But there was one thing that bothered her.
She could not shake the memory of Miss Davies’s cool expression. Yes, it would be exciting to have a beau—someone who was fond of her—but at the expense of another woman’s heart? “Are you acquainted with Miss Davies?”
“Not personally. I know the name, but that is all.”
“Caroline told me Miss Davies believes herself soon to be betrothed to Mr. Blake. And if that is indeed the case, surely I could not look on him in that way.”
“Surely there is a mistake, then.”
“I had a man treat me as such, and I could not bear to be the source of another woman’s pain.”
“I daresay you are only hearing one side of the story. Surely he would not come into this house and behave in such a way. She’d not be the first woman to feel more strongly for a man than he felt for her. I’m sure it is a mistake.”
“Perhaps. Do you know much about the Blake brothers?” Julia asked.
“Not a great deal. But I have heard a little from Mrs. Sedrick and Evangeline. You can barely see their estate from that window there.”
“So close?” She knew they were neighbors, but she was surprised the house was so near to this one. Julia stood and looked out the window. Sure enough, gray stone chimneys rose into the morning mist and fog. She’d seen the same home from her window but never considered that it might belong to the Blakes.
“Mr. Matthew Blake owns it now.”
“And Isaac Blake?” Julia could not resist the question. “What do you know of him?”
“I believe he owns a small bit of land on the edge of the estate. I cannot be certain.”
Julia chewed her lower lip as she considered Jane’s words. “Isaac Blake was the one who came to my aid, you know, the night of the attack at the inn.”
Jane nodded. “I’ve only heard positive things about him. Well, except from Mother, but she rarely has anything positive to say about a second-born son.”
Julia gave a little laugh. “Yes, she has made it quite clear that Matthew Blake would be a good match.”
“I used to think that Mother was all stuff and nonsense about such things. If you remember, she did not want me to marry Jonathan. She wanted me to marry Mr. Ichabod Cruthers.” Jane wrinkled her nose. “He’s the heir to a large estate in Scotland of all places. I tried to be fond of him, for Mother’s sake. Really I did. She was mortified to learn that I had given my heart to a soldier. But the heart’s desire cannot always be dictated.”
Julia nodded. “Aunt Beatrice informed me it was the duty of a young woman to marry well, if nothing more than to ease the minds of those who raised her.”
Jane laughed. “That sounds like Mother, but she’s always been more interested in advancing her social status than forging real relationships, and I don’t think she’d contradict me on that statement. Even so, I sometimes wonder what would have happened if I had followed my mother’s bidding. How different it would be if I had a house of my own and a present husband instead of one who is so far away.”
The sincerity in the words took Julia aback. Was it possible her cousin regretted following her heart? Marrying for love?
Aunt Delia had voiced her concerns about the whirlwind nature of Julia’s courtship with Percy, and she’d ignored them. Even Uncle Jac had made a comment or two about Percy’s haughty tendencies. Julia dismissed them as quickly as she’d dismissed her aunt’s comments. Had she heeded their warning, she could not help but wonder what would be different.
Now Jane’s words stung, and that familiar pain, which for the last day or so had been relatively quiet, stabbed.
She’d thought she’d find happiness with Percy. Theirs had been a fast love. He was wild and impetuous. Ardent and headstrong. She’d have sacrificed almost anything to marry him and become his wife, but then the shock of sitting in church one Sunday morning and hearing the banns read for him to marry another had unsettled every hope, every dream she thought they had built together. And then, as if by some nightmare, rumors of their attachment began to filter through the parish. Mortification hardly described her state.
Trusting another man—laughing with another man, enjoying another man’s company—seemed like an impossible endeavor. She’d try to consider Matthew Blake that way. After all, that’s why she was here. To move on with life and find new direction. Perhaps her cousin’s suggestion was right—it was best to leave such things to the women who knew better and abandon her budding infatuation with Isaac.
