Her eyes darkened. “It’s a marvel, that bridge, but you wouldn’t catch me on it. Too long, and all that water underneath. I’ll stick to the ferry.”
A lot of people probably held the same fears about the bridge. However, all his uncle’s previous feats of engineering had stood the test of time. There was no reason this one shouldn’t be the same. Folks would soon get over their apprehension and ride the train across.
* * *
Darren locked the door of his room in what passed for a hotel in these parts, slipped the key into his waistcoat pocket and made his way to the dining room. He wasn’t looking forward to another plate of fried food swimming in grease. Only Englishmen would think it was a good idea to fry bread—and kidneys for God’s sake.
Passing through the dingy lobby, he paused, wondering what was going on. The manager had the maids and valets lined up and was presenting each member of his staff with a small box.
“What’s this?” he asked a guest he recognized as a fellow Yank from a previous conversation.
“Boxing Day,” the man replied. “Servants get a boxed present from their employers.”
Darren chuckled. “A quaint English custom, I guess. And here I was thinking there might be a boxing match to attend.”
“No such luck,” his fellow countryman groused, “though they say there’s excitement to be had at the racetrack in Gloucester, and I sense you have a bit of an Irish brogue.”
“You’re right and what Irishman can resist a day at the races? I might just be interested, if you’re going,” Darren said.
He didn’t hear the reply, his attention suddenly taken by Daffyd lingering outside the hotel’s front door. “My apologies. I see my messenger has returned,” he said as calmly as he could. “Perhaps I’ll see you in the dining room?”
He stalked though the door, grabbed Daffyd’s arm and steered him away from the hotel. “I told you never to come here,” he seethed.
“You promised we’d be paid. Me and Gwilym froze our balls off laying them charges. You disappeared quickly after the other jobs.”
Darren clenched his jaw. “When the bridge is in pieces at the bottom of the Severn, then you’ll be paid. Did you set the timers correctly?”
“Of course,” Daffyd sneered. “All hell will break loose after the collapse. We need money now.”
Darren acknowledged he wasn’t likely to get rid of the irritating Welshman unless he offered something. He fished in his pocket and pulled out two guineas. “Here, a down payment, if you will.”
Daffyd grabbed the coins. “It’s a far cry from the hundred quid you promised.”
Darren gritted his teeth. “I’ll find you and you’ll get it. Now, bugger off.”
Breathing more easily when the scowling saboteur slunk away, he made his way to the dining room. A day at the races might be just what he needed to get his agitation under control.
POLICEMAN'S BALL
DECEMBER 27TH
Samantha dutifully trooped into the village hall behind her parents. Unlike her sister, who bubbled with excitement, she’d been reluctant to attend. The Aust Constabulary was small, though folks from miles around always attended the Annual Policeman’s Ball. It was one of the important social events in the region, a sort of wind-up to the Yuletide celebrations before people geared up for New Year’s Eve.
The chief constable greeted them as usual. “Ah, Captain Hindley, Mrs. Hindley. It’s a pleasure to see you and your daughters. Happy Christmas and thank you for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Samantha’s father replied.
“I think you know your way to the refreshments,” their host said, already looking to the next people in line.
“Indeed. Shall we?” her father asked his wife, offering his arm.
Samantha and Grace trailed after them. “The chief constable doesn’t even remember our names,” Samantha complained to her sister.
Her discomfort increased as her gaze roved over the other young women in the already crowded hall. Without exception, they wore the latest in fashionable gowns, whereas Samantha and her sister had been obliged to wear their old-fashioned hooped crinolines, altered to fit as they grew. With the impending loss of business for the ferry, they hadn’t wanted to insist on hard-earned money being spent on new frocks, but the snickering glances were hard to ignore.
Their father located the table where they’d been assigned seats and left them to fetch punch from the refreshment table. A man was already seated at the same table, which was unusual; most of the men were standing around in groups, exchanging pleasantries. It was expected of them. Nor did their table-mate get to his feet when they arrived, which any true gentleman would have done.
“Sergeant Cullen, Ma’am,” he said to their mother without a hint of a smile.