A Castaway in Cornwall Read online

  Alex, however, recalled the guilty look on the coxswain’s face, and his telling glance toward Tom Parsons, and could believe it. Did believe it.

  He was preparing for bed that night when a soft knock came to his door. He went to answer it and found Miss Callaway standing there, hair in a long plait over her shoulder. For a moment, he was reminded of his childhood friend, the pretty girl next door who had eventually become his brother’s wife.

  “I just thought you might want some liniment,” she said. “You worked hard today.” She handed him a jar. “My own father’s recipe. Camphor, comfrey, cayenne, and arnica.”

  “Thank you. I think. Will I stink to high heaven?”

  She shrugged. “I have always found it quite pleasant.”

  “Well then, that’s good enough for me.” He pressed her hand. “Very thoughtful of you, Miss Callaway. I suppose I looked like an invalid today, hobbling back?”

  “Not at all. You are obviously a very strong man.”

  His heart thumped. At that moment, he would have given his every worldly possession to have her rub the liniment into his aching back and shoulders. Sadly, he knew he could not ask it of her, much as he might wish to.

  Alex awoke feeling more sore than he could ever remember being, despite the aromatic liniment. He was determined not to give up, however, so he joined the other volunteers as they reassembled on the beach. Matthew Bray came down to encourage the men, while a few others watched the proceedings from the point above.

  On their second day, they picked up several bales of wool wrapped in jute, as well as the ship’s bowsprit, yards, cables, and shrouds.

  Soon, every muscle in Alex’s body burned. Every pull on the oar seemed more taxing, every trip up the hill more arduous than the one before. He was paying a price for his days lying flat in bed.

  Wearily climbing aboard the Kittiwake and going below for another search of the ship, he found something light in a dark corner. Something that made the pain and exhaustion all worthwhile.

  After Laura finished breakfast and started down the corridor, she heard their cook-housekeeper calling to her, sounding none too happy. “Miss Laura!”

  Laura turned and made her way to the scullery. “Yes, Wenna?”

  The elderly woman pointed to the shelf with a frown on her lined face. “Could I ask’ee to remove yer things from my scullery? That hat smells fouler than a wet dog.”

  “Oh. Sorry. Right away.”

  Laura sheepishly gathered the hat and flask. After polishing the flask, she had decided it was indeed silver. But she had been so busy with their houseguest that she had not taken the time to clean the hat properly, and it was now in a sad, odiferous state. She had neglected it too long.

  With a sigh, Laura carried the two things out to the icehouse and added them to her collection.

  After that, she and Eseld walked out to Trebetherick Point together.

  From there, the two watched the salvaging efforts below. The volunteers picked up wrapped bales of some kind as well as wooden pieces of the ship and thick coils of rope.

  Laura’s eyes were continually drawn back to Alexander. He worked hard, straining at the oar, climbing into and out of the Kittiwake, loading crates and bales, helping the other men hoist the anchors from the depths, and tossing down sails and cordage into the waiting boats.

  Each time they brought a load back to the beach, she studied him. His face gleamed with perspiration, and now and again he rested his hands on slim hips to catch his breath or stretch his back. Knowing of the deep cut in his side and the still-healing ankle, she winced in sympathy, thinking of the pain and exhaustion he must be feeling, though he endeavored to conceal it, determined to earn his wages like everyone else. Determined to get home.

  By contrast, Tom Parsons paused often to chat with the other men or to lean against the wagon, smoking a cigar.

  Just before the men broke for a noon meal, Alexander waved to her, gesturing for her to come to him. Laura hoped he had not injured himself anew.

  As she hurried down the slope, she heard Parsons call, “What have’ee there, man? Not skimming fer yerself, I trust.”

  Reaching the beach, she saw Alex stride over to the agent, Mr. Hicks, and show him something. From where Laura stood waiting, it looked like some sort of miniature boat.

  “May I keep this, sir? My friend made it for his child. I’d like to see it delivered.”

  Hicks eyed the thing and nodded.

  Parsons grumbled, “Well, mebbe I’ll see what I can find fer myself too.”

