A Castaway in Cornwall Page 12

  Laura hesitated. “It is . . . possible.”

  “I did mention to him that there was another survivor,” Miss Roskilly said. “But he was too exhausted to take much notice.”

  “Is he handsome?” Eseld asked, eyes sparkling.

  Kayna Roskilly responded with a coy, closed-lip grin. “Rather handsome, yes. But perhaps you would like to judge for yourselves. Would you like to meet him?”

  Eseld glanced at Laura. “Yes, of course we would!” she answered for them both.

  “Then come to our house on Saturday, say, three o’clock?”

  Laura wished she could speak to Mr. Lucas before agreeing, to hear his response to the news and see if he might want to go along.

  But Eseld squeezed her arm and hissed in her ear, “Don’t spoil this for me. I long to become closer friends with her.”

  Laura curtsied. “Thank you. We would be delighted to come.”

  While Eseld and Miss Roskilly continued to chat, Treeve walked Laura out to the Brays’ carriage, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I would be happy to take you to Pentire House so you can interrogate the rather handsome Frenchman in style.”

  She smirked at him. “How gallant of you, though I know you only offer as an excuse to see Miss Roskilly again.”

  “Yes, Kayna Roskilly has many charms—two thousand of them a year, as a matter of fact.” He exhaled deeply and turned to her. “If only you were not a poor orphan, Miss Callaway.” He tweaked her chin. “I like you much better.”

  She huffed, torn between offense and amusement. “At least you are honest.”

  “When I can be, Miss Callaway. When I can be. Though I have my secrets.”

  “That I can well believe,” she replied, thinking of the late-night cargo landing she had witnessed. “Thank you for the offer, but I want to talk to Mr. Lucas first, and—”

  Eseld stepped out and, seeing them together, hurried to join them. “What are you two whispering about? Come, no secrets.”

  “Secrets are exactly what we were talking about, Miss Mably,” Treeve said.

  Eseld looked ready to pout, so Laura deftly reassured her. “Mr. Kent is teasing you. He was just offering to drive us to Pentire House on Saturday.”

  Eseld sucked in a little breath of surprised pleasure. “How kind. We accept.”

  Treeve bowed, his gaze holding Laura’s. “Until then, ladies.”

  When they returned to Fern Haven, Laura found Mr. Lucas with Perran Kent, the latter removing his stitches.

  The patient winced.

  “Am I hurting you?” Perry asked, brows furrowed in concentration.

  Alexander gritted his teeth. “Stings a bit—that’s all.”

  Seeing Laura, he managed a smile. “Ah, my angel of mercy.” Noticing her tense expression, he said, “Is something amiss?”

  “Em, no. Just some news. It will wait until Dr. Kent finishes.”

  “Ah, I suppose you heard about the second survivor?” Perry asked. “I was just about to mention it to Mr. Lucas.”

  “Another survivor?” Alexander’s face tightened with strain as well as pain.

  “A Frenchman,” Perry said. “Even so, that is good news, is it not?”

  “Of course,” Alex replied between stiff lips, his tone not very convincing.

  The young doctor finished. Packing up his supplies, he said, “I was surprised to find him in such good health, more than a week after the wreck, cast ashore in a small cove without food or water. But he was remarkably unscathed. I gather he drank rainwater collected in leaves and managed to spear a few fish.”

  “Very resourceful,” Laura murmured.

  “Yes, a natural-born survivor.” Perry looked from one to the other, as if becoming aware of the tension in the room but not understanding it. “Well, I will leave you.” At the sound of Eseld’s laughter floating up the stairs, he bowed and quickly departed.

  When they were alone, Alexander asked, “What is the man’s name?”

  “François LaRoche. Says he’s a French émigré living here legally. Treeve wondered if you might be able to confirm the veracity of his claim.”

  Alex laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “François and veracity do not belong in the same sentence.”

  “You know him?”

  “Yes. We . . . shared a cabin on the ship.”

  “Do you want to go and see him?”

  “Where is he?”

  “At the Roskillys’ home, a few miles from here. Apparently he escaped in one of the Kittiwake’s lifeboats.”

