A Castaway in Cornwall Read online

  But let him ask in faith, with no doubting, for the one who doubts is like a wave of the sea that is driven and tossed by the wind.

  —JAMES 1:6 ESV

  Chapter 22

  After François LaRoche’s body had been carried away and the admiral and his men departed, Alexander and Laura sat together in the parlour, sipping soothing cups of chocolate.

  “It was strange to see François unsteady like that,” Alex said. “He’s usually deadly accurate with a gun and fast on his feet. I wonder if he had been drinking.”

  “He drank the tea I gave him,” Laura explained, “which contained a large dose of potent fever medicine. Dr. Braun poured it for me when he was here. François came before I could dispose of it, so I offered it to him. I hoped it would put him out as it did me, but at least it hindered his ability to react quickly.”

  “Clever girl.” Alexander watched her closely. “And you are sure you are all right? François didn’t hurt you?”

  “Shaken but otherwise perfectly well. He did not touch me.”

  “Good.”

  “And how are you faring with all this?” she asked in turn. “Being an officer, you have probably seen men shot before, although with an old friend, it must still have been difficult.”

  He looked up, eyes distant in thought. “More difficult than I would have imagined. I am relieved he isn’t here any longer to endanger us, yet I am grieved as well.” His voice thickened. “Despite everything, we were once as close as brothers.”

  Laura nodded her understanding.

  “It reminds me of Alan,” he went on. “I know now he was working for d’Auvergne, yet he is still my brother, and I love him.”

  “Of course you do.” Laura reached over and squeezed his hand. “I will pray for him and his family. Which reminds me, I am planning to venture out to church tomorrow with my aunt and Mrs. Tobin. Will you join us?”

  Alexander hesitated. He seemed about to refuse, then relented. “Yes. Much needed in my case. It has been too long.”

  The next day as they readied for church, Aunt Susan came into the guest bedchamber and handed Laura her father’s prayer book. Laura held it to her chest, then kissed her aunt’s cheek. “Thank you. I shall treasure it.”

  Alexander arrived as prearranged to go to church with them. He offered Laura his arm, and she laced hers through it, glad for his support during her first lengthy walk since falling ill.

  Together they strolled through the streets of St. Helier amid warm sunshine and cool breezes until they reached the parish church. From the church’s tall tower, the bell rang as they entered the nave. Around them, the congregation filled the pews. Laura decided it felt good to be in the church where her parents—and Alexander’s grandparents—had worshiped.

  As they waited for the service to begin, Laura prayed for Alexander’s family, as promised, and thanked God François hadn’t injured or killed anyone the day before.

  The parish clerk rose to call the service to order and announced a hymn.

  Aunt Susan stood on one side of her and Alexander on the other. How pleasant to stand beside him, to share a hymnal and her father’s prayer book. Alexander sang quietly and tentatively, perhaps not as familiar with the English lyrics. Even so, his rich, deep baritone voice was like warm chocolate, and she leaned nearer to better hear him.

  Later, when the vicar climbed into the three-tiered pulpit, Laura felt a stab of nostalgia, thinking of dear Uncle Matthew, her favorite, much-loved clergyman.

  The vicar read from the letter of James. “‘But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. . . .’”

  As Laura listened to the sermon, she slowly realized that while she had believed in God since a young girl, after losing her brother, parents, and Aunt Anne, her faith and trust in Him had wavered and diminished. She prayed, attended church, and went through the motions but didn’t really believe God acted in her life. Had she come to the wrong conclusion?

  God had not spared her family or given her everything she wanted as her doting papa had. But did that mean He did not care? Did not hear her or answer?

  As if sensing Laura’s inner thoughts, Aunt Susan squeezed her hand, and beside her, Alexander subtly pressed his shoulder into hers. The presence of these two people seemed proof of something. Of God’s love, if nothing else. Did He hold her future in His hands? And did Alexander figure into that future?

