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

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  His comment, though simple teasing, scratched at Jack’s patience. Was everything a joke to his cousin?

  They entered the small engine house, water pooling at the bottom of their boots. A large pump worked in the center of the room, spewing water from below ground and out of the engine house.

  “This is rather dangerous, gentlemen.” Mr. Harvey said, “and I must urge you to proceed with care.”

  Hugh sniffed in disbelief and nudged Jack with a devil-may-care attitude. But when Mr. Harvey showed them to the dark shaft, Hugh’s smile vanished. Jack was sure his cousin’s pallid face was not due to the weak sunlight filtering into the room by mere cracks between the wooden walls.

  As Jack peered into the darkness, his own stomach turned. A faint candlelight flickered, revealing a wooden landing with another ladder leading down the opposite side.

  Jack wiggled his fingers, unsure if he wished to continue, but as Father led the way, and Mr. Harvey quickly followed, Jack took the plunge and stepped down onto the rickety ladder.

  Step by step, they descended into the darkness, the small light from the engine house no longer reaching them. Jack drew steady breaths, and Hugh’s constant jokes ended.

  All was eerily quiet, apart from the clinking of tools against solid ore and a continuous coughing that grew louder the closer they approached.

  Jack’s legs trembled after a number of stairs, and he gripped the wooden ladders until his knuckles were white. Not that he could see much of them, what with the small candles they carried needing continual relighting as dripping water snuffed them out. When the candles did go out, the black was so thick, Jack thought if he just reached out, he could grasp the darkness between his fingertips.

  When they finally reached the bottom, he shook out his hands and sloshed across the muddy ground. A few lanterns lined the curved tunnel of the shaft they walked down. Miners with their muddy clothes and blackened faces glanced behind them as the visitors approached.

  “It isn’t as glorious as one would think, is it?” Father asked, coming up to walk beside Jack.

  Jack could only shake his head. The darkness was already wearing on his soul, his eyes straining to see through the dim light. The tunnel smelled of smoke and dense, sodden earth. A chill ran through the air, and a deep rumbling sounded overhead. He eyed the top of the tunnel, a few pebbles tumbling to the ground.

  “Boulders moving along the seabed,” Father explained, his eyes directed upward.

  An uneasiness crept over Jack. They were below the sea?

  The darkness, the smell, and the cold pressed on his chest. He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but the stark reality of these men’s lives was humbling, if not depressing.

  “This is where we’ve found a new vein of copper.”

  Jack tried to shake his unsettled feeling and pulled his attention to where Mr. Harvey had stopped to run his finger along the wall. “The men are working to extract it, then they’ll send it up for the surface workers and maidens to reduce to smaller sizes.”

  Jack stepped forward, his boots making a sucking sound as he pulled them from the mud. A few of the miners stepped aside to allow them to better see the copper, coughing into their fisted hands. Jack couldn’t quite make out the sight of the ore, though he nodded all the same.

  “Unbelievable, isn’t it?” Hugh whispered. “I don’t know how they manage working in such conditions.”

  Jack followed his gaze to where the nearby workers chiseled away at the walls. He didn’t understand it either.

  As Hugh spoke with Mr. Harvey, one of the miners stepped back from the wall, doubling over with a cacophony of coughs. His whole body trembled until he stopped, wheezing into a soiled, black handkerchief.

  Father moved to the miner’s side. “You all right there, Merrick?”

  Jack stared. Merrick? Gwynna’s father? The soot and mud rendered his face unrecognizable, though Jack now remembered his stringy hair reaching to his chin.

  “Yes, sir. I be fine.” Mr. Merrick’s fingers shook as he jammed his handkerchief into his pocket.

  Father removed his hand from Mr. Merrick’s shoulder, seemingly aware of the miner’s discomfort from the attention he’d received. “How are the timbers managing?”

  Mr. Merrick cleared his throat, his eyes trailing up a broad piece of wood pressed against the sides and roof of the tunnel. “They be doin’ their task, sir.”

  “I’m only sorry they weren’t up earlier, to prevent other accidents.”

