On The Shores 0f Tregalwen (A Cornish Romance Book 0.5)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Copyright © 2019

  On the Shores of Tregalwen by Deborah M. Hathaway

  All rights reserved.

  Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or distributed by any part or by any means without written consent of the author.

  First Printed Edition, February 2019

  Published by Draft Horse Publishing

  ©Copyright 2019 by Deborah M. Hathaway

  © 2019 Cover Art by Cora Graphics

  © Depositphotos.com

  Special thanks to Ali Slagowski of Slagowski Hair Design

  This book is a work of fiction. All character names and personalities are entirely fictional, created solely in the imagination of the author. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Pronunciation Guide

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Books by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Stand Alone Novels

  A Secret Fire

  When Two Rivers Meet

  To Warm a Wintered Heart

  A Cornish Romance Series

  On the Shores of Tregalwen, a Novella

  Behind the Light of Golowduyn, Book One

  For Marinda and Jordan—

  From childhood friends to eternal companions.

  Yours is a love that is true.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Tregalwen – treh-GAWL-when

  Golowduyn – goal-oh-DEW-in

  Rudhek – RUE-thek

  Pryvly – PRIV-lee

  Tykki duw (butterfly) – tih-kee DEW

  Prologue

  Cornwall, 1811

  The sea shone brightly as the summer sun cast its final light over the waves and adjoining countryside. Pink and purple clouds swirled across the sky in wispy strokes, as if a painter had swiped his brush haphazardly on his canvas.

  A cool wind sailed over the sea and headed in the direction of Tregalwen Beach, where a boy and girl raced their horses across the sand.

  “You started before me, Thomas Causey!” fifteen-year-old Hannah Summerfield shouted as her friend passed the finishing mark—a large monolith in the water—moments before she did.

  Thomas tightened his reins and laughed over his shoulder. “You always accuse me of such, Hannah. When will you accept defeat gracefully?”

  With a heavy breath, she shook her head, slowing her horse to a canter. “I will finish first one day, I assure you. I will practice every day until I do.”

  Thomas grinned, turning toward her. “You will hardly have time for that in London, mixing with fine society, as you will be.”

  He mimicked sipping a cup of tea, his nose raised in the air, but Hannah’s smile faded away.

  “Oh, don’t remind me,” she groaned. “I don’t want to go. I would much rather remain here in Cornwall.”

  With you, she thought, though she dared not admit as much out loud.

  She turned her horse so she faced Thomas more fully. She was taller than he was, but only just, his boyish frame matching her own slight figure. However, the confident way he held his horse’s reins, his free hand resting on his thigh, made him appear older than his seventeen years. That is, until his brown hair fluttered across his brow in an unruly wave.

  Hannah unwittingly sighed as he smoothed the lock back with a swish of his hand. Thomas glanced at her, a gleam in his eyes.

  “You are looking at me in that way of yours again, Hannah,” he said.

  She cleared her throat, tucking her own stray, blonde hair behind her ear. “In what way?”

  “Like you admire me.”

  She wrinkled her nose to hide just how accurate his words were. “You flatter yourself, Thomas.”

  “Really?”

  His knowing smile made her heart flutter. She did admire him. In truth, she loved him. And she was certain he felt the same in return.

  How was she to endure their separation? Unable to see his hazel eyes shining whenever he looked at her, or his lips that always curved into a smile when he saw her? What would it be like to be kissed by those lips?

  “What are you smiling about?” Thomas asked, breaking her concentration.

  She blushed. “Nothing.”

  He narrowed his eyes but said nothing more. “We ought to return to Rudhek Manor. You were supposed to be home by sunset.”

  “Oh, no. Not yet,” she protested, motioning to where the sun had almost disappeared within the water. “You see? It is still shining.”

  Thomas shook his head, though smile lines appeared near his eyes. “Your grandparents will scold you.”

  “They have never scolded me,” she said with a flippant laugh, “as you well know.”

  “Well, if they do not, your mother certainly will.”

  Hannah’s smile faltered. “She knows it is my last night with you. She will not mind me staying out a little while longer.”

  She hoped so, at least. Her mother had told her specifically to come home early that evening, as they were to begin their journey to London at dawn, but Hannah could not leave. Not yet.

  Her mother did not understand Hannah’s desire to stay in Cornwall. Hannah’s mother, Lady Beatrice, the Earl of Wixbury’s daughter, had married Mr. Summerfield for love and soon moved to his Cornish estate, Rudhek Manor. Lady Beatrice had hoped that her marriage would lead to fine balls and parties, the sort she had experienced as a young woman.

  However, after only three years of marriage, Mr. Summerfield—a man who preferred the characters in his books over anyone in Society—passed away from a sudden illness, and Hannah’s mother was left a widow. Lady Beatrice, longing for a more “stimulating social life than Cornwall could offer,” had then departed to London, leaving two-year-old Hannah in the care of her paternal grandparents.

  “A child is not meant to be in London,” Lady Beatrice had often said during her annual visits to the manor, “and I am not meant to be in Cornwall.”

