Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Mr. Davy was just as much Sophia’s guest as Gwynna was. If Gwynna refused this gentleman’s offer, hurting and offending him, the blame for her rudeness would be placed on the Hawkinses, as Gwynna was supposedly their cousin. How could she do such a thing after all they’d done to make this ball come about?

  Another moment passed in silence before Gwynna finally turned to Mr. Davy, replying in her broken accent, “I would be happy to dance with you, sir.”

  She winced at her slow, thick words, spoken as if sap from the trees near her home had stuck to the roof of her mouth and refused to budge.

  Mr. Davy seemed not to notice, simply offering his hand to Gwynna. As she placed her fingers on his, grateful for the gloves that hid her unladylike nails, she moved toward the dance floor.

  “Shall we join them, Mr. Hawkins?” Sophia said. She walked past Gwynna with a whisper to her ear. “One dance, then Mr. Hawkins and I shall see to your safe removal from Fynwary.”

  Gwynna drew a fortifying breath. One dance. She could manage one dance.

  Sophia stood a few couples down from her in the set, close enough to offer aid if need be but far enough to avoid suspicion.

  As the other dancers lined up behind them, Sophia called out the dance. “Bally Croy!”

  A hum of assent rippled through the crowds, and Gwynna sent a grateful glance to her friend. Sophia knew this was the dance with which Gwynna had the least amount of trouble.

  “Are you enjoying your stay in Cornwall, Miss Bell?”

  Gwynna glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowds for any sign of Mr. Trevethan. She thought he danced farther down the set, but she couldn’t be sure, as the dark jackets blended the gentlemen into one dark mass.

  After a moment, she spotted Mr. Pinnick standing near the dance floor. His eyes lingered on her with a slight smile. There was no hint of recognition, purely admiration.

  Gwynna curbed a discomfited shiver and shifted to the left to stand out of his sight. He clearly didn’t recognize her, but his observation was unsettling. What a spasm he’d have, knowing he was ogling a bal maiden.

  She would’ve felt that same pride at fooling him had she not been humbled by Mr. Trevethan’s sudden appearance.

  “Miss Bell?”

  Miss Bell? Blast. That was her.

  She faced Mr. Davy. “Sorry?”

  His smile had yet to falter. “I asked if you were enjoying your stay in Cornwall.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Are you to remain here longer with your cousins?”

  Gwynna disliked having to lie to this gentleman. She silently pleaded for Sophia’s aid, but Sophia was busy ensuring the other guests were lining up. There was nothing else to do now but pray the guests’ conversation drowned out her terrible attempt at speaking properly.

  “No, I am stayin’ in St. Ives with my friends the Fairmans. They would have come tonight, but they remained home, feelin’ too unwell to travel. I return to them this evenin’, then back to Bedfordshire soon after. I am looking forward to goin’ home.”

  Good heavens. She sounded like a stilted vicar over the pulpit on Sunday, incessantly droning on in memorized sermons. Sophia had told her to intersperse her pretended history throughout the dance. Now she had nothing left to say.

  Mr. Davy responded as if he didn’t take notice of her rehearsed words. “I am sorry to have not had the opportunity to spend more time with you.”

  Despite being stalked by two wolves—Mr. Pinnick’s admiring gaze and Mr. Trevethan’s potential knowing eyes—warmth enveloped Gwynna. What a gentlemanly thing for Mr. Davy to say. Then again, she shouldn’t have been surprised. He was, after all, a gentleman.

  A gentleman speaking to a bal maiden.

  “Have you ever been to the sea before?” he asked.

  She eyed the musicians, tapping her foot on the ground. When was the music going to begin? “Yes.”

  “Would you like for me to speak about myself now so you might remain silent?”

  Her eyes swung back to meet his grin. She gave a little laugh of relief. “Yes.”

  He nodded understandingly. “Not to worry. I’ve a little niece who isn’t partial to speaking either, which makes me rather adept at carrying on a one-sided conversation.”