  Mr. Merrick nodded with a gaunt expression. Father’s eyes met Jack’s, but Jack pulled his attention to a small stream of water trickling down the sharp angles of the wall. He didn’t want to encourage his father any more than he already had that day in regard to Jack’s interest in the mine.

  Truth be told, there was a small part of Jack that was interested. Not only about the workings below, but above grass, as well—and the people who dedicated the whole of their lives to working the mine.

  “When are the other timbers scheduled to be up?” Father asked.

  “Within the week, sir. It ought to stabilize the rest o’ the workings then.”

  “Excellent.”

  “We’re all grateful, sir, that ye took the time to listen to we. It’ll save many lives, to be sure.”

  Jack stared more intently at the timber, attempting not to scoff. Father listened to these miner’s problems. He made their lives better. He saved them.

  Jack shouldn’t be surprised. Father was always focused more on work than anything else.

  “Son, you remember Travers Merrick?”

  Jack feigned surprise as he approached them. “Yes. How do you do?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  An awkward silence followed, as did Mr. Merrick’s scrutinizing stare. Had Gwynna told her parents that she’d dressed above her station? And more importantly, did she tell her father about Jack’s proposition the night of the ball?

  He shifted in the mud, grateful for the dim light that shadowed the warmth on his cheeks. He hoped to high heaven Gwynna had kept Jack’s behavior to herself.

  He noted the resemblance between father and daughter, their thin frames and the way they maintained eye contact. Most working class men and women skirted their eyes. Gwynna and her father watched stalwartly until it suited them to look away.

  This man really didn’t have the strength to barrel someone to the ground as Gwynna had suggested, did he? After what he’d seen Gwynna do, he wasn’t going to chance doubting it.

  “How long have you been working here, Mr. Merrick?” Jack asked.

  “O’er twen’y years, sir. And more ‘an that at another mine, ‘fore Favour opened.”

  Jack could hardly fathom spending twenty years of his life in such cold darkness.

  “Merrick knows the workings better than anyone,” Father said. “He was here when it first opened. Isn’t that right?”

  Mr. Merrick simply raised a bony shoulder in a shrug then regarded Jack once more with an unreadable expression. Yes, he certainly had a spine of steel like his daughter.

  Merrick soon excused himself to get back to work, and Jack pretended to listen indifferently as Father explained the process of the mine below ground, though his interest had piqued drastically.

  When Hugh’s pale face turned a shade of green, Father suggested they return to the fresh air above. The three of them moved toward the ladders, but Jack paused as Mr. Merrick coughed again, still attempting to work through his hacking.

  “It happens every day, with all of them,” Father said, motioning with a toss of his head to the miners. “Merrick’s is the worst.”

  Jack fought the urge to care, but as the coughing grew, bouncing down the caverns and reverberating in the silence, he lowered his voice. “Can nothing be done for them?”

  “Short of closing the mine and having them work elsewhere?” Father scratched his head with a helpless shrug. “That would destroy their livelihood. I’ve been discussing the problem with Mr. Harvey. He’
s suggested bringing Merrick up to do surface work, but it’s just a matter of having enough workers below ground now. I know he’d appreciate it, though, as would his daughter.”

  Considering the way Gwynna had spoken of her father before, Jack knew she’d appreciate it very much.

  * * *

  Gwynna split open another piece of ore, sweat trailing down the bridge of her nose. She swiped the droplets away and swallowed, the inside of her throat dry and coated with dust.

  The sun was merciless, but she preferred it to the rain they’d suffered the day before—and the emotions such weather pushed straight to the surface.

  The rain had poured down in droves the day Jago died.

  She swiped a hand down her face, allowing the soiled glove to gather as much moisture as it could in its already damp fabric, then she railed her hammer into another rock and another. After, she tossed the ores into the shallow, wooden barrow now filled to the brim.

  Two barrow girls, Tamesin and another fifteen-year-old, appeared before Gwynna in an instant, depositing an empty barrow nearby her workstation.

  “Thank ye, girls,” Gwynna said, pressing a hand to her ribs where Ruth Ayer had pelted her. The ache had subsided only slightly.

