A Castaway in Cornwall Page 15

  After this, Perry and Miss Roskilly held hands and skipped down the line, and back up, before casting to second place.

  The couples danced four changes of left and right hands in a circle, then they all repeated the figures from their new positions.

  Perry danced methodically and stiffly, clearly concentrating on the steps. Treeve danced with effortless skill, grinning at Laura whenever he caught her eye.

  Mrs. Bray too moved gracefully, and it was easy for Laura to imagine her the lithe young woman she had once been.

  Alexander managed to keep up better than Laura had expected. Surprisingly, his ankle did not seem to much hinder him.

  Eventually, François LaRoche appeared from wherever he’d been and stood on along the side, watching the dancers, arms crossed and smirking at Alexander’s imperfect performance. Laura barely noticed. To her, Alexander seemed to dance competently beside her, step for step, hand in hand. There was no one she would rather dance with, secrets or not.

  Alex enjoyed the feeling of Miss Callaway’s smaller hands in his, and the warmth of her smile as they skipped down the line and back again. He gazed into her lovely face and shining brown eyes, relishing being so near to her. Looking at her, touching her, talking with her, he felt smitten and happy, the dark days of fighting and betrayal seeming so far behind him. He was already dreading having to leave her.

  After the set ended, he escorted Laura to the punch table for refreshments. François joined them, apologizing to Miss Roskilly for missing the promised dance.

  François drank his punch with his little finger raised, candlelight glinting on the gold ring he wore. Seeing it, anger again simmered in Alexander’s soul.

  When François set aside his glass, Miss Roskilly took his hand and raised it, studying the ring.

  “Is this your family crest?” she asked.

  “Ah, you notice my ring. You flatter me. I was hoping someone would notice.”

  He held up the back of his hand toward Alex, fluttering his fingers.

  Alexander clenched his jaw.

  “This is the crest of an old family in France,” François said. “It belonged to a friend of mine, Capitaine Carnell. I don’t suppose you, Mr. Lucas, were acquainted with this family? No, I did not think so. The ring of a French naval captain could hold no interest for you.” He gave a melodramatic sigh. “Sadly, the Carnells are becoming extinct, the line dying out.”

  Miss Roskilly clucked sympathetically. “Why?”

  “The elderly father is sick, and his two sons in mortal danger.”

  “Oh no,” Eseld said, eyes wide. “Because of the war?”

  “Perhaps.”

  Alex fisted his hands, every muscle tense. He longed to reel back and punch François, decrying him as the thief he was. But to claim the ring would be to reveal his identity in front of everyone, including several militia officers. François knew that as well, which was precisely why he taunted him in this blatant manner.

  Oh, but he was tempted to rip the ring from LaRoche’s finger. To wipe that smirk from his face . . .

  Calm down, he told himself, summoning all his self-control. Now was not the time or place. But soon, he would take back his ring and his name, and do whatever it took to save his brother. Enora, however, was lost to him forever.

  After the party, they returned to Fern Haven and bid one another good night. Miss Callaway and her cousin went up to their bedchambers, and Mr. and Mrs. Bray retreated into the parlour to dissect the evening over small glasses of sherry. Alexander, however, was too agitated to sleep or engage in polite small talk.

  Receiving permission to borrow the vicar’s horse, he set out for the Fourways Inn, known to be frequented by smugglers, according to Jago. As he rode along, thoughts of François and the past filled his mind.

  Alan had not been the only young person to admire François LaRoche. Young women were drawn to him too. Enora Le Gall had been one of them. Enora was exceptionally beautiful, and she knew it. Sensual and flirtatious, she could have had any man she wanted, and she wanted François. Even so, Alexander fell under her spell. He admired her from afar but kept his distance, knowing she preferred François above all others and believing he had little chance with her.

  The only other woman he had ever cared for with a flicker of romantic love was Léonie. They had grown up together. Their families had even rented neighboring houses for their seaside holidays. Léonie was beautiful too. She had not Enora’s sensual appeal but rather a ladylike elegance, though she was not afraid to deliver a well-deserved setdown when he or Alan teased her too much.

