* * *
Thank goodness for Amelia. Her constant talking throughout the journey helped Grace more than she would ever know. The truth was that Grace still felt dazed. A combination of a lack of sleep and still reeling from her shock discovery had made it impossible to think clearly since her early morning escape. With no clear plan, she had penned a very short letter to her parents stating that she was going away and that they must not look for her. She needed time to find herself, she had told them. It seemed an inadequate explanation but her anger made the few sparse words in her letter more than they deserved. Thankfully she still had enough wits about her to ask them to employ Mrs Smyth, which was odd considering she had found retaining information almost impossible since discovering the family secret.
She had left home in the early hours with a vague destination in mind, however she had not been thinking clearly and had later realised she had foolishly boarded the wrong train as it was taking her southwards to St Austell instead of to her northbound destination. She had disembarked confused as to how such a mistake could have happened and was desperately trying to find out which train she needed to catch to get back en route again when she had heard Amelia’s voice calling to her from a carriage. If making such a stupid mistake had not been humiliating enough, discovering Mr Danning was also sitting in the carriage and would learn of it was even worse. Thankfully, the journey with them was not unpleasant. The carriage left the moderatebustle of the station to follow the windy country roads. High hedges, laced with yellow primroses, guided them along their route, occasionally offering a view of farm labourers working in the fields beyond. They travelled through several villages, each growing larger than the last, until finally the carriage began to slow.
‘We’re almost home,’ said Amelia. ‘I can see the Alps.’
Curious, Grace looked out to the horizon ahead. Tall, white pyramids reached upwards, slicing into the blue sky like razor-sharp teeth. The strange shapes appeared to engulf the entire flora in the area, carving a new unworldly landscape that had a strange beauty of its own.
Mr Danning answered her question before she had a chance to voice it. ‘You’re entering clay country, Miss Kellow. They are the spoils of mining clay.’
‘So many . . . so big . . .’
‘You think they are ugly.’ It was not a question; leastways he didn’t wait for an answer. ‘The clay found in this area provides employment to hundreds of people. Without it you would not have porcelain for your table, or smooth white paper to pen your letters.’ The sharp-edged mountains grew larger as they approached. ‘They are not to your taste?’ he observed.
Grace felt his gaze and turned to meet it. ‘Does it matter what I think?’
He tilted his head, as if he was seriously considering her question. His smile was fleeting.
‘Not in the least, Miss Kellow.’
‘Then it’s best I keep my thoughts to myself.’ Grace returned her gaze to the window. Her attention was immediately seized by a line of labourers walking the length of the road, their boots scraping the chaotic beat of men eager to reach their destination. As they passed, Grace noticed a fine dusting of white powder covered many from head to foot, while their legs and bootsappeared splattered with milky white water. All wore flat caps, which were hastily tipped in greeting to Talek Danning and accompanied by a tired murmur of ‘Captain’, before returning their attention on the road ahead. Grace did not need her travelling companions to explain who they were. Their end of shift exhaustion, sweat, grime and white dust marked them out as miners of clay.
‘They’re not like the workers in your father’s dairy, Miss Kellow.’
‘Don’t tease her, Talek,’ interrupted Amelia.
Mr Danning ignored his sister. ‘They spend their days working out of doors and in all weathers. It’s a hard, tough life, but there’s a bond between them that few will understand.’
‘There are so many of them,’ observed Grace, bewitched by the sight of the ghost-like figures receding into the distance. ‘Where have they come from?’
‘Bothick Mine.’
‘Where are they going?’ She turned to find him watching her, as if he was in the midst of studying a newly-discovered species.
‘Home.’
He waited for her to ask another question. She wanted to learn more, but she felt she should not have to ask for each morsel of information. He should be willing to share it, as part of a normal dialogue between two people. She was new to the area and he knew that. He should be explaining how the surrounding villages had sprung up and expanded since the discovery of clay. How the community had formed and the landscape had changed through the years. A simple, interesting conversation, which two normal people could enjoy and that would bring them closer together. The unspoken conversation hung between them in the form of a resounding silence. Even Amelia did not come to their rescue. Grace felt her skin prickle as he continued to watch her,but not say a word. Finally, she gave in and looked away first. At least she still had manners and would attempt to learn more.
‘Who owns the mine?’ she asked.
‘What you really mean is who works these poor men to near exhaustion?’ replied Mr Danning.
She glanced at him, intending to disagree, but something in his eyes challenged her and she could not lie. She inclined her head in agreement as that was exactly what she meant. She fancied that she saw him grudgingly respect her for it.
A slight smile curved his lips. ‘I think you have already guessed. You are looking at him.’
Chapter Seven
Their carriage left the miners behind and entered a valley of two characters. On one side lay a mountainous landscape of white spoil. Scattered between the peaks were vibrant, still lakes, their deep waters so unnaturally green, that they reminded Grace of stained glass slotted between the stone frames of a church window. In stark contrast, the other side of the valley was carpeted with densely planted trees and, according to Amelia, in its midst, shielded from the industry on their doorstep, lay their home.
It turned out that their house, although hidden from view, was nicely situated. A large clearing had been landscaped in the wood and a well-manicured lawn welcomed their approach. Their Georgian house was also pleasing to the eye, as its symmetrical lines, crafted from local stone, complemented the leafy greenery that surrounded it. Tall, evenly-spaced arched windows reflected the tips of the mountain peaks that still remained visible above the opposing treeline, but otherwise the house and grounds was an oasis of tranquillity neighbouring on the carnage of industry that faced it.
The housekeeper, a comely middle-aged woman with a welcoming smile, rushed to greet them, whilst in the distance Grace saw a young lad disappear into the house at great speed.
‘Welcome to our home, Grace,’ said Amelia, squeezing her hand as the housekeeper opened the carriage door. ‘This is Winter, our housekeeper.’ She looked down at the woman and smiled brightly. ‘I am back and all in one piece. I told you that Robert would look after me.’
‘I was worried, miss,’ said the housekeeper, her sweeping, welcoming gaze jarring momentarily on Grace’s hair. ‘It’s only natural,’ she added, quickly masking her surprise at her shockingly short hair.
