For The Lady 0f Lowena (A Cornish Romance Book 2)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  “My dear,” Mother said, raising her chin, “our daughter has—”

  “I know,” he said. “I heard what she has said.” He turned to Sophia. “And I have heard enough.”

  The deep tone to his voice, the finality of his words caused a frenzy within Sophia. Would he force her to go to Yorkshire, to marry a man she did not love, forsaking the man she did?

  “Father, please, I cannot—”

  “No, Sophia. You have grown accustomed to doing your own bidding at Lowena. But now, you will do as I say.”

  He took a step toward her, but Sophia held her ground, staring at him headlong as she braced herself for the argument to come.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Frederick ignored the call of the ocean. When once the soothing sound had calmed his heart, now it chafed his sullen mood. The constant waves sliding up the shore that evening, sending the sand into a frenzy, reminded him too greatly of the disarray of his own life. And the blue of the sea, the clearness of the water, reminded him all too well of the woman he could not forget.

  Of course, standing at the gate of Lowena cottage did not help in that regard. But being there could not be avoided. He had to look over the house to ensure it was fit for tenants before he returned to Dawnridge tomorrow.

  Dawnridge. He should be looking forward to returning home more than he was. After all, there he could live out his days in peace. He could forget his fanciful ideas of marriage, of finding a woman who could ever love him more than she loved herself, more than she loved her standing in Society. More than wealth.

  For him, such a woman did not exist.

  He rolled his neck, hoping to ease the tension that had been creeping in all day. The evening was not warm by any means, the clouds had already shrouded the sun, a light grey spreading over the sea and countryside. Yet, a heat rose within him, boiling his skin. He removed his jacket, gloves, and hat, laying them over his horse’s saddle before trudging across the small grounds.

  He tried to disregard the significance of returning to the cottage, to dispel the regret he felt blaring at every turn. But with each step he took, memories of his last moments there resurfaced. His wariness increased, making it harder to walk, as if an unseen rope was wrapped about his being, preventing him from the slightest progression. Just as it had been doing for three days.

  Three days. She’d been gone three long days. Each moment, he’d expected it to get easier to forget the longing, the regret. The love. Yet, each day proved harder than the last. He’d kept inside his house, refused callers, meals, anything he could think of to keep his mind from the woman who had left him for another. Such a task proved impossible, when, in every direction he turned at Fynwary or on the cliffside, the memory of Sophia Rosewall blared back at him. Even the very door of the cottage spoke her name.

  He hesitated before it. He was only holding a simple inspection. Just a few moments and he could leave his memories behind with Lowena. So why was entering inside so difficult?

  With an unsteady hand, he tapped on the door, though he knew no one would answer. He hated himself for hoping Miss Rosewall herself would appear, flinging her arms around his neck and begging him to take her back.

  But the cottage was empty as he opened the door. Silent, apart from the rushing waves on the shore below sounding around the bare walls.

  He secured the door behind him, surveying the room with wary eyes. His first time within the home had been when he had confronted Miss Rosewall. He had not taken any notice then of the peeling paint or warped wood. He’d neglected his duty as their landlord. But he’d been distracted. By Miss Rosewall.

  He took a quick look in each vacated room, making a mental note of the repairs his newly hired steward would need to see to, then moved up the stairs. The first two bedrooms he looked through appeared better managed, but the one at the end of the corridor, the smallest of the three, seemed the worse for wear.

  A breeze blew past him as he opened the door. He glanced straightway to the open window, where the sea’s muted waters reached his eye.

  A view of the sea. That could only mean this was Miss Rosewall’s room. Had been Miss Rosewall’s room. His boots shuffled across the floor as he noted the state of the chipped paint, cobwebbed corners, and scratched flooring. The hearth was miniscule, not to mention filthy, and the bed hardly seemed large enough for a single body to fit lengthwise on it.

  He could only imagine what she had thought of such a room, after what she had been accustomed to at Fynwary Hall.

