Near the Ruins of Penharrow (A Cornish Romance Book 3)

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  The other surface workers and maidens were positioned behind where the spalling took place, far enough away to avoid being struck by stray shards of rock. From her position, though, near the front of the engine house, the sea stretched out in an endless, watery expanse.

  Gwynna stole another moment of reprieve, drawing in a deep breath, focusing on the smell of the sea instead of the pinch in her lungs and the imposing scent of musty ore brought up from the earth below.

  Though the day had waned, and five o’clock was nearly upon them, the mine still hummed, alive and hectic—to the outside eye, anyway. To Gwynna, it was organized chaos. Like a swarm of bees producing honey, the workers knew where they needed to be, carrying out their tasks of dumping and crushing and grinding.

  Above the ocean, the air was abuzz with clinking metal and dull claps of ore as the male surface laborers and young maidens tipped heavy barrowfuls of the rocks into piles that never really seemed to dwindle.

  Gwynna eyed her own heap that needed finishing. She’d best stop dawdling before the mine captain caught her.

  She took another swing at the ore. Was he still watching?

  Discreetly, her eyes trailed along the purple heather clinging to the cliffside before she reached the man at the top.

  She’d been told by the other maidens that Mr. Harvey and the owner often stood there to ensure the work was continuing in a proper manner, but to have him perched on the edge of the cliff like a peregrine falcon, silent and focused, was rather daunting.

  Especially because she wasn’t exactly sure if he was judging her ability to spall or if he was choosing the right time to tell her she was being released from work at Wheal Favour, on order of the Trevethans.

  Anger surged through her as she recalled the night before.

  Crack!

  She still couldn’t believe Mr. Jack Trevethan had suggested such a thing as kissing him in exchange for silence. Of course, he hadn’t gone so far as to say he required an actual kiss, but she was not naïve—and his eyes had lied.

  To have a gentleman stand there and assume she was void of all morals, she could hardly bear it. Of course, she’d instantly regretted her own behavior. Not that he didn’t deserve her scolding, but he was her superior, and she could have simply walked silently away, if only for the sake of her family’s livelihood.

  She’d been glancing over her shoulder all day, fearing the news that she’d been removed from her position at the mine, but it hadn’t come yet.

  Were they simply waiting for her to finish her work, or had Mr. Jack Trevethan decided to remain silent on the matter?

  She scoffed aloud. That man wasn’t capable of doing anything honorable.

  Laying her hammer on the ground beside her, she hunched over to pick up handfuls of the broken ore, now smaller than the palm of her hand. The pieces clicked together as she dropped them into a nearby hand barrow.

  When she took up her hammer again, the shrill sound of the working bell soared over the mine, ending the workday.

  Maidens’ footsteps retreated nearby, and miners spilled out of the shaft, bees fleeing the hive, anxious to be out in the light, though wincing at the brightness of the sun. The horse pulling the whim round in circles was stopped, cutting the creaking of the wooden pully system. The hum of conversation replaced the clatter of toiling tools as the workers washed up in a nearby bucket of water.

  Gwynna continued working. She couldn’t risk leaving before her pile was depleted. With the toe of her boot, she flicked a few of the rocks from her pile onto the dirt before her, ready to break them apart.

  “Are ye not yet finished, Gwynna? Have ye lost your talent then?”

  Gwynna greeted Kerensa Hocking with a smile. “Just a little behind, but ye best expect me tomorrow to show ye up.”

  The girls had been friends since they began working at the mine at nine years of age. Before Gwynna had left, she and Kerensa had been the only two spallers and would often create contests to see who could finish first. Kerensa was of a thicker sort, with broad shoulders and strong arms—far stronger than Gwynna—though she lacked the same finesse.

  “I hope so,” Kerensa said. “It’s good to ‘ave ye back. With Mary workin’ alongside me, there wasn’t much competition.”

  Mary Hocking, Kerensa’s sister, was the spaller whom Gwynna had replaced. She was a short, thin girl of seventeen years who’d despised working at the mine.

  “How be your sister?” Gwynna asked. “Is St. Ives and married life suitin’ her?”

