Obsession (7 page)

On the opposite bank, I slipped in the mud and tripped over the stunted, gnarled thorn brush clinging with exposed roots to the steepening hillside. Farther I ran, breathing labored, muscles burning in my calves and thighs, up the hill toward the hellish orange light of the smelt fires.

The stinking, gritty ash fell in damp raindrops on my face, burning my eyes and suffocating my lungs. The fires growled, low and ominous. I could feel the workings of the mine beneath my feet, tremors as if the earth would open and spiral me straight to hell.

What if she had fallen in one of their pits? The old shafts were long forgotten, their barricades rotten—she could have tumbled to her death some four hundred feet below.

What if what if what if…

I finally reached the craggy summit, pulled myself upright, and stared upon the belching inferno of the working mines and the men who moved like sooted wraiths in and out of the shaft openings.

As a lad, I had oft sneaked away from my grandmother’s protective eye and wandered up the deep grooves in the hillsides. Rushes, they were called, once produced by the damming of streams in order to reveal the dark gray veins of lead. I had sat with legs crossed, hidden within the wild gorse, and watched the troops of stoop-shouldered men move in and out of the shafts like armies of ants.

Oh, how I had envied them. Yes, envied. They were men of sweat and brawn—of immense courage. They were the true dragon slayers.

That was, of course, before my parents had died. Before the full weight of my lot in life had been scored into my mind—aye, and my heart. Before my soul had become as black as the horrid spume of poison smoke belching into the sky.

From the haze and light of the fire-cast smelter, I saw the silhouette of a man move toward me, his booted feet crashing upon the fractured sleeves of lead on the ground.

He carried Maria in his arms.

Frozen, speechless, I fixed my gaze on the man’s grooved and sooty face, which revealed no hint of her well-being. Wrapped in a tattered wool blanket, she was draped as lifeless as death itself across his massive arms, her weight of no more consequence than a wilted flower.

I slid and stumbled down the hill until I was forced to grab a thorny gorse for fear of tumbling heels over head.

He approached me, silent and grim, and upon reaching me, said, “Seems y’ve lost somaught, eh?”

“Is she dead?” I asked, still watching his eyes.

“Nay.”

“Where did you find her?”

“Yonder.” He motioned in no particular direction with a nod of his head. “Starin’ up at the light and callin’ out fer Paul. Are ya Paul?”

I shook my head.

“Who’s Paul?”

“Her brother.”

“Then best I give ’er over to ’er brother.”

“Her brother is dead.”

“Is she daft, then?”

“She’s…ill.”

“Who are ya, then?”

“Salterdon.”

He looked me up and down, at my muddy stockinged feet and grime-covered clothes, my hair rain-plastered to my head. “Right, then,” he said. “I reckon one nut deserves another.”

With that, he handed her over to me. “Best ya cum out t’rain for a bit. Yonder.” He pointed one big scarred finger toward a small cottage in the distance. “The woman’ll see to ’er, if she can.”

7

I
HOISTED
M
ARIA THE BEST
I
COULD CLOSER
against my body, feeling that I would never make it to the cottage. My legs felt as wobbly with relief as they did with fatigue. My feet had gone numb.

As if sensing my dilemma, the man gave a grunt and reached for Maria again, cradled her as gently as a babe, and covered her face with a corner of the blanket. Then he turned and made his way along the path as I followed.

The towering smelt chimney belched long tongues of fire and billows of black smoke. The cranking and rolling of the barrows in and out of the black shafts, pulled by laboring Shetlands along the iron tracks, made me cover my ears. Even as I watched, a small pony, weakened by its load, fell wheezing onto its front knees, its quivering nostrils causing ground soot to rise in horrible little black puffs into its eyes.

The cottage was a hut of dark stone with light beaming from a solitary window. The miner gave a shout and the door immediately opened, revealing a round woman with ruddy cheeks and sparkling green eyes.

“Lud,” she declared upon seeing Maria. “Wot ’ave ya dug up in t’bloody mine now, Thomas?”

“Quiet, woman, and set ’bout t’fire. Lass be half dead, I vow. Now scuddle yer skirts and see that the coffee be hot and stout. And free up a bit o’that bread puddin’ ya fed me fer supper. Thin as she be, I ’spect she’ll appreciate a mouthful or two. The lass be light as a canary.”

She looked past her husband and her eyes widened even more, regarding me up and down, focusing on my feet that were now blocks of mud. Then she gave a sharp nod.

