'On that we can both agree.' Emma swallowed hard and looked at her hands.
'How, precisely, Miss Harrison, does Harrison and Lowe intend to prevent more accidents like this one?'
'By making sure the men are supervised correctly.' She waited as the wind lifted her bonnet slightly. She was on firmer ground. She had practised this conversation several times in her head over the last few weeks. If it hadn't been Jack Stanton, it would have been one of the other partners, she tried to reason. They all had links to Newcastle, reasons to travel up from London.
Jack Stanton could not act alone. The other partners liked and trusted her father's judgement.
In a few weeks' time, if need be, when her father had improved, she would contact Mr Stephenson and request that he intervene with his partner.
Jack remained silent, regarding her with a steady gaze.
She must not borrow trouble. She had to remain calm and resist the temptation to fill the space with noise.
The sleet swirled around them. Jack eventually cleared his throat.
'What is the precise nature of your father's illness? Your whisper was inaudible earlier. When I worked for your father, he disdained taking to his bed for a mere chill.'
'He will recover in a few days.' She stood, her feet planted firmly, chin held high, meeting his eyes. She was not some young girl who had just put her hair up. She was twenty-five and knew how to speak her mind. He would not intimidate her. 'If you had arrived when you were expected, he would have greeted you.'
'You speak in hope more than expectation.'
Emma gritted her teeth. She refused to reveal her fears, or what the doctor had confided. 'As you have not seen my father in seven years, I assure you that I speak with great authority. The timing of your visit is unfortunate.'
'I arrived when I said I would.'
Emma closed her eyes. She refused to start an argument about that as well. 'Your letter never arrived here.'
'A pity.'
'I trust you have seen enough of the site to form your opinion, Mr Stanton?' Emma tilted her chin and stared directly into his coal-black eyes. 'There is no need for us to stand out in the cold. This conversation, as with our earlier quarrel, has gone on long enough. I wish to visit the hospital before I return home. I want to know the full extent of Davy's injuries before I speak with my father.'
Jack used his gloved fingers to brush a speck of sleet from his frock coat.
'I have business elsewhere. The company is building other bridges. Our rail interests are large and diverse. I am involved with several parliamentary committees on rail safety and other such pressing concerns.'
'That is a pity, as I am sure he would have liked to have seen you. He was quite fond of you...once.'
She heard the sudden intake of breath. Had she dared once too often? But she refused to apologise. His sudden departure seven years ago had cut her father deeply. He had tried to hide it but she knew her father blamed her for losing one of the most promising civil engineers of his generation.
'I can find my own way out, Miss Harrison.' He touched his hat and was gone. 'Give my regards to your father. Once he treated me as a son.'
The mist swallowed the black figure up. Jack Stanton was gone. No doubt to a warm private railway car and a journey back to London. Back to his life.
She was safe. The project was safe. It had to be. And she had come so close to disaster.
Emma stumbled back towards the hut and comfort. She wanted to bury her face in her hands and weep. Why couldn't her tongue be quiet? They had been getting on reasonably well. Then in the space of a few minutes she had brought up the past--twice.
He had never married. No doubt he would. To some young debutante. He had the money and the entree to society now. Successful engineers such as Stephenson, Brunel and Jack Stanton were welcomed on the marriage market--the peacetime equivalent of the soldier hero. Men who dared to dream the impossible and make it a reality.
She had made her choice seven years ago. She had chosen duty over emotion. At least their first meeting was over and they knew where each stood. It was as well. She would finish her father's correspondence and then return to her old steady life, secure in the knowledge that her first encounter with Jack Stanton had shown there was nothing between them. He would not seek to return.
Her life would continue much as before. The bridge would get finished and she would find a way to save the keep. Her dream.
The past, in the shape of Jack Stanton or anything else, would vanish. A distant memory. All gone.
Emma Harrison wanted him gone. She had engineered the situation to force him to leave as fast as possible. And he had allowed his pride to come before logic. Something he'd vowed he'd never do.
