‘That was several months ago.’
‘But it is still between us.’
He looked at the canopy of leaves above. ‘There is something between us. I’m not sure it is that.’ He had replied without thinking. Shocked at his own admission, he quickly changed the subject. ‘Do you miss Trehale? The clay lands lack the beauty of the moor.’
‘The community is strong here and the man-made lakes and moonlike landscape have their own peculiar beauty.’
Talek felt encouraged by the compliment. ‘And do you miss your family?’
‘Yes, of course.’ He noticed the firm set of her lips. It appeared that she did not wish to elaborate on the subject. He decided not to press her further. They continued to walk side by side in silence as the white river slowed to a gentle flow.
‘Amelia says that you have secured a new contract.’
Talek was thankful for the lifeline. Clay was a safer subject.
‘Yes. Caradon Potteries is one of the largest producers of porcelain in Staffordshire. They buy only the finest clay.’
‘Amelia says you have two mines. Do they both produce clay suitable for the production of porcelain?’
‘Bothick does. Stenna Pit, at Stenalees, produces a lower quality. We also send a proportion of our clay for the production of earthenware and paper. Each product has its own requirements. For porcelain the clay needs to be white and be able to withstand high firing temperatures. For paper, plasticity is also key. If it’s wrong then the paper produced from it will fade and produce streaking.’ He glanced at Grace, aware he was at risk of boring her. To his surprise, she still appeared interested.
‘I hadn’t realised you have so much to oversee.’
‘Sometimes I think it is too much. Unfortunately, I have been at fault of neglecting my responsibilities over the past year.’
‘You are referring to Amelia’s accident.’
He nodded. ‘And other things before that,’ he added, lamely, as Margaret’s image came to mind. He had always suspected he had neglected her too. He’d inherited the clay pits and was trying to make the new business competitive and profitable. He pushed his dark thoughts away and returned to the subject of clay. ‘We have been fortunate. The clay from Bothick is the best in Cornwall and will make the finest porcelain.’
‘But not the clay from Stenna Pit.’
He smiled; glad she had been paying attention. ‘Except for Stenna. However what it does produce is still good. It keeps the pit profitable and the miners in work.’
‘How do you tell if the clay is good and what it can be used for?’
‘I’m sure science will play a part in the future, but for now it is visual. The whiter it looks, the better it is. It is why the potteries send a representative, so they can see the pits and get a feel for the place. Building a good reputation is paramount and word spreads. Other potteries show an interest and want to sign contracts. The owner of a clay mine succeeds and fails on the quality of its product. I believe if one produces a good product, people will come to you. However, clay production is a ruthless business. The potteries used to mine the clay, but they have now handed the production over to individuals all vying to rise to the top.’
‘So in order to survive in this business you have to take risks and win those contracts.’
‘Yes. There’s always another pit owner waiting in the wings to take over. It’s a cut-throat business at times and we have to do everything in our power to stay on top.’
They had come to a standstill and he feared he had said too much. She was not a fellow clay producer who lived and breathed the mineral as he did. He had presented himself as a focused, but ultimately dull, man and the realisation disappointed him more than he cared to admit. He dared to look at her.
‘Fascinating,’ said Grace as he met her enquiring look.
His gaze inexplicably dropped to the lips that had formed the word. Her unexpected reply had slowed his mind to that of an imbecile.
‘The quality of the product is paramount,’ he murmured as he wondered how soft her lips would be beneath his.
‘That’s the same ethos as Kellow Dairy,’ replied Grace, turning towards the river. ‘My parents started the business together and it was their reputation of producing a quality product which helped with their success. We call our milk white gold. I believe the people around here call the clay the same name.’
‘Then we have more in common than we first thought,’ Talek replied. The urge to draw her nearer was overwhelming. ‘Perhaps we should return home now . . .’ Despite his suggestion, Talek did not move. He hadn’t dared to think of Grace in this way before — as an attractive woman he wanted to kiss, but he had opened the door to those thoughts and he now had difficulty shutting them away. He tried again. ‘We should go. Amelia will think you have fallen in the river . . . or worse, that I have pushed you in. I’ve not been the most welcoming of hosts.’
Grace smiled at his black humour. The simple act, made just for him, felt like a ray of sunshine. It warmed his soul and he felt proud that he had made her smile. The slight curve of her pastel lips had the power to set his pulse racing as if he was a young eager youth.
‘Yes, she might,’ said Grace. ‘I wouldn’t want her to worry.’
She began to retrace her steps, unaware that she was leaving Talek more shaken than he cared to admit. Up to that point he had thought that by jilting him at the altar Margaret had killed those juvenile sensations of anticipation. It seemed that he was wrong. They had resurfaced with a vengeance and left him with the desire to be the cause of another smile curving her lips. He caught up with her and they returned to Roseland Manor, walking in companionable silence for much of the route. However, Talek was aware that something had changed between them. The invisible wall they had erected no longer existed and he did not dislike what he saw on the other side.
* * *
As they approached the house, a miner came running up behind them. He was shaken, sweating and at first incoherent, until Talek calmed him and ordered him to speak slowly. The news was not good. There had been a runner.
‘What’s a runner?’ asked Grace, as Talek called to the stable lad for a horse.
‘It’s a landslide.’ He turned to the miner. ‘Bothick?’ The man nodded. ‘How many have been hurt?’
‘Only one, the captain.’
‘Henry?’ asked Grace, horrified.
The miner nodded again, ‘Yes, miss. ’E’s badly ’urt, but we pulled ’im out alive.’
The horse arrived and Talek grabbed its flaying reins.
‘What was the fool doing so close to the slope? It’s been raining and too risky for someone like him who has no awareness of what’s going on around him.’ Talek mounted the horse and ordered the stable boy to fetch the doctor.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Grace.