“Right. Ye’ll be needin’ a fix for them as well,” she said, pointing to my feet. “Sit.”

She whipped a blanket up from the cot against the wall of the room, roughly shoved me toward the hearth, and shoved me even harder into a stiff, cane-seated ladder-back chair. She had obviously been knitting by the firelight; a great spool of red woolen yarn and a pair of needles lay on the floor, as well as what appeared to be a partially knitted sweater.

“Put the lass on me cot,” she ordered sharply, “and bring the cot closer. She needs her warmth, fer sure. T’coffee be hot. Pour a cup and be quick ’bout it. And while yer ’bout it, a drab for this un as well. He looks like a whipped cat. Lud, a man of yer age should know better than to go traipsin’ about in this weather in aught but his stockin’s. Are ya daft?”

“Watch yer bleedin’ tongue, woman,” Thomas scolded. “Yer speakin’ to a damn blue blood.”

She plunked her hands on her wide hips. “Ya don’t say. And who might he be? The bloody King of England?”

“Salterdon.”

She didn’t so much as blink. “Give over. Wot would that demned divil be doin’ scuttin’ ’bout the night in his skivvies?”

“Wife! Watch yer mouth or I’ll be smackin’ it proper.”

She gave a humph of dismissal. “If he be Salterdon, I’m the bleedin’ Queen.”

Having poured a generous mug of the thick black coffee, he shoved it into his wife’s hand. “There ya be, yer saucy Highness. Now shut yer trap and see to His Grace before he be seein’ our sorry carcasses hangin’ from a demned gibbet.”

The woman continued to regard me with a gleam of contempt in her squinted eye. “ ’Fess up,” she said. “Be ya the divil Salterdon or no?”

I glanced at her husband, who was tucking the warmed blanket around Maria. “What have you got against Salterdon?” I asked, caution tapping as I accepted the thick-as-pitch coffee. The heat of it rose in an aromatic mist into my face.

“Ever’thin’, that’s wot. The demned lot of ’em been tryin’ to shut down these mines since t’old man kicked up his boots and was buried in hell proper. ’Twas t’old lady who brung the trouble ’pon us, harpin’ on that the smelt putrified ’er fine air. Demned lot of ’em would put us all out of work and homeless, and fer wot? So’s they kin lounge in their pretty gardens and have their bleedin’ soirees without the stink of the smelt assaultin’ their cockleheaded sensibilities?”

“Enough.” Thomas pointed a rough finger at her. “I’ve got t’be back in the mine and I’ll not have ya distraughtin’ a guest in our house. See they’re taken care of properly, or I’ll lay ya over me lap and swat yer perty arse good and proper.”

Tugging his hat down over his ears, Thomas gave me a glance and a grunt and left the house.

Her keen eye still upon me, the woman grabbed up a long-bladed knife and snatched up a loaf of bread. “Well?” she said. “Are ya Salterdon or not?”

“No,” I replied, staring at the knife. “I…work for Salterdon.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Thought so. All’s the pity fer it. Didn’t think ya looked the sort. Wot do ya do for the lot of divils?”

The blade sliced through the bread as if through warm butter. I swallowed. “This and that.”

She nodded toward Maria. “Wife?”

“Yes,” I lied. How else could I explain her?

“Tiched, is she?”

I looked at Maria, bundled in the blanket. She stared toward the hearth fire, unblinking.

Sinking back against the chair, I closed my eyes. “Yes. I suppose she is.”

“Bless ’er.” Her broad backside swaying from side to side, she moved to the cot with a bowl of warmed, sweetened milk bread studded with plump, dark currants.

“Hand me yonder gown and be quick ’bout it. She’s shiverin’ cold. And them stockin’s as well. Legs are as thin as willow whips.”

Upon fetching the flannel gown and leggings, I sat on the cot and watched the woman tend to Maria with a gentleness that seemed odd for a woman of her gruffness. She poured warm water from a ewer into a bowl and with a soft cloth cleansed the dried mud from Maria’s feet and legs, her brow growing creased and the hard glint returning to her eyes.

“ ’Ave ya beaten her?” she asked. “Is that why she’s tiched? That why she’s yonder, wanderin’ ’bout in the rain and dark—to escape yer demned cruelty? Because if it is, I’ll run me knife up yer arse s’far I’ll skewer yer foul heart.”

“No. I would never hit her.”

“I s’pose she got them bruises from fallin’ out a tree.”

I turned away, and with elbows on my knees, stared at the floor between my feet. “I would never hit her,” I repeated wearily.

