“Of course,” Mr. Trevethan said. “I will ensure the both of us remain unseen.”
A heavy pressure planted on Gwynna’s chest, as if all the weight of the hand barrow she’d filled with ore that afternoon now pressed down on her. Would their plan work? Or would she be discovered and ruined?
“Sophia, I—”
“What do the three of you speak of over there?” Mrs. Parnell called out.
Gwynna flinched. Curse that woman.
Sophia gave a firm nod to Gwynna then turned to face her guest. “Oh, it is terrible news. Mr. Page has just relayed a message that Miss Bell’s mother has taken ill. I fear she must leave straightaway. Mr. Trevethan has agreed to see her home.”
Before the woman could protest about the impropriety of a gentleman escorting a single female home—that was another thing Gwynna remembered from Sophia’s instruction—Sophia continued. “Mr. Hawkins, my dear, I believe there is a guest awaiting you in your study, the owner of Wheal Favour.”
Mr. Hawkins, who had been staring at his wife in confusion since she’d begun speaking, finally nodded with understanding. “Oh, oh. Of course. Do excuse me for a moment, Mrs. Parnell.”
The woman’s sour expression spoiled further. She was clearly displeased with the whole matter, being left alone at the party given in her honor. Mr. Hawkins departed swiftly with a brief word to his wife as Mr. Trevethan bowed to Mrs. Parnell.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I do hope the rest of your stay in Cornwall exceeds your expectations.”
“That will not be difficult,” she muttered. “Good evening.”
Gwynna curtsied. “Ma’am.” Why should she bother saying anything more?
Mrs. Parnell tipped her head then turned to the fire with a weighty sigh. Mr. Trevethan motioned for Gwynna to precede him across the room.
“I will have your dress delivered covertly to your home this evening,” Sophia whispered, then she faced Mrs. Parnell alone with a weakened smile.
Before Gwynna could even consider Sophia’s plight with being left alone with the old woman, the butler met them outside the door with Gwynna’s cloak and Mr. Trevethan’s hat. “The study is down the corridor to the right of the entryway,” he whispered. “Mr. Hawkins has advised you to take care.”
Gwynna ducked her head. “Thank ye, sir.”
He gave a silent nod and walked away. He’d obviously never approved of her behavior. He wasn’t alone in that regard.
She followed one step behind Mr. Trevethan as they fled down the corridor, pausing as they approached a corner that led to the entryway. He pressed a finger to his lips as he peered around the wall then motioned Gwynna forward.
She snuck up behind him, careful to situate herself with enough distance from him to avoid any accidental touch.
The murmur of soft voices traipsed toward them down the corridor. She peered past the black and white flooring of the entryway and down the subsequent corridor where a single light seeped out from beneath a closed doorway.
Her breathing grew ragged. How could she have put herself into such trouble again? And now involving Mr. Trevethan? She was inexplicably stupid.
“Are you ready?”
Mr. Trevethan held out his hand to her. The thorny branch from before was gone. Instead, his offer was a direct path to safety.
With a deep breath, she placed her fingers in his. Their eyes met, and his grip tightened before he pulled her forward.
They darted across the entryway, their quick footsteps echoing about the open room. One foot after another, they pattered across the marble flooring like jittery mice, hoping to escape the house cat before its claws tore into them.
Halfway there, Gwynna could almost taste the freedom the fresh air would provide her. Then her foot slipped against the smooth floor.
With a yelp, she flew to the side, grasping Mr. Trevethan’s arm to avoid falling to the ground. Her feet continued to move, though he tried to pause.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
Her eyes flew to the opposite corridor. The study door remained closed, though they were sure to have heard her yelp.
“Curse these fitty slippers,” she hoarsely whispered as they continued across the floor. “I swear I’ll ne’er wear ‘em again.”
She thought she caught a grin flashing across Mr. Trevethan’s lips, but it was gone the moment he opened the door and the late evening sun spread its welcoming light over the both of them.
