from Bath to London—not just stone, but farm produce and manufactured goods, too—would benefit. The carrying times would be halved and the profits doubled.’
Already several men were nodding and murmuring agreement. But Lord Rupert Jarvis—who had, Adam noted, been eating and drinking steadily since he arrived—was sneering openly. ‘You mean your profits doubled, Davenant. Not mine.’
The blond-haired Jarvis, as well as possessing large estates in Somerset, owned a big haulage business with networks of carriages and teams of horses all across the south of England. Known to be a cruel master of both men and beasts, Jarvis saw the emergence of the railways as the coming of Satan.
Adam countered him with icy calmness. ‘There’s still room for all forms of transport, Lord Jarvis. But we cannot ignore the chances that steam offers. Some of you will already know that the Yorkshire mine owner Charles Brandling has been using steam engines to carry his coal to the ports for years. I’m proposing that each of us become shareholders in this new Somerset railway. And apart from the profit motive, we’ll all be aware, I’m sure, that a railway would spare our men and horses much hard labour.’
‘Siding with the workers, Davenant? They’re damned lucky to have jobs,’ said the sleekly dressed, coldly handsome Jarvis crudely. ‘If they aren’t up to it, tell ‘em to get their wives or brats to help out. That’s what I do.’ He looked challengingly round at the assembled company.
‘I’m sure you do,’ said Adam. His chiselled face was expressionless, but his grey eyes were hard as granite. A tense silence had fallen.
Jarvis leaned back in his chair. ‘Show us your route, Davenant,’ he said challengingly. ‘Doubtless you’ve got it all worked out.’
Adam turned and pointed to his map. ‘Here’s the city of Bath, with the stone quarries to the south and the River Avon flowing close by. And here—’ he pointed again ‘—is the canal that links the Avon to the Thames, offering seventy miles of navigable waterway. You’ll see that the most practical route for a new railway would be from Monkton Sawle straight to the canal as it runs south, just before it swings east out of Somerset.’
There were murmurs and nods of assent. Then Jarvis, who’d been demolishing another portion of venison pie, cut in, ‘I suppose you realise you’ll need to cross my land for the last half-mile of your proposed railway?’
‘In order to reach the canal at Limpley Stoke, yes, I would need to cross your land,’ said Adam. ‘Just as I’d need the consent of the other landholders gathered here today who would be affected. It’s in all our interests, beyond doubt.’
‘Like hell it is,’ growled Jarvis, wiping pastry crumbs off his lips. ‘And I’ve listened to enough of this. I’m off, to another more interesting appointment.’
Adam politely indicated the plate on which stood the remainder of the venison pie. ‘Certainly. But I would hate you to leave hungry. Shall I ask one of the servants to wrap up the rest of that pie so you can take it with you?’
There was a stunned silence. Then someone chuckled and began to applaud; Jarvis’s appetite for a free meal was well known.
Jarvis pushed back his chair angrily. ‘Damn you, Davenant,’ he muttered and hurried from the room, letting the door slam behind him.
Some of the others spoke up then. ‘I’m with you, Adam,’ said Tobias Bartlett firmly.
‘And me.’ ‘Yes, you can count me in on your scheme, Davenant.’ More pledges of support echoed round the room.
But there was still the problem of damned Jarvis; the big map made it all too clear that Jarvis’s acres of land at Limpley Stoke barred the most direct route between Adam’s quarry and the canal. Any other route would add miles to the journey.
‘It’s not as if Jarvis makes much use of that land anyway,’ Adam’s friend Bartlett was grumbling. ‘And surely he realises he could expect a hefty share of your profits if he negotiated with you?’
‘I don’t think,’ said Adam softly, ‘that Jarvis’s motive is based on thoughts of profit.’
Siding with the workers, Davenant? Jarvis had sneered.
Well, sometimes Adam wished he and Jarvis could resolve their differences like common workmen—with their fists. Then he would knock Jarvis’s block off.
He looked thoughtfully down at his strong hands. As a boy at Eton, Adam had briefly been taunted with Miner Tom’s name—until he’d pummelled the sneers from his rash tormentors’ faces. On coming into his fortune he’d learnt to fend off his detractors in equally efficient ways. Both in his manners and attire he was unpretentious but faultless, never letting his cool façade slip. Being mighty rich he was happily accepted by most of society, especially by those who had daughters to marry off.
Jarvis, despite his oily good looks and title, was secretly despised by the ton for his coarse behaviour. If it wasn’t for his damned land, Adam would have been happy to cut him dead—or thump him.
A young housemaid came in just then with more good wine from Adam’s cellars. Adam didn’t partake—he didn’t enjoy fuddling his wits—but went instead to join the group who’d gone to pore again over the map of Somerset.
‘If Jarvis won’t give way, Adam,’ a Somerset neighbour was suggesting, ‘you could take the railway down the valley to Midford then head north—see?—to skirt his estates for the last mile. As I said, I would happily sell some land to you in return for some shares in the project.’
Adam was heartened that so many of these men were, like him, all for progress. ‘We’ll manage without Jarvis somehow,’ he said. ‘Though if we do head north, we’ll have to blast some of the higher contours out of the way, here, and here …’
‘It’ll be worth it,’ said another Somerset landowner eagerly. ‘Davenant, you mentioned the coal mines in the north-east; I’ve heard rumours that Stephenson up in Stockton is planning to transport people as well as coal on his railways! Steam is the future, and this scheme of yours gets my backing, if only to take the sneer off Jarvis’s face. The way he treats his men and his horses is despicable. Thank God he left early, is all I can say. We can make some progress now, Adam … Adam?’
‘Hmm?’
It didn’t happen often, but Adam, by the window, was temporarily distracted. In fact, he couldn’t take his eyes off a remarkably shabby carriage that had just pulled up at the far end of Clarges Street, from which a woman was getting out; a woman wearing a big straw hat and dressed in a startling ensemble of turquoise and pink as striking on her pert figure as icing on a festive cake. She was probably an expensive courtesan, Adam decided, hired by one of his wealthy neighbours for an afternoon of bed sport. Shrugging, he turned back to his guests—then paused again.
Something about her looked familiar. The way she stepped proudly out of that ridiculous carriage. The slenderness of her waist, outlined by her short pink jacket; the swell of her deliciously trim derrière as she stood on tiptoe to say something to her coachman …
She reminded him of that woman on Sawle Down.
The memory made his breathing hitch. She’d insulted him to kingdom come—and he’d stood there and taken it from her! When what he should have done—the thought occurred to him time after time, usually at damnably inconvenient moments like now—was take her in his arms. Hold her close. Drown out those defiant protests of hers with a kiss …
Definitely time to get back to his guests, and his railway.
It was Belle, and she was standing on the pavement at the far end of Clarges Street, arguing with Matt. ‘This will do, Matt!’ she announced firmly after letting herself out. ‘I can walk the rest of the way, I assure you.’
Matt Bellamy, up on his seat, frowned down at her. ‘Here, Mrs Marchmain? But we’re not quite there yet.’
I know, thought