A Castaway in Cornwall Read online

  Mr. Truscott looked from one to the other, chewing his lip. “Traveling alone together, are you? I don’t suppose you are married? I wouldn’t scruple it myself, but as I wrote, the new Mrs. Truscott is very particular about proper behavior and avoiding even the appearance of sin. So while I could offer one of you lodging, I don’t know that she would agree to the both of you, unless . . . may I tell her you are man and wife, recently wed? Then there can be no objection.”

  Laura hesitated. She did not want to lie, but she was cold and weary to the bone.

  Alexander touched her arm. “You go in, Laura. You’re exhausted. I will find shelter somewhere. A church or barn, perhaps.”

  Mr. Truscott grimaced. “No, no,” he said. “I can’t turn you away. Come in the both of you, I insist. You look dead on your feet. Leave the explanations to me, assuming you will behave like a gentleman while under my roof?” He sent Alex a piercing look.

  “Upon my honor, sir.”

  “Good, good. That’s settled, then. Come in, come in. You must be hungry and thirsty from your journey.” He called down the hall, “Rozenn, some dinner for our guests, if you please.”

  A few minutes later, they sat down to a simple but hearty meal of cold chicken, beef, turnips, and bread and butter, with an apple tart for dessert.

  After they had eaten and talked over tea and brandy for a time, Mr. Truscott led Laura upstairs and through a sitting room to a small guest room beyond.

  Then he said to Alex, “And perhaps you might sleep here in the sitting room?” He gestured to a worn, upholstered sofa. “I have napped there plenty of times, I can tell you.”

  “Yes, perfect.”

  Mr. Truscott hesitated, then turned back to Laura. “I would, em, rather not involve the maid in our little ruse. She tells my wife everything. Can you manage on your own for one night?”

  “Easily,” Laura replied. “Thank you, Mr. Truscott.”

  Their host brought up a pitcher of water for the washstand, built up the fires in both rooms, and bid them good night.

  When he departed, Alex whispered, “Can you manage without a maid?”

  She shrugged. “I can sleep in my frock.”

  “Not very comfortably. I could help, if you don’t mind.”

  Laura hesitated. She would have to wear the same dress the next day, so she hated to sleep in it. She’d far rather let it air than wake up in a wrinkled mess.

  “If you could just undo the frock’s back buttons and laces. I can sleep in my shift and stays.”

  Her ears heated to mention her underclothing, but she reminded herself that Alexander had been a married man at one point, so was probably well versed in female attire.

  He approached, and she turned her back to him, grateful for an excuse to hide her flushing face.

  His fingers seemed a bit unsteady as he fumbled over the buttons.

  “Sorry. They are dashed tiny.”

  She clenched trembling hands. “That’s all right.”

  He unstrung the laces more easily. His hands paused, lingering on her waist a moment.

  “Anything else?”

  She was tempted to lean back in his arms but forced herself to turn her head and smile at him. “I can manage the rest. Thank you. Good night.”

  Laura gently shut the bedchamber door behind him, then leaned her back against it, wondering what might have happened had he stayed. She imagined leaning against his strong chest, his arms going around her. Alexander kissing her shoulder, the back of her neck . . . She pressed her eyes closed. No. They had done the right thing.

  She sighed. Sometimes the right thing was a cold and lonely room.

  Laura slipped off her frock, hung it from a peg, and pulled a nightdress over her shift and stays. She cleaned her teeth and climbed into the small, chilly bed. She tossed and turned, her mind alert even though her body was weary. She prayed for a time, then finally fell asleep.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, she awoke and found herself shivering. She rose to add more fuel to her fire. By its light, she opened the trunk at the foot of the bed and from it drew two woolen blankets. She laid the first on her bed, then tucked the second under her arm. Hoping not to wake Alex, she opened the door gingerly and tiptoed to the sofa. He lay there, one arm bent over his head, one foot on the floor, knitted lap rug covering his torso. She carefully spread the wool blanket over him. For a moment she stood there, gazing at his handsome face by moonlight. Might she ever have another chance?