  “I believe it to be. She certainly be happier there than she be here. Ye know she don’t feel the same pleasure at Favour as we do.”

  “No, I ‘spect not.”

  Pleasure was a strong word, but Kerensa was right. The work was backbreaking, and at times, unbearable, but there was a certain satisfaction Gwynna experienced as a bal maiden. Never mind that she preferred it to cleaning fireplaces, cooking endless meals, and being forced to remain indoors and away from the sea all day. Not many women could succeed in the work at a mine, and she was proud to be one of them.

  “I can help ye with these,” Kerensa said, pointing to the pile of ore.

  Gwynna motioned to the upper cliffside. “Thank ye, but I best perform for me audience.”

  Kerensa sniffed a laugh as she caught sight of Mr. Harvey. “Ah, he be judgin’ ye then?”

  “‘Fraid so.” Gwynna stared beyond Kerensa’s shoulder to where two girls waited nearby. The youngest, Tamesin, was not more than ten years old. She rubbed her red eyes while her fifteen-year-old sister, Delen, yawned. “I can finish these off fine. Your sisters be waitin’ for ye anyway.”

  Kerensa glanced over her shoulder, holding up a finger to signal them just a moment. The girls’ shoulders fell, though they remained silent.

  Gwynna rushed on, anxious not to keep them any longer. “How are ye doin’? Your sisters and mother?”

  “We be managin’ as best we can.”

  Gwynna’s lips pulled down. Kerensa’s father had died in the same mining accident that had stolen Jago. Now, with only a mother to raise her four daughters, and a sister wedded, Kerensa had taken on much of the responsibility to care for her two younger siblings, sacrificing what little time she’d had to herself. Kerensa would never risk the livelihood of her family by following some selfish whim to dress as a lady.

  Gwynna averted her eyes. “Ye go on home now. And tell your mother me family sends our love.”

  Kerensa took a few steps back. “Ye make sure to get some sleep tonight. I want ye well-rested for tomorrow so ye can ‘ave a fair shot at beatin’ I.”

  Gwynna chuckled then assailed the ore once again as soon as Kerensa was a safe distance away. With the early evening sun sliding farther down the sky, she pushed back her loose, cotton bonnet. The breeze slid across her sweat-covered brow and the back of her neck, as if a wet cloth had been wrapped around her head.

  The cooling sensation invigorated her enough to crack a few more pieces of ore just as Father approached.

  “Are ye doin’ well, Gwynna?”

  She straightened from her stooped position with a smile—a smile she hoped distracted from the weariness she knew was very well reflected in her eyes. Papa didn’t need anything else to worry him more than he already was.

  “I be fine, Father. Nearly done, see.”

  He eyed the pile of ore. Was he purposefully avoiding her gaze? “I’d like to wait for ye, but the Causeys…”

  She nodded. The Causeys, a local, landed-gentry couple, had hired Papa and a few other miners to clear the land for a new crop of winter barley to be planted this October.

  Gwynna had taken work at the mine to alleviate Papa’s need to carry on extra tasks, but as he’d already agreed to the work with Mr. Causey, he wouldn’t go back on his word.

  “That be all right,” she reassured him. “I don’t mind walkin’ home on me own.”

  He nodded, bending down to pick up one of the pieces of broken ore from the hand barrow. “Are ye st
ill determined to work here?”

  She softened her tone. “Yes, Papa.”

  “Even after ye been strugglin’?”

  She nodded, and he tossed the ore back into the barrow. Had he expected her to change her mind after a single day? Or had he hoped?

  She closed the distance between them and kissed his soot-covered cheek. That morning, they’d both kept silent instead of joining in with the other miners and maidens singing as they made their way to Wheal Favour.

  Gwynna knew Papa was considering the last time they’d made the journey together, when Jago was with them. Now that Gwynna was his only child, he worried over her own safety incessantly, but they couldn’t function any longer in such a way.

  She tipped her head to the side to soften her words. “I know ye be worryin’ about me workin’ here, Papa. But I promise. I be sore and tired and dirty, but I be happy. I finally be helpin’ me family again.”

