Chapter 12
Lines Not to Cross
“My lady,” Jenkins said, though there was resignation in her voice this time.
“Don’t say it,” Hetty warned her, holding up one finger.
Jenkins sighed. “No, my lady.”
Hetty stood at the entrance to the building site.
She did not need Jenkins to tell her she ought not be here.
If she saw Mr Bramwell, she had little doubt he would tell her so in no uncertain terms. Yet, she felt certain he would avoid her, especially after yesterday’s little…
er, accident, if she did not force an encounter.
“You bloody liar!”
“I’m not lying, but you’re a thieving arsehole!”
Hetty looked around as angry voices filled the air, coming closer by the second.
“Take that back, I never took nothing from you. You’re the bleeding thief, light fingered bastard—”
“My lady!” Jenkins squeaked, making a grab for Hetty too late, as she opened the gate and hurried through.
“What on earth is all the shouting about?” she demanded, using her grandmother’s most imperious voice to cut through the throng.
For she saw, too late and rather to her dismay, that there were a considerable number of men gathered, every one of them red faced with fury.
The two in the centre of the group were pushing and shoving each other, but they paused upon hearing Hetty’s strident tone.
“This ain’t none of your affair, Miss, if you’ll beg my pardon for saying so,” one man said.
His voice was respectful but firm and he took off his hat as he spoke.
He forgot her a moment later, however, as he turned his back on her and his attention to the fellow he’d been haranguing.
“But it’s yours, Billy Preston, and if you don’t give me back what’s mine, I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll not forget in a hurry. ”
“You tell ‘im, Larry!” called another harsh voice.
“You keep out of this, Mark. It’s nowt to do with you!” the fellow called Billy said angrily.
Mark—a young, handsome fellow with curly brown hair — held up his hands in a peaceable gesture and shook his head.
“I’d get out of here if I were you, Miss,” he told them, sidling up to Hetty and looking her up and down with interest. “It’ll get ugly soon.”
“That’s Lady Henrietta to you,” Hetty said, trying to make herself heard over the increasing noise, hating herself for sounding so snooty but praying she could distract the men before a riot broke out.
She raised her voice. “I am a guest of the Dowager Duchess of Hawkney, who I believe has an interest in this site. I would hate to have to tell her that the men were ill-behaved louts.”
“My lady, forgive my disrespect, but some folk only understand one kind of language,” the fellow who had removed his hat so politely said with a grim smile, before drawing back his fist.
His intention was obvious, and Hetty did not know why on earth she did such a foolish thing, but she instinctively reached out and grabbed his arm, holding him back. “Don’t do that! You’ll end up losing your job and then—”
But whoever the fellow was, his blood was up.
He jerked his elbow back harder to free himself, jabbing Hetty in the face.
The shock of it was worse than the impact: the realisation that he had struck her, and that perhaps she had underestimated the danger she was in.
Stunned, she gave a little cry of pain and let go of his arm, stumbling back to fall on her backside in the dust. She sprawled in an ungainly heap, her skirts billowing out, showing her ankles to the men who turned to gape at her.
“My lady!” Jenkins cried, rushing through the gate and elbowing men right and left to get to her. “Get out of my way, you great brutes!”
“Oh, Barlow! Now you’ve done it,” chortled Mark, who leered down at Hetty, ogling her exposed legs.
Jenkins tugged at Hetty’s skirts, restoring her modesty before gazing in worry at her face. “Oh, my dear. What have you done this time?”
“What the bloody hell is going on here!”
If the crowd of workmen had sounded angry, the newcomer to the scene was incandescent with rage. The men swiped off their hats, standing back and looking guilty as Mr Bramwell shoved his way through, his grey eyes glittering with such menace that everyone stepped away from him.
“Oh, Lady Hetty, now you’ve done it,” Jenkins muttered under her breath as she crouched down to inspect the damage.
The man, Larry, who had hit her in the face—albeit accidentally—hurried towards her, suddenly eager to help as he became aware he might be in a spot of trouble.
“Lay a finger on her and I’ll break it,” Mr Bramwell growled, pushing the fellow aside.
He knelt beside her, heedless of his immaculate boots and clean trousers on the mucky ground. “Are you hurt?”
Hetty glanced at him warily, aware he was just as angry with her, but noting the worry in his eyes with some reassurance. She touched delicate fingers to her cheek, which was throbbing unpleasantly. “I’ll live,” she said ruefully. “Please help me up.”
