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

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Discomfort wedged between her ribs and her lungs. Mr. Trevethan wouldn’t have asked to kiss Gwynna if he was actually engaged, would he? Even if he had been teasing?

  She held her hammer overhead. Not that she cared if he was engaged or not. The man could do whatever he wished. Just like all gentlemen, she supposed. Never mind the offense they caused.

  She whirled the hammer toward the ore, but in a split second, she knew something was off. Her placement of the ore and her hammer weren’t lined up properly. Instead of striking the center of the rock, Gwynna hit to the side of it. Pieces of ore flew in every direction, pelting her skirts and arms.

  She dropped her hammer and yelped as a stinging pierced the side of her upper left cheekbone, near her temple. She pressed a glove to where the shattered rock had sliced her skin. A crimson circle ate across the grey cloth as she pulled her hand down.

  She cursed under her breath.

  “Are ye hurt, Gwynna?” Kerensa called out from across their stations.

  Swiftly, Gwynna tugged her bonnet lower to hide the wound, darting a look toward the visitors—mostly to a certain son—who’d turned toward her at the sound of her cry.

  “No, I be well, Kerensa,” she said loud enough for them to hear.

  She picked up her hammer and set about her task again. Mr. Jack Trevethan’s eyes remained on her until he followed his small party toward the bucking area.

  Only then did Kerensa inch closer to her. “Ye be bleedin’, Gwynna. All the way down your cheek.”

  Gwynna had thought it was sweat. She swiped it away, only to see Kerensa’s concerned brow. “Ye best get it looked at.”

  “I can’t. I’ll lose the progress I be makin’.”

  As the throbbing continued, and Kerensa’s stares increased, Gwynna dropped her hammer with a heavy sigh. “Fine. I be goin’. Just to please ye, mind.”

  She continually wiped away the draining blood with her gloves, making a mental note to apologize to Mama for once again sullying the stockings. Her mother sacrificed so much. Gwynna would hate to be considered ungrateful to her.

  After determining that the Trevethans had not yet returned to the counthouse, their horses still tied nearby, Gwynna knocked on the door to alert Mr. Harvey of her wound.

  “‘Tis be but a scratch, sir,” she began as he eyed her cheekbone.

  “But better to be safe than sorry. I’ll send for the mine surgeon.”

  As he went out to see his wife home, who’d stood by in silence with a kind smile, Gwynna was instructed to sit on a chair by the table until the surgeon arrived.

  She avoided the continuous stares coming from the counthouse woman who hunched forward, cleaning the fireplace. Was the woman still upset about the dirt Gwynna had supposedly tracked through her workstation the week before? Or was she still concerned that Gwynna was hankering for her tasks?

  Gwynna nearly laughed at the idea. She far preferred spalling, even if she was injured from time to time.

  She hunkered down in the chair, ignoring her pulsing cheek and preparing herself for the inevitably long wait for the arrival of the surgeon. The first time she’d been injured as a young girl on the gears near the engine house, the mine surgeon had taken longer than an hour to arrive, other times she’d had to wait nearly two.

  To her surprise, however, a quarter of an hour had hardly passed by before he stepped into the dim light of the counthouse.

  “Hmm. Yes, it won’t require sutures, but it will need to be cleaned,” the surgeon said after eying the gash.

  As he removed a few shards of ore from the open wound, Gwynna fisted her hands, welcoming the pain she caused the scabs on her palms as they provided a distraction from the stinging in her cheekbone. Was the man using a butcher’s knife instead of his small tweezers to remove the debris?

  By the time he was finished, the bleeding had begun anew, so he wrapped a piece of fabric around her head to hold a small bandage in place, sopping up the blood.

  “You ought to spend the rest of the day at home,” the surgeon suggested as he eyed his various instruments now covered in her blood. “Just to be sure you don’t swoon.”

  Swoon. Gwynna didn’t swoon.

  “Yes, sir,” she agreed vocally, though she’d already concocted a plan on how to hide the enormous bandage that made her look like she’d just undergone extensive surgery.

