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

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Miss Stedman stared up at Gavin, too, her voice lilting as she spoke. “If the memory is too painful, Captain, please, do not trouble yourself for our sake.”

  Abigail wondered if it would be considered so very impolite to take the silver lid off of the boiled potatoes and throw it across the room at the woman who seemed incapable of removing her eyes from Abigail’s husband.

  “No, it is quite all right,” Gavin responded.

  Miss Stedman was clearly disappointed to receive no further response. Abigail tried not to raise her chin too haughtily.

  “The elder brother has been punished for his mistakes,” Gavin answered Mr. Burke, “but the younger was not convicted.”

  “Shame that,” Mr. Rennalls said.

  He earned a stern look from Mr. Biddle. “Let us look to our manners, gentlemen,” the vicar said. “We must speak of softer matters while in the presence of these fine women. I fear their constitutions would not appreciate such a conversation.”

  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Biddle,” Mrs. Stedman said with a breathy sigh. “To hear such tales of shipwrecks and mutiny. I can hardly bear it.”

  “Then be grateful you do not have to live through such ordeals, ma’am,” Gavin said.

  Abigail thought she caught a hint of impatience in his voice.

  “Oh, I am,” Mrs. Stedman said. “As is my Constance. Are we not, my dear?”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  “And we all ought to be grateful for the brave men who risk their lives for king and country,” Mrs. Summerfield added.

  “And women,” Gavin added, “for it was my wife who rowed out to save me and my first lieutenant from watery graves.”

  Abigail’s face burned as she became the center of attention once again.

  “It is true, then?” Mrs. Summerfield asked.

  “I thought it was a rumor,” said Mrs. Stedman.

  Abigail hesitated. “No, I…I did. But I was merely performing my duties as a lighthouse keeper.”

  “Marvelous,” Mr. Summerfield said, his eyes shining. “What a tale to tell your children one day, that their mother saved their father.”

  Abigail blanched.

  Fortunately, the next conversation focused elsewhere, on Mr. Biddle and the sermon he would deliver this Sunday, but Abigail hardly heard.

  She was too busy dwelling on what Mr. Summerfield had said.

  Her and Gavin’s children. They would not be having children. How could they?

  She risked a quick glance in Gavin’s direction. He spoke with Mr. Burke, seemingly unaware of Mr. Summerfield’s innocent words. He must not care to have children then—her children. Otherwise he would not have agreed to the relationship they had formed.

  The breath slipped from her lungs. She couldn’t sit straight any longer. Her back curved. How long would this dinner last? How much longer would she have to suffer?

  She tried to ignore the fact that Miss Stedman and Gavin conversed with each other more than anyone else at the table. Abigail knew Mrs. Stedman was to blame, but she could not help but fear that Gavin was beginning to do just as the woman had predicted. He must now be all too aware of Abigail’s lack of accomplishments, of her lack of feminine allure and charm, in comparison to Miss Stedman.

  When the meal ended, Abigail ignored Gavin’s encouraging smile in her direction as she followed the women from the room. She did not want to be encouraged. She wanted to go home.

  Remaining at the back of the group, Abigail moved through the bright hallways, wondering if the journey felt as much like a funeral procession to everyone else as it did to her.

  As the rest of the women filed through the drawing room, taking seats near the blazing fire, Abigail remained in the doorway. She had tried not to become intimidated by the grand house, the elegant talk, and the fine gowns. But she was only fooling herself. She was still that poor, lonely little girl, pretending to be someone she could never be.

  “Mrs. Kendricks?”

  She turned to the group of ladies who watched her with wondering eyes. Mrs. Summerfield’s sincerity stood out from the rest.

  “Won’t you come sit, my dear?” she asked, patting the seat next to her on the settee. “I have saved a seat here just for you.”

  Abigail took tentative steps forward, doing her best to ignore the stares from others as she sat gingerly on the red-cushioned seat.

  “Will you be comfortable there, Miss Moore?” Mrs. Stedman asked across from her. “After all, the heat from our large hearth compared to those in your little lighthouse may be a bit overwhelming for you.”

