Lady of the Lock Read online

  Blaming her thoughtlessness on the current dullness of her brain, Mandy concentrated on the list of tasks she must handle over the next few days. The most difficult—finding ways to help the wives and children of the dead navvies. Jeb Banks was the proud father of six. Mandy was unsure about the others. She only knew she must somehow gather herself, find the right words, the right gestures of sympathy. The canal company would offer compensation, but Mandy suspected true sensitivity to the needs of the bereaved was going to be left to her, while the men concentrated on how to deal with the dangerous conditions inside the blocked tunnel. If so, she welcomed the opportunity to atone for her sins. For basking in the amenities of a ducal castle while good men died. Of indulging in hopeless infatuation while women lost their husbands and children lost their fathers.

  Childhood dreams ended here. Dukes and their lives were never meant for the Amanda Merriwethers of this world. And it was long past time she recognized it. Exhausted as she was, Mandy squared her chin and vowed to become a better person.

  The reality of the tunnel site was even worse than she’d anticipated, the silence enveloping both tunnel and the navvies’ camp chilling in its intensity. Alan, Luke, and Peter strode toward them the moment the gig stopped moving. “Is anyone still inside?” John snapped.

  “No, sir,”Alan replied. “Everyone’s accounted for. One died this morning, making seven. Three more with broken bones or cracked heads, and at least a dozen more with raw fingers and nasty bruises from digging the others out. I stood them down after that, waiting for your orders.”

  John Merriwether surveyed the scratched hands and torn shirts of his three engineers. “Did you include yourselves in that count?” he asked.

  “We took turns at the front of the line, sir,” Luke Appleton offered.

  “A bad business,” Peter Prescott added. “With the dust and lack of air, a quarter of an hour at a time was the best we could manage.”

  “The men formed a line, passing the rocks from the hand to hand,” Luke said. “And helped carry the bodies—” He stopped abruptly, obviously unable to continue.

  “You have all done well,” John told them. “The cave-in was not your fault, and you have done all that was right in its aftermath. If I wished to torture myself, I could take the blame for not refusing to build it. For choosing the wrong spot to penetrate the hill. Or I could blame Carewe for insisting on the tunnel in the first place. But what’s done is done, and we have not labored all these years to fail in the final months of construction.”

  John turned to Alan Tharp. “What have you done with the bodies? And have you planned a memorial service?”

  “They’re laid out in a farmer’s barn, sir, about a half mile south. The wives have been cleaning them up, finding clothing, taking care of those who had no one else to do for them.”

  “There’s no church close by, sir,” Luke said. “I had thought perhaps a service here, which all the navvies might attend?”

  “A good thought. I will consult with the vicar in Great Bedwyn and see what can be managed. And, Appleton?” John handed the reins to Mandy and jumped to the ground. “Perhaps you would be good enough to take Amanda to the widows, so she may offer her sympathy and assure them the company will do right by them.” He turned to Alan. “You’re with me, Tharp. I wish to see the extent of the damage.” And he was gone, leaving Mandy to stare after him as he entered the tunnel that had just killed seven men.

  Luke climbed up beside her, his sympathy clear. “No need to worry, Mandy. We’ve been in and out of there a hundred times since the accident. The roof will hold.”

  After a last inquiring look at the tunnel mouth, she admitted, “Truthfully, I’m nearly as worried about facing the women. What can I say? I was off enjoying myself at a duke’s houseparty when their men died? I shall never forgive myself for thinking I could rise so high while men I’ve known for a decade died.”

  Luke clicked his tongue at Esmeralda, tweaking the reins when she was reluctant to leave the thick grass she was munching. “Canals are dangerous, Mandy. Wars are dangerous. The life of a sailor or a coal miner. Life in London’s east end. And even a gentleman of the first stare can die on the hunting field. You cannot blame yourself or anyone else for this. It’s happened and we must go on, doing what has to be done.”

  “Merciful heavens, Luke, when did you turn philosophical?”

  “Since I helped unearth ten men from the tunnel, six of them already dead.”

