Copyright © 2020
Near the Ruins of Penharrow 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.
Printed in the United States of America
Published by Draft Horse Publishing
©Copyright 2020 by Deborah M. Hathaway
© 2019 Cover Art by Cora Graphics
© Cover Photo by Stitch Stock Photos
First Printed Edition, April 2020
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.
ISBN 978-1-7334820-3-5
Table of Contents
Books by Deborah M. Hathaway
Pronunciation Guide
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Other Titles by Deborah M. Hathaway
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
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 the Lady of Lowena, Book Two
Near the Ruins of Penharrow, Book Three
Belles of Christmas Multi-Series
Nine Ladies Dancing, Book Three
For my Grandma Cox—
Your support and love for my books
was incomparable.
May you still read in Heaven.
Pronunciation Guide
Gwynna – GWIN-uh
Trevethan – treh-VEH-thin
Penharrow – pehn-HAIR-oh
Coffrow – COFF-row
Fynwary – fin-WARE-ee
Golowduyn – goal-oh-DEW-in
Tregalwen – treh-GAWL-when
Kerensa – keh-REN-zuh
Jago – JAY-go
ye – ee
Chapter One
Cornwall, 1815
The soothing sound of the sea’s waves coasted toward the shoreline, creeping over the cliff’s edge where stood the soaring Wheal Favour Engine House.
The mine’s main building pressed up against the upper cliff behind it, as if its grey stone walls kept the land from falling forth onto the pathway before it, or farther into the sea three hundred feet below. The burnt red chimney released wispy smoke into the blue skies, and arched windows spotted the tall, rectangular walls.
As striking as the image was, Gwynna Merrick was captured instead by the sea. She couldn’t remember the last time the water rested so calm and clear. The sun flashed against the slight swells, shifting from light blue to dark with each tepid wave, like the fabric she’d seen last market day displayed in the windows of the modiste’s shop—rich, blue silk as soft as a flower’s petal.
Of course Gwynna hadn’t touched the fabric herself. She could never afford such a thing. She couldn’t even afford a few extra hairpins, of which, incidentally, she was in great need. She told Mama the wind had stolen them, but they both knew Gwynna removed them herself, consequentially losing them one by one.
She couldn’t help it. Where was the joy in walking along the cliffside if she couldn’t allow the wind to run its fingers through her hair?
Even now, with her brown locks held back by a frayed, scanty cloth, the wind pulled stray strands out, curving them round her face and across the bottom of her nose.
She pursed her lips and wrinkled her nose to scratch the tickle. The ocean responded with a deep, rumbling laugh.
No, Gwynna couldn’t afford fabric, pins, or even a new ribbon for her hair. But the sea was hers for the taking.
A metal bell clanged behind her, sharp and jarring against the lull of the ocean, but Gwynna didn’t flinch a muscle.
After nearly ten years of the disruptive chime, she’d begun to expect it, as well as the subsequent sounds that always followed. The miners singing as they ascended from the nearby shaft. The creaking of the mine’s whim slowly ceasing, wheeling up the last of the kibbles filled to the brim with damp ore.
Elderly maidens would soon shoo children away from the whirling gears now slowing, and barrows, spades, and hammers would drop to the ground, clanging loudly against each other or with dull thuds on the ore.
The bal maidens and children working on the surface would then stretch out their aching backs and tightened arms before gathering together in groups of family or friends, situating themselves on patches of grass or heather or simply the dirt beneath their feet.
Gwynna had done the very same with her father and brother, once the men had made it to the surface. They’d eat pasties Mama had made earlier and swap stories about their day, hoping to feel refreshed before the bell signaled the end of crib, their midday meal—their only break.
That was before, though. Now, with the new mine owner, Mr. Peter Trevethan, and a new captain to oversee the running of Wheal Favour, they were allotted two breaks per day. Papa said things were different. Better.
Gwynna would have to take his word for it. She hadn’t worked at the mine in months.
“Gwynna!”
Papa. He’d finally come up. Gwynna turned, meeting his eyes with a smile. He waited on the incline beside the engine house. His hands cupped his mouth then waved her toward him.
Gwynna swept one last glance across the sea then pulled herself up the short, steep hill.
“Are ye ready?” Papa asked when she reached him.
His chin-length hair slid out from his tattered, brown cap. The stubble growing on his jaw was darker than usual, made black by the dust and soot from the shaft. He squinted heavily, still adjusting to the bright sunshine, though the hesitation churning in his green eyes was evident.
Gwynna had always loved her father’s eyes. Hers were more amber-colored. “I am, Papa.”
“Ye don’t ‘ave to do this. We be managin’ just fine without ye workin’ here.”
That wasn’t true, and they both knew it. No matter the help she was to her mother at home, and no matter the odd work Gwynna had found in and around St. Just mending clothing or helping with others’ harvests, her family still struggled for money—as did most miners.
