For the Lady of Lowena (A Cornish Romance Book 2)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Weeks? Father had known what was to happen for weeks? She struggled to maintain hold of her anger as the questions, the numbness, pulled a thick fog over her mind. Mother kept her eyes closed, as if opening them would force her to see how her life was now plummeting to the ground.

  Father continued. “Mr. Hawkins has been more than patient, and—”

  “Sir?” Mr. Hawkins’s deep tone filled the room.

  Sophia spun toward him. Why was he speaking? He didn’t have the right.

  “I know you wished for me to remain here,” he said, “but I think it will be best for all concerned if I take my leave. Please, do excuse me.”

  “Of course, of course.” Father led him toward the door, speaking under his breath, but the silence in the room sent his voice echoing about the walls. “I’m terribly sorry to have put you through all of this, Mr. Hawkins. I perfectly understand your desire to leave.”

  Sophia’s glare followed Mr. Hawkins until he paused at the door, nodding at Father. “Thank you, sir. I will see myself out.”

  Then his eyes found Sophia’s. He studied her for a single, unreadable moment. His mouth parted as if he wished to say something, but in the end, he simply dipped his head and left the room without another word.

  Father closed the door. Sophia blew out a breath, her cheeks puffing with the air. “Thank goodness he has left. I’m sure I never wish to see that awful man again.”

  Father’s fierce eyes were upon her. “Sophia, that was unfair of you to treat him in such a way.”

  She pulled back, her eyes wide. Why was he upset with her? She had not seen such anger from him since she’d rather willfully painted down the entire banister when she was nine years old. Granted, his frustration was warranted then. What had she done to incur his wrath now, short of speaking the truth to one despicable gentleman?

  “Father, Mr. Hawkins hardly deserves your support. Do you know what he said to me after—”

  Father’s hand cut through the air. “Stop, Sophia. That gentleman is now our landlord.”

  “Landlord?” She glanced to Mother. Her eyes remained focused on her hands laced together in her lap.

  “Mr. Hawkins has very graciously offered to lease Lowena Cottage to us. And I have accepted.”

  “Lowena Cottage?” She pulled back with repulsion. They, the Rosewalls, would be staying at Lowena Cottage? The shabby little house perched on the cliffside at the very edge of their property?

  She cringed. Mr. Hawkins’s property.

  “Yes,” Father said. “And we will be grateful to him for allowing us to live there when he could just as easily find anyone else. He even went so far as to offer the first few months to us free of charge.” His eyes trailed off, as if he was not aware that he still spoke aloud. “Of course I declined. I may have lost everything else, but my pride stays intact.” His eyes returned to Sophia. “You would do well to not offend the man. We should not give him reason to turn us out. That is precisely why I invited him to join us for dinner this evening.”

  Sophia pressed a hand to her churning stomach. She was dreaming. A horrible, terrifying dream. She would not live at Lowena Cottage. Father would not allow her and Mother to fall so low.

  Yet, as each moment passed by, the reality of her future life weighed heavier and heavier on her mind.

  “Mr. Hawkins will be keeping on most of the servants,” Father continued, “and I have agreed that Fynwary Hall will come fully-furnished and equipped, as we will hardly have any use for such finery at the cottage.” He seemed to brace himself before sitting next to Mother, placing his hand over hers. “My dear, it is not all bad, I assure you. I will find something in the way of work so we may continue with a somewhat comfortable living.”

  Father, work as if he were a member of the lower class? They, live comfortably at Lowena Cottage? Sophia scoffed. Father was mad.

  “Truly,” he continued, ignoring Sophia and leaning forward in an attempt to meet Mother’s eye. “Mr. Hawkins is a good man. The best of men. He will treat our home with the dignity it deserves.” He paused. “His home, I should say.”

  Hearing those words aloud was the knife that severed the rope holding Sophia back. Her hands fisted. “This is not his home, Father. This is our home, and I refuse to live in such a place as Lowena Cottage.”