He released his hold of her as they crossed the threshold, closing the door behind them before tearing across the grounds toward the trees on the far side of the property.
With the study on the opposite side of the house, there was no chance of being spotted by Mr. Trevethan’s father from any window, but Mrs. Parnell might still find them from her place in the drawing room.
Once they found cover beneath the thicket of trees, however, their footsteps slowed then stopped altogether. Mr. Trevethan bent over, his hands on his knees as he caught his breath. Gwynna stood with a hand to her back, wincing at the pain running had induced. She’d forgotten how difficult everything was made to be with this continuous pain from spalling.
As their breathing slowed and the birds chirping overhead filled the air, Mr. Trevethan straightened.
“We mustn’t rest for long. I’ve no idea when my father will leave. We must take the pathway closer to the cliffs so he cannot happen upon us by the road.”
Gwynna pursed her brow, slipping off her gloves. “We, sir?”
“I did promise to see you to safety, did I not?”
“Ye did, sir, already. But I be thinkin’—”
“Jack.”
She blinked. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir?”
“I am weary of all this ‘sir’ business. I call you Gwynna. It’s only fair for you to call me Jack.”
She scoffed, tucking in her chin. “I be callin’ ye sir ‘cause of your station, sir. I ain’t be calling ye…Jack.”
He took a few steps toward her. His height was intimidating, but she maintained her ground. “What ye be doin’, sir?”
In a swift movement, he snatched her cloak and gloves from her hands. “I’m being a gentleman and holding your items while I see you safely home.”
She watched him walk out of the cover of the trees, the tails of his jacket flapping up and down against his—
“I thought it ain’t proper for a gent to be alone with a woman?” she countered, catching up to him. “Ye be better off leavin’ I alone.”
He ignored her, shifting her cloak and gloves to his left arm. If someone happened upon the two of them together, rumors were sure to surface. Of course, happening upon someone so late was highly unlikely. Most of the miners she knew would be abed already.
Still, she felt she at least had to try to protest. “And don’t ye ‘ave a dance tonight, sir? Won’t ye be late if ye walk me home?”
“Yes, but that shouldn’t be a problem.”
He’d set aside that issue promptly.
Still, walking her home would be a great inconvenience. “I be sorry if I ruin your evenin’ then.”
He raised a brow. “If you recall, my father was the one to ruin the evening.” He paused. “If you learn anything from tonight, let it be to never invite a Trevethan to a party. We will be sure to end everyone’s enjoyment.”
Somehow, the mere sight of his easy smile tipped the last of her hesitance away. She couldn’t come up with any other reason to keep the man from walking her home. He would just concoct another excuse anyway.
She folded her arms, pretending to be far more upset than she was. “Fine, ye may see me home. So long as ye leave a distance away so me father won’t see ye.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“And,” she continued, “I be needin’ me cloak back to hide Mrs. Hawkins’s dress.”
He examined her head to toe. “I think I prefer seeing that gown to this.” He raised her faded, brown cloak. “It’s far more appealing.”
Heat pinched her cheeks. Appealing? Mr. Trevethan thought the gown on her…appealing?
No, the dress, not Gwynna, was what he found appealing.
They continued in silence, creating more distance between themselves and Fynwary Hall. The road lay behind them now, and as far as she could see, the landscape was covered in grassy hills, tan, weathered tors, and stretches of yellow wildflowers, entirely vacant of anyone apart from themselves.
Above them, the sky shone a dark purple, shifting to pinks and orange as the sky spread toward the lilac sea. The air was warm, and soon, the faintest sound of the melodical waves sang in her ears.
This was certainly not how she’d intended the evening to end, walking alone at sunset with Mr. Trevethan as he accompanied her home. And yet, she couldn’t complain.
Of course, she was still at risk for being discovered by another, especially in her gown. But for some reason, walking with Mr. Trevethan that evening brushed the rest of her worries away like stalwart broom bristles to vexing cobwebs.
Appealing.
