian."
He shook his head and buttoned his jacket. "Poor, poor fellows was underground
in the 210 fathom level when a scale of ground come way from the roof and
crushed them both flat as pancakes.

Their
comrades was wheelin' the bouse out to shaft; and when they come back there was
poor Billy and Ian..." He wiped his eyes. "As dead as herrin's they
was. Sheeny Kilpatrick, he was their comrade come up to surface, why he
couldn't speak for five minutes, then he calls for Kappen McMillian. Kappen
goes barrelin' to the 210 but there was naught to be done for the men. They was
dead, o'course, and all Kappen could do was tell their widows and mothers. It
were a pitiful and sad day, but no sadder than this."

Olivia
followed him to the door and stood on the stoop, watching the hundreds of men,
women, and children file silently through the streets. "But where do they
all come from?" she asked softly.

"Other
villages, ma'am. Other mines. When one of their own is killed it strikes to the
heart of them all, because they all know that the next give could come crashin'
down on them or their loved ones." With his jacket buttoned tightly, the
innkeeper turned his collar up against the cold and stepped out into the
street, and in seconds was swallowed up by the moving throng.

Olivia
joined the procession from the church to the cemetery. The knell, which had
been tolling for some time, ceased, and the Methodist minister stood before the
immense assembly of people and pronounced, "Earth to earth, dust to dust.
Please bow your heads in prayer."

Shivering,
Olivia set her gaze on her husband's broad back and watched as he neither bowed
his head nor prayed, but looked out over the gathering of mourners with his
face blank of emotion, his gloved hands clasped into fists.

The
ceremony then concluded, Miles moved through the dispersing crowd toward the
widows. As they saw him, they broke into fresh tears and huddled their children
close to them.

From
her place beside the cemetery entrance, Olivia watched her husband take the
women's hands in his. He spoke. They wept. The children buried their
cold-kissed faces in their mother's skirts as other children of other miners
scampered from one hillocked grave to another, finding relief in their game.

"He'll
be assuring the widows that they'll not want for bread for themselves or their
children," came a soft voice behind Olivia. "Normally he would be
joined by the good captain, but McMillian has hurried off to his dinner."

The
woman moved around Olivia so they stood side by side. Olivia looked over at
the' striking brunette. "Certainly, how they'll continue to feed their
children will be their main concern," she went on. "In years past, if
there were no sons to take their father's place in the mines, the women would
do so. Up until three years ago, McMillian allowed children, no older than
those, to work their father's place in the pares. Your husband put a stop to it
immediately. It was against the law to work the children, of course, but it's
always been McMillian's theory that what the law doesn't know won't hurt them.

"Warwick
will, of course, instruct these women to keep his generosity a secret."
The woman lowered her voice slighdy. "There are men killed occasionally
for reasons other than mine accidents. Some, having grown weary of the
drudgery, simply throw themselves down a hole."

"Suicide?"
Olivia frowned.

"If
the men were to learn that upon their deaths, Warwick would care for their
families financially, I fear we would see a tremendous increase in suicide. As
it is, these miners work themselves to death just to feed their families. Look
into their faces, Mrs. Warwick. After years of ungodly toiling in the bowels of
these hills, would death not seem a welcome respite?

"Then,
of course, there are the accidents due strictly from carelessness. Men go in
drunk. They get in fights. The mine owners simply cannot be expected to pay for
a man's stupidity."

Olivia
shook her head and clutched her cloak more tightly around her. "But they
are all so angry with my husband."

"Not
all. But there is a great deal of frustration, and it is commonly known that
frustration breeds anger. I'll say this, Mrs. Warwick. There are those who
would encourage disharmony among the men for their own purposes."

"Do
you mean Lubinsky?"

"Others
closer to Miles and the matter is growing worse."

"You
speak in riddles, madam. Have you told my husband this?"

"You'll
soon find, Mrs. Warwick, that despite Miles's appearance of cynicism, he will
stubbornly, and often foolishly, choose to hang on to the trust he's invested
in a man ... or woman .. . until it's too late. Therefore, when a friend, or
loved one, or business associate whom he's trusted turns on him, it makes their
betrayal all the more bitter."

"You
appear to know my husband very well,

Mrs____?"

"Hooper.
Janet Hooper."

*     *     *

In
the past, Olivia had listened to her father's discourse on the Yorkshire mining
industry with a modicum of interest. She knew that conditions in the mines left
a great deal to be desired. She was also aware that mechanization, along with
mine-owner reform, had done much to remedy the sorry conditions in which the
miners had been forced to labor.

