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

by Deborah M. Hathaway

  Kerensa hummed, then waved to her sisters farther up the incline. “I be seein’ ye.”

  Gwynna nodded, staring after her departure. She’d longed to tell the truth to Kerensa but involving her in her schemes would only cause trouble for her friend. And she’d already done that to too many people as it was.

  Papa exited the shaft then, coughing into his handkerchief. An ounce of pressure fell from her shoulders at the sight of him, sodden clothing and all. He was alive, and that was something for which to be grateful.

  “We be havin’ to scrimp and save more now, Gwynny, missin’ a full day’s work.” He draped his arm around her as his coughing subsided. “But I be ‘appy to be goin’ home with ye.”

  She leaned into him for a moment, breathing in the damp, earthy soot. It was her father’s smell—had been since before she could remember. How it soothed her worry.

  They joined the other workers walking past the counthouse. Mr. Peter Trevethan bade them farewell as he secured his great coat around his shoulders with Mr. Harvey. “We will be leaving as soon as the mine is emptied. If the rain stops, return tomorrow. If not, you must simply wait until further notice. Rest well, and stay warm, all of you.”

  “Thank ye, sir,” the miners and maidens continually babbled as they filed past him.

  No songs marked the air as they walked across the cliffside. Their voices would’ve trembled had they attempted. The adults and older children helped the younger boys and girls traipse through the mud as they walked through the low clouds blanketing the land and sea.

  Father moved ahead to speak with a few of the miners at the front of the group, and Gwynna fell behind to help Kerensa with her straggling sisters and their sodden skirts.

  Halfway home, Gwynna’s footsteps stopped.

  “What be the matter?” Kerensa asked.

  Gwynna groaned. “Me hammer. I didn’t return it to the tool house.” She could see it clearly now, exactly where she’d dropped it in the mud as she’d piled the remaining ore into her barrow. “I ‘ave to return it to the house.”

  “There be no need, Gwynna. No one be goin’ out in this weather to pinch it.”

  Gwynna rubbed her arms. If someone did steal it, she would have to pay to replace it. That would be a whole week’s, if not month’s, worth of wages.

  She took a few steps back. “I can’t risk it. I’ll make haste. Tell me father I’ll be home shortly after ‘im.”

  Kerensa’s wary eyes followed Gwynna until she returned her attention to the crying child whose hand she held.

  “We be almost home now, eh?” Kerensa said.

  Gwynna trudged her way from the group and back to the mine, cursing her careless blunder and nodding to the remaining stragglers who’d left Favour after the others.

  When she reached the mine, the grounds were emptied. Not even Mr. Peter Trevethan or Mr. Harvey remained behind.

  She walked across the mud, the rain rushing in her ears. She approached the engine house, its red chimney disappearing into the sea fog. She glanced to the door, and a memory flashed in her mind. Standing outside, embracing Papa. Waiting together for news as they brought up three bodies—none of which had been Jago’s.

  She squeezed her eyes, forcing the image away. She needed to focus on her task, then she could leave the mine all the sooner, and wrap up warm by the fire with her parents. Perhaps she might even convince Mama to make stew. Her mother often agreed with Gwynna’s suggestions because of the help Gwynna provided for her.

  Humming a cheerful tune to rid herself of imposing thoughts, Gwynna sloshed across the ground. The sea was no longer visible due to the misty clouds falling down with the rain. Not even the gulls were calling, all of creation seeming to have taken shelter in this never-ending storm.

  Finally, Gwynna reached her position and found the spalling tool exactly where she’d left it. She tried to wipe the mud from the handle, but the dark streaks became even more evident across the length of it.

  With her hammer in hand, she walked to the tool house, only to discover the lock had been secured. She paused, sifting through her options. She couldn’t return home with the tool. Not if she wished to avoid the appearance of stealing. And she couldn’t just leave it out in the open.

  But if she hid it…She scanned the grounds, settling on a shanty lean-to built up against the stone of the engine house. The roof of the meager covering bowed in the middle, and water poured down from the center in a constant stream. Large barrels stood propped against the wood, and discarded pieces of unused ore backed up against the wall.