“Oh, I am so envious of you,” Jane declared. “So much life lies ahead of you.”
Julia laughed at the absurdity of the statement. “I’d much rather already be settled. I’ve had enough excitement.”
“But don’t you see? You have so many things to explore. A betrothal. Marriage. Love. Children.”
“And do you not have those things? You’re living them.”
Jane’s face fell, and the fleeting vibrancy fled her gray eyes. “Yes, but it is far different than I thought. My husband is gone, and I don’t know when, if ever, I shall see him again. I am confined to a bed. I am living under my mother’s roof, for heaven’s sake.”
“But your baby will be here soon, and surely that must give you a measure of anticipation.”
“You’ve hit it exactly, dear cousin. Anticipation. Oh, delicious anticipation. And you have so much room for it.”
Julia chuckled. “It’s been my experience that infatuation with the opposite gender results in stomachaches and restless weariness. I wish I already knew what my place in life will be.”
“You would take it all out then? The bloom of new love?”
“I suppose I haven’t experienced it. I thought I had, but no. If I had, perhaps I might feel differently.”
Jane patted her hand. “Finding love is the single most exhilarating experience I have had in my life. Its power was so great that it blinded me to the thing everyone warned me of—marrying a soldier. And yet, the memories of those times are enough to sustain me. They must be. For what choice do I have? Do not be overly eager to be settled. Do not overlook the glorious feeling of being pursued and desired. For when it is over, it’s gone. And it shall never be experienced again.”
Julia’s stomach fell, for something was different in her cousin’s tone with these last words. Did she regret her decision to marry Jonathan? Was she sorry to be with child? It dawned on her at that moment . . . Julia had thought her cousin’s world so enviable—a husband. A child. Security. But now she wondered if her cousin’s suffering was not greater.
Chapter 17
Isaac stood at the gates of Wheal Tamsen and looked down Miner’s Row. A steady, cold rain fell to the earth, just as it had all morning, muting the colors of the landscape even more than the sneaky arrival of winter already had.
In front of him a boy of four or five ran across the narrow road, chasing a dog, and farther down the lane, two adolescent girls, clad in heavy gray capes, carried large baskets toward High Street.
After shifting his gaze to Charlie’s cottage, Isaac shivered and blinked away the moisture that found its way beneath his hat’s brim. He needed to visit Charlie’s widow—the task he was loath to do.
He’d encountered Margaret a couple of times during the midnight hours at the mine’s counting house. She’d arrived shortly after he did, frantic and fearful, and she’d been at Charlie’s side when he breathed his last. The horror painted on her face would haunt Isaac for months—nay, years—to come.
He trudged down Miner’s Row to the familiar cottage that felt almost like a second home. Could it really only have been two days since he last sat in this home with Charlie and Margaret, laughing and talking? Now, everyone’s worlds were different.
A light shimmered from behind the cottage window’s thin linen curtain. He knocked on the door. At length, it creaked open. Warmth and the scent of smoke wafted out.
How many times had she welcomed him into this home, always cheerful, always smiling?
; But today Margaret’s auburn hair hung unruly and wild over her shoulders. Dark patches beneath her red-rimmed eyes stood out in sharp contrast against wan cheeks. She appeared battered and frail—and simultaneously young and old.
The words caught in his throat. “May I come in?”
At first she did not respond; her expression did not change. Then she inched back to give him room to pass. He removed his coat and stomped the moisture from his boots before he stepped inside.
He assessed the space, from its simple stone floor to the narrow wooden staircase leading to the first floor, to the herbs hanging from the hand-hewn rafters. A low-burning fire simmered in the small hearth, and a black pot hung over it. He’d heard from the miners that someone had been with her constantly, and true to the stories, Miss Harriet Prynne sat in a chair near the fire, cradling Charlie’s slumbering son.
Isaac cleared his throat, placed his satchel on the table, and withdrew two loaves of bread. “My housekeeper sent these to you.”