Flanked
by Miles and Earl Warwick, Olivia managed to keep a brave upper lip as she,
along with Delaney, Wallace, and McMillian, were trundled by rider into the
very bowels of the earth.

"You'll
be keepin' yer hands and arms tucked in close," Delaney explained to
Olivia. "Or you'll find yerself limbless."

"And
no whistlin'," Wallace added. "It's bad luck."

Olivia
glanced over the rider's oaken side and watched water swirl around the wheels
and rails. As the cart rocked into the darkness, Delaney leaned close and
whispered, "If we're lucky we won't be seein' any pixies."

"Pixies?"
she replied.

"Aye.
The small people," Delaney explained. "They be somewhat like a kind
of masculine fairy, but, unlike the softer sex of them diminutive folk, pixies
like nothin' more than makin' mischief."

Leaning
closer to Delaney's smirking face, so they were practically nose to nose in the
semidarkness, she said, "Poppycock, Mr. Delaney. If you're thinking to
scare me with such ridiculous superstitions you needn't bother. Such fables are
given credit only by those of weak understanding and uneducated minds."

McMillian
chuckled and poked Wallace with his elbow. "Got spunk, ain't she,
Herbert?"

Herbert
Wallace grimaced and looked at Miles, who sat with his elbows on his knees and
his eyes on Olivia. So far, Miles hadn't spoken a word to her.

Listening
to the sound of the rider creaking and groaning with the strain of its load,
Olivia watched the daylight at the portal grow smaller and dimmer as they sank
beyond the dressing floor, and the overwhelming sense of slowly being buried
alive by the close stone walls made her feel slightly faint.

The
dimension of the level they traversed was little more than six feet by four
feet. Olivia was impressed by the stone arching that gave the mine a neat,
orderly, and safe appearance.

"The
upkeep on this masonry must cost a fortune," Olivia said, more to herself
than to the men.

"Precisely
six hundred pounds a quarter to secure the roofs and walls, of each
level," her husband replied, bringing her gaze back to his. Perhaps he was
no longer angry over her presence here.

"It
seems a phenomenal amount," she replied. "Is it necessary?"

"Absolutely,
unless you wish to increase the risk to the men, not to mention impeding the
roadway by which the bouse and deads are transported to the surface."

Olivia
watched his face as he closely studied their surroundings. Occasionally they
passed a tallow candle that had been affixed to the wall by bits of clay. The
dim light reflected from his features, giving him the look of a young boy with
his eye on a plate of confections as he spoke of the mine as if it were a
living entity.

"The
timber work is as costly as the masonry. More so because the timbers are
constantly rotting or splintering, or generally in need of replacement. Larger
companies, such as the London Lead Company, own their own woodyard, and in some
cases, their own forests. To employ on-site millwrights or carpenters, however,
would cost another fifteen hundred pounds a quarter."

As
they reached the mouth of the nearest level, a sense of relief settled over
Olivia as she did her best to take a deep breath in the thin air.

Delaney
and Wallace stepped forward and grabbed a lantern that offered little more than
a flicker of light in the oppressive darkness. Miles followed, glancing back at
Olivia momentarily before offering her his hand.

Olivia
stepped into the shaft, only to be brought up short as she sank to her ankles
in mud. Startled, she looked at her feet, then up at Miles. He only offered her
his hand again, and this time she took it.  

She
learned quickly that the dangers of the shafts were more numerous and varied
than she had expected. With ceilings low enough that Miles and Earl Warwick
were forced to stoop slightly to avoid hitting their heads, the mines were a
catacomb of massive disasters waiting to snuff out the lives of the miners at
any moment.

Olivia
soon had enough. Still, she had asked—demanded—this tour. She needed to
understand Miles's problems.

The
stench was enough to force her into covering her nose with a perfumed hankie.
While Miles offered her support by holding her left arm, and Earl Warwick her
right, they moved down the bleak damp tunnels while McMillian explained how the
ore was transported up steep inclines to the surface along wood rails.
Occasionally they came to other pits that were little more than black holes
with tiny orange lights flickering at the bottom.

"Down
there is what we call hell. Man who volunteers to work in hell signs his own
death warrant. If disease or drownin' or cave-ins don't kill him, chokedamp
will. Only way down there is by ladder."

The
tour continued. The conditions worsened. The unbearable heat soon sapped
Olivia's energy and parched her throat. A thermometer indicated the air at one
hundred and eight degrees.