  However, with Hannah’s sixteenth birthday fast approaching, Lady Beatrice had returned to Cornwall with a distressing decision.

  “I am bringing you to London at last, my dear,” she had said to Hannah, “and we shall celebrate your coming out with a ball. You may protest now, but I know you will grow to love your life there, just as your father would have…eventually.”

  But Hannah had a difficult time believing her words.

  As she thought again of leaving Cornwall, she sighed heavily, casting her eyes about her. The jagged, brown rocks jutted forth from the cliffside to the ocean, waves shimmering in the sun’s waning light. Long, flowing grass followed the curves of the beach where footsteps and hoofprints were visible across the sand.

  How could tall buildings and countless shops compare with moors and the seaside? And more importantly, how could interacting with the fine Society of London even come close to the joy she felt while in the company of Thomas Causey?

  She observed him again as he patted his horse’s neck, and she tilted her head to one side. “Will you write to me while I’m away?”

  He glanced at her sidelong. “I hardly think your mother will allow us to correspond.”

  “I’m certain she will n
ot prevent me exchanging letters with a friend,” Hannah replied, her brow furrowing.

  Her words did not sound convincing, even to her own ears.

  Hannah’s grandparents had never expressed a single concern over her friendship with Thomas, but as the heir to only a small estate, Thomas did not reach Lady Beatrice’s high regard. Instead, she had expressed her desire for Hannah to marry a wealthy gentleman in London. With such intentions, Lady Beatrice had never bothered with Thomas, dismissing him as inconsequential.

  As such, though Hannah hoped to write Thomas, she feared she would not be allowed to do so.

  Being in London was looking more unappealing by the moment.

  Thomas urged his horse forward, stopping when his leg brushed up against Hannah’s. Her pulse quickened at the touch.

  “I suspect you’ll hardly have time to write anyway,” he said. “My father speaks often of his time there when he was a young gentleman. The balls, parties, and concerts.”

  Hannah leaned back in her sidesaddle, trying to maintain focus as her leg tingled from his touch. “That all sounds rather dull, doesn’t it?”

  “Anything sounds dull compared to racing horses across the beach.” He nudged her playfully with his knee.

  She nodded, her spirits sinking lower.

  “I hope you will enjoy yourself while there, though,” Thomas said. His eyes were soft as he stared out over the gray ocean. “Only, not so much that you will forget Cornwall…or me.”

  Hannah’s heart ached at the look of worry in his eyes. She reached forth, resting a hand on his knee, and a warmth spread from her fingers to her chest.

  “Even if I dance with well-dressed gentlemen or speak with all of the fine ladies of London, I will never forget you, Thomas Causey.”

  Their eyes met, unspoken feelings passing between them, and he raised her hand to his lips in a kiss.

  “I’ll see you home now,” he said, releasing his hold of her. “Do you have an excuse ready?”

  Hannah nodded, her head still spinning from the touch of his lips on her skin. “Yes. I’ll blame my tardiness on my horse throwing a shoe.”

  “Again? That reason will not suffice for much longer. You must devise a better one while you are away.”

  “Very well,” she said. “If you promise to ride with me to the ridge before we leave.”

  Thomas seemed to contemplate the distance. “All right, just beyond that ridge—”

  “The far ridge,” she said, pointing further south.

  His eyes smiled. “Yes, the far ridge. Then we will ride for the manor.”

  “All right.”

  He turned his horse around and reached for her hand again, their fingers intertwined between them as they rode across the sand.

  “And soon,” he said, “you will return to Cornwall and seek me out the very moment you arrive.”

  “The very moment.”

  His thumb caressed her fingers. “And we shall ride again on the shores of Tregalwen.”

  Hannah smiled at the boy she had loved as long as she could remember and wondered how she was to endure a single moment without him by her side.

  Chapter One

  London, 1814

  “I know of your distaste for dancing and balls, Miss Summerfield, so how are you faring this evening?”

  Hannah smiled at the gentleman across from her in the set. “Having the right partner eases my burden.”

  She had said the words many times before, always recited for polite conversation. Only this time, she meant it. She enjoyed Frederick Hawkins and his ready smile. He was not nearly so polished as the other gentlemen in London. His nose was not directed toward the ceiling and his friendly manner extended to everyone, no matter the class, which was why she preferred him over the others.

  “Well, I have something that will make your night even better than a superb dance partner,” Mr. Hawkins said, his dark blue eyes shining. The steps of the dance brought them closer together, and he lowered his voice. “Mr. Steele’s hair.”

  He motioned down the set to where a gentleman glided around a wide-eyed, flushed-faced young woman. His hair, parted on one side of his head and extended to the other, fluttered up and down as he danced with exaggerated movements.

  “Oh, dear.” Hannah grinned. The action felt foreign upon her lips. It had been quite a while since she had genuinely smiled.

  Mr. Hawkins nodded, raising his eyebrows high. “It looks as if one of the pheasants he hunted has come back to life and now flaps upon his head.”

  Hannah stifled a laugh with a gloved hand to her lips. “Mr. Hawkins, our mothers would scold us for such talk.”

