Gareth
Gareth hadn’t seen Elaine for five years. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He had noticed the Cardinham carriage roll past The Black Hart Inn with Elaine inside trying desperately to hide her face.
His horse had thrown a shoe about a half mile back. It saved him a good mile or so to cut across the back of Havencross and take the coastal lane.
When he saw her perched on the edge of the cliff with the wind swirling her hair, he couldn’t help himself. He’d never been good at resisting a chance to see her squirm. And squirm she would, for she was five years past due with an explanation.
She floundered with her hair again, trying to keep it out of her face.
“How was London?” he asked.
Her eyes flicked to his, then back to the ground, unable to hide her blush at seeing him again. He hadn’t planned on it being quite so easy for him to accomplish his task, for with that single question, she undoubtedly squirmed.
She pulled the hair from her face again, though the wind only blew more to replace it. “Good day, Mr. Kemp.”
And that was that. She hurried past him, back toward Havencross, smacking her bonnet on her leg as she marched away.
All right, then. Now he knew where he stood. Still no explanation as to why she’d turned him down five years ago. He was unworthy, no doubt. The son of a miner—even though his father had been the foreman. But a Kemp was no match for a Cardinham. Gareth had convinced himself she loved him. Wasn’t the first time he’d been wrong. Just the most painful.
He shouldn’t have come. It had been an impulsive move and had only told him what he’d already known: she never wanted to see him again.
Just as well. He need not entangle himself in that mess anew.
Gareth turned back along the path that led home. The sun barely drifted above the heavy waves to the west. Any moment, the clouds would open and drench the earth. The freshly planted fields needed the moisture, but he would be soaked through.
Served him right.
He veered off course and took the wide, graveled path to the church. With a flip of the reins, he tethered his horse, then dug into his saddlebag and removed a small stack of papers rolled and tied in a leather cover. He pushed the old iron gate, and it squeaked open.
In the back corner of the churchyard rested his father’s grave. Six months to the day. Seemed like yesterday. But also like years since his father had been killed.
He’d been walking home from Polkreath Mine along the clifftop path—just like Gareth had today—when he’d stumbled upon the smugglers.
They crawled along these coasts like moles, with their tunnels and hidey-holes. Places like Penzance and Lizard down south got the worst of the smugglers. Regular people, most of them, fishermen and the like, living a secret life of lawlessness in the underbelly of Cornwall.
Those blackguards were not the only ones to blame for the sad state of affairs. If the crown did not tax the import of foreign goods so heavily, there’d be no need for smugglers. Every cup of tea was taxed beyond what any decent man should have to pay. If a person wanted brandy or lace, the choice was buy from smugglers or sell your soul to the devil to pay for it.
Gareth had made his share of purchases from the so-called free traders. Everyone did. Until they killed his father. Then no more. He’d dive headfirst off Peak Point rather than give a farthing for any goods smugglers touched.
The grass round his father’s tombstone had been lately trimmed, and loose blades were caught in the chiseled lettering. Gareth brushed them out.
His father had been quite fond of Elaine. It was he who had given Gareth the courage to ask for her hand. Gareth had fooled himself into thinking his friendship with Elaine had grown into something more. Or perhaps he’d been deceived altogether, believing Elaine might look past the gap in their stations and situations. As it turned out, she could not.
Yet he was not so low as Elaine must think.
He knelt on one knee and unrolled the papers, lifting the top one from the bundle. It had a large red seal in the upper corner. “I wish you could have been here for this, Father.” It was the deed and title to Polkreath Mine.
His father had worked his whole life at Polkreath as the foreman. He’d done well in the eyes of the owner, Mr. Penhurst. It was mostly due to his father’s smart management that Mr. Penhurst had become so rich. Old Mr. Penhurst had never married and so had no son to pass the mine to. Gareth’s father had had little difficulty convincing him to sell. Then his father had been killed before the deed was finalized. Today, Gareth realized his father’s dream.
He was now the sole owner of Polkreath Mine. A laborer no more. A gentleman.
He laughed out loud at the sound of it. Not a soul in these parts would ever consider him a gentleman. Leastways not yet, but perhaps with time. Still, it was the beginning of a new life.
He rolled the deed back into its calfskin cover and placed it on his father’s grave to let him get the feel of it.
“Miss Cardinham is back,” he told his father. “Though I don’t know for how long.” He shook his head. “Do not worry. I’ll not be making that mistake again. I shall avoid her at all costs. By mutual agreement, I believe.”
After she’d left for London, he had honestly wished her well. Now she was back, still without her wealthy knight in shining armor that would carry her off to a castle in Surrey. Or Kent. Or wherever it was the fashionable gentlemen lived. It was not here in the West Country; of that he was sure.
A few raindrops landed on his father’s gravestone, spattering dark flecks across the slate. He snatched up the deed and tucked it safely into his coat. His horsed whinnied from where he was tied in front of the church. Blasted beast hated the rain.
He hurried back through the churchyard and loosened the reins just as the clouds became waterfalls. Galahad looked more miserable than ever as he limped along soaked to the skin, his mane clumped and dripping.
“Sorry, old boy. We’ll get you home and to the farrier.”
Galahad leaned his shoulder into Gareth, and Gareth leapt to the side to avoid being trod upon.
“Oaf.” He pushed the horse away. “Ungrateful beast. ’Tis not my fault it’s raining.”
By the time they reached the house, both man and animal had not a dry spot on them.
