A Castaway in Cornwall Page 30

  Alex shook his head. Throat tight, he managed only one syllable. “Non.”

  Tears filled her eyes, and answering tears filled his.

  “He died in a shipwreck,” Alexander explained. “We were trying to get home. He was so eager to return in time for the birth of your child. I wish I had been able to save him. I tried. . . .”

  “Could you not have tried harder?” Vivienne’s voice broke, and Alexander’s heart broke with it.

  Dear God, why? Oh, to exchange his life for Daniel’s . . .

  “Forgive me,” she said, swiping a hand across wet cheeks. “I know you loved Daniel too. I am only shocked and hurt.”

  “I understand completely.”

  She laid the child in a nearby cradle, gazing down at the little face. “What are we going to do, my love? How shall we go on without your papa?”

  Alex squeezed his eyes shut, but the hot tears escaped anyway.

  When she straightened, Alexander took a deep breath and pulled the gift from his bag. He had repaired the intricate Noah’s ark as best he could and completed the missing pairs of animals himself.

  Seeing it, her tears increased, and she whispered hoarsely, “He made this?”

  “Yes, for his child.”

  She held it to her chest. “We will both treasure it always.”

  Why do we rouse Brittany and La Vendée? Why bring civil war into France?

  —HONORÉ DE BALZAC, THE CHOUANS

  Chapter 24

  After Alexander’s departure, Laura wrote letters to Eseld and Uncle Matthew, letting them know she planned to stay on Jersey with Aunt Susan for the foreseeable future. She also sought out the former house of Alexander’s grandparents and spent time helping her aunt and Mrs. Tobin with their charity work.

  When Mr. Gillan returned from his voyage, he came by the house to tell Laura that he had delivered Captain Carnell safely home to Brittany.

  He added, “I asked him to command one of my ships when his business there is finished. He thanked me but turned me down. Said he was not certain what the future held. I replied, ‘Who of us is?’ But he would not be moved.”

  Disappointment sank in Laura’s stomach. It was as she feared. He had no plans to return. Even so, she thanked Mr. Gillan for bringing her the news and led him into the parlour to visit Aunt Susan.

  A fortnight after Alexander left, Mrs. Tobin brought in the post. “Letter for you, Laura. From France.”

  Laura’s pulse quickened. Would it contain good news or bad?

  Dear Miss Callaway,

  I pray this letter finds you in good health. I hope neither you nor your aunt mind my taking the liberty of writing. I realize that after all we have been through together, it might seem a little late to worry about propriety, but I want you to know that I respect you as a gentlewoman of the highest character. I regret that my coming to Cornwall caused you to throw caution to the wind. I appreciate your sacrifices on my behalf and hope your reputation and relationships have not suffered irreparable harm because of me. I trust you and your uncle have been in contact. I have written to him myself, to apologize for exposing you to danger and gossip. I have not heard back, but with the war slogging on, perhaps the post is not yet getting through to England. I hope my letter to you does not meet a similar fate.

  I’m afraid I have some bad news to relay. My brother, Alan, died almost a year ago, executed by firing squad. I was unable to help him or even see him before he died, to my deep regret.

  My brother leaves behind a wife, Léonie, and a five-year-old son who live with my father. My nephew’s name is Jean-Philippe. He is the handsomest boy I ever saw, with his mother’s beauty and his father’s keen mind. He has won my heart already, and I am very much enjoying my role as “Oncle Alexander.”

  Sadly, my father is in poor health, and his heart is failing. The doctors say it is only a matter of time. I am forever grateful that I am here with him for however many days, weeks, or months God grants us. We have forgiven one another and have been reconciled. Our daily conversations are sweet and precious to me, knowing each may be the last. I will never forget that it is you I have to thank for returning me home to his side.

  Most sincerely,

  ALC

  Her aunt came in as Laura was reading the letter a second time. “Mrs. Tobin mentioned a letter from France. Good news, I hope?”

