“You came!” She disengaged her arm from the young man’s at her side and hugged Elowyn. “I’m so glad.”
“You look radiant.”
Lydia beamed. “So do you in that lovely gown of yours.” She turned to the young man at her side. “Allow me to introduce you to Thomas Custance. He’s a clerk at the bank. Mr. Custance, these are my friends, Mr. Josiah Hendrick and his wife, Mistress Elowyn Hendrick. Mr. Hendrick is the blacksmith.”
“I believe we’ve met before.” Thomas held out his hand to Josiah. “You mended that hearth crane for my mother. She was quite pleased with how it turned out.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Are you enjoying the festivities?”
“Indeed.” Lydia looked up at Thomas, and Elowyn would swear stars filled the girl’s eyes. “It’s been a lovely evening.”
Mr. and Mistress Wingfield strolled toward them arm in arm, their two youngest daughters at their heels.
“Elowyn, dear. How wonderful to see you.” Mistress Wingfield embraced her warmly.
“As it is to see you.” Surrounded by the Wingfields, her unease faded. She could fit into this life, with these people, couldn’t she? In time, mayhap, ’twould be as if she’d always been there. Fully belonged.
How her heart craved such a feeling.
Lydia and her beau chatted with her family a while, then went off to join the dance, along with the other two Wingfield girls.
An elderly man approached their circle, shaking hands with the Wingfields and Josiah, who introduced him to her as John Martin, an old friend.
“A word with ye, Hendrick?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Of course.” Josiah turned to her. “Excuse us a moment?”
“Certainly,” Elowyn answered.
Josiah and Mr. Martin moved away, heads bent in conversation. She watched him disappear into the crowd. Of course he’d no need to cling by her side all evening.
Still, his presence had given her a kind of mooring. Without it, some of her earlier awkwardness returned.
“Shall we sit down?” Mistress Wingfield asked. Mr. Wingfield offered Elowyn his other arm, and the three of them made their way toward the backless benches set up in a square around the dancing area.
“Mr. Wingfield!”
They turned at the voice. A boy dashed toward them. “Mr. Wingfield!” He skidded to a halt, panting. Tears tracked down his grimy cheeks. “I’ve been looking everywhere for ye.” He made a noise between a gulp and a sob. “I went to yer house and knocked and knocked, but no one was in. So—” He gasped for breath. “I come here. Please, sir. Ye’ve got to come. ’Tis my mum.” He swiped a hand below his nose. “She don’t have long left, and she be asking for a parson.”
Elowyn’s heart cinched. The frantic tremor in the child’s voice, the fear flashing through his too-wide eyes. Those were only the outward signs.
She was all too well acquainted with those that lay beneath.
Mr. Wingfield bent and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’ll come with you straightaway.”
“Are your little sisters with her, Jem?” Mistress Wingfield asked gently.
“Aye, mistress.” Jem nodded. “Please, sir.” He tugged on Mr. Wingfield’s sleeve. “We’d best hurry.”
Mistress Wingfield glanced at her husband. “I’ll go with you, Edward. The little ones …” She turned to Elowyn. “I’m sorry.”
Elowyn shook her head. “Nay. You’d best make haste.”
The Wingfields followed young Jem away from the festivities. Elowyn stared after them, wind stirring her hair.
Be with Jem and his family tonight, Lord. Comfort them. The loss of a mother is a heartache no child of tender years should have to endure.
She slowly made her way in the direction of the dancing. Surely she could find Lydia and the Wingfield girls. What was keeping Josiah? The sky was fading fast, the night lit up by roaring fires and lanterns hanging from the trees. Fiddling blended with drums, the music loud and lusty.
Lifting her chin, she refused to allow herself the slightest stir of unease. Being unattended at a country fair was nothing compared to hauling Tom Brody home from the public house whilst foxed patrons pelted her with lewd comments.
Walking toward the dancing, she scanned the crowd for Lydia’s auburn curls.
