The importance of the request was clearer to Grace now. Henry wasn’t the only one to want to prove himself to Talek, his sister did too. She wanted him to know that she had an independent mind that could be relied upon.
Grace nodded. ‘I’ll leave straight away.’
* * *
Grace shielded her eyes from the sharp rays of the sun as she searched for Talek and Henry’s figures amongst the white splattered workers of Bothick Mine. They had left on foot so she could only hope that they were planning to meet the pottery representative on the neighbouring main site. She recalled what Tommy had once told her. ‘They are gentry and don’t have much to do with us. This place is too dirty for the likes of them. They prefer their office in the sky.’ Grace lifted her gaze to the rather ramshackle utility office, which afforded a good view of the site. Following her initial visit, Grace had questioned Amelia about the ‘office in the sky’ and was informed it was where they held some of their maps and contracts. Grace felt confident that they would be awaiting the arrival of a representative there.
To her disappointment the office was empty, however files, books and scrolls were prepared on the desk, convincing Grace that this would be the best place to leave the ledger. Henry would have to bring the representative back here if any formal contract was to be signed. One could not do that on the edge of a pit, with the Cornish wind blowing their papers away.
She lay the heavy book down on the table. She had not been tempted to open it before, but now, in the confines of the silent office, she had the urge to do so. She’d grown up watching her mother record the income and expenditure of Kellow Dairy in her neat handwriting. As a young woman, she had taken over the task and mimicked the same method. But how did others do it? Her natural curiosity, which had lain dormant since that terrible day outside the church, stirred inside her. She stared at the ledger for a full minute, as the nagging voice in her head egged her to open it.
Grace slowly lifted the heavy cover and carefully laid it to the left, as if the act of doing so risked turning it to dust. She began to turn the pages, absorbed by the contents.
Henry’s hand wasn’t so neat. She could almost hear her mother’s disapproving voice if she had seen it. ‘Clarity is the key,’ her mother had once told her. ‘Any person should be able to understand your records and see that all is above board. No codes known only to the scribe . . . no figures that do not add up. Everything,’ her mother had insisted, ‘must be neat and clear. Simplicity is best.’ Henry’s tutor had not been so particular. Even Grace’s cursory glance told her that it would take several hours and cross checking to decipher the columns. No wonder Talek left the task to Henry. Henry was the only one who understood his method.
Grace closed the book. A strange mix of emotions fought for supremacy inside her, satisfaction that her recording skills were far superior to Henry’s, yet somehow a failure that she was unable to decipher his method. Was the accountancy of clay mining so much more complicated than a thriving dairy business that had contracts with shops and establishments the width and breadth of Cornwall and beyond? She left the book in the centre of the desk so Talek and Henry couldn’t fail to see it and made her way down the stairs and out into the sunshine.
Isaac Simmons, the shift boss, waved in acknowledgement as she passed and Billy, the kettle boy, lifted his cap in greeting. She smiled and felt herself grow a little taller, but any lifting in her mood came to a sudden halt when she saw the new blacksmith working in the smithy.
Alfred’s smut blackened face glowed from the heat of the fire as he raked the charred wood away to expose the metal ring beneath. Horrified at seeing him again, Grace quickly retraced her steps before he saw her, almost colliding with a worker in her haste as she turned to pass behind the smithy hut instead.
By some bad twist of fate, Alfred had replaced the blacksmith whose poor workmanship had caused the wagon wheel to break. It was only a matter of time, Grace realised, before Alfred spread the poison his aunt had started in Trehale. On the other side of the smithy hut, Grace slipped behind a waiting cart and watched Alfred from a distance. He lifted the red hot metal wheel rim from the wooden embers with tongs and carried it towards a lone wagon wheel made of ash and oak. Thankfully, his need for concentration meant he had not seen her. As he poured water over the wheel to cool the metal, he was cloaked in steam. By the time it had cleared Grace had gone.
* * *
Henry watched Grace hurrying away. Something or someone in the blacksmith hut had upset her to such an extent that it had made her blind to the fact she had almost collided with him in her desperate attempt to escape. He retraced her steps and was greeted at the entrance of the forge by a cloud of hissing steam as the new blacksmith poured another bucket of water over the wheel he was mending. The blacksmith was too engrossed in his work to notice him. The process he was involved in did not give him time to have words with the woman who had just fled. So if no words were spoken, what was it about this man that caused her such distress? What caused her to flee? Or was she trying to hide instead?
Chapter Twelve
July slipped into August without Talek realising it. The new contract with Caradon Potteries took up much of his time, plus the resourcing of a new engine for Bothick Mine. Henry was unusually jovial and Talek had to concede that perhaps he’d done Henry a disservice by not trusting him more in the past. Henry was proud of his part in securing the new contract and Talek couldn’t help feel a twinge of guilt that he was responsible for Henry not feeling this way before. In the past, Henry had been frustrated that his schemes were often vetoed by the more cautious half of the partnership, but Talek now had to admit, certainly to himself if not to anyone else, that his concern that Henry would scupper the fledgling deal had come to nothing. The representatives of the pottery were pleased with what they had seen and contracts were immediately exchanged. Now it was up to them to deliver what they had promised — the finest clay in Cornwall for Caradon to make their finest porcelain products.
Talek returned from his tour of Bothick Mine, a daily habit he had formed since being accused by Grace of being too distant from his workers. He had thought she was exaggerating, but had gradually come to realise she was right. It came to a head on the day her aunt had visited and he had taken her to the village to find Grace. Talek had remained on the edge of the field to allow them some time alone. It was while he watched his workers taking part in the festivities, he realised that his sister’s companion had spoken the truth. He knew nothing about his workers. They were distant figures labelled with the position they held in his mine. No more than a scribbled name in a labourer’s book and a dirty open hand receiving a wage. Observing them in their own community, he saw them as individuals for probably the first time in his life. They were men with wives, children, brothers and sisters, individuals as different as their laughter and how they reacted to one another. He felt ashamed that he hadn’t seen their qualities before. And this moment of enlightenment, he had to reluctantly acknowledge, was all because of Grace.