  That would work perfectly.

  As swiftly as she could, she plodded through the mud and ducked under the lean-to, taking care not to walk under the pouring water. Kneeling down, she buried the long-handled hammer behind the barrels and underneath the rocks. Her body jerked as a draft of wind blasted rain against her, but she pressed on.

  Finally pleased with her hiding place, she placed the last ore over the iron head of the hammer then pressed her hands against the ground to aid in her standing.

  Before she could make it to her feet, the sharp snapping of wood sounded overhead, and a dull thud pounded her back.

  Suddenly, she was drowning.

  Doubling over on her hands and knees, Gwynna struggled for breath, water pouring directly on her head. Her lungs burned, her eyes unable to open due to the freezing liquid.

  This was what she’d dreamt of, drowning, just like her brother had. Only now, this wasn’t a nightmare, but reality. Images of her brother’s face flashed in her mind. The water had stopped pouring, but the stinging in her lungs continued.

  She tried to tell herself she was safe now. She wasn’t in the shaft. The lean-to had just broken. But the darkness that accompanied her closed eyes convinced her she was lost.

  Her heart hammered harder than she’d ever struck ore. Her breathing was labored, her head spinning. Clasping her hands to her head, she ducked to the ground, willing the images to cease.

  “No,” she murmured, her voice washed out amidst the rain and sea. “No!”

  “Gwynna!”

  Jago? She rocked back and forth. This wasn’t real. This wasn’t real. He wasn’t calling out for her help. He was already dead. She could do nothing for him.

  “Gwynna!”

  “No, no, no,” she repeated over and over again.

  A hand curled over her shoulder, and panic clasped its fingers round her throat. With all her force, she tore open her eyes and swung around.

  “No, Jago!” Finally, she found her voice to rid the specter from her mind.

  But it was no specter. It wasn’t even her brother.

  Mr. Jack Trevethan’s dark eyes bore into hers, filled with concern. He wore no hat, rain sliding down his cheekbones and dripping from his dark hair hanging over his eyes.

  “Jack?” she breathed.

  When the word left her tongue, the truth of reality rippled through her body, and she fell forward and wept into her hands.

  * * *

  Jack caught Gwynna before she could fall completely to the ground. He knelt down in the mud. With his arms wrapped around her, she buried her head into his chest. Her slight frame shook violently against him as he tried to make sense of what he’d just seen.

  He’d left St. Just after retrieving his newly shod horse, seeing Wheal Favour in the distance. Hoping to find fodder to throw at Father for forcing the miners to continue their work in such weather, he’d moved toward the mine, finding only one maiden present.

  He’d recognized Gwynna instantly, the angles of her high cheekbones, her slight but feminine frame. He’d watched her for only a moment then decided to leave before he could be spotted. However, when the wood and water fell down on her from the broken roof of the lean-to, he’d swiftly tied his horse and run to her rescue.

  He still couldn’t understand her reaction. The water must have frightened her, and the boards must have hurt falling against her back. But she didn’t appear pained—she appeared terri
fied.

  “He be gone,” she murmured. “I can’t save ‘im.”

  Jack wrapped his arms tighter around her, tears springing to his eyes. She was speaking of her brother. He was sure of it, not only because she’d mentioned Jago’s name, but because Jack had experienced the very same heartache. How often had he sobbed himself to sleep, aching for his mother, ruing the fact that he could no longer be with her?

  A shiver racked her body. He needed to get her warm before she became ill, but he didn’t wish to harm her further, nor to move her if she was incapable of standing.

  Finally, her sobs quieted, replaced with haggard breathing.

  He leaned down to rest his cheek on the crown of her wet bonnet. “We need to get you someplace warm. Are you injured? Your back?”

  She shifted in his arms. “No, I be fine. But I need to get home ‘fore me parents worry.”

