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

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  As they spoke, Gwynna continued dabbing at Jack’s cravat and jawline, the nearby footman cleaning up the cherries across the tablecloth. “I be such a fool,” she mumbled to herself.

  Jack didn’t know how badly his clothing was stained, nor did he care. He was more concerned with why he’d been struggling to draw in a steady breath since the moment Gwynna had touched him.

  “Worry not.” Why was his voice so hoarse? He cleared his throat. “I’m sure it’s nothing that can’t be washed out.”

  Their eyes met, and her hand froze, as if she’d only now realized their proximity. Straightaway, she pulled back, dropping her napkin to her plate and lowering her gaze.

  Jack blinked and reached for his glass, needing to wet his suddenly parched throat. It must have been the dumpling. Surely nothing else could have caused the dryness.

  Chapter Nine

  Gwynna’s appetite vanished, as did what little remained of her pride. Red-faced, she sunk low in her seat, longing to hide behind the dining room table. Surely that’s where an insignificant piece of lint belonged.

  “Well, ladies,” Sophia said, standing from her seat, “shall we leave the gentlemen to their port?”

  Gwynna darted up from her chair, but she only managed a few steps before Mr. Trevethan called out to her. Or rather, to the woman she could never be. “Miss Bell?”

  He bent toward the floor, picking up her gloves splayed out across the rug. They must have fallen in her mad dash to inappropriately swipe her napkin across the gentleman’s face.

  With a murmur of gratitude, she retrieved the gloves then followed the ladies promptly from the room, pulling the smooth silk up her arms. She was glad to be covering up her filthy nails again, even if Mr. Trevethan’s attempt to ease her embarrassment had worked.

  That is, until she noted the red marks streaked across the delicate fabric—yet another pair she’d ruined. Now she remembered Sophia’s earlier advice.

  Place her gloves beneath the napkin. Little good the knowledge did her now.

  With dragging heels, Gwynna reached the drawing room after the others. Mrs. Parnell situated herself on the same chair nearest the fire, but Sophia stood at the doorway, waiting for Gwynna.

  “Are you all right?” she whispered.

  Gwynna raised her arm to reveal the cherry stain on the underside of the glove. “I’ll replace them for ye.”

  “Worry not. I have plenty to spare.”

  Of course she did. Gwynna lowered her arms, then motioned to where Mrs. Parnell sat awaiting them, her beady eyes peering from across the room. “We’d best return to your guest.”

  Sophia stayed focused on Gwynna. “I must ensure you are well first.”

  Gwynna strapped a smile on her lips, no longer wishing to be a burden on her friend. She was certain she’d already ruined the evening for her.

  “I am well,” she blurted out louder than necessary. The proper words sat thickly at the tip of her tongue.

  Before Sophia could reassure her again—and Gwynna could disbelieve her again—Gwynna moved across the room with what she hoped was an elegant pace.

  Sophia did her best to keep Mrs. Parnell’s attention away from Gwynna, but time and time again, the woman’s focus shifted toward her, lines encircling her pursed lips like weedy petals on a dying flower.

  “Have you any siblings?”

  “When did your governess leave you?”

  “Do you play any instruments?”

  Gwynna was sure Mrs. Parnell suspected her lower status. There was no hiding it, for what lady spoke so brokenly, didn’t know how to play the pianoforte, and volleyed a cherry tart across a gentleman’s face?

  After what had to be the longest half hour of her life, in which Gwynna would far rather be doing anything else, even bucking ore at the mine, the gentlemen finally came through.

  Matters did not get any better, however, as her fear of embarrassing herself increased tenfold. Mr. Trevethan stood farther away from her than earlier. She was grateful for the distance, but his eyes continually drifted toward her, no doubt to ensure she hadn’t spilt tea across her gown—which she’d somehow managed to avoid, even with Mrs. Parnell’s shouting.

  As the woman droned on about a small dog she was contemplating purchasing—“I am leaning more so toward pugs. I have a certain affinity for their darling facial expressions”—Sophia stepped across the room to deposit her teacup and saucer on the tea table before returning to her seat.

