“We’ve spoken more often than usual,” he said.
That wasn’t a hard feat. Father was usually locked away in his study. Just like the night Mother died.
“Yes, but only mere conversations about Wheal Favour or your cousins.” Father wrung his hands. “I’d like to speak about you. How you’ve been.”
No, it was too late for that, getting to know each other. If Father had really cared, perhaps he should’ve tried earlier. “I’ve been more than happy living with the Paxtons, as I’m sure you’re aware.”
Father twisted round the ring on his little finger. “I’m glad you’ve found a home with them. And have you any plans for a future home? With Amy, perhaps?”
Jack pulled back. Why the devil would he even say such a thing? “No, Father. I have no plans to marry anyone at the present, least of all my cousin.”
He pushed aside the imposing image of Gwynna’s honey-colored eyes. What was she doing appearing at such an inopportune time?
Father attempted an easy smile, as if them speaking of matters such as matrimony were the most natural thing in the world. “I wouldn’t wait too long before you settle down. You know, I was quite young when I met your mother.”
Jack stiffened. He knew Father would bring up Mama eventually. He couldn’t help himself.
But Jack couldn’t do it.
“Even though I was but nineteen,” Father continued, “I knew straightaway she was the woman with whom I wished to spend my life.”
A metallic taste flooded Jack’s mouth, as if he’d just drunk water from a rusted, tin cup. He pulled his tongue away from his clenched teeth, realizing only then the curious taste had been blood.
Father hadn’t spent his life with Mama. He’d spent it chasing one venture after another, always leaving Jack and her behind.
“Yes, we had a pleasant life together. She was the best thing that ever happened to me. And you, of course.”
Jack hung his head, fisting his hands. How dare the man speak of such things, as if he wasn’t the cause of her death. “You don’t have to do this, Father.”
“Do what?”
“Speak to me as if you…” He shook his head. Squaring his shoulders, he peered at him impassively, not willing to allow Father’s pitiful expression to penetrate his barriers. “We may simply continue as we have been. A few words of greeting. Talk of business and the estate. That is how it has always been, and that is how it ought to remain.”
He nodded his head, then left the room.
“I miss you each day you are away from here.”
Jack froze, the tendons in his neck as tight as a metal rod. Backtracking, he returned to the room. “You miss me,” he repeated. His voice was dry of all emotion, like the parched creek bed near the Paxtons’ home. Not his home. He didn’t have one, thanks to the man standing before him.
“I do,” Father replied.
Jack nodded his head, though he had no belief in his words. He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek. “I see. You miss me so greatly you send a mere letter a year.”
Father opened his mouth, but Jack wouldn’t allow him to explain. The man had had eleven years to explain. It was Jack’s turn to speak.
He took a step forward. A shaken dam had been broken, and the waters were raging forth. “And what do you wish me to say in return, Father? That I missed you, as well? That I have thought of you every day since you shipped me away?”
“No, I don’t—”
“That is fortunate for your sake, because I fear I cannot say such things.”
Father’s lips twitched in a frown, but Jack was past the point of feeling sorry for the man. When had Father ever felt sorry for his own son?
“I did what I thought was best for you, son. After her death—”
“Stop.” Jack squeezed his eyes shut, holding the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, attempting to thwart the anger that pulsed between his eyes from traveling to the rest of his limbs. There was no use. The words rushed forward with the strength of an unstoppable wave.
“That is a lie, Father. You were not doing what was best for me. You were doing what was best for you, which is what you have always done. It has always been about you, the businessman, Peter Trevethan, and what reckless scheme can pull him away from his wife and son next.”
“Just a moment, I—”
Jack sliced his hand through the air, ending his father’s words. “No! For once in your life, be honest with yourself and with me! Mother spent every waking moment with me. She kept me home from Eton, hired a private tutor, just so she could be near me. Yet, after her death, you couldn’t bear the obligation of having a son to watch over. Instead of sending me to a boarding school, seeing me four times a year, you simply passed the entire responsibility of raising me to the Paxtons so you would not feel obliged to see me at all.”
He stopped, his chest rising and falling. Father stared at him, pain etched into each wrinkle on his brow.
Jack silently gathered his emotions, bottling them up once again. “It hardly matters now, anyway. What’s done is done.”
He turned to leave, but Father stopped him again. “But we must speak of such things, Jack.”
“No, it will do us no good.”
“It will, if we—”
“No, it won’t!” he shouted, whirling round. “You didn’t wish for me to be home, so just admit it! You—”
“I sent for you, Jack!”
Jack froze, and Father checked his tone. “I sent for you, son. After you were gone, I was driven to madness. I buried myself even more into matters of the estate, our tenants, the businesses in which I held shares. But it did nothing. I lost my entire family within days.”
Jack scrambled to ward off Father’s words. He couldn’t believe them. He wouldn’t. “I don’t need to listen to this.”
Father stepped forward with a look of pleading. “I am not blind to my neglect of you and your mother, and I regret that every day. But that is why I sent you away. I thought you’d be better off living with someone who wasn’t so taken with business and always moving on to the next venture. The Paxtons are good people, they—”
“I didn’t know them, Father!” Jack leaned forward, his hands out to his side. “You hardly did!”
