Behind the Light of Golowduyn (A Cornish Romance Book 1)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  She leaned slightly toward the captain. “Might you be able to stay?”

  He stared at her with a blank expression, clearly surprised, before he nodded. “Of course.”

  She gave him a grateful look before turning to Mr. Whitham. “Would you care to come inside, sir?”

  He gave a curt nod, and together, the three of them moved into the sitting room. Captain Kendricks stood near the hearth, his hands clasped behind his back. Abigail took a seat on the settee, Mr. Whitham across from her.

  “Do go on, sir,” Abigail said.

  “Very well,” the banker said. “Firstly, I must express my deepest condolences to you for your loss.”

  Abigail hardly felt warmed by the rehearsed words, but she dipped her head with appreciation, nonetheless.

  “As you well know,” he continued, rifling through his bag with one hand, “Mr. Moore had no living relatives apart from you. As the property was not entailed, and in accordance with Mr. Moore’s will, the land and lighthouse have now been left in your possession.”

  The news came as no surprise. Her uncle had told her often how one day the lighthouse would be hers to have and maintain for as long as she wished. She cringed at what she had thought before, of Uncle Ellis replacing her with Captain Kendricks. How wrong she had been.

  Mr. Whitham pulled out a stack of papers and closed the bag, setting it on the floor to rest against his leg. “It is my unfortunate duty now, however, to inform you that Golowduyn may not be yours for very long.”

  “Excuse me?” She glanced to the captain, who stared across the room out the window. He clearly strived to appear as if he had not been listening—no doubt to allow her privacy—but with his creased brow, she knew he had heard. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “What do you mean, Mr. Whitham?”

  “As you are aware,” the man continued, “your uncle accrued a great number of debts these last few years. I regret to say that, before his death, he had fallen dreadfully behind on his payments.”

  “Payments?” She shook her head. “You must be mistaken, sir. My uncle funded the building of Golowduyn with his own living. No loan was used.”

  Mr. Whitham paused. “No, I refer to the loans he had taken out to fund his gaming debts.”

  “But my uncle does not game…did not game,” she corrected.

  Mr. Whitham fiddled with the papers in his hand, his formality having disappeared. “Forgive me, Miss Moore, I thought you knew.”

  Abigail fought the desire to cover her ears. He wasn’t speaking truthfully. He couldn’t be.

  “The loans have come and gone at various times the last few years,” Mr. Whitham said, his voice lowered. “But last September, I understand he lost a substantial amount of money. The loan he signed for to pay the debt was very large, indeed. Unfortunately, it remains unpaid to this day, and the interest continues to accumulate.”

  September. When Uncle Ellis had suffered his injury.

  Had he been using what little money they had for gaming instead of paying someone to help her with the lighthouse? She did not wish to believe it, and yet, deep within her heart, she somehow knew the truth already.

  Mr. Whitham extended a few papers toward her. “These are evidence of his deferring the loans.”

  Abigail scanned the pages. Her uncle’s signature was scrawled at the bottom of each one. But she still did not understand when he could have found the time to game. He was at the lighthouse every night, apart from when he visited Mr. Craig.

  The truth rushed over her in waves of realization. He had not been visiting with the apothecary for help with his wounds. He had been gaming, drinking, lying. He had taken their funds and wasted them away. He must have been the talk of the town, but of course she would not have heard it. She had been too busy taking care of the lighthouse—doing her work, and her uncle’s.

  Images flashed through her mind. The times he’d wobbled to bed, stinking of smoke and drink. The late nights he’d had. The alcohol on his breath the night of his death. Had he been gaming then, too?

  She glanced to Captain Kendricks. Concern clouded his dark eyes as he watched her in silence.

  Why did she ask him to stay? Now her humiliation could not be hidden.

  “Miss Moore,” Mr. Whitham said gingerly, “with these loans, in attempt to avoid debtor’s prison, Mr. Moore, despite our best efforts to convince him to do otherwise, mortgaged Golowduyn and the surrounding property.”