  She leaned down and gently kissed his forehead. Alexander’s eyes snapped open, and he caught her hand. He pulled her down to him and drew her close in a warm, lingering kiss. Laura’s pulse raced. When the kiss ended, she lifted her head but made no move to leave.

  In a low, gravelly whisper, he said, “You had better return to your room before I break my word to behave as a gentleman.”

  “I only came out to make sure you were warm enough.”

  He stroked her cheek. “I am now.”

  Heart beating hard, Laura returned to her bed on legs of jelly.

  The next time she awoke, muted morning light shimmered through the shutters. She rose and opened them, revealing an overcast day, though at least it was no longer raining.

  She combed her tangled hair and washed in the now-cold water. When she looked into the mirror, she saw a strange brightness to her eyes and flush to her cheeks, though the room was quite chilly. She dressed as best she could, then knocked and slowly opened the door into the sitting room.

  Alexander stood before the hearth mirror, tying his cravat.

  “Good morning,” she whispered.

  He turned to look at her, his gaze softening and lingering as it moved over her hair and gown before returning to her face. “How are you feeling?”

  “Anxious, but otherwise well. Would you mind, em, fastening my frock?”

  “Not at all.”

  Again she turned her back, and he began the task, his hands steadier this morning.

  As he finished, a door opened below, and both of them jumped.

  Voices ascended the stairs. Mr. Truscott exclaimed, “My love, you are home early. I didn’t expect you until this evening.”

  “I know, my dear, but I missed you, and Joan is getting on so well. . . .”

  Laura and Alex exchanged uneasy looks. The particular Mrs. Truscott was back.

  “I’ll go first,” Laura whispered.

  “Wait,” he hissed, pulling the ring from his hand and sliding it onto her ring finger.

  She nodded, took a deep breath, then made her way downstairs.

  Mr. Truscott turned as she descended. “Ah. You will never guess who has come to call, my love. It is Miss Laura Callaway, em, that was. She wrote the letter telling us of Prudie’s passing. Remember?”

  The middle-aged woman, still in cap and mantle, turned to her, eyes alight. “Oh! I do indeed. Miss Callaway, what a pleasure. How good of you to come.”

  “Um, I say the Miss Callaway that was, my dear, for she has recently married. She is, em, Mrs. . . .” He turned pleading eyes in Laura’s direction.

  “Carnell.”

  He smiled in relief. “Mrs. Carnell now.”

  “Congratulations, my dear.” Mrs. Truscott said, her face plain but pleasant. “And your husband?”

  “He should be down any minute. Ah, here he is.”

  Alexander came tentatively down the stairs and joined her at the bottom.

  “Good morning, my good man,” Mr. Truscott said a bit too loudly. “I was just telling my dear wife that you and this fine young lady are to be congratulated.”

  Alex frowned in confusion. “Are we?”

  “For your recent nuptials, of course!” their host said, rather desperately.

  Alexander’s expression cleared. “Ah yes. Thank you. I am a blessed man indeed.” He stepped closer to Laura, taking her hand in his.

  Introductions were made, and then Mrs. Truscott suggested they all sit down to breakfast together. Dread filled Laura at the thought o
f having to make conversation over a meal and the lies that would be necessary to continue the ruse.

  Mr. Truscott looked from person to person and wrung his fingers. “My dear, why do we not let the newly wedded couple dine on their own? I have already eaten, but you could bring a tray into my study. I relish a little time with you, my love. You can tell me all about your niece’s new baby.”

  Mrs. Truscott smiled at her husband, the expression transforming her rather homely face into one of true loveliness.

  “As do I, my love, but we should not neglect our guests.”

  “Not at all, Mrs. Truscott,” Alex responded politely. “We were unexpected guests, and we don’t mind a bit.”

  Mr. Truscott nodded. “You see, my dear. I am not the only recent bridegroom eager to spend time alone with his lovely wife.”

  “Thank you, but truly, I am eager to speak with our guests,” Mrs. Truscott gently but firmly insisted. “You and I can talk later.”

  Mr. Truscott reluctantly acquiesced. “As you like, my love.”

