Page 48 of The Curse of Penryth Hall
I shook my head and took another sip of the tea. The knots in my stomach slowly unwound. “Has he always been a healer?”
“Ruan? Heavens no. He grew up in the mines like most of the lads around here. Was down in them from the time he was six years old. He was a tiny little thing then—if you can imagine it now—able to get deep into places men full-grown couldn’t reach.”
“Six! Isn’t that…” I recoiled at the thought. “Surely there were laws against such things, that’s… barbaric!”
Alice drank her tea slowly with a distant frown. “I assume things are much the same way where you’re from as they arehere. The fancy folk will do whatever it is they can get by with, laws or no laws.”
I swallowed hard thinking of my own fortune. I’d preferred to pretend that my father’s money came from more noble gains. But was speculation and playing the markets any better than owning mines? As a girl I’d looked up to him, thought it dashing—like a glorified gambler—but in truth his money was as stained as anyone else’s. A kingdom built upon another man’s labor.
I wrung my hands together. Trying to block out the image of a little boy so deep belowground. But his face was clear as day, with those strange bright-greenish eyes looking back up at me beneath the dirt on his face. I shook my head to push it away.
“Ah, don’t worry for him, the lad came to no harm. None of them did so long as he was underground with them. He’s told you, hasn’t he?”
I shook my head.
“About the accidents? Surely someone in town has?” She looked incredulous at the thought.
“No. Nothing. Mrs. Penrose mentioned something in passing but didn’t say what had happened.”
She gnawed briefly on the inside of her cheek, glancing toward the window to reassure herself that the men weren’t returning before she started into her tale. “Well, the first time he did it, he was thirteen. The engine had failed and the mine flooded. All the lads were still underground. The captain was certain all souls were lost. Everyone came from the village up to the engine house. The bells—oh, maid—I will never forget the sound of the mine bells and the commotion. It was a terrible day. By the time they drained the shaft, we’d given them up for lost. But once the others got down there, they found a bit of the tunnel had collapsed saving them. He was still a slip ofa lad then, he and the rest of the men all trapped in that cutoff shaft saved by a pocket of air. Dirty as could be, hungry to a man, but not a one was harmed. Not even a scratch.”
I sucked in a breath. “But surely those things happen…”
“Once perhaps. But twice?”
“It happened again?” This time I glanced out the window knowing deep down I was an intruder here, stealing away with information I hadn’t been given. But at the same time I needed to know. If I was to understand what Ruanwas, I needed to know what he’d done. Where he came from.
“Aye, during the war. He did just the same. A collapsed tunnel, and not a single man was lost. But I get the feeling you’re the sort of lass that needs to put her fingers in the Lord’s side to believe. There’s nothing wrong with that, my lover, it’s just some folks need more than faith to believe.”
I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as she took my hand in hers and gave it a squeeze.
“I don’t mean anything by it. But our Ruan is a special one, he is.”
Yes. Yes, I’d gathered that, but it still didn’t ease my mind. In fact, with the recent trouble at Penryth, it did the opposite. I finished off my tea, its soporific effects slowly spreading throughout my body. Lulling me into a rather contented state of being. My limbs warm and peaceful.
“What brought you here anyway? I imagine you think us quite provincial. You came down on holiday and ended up in the middle of all this. I suspect you rue the day you set foot in Lothlel Green.”
She filled up my cup again. “A bit yes. But it wasn’t a holiday precisely. I work for a bookseller in Exeter and was bringing some things to your Pellar.” I stifled a yawn behind my fist and shook my head. “Thought I’d stop by to have supper withan old friend.” That ache that always rose in my chest when I mentioned Tamsyn was oddly absent, and I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. I blew softly over the warm tea before taking a second sip. “I have to admit, it’s by far the most memorable of my deliveries.”
She chuckled, casting a fond expression toward the door. “Ah, that explains it. Well, he’s a good one. None of the lasses in town are half good enough for him.” She gave me a knowing look.
“Oh, no. It’s not like that. Not at all.” I glanced down at myself. She was right in her initial assessment, I did look as if I’d been fished from the sea. Soaked to the bone, coming out in the middle of the night. The woman had every reason to wonder what I’d been doing with their Pellar. “You see, after the incident in town, Mr. Kivell though it safer for me if I stayed near him. He has this mad notion that I’m in danger here.”
Something flickered in her expression, but it was gone as soon as it came. “I suspect if Ruan thinks something’s after you, then you’d best heed him. He’s seldom wrong about such things, that one.”
“No. I suppose you’re right.”
“Shall we go to the parlor now that you’re dry?”
I grinned and stood, following her deeper into the house. The next room had the same low ceiling as the kitchen. With great dark beams stretching across supporting the second floor. Wood and lime-washed walls. It was homey, though, warm. Happy. If a house could be such a way. Which was a silly thing to think—certainly chalked up to the day I’d had. Had it only been this morning I’d been in the garden with Nellie Smythe? Yesterday morning? The days blurred together—mostly as I hadn’t yet slept.
I walked over to the large slate mantelpiece. A photographof a soldier sat in the center, surrounded with dried wildflowers tied with bits of faded pink ribbon. I lifted it up gently, studying the picture of the young man. “Is this your son?”
“Aye, that’s my Georgie.” A wistful look crossed her face.
He was remarkably handsome in his soldier’s uniform. He had to be of an age with Ruan, but I didn’t recall seeing him around the village. Then it struck me. George. George Martin. Her son must have been the one they were speaking of who died after the war. “George Martin? Was that his name?”
She nodded, taking the photograph and running her finger over the glass by habit. “I see they’ve been talking again in the village.”
