Knowing Mr. Tyndale would’ve kept her father on if possible made her feel slightly hopeful. It meant she’d be applying to someone likely to treat her well. If anyone would be fair, surely it would be the man who had so often winked and called her a “pretty little girl” when she was a child.
Despite the fact that she was expecting to meet a friendly face, she hesitated before entering the building. Mr. Tyndale’s attitude could have changed toward her, given recent events. Not only that, but after tossing and turning the past three nights—ever since the blacksmith’s apprentice had left her standing in the middle of her own kitchen feeling absolutely bereft—she was too fatigued to deal with such an emotional situation. Here she was, about to sue for work at the very place she’d sworn no one in her family would ever work again. That made her feel as if she was reneging on everything she believed.
But what else could she do? Word had spread that the earl had delivered an expensive amount of food, even wine, to her house, negating any relief she might’ve obtained by cooperating with Mr. Cutberth’s demands. Even Cutberth seemed unable to believe she’d followed through, especially because the earl hadn’t reacted to what she’d told him as Cutberth had expected. Instead of accepting her at her word and blaming Jack for the fire, Druridge had sent Linley on another round of inquiries. Geordie had heard the earl’s butler prattling about that Bruegel painter Druridge had asked her about—although she had no idea what a Flemish painter had to do with the fire. She might’ve been curious, except she had such pressing problems. She got the impression that Cutberth somehow blamed her for the way the earl had responded, as if she’d made him more suspicious instead of less. As a result, she was becoming acquainted with what it meant to wind up on Cutberth’s bad side and no longer admired him.
You can’t worry about Cutberth. Not now. Taking care of Geordie had to be her first priority. She didn’t have a lot of time to adjust to the setbacks she’d experienced. Once the earl’s food was gone, she would have no means to buy more. Unless she wanted her little brother to starve—unless she wanted to starve herself—she had to find a way to provide.
Throwing back her shoulders, she told herself her stint in the mine would be temporary, just until she could figure out a better solution, and opened the door.
At her unexpected intrusion, Mr. Tyndale glanced up from his oversize desk.
“Rachel!” The flame of his lamp threatened to gutter out, thanks to the sudden rush of outside air. He protected the opening at the top with one hand, then stood and gave her a welcoming smile.
That he didn’t seem to hate her like all the others nearly brought tears to her eyes.
“Hello, Mr. Tyndale.” Somehow she managed to talk despite the lump in her throat.
He walked around his desk and motioned to a chair. “Would you like to sit down?”
She’d worn her tattered cloak to help cut the biting cold. He held out a hand as she passed by—an offer to take it from her—but she was so chilled she didn’t dare relinquish the garment. She also didn’t want him to comment on her dramatic weight loss. “I will keep it, thank you.”
With a slight nod, he moved back to his customary place. “What brings you out to the mine on this cold day?” he asked, obviously surprised that she would show up.
She blinked several times, trying to hold back tears. Her mouth felt so dry she wasn’t sure she would be able to speak, but she managed a rather wobbly, “I was hoping that… I was hoping you might have a bit of work for me, Mr. Tyndale.”
His eyes widened. “Here? You mean, at the colliery?”
She held her head high. In the West of Scotland, they’d quit hiring women in the coal mines in an effort to save those jobs for the men, but not here, not entirely. She knew of at least a handful of women who drew a paycheck from Stanhope & Co. “Yes, please. I-I will be a good worker. Do you… happen to have a position on the sorting belts, perhaps?”
He hesitated long enough that she clutched the fabric of her cloak. Would he turn her away? She feared that was the case, but he must’ve read her panic because he smiled again and seemed to change his mind.
“Of course. I am sure I can find room on the payroll for one more. But”—he leaned forward—“screeners make only a schilling or two per day. You realize that.”
Rachel’s heart sank. That was even less than she’d expected. Her father, as a hewer, had brought home as much as twenty schillings a week. Even Tommy had made fifteen. She would be working for a fraction of their wages, and that simply wouldn’t be enough—not to pay the monthly rent and support her and Geordie.
She bit her lip. “Is-is housing included?”
He shook his head. “Not for a screener.”
“Is there any binding money if I agree to stay for a year or more?”
“You don’t want to commit yourself for so long. We don’t need screeners enough at the moment to be offering binding money anyway.”
“Then… maybe there’s another position… something else you think I could do?”
Before he could reply, the door opened and Wythe Stanhope stepped inside. “What a miserable day,” he grumbled.
He hadn’t yet noticed her so he was probably remarking on the weather. When he looked up, he froze.
“Miss McTavish.” He gave her a mocking bow. “What a shock to find you here.”
Fear crept up her spine. The last time she’d come face to face with Wythe she’d felt compelled to escape him any way she could. He’d exacted a painful and lasting revenge. But, certainly, after all he had done he would be satisfied.
She forced herself to stand and curtsy. “Mr. Stanhope.”
He studied her for a moment. “Are you, by any chance, seeking Lord Druridge?”
His allusion to her connection with the earl came off as a purposeful reminder of the night she’d lost her virginity—which was something he’d caused to happen.
“No, I-I am applying for work, sir.”
He laughed softly. “Ah… I couldn’t have asked for a more pleasant surprise. Perhaps today isn’t so bad.”
She remained silent.
“What has Mr. Tyndale arranged?” he asked.
The Fore-Overman began to straighten the items on his desk. “Actually, sir, I-I was thinking she would make a dependable screener.”
He waved that suggestion away. “A job for children. You don’t have very high expectations of Miss McTavish, Tyndale.”