  “I am afraid not,” Laura replied. “Alexander’s brother was executed, and his father is near the end of his life. He was unable to see his brother, but at least he has been reunited with his father.”

  “That is thanks to you, my dear.”

  Laura shrugged. “He would have managed, one way or another, but yes, he expresses his gratitude.” She wondered if gratitude was all he felt for her now that he was home.

  She added, “He mentions he is enjoying spending time with his young nephew. He and his widowed mamma live with the Carnells. Both very handsome apparently.”

  The words Alexander had written echoed through her mind, The handsomest boy I ever saw, with his mother’s beauty. What was it François LaRoche had said about Léonie? “She expected you to marry her. We all did.” And now that she was a widow . . .

  Her aunt watched her closely, her eyes downturned with concern and far too knowing.

  “Anything about his plans for the future?” she asked. “Has the French navy given him another commission?”

  “He does not say.”

  “Well, perhaps in his next letter. You will reply, I trust?”

  “Yes, if you don’t mind. I wish to express my condolences.” And so much more.

  A few weeks after his homecoming, Alexander sat reading the newspaper after dinner, his father propped on pillows on his daybed and Léonie seated near the fire screen for light and warmth as she sewed. Jean-Philippe came in with a book and climbed onto the sofa beside him. Alexander smiled at the boy, pulled him onto his lap, and the two read together.

  Léonie looked up from her needlework to watch them, her lovely dark eyes glimmering with affection . . . and something more? Alexander quickly returned his attention to the book.

  Later, after Léonie had taken Jean-Philippe up to bed, his father said, “Léonie is very pretty, is she not?”

  “Yes, though black does not suit her.”

  The older man’s eyes twinkled. “She will not wear black much longer.”

  Awareness prickled over Alexander. “Papa . . .”

  His father raised a hand to forestall his protests. “Don’t say anything. I realize it is too soon to be thinking of such things. I won’t be here much longer, or I would have waited to mention it. But it would ease my mind. Léonie and Jean-Philippe would be provided for. You could share this house together, and I could die in peace.”

  “She is my sister.”

  “Bah. Not every country shares England’s laws. In some traditions, a man is encouraged to marry his brother’s widow.”

  That was true—although Alex thought it wiser not to concede the point. Instead, he said, “Rest assured, I will make certain Léonie and Jean-Philippe are provided for after you are gone. And she has a sister yet living as well. She will never know want, whether she remarries or not.”

  “Just consider it. I can tell she still admires you, and you’ve allowed she is attractive.”

  “Yes, but I don’t—”

  Again his father raised a palm to cut him off. “Don’t answer me now. Just tell me you won’t dismiss the idea out of hand.”

  Alex felt torn. He wanted to please his ailing father but felt guilty at the same time. Was it a betrayal to agree?

  “Very well. I will think about it, to make you happy.”

  “Thank you.” His father settled back against his pillows and closed his eyes, a small smile on his lips.

  Wary, Alexander asked, “Tell me you have not said anything to Léonie?”

  “I . . . may have mentioned something.”

  Alexander groaned. “Papa . . .”

  In his mind’s eye, he s
aw Laura Callaway’s beautiful face, looking at him with affection and even desire in her golden brown eyes.

  Where did his duty lie?

  The following morning, his mother’s former maid brought in the post. “Letter for you, Master Alexander.”

  “Thank you, Betty.”

  His father slept on, undisturbed, but Léonie watched him with interest.

  Alexander saw the St. Helier postmark, and his heart instantly lightened. Laura. He pried open the seal and read.

  Dear Captain Carnell,

  Thank you for your letter. I very much appreciated hearing from you although I was dreadfully sorry to hear the news of your brother. It must have been difficult for you to learn he died.

  I know how hard you tried to get home to help him. You did your best, and that’s all any of us can do. I hope you are not being too severe with yourself for not being able to rescue him. Alan chose his own path in life. Though I imagine leaving behind a beautiful wife and young son must have been his greatest regret.

