simply a matter of digging a ditch? Why do we need canals in the first place? England is full of rivers.”
He might have laughed at what she sensed was a foolish question, but instead he grew serious. “Not many of the rivers are navigable, whereas canals are built to haul all manner of goods, from coal to cabbage, as well as people. There are profits to be made, which is why Rennie hired me to engineer his Berkferd Canal. It runs only fifteen miles, between the Rivers Clearsy and Hulm, but it requires twenty locks and a tunnel, not a small engineering feat, I assure you.”
“What is a lock?”
“Let’s take a look.” Cartland picked up a stick and drew a line in the dirt, then another line beside it. “Let’s say these are two rivers, twenty miles apart. England is not a flat country. There are hills in-between, so what do you think the chances are the two rivers would be at exactly the same elevation?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but practically none.”
“Exactly. One is bound to be higher than the other. That’s where the locks come in. Picture long boxes.” He continued scratching diagrams with the stick. “The boat sails into the box and a gate shuts behind it. Then the box is filled with water. The ship rises with the water until it gets to the top, then sails out the other end to a new, higher level. Reverse that, of course, the other way.”
While Cartland talked, Jane perceived an entirely new side of him. Up to now, she had not seen much depth, just his amusing, slightly cynical side. Now she saw a man whose eyes glowed with enthusiasm while he earnestly described his work. Obviously, he loved what he did with a passion. Odd, really. A true gentleman wasn’t supposed to work. But then, as he had said earlier, he was no gentleman.
The thought occurred to her, too, that no man had ever talked to her this way before. Most of the men she knew treated her like she did not have a brain in her head and would not have the least interest in anything as complex as the construction of a canal.
Aside from all that, she enjoyed watching him. She liked the way that lock of his dark, curly hair fell over his forehead, and how, with his body stretched out as it was now, she could see every well-muscled inch of him. Most of all, she liked his face—his determined jaw, generous mouth, and those brown eyes usually sparkling with amusement.
He looked up from his diagram. “Stop me if I’m boring you. Get me on the subject of water and I’ll go on for hours.”
“You’re positively not boring me.” She looked out over the river, so shallow one could walk across. “I see what you mean. A boat could never navigate the River Hulm.”
“Not at this time of year, but you never know. There have been some bad floods in the Midlands when there’s too much rain. Water flows off the moors and into the rivers, sometimes becoming a raging torrent. Actually, you have a disaster waiting to happen right here.” He pointed up the river toward the north, where mountains loomed in the distance. “Do you see that steep, narrow canyon? I would hate to think what would happen to the village of Sudberry and all that’s between should torrential rains pile up in that canyon. You would get a wall of water that could—” He caught himself, as if not wanting to worry her with predictions of gloom. “I’ve said enough. The chances of such a disaster occurring are remote, but it happened once before, back in the fourteenth century.”
She listened, fascinated. “So you think it could happen again?”
“Yes.”
She gazed out at the River Hulm, a narrow stream not more than thirty feet across, its sluggish current hardly moving. Cows grazed peacefully in the pasture on the other side. In the distance lay the plowed fields and thatched cottage where Meg Twimby lived. “I certainly hope you’re wrong.”
“Uh-oh.” His mood swiftly changed. A twinkle gleamed in his eye.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do I actually see
He might have laughed at what she sensed was a foolish question, but instead he grew serious. “Not many of the rivers are navigable, whereas canals are built to haul all manner of goods, from coal to cabbage, as well as people. There are profits to be made, which is why Rennie hired me to engineer his Berkferd Canal. It runs only fifteen miles, between the Rivers Clearsy and Hulm, but it requires twenty locks and a tunnel, not a small engineering feat, I assure you.”
“What is a lock?”
“Let’s take a look.” Cartland picked up a stick and drew a line in the dirt, then another line beside it. “Let’s say these are two rivers, twenty miles apart. England is not a flat country. There are hills in-between, so what do you think the chances are the two rivers would be at exactly the same elevation?”
“I hadn’t thought of it, but practically none.”
“Exactly. One is bound to be higher than the other. That’s where the locks come in. Picture long boxes.” He continued scratching diagrams with the stick. “The boat sails into the box and a gate shuts behind it. Then the box is filled with water. The ship rises with the water until it gets to the top, then sails out the other end to a new, higher level. Reverse that, of course, the other way.”
While Cartland talked, Jane perceived an entirely new side of him. Up to now, she had not seen much depth, just his amusing, slightly cynical side. Now she saw a man whose eyes glowed with enthusiasm while he earnestly described his work. Obviously, he loved what he did with a passion. Odd, really. A true gentleman wasn’t supposed to work. But then, as he had said earlier, he was no gentleman.
The thought occurred to her, too, that no man had ever talked to her this way before. Most of the men she knew treated her like she did not have a brain in her head and would not have the least interest in anything as complex as the construction of a canal.
Aside from all that, she enjoyed watching him. She liked the way that lock of his dark, curly hair fell over his forehead, and how, with his body stretched out as it was now, she could see every well-muscled inch of him. Most of all, she liked his face—his determined jaw, generous mouth, and those brown eyes usually sparkling with amusement.
He looked up from his diagram. “Stop me if I’m boring you. Get me on the subject of water and I’ll go on for hours.”
“You’re positively not boring me.” She looked out over the river, so shallow one could walk across. “I see what you mean. A boat could never navigate the River Hulm.”
“Not at this time of year, but you never know. There have been some bad floods in the Midlands when there’s too much rain. Water flows off the moors and into the rivers, sometimes becoming a raging torrent. Actually, you have a disaster waiting to happen right here.” He pointed up the river toward the north, where mountains loomed in the distance. “Do you see that steep, narrow canyon? I would hate to think what would happen to the village of Sudberry and all that’s between should torrential rains pile up in that canyon. You would get a wall of water that could—” He caught himself, as if not wanting to worry her with predictions of gloom. “I’ve said enough. The chances of such a disaster occurring are remote, but it happened once before, back in the fourteenth century.”
She listened, fascinated. “So you think it could happen again?”
“Yes.”
She gazed out at the River Hulm, a narrow stream not more than thirty feet across, its sluggish current hardly moving. Cows grazed peacefully in the pasture on the other side. In the distance lay the plowed fields and thatched cottage where Meg Twimby lived. “I certainly hope you’re wrong.”
“Uh-oh.” His mood swiftly changed. A twinkle gleamed in his eye.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do I actually see
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