She cleared her throat. “Lest ye be thinkin’ I be ungrateful, sir—”
“Jack.”
She stared up at him blankly, unable to remember what she’d been about to say. “I ain’t be callin’ ye by your given name, sir.”
“We are friends, are we not?”
How in heaven’s name could she respond to such a question? “I-I suppose.”
“Then you must call me Jack.”
She had absolutely no intention of doing so, but she nodded all the same. How had she found herself friends with both a lady and a gentleman? A gentleman whose jawline had more of a solid angle to it than even the most chiseled of stone.
They continued in silence for a moment, nearing the cliff’s edge. The sun had already slipped into the water, darkening the sky to shades of blue and pink. The waves rippled softly toward the land, and the wildflowers swayed themselves to sleep.
Mr. Trevethan motioned ahead of them to an engine house in tatters. “What is that mine?”
The tip of the chimney was missing, half walls were chipped at the top, and the windows were void of any covering.
“That be Wheal Penharrow. Well, the ruins of it anyway, as it closed years ago. That be where me father worked ‘fore Wheal Favour opened. Mrs. Hawkins’s father owned this alongside Wheal Favour ‘fore he sold ‘em. He ran out o’ money to continue ‘em both.”
She eyed the old stone walls with affection as they stopped nearby. “‘Tis a lovely mine, though. Its views rival Favour’s. Maybe even better, as ye can see the whole countryside and the sea from the workings.”
“It’s strange to see one so vacant, especially after the busyness of Wheal Favour. It’s almost…frightening.”
She eyed him sidelong. “They do say it be haunted.”
Mr. Trevethan rubbed his jaw. “Haunted, you say?”
“They be just rumors, ‘course.”
He raised a daring brow, taking a few steps ahead. “Shall we see if it’s true?”
Gwynna hesitated. “Oh, but it ain’t be our property.”
His shoulders raised flippantly as he progressed toward the engine house.
“Sir, ye can’t just—”
“Jack.” He didn’t turn around to correct her.
She sighed. “Ye can’t go there. The shaft be only slightly boarded up. Ye could fall through and get hurt.”
“Well you had better join me then, to ensure I stay protected.”
She propped her hands on her hips. “I ain’t be riskin’ me life for ye, sir.”
“Jack.”
“Fine!” she shouted, having to raise her voice as he continued closer to the mine. “I’ll just go home without ye!”
He raised her cloak and gloves still in his arms, calling to her over his shoulder. “I thought you needed these?”
Blast. She’d forgotten he still had her cover.
Mr. Trevethan continued. “You can follow me to the ruins and retrieve it, or if you call me Jack, I’ll give it back to you right now.”
Curse her pride. She was going to be stuck there all night, torn between what to do, for she was fairly certain Jack—Mr. Trevethan—was as stubborn as she.
He moved around the tall building, no longer in sight. Gwynna remained where she stood, eying the pathway lined with yellow gorse. She couldn’t sneak into her house without a cover. She needed that cloak. Really, she should follow him, if only to be sure he was safe. He may know more about sitting around a dinner table than she ever would, but a copper mine was her territory.
She picked up the side of her skirt and traipsed across the ground. What she wouldn’t give to be wearing her boots. Every bump and stone in the ground protruded through her slippers. They were sure to be ruined after this journey.
“Sir?” she called out, stepping lightly as the pathway narrowed. The gorse thickened as she neared the mine, snagging at her dress.
No reply.
“Mr. Trevethan?”
She reached the engine house, peering around both sides of it. Still no reply. Was he playing tricks?
She continued around to the other side, but he wasn’t there. “Ye best answer ‘fore I think ye be dead.”
Nothing.
With a heavy sigh, she finally relented. “Jack!”
“Yes?”
She jumped at his voice directly behind her.
He chuckled, and delightful irritation scratched at her. She swatted his arm. “How dare ye? I thought…” Her words trailed off as she realized she’d just struck a gentleman. “Oh, I-I be sorry.”
He laughed, rubbing his arm. “No, I deserved that.”