“I was not in my right mind,” Father defended, “clearly! But I assure you, I came to my senses swiftly and wrote to my cousins to send you home.”
Shock rippled through Jack’s limbs, the blood draining from his head. He stepped back to maintain his balance. “No, you did not.”
“I did!” Father walked toward him. “But Mrs. Paxton wrote to me and told me you were better off there, that you had adjusted and settled well. That you were happy.”
Jack turned away. Father was lying. He had to be.
“I wanted to be sure,” Father continued, his tone softer, “so I visited you that first December you were away. And I…I saw you there with the siblings your mother and I could never provide for you. With two parents who loved you as their own. With a home. You were happy.”
Jack rubbed his eyes, frantically scooping out the memories pouring into his mind, flooding every thought. He remembered that Christmas. The first day he’d seen his father since Mama’s funeral, as Jack had left for Bath with the Paxtons that very night. Jack had feigned joy with his cousins to prove he was better off without Father, but the night Father left, Jack had torn apart his room then sobbed himself to sleep.
“You were finally happy, Jack. How could I take that away from you?”
He should’ve known. Father should’ve known deep down that Jack was not happy.
Slowly, Jack met his eyes. “You were not the only one grieving Mother’s death. I had to fake my happiness, or I’d have died in my grief.” He lowered his voice. “Just like Mother.”
Tears filled Father’s dark eyes as Jack’s pointed stare tore into him. With a disgusted shake of his head, Jack stormed from the room and slammed the door behind him.
* * *<
br />
Dark clouds stretched their reach across the sky, hovering heavily over sea and land. The green grass across the cliffside was tinted black, and the muted wildflowers shivered against the cold wind.
Gwynna tightened her cloak around her shoulders and flicked a lingering tear from her cheek. The storm was imminent that night, which was why she’d gone out. Jago had always loved storms.
Much to Mama’s apprehension, he would stand at the edge of the cliff, the stirring sea a feast for his eyes as waves cut through murky water. In honor of his memory, Gwynna visited his grave during storms whenever possible, then walked along his favorite path, near Tregalwen Beach.
Mr. Trevethan had been right. The pain of her brother’s death was still there, but it was becoming easier to bear, if only because she knew what ache to still expect.
Mr. Trevethan. He was a welcome distraction to the continual pain digging into her heart. Although, she couldn’t say she particularly enjoyed the regret and shame that accompanied any thought of the man.
She blew out a heavy breath, absentmindedly pulling out the pins in her hair and tucking them one by one into her apron pocket. Her skin warmed, despite the cold wind scraping at her cheeks.
She’d revealed far too much last night. She had wanted to kiss him. Foolishly, she’d thought he’d wanted the same. But the ease with which he’d pulled away, and his keeping a healthy distance from her the rest of their walk to her home, had reaffirmed that there was no way he felt any attraction to her. Either that or he’d finally realized his mistake in nearly kissing a bal maiden.
She stepped hard down the incline that sloped toward the sandy mouth of Tregalwen Beach, the dirt path slowly merging with the sand.
She was certain many gentlemen did a number of things with lower class women, but Jack obviously did not want to be entangled with anything of the sort.
Not that she was complaining. She couldn’t be more relieved the kiss hadn’t occurred. No matter how badly she’d longed for the touch of his lips on hers, for his fingers to caress her skin forever. Had the kiss occurred, she, and her heart, would have been in grave trouble.
Involving herself any further with the gentleman would be terribly unwise. As such, she was determined to keep her distance from now on.
Yet, as she paused at the mouth of the beach and found the very man of her thoughts standing at the edge of the sand where the water couldn’t reach, her determination fled.
He stared out at the sea, his hands holding his jacket behind his back. His feet were braced apart, the bottom of his black boots buried in the sand. As his white sleeves rippled against his arms, the wind blew his short hair behind him.
An invisible rope of longing tugged her toward him, despite her better judgment. Nothing good could come of her drawing closer to the man, especially after blatantly ignoring the deal she’d just made with herself.
But then, had she forgotten to thank him for his help last evening? It would certainly be a disservice if she didn’t go down to meet him. Just a simple expression of gratitude, then she’d part from him forever.
Before she could think better of her actions, Gwynna stepped off the pathway and traipsed through the sand, the tall grass at her side bent back as the wind pressed its will against the blades. The gusts plastered her skirts to her legs, as well, as if attempting to prevent her progression toward the gentleman.
She ignored its warning.
The wind didn’t know what it was talking about anyway.
* * *
“Sir?”
The wind whistled in Jack’s ears and the waves crashed only a few feet from his boots. But he knew that voice from anyone’s. “Gwynna.”
She stood beside him, her hair loosed from her pins and blowing behind her shoulders, though the same scant piece of cloth held back most of it from her face. A warm spring flooded his chest, a comfort to the cold that had iced around him since his conversation with his father that morning.
“What are you doing out here?” he questioned. “It will no doubt rain soon.”
“I was about to ask ye the same question, sir.”
