They rounded another corner just as Mrs. Parnell’s white feather from her headpiece disappeared into the dining room.
“Are you ready?” Mr. Trevethan whispered.
“I s’pose.”
“Worry not. Mrs. Hawkins has promised to occupy Mrs. Parnell, and I have been charged to help you through any situation that occurs. Simply follow my lead, and I promise you will leave unscathed this evening.”
Follow his lead. Follow Mr. Trevethan’s lead. Because she clearly wasn’t a lady who knew what to do on her own.
They entered the dining room, the grand red walls, floral plates, and forest green chair cushions shrinking her spirits. Perhaps she was that piece of lint she’d wished to be earlier.
Mrs. Parnell was already situated in her seat. Mr. Hawkins stood at the head of the table and motioned for Mr. Trevethan and Gwynna to take the chairs opposite Mrs. Parnell.
Gwynna moved to the chair directly in front of the woman, pulling it out herself before Mr. Trevethan’s hand rested on top of hers.
“Allow me.”
She withdrew in an instant and avoided his smile. Muttering a word of gratitude, she sat down and attempted to pull the chair in, but his grip prevented her, allowing only a slight movement forward before he took his place next to her.
Was she supposed to be this far from the table? There had to be a foot between her and her plate. How was she to avoid spilling or maintain her posture while eating?
The perpetual ache in her back moaned in protest as she straightened once more.
“I do apologize for keeping you,” Sophia said, rushing into the room with all the grace Gwynna didn’t have. “I’m afraid matters of the house never end.”
Mr. Hawkins pulled out the chair at the head of the table for his wife, then sat down at her left.
“Are you to sit there, Mr. Hawkins?” Mrs. Parnell shouted.
Gwynna eyed the chandelier above. She was sure the crystals trembled from the woman’s voice.
“This is not so formal an affair,” Sophia said with a smile that wasn’t convincing. “And we certainly wouldn’t wish for him to be seated alone at the far end of the table.”
“I prefer sitting close by my wife anyway,” Mr. Hawkins added.
They shared an affectionate smile, then Sophia situated something across her lap, Mrs. Parnell doing the same.
Gwynna raised her chin to see over the table. The napkin! Of course. Gwynna snatched hers and laid it across her dress, waiting to see what came next.
As the footman and butler served bowls of soup to the guests, Gwynna attempted to recall any of the information Sophia had thrown at her earlier, but as she stared at the forks, plates, and glasses, she had no idea which to use first.
Her cheeks pricked with heat. She’d practiced using a knife and fork for a few days alone in her room at night, but she was nowhere near proficient. The Hawkinses would ignore anything unsatisfactory. Mrs. Parnell might not notice, due to the large trays of food between them. But Mr. Trevethan…would he think less of her inability to eat properly and speak properly—to only dress the part, but not be the part?
When would she think logically again? The gentleman had witnessed her downing a glass of lemonade at the ball, brawling on a beach, and working through a bleeding wound. The only finesse he would expect from her would be when she wielded her hammer toward the ore at Wheal Favour.
As she’d said to him before, being a bal maiden was enough for her, even surrounded with such finery. Eating properly didn’t put food on the table. Well, not her table. She would simply do her best and worry not about impressing him.
Or at the very least she’d try to do so.
“I trust your parents are well, Miss Bell?” Mr. Trevethan asked, breaking into her thoughts.
The footman attending dinner that evening—who had only recently been hired and fortunately would not recognize Gwynna—placed a bowl of green pea soup before her.
She’d never been fond of peas.
“Y-yes, they be fine,” she answered distractedly.
She wrinkled her nose at the scent. Heavens, it was pungent. This was certainly not the smell she’d been enjoying outside the room.
Mr. Trevethan fell silent, and Mr. Hawkins struck up a conversation with Mrs. Parnell about London. Gwynna eyed the contents of her bowl. Was she expected to eat all of it?
At the other end of the table, Sophia slid the soup onto the side of her spoon and soundlessly lifted it to her lips.
With a pursed mouth, Gwynna finally did the same, pausing just before the soup could touch her lips. The scent accosted her nostrils, and she wished for nothing more than to push the bowl aside and ask for the meat she’d been smelling earlier. But she couldn’t offend Sophia.