  As he spoke more about his family situation, Gwynna couldn’t help but think on his kindness. This was how all men ought to be, kind, unassuming, aware of another person’s discomfort—with eyes that weren’t eating her up like the miners’ sons tended to do after too much drink.

  Not long after, the musicians played the first notes of the dance, and the movements began. Thankfully, the quick steps left little room for conversation, and the hops and turns used up any of their remaining energy.

  Gwynna was surprised she remembered so much. She miss-stepped fewer times than she could count on one hand, and each mistake was swallowed by another young lady farther down the line.

  This woman was dressed in yellow and stood out from the more muted colors around her, but her laughter was what drew most of the attention. She tripped over her partner’s foot a number of times and cackled before ending unceremoniously with a hiccup. If Gwynna didn’t know any better, she’d say the girl had somehow already had too much to drink.

  In truth, she was grateful for the ruckus the girl had created, for it provided a distraction for Gwynna. She only peeked over her shoulder through the crowds half a dozen times for Mr. Trevethan instead of the thousand she’d wanted to, and Mr. Pinnick had soon lifted his attention off of her and dropped it on the yellow dress, as well.

  When the song ended, applause and bright smiles filled the room, and Gwynna received an approving nod from Sophia before Mr. Davy led Gwynna off the floor.

  As they walked together, Gwynna glanced back at the woman in yellow, who was now being pulled away by a woman—no doubt her mother—with a fierce scowl. The daughter simply giggled and waved goodbye to her partner, who appeared as if he’d just been attacked by a gaggle of geese, his eyes as wide as teacups and his cravat askew.

  Gwynna and Mr. Davy stopped at the edge of the ballroom. Once satisfied Mr. Trevethan and Mr. Pinnick were nowhere to be seen, she faced Mr. Davy.

  “I must thank you for an invigorating dance, Miss Bell,” he said. “Mrs. Hawkins was quite right about your ability.”

  Gwynna nodded with silent gratitude.

  “I do hope we may dance again before you return home.”

  “And I,” she managed before curtsying. That one was much better.

  Mr. Davy departed after his bow.

  As soon as he left, Gwynna backed up against the outer wall near a window and released an airy sigh—not necessarily due to the gentleman, but because of his manners.

  A bow instead of a wink. Smiles instead of ogles. Polite conversation instead of gruff words. She’d never really been mistreated by the young men in her life or at the mine, apart from the occasional gawking or attempted kiss. But she’d certainly never been bowed to before. And that respect was something she could grow used to.

  But it wasn’t something she should grow used to.

  Her brow furrowed. This was a dangerous game. She’d done exactly what Papa had feared. She’d compared her life with Sophia’s and now longed for something she could never have.

  She needed to leave before she grew any worse—or before she was discovered.

  “Miss?”

  Gwynna jumped. She spun around, coming face-to-face with the very man she’d been attempting to avoid, the very man she’d allowed herself to forget for a single, neglectful moment.

  Instantly, she ducked her head.

  “Are you in distress of some sort, Miss?” Mr. Jack Trevethan asked.

  She felt like that wretched fish again, unable to speak, unable to move. But then, why had he spoken so casually? Did he not recognize her? Could she leave before he did?

  Keeping her eyes averted, she took a step back. Her slippers came in contact with the wall. Blast. Why did she have to slink back to the fa
rthest corner of the room? Now an easy escape would be impossible.

  “No, I be—I am well,” she finally answered.

  She peered around his shoulder. He stood between her and the door. She would no longer wait for Sophia to come to her aid. Gwynna would dart around him and flee to Sophia’s room, change back into her clothing, then slip out of the house with the help of Sophia’s lady’s maid.

  All she needed to do was maneuver around this man’s tall frame and she’d be free.

  “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you truly are well.”

  His voice was deeper than she’d imagined it to be. It came from low in his chest, rumbling like waves during a storm.

  “Might I be of service?” he pressed.

  Music sounded, and another dance began. Now would be the perfect moment to escape, while all eyes persisted on the dancers.

  “I am trying to-to make me way to the refreshment table,” she stuttered. “I am parched, see.”