  If Mr. Harvey saw the dressing, even beneath her thin bonnet, he would in no way allow her to continue working. The pain wasn’t even terrible, now that the surgeon had stopped mauling it.

  She left him in the room cleaning up his supplies, then slowly closed the door behind her. After taking a thorough look around the counthouse, she darted to the side of the structure. With her attention forward, she slowly unwrapped the cloth, catching the smaller bandage pressed against her blood before it could fall to the mud below.

  The long piece of cloth wasn’t smooth by any means, but it was sturdy. Perhaps she’d use it to supplement her gloves or for better protection for her legs. She stuffed it into her towser pocket then dabbed the small bandage against her cheekbone before examining it.

  Just as she suspected, the blood was nearly gone. All she needed to do was place her bonnet slightly to the side. It would hold the bandage in place for a final moment or two, then she’d be perfectly fine to—

  “Healed already?”

  She started, twirling as she faced a pair of fine, dark brown eyes.

  “Mr. Trevethan,” she breathed. “Sir, I didn’t know ye were there.”

  “Obviously.” He leaned against the side of the counthouse with arms folded.

  She glanced over her shoulder, then behind his. “What are ye doin’ up here?” she whispered. She hated to think of the counthouse woman or the surgeon overhearing them. “And where be the others ye were with?”

  “You needn’t worry. They’re down near the engine house, listening to my father go on about the circling whim. I made the excuse of checking on our horses, but…” He eyed her up and down. “I found a much better distraction.”

  So he was back then, the teasing man from before. The blackguard. She’d best leave before someone caught them, or before he found some other way to torment her.

  Placing her bonnet back on her head, she took a step back. “Well, ye must excuse me, sir. I’ve work to do.”

  “Wait just a moment, if you would be so kind.”

  She paused, and he took a step toward her.

  “You allowed the surgeon to see you?”

  “Yes, sir. ‘Twas only a scratch.”

  “That’s not what that large bandage in your apron would suggest.” He motioned to her towser.

  She slipped off her cotton bonnet and pushed back her hair to reveal more of her cheekbone. “See? ‘Tis not even bleedin’.”

  “And the surgeon said you were all right to go back to work?”

  Why was this any of his business? It’s not like he was the owner of the mine. Yet. “Yes, sir.”

  His look of amusement increased. “Lying comes quite naturally to you, does it not?”

  She raised her chin indignantly. “Fine. If ye must know, he did tell me to go home. But I can’t afford to, nor can I afford to be speakin’ with ye any longer. Now, I expect ye to keep me wound to yourself. Good day, sir.”

  Heavens, was she bold around the man. Mother would scold her for not showing more respect to a superior. Father would probably slip her a proud wink.

  Gwynna hid her smile and walked away, slipping the bandage between her replaced bonnet and her upper cheekbone.

  Mr. Trevethan spoke after her. “Before you go, how many more secrets do you expect me to keep, just so I can prepare myself?”

  She paused, peering around the other side of the counthouse to ensure they were still alone. Finally, she moved closer to him with a lowered voice. “What do ye mean?”

  “All of your secrets,” he repeated. “You dressing as a lady—”

  “Hush!”

  “—breaking u
p that brawl. Now you ask me to hide your injury. What is next? Asking me to keep silent about a secret tryst you have with one of the miners?”

  She pulled a face. She really shouldn’t stoop to his level, especially when she needed to leave before someone caught them together, but blast it, if she didn’t have to defend herself. “I be havin’ no tryst, sir. And ye wouldn’t ‘ave to keep all these secrets if ye’d stop your meddlin’.”

  He opened his mouth, hesitating. “All right, you have me there.” He tapped his finger against his chin. “Very well. I’ll keep your wound a secret, as well as all the others, if you promise to answer just one question for me.”

  She huffed a laugh. “No, sir. Ye ain’t goin’ to trick me again. I know ye won’t tell, even if I leave now.”

  She spun on her heel, taking only one step before her bonnet was plucked from her head, as if a bird had snatched it with his claws.

  She whirled around, the bonnet dangling from his fingers.

