A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(36)

Well, no, Sherbourne could not. The basic idea—dig a hole, haul out the coal—was complicated by issues of drainage, ventilation, safe accumulation of the slag, and safe construction of the shafts. Miners—women and children included—died every year as a result of tunnels collapsing, flooding, or catching fire. Slag heaps in the wrong position caused landslides, and abandoned shafts filled with water that then flooded the working portions of the mine.

Even the housing area had a substantial retaining wall behind it, reinforcing the steep rise of a hillside.

“I will not hire a manager,” Sherbourne said. “Not yet. Managers have a way of creating more problems than they solve when an undertaking is getting started. They make independent decisions when they should consult me and fail to show initiative about trivial matters. When the mine is producing a profit, then I’ll find somebody trustworthy to oversee daily operations.”

Above all else, managers cost money.

“Deal with Mr. Jones,” Charlotte said. “I’ll be fine on my own.”

Sherbourne would not be fine. “Rescue me in about five minutes, please. Jones likes to spout numbers for the sake of impressing his audience.”

“I’ll count the timbers in yonder stack,” Charlotte said. “Or pace off the distance between the last house and the first garden. I like how geometrical this place is and I can’t wait to see it when it’s a working mine. Where will you put the schoolhouse?”

What schoolhouse? “Haven’t decided yet. Perhaps you’ll have some ideas.”

She smiled at him, Sherbourne smiled back, and then—because a newly married man should be allowed to express a bit of affection for his wife when on his own property—he brushed a kiss to her cheek.

“Five minutes, madam.” He moved off toward the main tent, though something—perhaps a lady’s gloved hand—brushed softly over his fundament before he’d taken the first step.

*



Charlotte saw a side of her husband at the colliery she would never have glimpsed in the library or the bedroom: Sherbourne was passionate about his mining venture.

All the fire and focus he could bring to a kiss expressed itself just as eloquently when he waxed poetical about cables, steam power, tram tracks, and drainage. His vision went on for miles and decades, to the point that his works would someday have a private dock for loading coal directly onto coastal barges.

The mine was still mostly equipment and raw materials stacked under tarps, but Charlotte could smell that watchword of commerce in the air—progress.

She slipped into the tent perhaps fifteen minutes after parting from her husband and eavesdropped on an argument between Sherbourne and a white-haired, red-faced terrier of a man who seemed irate about the masons’ schedule.

The tent was ringed with tables, and on every available surface lay maps, graphs, bills of lading, and technical drawings. All quite lovely—quite numerical.

“The damned miners can sleep in tents,” the smaller man was saying, as Charlotte perched on a stool. “They’re accustomed to dwelling in the very bowels of the earth. Put the masons to building the tram now, so you’ll have it ready to go in the spring.”

Charlotte ran her finger down a timber merchant’s bill. “Language, Mr. Jones.”

Both men looked up sharply, as if she’d materialized from the celestial beyond.

“Beg your pardon, ma’am. Humbly beg your pardon.”

Charlotte rose. “Mr. Sherbourne, won’t you introduce us?”

Her husband obliged and stood by silently while Charlotte asked Mr. Jones a few questions. How had he chosen the scale upon which to draw his elevations? What had first interested him in engineering and how had he been trained? Was there a Mrs. Hannibal Jones?

“Gone these five years, God rest her soul.”

Sherbourne took out a gold pocket watch, flicked it open, then snapped it closed.

“You must miss her very much,” Charlotte said.

“I miss her smiles, her cooking, her—well, yes, ma’am. After twenty-two years of marriage, I miss my Florrie powerfully.”

“So you understand why the masons really ought to finish at least a portion of the houses before they start on your tram, don’t you? The men will be happier if they’re not pining for their families, and I’m sure Mrs. Jones would have agreed with me that happy fellows do better work. Of course, a temporary dormitory for the bachelors could be erected fairly quickly, but I’m sure Mr. Sherbourne has discussed that with you.”

Mr. Sherbourne was staring at his closed watch, though Charlotte knew he was listening.

“Right,” Mr. Jones said. “A dormitory for the bachelors, who are always the first to come around looking for work, and usually the least skilled, which means they are exactly the fellows to build my tram line.”

“We’ll discuss it later.” Sherbourne shoved his watch into its pocket. “I’ve promised my wife a tour of the premises, and unless I want her to get a soaking in the process, I’d best be about keeping my word.”

Charlotte sent a wistful look at all the figures, charts, and tabulations. “A pleasure, Mr. Jones.”

Sherbourne had her out of the tent in the next three seconds. “A bachelor’s dormitory isn’t in the budget.”

“You expected all of your employees to be married?”