  Father’s stern brow turned to her. “This is his home, Sophia. You have already made things insufferably uncomfortable for him. I will not allow you to worsen the matter by stubbornly refusing to leave his house.”

  She huffed out an indignant breath, only vaguely aware of the hysterics bubbling within her. “I have made things uncomfortable for him? What about what he has done to us? No, Father. I will not leave here. You cannot force me to do so. I refuse to live in a home unfit for even servants, and I refuse to leave Fynwary Hall.” She plopped down onto the sofa, folding her arms. “I will not allow my home to fall into the hands of an ungrateful, insolent man who can only—”

  “Sophia,” Mother hissed, “enough!”

  Sophia’s eyes widened, cowering as her mother continued.

  “Your father has spoken. We shall do as he says.”

  Her words were final. There was no reason for Sophia to speak any longer. She looked between her parents, their unhappy faces fixed on her. They had not even looked at Mr. Hawkins so disappointedly.

  The knowledge stung. With a quivering chin, Sophia stood and fled from the room, waiting until she was far enough away from the drawing room to finally allow her sobs passage through her lips.

  Chapter Five

  Frederick pushed the letter from his steward aside and leaned his elbows on the small desk, his interlaced fingers pressed against his lips.

  His eyes followed the people walking below his window as they passed by the Golden Arms Inn. They walked in a slower manner here, relaxed as they greeted friends and smiled at one another. Their world seemed far happier than how he felt in his room.

  Two nights had passed since his dinner at the Rosewalls. Three since he’d been sleeping at the dreadful inn. Before the dinner party, Mr. Rosewall had offered him a room at Fynwary Hall. Fortunately, Frederick had possessed the foresight to decline his offer.

  As tired as he was of the Golden Arms—its prickly, woolen blankets, the constant bustle coming from below his room, and the horrendous food—the deplorable living conditions were far better than the awkwardness of staying at Fynwary Hall as the Rosewalls packed away their few belongings and made ready for their move to the cottage.

  Why Mr. Rosewall had thought it wise to tell his family in front of Frederick that they no longer had a source of income or a home was beyond him. The tension was palpable, and he had taken his first opportunity to escape.

  Mr. Rosewall may have done so out of fear, hoping Frederick’s presence would allow his wife and daughter to remain calm. Or perhaps so their anger would glance off Mr. Rosewall and hit Frederick instead. Mrs. Rosewall had certainly maintained decorum, but the same could not be said about her daughter.

  Frederick concentrated more intently out the window. He’d promised himself he’d no longer think of the Rosewalls. Mr. Rosewall reminded him too greatly of Frederick’s coward father. And Miss Rosewall, well, she had been the greatest disappointment of them all. Not only had she turned out to be the type of woman he’d tried to avoid in London, she’d then proceeded to blame Frederick for her own father’s inability to keep their home.

  Of course he had compassion for them. He would be heartless if he didn’t also suffer with a great deal of culpability. When he’d first arrived at Fynwary Hall, he was under the impression, because Mr. Rosewall had told him such, that he would take possession directly. Seeing that the Rosewalls were not yet ready to leave, Frederick had offered to return in a few weeks. Mr. Rosewall had declined, however, ensuring Frederick that they would be gone in two days.

  Such a revelation had shocked Mrs. Rosewall, and her sorrow had pressed keenly on Frederick’s mind, as did Miss Rosewall’s dismay. He’d even f
elt remorse for his unkind words to her after their game of whist, though that had quickly vanished when she’d accused him of ruining her life.

  Frederick sniffed with derision. He may be the one pushing them from their home, but he was essentially saving her father from debtor’s prison. He had very little patience for a man who could keep such secrets from his family, like his own father had.

  He combed his fingers through his hair and stood from his desk, approaching the window for a better view, though he couldn’t see the ocean from the inn. Perhaps he ought to take another ride. He’d ventured to the sea multiple times a day since he’d arrived in Cornwall. The waves did much to soothe his nerves.

  Nerves that should not even be present.