  After the service, Alexander walked home with them. Aunt Susan and Mrs. Tobin went to the kitchen to prepare Sunday dinner, but they insisted Laura rest in the parlour and keep the captain company.

  Laura was happy to oblige them, but Alexander, she quickly noticed, was restless. He briefly sat, then rose and paced across the room.

  “You are not overtired?” he asked her.

  “No. I enjoyed the walk and the service.”

  “Good.” He took a few more steps, then turned to her. “Laura, now that you are out of danger, it is time I left for Brittany.”

  She had guessed this was coming, but dread weighed down her stomach even so.

  “Though Alan and I chose different allegiances, we are both Carnells and Bretons and Frenchmen. I must try to help him.”

  “I understand.”

  “In other circumstances I might have asked you to accompany me to Brittany, but look how far you have brought me. To a French-speaking island only twelve nautical miles from the French coast.” He reached down and touched her shoulder. “You have done well, Laura. It is enough. Please remember, France is a dangerous place, especially for a British subject. We are still at war, and conflict continues between the Royalistes and those who support Napoleon.”

  “Including you?”

  Alexander pressed his eyes closed. “It seemed so clear to me as an idealistic younger man. Change was needed. But neighbors turning against neighbors, and executions of anyone who dared question the new regime?” He shook his head. “I did not agree with that. When Napoleon crowned himself emperor, I was already gone to sea and was soon responsible for a ship full of men who deserved a strong leader. I did my best in a bad situation. But it has become an ugly war, both within and without. And I am no longer certain I am on the right side. I spoke privately with the admiral before he left the house, and he intimated the end of the war is in sight. I hope he is right. It is one of the reasons he has decided not to detain me—besides wanting his men freed, if there is any chance. Being a French officer, I will have more access to the prison than most.”

  Confusing emotions swamped Laura’s soul. Alexander was leaving. Yes, she had wanted to see the lost man return home, but she was disappointed he said nothing about returning to Jersey. She had begun to hope for a future between them and had thought he did as well.

  She’d presumed too much.

  Her chest ached, and his dear face blurred through her tears. A face she might never see again.

  “Laura, there is another war going on here.” He pressed a fist to his chest. “Our countries are at odds. Our desires . . .”

  “I think our desires are very much aligned,” she said softly.

  “This is something I must do. Alone.”

  Pain lanced her heart, but she took a deep breath and stood. “Then I have something to give you.” She walked to her room on leaden legs, and returned a few moments later with the blue uniform coat with red cuffs. The coat she had purchased from Martyn. She held it out to him. “You will need this.”

  He looked up at her in wonder. “Where did you get this?”

  “Remember the ferryman’s son, who took us to Padstow? He found it after the shipwreck.”

  He nodded. “I had it in my satchel during our escape. It must have been washed overboard.”

  “Well, here it is. I sewed the epaulet back on. I thought you might like to return home in it.” She held it up like a valet might, and he turned and allowed her to help him slip into it.

  “I should indeed. Thank you.”

>   “My pleasure.”

  He turned again to face her. Her dear castaway transformed into a French officer. She reached out to smooth a few wrinkles, then let her hand drop to her side.

  “It looks good on you. It looks . . . right.” She smiled, but felt her lips tremble and turned away to hide her grief.

  The following day, Laura stood on the esplanade, watching the ship that would carry Alexander away on the final leg of his journey home. She was dressed in her warmest clothing, along with shawl, muffler, and gloves, but still felt cold to the bone. Hot tears escaped her eyes and streaked down her chilled cheeks, as salty as the sea air, their warmth fleeting.

  “Godspeed,” she whispered.

  Beside her, Aunt Susan gripped her hand.

  The sails were hoisted, and the ship moved out of the harbour and into open water. Captain Carnell was sailing away from Jersey, away from her, perhaps forever. She stood there, eyes fastened on the vessel as it grew smaller and smaller on the horizon. With each passing mile, a part of her heart, and her home, departed with him.