“Ach. I’ve seen the likes of a’ before. Thinkin’ a woman is aught more than a beast of burden. Half starved, she is.”

“She won’t eat.”

“We’ll see ’bout that. Aye, Bertha’ll have ’er right as spring rain in no time.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but all spirit had fled me. My bones ached. Chill had gnawed into my muscles so they burned as if a fiery pike had been thrust through them. And hunger. My belly fisted, and the nausea of complete emptiness rose bitterly up my throat. I looked toward the kettle of boiled meat and potatoes and felt my gut clench.

“If yer hungry, eat,” Bertha declared. “Y’ve the look of a starvin’ calf about ya.”

I stood unsteadily, my gaze still locked on the bubbling mélange, helped myself to a heaping bowl of it, and tore a portion of warm bread off in my hands.

Bertha continued to gently bathe the muck from Maria’s arms and legs. “Are ya homeless?” she asked.

“Homeless?” I tore a piece of bread off with my teeth.

“Are ya deaf as well as daft? Are ya homeless? Ya said ya toiled fer Salterdon. Did the divil cast ya and the gel out?”

“What makes you think that?”

“Word gits round, aye. T’old place has gone to rack and ruin since t’old man died. Heard the demned duke has gone poor as a beggar. Serves him right, I says, though me hoosband says we aught to pity the bugger. Him who got no conscience or common sense don’t know when they is well off. Man who ain’t forced to work for his meat and tators can’t appreciate the fine rewards of his labor—of knowin’ he’s earned his bread and butter.”

She stood erect and made a noise that caused me to turn.

“Where are yer children?” she asked.

“There are no children.”

“No?” She shook her head, bent, and examined the pale skin of Maria’s lower belly more closely. Her expression softened. “Poor lass. Right bonnie little thing, ain’t she? Reminds me of me own….”

She straightened suddenly and looked away, her eyes pooling. She dabbed the corner of her apron to them and took a quivering breath.

I was not one for conjecturing on the thoughts or feelings of a human, man or woman. In truth, I had rarely cared—too wrapped up in my own life to give a damn about others. Aye, I had been a bastard about it. But something in the woman’s faraway look evoked a sting of piteous curiosity in me.

“Have you children of your own?” I asked gently.

“Aye, we did.” She drew back her shoulders and stared into the fire. “Three of ’em. Two lads. One lass. Strappin’ boys, they was. The sort to make any ma and da proud. They was killed not long since. In the mine. Buried ’em side by side just yonder.”

She motioned toward the little window partially curtained by thin, colorless muslin.

“The lass, we called her Kate. Died two year ago this winter. Frail she was, from the day she was born right there on that very cot. ’Twas the smelt that killed her at last. Strangled ’er pitiful lungs.”

I stared at her profile. “I’m sorry.”

“Such is life. We live and we die. We learn to make do with what God grants us, and be thankful for wot we got. There are plenty t’others wot be worse off. I got a fine hoosband and a fair roof over me head. If he be taken from me tomorrow…well…I’ll make do. We take care of our own here, ya see.”

She looked again at Maria, then at me. “Y’ve a place to stay here if ya need it. I’ll do what I can to help yer lass. I’m thinkin’ she needs a woman’s touch, frail as she is. And if it’s a job ya be needin’, there’s plenty of ’em, if ya ain’t afraid of hard labor.”

My gaze fixed on her stoic countenance, which, only briefly, had succumbed to the grief she must have felt in her heart. Whatever tragedy had been so unjustly inflicted upon her family, it had left no bitterness upon her soul.

’Twas just after sunrise when I awoke to the sounds of laughing men outside the house. As I moved from the bedroom, I discovered the door open and sunlight spilling through the room, turning the interior stone to a dull golden glow. The air felt brisk but clean.

I looked toward the cot where I had left Maria in Bertha’s care hours before. She was gone. Beside the cot was what appeared to be an emptied bowl of porridge and a last rasher of pork.

A gang of men collected outside the house—just off their shift in the mines, faces black, so the whites of their eyes were a startling contrast. They drank pints of amber ale as they sat on crude stools, their clothes as filthy as their faces and hands.

The wives of the men collected beneath a nearby tree, chatting among themselves, directing their fond gazes toward their husbands. It took me a moment to recognize Maria.

Gone was the pitiful wraith I had taken from Menson. Beneath Bertha’s gentle ministerings over the last hours, she had become once again the pale angel of my dreams.