Behind the Light of Golowduyn (A Cornish Romance Book 1)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  “Miss Moore,” he called after her. She stopped with her hand on the stall door. “I can only imagine the amount of work you must have, and I know my staying here will not make your life easier. So I should like to offer my services to you. If you need help with anything, please, do not hesitate to ask.”

  Abigail did not know how to respond. She could not deny that she needed help at the lighthouse—and that Captain Kendricks’s stay had produced more work for her. But how could she accept his help when he was supposed to be their guest?

  Furthermore, if he did help, how could she go on when he would inevitably depart, leaving her in the same exhausted manner she had grown accustomed to?

  Rather than accepting his offer, or making any decision at all, she simply excused herself. As she approached the stable doors, however, something within her made her pause.

  “Captain,” she said, her eyes focusing on him across the stall, “I believe that your parents would be proud of the decision you made to join the navy. You fought to keep others safe, and that is a noble profession.”

  His eyes softened as he stared at her, but before he could give a response, she darted from the stables and scurried across the grass to the lighthouse.

  Chapter Four

  During dinner that evening, Abigail had not heard her uncle speak so enthusiastically in months. She understood the reasoning behind his high spirits—for who could not be happy when in conversation with Captain Kendricks?

  Throughout the meal, she lost track of how often she stared in his direction, listening intently to the stories he shared, watching his brown eyes brighten as he spoke of his love for the sea.

  “You are like your father in that regard, Captain,” Uncle Ellis said before sharing memory after memory of the departed Mr. Kendricks.

  All the while, Abigail struggled to join the conversation. After all, she did not have extraordinary tales of battles on a ship, nor memories she could share of the captain’s father and her uncle’s friend.

  After dinner, Uncle Ellis asked Abigail to join them in the sitting room. In an effort to prove she was just as entertaining and interesting as the captain, she set aside her chores and engaged in the discussion as best she could, though her feelings of inadequacy continued.

  The topic focused on Captain Kendricks’s family before the subject of Golowduyn surfaced, and Abigail’s mood finally improved. Especially when the captain leaned forward in his seat with interest.

  “I admit,” he said, “I have always been intrigued by the workings of lighthouses. Perhaps it is due to the many times they have kept me from danger while at sea.”

  Uncle Ellis propped his hands beneath his chin. His cane lay forgotten on the floor. “Have you seen the lamps of any of them?”

  “No, I have never had the opportunity.”

  “Well, I would take you up Golowduyn myself,” Uncle Ellis said, “but after my latest excursion, I fear my knees would not last.” His eyes did not reflect the familiar gloom Abigail had become so accustomed to. Instead, they shone with excitement. “But you would be more than welcome to join my niece this evening as she lights them.”

  Abigail struggled to hide her apprehension. Ensuring that the lamps were lit was their top priority. Or had her uncle forgotten? She could not bring Captain Kendricks to the lamp room. Suppose he distracted her? Not that she would have any reason to become unfocused around him, of course.

  Though the way her heart was fluttering due to his gaze being focused on her was certainly troubling.

  “I wouldn’t wish to interfere with your work,” he said.

  Well, at least one of the men seated before her had sense.

  “Nonsense,” Uncle Ellis said. “She would be delighted to show you. After all, there is no one who knows the inner workings of Golowduyn better than my niece.”

  Abigail nearly fell off her seat. Had her uncle just paid her a compliment? Suddenly, the thought of taking the captain to see the lamps did not seem so very bad after all.

  “I would be happy to show you, Captain.”

  After retrieving a pail of oil from the large vats in the brick hutch that butted up against the lighthouse, they made their way up the spiral staircase.

  Abigail held the pail in one hand and her skirts in the other, leading the way. The captain’s boots thumped against the iron steps as he followed her.

  After a moment, she paused briefly to switch the oil to her other hand, thick working gloves protecting her fingers.

  “May I hold the oil for you?” he offered as they continued up the steps.

  Abigail recalled their previous conversation in the stables. He was being a gentleman by offering his help, but she was still uneasy. After all, it had been some time since she had received any help at all around the lighthouse.

  Momentum was all that kept her going each day, all that prevented her from crumbling under the constant, backbreaking work. She feared if she yielded, even for the brief time the captain was their guest, it would only allow her to realize just how tired she was. She may never make pace again.

  “Thank you,” she said, “but I am accustomed to the task.”

  They reached the first window as their breath grew heavy. Light shone forth through the glass, lighting the tower in hazy orange and yellow.

  “How often are you required to climb these steps?” Captain Kendricks asked.

  “Every three to four hours,” she replied, “dependent upon when the lamps are to remain lit. I must light them a half hour before sunset and extinguish them a half hour after sunrise. When it storms, though, we keep them on until the weather passes. We also like to remain upstairs during the storms as a precaution, to spot ships faster or relight the lamps if one or two of them burn out.”

  She swapped the oil to her other hand.

  “May I ask why you do not bring two pails at a time to save yourself a trip?”

