He nodded. ‘And other things before that,’ he added, lamely, as Margaret’s image came to mind. He had always suspected he had neglected her too. He’d inherited the clay pits and was trying to make the new business competitive and profitable. He pushed his dark thoughts away and returned to the subject of clay. ‘We have been fortunate. The clay from Bothick is the best in Cornwall and will make the finest porcelain.’
‘But not the clay from Stenna Pit.’
He smiled; glad she had been paying attention. ‘Except for Stenna. However what it does produce is still good. It keeps the pit profitable and the miners in work.’
‘How do you tell if the clay is good and what it can be used for?’
‘I’m sure science will play a part in the future, but for now it is visual. The whiter it looks, the better it is. It is why the potteries send a representative, so they can see the pits and get a feel for the place. Building a good reputation is paramount and word spreads. Other potteries show an interest and want to sign contracts. The owner of a clay mine succeeds and fails on the quality of its product. I believe if one produces a good product, people will come to you. However, clay production is a ruthless business. The potteries used to mine the clay, but they have now handed the production over to individuals all vying to rise to the top.’
‘So in order to survive in this business you have to take risks and win those contracts.’
‘Yes. There’s always another pit owner waiting in the wings to take over. It’s a cut-throat business at times and we have to do everything in our power to stay on top.’
They had come to a standstill and he feared he had said too much. She was not a fellow clay producer who lived and breathed the mineral as he did. He had presented himself as a focused, but ultimately dull, man and the realisation disappointed him more than he cared to admit. He dared to look at her.
‘Fascinating,’ said Grace as he met her enquiring look.
His gaze inexplicably dropped to the lips that had formed the word. Her unexpected reply had slowed his mind to that of an imbecile.
‘The quality of the product is paramount,’ he murmured as he wondered how soft her lips would be beneath his.
‘That’s the same ethos as Kellow Dairy,’ replied Grace, turning towards the river. ‘My parents started the business together and it was their reputation of producing a quality product which helped with their success. We call our milkwhite gold. I believe the people around here call the clay the same name.’
‘Then we have more in common than we first thought,’ Talek replied. The urge to draw her nearer was overwhelming. ‘Perhaps we should return home now . . .’ Despite his suggestion, Talek did not move. He hadn’t dared to think of Grace in this way before — as an attractive woman he wanted to kiss, but he had opened the door to those thoughts and he now had difficulty shutting them away. He tried again. ‘We should go. Amelia will think you have fallen in the river . . . or worse, that I have pushed you in. I’ve not been the most welcoming of hosts.’
Grace smiled at his black humour. The simple act, made just for him, felt like a ray of sunshine. It warmed his soul and he felt proud that he had made her smile. The slight curve of her pastel lips had the power to set his pulse racing as if he was a young eager youth.
‘Yes, she might,’ said Grace. ‘I wouldn’t want her to worry.’
She began to retrace her steps, unaware that she was leaving Talek more shaken than he cared to admit. Up to that point he had thought that by jilting him at the altar Margaret had killed those juvenile sensations of anticipation. It seemed that he was wrong. They had resurfaced with a vengeance and left him with the desire to be the cause of another smile curving her lips. He caught up with her and they returned to Roseland Manor, walking in companionable silence for much of the route. However, Talek was aware that something had changed between them. The invisible wall they had erected no longer existed and he did not dislike what he saw on the other side.
* * *
As they approached the house, a miner came running up behind them. He was shaken, sweating and at first incoherent, until Talek calmed him and ordered him to speak slowly. The news was not good. There had been a runner.
‘What’s a runner?’ asked Grace, as Talek called to the stable lad for a horse.
‘It’s a landslide.’ He turned to the miner. ‘Bothick?’ The man nodded. ‘How many have been hurt?’
‘Only one, the captain.’
‘Henry?’ asked Grace, horrified.
The miner nodded again, ‘Yes, miss. ’E’s badly ’urt, but we pulled ’im out alive.’
The horse arrived and Talek grabbed its flaying reins.
‘What was the fool doing so close to the slope? It’s been raining and too risky for someone like him who has no awareness of what’s going on around him.’ Talek mounted the horse and ordered the stable boy to fetch the doctor.
‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ asked Grace.
‘Tell Amelia. I think you will be better at breaking the news than I. I’m too angry and would probably say something that I would later regret.’
Talek spun his horse round and rode away. It would be several hours before she saw him again.
Amelia took the news badly. Grace was thankful that she had been the one to tell her and was able to offer the comfort she needed. Talek didn’t understand the depth of Amelia’s feelings for Henry, and perhaps now was not the best time to tell him.
As night fell, Talek finally returned home with the news that he had accompanied Henry to hospital.