  “What ye be up to now?” she asked, retrieving the small bandage that had fallen to the ground due to his pilfering. Fortunately, the mud hadn’t time to cling to it yet.

  He held the bonnet out to his side. “I’ll give it back if you answer my question.”

  She tried to snatch it, but he pulled it back out of her grasp. After another attempt, she propped her hands on her waist and pursed her lips. “I haven’t time for this, sir. I need to be about me work.”

  “Then you’d better hurry and answer my question.” He raised his brow in a dare.

  “Why do ye ‘ave so many questions?” she asked, lifting her arms out to the side. “Can’t ye just leave me alone in peace?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t.” His eyes were far too bright with glee.

  She eyed the bonnet. She wouldn’t reach for it again. He was too quick. Perhaps there was another way to retrieve it without giving anything away.

  Either way, she needed to make haste. Every moment that ticked by made it more likely that they would be discovered.

  “Very well,” she said, folding her arms. “What be your question, sir?”

  For a moment, he seemed surprised at her willingness, then he recovered with another charming smile. “Where did you get the gown? The pink one you wore to the ball?”

  She quirked an eyebrow. “That be your question?”

  He nodded.

  Gwynna contemplated her answer. She really ought to respond truthfully. If she satisfied his curiosity, perhaps he’d finally leave her be.

  “I…”

  Before she could continue, another thought struck. Did he…did he think she stole it? A chilled pride iced throughout her. Of course, what else was he going to think? Certainly not that she’d befriended a lady. No, that was far too above a bal maiden.

  Fine, if the gentleman expected such a response, she would allow him to have it.

  Leaning forward, she lowered her voice with a sobered expression. “I…I stole it, sir.”

  The playfulness drained from his eyes. His smile faded away, replaced with—to his credit—shock. So he hadn’t truly thought her capable of such a thing?

  “You did?” he questioned.

  Her eyes flickered towards the bonnet lowering in his hand. “Yes, sir. I be so ashamed, but I can’t ‘elp meself. Ye see, sir, ‘tis a bad habit I’ve formed, stealin’. Ye won’t tell, will ye?”

  He blinked. “No, no. I’ll keep it to myself. But perhaps you ought to—”

  His words ended as she swiped her bonnet from his hands. She pressed the bandage back between her wound and the fabric, then tied the bonnet securely beneath her chin. “Don’t believe everythin’ ye hear, sir.”

  He stared open-mouthed. “You mean to say, you didn’t steal the dress?”

  “We maidens ain’t be as bad as ye think, sir.”

  With a flourished curtsy that would’ve made Sophia beam with pride, Gwynna left the gentleman behind the counthouse with only his growing smile for company.

  Chapter Six

  By Saturday afternoon, Gwynna was more than ready for a break from the mine. She’d worked her half-day at Wheal Favour, retrieved her basket and instructions from Mama, then set forth for St. Just.

  The streets were filled with maidens and ladies, miners and gentlemen alike, each class anxious to see what new items shops offered or what delectable pastries they could snag from the bakery. Stalls sprung up outside nearly every door, displaying clothing, food, and household items, such as shining cutlery or tin plates.

  Gwynna meandered through the masses, purchasing the items for which Mama had sent her—a few apples, a small bag of oats, and nails to fix their buckling floor. She nestled them securely in her small basket then weaved her way past children holding onto the backs of their mother’s dresses and around gentlemen who purchased their sweethearts sparkling jewelry.

  She stepped past a stall with fluttering ribbons in every color just as someone shouted her name from nearby.

  “Gwynna! O’er here!” Kerensa stood outside the Golden Arms Inn with a few other maidens who waved their arms at Gwynna. “Will ye join we today?”

  A few ladies dressed in blue and brown Spencer jackets walked past Kerensa with taut lips, no doubt displeased with her shouting, though they didn’t a glance once in her direction.

  “I can’t. Mama’s orders, see.” Gwynna raised her basket. “Next time.”

  “I be holdin’ ye to that,” Kerensa returned, then she slipped inside the inn with the other girls.

  Gwynna stared longingly at the door closing behind them. It had been a long time since she’d joined the maidens there for market day, celebrating their moments away from the mine with a few drinks, perhaps even a hearty bowl of stew.

