Surrender The Night (25 page)

Par
t Three

‘To every action there is always opposed an equal reaction: or,
the mutual actions of two bodies upon each other are always equal, and directed to contrary parts.”

—Sir
Isaac
Newton,
Laws of Motion, III

Chapter Eight

The next time
Katrina saw Will, several days later, she drew him into the parlor. His icy stare warmed as she said haltingly, “I . . . want to apologize for my harsh words the other day. My only excuse is that I was . . . upset.”

“I quite understand, Katrina. Perhaps I shouldn’t have interfered. But I couldn’t help it. When I heard he was here, I knew he’d be after you, and then to see him stalking you that way, well, my instinct was to protect you. I know you haven’t given me leave, but I feel . . . responsible for you.”

She had to look away from his pleading look, for she couldn’t give him what he really wanted. Even now. Especially now, with Devon so near. “I know. I’m flattered that you care. Shall we put the incident behind us?” They both rose.

‘ ‘I can, Katrina, but can you?’ ’

“I intend to,” she muttered, turning to the door. “Wait.”

He stepped up to her until she had to tilt her chin back to look at him. “He’ll not leave you be, you know,” he said gently. ‘ ‘If you truly want to put the past behind you, you must free yourself of him. What better way to do that than to form an attachment to another man? Our supposed engagement sent him on his way, didn’t it?”

Katrina stared at Will’s fine linen stock to avoid those searching blue eyes. He always dressed in the height of fashion. As in the past, she wondered what kind of inheritance had left him so well-to-do. He could certainly not dress so on the salary Carrington paid him.

He was waiting for an answer, but she could only manage a nod. Indeed, Devon had left her easily enough. She was still grappling with her despair, still telling herself that she was better off. Even work had been no solace these last few days, but she was determined that no one would know how miserable she’d been. Not even Will.

“I don’t think we need prevaricate further, Will. He’ll not be back.”

Will’s gaze traveled from the top of her burnished head to the tips of her slippered feet. “If you truly believe that, Katrina, you’re an innocent still, no matter what you did in the past.”

Katrina blushed. That masculine, encompassing look was not one she liked to associate with Will. With a weak smile she turned and fled to help Rachel, unaware of the hungry, determined stare that followed her.

Worries built upon worries in the ensuing days. The thrice- daily meals dwindled to two, and those were sparse. Robert took to fishing in the river, but there was so much sediment from the mine upstream that he seldom caught anything. Daily, Jimmy stomped off at dawn to Carrington’s fields. Katrina saw how he hated the backbreaking, sweaty work, but her respect for him rose when this time he persevered.

She’d watched him go into the'larder one morning to see for himself the extent of their stores. From his pale expression on emerging she knew he hadn’t realized money was so tight. Jimmy was paid in both a crop share and in a small stipend, which was not due to him until the end of the quarter. Since the grain was not ready to harvest or the vegetables ripe, Jimmy’s toil had thus far gained them nothing.

Rachel and Ellie tried to take in sewing, but the affluent preferred the modiste in Truro, and the poor could not pay. Ellie wanted to go to work as a barmaid in Truro, but John forbade it.

“Soon as we get this rubble cleared, we can start brenging up copper again. We’ll manage tell then,” he told them all more than once. But his face grew haggard with worry.

Nevertheless, they still had food, unlike many in the area. Rachel insisted on giving what little they could spare to neighboring miners. Many of John’s workers had larger families and a smaller profit share to support them, so their straits were even more dire.

Katrina saw the poverty the miners were suffering when she accompanied Will on his rounds. One housewife, her formerly round, healthy face growing pale and wan, was grubbing around on her knees on the ground when they arrived. She lifted her head when she heard them and waved at Will, but then she bent intently over the ground again.

Katrina paused to ask her what she was doing, but Will hurried her along. “Leave the poor woman her pride.”

“What do you mean, Will?”

“She’s gathering snails to make broth. Probably that’s the only source of meat they’ve had for weeks. The last cave-in blocked off the only producing lode left in Carrington’s mine. There’s been little profit from it for months, anyway. He’ll probably close it soon.”

