A Castaway in Cornwall Page 5

  Laura groaned. “Oh, bother. That is worse than the last.”

  “Is it?” Eseld sighed. “Sounds romantic to me.”

  “Sounds like a great waste of time to me.”

  Uncle Matthew came in. “Girls, how is our visitor? Good to see you showing an interest, Eseld.”

  “He has improved, thankfully,” Laura replied. “The fever has broken.”

  “Good, good. I have been praying for him and will continue to do so.”

  Newlyn knocked on the open door. “A Mr. Hicks to see you, sir.”

  “Ah. That’s the acting ship’s agent. Show him in, please.”

  Laura knew that in the case of shipwrecks, a local agent for the duchy would attempt to salvage all possible cargo and the vessel itself and then be reimbursed accordingly. Salvaged cargoes of imperishable goods like copper ore, iron, or timber would either be shipped on to their intended destination or auctioned off for what could be raised to cut the owner’s or underwriter’s losses.

  A small, well-dressed, balding man appeared, leather portfolio under his arm. This was the man who had stopped to talk to her uncle the night of the wreck.

  “Laura, Eseld,” Uncle Matthew began, “this is Mr. Hicks, the wreck agent.”

  The small man bowed. “Good day, ladies. I am curious to see how yer visitor is getting on. I’d like to report his name to the owners, if I can.”

  “He is some improved, thankfully,” Laura said. “But still not sensible, as you see.”

  Mr. Hicks glanced at the bed. “A pity. Well, in the meantime, I have written to the owners for an official list of the crew and cargo, so a reckoning may be taken of what we manage to salvage, and the next of kin might be notified. Hopefully, our friend here will awaken and be able to give us all the information we need, though he’ll no doubt be grieved to hear his mates have all perished.”

  “True.” Her uncle nodded sadly. “A rude awakening awaits him indeed.”

  Laura sat at their patient’s bedside that evening, trying to read about that famous castaway, Robinson Crusoe, but kept nodding off. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been so tired.

  Nearby, the man rested peacefully, and Laura began to long for her own bed.

  She picked up a book of hymns and tried reading aloud to keep herself awake.

  “God moves in a mysterious way,

  His wonders to perform;

  He plants his footsteps in the sea,

  And rides upon the storm. . . .”

  Growing weary of reading, Laura rose and paced around the room, then fingered the man’s pocket watch again. An idea striking her, she pried open the back, held it near the lamp, and by its light saw the winding stem. Also etched there was the name of the watchmaker: L’Epine. Not so surprising. French fashions were in demand, after all, war or no war.

  Newlyn appeared. “Miss? The Kent brothers have called. They’re in the parlour with Mrs. Bray and Eseld but ask if they might come up and see the patient.” The maid grinned and lowered her voice. “It’s really you they want to see, but they be smoothin’ Mrs. Bray’s feathers.”

  “Ah. Well, certainly,” Laura said, glad for the company. She surveyed her reflection in the mirror, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

  Treeve entered first. “Good evening, Miss Callaway,” he said with a gallant bow.

  Laura curtsied in reply.

  He glanced at the sleeping man. “I would ask you to introduce your new friend, but he seems . . . otherwise engaged.”

  Perry stepped in after him. “How is he?” he asked, moving to the bedside.

  “Better, thank heaven.”

  The young medical man seemed surprised to find the patient’s brow cool and his breathing easy. “You’re right. No sign of fever. God be praised.”

  “Yes.” Laura added with a grin, “And Mary Chegwin be praised as well.”

  Perry nodded. “Hear, hear.”

  Laura looked from one to the other. “What brings you two here tonight?”

  “Begging compliments, Miss Callaway?” Treeve smirked. “It isn’t like you.”

  “I was not—”

  He held up a conciliatory palm. “Only teasing. You are ever so diverting to tease.”

  “I came to see our mystery man, and Treeve invited himself along,” Perry explained.

  Treeve spread his hands. “How could I resist an opportunity to call upon the lovely ladies of Fern Haven?”

  Perry, she noticed, rolled his eyes.

  No one could deny that Treeve was charming, likable, and generous with his compliments. But Laura knew he liberally shared his flattery with many females so paid it little heed.

  Perry turned from studying the patient to her. “You look tired. Do you feel all right?”

  “I am well—just a bit weary.”

  “No wonder, caring for this man around the clock.”

  Laura looked down, feeling self-conscious. “Hardly that.”

  “Yes,” Treeve said, “you’ve been devoting too much of your attention to this veritable stranger while all but ignoring your old friends. I begin to grow quite jealous.”

  She shook her head. “I doubt it.”

  Eseld appeared in the passage, bright smile belied by her clasped hands. “Treeve? Do come down. We hoped you would make a fourth in whist.”

  “Very well.” He backed from the room with a Shakespearean bow complete with rolling hand. “Pray excuse me, Miss Callaway. The fair Eseld beckons.”

  Eseld dimpled and giggled and led the way downstairs. This time it was Laura’s turn to roll her eyes.

  Perry’s forlorn gaze followed them from the room, and then he turned his attention back to her. “Are you certain you feel well?”