  “It is good we have already agreed to keep our wicked ways to ourselves, then.”

  They reached out to hold each other’s hands, and he winked at her. Yes, Mr. Hawkins was a breath of fresh air in London.

  But it was still not the air she longed to breathe.

  Despite Mr. Hawkins’s attempts to cheer her up by mimicking the pheasant-haired gentleman’s actions, Hannah continued the memorized movements of the dance, feeling more mechanical than joyful.

  Finally, the music ended, and after applauding the musicians, Mr. Hawkins led Hannah off the dance floor.

  The large ball, hosted by Mr. Hawkins’s widowed mother, teemed with couples, so they paused every few moments to weave around fine gowns and shining black shoes.

  During Hannah’s first ball, she had pushed and prodded to get through the room, but her mother had quickly corrected her.

  “London is different from Cornwall, Hannah,” Lady Beatrice had said. “Impulsive behavior will not be tolerated. You must act with decorum at all times.”

  Hannah had done her best to conform, but even after three years in London, she still itched to race past the others.

  Before long, she and Mr. Hawkins moved forward, and they reached the edge of the ballroom where Lady Beatrice stood, her brown eyes twinkling.

  “You two seemed to be enjoying yourselves,” she said with a bright smile. “Always a lovely sight, the two of you together. Such a fine partnership.”

  Hannah noted her mother exchanging a look with Mr. Hawkins. Suddenly, he dropped Hannah’s hand. His smile disappeared, and his cheeks shaded red.

  Hannah regarded him curiously, but he averted his gaze.

  “Thank you for the dance, Miss Summerfield,” he said, his lips stretched in a strained smile. “If you will excuse me.”

  He made to leave, but Hannah, knowing she would not dance with him again that evening, called after him. “Are we still to ride tomorrow, with your friends, the Strouds?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. I will meet you after luncheon.”

  Hannah nodded, tilting her head to the side as she watched him back away. He bumped into a gentleman who then splashed lemonade upon the woman in front of him.

  “My apologies, sir, miss,” Mr. Hawkins mumbled before turning around and disappearing into the crowd.

  “How very strange,” Lady Beatrice said.

  Hannah turned to see a knowing look in her mother’s eyes, and a strange heat crawled up the back of her neck. She opened her white lace fan with a flick of her wrist, creating a breeze beneath her chin that caused her ringlets to flutter about her temples.

  “Feeling warm after the exertion of your dance, my dear?” Lady Beatrice said with a small smile.

  “Yes. Might we ask Mrs. Hawkins to open a door?”

  Lady Beatrice nodded, her gaze sweeping across the room. “In a moment. Did you greet the Hiltons yet this evening?”

  With a restrained sigh, Hannah nodded. “Yes, I believe so.”

  “We must call upon them soon. We wouldn’t wish them to think we have forgotten them after meeting them at the concert.”

  “Of course, Mother.”

  “And what of Miss Jamison? She is beneath us, but we must show everyone the same degree of civility.”

  “Yes, Mother, I spoke with her, as well.”

  “Very good. Oh, and we mustn’t
forget the dinner party we have with the Coreys this week.”

  “No, Mother.”

  Hannah rolled her head back slightly to relieve the tightness in her neck. She knew the beads of sweat glistening on her brow would beget her mother’s criticism, so she dipped her head slightly in hopes of drying the moisture.

  When she glanced up, her mother’s eyes were upon her.

  “Oh, my dear,” Lady Beatrice said, reaching out to give Hannah’s hand a surprisingly encouraging squeeze, “I know you do not like to socialize. Your father did not either. Of course, this flaw can be attributed to being brought up in the wild, Cornish countryside. I should never have allowed you to be raised by the same people, in the same uncivilized manner.”

  Hannah stifled a yawn. Her own opinion differed greatly from her mother’s, but after three years in London, Hannah had learned that arguing was more tiresome than even the constant demands of London Society, so she remained silent.

  “At any rate,” Lady Beatrice continued, “I’m certain I could have changed your father’s ways had he only lived long enough for me to do so. Why, look at how you have changed under my tutelage.” She gestured to Hannah’s stance. “Your posture has improved vastly, your conversation is far more stimulating, and you hardly ever forget to wear your gloves now. I daresay a number of gentlemen have taken notice of you. One in particular comes to mind now.”

  Hannah hardly heard her mother’s words. A small draft blew past her neck, but it was gone before she could comprehend the coolness. She eyed the couples walking past her with rosy cheeks and broad smiles, and she took a step back, attempting to gain more space around her.

  She longed to be free of London, from the throngs of people she was forced to mingle with daily. She would gladly replace all of it with the peace she had once felt, listening to the sounds of the sea waves crashing, herring gulls crying above her as she rode along Tregalwen with a boy whose hazel eyes wrinkled as he smiled.

  At the thought of Thomas, Hannah felt a heaviness press down on her. When she had first come to London, she had unexpectedly been allowed to write to her friend, but after a few months, his letters unexplainedly stopped.