Jack sat bolt upright and turned to look back at the building site as the bells from St Nicholas's Church tolled two o'clock. The castle's ramparts were shrouded in a thick brooding mist. How many more accidents would happen? She had been lucky that the lad had only suffered a broken leg. The project needed proper supervision. Something Emma Harrison and the foreman appeared incapable of giving.
Emma Harrison was hiding something--something important.
She had not known about her father's letter. She distrusted his reasons for being there. He had to believe her when she said that his reply changing the date and time had not arrived. But, equally, her actions were not straightforward. She had set a trap for him and he had walked into it.
He passed a hand over his eyes. He had done what he'd sworn he would not do. He allowed himself to become distracted by thoughts of the past. She had inserted the topic about his marital status. He'd reacted, and she had been able to distract him. Once. Then, seeing his reaction, she had done it again after he had saved that lad. Bringing up the past and getting him to leave. She had never fully answered the question about her father's health.
That was not how he played the game. His rules, not hers. Why had her father sent the letter?
Jack attempted to think. There had to be a way around her--a way to satisfy his curiosity.
Monday. A Saint Monday come to that. Edward Harrison was a man who prided himself on his habits--habits of a lifetime.
Jack used his cane to rap the top of the cab.
'I have changed my mind. Not the Forth Street Station. Hood Street. Quickly.'
He settled himself back into the leather seats.
'Now, let us see exactly how you like my rules, Miss Harrison.'
It had to be here.
Emma shuffled through the report for a third time.
The mantel clock ticked slowly, filling the dining room with its monotonous sound. A fire blazed in the grate. Emma infinitely preferred the red warmth of the dining room to the austere whiteness of the drawing room. The recently installed gas lighting gave a yellowish glow to the room.
The papers Emma had brought home from the site lay spread out over the dining table. A few had fluttered down to the floor. She picked another piece up, made a marking, and placed it in another pile. The answer to saving the keep had to be within one of these surveys and the myriad of calculations, but her mind kept wandering back to Jack Stanton and his reason for appearing. Someone must have said something about her father. Jack had never returned to Newcastle before now. She was certain of that.
Several hairpins had come out, and the hair coiled so neatly earlier now tumbled about her shoulders, while her hands were spotted with ink.
Emma gave a quick glance in the pier glass. Definitely not a lady who expected callers.
She made a face. Looking after her father was proving difficult. He was a far worse patient than her mother, who had positively relished being ill and her life as an invalid.
Her father had chosen not to break the habit of a lifetime, despite his assurance to the contrary this morning. He had risen and gone to spend the afternoon at his club. Emma pressed her lips together. She should never have believed his insistence that a site visit was needed. If she had remained here, he would have found it more difficult to disregard the doctor's orders.
However, then she would have never encountered Jack Stanton. Would have never been there to help save Davy Newcomb. A tiny shiver went down her spine.
She needed to decide how to approach Jack Stanton's visit. There would be no need to bother her father with a blow-by-blow account. Whatever repercussions would come by post, she decided. She would take a view if and when they arrived, but he did need to know about the accident. He would have to speak to Mudge.
'Daughter, daughter.' Her father's strident voice echoed down the corridor.
Emma winced. Strident today, and feeble tomorrow. She had seen the pattern all too often lately. How many cups of punch had he had?
'Papa, where have you been?' Emma rose, and straightened her skirt. She ignored the hairpins flying in all directions. She'd pick them up later. 'I was quite worried.'
Her father came into the room, his black frock coat slightly too large for his frame and his eyes a little watery. 'Monday before St Nicholas's Day. I've been to the club. Do you think I'd miss the final preparations for the dance? I wanted my views known. The punch was far too weak last year.'
'You know what Dr Milburn said, Papa.' Emma signalled to Fackler the butler, who discreetly took her father's coat, and handed him a dressing gown.
'That quack--what does he know?'
'Dr Charles Milburn is a respected member of the Royal College of Physicians, hardly a quack.'