Swiftly, she slipped the spoon into her mouth. The earthy flavor and slimy texture spread across her tongue like an earthworm slinking across overturned dirt. With a cringe, she swallowed the contents in a single gulp.
What a horrid vegetable. She could only pray the rest of the meal was better. She scooped up another bite before Mrs. Parnell fixated on Gwynna’s hand.
Gwynna studied her spoon. Was it too full? She hadn’t slurped it loudly. That much she remembered from Sophia’s instructions. So of what did the lady disapprove?
As Mr. Hawkins continued speaking, Sophia caught Gwynna’s attention and mouthed out a word.
Love? Gwynna frowned. Was she teasing about Mr. Trevethan’s feelings again? Gwynna looked away in a huff, about to suffer through another spoonful, but Mrs. Parnell’s brows arched all the more.
“Your gloves.”
Mr. Trevethan’s whisper reached only her ears.
Gloves, not love! She’d forgotten to remove her gloves.
She tried to set aside her embarrassment, but her face overheated again. Gwynna had readily accepted Sophia’s earlier tutelage, but Mr. Trevethan’s guidance was humiliating. She was a child who could never live up to his proper experience.
She lowered her spoon carefully, then slipped off her gloves, placing them atop her napkin on her lap. She reached for another spoonful and brought it to her lips as if she hadn’t made some grave error. Apparently, with the look Mrs. Parnell had given her, she had.
When the attention finally shifted, Gwynna could only manage a quick nod of gratitude to Mr. Trevethan, who simply smiled then returned to his soup.
He hadn’t teased her. He’d been speaking the truth then. He was simply there to help her through the evening.
She drew in easier breaths.
“How are your children, Mrs. Parnell?” Sophia asked.
Mrs. Parnell swallowed her bite, flickered a glance at Gwynna, then replied in a loud voice.
“They are well.”
As Gwynna flinched, the soup from her spoon dripped back down into the bowl, splashing over the edge with a plop. That was one way to be rid of it. Her eyes darted around her, but no one seemed to notice.
“And what of your grandchildren?” Mr. Hawkins asked next.
“What was that?” Mrs. Parnell questioned.
“Your grandchildren?”
“Oh, they are darling. I do dote on them.”
Gwynna gathered another spoonful, then forced it down, hardly allowing it a moment to touch her tongue. Much more of this, and she was sure her face would soon match the color of the soup.
“You don’t have to eat all of it, you know.”
The spoon hovered above her bowl, and she swiveled to face Mr. Trevethan, who’d spoken for only her to hear.
“What do ye mean?”
He motioned to her serving. “The soup. You don’t have to eat all of it if you’re not enjoying it. A few spoons will suffice.”
The tips of her ears burned. “Oh, I-I be enjoyin’ it,” she stuttered in a whisper.
To prove her words, she swallowed another mouthful, but it ended with an involuntary shudder.
Mr. Trevethan’s shoulders raised in a silent laugh, and the heat from her ears crept down to her ch
eeks.
She may as well begin by being humble now. She had a feeling she was going to experience many pride-swallowing moments with Mr. Trevethan that evening.
“Very well,” she conceded. “I be done now.”
“That is for the best. We wouldn’t wish for the evening to begin with you ill.”
His eyes shone with amusement as he returned to his bowl.
Before long, Gwynna bade a silent, cheerful goodbye to the last of the putrid soup as it was taken away by the footman.
Fortunately, the following food was everything she’d hoped it would be. The moment the lids were raised from the trays and bowls, the delectable scent pervaded the room—beef-steak, stuffed tomatoes, scalloped oysters, venison pie. It was a veritable feast for her eyes and nose.
Mr. Trevethan leaned toward her. “What looks appetizing to you?”
She scanned the trays. “All of it.”
He chuckled, and Gwynna laughed tensely in return. She hadn’t been joking. Was it impolite for her to sample everything?
“How about we begin with the items closest to us?” he suggested.
She nodded. She was fine with that, just so long as that beef-steak made it into her belly.