  Abigail bit back a retort. So she was ‘Miss Moore’ again? She wondered what else Mrs. Stedman would say now that Gavin was not there to be impressed by her words.

  She stared at the door. Could she plot an escape before the gentlemen returned? Would Gavin even notice her absence? Certainly not with Miss Stedman to distract him.

  “Is this your first night away from Golowduyn, Mrs. Kendricks?” Mrs. Summerfield asked. Her graying hair was pulled softly back and wrapped in a small, roped turban.

  “It is,” Abigail responded. She had not dwelt on the lighthouse as much as she thought she would have. Of course, she was preoccupied with other matters.

  But that made her wonder. If she had been anywhere but Pryvly House, if she and Gavin were together without the Stedmans hovering over them, would she enjoy the small taste of freedom with him?

  “Does marriage suit you, Mrs. Kendricks?” Mrs. Rennalls asked. Her nose pinched together at the end, and her eyebrows were thin and arched. She looked very much like she was permanently smelling rotten eggs. “I have been with my Timothy for nearly a year now, so if you need any advice, my experience may prove useful.”

  Abigail forced a grateful smile but said nothing.

  “After all,” Mrs. Rennalls continued, “a loving marriage must be strived for daily.”

  “Absolutely,” Mrs. Stedman agreed. “I believed the same when my dear husband was alive. He was very happy with me, I daresay.” She paused. “And he made me happy, as well. I do miss him.”

  A flash of sorrow crossed the woman’s face.

  Abigail had never seen such transparency from the woman. But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced with the typical, bland placidity once more.

  “My daughter has learned the art of love from her parents’ example, have you not, Constance?”

  Miss Stedman had remained silent since the dining room, a faraway look to her eye. She blinked mutely. “Yes, Mother.”

  Abigail’s eyes remained on the young woman. What was she thinking as she sat there in silence, clearly distracted? Abigail wondered if she felt even the slightest remorse for her sordid intentions with Gavin.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Stedman repeated, “she shall make a husband very happy one day. That is what is most important, is it not? After all, if a wife does not satisfy her husband, then what is the point of a marriage at all?”

  Her lips curled at the ends as she looked in Abigail’s direction.

  Abigail did not miss the woman’s insinuation. However, as she eyed the other women in the room, another conversation began, and no one else appeared aware of the slight. Did none of them suspect—like Mrs. Stedman—that Abigail’s marriage was based upon Gavin’s charity and not love?

  “How are you faring, Mrs. Kendricks?” Mrs. Summerfield asked in a near whisper.

  Her hand covered Abigail’s.

  “I am well.” Abigail glanced to the others. Their attention was entirely focused on Mrs. Rennalls as she delivered the latest gossip she’d heard while listening in on the patients visiting her physician husband.

  Mrs. Summerfield leaned in closer. “Well, you are doing far better than I did at my first dinner party. I was so nervous, I spilt pea soup straight down the front of my gown. Then I dropped my spoon to the floor, and when I bent down to retrieve it, I knocked my head on the arm of the man with whom I was desperately in love.” She closed her eyes and shook her head, clearly reliving the mo
ment. “Thankfully, he thought my sheer foolishness endearing, and he married me because of it.”

  Abigail felt the tension in her neck slightly ease.

  “Now,” Mrs. Summerfield continued, “I must ask after Golowduyn. Your uncle once took us on a tour through the tower. Of course, that was so very long ago, you would not remember.”

  “No, I remember,” Abigail said. When Abigail had first come to Golowduyn, her uncle had offered tours to locals and visitors, though he had stopped the practice years before his fall. The Summerfields had come on more than one occasion and were always kind to both Abigail and her uncle. “You came with your granddaughter, if I recall.”

  “Yes, indeed.” Mrs. Summerfield said. “Oh, it was thrilling. Absolutely thrilling. And I’m so glad we did it while we still could. I hardly think I could make the journey up those steps now. My husband even less likely than me.”

  She let out a little laugh, and Abigail’s expression relaxed into a near-smile. “How is your granddaughter?”