  Facing the window, he tugged at the handle, but it didn’t budge. He looked closer to discover it wasn’t really open, only that the glass did not fit properly within its frame. The gap was so large, his fisted hand could fit through it.

  How had the woman managed the undoubtedly large draft that must have seeped through the opening on cold evenings or rainy days? The fireplace must not have been any use to her either, what with the miniscule size of it.

  Yet, had he ever heard her complain about the state of her living quarters? No. All she’d mentioned was her view of the sea.

  He rubbed a hand to his chest to dispel the twinge in his heart. She must have found it unbelievably difficult to live in such circumstances. Though, toward the end, had she not considered Lowena her home? Was this not evidence that she had, indeed, changed?

  He shook his head. He could not entertain such thoughts. She was still the same selfish woman. That was the truth. Being at the house and in her old room had merely warped his thoughts. He needed to leave, before even more dangerous notions threatened to change his mind about the woman.

  He turned to depart, but his eyes dropped to the window ledge where a shell rested, its orange and white colors dimmed from the subdued light outside. A single crack marred its otherwise flawless surface.

  She’d kept it. Miss Rosewall had kept the shell he’d given her at Tregalwen. The words he had spoken to her as she sat broken on the beach infiltrated the defenses protecting his mind, and the memory shook his weakening core.

  Just because something is flawed, doesn’t mean it is not worth cherishing.

  He’d told her that no one was perfect, that she could come back from her mistakes, and he had meant it. Yet, when his own words had been tested, he’d lost his temper. He had called her “empty.”

  He retrieved the shell, eying the crack. Flashes of their time together sailed by. Sophia’s admiring eyes, the attraction between them, the vulnerability and truths she’d shared with him and him alone—all of it was evidence, evidence of something he had denied for too long.

  She loved him. Or was this shell she’d left behind evidence that she no longer did?

  His thoughts spun, his mind a daze. If she had loved him, then why would she choose to leave him? Why would she marry another?

  He tapped the shell softly against the wall. Mrs. Rennalls had told him that the Rosewalls’ aunt would choose Miss Rosewall’s intended, or her family would receive nothing.

  Miss Rosewall herself had mentioned her parents when he’d confronted her, but he had not allowed her to speak. By leaving, could she…could she have been acting on behalf of her parents, putting their welfare above her own, instead of doing so to improve her own standing with Society?

  The truth struck him so fully, his legs weakened. He rested his hands on the window ledge to keep from falling. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have been so wrong?

  He tried to swallow his shame, but his thick regret prevented him. He pulled at his cravat, untying it in a frenzy, his fingers fumbling over the knot until the white fabric trailed down his waistcoat.

  It was not Miss Rosewall who had made an unforgivable mistake. It was not Miss Rosewall who was irrevocably flawed. It was he. If he wouldn’t have ignored every thought of her, if he wouldn’t have been so fiercely adamant of keeping hold of his own selfish desires, he might have come to the realization sooner. Perhaps then he would have listened to her explanation. Perhaps then he could have stopped her from lea
ving.

  Now, it was too late. She was already gone.

  How he regretted his mistake.

  Unbuttoning his collar, he made his way out of the cottage with the shell in hand, facing the sea as he secured the outer door behind him.

  The earth had turned a soft, rosy shade, matching the blossoming pink wildflowers scattered near the cottage, waving back and forth in the breeze. The sky stretched into a light purple before it fell into the steely blue sea. Placid waves kissed the smooth, white sand of the shore below. The world around him was calm, peaceful.

  How it mocked him.

  With a heavy step, he turned toward the stone wall of the cottage, heading for the gate. But when he glanced up to his horse tied nearby, his feet stopped.

  No, it couldn’t be. It was simply his imagination, his thoughts from before conjuring a spright. She was not there at Lowena Cottage.

  And yet, she was.

  “Sophia,” he breathed.