“Holy Saint Piran!” Gareth’s mother burst out the door with an umbrella. “You’re wet through. You’ll be sick come morning, mark my words.”
She held the umbrella over Gareth’s head as if ten more feet under its cover might be the difference between life and death.
“Thank you, Mother. I’m sure you have saved me.” Gareth handed the reins to Tomas. “He’s thrown a shoe. See to it.” He started toward the house but then called back. “And mind your feet. Remember, he gets grumpy in the rain.”
Tomas nodded and headed off to the stable in the back.
Gareth ducked into the house behind his mother.
“Straight to the kitchen,” she said. “I’ll not have you dripping all over my clean floors. Remember when Violet Maddern’s husband slipped on a wet floor? He hasn’t been right in the head since. And all because Violet let him lolly about dripping all over the front hall.”
She called to Martha for a towel, then pushed Gareth toward the back of the house. “Mrs. Penmoor has a nice pot of tetty-rattle for you. Well, don’t stand there. Get.”
Gareth strode off to the kitchen, leaving a trail of water down the hall, with poor Martha wiping a towel along behind him.
His mother followed, stepping here and there to avoid the wet. Gareth smiled as his short, stout mother maneuvered gracefully on feet too small for her size.
The kitchen fire blazed, making the housekeeper’s face bright red as she stirred the large pot of stew.
His mother moved a chair nearer to the hearth and nearly pushed him into it. “How did it go in Camelford?”
Gareth laid the deed in his mother’s hands. “’Tis done.”
She smoothed her fingers over the calfskin cover. “You’ve made your father proud.”
“This was his doing,” Gareth said. “He is the one who worked and saved and arranged for the purchase. I only finished his business.”
“And Polkreath? Will it be good?”
Gareth tugged off his coat, pulling hard as it clung to him, wet and heavy. “Aye. Quite good. They finished sinking the new shaft, and I believe we’re right on top of a lucrative lode.”
His mother beamed at him. “All his life he dreamt of owning that place. No longer a foreman. Breaks my heart he’s not here for this.” Her eyes turned down, and her lips pressed together as they always did when she dwelt on his father. She might never recover from the shock of her husband’s violent death. Now she clung to Gareth like he was made of porcelain.
Martha knelt on the floor and tugged on Gareth’s boots. “I’ll get these dried right away, sir.”
Thus far, all his efforts to track down the blackguards responsible for his father’s death had been fruitless. They lurked in the shadows and underground, known only to each other and the man they called the operator, who organized the schemes. It was this operator Gareth wanted to get his hands on, for he doubted the others would have dared kill his father without authorization.
He also wanted to get his hands on the gentleman who paid for the smuggling runs. There was always some wealthy gentleman backing the ventures. If Gareth stopped him, he might end the whole ring. Problem was, only the operator could identify the gentleman. They kept it all separate so people like Gareth or the Landguard could prove nothing.
Such violence was rare for smugglers. Most of them moved their goods from land to sea and kept to their own business. But this band had turned on his father so quickly. Gareth wondered again what cargo they’d had worth killing over.
He’d already asked these questions a thousand times and was no closer to the truth. He would get there. Eventually. Then he’d rally the Landguard and get rid of these smugglers once and for all—or at least for a few weeks until a new batch came along and took their place.
With Elaine back, he had even more reason to clean up the shores. Heaven forbid she meet up with the moles.
“Gareth?” His mother tapped his shoulder.
He blinked. His mother was speaking to him, and Mrs. Penmoor held out a mug of warm mead.
“You are ill,” his mother said. “I knew it. You come home drenched, and you’re getting sick already. Martha, fetch Dr. Woodbury.”
Gareth took the mead. “Martha, don’t fetch Dr. Woodbury. I’m not ill. I was just . . . distracted.” This was meant to be a happy day. The fulfillment of all they’d wanted for their family. His dwelling on the past only distressed his mother more.
He handed the mug back to Mrs. Penmoor untouched. “Ready our best bottle. ’Tis a day of celebration.”
His mother smiled at him. Mine owner or not, all she really cared about was her family.
“Now, off you go. Get out of those wet clothes, and rest up a bit. You’ve been going twenty to the dozen these past months and have worn yourself right out. I’ll have Mrs. Penmoor prepare you a draught of elderflower and a fine meal.” His mother tottered off toward the pantry muttering about colds and chills and certain death. “Oh.” She turned back. “Did you hear the news?”
He had learned that question was not meant to be answered no matter how much news he might have heard. Gareth would never deny her the telling of news. He shook his head.
“The Cardinhams are returned. Back from London with some sort of scandal hanging over their heads.”
“Oh?”
“Likely that daughter of theirs got herself into some kind of trouble.”
His mother did not know about his previous dealings with Elaine. Even so, he didn’t want the tongue-tabbis spreading untruths about her. “Now that you mention it, I did hear something of the matter in Camelford. Seems it was to do with the father and not Miss Cardinham.”
His mother frowned. “Poor Mrs. Cardinham. Her spirits must be so low. We shall invite them to dinner.” Her eyes lit up, at last chasing away the glum brought on by all the talk of his father.
“Well, now. I’m not sure that is such a good idea.” They’d never accept. The Cardinhams hadn’t come to Lowentop since Mr. Cardinham had married Mrs. Cardinham’s ten thousand pounds.
Now they were far too good for the Kemps. Mostly in the Cardinhams’ mind, but so often one’s own mind became the only truth one lived by.