  He raised a hand to her cheek. “Don’t ye ever think of yourself, Gwynny?”

  She blinked, currents of guilt rushing through her. She’d been about to protest vigorously after her behavior last night, but he continued before she could.

  “I know ye want to ‘elp. And in truth, knowin’ ye be up here, waitin’ for I to finish below ground…I suppose it gives me some sort o’ comfort knowin’ I ain’t be alone no more.”

  With his heavy tone and weary brow, Gwynna’s heart crumpled like the pieces of ore on the dirt before her. Jago’s death had been hard on them all, but more Papa than anyone. His only son, the pride of his eye, had gone far too soon. And Gwynna ached all the worse for his sorrow.

  Papa must have realized he’d shared too much of his feelings, for he dropped his hand and took a step back. “Did ye enjoy last night then, with Mrs. Hawkins? Your mother said ye came home early.”

  Gwynna scratched at her nose. “Oh, yes. I-I thought it better to get more sleep.”

  “That be wise of ye. Ye look tired today, even still.”

  Gwynna managed a half-smile. Returning home early last night had not aided in receiving a restful evening. In truth, she’d been so occupied with her confrontation with Mr. Trevethan, she hadn’t fully prepared herself for sleep or the nightmares.

  “So ye be fine walkin’ home on your own?” Papa asked.

  Gwynna cleared her throat and set the apparition of Jago’s screams and his fear-stricken face as he died—one she hadn’t seen but could only imagine—from her mind. Dwelling on them would only make the nightmares worse tonight. “‘Course, Papa.”

  Raising a hand in departure, he joined the other workers finding their way from the mine.

  Gwynna swiped her sleeve across her brow, grit scratching at her skin. Thank goodness she wasn’t wearing Sophia’s silk gloves. Although, she’d soiled those last night, too, with what she’d later realized was rouge.

  She shook her head. She wasn’t going to dwell on the evening any longer. It only produced anxiety in keeping her position at the mine, and contrition, for the fact that she’d heartily enjoyed being a lady.

  Until Mr. Trevethan had shown up.

  Crack! Crack! Crack!

  As her pile finally began to shrink, Mr. Harvey made his way down the incline toward the engine house, toward her. Her palms clammed up, despite the heat infusing her body.

  She wouldn’t get any work done if she had to stop each time for visitors.

  As he drew nearer, her chest tensed. Was this it? Was he going to tell her not to return tomorrow? That he was going to report her to authorities and have her locked away at Bodmin Jail until she learned her lesson? Her parents would never forgive her lapse in judgement, nor her vanity.

  “Gwynna?”

  She glanced up. “Sir?”

  “You’ve done a fine job today.”

  She attempted to swallow, but dust coated her throat. “Thank ye, sir.”

  “I must admit, I didn’t think you were up to the task. Though, knowing your father, I never should have doubted you.”

  Hope flickered. “Thank ye, sir,” she repeated.

  “You’ll remember to return your hammer to the tool house?” He raised a small bucking hammer in his hand. “Maidens who leave them out will be spaled.”

  Gwynna nodded. She was well aware of the many ways maidens could be spaled, or fined—losing a tool, arriving late, cursing, thievery, brawling—but it was a good reminder. She couldn’t risk losing any of her hard-earned money now.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll remember.”

  “Very good. Until tomorrow.” He tipped his head then left without another word.

  Tomorrow.

  She bit her lip, but her smile could not be stopped. Mr. Trevethan had not told his father or Mr. Harvey of her reckless behavior after all.

  She would live to see another day at the mine.

  When the final ore had been split and placed into the barrow, she held her hammer on the handle close to its head and trekked across the dirt, nodding at the few workers still chipping away at their piles.

  She pressed one hand against her thigh to help propel her up the incline then delivered her hammer to the tool house and moved to the lean-to nearby. There, she unwound the grey, makeshift gloves Mama had generously given her that morning, made from the stockings she’d darned the night before.

  She’d expected the blisters forming, but as the angry red welts and bubbling white skin glared up at her, she sucked in a sharp breath. Somehow, seeing the wounds made them hurt all the worse.