Katrina had feared as much from John’s increasingly grim aspect, but her heart lurched in dismay. She pinned a cheerful smile on her face, however, when they entered the tiny cottage to tend to Big Tom Corrigan. Two little girls were cleaning th
e spotless single room in a listless manner. They gave a wan smile before going back to their dusting and sweeping.

Tom had six girls ranging in age from one to ten, Katrina knew. With no sons to help bring in a working wage, the family was dependent upon his income.

His flesh hung loosely on his big frame when he struggled up to a sitting position to greet them. “Good day to ’ee, doc. And to ’ee. Miss Katrina.” His black eyes seemed unnaturally bright in the dimness. After returning his greeting, Will put a hand to Tom’s forehead. He frowned.

“How long have you had this fever? Why didn’t you send for me?’ ’

“Et only started yesterday.”

Will pressed his ear to Tom’s chest. “Take a deep breath and hold it.”

Katrina saw from Will’s face that he was concerned. While Will drew back the sheet to examine Tom’s broken, bandaged ribs and fractured hip, Katrina mixed the herbal paste Will had showed her how to make. She could tell by the whistling in Tom’s lungs that congestion had settled in. She prayed that one of Tom’s ribs had not punctured a lung. Katrina knew that miners were susceptible to lung problems because they’d spent so many years breathing fine ore dust. She slathered the fish-oil-based paste on Tom’s wide chest while Will mixed up some medicine.

Tom’s grin was weak but playfu
l. “Et’s a good theng my missus esn’t here. She’d let me have a broken nose to match my rebs for lyin’ here enjoyin’ the touch of such a pretty lass.”

Katrina smiled perkily back. “Let that be a warning to you. If you want peace in your household, you must get well so I’ll not have to smear this witch’s concoction on you,” She brought her hand close to his nose.

He gagged and turned his head away. “Whoosh! That smells like my missus’s soup.”

“I heard that, Tom Corrigan,” his wife said, stepping into the cottage and setting the crockery pot down on the small cupboard that served as her kitchen workboard. She shook a finger at him. “And does ’ee thenk ’ee can tell a pigsty from a rose bower weth that broken nose?”

Tom rubbed his big, crooked nose with a fingertip. “Et’s proud I am of thes snout, as ’ee should be, Mina, knowin’ how et got busted.”

Mina’s mock-stern expression softened. As Katrina drew the sheet up over Tom’s freshly bandaged chest, Mina said, “I well remember, Tom, your idea of courtin’.” She rolled her eyes at Will, who chuckled.

“And I remember what the other fellow looked like. It was watching the old doc put him back together that made me want to be a physician,” Will said reflectively. He gave Tom a spoonful of the brown liquid he’d left in a small vial beside the bed. “This should help clear his lungs, Mina. Give it to him every six hours. If his fever doesn’t break by dawn, you’re to send for me.”

Her cheerful smile didn’t slip. “Yes, Will.” But her voice shook when she said, “Es he goin’ to be all right?”

“I expect so.” Will shook his head, anticipating her next question. “And no, he cannot go back to work for some time. If you’d only let me help—”

“Th
at’s enough, doc,” Tom broke in tersely. “Sence ’ee won’t even let us pay for the medicine, we can’t take no more from you.” But there was a tension in Tom’s voice that puzzled Katrina. Something more than pride seemed at play here. She looked from Tom’s adamant expression to Will’s stiff one.

“But as a miner you’re my responsibility,” Will reminded him. “I’ve told you before, you owe me nothing—”

“Go on weth ’ee and let me get some rest.” Tom drew the sheet up to his obstinate chin and folded his hands over his chest.

Mina followed them to the door. Katrina handed her the small basket she’d set on the step. “This isn’t much, but it may supply a couple of meals. Rachel sent it.”

“Thank you. Miss Katrina.” She sent an abashed look at Will. “I’m sorry—”

Will sighed. “That’s quite all right. Tom’s a proud man, and I suspect he doesn’t know how bad things are. You save the best food for him, don’t you?”

Mina nodded. “But we thank ’ee for the offer.”