  To Mandy’s amazement, the Duke of Carewe, both sons, and Mr. Fawley arrived at High Meadows the following day, where they were joined by several other members of the canal committee. Very quietly, as anger ran high among the navvies, they arranged compensation for the families of the dead and injured, using John Merriwether as go-between. Mandy never saw any of them, but her papa commended the members of the committee for demonstrating their respect for the magnitude of the disaster by convening at the site, even though they stayed shut up at High Meadows. They might well have left the entire matter to the canal’s solicitors, John informed his daughter. To which she returned appreciative murmurs about the committee’s generosity while anger seethed inside.

  After his last visit to High Meadows, John handed her a letter. “Not the accepted way of doing things,” he said, “using a girl’s father to deliver a message, “but the poor boy looked so crestfallen, I took pity on him. Be kind, Mandy,” he added softly. Carewe’s fits and starts do not make this disaster the boy’s fault.”

  “How can you say such a thing?” she cried.

  “Because it is true,” John returned with considerable patience. “I have no idea what he has written, but I would imagine he wishes to express how sorry he is about what happened. And you have my permission to offer him a gracious response. If you cannot do so, then write nothing. He will know how to interpret your silence. Carewe is about to send him off on a tour of his estates, which will take as much as a year. And that will be an end on it.”

  After several moments of staring at the letter as if it were a viper waiting to strike, Mandy reached for it and hurried outside the pavilion to hide behind an old oak. Leaning her back against the rough bark, she broke the seal and unfolded Montsale’s message.

  My dear Miss Merriwether,

  There are no words adequate to express my grief over the deaths and injuries incurred by the men digging the tunnel at High Meadows. Although I did not know any of them, I grieve for them and for their families.

  I also grieve because I know you must blame me for these senseless deaths, for the tunnel has been a source of rancor between us since the day we met. I can only beg you to understand that neither Carewe nor I ever dreamed such a disaster would happen. When we next meet, I hope you will be able to forgive any animosity you feel toward me, so we may resume a friendship which I have cherished for many years.

  Yours most sincerely, Montsale

  Mandy’s fingers drifted across the lines of ink, lingering over Montsale. Then she carefully re-folded the letter, tucked it into her bodice, and returned to work, recording the distribution of funds to each bereaved family and injured navvie. She made no effort to respond to the letter. The Marquess of Montsale was now on the far side of a divide even greater than before—part of a society that demanded the satisfaction of its every whim, no matter what the cost. While Amanda Merriwether stood firm with those who tried to improve the world, make it a better place, in spite of those with no respect for life or limb.

  The world of the Duke of Carewe and his family was forever dead to her.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  London, February 1809

  Mandy sat on a windowseat in her bedchamber gazing down at the modest garden behind their house on Upper Berkley Street, a garden that looked as colorless and forlorn as she felt. Voices drifted up the stairwell from the billiards room, where for once Papa and his engineers seemed to be engaged in something more frivolous than discussing the final steps toward completion of the Kennet & Avon Canal. Truthfully,
it was good to hear an occasional burst of laughter, a shout of triumph. For to add to the gloom brought on by the tunnel disaster and her personal melancholy, word had come of the decimation of the British army as it fled through frozen mountain passes in northern Spain with the French army hot on its heels. And of British ships come too late to evacuate the army from Corunna, forcing a battle, which by a miracle the remains of the British army had won, though losing its general, Sir John Moore, in the melee.

  The nation mourned, the army vowed to return, and even Mandy had to admit the loss of seven men along the Kennet & Avon canal could scarcely compare to five thousand men lost to Spanish cold and French guns. But the navvies were men she knew, and sorrow clung like a shroud. As did resentment. Her case was simple. If the Duke of Carewe had not insisted on the tunnel, Jeb Banks and the other six navvies would still be alive. Their wives would have husbands, their children, fathers.

  And she would still be dreaming the foolish dreams of a child instead of accepting the reality of being firmly middle class. Of being grateful for living comfortably instead of fantasizing about living in a castle . . . dining off gold plates . . . her portrait hanging among five hundred years of Challenors in the gallery . . .