  “Yes.”

  He reached a hand toward her. “Do you mind?”

  She stilled, unsure, then relaxed as he laid cool fingers on her brow. “You don’t feel overly warm, but you ought to get some rest—I would not want you to fall ill. Our patient is out of danger, so go and get a good night’s sleep, all right? Doctor’s orders.” He softened the command with a grin.

  Laura exhaled deeply. “Sounds heavenly, I admit. Thank you again for all your help.”

  “I did very little and was glad to be of assistance. Do let me know if there is any change.”

  “I shall. Good night.”

  The next morning, Laura drank tea and buttered a second piece of toast while her uncle prepared to depart. She would normally accompany him on his calls or walk the beaches if she wasn’t needed, but today she went up to the guest room. A few minutes later, Miss Chegwin returned with a bowl of broth she’d prepared at home. “Don’t tell Wenna.” She winked and took a chair near the bed.

  “I’ll sit with him for a bit,” Mary said. “See if I can get him to drink this broth. You get some sleep.”

  “I slept most of the night, since Dr. Kent declared him out of danger,” Laura said, “but I could use some fresh air.”

  “Go on, then.”

  Dressing warmly, Laura again went strolling on the beaches near Fern Haven. She walked along Greenaways as before, then expanded her search. Sometimes things washed ashore over a longer distance. She climbed the grassy cliff and descended into the next cove. There she again looked among the rocks, and all along the sandy stretch of Polzeath Beach until she reached a rock pool at its other side.

  In the water trapped there after the tide receded, something metallic glinted up at her. She bent and looked closer. A bottle?

  She reached into the pool and drew out a flask of pewter or tarnished silver bearing a fine scrollwork design. Might be worth something. She gave it a little shake—empty—then placed it in her basket.

  “What’ee find?”

  Laura whirled, startled to find Tom Parsons looming above her. She’d not heard him over the wind and surf.

  Uneasy at finding herself alone with the man, she chose a friendly approach. No use in angering him. “Just an empty pewter flask. You?”

  He
studied her expression, and she forced herself to look back. He finally broke eye contact, wincing into the morning sunlight.

  “Nothing today, though I found plenty the night of the wreck before the agent and customs man came.”

  “Well, all the best to you.” She turned to go, but his voice held her as forcefully as a hand on her arm.

  “If’ee find something o’ value, like a lockbox or chest or somethin,’ you let old Tom know, won’t’ee?”

  His eyes glinted, and she barely resisted the urge to step back. “If I find anything like that, I will certainly let the appropriate people know.”

  She held his piercing gaze a moment longer, nodded, and then turned to go.

  “I’ll be watchin’ee, up-country lass,” he called after her.

  She felt his eyes searing holes through her back, through her soul, but she kept walking at a calm, steady pace away from him, even as she longed to run all the way home.

  The gig, a six oared boat, is almost as traditional to Padstow as is the May Day ’Obby ’Oss ceremony. The gigs also acted as lifeboats to stricken vessels and also as salvers for the Doom Bar victims.

  —BRIAN FRENCH, WRECKS & RESCUES AROUND PADSTOW’S DOOM BAR

  Chapter 4

  After her encounter with Tom Parsons on the beach, Laura returned to Fern Haven with a long exhale of relief. She took off her outdoor things and hung up her bonnet, then walked to the guest room to talk to Miss Chegwin.

  She found the room empty, except for the man in bed, head propped on pillows.

  She drew up short and gave a little gasp of surprise. “Oh!”

  His eyes were open, and blue-green like the sea.

  “Good morning,” she said.

  He did not reply, but those striking eyes watched her with wary interest as she crossed the room.

  “I am Laura Callaway,” she began. “And you are . . . ?”

  He did not respond.

  She swallowed, excited and nervous at once. “Do you know where you are? I imagine it might all be a muddle. You are in a house near Trebetherick. It’s a small hamlet, so you probably have not heard of it. But larger Padstow is two miles from here, across the Camel Estuary.”

  His brow puckered in confusion or deep thought.

  Clasping damp hands together, she said, “I’m afraid your ship was wrecked. The Kittiwake? Perhaps your captain tried to navigate into the harbour to shelter from the storm. The ship may have struck Stepper Point or the Doom Bar, and then waves carried it onto the Greenaway Rocks. Does any of this sound familiar?”

  Miss Chegwin came in, bowl of gruel in hand.

  “Ah, yer back, Laura. Good. I went to ask Wenna for something more substantial now that our patient is awake. Has he spoken?”

  “Not to me.”

  “Nor me,” Mary said. “And I tried both English and Cornish.”

  Laura turned back to the man and said, “This is Miss Mary Chegwin, our neighbor and an excellent nurse. She and I have been caring for you. Oh, and Dr. Kent, but he is not here right now.”

  The man blinked but seemed to be struggling to make sense of the scene, of finding himself in a strange bed with two strange women looking down at him.

  Miss Chegwin tried again. “Yer in Cornwall. Kernow.”

  “Kernev?” He imperfectly echoed the Cornish word for the county.

