Jago grinned and turned back to Charity. ‘This rascal is Jori Magor, my chief foreman,’ he explained.
‘Pleased te meet yer,’ nodded the foreman, removing his cap.
‘Have you seen Richard?’ Jago probed.
‘Meking me way there now,’ Jori answered. ‘Shall I tell ‘im ‘is lord an’ master’s askin’ fer ‘im.’
Jago shook his head. ‘Just tell him I’ve left what he asked for in the counthouse.’
With a last wave, the foreman disappeared into a small building next to the huge engine house. Pointing to the massive construction, Jago explained that inside was the steam engine to pump the water out from the deeper parts of the mine. ‘The building Jori just went into is the winder house,’ he went on. ‘There are cages inside to take the men down to the lodes.’ He pointed to another, smaller building. ‘The dry, where they get changed.’
Charity stared round with interest. The site was bustling, with a surprisingly large number of women and children. ‘Do you allow women in the mines?’
Jago shook his head. ‘They generally work up top, dressing the ore, cleaning, cooking and laundry.’ He grinned down at her. ‘Some drive the waggons. ‘We call themBal Maidensin Cornwall.’
‘What about the children?’
‘At Wheal Tredennick, they go to school.’ He pointed to a low building off to one side. ‘And when they’re not learning their letters, they help with the washing, panning and sorting.’
Charity nodded slowly. There was much chatter and even laughter as the women worked, and she was relieved to see that Jago at least appeared considerate of his workers. Whether his father had shown the same care seemed unlikely from what she’d learned about the old man so far.
‘I just need to leave some papers for Richard, then we can take our picnic somewhere a little quieter,’ Jago was saying. Charity followed him towards a building behind the engine house, which he informed her was the counthouse. Even inside the small office, she could feel the vibration and hear the muffled echo of the water pumping.
A few minutes later, they were back at the curricle, where Jago unloaded a large basket. ‘Mrs Panna is firmly of the opinion that I need fattening up,’ he puffed, lifting the substantial hamper. ‘Are you able to carry the blankets?’ Nodding, Charity took the heavy woollen covers and followed Jago back through the hubbub of the mine workings.
‘Can you see to the horses, Alfie?’ Jago called to a small boy sitting to one side eating an apple. The boy jumped up with a toothless smile and nodded, running back towards the twohorses standing with their eyes closed, clearly enjoying the sunshine.
Minutes later, the clamour of the mine faded as they approached the edge of the cliff. Jago pointed to a small, secluded beach. ‘Are you sure you’ll be able to carry the basket all the way down there?’ Charity asked.
‘I’ll have you know I was the Cornish wrestling champion for two years running,’ Jago retorted, hefting the basket onto his shoulder and starting down the steep path to the beach.
Busy tying the blankets around her waist, Charity didn’t answer. Once she was certain they were secure, she lifted up her skirts and stepped carefully onto the path. Following Jago down towards the sand, her heart began thumping erratically, but not from exertion. She was entirely certain that when her father suggested she go on a picnic alone with the handsome Cornishman, he did not have an isolated beach in his mind as their destination.
Oh, she had no concerns that Jago would hurt her, or indeed force her to do anything against her will. She trusted him entirely. In truth, it wasn’t Jago she was afraid of, it was herself.
Chapter Twenty-One
George Barnet stood on the deck of theSwanand watched as Dartmouth quayside disappeared around the bend in the river. The last thing he needed was an unplanned trip to bloody Falmouth just before a run. But some matters needed to be dealt with personally. And Jago Cardell was one of them.
He’d been so damn careful, building up the character of Jack. Keeping his two lives entirely separate. The few who knew his real identity were too terrified to reveal it to anyone. George had made sure of that. It hadn’t been difficult. After all, butchering was his trade.
He was under no illusion that the rest of the Hope Cove gang followed him out of loyalty, but heenjoyedcontrolling them through terror, keeping them at each other’s throats to stop them going for his. George gave a mirthless chuckle. They hated him alright, but their fear of him was stronger. And they liked the blunt too. Fear and money. The two greatest motivators.
And then Jago Cardell had come along. From the start there’d beensomethingabout him. Something different. But George hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. Until last night.
Last night, he’dfeltthe fisherman’s terror as he’d cut two of the bastard’s fingers off. But when he’d looked into Fred’s eyes, there wasn’t just fear in them. There was hope.
Jago Cardellinspired.The bastard hadn’t come to join him, but to bring him down.
George slammed his hand on the rail wishing he had Cardell’s head underneath it. He’d take care of the Cornishman first, then he’d find and gut the bitch who’d given him away.
∞∞∞
Mrs Penna had packed enough food for a small army. As she popped the last piece of cheese into her mouth, Charity feared for a second she might burst.
They were seated at the foot of the cliff in a natural alcove that both shielded them from the wind and from any prying eyes above. Initially, Charity had struggled to contain her nervousness, but Jago’s easy, relaxed manner soon returned them to the same companionship they’d shared in the curricle earlier.
Now, watching the waves lap gently against the shore, Charity felt a sense of peace, of belonging that she’d felt nowhere else. Not even Blackmore.