  Another laugh rang out from below. Were the men simply enjoying themselves, or were they also discussing what project came next? The Midlands, Scotland, the United States? Perhaps a long and well-deserved respite? Not that these idle winter months in London had done a whit of good to solve her dilemma. Should she continue to follow wherever Papa led? Or should she marry? And if so, which of her suitors should she choose? Was it better to marry without love or never to marry at all?

  The answer to the last question always reverberated loud and clear. She wanted a permanent home, children, a life’s companion . . . She also wanted love.

  Yet one of her suitors had already defected. Luke Appleton, who lost a cousin during the ill-fated British retreat to Corunna, had declared his intention of becoming an engineer for the army, led by General Sir Arthur Wellesley, that was determined to take back Portugal from the French.

  “Are you mad?” Alan Tharp and Peter Prescott had roared, almost in union.

  “If you thought the Challenor Tunnel difficult, how will you deal with sappers’ tunnels?” Alan demanded.

  “Fortifications?” Peter added. “Building bridges under cannon fire from the enemy?”

  Luke laughed. “A mere bagatelle after the K&A.”

  John Merriwether shook his head. “I’ll miss you, boy, but our loss is England’s gain. “I hear Wellesley has grand plans for the defense of Portugal after he’s grabbed it back from the Frenchies.”

  “Sir?”

  John offered the tip-tilted smile of a man with a secret. “Let us just say I might have been among the engineers consulted by the general. I have an idea what he has in mind, and he’s lucky to have you, boy. Who better than a canal engineer to know how to move mountains?”

  At the time they had all gaped at him, Mandy included, for her father had not so much as hinted he’d met the general in charge of the British expeditionary forces to Portugal, many of them the men evacuated from Corunna.

  Mandy bade Luke goodbye with tears in her eyes. He was the closest thing she had to a brother. And now . . . his was not one of the voices drifting up the stairs. Tyler Holcombe, a man of middle years with a very loud voice, was. Eighteen months, he’d told them, maybe more to complete the Caen Hill locks. Well into 1810. They had all groaned, but the twenty-nine locks at Caen Hill were the greatest challenge on the Kennet & Avon, and, like the Dundas Aqueduct and Challenor Tunnel, would take as long as necessary to build and build them well.

  Mandy glanced at the mantel clock and heaved a sigh. Yet an hour to teatime. She lived in exciting times, and with all that London offered, there was no excuse for ennui, but her former pursuits had lost their sheen. Even sketching brought nothing but painful memories. The only bright spot on the horizon—Hetty Oglethorpe would soon be coming to town for her second season. Her interest in Captain Gideon Dunstan had been cut short by her mother’s objections to a military man, resulting in her father’s edict that the young couple should wait a year to determine the sincerity of their affections. An edict which had not seemed so very terrible at the time but had become a great misfortune when the captain was recalled to his regiment to make up the army’s losses in Spain. Hetty’s letters, as a consequence, revealed a heart as bruised as Mandy’s, though with considerably more hope for the future. The two young ladies would, at least, have a few weeks to commiserate with each other before Mandy’s papa whisked her back to Wiltshire for what should be the last months of construction on the Challenor Tunnel.

  After a heartfelt sigh that encompassed her friend’s woes as well as her own, Mandy pushed herself off the windowseat and sat at her desk to write a note of welcome to Hetty, which she would send round to her mother’s cousin, Lady Ellesmere, with whom the Oglethorpes would be staying during their sojourn in London. After handing it to their footman for delivery, she followed the sound of men’s voices to the billiard room. Once again, she would be “one of Papa’s boys.” Was this then her fate? It was a world she knew. One in which she was comfortable.

  Why then would sorrow not go away?

