She smiled. “He ain’t be willin’ to be pushed ‘round, that be for certain. But ye won’t find a more lovin’ soul.” She paused for a moment, thinking of the goodness of her father before her mind wandered to their previous topic. “What did ye do, to bear your dreams ‘til they stopped?”
He drew a deep breath. He’d since stopped caressing her fingers, though he still held her hand. “I dealt with them as best I could in the beginning. They were the same as yours. Always extending beyond reality, Mother always dying as she called out my name for help. When I grew older, I numbed any memories by gambling and drinking. And by kissing women.”
The tips of his ears reddened. “I’m ashamed to admit it, but my cousin and I often made wagers to see who could kiss a lady first at various social parties. I…I was playing that very game at the ball.”
Gwynna pulled back, forcing herself to appear unruffled. That was why he’d asked to kiss her, and why he hadn’t since. He thought she’d be an easy target to win a wager, then realized a bal maiden wasn’t worth the work.
“I’m not proud of my behavior, nor am I justifying it,” he said, “but it did well to distract me. One night many years before, while my cousin and I were away at school, he left for a drink with friends. I remained behind with a hidden bottle of brandy, ready to drink my pain away, as I so frequently did.
“My vision blurred as the usual tears came, so I hastily poured myself a glass. When I reached for it, my trembling fingers spilled the brandy across the table. Furious with myself, I threw the full bottle and glass across the room in a rage, realizing too late I’d have nothing left.”
He withdrew his hand from hers, rubbing his jawline, where the shadow of his facial hair covered his flesh. His brown eyes reflected the torment of that moment so long ago, and Gwynna forgot his admission of kissing, focusing instead on the pain he still clearly felt.
“Without the alcohol to block my thoughts, the memories entered with full force into my mind. I sifted through every painful moment of the day I had discovered her, until sleep finally relieved me. Instead of the ache I expected to feel in the morning, a weight had been removed from my shoulders. At times, it returns, and I do not think it necessary for me to tell you I still feel anger toward my Father. But somehow, reliving my mother’s death allowed me to process it better. It allowed me to live without the constant need for numbing—and for brandy.” He lowered his head. “Fortunately, I have not had a drop of it since that night.”
Gwynna was quiet for a moment, contemplating all that Mr. Trevethan had said. Could she really be so brave as to live through the emotions of Jago’s death all over again, instead of simply setting them aside?
He reached toward her, taking her fingers and cupping his hands around them. Warmth wrapped around her still-chilled skin, roaming up her arm.
“As you said about forgiveness, so is the same with grief,” he said. “What worked for me may not work for you, but I do hope you find relief. You might find the process easier if you work through them with someone else present, if the memories become too much. Your mother or father. Or someone else you trust.”
Their eyes met. Did he refer to himself? The fire snapped as a log settled deeper into the hearth. She no longer shivered, warmth infusing her limbs, not only from the heat of the fire and blankets, but by the way Mr. Trevethan watched her.
His eyes peered into hers, focused, intent, until he shifted his attention to her lips. His right hand traveled along the length of her fingers, brushing the top of her leg. Her mouth dried, and he leaned closer.
She longed to shrug off the blankets to cool her overheated body, but she didn’t move, afraid to break the spell between them.
“Gwynna,” he whispered. “I wish…”
His jaw clenched, the muscles working near his ear, then he pulled back. “If you are warm enough now, we’d better get you home. I wouldn’t want your parents to worry.”
She wondered at his throaty tone.
After dousing the fire and gathering her soaking outerwear, Mr. Trevethan instructed her to keep the blanket about her shoulders, then helped her to his horse tied outside.
He lifted her on the animal in a seamless movement, despite her protests that she could walk well enough.
“I’ll not have you stroll home in this rain and risk having you sliding off the cliffside,” he said. “Your terrifying father would not thank me for that.”
With a pointed smile, he led her home. Mr. Trevethan walked beside her so she might balance on his shoulder if she teetered.