She eased her arm through his and led the way to the upper cliff. “I know, Papa. And I know ye want me safe. ‘Tis time, though.”
Her gentle tone did nothing to raise his sunken shoulders, but then, they’d appeared such a way since June last. If her staying safe at home hadn’t raised his spirits by now, it never would.
Two bal maidens sat together on a patch of grass, neither of them looking up as Gwynna and Papa passed by. A group of children ran alongside them, their laughter lifting the air. Papa maintained his somber look, but Gwynna smiled back at them, refusing to lose her resolve.
Stubborn rocks, half-buried in the earth, dapp
led the dusty pathway they ambled up—a pathway created by hundreds of footsteps coming and going to and from the mine. Those footsteps belonged to many in her family. Her father, her brother, even at one time her mother.
And now, Gwynna was proud to have them belong to her once more.
Before long, the counthouse rose before them, a small, three-room hut with nearly slatted walls and a roof constructed of buckling, faded wood. The structure had been there since she was a child, though small improvements had been made over the last few months, including the expansion of a spare room and kitchen.
Papa tapped on the door, and a loud voice bade them enter.
A resounding creak echoed as Papa opened the door, his boots thudding on the wooden floor. Gwynna quickly followed.
A small hearth to the right of the room carried a few blackened logs, the fire having no doubt been left to wane as the late August sun warmed the room instead. The walls were bare but clean, the floor had been freshly swept, and two chairs were neatly tucked in beneath a small table pressed up against a side wall. It wasn’t much to look at, but the room certainly was a great deal tidier than the last time she was there. Was this due to Mr. Trevethan, as well?
A single window at the far side of the room spilled light onto a small, wooden desk. A gentleman sat behind it, leaning over a paper, scratching madly with his quill.
Another middle-aged man spoke to him, standing in front of the desk with a fisted hand on his waist. “Of course I’m happy to support Mr. Trevethan with my finances, but I cannot agree to attend any further meetings here. My jacket is littered with dust each time I step foot in this dingy room, and the people, well…” He glanced over his shoulder at Gwynna and her father, continuing in a softer tone. “As much as one might attempt, one cannot improve the state of a miner, nor his family. In manner or cleanliness.”
Gwynna bristled. How she despised those who thought themselves above miners.
The man still seated continued to write, though he nodded his head distractedly. He must be the new mine captain, Mr. Harvey. Gwynna had never met him, but Father said he was a just man, like Mr. Trevethan. “I understand your frustrations, Mr. Pinnick,” Mr. Harvey said, “but the counthouse is where we have all agreed to convene. If it displeases you, you are always welcome to forgo the next investor’s meeting.”
“Perhaps I will,” Mr. Pinnick said. “Do tell Mr. Trevethan when you see him today.”
“Of course, sir.”
Mr. Pinnick made for the door where Gwynna and Papa still stood. A dismissive wave from the man signaled them to move without so much of a glance in their direction, but Father lingered with a raised chin before stepping aside.
The gentleman sniffed, muttering as he departed from the room. “Miners. All the same. Disdainful, filthy…”
His words were silenced as the door closed.
Gwynna and Papa exchanged glances. They’d grown accustomed to such opinions from the upper class, but hearing the words still set them on edge.
“Merrick.”
Mr. Harvey beckoned them forward with a flick of his finger. He had yet to look up from his paper.
The floor groaned as the father and daughter approached the desk. A clang from the side room—a small kitchen—drew Gwynna’s attention to an older woman juggling pans in her arms. She placed them on a small shelf near a window then turned sharp eyes on Gwynna.
That was why the rooms were tidier. Mr. Trevethan had hired a counthouse woman to oversee its cleanliness.
When her nod to the woman wasn’t reciprocated, Gwynna returned her attention to Mr. Harvey, who wiped his quill free of ink and replaced the cap on the bottle.
“So,” he began, lacing his fingers together and leaning one elbow on his armrest, “you said you wanted to meet with me?”
Papa removed his cap, his stringy hair falling over his eyes before he raked it back with his fingers. “Yes, sir. ‘Tis me daugh’er, Gwynna. She be wantin’ her job back as a maiden.”
“I see.” Mr. Harvey leaned forward in his chair once more, holding his unfinished correspondence by its corners to set it aside. He then plunked a large, leather-bound book before him. “How long did you work here before you left, Gwynna?”
“Ten years or so, sir.”
His eyes met hers under a raised brow. “Might I ask why you left? Did the work environment not suit?”
“No, sir. But I…” She glanced to Papa with a parted mouth.
What could she say? The work environment certainly had not suited, but that wasn’t why she’d left.
“She be needed at ‘ome,” Papa responded instead.
Mr. Harvey’s scrutinizing gaze shifted between them both, but he allowed them their secrets as he opened his book. “Have you any other children working here, Merrick?”
