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

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  “Have ye any in other colors? Per’aps blue or brown?” she asked.

  “Yes, of course.”

  As Shirley returned the stockings to the drawer and pulled out another, Gwynna glanced to her left where a few bands of fabric were displayed at her side near the counter.

  A lovely red silk stood out among the others with stitched floral designs throughout. She glanced to Mrs. Follett, who still focused on her writing. If the shopkeeper caught her touching the fabric, she’d accuse Gwynna of spoiling it with her unclean, maiden hands.

  She’d be smarter for keeping her fingers to herself, but the temptation was too great.

  With slow movements, Gwynna reached forward and stroked the smooth cloth that draped all the way to the spotless floor. It felt very much like the dress she’d worn at the ball. Would she ever be able to wear such fine clothing again?

  Her brow lowered. She ought to be grateful for what she’d had the opportunity to do. Besides, it’s not like she wanted to go through the anxiety of that situation again. Although, without Mr. Trevethan’s sudden appearance, she had been enjoying herself immensely.

  Shirley returned to the counter with more stockings in hand, and Gwynna snatched her fingers away from the fabric.

  “How about these, miss?”

  As Gwynna examined the brown stockings, the bell above the door jingled, and more customers entered the shop.

  “Oh, good morning!” Mrs. Follett’s cheerful voice mimicked the ringing bell. “What can I help you both with this lovely day?”

  The customers were obviously wealthier than Gwynna. That wouldn’t be difficult. Most people in St. Just earned more than miner families.

  Instead of eying the fine women in their no-doubt silk dresses, Gwynna focused harder on the stockings. They were all fairly simple, in varying shades of brown with very little decoration.

  As she debated between two pairs, the conversation trailed toward the back of the shop.

  “We were walking by and couldn’t help but notice your lovely window display. I wonder, might we see the parasols a little closer?”

  “Why, of course,” Mrs. Follett happily agreed.

  The patter of their feet crossed the wooden floor.

  “These are the latest fashion, as I’m sure your fine eye can see.”

  Gwynna picked up a simple, brown pair. These would do nicely for Mama.

  “Oh, yes,” the customer responded. “These are as fine as any I’ve seen in London or Bath. What do you think, Jack?”

  Gwynna dropped the stockings onto the counter, her fingers rigid. It was just a coincidence. She was sure of it. Mr. Trevethan wasn’t here. There were no doubt a plethora of gentlemen in St. Just with the same name.

  But there was no mistaking his deep, buttery tone. “Oh, I’m sure I know nothing of the fashion of parasols.”

  With a subtle shift of her feet, Gwynna leaned closer to the counter, further hiding herself behind the swaths of fabric. She pressed a hand to her brow. What was the possibility they’d run into each other in town, at the modiste’s no less?

  There really was no need to hide. He wouldn’t be speaking with her, just like at the mine. Until, of course, they’d been safely hidden behind the counthouse.

  But here, they were in a public space with three other women present—one of whom was potentially his betrothed. The most he’d do was regard Gwynna with a knowing smile, which she wasn’t even obligated to return.

  “Of course you do,” the female voice—whom Gwynna was now certain was the same woman who’d been at the mine—responded. “I chose you to join me here for a reason. You have a far greater fashion sense than my brother.”

  “Miss?”

  Gwynna’s eyes swung up. Shirley tipped her head with a look of concern. “Are you well?”

  Gwynna nodded, leaning closer to the counter and pointing to the stockings she’d just dropped. “‘C-‘course. I’ll take these pair, please.”

  Shirley gave her an odd look after Gwynna’s whisper, then reached for a small brown paper and strand of twine. As she wrapped the stockings for Gwynna, the conversation at the front of the shop continued.

  “Well, I may not know if it’s the latest fashion,” Mr. Trevethan was saying, “but it certainly becomes the blue in your eyes.”

  “Oh, you are such a charmer, Jack.”

  A gnawing picked at Gwynna’s stomach, as if she hadn’t eaten in days. Yes, he certainly was a charmer. How would this woman feel, knowing Mr. Trevethan had asked a maiden to kiss him?

  “Here you are, miss,” Shirley said, sliding the package toward her on the counter. “That will be two shillings and six pence.”