They waved and began the long walk back to the Tonkin cottage, where they parted, for Will to go on to his own cottage close to the mine. The memory of those hollow-eyed li
ttle girls haunted Katrina all that afternoon as she helped Rachel about the house. Would Robert soon look the same?

Katrina snapped down the pot she’d just d
ried, hung up her towel, and turned away. “I’m going out, Rachel. It may be late when I get back, so don’t worry.”

Katrina paused at the parlor mirror to pin her
hair up more. Her hands froze about her head. Her best dress had long since faded from its dove gray to an indistinguishable dun color. The patches at her elbows were fraying. What good family would hire her, looking as she did, to tutor their children?

She took the fine lamb’s-wool shawl Rachel had made her and draped it about her shoulders. The pale blue color brought out her eyes and made the dress look slightly better. Sighing, Katrina turned away. She hadn’t thought about her appearance in almost two years, except to assure herself that she was neat and clean. She looked like a beggar maid.

As she began the long walk she was tempted, briefly, to go to Devon’s manor and ask for help. He owed her, for she’d never taken a penny from him in payment for the services she’d so richly rendered. Her lip curled. But if she did so now doubtless he’d see it as a sign that she was offering to sell herself again. And never would she do so. Even if every one of them starved.

The wind was not quite as wild today, and Katrina enjoyed the walk over the heath. Wildflowers, pink, white, and yellow, bloomed in the rock clefts and in wet patches on the rolling moor. A kestrel keened as it circled above, looking for prey. The sun winked in and out of clouds, keeping rain at bay for the moment.

As the road descended into Truro Katrina had to step aside for the occasional cart, laden with goods being taken to market. The quay must be busy today, she thought. Truro had an estuary to Falmouth harbor that was deep enough to bear ships of a hundred tons and served as a channel outlet for the inhabitants from miles around.

Katrina paused on the rise overlooking the city to enjoy its pretty aspect. Truro stood on a vale at the confluence of two rivers, and was somewhat triangular in shape. It had commo
dious streets lined with shops and neat houses. A stream ran in the middle. Here and there lay great blocks of tin awaiting coinage. Katrina looked at them, wondering how many other Britons were as ill informed as she had been about the ancient system, unique in the isles.

John had explained to Katrina that since 1337, when the Duchy of Cornwall was created and gifted to the Prince of Wales, regulation of the tin mines had been conducted by the prince’s council. The duchy was divided into mining areas called stannaries, and the duke took the place of the king in regulating tin-mining affairs. The stannaries had their own courts that settled mining disputes. In the past, at least, such courts were not subject to common law.

In return, representatives of the prince assayed and stamped each tin block with his arms. For every hundredweight so marked, the prince received four shillings, supposedly largely to fund the stannary system. Thus far, copper was not so regulated. John was fervently glad of that, yet, from his explanation, the cost-book system that governed most copper mines seemed almost as unwieldy and unfair. Katrina had been appalled to discover that most Cornish copper mines were primarily in the hands of investors outside Cornwall.

John’s mine, or bal, as he called it, was a rare exception since it lay on Carrington’s lands, and due to his rich estates
in other counties, Carrington had capital enough to be the primary investor. He held over half an interest. Yet close as he was to the day-to-day working of the mine, he seemed no more sympathetic to his workers’ lots than the remote Prince of Wales.

How much, Katrina wondered, had the mines earned the prince and Carrington’s family over the years? Yet neither nobleman nor future monarch apparently cared that the miners who earned them the vast sums were on the verge of starvation. A brooding frown on her face, Katrina descended the road into Truro and turned into the first shop she came to, a millinery.

The proprietress looked her up and down as she haltingly asked for a position. “Go on weth ’ee,” the small, sharp-faced, sharp-tongued woman snapped. “I’ve got no work for such as ’ee.”

Katrina got the same response from every shop she entered, even the apothecary’s. He, at least, was kind.

“I’ve scarce enough work to keep me and my family busy, lass. I’m sorry. Why don’t you try the Cock and Hind Tavern? It’s two streets over, and I hear they’re looking for a barmaid.’ ’