  They took their seats in the dining parlour, and the maid brought out a basin of porridge, a rack of toast, and platter of cold meat. On the table were already-arranged pots of jam, honey, and butter, as well as tea things.

  Mrs. Truscott turned to Alexander. “Would you like to ask the blessing, Mr. Carnell?”

  “With pleasure.” He bowed his head, and Laura followed suit, though she didn’t quite shut her eyes, eager to observe this demonstration of his faith.

  “Almighty God, look with mercy on those here assembled and accept our humble petitions. We are grateful for this new day and for the gracious hospitality of our hosts. Please pardon our offenses of yesterday and guard us from evil today. You know our weaknesses and the temptations that surround us. We ask for your protection through any dangers ahead, and we pray for all who travel by land or by sea. Amen.”

  Everyone echoed his amen.

  Mrs. Truscott thanked him and poured the tea. “You made no mention of your betrothal when you wrote, Miss Cal . . . er, Mrs. Carnell. Your marriage must be even more recent than ours.”

  “Yes, I am as surprised as you are. It was most unexpected.”

  Between bites of porridge and toast, Mrs. Truscott asked, “Have you known one another long?”

  “No, we only met last month.”

  John Truscott nodded sagely. “Love at first sight, was it?”

  Alex looked at Laura and said with apparent sincerity, “Indeed it was. For me at least.”

  “And you, my dear?” Mrs. Truscott prompted, eyes twinkling.

  Laura felt her face heat. “I was . . . certainly intrigued.”

  “How did you meet?”

  “He . . . em, sailed into my life, as it were.”

  “My wife is all modesty,” Alexander said. “I was injured during a shipwreck, and she rescued me and nursed me back to health.”

  Mrs. Truscott pressed a hand to her heart. “How romantic.”

  “I’m afraid it did not seem so at first,” Laura said. “We were not sure he would live. And sadly, so many others died. Including one of his dear friends.”

  “I am very sorry to hear it.”

  A moment of respectful silence followed. Mrs. Truscott sipped her tea, then asked, “And are you two on your wedding trip?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Laura explained. “Mr. Carnell hopes to visit his family and I . . . to pay my respects to mine.”

  “They were unable to join you for the wedding?”

  Laura looked down, unable to meet the woman’s earnest gaze. “My parents are gone, I’m afraid. But they are buried on Jersey. Alexander’s family lives near there, so we hope to pay our respects to both.”

  “Unfortunately, the vessel carrying us ran into difficulty near Longships,” Alexander added.

  “Oh no! Not another shipwreck, I hope?”

  “No, thank the Lord. But the master thought it best to put into Porthgwarra for a time.”

  Mr. Truscott nodded. “Making repairs, are they? I do hope everyone is all right.”

  “They were all well when we left them. We decided to try to find another way to Jersey. I don’t suppose you know of anyone who might be willing to take us?”

  Mrs. Truscott’s expression fell. “I am sorry. I wish we could help, but we have no ship, nor am I acquainted with anyone with any reason to travel so near to France, especially with a war on. Are you, my dear?”

  Mr. Truscott winced and, with a telling glance at his wife, said to them, “I will give the matter some thought.”

  Later, after Mrs. Truscott left to attend a meeting of the church charity guild, Mr. Truscott took them aside.

  “I do know someone who might take you to Jersey. I told you when I wrote that my first wife left me for a smuggler. He’s long gone, but his brother is still here and has a small schooner. I’m ashamed to admit I’ve kept the connection from Ruth. She would not approve. But the French brandy we had last night and the fine tea at breakfast . . . ? Let’s just say, I know several men who regularly participate in free trade with the Channel Islands. The brother owes me a favor. I will go and speak to him. You stay here, and if Ruth returns before I do, say I have gone to the warehouse to see about an order.”

  He turned back, giving them a sheepish look. “As you see, the missus is a saint, but her husband is not.”

  Alex smiled at the man and put an arm around Laura’s shoulders. “Isn’t that the way it usually is, Mrs. Carnell?” He winked at her, drawing her close in an affectionate sideways embrace.