  “You already did that, Tom,” Hicks retorted. “Night of the wreck.”

  Permission granted, Alex turned and walked toward Laura.

  “I found it among a pile of shredded timbers,” he said. “Daniel couldn’t find his knapsack when the ship ran aground, so he left it behind. It was still there, in the shadows. I thank God I took one more look.”

  Closer now, she saw he held an intricately carved Noah’s ark, with straw marquetry decorating the outside and a few carved animals still contained under its latched roof. “Your friend made this?” she asked in awe.

  “Yes. For the unborn child he will never meet. But at least the child can have this, Lord willing. Made by his own father’s hands.”

  Seeing the sweat and tears mingling on his face, Laura felt her heart twist. “I will keep it safe.”

  “Thank you.” Alexander pressed it into her hands. For a moment his rough, warm fingers framed hers as she held the precious relic of a father’s love.

  After a meal of pasties and cider, the gig crews again rowed out to the unfortunate Kittiwake, the partially healed cut in Alex’s side crying out with each stroke. But during the interval the wind had intensified, and they discovered that nothing remained of the vessel but the main mast, which had become entangled by the rigging among the rocks and seaweed. This was the last thing they were able to secure.

  As Alex climbed back into the gig, his limbs trembled. He wasn’t certain he would be able to make the final trip up the hill to deliver the remaining crates.

  At last, they returned to shore, exhausted. Seeing Tom Parsons leaning lazily against one of the wagons, an arrogant smirk on his face while the rest of them toiled, sent anger boiling through Alexander. Unable to restrain himself, he stepped near and challenged, “Is it true? Did you prevent the pilots from coming to the Kittiwake’s rescue?”

  “What’s it to’ee? You survived.”

  “No thanks to you, I understand.”

  The man’s green eyes glinted. “That’s right. You wouldn’t be standing here in my face were it not for that meddling up-country chit.”

  Alex pressed closer, nose to nose with the man. “My dearest friend died in that wreck. A married man expecting his first child. His death might have been prevented. He might have been spared.”

  Parsons shrugged. “Ah well. Life goes on.”

  Alexander grabbed his collar and pulled tight. “Not for you it doesn’t.”

  Parsons pulled out a knife.

  “Alex!” Heavy brows lowered, Jago came charging over like a bull.

  Through his fury, Alexander forced himself to think rationally. He didn’t want to endanger the young man.

  Perhaps having the same thought, Matthew Bray ran over and positioned himself between Jago and the sparring men. “Come now,” the vicar said. “This is no way to behave. Be glad you are alive and make the most of each day God gives you.”

  A militia officer belatedly joined the fray. “Break it up. Unless you want to forfeit yer day’s wages.”

  Alex released the wrecker and stepped back. “He’s not worth it.”

  Parsons jerked away, muttering curses under his breath, and Alex returned to work. All that was left to do was carry the remaining cargo to the wagons. The final load up the steep path threatened to sap Alex’s last ounce of strength. He was sweating profusely, and his ankle and side throbbed. Ahead of him, Jago carried twice as many crates as he did, as though the burden weighed noth
ing. When the men reached the customs clerk, Jago set half his load at Alex’s feet and said, “Four crates for him. Two for me.”

  “Jago, no,” Alex hissed in protest.

  The big man shrugged. “I have more than enough. Besides, you stood up for me yesterday.”

  “Not to get something from you.”

  “I know. Today it’s my turn.”

  “Well. Thank you.” Alex gave his shoulder a friendly whack.

  Jago nodded. “I am glad our Laura saved you.”

  Alex smiled. “So am I.”

  He collected his pay and counted the coins. It was a start, though not nearly enough.

  The news of the wreck it soon spread along shore,

  And women and men ran for gain;

  Thus numbers they harden each other the more,

  That love of curst money may reign.

  —RELIGIOUS TRACT BY AN ANONYMOUS CLERGYMAN

  Chapter 10

  On Saturday, Treeve, Perry, Eseld, and Laura rode together in the Kent carriage to meet the Roskillys’ shipwrecked guest.

  “Did Mr. Lucas not wish to come?” Treeve asked.