As they crossed the cliffside in silence, Gwynna sought a distraction from the pulsing in her back where the wood had fallen upon her. She merely had to look down at Jack—Mr. Trevethan, his shoulders moving from side to side, the rain sliding down the contours of his neck.
Soon enough, they neared Gwynna’s house, and her parents ran out into the rain toward them.
“Gwynna!” Mama cried out.
Mr. Trevethan helped her down from the horse, nodding his head to her mother and father. “I caught sight of her underneath a broken lean-to at the mine,” he explained. “She isn’t gravely hurt, but a few boards did fall down on her back.”
Gwynna didn’t miss Papa’s uneasy stare at Mr. Trevethan, though he managed a muttered “Thank you” alongside Mama as he wrapped his arm around Gwynna.
“I be fine,” Gwynna said to her parents as they fussed over her, directing her toward the house. “Only a little bruised.”
As they ushered her away, Mr. Trevethan remained by his horse. She focused over her shoulder, and he tipped his head toward her.
Before she could smile or express a word of her own gratitude, they shifted toward the house, and her image of the man disappeared.
But the feeling of his eyes on her, and the memory of his hands caressing her skin, remained.
Chapter Twelve
Jack drew in a deep breath, his hand hovering above the door handle. He hadn’t stepped foot inside his mother’s room in over ten years, yet there he was, readying himself to face the demons of his past.
He still didn’t know how the devil he’d found himself outside her chambers again, though he figured it was due to his conversation with Gwynna days before. He’d mentioned processing his mother’s death, yet there was one thing he hadn’t had the courage to do yet, and that was revisiting the last place he’d seen her alive, and the first place he’d seen her gone.
He had no desire to see the room, how Father had altered it, to no longer see her feminine touch present, just like in the rest of the house. But like a moth to the flame, he was drawn to it. He could only pray seeing her old living quarters would give him the final closure he so desired.
Reminding himself of Gwynna’s courage to work daily at the very mine her brother had died, he turned the knob and pushed open the door, holding his breath.
He had expected to peer through the darkness, to perhaps cough from the dust he’d unsettled by opening the door. But a bright, clean room with yellow curtains drawn welcomed him instead.
He’d spent half his childhood in this room, due to Mama’s consistently declining health. How he missed those times, walking the cliffsides on her good days then playing quietly in here when she needed to rest.
The four-poster bed in which he’d sat with her as a child, singing songs and reading books, still rested in the middle of the room, its gold and teal wall hangings dusted and neatly pressed. A vase of flowers with withering petals remained at her bedside table, where she enjoyed admiring them from her bed.
The table they’d often sat at to play chess was situated in the same place by the large window. One of the glass panes was still cracked from when he’d angrily thrown a marble pawn at it after losing.
Even now, her easy-tempered voice resounded throughout the room.
“Now, Jacky. Such a temper is not becoming of a gentleman.”
The large, red rug hadn’t moved an inch on the floor. Instead of witnessing flashes of his mother’
s body as he’d feared, he noted instead the intricate pattern she’d taught him to dance upon, and the tea stain from when he’d spat out the drink he’d so despised.
“I’ve never liked it either, Jacky. We shall hide it together.”
Yes, everything in the room was exactly as he remembered, apart from one thing. He crossed the room toward a small dresser, where hung above it a large portrait he’d never seen. Painted on the canvas larger than his person was his mother—young and healthy and vibrant, with blue eyes and a smile that pricked him with sorrow.
“I wish for eyes like you, Mama,” he’d told her often as a boy.
“Oh, no, son. You have lovely eyes, just like your papa. Kind and warm. If you cease your scowling, of course.”
As Jack shifted his view to the younger person painted beside her in the portrait, his breath departed. There was no mistaking his own brown eyes and unruly hair, nor himself as a young boy.
How could this painting be? He’d never seen it before.
A door clicked, and Jack pivoted to face his father, who entered the bedchamber from the room that adjoined Father’s to Mama’s.
