Lizzie Ashman slowly made her way through the churchyard as the twilight shadows lengthened. The spring cleaning at the Manor had meant a long and exhausting week for her; curtains had been taken down, washed, and re-hung, all the books in the library had been individually dusted, the heavy furniture in the drawing rooms had been pulled away from the walls, and every chimney in the place had been swept, sending a shower of new dust which lodged everywhere. The Everleighs were short of money and fewer house staff were employed than when her mother had worked there. But that didn’t mean that standards would be allowed to slip, not if Mrs Scammell had anything to do with it. The housekeeper, a widow in her fifties, was a tartar when it came to dirt; no slick of grime on a skirting board could escape her eye. Kitty, the other housemaid, had cleaned the windows in Lord Everleigh’s bedroom three times over before they passed inspection.

Still, change was coming to Pintletrow, and that could mean new opportunities. Two big new houses were being built on part of the park that used to surround the manor. She knew who would be occupying them, the richest coal owners in the area: Samuel Single and Thomas Priddy. Both were of relatively humble origin, but the relentless growth of Bath as a fashionable destination had enabled them to develop major industries from pits which had previously served only local needs. They’d need house servants; maybe she could become a lady’s maid for one of their wives.

At last she reached home. Opening the door she passed into the room which did duty as kitchen, dining room and general living area for the whole Ashman family. Her mother looked round from a bubbling cauldron as Lizzie came in.

“Oh Ma, I’m so tired! That Mrs Scammell, she’s been working Kiity and me like slaves!”

“Oh, Lizzie love, sit yourself down and take off them boots. ‘Tis always hard at this time of year for servants. Never mind, ‘tis Sunday tomorrow, and you can have a bit of rest.” Her mother turned back to the pot, then added, “I saw that Jem Norris today.”

“Ma!” Lizzie’s indignation was unfeigned. But there was real worry for both of them. Half the local girls of Lizzie’s age were already wed; almost all the others were betrothed, or at the very least courting. However Lizzie had no interest in the local lads whatsoever. She was a pretty girl, with long-lashed deep grey eyes and mid-brown curls framing a lively, rosy cheeked face, and had never lacked for potential suitors. Yet she rebuffed them all. “They’re too Pintletrow,” she said, when pushed for an explanation. “Only two or three of them‘ve even been to Bath. Not one‘s been to Bristol, or London.” Jem Norris was the most persistent, but it was undeniable that he had never been further than Radstock.

“But love, what are you going to do? You’ll be an old maid before you know it. And there aren’t so many jobs round here for women. Them Everleighs might have to close the manor soon, ‘tis known.”

“Those new houses down Vowles Hill. They’ll need people. And if not, maybe I’ll get a job in Bath.”

Her mother shrugged, but Lizzie knew that the older woman was deeply fearful for the future. Bath might only be twelve miles away as the crow flew, but the hilly terrain and twisting, deeply rutted roads meant that it took a full half day to travel there. If Lizzie took a post in the city, her mother would be lucky to see her more than once a year.

But what was the alternative? Lizzie wanted a man who had his sights set further than the narrow surrounds of Pintletrow. She’d had a little education, thanks to one of Mrs Hannah More’s Sunday Schools. She could read and write, and when Mrs Scammell had taken to her bed with a broken ankle three years ago, Lizzie had taken advantage of the relative peace to examine the books in the library. Some of them had illustrations showing far-off places, and oh, how she wanted to see them for herself.

A clatter and splashing heralded the return of her father and brothers, who scrubbed themselves clean in the trough outside. The table was laid and the family settled round to eat the stew. After three or four mouthfuls Joseph Ashman settled back on his stool, took a deep draught of cider, and announced, “Them navigators are moving to Pinford this week.”

“Navigators?” asked Lizzie.

“Them canal builders. Them’ve finished down Paulton way and’re starting on this stretch next. ‘Tis a camp they’re building downalong at Wellsway Farm.”

“’Tis good money they make,” said young Joe, Lizzie’s elder brother. “Better’n I get at Gants.”

“No, lad, them’re rough, bad men. You don’t want to be mixing with them. And you, Lizzie, don’t you be going anywhere near them. Young girls aren’t safe with foreigners like them.”

“Oh, Fa!” she muttered. As if she’d be interested in raw workmen. Joseph Ashman had become foreman at Gants Pit four years previously; the family had status in the village, a regular salary, even in the slack summer months when most of the miners had to labour on the farms. Lizzie had no intention of forming a liaison that would discredit her parents.

* * *

Next day, the Ashmans were, as usual, early in All Saint’s church. A consequence of their relative wellbeing had been the wherewithal to pay pew rent, and Betty Ashman’s sole vice was her determination to ensure that the rest of Pintletrow knew about it.

A disturbance at the rear of the nave caused Joseph to nudge his daughter. “Don’t look round, girl,” he ordered. “’Tis some of them navigators. Come to cause trouble, I expect.” He pulled in the skirt of his Sunday smock as if expecting it to be contaminated.

