The bad weather continued for several days. No navigators turned up at the church on Sunday, and it was later discovered that they had arranged for a curate to ride over from Dunkerton to give a service at the camp. A few of the more traditional sorts found this to be vainglorious behaviour, holding the men’s good clothes more important than the steep, mile long climb from the valley floor; however most of Pintletrow were forgiving. It was very wet.

Lizzie was rather annoyed to find that she was disappointed. “Stuff and nonsense!” She took her frustration out on the dust in the rarely used Blue Bedroom at the Manor, bursting a pillow as she thumped it fiercely, and sending feathers whirling through the room. It took an hour on her hands and knees to pick them all off the carpet, and she was horrified on catching sight of herself in a mirror to find her hair and dress covered in more. The bad weather seemed to irritate Mrs Scammell too; she insisted that Lizzie re-stuff and patch the pillow, even though the material was so threadbare that it would split again as soon as anyone lay on it.

On Tuesday evening, Lord Everleigh’s son and heir, George Everleigh, arrived from London. Member of Parliament for the rotten borough of Old Radington, the Honourable Mr Everleigh spent most of his time in Town – the slow deterioration of Everleigh Manor made for uncomfortable accommodation, especially for a man who liked his luxuries. Next morning, Lizzie arrived to find the resident staff in a state of high excitement.

“It’s peace!” announced Mrs Scammell. “Peace with France!”

Lizzie gasped. Britain had been at war with France for almost as long as she could remember. It had been the beheading of Louis XVI in 1793 which had propelled the British Government into war; initially it had been rather sympathetic to the revolutionaries, but revulsion had followed the regicide. Now, finally, after nine long years, the war was over.

As if in celebration, the weather started to improve. The MP took himself back to the capital on Thursday citing affairs of state – though Lizzie imagined the lumps in the mattress had more to do with his hasty return. She wondered if she would see the navigators again in Pintletrow now that the lanes were drying; then realising that her interest was in one particular navigator she pushed the thought out of her mind. In the event her speculation was fruitless; no navigators were to be seen, and through her father she learnt that the camp was now complete and that a host of extra men had arrived at the site to start the digging.

News travelled up from the valley. The new labourers were far less decorous than the advance party had been. It was said that the King’s Head, the small inn that served the hamlet of Pinford, was doing a roaring trade, but that the landlord had sent his wife and daughters to stay with his sister in Farrington Gurney for safety. However, there were women in the camp – and it didn’t take long for the gossips to deduce that few held marriage lines. The curate from Dunkerton continued his weekly journey, but had insisted on a fee increase and removal of the temporary place of worship to a field rather further away from the camp; fewer than thirty men were regular attendees anyway. Travellers from Pintletrow who had to go south ran the gauntlet; at best cat-calls and abuse, at worst a barrage of stones and clods of earth. Respectable women were advised to keep well away from the workings, and Lizzie was grateful that the lengthening days meant that she did not have to make the journey to and from the Manor in darkness.

* * *

As she mopped the flagstones in the great hall, acknowledging to herself a slight disappointment that Michael O’Gorman had been so easily deterred, Mrs Scammell hurried in.

“Lizzie, there you are! Oh Lizzie, there’s been an explosion at Gants!”

Lizzie felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. Her father and brothers were down that pit. She staggered, and dropped down hard on a chair, still clutching the mop.

“Mrs Scammell, I have to go over there. Maybe – perhaps –there must be something I can do...”

“Of course, my dear, your place is there with your mother. It may not be too bad; I shall pray for you.”

Later, Lizzie would appreciate the housekeeper’s compassion. But for now, all she could concentrate on was Gants. Pausing only to change her footwear and grab her shawl, she ran the short distance to the head of the shaft. There was a crowd of women already there, and Lizzie saw her mother with them.

“Is there any news, Ma?”

“No, love, a team’s gone down but we’ve heard nothing since.”

The women huddled together, united in their dread, watching the windlass operators for any sign of movement. Eventually a faint cry could be heard from below, and the men started winding. As the first load came up, the crowd groaned in unison –it was obviously a dead body.

* * *

In total, twenty-eight dead men were retrieved from the pit. They were all fathers, brothers, husbands – the village would never be the same. Jem Norris’s body was the sixth recovered; Joseph Ashman and his two sons were the final three.

“They always worked together, you know. Said they could look after each other better that way.” Betty had aged at least fifteen years that afternoon, and as she and Lizzie sat together in the cottage that evening no trace could be seen of the cheerful matron who had waved her family off to work that morning.

Lizzie said nothing, but tears streamed down her cheeks. Joe and Will, gone for ever. And Fa, the bedrock of her existence. As the youngest child, and only daughter, she’d basked in a special affection from him; now the source of all her strength had been snatched from her.

The next two days passed in a blur. A message from Mrs Scammell told her that she would not be expected back at work until after the funeral; neighbours called bringing meal offerings that were barely touched, and helped Lizzie and her mother prepare their loved ones for burial.