  She chuckled and wished she could remain there in his arms.

  Later that afternoon, Alexander and Laura stood with Mr. Truscott on the quay. At the bottom of the stone steps, a man in a small boat awaited.

  Laura turned to their host and held out her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Truscott.”

  He pressed her fingers. “My pleasure, my dear. After all, I offered you a reward. I am only sorry it could not be more.”

  She smiled up at him. “It is more than enough.”

  “I hope you don’t think too poorly of me, keeping things from my wife. She is from Somersetshire, you see, and doesn’t understand Cornish ways.”

  Laura nodded. “I can empathize.”

  He rocked on his heels, hands behind his back. “Perhaps knowing what you know now about my . . . activities . . . you think Ruth is too good for me.” He grinned. “And you would be right.” He shook Alex’s hand and helped Laura into the tender that would deliver them to the schooner moored in the harbour.

  A short while later, the Curlew raised anchor and hoisted sails, and they were on their way to Jersey. The captain and crew asked no questions of them, and Laura was relieved for their silence, weary of falsehood. Weary, in general. She found an out of the way corner and sat down on a crate, setting her bag beside her.

  Alex came and sank to his haunches nearby. “All right?”

  She nodded. But in truth she felt woozy, which was odd as she’d felt no touch of seasickness aboard Treeve’s ship. Alex kissed her forehead, hesitated, then followed the caress with a lingering hand. “You’re warm. Too warm.”

  “Just a little queasy.”

  “It’s all been too much for you. All the tension and late-night traipsing about in the cold, not to mention the damp.”

  “I am all right,” she insisted.

  “I don’t know that you are. But there’s no turning back now. Lord willing, we’ll arrive in Jersey sometime tomorrow.”

  He rose. “I’ll be right back.” After a brief conversation with the skipper, Alexander returned. “Come, the captain says you may rest in his cabin.”

  She put her hand in his, and he pulled her to her feet.

  “Are you sure it’s all right?” she asked.

  He took her elbow and led her to the hatch. “Yes, and I will be within calling distance if you need anything.”

  “Rest does sound heavenly, I own.”

  Helping her below deck, he led her to a smal
l compartment with a bunk and side table.

  There, he again kissed her brow and turned to go. “Rest, Laura. You’ve almost made it.”

  Alex gently woke her sometime later. “Laura? Time to wake up. I see the château in the distance. We’ll soon reach Jersey.”

  “Oh?” She pushed up on her elbows. “That was fast.”

  “You slept through it all. It’s the next day.”

  She stared at him in alarm. “No.”

  “Yes. I knew you were exhausted but not quite how much.”

  “The captain must be vexed.”

  “He got a few hours in the first mate’s bunk. It’s he who’s vexed, but better him than the captain.”

  She handed him her purse. “Make recompense however you think best.”

  “If you’d like.”

  A few minutes later, they climbed on deck and stood at the rail, watching the island loom closer. Soon they passed a large fortified castle perched on an islet in the bay.

  “What’s that?” Laura asked.

  “Château Elizabeth, a military fortress.”

  They continued into the busy harbour. Laura saw tall ships in the broad bay and many buildings along the curved waterfront and rising up the green hills of St. Helier beyond. Alexander pointed out several shipyards huddled on shore and Fort Regent standing guard over it all.

  Laura stood transfixed, staring at the island of Jersey for the first time—the place her parents had died. Had it looked the same when they arrived? Ten long years had passed. She hoped she could find someone who still remembered them, who could tell her about their final days or at least show her where they were buried.

  Mamma . . . Papa . . . I am here at last. And I miss you still.

  The ship dropped anchor and lowered one of the boats.

  “The tide is high,” Alex said to the master. “Will you not approach the quay directly?”

  The man shook his head. “Don’t like getting too close to the authorities, you know. We’ll let you out and be on our way, that lot none the wiser.”

  “Don’t you sail here regularly?”

  “Yes, but we usually land at a less heavily guarded port. We are only here for you.”

  “And we thank you.” Alex pressed coins into the hands of the captain and first mate, then returned to the rail.