  Alexander nodded, a bitter twist to his lips. “He helped himself to one of the boats and cut the other loose to keep me from coming after him. Left the rest of us, even the boy, with no way to escape.”

  Laura swallowed. “Why would you be . . . going after him?”

  “Because we fought on the ship.” His hand moved to his injured side.

  “Why?”

  “It’s a long story. But he is a dangerous man, Miss Callaway. I don’t want you going anywhere near him.”

  “I would not go alone. Treeve Kent has offered to escort us.”

  “Mr. Kent shows an avid interest in your affairs.”

  “Mr. Kent shows an avid interest in Miss Roskilly, not me.”

  When Alex made no reply, she said, “I have no reason to fear Monsieur LaRoche, and he has no reason to be hostile toward me.”

  “Does he not?” For a moment he held her gaze, eyes intense.

  He looked almost fierce . . . almost like a different man. What is he hiding? Laura wondered.

  Then Alexander sighed, and the gentleman she had come to know reappeared. “I hope you are right.”

  Again Laura asked herself, Who is this man really? Were they safe harbouring him in Fern Haven?

  She went down to her uncle’s study and found him bent over the desk, writing a letter. He looked up when she entered. “Yes, my dear?”

  “I don’t want to disturb you.”

  “Not at all.” He returned his quill to the inkpot. “I always have time for you.”

  “Thank you. I was just wondering . . . now that you are more acquainted with Mr. Lucas, are you comfortable with him staying here?”

  Uncle Matthew interlaced his fingers as he considered. “Yes, I am. He seems a good sort of man. Do you agree?”

  Laura nodded in relief. “Yes.” It was what she thought as well, but she highly valued her uncle’s opinion. Hopefully, they were not both mistaken.

  After Miss Callaway left him, Alexander lay thinking about François LaRoche.

  As boys, François and Alexander had spent a great deal of time together. They were about the same age, while Alexander’s brother, Alan, was a year younger. Their families were from different social spheres—the LaRoches being rather poor—but as youths, they hadn’t cared about that. Alexander’s father was stern and strict, so as an adolescent chafing under rules and restrictions, he actually envied François, whose parents let him do as he liked. François stayed out late and stole apples and cider and pocket money. When they were young, Alex saw it as harmless fun. But unchecked, François’s recklessness only increased.

  When Alexander’s mother died, François listened to him rail against God for the unfairness of life, then held him as he wept. In those days, they had been as close as brothers.

  Other fragments of memory rattled through his mind like links of a chain. Him handing François a loaf of bread when his family was hungry. François too proud to accept. “We don’t need it,” he’d said, pushing it away. “Don’t give me charity.”

  Alex replied by quoting one of many local proverbs, “Friends do not give, they share everything.” After that, François reluctantly accepted the bread and other food as well.

  Later, when François offered him his first cigar, Alexander hesitated to try it, but with a sly grin, François challenged him, “Remember, friends share everything.”

  Alex choked on the thing, and François laughed mercilessly, only to take a smug puff and launch
into a coughing fit of his own. Soon they were both laughing.

  When François’s father died and Alexander came upon the young man weeping, his own tears flowed as well, both for his bereaved friend and for his own dear mamma, who was never far from his mind.

  Clearly embarrassed, François tried to hide his tears. Undeterred, Alexander sat beside him and laid a tentative hand on his arm, whispering, “I understand. But remember, friends share everything.”

  Reclining on the bed in Fern Haven, Alex blinked away those memories. All of that had been a long time ago. He and François LaRoche were friends no longer.

  The agent had been busily employed in saving as much of the cargo as possible, and in staving off the attacks of the wreckers. The salvage bills were all honorably paid. Each wheeled cart was paid one guinea per twelve hours, the labour men 2/6 a day. It was a merry day for the men.

  —JOHN BRAY, AN ACCOUNT OF WRECKS ON THE NORTH COAST OF CORNWALL

  Chapter 9

  The next day, Jago came over to visit, bringing Alex one of Miss Chegwin’s famous pasties. He thanked the likable young man, and the two sat down to play a game of draughts.