Margaret sat at the table, leaned her elbows on the top, and only stared at the offering.
He searched for words that would be appropriate, but none came. They remained silent for several moments, bound in a grief that, while each felt it differently, was raw and real and fresh.
He’d promised Charlie he’d watch out for her.
But what did that mean?
He sat next to her and then he covered her still, cold hand with his own. She drew a deep breath and, as if it took all of her energy, lifted her head to look at him. “Can you believe it?”
“No.”
She slid her gaze over to her child, and fresh tears filled her eyes. “Charlie always warned this could happen. I never believed him.”
“It is a risk every miner understands, but . . .”
The silence resumed as his words faded.
Over the next hour a handful of concerned neighbors and friends filtered in. The vicar, the apothecary, but mostly mining folk. Margaret was in no mood to receive them. And he could not blame her.
Isaac said little while he was at the cottage, but as dusk began to fall, the church bell chimed, marking the lateness of the hour. After a guest departed, he stood, reached for his satchel, and approached her. If it was possible, she looked even paler, frailer than she had when he arrived.
There was one more task he needed to tend to before he departed.
It was customary for a mine to offer monetary support to a widow following her husband’s mine-related death. As the captain of the mine, he needed to give Margaret what was rightfully hers.
He opened his satchel and retrieved a smaller pouch.
Margaret’s wide-eyed gaze snapped to the small leather purse. Before he could even fully extend it toward her, she snipped, “I don’t want it.”
They locked eyes for several moments, and then he placed it on the table. “It belongs to you.”
She folded her arms over her chest, her eyes teared afresh, and she jutted her chin in the air. “I’ll not take it.”
Isaac softened his tone as much as he could. “Charlie worked for this. It’s his. He’d want you to have it. He’d want Jory to have it.”
“My husband wanted one thing.” Her chin trembled as a tear escaped her lashes. “He had but one dream. And you know it full well. Wheal Gwenna.”
He swallowed dryly. “Now’s hardly the time to—”
“It was his dream!” Her lip trembled. “Take that money and put it toward opening it. He’d want it that way.”
Her round face reddened, and he feared she might make herself ill. He’d not contradict her. Not now. Instead he stepped forward. “If that’s what you want, but I’m going to leave it here until a more suitable time. You keep it safe. We can revisit the topic at another time.”
As Isaac prepared to depart, Miss Trebell arrived to relieve Miss Prynne and stay with Margaret and Jory, and Isaac offered to walk Miss Prynne back to her cottage. The hour had grown late, and after the incident at the inn, he didn’t feel comfortable with anyone walking alone after dark, especially not someone he revered as much as Miss Harriet Prynne.
Besides Matthew, Isaac had little family in Cornwall, but he’d known Miss Prynne his entire life. She felt like family. His mother had regarded her as a great friend, and after she died, Miss Prynne took both Matthew and him under her wing. She shared his passion for those in the community, and often they’d work together to help the miners.
They walked along High Street, both feeling the loss of a great friend and grieving for the pain of the family he left behind.
Miss Prynne placed her hand on Isaac’s arm. “I do worry for her.”
Isaac winced as he recalled the pain etched on Margaret’s face. “She’s a strong woman.”
“But she is still that—a woman. A mortal woman, with thoughts and feelings and emotions and limits. Be it a strong person or weak, a loved one’s death could cause anyone to crumble.”
He sobered. Miss Prynne had never married, but she knew the loss of love—and everyone in Goldweth knew it.
“Do you remember when David Coryn was killed at Wheal Tamsen when the old shaft flooded?” he asked. “I recall being in awe of my father. He always knew what to say to ease the pain of those around him.”
“Your father was a remarkable man, but, Mr. Blake, you are like him in many ways. Can you not see? There is a way you can fill your father’s place and comfort your community.”
He slowed his steps. Time and experience had taught him Miss Prynne’s insight usually had merit. “How so?”
