Page 15 of Hold Me Fast
Between them, they’d donated fifty pounds, but some of the other pledges were much higher. Without exchanging a word on the matter, Jowan and Bran headed back to the chairs where they had been sitting.
Lord and Lady Snowden were already there, and Lord Snowden must have been telling his lady about their need for investors in the new mine, for she asked, “Do you employ children in your mine, Sir Jowan?” The martial light in her eye hinted at her motive, but it wasn’t a simple question.
“I don’t allow children under the age of twelve below ground, my lady,” Jowan told her. “I would like to see legislation to set the age at fourteen, but until we have that, all mines are competing under the same conditions. I have to let those twelve and over have jobs if their families demand them, or they will move to an employer who doesn’t have the same rules and those children will end up below ground in the end.”
And if that just lost him Lord Snowden as an investor, so be it. Jowan respected those who were against the use of children in mines and factories. He agreed, in principle. In fact, he’d prefer it if all children had only family chores, as happened in the wealthier working-class households, and were otherwise able to attend school.
The reality was that few turned up for the school he funded in St Tetha, both because their families saw no value in reading and writing and because their choice was not whether to work or to go to school, but whether to work or to starve.
Bran interrupted, leaning forward to look past Jowan and Lord Snowden so he could address the viscountess. “You cannot blame them, my lady. They need the money. And you can’t blame Jowan. He pays as much as he can and still be competitive, and he gives work in the house and the stables to any family who does not have an adult breadwinner. Indeed, some of the locals have been most indignant that their ten and eleven-year-old childrencannotwork underground.”
Lady Snowden was amused. “You are a good brother, Mr. Hughes. If I sounded critical, I apologize. I understand that child labor is not a simple question. You make a good point about legislation, Sir Jowan, does he not, Hal?” The last few words were addressed to her husband.
Lord Snowden said, “You shall have to come to dinner, gentlemen, so we can discuss this matter further.” Like his wife, he appeared interested and sympathetic. Perhaps he would still invest after all.
He was interrupted by a rapid hammering sound from the lectern. The Duke of Winshire was calling the room to attention for the second segment of the entertainment.
Jowan leaned forward. Just one more act, and it would be Tamsyn’s turn. The gentleman singer gave them an aria in Italian or a similar-sounding language. Since Jowan didn’t understand Italian and knew nothing about Don Giovanni, the opera the aria was apparently from, all he could do was sit back and listen to the voice, which he enjoyed, even though in his own mind, he was just filling in time until Tamsyn appeared.
A round of applause for the singer, and at last she was there. Older, of course. More beautiful, too, though much thinner. He had wondered if the reported illness was true, or just an excuse to avoid him. He wondered no longer, for she was so thin he hurt for her. Her hair, though, was a dark cloud about her face, just as he remembered it.
He was close enough, too, to see her eyes—the dark grey he remembered so well. He had never seen that color in anyone else. The shape, too, was distinctive—an almost perfect almond.
Her gown was as rich and as fashionable as any in the room—a bright amethyst against which the fair skin of her throat and shoulders gleamed, creamy-white.
He waited, hardly breathing, as the duke introduced her and announced the next song. A duet from another opera written in Italian. This one was by Handel, whom Jowan had thought to be German. Or maybe English. Jowan was reasonably certain the man was buried at Westminster Cathedral, so why wasn’t the song in German or English?
Jowan did his best to ignore the man in favor of allowing Tamsyn’s voice to envelope him and carry him away, but beautiful though the sound was, he could not quite ignore the interaction of the couple. It was a love song, he supposed, from the way the male singer gazed fatuously into Tamsyn’s eyes.
And she gazed back, but presumably, she was acting. Certainly, she showed no particular interest once the song was over, and the man turned away as soon as the final note was sung, to bat his eyelashes at the audience.
“I’ve no idea what the song was about,” Jowan murmured as he clapped for Tamsyn.
Lady Snowden whispered, “It is called,Vivo en te, mio caro bene.I live for you, my dear heart.”
As he thought. A love song.
Tamsyn now stood alone on the stage, smiling as her gaze skimmed over the audience. “I thought a change might be welcomed, Your Graces, my ladies, my lords, gentlemen. I wish to sing…” Her eyes caught on Jowan’s and faltered, her voice stuttering to a stop. She recovered almost instantly, continuing, “to sing a folk song from the north of England. A simple story of former lovers, now at odds. First, the man.”
She had been standing with her feet together and her hands folded at her waist, but as she finished her sentence, she changed her stance, legs astride, hands on hips, and chin lifted. Even as a half-trained girl, her voice had had exceptional voice range. As she sang, Jowan had no difficulty in seeing her as the youth who was demanding an impossible task from the girl who had once been his true love.
Once the lover had demanded a cambric shirt, made without needlework and washed in a dry well, Tamsyn changed both stance and voice to become the girl, asking for him to sow land below the high tide mark and to plow, seed, and reap with tools that would never work.
Her gaze had been moving over the audience as she sang, but on the last lines of the song, after the maiden had finished listing her demands, Tamsyn stared directly at Jowan.
“When he is done and finished his work,” she caroled, “Ask him to come for his cambric shirt. Then, he’ll be a true love of mine.”
Was that a challenge? And if so, to do what? And why? Surely, she knew he would do anything for her? For old time’s sake, if for no other reason, he owed her that.
After their separation in time, distance, and silence, he had no idea what else he owed this new Tamsyn. This stranger with Tamsyn’s hair and eyes. His mind worried at the question as his body reacted to her loveliness and he joined the rest of the audience in showing his appreciation by standing and clapping.
Chapter Six
The evening wasgoing well. The music was excellent, the singer with whom she had had a duet was brilliant, and the audience—a glittering host that put her in mind of a fairy court—were darlings.
“Next song,” hissed the conductor, recalling her to her duty. Guy had allowed her to smoke a pipe of opium in the carriage. It was a stronger batch than any she’d had recently—not just enough to smooth off the world’s sharp edges, but sufficient to erase sharpness altogether and cloak her surroundings in a kindly mist, through which she saw only brief glimpses of detail.
Part of the mist was the light each person emitted. She could usually see that light, unique to each person and changing with their mood and their health, but it was always stronger and easier to perceive when she was drugged or drunk or both. Tonight, most of the people here were happy and relaxed.