  She tried to stand, wiping her face with her sodden sleeve, but she tumbled forward. He caught her before she could fall face-down in the mud. “No, Gwynna. We’re getting you warm now.”

  She didn’t protest again. Her breath continually caught in her throat as he led her forward across the grounds, supporting her as they slowly tramped through the mud.

  They reached the counthouse on the upper cliff, but as Jack tried the handle, he found it locked. With a swift movement, he kicked the door open. The wood swung back on its hinges and ended with a loud clatter against the back wall.

  “Come,” he said gently, his arm around her back, his hand fitting perfectly around her waist.

  After closing the door as best he could with the broken lock, he pulled out a chair and placed it before the cold hearth. As she sat, he lit the fire, allowing it to grow before settling a few logs on the ever-growing flame. Next, he removed her cloak and bonnet, draping them near the heat.

  He eyed her sodden clothes as she gazed straight-faced into the flames. She needed to remove her gown if she was going to feel any semblance of warmth, but they were already sidling the line of propriety by being alone together in that room.

  Instead, he settled on finding a few blankets folded on the bed in the spare room.

  “Are you warm enough?” he asked, securing one across her shoulders and the other round her legs.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Sir. Only moments ago, she’d called him Jack.

  He knelt down before her, his knees protesting against the hard wood floor. Softly, he took her fingers in his, removing the stained, grey fabric wrapped around her hands. It wasn’t a glove, as he’d expected, but an old stocking.

  Another tear ripped into his chest.

  When her hands were free, he held them in his own, rubbing them slowly to bring the warmth back into her purple fingertips. He examined them, dirt surrounding each of her shortened nails.

  He brought them near his mouth, blowing warm air onto her skin. She watched him closely. The tendons in her neck stood out, and her chest and shoulders were raised, as if she held her breath.

  His heart tripped. It must have forgotten how to beat, distracted with the heat rushing in his limbs.

  The fire crackled behind him, and rain pelted the small window nearby as their eyes remained locked. She was beautiful. Water-logged and teary-eyed, she was completely beyond any lady he’d ever seen primped and polished.

  “Is that better?”

  She nodded. Did that mean he had to stop? With the way he reacted to touching her, perhaps he’d better.

  Slowly, he raised to stand. “Are you hungry?”

  “No, sir.”

  Despite her answer, he moved to the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards before finding a loaf of bread. He tore off a piece and placed it on a plate before returning to Gwynna and the fire.

  He offered her the meager helping, and she thanked him, though the bread remained untouched in her hand.

  “Ye must think I be crazy.”

  He stoked the fire. “Why would I?”

  She gave him a wary look. “Ye saw me, sir. Shakin’ like a leaf o’er a bit o’ water fallin’ down on me.”

  He set aside the iron stoker then pulled a chair to sit beside her, careful not to block the fire’s heat.

  “That’s not why you were shaking, Gwynna,” he said softly. “And there is no reason to be ashamed over remembering a beloved family member’s death.”

  Her chin trembled, and she swiped a finger beneath her nose. He pulled out a handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and extended it toward her.

  “I don’t want to dirty it, sir.”

  “You may keep it. I have plenty.”

  With a hesitant nod, she took it from his hand and wiped it across her eyes and nose.

  She was silent for a moment, tugging the blanket more securely around her shoulders. After a moment, she tore a small piece of the bread and chewed it in silence.

  “May I ask how your brother died?” Jack asked as she swallowed.

  She tore off another piece, pushing it together with her fingers. “A floodin’, below ground.”

  Jack winced. That’s why the water had triggered her.

  “I ‘ave dreams,” she continued, her eyebrows slanted upward. “Dreams of ‘im callin’ out to me. I never saw ‘im dyin’ in reality, but in me dreams, I enter the shaft filled with water and see him strugglin’, hear him callin’ out to me for help. But I never can save ‘im, and I end up drownin’ meself alongside ‘im. When the roof cracked and the water prevented me from breathin’, I suppose I just thought of him feelin’ the same when he died—scared and alone.”