  With a wince, she retrieved her clean apron from a nail pounded into the wood, then reached for the small, linen crib-bag that had held her pasty.

  Her stomach gurgled. Perhaps tomorrow she’d hide the bag beneath her working apron, like some of the other girls did. Eating wasn’t allowed on the dressing floor apart from their one meal, but work was made more difficult when hunger pains accompanied it.

  She removed her dirty apron and replaced it with the cleaner one, tucking the dust-filled towser between her knees, along with the crib-bag and her bonnet. Finally, she dunked her hands into the nearby bucket of murky water.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she flung the lukewarm moisture over her face. It wasn’t what she’d call refreshing, but when the wind caught the water in its grasp, she finally cooled.

  With droplets streaming down her face and fingers, she draped her belongings over her left arm then left the mine to meander across the cliffside.

  A sense of accomplishment welled within her, something she’d been missing for months. If her back weren’t so stiff and her muscles didn’t protest with each step, she’d be skipping home.

  Today had turned out infinitely better than she’d thought it would. Not only did she still have her position at the mine, but she’d also managed to make it through the rigorous work.

  Now, she would reward herself by taking the longer route home. Mama would soon be needing her help for dinner and tomorrow’s meals, but the way only added a quarter of an hour.

  It also brought her closer to the ocean.

  She typically enjoyed walking home with the other miners, singing songs and laughing together until one by one they left for the cottages speckled across the moors and countryside.

  But today, she was glad to be alone with the sea.

  These warm summer days wouldn’t last much longer. But rather than dwelling on the harsh winter ahead, its wind and rain pelting her face with the same force she blasted the ore with her hammer, she hummed a tune and fought the urge to pull out her hair pins.

  They weren’t hers, after all, the hairpins. She hadn’t had time to take them out before she’d left Fynwary Hall. Sophia’s lady’s maid, who had been sworn to keep their secret, had helped her remove the pink gown without damaging it, then Gwynna had swiftly replaced the fine clothing with her grey underpinnings and brown dress.

  As she’d walked home that night without alerting the Hawkinses, she’d pulled out the pins one-by-one and held them securely in her hands, tying her worn rag around
her hair so her parents wouldn’t take note of the difference.

  Fortunately, the dim light inside her home had hidden her curls from Mama, who hadn’t pressured her for information about her evening when Gwynna had clearly wished to keep what had happened silent.

  Gwynna didn’t need to worry about the ringlets today. Her sweat and bonnet had done a proper job in straightening them out before the morning was spent.

  A soft breeze fluttered her skirts and danced with the yellow wildflowers nearby. The sun wouldn’t set for a few hours still, but a calmness had already befallen the land. Golden shadows painted the rocks she walked beside, and the waves ambled toward the cliffs below.

  The sun would soon fall asleep, pulling the sea’s deep, blue blanket over his bright eyes. Then the stars would appear to carry on their secret conversation with the waves that never slept.

  Despite her stinging hands and aching back, joy swelled within her. The sea always made everything better.

  A horse’s whinny carried on the wind as a gentleman approached on a dark brown horse. Gwynna turned away with disinterest, but her eyes whipped straight back to the handsome rider. Her steps faltered, and she gritted her teeth.

  “Mr. Trevethan,” she muttered under her breath, ready to turn back the other way and sprint home.

  She was still upset about his behavior last evening and the unnerving possibility that he could yet spill her secret. But perhaps expressing her gratitude might encourage his discretion to continue.

  Grumbling internally, she moved forward. Things would be far better if the two of them never spoke again, but she needed to thank him first. Then they could continue on as strangers, or better yet, master’s son and bal maiden.

  As their paths finally crossed, he pulled in his horse, reins jingling as the animal shook his head. He remained mounted, peering down at her with gleaming eyes. “Good evening.”

  Why did he always appear so amused when he saw her? His shining eyes unsettled her.

  “Sir.” She pursed her lips, fighting off her pride in wishing to snub him completely. “I wish to thank ye for keepin’ me secret. I be grateful to ye.”

  There, she’d said it. With a single nod, she kept to her path and moved forward.