He held a bouquet of fresh flowers, his eyes wide with surprise. “Jack? What are you doing in here?”
Jack stepped back from the portrait. “My apologies. I wasn’t meaning to intrude.”
Father stopped his departure with a shake of his hand. “No, that’s not what I meant. I was only surprised to see you in here. Of course you are not intruding. You will always be welcome in your mother’s room.”
Jack scooted his eyes about him, anxious. He hadn’t spoken with Father since their argument the week before. Normally, he would’ve muttered some excuse then fled from the room, as he’d just attempted to do. But Gwynna’s words sounded in his mind.
Forgiveness is a journey.
He blew out a breath, his cheeks puffing. “What are the flowers for?”
Father stared down at the bouquet in his hands, walking to the bedside table. “I bring them in every week. It brightens up the room and helps me feel a little closer to her.”
Jack’s strength dangled by a thread. His father brought flowers to Mama’s room every week? Not even sending a servant to do so in his place?
Father replaced the aging flowers with the new bouquet then turned to Jack. They stood in silence for a moment before Father motioned to the portrait above the dresser.
“Do you like it?”
Jack perused the smiling faces on himself and his mama. “I do. Very much. But I’m afraid I don’t recognize it. Was it in a different room, perhaps, before you brought it in here?”
Father slowly shook his head. “I had it commissioned after her death and after you…after I sent you away. The painter used two previous paintings to put you together. Your mother had always expressed her desire to have one with the both of you before she passed.”
Jack faced the painting, his focus falling on his mama’s painted hand holding one of Jack’s, as they’d so often done. Tears pricked his eyes.
How he longed for his mother, to have her arms once more around him, to hear her instructive, encouraging words. How could he continue on without her, in that house, in Cornwall, where the memory of her was so excruciatingly painful, it was as if a dagger was digging around in his chest, searching for the heart he’d buried long ago? Would he ever feel that love, that cherished feeling of peace and comfort as he had with Mama? That warmth in his chest of love and the feeling of being home again?
A jolt of shock pushed through his limbs. Warmth. He hadn’t felt that warmth in his chest since his mother was alive—until he’d met Gwynna.
She had revived him. Her own goodness had encouraged him to be better, to apologize. She had brought warmth and joy back into his life.
He knew he’d been a disappointment to his family, and he’d lived with it. But being a disappointment to Gwynna had nearly led him back to drinking, to numb the pain that hadn’t been so poignant in years.
Did that mean he had feelings beyond friendship for her?
Fear struck him like a bolt of lightning. What on earth would he do if that were true?
“Are you well, son?”
Jack waited for his thoughts to catch up before nodding. “Yes, merely deep in thought.”
“I do not wish to pry, but you appear troubled. Is there anything with which I might be able to help you?”
Help him? Jack didn’t need help. At least not with anything he was willing to divulge. He had everything he wanted in the world, apart from his mother. But he knew one—many—who did need aid.
An excitement simmered deep in his chest, growing rapidly as his thoughts spilled forth. He’d been selfish before, criticizing Father’s desire to help those at Wheal Favour instead of himself. Gwynna and so many others suffered far more greatly than he ever had. Now, it was Jack’s time to help.
Perhaps helping her would help him to finally make sense of his emotions.
“Jack?” Father pressed.
Jack turned to him with directness. He’d harbored resentment and anger for far too long. It was time to let go, or at least, begin the process. “Father, will you be going to the mine today, now the rain has ceased?”
“Of course.”
“Would you mind if I joined you? There are a few items I’d like to discuss with you and Mr. Harvey, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Father blinked swiftly to hide his excitement, his lips pressed tightly to avoid revealing his smile. “Of course, Jack. Regarding what exactly?”
Jack attempted to make light of the situation, though he knew as well as Father just how strange it was for them to be speaking. “I’ve recently become aware of the many hardships endured by miners and their families. I should like to improve their lots in life by working through a number of things that could be done to improve the mine, including mechanizing the bucking process and creating proper shelter for the maidens.”
