Talek remained seated. ‘I see her more as a guest.’

‘Because she means more to you than a mere employee?’

‘Because I have no intention of her staying for too long.’

Henry approached the ornate stand in the corner and reached for his coat. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked as he shrugged into it, taking care to pass the ledger from hand to hand as he did so.

Talek opened a drawer and withdrew some paper. ‘I’ve work to do here. Go and charm my sister. I know she enjoys your visits.’ He heard Henry’s soft laughter, but did not look up again until the door closed.

A hooter sounded outside, marking the end of the miners’ shift. He abandoned his desk and went to the window to watch the clay workers slowly emerge and begin their trek home. As the beam engine and wagons slowed and fell silent, hot, flushed men emerged from the dry kilns into the late evening sun. The old blacksmith, who had been mending tools and making barrels for transporting fine clay for most of his adult life, emerged from his stone building. As they slowly left, a line of men, sprinkled in clay dust, appeared from the clay pit summit and gradually made their way down the hill, following a well-trodden path past the settling pits, drying kilns and crib huts to the road that would take them home.

He imagined Henry arriving at Roseland and being warmly greeted by his sister and Grace. Henry’s charm would soon have them both smiling coyly at him and enjoying his company and Talek couldn’t help wondering if he had made the right choice by not accompanying him. His office was on the second floor of an old brick utility building and afforded him a good view of the clay site at his feet. It did not take long for the site to empty of workers and an eerie silence descended around the grounds. The loneliness that often plagued Talek had never felt so strong.

Chapter Nine

The month of May soon gave away to June. Grace’s oasis, the garden, came alive with noisy fledgling birds searching for food as their parents watched over them. Their mistakes and clumsiness was a constant form of entertainment to Grace. Amelia, however, appeared to find little joy in their antics and preferred to read.

Yet even in this solitary escape from her small world, Amelia had little choice in what she read. She had to rely on recommendations from Grace and a servant to collect the book, rather than journey out to visit the bookshop herself. ‘Although I would love to choose a book for myself,’ she said once, ‘the interior is too cluttered, with no chair to rest upon and only narrow spaces between the shelves. Talek took me once but it was difficult for him to carry me safely up the narrow flight of stairs and around the books. It was not long before people began to stare at the invalid. I could not bear it and asked to be taken home. It was not a pleasant visit,’ she added, lamely.

Grace began to realise that Amelia’s initial good spirits hid a deeper sadness that would show itself subtly with a heartfelt sigh or burst of anger, triggered by seemingly small, yet insurmountable situations — a dropped napkin that she could not quite reach, a clumsy servant jolting her chair, a basic desire to relieve herself always having to require a flurry of servants to be called. Grace realised that this young, caring woman had no privacy as no ablution, no part of her body, no choice on her part was not witnessed and aided by someone else.

Henry’s frequent visits were another matter. His sudden appearance, as he strode into the drawing room unannounced, lifted her spirits and lit up her eyes in a way that everything else failed to do. Grace learnt from Amelia that she had always been attracted to him, even daring to hope he might make his casual visits more official by asking her to walk out with him. Sadly it was not to be. After her accident his visits had become infrequent. It was understandable, she had told Grace sadly, for she had been bedridden for several months and Talek was, naturally, preoccupied with her recovery. As a consequence, Henry was left alone at the helm of the business. Now his visits had returned and Amelia was delighted.

‘I have a proposition,’ said Henry, sitting down in the wicker chair opposite Amelia. It creaked under his weight as he rearranged the cushion behind him. ‘How do you fancy coming out with me for the day?’

‘Me?’ Amelia looked to Grace as if she couldn’t quite believe the offer. ‘Why that would be wonderful. Where will we go?’

‘For a long luxurious drive. How long has it been since you have left the clay lands? I suspect it is far too long.’

‘Far too long. We . . . Grace and I . . . intended to go out last week, but the wheelchair is cumbersome if there is no paved road and Grace cannot lift me down from the trap. We needed someone else to come with us and—’

‘Do not fret. I’m here and we can manage without Grace. I’m sure Grace would enjoy a break.’

Henry turned his boyish grin onto Grace. It was difficult to argue with such a lovely smile. Even so, Grace had a position of responsibility to fill.

‘I am happy to accompany Amelia, if she wishes me to come.’

‘There is no need for that. Amelia and I have known each other for years. There is no impropriety of us taking a ride together.’

‘Even so . . . I think it is Amelia who should have the final say.’

Grace knew, from the joy on Amelia’s face, what the answer would be.

‘You don’t have to come. I will be quite fine,’ Amelia said, barely concealing her excitement. ‘Have some time to yourself, without me holding you back.’

‘You never hold me back,’ said Grace.

Grace read Amelia’s pleading expression, which was as clear as if she had written it down for her. You are holding me back.

‘But if Amelia wants this,’ Grace added, ‘than I am happy for her.’