  Not that the Golden Arms had particularly appetizing food. But it was better than barley bread and pillas.

  She pressed her fingers against the pocket of her apron, tracing the outline of her faded coin purse. She’d been saving her pocket money for a few weeks now. Certainly a few farthings could be spared for a bit of pleasure.

  With a firm shake of her head, Gwynna redirected her attention forward. Perhaps when she was paid for her work at the mine, she would allow herself a reward.

  Never mind that the quarterly sale of ore wasn’t for another month and she wouldn’t see a pence until then. Mama was more important than a glass of ale or a Banbury cake or jam tartlet—and she was in greater need of new stockings than Gwynna was for a drink or pastry at the moment.

  She traversed through the crowds and approached the modiste’s shop, straightening her shoulders and aligning her courage before entering.

  As she stepped over the threshold, Mrs. Follett’s eyes instantly fell upon her. The woman’s greeting shifted from an open smile to tight lips that put even the counthouse woman’s cold scowl to shame.

  “Good mornin’,” Gwynna greeted, closing the door with a short jingle from the bell above.

  “Shirley,” Mrs. Follett said in a short tone to her assistant.

  Shirley stood at the window display, splaying fans and propping up parasols. Mrs. Follett jerked her head toward Gwynna, signaling for the girl to see to her.

  The young assistant nodded, skirting past the display and counter toward Gwynna with quick steps. “How can I help you, miss?” she asked with an easy smile.

  At least there was one person in the shop who would deign to see to her. “I be lookin’ for some stockings.”

  “Oh, yes. Right this—”

  “Show her the ones in the back,” Mrs. Follett interrupted. She didn’t look up from the ledger book in which she wrote. “Perhaps she’ll be able to afford those.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Follett,” Shirley dutifully responded, though she gave Gwynna an apologetic look.

  Gwynna would rather have the counthouse woman than Mrs. Follett as a taskmaster. At least she could still hear the sea from inside the counthouse.

  “Right this way, miss.”

  Gwynna followed Shirley past Mrs. Follett and do
wn the center of the room. Counters lined both sides of the space with stools for ladies to sit as they were shown hats, gloves, or parasols. Sunshine poured in from the front windows, lighting the swaths of fabric hung between the counters. Like a waterfall during a vibrant sunset, the cloth poured to the floor in purples, blues, pinks, and yellows.

  Gwynna stopped at the back of the room as Shirley stepped behind the counter. Standing on a stoop, the assistant reached for the small drawers piled high on top of each other, stacked midway against the walls nearly to the ceiling.

  She reached for one of the highest drawers and rifled through the stockings as Gwynna placed her nearly full basket on the counter, yawning behind a fisted hand.

  “Long day at the mine?” Shirley asked.

  Gwynna nodded. Yes, she’d had a long day at the mine—and a long night with very little sleep, as usual.

  Her nightmares always began the same, reliving the day Jago died. The rain, the explosion. Men coming to surface, but not him. Then the dreams shifted beyond reality. Gwynna would enter the shaft to rescue her brother, only able to hear his cries and see his frightened face before the water swelled up to drown her alongside him.

  “You’ll be happy for your day of rest then tomorrow,” Shirley said, pulling Gwynna’s attention back to the present.

  “Yes, I be lookin’ forward to it.”

  Shirley pulled out three stockings then moved to the counter and laid them out before Gwynna. “Will any of these suit?”

  Gwynna eyed the three white stockings and chewed the inside of her lip.

  That morning, since she hadn’t been able to go back to sleep, Gwynna had helped Mama with the early morning chores before heading to the mine. As they readied the laundry for later today, Mama raised her skirts to step over a pile of clothing, and Gwynna had caught sight of the gaping hole in her mother’s stockings, stretching from her ankle to well up her calf.

  Gwynna wanted to purchase something fine for Mama—especially after Mama had used her only other pair of stockings for Gwynna’s gloves. But if her mother wore white ones, they’d be covered in dirt faster than she could say, well, dirt.