  The girls lifted the full barrow by its long handles on both ends. The weight of the box, handles, and ore was easily more than the combined weight of them both, but they managed to lift the barrow after a few huffs and carted it away to the riddling station nearby.

  As she was left alone, Gwynna viewed her empty pile with a great sense of accomplishment. Not a moment passed, though, before a male surface worker approached with his wheelbarrow and tipped a new pile of ore for her to break apart.

  She stifled a yawn and nodded her gratitude as the man tipped his cap then pushed his empty wheelbarrow away.

  “The work never be done,” she muttered to herself.

  Instead of thinking about the hours she had yet to complete, Gwynna focused on what an overall pleasant day she’d had.

  She was making excellent progress on the amount of ore she was getting through, she’d welcomed back the permanent dull ache in her muscles like an annoying but constant friend, and her blisters had finally scabbed over after two days of bursting open and bloodying her gloves. Best of all, the sun was shining, and the roaring waves were keeping her company once again.

  Yes, today was a good day, indeed.

  “Gwynna!”

  Gwynna paused mid-swing, glancing up as Kerensa approached with a wary eye.

  “What are ye doin’?” Gwynna asked, looking to the upper cliff where, thankfully, Mr. Harvey did not stand. “We’ll both be in trouble if ye ain’t careful.”

  “I ‘ave to ask,” Kerensa said in a hushed tone. “Ye spoke with Mr. Jack Trevethan, didn’t ye? About keepin’ quiet?”

  Gwynna nodded. “He gave me ‘is word, so long as we promise not to brawl again.”

  At this point, Gwynna was on a direct path to living eternity beneath fire and brimstone, what with the amount of lying she’d been doing. After the fight on Tregalwen Beach, she’d told Kerensa that Mr. Trevethan had stopped her and warned her to cease fighting. The falsehood was necessary, though, to avoid the maidens thinking she’d had any further conversation with the gentleman beyond a brief word.

  Kerensa nodded, still anxious. “I only ask ‘cause he be here now.”

  Gwynna’s breathing hitched. He was here, at the mine?

  She swept her gaze round the grounds before her. So much for a day of relative ease. She hadn’t seen him since that day on the cliffs two days before. What if he spoke with her here and produced rumors about them?

  Instantly, she chastised her stupidity. Mr. Trevethan had only spoken with her when she was dressed as a lady or when they were alone on the cliffside. A gentleman wouldn’t want to risk the rumors that would form by speaking with a bal maiden in public.

  “Where be he now?” she asked.

  “He just be comin’ up from tourin’ the shaft,” Kerensa continued. “I’m sure he’ll walk the grounds with ‘is father again. I be that worried, Gwynna. Per’aps he goes back on ‘is word?”

  For a fleeting moment, anxiety wrung Gwynna’s stomach like a sopping rag. Suppose he did go back on his word?

  However, as she considered the change in his manner when she’d come up from the fight on the beach, she rejected the feeling.

  His provocative smile had all but dissipated, and his words had lost their teasing touch. His eyes weren’t as dark as she thought them to be, either. They boasted a warm brown tone, like the color of freshly dug up earth or wet bark on a tree after a spring rain.

  His eyes had spoken the truth, and Gwynna had believed him.

  She rested a calming hand on Kerensa’s shoulder. “There be nothin’ to worry about.”

  “How can ye be so sure?”

  “I can’t. Not for certain,” she answered truthfully. “But I believe he be in earnest.”

  Kerensa chewed on her lip then glanced beyond Gwynna with a curse. “They be comin’ now,” she hurriedly whispered.

  Gwynna peered over her shoulder. Sure enough, Mr. Jack Trevethan walked toward the engine house. He’d removed his topper and jacket, the sea breeze ruffling his black hair and flapping the fabric of his jacket against his arm.

  Her heart trilled against her chest. Purely from nerves, she was sure.

  He was accompanied by his father and two others whom Gwynna did not recognize—one, a gentleman with light hair, and the other, a lady who stepped cautiously across the mud, raising her skirts with pinched forefingers and thumbs, little fingers pointed in the air.