  Laura hesitated. “Mr. Lucas was not invited.”

  Grinning, Treeve said, “That did not stop us.”

  As they neared Pentire House, Laura’s stomach quivered in a bundle of nerves, and she gripped her hands tightly on her lap.

  Perry, ever observant, asked, “Feeling all right?”

  Laura forced a smile. “Perfectly well.”

  She did not tell them the man living with the mineowner’s family might be dangerous. She had only Alexander’s word for it. For some time, she had known Mr. Lucas was hiding something and suspected he may have lied about his identity. What else might he be lying about? She did not want to besmirch François LaRoche’s character before she’d had a chance to talk to the man herself.

  When they arrived, they entered the stately stone house and were shown into the drawing room. There, a stranger sat low in an armchair, wearing, she surmised, Mr. Roskilly’s long, patterned banyan. His hands, with bruised knuckles, rested on the upholstered arms. He looked like a slouching king on a throne.

  Miss Roskilly sat on the sofa near him, one hand on the long narrow bolster. The man raised a languid finger and stroked the back of it. Kayna looked down, blushing. They were the picture of a romantic tête-à-tête.

  The butler announced their arrival, startling Kayna. Her guest looked up when Laura and Eseld entered but did not rise. His long dark hair fell back from his face, revealing striking blue eyes and an upper lip much fuller than the bottom. Dark whiskers dotted fair skin, less thick than Alexander’s had been. His eyebrows, she noticed, were also sparser. Miss Roskilly had said he was handsome. Laura was not sure she agreed.

  The man looked from female to female, eyes alight with interest and perhaps appreciation. He gave a slow, closed-mouth smile. The expression creased his left cheek more deeply than a dimple, revealing a deep scar in the shape of a shepherd’s crook.

  Recalling Alexander’s warning, Laura stopped where she was, going no closer.

  Kayna Roskilly began, “Miss Mably and Miss Callaway, please meet François LaRoche.”

  “Enchanté,” he said.

  “Dr. Kent you already know,” she continued. “And this is his brother, Treeve.”

  The men nodded to one another.

  “Do tell us about your experience, monsieur,” Eseld urged. “Miss Roskilly said you survived by strapping yourself into one of the Kittiwake’s lifeboats?”

  LaRoche nodded. “That’s right. Le bateau rolled on the sea like a toy. Laid upon her beam-ends until I was sure to capsize any moment . . .” The Frenchman went on to regale them with the story of his escape, his accent heavier and more foreign than Alexander’s.

  When he finished his “heroic” tale, Laura thought of what Mr. Lucas had said about this man cutting loose the other lifeboat before anyone else could escape. Was it true? Should she ask?

  Hedging, she said, “The others were not so fortunate, monsieur. At least eight men and a boy were left on board with no way to escape. Was there only one boat?”

  He looked at her, eyes narrowing. “There was one more, but I believe the other men were washed overboard before they could get to it. Quel dommage.”

  Laura held his gaze. “One man survived anyway, thank God.”

  “The other survivor I mentioned has been recovering at Fern Haven under Miss Callaway’s care,” Kayna explained.

  The Frenchman’s blue eyes glinted. “Lucky man.”

  Laura gestured to Perran and added quickly, “Dr. Kent tended him as well.”

  Perry nodded, then said, “Perhaps you know each other, though I realize if you were passengers instead of crew, you might not be acquainted.”

  A line appeared between the man’s brows. “A passenger, you say?”

  “Yes.” Laura felt an unexpected wave of protectiveness wash over her. If Alexander Lucas was not who he’d said he was, did she want this stranger to expose him in front of so many? And he not there to defend himself? She licked dry lips and chose her words carefully. “Though perhaps you are not acquainted, because when he heard your name, he said little about you. Only that you two met on the ship.”

  “Did he?” LaRoche twisted a gold ring on his little finger. “The only passengers I knew were men named Marchal and Carnell.”

  Marchal had been the name of Alexander’s friend, Laura recalled. The latter name sounded familiar as well. Had that been the surname embroidered inside the chapeau bras she’d found? She lifted her chin and said evenly, “Several victims were unidentified, but the survivor’s name is Mr. Lucas.”