Mr. Trevethan worked to fill her plate and his at once. She cringed at his special service, but as Mr. Hawkins helped dish food onto Mrs. Parnell’s and Sophia’s plates, as well, she breathed a sigh of relief. This was just another way for a gentleman to help a lady.
She could grow accustomed to such aid.
Mr. Trevethan held out a bowl of peas before her. “I assume you wish to pass on these?”
She pulled back with a wrinkled nose. “Ye be right about that, sir.”
He set the peas aside, doing a poor job of hiding his smile.
When he finished, Gwynna stared at the food on her plate. The yellow boiled potatoes and bright orange carrots rivaled the colors of wildflowers at sunset, and the beef-steak warmed her stomach just by the sight of its juicy texture.
The soft clinking of dishes and quiet conversation pervaded the room. Everyone was focused on their own servings, which meant Gwynna could eat for a moment without anyone taking notice of her.
She plunged her fork into the meat first, awkwardly slicing into the steak, grateful for its tenderness to make the cut easier.
As she took a bite, the flavors spread through her mouth like a wave sliding up the beach. She loved pasties and stargazey pie as much as the next maiden, but this food was incomparable. What she wouldn’t give to have her parents join her, or Kerensa and her family.
Of course, she highly doubted any of them would have gone to the extent Gwynna had to eat at Fynwary Hall that evening, nor taken the risks. But Gwynna had, and by heaven, she was going to enjoy this meal if it was the last thing she did.
Providing she did nothing too embarrassing.
* * *
Jack took another bite of his potato to keep his smile at bay. He’d never been so delighted watching someone else eat. He’d never seen someone so delighted to eat.
Gwynna had done her best at playing the part of a lady, just like at the ball. She nearly hid her accent, sat straight in her seat, and walked with slow steps. If Jack didn’t know any better, he would have thought she was a lady.
But now, as she dug into her plate, sighing quietly with pleasure after each new bite, he knew this was a treat for her, and the sight was endearing—and humbling.
He’d never befriended anyone of the lower class before, and the thought of not having such food readily available, like Gwynna and the other miners, was sobering.
He couldn’t solve the problem for all of the lower class, but for Gwynna…
He pulled back, the potato in his mouth turning to mush. He had no idea where that thought had been headed, and he wasn’t about to find out.
He forced down his food, reverting his attention away from Gwynna and how adorable she’d been choking down the pea soup.
That girl was making his mind softer than the curls gracing her temples. Her innate goodness had caused him to feel remorse for the way he’d treated her at the ball, but once his time at Fynwary ended, he was headed straight for the assembly. He needed some distance from her to remember who he really was.
Perhaps he’d even suggest the usual game with Hugh. Spending time with another woman was sure to rid his mind of the bal maiden.
He shuffled his conscience to the bottom of his worries.
“From where did you say you hail, Mr. Trevethan?” Mrs. Parnell blurted out, interrupting his thoughts.
He lowered his fork and knife, grateful for the excuse to stop eating for a moment. The food he’d eaten tossed unsettled in his stomach. Had the potato been rotten? “I lived here in St. Just but spent the majority of my life with family in Bath.”
Gwynna continued to eat her food, but he didn’t need to notice that. He was only there to help her in case she fell into a spot of trouble.
“Oh, Bath,” Mrs. Parnell said. “A lovely city. But have you ever been to London?”
“Yes, I have been fortunate enough to do so.”
“What was that?”
He repeated his words, ready to have the conversation shift away from himself so he wouldn’t have to shout across the dinner table any longer.
“Ah, yes,” the old woman replied. She took a bite of her food then faced Gwynna. “And you, Miss Bell. I assume you’ve been to both cities. Which do you prefer?”
Gwynna’s cheeks blushed the color of cherries. Jack hadn’t wished for the attention to move to her, especially as she swallowed the great lump of food in her cheek and straightened in her seat. Mrs. Parnell was sure to have witnessed that.
“Oh…Bath?” came Gwynna’s weakened response.
Mrs. Parnell’s eyes narrowed just a fraction. “And what do you so enjoy about Bath?”