  Gwynna turned swiftly as they focused on her station, intent on working as if nothing out of the ordinary was occurring. Because nothing out of the ordinary was occurring.

  The mine had visitors nearly every week—investors, family members, curious passersby, and strangers from other counties. She had no reason to be nervous, even if Mr. Trevethan held a secret about her that could destroy her livelihood. She was certain no more surprise meetings or conversations would occur between them again.

  “He be the one with darker hair?” Kerensa asked. Why had she not yet returned to her work?

  “Yes,” Gwynna replied.

  Kerensa arched an appreciative brow. “I ain’t seen ‘im this close ‘fore. He be quite fine to look at.”

  Gwynna lined up a few rocks in a row at her feet. “I s’pose, if ye like that sort o’ thing.”

  “That sort o’ thing?” Kerensa asked incredulously. “What’s not to like about ‘andsome men in tight fittin’ clothes? Do ye think he be the type o’ gentleman to stick with ‘is own people? Or would he be fine kissin’ maidens?”

  Gwynna stiffened, heat pricking her cheeks. She needed to relax. Kerensa had no way of knowing Gwynna’s personal experience in that regard—that the gentleman was more than willing to kiss a maiden, or at the very least tease about it.

  She attempted a flippant shrug. “I’ve no idea. What I do know is ye better go on ‘fore they catch us both not workin’.”

  “You mean ‘fore they catch us both gawkin’.”

  Kerensa chortled as Gwynna pushed her away, and her friend finally departed.

  Gwynna went about her work as ordinarily as she could, though as Mr. Trevethan and the others approached her station, her limbs strangely weakened.

  “These are the spallers,” the elder Mr. Trevethan explained, keeping a safe distance from the flying ore. “After the ragging is done by the surface men, they send the ore to these maidens.”

  Gwynna lowered her head. She wouldn’t look up at them. She was to pretend they weren’t even there. But then, would they think her rude, unappreciative of the chance to work there? Perhaps just a peek wouldn’t hurt.

  Slowly, she shifted her attention toward them. The elder Mr. Trevethan was pointing out the ore in the pile before Gwynna. The young gentleman and lady’s eyes were scaling the engine house, clearly not listening.

 
And Mr. Jack Trevethan, well, he was staring at Gwynna.

  Gwynna swallowed, attempting to push her heart back down to her chest, as it had somehow managed to leap to her throat.

  A look passed between them, one that spoke of the secret they shared. Hurriedly, she redirected her attention to the ore. For him, having a secret was probably simple fun. For her, it was too precarious a position.

  “After the spalling, the ore is sent to cobbers, then buckers,” Mr. Peter Trevethan rambled. “Each maiden in turn crushes the ore smaller and smaller. Washing stations are situated between each process to ensure no copper is left behind.”

  From the corner of her eye, Gwynna noted each young person now focused on her, instead of where the mine owner pointed.

  This must be how the animals felt on exhibit in the Royal Menagerie—everyone gawping at some strange creature they’d never seen before. Of course, Gwynna had never seen the menagerie herself, but Sophia had told her of it.

  Gwynna would never get any work done with them in her line of sight, so she shifted her body away and continued with her work, refusing to be intimidated by their presence.

  As she pelted the ores, snippets of their conversation drifted toward her.

  “You see how she hits the ore perfectly to—”

  Crack!

  “Our finest spaller—”

  Crack!

  “She’s stronger than she appears—”

  A few more shattered pieces, and Gwynna brushed them aside to gather more. Her nerves threatened to break, but she would not allow herself to falter, no matter the spectators.

  She tossed the ore into the barrow then hammered again.

  “Might we proceed, Jack?” a feminine voice spoke behind her. “Watching this work is rather tiresome.”

  Gwynna huffed out a quiet, disbelieving breath. They should’ve known better than to bring a sensitive woman to such a harsh place. Ladies were hardly able to bear the sounds and smells—and now apparently the sights—of a copper mine.

  As their retreating footsteps moved to the cobbers nearby, Gwynna paused, finally comprehending what the woman had said. She’d called Mr. Trevethan by his given name. Did that mean they were family, or were they attached in another way?