And collided with a solid object, the impact stealing her breath.
“I beg your pardon, sir.” She looked up at the gentleman she’d run into. Or had he run into her?
“No harm done.” Light flickered over his features. He stood tall and elegant in a double-breasted coat, a beaver hat atop his pale hair. In one hand he held a silver-tipped walking stick. His gaze met hers.
She flushed, ashamed to be caught staring. “Good day to you then.” She dipped a fumbling curtsy and made a move to walk past him.
He stepped slightly to the side, blocking her. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of an introduction,” he said, voice cultured and smooth.
“Oh. I do apologize. I’m Elowyn … Hendrick.” She’d almost said Brody but stopped herself in time.
“Phineas Trevenick.” He bowed, hand resting on the handle of his walking stick. “At your service.”
She curtsied again. “’Tis a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.” She’d never spoken directly to a member of the gentry before. How ought one behave?
“Hendrick.” He raised a slender brow. “Are you any relation to the smith, Hendrick?”
“He’s my husband.”
“Upon my word, you don’t say.”
“Do you know him, sir?” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. At least her dress and cloak made her look the lady.
“I do indeed. Quite well, actually. We were boyhood acquaintances.” The crowd milled around them, thinning out with the approach of nightfall.
She could hardly imagine a blacksmith would associate with a gentleman on social terms, so it must’ve been before Josiah’s father lost their mine.
“Then I’m glad to make yours.” She smiled.
“Are you here alone?”
She shook her head. “Nay. My husband’s with me, but someone asked to speak with him. I was with other friends, but they had to leave unexpectedly.”
“Then you are here alone. Allow me to wait with you until your husband returns. The rabble has a tendency to get out of hand after dark, and I wouldn’t wish harm to befall a lovely woman such as yourself.” A burst of raucous laughter nearby confirmed his words.
“Thank you, sir. That’s most kind.” She pulled the throat of her cloak tighter around her shoulders as a crisp breeze picked up. The flickering fires illuminated the forms of the revelers in a kind of eerie glow. She gave Mr. Trevenick a grateful look. She could have managed herself, but his solicitude was kind, and she welcomed the company. Ought she go in search of Josiah? But if she did, that could lead to her getting lost. Surely he’d look for her in this general area.
“How long have you and your husband been married?” He studied her face.
“A month.”
“And do you—”
“Elowyn.” She turned at Josiah’s voice. Relief filled her as he came toward her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you and the Wingfields.” He clasped her shoulders, his touch warming her beneath her cloak.
“Mr. and Mistress Wingfield were called away unexpectedly.”
He gazed down at her from beneath the brim of his tricorn, apology in his eyes. “Then you’ve been alone?”
She shook her head. “Nay. An old friend of yours, Mr. Trevenick, was kind enough to wait with me.”
Josiah’s gaze swung to Mr. Trevenick, standing a pace away.
“Good evening, Hendrick.” He bowed.
“Trevenick.” Josiah gave a brief nod.
“I happened upon your wife, and thought it only my duty to wait with her until your return.”
“I thank you, but your duty is now discharged.”
Elowyn frowned. For a boyhood acquaintance, Josiah greeted him w
ith little friendliness. He glanced at her. “We should be going.”
“Aye.” She turned to Mr. Trevenick. “Thank you again, sir.”
“I bid you both a pleasant evening. Mistress Hendrick.” Mr. Trevenick nodded.
Josiah offered her his arm, and they walked through the dispersing crowd toward the road. Lanterns swung and bobbed around them as others made their way homeward.
She looked at him in the half darkness. “What kept you?”
Their steps crunched as they walked. “Martin wanted my advice regarding some difficulties at his granary. I’m sorry I was absent so long.”
“You needn’t apologize.” The sounds of fiddling and laughter faded as they moved onto the road, the moon a glow against the darkness.
Silence fell for several minutes.
“What did you speak of with Trevenick?”