  She watched him, her hand resting on his horse’s forelock, her body half-hidden by the mount.

  “Good evening,” she said, as if her presence were the most natural thing in the world, as if she had not just assailed his heart with a fresh bout of emotions.

  “You’re here,” was all he managed to say. His feet would not move. His mind would not function. All his senses centered on the woman before him.

  His eyes followed the wave-like curls framing her face. The darkness of her locks, more visible due to her lack of bonnet, were nearly tinted pink in the light. She wore her blue gown again. Had she mended the hole her washing had created? He didn’t have time to notice before her captivating eyes caught him in their grasp.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  His horse nuzzled closer to the woman, taunting Frederick’s distance from her.

  “I happened to be walking by when I saw your horse,” she replied in a soft tone, stroking the horse’s nose. “He looked lonely, so I thought to wait out here for you with him.”

  He blinked, attempting to break the spell the woman had cast over him, causing him to forget what had occurred between them, what now needed to occur.

  “What are you doing in Cornwall?” he asked next. “I thought you were going to Yorkshire, to be with your aunt and your intended.”

  Her eyes trailed down the bridge of the horse’s nose. “I chose not to go, as I have finally discovered the answer.”

  He held his burgeoning hope down as he would a hound nipping at his coattail. He could not allow his senses to take leave. Not when he had so many questions to be answered, not when he had so much to say.

  “You have found the answer to what?” he asked.

  “Do you recall the question you asked me at your picnic?”

  His mind traveled to when they had stood at the brook, after she’d shared with him how greatly she’d disliked so many of the pastimes she ought to enjoy. “I asked you what you wished to do.”

  “Yes.” The breeze fluttered her curls. “I have finally found my answer.”

  “And what is that?”

  She stroked the tip of the gelding’s nose one last time before coming out from behind the horse. She took a few steps, then fully faced Frederick. “I wish to remain here.”

  He searched for a reply, trying to decipher her reasoning behind her desire. “Well, if you are to remain in Cornwall, you and your family are welcome to call Lowena your own for as long as you wish. I was to let it to another family before I left, but if you have need of it still—”

  “You’re leaving?”

  The sight of her crestfallen face did more for his confidence than anything. She was upset about him leaving, and that knowledge set free his hopes, allowing them to sail higher than the pink clouds above the sea.

  * * *

  “I was going to return to Bedfordshire tomorrow morning.”

  Sophia felt as if her heart had been wrung dry like a rag. Mr. Hawkins was leaving Cornwall? He couldn’t. Not now.

  She stared at him across the stone wall, love for the man standing before her once more filling her heart. She’d seen his jacket, gloves, and hat over his horse’s saddle earlier. Now she couldn’t help but stare at the state of his undress. His waistcoat was still buttoned, but his cravat hung loosely about his neck. His hair was tousled, as if the wind had taken a liking to it and couldn’t help but fling it back and forth.

  His disheveled appearance, the weary dimness to his eyes, made her wonder if the past few days had been as difficult for him as it had been for her.

  “Thank you for the offer,” she said, “but we will not be requiring Lowena Cottage any longer.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “May I ask why not?”

  The white flaps of his loose collar lifted in the wind, tapping against his shoulders. His shirt draped open, allowing her to see the muscular curves of the top of his chest and angular lines of his throat.

  She averted her gaze. “My father has accepted a job as a clerk in St. Austell. They have taken a home in the city.”

  His brow rose. “I see. Well, I wish them every happiness while living there.” He looked out to the sea, the pink glow of the sunset cast across his skin. “And you, as well, of course.”

  “Thank you, but as I said before, I have chosen to remain here.”

  His eyes met hers. “But where are you to live then, if it is not with your parents or at Lowena?”

  “I have been staying with Gwynna for the past few days.” Her lips twitched at his perplexed brow. The fact that she was living with a miner’s family had surprised her at first, as well. Though now it felt as natural as anything. “The Merricks were kind enough to offer me a room when I told them my parents were leaving and I wished to remain here. I am earning my keep, though, in every chore possible. Except for the laundry, for obvious reasons.”