  It’s no coincidence that Cornouaille sounds rather like Cornwall—it looks like it too. When 6th century Celts crossed the Channel from England to escape religious persecution, they found a rugged landscape strikingly similar to the Cornish countryside of their homeland.

  —GILLIAN THORNTON

  Chapter 23

  Alexander returned to the Cornouaille region in the southwest corner of Brittany. He was struck by how much the rugged coastline reminded him of Cornwall. After leaving Mr. Gillan’s ship and the sea behind, Alex rode with a farmer inland for a time, then walked the rest of the way on foot.

  As he neared his family’s estate on the outskirts of a country village, memories and nostalgia swept over him. A cool breeze caressed his face and brought the faint smell of apples. Old Jacques was likely busy in the cidrerie, making the last of the year’s cider.

  Alex continued to the house. He had been gone for years. Did he let himself in or knock? He tried the door and found it locked. Little wonder in such uncertain times. Taking a deep breath, he rapped on the solid oak.

  Then rapped again.

  After another moment, slow footsteps approached. He heard the jingle of keys, then the door to his childhood home opened.

  An older woman stood there, narrow-eyed in suspicion. “Bonjour. Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”

  It was Betty—his mother’s English maid, who had stayed on with them after her death. Even after all these years living there, she still spoke French with a British accent.

  Her gaze swept over his coat and face, then recognition bolted across her features. “Master Alexander. Saints be praised!”

  “Good to see you too, Betty. Is my father at home?”

  She shook her head, eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Master Alexander . . .”

  His chest tightened, fearing he was too late. “Is he . . . is he gone?”

  Again she shook her head. “Not yet. But he is bad, très mal, indeed.”

  She led the way to the snug morning room. “Your father uses this as his bedchamber now to avoid the stairs.”

  The shutters were closed, although it was afternoon. Faint light shone through the transoms above, and a low fire burned in the grate.

  In the shadows, Alexander made out a slumbering form propped up by pillows on a bed set up near the hearth.

  Alexander approached slowly. “Papa? C’est moi.”

  His father’s eyelids fluttered. “Alan?”

  Shafts of hurt and hope stabbed him. Hurt that his father had not recognized his voice, and perhaps wished to see Alan more than him. But also hope that it meant his brother was still alive.

  “No, Papa. Alexander.”

  “Alexandre?” The man’s weary eyes opened and fixed on him.

  Mamma had named him Alexander, with the English spelling, but his father still pronounced it as the French Alexandre.

  He held his breath. What would his reaction be? Would his father welcome him back or remain aloof because of the harsh words spoken in parting?

  “My boy. My dear boy.” Pierre Carnell addressed him in French and held out shaky hands. “Forgive me. My mind wanders. I was dreaming of Alan, and when I heard your voice I thought it was him, foolish old man that I am.”

  “Is Alan still alive?”

  His father pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. “Non.”

  Alexander’s stomach twisted. “When?”

  If Alex had missed his opportunity to save his brother, or at least to reconcile with him, by a few days or weeks while he was lingering in Cornwall and Jersey he would never forgive himself.

  “About ten months ago, though I did not hear the news until several weeks afterward.”

  Alexander sat heavily in the nearest chair, winded. His brother had been dead for nearly a year. His heart beat dully within him at the news. He felt empty. Hopeless. Stupid. All his efforts to return—the escape, Daniel’s death, lies and deception—all in vain. God forgive me.

  “I am sorry, Papa. I tried to get home to help him, but I failed.”

  “It is not your fault. Nothing you could do, mon fils, except pray. Last I heard news of you, you were being held in a prisoner-of-war camp.”

  He nodded. “I escaped. I should have done so sooner.”

  “Then you risked your own life, which is more than I have done. Thank you for trying. I know you loved Alan, despite your differences, and he knew it too. Don’t blame yourself.”

