A Castaway in Cornwall Page 28

  “Then you ought to speak to Admiral d’Auvergne.”

  Wariness washed over Laura. That was the man LaRoche had worked for.

  The captain’s brows rose in surprise. “Are you acquainted with him?”

  Susan nodded. “My husband was. He might call here at my invitation, if and when his duties allow.”

  Alexander made a wry face. “He might also arrest me.”

  “True,” her aunt allowed, studying him. “Shall I inquire?”

  Alexander nodded decisively. “Yes, please do.”

  The women invited Mr. Gillan and Alexander for dinner the next night. They all helped prepare the meal, as Aunt Susan and Mrs. Tobin had no official cook—only the assistance of a young maid-of-all-work, who was not clever in the kitchen.

  Their menu consisted of a rich conger soup, fish with a savory sauce, potatoes, and bourdelots aux pommes—apples baked in pastry.

  At the appointed hour, Mr. Gillan arrived bearing a pot of boiled ormers, while Alexander brought flowers for their hostesses.

  When they had all taken their places, Aunt Susan rose somewhat shyly and said, “I believe some sort of toast is in order. I feel rather like the woman in Scripture who lost one precious coin, and when she found it again, called her friends and neighbors together, saying, ‘Rejoice with me, for I have found the treasure I had lost.’” She raised her glass to her niece, tears sparkling in her eyes. “To Laura.”

  “To Laura,” the others echoed, glasses high.

  Laura’s heart squeezed with poignant pleasure.

  “Now, let us eat, and be merry,” Susan added.

  “Hear, hear,” Mr. Gillan agreed, beaming at her.

  Her aunt sat back down, clearly feeling self-conscious but pleased too.

  The meal began, and after several minutes of general conversation, Laura decided Mr. Gillan was a pleasant man. He had thick, bristly dark hair streaked with silver, and bushy side-whiskers, weathered skin, and jolly blue eyes. He was not tall, only an inch or so above Aunt Susan’s height, but he seemed larger, with his broad shoulders, stout stature, and vibrant personality.

  He was a bit loud and coarse, but only from lack of breeding, Laura thought, not from any smallness or meanness of character. On the contrary, he seemed kind and noble hearted. His table manners were not all they might be, but considering he usually ate alone or in the company of rough sailors, she did not hold it against him.

  And most telling of all, he was clearly besotted with Susan Hilgrove, which spoke well of his character and discernment.

  His gaze lingered on her many times during the meal, and he was quick to offer her seconds and to refill her glass.

  “You are too thin, my dear lady. A strong wind would blow you right off the deck.” And “Here, have some more ormers. Gathered these from the rocks myself. Delicious.”

  Mrs. Tobin spoke up. “Enjoy ormering, do you?”

  “Indeed I do. Enjoy eating them even more.” He patted his straining waistcoat buttons. “And I cooked these long and slow for you.”

  “In fish stock?”

  “What else?”

  Susan politely ate another of the boiled snail-like creatures. Laura could only be glad the man was not besotted with her.

  As if guessing her thoughts, Alexander turned to her, a teasing light in his eyes. “Another for you as well, Miss Callaway?”

  “No, thank you. I could not eat another bite.”

  Laura had come to enjoy many Jersey specialties—bean crock, sweet cakes, lobster, crab, and more—but was still not fond of mollusks.

  As they ate, the men talked companionably of their seafaring experiences, and it pleased Laura to see them getting along so well.

  After dessert, Aunt Susan rose again. “Shall we leave you two to cigars and port?”

  Standing abruptly, Mr. Gillan said, “Not on my account, I beg you. Please stay, ladies. That is, if that meets with your approval, Captain.”

  “Indeed it does,” Alexander agreed.

  So together they lingered over tea, coffee, and genial conversation for another hour. Mr. Gillan insisted Alexander give up his room at the inn and stay with him instead, saying, “Any friend of Mrs. Hilgrove is a friend of mine, and we men need to stick together. I’ve bought myself a fine little house not far from here. Not that I’m on dry land often enough to truly get my money’s worth, but I hope, someday, to settle down and have a real home.”