  Gwynna fished out her coin purse and pulled out the correct change, setting them in Shirley’s outstretched hand before retrieving the brown package, freshly tied with the twine.

  “Come back again, miss,” Shirley said with a smile.

  Gwynna nodded, grateful for the girl’s kindness, despite the unease erupting inside her. As Shirley busied herself returning the stockings to the drawers, Gwynna took an overtly long time situating the stockings in her basket.

  With a sidelong glance, she discovered Mr. Trevethan and the woman still facing the window with their backs turned toward her. If she made a run for it right now, she’d be able to sneak past them without notice. Then she didn’t have to ignore or acknowledge him.

  In swift movements, she retrieved her basket from the counter and spun on her heel, darting forward.

  She only managed a single step before her boot caught in the red silk. The shredding of fabric split the air as Gwynna tumbled to the ground, landing on her hands and knees. Her basket and its contents scattered across the floor, as did what little vanity she’d had before that moment.

  Apples rolled underneath the stools, the stockings hit the bottom of the counter, and nails rattled as they bounced out of their box and across the wood. The sack of oats burst open, splaying the off-white grains in a skewed circle across the floor.

  Gwynna’s knees and palms stung from her fall, as did her cheeks, burning hotter than Wheal Favour at noonday in June.

  Not a split second passed by before the clatter from her tumble was replaced by Mrs. Follett’s cries and angry footsteps.

  “Oh, oh, my goodness!” she said, pulling the red fabric through her fingertips. “You’ve ruined it!”

  Gwynna scrambled across the floor, praying she might gather her belongings before Mr. Trevethan and his—well, whoever she was—joined them. “I be sorry, Mrs. Follett,” she mumbled, scooping the nails up in her palms and dumping them freely into her basket, not bothering about the pricks she received.

  Mrs. Follett still hovered above her. “Well, I see no way around this apart from you simply paying for the damage done. At least a yard of it.”

  Gwynna’s chest tensed. She shot a quick glance up, noting a long tear straight up the edge of the fabric. Mrs. Follett would require her to buy a yard, even if the tore stretched only a few inches away from the edge? How could Gwynna afford to do such a thing? “Ma’am, I don’t—”

  “Is that really necessary?” Mr. Trevethan’s voice cut through her own.

  What Gwynna wouldn’t give just to leave the shop right now. How could she have allowed this to happen? She could only imagine his look of amusement. Although, his tone had sounded void of humor.

  His boots stopped before her, and he hunkered on the ground, retrieving the bag of oats carefully to salvage as much of the grain as possible.

  “I’m sure no harm was meant by the maiden, Mrs. Follett,” he said as he moved next to the nails.

  “Oh, do not harm yourself, Jack,” the lady warned. “Your leather gloves would provide greater protection.”

  “That is all right, Miss Paxton,” he responded, still grasping his gloves in one hand as he gathered the remaining nails with his other.

  Gwynna tried not to notice the pucker in the lady’s brow, in Miss Paxton’s brow, at being ignored.

  “But-
but the damage cannot be undone,” Mrs. Follett continued.

  “Yes, I can see that,” Jack said, “but it was an accident. You can salvage the rest of the silk, or if that does not suffice, I will pay for the damage done.”

  Gwynna’s cheeks flamed. Was he defending Gwynna because he knew she couldn’t afford such fabric, or simply to be nice? She didn’t need him to fight her battles. Though, Mrs. Follett was more likely to listen to a gentleman than a maiden.

  The floor creaked as he stood, and Gwynna reached for the stockings and the last apple she could find.

  “Just a moment, Jack,” Miss Paxton said, moving around to caress the fabric. “This red is quite lovely, and truthfully, I see no point in your purchasing fabric you shall never use. No, I shall buy the fabric and enough to make a new gown. Mrs. Follett, I’m sure that will satisfy the debt?”

  Mrs. Follett’s expression shifted from lividity to sheer pleasure. “How very generous of you. Indeed, it will, Miss Paxton.”

  The young woman no doubt missed the modiste’s joy, for Miss Paxton’s stares belonged solely to Mr. Trevethan.

