She rustled softly in the sheets. “It is so dark,” she mumbled. “I have never seen such darkness.”
Indeed, there was little difference between his eyes being open or closed. No man-made light polluted the depths of Scottish nights.
“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured. The dark and he had a history; he knew all the different sorts, and this one now lying over their bed like black velvet meant no harm. Her breathing settled, and it occurred to him that he had had this soothing effect on her, and that despite all her misgivings, she was here, in this bed. That was a start, he supposed, one he would use to his advantage.
Chapter 18
He set out to inspect the mining hamlets right after drinking a bucket of strong breakfast tea. The night had been short; at some point Harriet had left her side of the mattress, possibly in search of warmth, and he had woken to the soft weight of her breasts pressed against his back. He had lain staring at the wall, the world reduced to the sensation of her breath brushing over his neck in gentle puffs. The memory of her shape was still hot like a lingering burn on his skin as he joined his party in the Drover’s Inn coach: his new mine manager, Mr. Stewart—a tall, clean-shaven Scotsman from Dundee whom he’d met before in London—and taciturn Mr. Wright, a civil engineer who was originally from Surrey but now resided in St. Andrews. The mining engineer’s expertise was not yet needed, hence the man had stayed back to leave room for one of the lads from the inn, who was to carry Wright’s camera equipment.
Spraying rain shrouded the valley, and when they descended from the coach at the village entrance, they were greeted by chilly blasts of wind cutting through their robust tweed coats. The settlement stretching before them would have been miserable even under a cloudless sky.
“As you can see, the road is raised above the house entrances,” Stewart said, wrestling with his papers while also trying to hold the umbrella over his long body. “This is not the case in Heather Row—out of the two hamlets, this one here will require more significant improvements.”
Heather Row was located within walking distance from the inn, but Lucian had decided to start their inspection on the far side of the mine at the smaller colliery and the older settlement, Drummuir Grove. It matched the mental image he had developed based on the maps Stewart had left for him back at the inn: a crooked chapel to their left, and thirty old stone cottages each on either side of the straight dirt road. The road was in bad condition and riddled with black puddles; and yes, its higher elevation meant rainwater flowed straight into the lodgings to the left and right.
“What about the refuse ditches?” he asked.
Mr. Wright took a pencil and notebook from the inside of his coat. “They’re too close,” he said. “Will be a nuisance whenever temperatures are warmer,” he added, and smoothed his ruddy mustache. “I suggest a greater distance by at least six feet.”
“So we are redrawing the ditches.”
“Correct.”
He had suspected as much from the map.
They were being watched; while the rest of the community was at work over at the mine, the elderly would be home, minding the toddlers and keeping an eye on any suspicious activities from behind the curtains. Memories encroached, of the day when he arrived back in Argyll to fetch his grandmother. The once familiar cottages had seemed smaller, the few stray sheep sicklier, the winding path muddier. No one had recognized him, aged nineteen and wearing a fine coat, and the lads he had approached had been wary of his clean skin and the London vowels that had crept into his speech. Nanny MacKenzie? She had died in February. Blinding agony, to realize he had been too late by a month. A month. After seven years of waiting. They had buried her in the graveyard of their old hamlet, her spot marked by an already rotting wooden cross. Had she been waiting for him by the window in her patched shawl, her tired gaze on the village road, holding on to hope until the very end?
He blinked against the rain in his eyes. “How bad is the damp?”
“Much worse here than over in Heather Row,” said Stewart. “Half the older miners appear afflicted with rheumatism. The road is the main culprit, but the roofing contributes its share.”
The bloody roofing looked as though it hadn’t been touched in half a century. Curse Rutland. Curse the consortium that had taken the mine off Rutland’s hands and continued to charge rent for these hovels. He’d call in the earl’s debts, then use the money for renovations.
Doors were opening; people were emerging to inspect them more closely. Young children soon stopped hovering behind their minders and came running to circle Mr. Wright as he readied his camera to photograph the ailing water tank. Lucian approached the nearest cottage, where an elderly woman stood leaning against the doorjamb. She had tied a red handkerchief around her hair, but the few tendrils that had escaped were still sooty.