Her father allowed Fackler to help him into the dressing gown. 'I think he comes here to sniff around your skirts, Emma. Now that the widow from Harrogate he was interested in has captured her barrister. You could do far worse than him.'
'Once you wanted a member of the aristocracy for me.'
'That was your mother, daughter.' Her father's eyes crinkled at the corners. 'I was certain that she would not rest until she had made one of her daughters a duchess. She did feel the loss of the title when her father died and it went to her cousin. I wanted you to be happy.'
'I am happy, Father. I chose my lot in life, remember? No regrets.' Emma waved an airy hand. 'Do you not recall the rate of proposals I received...before Mama became ill?'
'Beggars cannot be choosers. You will be twenty-six next birthday. You should make an effort. If not the doctor, there are a number of men at the club. Perhaps a widower with several children.'
Emma gritted her teeth. There was no use in explaining to her father that Dr Milburn smelt of peppermint and had a damp handshake. She thought they had settled the question of Dr Milburn months ago, but obviously not.
'If I married, who would look after you?'
'True, true.' Her father gave a satisfied sigh. 'You do make a good nurse, Emma. Your dear departed mother often said so.'
Emma ignored the comment. She did not wish to dwell on her mother and her saint-like fortitude throughout her illness. Emma knew the truth--the scenes and tantrums. She had nearly gone mad with boredom, being at her mother's beck and call, until she'd discovered her father's engineering manuals and taught herself higher mathematics and technical drawing.
'If you were well enough to go to the club, you should have gone to the site.' She paused, smoothed her skirt. 'Mudge asked after you. There was an accident--Davy Newcomb fell off the castle ramparts.'
'So I understand. But young Davy suffered no worse than a badly sprained leg. A few weeks off and he will be back. The family needs every penny.'
'How? Who told you?'
'You must not imagine you are the only person to tell me news.' Her father looked at her gravely.
'I am not sure I understand.'
'It was Dr Milburn who drove me in his carriage to the club.' Her father tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat. 'I could hardly ask him to take me to the building site. He has a new pair of chestnuts.'
She gave a short laugh and shook her head. 'And now he is not a quack? You suffer from a selective memory, Father.'
Her father gave a pathetic cough. 'You are trying to rob me of one of the few remaining pleasures left to an old man.'
'I speak of responsibilities, not pleasures.'
'If I had had a son...'
Emma rolled her eyes heavenwards. She had heard this lament before. 'You have two daughters. One of whom married a baronet, and the other looks after your household and is also trying to make sure the bridge construction goes smoothly until Dr Milburn pronounces you fit.'
'You will never guess who was at the club.' Her father hooked his fingers into his waistcoat and rocked back on his heels, a self-satisfied smile on his lips.
A strange pricking came at the back of her neck. She could almost believe that if she turned around he'd be there, lounging against the doorframe, an elegant curl to his lip. It had to be.
'Jack Stanton.'
'Jack Stanton.' Her father's smug expression faded. 'How did you guess?'
'He arrived at the site while I was there. I showed off the progress. He led the rescue of young Davy.' Emma wiped her hands against her skirt. 'The entire encounter lasted but a few minutes. I gave your excuses.'
A small white lie, but she refused to worry her father. What trouble could Jack Stanton cause?
He wanted the bridge built. Harrison and Lowe had been awarded the tender. The incident with Davy would not happen again. The men had been warned.
'Did you, now?' A twinkle appeared in her father's eye. 'And what do you think of him?'
'What is there to think about? He has done very well for himself.' Emma clamped her mouth tightly shut. She had already waded into trouble earlier today, with her light-hearted remarks to Jack. She had no wish to be mistaken twice.
'Done very well for himself? The man's a railway millionaire. Sought after in London. A peerage in the offing for him and Stephenson if they pull this London to Edinburgh scheme off, by all accounts. I would hate to think what he is worth a year, Fifty-thousand pounds or more. Not bad for a charity boy. Not bad at all.'