Her eyes lingered on his waistcoat hanging half-open and his loosened cravat drooping slightly down his neck. His angry tears had all but dried, but he was certain his eyes were still red.
“Are ye well, sir?”
He forced a smile. “Of course. Do I not seem well?”
She raised a shoulder. “We’ve spoken more than a minute together, and ye still haven’t threatened or teased me. Somethin’ must be wrong with ye.”
Her full lips tipped upward, but he could hardly match her humor. “I suppose that is a valid argument. But perhaps you will excuse me until next we meet. I’m afraid I’m a little tired to threaten you today.”
The excuse was pitiful, at best.
She brushed her disbelieving eyes across his features. “If ye insist, sir. I be sorry to impose on ye. I merely came down to thank ye for last evenin’.”
He tilted his head to the side. She’d already thanked him profusely for his service the night before. Had she come down for another reason? To simply be with him perhaps? The spring in his chest heated, spreading through his limbs. “I was more than happy to help you, Gwynna.”
Their eyes met, and her gaze dropped to his lips before she took a step back. “Well, I best be headin’ back. Me parents expect me ‘fore the storm hits.”
She walked away, and instantly, the warmth vanished, replaced with a lonely, indelible chill, of which he was desperate to be rid. Desperate enough to bring her back. “Yes, I’m certain they will be awaiting your return.”
She stopped. “And your father? He will be awaitin’ ye, too, no doubt.”
He turned away, unsure whether to be displeased or relieved his words had managed to keep her. The mist rolled across the sea toward land. Clouds streaked down toward the water, as if great hands had raked their fingers through them, creating tears in the clouds for the rain to pour down to the earth.
“No, I don’t believe my father will be expecting me to return until much later.”
Her footsteps sifted through the sand as she returned to his side, bringing all the warmth of the sunshine with her, despite the impenetrable clouds above.
“Why be that, sir?”
What was he doing? Now he’d have to answer her questions, now he’d have to make sense of the thoughts swirling in his mind and the feelings swirling in his heart.
“It was nothing. We merely had another disagreement.”
There. That was all he would share. He wouldn’t think about his father any longer.
“I don’t wish to interfere, sir, but if ye wish to speak, I be here to listen. As your friend.”
His friend. How strange that word sounded in relation to himself, even when he’d been the one to suggest they were friends. He wasn’t sure he had any beyond Hugh and Amy, and no one he kept closer than an arm’s length away. It was far too risky to bring anyone nearer, not when they could forsake him at a moment’s notice.
And yet, with Gwynna’s wide, receptive eyes staring up at him, he knew he could find a true friend in her. Might he be able to let his guard down just this once to share the discouragement shrouding his spirits?
“Well, I…” He drew in a deep breath before trying again. “It is silly, really. And nothing I cannot handle. But he—my father—he attempts to befriend me when all I ever…I just feel it is too late.”
His words were stilted, choppy, like the waves before them, running into the other before the first had a chance to complete its course. He’d never shared his feelings, always hiding behind flirtatious, flippant behavior, even with the Paxtons. What kind of sorceress was this bal maiden, to bewitch him into speaking his truth?
“I be sorry ye ‘ave such a troubled relationship with ‘im,” she said. “I can’t imagine how difficult it must be for ye to come to Cornwall. Not only with the memory of your mother, but also ‘cause o’ your father.”
Jack released a sl
ow breath. He’d never been understood before, even the slightest amount. Her small insight was the hidden key to the chest he’d locked away so long ago, and soon, the words flowed forth, pouring from his lips before he could stop them.
“It is difficult. He made the decision to send me away. Now he tells me today that he has regretted it, that he has wished to be with me all along. But I wonder, if that were really true, why did he not do more to make it so? He could have just as easily sent me away to school, only seen me when I came home after terms. I just don’t understand why he had to ship me away to be raised by someone else entirely.” He rubbed his neck. “It is too late. The damage has been done. Yet, he cannot understand that though he wants a relationship with his son…his son does not want a relationship with him.”
Silence followed. Had he revealed too much? Would this good, kind-hearted maiden now leave him alone in the storm because she simply could not understand how someone could be so cold-hearted?
Instead of the disapproval he’d expected, compassion nestled in the depths of her eyes.
“I can’t imagine what ye’ve been through, sir. First losin’ your mother, then your father days after. No child ought to suffer such. No adult either.”
The care in her tone, the empathy she shared, enveloped him in a warm embrace.
Suddenly, he felt foolish, vulnerable for revealing his hardships.
“I really have moved on from such feelings. But sometimes, being here, I’m reminded why I enjoy Bath far better.”
In silence, her eyes removed to a wave that slid dangerously toward them, mere inches from their feet. He took a step back, unsure if it would reach their boots, but she did not falter a movement.
“Before your father purchased Wheal Favour, we miners and maidens were in a bad spot.”
He turned toward her as the wave retreated without a lick at her boots.
“The previous owner, Mr. Rosewall, didn’t care about any of we. He never was at the mine, and he hired a captain who assaulted women weekly and turned a blind eye to the other men who did the same.”
Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3) Page 18