Despite this prediction, the service was a controlled affair, though Parson Wright’s sermon on the ”Temptations of the Flesh” ran on ten minutes longer than normal – no doubt for the benefit of the strangers. Lizzie saw the men under the yew tree at the corner of the churchyard as the family headed back to their house. To her surprise, they were very smartly turned out, with scarlet waistcoats, blue neckerchiefs, velveteen coats, white felt hats with the brims turned up, breeches buttoned at the knees, blue stockings and high-laced boots. “Lizzie!” her mother hissed and, blushing, she looked away from the exotic spectacle. But she could not help comparing the navigators with the local youths, to the further detriment of the latter. Still, “Fine feathers do not make a fine bird!” she told herself crossly, and resolved to put the canal builders out of her mind.

However, it seemed that Fate thought otherwise. Throughout the next week, as she travelled to and from the Manor, she saw navigators, singly and in groups, round the village. Gossip reached her; they had been buying provisions at the stores, arranging deliveries from the butcher and baker. “Prodigious gurt quantities they eat, so I hear,” said Betty. “Two pounds of meat a day for each and every one of them, two pounds of bread, and a gallon of strong ale. They won’t touch our cider, mind.”

“More fools them,” said Lizzie. But she wondered at the physical strength of men who ate like that. The men in her family were hard working miners, but even they could not consume such huge amounts.

Wednesday was market day, and Lizzie begged a free afternoon from Mrs Scammell to buy a bonnet to replace her old one, now falling apart after two years of daily use. Pintletrow market was hardly worthy of the name, half a dozen stalls arranged on a patch of unused land opposite Paradise Farm; still, one enterprising trader had discovered a demand for hats and clothing on the Mendip circuit. The goods were secondhand, but of good quality; it was generally understood that he bought up the possessions of those who went to Bath in search of a cure but expired before settling their lodging accounts.

As she peered into the fly-blown piece of mirror, trying to work out which of two hats was the most flattering, she caught a flash of scarlet. Looking round she saw a tall navigator in conversation with the tinker’s boy. He turned towards her and she caught her breath. Bright blue eyes twinkled in a lean brown face, and the thick black hair under his hat was caught back in a neat queue.

“I’ll take this one,” she told the stall holder quickly, and slapped down her shilling. She had to get away quickly, before she started thinking like a silly young girl. But really, a man shouldn’t look like that! No doubt he’d soon have half the unmarried women in the village fluttering round him; some of the married ones too, unless their husbands took strong measures. She hurried away, half running, but gave in to the temptation to look back before she rounded the corner into Baker’s Yard. Was it her imagination or was he looking straight at her?

* * *

On Friday the good weather which had held for the past fortnight came to an end. Thick clouds gathered through the afternoon, and Lizzie pulled her shawl tight round as she left the Manor. But it was too late; huge drops of rain pounded down as she passed though the gate, and she dashed to the church porch for shelter. Moments later another person came running in.

“I thought that I’d been unlucky to be caught in the rain, but this shows me that every cloud really does have a silver lining. Michael O’Gorman, at your service, ma’am.” It was the tall navigator from the market. His deep voice had an unfamiliar lilt. She flushed, and turned away.

“Oh, come, take pity on a poor, lonely soul. It’s said that the roof constitutes the introduction, and to be sure now, you cannot get much more respectable than meeting in church.”

She had to giggle. “That’s better,” he said. “Now, you have the advantage of me. May I know the name of such a vision of loveliness?”

“More like a vision of soaking wetness,” she countered. But she’d enjoyed the compliment. “I’m Lizzie Ashman.”

“And why are you out and about on such a wild evening, Miss Soaking Wet Ashman?”

“I work at the Manor. I’m off home to my supper. Why are you here?”

“I’ve been at the timber yard, arranging some props. I was on my way back to the camp – but it seems that the Good Lord had other plans for me.” He smiled. “And He’s saved me from the tap room at the Everleigh Arms too; there’s a message for me.”

A thought crossed her mind. “Why don’t navigators drink cider?”

“If that isn’t one of the stranger questions I’ve been asked. Most of the Excavators – for that is what we call ourselves, you know – come from the North of England, and they don’t make cider there, only ale. We’re a superstitious lot, we cutters and bankers, and we like to keep to the customs we know.” He paused. “But I’ll drink cider with you.”

“No you won’t. Fa would have a fit if he saw me with a navigator. He says you’re rough, bad foreigners.”

“Well, now, I will admit that a few of us are foreigners. I myself come from Ireland. And many excavators do not behave well. Some say it is the duty of a navigator to work like a horse and behave like an ass. But not in my gang.” He drew himself up. “We are the Billy Boys, and we always behave like gentlemen.”

She was a little impressed, she admitted to herself. Still, his easy manner could only have come from long practice, charming birds out of trees and women out of decency. “It was very pleasant to meet you, Mr O’Gorman, but now I must be on my way. My Ma will be getting worried, and the rain has eased off.”

“And when will I see you again, Miss Ashman?”

“Oh, never, never! Don’t ask! My father and brothers would not permit it!” And she scuttled out into the gloom.

“I like your new bonnet!” he called after her. She hesitated, then ran on.

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