Josiah was not like Tom Brody, changeable in his moods. Yet there was a note in his tone she’d not heard before. “Very little.” She tried to keep her own voice light. “’Twas only a few moments before you came.”
“For that, I am glad,” he muttered.
His coolness gave her pause. “Why?”
But he did not answer.
Chapter 9
Tugging her shawl tighter round her shoulders, Elowyn hastened down the hillside. Delivering food to the Darter family, the mother laid in a churchyard plot but a week ago, had left her heart-sore. Tears welled in Jacky Darter’s eyes when she’d handed him the box of bread, freshly made cheese, a cloth-wrapped stargazy pie, and a dozen apples from the tree growing in back of the forge. He’d clasped her hand and called her a blessing, while young Jem and his sisters stood by, eyes hollow with hunger and grief. Before leaving, she’d bent down and hugged each in turn, despite the rank odor about them, their skinny arms twining around her neck. Jem’s throat bobbed as he vainly held back tears, and she left the meager cottage with a knot in her own.
Wed to Josiah, she no longer had such lack herself and could begin to supply those of others. The needs around were great indeed, and what she could do seemed painfully little, but ’twas something.
A breeze nipped her cheeks as she headed toward home. Back-dropped by the cliffs and the sea beyond, the great stone engine house of Wheal Prosper rose high. Men hauled laden cartloads, while the bal maidens sat, “dressing” or picking the ore by breaking it into pieces with hammers. Younger children sat at another table, sorting the pure ore from the waste. The wind carried their voices. Though the work was hard, ’twas at least not lonely. She’d have done such herself, if Tom Brody had permitted her.
Onward she walked toward the forge. Tonight perhaps she and Josiah would sit in front of the fire and he’d read aloud while she mended, the deep notes of his voice lulling her into a warm daze. ’Twas too cold now for him to sleep in the forge, so he’d brought his bedclothes inside and bedded by the hearth instead. But not without first asking in his quiet way if ’twould discomfit her to have him in the house. She’d answered nay.
Never had she known such kindness could exist. Tom Brody had rarely made, much less kept, a promise. When Josiah said a thing he meant it, and did all within his might and main to see it carried out. He was generous with his customers, fatherly toward Peter, and of late, when they sat by the firelight, she caught him looking at her with such tenderness, her heart swelled. She’d begun to dream of a married life where a door did not separate them at night, imagined his lips against hers, their children playing on the beach, and Josiah sweeping them up in his strong arms, their laughter blending with the wind.
She turned down the lane and started toward the cottage. An unfamiliar horse stood tied near the forge. Voices drifted from the open window of the house. Elowyn stilled.
“What business have you here, Trevenick?” Josiah’s voice.
Trevenick? Phineas? Her fingers closed around her skirt. Ought she go in or remain outside?
“To see about the repair of this toasting fork.” ’Twas indeed Phineas Trevenick. Why was that gentleman here?
“You could have sent a servant.”
“Perhaps I could have done. Is your wife hereabouts?”
Elowyn sucked in a breath.
“She is not.” Steel was more yielding than Josiah’s voice.
“Tell me, are you glad you acquired her?”
“I am glad you did not.”
You did not? What did Josiah mean?
“Is that the reason then? What manner of misery did you think I would inflict upon her?”
Silence greeted that remark.
Elowyn’s stomach twisted. Wind blew her hair round her cheeks, and she swiped it back with a shaking hand. Had Mr. Trevenick been at the auction that day, also bid for her?
“No matter. I got the better end of the bargain, of that I can be certain. You’ll be missed, though, at the shareholder meetings.”
Shareholder meetings?
“No doubt you’ll be able to aptly compensate for my presence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve work to do.”
“Very well.” Mr. Trevenick’s tone remained as smooth as ever. “Your father chose an apt name, you know. Wheal Prosper is most certainly prospering, more than ever before. Pity, after so long, you might have enjoyed a portion of the benefits, if you’d not esteemed that girl more than your share.” Boots sounded across the floor. “I bid you good day.”
