ground soot to rise in horrible little black puffs into its eyes.
The cottage was a hut of dark stone with light beaming from a solitary window. The miner gave a shout and the door immediately opened, revealing a round woman with ruddy cheeks and sparkling green eyes.
“Lud,” she declared upon seeing Maria. “Wot ’ave ya dug up in t’bloody mine now, Thomas?”
“Quiet, woman, and set ’bout t’fire. Lass be half dead, I vow. Now scuddle yer skirts and see that the coffee be hot and stout. And free up a bit o’that bread puddin’ ya fed me fer supper. Thin as she be, I ’spect she’ll appreciate a mouthful or two. The lass be light as a canary.”
She looked past her husband and her eyes widened even more, regarding me up and down, focusing on my feet that were now blocks of mud. Then she gave a sharp nod.
“Right. Ye’ll be needin’ a fix for them as well,” she said, pointing to my feet. “Sit.”
She whipped a blanket up from the cot against the wall of the room, roughly shoved me toward the hearth, and shoved me even harder into a stiff, cane-seated ladder-back chair. She had obviously been knitting by the firelight; a great spool of red woolen yarn and a pair of needles lay on the floor, as well as what appeared to be a partially knitted sweater.
“Put the lass on me cot,” she ordered sharply, “and bring the cot closer. She needs her warmth, fer sure. T’coffee be hot. Pour a cup and be quick ’bout it. And while yer ’bout it, a drab for this un as well. He looks like a whipped cat. Lud, a man of yer age should know better than to go traipsin’ about in this weather in aught but his stockin’s. Are ya daft?”
“Watch yer bleedin’ tongue, woman,” Thomas scolded. “Yer speakin’ to a damn blue blood.”
She plunked her hands on her wide hips. “Ya don’t say. And who might he be? The bloody King of England?”
“Salterdon.”
She didn’t so much as blink. “Give over. Wot would that demned divil be doin’ scuttin’ ’bout the night in his skivvies?”
“Wife! Watch yer mouth or I’ll be smackin’ it proper.”
She gave a humph of dismissal. “If he be Salterdon, I’m the bleedin’ Queen.”
Having poured a generous mug of the thick black coffee, he shoved it into his wife’s hand. “There ya be, yer saucy Highness. Now shut yer trap and see to His Grace before he be seein’ our sorry carcasses hangin’ from a demned gibbet.”
The woman continued to regard me with a gleam of contempt in her squinted eye. “ ’Fess up,” she said. “Be ya the divil Salterdon or no?”
I glanced at her husband, who was tucking the warmed blanket around Maria. “What have you got against Salterdon?” I asked, caution tapping as I accepted the thick-as-pitch coffee. The heat of it rose in an aromatic mist into my face.
“Ever’thin’, that’s wot. The demned lot of ’em been tryin’ to shut down these mines since t’old man kicked up his boots and was buried in hell proper. ’Twas t’old lady who brung the trouble ’pon us, harpin’ on that the smelt putrified ’er fine air. Demned lot of ’em would put us all out of work and homeless, and fer wot? So’s they kin lounge in their pretty gardens and have their bleedin’ soirees without the stink of the smelt assaultin’ their cockleheaded sensibilities?”
“Enough.” Thomas pointed a rough finger at her. “I’ve got t’be back in the mine and I’ll not have ya distraughtin’ a guest in our house. See they’re taken care of properly, or I’ll lay ya over me lap and swat yer perty arse good and proper.”
Tugging his hat down over his ears, Thomas gave me a glance and a grunt and left the house.
Her keen eye still upon me, the woman grabbed up a long-bladed knife and snatched up a loaf of bread. “Well?” she said. “Are ya Salterdon or not?”
“No,” I replied, staring at the knife. “I…work for Salterdon.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Thought so. All’s the pity fer it. Didn’t
The cottage was a hut of dark stone with light beaming from a solitary window. The miner gave a shout and the door immediately opened, revealing a round woman with ruddy cheeks and sparkling green eyes.
“Lud,” she declared upon seeing Maria. “Wot ’ave ya dug up in t’bloody mine now, Thomas?”
“Quiet, woman, and set ’bout t’fire. Lass be half dead, I vow. Now scuddle yer skirts and see that the coffee be hot and stout. And free up a bit o’that bread puddin’ ya fed me fer supper. Thin as she be, I ’spect she’ll appreciate a mouthful or two. The lass be light as a canary.”
She looked past her husband and her eyes widened even more, regarding me up and down, focusing on my feet that were now blocks of mud. Then she gave a sharp nod.
“Right. Ye’ll be needin’ a fix for them as well,” she said, pointing to my feet. “Sit.”
She whipped a blanket up from the cot against the wall of the room, roughly shoved me toward the hearth, and shoved me even harder into a stiff, cane-seated ladder-back chair. She had obviously been knitting by the firelight; a great spool of red woolen yarn and a pair of needles lay on the floor, as well as what appeared to be a partially knitted sweater.
“Put the lass on me cot,” she ordered sharply, “and bring the cot closer. She needs her warmth, fer sure. T’coffee be hot. Pour a cup and be quick ’bout it. And while yer ’bout it, a drab for this un as well. He looks like a whipped cat. Lud, a man of yer age should know better than to go traipsin’ about in this weather in aught but his stockin’s. Are ya daft?”
“Watch yer bleedin’ tongue, woman,” Thomas scolded. “Yer speakin’ to a damn blue blood.”
She plunked her hands on her wide hips. “Ya don’t say. And who might he be? The bloody King of England?”
“Salterdon.”
She didn’t so much as blink. “Give over. Wot would that demned divil be doin’ scuttin’ ’bout the night in his skivvies?”
“Wife! Watch yer mouth or I’ll be smackin’ it proper.”
She gave a humph of dismissal. “If he be Salterdon, I’m the bleedin’ Queen.”
Having poured a generous mug of the thick black coffee, he shoved it into his wife’s hand. “There ya be, yer saucy Highness. Now shut yer trap and see to His Grace before he be seein’ our sorry carcasses hangin’ from a demned gibbet.”
The woman continued to regard me with a gleam of contempt in her squinted eye. “ ’Fess up,” she said. “Be ya the divil Salterdon or no?”
I glanced at her husband, who was tucking the warmed blanket around Maria. “What have you got against Salterdon?” I asked, caution tapping as I accepted the thick-as-pitch coffee. The heat of it rose in an aromatic mist into my face.
“Ever’thin’, that’s wot. The demned lot of ’em been tryin’ to shut down these mines since t’old man kicked up his boots and was buried in hell proper. ’Twas t’old lady who brung the trouble ’pon us, harpin’ on that the smelt putrified ’er fine air. Demned lot of ’em would put us all out of work and homeless, and fer wot? So’s they kin lounge in their pretty gardens and have their bleedin’ soirees without the stink of the smelt assaultin’ their cockleheaded sensibilities?”
“Enough.” Thomas pointed a rough finger at her. “I’ve got t’be back in the mine and I’ll not have ya distraughtin’ a guest in our house. See they’re taken care of properly, or I’ll lay ya over me lap and swat yer perty arse good and proper.”
Tugging his hat down over his ears, Thomas gave me a glance and a grunt and left the house.
Her keen eye still upon me, the woman grabbed up a long-bladed knife and snatched up a loaf of bread. “Well?” she said. “Are ya Salterdon or not?”
“No,” I replied, staring at the knife. “I…work for Salterdon.”
“Ah.” She nodded. “Thought so. All’s the pity fer it. Didn’t
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