‘He’s the grieve,’ added Beatrice. ‘Promoted when my good-brother died.’
‘He was a common bearer,’ said Phemie in a savage tone which Gil could not account for. ‘No even a hewer. But since he can read and reckon, the old woman — ’
‘That will do, Phemie,’ said her mother with more emphasis, and Phemie finally became silent.
‘You promoted him?’ asked Gil neutrally, looking from one woman to another.
‘Arbella promoted him,’ agreed Joanna.
‘Is that your grandmother?’ Alys asked Phemie, who nodded ungraciously. ‘It must be difficult,’ she offered, ‘to be a household of women here on the edge of the coal-heugh.’
Gil, who had reached the same conclusion only a moment ago, admired this approach.
‘No, it’s difficult to be a household of women wi’ Arbella at the head of it.’
‘Phemie!’ said her mother. ‘You may leave us!’
Phemie flounced to her feet, long hair and blue woollen skirts swirling round her.
‘I was just going,’ she retorted, tossing the fair locks back. ‘You’ll forgive me, madam, sir.’ She curtsied briefly, and strode towards the door.
It was flung open as she reached it. She recoiled, and another, younger girl entered, and held the door open for a second figure who paused in the opening, gazing at them.
Gil never forgot his first glimpse of Arbella Weir. Slender, finely made, elegantly gowned, with some trick of the light giving her pink-and-white skin and silver-grey silk their own luminosity, she seemed for a moment lit from within. Near her all the women in the room looked gawky, even the graceful Joanna. Even Alys, he thought for a shocked moment. There was no telling her age; from the springy stance she could have been seventeen.
He scrambled to his feet and bowed, aware of Alys beside him making a deep curtsy. The woman in the doorway stepped forward into the chamber, and it became apparent that she was older than she looked at first sight. Vivid, expressive blue eyes under delicate brows held the attention, but silver-white hair showed at her temples below the fashionable French hood, and there were lines in her sweet face as she smiled at her guests.
‘Madam,’ he said, moving hastily to lead her to a seat. She leaned a little on his arm, her steps uneven, and he revised his estimate of her age again. Behind him, Phemie slipped out of the door, and the other girl came to help Joanna, who had finally begun to dispense the contents of the jug.
There was a stilted round of introductions and compliments. The refreshment was handed by the younger girl, who it seemed was Phemie’s sister Bel, a silent lumpy child of fourteen or so with dark hair and watchful blue eyes, and the smooth hands of a spinner. The beakers proved to contain buttered ale, well spiced but not strong. Gil raised his in a toast to Mistress Weir, and she bowed in reply.
‘And is it some errand,’ she prompted, her voice gentle, ‘that brings us the pleasure of your company?’
‘Maister Cunningham’s here about this morning’s disturbance,’ said Beatrice. Gil appreciated the understatement, but Arbella Weir shook her head deprecatingly
‘A bad business, maister,’ she said, and crossed herself. ‘Our Lady be praised that you were present to argue Beattie’s part. What could ha’ made Davy Fleming take such a notion into his head? He’s aye pleasant wi’ you when he’s up here, Beattie my dear.’
‘Aye, he’s civil enough to me,’ admitted Beatrice drily.
‘And have the two of you rid all this way to ask after my good-daughter?’ Arbella continued. ‘That’s a great kindness.’
‘They’re asking about Thomas as well, Mother,’ said Joanna.
Arbella raised her fine, dark brows. ‘Thomas? Why should Thomas concern you, maister? He’s well enough, I’ll warrant.’
‘If Sir David thinks the corp in the peat is your grieve,’ Alys explained, ‘which was part of his charge against Mistress Lithgo, then to prove him wrong my husband needs to find the man. I think he’s overdue?’
‘A week or two only,’ Arbella said, shaking her head. ‘He’s young. Likely he saw some new business he could do, and it’s taking time. Or maybe he went to deal wi’ the salt-boilers, as we’d discussed.’
