Mrs. Tate would know. She’d spent long hours with Jillian in that final week, caring for her while Rachel worked. They’d had nothing to do but talk, at least when Jillian was lucid. “Did she tell you that?”
“Several times. She’d ask me almost every day if ’e’d been by.”
He’d stopped in at the shop quite often. Her mother didn’t know about those visits and neither would Mrs. Tate. But had he also been secretly visiting Jillian?
It didn’t seem plausible.
“Mum agreed with the need for a union,” she said.
“That could be true,” Mrs. Tate responded. “Most of us ’ere in the village agree. But she didn’t want ye to ’ave any part in the fight.”
“I understood why at the time. She’d had enough of the mine and everything connected to it and wanted it out of our lives. But now I wonder how she could feel that way when Mr. Cutberth was helping to pay the bills.” Rachel wasn’t convinced he and her mother had ever slept together, but she had to believe he was the one who’d given them the money, or he wouldn’t have been so interested in finding the ledgers.
“Maybe it wasn’t Cutberth who was ’elping,” Mrs. Tate said.
Rachel didn’t give this much credence. “Mrs. Cutberth admitted as much to Lord Druridge.”
“It could be that they’re both protectin’ someone.”
This was an interesting thought. “Such as whom?”
After drying her hands on a towel, she sat at the kitchen table. “Once, when yer mother was tossin’ an’ turnin’ with fever, she was arguin’ with the earl’s own cousin, she was. I ’eard ’is name clear as a bell. ‘Wythe,’ she said, ‘you’ll protect my children when I’m gone. Promise me you’ll protect my children.’ I wasn’t sure what business she’d ’ave with Mr. Stanhope, or why she might be on a first-name basis with ’im. But I knew it was none of my business, so I said nothin’. I figured it was the delirium talkin’.” She gazed across the room, eyes unfocused, as if reliving the incident. “But after ’earing such rubbish about ’er and Cutberth… I wonder.”
Rachel had never heard her mother speak of Wythe in any particularly passionate way. It was always the earl. “Stay away from him,” Jillian had told her, over and over. Had Mrs. Tate witnessed the nonsensical ramblings of a very sick woman? Or was there some meaning behind them? “Did Mr. Stanhope ever come to the house when I wasn’t there?”
“Not that I remember.” Mrs. Tate smoothed her apron. “The only place ’e bothers to go ’ere in the village is the brothel. An’ ’e goes there so often they should rent ’im a room.”
That had to be at least part of the reason Elspeth felt she could claim to know so much about the goings-on at Blackmoor Hall and the colliery. Was it also why she’d refused to see Rachel? Was she afraid of what Wythe would do if he thought she might share his secrets?
As far as Rachel was concerned, that was a strong possibility. She was certainly frightened of the earl’s cousin.
But if Elspeth really did know something that could help Lord Druridge, and Rachel could get her to talk, maybe it wouldn’t be so all-important to find those missing paintings.
Chapter 20
Lady Penelope smiled whenever he looked at her, but Truman couldn’t help feeling as if her eyes were a bit… vacant. She was so placid, so quiet, which added to the feeling that her mind was somewhere else. Her father carried the conversation at dinner. He even spoke for her whenever Truman tried to draw her out.
Richard Mayberry, the Duke of Pembroke, sat on his right, across from Penelope, and had a booming voice for such a small man. He barely came up to Truman’s shoulder and was often bedridden with gout, but when he could get around he carried himself like a king. “I thought we might see Wythe for dinner,” he said, “but I suppose what I’ve heard is true.”
Truman had just lifted his wine glass. He paused before drinking. “That depends. What have you heard, Your Grace?”
“That he is no longer staying at Blackmoor Hall.”
“Yes. We’ve had some… difficulty at the mine. I felt it would be in my best interest to have my steward stationed closer—for the time being.”
“So you had him move in with your Fore-Overman because of unrest at the mine?”
Truman ignored the skepticism in his voice. “More or less, Your Grace.”
The duke frowned when Truman wasn’t more forthcoming. It wasn’t any of His Grace’s business where Wythe was staying, but Truman could understand why he would be interested. The duke had been digging for information on Rachel ever since he arrived. While Lady Penelope was dressing for dinner, he’d admitted he was vastly curious about “the Creswell shopkeeper” who had caught Truman’s eye. This latest question told him the rumors circulating about her included some account of Wythe’s banishment.
The duke stuffed another bite of roast duck into his mouth. “What kind of difficulties are you facing at the mine?”
Truman barely refrained from exchanging a glance with Linley, who entered the room with their dessert. “The usual struggle, Your Grace, over pay and benefits.”
“Miners are a bunch of greedy buggers, aren’t they?”
Since he’d always made the lion’s share of the income from the colliery, Truman wasn’t sure he could call the miners greedy, but the last thing he wanted was an argument with the duke. He was already anxious, waiting to hear some word from his cousin regarding whether his offer of a reward would recover the paintings. “Greedy or justified, they are trying to create a union to force my hand.”
He made a face. “Good Lord, you have to quash that immediately. Make sure they understand if they don’t want to work, you’ll find others who do. Once they start to go hungry, they’ll change their minds, I assure you.”
“Fortunately, there should be enough common ground to avoid a starve out.”
“Excuse me?”
The duke didn’t seem to have detected the sarcasm in Truman’s voice. Truman made more of an effort to eradicate it as he explained. “The price of coal is up. I don’t see any reason we can’t all benefit.”
“You’re going to give in to their demands?”
“As far as I see fit. I need workers; they need work. A fair trade should solve both problems.”