  I pray this war ends soon and am sure you do as well. My aunt asks if you have been called back into active duty or given another ship like your old favorite, the Victorine? I suppose you would be gratified, but I for one would be sorry to see you rejoin the fighting, especially now that the end is in sight, at least, if the newspapers can be believed.

  Aunt Susan, Mrs. Tobin, and I are doing well here, three women living as a little clutch of hens. Mrs. Tobin is all graciousness, and I am enjoying every minute with my aunt. However, I believe, if Mr. Gillan has his way, one of us will find herself living elsewhere before much longer. I think my aunt hesitates to accept him because of me, but I have assured her that her happiness is mine.

  I have finally received a reply from my uncle. You will be glad to know that he has forgiven us both, and that he and Mrs. Bray are well and in good health. They are delighted with Eseld’s recent engagement to Perry Kent and eagerly anticipate their upcoming wedding.

  I hope your father still lives and that God grants you many days together to store up in your heart and treasure for years to come. In spending time with my mother’s sister and nurse, and hearing their reminiscences of my parents’ final days, I feel I have been given back some of our lost hours to treasure in my heart as well.

  Your sister-in-law and your nephew have my condolences. May God grant them comfort as they grieve their loss. How good of Him to bring you home just when they needed you most.

  Most sincerely,

  Miss Laura Callaway

  When he refolded the letter, Léonie said, “I hope it is not from the navy, offering you another commission.”

  Funny that his sister-in-law should express the same concern Laura had. Duty had compelled Alexander to write to his superiors to inform them he was back in France. But his letter had been met with silence.

  “No. A letter from a . . . friend.”

  “So the post is now getting through?”

  “At least from Jersey.”

  “Ah. The woman who rescued you and nursed you to health?”

  He had already given them an abbreviated account of his escape, shipwreck, and journey from Cornwall. But he had left out certain details.

  “Yes, though she had help from the nurse next door and a young doctor.” He chuckled awkwardly. “It was a group effort.”

  “But she is the one who helped you get home.”

  “Yes.”

  Léonie watched him closely. “She remains on Jersey?”

  He nodded. “Her aunt lives there. Her last living blood relative. They have been reunited after many years apart. She hasn’t anyone else.”

  “Has she not?”

  He looked at his sister-in-law, saw the arched brow, and said, “She is not remaining on my account, if that is what you are implying.”

  “What is her name, this rescuer of yours?”

  “Laura. Er, Miss Callaway.”

  With a mischievous grin, Léonie asked, “And is Laura Er Miss Callaway pretty?”

  He took a deep breath. “She is.”

  “And young?”

  “Perhaps too young. Only three and twenty.”

  “I was even younger when I married Alan.” Léonie ran her fingers over the pillow fringe. “Had she no suitors before you came along?”

  He considered. “There is one young man who admires her. He took us as far as he could in his ship until a revenue cutter forced him to set us ashore. He would do anything for her, I think.” He recalled coming upon the two of them in Mrs. Tobin’s parlour, hand in hand. Laura had said they were only friends, but Treeve, he guessed, wanted more.

  “She did not return his admiration?” Léonie asked.

  “Not then, no, though perhaps in time.”

  “Why did you not bring her here?”

  “Why would I? There is a war on. I am a French officer, and she is British. Besides, I was focused on Father and Alan. There were too many uncertainties.”

  “And now?”

  He looked at her, then away again. “There are still too many uncertainties.”

  The dark drear days of November came along, and with them hurried mists and sweeping rains, wrapping the headlands in their mantle of grey, shutting out from the Padstow folk all sight of what lay beyond.

  —GRATIANA LONGWORTH KNOCKER, TREBETHERICK

  Chapter 25

  Winter passed in quiet domesticity. Together Alexander, his father, sister-in-law, and nephew celebrated Christmas and the New Year. His father seemed to rally since his return and even joined them at the table for a delicious Christmas dinner and indulged in a few sips of Manoir de Carnell cider, made from apples grown in their own orchard.