  There it was, the curve of his lips she’d been longing to see. “Have you torn another dress?” he asked.

  “I’m afraid so. This time it was Mrs. Merrick’s. She has put me to better use scrubbing pots. Those I cannot break so easily.”

  The tension eased between them, if only slightly. “I’m surprised your parents have allowed you to remain in St. Just,” he said. “After what your aunt promised them.”

  She tipped her head. “How did you learn of her proposal earlier, and that I was to leave?”

  “Mrs. Rennalls.”

  He didn’t need to say more. Sophia knew of the woman’s love for gossip, but Mrs. Rennalls could hardly be blamed.

  The day after Aunt June’s letter had come, Mother had spent all day in St. Just, hoping to happen upon someone she could blather on to about her changed circumstances. That was yet another reason they’d chosen to relocate to St. Austell, to leave behind the gossip that surrounded them.

  Sophia missed them. She had since leaving Fynwary Hall. She could only hope the distance between them would ease her parents’ burden and allow them time to adjust to their new way of life, as Sophia had done.

  “Your parents couldn’t have been happy with your decision to remain here,” Mr. Hawkins said next. “I’m surprised they even allowed you to do so.”

  “Sophia took a step forward, resting her hands on the stone wall between them. “Mother was displeased. I thought my father would be adamantly opposed, as well, but he surprised me.”

  Her thoughts returned to days before when Father had entered her room after her argument with Mother. She’d expected him to command her to go to Yorkshire.

  “You have grown accustomed to doing your own bidding at Lowena,” he had said to her. “But now, you will do as I say. You will not go to Yorkshire. You will choose your own life.”

  Mother had stared, appalled, but Sophia had run straight to Father, embracing him as she fought off her tears.

  Even now, at the mere memory of his words, she had to force aside her emotions. “My father said he no longer wished to make decisions that harmed others or changed the course of their lives. I suppose he has made eno
ugh mistakes for his liking.” She looked away. “Very much like his daughter in that regard.”

  Mr. Hawkins’s eyes were upon her, but he made no move to speak. Her heart raced. She needed to find the courage to say what she had been rehearsing for days, to share the words that had been keeping her at Gwynna’s, instead of running straight to Fynwary Hall and confessing her love.

  She would not cower again. She was finished hiding behind the masks of fear and falsehood that she’d created as Miss Rosewall of Fynwary Hall. Now it was time for her to hold her head high as simply Sophia.

  “Sir,” she began, standing just outside the open gate, “I must apologize to you for what has occurred. For the misunderstanding. The mistake I made even considering going to Yorkshire was—”

  “Mistake?” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Mistake,” he muttered again with a shake of his head. “You were acting on behalf of your parents, Miss Rosewall. You made no mistake. I have.”

  He took a step toward her, sorrow pricking his eyes. “I have been a fool. Prideful and blind. I thought to teach you my ways, to humble you.” He made a sniff of derision. “But it is you who have humbled me. I should have known, with your aunt’s proposal, that you were behaving selflessly, but I was blinded by my anger. I am sorry for how I treated you. For not trusting you. For hurting you. I hope one day you might forgive me, though I would not blame you if you cannot.”

  Sophia’s heart warmed despite the dimming light of the evening. She leaned her head to one side. “After all the times I have had to beg your forgiveness, with you readily bestowing it, I hardly think it fair if I do not accept your apology.”

  A look of understanding passed between them, a hesitant smile.

  Mr. Hawkins walked toward her with an outstretched hand. “Here,” he said.

  She held out her hand at his bidding, and he placed the shell—her beautiful, broken shell—into her palm.

  “I didn’t know you had kept it that day on the beach,” he said.

  She stared at the ridges. “Yes, it was a good reminder for me.”