His gaze had settled on the woman in question who was in deep conversation with her aunt. Her amber hair singled her out in the July sunshine, and if a raging horse was about to trample him, he felt, in that moment, he would still have difficulty in dragging his eyes away from her.
The memory of that day was still as vivid as if it only happened yesterday. Thank goodness Grace had heeded his warning about the dangers on the site and not made a habit of visiting Bothick Mine during the months that followed. July and August had been particularly busy months. Talek was certain that if she had continued to help the kettle boy, he would be constantly looking out for her figure amongst the white dusted workers below his office. He could not afford such distractions. September finally arrived and the first clay shipments were loaded for Caradon Potteries. As he watched the delivery leave he realised he needed some time away from the site. Heavy rain had hampered work during the previous two days, but now the autumn sun was casting its gentle warmth over the land. He had a mind to see the white river and today was an ideal time to view it.
* * *
The seven mile River Vinnick snaked its way from the St Austell moorland, through valleys and past clay tips, until it finally spilled out into the English Channel. The mines along its route had discoloured the tumbling waters over generations, giving rise to its locally adopted names of, formerly the Red River, and latterly with the arrival of clay mining, the White River. The previous day’s heavy rain had brought a new vibrancy to its whiteness as it had efficiently sluiced the waste products from the surrounding industrial lunar landscape.
The river passed by Bothick Mine and Talek soon picked up its trail. He followed the well-trodden footpath through the wooded valley, carved out by the boots of villagers through the decades as they travelled the shortcut from the neighbouring villages. He felt the tension in his body flow away with the river with each step he took. For the first time, in what felt like an age, his life seemed to be going well. Their first delivery to Caradon Potteries had been fulfilled and his sister appeared to have come to terms with her disability at last. He suspected Grace had a lot to do with lifting her mood, as well as Henry’s regular visits. It felt like normality was returning to Roseland and it had been a long time in coming. Henry used to spend a lot of time at Roseland — before Margaret had jilted Talek at the altar — before Amelia’s accident — before the inhabitants of Roseland turned into poor hosts and turned their back on society. It was good to hear laughter in the house again, despite it being everybody’s but his own.
Talek paused to look at the large moss covered branch that had fallen into the river and collected burnt copper leaves and white bubbling foam in its branches. Margaret. The memory of her still had the power to dampen his mood, but to his surprise he no longer experienced the stab of pain it so often conjured up. She had been the love of his life, but perhaps there was some truth in the saying that time is a great healer. A twig broke off and floated haphazardly away on the current. His eyes followed its trail and its scurrying journey brought him to Grace. She was standing just as he was, not more than ten yards away.
She wore a muted green dress, like the fading moss growing rampant at her feet. Her vibrant hair resembled the copper tones of the canopy of autumn leaves above her, while the curve of her neck, with milky skin as smooth as the finest porcelain, caused his stomach to ache — with a strong desire to touch her. He hadn’t expected to see her here, entranced by the fast flowing water, yet his sister’s companion looked as if she belonged in the wooded valley. It was as if she was a woodland nymph, her natural beauty a stark contrast to the industrial waste stained waters flowing at her feet, yet they were not dissimilar, as both had the power to draw him closer. As if she sensed him, Grace lifted her gaze and turned to look at him. He walked towards her.
‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’ Her eyes widened as he approached. Was he so odious? He smiled and she instantly grew wary. God, he had made a mess of things.
‘I hope you were not thinking of jumping in.’
What was he thinking? Was holding a friendly conversation with her so impossible? Did it always have to involve the thrust and parry of a taut encounter? He cleared his throat and tried again. ‘The rain has worked its magic,’ he observed, nodding towards the white water. ‘More waste drains into the river after a heavy rainfall. Isn’t that the reason you are here? To see the water?’
‘Amelia suggested I get some fresh air and take a walk by the river.’ He felt sorry for her discomfort as she looked eager to be gone.
‘May I accompany you?’ He braced himself for her refusal. None came so he fell into step beside her and, strangely, with each step his mind grew blanker at what to say next. Thankfully, Grace came to his rescue.
‘The river reminded me of an incident in my childhood, I wasn’t intending to jump in.’
He offered her a smile, but being out of practice, it turned into more of a grimace. ‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The slight lift of her eyebrow ignited an urge to either convince her or defend himself. Unsure of which, he decided it was safer to remain silent.
‘I think Amelia is expecting Henry to call.’
‘He’ll be too busy with the accounts to entertain her today. The wages are due soon.’
‘He seems to manage doing both quite well.’
Talek looked at her. Surely she didn’t mean—
‘She enjoys his company . . . and he enjoys hers,’ continued Grace. ‘Although I’m her companion, I feel it’s not my place to insist that I stay when Amelia wants me to leave.’
Talek felt a rush of relief. This explained her earlier wariness. Grace was concerned he’d be annoyed she had left his sister unaccompanied. At least in this he could put her at ease.
‘Henry and Amelia have known each other for several years. I see no reason too either.’
She glanced at him with the same curious expression he often saw from across the table at mealtimes. For a moment their gaze held, until she blinked and turned her attention back to the river.
‘I know my arrival has placed you in a difficult position. You’ve made no secret that you haven’t forgiven me for my hasty judgment at Hel Tor. And I haven’t helped matters by not apologising. I’m sorry. My intentions were good, but I jumped to the wrong conclusion and I judged you harshly. I won’t jump to conclusions again.’