Gwynna blinked. She might have eventually concocted an answer, but Jack couldn’t bear the sight of her struggling any longer. After all, he’d promised to help her when needed. It’s certainly what a gentleman would do. Never mind that he hadn’t cared to be so very gentlemanly before. Tonight, with Gwynna, he did.
“We were only speaking of this the other day, were we not, Miss Bell?” he began. “I recall you mentioning your particular affinity for the Roman Baths.”
Gwynna clearly had no idea to what he was referring, but she pumped her head up and down all the same. “Oh, yes. The Baths.”
Mrs. Parnell pursed her lips, ready to pitch another question toward Gwynna, but Mrs. Hawkins jumped right in with words of her own.
“Has my mother-in-law spoken of Mr. Hawkins’s dislike for London, Mrs. Parnell?”
With the woman’s attention drawn away in defense of her beloved city, Gwynna leaned toward Jack once again. “Thank ye,” she murmured, pressing a hand to her cheek.
His eyes lingered a moment on her long fingers that ended with short nails framed in dirt.
She must have caught his stare, for she pulled her hand down, took one look at her fingers, then buried them in her lap. “I scrubbed them,” she whispered. “They just be hard to clean out.”
Instantly, Jack shook his head. “It matters not. I hardly care.”
Fool. What did it matter what he cared? She was no doubt more concerned over Mrs. Parnell noticing her hands. “And I’m certain she hasn’t noticed from where she is sitting,” he finished with a slight toss of his head.
She nodded, still ducking her head in shame.
This wasn’t right. Gwynna hadn’t done anything wrong. What could he do to withdraw the confidence she so often crowed?
He leaned toward her. “There’s nothing to be ashamed about. Your hands merely reveal what you have done for the sake of your family today. Just as Mrs. Hawkins’s does. She probably has…thread beneath her fingernails.”
Gwynna cracked a smile. As if the sun had just broken forth from heavy clouds and now graced his body, Jack’s chest swelled with warmth. He hadn’t intentionally helped another i
n quite some time. The fact that he was helping Gwynna only increased the potency of the emotion.
That warmth continued to grow as the meal progressed, and Gwynna’s confidence returned. She ate the meal heartily, though Jack noted she learned to chew her bigger mouthfuls when Mrs. Parnell was occupied chattering about the grandchildren she was to travel with in the south of the county.
Soon, the dessert was served, and plates filled with cherry tarts, apricot fritters, pear dumplings, and marbled jelly were revealed.
He could practically see Gwynna salivating for each platter, so he served a small helping of each piece onto her plate, doing the same for himself so she’d feel more comfortable. Fortunately, his stomachache had since mysteriously disappeared.
As he ate his pear dumpling, Gwynna dove into her cherry tart as if it might sprout legs and run from the table. Fortunately, Mrs. Parnell was so taken with her own food as to not notice.
However, when the woman suddenly exclaimed over her delight in the choices of dessert, Jack’s attention was drawn not to Mrs. Parnell, but straight back to Gwynna.
The poor girl must have been so focused on her cherry tart, she hadn’t been expecting the loud voice to call out again, and she jerked to attention. Her fork escaped her hand and clattered to her plate, flinging cherry across the table and toward Jack.
He jerked back, but it was too late. The tart splattered across his forehead and cheek, tumbling down his cravat and lapel of his jacket and ending in his lap.
“Oh!” Gwynna gasped. “I be that sorry, sir!”
Swiftly, she flung her napkin toward him, dabbing at his face and collar as he brushed aside the crumbs across his lap.
“Oh, it be stained,” she mumbled, apparently unaware of her reverting accent.
Mrs. Hawkins spoke from the head of the table. “That’s all right, Miss Bell. Accidents happen.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Hawkins agreed. “When I was younger, I spilled white soup all over my mother’s tablecloths and dining room floor. She rather enjoys telling the story. Have you heard it before, Mrs. Parnell?”
The couple were clearly trying to draw the old woman’s attention away from the struggling bal maiden, but Mrs. Parnell must have detected Gwynna’s slip of the tongue. Her lips tightened before she ultimately turned to Mr. Hawkins. “No, I don’t believe I have.”
Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3) Page 14