“No, sir. She be all we ‘ave…now.”
A hollowness expanded in Gwynna’s chest, as if her heart had stopped its beating. She’d grown accustomed to such emptiness. It had been there since June, just like the constant presence of Papa’s sunken shoulders.
Mr. Harvey glanced up. “Casualty in an accident?” His words were brief, but his tone had softened.
Papa raised his head in a sort of nod. “Yes, me son, Jago.” He cleared his throat. “We lost ‘im a few months back.”
She hung her head. Jago. Her parents’ only son, and Gwynna’s only sibling. He had been one of her closest friends, killed because…
But she wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on the accident, or how greatly she missed her brother. Not when she needed her courage fortified, preserved, for the work ahead.
“You have my condolences, Merrick,” Mr. Harvey said.
“Thank ye, sir.”
The mine captain paused, clearly wishing to say something more, but he redirected his attention to his book. He must have been as uncomfortable as Papa with the compassion he’d shown. “We’ve had a few bal maidens leave us recently, so you’ve come at the right time. I have a place in bucking that I think will suit you just fine.”
Gwynna dipped her head. Bucking. That was the last thing she wished to do, crushing rocks into powder, damaging her fingers, inhaling and tasting the dust of the copper ore. The task had to be one of the most grueling assignments at the mine, and she had suffered through it for nearly four years before advancing elsewhere.
Fortunately, Papa was not unaware of her feelings for the chore. He wrung his cap in his soot-covered fingers. “Sir, mightn’t there be a place here, in the count’ouse? Me Gwynna be a fine cook and a hard worker.”
A barely discernible huff came from the kitchen. The counthouse woman stared at Gwynna with beaded eyes, as if Gwynna had tracked horse manure across her clean floors.
Gwynna sniffed. She couldn’t smell anything beyond wet wood and smoke.
“We haven’t the need for more than one, I’m afraid,” Mr. Harvey said, his head still bowed as he uncapped his bottle of ink.
The woman raised her chin and walked triumphantly away, fiddling once more with the pans.
Thank goodness there wasn’t a place for Gwynna here. What a prison the counthouse would be, remaining inside, cooking, cleaning, and washing day in and day out, all with that woman lording over her. She’d almost prefer bucking.
Almost.
With a sidelong glance, she caught Papa’s eye. He was already staring down at her, shaking his head.
“Please?” she mouthed out.
He added a lowered brow to reaffirm his refusal.
They had discussed this the night before. Papa would push for the safest task for Gwynna, and she would not speak unless Mr. Harvey addressed her.
She didn’t blame Papa for his desire to acquire her a safe placement, especially after what happened to Jago. But this was a mine, and the duties where she could be out of harm’s way were few and far between.
She just couldn’t go back to bucking.
“Sir?”
“Gwynna,” Papa warned under his breath.
Mr. Harvey gl
anced up with a quirked brow. “Yes?”
Well, there it was. The mine captain was asking her a question. It would be rude not to answer him.
Sorry, Papa.
“I don’t mean to speak out o’ turn, sir. But I…I be better at spallin’.”
“Spalling?”
“Yes, sir. ‘Tis what I did ‘fore I left.”
Spalling wasn’t any easier than bucking, in her opinion, what with a larger hammer and more forceful hitting. But at least then she’d be out in the open air with a view of the sea. That was always a fine distraction, and a distraction was necessary during hard labor.
“Spalling,” Mr. Harvey repeated under his breath, mulling the word over.
Gwynna stood still as he eyed her from her boots to her head.
The previous mine captain had attempted to coerce many a maiden to, well, to engage in activities befitting a woman of ill repute. Fortunately, with Papa and Jago at the mine, he’d kept his distance from Gwynna. But that didn’t mean the mine captain didn’t leer at her from afar, discomfiting her in the worst way.
Mr. Harvey, however, was simply judging her capabilities—as was evident by the way his eyes skimmed away from where they ought not linger.
Rather than bestowing comfort, however, that realization cinched a knot around her hope, nearly severing it. She was taller than the average woman, it was true, but nearly half the width of the other bal maidens—a fact that was not in her favor.
She took a step forward. “I know I ain’t be as stuggy as the other maidens who be spallin’, but I can do the work, sir. I can.”
Mr. Harvey rubbed his jaw. He needed further convincing. Gwynna peered up at Papa with silent pleading.
His jaw twitched. Gwynna wouldn’t blame him if he dragged her right out of the counthouse with a severe scolding. In truth, she probably deserved it.
Fortunately, Papa blew out a heavy breath and faced Mr. Harvey. “‘Tis true, sir. Gwynna be stronger than she looks. She be the finest at spallin’ you’ll ever see. A keen eye for breakin’ the ore down, and she be determined. As ye can see now.”
Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3) Page 1