Henry wasted no time in organising their departure and within minutes Grace was waving them goodbye. She had a feeling that her companionship would be in less demand over the coming months. Henry had made it plain that he sought Amelia’s company and Grace could not have been happier for them both. Henry was handsome, a family friend and a trusted business partner. He knew, better than anyone, what he was taking on and Amelia saw a glimpse of a future she never thought she would have. The trip also helped dissolve some of the guilt Grace felt at not being able to take Amelia out as often as she hoped she could. Amelia’s wheelchair was heavy, unwieldy and difficult to transport. It did not fit inside a carriage and, if they took a trap, there was not enough room for both women, a driver and the cumbersome beast. It had been exhausting trying to make it work, but in the end they realised their limitations.

Grace turned away to look at Roseland Manor. If Amelia had the courage to leave the grounds, perhaps it was time she did too. No one would know her around here. A walk outside, just for an hour or two, would do her soul good and would be the first step on a journey back to normality — if such a thing was at all possible.

* * *

She should have walked toward the village, with its rows of clay workers’ cottages, small compact church and little shop, not here to this white, industrial site, with the hissing of a steam pump high on the hill, the distant rattle of tram skips and men, backs bent, as they worked around her. She stepped out of the path of two horses pulling a wagon laden with casks of clay, its wooden wheels straining and kicking up dust under the heavy load.

‘Can I help you, miss?’ asked a male voice. Grace turned and looked into the wrinkled eyes of a man in his late fifties. Grey hair peeped out from beneath a flat cap, as if trying to reach downwards towards the bushy moustache that framed his top lip. He wore a labourer’s waistcoat and trousers, dusted and stained with the obligatory white powder of clay. Aware she had no legitimate reason to be on the site, she blurted out the first words that came to mind.

‘I’m looking for Mr Danning.’

‘He’s not on site this afternoon. Gone to St Austell to pick up the wages.’ He tilted his weathered face to one side. ‘Who should I say called?’

Grace didn’t want Talek to know she was asking after him. He would worry that his sister was unwell. ‘There’s no need. I will speak to him later when he returns to Roseland.’

The man’s eyebrows rose. ‘You are already acquainted?’

‘I am Grace Kellow. Miss Danning’s live-in companion.’

The man slipped his cap from his head. ‘Begging your pardon, miss. I wasn’t aware that you knew the captain.’

Grace winced. The man was sure to mention her visit to Talek now.

‘I don’t know him that well. Does anyone?’ She realised that she was more interested in the answer than she cared to admit.

The man’s wrinkled face split into a smile. ‘My name is Isaac Simmons. I’m the shift boss. I’ve been working in clay since I was a fourteen-year-old kettle boy. You’re not from around these parts?’

‘No. My family run a dairy business near Trehale. We sell butter and cheese.’ She looked at the industrial alien landscape around her. ‘I am afraid I know little about clay mining.’

‘I have a moment free. Would you like me to show you around?’

Grace was taken aback by the kind offer, but this was Talek’s land and if he caught her looking around—

As if sensing her concern, the shift boss added, ‘I doubt if Mr Danning will return to the site today. They’ve an office in St Austell and he’ll be sorting the wages there.’

Grace heard the clickety-clack of wagon wheels in the distance. Somewhere in the depths of the scoured hill was a railway track and she felt the urge to see it.

‘Perhaps a quick tour. Nothing that will occupy your time for too long.’

‘Best start at the beginning of the process,’ said Isaac as he led the way. Grace followed him up the steep incline of the hill, passing numerous surprised workers at seeing an unfamiliar woman in their midst. Near the top, Grace paused for breath, aware that Isaac needed no such respite. He had walked up and down this hill, and similar ones like it, all of his working life and took the steep gradient in his stride. She made a last effort to join him at the top. He praised her effort and lifted his arm to show her what was on the other side of the hill. A large white crater opened up before her. Men, holding hoses, directed streams of water at the crater’s walls.

‘This is where it all begins.’ He jerked his head towards the men. ‘They’re washing the clay from the surface. The clay slurry runs to the bottom of the pit and is then pumped back up to the surface by the steam engine over there.’ He pointed to a brick tower amongst the trees, billowing clouds of steam into the air, its rhythmical pump and hiss a steady backdrop to the desecration in front of her. ‘You see those skips.’ Grace turned to the line of small wagons on a narrow track piled high with white spoil. ‘They carry the waste away.’ He indicated to the pyramid shaped hills reaching to the heavens. ‘It’s the waste that forms the sky tips.’ He turned away, confident in his explanation. ‘Come, on to the next stage of the process.’

Isaac led Grace down the hill towards a levelled out area, chatting about nothing of importance. Finally they arrived at rows of man-made channels cut into the ground, filled with the milky wash pumped from the crater. ‘These are the micra drags. The coarser particles settle faster than the finer ones. We want the finer ones, which stay near the top and flow onto the next part of the process.’

‘What happens to the larger particles?’ asked Grace.