  Blast that woman and her family. He had not come to Cornwall to get himself wrapped up in the center of a scene from some theatrical drama. He’d come for peace, a pleasant time, and, Heaven-willing, a potential wife.

  Since Miss Rosewall was anything but a potential wife, he would instead consider Miss Kinsey. He couldn’t carry on a conversation with her, but at least she wasn’t pretending to be someone she wasn’t. If his true intent in coming to Cornwall was to find a proper spouse, then he would be wise to no longer dwell on Miss Rosewall.

  The sooner he forgot about her, the better.

  * * *

  Sophia shivered, the movement causing her to wake from her slumber. Why was it so cold in her room? And why did those birds chirp so closely to her window? They had never been that loud before.

  She rolled onto her back with a groan. As the sun fell across her face, she pulled out of the way, squeezing her eyes tightly closed.

  It could not be any later than eight in the morning. Mills knew Sophia didn’t wish to be awoken before ten o’clock, so why on earth had the lady’s maid opened the curtains already?

  Sophia stretched her arms over her head as she drew in a deep breath. But as a strange scent accosted her senses, she abruptly stopped.

  Damp wood. Wet straw.

  She opened her eyes just a fraction, allowing them to adjust to the light. When she found the spring green bed hangings missing from her four-poster bed, and her large, brightly lit fireplace gone, she sat upright with a gasp. This was not her room at Fynwary Hall.

  This was Lowena Cottage.

  Her head spun, though whether from the quick movements or the memories pouring over her, she could not be sure.

  She cast her eyes about the room, her room, and her lip curled in disgust. Cobwebs littered every corner, ceiling to floor, and the walls were bare, decorated solely by the cracks running up and down the grey paint. The only pieces of furniture within the room were a small wardrobe, a desk, and her bed that now trembled dangerously with each movement she made.

  It was just as well that there was no further furniture. Nothing else would have fit, apart from the smallest hearth she had ever seen situated near the foot of her bed. Surely it was unfit for warming a room even half the size of her new, miniscule living quarters.

  By the looks of it, the fire had gone out hours ago, which had undoubtedly contributed to the frigid temperature of her room. That, and the very chilly and very steady draft sliding past her shoulders.

  She burrowed farther into her thin blanket and looked to the window. The curtains hadn’t been opened, after all. They were merely too small to cover the entire pane, which was not a difficult feat, as the window was nearly a fourth of the size of hers at Fynwary.

  From the crack in the curtains, she could see a distinctly crooked gap between the wooden ledge of the window and the frame, evidence that the window hadn’t been installed properly.

  Wonderful. That explained the draft and why the birds were so loud. And the waves. Goodness, the cottage must be right on top of the sea. If the crack in the window allowed the sound of the outdoors in, she could only imagine what other creatures besides the spiders could enter her room. She rubbed her crawling skin at the thought.

  With her room in such a terrible state, Sophia wondered how the rest of the cottage appeared. She had arrived so late last night, well after dark, that she could hardly recall a single sight.

  They had initially planned to leave Fynwary Hall early the morning before, but with Sophia refusing to leave her room, they missed their aim by nearly an entire day. Truthfully, she would be there still, had it not been for Mother speaking sense to her.

  “Sophia,” she had said, “if we do not leave this very moment, Mr. Hawkins will arrive, and you shall have to face him again. Is that what you wish to do? Because I would prefer never seeing that gentleman again.”

  After her words, Sophia had promptly quit the house, and Mother had continued on in her silence. Sophia did not blame her for not wishing to speak. After all, what could any of them say that hadn’t already been thought by each one of them?

  Another cool wind sailed past her, and she looked to the empty hearth again. Why had Edith not maintained the fire last night? The cottage was a far cry smaller than Fynwary Hall. The girl should have no difficulty in the upkeep of the rooms.