  Gwynna secured the last of the items in her basket, scooping up what was left of the oats and dumping them to the bottom. She pressed a hand to the floor to stand, pausing as Mr. Trevethan’s fingers hovered before her.

  Was he…offering to help her stand? Had he lost all sense, forgotten she wasn’t a lady and could simply rise on her own? She should do just that and flee from the shop as quickly as her legs could carry her.

  But then, how could she deny his kind offering, especially after what he and Miss Paxton had just done for her, saving her weeks’ worth of wages?

  She swallowed, her mouth dry as she placed her callused fingertips into his outstretched palm. His fingers curled around hers, his thumb resting just below her knuckles as he pulled her gently up. Warmth tiptoed from her fingertips to her arms until it enveloped the whole of her chest.

  Their eyes met as she stood. His lips parted, his gaze intent. Was he considering how rough her hands were, especially when compared to Miss Paxton’s?

  He blinked then finally released her, holding his hands behind his back as he cleared his throat. “Are you hurt, after your fall?”

  “No, sir,” she murmured. “Thank ye, to ye both.”

  She nodded to Miss Paxton, who handed her an apple Gwynna hadn’t seen.

  “I ought to be thanking you,” she said with an easy smile. “Were it not for the mishap, my attention might not have been drawn to this fine silk.”

  Gwynna couldn’t detect a hint of malice in the woman’s tone, but her cheeks still stung.

  After another ignored apology to Mrs. Follett, Gwynna lowered her head and darted from the room, not bothering to stop for a stray apple she spotted tucked beneath another swath of fabric. The fruit wasn’t worth another potentially embarrassing moment before Jack Trevethan.

  At least there was one bright spot in all of this mess. She hadn’t done anything that would require him to keep a secret.

  This time.

  Chapter Seven

  “Then I just ran out the door and straight here without stoppin’. I be tellin’ ye, Sophia. ‘Twas awful.”

  As she finished her tale, Gwynna buried her face in her hands, rubbing away the dull ache in her temples that had surfaced from reliving the memories of the past week.

  She’d just spent the last quarter of an hour sitting on an iron bench at the edge of Fynwary Hall’s gardens, reiterating to Sophia all that had occurred between herself and Mr. Trevethan—from the threats at the ball to his helping her that afternoon at the shop. Now all she wanted was to burrow under the ground like the rabbits who’d hidden from her as she passed by their home on her way to the estate.

  “I’m so sorry all of this has occurred,” Sophia said, placing a comforting hand on Gwynna’s shoulder. “Had I any knowledge of it, especially Mr. Trevethan’s behavior at the ball, I assure you, Mr. Hawkins and I would have been the first to defend you.”

  Gwynna plopped her hands into her lap with a heavy sigh. “I know, but don’t worry. I ain’t be too upset about that. Not anymore, at any rate. I be more horrified at fallin’ in front of ‘im. I’ve ne’er been so embarrassed in me whole life.”

  Sophia stared. “So you aren’t offended by his threatening you?”

  “I certainly ain’t be justifyin’ his behavior. But I can’t be mad about it, as he’s more than made up for it by keepin’ me secrets.”

  Sophia hummed in response as she seemed to consider Gwynna’s words. Gwynna shifted against the bench. The small cushion she sat upon did very little to prevent the ironwork from numbing her backside.

  A red-breasted robin chirped from a nearby ash tree, the sun peering through its rustling leaves above like a child moving back and forth to see baked goods inside a shop window.

  Her stomach rumbled. She should’ve taken Kerensa up on her offer to go to the inn. Gwynna would’ve had pocket money left over to still purchase Mama’s stockings—and then she would have missed seeing Mr. Trevethan altogether.

  “Do you find him an upstanding gentleman?” Sophia asked, breaking through the silence. Her eyes focused on the grass nearby. “Or do you feel discomfited around him?”

  Gwynna knew what Sophia was hinting at—did Gwynna feel Mr. Trevethan would ever take advantage of her?

  In an instant, she shook her head. “No, I ain’t never felt uncomfortable ‘round ‘im. Not in that way. But I be nervous only ‘cause he be botherin’ with me. Helpin’ at the shop, talkin’ and askin’ questions. I can’t understand why he be so interested in me.”