  Jack listened, compassion overcoming him for the struggles this woman faced. The bravery she had for even working at the same mine where her brother had perished was beyond him.

  She stared into the fire, clearly attempting to gain control of her emotions. “I just want the dreams to stop. I don’t want to remember me brother for the fear that must’ve been on his face. I want to remember the fun we had together, but I just…”

  She stopped, her face crumpling in a cry. He leaned forward, moving the plate of bread to the floor and grasping her nearest hand in both of his. “They will, Gwynna. The dreams will end. One day.”

  “How can ye be sure? How can I know I won’t be sufferin’ with this me whole life?”

  He eyed her fingers. “Because I’ve had them, too.”

  She sniffed, peering across at him, clearly wishing for him to say more. “About your mother?”

  Jack hesitated. Days ago, he’d determined to board up his heart for good. He’d opened up to Gwynna, and he’d been hurt by the truth she’d assailed at him in regard to his father.

  Now, things were different. He’d seen Gwynna in a different light. She was broken, just like he was. Perhaps not to so great an extent—he couldn’t see her hurting other people to hide her own pain—but broken all the same. Knowing this, how could he not share his own experience, if only to ease her burden?

  “I was the one who found her,” he whispered, rubbing his thumbs against the back of her fingers to keep his emotions capped. “Face down on the floor in her bedchamber.”

  The breath rushed from her lips in a sigh. “Oh, I be sorry. Do you know what ‘appened to her?”

  Her soft tone verified the compassion he’d expected from her. He was wise to keep his eyes averted. One look at her loving—her kind eyes, and he’d be done for.

  “She was ill with a fever and worsened overnight. I refused to leave her side, but Father promised to remain with her so I could sleep for a few hours. Before dawn, I swiftly made for her room, hoping to find her rallied. Instead, she was gone, with a broken cup beside her.”

  “And she was alone?”

  He nodded. “Apparently, her maid had left to retrieve more water. When she returned to find me begging my mother to rise, she dropped the bowl she carried, shattering the porcelain and splashing the water across the room.”

  “And…your father?”

  He clenched his jaw, though stroking Gwynna’s skin distra
cted him from getting angrier. “Nowhere to be seen. The maid said he’d left hours before, but no one knew where he’d gone. No one, but me.”

  He maintained a loose grip on her hands, drawing in a deep breath as he recalled the memories as if they’d occurred yesterday. “I found him in his study, poring over his blessed work ledgers and correspondences instead of caring for his dying wife. Had he been with her, he could’ve helped her find the drink she so desperately needed.”

  * * *

  Gwynna studied what little she could see of Mr. Trevethan’s face with his lowered head. No wonder he’d reacted so angrily to her suggestion to forgive his father. Their relationship was far more complicated than she’d expected. She couldn’t imagine the heartache he must have experienced as a twelve-year-old, his whole world in upheaval with only one person to blame.

  “It became easier to accuse my father of wrongdoing rather than myself,” he continued. “As a child, at times even now, I can’t help but wonder, had I not left to sleep, who knows what I might’ve prevented. Truly, I know Father was not the cause of her death. She was leaving us already due to the fever. But he made her suffer all the greater by leaving.”

  Sorrow hung heavily on her, weighing her spirits and emotions to the floor. She knew just how he felt—the regret, what she could’ve done for Jago had she merely been given the chance.

  But it wasn’t right to wear the blame.

  “It ain’t be your fault, sir, that she died. Though I understand why ye be thinkin’ so. And about your father…What I told ye about forgiveness, I be sorry. I never should ‘ave—”

  “No. No, you were right. I ought to be the one apologizing. I have held onto my bitterness for long enough. I wish to release its hold on my life. Though, I fear it will take longer for me than it has for you.”

  Knowing he did not hold her earlier words against her, she had greater strength to lift up her heavy heart. “It be different for everyone, sir. Me father always said that forgiveness be more about a journey rather than an endin’ place.”

  He seemed to consider that for a moment. “The more I learn about your father, the more I am intimidated by the man.”