  As she matured, Léonie became everything good, lovely, and noble. And she was fond of Alex. Léonie might have accepted him, had he asked for her hand. He had, in fact, considered a proposal during his long days at sea. But when he returned home on leave, things changed.

  François had left. No one seemed to know where he’d gone, though some speculated he’d taken refuge on Jersey with one of the defeated rebel leaders to avoid arrest. There were rumors he made clandestine visits to Brittany, trying to foment actions against the “usurper,” as they saw Napoleon. But he had not returned to their village to see Enora.

  Shortly after Alex came home, Enora turned her attentions to him, leaving Alex to assume she had become disillusioned with François and his prospects. Whatever the reason, he rejoiced in what he foolishly thought was his good fortune. Enora assured Alex that she and François were through and he would not be returning to her. He believed her and asked her to marry him before he left on his next commission. Everyone was surprised when she accepted. Perhaps it was disloyal of him—to François and Léonie—but Alex let his desire for Enora overwhelm his better sense and higher principles.

  When he became engaged to Enora, Léonie accepted his choice with warm, dignified congratulations. Alan saw his chance and swept Léonie off her feet. Alexander sincerely wished them both happy.

  But in the days leading up to his wedding, Alex knew something was not right. He sensed Enora’s uncertainty and wondered if she harboured lingering feelings for François. He also wondered if she’d accepted him only because her family had persuaded her to, reminding her that Alexander was heir to his family’s estate and that her life with him would be far more comfortable than if she married a rebel like François. Either way, Alexander could see Enora was having second thoughts. But when he broached the subject, she declared all was well and insisted they go through with the wedding.

  Alexander’s father attended their small, quickly arranged wedding, as did Léonie and Daniel—his friend from la Marine Royale who’d grown up in a neighboring village—but Alan did not.

  After the wedding, Léonie said, “I am sorry, Alexander. I thought he would be here.”

  He pressed her hand. “That’s all right. I am glad you are here. Thank you for coming.” Alex gave her a brave smile, but his bravado was shaken when he stepped out of the church.

  Enora had been delayed inside by many aunts stopping to kiss her, so Alexander stepped outside alone.

  There stood François, hand pressed to his face, weeping. Alexander’s heart sank. Guilt swamped him, and he could barely breathe. He was instantly taken back to the day Monsieur LaRoche died, and saw his old friend not as a man of twenty-something, but as a boy. Hurt, alone, grief-stricken.

  “Fañch, I . . .”

  François looked up, tears evaporating in a flash of fury.

  Even so, Alexander tentatively approached him. He pressed a hand to his shoulder in camaraderie and comfort, as he had all those years ago.

  François shoved it away. “Friends share everything—is that it?”

  Alexander hesitated, then spoke over a thick lump in his throat. “You left. We thought you were not returning.”

  “And you lost no time taking what was mine. Why am I surprised? One who serves the usurper would not scruple to take another man’s love.”

  Alexander stood frozen with remorse, knowing he had deeply injured his old friend.


  Enora stepped outside then, wearing the white lace cap of a Breton bride. Her bright smile fell away upon seeing the man at the bottom of the steps. “François . . .” she breathed, her face turning ashen, her eyes large and dark and . . . desolate.

  “Bonjour, Madame Carnell.” He spat out the surname as if it were spoiled meat, lip curled in contempt.

  Tears instantly filled those dark eyes. “You left me, without a word. Without a promise. You loved the Chouans more than me.”

  Seeing her tears, her pale trembling form, François changed tack, lifting his chin and feigning indifference. “I love no one—except myself. Now I wish you both bonne chance. You shall need it.” He turned and strode away.

  In his heart, Alexander bid his old friend a regretful Breton farewell. Ma digarez, breur kozh.

  Beside him, Enora watched him go, her longing look directed not at her groom, but at the man she loved.

