Caroline unfolded her arms and nodded. “That is generous of you. I will ask Raymond to take an accounting in the village, and then we will send the list to you.”
“Thank you.” He hoped the parson would be as forgiving. “And you should include any windows damaged at Cothaire.”
“That will not be necessary.”
“It is. I—” His frown sent a heated pulse of agony across his face, and his fingers went to his cheek. Foolish! Another wave of pain rushed over him as new wetness rushed beneath his fingertips.
Shock riveted him when Lady Caroline grasped his shoulders. She steered him to sit on the engine house steps. She bent and gripped his chin, shocking him again. Tilting his head, she said, “You are bleeding.”
“It is barely more than a scratch,” he asserted, even though every change of expression seared his cheek.
“Those explosions happened an hour ago, and your face is still bleeding. It is more than a scratch. Take a deep breath.”
That was his only warning before she yanked the piece of his handkerchief off his face. He yelped but bit his lip to silence any further reaction as she called for someone to bring her medical supplies to her.
She leaned toward him, one foot on the first step. “That cut is as long as your forefinger, and it runs from below your spectacles to the top of your lip. Your glasses may have saved your eye.”
A woman rushed over to them. She dipped in a quick curtsy as she handed a small basket and a pail to Lady Caroline.
Thanking her, Lady Caroline dipped a rag in the bucket of steaming water. “This will sting,” she warned.
That was an understatement. The soft fabric brushed his face with liquid fire. He clamped his teeth together and stared straight ahead as she cleaned the wound. He winced when she dabbed the skin closest to the cut. When she started to apologize, he waved aside her words and lifted off his glasses, holding them on his knee. “Do what you must, my lady.”
He drew in a deep breath of some sweet scent he could not identify. It came from her gentle fingers. He sat as still as he could while her fingers flitted about him as quick and soft as butterfly wings. Strands of her ebony hair fell forward and brushed his ear in a tantalizing caress as she spread a cooling salve on his cheek.
When she drew away to get fabric to wrap over his head and under his chin to secure a clean bandage on top of the salve, he watched her easy motions. She fit perfectly in her world. Would he ever be as confident in the role thrust upon with Uncle Maban’s death?
The door behind him opened at the same moment he realized the beam engine had stopped. Jumping to his feet, he caught Lady Caroline’s arms to keep her from being knocked to the ground. Her eyes widened, but he did not care if his actions were overly familiar. He did not intend to let someone else, especially this kind woman, be hurt because of him.
Not releasing her, he shouted, “Get the men out of the mine. Now!”
Lady Caroline wrested herself from his hold and asked him to excuse her.
“My lady—”
His name was yelled from the engine house. Turning to Lady Caroline, he took her hand and offered his very best bow. He saw her astonishment when he straightened, and he knew he had made another etiquette mistake.
“I—I—I must go,” he said, stumbling over the few words.
She held out the salve she had put on his face. “Take this jar and use the salve liberally when you change the bandage tonight.”
“Thank you.” He took the jar. Something very pleasant surged up his arm as his fingers brushed hers. If she had a similar reaction, he saw no sign of it in her polite smile.
Bidding her farewell, he ran up the steps and into the engine house. He was unable to shake the feeling he had made another, even bigger mistake.
Wiping his hand on an oily cloth, Jacob watched the steady motion of the beam engine that had taken him and his assistant two days to repair. The great beam rocked in and out of the opening high in the front of the three-story building. With every motion of the wooden beam, that was thicker than he was and twice as tall, water was pumped out of the mine and sluiced away.
“Seems to be working now, my lord,” his assistant, Pym, said.
Treeve Pym resembled a well-fed cat. Short and round, he was topped by thick brown hair. As always, he smelled of oil, sweat and too many days without a bath.
Jacob had grown accustomed to Pym’s reek. The man was a genius when it came to figuring out what was wrong with the beam engine and fixing it. Maybe he would be better described as a foxhound. He had the ability to sniff out a problem before Jacob could discover the cause.
“It does.” Jacob ran his fingers through his hair as he watched the pendulum motion of the beam. “Any idea what caused the trouble?”
“One of the screws connecting the bob to the rod outside the building loosened.”
Jacob picked up the beef pasty he had brought with him at dawn when word was delivered to Warrick Hall that the beam engine had halted again. He had been fortunate his cook rose earlier than the sun. He unwrapped the pasty as he climbed the stairs so he could look out and watch the great beam which Pym called a bob.
He leaned his elbow on the thick sill of the window that gave him the best view of the beam. As he watched, he could not determine how a screw holding it to one of the cylinders could have come loose.
Taking a bite of the beef and potato pasty, he smiled. He appreciated the efficiency of a Cornish pasty, which the miners carried underground with them. Because it had a thick edge almost two inches wide, they did not have to remove poisonous tin from their hands before they ate. The crimped edge allowed a miner to hold the pasty while eating the inner crescent-shaped dough and filling. Once he was finished, the miner tossed the outer edge away. It was, Jacob had decided, a brilliant idea, and he had asked Mrs. Trannock to prepare the same fare for him when he worked at the mines.
He wondered if Lady Caroline ever dined on something as commonplace as a pasty. Now, where had that thought come from? The lady had slipped into his thoughts often while he should have been concentrating on fixing the beam engine, and not only when he inadvertently touched his sore cheek.
Pym asked from behind him, “See anything to tell you what went wrong?”
“Nothing but a properly working beam engine.” Jacob pushed himself away from the window and started down the stairs after Pym. “If you see something that gives you an idea of what happened, let me know.”
“I can’t say now why it stopped, my lord, but I will try to find out.”
Thanking him, Jacob took his greatcoat from a peg and shrugged it on. He pulled on his gloves and set his hat on his head. Outside, his horse Shadow waited patiently for him. While the beam engine had been converted to steam, Shadow had stood outside the building the whole night on several occasions. He knew there were those in Cambridge who would call him a fool for spending time and money updating the mines. However, he was determined to make a success where his uncle had failed, leaving the mines in intolerable condition and the mining families on the precipice of starvation. Only the generosity of the Trelawneys and the Porthlowen church had kept them from slipping over the edge.
It was not as if the miners’ families had other opportunities to make a living. The poor, thin soil of the moor did not allow for farming. Jacob knew the best and perhaps only way to provide for the people on the estate was to keep the mines open. They had been neglected by Maban Warrick. Some miners had turned to thievery and other crimes. Those caught had been hanged or transported, leaving their families in an even worse state.
The thump of the beam’s motion was a comforting sound