“Of course I do. She is very capable. But… anything else would put her down in the mine. With the men,” he added to drive home his point.
“And why would that be so terrible? Certainly she’s no better than her fellow villagers.”
When Tyndale went red in the face, Rachel guessed he understood how the miners felt about her. Working with them in such dark, dank and close quarters would not be a pleasant experience, especially for her.
“I didn’t say ‘better,’ sir.”
“You did, Tyndale. In so many words.”
Rachel’s heart thumped against her chest. Why did Wythe hate her so much? He’d asked for what she’d done to him.
“So… you’re suggesting she become a trapper?” Tyndale asked.
No. Rachel could’ve answered that herself. She was tall for a woman, too large to be a trapper. Only children sat in the small recesses behind the ventilation doors, pulling the ropes that would open the doors for the wagons to pass through. She couldn’t drive the teams either. Her lack of experience with horses barred her from that. And she’d never have the physical strength to be a hewer. Only the toughest and most seasoned men faced the rock with pick and shovel.
Wythe folded his arms as his eyes ranged over her. “I think… a putter.”
Tyndale came to his feet. “But, sir! Putters have to haul as much as two hundredweight. And the men in the shaft, they often remove their clothes in the summer when it’s hot. The pit wouldn’t be the best place for such a lovely—”
“Apparently you haven’t heard the rumors I have, Mr. Tyndale,” Wythe interrupted. “Putting her in the dark with a lot of sweaty, naked men is exactly where she would be most comfortable.”
Rachel wanted to speak up, to defend her honor, but she couldn’t. Gaining employment at Stanhope & Co. was her last hope of providing for Geordie.
“Sir, please.” Tyndale tried again, but Wythe would have none of it.
“Do as I say, Tyndale, or you too will be looking for a job.” With that he removed his gloves and walked into the next office.
Staring at a spot somewhere behind her, as if it was all he could do to hold his tongue, Tyndale slowly took his seat. “It’s sorry I am,” he murmured. “Surely you cannot accept such a position.”
She could tell he wanted her to refuse, to take away Wythe’s power. She wished she could. “How much does it pay?”
Two lines formed between his eyes. “It would be grueling work.”
“How much, Mr. Tyndale?”
“Three shillings a score.”
She lifted her chin. “So I could make as much as… what? Six shillings a day?”
“Possibly. Paired with strong hewers.”
That was more than she would make all week as a screener. “I’ll do it.”
He shook his head. “Miss McTavish, if I could discourage you—”
She stood. “I appreciate your concern, but… I must cope with certain realities. When can I start?”
Tossing a frown at the office Wythe had disappeared into as if he didn’t like his boss any more than she did, he said, “When would you like to start?”
“Would now be too soon?”
“Not if you’re set on it,” he said with a sigh.
She smiled to reassure him. “Thank you.”
It had been a week since he’d seen her, and he still couldn’t stop thinking about her. Truman pushed his palms into his eyes, but the vision of Rachel staring up at him in her bookshop remained. He could even smell the soft, clean scent of her skin, taste the sweet fullness of her lips—lips that had once opened for him, responded to him, just like the rest of her had. The night he found her in his bed she’d moaned at his touch, arched into him. It made his pulse race just thinking about it.
But memories of the village bookseller usually bothered him at night, when his bed was empty and cold and he shifted restlessly, wishing for dawn. He had no excuse for staring off into space in the middle of the day!
“Mrs. Poulson!” he snapped, irritated at his lack of self-control. He never should have bedded Rachel. He let his physical desires get the best of him and lost a small piece of his soul in the process. “Mrs. Poulson!”
“Aye, I’m here, m’lord.” His housekeeper stepped into his study from just down the hall, where he had overheard her giving instructions to one of the maids.
“Send Linley for”—he checked his notes—“Mr. Bandoroff. Tell him I want to speak to the man straight away.”
“Aye, m’lord.” She dipped into a shallow curtsy and left, and it was nearly two hours before she reappeared.
“The gentleman you requested is waiting in the front parlor,” she said. “Mr. Linley sent him ahead.”
Truman scooted his chair back. “Ahead? Why? What is Linley doing?”
“Looking after some of your other concerns. His message indicated he will be back shortly.”
“Fine.” Truman gave up on the letter he’d been writing. Perhaps he should head to London and track down his own leads, he thought as he made his way to the winding staircase that led to the first floor. He was growing impatient with those he had hired to look for the paintings. If he were there, in the flesh, people would be more responsive, and things would happen more quickly.
And if he broke away from Blackmoor Hall for a time, perhaps he could forget his fascination with Rachel McTavish.
“M’lord.” Mr. Bandoroff, a short, wiry man Truman had met once before, bowed deeply the moment he entered the room. His eyes were red-rimmed, his face covered with salt-and-pepper whiskers, and he smelled like fish.
Trying to ignore the unpleasant odor, Truman offered him a welcoming nod. “Thank you for coming.”
“’Tis a pleasure, m’lord.”
In an attempt to conceal the degree of his interest in what Mr. Bandoroff might say, Truman crossed to the window. “You make your living off the sea, is that correct?”
“Aye, sir. But I spent nearly twenty years in the mine before that.”
A gentle flurry of snow had begun to fall since lunch. “As a hewer?”
“For the most part. Some days I would like to return. I miss the pay, I do. But the wife, she won’t ’ear of me goin’ back, which is why I’m willin’ to pick up a little extra on the side, workin’ for Mr. Linley.”
Truman turned from the window. “I understand. But it has been ten days or more since Linley hired you to keep an eye on the McTavish cottage, and I have not received a report.”