He gave a curt nod and slid his arm around her shoulders. Despite his obvious fury, his touch was gentle, careful, and Hetty felt nothing but relief and gratitude as he helped her to her feet. “What happened?” he asked, his voice low and concerned now.
“It was an accident, nothing more,” she said, hoping to avoid a worse scene, but the fellow responsible for her throbbing cheek had a sudden attack of conscience.
“It were my fault, Mr Bramwell,” he said, turning his hat around and around in his hands. “Leastways, I never meant to hurt her, it was Billy I was aiming to thump, her ladyship only intervened to stop me.”
“I never did nowt!” Billy Preston replied doggedly. “He reckons I swiped his tools, but I never did. Why would I? I’ve me own tools, a present from me Da, they were and fine too. Finer than his rubbishy old—”
“You take that back—”
Violence simmered to life once more until Mr Bramwell’s voice cut through the crowd.
“If anyone wants a fight, they had better face me, for I’m in the mood to beat someone bloody,” he said, his voice calm and filled with quiet menace.
The men shifted uneasily, aware that he wasn’t joking.
“Otherwise, you may both present your arguments to me tomorrow morning at seven thirty, once you’ve had time to cool off.
We will get to the bottom of any theft and if anyone is guilty, I shall discover it.
In the meantime, I will immediately dismiss anyone else causing trouble. Do I make myself clear?”
“Aye,” muttered the men, already dispersing and eager to get out of the line of fire.
“Yes, Mr Bramwell,” Billy grumbled, his friends still waiting stubbornly beside him.
“Then bloody well get back to work and out of my sight,” he snapped, glaring at anyone with the temerity to linger. Then he turned his attention back to Hetty.
“We had best get you home. I’ll arrange a carriage.”
“There’s really no need, I can—” Hetty clamped her mouth shut in the light of the look Mr Bramwell sent her; for it suggested she not vex him further than he had been. He strode off towards the town.
“Oh, my lady. That’s going to swell something dreadful,” Jenkins said sadly as she regarded Hetty’s reddened cheek. “You’d best come and sit on the bench out on the lane while you wait for Mr Bramwell. I’ll run to the butchers and buy some steak to put on the bruise.”
Hetty nodded, and then wished she hadn’t as her cheek throbbed harder. “Yes, please do. Don’t rush, Mr Bramwell will see me safely home. I think he has a few words for me, and I’d as soon hear them in private,” she added ruefully.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, I don’t blame him one bit,” Jenkins said tartly before hurrying off.
Sighing, Hetty made her way to the public bench a few yards from the entrance to the site. It bore a brass plaque to the memory of a long dead inhabitant of the village, gifted so that the residents could enjoy the splendid view over the sea.
She sat down gingerly, suddenly aware that she had landed on her bottom with some force and sharp stones had covered the ground.
Oh, she would have some splendid bruises to show for this ill-advised adventure.
She ought to have listened to Jenkins and stayed away from the building site, and Mr Bramwell, and trouble.
But she never had been very good at ought to, or ought not, and the more she knew a thing was reckless, the more she wished to do it.
She sat admiring the view for a time, trying to ignore the dull throbbing in her cheek until the soft clatter of hooves on earth caught her attention, and she looked up to see Mr Bramwell driving a small gig along the road. He drew up beside her and leapt down.
Silently, he helped her to her feet and into the gig before returning to his place and urging the pony to walk on.
The silence continued until Hetty felt she must say something, but he beat her to it.
“I am so angry I could shake you.”
Hetty glanced guiltily at him. “I know. I am sorry. I was only trying to help.”
“By getting yourself flattened by a mob of angry men? How is that helpful?” he demanded.
Hetty put up her chin, indignant that he could not acknowledge that she had helped, a little at least. “Those men were about to start brawling, and the moment the two of them set to, the others would have followed. If not for me getting knocked onto my… my behind, you might be dealing with a far uglier scene that you did.”
There was a tense silence during which Hetty waited, assuming she would be forced to endure more scolding, yet when he spoke it wasn’t at all what he’d expected.
“That’s likely true, I’m afraid. I’d thank you if I didn’t fear you’d do something worse next time.”
Hetty met his glare with a rueful smile, and he shook his head.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “There’s trouble on the site. Someone is stealing from us, but it’s cleverly done, and with no visible pattern, so it’s impossible to prove or to predict what will happen next.”