Anger stirred in his belly. He was aware of the poor conditions of many of the Cornish mines—and the ignored treatment of most of the female workers—but the thought of such things happening to Gwynna made his blood boil.
“I was kept safe by me brother and father,” she continued much to his relief, “but many girls weren’t so fortunate.”
She reached down, grasping a handful of sand and letting it slide from her fingers grain by grain. It cascaded through the air, flying with the wind down the rest of the beach.
“It was a terrible place to work,” she said. “There was only one break, and that was to eat. The water was sparse, too. Once, when me and me friend Kerensa were only young, she had come down with a bad cough from all the ore flyin’ in the air. She couldn’t stop her coughin’, so she went for a drink of water. The old mine captain thought she be havin’ too much, so he poured what was left in the pitcher atop her head, shoutin’, ‘Have ye had enough now, maiden?’”
Jack’s lips raised in disgust. It didn’t matter the class, to treat someone with such disdain was despicable. “What happened to her?”
“Her cough worsened, and she was out o’ work for days, which meant her family suffered, too.”
He shook his head, unable to comprehend what such a life would be like.
“All that be to say…Wheal Favour has improved a great deal now your father be runnin’ it.”
He eyed her sidelong. An uneasy feeling creeping up his spine, as if another unanticipated wave was approaching from behind. What was she getting at?
“He makes improvements daily. He be workin’ on providin’ a shelter for we maidens and reinforcin’ the mine for safety. He—”
“I’m sorry,” he interrupted. “Gwynna, I-I understand that he has done many good things for all of you. And I’m grateful for that. I am. But I cannot see how that would improve his relationship with me.”
She leaned slightly forward. “Don’t ye think he be tryin’ to make amends for ‘is treatment of ye? To make Wheal Favour a better place because ye won’t allow ‘im to make your relationship better?”
The warmth she’d brought to him dissipated in a flash. His eyes hardened. “I won’t allow him to improve our relationship?”
She frowned. “No, sir, I didn’t mean…I only meant to say he must love ye, and since ye can’t—”
“Love me?” He barked out a derisive laugh. Now, instead of feelings he was unable to hold within, it was angry words. “Oh, yes, he must love me because I’m his son. Just like he must have loved his wife, though he pushed her to an early grave.”
She pulled back. He’d revealed too much. Turning away, he forced himself to hold his tongue.
“He be tryin’ to make amends, sir. Just as ye did with me. And just like ye, he deserves forgiveness, too.”
Jack’s jaw tightened, anger pulsing through his blood, ridding himself of all patience and logic. He never should have called this woman back to him. What had he been thinking? Of course a bal maiden would have no idea as to the struggles between him and his father.
“I thank you for your help,” he said, “but you know nothing about our situation and nothing about forgiveness.”
The words were born from irritation and vulnerability, but the moment he said them, regret secured its tight grip around him. He blinked, his jaw slack as Gwynna’s eyes rounded, tears brimming in their depths.
She had not faltered when the wave had approached earlier, and yet with Jack’s words, she took a step back.
“Gwynna…” He reached a hand out toward her, anxious to apologize, but she backed away.
“Ye be right, sir.” Her voice broke. “I know not what your situation be like, so I don’t ‘ave a right to say a word.”
Fool! He was an absolute fool. What a thing to say to someone who was merely attempting to help him. “Gwynna, wait!”
She continued on her way.
He pressed his palms to his temples, groaning at his stupidity. But in the next moment, she stopped. Slowly, she turned to face him with a raised chin and straightened back—like she did often when wearing a lady’s gown.
Only this time, she was far more regal, a portrait of peace and calm control. Her hair blew about her, and her eyes leveled with his.
“I’m sorry,” he began.
“You are wrong, sir.”
“I know, I—”
“No, ye must let me speak now.”
He’d said the same words to Father. He pulled back like a hound in trouble with his master.
“Ye be wrong about me, sir. I do know about forgiveness, as I’ve experienced it meself and seen it in others. The other mine owner, Mr. Rosewall, was responsible for the death of Jago, as well as five others. That man was Mrs. Hawkins’s father.”