  He hesitated, eyes glinting. “Lucas, is it? Interesting. Then perhaps he is not the man I thought him. And Marchal?”

  “Buried in the churchyard, I’m afraid.”

  “Well, that is something. And how is this Mr. Lucas? Recovered from our . . . mishap?”

  “He is recovering well, thanks to Dr. Kent.”

  “Then I shall have to pay a call and introduce myself . . . properly.”

  “Not yet, monsieur,” Miss Roskilly purred. “You must give yourself time to recover. You’ve been through an ordeal. Rest and good food are what the doctor prescribes. Is that not right, Perry?”

  Perry looked from her to Laura to the patient and, taking the hint, said, “Yes. Exactly. Too soon to go gallivanting across the parish.”

  LaRoche watched this exchange with an ironic tilt to his lip, which curled into a smile when he looked at Kayna. “D’accord. I am in no hurry to leave my lovely hostess and such charming accommodations.” He turned back to Laura. “But the time will come, never fear.”

  “You may meet him in two days’ time, right here.” Miss Roskilly said, then looked up at Laura. “Mr. Lucas is coming to the ball, is he not? I do hope you’ve invited him. We could use more men to make up our numbers, otherwise we shall be sadly lacking in dance partners.”

  “I don’t know that with his recent injuries, Mr. Lucas will be equal to dancing,” Laura replied. Considering his salvage work, it was a weak excuse, but she did not want to divulge the real reason Alexander might hesitate to attend.

  “Bring him anyway,” Kayna said. “The more the merrier. And what about you, monsieur? Will you dance?”

  “Bien sûr.” LaRoche grinned. “Others may make excuses like a whiny little boy, but I would not miss my chance to dance with such belles femme for all the world.”

  Miss Roskilly smiled at the Frenchman. “Good. I shall hold you to that.”

  LaRoche held her gaze, wearing the self-satisfied expression of a cat. A cat with a mouse under its paw.

  “We are hosting a subscription ball to help raise funds to uncover St. Enodoc and see to its restoration,” Kayna explained.

  “I have a new dress for the occasion,” Eseld added.

  Eyes twinkling, Miss Roskilly said, “And now I see why Mr. Bray struggles to pay for renovations.”

  Esel
d blushed, and Miss Roskilly touched her arm. “Only teasing you, pet. I have a new dress too.”

  Laura had no new dress but said sincerely, “My uncle is very appreciative, I know. He has been trying without success to make headway on the problem since he moved here.”

  “We are happy to help.”

  LaRoche’s blue eyes glinted. “How noble. I shall look forward to doing my part as well.”

  On the drive back, Laura decided she did not like François LaRoche, nor did she trust him. She knew she was not objective in her assessment, and that she was already prejudiced in Alexander’s favor. Even so, there was something about LaRoche she wouldn’t like even had she no prior knowledge of his character. He struck her as arrogant and insolent. And there was something rather oily—unctuous—about the man.

  When she returned to Fern Haven, she thanked the Kent brothers for the ride and went to find Mr. Lucas, knowing he would be anxious to hear her account of the visit.

  She found him in the parlour, reading war reports in the newspaper.

  He looked up when she entered. “How did it go?”

  Laura described LaRoche’s account of his escape and the Roskillys’ kind offices to their guest.

  “Perry asked him if he knew you. And LaRoche said the only passengers he knew were men named Marchal and Carnell.”

  She watched his face as she said the names, but his expression remained inscrutable. When he didn’t respond, she added, “I remembered your friend’s surname was Marchal, though I reiterated that yours is Lucas.”

  He nodded vaguely.

  She studied him. “Do you wish to explain why this man whose name you knew and with whom you shared a cabin does not know a Mr. Lucas?”

  “I . . . cannot say.”

  “Cannot or will not?”

  “As I said before, I will tell you all when I know I can trust you.”

  “And how can I trust you?” She thought again of the T.O. she had seen in his friend’s clothing. Garments issued by the Transport Office carried this mark—garments issued to prisoners of war. “How do I know you are not the dangerous one?”