  Could Gwynna do the same without being considered rude? She debated for a moment before ultimately deciding it was better to be rude and leave for a moment than be rude and shout at the woman to terminate her incessant talking.

  She retraced Sophia’s steps and placed her cup and saucer next to hers. Well, that hadn’t taken as long as she’d hoped.

  She glanced over her shoulder. All eyes still focused on Mrs. Parnell.

  “I do wonder what will be the required maintenance of such an animal, though, and if he will enjoy my grandchildren as I do. I have mentioned my grandchildren to you, have I not? I have four now, and they are delightful angels. I do dote on them.”

  Gwynna closed her eyes. She couldn’t sit through another moment of it. Facing forward, she turned toward a nearby window where the golden haze of the evening sun poured rays of light through the glass.

  If she could just look outside for a single moment, she was sure she could handle another hour of this woman’s conversation.

  Holding her breath, she tiptoed across the floor, praying to be overlooked as she stepped into the sunlight. Instantly, her nerves slipped around her, like a wave cascading down the sides of a rock, pooling at her feet.

  Staring out across the grass, she imagined she was standing before the sea, water speckling her face, wind playing with her hair.

  This was what she needed. Time away. A moment to breathe, relax. To realize what was occurring that evening didn’t matter. She wasn’t a lady, and that was fine. She didn’t need to be a lady to earn money for her family. She didn’t need to be a lady to be happy in her life.

  Her neck lost its rigidity, and her face cooled of the blush she’d feared would soon become a permanent addition to her cheeks.

  “May I join your escape?”

  Warmth crept up her neck at Mr. Trevethan’s whispered tone. Blast. She’d almost been rid of her embarrassment. Would it begin all over again?

  “I-I wasn’t escapin’.”

  Fortunately she didn’t have to hide her accent, being far enough from the others so Mrs. Parnell might not hear.

  Mr. Trevethan stepped to her side, his jacket sleeve brushing against her arm. She traced the trees outlined in the blinding light of the sun, willing her breathing to remain level.

  “So using your teacup as an excuse to leave the conversation was simply by accident?” he questioned.

  When would she learn to remember his astuteness? “All right, I be escapin’. I just can’t take another minute of her shoutin’.”

  Mrs. Parnell’s voice carried across the room at that very moment. “Oh, and I’ve been to see Dr. Kent. He says my aches and pains are all part of my old age. I do wonder how old he thinks I am. I am not so very aged as to be happy with a permanent aching in my muscles.”

  At least her and Mr. Trevethan’s words would go unheard if the woman continued.

  “That is precisely the reason I’ve come to join you,” he said. “To allow my ears a moment of reprieve.”

  She eyed his stained clothing. She may be better for his ears, but certainly not for his cravat.

  “Does that mean I ain’t be allowed to speak of me own aches and pains?” she joked.

  He stared down at her without a hint of a smile. “Have you many, due to the mine?”

  She ignored the ache in her back that pulsed at the mere thought. She hadn’t meant to complain. “No more than usual, sir. Other girls ‘ave had to stop from shortness o’ breath. But I be strong enough.”

  Two sparrows chased each other a
cross the sky, swooping in circles, wings splayed out to catch the wind. If Gwynna focused hard enough, she could imagine hearing their joyful chirping instead of Mrs. Parnell.

  “And what of this? Did you acquire this at the mine?”

  “Acquire what, sir?”

  He reached over, stroking his forefinger down the back of her arm, from the end of her sleeve to the top of her glove. Her insides surged in surprise. The birds flitted behind a tree. Mrs. Parnell’s voice no longer reached her ears. She could see, hear, feel nothing besides the chills of pleasure cascading down her arm.

  He withdrew his hand in an instant, staring down at her with focused eyes. Her frenzied thoughts spun round her mind, unable to comprehend his words.

  “The scar,” he clarified, “on the back of your arm.”