  When Alex reached St. Minver, he left the horse at the livery and walked to the Fourways Inn. There he ordered a pint, using one of his prized coins, hoping the purchase would loosen the publican’s tongue.

  “Anything else, friend?” the aproned man asked, wiping the counter.

  “Actually, I’m searching for a ship to take me across the Channel.”

  The rag on the counter halted. The man looked up at him, friendly gaze evaporating, eyes narrowed. “Who are ye? Never saw’ee in here before.”

  “One of the survivors of the Kittiwake.”

  “Ah. And why’d’ee think anyone here might be sailing so far? I serve fishermen here. Shipbuilders and farmers and the like. We don’t stray so far from home.”

  True or not, Alexander knew there was no point in arguing.

  “I see. Well, thank you anyway.”

  He hid his disappointment behind a sip of ale.

  Glancing around the taproom, he noticed Treeve Kent sitting at a table with three unlikely men. Seafarers, he guessed, by their beards, slouch hats or kerchiefs, salty language and saltier smell. One of them he recognized as the housemaid’s father, Mr. Dyer, whom he’d met at Miss Chegwin’s party. Poring over a map as they were, the men did not notice him.

  Treeve Kent looked out of place there still dressed in evening attire: tailored coat, patterned waistcoat and cravat, his beaver hat sitting primly on the window ledge behind him. Even so, the young man seemed at his ease with the sailors and bought the men another round.

  Alex decided he ought to become better acquainted with Treeve Kent at his next opportunity.

  For centuries sailors on board doomed ships have sealed messages, along with notes to their loved ones, inside empty bottles and cast them overboard, in the vain hope that someday, someone, somewhere in the world would discover them.

  —CAROLINE ROCHFORD, FORGOTTEN SONGS AND STORIES OF THE SEA

  Chapter 12

  Laura slept in to make up for the late night at the ball. But that afternoon, she went back to the Penberthys’ cottage in Porthilly to check on the children with fever. Perry drove her and Miss Chegwin in his family’s carriage. When they arrived, they learned all five of the children were now ill. Laura was glad she’d asked Perry to accompany them—the suffering children and worried mamma needed all the help they could get. Since the Penberthys could not afford to go to the apothecary in Padstow for leeching or fever powder, Perry prescribed honey in hot water instead. Laura hoped it would be effective.

  When she returned to Fern Haven an hour or so later, Laura removed her outer garments and went to find Alex. He was not in his room—yes, she had begun to think of the guest room as his—nor was he in the parlour.

  That was strange. A shaft of foreboding sliced through her. Had he left, to avoid another confrontation with François LaRoche, or something else . . . something worse? She couldn’t imagine him getting far with three guineas and a few days’ wages.

  A worrisome thought came to her. Had he recalled the collection of “treasures” she’d shown him? Thought of another way to raise money quickly?

  She hurried to her desk drawer and opened it, then breathed a sigh of relief. Her key was still there.

  Then where was he? In the garden or with Jago at Brea Cottage, perhaps? She looked out her window, then crossed the hall to look out Eseld’s. From there, she saw the back of a man disappear up the lane that led to the abandoned icehouse. Concern flickered over her. Why would anyone go up there, unless . . . ?

  Laura put her cape and bonnet back on and, taking a lantern with her, went out to investigate. She walked up the old gravel drive, her gaze trained on the icehouse door. As she neared, her heart began to pound.

  The door was ajar, the padlock unlatched. Someone had picked or broken the lock. Alexander?

  She sucked in a breath at the thought, betrayal rising up in her, squeezing her throat.

  Moving forward like an automaton, Laura hoped she was mistaken, and wished she would find someone else inside—even a stranger. As frightening as that prospect would be, the betrayal would not hurt as bad.

  Slipping inside, she tiptoed down the stairs. She knew it was probably foolish to put herself in harm’s way, but righteous indignation fueled her steps.

  There he was, in a pool of lantern light—in her private place—hands full. Nausea swirled in her stomach, but she raised her chin and said briskly, “What are you doing in here?”