  “Oh, she and Mr. Causey are as happy as can be, of course.” The woman beamed. “They are visiting her mother in Town for the next few weeks, but I expect they will return soon. Because…” She lowered her voice, her eyes aglow. “They have told me it will not be just the two of them at Leighton House for much longer.”

  Abigail was pleased for the young couple, and the forthcoming great grandparents. They deserved all the happiness in the world, if only for the goodness with which they treated others.

  “Please pass along my good wishes to them,” Abigail said.

  Mrs. Summerfield nodded. “I will. I have written to them of your marriage. I’m sure they will be most pleased. Now, tell me, is your new husband sharing in the workload?”

  Just then, the door opened, and the gentlemen joined them.

  “Oh, you cannot answer truthfully now,” Mrs. Summerfield continued in a rushed whisper. “You had best wait until he is gone for you to tell me how terribly idle he really is.”

  She winked, and Abigail’s lips stretched into a smile. Her mood had certainly improved.

  She glanced to the door; her eyes fixated on Gavin. To her pleasure, he headed straight in her direction.

  But then Mrs. Stedman stood, cutting off his advancement with her daughter swiftly in tow.

  “Oh, Captain, did you enjoy the port? My Constance chose it. She has fine taste, does she not?”

  Abigail’s bettering mood vanished instantly, sinking further as the night progressed, for with each giggle from Miss Stedman in response to Gavin’s words—each wide-eyed, affectionate stare she bestowed on him—Abigail’s insecurities rose.

  She had always dreamed of having a loving marriage, with children to help cultivate that love to be even greater. But she was foolish to have ever hoped that she and Gavin would have such a marriage. He could never desire a lighthouse keeper over a lady.

  As the others conversed, she moved soundlessly to the edge of the room. She tried to gain her bearings, to separate the truth from the lies, but her fears blurred the lines.

  “Abigail?”

  She started at Gavin’s deep voice behind her.

  “Are you well?” he asked.

  She turned to face him, all too aware of Miss Stedman’s eyes upon them from across the room.

  “Of course,” she responded.

  He did not look convinced. “Have you enjoyed the evening so far?”

  What could she say? That she had despised nearly every moment? That she longed to return home and never see any of these people—excepting the Summerfields—again?

  She drew a deep breath. Perhaps she could be honest with him. He would certainly understand. “In truth, Gavin, I—”

  “Captain,” Mrs. Stedman called, “I must speak with you.”

  They looked across the room to where the woman watched him expectantly. Gavin turned to Abigail, offering his arm, but she did not take it.

  “You have been summoned, Captain,” she said. “Not I.”

  She turned away, instantly regretting her refusal.

  But she could not bear to be near Mrs. Stedman any longer, nor her daughter’s ever-watchful, ever-flirtatious eyes.

  She listened as Gavin departed from her, and soon Mrs. Stedman spoke up again.

  “Captain Kendricks and I are in agreement,” the woman said, her voice ending the other conversations about the room. “We desire entertainment. Mrs. Kendricks?”

  Panic gripped Abigail’s throat. She turned to face her. “Yes?”

  “As you are the newest member of our party, I think it only fair that you pleasure us first with the pianoforte. What song will you play?”

  The rubies on Mrs. Stedman’s necklace shimmered from the glow of the candles, but her eyes were void of any light. The woman knew Abigail could not play. There was no room for such an instrument in the lighthouse. Mrs. Stedman meant to embarrass her. Abigail was sure of it. Just as before, just like always.

  Abigail looked to Gavin. Had he been aware that the woman was going to ask her to play? He couldn’t be. He would not intentionally embarrass her like that. But when he said nothing to save her from her clear discomfort, nausea swirled within her.

  “I am not musical, ma’am, as you well know,” she said in a flat tone. “I choose to occupy my time with more useful engagements.”

  “Oh, what a tragedy to have never learned,” Mrs. Rennalls piped in, leaning to Mrs. Biddle and whispering, “I shall take it upon myself to teach her.”

  “If you have nothing musical to offer,” Mrs. Stedman said, quirking her head to one side, “perhaps you could recite a poem, or read a passage from a favorite novel?”