  Scar? Scar. She crossed her arm over her stomach, placing her finger where he’d just caressed her skin with his smooth glove. Even through her own glove, she could feel the markings of the wound she’d acquired years before. Heat rushed through her body in what she could only assume was a sign of her embarrassment. She was certain her gloves would’ve hidden the marking. At least her now-scabbed injury she’d received from the wayward rock was hidden by the curls at her temple.

  “May I ask how you obtained it?”

  She tightened her grip on her arm and turned to fully face the window. “I was eleven, bein’ reckless and playin’ near the machinery at the mine. The back of me skirt caught onto one of the gears and pulled me in. Lucky me brother be there to pull me out ‘fore I died, crushed to death like a girl the year ‘fore that.”

  Mr. Trevethan was silent for a moment. Had she shared too much? Surely he was aware of the deaths that could occur at Favour.

  “How old was your brother when he saved you?” he asked, his voice low.

  “Only nine at the time, ‘fore he started work below ground.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t imagine. What a remarkable boy.”

  Pain twisted in her chest. He was remarkable. Her best friend. He’d saved her life, and yet, she couldn’t save his.

  Mr. Trevethan’s brow drew high with compassion. “The heartache never leaves. But the pain does become easier to bear.”

  Of course he would know how she felt. His own mother had died. “Thank ye, sir. That be good to know.”

  A look of understanding passed between them, and a peace Gwynna hadn’t felt in months settled around her shoulders like a blanket dried and warmed by the fire.

  He was right. The pain, she knew, would be there forever. But somehow, having someone else to share in her grief eased her burden.

  A moment passed. Mrs. Parnell’s words barely reached them before Mr. Trevethan spoke again.

  “Have you any other siblings?” he asked.

  “No, Jago was me only brother. Me mother had four other children, but they all died young ‘fore me and Jago were born.”

  “How terrible that must have been for your parents.”

  Gwynna nodded. Deaths in mining families, and the lower class in general, was a recurrent nightmare. Papa had lost most of his siblings, as well, including his dearest sister, Meraud, when she was only a young woman.

  “Me parents always said they wanted a large family. But now with Jago gone, I be all they ‘ave left.”

  “I see now why your father wished for you to remain away from the mine.”

  She hummed a response, dropping her hands from her arms, her scar long forgotten. “And what of ye, Mr. Trevethan. Have ye any siblings?”

  He drew in a deep breath and responded in a sigh. “No, I was never fortunate enough. My mother did not bear children easily, due to her poor constitution. She always told me I was enough for her. Though I’m fairly certain she meant I was too much for her.”

  Gwynna narrowed her eyes. “Were ye as difficult as ye are now?”

  He smiled, looking down to the floor. “Believe it or not, I was perfectly behaved as a boy.”

  “I don’t believe ye, sir.”

  “No, no. It’s true. I never did anything wrong. I ate my vegetables. Wore my coat when I was told. Spoke kindly to my elders.”

  “Never asked a girl ye just met to kiss?”

  He chuckled. “No, never that. I wouldn’t dream of that.”

  “Heavens.” She feigned an exaggerated look of surprise. “Now I be wonderin’ what ‘appened to change ye.”

  The light in his eyes faded, and realization settled over her. She winced. Of course she knew what had changed him. His mother’s death.

  She turned away. “Forgive me, sir. I ain’t be in me right mind tonight.”

  He shrugged, his tone sober. “You needn’t apologize. My mother’s death affected me greatly, as I’m sure you’ve already surmised. Having the center of my boyish world torn from my arms was trying, to say the least. That is why it is difficult for me to be in Cornwall. The memory of my mother is fresh at every turn. And with my father here, well, he was hardly a comfort before he sent me…” He closed his eyes, giving a quick shake of his head, as if he’d just spoken something he hadn’t wished to. “At any rate, it is all in the past now.”

  Gwynna wasn’t so sure that it was. The heartache he spoke of before seemed as fresh as her own, and the burden was clearly resting heavily on his shoulders.

  Anxious to ease the tension forming a crease in his brow, she sought for something to say. “I be sorry, sir. I can’t imagine losin’ me own mother. But it must be some comfort knowin’ she’d be proud of ye and the man ye’ve become.”

