Not in his face, which was currently smeared with dirt and obscured by a ragged flat cap, but in the way he moved. The other men swung their tools with a rhythmic, defeated slump. This man swung his pickaxe with contained explosive violence. He was tall, his shoulders broad under a rough linen shirt that clung to his back. There was an anger in his work.
He drove the iron into the dry soil as if he were trying to kill it. As Norah watched, the man stopped. He leaned heavily on the wooden handle of his tool, chest heaving. He reached up, pulling off his cap to wipe his brow with the back of a filthy, calloused hand. His hair was dark, plastered to his forehead with sweat.
He looked toward the terrace. Even from fifty yards away, Norah felt the weight of that stare. It wasn't a look of longing or admiration. It was a look of profound unadulterated disgust. He looked at the women in their silks, at the footmen standing idly with trays of cold drinks, and his jaw set in a hard, rigid line. "Lazy brutes," Aunt Mildred muttered, following Norah's gaze.
She gestured lazily with her fan. "Look at them standing about, Mr. Croft pays them a shilling a day, and they lean on their shovels like lords. Norah's fingers tightened on the fabric of her skirt. They have been digging since dawn, aunt, in this heat. They are likely dying of thirst. They are used to it, Norah.
Louisa chimed in, taking a delicate sip from a frosted glass of lemonade. “Their constitutions are different from ours—more robust, like farm animals, really.” Norah turned to look at her cousin. Louisa's face was smooth, pretty, and entirely devoid of empathy. It was a willful blindness.
They had to view the men in the dirt as a different species. Otherwise, the champagne would taste like blood. Down in the trench, the dark-haired laborer stumbled. He didn't fall, but his knee buckled, catching him against the raw earth of the trench wall. Another laborer rushed over to help him up, but a sharp crack split the air. "Mr. Croft, the steward, sat at top a gray gelding a few yards away.
He had just snapped a leather riding crop against his boot." "Back to work!" Croft shouted, his voice carrying easily over the manicured grass. "No wages for shirkers. We need this trench cleared by nightfall.” The dark-haired man pushed himself off the dirt wall. He didn't pick up his ax immediately. Instead, he turned and looked directly up at Croft. Norah sucked in a breath.
She couldn't hear what was being said, but the sheer defiance in the laborer's posture was loud enough. Croft raised the riding crop, pointing it at the man's face. “Pick it up, or you're off the estate without a penny.” The man held Croft's gaze for three long seconds. Then, slowly he bent and picked up theavy iron tool. He struck the earth again and again, but his strikes were losing power. The sun was winning.
Norah looked at the silver pitcher of iced water sitting on the table next to Louisa. The glass was weeping with condensation. There were three clean tin cups stacked on the bottom shelf of the trolley, meant for the dogs if they grew thirsty. She stood up. “Where are you going?”