  Wenna brought them tea. She swiped the cap from Jago’s big head and gave his shaggy hair an affectionate pat. The elderly cook-housekeeper reminded him of Betty, his mother’s former maid, and Alex felt another twinge of homesickness.

  The wreck agent returned while Jago was there. Mr. Hicks reported the Kittiwake had shifted in the sea. For days it had been all but submerged and unreachable, the waves breaking over her. Now that the weather had calmed, the Kittiwake lay stranded on a rocky outcropping in the waters beyond Greenaway Beach.

  “The cargo that washed ashore initially has already been taken by wreckers,” Hicks said with a scowl, “but now I plan to salvage anything else that might be sold at auction to defray the owner’s losses. The customs officers will assist me. I anticipate the same wreckers and even tinners may be tempted to interfere, and we’ll be outnumbered. May have to call in the militia.”

  “How can we help?” Alex asked.

  “I could use some trustworthy men to assist in the salvaging efforts, if ye would be interested. Pays well.”

  Hope flared. He could begin earning money toward the journey home. “Count me in. Jago?”

  The young man nodded. “I will help too. As long as I can stay on dry land.”

  Hicks nodded. “Plenty of work loading wagons.” He added their names to a list and told them to meet him at the beach at eight the next morning.

  Shortly after the agent and Jago left, Miss Callaway came in.

  “The agent was here recruiting men to help salvage the wreck,” Alex explained, “and I volunteered.”

  “But with your leg and side, are you sure that is wise?”

  “I may be slower than others, but I am still strong, and familiar with ships and seas. Jago is going as well.”

  “Good. He’ll look out for you.”

  Lips quirked, he said dryly, “Your confidence in me is staggering.”

  “Forgive me. You are not long recovered.”

  “I cannot lie about anymore, and I don’t like being penniless. I must find a way out of here.”

  Running a finger over the mantelpiece, she said, “Have we been so inhospitable that you are eager to leave us?”

  Her unhappy expression surprised him. “You know that is not the reason. You, Miss Callaway, are everything that is good and right in this world, something I’d almost forgotten existed over the last few years.”

  “Because of the war, you mean?”

  He hesitated. “That too.”

  She looked at him, eyes wide in question, but he thought it wisest to say no more.

  The following morning, Mr. Hicks along with Mr. Tresidder, the engineer, and Mr. Rawlings, the auctioneer, organized the salvage effort.

  Hicks ticked off the names of the gathering volunteers, including several tinners from a local mine. “We want no trouble now, boys.”

  Alexander noticed an older man with reddish-blond hair staring at him through narrowed eyes.

  He turned to Jago and said under his breath, “Why is that man scowling at me?”

  Jago looked over, and his usually pleasant expression hardened. “That’s Tom Parsons, the man our Laura protected you from after the wreck.”

  Alex turned and stared back at him.

  The scowling man approached. “What’ee doin’ here?”

  Alex lifted his chin. “Same as you, I hope.”

  “Yer not from here.”

  “So? The agent said he’d pay any able-bodied person willing to work.”

  Parsons sent a sly glance toward Alex’s leg. “Yer not exactly able-bodied.”

  “I may not win any races, but you’ll find I work harder than most.”

  The red-haired man jerked a thumb toward Jago. “Then why bring the idiot along?”

  Alex clenched his jaw. “He is not an idiot. Being large does not make one slow, any more than having red hair makes one a devil.”

  Parsons smirked. “I don’t know about that. . . .”

  Mr. Hicks approached, shaking his head. “Well, well, Tom Parsons. Would have thought you’d already carried off more than enough cargo the night of the wreck. Now you want me to pay you to carry more?”

  “That’s right. All legal and proper.”

  “As if you’d know the definition of either word.”

  Parsons’s nostrils flared. “Careful, Hicks. You’ve got no armed militia standing behind you.”

  “Not yet. But they are on their way from the Bodmin barracks.”

  “For yer sake, better hope they arrive soon.”

  Alex tensed at the thought of the militia joining them. Would they question him? Somehow guess his identity?

