A Gentleman Of Substance. Deborah Hale

station. It is out of the question for a viscountess to undertake such a madcap escapade. Whatever will his lordship say when he finds out?”

      She finally paused for breath.

      “He can say what he likes,” replied Lucy. “I’m going and that’s all there is to it. As you are so fond of reminding me, Phyllipa, I am Lady Silverthorne, now. Short of throwing ing yourself in front of my horse, there isn’t much you can do to stop me.”

      With that, Lucy twitched the reins against the rump of the bay gelding, who set off smartly. Unfortunately, Lady Phyllipa did not accept the invitation to hurl herself into its path.

      

      It was well into the afternoon by the time Lucy and her father reached High Head. The wind felt chillier at this altitude than down in the valley around Mayeswater. It had blown in a bank of fat, dark-bottomed clouds that were beginning to spit heavy drops of rain.

      A crowd had collected some distance from the mouth of the mine—a shaft cut horizontally into the side of a steep hill, now choked with fallen earth and rock. Lucy could see boys running back and forth with barrows and handcarts, tipping what debris the digging crews had unearthed. The rescuers must have made a good start, for they had managed to tunnel their way out of sight.

      “Excuse me,” Lucy called to a man on the fringe of the crowd. It was obvious why he had not joined in the rescue effort, for one of his shirt sleeves hung empty below the elbow. “I have food and supplies. Is there anywhere I can set up to get these people out of the rain?”

      “Aye, miss. There’s the overseer’s office. Though I don’t imagine he’d care for folks crowding in there.”

      “Where is he? I shall ask him myself.”

      An old man in the crowd cackled, “We ain’t seen aught of Mr. Crook since last night. Skinned out for parts unknown if you ask me. Didn’t want the new owner breathing down his neck. Still, you’d best not take over his office without permission, lass.”

      “The lass is Lady Silverthorne,” barked the driver of the supply wagon. “Her husband owns this mine.”

      The old man exchanged a glance with the one-armed fellow. He shrugged. “If you’re t’new owner’s wife, lass, I reckon you can go wherever you please. Can we show you the way and give you a hand getting set up?”

      “By all means. Thank you.” Lucy uttered a silent prayer that she would not find Drake in possession of the overseer’s office. He would surely pack her off back to Silverthorne before she had a chance to climb down from the gig.

      In fact, the building was eerily empty. Lucy could see her breath in the still, cold air. The five-room dwelling, which evidently served as both office headquarters and residence for the overseer, had certainly been vacant all day.

      “Let’s get some fires going.” Lucy issued her first order. “This being a colliery, we’ll have no shortage of fuel.”

      Her two drafted helpers looked at each other for a moment, then turned on Lucy with eager smiles. “Right, ma’am. Fires. Unload the wagon. See to the horses.”

      “A commendable set of priorities, gentlemen. I will be along to help you in few minutes.” Lucy turned to her father. “I need you to go out to the crowd and bring back anyone who has relatives trapped in the mine. It will be a while before I can do much for them, but you can be of help immediately. Besides, filling this building with bodies might help to warm it up.”

      “What’s that you say, my dear? Oh, the people outside.” Vicar Rushton looked altogether confounded by the flood tide of events that had overtaken him. “We must get them out of the weather, by all means.” At the door he hesitated, looking back at Lucy. “Do you think I’ll be able to make myself heard over that wind?”

      Lucy dropped a fond kiss on her father’s cheek. His fluffy white side-whiskers tickled her nose. “Use your lectionary delivery.”

      “Of course.” The vicar’s ruddy countenance blossomed with a confident smile. “Reading from the gospel according to Saint John.” he declared in tones of clerical resonance.

      “That’s the way.” Lucy patted his shoulder. “Now go round them up. If they’re nervous about coming, tell them it’s all been approved by the new owner.”

      “Has it, indeed?” The Reverend Rushton gave Lucy a shrewd questioning look. Perhaps he understood more of what was going on around him than he cared to let on.

      Lucy held her head high. “Once his lordship hears what we are doing, I believe he will endorse the idea.” Everything but her own part in it, she silently reminded herself.

      The vicar nodded. His long fringe of white hair danced wildly around his red face. “I expect you’re right. I’ve known few men with so genuine a concern for the working people.”

      Lucy scarcely looked up from her work for the next several hours. When she finally had a moment to do so, she glanced around the room with a flush of pride and satisfaction. Kettles of coffee, tea and soup steamed away on the hob of every hearth. Relatives of the trapped miners sat huddled in small groups, talking amongst themselves in tones of quiet encouragement. A short time ago she had dispatched baskets of cake and sandwiches to the rescue crew, along with three bottles of Drake’s French brandy. Lucy hoped the men she had sent with those provisions would return soon with heartening news of the rescue effort.

      As she wended her way through the crowded rooms of the building with a fresh tray of sandwiches, Lucy noticed one young woman sitting off by herself. Her thin fingers clenched around a mug, the woman stared listlessly out the window. Even her high-waisted dress did not conceal her bulging belly. Lucy’s heart immediately went out to her.

      Sinking down onto a stool beside the woman, she held out her tray. “Would you care for a sandwich? They aren’t very dainty I’m afraid, but they’re good and nourishing. You’ll need to keep your strength up.”

      The woman set her cup down on the wide window ledge beside her. She took a sandwich from the plate and nibbled at one corner of it.

      “I’m Mrs. Strickland. The vicar who brought you in here is my father. I hope we won’t have to wait much longer for good news of your husband.”

      The woman gave Lucy a queer look. “My name is Alice Leadbitter, ma’am. And it ain’t my husband who’s down the mine. In fact, he’s helping them dig. Only wish I could. It’s so hard to wait and not be able to do anything. My boy’s down in that mine, Mrs. Strickland. Poor little mite. He’ll be that scared.” Her lower lip began to quiver, and Lucy could see Alice Leadbitter’s eyes misting with tears.

      “Your son? Mrs. Leadbitter, you can’t be any older than I am. How could you have a son working in a coal mine?”

      “I’m twenty-four. My Geordie is eight years old. He only started working last month.”

      A boy of eight employed at such dangerous, backbreaking work. Lucy could hardly believe her ears. She’d heard tales of child labor in the big industrial cities to the south, but here in the Penines? Drake would soon put a stop to that practice. But where was Drake? She’d seen him ride out for High Head at a furious speed. All afternoon she’d kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting him to blaze down on her with a stern lecture about her conduct.

      “I didn’t want him to go.” Mrs. Leadbitter wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I told John the lad was too young to be working. John said he’d started working on his pa’s farm when he was a good bit younger than our Geordie. We needed the money, with another mouth to feed soon.

      “So there was nothing for it but to put Geordie to work. Then this happened. How long will their air last? What if the gas builds up and explodes? I’ll never forgive myself if…if…”

      Lucy reached for the woman’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

      “Beg your pardon, ma’am.”

      Lucy glanced