  The brutal sting of betrayal hit Abigail as powerfully as if she had been struck across her face. After everything she’d done—her work, her sacrifices, her countless sleepless nights—Uncle Ellis had simply agreed to give the lighthouse away?

  “What is the extent of the loans, sir?” she asked. “What must I pay to keep Golowduyn?”

  The banker kept his gaze level, though his shoulders tensed, as if to prepare himself for a strike. “Over three thousand pounds.”

  Abigail closed her eyes, swaying on the edge of the settee. “And when must it be paid?”

  “The agreement states”—she heard him rifling through his papers—“that the mortgage must be paid in full within one year, this October. If left unsatisfied, the property will be seized.”

  She opened her eyes to stare once more at her uncle’s name on the papers in her hands. “Could you not extend, sir?” She hated the tremor in her voice. “As I was unaware of his actions until this moment?”

  “Forgive me, Miss Moore,” Mr. Whitham said, his voice finally filling with sincere compassion, “but such a thing is not possible.”

  “Of course.” She longed to lash out, to scream at the banker for being cruel and unfair. But she knew he was only the bearer of distressing, disturbing news. News her uncle should have told her. How could he have made her promise to keep Golowduyn when he already knew it was lost?

  No, the banker did not deserve her anger.

  Her uncle did.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitham, for coming here in person to inform me of such. I will be in contact with you shortly when I decide what is to be done.”

  What was to be done? Anything at all?

  “I am truly sorry, Miss Moore,” Mr. Whitham said, standing. With a tip of his hat, he left the room.

  As the front door closed behind him, Abigail looked at the papers he had left with her.

  “Miss Moore?”

  Captain Kendricks. She couldn’t look up at him. She couldn’t bear to see the empathy that had most assuredly filled his dark eyes.

  “Forgive me, Captain,” she said, “but I…I must…”

  Words failed her, tears spilled down her cheeks, and she ran to her room. She closed the door firmly behind her, relieved when she heard the front door open and close again, signaling the captain’s departure. She felt alone, helpless, but she could not face him. She could not face anyone.

  “What am I to do?” she asked herself.

  She leaned against the door, no longer able to support herself. The thought of losing Golowduyn, her home, pressed down heavily upon her heart.

  She crinkled the loan documents within her fisted hand, gritting her teeth together before throwing the sheets across her room. Paper flew in every direction as she sank to the floor.

  “Uncle, how could you?”

  * * *

  Gavin rode his horse along the seaside, rolling his head back to ease the tension in his neck—tension that had been there for nearly a week. He felt restless, hopeless. Lost.

  After Mr. Moore’s funeral and the discovery of the gentleman’s debts, Gavin had racked his mind for a solution to Miss Moore’s situation. He had longed to see what her thoughts were on the matter. But after that day, Gavin’s time had been entirely taken up with Sanders’s trial, which had finally taken place a few days after the service.

  The guilty verdict had been expected, as well as the punishment of death by hanging. Even still, Sanders’s younger brother had shouted expletives as the sentence had been read, threatening revenge on Gavin as he was dragged from the room.


  Gavin still regarded the boy with sorrow, but after Miss Moore’s prior words, his feelings of fault in the matter had substantially subsided.

  Now if only he could help Miss Moore, as she had helped him—as she had saved him.

  With a sigh, he looked out to the sea. A tall ship floated by on the bright water, far from the cliffsides, sails full as the wind drove it south.

  It seemed a lifetime ago since he had commanded such a vessel. He did miss his life at sea. But now, he missed Golowduyn.

  Staying with the Moores had given him a strange sense of belonging. As if he had finally found a home. So being away from them had brought back his uncertainty for what his future held.

  His distance had also made him realize, that as much as he missed his time at Golowduyn, he missed the woman behind the lighthouse even more.

  His desire to be near Miss Moore did not surprise him. The week he had stayed at Golowduyn—and the brief visits he’d been able to manage with Miss Moore since—had not been enough to satisfy his longing to get to know the woman further.

