“I want to ensure the mines have safe working conditions,” Pen went on, answering the question Evans had asked. Evans and Ross, with Mr. Stanley’s help, were repairing the hole in the roof over the north transept. “Fair wages,” he explained. “Medical care and decent living quarters for the workers. And I won’t allow the overseer to employ small children.”
“Such progressive notions you have, milord,” Gwen called to him.
He paused his hammer, his head appearing in the opening. His hair was tousled and his neckcloth wrapped in a simple twist. He’d recovered from the explosion with only residual aches, the old battle scars which he would always carry. But he was hale and hardy, restored to health, and had so far drunk nothing stronger than rhubarb wine. Gwen’s entire chest glowed at the sight of him.
“I thought you’d agree.” His gaze met and held hers.
She smiled. “I do. I’m pleased you feel the same way.”
“Most mine owners feel it an unnecessary expense to take care of their workers,” Mr. Stanley said. “Since they are so easy to replace.”
“It’s good business to have a strong workforce,” Pen said. “Sick workers don’t perform as well, and if you wear them out and kill them, it takes time to replace them and train up someone new. Better to preserve the workers you have and capitalize on their skills. Plus that keeps widows and orphans off the poor rolls.”
“Glad to hear you feel that way, sir,” Ross called.
Mathry bumped Gwen’s hip as she circled past, counting the niches where she planned to put bowls of blooms. “You won’t have time to run mines. You’ll be too busy nursing ababan.” She patted her belly, quite noticeably round.
Gwen shook her head. “There won’t be a babe for me.”
Mathry sent a pointed look at Gwen’s breasts, swelling against the bodice of the old flannel gown that had always fit her. “They’re just growing on their own, then?”
“She’s left off wearing her stays,” Dovey murmured. “Don’t fit.”
Mathry grinned. “Time to start a red raspberry leaf and nettle tea.”
Gwen clasped her middle. “I can’t—it’s not possible—”
Dovey lifted a curving black brow.
“All right then, it’s possible I caught, but to see it through to delivery—” Fear and wonder gripped her in twin claws. “I’m sure my womb was damaged from what happened before. What if I can conceive but not carry?” Her eyes filled with tears. What if she were forced to relive her nightmare again and again, bearing a babe but not being able to hold it?
Dovey touched her arm. “Dearling. Mathry will have been through her own travail by then, and I know a bit. You’ll have help this time.”
“But it will be seven months or more,” Gwen said, calculating. “You’ll have Evans and St. Sefin’s to see to, and Mathry’s to be our housekeeper at Penrydd.” Pen had set men to work repairing the estate and engaged staff to open and prepare the house. They’d return to it after their honeymoon.
Mathry cradled her own belly with a grin. “Have a little lord, and the dowager will go all sweet on you, I be thinking.”
Gwen stared up at the bell tower where Pen uttered a muffled curse. An English viscount, wielding a hammer, whistling through the nails clenched in his teeth. If she could bear children, the last reason she oughtn’t marry him fell away. Her birth wasn’t equal to his, and God knew her past wasn’t that of a pure, sheltered maid. But he hadn’t been born to his title, either. They would learn together. And build a life they chose for themselves, not one dictated to them by others.
“I want a girl,” Gwen whispered. “Is that wrong?”
Mathry tossed her head. “All that’s wrong is thattymffatup there who trips over his feet when’er he sees me, but won’t make a declaration.” She pointed to the platform where Ross and Evans moved about. “Be nice if he made an honest woman of me afore thebabancomes.”
“You can’t have my man,” Dovey said placidly, scouring the dust from her window.
“Wfft, the Northman,” Mathry said. “Thought a Scotsman might have more in his head, but too much English blood up there at the border, that’s what it is.”
“Speaking of Evans, Doveybach,” Gwen said. “If you cared for him, why didn’t you marry him long ago?”
Dovey dabbed her cloth at St. Sefin’s purple gown. “Fear, I suppose. That I’d lose someone again. Besides, I couldn’t be sure he was sweet on me. ’Twas safer not to let anything change. But then you showed me the way, casting your heart on his lordship, and I thought—how can I be less brave?” She smiled, her face soft with enchantment.
A sliver of guilt nibbled at Gwen’s conscience. She and Pen had agreed they would support St. Sefin’s, so Dovey never need worry for income. But Gwen was leaving her friend with all the burdens, the worries, the knocks on the door in darkest night, and Dovey was both proud and strong—what if she didn’t ask if she needed more help? “Doveybach—ow!”
Gwen yelped as the ball bounced off her ankle with a sharp thwack, then caromed away. “Now you’ve done it, my potato flowers. It’s gone for good if you’ve lost your ball under the altar.” St. Sefin’s altar was a solid hunk of ancient English oak set on four stone slabs. They couldn’t move it and had never tried.
“I’ll find it.” Ifor threw himself to the floor and began poking about with his shepherd’s crook.
“By the by, I heard an odd tale from the vicar of St. Mary’s in Abergavenny,” Mr. Stanley remarked. “Seems a stranger in a small dory floated up the Usk many days back. His fine clothes were covered in filth, smelling of sulfur and dung, and he’d been so knocked about he couldn’t recall his own name. They sent him to the workhouse, and like he’ll be put to work in the mines of the Black Mountains as soon as he recovers. Can’t expect he’ll last long there, poor creature. It’s a great mystery where he came from.”
