—A. Weld
Her pulse quickened, but she folded the note with care, slipping it beneath the edge of a nearby ledger. No need to fret over it now. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
She stared a moment longer at the folded edge, wondering if it was anticipation for the task ahead, or something less easily named. Eitherway, she was done watching from a distance.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hemsley,” she said, her voice steady.
“Shall I have a morning tray brought to the library, miss?” The housekeeper inquired, as if sensing her thoughts.
Georgina allowed herself a small smile. “Yes, please.”
Chapter Four
The morning lightslanted through the library windows, casting long stripes across the worn spines of books that had not been touched in years. Dust swirled in the beams like restless thoughts, unsettled but not unwelcome.
Georgina drew her shawl tighter over her shoulders and reached for the folio Rowland had kept tucked between two ledgers on the lower shelf. The folio crackled faintly as she opened it, releasing a breath of cold, dry air along with its contents. The scent of old paper struck her. Ink, dust, and something sharper. She looked again at the folio. She found it surprising that she remembered his handwriting so well. Neat. Contained. Like the man himself. Like the lies he’d left behind.
Inside, she found diagrams and dense notations, some penned by Rowland, others copied from the respected engineer John Buddle’s lectures and reports concerning ventilation shafts, coal seams, and timber supports. The terms were as foreign to her as any military dispatch, yet as she traced the careful sketches and annotations, they slowly began to take shape in her mind.
The diagrams told a different story than the tidy reports she had seen. Repairs had been delayed, inspections deferred. The mine had not merely failed Rowland. It had been failing for years.
Her gaze caught on a loose sheet, thinner than the rest, tucked between the pages and marked in Rowland’s familiar script. He had underlined a passage concerning the dangers of slowed air currentsand the accumulation of gas in older seams. There was no commentary, no notes in the margin to explain why it had caught his attention, only the firm pressure of the ink, as if urgency alone had driven him to mark it.
Her breath caught, a prickle rising along her skin. A private warning from the past, too late to spare him, but not too late for her.
She pressed her palm to the cool edge of the table, steadying herself. The house still smelled faintly of old paper and cold hearthstones, but something new curled in her chest beneath the lingering chill. Determination.
Carefully, she gathered the loose papers back into the folio and set it aside for later study. She thought it best to understand the danger before stepping into it.
“Lord Hawkesbury’s carriage just turned into the drive.”
Mrs. Hemsley’s quiet announcement had scarcely faded before Georgina rose from her chair, brushing the crumbs of her solitary breakfast from her skirts. She had chosen her attire with care, sturdy boots beneath her gown, a practical woolen pelisse, and a bonnet tied neatly beneath her chin. Sensible, but not so severe as to invite comment.
By the time she stepped into the front hall, Lord Hawkesbury stood just beyond the open door, his figure cut sharp against the soft gray of the morning mist. He did not fidget, nor glance about impatiently, but stood with the same quiet authority she remembered from their youth, tempered now by years and the burdens he carried.
“Lady Georgina,” he greeted, offering a slight incline of his head, not quite a bow, but more than mere courtesy.
“Lord Hawkesbury,” she returned, her tone even. She did not extend her hand, nor did he seem to expect it.
Mrs. Hemsley handed Georgina her gloves, which she drew on with careful precision, noting the way Alex’s gaze lingered, as if assessing not her appearance, but her readiness.
Without further ceremony, he gestured to his carriage. “Shall we?”
They descended the front steps together, the crisp air stirring the ribbons at her bonnet. The carriage stood with its door open, dark wheels damp from the morning dew. Alex handed her up and settled opposite her a moment later as the vehicle jolted into motion.
For a stretch of road, neither spoke. Georgina traced the patterns of fog along the hedgerows, feeling the excitement of anticipation coil quietly beneath her ribs.
“The foreman has made his assurances,” Alex began breaking the silence, his gaze steady on her, “but I trust my own senses more than any report. We’ll inspect the main shaft, the timber supports, and the ventilation passages.”
His words were methodical, plans of a commander, not a partner. Georgina suspected he sought order, while she sought truth. Two sides of the same purpose, perhaps, but not yet the same intent.
“And the firedamp?” she asked, her voice calm. The word still felt unfamiliar on her tongue, but she knew it meant danger, gas, invisible, and deadly.
His brow lifted, just slightly, a flicker of surprise passing over his features. “You’ve been studying Rowland’s notes, then.”
“I have,” Georgina replied, smoothing her gloves against her skirt. “It seemed prudent to understand what dangers might lie ahead.”
A shadow of a smile touched his mouth, brief but genuine. “Wise. Most owners do not take such care.”