  Yes, their relationship had been somewhat strained with her lack of trust in seemingly everyone. She seemed hesitant to share anything about her life, beyond her knowledge and love of the lighthouse. But what reason had she to trust Gavin when her uncle, her caretaker, had treated her in such a way—before and after his death?

  He shook the thoughts from his mind. He had struggled initially with his anger when he’d first heard of Mr. Moore leaving his debts to his niece. But berating the man’s poor choices would hardly help matters.

  The only thing that would help would be securing Miss Moore’s future at the lighthouse.

  Though, how that was supposed to happen, Gavin wasn’t entirely sure.

  He had visited Mr. Whitham in St. Ives after the trial had ended, asking if there was anything he could do to help Miss Moore keep her lighthouse.

  “Short of paying the whole of Mr. Moore’s debts,” Mr. Whitham had said, “I fear there is nothing else to be done, sir.”

  Gavin had left the bankers with very little hope. He had no qualms about paying off the loans and mortgage, but he respected the woman too greatly to go about doing so behind her back. And if he asked her forthright if he could pay the debts, well, he hardly believed she would accept such an offer.

  Even if she did, there was the small matter of Trinity House. He knew they would not accept an unmarried young woman as head keeper with no assistant.

  And if she found an assistant, they would hardly approve of her working alongside a gentleman who was not next of kin, and finding another woman as strong as Miss Moore—as willing to give up her life in the service—was nearly impossible.

  The matter was complicated, to say the least. Still, even with his reasons to remain in Cornwall disappearing one by one—the ship’s wreckage cleaned, Mr. Moore’s death, and the court martial completed—not to mention his desire to see his brother again, he found himself unable, unwilling, to leave.

  At least, not until he had attempted to help Miss Moore in every way possible. He was indebted to her. After all, she had saved his life, at great peril to her own. The least he could do was attempt to do the same for her.

  Only a coward would leave the woman now, in her time of need. Not a man of honor.

  So he would offer to pay off her uncle’s debts.

  And if she refused, which he had no doubt that she would, then he would make his next offer—an offer that would allow her to keep Golowduyn.

  An offer that involved far more than a simple, single payment. An offer he was more than ready to make.

  Abigail tugged at another weed until it broke loose from the dirt. She threw it over her shoulder, not bothering to see if it reached the pile of others. She knelt down in the middle of her garden, moisture seeping in through her apron and skirts, but she didn’t care. Her dress was already filthy. What did one more stain matter? She was a penniless lighthouse keeper; she may as well look the part.

  With an exhausted sigh, she swiped the hair blowing across her cheek before digging her fingers back into the dirt. Since the funeral days before, she had worked tirelessly to prevent herself from dwelling on her uncle’s sordid actions and her own hopeless state. She had gone through what little possessions she had in the house, writing down everything that would fetch a profit. She had not needed to add the figures to know she was nowhere near the sum required, even if she sold everything she owned.

  She had begun to wonder if she ought to accept her fate, to live out the next few months saving every spare coin she could, and maybe a miracle would occur.

  Either that, or she would enjoy the last of her freedom in her lighthouse before she was forced to relocate.

  However, a letter from Trinity House arrived that very morning, informing her that if she wished to keep their contract with a monthly income sent for her work at the lighthouse, a different head keeper would need to be appointed.

  Abigail knew they did not wish to fund a scandal waiting to happen—an unmarried keeper with a male assistant. But without their help, the light would remain lit only as long as her current supply of oil lasted. Mere weeks, at best.

  How she regretted having no plan in place. When her uncle had fallen last autumn, she had become all too aware that he would one day die. But any plans made would not have mattered either way. They would have fallen apart with the mess her uncle had left her.

  With a rumbling stomach, Abigail straightened, arching her back to work out the stiffness accrued from hours of work. She would not be weeding the pitiful patch of soil at all if she did not rely on the small amount of vegetables her garden yielded—the only food she could afford.