  If hiring the servants had been up to Sophia, she would never have chosen to bring along Edith, their scullery maid turned housemaid. Nor would Sophia have hired Mrs. Cuff, the woman who would now act as their housekeeper, though her duties would also extend to playing the part of lady’s maid, as they couldn’t afford Mills to be brought with them.

  Mrs. Cuff had come highly recommended by their previous housekeeper, but Sophia wondered how good she could be if her only option was to take work at a poorly cottage.

  Time would tell if the servants would do their work admirably. Though, perhaps she could give their efforts a test right now.

  Still lying in her bed, she glanced around the room for a servants’ bell. Her brow crinkled when her search came up empty, and she realized the house was probably too small to have one.

  She released a great sigh. This cottage was becoming more cumbersome by the minute. How was Mrs. Cuff to know when to come to her room with breakfast? Sophia could hardly shout out her desires through the house, no matter how small it was. That was far too undignified for a Rosewall.

  Her stomach growled. She pressed a hand over her abdomen to suppress it. Typically, she would never consider eating breakfast so early, but having refused nearly all her meals for two days, she could do with proper nourishment.

  Especially considering what she had planned for her day, solving the problem dear Father had unwittingly created for them. She’d concocted her plan only the day before as she’d watched the servants pack away half her dresses—“Not all of them will fit in the cottage, miss”—and only a handful of her belongings.

  The gowns she didn’t bring along, most of them old and out of fashion, would be sold for scraps to help pay for rent in the coming months before Father found a job.

  Sophia knew he was already busy attempting to better their circumstances, either by finding work with reputable gentlemen or looking into future investments. One day, she hoped to see him take back Fynwary Hall from the gentleman whom she would never speak of again. But that would be a long time from now.

  Sophia’s forthcoming plan, however, would provide her a way to leave Lowena Cottage far sooner. With any luck, she would not even spend a single night longer attempting to sleep on this lumpy, damp mattress. She may have been distraught the night Father had told her the news, but now she was filled with hope.

  Her stomach growled again. She really could not allow such an unladylike sound to continue, no matter how cold she was.

  Quickly, she slid from her bed and crossed the brisk floor to the small wardrobe. Thumbing through the clothing Mrs. Cuff had managed to put away tidily, Sophia spotted her dressing gown.

  The comfortable cover and her slippers provided better warmth before she finally left her room, opening the door with a loud creak that pierced the air.

  She peered down the corridor. The walls were the same drab grey that her bedroom suffered with, but a window spill
ed golden light across the floor, specks of dust shimmering in the air.

  Two doors were situated side-by-side across from Sophia’s room. She stopped in front of the first, listening as muted voices sounded behind the door. Mother and Father were no doubt discussing ways in which to leave Lowena behind.

  She sighed with relief. She could always rely on her sweet parents. They all deserved so much better than this cottage.

  The voices quieted as she tapped softly against the door. Footsteps sounded, then the door opened.

  To her surprise, the housekeeper stood before her. “Mrs. Cuff, I was just on my way to find you.”

  “What can I do for ye, miss?” She stepped outside of the room, pulling the door behind her.

  Sophia failed to catch a single glimpse of Mother before the door closed. “I typically don’t take breakfast this early, but I require such this morning, if you would be so kind.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I will dress shortly after. And do have Edith tend to my fire. It is unbearably cold in my room.”

  “My apologies, miss. I’ll have her see to it right away.”

  “Thank you. Oh, and at your earliest convenience, I should like you to purchase bells so I do not have to go in search of you each time I am in need of something. I should think my mother would agree to this, as well.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  Sophia peered over the woman’s shoulder at Mother’s door. “Is my mother in there now?”

  “Yes, miss, but she asked to remain undisturbed for the rest of the day. She didn’t sleep well.”

  “Did any of us?” Sophia mumbled. She wiped away her contempt and began again. “When she is feeling better, do tell her that I am to call on the Madderns this morning. If she finds the strength, I would enjoy her company, but if not, I must go alone.”

  Sophia knew calling without a companion would hardly be proper, but she had no choice. Her plan needed to go into effect that very day.