  “I do on occasion. Usually when I can tie up these cumbersome skirts a little.” She waved her hand clutching the fabric of her dress. “But with two pails it is more difficult to allow one arm a respite. Not to mention, it is near impossible to receive any rest in the watch room on account of it being far too cold, so I may as well go downstairs again to sleep for a few hours.”

  He didn’t respond. She wondered if he was focusing on his breathing instead—a thought that pleased her far too greatly. She would have been terribly upset had the captain been able to make it up the steps his first time without becoming winded.

  When they reached the halfway point, Abigail paused on the small landing. “I thought you would appreciate a rest.”

  His broad chest rose and fell with deep, steady breaths. “I would, indeed. It is remarkable you make the climb so often.”

  She placed the oil down at her feet and rubbed her gloved hands together to remove the creases the pail handle had caused in her skin. “Practice certainly helps. I’ve been Uncle’s assistant for nearly eight years now, ever since he removed the prior help.”

  When most girls Abigail’s age were celebrating their coming out, attending their first Seasons in London, fifteen-year-old Abigail had been watching over a lighthouse by herself. Even still, if she had the chance to go back, she would choose the latter.

  “Why was the previous assistant removed?” Captain Kendricks asked. His hands rested on his hips, his breathing growing steadier.

  “He was found sleeping during a storm when he was on duty,” she explained. “Uncle was furious. It was just as well, though, as we couldn’t afford to keep him on any longer. We lost our cook, maid, and stable hand for the same reason. We…”

  She stopped. Had she completely taken leave of her senses? There she was, sharing things that did not need sharing.

  She glanced toward the captain, his watchful eyes on her. She should not have stopped their ascent. Without work to distract her, her tongue had been loosened—and she had finally become aware that they were, once again, alone.

  Her uncle obviously had no qualms with the
situation, otherwise he would not have suggested the captain joining her. So if Uncle Ellis did not take issue, then neither would she. After all, this was far less intimate than when she had cleaned his wound. At least the captain was clothed this time.

  She cleared her throat and retrieved the pail of oil.

  She would not think any more on it. Not while she had work to do. “Shall we continue?”

  Gavin followed behind Miss Moore in silence. She clearly wished to say nothing further about her current financial state, so he allowed their conversation to drop.

  Still, questions surrounding the woman swirled about his mind. Why did she always appear hesitant when speaking of her past? How had they gone from being able to afford servants to barely having enough funds for themselves? And how on earth was she so strong as to march up the steps as quickly as she did, in a dress with a pail of oil in her hands?

  These questions and more continued as they neared the final steps. Gavin fought the urge to hold his aching side. He had been a hardworking sailor for fifteen years. He should not be gasping for air after a little climb.

  He followed Miss Moore into a small room at the top of the tower and willed his breathing to remain even.

  The sun shone in through the window facing the sea. A small set of stairs curled up in the center of the room, reaching a latch door in the ceiling. Nearby, a wooden bowl with a curled piece of old meat rested on top of a table—a table that appeared to be on its last legs as it leaned up against the wall.

  Miss Moore picked up a broom that was lying on the floor and propped it up against a wall. A pretty blush reddened her cheeks. “I did not have time to straighten up.”

  “It is no matter,” Gavin said. The last thing the woman should have to worry about was keeping up an appearance for his sake.

  He studied her for a moment, the pink on her cheeks only heightening her delicate features—a slightly turned-up nose, high cheekbones, and long, dark eyelashes.

  She certainly was beautiful, there was no denying that. But there was something else. Something more than her physical appearance that pulled Gavin toward her. Was it her strength and resolve to save others, himself included, or her tenacity to prove herself capable of accomplishing any task? Or was it because they were alone, unchaperoned, and Miss Moore did not even seem to bat a single eye in hesitation, focusing instead on her duty to her lighthouse?

  Of course, this was not the first time the two had been alone together, though the circumstances were vastly different. Before, a handful of wounded men had been in the next room, Gavin had just been rescued from a shipwreck, and his pain had been acute—not to mention he had also been half-dressed.

  But now, with the woman standing alone before him, her auburn hair glinting in the warm glow of the sun, his heart struggled to maintain its steady beating.

  Her blue eyes flashed in his direction. Before she might discover the affect she’d had on him, Gavin focused his attention on a few worn books splayed out across the small cot at the side of the room.

  Excellent. Something with which to distract himself.

  “So you enjoy reading?” he asked.

  She cleared her throat. “I do, although I have exhausted all of those books. Trinity House will be sending more soon, I believe.”

  “Trinity House,” Gavin repeated. He recognized the name as the governing body for most of the lighthouses in England. “They purchase new books for you to read?”

  “No, they lend us prior used copies. It would certainly be more enjoyable to read a novel that did not have missing pages, but we manage fine enough.”

  Their conversation paused as Miss Moore led the way to the smaller set of stairs, and Gavin followed her up the steps, joining her at the top.

  A large structure housing the lamps was set in the center of the room surrounded by glass panels. She placed the oil on the floor by her side and reached forward, filling the lamps one by one from the spout at the end of a small tin cup that she had filled with oil.

  “These are Argand lamps,” she said. “They shine brighter and last longer than the ones we had prior. It is not difficult to fill them, but with one and twenty, it can be tedious. Especially when oil spills must be cleaned up.”