  Perhaps she ought to enjoy the time she had left at Golowduyn. Take a walk on the beach, enjoy the sunsets. Anything would be more pleasant than working for nothing.

  But then, she had never worked at the lighthouse for nothing. Her purpose had always been—would have always been—to keep safe the lives at sea.

  She looked out to the deep blue water, but her eyes were drawn instead to Captain Kendricks on his black horse approaching her. Her stomach lurched. She had not expected to see him that day. She knew the trial had already taken place, so his departure from Cornwall would be soon. He had nothing left to keep him there.

  “Good morning, Captain Kendricks,” she greeted, painfully aware of the weary tone to her voice. “I thought you would have left for your brother’s already.”

  “I will be soon.” He dismounted his horse and turned to face her, running the reins through his hands. “I could not leave yet. Not before I knew you were…well.”

  Of course he was there asking after her. That was just the sort of man he was. He was not like her uncle or her father. He was a true gentleman. And his continual helping hand caused a knot of emotion within in her throat.

  “Thank you, Captain.” She swallowed, standing from her kneeling position. “I assure you, I am well.”

  Her voice breaking in the middle of her words did not further her cause.

  Captain Kendricks tied his horse to the garden fence and took a step toward her. “Miss Moore, I know you may misconstrue my offer of help, but I cannot continue in this regard, wondering what you are to do. I must ask, will you allow me to pay off your uncle’s debts?”

  Abigail had anticipated the words long ago. Her uncle had told her of the captain’s wealth from his substantial living and his naval career. Still, the selfless generosity Captain Kendricks extended toward her caused her physical pain.

  “I thank you, sir, but I cannot accept such an offer.”

  He did not seem surprised. Had he expected her refusal?

  “May I ask why?” he questioned.

  “For a number of reasons,” she replied. “Because it is your fortune, and they are my uncle’s debts. Because I could never repay such a sum. And because…Trinity House will not allow me to run the lighthouse on my own.”

  He was silent, seemingly contemplating
her words. “Then you are going to leave? You are going to leave Golowduyn?”

  She looked at him with an expression she was sure reflected perfectly her miserable state. “What else am I to do?”

  A fresh wave of humiliation overcame her. She was ashamed for having such an uncle, for having no money, for having no one else to help her. Her life was bleak, her future even more so, and there was nothing she could do to help it.

  “You have, I believe, one more option.”

  “Forgive me, sir, but I do not think that I do.”

  “You do,” he pressed. “Miss Moore, there is another way for you to keep the lighthouse.”

  She tilted her head, wondering at his persistence. “And what way is that, Captain?”

  His eyes did not waver. “You can marry…me.”

  A dizziness overcame her. “Sir?”

  He took a step toward her. “You can marry me,” he repeated.

  “No, you…you cannot be serious.”

  “I am.”

  The man had clearly taken leave of his senses. And yet, as he walked toward her, taking her hand in his, she could not deny the look of determination on his face. Her heart fluttered, preventing her from drawing in a deep breath.

  “Marry me, Miss Moore,” he said softly, “so we may work together to keep Golowduyn lit.”

  Her thoughts spun rapidly, adding to her light-headedness. What was he saying—that he would give up everything to remain at the lighthouse with her? She could not allow him to do such a thing.

  “Captain, forgive me, but I cannot accept your offer.”

  “Yes, you can,” he said. His dark eyes were clear, focused. As if he knew exactly what he offered—and was content to do so. “I will not force you into accepting, but I have considered what options you may have, and I truly believe this is the only way in which you may receive everything you wish.”

  Her mouth parted. He was in earnest. She could hardly wrap her mind around what had just occurred. Captain Kendricks had just offered his hand in marriage…to her.

  Heat rose up her neck, settling on her cheeks. No, she had to be reasonable about this. He had clearly not made the offer out of love. It was more of a kind gesture, even a business proposition—so she would treat it as such.