  Alex had still not received another commission. Perhaps this was due to the blockades and the fact that the fighting focused on land versus sea. Or perhaps because they considered him compromised after his time in England and his relationships with Alan and François—two known spies. Whatever the reason, Alexander was not sorry. He felt he was where he was supposed to be. At his father’s side.

  By February, his father’s rally lagged and his beleaguered heart began its slow final march, like the last labored ticks of an ancient clock. He died peacefully in his sleep the following month, Alexander holding his hand.

  At the end of March, France’s allied enemies invaded and captured Paris, forcing Napoleon to abdicate.

  Due to this news and Pierre Carnell’s death, the family’s Easter celebration was rather reserved, yet Alexander relished every word of the divine service, taking solace in the solemn yet joyous reminder that Christ had triumphed over death. Because of His resurrection, Alexander knew he would see his father again one day in heaven.

  On a beautiful spring day near the end of April, Alexander walked around the kitchen gardens Betty tended so carefully, and then out to the orchard and small family vineyard beyond. The air was warm and carried the scent of apple blossoms, but Alexander was too distracted to appreciate it, striving to get his thoughts in order. Torn between keeping his word to his father and his feelings for Laura.

  Was he obligated to marry his sister-in-law after their mourning periods ended? It would not be a hardship. Léonie was beautiful, and they had always liked and respected one another. Many marriages were forged on far flimsier foundations. And then there was Jean-Philippe. The little boy pulled on his heartstrings whenever he saw him. So young to be without a father. So innocent. So much like Alan.

  He saw Léonie on a bench beneath a grape arbor, reminding him of the similar trellis-covered bench at Fern Haven. Was she too considering the future?

  Alexander looked around the verger de pommiers but saw no sign of its tender. “Where is old Jacques?” he asked.

  “Laid low with the rheumatism, poor dear,” Léonie replied.

  A younger man appeared among the blossoming trees. He walked with a decided limp yet looked to be no more than thirty. His hat, pulled low against the sun, shadowed his face. Alexander lifted his chin toward him. “And who is
that?”

  “His son, Jacques Marec. Do you not remember him?”

  “Ah, of course. I thought he had enlisted in the infantry?”

  “He had, but he came home to recover from his injuries and stayed to help his ailing papa. Your father offered him the place, and he accepted. He is very capable.”

  “So the estate is in good hands, then?”

  “I believe so.” She looked up at him. “That is not to say you are not welcome or needed. You are the new master now that your father has passed on.”

  Alexander sat beside her, chewing his lip, considering. He wondered if he ought to visit the family lawyer in Quimper, or ask the man to come here.

  “Alexander . . .” Léonie laid a hand on his sleeve. “I want to ask you something.”

  He looked into her lovely face, her beseeching eyes. This was his old friend, his brother’s widow, and his beloved nephew’s mother. He knew whatever she asked of him, he could not, would not, refuse. He steeled himself. “Yes? What is it you want?”

  She held his gaze intensely, warmly, intimately. “I want you to be happy. I know your marriage to Enora was not a happy one. I hope you will choose more wisely the next time.”

  When he hesitated, she added, “I trust your Laura is a superior woman?”

  “In every way, but—”

  “Come. I know you love her. I saw your face when you read her letter. And whenever you speak of her, your features soften, and your eyes glow like sunlit honey.”

  He looked away, self-conscious under her words, her scrutiny, her vérité.

  “What holds you back?”

  “How can it work?” He grimaced. “I am French—she is English. Our countries are enemies.”

  “So? Your mother was English.”

  “Those were different times.”

  “Human nature changes little, I find. And besides, the war is over.”

  “For now.”

  “Come, mon frère. What is the real reason you hesitate?”

  Should he tell her? He looked away. If he was going to ask her to marry him, divulging that his father had urged him to do so was not a romantic way to begin.