  “Ah, well, allow me to fetch a glass of lemonade for you. You do like lemonade, do you not?”

  Was that a hint of humor in his tone? She couldn’t risk looking up at him to see if he smiled.

  She nodded in response.

  “I will return in just a moment.” He took a step back, and the tightness in her neck began to dissipate.

  Finally.

  She moved forward, intent on making her escape while he left, but he turned back to face her, and she dropped her gaze again.

  “Before I leave, I must say…you look rather familiar. Have we met before?”

  No, no, no! She longed to shout out the answer, but she knew it would only draw more attention to the fact that she was the very bal maiden his father had just hired, the very bal maiden at whom he’d smirked.

  Instead, she settled with a mumbled, “No.”

  “Are you quite certain?”

  Panic clawed at her chest like a maddened creature. She couldn’t do this any longer. She needed to escape now. “I think I’ll be gettin’ the lemonade meself,” she said, hardly aware of her faltering accent.

  She attempted to step around him, but he blocked her way.

  “Don’t be silly. Allow me to fetch it for you. My apologies for pressing you on the matter of our possible acquaintance. But I suppose you are correct. I’m certain I would precisely remember a face as lovely as yours.”

  Gwynna wasn’t sure whether to feel flattered, triumphant, or offended. Other miners had offered her flirtatious remarks before, but obviously never a gentleman. Of course, she was no great beauty like Sophia, but she wasn’t terribly ugly, either. So what did that say about her forgettable appearance, that Mr. Trevethan clearly noticed her before, and yet had no recollection of her “lovely” face now?

  With no response, she stepped to the other side of him. The only thing stopping her from merely running away from the gentleman was the thought of offending one of Sophia’s guests, something she wouldn’t allow herself to do.

  So she attempted to use politeness instead. “Please, excuse me, sir.”

  “Yes, of course. The lemonade.” He didn’t move. “Only, might I have your name? I would be indebted to you, if you agree to dance with me this evening.”

  He dipped his head to meet her gaze, but she pretended to smooth out the length of her glove. When did she obtain that red stain? Could she claim it was blood and feign a cut on her arm as an excuse to leave? No, that would simply draw more attention to herself.

  Searching for anything to help her in her escape, she finally recalled more of Sophia’s instruction.

  “I’d prefer to be properly introduced by the hostess, if ye—if you wouldn’t mine.”

  She curtsied then finally stepped around him. He reached out a hand to stay her, his fingers sliding along her silk glove. Flares of heat rushed through her skin before he released his hold.

  “But we do not need an introduction, do we?” he said.

  Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Why not?”

  Silence followed, unease creeping up her neck as she finally, reluctantly, met his eyes.

  Mr. Trevethan was more handsome than she recalled, his half-smile charming, his hair blacker than the night. And his eyes, those dark, penetrating eyes revealed exactly what she feared.

  He took a step toward her, causing her to crane her neck to maintain eye contact. “Because we have already been introduced, have we not, Gwynna Merrick?”

  Gwynna’s heart sunk deeper than the shaft at Wheal Favour. He’d spoken softly enough for no one else to hear, but not one person, not even Mr. Pinnick, mattered in comparison to this man, the son of her employer. Who somehow, for some reason, had remembered her name.

  She was done for.

  She leaned forward, lowering her voice as her façade disappeared. “Please, sir. I beg ye not to tell. I be sorry I’m here, dressed in such a way. I need me work at the mine. Please, don’t tell your father.”

  His smile faltered, the light in his eyes dimming for a brief moment before he shook his head. “Worry not. I shan’t say a word to anyone.”

  The breath rushed from her lungs, and she placed her hands to her lips. “Oh, thank ye, sir. Bless ye.”

  Mr. Hawkins had certainly been right. This Mr. Trevethan was as kind as his father. She took a step away from him, nodding her head with gratitude once more. She’d made her decision. She was going to leave. This man had just saved her place at the mine, and she wasn’t going to risk losing it again by anyone else recognizing her.