Father rubbed the back of his head in stunned silence. Jack was just as stunned. He was speaking with Father, giving him advice on how to run his business. Of course he was only doing so because it was the right thing to do for the miners. Helping Gwynna—his friend—was only an added bonus.
Speaking of Gwynna. “A few days ago, I passed by Wheal Favour during the storm. I happened to see Gwynna Merrick being struck by a breaking lean-to up against the engine house.”
Father’s brow pulled low over his eyes. “I hadn’t any idea of the matter. Was she injured?”
Jack had wondered the very same for days, though he’d been unable to see for himself for obvious reasons. “I believe so. I entered the counthouse to help her get warm, though I broke the lock of the door in the process. Either way, I think it time we take measures to make more improvements, additional to the ones you’ve already made.”
“Well I think that is a superb idea. Mr. Harvey will certainly agree.”
“Excellent. I will make ready then.”
Jack left the room and his bewildered father behind, releasing a heavy breath as soon as he was alone.
He’d done it. He’d had a conversation with his father—a real conversation—and it hadn’t ended in an argument. Their words had still centered around business, but this was certainly a leap in the right direction.
He couldn’t wait to thank the woman who was responsible for helping him to make such a leap.
He moved through the house with a light step, about to enter his room before Hugh emerged down the hallway. “Someone seems happier today,” he said. “I haven’t seen you smiling since Bath.”
Jack was smiling? He hadn’t realized. He pulled back from his room. “Perhaps I have more to smile over now.”
“Care to share?”
“Not quite.” Jack grinned, entering his room and poking his head outside. “I’ll be joining my father at the mine this morning. I trust you and Amy will be able to entertain yourselves for a few hours.”
Hugh’s face fell. “Oh, must you? Amy was very much looking
forward to spending time with you. She’s been unbearably down lately, and I haven’t any idea why. You always seem to cheer her up more than I can.”
Jack hesitated, scratching the side of his face. He didn’t have time today, especially if Amy was just going to condemn him again. He needed to go to the mine. He needed to see Gwynna.
But he had dragged both Hugh and Amy with him to Cornwall. How was he to know he’d find more enjoyment being with someone else?
“Very well. Perhaps we meet up at St. Just this afternoon? We can sample pastries while Amy shops.”
“Now that is an idea I can support.” Hugh grinned. “It is good to see you more cheerful, cousin.”
Jack watched him depart then entered his room with another smile. Hugh was right. It was good to see himself more cheerful.
* * *
Gwynna tipped her head back, sighing with pleasure as the warmth from the sun graced her cheeks. She’d long since removed her bonnet. How could one wear such a covering when the sun hadn’t shone its light in nearly a week?
“It be gorgeous today.” She closed her eyes and laid down against the heather on the cliffside, ignoring the pain in her back, still bruised from the fallen lean-to. “Don’t ye think, Papa?”
“Yes, daugh’er.”
His mouth was full of the pasty Mama had provided for crib, but Gwynna could still detect the distracted nature of his tone as she sat beside him on the cliffside.
She peeked an eye open as he stared toward the counthouse. “What be the matter?”
He faced forward with a skirted glance. “Nothin’. Only Mr. Trevethan and ‘is son be headed our way.”
Gwynna shot up from the heather, wincing at her protesting muscles. She gaped over her shoulder as the father and son walked toward them. Her eyes met Jack’s, and she jerked forward with stifled breaths.
Jack.
In the privacy of her own thoughts, she’d taken to calling the man by his given name. He’d asked her to do so, after all.
Even still, his name sounded foreign to her tongue, like eating the jaune mange Sophia had shared with her and Mama on her visit yesterday. The jelly had lost its shape and spilled over the edge of the bowl due to Sophia’s jostling carriage, but the orange zest and smooth sugar strummed against Gwynna’s tongue. It was unrecognizable, but sweetly familiar. Just like Jack’s name.
Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3) Page 21