  His gaze strayed to Susan at the words, then returned to Alex once more. “I would be honored to have you as my guest.”

  “Thank you, sir. I accept,” Alexander said. “Though I shan’t be here much longer.”

  Laura watched him as he said it, but he didn’t look her way.

  The next day, Laura again rested in the protected garden, her shawl tucked around herself, a blanket on her lap. It was warmer in Jersey than in England, and she enjoyed the mild late-autumn sunshine and sea breezes. She was feeling almost like her old self, with a clear mind, though she still tired more easily than before.

  Aunt Susan and Mrs. Tobin were busy in the kitchen, and Alexander was with Mr. Gillan, finalizing arrangements for their departure.

  Portly Dr. Braun came out to see her again, carrying a bottle of his prized fever elixir. “How are you this morning, Miss Callaway?”

  “I am well, Dr. Braun, thank you.”

  “Have you had your dose of medicine yet today?”

  “Um . . . not yet. I don’t think I need it any longer. I—”

  “It’s important to continue the regimen for a full fortnight. Here, allow me.” He poured a generous dose into her cup of tea. “I shall leave the bottle with Mrs. Tobin and remind her to be more punctual in administering it.”

  She managed a wan smile and dutifully picked up the teacup as the man returned to the house. As soon as the door closed behind him, however, she set the cup back down, planning to dump it out at an opportune moment.

  Laura had just drifted off to sleep when the now-familiar creak of the garden gate woke her from her doze.

  She opened her eyes, expecting to see Mr. Gillan or Alexander, but her anticipatory smile fell away.

  François LaRoche.

  “Well, well. Miss Callaway. We meet again.” He gave her a sly smile, and alarm bells sounded in her brain.

  “Monsieur LaRoche.” Laura swallowed and sat up straighter. “What are you doing here?”

  He sauntered nearer, Laura’s heart rate accelerating with each step.

  “I have been to Jersey on several occasions in the past, though not in some time. I am here to renew old acquaintances.”

  “Captain Carnell is not here,” she said, both relieved and grieved that Alexander was absent.

  “Not now, perhaps, but as you are here, I know he cannot be far away, any more than a bee can resist the fair flower.”

  His words might have been flattering from anyone else, but coming from him, it sounded suggestive and insulting. Should she call for help, and end up endangering her aunt and Mrs. Tobin in the process? She told herself to remain calm. To think.

  Last she’d seen LaRoche, he was being held by the militia. She licked dry lips and said, “May I ask how you came to be here?”

  “The usual way. By ship. Your friend Tom Parsons was happy to oblige. Always eager for an excuse to trade on the Channel Islands. I would have arrived sooner, but it took time to extricate myself from the stupide authorities.”

  “They let you go?”

  He smirked. “Parsons is a persuasive man.”

  Without invitation, he sat down beside her. She noticed him eye the tea tray on the table.

  “May I offer you some refreshment, monsieur? You must be hungry and thirsty after your journey.”

  “Pretending to be polite, are we?” He shrugged. “Eh bien. Don’t mind if I do.”

  He wolfed down a biscuit, and she slid the untouched cup closer to him. “Help yourself.”

  He ate another biscuit and drained the tea, then said, “I also hoped to s
ee my old friend Philippe d’Auvergne. With his connections, he could arrange a new passport for me and enough money to start a new life. I am owed some reward for the hardships I’ve suffered while his informant—inconvenience, imprisonment, shipwreck . . .”

  Mrs. Tobin, likely spotting a strange man with her young guest, flew outside like a protective mother hen, apron stained and meat mallet in hand. Aunt Susan stepped out behind her.

  “Who is this, Laura?” the nurse asked.

  “Monsieur LaRoche. He was shipwrecked with Alexander.”

  Would they remember what Laura had told them about the man?

  The women stilled. “And what brings you to Jersey, monsieur?” Aunt Susan asked.

  “Came to see my old friends, including Philippe d’Auvergne. You know him?”

  “Everyone on Jersey knows him. He has recently been promoted again. Vice admiral of the white. He divides his time between here, London, and the sea.”