The air pressed from his lungs, as if squeezed by invisible, unrelenting ropes. Of course. He recalled the Rosewalls owning mines and having a daughter. Even Gwynna herself had mentioned Mrs. Hawkins’s father owning Wheal Favour. How could he not have made the connection until now?
She maintained her temper as she continued, something he’d been unable to do.
“I don’t know what it’d be like to have me father abandon me, or to lose me mother. But I do know what it be like to forgive a man who could’ve prevented me brother’s death. And I do know what it be like to forgive a woman who disregarded his life. Kerensa Hocking forgave Mr. Rosewall after her father died, leavin’ her mother to care for four starvin’ girls. And Mrs. Yeoman forgave him after startin’ work at the mine again as a widow, havin’ lost her husband in the same accident.”
He longed to plug his ears, unable to bear the sorrow, the shame and regret. But his tongue was bound. He merely bowed his head in contrition.
“I’m sorry I offended ye, sir. But I only be tryin’ to ‘elp. Forgivin’ Mr. Rosewall allowed me to be happier. Forgiveness ain’t forgettin’ your mother, or forgettin’ whatever it was your father did. It be allowin’ yourself to no longer be tied down by another’s actions, to no longer restrict your happiness. It means risin’ above, refusin’ to allow bitterness to swallow ye whole. It means ye can live again, sir. And that’s worth forgivin’ for.”
She finished her words, silence pulsing between them until she dipped her head and walked away, leaving Jack just as the rain began to speckle his shoulders and face.
Jack didn’t call her back. He didn’t deserve to speak with such a woman any longer. Another wave rushed toward him, but he didn’t move that time. The water rushed over the tops of his boots.
She was right. He was bitter, and he’d allowed it to ruin his chance at living a happy life.
If he’d been able to forgive his father, he wouldn’t be so angry. He wouldn’t have sought attention as a youth by rebelling. He wouldn’t be distracting himself from his pain by his philandering.
But he wasn’t good like Gwynna. And he couldn’t forgive his father. It was too late to change. He’d already become the person he’d be for the rest of his life—bitter, cynical, and alone.
Chapter Eleven
Jack leaned back in his chair, scowling fiercely as he swirled the brandy round in his glass. He sat by the window in the Golden Arms Inn, staring at the raindrops chuting down the glass in quick movements.
The rain hadn’t stopped for three days, ever since his time on the beach. It had been a wretch getting to the inn that morning. His horse had thrown a shoe and was now with the farrier, but he’d needed an escape from Coffrow Place and his cousins. Hugh and Amy hadn’t ceased in their attempts to improve his mood, and he couldn’t bear their chipper attitudes any longer.
At least Father had had the sense to keep away from him.
Jack drew in a deep breath, still swirling his glass. The air around him was stale from too many bodies taking shelter from the inclement weather. Loud laughter and conversation bounded in his ears, punctuated by empty glasses thudding against wooden tables and rumbling thunder outside.
He occupied a small corner of th
e room by himself. Card games and bets were the order of the day at every other table, but he’d already exhausted the coins he’d brought with him. That was the only way he’d learned to control his bad habit—by gambling only with the money he brought with him.
If only he had that same control with his drinking.
He pulled the glass to his lips but froze once again near his mouth. The floral, alcoholic scent stung his nose. It was familiar. Intoxicating. This had been his drink of choice as a young man, the drink that allowed him to forget all his troubles.
Three years. He hadn’t had it in three years. But today…today it called to him. One sip was all it would take. One sip, and all would be forgotten. The pain would finally be numb.
Jack opened his mouth. He wanted to be deadened, to have no recollection of his mother, his argument with Father. His cruel words to Gwynna.
He stared down into the brandy, lingering on the amber liquid, and the blood drained from his face. That color. It too closely resembled a pair of eyes filled with tears—tears brought on by his own ignorance.
He’d avoided every thought of Gwynna for days, but now, as he peered into the glass, thoughts of her filled his mind to the brim.