‘It wasny time to meet the salt-boilers. He’s been gone five weeks, Mother,’ said Joanna, a hint of obstinacy in her soft voice. ‘There’s matters here for him to attend to.’
‘Is it as long as that? I’m dealing wi’ everything here, my pet,’ said Arbella. ‘He’s no need to hurry back. Never concern yourself, Joanna.’
‘What are his duties?’ asked Gil, attempting to reclaim the conversation. ‘What does that mean, to be grieve at a coal-heugh?’
‘He directs the men,’ offered Joanna. ‘He tells them where they should work, and when there should be a new shaft put in, and how much coal they need on the hill to fill the orders.’
‘He’s been a disappointment to me, I’ll admit,’ observed Arbella sadly. ‘I thought him knowledgeable, but he’s made a few mistakes since I put him in place.’
Gil caught a quirk of a smile crossing Beatrice’s face at this, but she said nothing.
‘And he deals with the customers,’ he prompted. ‘Does he deliver the coal — take the string of ponies out with the coal in baskets? I mind the collier coming to Thinacre when I was a boy, but that was from a nearer coal-heugh, down by the Avon.’
‘That would be Will Russell at Laigh Quarter,’ agreed Joanna. ‘Their round touches ours at Dalserf, but they hold to that side of the Clyde.’
‘That was one of Matthew’s agreements,’ said Arbella, and covered her eyes with a small plump hand. Joanna nodded, and crossed herself.
‘Matthew?’ asked Gil.
‘Matthew is dead,’ said Beatrice flatly. After a moment she went on, ‘He was my good-brother, and Joanna’s first man. He died near two year since, Christ assoil him, for aught I could do.’ Joanna turned her face away, and Gil thought he saw tears glittering on her eyelashes. ‘Then Joanna wedded Murray, and Arbella set him in Matthew’s place.’
‘You have not had to seek for trouble,’ said Alys in sympathy.
‘It’s a hard trade, winning coal,’ said Arbella, still behind her hand. ‘We get our livelihood from under the earth, and the earth takes lives in return.’
Beatrice and Joanna crossed themselves at this, but neither spoke.
‘So it’s you that directs matters overall, madam,’ Gil said. Arbella lowered the hand, and he felt the impact of her blue gaze as she turned it on him.
‘I was reared here, maister. It was my father cut the first pit,’ she expanded, in gentle pride of possession, ‘more than forty year ago, and brought in Adam Crombie as his grieve. I was sole heir to my father, and Adam wedded me, and he and our sons have worked the Pow Burn coal-heugh ever since.’
‘Till they died,’ said Beatrice, still in that flat tone.
‘And have you sons yourself, mistress?’ Alys asked her.
Beatrice’s expression softened. ‘Just the one living. He’s eighteen. His name’s Adam and all, though he aye gets called Raffie. He’s away at the college in Glasgow.’
‘And we’ve met Phemie, and this is Bel,’ Alys prompted. Bright colour washed over the girl’s plump face, and she bobbed a curtsy where she stood by her mother, but did not speak.
‘Bel’s a spinner,’ Joanna offered. ‘None better for her age in Lanarkshire, I dare say.’
‘I’m right fortunate in my grandchildren,’ said Arbella, with that same gentle pride in her voice. ‘My grandson is the boast of the college, and my lassies are kent for their skill for miles about.’
‘Hmf!’ said Bel’s mother, but did not contradict this.
‘So Murray has charge here under you,’ Gil persisted, ‘and he’s been gone for five weeks wi’ two of the men, and yet you never sent after him?’
Joanna opened her mouth as if to speak, but Arbella said, ‘No. I see no need for it.’
‘But are you not concerned for him?’ asked Alys.
‘No yet,’ said Arbella. ‘Time enough to worry when eight or ten weeks are past. I can direct the colliers, and oversee the hill and the tallies.’