  “How nice for him,” LaRoche said dryly. “Perhaps that explains why I was told he was busy when I went to see him. Too important now for those who risked their lives for him. At least his aide told me where I might find Miss Callaway.”

  Her aunt must have mentioned her when she wrote to invite d’Auvergne to call. If only she had not . . .

  At that moment, Alexander strolled through the gate. He drew up short, and his face stiffened. “François.”

  Laura’s stomach dropped. Dear God, help us.

  François remained slouched in the chair near Laura. “Bonjour, old friend.”

  Alexander’s nostrils flared. “We are friends no longer.”

  “Is that any way to greet me? The man with a pistol pointed at the woman you love?”

  Laura sucked in a breath and glanced over. LaRoche held a gun at his waist.

  Alex stopped where he was. “Leave her alone. She has done nothing.”

  “You call rescuing you, nothing? Hiding you, helping you escape, nothing?”

  “Nothing to you.”

  “There you are wrong. For I want to see you destroyed.”

  “Why?”

  “You know why, and her name was Enora.”

  Alexander spoke in a surprisingly calm voice. “I truly believed you were not coming back.”

  “You believed what you wished to believe. First you break Léonie’s heart, then mine.”

  “Léonie? What has she to do with this?”

  “She expected you to marry her. We all did. But instead you stole my Enora.” He gave a dismissive wave with his free hand. “No matter. I stole her back.”

  A muscle in Alexander’s jaw pulsed, yet he held himself in check. “Then you have had your revenge.”

  “And that is not all I did to you,” François went on. “Shall I tell you more before I shoot you?”

  Heart beating hard, Laura noticed Alexander’s eyes dart from side to side. Searching for a way to evade LaRoche’s gun, she guessed.

  “Yes, tell me,” Alex urged, drawing him out. Stalling. “I know you felt betrayed when we married, but it was you Enora loved. You who fathered her child. Why do you still wish to destroy me?”

  François pointed an accusing finger. “Because you grew up with everything I wanted and deserved, simply because of the family you were born into. Wealth, education, influence . . .”

  He leaned forward. “Do you know, I even reported your father as a Royaliste sympathizer, but because you were serving Napoleon, he was spared. So I set out to destroy you another way.” He sat back rather heavily against the chair.

  Alexander’s nostrils flared. “Are you talking about Alan?”

  “Alan.” François stressed the second syllable in the French pronunciation. “So earnest. So idealistic. So easy to persuade.”

  “You recruited him to spite me.”

  François raised an unconcerned shoulder. “I simply convinced him that helping the British foil Napoleon would help the Royalistes.”

  Alex gritted his teeth. “Alan was arrested. But you escaped—what is the English saying—scot-free.”

  François smirked again. “I am too cunning to be caught.”

  “Cunning?” another voice interrupted. “Is that what you call it?”

  François lurched to his feet, and Alexander whirled about in surprise.

  An impressive-looking older man in British naval uniform strode into the garden, hat under one arm, grey hair tied back and neatly trimmed at the brow.

  Laura noticed two soldiers just beyond the garden gate, but LaRoche seemed to have eyes only for the man she assumed to be d’Auvergne.

  He stood as though at attention. “Vice Admiral, sir!”

  The older man bowed toward the ladies. “Pray forgive the intrusion. Shall I tell you how Monsieur LaRoche escaped, when my other agents were arrested?”

  The women nodded. Alex, Laura noticed, kept his eye on François’s gun as he tucked it away.

  “LaRoche was one of my couriers. He and several others traveled from here to France for me many times, gathering information, which I then sent to London. On that fateful last journey, however, the men found all the usual safe havens closed to them. They spent a number of weeks traveling around Brittany and living rough, but after several failed attempts to sneak back to Jersey, LaRoche turned himself in to the French. He then led the secret police to his companions. He gave up every detail he knew about our correspondence, including landing places, hiding places, and codes. In return, they let him go while the others were imprisoned.”

  “That is not true, sir,” François said, his smirk fading. “I told you when I made my way back to Jersey, it was Prigent who informed. I managed to hide in a ditch and later escape.”

