Rose by Martin Cruz Smith Page A

through her pallor. “We will leave the table if you speak like that.”
    Hannay ignored her. “Earnshaw, I appreciate that, unlike other visitors from London, you had the courage to leave the train. Before you lecture us about Wigan’s place in the modern world, though, let me suggest that the question is not one of politics or arts, but one of industrial power. The best measure of that is steam engines per capita. Between mines and mills and factories, there are more steam engines per person in Wigan than in London, Pittsburgh, Essen or anywhere else. It happens to fit nicely that the palm oil we import from Africa lubricates those engines. The world runs on coal, and Wigan leads it. As long as we have coal we will continue to do so.”
    “What about religion?” Chubb asked.
    “That’s the next world,” Hannay said. “Perhaps there’ll be coal there, too.”
    “Does this mean you insist on employing pit girls?” Earnshaw asked.
    Hannay shrugged. “Not at all, as long as someone sorts the coal.”
    “How long will the coal in Wigan last?” Lydia Rowland asked. The thought had never occurred to her before.
    “A thousand years,” Leveret assured her.
    “Really? The price of coal shot up last year because of a supposed shortage. We heard in London that English coalfields were running out,” Earnshaw said.
    Hannay said blandly, “Well, the good news is that we aren’t.”
    Dessert was pineapple cream and a meringue that rose to a snowy peak in the middle of the table.
    “The importance of family,” Lady Rowland said.
    Fellowes said, “Social reform.”
    “Moral life,” said Chubb.
    “Blair, what do you think has been the Queen’s greatest gift to England?” Hannay asked.
    Before he could answer, a new voice said, “Chloroform.”
    A new arrival had slipped in through a service door. She was not much more than twenty but wore a matron’s soberly purple dress and long gloves and apparently had just arrived at the house because her hair of brooding Celtic red was dragged under a dark bonnet that shadowed a face of sharp features and small, severe eyes. Blair was put in mind of a fierce sparrow.
    The men, all but Hannay, stood. He said, “Charlotte, how flattering of you to join us.”
    “Father.” She took the chair that had been empty opposite Hannay and waved off a footman bearing wine.
    The men sat.
    “Chloroform?” Blair asked.
    “That the Queen had chloroform for labor and made it acceptable not to give birth in agony will go down in history as her greatest gift.” Charlotte Hannay redirected her gaze. “Cousin Lydia, you look like a freshly picked peach.”
    “Thank you,” Lydia said uncertainly.
    Hannay introduced the table and said, “Charlotte doesn’t often join us for dinner, although we always hope. Remove your hat and stay.”
    Charlotte said, “I just wanted to see your white African.”
    “American,” Blair said.
    “But your reputation is from Africa,” she said. “Slavesand native women, isn’t that what you’re known for? What was it like to be in a position of such power? Did it make you feel like a god?”
    “No.”
    “Perhaps you have a charm that only works on black women.”
    “Perhaps.”
    “Mr. Blair is actually very charming,” Lydia Rowland said.
    Charlotte said, “Really? I look forward to seeing that.”
    “Many of us do,” Earnshaw said dryly.
    “And you’ve been hired by my father to inquire after John Maypole. What a bizarre proposition,” Charlotte said.
    “Tell him to go away, Charlotte,” Lady Rowland said.
    Hannay said, “I’m sure Charlotte wants to know what happened to Maypole. After all, he was her fiancé.”
    “Is, until I know otherwise,” Charlotte said.
    “I know we will receive a letter from Reverend Maypole that will explain everything. You have to carry on,” Lydia Rowland said.
    “I do. I just don’t carry on like you.”
    Lydia Rowland blinked as if she’d been slapped, and for the first time Blair felt sympathy