  Gavin watched in silence as she filled each lamp, noting the concentration on her brow. He knew better than to speak. He did not wish to interrupt her work.

  She produced a tinderbox from a small chest at the side of the room and went about lighting each lamp. “The wicks must be trimmed often to prevent soot from loosening and dirtying the glass.” She waved a finger around the room. “And the windows must be cleaned daily, inside and out by using the gallery.”

  Gavin eyed the small, exposed platform surrounding the outside of the lamp room she motioned to. The landing hardly seemed sturdy. His stomach tightened at the thought of the platform giving way, or a simple misguided step from Miss Moore that could prove deadly. How did her uncle bear the thought of her doing such a task each day?

  His attention returned to Miss Moore as she stood to remove the coverings of three curved, silver pieces positioned behind the lamps. Gavin squinted as the light brightened with each cover that was removed.

  “These are the refractors,” she explained. “As you can see, they reflect the lamps, allowing the light to become brighter. They must be covered when not in use to protect the silver coating, thereby allowing the best reflection.”

  Gavin shook his head in awe. “It is remarkable.” He tilted his head to one side. “But, how do they rotate?”

  “Come, I will show you.”

  She led the way back to the watch room where a metal structure stuck out from the floor behind the small set of stairs. She placed her hands on the wheel at the top of the metalwork. “This must be turned each time we refill the lamps. Below is a weight that slowly pulls down, causing the gears of the clockwork mechanism to rotate, and in turn, it moves the lamps upstairs. When the weight reaches the bottom, the rotation stops.”

  “Is it heavy?” he asked.

  She stepped away and motioned him toward the structure. “You may see for yourself, if you like.”

  Surprised with her offer, he took a step forward to turn the wheel. It barely moved a finger’s width. “Oh, it is heavy.” He pressed harder before the wound in his arm protested with a sharp pierce. “I think I will allow you to finish, though, or I will be needing you to see to my wound again.”

  He noted the slightest curve of her lips as he stepped aside, watching her crank the wheel around.

  When the work was completed, they stood together in front of the window, staring at the brilliant white sun resting on the horizon between the ocean and clouds.

  “The work you do is simply remarkable, Miss Moore,” Gavin said. “You must feel deeply satisfied to live in such a place of beauty, and with such a purpose.”

  “I do,” she said. Her eyes took on a faraway look, as if she did not realize she spoke. “I believe Uncle felt that way, too, at one time. Do you know, he spent years researching what county in England was in need of a lighthouse most? He decided on Cornwall for the beauty of the location and the kindness of the people. He moved from inn to inn, speaking with locals and officials until he finally decided upon Dulatha Cliffs.

  “Then he used his own living to fund the construction of it. Everyone thought he was mad, yet he surprised them all with how well he took to his duties. But now…now he cannot do any of what was once required of him.”

  Gavin hesitated. “Your uncle’s injury, may I ask what happened?”

  She reached up, rubbing the back of her neck, her other arm crossed over her stomach. “Last September, he fell from the gallery. It was only a short distance, and he was tethered to the top with a rope, but he swung toward the tower and landed against his knees.”

  Gavin winced.

  Having experienced the fall, how could Mr. Moore allow his niece to risk the same? Of course it was their duty, but Gavin couldn’t fathom ever allowing anyone he loved t
o go about such a risky task. “Has he improved at all since?”

  “He can now walk, when before even that was painful for him, but stairs and inclines are still difficult.” She lowered her voice, as if her uncle could hear her words. “He does little else but read and sleep while I tend to the lighthouse. His spirits have been brought so very low. That is why it will be good for him to have you here—to remind him there is life beyond his injury.”

  Their eyes met. A strange vulnerability flashed across her face before she looked away. “I suppose we ought to return to him now, though. He will be wondering what is keeping us.”

  She gave him a fleeting look before leading the way back down the stairs, and Gavin followed her in silence.

  * * *

  Abigail wasn’t sure if it had been the kindness the captain had shown her—or his keen interest in the lighthouse—that had caused her to lower her defenses and reveal her weaknesses. Either way, she regretted her honesty, for Captain Kendricks had become relentless in his offers of help.

  No, they were no longer offers. They were actions.

  Each morning, she would wake up to the stables already cleaned, the hens’ eggs gathered, and one more thing that needed fixing, mended.

  She refused to acknowledge how his help had eased her burdens. If she did, his departure would make things all the more difficult for her.

  When she spoke to Uncle Ellis about the captain’s unrelenting help, her uncle would merely say, “What a thoughtful gentleman,” and be on his way.

  At first, Abigail had thought perhaps her uncle had brought Captain Kendricks to Golowduyn as a potential suitor. But she had set aside those ridiculous thoughts within just a few days. It was clear, what with the amount of time Uncle Ellis spent with the captain, that her uncle clearly wished for a friend for himself—a friend that Abigail could never be.

  The realization had caused her unpleasant jealousy to increase. She felt ignored, forgotten. Even more so than before the shipwreck. After all, Captain Kendricks’s work was being noticed—and hers was not.