  “I believed you at the time. But since then I’ve had reason to revise my opinion. I talked to one of the others, who told me the truth.”

  “Then he lied.”

  “No, LaRoche. You lied. Worse, you were not only spying for us, but you were also sharing British intelligence with the French. Playing both sides. I call that treasonous.”

  LaRoche raised his hands and began an impassioned appeal in rapid-fire French, which Laura could not follow. D’Auvergne answered in kind, his neck and jowls reddening with barely controlled anger.

  “I hold you responsible for the lives of my men,” the admiral bellowed.

  Alexander spoke up. “Are the others . . . dead?”

  The admiral looked at him. “I don’t know. Since my sources of information have been cut off, I can’t say for sure. If they haven’t yet been executed, I fear it is only a matter of time.”

  Alex said something in French under his breath, and the admiral nodded his grim agreement.

  “I am going to find out,” Alexander declared.

  The older man’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you?”

  “Alexander Carnell. Alan Carnell’s brother.”

  “Arrest him, sir,” François exclaimed. “He is an officer in Napoleon’s navy and an escaped prisoner of war.”

  “I am not here as an officer,” Alexander calmly replied. “I am here as a brother. If Alan is alive, I want to free him.”

  “I want that too,” d’Auvergne said. “If you are determined, I will deliver you to the Brittany coast in my own ship.”

  “Thank you for the offer, sir, but I have already arranged a less conspicuous means of travel.”

  The admiral’s brows rose, impressed. Then he turned to the waiting soldiers. “Officers, arrest this man.”

  François grinned slyly at Alex, but the expression soon faded, for the uniformed men marched right past Alexander and advanced on him instead.

  “Careful,” Alex warned. “He is armed.”

  François pulled out the pistol he had briefly tucked away. “Arrêtez! Stop where you are.”

  He stumbled slightly, as though dizzy, and aimed the gun at Laura. Standing to one side of him, Mrs. Tobin struck him with her meat mallet. The blow glanced off his head, not enough to kill him but certainly enough to infuriate him. He whir
led on the older woman and raised his gun.

  From the corner of her eye, Laura saw Alex lunge. He threw himself at François, tackling him to the veranda. The gun went off with a loud pop, and Laura screamed.

  The soldiers sprang into action, pulling Alexander from François and yanking away the gun. Blood stained both men’s chests bright red.

  Alex groaned and rolled to his feet, winded but otherwise unhurt. François leapt up and, evading the soldiers, bolted through the house and out the front door. Alex ran after him. Emerging out the front of the house, he saw François trip over a plank, hand clutched to his chest. He splashed through one of the small streams crossing the road and turned up Hill Street and out of view. Alexander followed, lungs burning.

  He rounded a corner, and there saw François, half-sitting, half-lying, head propped against a wooden fence, legs sprawled, bloody hand pressed over his heart. Alexander’s own heart beat painfully at the sight.

  He advanced cautiously, as though approaching an injured but beloved animal who might bite out of fear or pain.

  When he didn’t lash out, Alexander knelt beside him. And suddenly François was no longer man or enemy, but boy, friend, and neighbor.

  François looked up at him, and for the first time in years, his scowl fell away and the customary hatred in his blue eyes faded. It was just the two of them, as it had been all those years ago in Bretagne, sharing hopes, dreams, and the losses of loved ones.

  “Alexandre . . .” François murmured. “I have missed you.”

  “And I you, Fañch.”

  Rapid footfalls drew nearer.

  François winced. “Go. Leave me to my fate.”

  “Non.” Struggling to speak over the burning lump in his throat, Alexander said hoarsely, “Friends share everything, remember?”

  François reached out a trembling hand and laid it on Alex’s arm. In the language of their childhood, he said, “Ma digarez, breur kozh.”

  “No. I am sorry, my brother.”

  “I forgive you,” François whispered. “May God forgive me.”

  “He will, mon ami, par la grâce de Jésus.”

  François nodded, then glanced heavenward. “Enora is waiting?”

  “Oui. There is nothing to be afraid of.”

  “I am not . . .” And he was gone, blue eyes wide to the sky.