take a walk.”
“Not to visit those common people in the village, I hope,” Phyllipa cautioned. “What would the viscount think of his wife consorting with those so far below her new station?”
Of all the strictures imposed by her position, this rankled Lucy the worst. She longed to stop by Mrs. Sowerby’s cottage for a talk or drop in for tea at the vicarage. Apart from Sunday matins, she’d scarcely seen her father since her marriage. She’d invited him to Silverthorne of course, but Phyllipa made them both feel so ill at ease. In recent weeks, he’d begun to turn down her invitations on various pretexts. Perhaps it was just as well, thought Lucy. Though she didn’t want her father to worry on her account, she was hardpressed to keep up the pretense that all was well in her new life.
“I don’t plan on going into Nicholthwait.” Lucy strained to keep her tone civil. “I only mean to stroll in the garden and sit under the great elm.”
Phyllipa squinted in the direction of the windows. “The weather does look unusually clement. Perhaps I shall join you in the garden this morning. Get a taste of this fresh air and see if I can fathom why you and Drake are so addicted to it…”
Lucy heard no more, for she was out the door before Lady Phyllipa finished speaking.
Returning to her bedchamber to fetch a shawl, Lucy deliberately took a roundabout route. In the main gallery of the east wing, she paused for a moment beneath a portrait of Jeremy Strickland, aged sixteen. Even then, his features had shown the promise of manly beauty. The artist had managed to capture that engaging light in his eyes. Lucy almost fancied he was looking out at her from the painting, knowing she was carrying his child, understanding how much she still loved him.
How hopeless her love had seemed when he was a poised and handsome young man of sixteen and she, a timid, graceless adolescent adoring him from a worshipful distance. She had lived for his school holidays, gazing raptly at him in church every Sunday morning, prowling the fringes of the estate praying for a glimpse of him. Year after year.
Then one day, long after she had stopped hoping for it, the miracle had happened. She had not even heard he was home. Hurrying back to the vicarage from picking wildflowers, she’d collided with Captain Strickland on a wooded path by the lake. He had called her by name, and for the first time, he had truly looked at her.
“There you are, ma’am.” The housemaid’s voice shattered Lucy’s bittersweet reverie. “Lady Phyllipa’s looking for you.”
Lucy touched a finger to her lips. “You haven’t seen hide nor hair of me, Mary. Is that clear?”
The girl raised her eyebrows knowingly. “Odd. Could’ve sworn I saw her ladyship. Must’ve been a shadow.” She glanced up at the portrait of Jeremy. “What an awful shame about poor Captain Strickland. We so miss his high spirits around here.”
Feeling her eyes begin to sting in an ominous fashion, Lucy turned away without another word. She now understood why Jeremy had chafed under the tyranny of his formidable brother. She must stand up to this unfeeling despot and she must do it now. Otherwise she and her child might never know a moment’s unfettered happiness.
He had not been at High Head colliery for more than half an hour, when Drake scented something foul in the wind. And it was not the miners. Oh, they weren’t a promising lot by any means, shifty and evasive in answering his questions. Irritatingly servile, yet obviously mistrustful of his intentions as the new owner.
Only the mine’s overseer, an affable fellow named Janus Crook, appeared ready to be the least bit forthcoming.
“This here could be a real going concern, your lordship, if you don’t mind my saying so. That’s a good vein we’ve tapped.”
Drake cocked an eyebrow. “The previous owners assured me of that as well, Mr. Crook. However, through my inquiries I’ve discovered High Head has been steadily losing money for some years. How do you account for that?”
The overseer’s rather prominent ears turned scarlet. “Not my place to criticize my betters, your lordship, seeing as the previous owners was gentlemen like yourself.”
“Save your breath, man.” Drake did not try to hide his exasperation. He knew what the fellow was hinting at, for he’d seen it often enough in his other business ventures. Scions of indebted noble houses trying to raise some capital by dabbling in business ventures they knew nothing about. Arrogantly refusing to take the advice of smart young chaps like Janus Crook, whom they considered their social inferiors. Drake didn’t care a tinker’s damn for those pompous fools. What he regretted was the damage done to the local people.
“You’ll soon discover I run a much tighter ship, Mr. Crook. I won’t tolerate waste or corruption. I demand loyalty and an honest day’s work, but I believe in paying for it.”
Grinning with indulgent tolerance at his new employer, the overseer shook his head. “A noble goal, your lordship, but if you don’t mind my saying so, I think you’re wasting your concern on these louts.” He jerked his head toward the office window, and the miners milling about outside. “As shiftless and surly a lot as you’d ever want to meet. They stole the last owners blind. If you ask me, I’d say sack the lot and bring in a new crew.”
Drake could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “Where can these people go if we dismiss them?”
“Not your lookout, is it governor? Leeds. Sheffield. Who cares, eh? Long as they’re not being a drain on your operation.”
Drake drew himself up to his full impressive height. “Much as I appreciate your advice, Mr. Crook, that is not how I do business. My policy is to keep Westmoreland folk at home. Pay a man a fair wage, treat him with respect and he will be your ally in the quest for success. Another point on which I won’t compromise is safety. I’ve heard rumors of dangerous conditions at High Head.”
The overseer looked genuinely shocked. “Can’t think who’d be spreading malicious lies like that, your lordship. High Head colliery is as safe as any in Britain.”
No great boast, Drake mused. He’d heard of atrocities in the Welsh mines that made his hair stand on end. “If it’s all the same to you, Mr. Crook, I’ll judge that for myself.”
“As you wish, your lordship. Always at your service.”
To his surprise, Drake found little fault with the operation. Some of the equipment was not in top repair, but otherwise he was fairly well pleased at the end of his tour. The morose silence of the miners made him uneasy, though. They went about their work listlessly, almost tentatively, as though used to getting away with doing as little as possible. Perhaps Janus Crook was right about the people of High Head after all.
Late in the afternoon, following a brief inspection of the accounts, Drake took his leave, promising to return for a more thorough scrutiny later in the week. He rode back to Nicholthwait, preoccupied with plans for putting High Head on a more profitable footing. Remembering his intention not to return to Silverthorne for dinner, he stopped to eat at a small inn outside Eastmere.
As he ate, Drake contemplated his mistake in marrying Lucy Rushton. Alienating his servants, clinging to the detestable Phyllipa, angling for an excursion to London-she was no longer the sweet, unspoiled creature he’d once thought her. Perhaps she never had been. With a shudder of distaste, Drake ordered another tankard of ale.
What he resented most was the mysterious, potent power she exerted over him. Though he’d tried to shut her out during the past weeks, Lucy drew his eyes at every opportunity, intruded upon his private thoughts, and boldly invaded his dreams. How dare she hold his body and his emotions in such thrall, when she obviously held his most cherished ideals in contempt!
Darkness had fallen by the time Drake reached Nicholthwait. He rode silently through the village, aware of hearth light