He couldn’t fathom her nobility in pardoning another so fully as she had Mr. Rosewall, nor her strength in instructing Jack in the ways of forgiveness. And now, after everything, he was going to risk falling to the wiles of drinking once again, only to forget his shameless treatment of her?
His mother had raised him better, and she would be ashamed of him.
Realization of what he’d almost done slid into his mind like the draft blowing past his hair from the window beside him.
In a swift movement, he stood from his seat. The chair fell with a clatter behind him, and he slammed the drink to the table. Brandy covered his hand and splashed against the window. He merely flicked the moisture from his fingers with a single shake, then stormed out of the inn and into the cold rain.
* * *
Gwynna tightened her grip on the spalling hammer. She couldn’t have it slip again, no matter how drenched her gloves were, no matter how slippery the handle. She’d almost broken her foot moments ago, and that wouldn’t do her any good.
She cracked open another piece of ore, then straightened, pressing a hand to the small of her back. The pain had intensified the past few days, due to the different way she’d had to grasp her hammer. The rain hadn’t been this bad for this long since…since the day Jago had died.
She was doing her best not to dwell on the similarities between today and that day almost four months ago now—the rain, the ache in her muscles, the cries of the cold, wet children—but each new coincidence that arose tightened her already-clenched stomach.
She could only pray for Father’s safety below ground.
A faint crying, intermittent between the clanging of iron, flitted to Gwynna’s ears. Two young girls clung to each other nearby for warmth by the cobbing table.
Gwynna cast her eyes to the top of the cliff. With Mr. Harvey nowhere in sight, she dropped her tool and made for the girls.
“Ye must continue workin’,” she advised them, shouting above the warring sea. “It’ll keep ye warmer.”
“She can’t, miss,” the oldest, who was not yet twelve, cried. “She can’t feel her ‘ands.”
The other girl trembled from head to toe. At once, Gwynna dug into her towser pocket and pulled out her crib-bag. She’d already eaten her midday meal, but inside the thick material lay the dry bandage she’d kept from her headwound the week prior. She’d been saving it for later when her own fingers grew numb, but this girl was in far greater need.
“Here, take this.” She pulled off the girl’s soaking glove, using her body to shield the rain from the new fabric as she wrapped it around her purple fingers. “Keep it warm beneath your arm ‘til the feelin’ returns. Then switch it to the other hand, alternatin’ between the two ‘til ye feel better.”
The girls nodded, expressing their gratitude through shaking words before Gwynna returned to her post. She picked up her hammer just as Mr. Harvey appeared in his regular spot, Mr. Peter Trevethan beside him.
They peered down at the maidens, dressed in their great coats, scarves, and hats. Had they seen her not working? Surely they wouldn’t spale her for helping a young girl out. Either way, she cracked the ore before her with greater force, hoping they would know she hadn’t been shirking her duties.
She watched them from the corner of her eye, wondering if a certain son had joined the owner before setting aside the notion. Mr. Jack Trevethan would certainly not have joined his father at the mine. And he was sure to never wish to see her again.
She didn’t blame him, after the way she’d chastised him. She did not regret standing up for herself and her heartaches, but she feared he did not take it well.
But offending the gentleman was the least of her concerns at the moment. For now, she had to figure out a way to keep her own fingers from freezing, her back from aching, and her stamina from failing hours before work was to end.
As she cracked her way through her pile, rain dripping from the brim of her bonnet and soaking through her cloak and across her neck and shoulders, she wondered how much longer she could handle this.
She felt as if she’d been wet for days. Yesterday, the storm had been so terrible, Gwynna’s dress hadn’t dried overnight before the fire, and she’d had to wear her damp clothes to the mine. Not that it mattered, of course, as she was soaked in a matter of minutes anyway.
A movement from the side caught her eye as the mine owner and captain disappeared from the ledge. Gwynna imagined them retiring to the counthouse for a cup of tea, nestled near the warm fire. But in the next moment, as the mine’s tinny bell sounded out across the dressing floor early, relief flooded her body.
“Tain’t be safe anymore, Gwynna,” Kerensa said, coming up toward her with her hammer over her shoulder. “That be why they be sendin’ us home.”