  Rather than the comfort she’d hoped to bestow, his frown increased.

  “If only that were true,” he mumbled. “But thank you for your words, all the same.”

  Their eyes met. “Sir, can I ask ye a question?”

  “Of course.”

  She chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Why…Why be ye doin’ this? Helpin’ me. I know ye said ye wished to make amends, but be there another reason?”

  She regretted her words the moment they fell from her lips. What did she expect him to say? What did she wish for him to say?

  She took a step back, ready to retreat and rescind the question, but his response stopped her.

  “Do you recall the moment we shared behind the counthouse at Favour? When I asked you how you came about obtaining the dress?”

  She lowered a perplexed brow. What did that have to do with anything? “Yes. I kept the truth from ye. Again.”

  He peered down at her, a slow smile sneaking across his lips. “Precisely. Which is why I think I shall do the same for you right now.”

  She blew out a disbelieving breath. “Tain’t fair of ye to do that, sir.”

  He winked, sending her heart flapping like the wings of the sparrows that had chased one another through the sky.

  “Ye really ain’t be tellin’ I?”

  He shook his head, staring out the window with a raised chin. “No, I don’t believe I…” His words faded, and he leaned closer to the glass, clearly distracted by something. “Is that…”

  Gwynna followed his gaze to where an approaching carriage rolled to a stop in front of Fynwary’s doors, and out stepped the last gentleman she expected to see that evening.

  “Father,” Mr. Trevethan said.

  The word sent a chill throughout her person as cold as any winter wind. Mr. Peter Trevethan was at Fynwary Hall.

  “Why be he here?” she breathed, recoiling from the window as if it had turned into a venomous adder. “Did ye tell ‘im ye was comin’ here?”

  Mr. Trevethan lowered his brow, as if offended by her accusation. “No, of course I didn’t. I told you he has no knowledge of my attendance.”

  “Then why be he here?” she repeated.

  Mr. Trevethan frowned, staring back out the window, but his father was no longer in sight.

  Gwynna pressed a hand to her brow. How could this be happening again? She faced Sophia, raising on her toes to catch her attention. Sophia instantly excused herself from her husband an
d Mrs. Parnell, but halfway across the floor, the door opened, and the butler entered the room.

  Thoughts swarmed Gwynna’s mind, a swirling eddy of fears and regret. Was Mr. Peter Trevethan going to enter the room now? He would surely recognize her, and she would no longer have her place at the mine. Mrs. Parnell would discover her social status and call for the constable at once.

  Her head spun. Her hands clammed. Her vision spotted, and she teetered on her heels.

  “Breathe, Gwynna,” Mr. Trevethan whispered.

  His hand pressed at the small of her back. Warmth spiraled from each of his fingers, jolting life back into her body.

  She drew in a deep breath and planted her feet apart, pulling herself from the panic.

  Her eyes tore around the room. Mr. Peter Trevethan was nowhere in sight, the butler was gone, and Sophia was headed in her direction.

  As soon as she reached their side, Mr. Trevethan withdrew his hand, leaving the fabric of her gown cool against her flesh.

  “Mr. Trevethan,” Gwynna breathed, but Sophia was already nodding.

  “Mr. Page has just alerted me he has arrived,” she said calmly. “Worry not. He has been shown to the study. But Gwynna, you and Mr. Trevethan must leave now before either of you are spotted. I fear if he sees his son, too many questions will arise.”

  “Yes, I agree,” Mr. Trevethan said.

  Gwynna, still attempting to gather her wits, merely nodded. Her parents expected her by nightfall, otherwise Sophia would’ve suggested holing up in another room. Gwynna, however, simply wanted to be rid of the house, never to return—at least not while dressed as a lady.

  Mr. Trevethan continued. “Calling for a carriage or my horse will take too much time. Perhaps we leave on foot, and I’ll return later for my horse?”

  “Yes, that will do.” Sophia laced her fingers together, her knuckles white from her grip. “The back doors will be nearer the servants, so the two of you must slip through the front door. Mr. Hawkins will only be able to keep your father occupied for a time. Can you manage?”