  She bounced on the tips of her toes and made to turn around, but his voice stopped her once more. “I won’t tell a soul…on one condition.”

  Her smile faded, and her feet flattened. “Condition?”

  He took a step toward her. His smile wasn’t like Mr. Davy’s—kind and welcoming. It was charming, but unnervingly so.

  “Yes. I will keep this little secret between us, and you can keep your place at the mine. But you must simply agree to save your next dance for me and then take a small stroll with me in the gardens. Alone.”

  He motioned over his shoulder to where large glass doors led out to the veranda.

  Her eyebrows pulled together. Why in heaven’s name would this gentleman wish to dance with a bal maiden and then speak with her in the privacy of the gardens? Would it not harm his reputation? Wouldn’t it…

  Her eyes found his once more. His brow hovered above his dark eyes in a daring gaze, and the provocative look on his face finally revealed his true intent.

  Sophia had told her what the gardens were typically used for—secluded strolls with one’s intended, secret kisses to be shared unseen. Most gentlemen would avoid the compromising situation in which one could find oneself in the gardens.

  Now she understood. He did not have the same kind eyes as Mr. Davy or Mr. Hawkins, or even the other gentlemen she’d seen that evening, because Mr. Trevethan was no gentleman.

  Her eyes hardened as the realization of his request continued to sink in. She was to do as he asked or forfeit her place at the mine, thereby sacrificing her family’s livelihood. Did he think her so void of morals, so destitute, that she would accept his offer?

  Instead of fear gripping her, or worry over what she would do, a coolness chilled her. She straightened to her full height, though she still stood a half-foot shorter. With eyes she knew perfectly reflected her anger, she began.

  “How dare ye suggest such a thing. How dare ye assume I’d do such a thing.”

  His smile remained, unfaltering as she pressed on. A few glances were sent in their direction, but she paid them no heed.

  “Ye can tell your father, ye can tell me parents. Tell all of Cornwall if ye wish. I’d gladly lose me work at Wheal Favour if that meant I’d not ‘ave to work anywhere near the likes of ye.” With a pointed finger she lowered her voice to what she hoped was a menacing level. “Ye ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

  For a single, fleeting moment, uncertainty flickered in his dark eyes, but it was soon overpowered by his
flippant smile.

  With a disgusted shake of her head, Gwynna left the man behind, forcing her footsteps to remain calm and calculated across the ballroom. She would not reveal any sign of weakness, just like she wouldn’t be intimidated into compromising her values.

  She was finished. Finished with Mr. Trevethan, with the ball, and with high society as a whole. Let the upper class keep their entitled, so-called gentlemen.

  She, for one, was over them.

  Chapter Four

  Gwynna raised the long-handled hammer overhead and plunged it through the August air with all the force she could muster. As the blunt, iron head made contact with the ore, pieces of the rock flew through the air, a number of them pelting her skirts.

  She raised the hammer again, ignoring the throbbing muscles in her back and the stinging in her hands.

  Crack!

  One more piece broke into fragments, clacking as they bounced against each other.

  Crack!

  Another swing, another direct hit. Gwynna had forgotten how satisfying this was. Not many women were capable of cracking the ore apart in one swift blow, but she’d always had a knack for the task. Even the three months away hadn’t lessened her ability in that regard.

  What the three months had done was prevented her body’s remembrance of the fortitude required for such a work. Every inch of her muscles ached, from the small of her back to the blisters burgeoning on her fingers.

  She winced, gripping onto the ash handle of her hammer. She eyed the curved markings in the light wood—a mere excuse to give her a moment’s respite—then swung the tool once more toward the ground.

  The pressure of the blast vibrated up the handle and throughout her hands with each strike, despite the makeshift gloves she wore. The pain would have been unbearable, had she not the sea to distract her.

  The waves roared, a constant rumble hundreds of feet below as the water heaved itself at the mercy of the cliff’s rugged confines. Seagulls’ piercing cries punctuated the air above the water. Now that the mine’s midday meal was finished, they’d abandoned their unsuccessful search for food from the miners and moved instead to the sea.