She pointed behind them where the cliffside in the distance began to crumble, mud and rocks tumbling down into the sea hundreds of feet below.
“I’m sure they be afraid of a landslide or somethin’ the like,” Kerensa added.
“Thank heavens for that,” Gwynna mumbled.
She dropped her hammer to the side of her and loaded the rest of the broken ore into the barrow.
“I praise the day Mr. Trevethan purchased this mine,” Kerensa said. “He be savin’ all of us, ain’t he?”
Gwynna nodded. If only he’d been there early enough to save Jago.
“I do wonder, though, if his son be good enough to take over when Mr. Trevethan moves on,” Kerensa said.
Gwynna straightened, her brow furrowed. “He’s plannin’ on takin’ over the mine? I thought he was leavin’ for Bath?”
Kerensa gave her a funny look. “Bath? How do ye know that?”
Gwynna scrambled for an answer. “Oh, just from his father tellin’ Papa.”
“Ah,” Kerensa said, appearing to believe her. “I suppose it won’t matter either way. I be plannin’ on marryin’ ‘fore ownership be transferred anyway.”
Gwynna secured her cloak around her shoulders, then narrowed her eyes. “Are ye…engaged?”
“Oh, no.” Kerensa’s cheeks and nose were already red from the cold, but Gwynna suspected they were a shade darker now. “Though, I ‘ave set me eye on a few ‘andsome chaps round here.” Her eyes sparkled. “‘Twill take a good man, though, to ‘elp with me sisters and mother.”
The two fell in step together, their boots slurping up the mud with each stride they took.
“Gwynna, can I ask ye somethin’?”
“‘Course ye can.”
They neared the engine house where the miners were just beginning to pour out from the earth. “Do ye still desire to situate your parents first, ‘fore ye marry?”
Gwynna contemplated the question for a moment. Her whole life she’d longed to marry and have children of her own, bu
t Jago’s death had placed her plans on hold. “Yes, they deserve ‘appiness as much as I.”
Kerensa fell silent, though her heavy stare remained on Gwynna.
“What?” Gwynna asked.
“Nothin’. Only, I wonder if ye’ve heard the rumors.”
Gwynna shivered from the cold rain sliding down her back. “Rumors? ‘Bout what?”
“About ye.”
“Me?” She feigned a look of innocence, but she feared the panic in her eyes shone through. “What sort o’ rumors be they?”
“Ridiculous ones, really.” She lowered her voice. “Of ye dressin’ up as a lady and fraternizin’ with gents. One even said ye be kissin’ ‘em.”
Gwynna tugged at the bonnet string beneath her chin, suddenly feeling as if she couldn’t breathe. “Mad. Where ‘ave ye heard such things?”
“Oh, ye know how rumors start, Gwynna. Jealous maidens, bored folk. Truth be told, I ‘spect Ruth Ayer started most of ‘em.”
Ruth Ayer. Of course she would start them. She was still upset about being bested by Gwynna on Tregalwen. “How be she justifyin’ such gossip?”
“Well, she be seein’ one o’ the footmen at Fynwary Hall who swore he’d seen ye runnin’ from the house wearin’ a gown alongside a gent.”
Horrified, Gwynna stared at the ground, her bonnet blocking Kerensa’s view of her guilt-ridden face. Gwynna was daft to have ever thought her inappropriate conduct would go without consequence. How could she have made such a grave error? Now the truth was out there, marred by exaggerations. Suppose Mr. Trevethan discovered it, or her parents? She couldn’t lie to them any longer. If they confronted her, she’d have to tell them the truth.
“Tell me, Kerensa, how far ‘ave the rumors spread? Me parents would worry, see.”
Kerensa quickly shook her head. “No, ye ain’t need to worry about that. Least not yet. They be brushin’ it aside as young folk gossip.”
The relief was not as potent as she wished.
“I be sorry to worry ye, Gwynna. I wanted ye to be aware if ye hadn’t heard them ‘fore now.”
“No, I be grateful to ye. I know now to keep me head down.”
Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3) Page 19