Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women Book 3) by Evie Dunmore

Portrait of a Scotsman (A League of Extraordinary Women Book 3) by Evie Dunmore

Author:Evie Dunmore [Dunmore, Evie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group
Published: 2021-09-06T18:30:00+00:00


Chapter 18

He set out to inspect the mining hamlets right after drinking a bucket of strong breakfast tea. The night had been short; at some point Harriet had left her side of the mattress, possibly in search of warmth, and he had woken to the soft weight of her breasts pressed against his back. He had lain staring at the wall, the world reduced to the sensation of her breath brushing over his neck in gentle puffs. The memory of her shape was still hot like a lingering burn on his skin as he joined his party in the Drover’s Inn coach: his new mine manager, Mr. Stewart—a tall, clean-shaven Scotsman from Dundee whom he’d met before in London—and taciturn Mr. Wright, a civil engineer who was originally from Surrey but now resided in St. Andrews. The mining engineer’s expertise was not yet needed, hence the man had stayed back to leave room for one of the lads from the inn, who was to carry Wright’s camera equipment.

Spraying rain shrouded the valley, and when they descended from the coach at the village entrance, they were greeted by chilly blasts of wind cutting through their robust tweed coats. The settlement stretching before them would have been miserable even under a cloudless sky.

“As you can see, the road is raised above the house entrances,” Stewart said, wrestling with his papers while also trying to hold the umbrella over his long body. “This is not the case in Heather Row—out of the two hamlets, this one here will require more significant improvements.”

Heather Row was located within walking distance from the inn, but Lucian had decided to start their inspection on the far side of the mine at the smaller colliery and the older settlement, Drummuir Grove. It matched the mental image he had developed based on the maps Stewart had left for him back at the inn: a crooked chapel to their left, and thirty old stone cottages each on either side of the straight dirt road. The road was in bad condition and riddled with black puddles; and yes, its higher elevation meant rainwater flowed straight into the lodgings to the left and right.

“What about the refuse ditches?” he asked.

Mr. Wright took a pencil and notebook from the inside of his coat. “They’re too close,” he said. “Will be a nuisance whenever temperatures are warmer,” he added, and smoothed his ruddy mustache. “I suggest a greater distance by at least six feet.”

“So we are redrawing the ditches.”

“Correct.”

He had suspected as much from the map.

They were being watched; while the rest of the community was at work over at the mine, the elderly would be home, minding the toddlers and keeping an eye on any suspicious activities from behind the curtains. Memories encroached, of the day when he arrived back in Argyll to fetch his grandmother. The once familiar cottages had seemed smaller, the few stray sheep sicklier, the winding path muddier. No one had recognized him, aged nineteen and wearing a fine



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