  The man turned. Not Alexander, as she’d feared, but Tom Parsons. Relief filled her, quickly followed by dread.

  “Just seeing what’ee gathered. I said I would be watchin’ee, up-country lass. Found quite a few things, I see.”

  “How did you get in here? Did you break my lock?”

  “No, it’s as good as ever, which ain’t saying much. Suppose’ee bought it at the Trebetherick village store?”

  Laura had but did not admit it. She glanced around, quickly surveying her collection. The most valuable item, the salamander brooch, was still there. She stepped between him and the shelf where it lay. Then she looked more closely at the objects in his hands. A fistful of Spanish coins in one and the silver flask in the other.

  Pointing toward them, she said, “Those are mine.”

  Parsons smirked. “Are they, now? I imagine the duchy agent or customs man might have somethin’ to say about that.”

  “Those are not taxable goods.”

  “What about these coins?”

  “Those are old ducatons. No longer legal tender, as far as I know.”

  “Could be melted down for the silver. It’s a waste to let them sit here.”

  “I found them.”

  “And now I found them.” He took a menacing step toward her.

  Boots scraped the flagstones behind her. Laura whirled.

  Alexander appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wary eyes shifting from her face to the man standing near her. “Good day, Miss Callaway. Showing Mr. Parsons your collection?”

  The man smirked. “Somethin’ like that.” He stepped toward Alexander. “Now I’ve seen what I come fer, I’ll be on my way.”

  Alexander’s focus landed on the silver in the man’s hand, glinting by lantern light. “Give the lady back her things.”

  “Stay out of this, man. It don’t concern’ee.”

  “Actually it does.” Alex jerked the flask from Parsons’s hand. Parsons swore and reeled back a fist.

  “Stop it!” Laura called, stepping between them. “Mr. Parsons, if you want those coins so badly, then take them and go. But I don’t ever want to see you in here again. Understand? Next time, I will report you to the constable.”

  Parsons pocketed the coins and took a last glance around the cellar. “Very well. Most of this stuff looks like rubbish anyway.” He picked up his lantern and sauntered up the stairs.

  Alexander frowned after him, then turned back to her. “Why did you let him take those?”

  “I don’t want him to have any reason to return. He thinks the rest of this is worthless, and that’s for the best.” With that thought, she decided to t
ake the salamander brooch back to the house.

  Apparently, Alexander had a similar thought about the flask, for he kept it in his hand and started for the stairs. A moment later, he slipped it into his pocket.

  Bile soured her mouth. Was he thinking if Tom Parsons could get away with it, why not him?

  “The flask . . . ?” she prompted.

  He turned, guilt written on his features. “You found it after the wreck of the Kittiwake, did you not?”

  She nodded. “Is it yours?”

  He hesitated, clearly conflicted. “No.”

  “Then why on earth would you take an empty flask? It cannot be worth that much. If you need money, I—”

  “It is not empty—at least I hope it’s not. I apologize, but please, let me explain.”

  Setting down her lantern, she crossed her arms tightly across her chest. “Very well, I am listening.” Was she a fool to do so?

  Releasing a relieved sigh, he began, “When the gale blew up and we realized the ship was in trouble, I saw François roll up a letter and shove it inside a silver flask. I tried to take it from him.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he led me to believe the contents could save my brother. François and I fought for the flask, but the ship heeled and I fell. When he escaped by boat, I assumed he took the flask with him, and all my hopes of saving my brother with it. Imagine my shock and elation to see it again.”

  “My goodness,” she breathed. “You might have said so instead of trying to sneak it out.”

  “Yes, in hindsight I should have. But I wasn’t sure you would be willing to part with it.”

  She lifted her chin. “If that flask belongs to Monsieur LaRoche, then your taking it is stealing. He claims to be here in our country legally. Can you say the same?”

  He opened his mouth, hesitated, then said, “It is . . . complicated. But if it absolves me at all, François stole that flask from a crewman.”

  “And the letter?”

  “No, that was his.”

  Incredulity swamped her. “How could his letter save your brother?”