Through the Smoke

Rachel accepted the envelope but asked the footman to wait. He hovered at the door as she broke the seal.

Inside she found twenty pounds and the deed to her cottage, along with a note written in what appeared to be the earl’s own hand.

Dear Rachel,

You must have forgotten your money. The balance please accept as my gift.

Sincerely,

Truman Stanhope

So now she knew the price a low-born woman like herself had to pay to get on a first-name basis with an earl.

The knowledge of it, the guilt, turned her stomach. If only she’d had the presence of mind to spurn him…

Shoving the money, and the deed, back into the envelope, Rachel handed the lot of it to Druridge’s servant. “Please return this to your master. Tell him I do not want his money. Tell him”—she took a deep breath, wondering what she could say that would keep the earl from involving himself in her life again—“tell him there is no debt between us and no need to contact me again.”

The servant’s eyes rounded. “That’s a lot of money yer ’andin’ back.”

It was a lot of money, but the deed to the cottage tempted her more. To know Geordie would always have a roof over his head… But her self-respect wouldn’t allow her to compromise her principles, at least not to that degree. She might have made a mistake, might’ve succumbed to a moment of wanton desire. But she wasn’t a whore. “It doesn’t belong to me. See that your master gets it.”

“Yes, mum.” Slipping the envelope inside his coat, the servant gave her a slight bow and left.

“Looks like you have been making friends in high places, Miss McTavish.”

Startled, Rachel whirled around to see Jonas Cutberth standing next to her desk. She didn’t have to ask how he’d gotten there—for her sake as much as his own the union organizer never used the front door. He came and went through the back, by way of the alley.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Cutberth?” she asked. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

His delicate eyebrows—delicate enough to belong to a woman—arched above black, bird-like eyes that rarely blinked. He had a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair that fell, unkempt, across his brow. At forty, his once muscular build was going soft, but he wasn’t unhandsome. Not more than a year ago, Rachel had secretly fancied herself in love with him—at least she’d been in love with his ideals.

“Nothing too serious. Have I come at a bad time?”

Rachel rubbed the knot on the back of her head—her souvenir from Blackmoor Hall—and drew a deep breath against the unremitting pain. “No. It has been a difficult week is all. In case you haven’t heard, my mother passed away.”

His mustache twitched as he offered her a brief, sad smile, but his eyes remained as watchful as ever. “I heard, and I am terribly sorry. Jillian was a good woman, always true to the cause.”

That was how Mr. Cutberth measured people, according to their passion for the working class. Normally it didn’t bother Rachel. But this morning she felt as though her own loyalty was somehow in question—a symptom, no doubt, of a guilty conscience.

“Wasn’t that Lord Druridge’s footman here just now?” He picked up a compilation of eighteenth-century poetry and leafed through its yellowed pages.

“It was.”

“I thought I recognized him. Come to collect rent, has he?”

Mr. Cutberth was in charge of the accounting at the mine and knew Lord Druridge’s business better than Rachel did, which meant he also knew the earl’s solicitor took care of his rents. He wanted to know why a servant of the earl’s would visit the bookshop.

To stop him from further inquiry, Rachel said, “The earl sent him to offer me money in exchange for what I know about the fire at Blackmoor Hall. He has made the offer before, remember?”

“I do. You told me you turned him down. Have you changed your mind?”

“Of course not. I know nothing that could help Lord Druridge.”

Cutberth set the book aside. “Your mother never spoke of the tragedy?”

“Only to say my father was innocent.”

He offered her a smile too obviously engineered to placate her. “Of course he was. But have you thought what it could mean to you and your young brother if you told the earl your father set the blaze? Jack’s been in his grave for what… eighteen months? You no longer have to worry about your mother, God rest her soul. Druridge would have his answers. And you, my dear, would have a sizeable purse.”

Rachel propped one hand on her hip. “And what would you get out of it, Mr. Cutberth?”

He grimaced at her demand for honesty. “I would get nothing, directly. But if I must spell out all the advantages, you would be doing our labor efforts a great service. Given the way the earl keeps nosing around, asking questions and hiring investigators, he is sure to discover the identity of some, if not all, of our supporters. If that happens, a lot of good men stand to lose their jobs.”

“Including you.”

He inclined his head. “Including me. I am rather fond of my wife and five children. I would like to be able to continue to support them.”

Rachel waved him off. “I can’t lie or tarnish my father’s reputation in exchange for money. What would that make me?”

“A brave girl who is doing all she can to improve the miners’ lot. Think of your poor, deceased brother. With a few precautions, accidents like the one that took his life could be avoided in future. But only if the workers unite, come together more powerfully than ever before, and demand the earl and his Fore-Overman make drastic changes.”

The ache in her head escalated until it felt like her brain was trying to escape her skull. So much, too much, was riding on her shoulders. She felt herself bending under the weight of it all, even as she fought to carry the burden. “The wrong thing for the right reasons,” she said, more to herself than to him.

“If you like.”

Rachel rubbed her eyes. She needed sleep. She wanted to curl up in her bed while her mother moved around in the kitchen. She wanted to smell the aroma of roast chicken and homemade bread, hear Jillian humming softly to herself. But that was a luxury she would never know again. “Is that all?”

“No. There has been another accident, in Derbyshire. A nine-year-old boy was running the engine that raises and lowers the miners into the pit and was distracted by a mouse. Four older boys traveling in the cage were killed when he failed to stop its descent in time.”