  Mr. Hicks led the dozen or so volunteers down to Greenaways. When they reached the beach, Alexander saw the customs officials in the Padstow cutter, Speedwell, already in the water, and two six-oared Cornish gigs on the beach nearby.

  Alex looked around but counted too few oarsmen. Hailing the coxswain, he asked, “Shorthanded, cox’n?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Short a hand is right. Moyle broke his in a brawl last night.”

  “Need another man to row? I’ve had some experience.”

  “Suit yerself.”

  Alex climbed in and looked back at his companion. “Jago?”

  The big man shook his head, wild hair flopping forward and back. “Don’t like boats. I’ll stay here and load carts.”

  The first gig launched into the surf and moved toward the wreck.

  “No catchin’ crabs now, boys.”

  Following their lead, the coxswain commanded, “And row.” Alex and the men in the second gig complied.

  “Row long!” They did so, Alex pressing hard against his oar.

  When they neared the wreck, the coxswain called, “Ease up.”

  While the men at the oars held the boats as steady as they could against the waves, a man in the prow of each stood and took turns throwing grappling hooks, trying to snag the Kittiwake’s rigging, visible between the waves.

  After several failed attempts, Alexander spoke up. “Mind if I give it a try?”

  “A cocky one, are’ee?” the man nearest him said.

  Alex shrugged. He and his men had thrown many a grappling hook over the years. The hooks were used to catch an enemy ship’s rigging prior to boarding. He well remembered the dread of hearing the teeth of a grappling hook ensnaring his own ship. It had been the beginning of the loss of his beloved Victorine.

  Alex carefully moved forward, took the other man’s place, coiled, aimed, and threw. His first throw slithered over the wet rigging but failed to catch. Determined, he retrieved the rope and threw the hook again, this time snagging the rigging successfully.

  “Proper job,” the coxswain commended. “Not yer first time at this, I gather.”

  “No, sir” was the only explanation Alex offered.

  The crew fr
om the Speedwell attached a hook as well. Line secured, the boat managed to draw alongside the damaged Kittiwake. Mr. Tresidder, engineer and shipbuilder, boarded first, making sure the vessel was relatively stable. Then the others joined him, searching the ship’s storerooms and holds for cargo.

  The men succeeded in saving the mate’s chest and several barrels of salted herring, as well as a good quantity of corn.

  The pilot gigs carried the salvaged goods to shore, where Jago and several other men and even a few bal maidens—women who worked for the mine—carried loads up the steep path to waiting wagons, guarded by a customs official and newly arrived officers of the North Devon Militia.

  The Cornish gigs handled the waves with relative ease. If only the pilots had been able to reach the Kittiwake the night of the wreck, before Daniel drowned.

  “Did you not hear our distress signal?” Alex asked the coxswain.

  The man swallowed. “You were on the ship?”

  Alex nodded.

  “Ah. Yer the survivor. . . .”

  The man looked to his mates. “No. Guess we didn’t hear it. We were all in our cups.”

  “A pity. I lost my closest friend that night, and more.”

  The coxswain ducked his head, avoiding Alexander’s eyes. “I’m sorry . . . for yer loss. Would have helped if we . . . could.” He sliced a glance toward Tom Parsons and then turned away. “Well, time to call it a day, I reckon.”

  After dinner that evening, Alex asked Matthew Bray about the pilot gigs, and if he had been surprised they failed to show up the night of the Kittiwake’s demise.

  The clergyman nodded. “I was. The gigs often carry local pilots out to guide incoming ships into safe harbour. Times are hard for local men, and competition for the pilot fees is usually fierce, so I was surprised none of them tried to reach the Kittiwake.

  “One theory I overheard whispered in the village shop was that Tom Parsons, hoping for a rich wreck, somehow prevented the pilots from responding, perhaps even bribing them. Most people do not think the brave Padstow pilots would fall to such temptation, while others would not blame them if they had. If Parsons offered to pay each pilot the usual fee, why risk his life for only a chance at a reward? But this is only rumor, remember. I can’t believe it’s true.”