Heart a frantic clamor in her chest, she picked up her skirts and ran across the yard, toward the forge. She slipped inside the dimness and leaned against the back wall, taking deep breaths of air that smelled of smoke.
Nay. It couldn’t be true. She pieced together fragments of the conversation, trying to come to grips with their meaning.
Josiah had owned a share in Wheal Prosper—that was the mine his father had owned? Then, on the day of the auction, he’d sold it to Phineas Trevenick, to purchase her and prevent Mr. Trevenick from doing so. No other explanation made sense.
Tears burned her eyes.
Why?
Why would he do such a thing for her, a stranger to him? Give up rights and profits in his father’s former mine to save a mere girl? She’d thought his sacrifice great, but now the magnitude of it increased tenfold.
’Tis in my blood. A thing like that doesn’t change overnight. Nor ever, if truth be told.
She wasn’t worth it. Not the ruin of this good man’s dream. Tom Brody had brought her to what should have been misery, and instead she’d been granted a home, a hearth. Happiness.
Aye. She’d been little acquainted with the meaning of the word till she wed Josiah Hendrick.
While she’d basked in the first happiness she’d known since before her mother’s death, he’d borne this loss alone. And still he’d held her while she sobbed on their wedding night. Opened her eyes to the beauty of Cornwall. Given her a dress and cloak and smiled to see her joy.
From the beginning, he’d shown her love. A love deeper than fickle emotion steeped in feeling. A love she did not deserve.
The consequences of her father’s actions were hers to suffer, not his. She didn’t deserve redemption. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, and she clamped a hand against her mouth to muffle a sob.
What she did deserve was every dram of the guilt now weighing her down.
She inhaled a trembling breath, fighting for a calm that would not come.
She’d not rest till she found a way to repay him.
“You’re quiet tonight.” Throughout the evening, she’d scarcely said half a dozen words. He’d grown accustomed to their conversations about all manner of things. Books, childhood memories, his work at the forge, plans for next spring’s garden. The topic mattered less than the woman he shared it with.
Tonight, she’d been as silent as on that first day.
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.” She looked up from her knitting as the fire hissed in the hearth. He rose to stoke it then resumed his seat. They sat across from each other, chairs on opposite sides of the fire. But with this distance
between them, they might as well have dwelt in different counties.
“Are you well?” Sitting forward, elbows on his knees, he studied her in the glow of firelight. Had she been that pale when she’d returned from Jacky Darter’s? He’d been too riled from Trevenick’s visit to notice. A visit he’d not told her of, nor would he. The less she had to do with that man, the better.
“I’m a bit tired.” She laid aside her knitting and stood, chair legs scraping the floor. “I think I’ll retire early.”
He hoped she wasn’t sickening with something. There’d been word of fever in the village.
“Good night, Josiah.”
He met her gaze. For a long moment, she regarded him. Something brewed in her eyes, a look he couldn’t cipher out. She turned away and crossed to the bedchamber.
“Good night.”
The door clicked.
He stared into the flames. In the smithy, he was never at a loss. He knew how hot metal needed to be heated in order to be made malleable, how to strike iron so it bent without breaking, how to craft intricate curves and designs to make a piece beautiful, as well as useful.
But with the inner workings of the heart—hers, his own—he was well out of his depth.
He blew out a sigh and scrubbed a hand across his face. It had not been his best day. He’d drawn on every drop of self-control to keep from grabbing Trevenick by the throat and throwing his sorry carcass out the door. That he’d dare to show his face on Hendrick property … The man had come to gloat, like some feudal lord flaunting his riches in front of his serfs.
Why would Trevenick concern himself with a lowly blacksmith? Everything one might aspire to, Trevenick had. An old family name, an estate, not only one mine but two, both of which he now held complete power over, since all remaining shareholders acquiesced to his bidding in everything. Servants, heaping coffers, luxury, grandeur.
Mary.
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