“You’ll forgive this old woman the offense of eavesdropping, but I overheard you and Margaret speaking of Wheal Gwenna.”
He drew a deep breath. He didn’t want to discuss it, yet so many seemed to know of it.
“I think it’s a fine idea. One that your father would be proud of. Our community is hurting. Like your father, you see a need and you meet it.”
He chuckled uncomfortably. “It’s not that simple.”
“Not much in this life is simple.”
By the time Isaac delivered Miss Prynne to her door, darkness had closed in completely. She paused at the threshold and turned to fix faded green eyes on him. “Good night, Mr. Blake. And think on what I said. You know how fond I was of Mr. Rowe. There’s a hole in our little community now that he’s gone. Everyone is looking for someone to smooth the way—not necessarily someone to replace him, for he could never be replaced. But we need someone to champion the likes of the lowly, and I think you could be that man.”
Isaac bid her good night, and as he walked home, he considered Margaret’s request and Miss Prynne’s words. How his heart ached for the loss of his friend, but seeing the fire lit in those remaining—the fire for him to continue to fight—ignited fresh purpose and determination within him.
Chapter 18
Nearly a week later, Julia rose early, dressed in her dark-blue riding habit, and made her way to Lanwyn Manor’s stable. The groom had paired her with a gentle white mare, aptly named Snow, and as soon as he helped her onto her sidesaddle, she set off to the west lawn.
She turned her face toward the cool breeze. A predawn mist hovered over the ground, and the gray sky promised rain. Even with the threat of precipitation, the icy air invigorated her senses, and the broad, open lawn reminded her of the freedom she enjoyed at Penwythe Hall.
Other than two brief visits from Miss Trebell and Miss Prynne, Julia had seen no other people besides the servants since the night of the dinner. Uncle William had departed for business in the south a few days following her arrival, and the family did not even venture out for church, since Aunt Beatrice had a headache on Sunday. In fact, once the excitement of the first few days subsided, life settled into a steady, predictable pace. By nature Julia preferred company over solitude, and several days with no new faces wore on her.
She’d not been out long when she spotted a horse and rider approaching along the opposite side of the drystone wall that separated Lanwyn Manor fro
m the public road. Normally she’d pay such a sight little attention, but something familiar about the broad shoulders and distinctive profile made her look twice.
Was that one of the Blake brothers?
The man raised a hand in greeting.
Curious, she guided her horse to the wall’s edge.
“Miss Twethewey,” called the rider, “this is a surprise.”
“Mr. Blake!” A little thrill shot through her when Isaac’s features became clearer. “I thought that was you.”
He stopped his gray horse on the opposite side of the fence. “I didn’t realize you were a horsewoman.”
She smiled and rested her crop over her lap. “Oh, I am. At home I ride nearly every day. Besides, if I wanted some fresh air this morning, I needed to take it now. It looks like rain might keep us indoors later in the day.”
“I think you’re right.” He lifted his hazel eyes heavenward before he returned his attention to her. “But is your uncle comfortable with you being out alone?”
“Uncle William has gone to Plymouth. He will return later today. Prior to his departure he gave me permission to ride Snow here on the grounds whenever I’d like.”
It had been nearly a week since she had last seen Mr. Blake, and Julia had overheard the servants discussing the death of his friend. She sobered and tilted her head to the side. “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Benson. I understand he was a friend of yours.”
She did not miss the twitch of his freshly shaven jaw, nor how his gloved grip tightened on his reins. No doubt he was surprised to know that she had heard such information, but there was no use pretending she hadn’t.
“He was,” Mr. Blake responded at last. “A very good friend.”
“I also understand that he had a wife and child,” she said hesitantly, for she was treading on conversation that was not really any of her affair.
But Mr. Blake only nodded.
“I cannot imagine her pain.”
“Margaret Benson is a strong woman, but the sting of grief is a relentless burden, even for the strong.”
The Thief of Lanwyn Manor Page 10