  Six days later, Mandy and Hetty, suitably arrayed in woolen pelisses, fur-trimmed muffs, and velvet bonnets, set off from Upper Berkley Street for the short walk to the Cumberland Gate of Hyde Park. The temperature was tolerable—perhaps fifty degrees, Mandy estimated—the sky a mix of clouds and sun. A perfect day for a stroll along the park’s footpaths. For a few fleeting moments when they first arrived in town Mandy had considered driving Esmerelda and the gig on Rotten Row but, truthfully, her defiance of the ton’s conventions did not stretch that far. Though picturing Esmerelda trudging along among the smart barouches, landaus, curricles, phaetons, and high-stepping horses brought a rueful smile to her lips. Heaven forfend! Poor Esmerelda would likely take one look and dash off for home at as close to a gallop as she could manage.

  Mandy, therefore, confined her visits to Hyde Park to the footpaths, although she could not help but gaze with wistful admiration at the grand and colorful parade of stylish ladies and gentlemen on the Route de Rois (King’s Road), a name mangled by Londoners into “Rotten Row.”

  “You are fortunate to live so close,” Hetty exclaimed as they passed through the gate after pausing for a curricle and pair whose driver sailed by them as if they were invisible. “Dear Gideon always brought a horse for me to ride—he could not afford a carriage, of course—but now . . .” Her voice trailed into silence.

  “Perhaps another young gentleman will come along before I must leave for the canal,” Mandy offered.

  “Oh, no, no!” Hetty declared, quite shocked. “I am wholly devoted to Gideon and could not possibly—”

  “Then why are you embarking on a second season? Your parents must find it shockingly expensive.” Mandy’s hand clapped over her mouth. “Oh, I beg your pardon! I should never have said something so personal.”

  “Believe me,” Hetty declared, “except for your company, I would most gladly be at home. But my parents are clearly not satisfied Gideon is the love of my life. And with my grandmama, the dowager countess, willing to provide funds, here I am, with mama calling on everyone with whom she has the slightest acquaintance to inform them we are back in town.”

  “I am sincerely sorry I won’t be here to support you beyond the next few weeks,” Mandy said, “but perhaps in that time you may find a kindly gentleman with no eye for marriage who will gladly play companion to a young lady whose heart is given elsewhere.”

  Hetty stopped stock still and stared at her friend. “What an intriguing idea,” she returned thoughtfully. “Do you think it possible?”

  Mandy considered, her eyes gradually taking on a mischievous gleam as she contemplated the possibilities. Unfortunately, her scheme required the cooperation of someone, several someones, whose acquaintance she had not
planned to renew. But for the sake of a friend who needed protection from the machinations of her mother . . . “Let me see what I can manage,” she said. “I’ll need a day or two.”

  Or a week, or a month or more, if Lord Jeremy was not in London.

  The sacrifices one made in the name of friendship.

  Sacrifices? her inner voice mocked. More like a justifiable excuse not to cut the cord.

  In a gratifyingly short length of time Lord Jeremy Challenor was seated in the drawing room of the house on Upper Berkley Street, with none but Meg, the housemaid, for chaperone. After exchanging the usual polite inquiries about the health of each other’s families—with neither mentioning the marquess by name—Mandy laid out her friend’s problem. “I thought perhaps Mr. Carlisle or even Sir Giles might be willing to call on her, take her to the park, partner her at dances—just so her mother would not be forever nagging her to find someone besides Captain Dunstan.” Mandy put the full strength of her hopes into the green eyes she fixed on Lord Jeremy.

  He returned a bark of laughter before running a hand through his perfectly arranged hair. “I am dearly sorry my brother is exiled to touring the ducal properties,—Northumberland at the moment, I believe. Indeed, a great pity, as he would enjoy the machinations of his Lady of the Lock.”

  Mandy, white-faced, studied her toes.

  “You do not consider me a proper escort?” Lord Jeremy inquired.

  “Do not be absurd. Of course you are a proper escort, but considering your family’s opinion of me, I ask only that you convey my request to Mr. Carlisle and Sir Giles.”

  Silence. Clearly, Lord Jeremy had thought better of politely protesting her comment.

  “Miss Merriwether,” he pronounced at last, “I am happy to join Miss Oglethorpe’s coterie of admirers, and I will entreat my friends’ aid as well. But you should know I do it not for the sake of altruism, but because you ask it of me. And because my family owes you more courtesies for their treatment of you than can ever be repaid.”