The bodies of two brothers had been claimed by their sister for burial near her home in Camerton, but the remaining twenty-six men were committed to freshly dug graves on the north side of the church in a joint service. It was a beautiful May morning, and the hawthorn trees were in full bloom, but Lizzie felt that she would never enjoy spring again. She and her mother clutched each other for support in the throng.

“Earth to earth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection to come.”

As the coffins were lowered, one by one, and the gravediggers started to shovel back the soil, a sweet and mournful melody came piping over the air. Lizzie could not see the musician through the crowd, but as they all started to make their way to the Rectory, where refreshments had been provided, the plaintive tune came with them. The relative space of the gardens allowed the mass of people to thin out a little, and Lizzie saw with surprise that a group of navigators had come with the mourners, and the music was being played by one of them on a small flute. Seconds later, she found herself face to face with Michael O’Gorman.

“Mrs Ashman, Miss Ashman, may I say on behalf of the men and myself how deeply sorry we are for your tragic loss. I have been away this past month on business in Birmingham, and have only just returned, or I would have paid my condolences earlier. If there is anything I or my boys can do to help you, please let me know.” Holding his hat stiffly in front of him, he bowed deeply, then strode off to rejoin his workmates.

“Who was that, Lizzie?” asked her mother.

“Oh... just one of the navigators. I...er...I met him in church.”

Her mother flashed a quick look at her, but then Betty’s attention was claimed by a fellow newly-made widow. As the women together lamented the disaster, Lizzie noticed the navigators leave the gathering. For the first time since the accident she felt a faint flicker of life stir through her.

* * *

Back at the house that evening, Betty announced that they had to make a plan.

“I could give you all my pay, Ma. I get a hot meal at the Manor; I don’t need more than bread and cheese here.”

“You’re a fond child, love, but it won’t do. You could pay for our rent, but there would be nothing left over for food or anything else. And though your dear father left some savings, they would soon be gone. Are you sure you can’t bring yourself to accept one of our village boys?”

“No, Ma. There’s none so many left now, anyway, and I cannot like one of them enough to take him away from another girl more suited to him. No matter how poor I may be.”

“Then we must find an income for me. And I think that the only thing I can do is take in lodgers.”

“What, fill our house with strangers?”

“I think it is all we can do, love. They will be hiring young men from elsewhere to work the mine, and they will have to live somewhere. If you and I share the small bedroom at the back, I can rent out the front two rooms. Twon’t bring in a fortune, but, with your wages, ‘twill be enough for us to live.”

* * *

But there would be more bad news when Lizzie returned to work at the Manor after her mourning leave. Lord Everleigh had spent two days closeted with his lawyer, and the numbers were irrefutable. If he closed down the Manor, leaving it with just a skeleton staff, he could move to Paris, rent a townhouse on fashionable Faubourg St Honoré, and still have a reasonable income in hand. “I haven’t seen Paris since ‘85,” he exclaimed. “Such a city, such elegance, such entertainment...” Mr Coniger bit his lip, knowing that the Manor’s current condition was in large part due to the enormous sums left at Parisian gaming tables during that last disastrous trip; all the estate’s mineral rights had been sold to clear the debts. He would write to his Lordship’s heir when he returned to his office in Bath; maybe Mr Everleigh could dissuade his parent from this imprudent action? Or was there another possibility?

“Would your Lordship consider letting the manor whilst you are away? I have been approached by a number of naval men looking for suitable accommodation in these parts.”

“What, let my house to some jumped up tradesman? Never! They’ll take anyone, you know, just because they can do some figurework.”

“I believe some of them come from very good families, Sir. It can be a excellent career for a younger son. And a tenancy would provide some substantial sums to put the Manor in order.”

“Harrumph! Anyway, I’m going to come back in the autumn.”

“Your Lordship could spend the Season in Town with Mr Everleigh, perhaps?”

Lord Everleigh considered the idea. George’s rooms were in fashionable Curzon Street, ideally located for the pleasures of a London season. Hah! maybe he’d find himself a new wife, some plump little widow; plump in the pocket too...

“Look into it,” he said. “But make sure the blighter’s got breedin’. And get the rest of the arrangements underway. I leave for Dover Friday sennight.”

* * *

So it was that Lizzie arrived at the Manor to find that her job had gone. Mrs Scammell would be kept on in the house, and the head gardener and his son would keep the grounds in order. But the rest of the staff were given two weeks notice. “You will all receive good references,” said the lawyer. “And, if the Manor should be let, there may be new positions available in due course.”

Lizzie dragged herself homeward that evening. Her fingers burned, for the girls had spent the day sewing Holland linen covers for the drawing room furniture. The task would need to be repeated for every piece of upholstered furniture in the house; a thankless occupation. Mrs Scammell had tried to keep their spirits up. “I’m sure you’ll be taken on straight away at one of the Vowles Hill houses,” she said. “I’ve heard that one of those new pianofortes has been delivered to Mr Single’s; he’ll need staff very soon.” But Mr Single owned Gants colliery; could Lizzie work for the man whose mine had destroyed her family?

As she entered the churchyard, a tall figure detached itself from beside the vestry door and walked over to her. Lizzie looked up into Michael O’Gorman’s face, and burst into tears.

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