  Sophia leaned back against the bench, her eyes taking on a faraway look. “I do wish I knew more about his upbringing. I know very little of him or his family, apart from his mother dying when he was a child.”

  “I didn’t know that.” Gwynna frowned. The familiar ache of empathy within her. “Do ye know what ‘appened?”

  “Only that she was very often ill due to a weak constitution. After her passing, his father sent Mr. Trevethan to live with family in Bath, as he could no longer care for his son.”

  Gwynna rubbed the heel of her hand against her chest to dispel the pain in her heart. So not only had Mr. Trevethan lost his mother, but also, in a sense, his father. Losing Jago had been an insurmountable struggle for her, but she didn’t know what she’d do without her parents.

  “His lack of parental love might explain his behavior. Or perhaps there is another reason.” Sophia glanced sidelong at Gwynna.

  “What be that then?” she asked.

  “He has taken a liking to you.”

  Gwynna gaped. “Mr. Trevethan, to me? Sophia, ye be mad.”

  Leaning forward, Sophia’s smile grew. “Can you imagine if it were true, though? Would you be opposed to him liking you?”

  “Well, ‘course not, but I…” She blinked, her mouth opening and closing as she fished for the right answer. “It be nice to ‘ave any ‘andsome man’s attention, but ‘tis a ridiculous idea.”

  Ridiculous though it may be, her spirits brightened, as if a fire had been lit in a dark cove. Still, she turned her back on it. It wouldn’t do to dwell on wishful thinking. Especially when Mr. Trevethan could very well be engaged to Miss Paxton.

  No, especially because Mr. Trevethan was a gentleman, and Gwynna was still a bal maiden.

  Uncomfortable with where the conversation had gone—and with how her stomach now rolled like the apples across the modiste’s floor—Gwynna stood, rubbing the ache in the small of her back as she retrieved her basket resting on the bench. “I best be goin’, Sophia. I wish to stay, but Mama’ll be needin’ ‘elp with dinner soon.”

  Sophia stood. “Allow me to walk with you. I had Mrs. Patten bake a few small items for your family. I’d hate to have you return home empty-handed.”

  Gwynna smiled with gratitude as she followed Sophia toward the house, where her lady’s maid awaited outside with a basket.

  Every visit, Sophia se
nt Gwynna home with freshly baked bread or pie, new needles and thread, or full baskets of potatoes or apples—all on top of another weekly delivery of food for the Merricks.

  “Ye don’t need to do this every time, Sophia,” Gwynna said, her already full basket now overflowing with biscuits and tartlets. “Especially not now that I be workin’ again.”

  The lady’s maid curtsied then walked back to the house as Sophia waved a flippant hand. “It is my pleasure. I owe a great deal to you and your parents, as you well know. Besides, food is the only way I am allowed to help you, after you declined all of my other efforts.”

  She shot a pointed look at Gwynna, though her lips still held a whisper of a smile.

  Along with a constant supply of food, Sophia often extended help to Gwynna in other ways, including volunteering to teach her to read and offering to hire her as a maid or companion.

  Naturally, Gwynna had declined each offer. Not only did she fail to see the value in learning to read as a lower class female, she also couldn’t fathom being in service, especially now that she’d resumed her work at Favour. Servants were beholden to their masters day and night and were required to adhere to strict guidelines. As difficult as spalling was, she wouldn’t give up the freedom she tasted as a maiden.

  Still, Sophia’s offerings had been made from the goodness of her heart, and Gwynna hated to appear ungracious. “I be ‘appy at the mine and with me work there, Sophia. But I hope ye know how grateful I be for your ‘elp.”

  Sophia looped her arm through Gwynna’s as they traversed to the front of the house, their footsteps brushing against the smooth, catered grass. “I’m truly pleased that you are happy. I do hope you will let me know if there is anything more I might do to help you and your family.”

  They shared a smile. Gwynna secured her grip on her heavy basket and nudged a playful shoulder against Sophia’s. “I’d make the same offer for ye, but there ain’t nothin’ a maiden could do to ‘elp a lady.”

  Sophia moved her eyes away in silence. Had Gwynna said something to upset her? “What be the matter?”