She fixed her eyes on him as he walked to the front of the engine house.
The ruins of an old counthouse stood in a skewed square, and old pieces of rotting wood lay abandoned on the ground—evidence of a dressing floor that was no more.
“Have ye seen any ghosts then?” she asked, standing beside him.
“No, unfortunately not.” He pushed aside a decaying timber with his shoe. “Seems a terrible waste, doesn’t it? To let all of this deteriorate so.”
“‘Specially with the miners who might benefit from more work.”
He studied the wood for a moment then peered about the rest of the mine. “So tell me, where would the spalling take place here?”
She searched the grounds, pointing near the entrance to a shaft only partially boarded. “Nearest to the landin’ area.”
He drew a blank expression.
“Where the ore be deposited,” she clarified.
“Ah, I see. And are you the first to receive the ore when it comes from below ground?”
“No, first the raggin’ must be done.”
“Ragging. Right.”
She quirked a brow. “Ye ‘ave no idea what raggin’ be, do ye?”
He chuckled. “Would you look down on me if I did not?”
“‘Course not. But I thought your father already explained the process to ye?”
“Well he did, but I may or may not have been too distracted by a certain maiden wielding a hammer to listen to a single word.”
How did even the faintest hint of a smile from him send her heart fluttering?
“Be ye teasin’ I?”
“No. Merely expressing my admiration. I do not know any woman personally who could do what you do, day in and day out.”
She rubbed the scar at the back of her arm, unsure of what to do with such attention. “‘Tis simply part o’ the job, sir.”
“Jack.”
“Yes, sir.”
He cast his eyes around him once more. “Will you show me the process here, so I do not have to ask my father for another lesson?”
“That depends, sir. Will ye listen to I?”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Upon my honor.”
She pretended to scrutinize him for a moment before nodding. “All right. The process be done differently at every mine, dependin’ on where it be situate
d on land, among other things. But I’ll do me best to explain what we do at Wheal Favour.”
She led the way past a pile of discarded ore, closer to the engine house. “The raggin’ be done first by strong men. They break down the biggest pieces ‘fore sendin’ ‘em off to we spallers.
“After we finish, they be barrowed to riddlin’, where they clean and separate the ore through a sieve.” Mr. Trevethan watched her intently as she held up three fingers. “There be three types o’ ore. Prills, deads, and gangue. Prills be the best and can be sent to samplin’. Deads ain’t worth a pence. The gangue, or dredge, be what’s in between that.”
She pointed to where a flat table lay a distance away, one of its legs broken to slant the wooden top. “The gangue be sent there, to the cobbers. They be the ones who use smaller hammers ‘til the rocks be ‘bout half the size of their palms.”
“Ah, yes. I do remember seeing that.”
She glanced around for the next stage of the dressing process. Finally, she found a small, stone hut. Half the roof was torn away, but the four walls still stood strong.
“That be where the buckin’ takes place, I believe.”
“Ah, that is one I have heard of before.” Mr. Trevethan said, following her into the one-roomed structure. A table stood at the far end with a broken wheelbarrow nearby on its side. “If I recall, you were nearly assigned to that task.”
She paused. How had he known such a fact?
“My father mentioned it when I first came to the mine,” he explained.
And he’d remembered? Gwynna bit her bottom lip to stop her growing grin.
“Is the task arduous?” he asked.
Speaking of bucking would be just the thing to prevent her glow from increasing. “Yes. The maidens crush the ore into powder with another hammer, usually in a small shelter or room. It be terrible work, hittin’ fingers constantly and breathin’ in the ore. We hear that some mines be mechanizin’ the process, but not yet at Favour.”
Jack seemed to contemplate her words, rubbing his jaw with a distant look. Was she boring him with all of her details?
Rushing forward, she ended her explanation. “After the buckin’, the ore be sieved durin’ the jiggin’ process, then buddlin’. All o’ that just makes the ore finer ‘til it be fit for samplin’, when it be sold.”
Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3) Page 16