  “I shall try not to, but that will be difficult.” Alexander swallowed. “I am sorry too, Papa, for the tensions between us during my last leave. The arguments about Alan and politics. I know I spoke harshly, and I regret it. Please forgive me.”

  “I do. I forgave you long ago. And I hope you forgive me. I know I did not respond well. My own loyalties torn. The struggle within my own soul played out in real life by my beloved sons. . . . I fear God is not pleased with me.”

  “God is merciful, Papa. You taught me that. He will forgive us if we ask Him for His Son’s sake.”

  His father nodded. “I will meet my Maker soon, I believe. If He will accept me.”

  “He will, Papa. But please don’t be in a hurry to go.” Alex’s voice grew thick with emotion. How old his father looked, how frail, how dear. “We have just been reunited, and I have missed you.”

  “And I you, my dear boy.”

  The door creaked open, and Alexander turned. A small head appeared, with a pair of large dark eyes. Alan’s eyes.

  “Grandpapa?”

  A five-year-old boy hurried into the room, then stopped short at seeing another man there—a stranger for all intents and purposes, as Alex had not seen his nephew in years.

  His father held out his hand to the little boy. “Don’t be afraid. This is your uncle.”

  “Mon oncle?”

  His father nodded. “Oui. Oncle Alexandre.”

  Alexander managed a tremulous smile. “Bonjour, Jean-Philippe. You have grown big since I saw you last.”

  The door opened wider, and an elegant dark-haired woman appeared, framed in the threshold. His brother’s wife was even more beautiful than he remembered.

  “I hope Jean-Philippe does not disturb y . . .” Her eyes widened. “Oh.”

  “Bonjour, Léonie.” Alexander rose and bowed.

  “Alexander!” She curtsied. “I am stunned to see you here. What a”—her voice cracked—“happy surprise.”

  Her pretty face crumpled, and her dark eyes filled with tears, belying her words.

  He saw then that she was dressed in black, and his heart squeezed with empathy. “I am sorry, ma sœur.”

  She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped her eyes. “Je t’en prie, pardonne-moi. It is only that you are so much like him.”

  Her beautifully accented French was music in his ears, even though the words and her obvious grief pained him.

  “That is a compliment, indeed.”

  “Is it?” she asked,
studying him as she walked closer.

  “Yes. He was my brother, and I will always love him.”

  She kissed his cheek. “Me too.”

  The following day, on a chilly grey afternoon, Alexander and Léonie visited the churchyard together.

  “Your father’s connections were not powerful enough to save Alan,” she said, “but at least they were able to return his body to our home parish.”

  Alexander nodded, unable to speak over the lump in his throat.

  “The headstone just arrived last week,” she added.

  Alexander read the inscription, the carved words searing pain into his chest.

  Ici Repose le Corps De

  Alan Philippe Carnell

  1784–1813

  REGRETS ÉTERNELS

  Tears filled his eyes as he whispered, “Je suis désolé, mon frère.”

  Eternal regrets, indeed.

  After a few quiet moments, his sister-in-law asked, “Would you like to see the grave of Enora and the infant?”

  Alexander hesitated only a moment. “Oui.”

  She led him to a simple headstone carved with small figures of Madonna and child, and her name: Enora Angelle Carnell.

  She had borne his name at the end, though not his child.

  I forgive you, he whispered in his heart. He sincerely hoped both Enora and François rested in peace.

  Beside him, Léonie slipped her hand into his in silent comfort and empathy.

  A few days later, Alexander undertook the visit he knew he could not put off any longer. Knapsack over his shoulder, he went to see Daniel’s widow, Vivienne.

  He found her in lodgings in Quimper, a newborn child in arms.

  His heart expanded at the sight. How was it that such a small, innocent face could look so much like his dearest friend? There was no doubt who this boy’s father was.

  The realization brought both pain and pleasure. “I can see Daniel in him.”

  She nodded. “So can I.”

  “I am so sorry, Vivienne.”

  She looked up from the swaddled babe, eyes wide. “He isn’t coming home?”