Through the Smoke

“Right,” Wythe said, then strode quickly to the house, leaving Truman outside to have another smoke.

Unwilling to open her eyes until she absolutely couldn’t hide from the day any longer, Rachel woke late. The financial picture she’d created after going through the books last night had not been encouraging. Her mother owed a traveling vendor almost twenty pounds, which might’ve been two hundred for all of Rachel’s ability to pay. Rents for the cottage and the shop were overdue. And their cupboards were nearly bare. In order to satisfy her creditors and garner enough to survive, she would have to sell off a portion of her inventory, perhaps to a shop in London, which was probably the only place she’d find someone with sufficient funds. But even if she did that, she would be faced with the same situation next month, and the month after. The bookshop wasn’t meeting its overhead. The place would be dismantled bit by bit and she’d soon be left with nothing. Or almost nothing. She’d have her teaching, of course, but the miners paid her in foodstuffs and handmade items. Such bartering provided a more comfortable existence, but would never be enough to support her and young Geordie.

How had her mother managed?

That was a question Rachel feared to ask, even herself. Jillian had started the shop with the backing of her rich father. Although she was illegitimate, he had eventually accepted her, paid for her schooling, even set her up in business. But the money had stopped when he died. From there, Jillian had kept the shop afloat by using the money Jack had received for supposedly setting the fire at Blackmoor Hall, which was long gone. What had she been doing since?

According to what Rachel had figured out last night, one mysterious payment came in each month that was not categorized as to its source. Without that, they would have lost the shop long ago.

With a groan, she pulled her quilts up over her head. For a moment she remembered the money she’d turned away, just yesterday, and wished she could lower her pride and her ideals enough to accept it. She could go to Blackmoor Hall this morning and apologize to the earl for her high-handed rejection.…

But how would she ever be able to live with herself?

There had to be another way.

“Rach?” The front door slammed as Geordie came charging into the cottage. The smell of fresh-baked bread accompanied him, making Rachel’s mouth water.

“Look! Mr. Sandler gave me some bread for shoveling off his walk.” He sat on the corner of her bed, holding a golden brown loaf in his hands.

“It snowed this morning?”

“Aye. The skies are clear now, but it’s near freezin’.” He threw off his scarf, hat and gloves but left on his coat. The cottage was nearly as cold as outdoors. No fire had been lit this morning. Considering the dwindling woodpile in back, Rachel had no plans to heat the cottage until nightfall.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Do you want some of my—”

He stopped midsentence and frowned at her, worry clouding his former expression. “Are you sick, Rachel? What’s wrong? You look so white.”

Rachel summoned the energy to sit up and give him a bright smile. She was drawing on reserves she didn’t know she possessed, but she prayed she could keep up appearances, for his sake. Even if she had to resort to working in the mine, she would find some way to care for him.

All roads in Creswell seemed to lead to the earl.

“I was out late, finishing the accounting,” she said, “but it’s time I get up. I need to open the shop. Would you like to help me?”

He nodded and tore off a chunk of bread to give her. “I’ll shovel the walks.”

Rachel gratefully accepted his offering. He was such a good boy. If only she could provide him with an education and the chance to be something besides a miner.

“Rachel!” Mrs. Tate blew in next, her face red, her movements agitated. She usually knocked, but today she was obviously too upset to mind such convention.

“What is it?” Mrs. Tate’s married sons worked at the mine. For a moment, Rachel feared there’d been another accident. “Is it Rulon or Charles?”

Her neighbor’s mouth opened and closed twice before any sound came out. “No, it’s the laundress, Mrs. Miller. She said… she said that ye and the earl”—she flapped a hand in front of her face as though she might faint—“that the two of ye—”

A sick feeling began in the pit of Rachel’s stomach, but she had the presence of mind to stop Mrs. Tate long enough to get her brother out of the cottage. “Geordie, would you be so good as to bring in some more wood?”

Hesitant, he looked from Mrs. Tate to Rachel and back again. “I don’t want to do it now. I want to hear—”

“Geordie, please.”

The gravity in her tone must have frightened him enough to get him to obey. Reluctantly, he pulled on his hat, scarf and gloves and trudged outside, taking his bread with him.

After the door banged shut, Rachel steeled her nerves and turned to Mrs. Tate, who was wringing her hands. “What about me and the earl?”

Rachel felt as if she was standing in front of a firing squad, waiting for the first crack of gunfire.

“They’re sayin’… I mean it’s all lies, of course, but oh, Rachel, I am so frightened for ye. The whole village is buzzing with the news, and they’re not takin’ it well. Mrs. Chauncery, down at the corner shop, wouldn’t even serve me because of my connection with ye. An’ I passed the blacksmith on the street. ’E wouldn’t so much as return my greetin’.”

“Tell me why. What are they saying?” Rachel knew it had something to do with her visit to Blackmoor Hall but hoped against hope that she was wrong.

“They are sayin’ yer the earl’s mistress,” Mrs. Tate blurted, tears streaming down her face. “That ye’re sellin’ yerself now yer poor mum’s gone. Only they’re not usin’ a word that’s nearly so kind.”

Rachel felt like Gilly had just kicked her in the head. The room started to swirl, and she nearly fell back onto her pillows before she was able to control the dizziness and the nausea. “Who started this rumor?” she whispered.

“I can’t say for sure but word ’as it it was Roxy, down at Elspeth’s.”

Wythe. Rachel pictured the earl’s cousin leering at her just before she stole his horse. Roxy wouldn’t have made up such gossip. She had to have heard it from Wythe.

Damn him! He’d had his revenge. Wasn’t what he’d done enough?