  Abigail shook her head in silence. How she longed to scream out, to tell the whole room of the unjustness of the woman. But she knew she would be misunderstood. The unladylike keeper of Golowduyn Lighthouse would be made to look hysterical—and Mrs. Stedman would be made the victim.

  “Well, worry not, my honored guests,” Mrs. Stedman said. “My Constance will not deny us the pleasure of listening to her play.” She turned adoring eyes on her daughter. “Come, show us what a blessing it is to play the pianoforte so beautifully. Captain Kendricks, I am certain you in particular will enjoy her talent. My daughter truly has a voice that makes even the angels in heaven envious.”

  Mr. Biddle exchanged a disapproving look with his wife.

  The guests gathered near the pianoforte, sitting in the chairs arranged before the instrument, but Abigail only managed a few steps forward before stopping behind the others.

  Miss Stedman took her place behind the pianoforte, humbly bowing her head. Her fingers rested upon the keys before she began her performance.

  Abigail glanced to Gavin who stood a few couples away from her. He motioned to the empty seat near him, the seat he’d obviously saved for her, but she remained where she was.

  “What is the matter?” he mouthed out.

  She ignored him, turning to stare out the darkened window, though the room was far too bright to see anything beyond the reflections of the candlelight flickering in the glass.

  How could she explain to Gavin that everything was the matter, that she was the matter? She should never have come to Pryvly House.

  Whispers nearby reached her ears. She pretended not to hear Mrs. Stedman’s words to Mrs. Rennalls, but Abigail could no longer avoid listening as her name and bits of the conversation floated toward her.

  “Miss Moore…sorry state of affairs before the captain…couldn’t afford to…uncle didn’t teach…she cannot read.”

  The cruelty of the words penetrated the walls Abigail had built around her heart. She had tried to remain at the party for Gavin, but now, she could not see the point in remaining as his eyes focused on Miss Stedman’s playing.

  Abigail had been a fool to think she could ever make a marriage work with such a man, knowing where she came from, the tarnished state of her family. Her thoughts spiraled deeper and deeper. Black spots in her eyes dimmed the light aro
und her. Her palms were sweaty. The pianoforte’s music rang shrilly in her ears.

  She couldn’t bear to remain there another moment. She needed to leave before the tears in her eyes fell down her cheeks, before she collapsed onto the carpet from sheer humiliation.

  Turning on the spot, she fled from the room as quietly as she could, though she no longer cared if heads turned. She paused in the hallway, looking left and right, wondering which way led to freedom. Finally recognizing the paintings to one side, she picked up her yellow skirts and ran through Pryvly House, darting past a flustered footman, opening the door herself, and running out into the darkness.

  Her lungs burned, but her breathing was deep for the first time that evening as she left the confines of the house farther and farther behind.

  Once she reached the countryside, she finally slowed her pace. The moon lit the pathway before her, but she did not need its waning light to know the way home.

  She only needed to follow the sound of the sea.

  It called to her, beckoned her forward to a place she could find peace and freedom. That was where she belonged. At Golowduyn, beneath its light, near the waves and upon the cliffsides.

  Not in a world of fine clothing and gossip.

  No matter how kind Mrs. Summerfield had been, no matter how Gavin had tried to help Abigail fit in…she would never belong.

  “Abigail? Abigail!”

  Alarm struck her core at Gavin’s voice. He sounded close. Too close. What might he say to her? He most certainly felt embarrassment over her abrupt departure, perhaps even anger that she’d surely created a scene.

  “Abigail? Please, wait.”

  His voice soft. Was he not angry then? She certainly would not blame him if he was.

  “I am sorry, Gavin. I needed to return to Golowduyn. The lamps will need refilling soon.”

  “Is that why you left?” he asked, reaching her side. “Because of the lighthouse?”

  She couldn’t answer. A fresh wave of sorrow spilled over her conscience at his clear attempt to understand her actions. The darkness hid her tears sliding down her cheeks, but she dared not look up at him.

  He continued. “You should have told me. We could have left together. Even earlier, if you wished.”