  Mary shook her head. “Kernow,” she repeated, emphasizing the final syllable.

  He looked down, expression troubled. Did he not understand? Was he a foreigner after all?

  Jago came in with more wood—wood foraged from shredded ship timbers, she guessed.

  The man looked up at him in alarm. Did Jago’s size intimidate him, or was it something else? It might have been her imagination, but he seemed nervous.

  “This is Jago,” Laura hurried to explain. “Our friend and neighbor. He lives with Miss Chegwin.”

  “My adopted son, really,” Miss Chegwin added with a friendly smile. “Don’t let his size worry you. He wouldn’t hurt a midge. Well, maybe a midge, but not a person.”

  Jago laid more wood on the fire and then quit the room. The man relaxed slightly, but still his eyes seemed distracted and distant. She could almost see his mind whirling behind them.

  “You have nothing to fear from us,” Laura assured him. “We are friend, not foe. My uncle is the vicar here, and a good man.”

  His Adam’s apple rose and fell as though with effort.

  Seeing it spurred Laura into action. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the dressing chest and carried it to him. “You must be thirsty. Here.”

  He slowly reached out for the glass and raised it to his lips.

  “Don’t gulp it,” Miss Chegwin warned. “You’ll be sick.”

  Drawn by the jingling tack of a horse and wagon outside, Miss Chegwin turned to look out the window.

  “Pray excuse me. I’ve a load of seaweed bein’ delivered. So good for next year’s garden, I find.” She handed Laura the gruel. “I’ll be back dreckly. You can help him with this, I trust?”

  “Of course. Take your time.”

  After Mary left them, Laura set the bowl on the side table and asked, “Can you sit up a little, or I could help . . . ?”

  How would she help—put her hands under his arms and try to haul him up? She doubted she was strong enough to do so. A shame Jago had left.

  Before she could try, he propped himself up on his elbows and pushed himself into a half-sitting position. His face seized into a grimace of pain. Alarmed, he tossed back the bedclothes and yanked up the nightshirt on one side as though a hot coal lodged there.

  She saw ribs and firm flesh before averting her gaze. “Sorry, I forgot to warn you. You’ve got a nasty wound in your side. Miss Chegwin stitched it up per Dr. Kent’s instructions, but neither is an experienced surgeon, I’m afraid.”

  He stared down at the stitches a moment longer, then slowly lowered the shirt.

  She stepped closer and rearranged the pillows behind his head. “I don’t think it will hurt so much if you lie still.”

  She waited until he had raised the bedclothes once more, then retrieved the bowl and sat on a chair beside the bed.

  “You must be starving.” She dipped the spoon. “Shall I . . . ?”

  He reached out unsteady hands for the bowl and spoon, took them from her, and began shoveling in the watery gruel.

  “Slow down. Remember what Miss Chegwin said. You don’t want to make yourself sick.” She added on a teasing note, “Our cook would not like to see her fine gruel wasted.”

  He looked up at her, saw her wry grin, and returned it.

  He did understand English, then. The corners of his eyes crinkled with laughter lines, or perhaps he’d spent a lot of time in the sun at one point in his life, although at present he was quite pale. Either way, even that small smile lent attraction to his face, and she glimpsed dimples through his whiskers.

  He resumed eating, though more slowly.

  While he did so, she explained, “You also suffered from lung fever, but you seem to be well on your way to recovery.”

  When he’d scraped every morsel, she handed him a table napkin, and he wiped his mouth as politely as any gentleman.

  He handed back the bowl, pressed his lips together, and appeared to be gathering himself for a great speech. Then he said in a stilted manner, “Thank . . . you.”

  She smiled. “You are very welcome, Mr. . . . ? I wish I knew what to call you.”

  Again the dropping of eyes and careful thought before he replied. Then he slowly and carefully enunciated each syllable, “Alexander Lucas . . . ”

  “Mr. Lucas, a pleasure to meet you.”

  “And, em, you.”

  He stilled and patted his chest as though for pockets and then looked over at the side table, expression pained anew to find it all but bare.

  “My . . . belongings?” he asked, his voice hoarse from disuse.

  “Oh.” She went to the dressing chest and gathered the
few things she’d discovered in his pocket. “I found these in your pantaloons.” She added awkwardly, “When we were laundering them, I mean.” She did not want to be thought a wrecker.

  He accepted the coins and watch and studied them on his palm. “This . . . is all?”

  His English was excellent, yet there was a faint accent she couldn’t quite place.

  “Yes, I am sorry. You wore no coat when we found you.”

  He winced, then opened the watch.

  “I cleaned and dried it as best I could, but it has stopped, I’m afraid. Perhaps a watchmaker might repair it. We haven’t a watchmaker here, but a larger town would.”

  He nodded, but said no more.

  Alexander stared at the watch and few coins in his hand, trying to remember. Where had the rest of his money gone? And his possessions—one possession in particular? Had it even been his? He’d held it in his grasp so fleetingly. . . .

  He looked again at the watch. His father had given it to him before he left home. It was precious to him, yet looking at it now brought only pain. Even so, he was glad it had not been lost to him, as had so many other things: his freedom, his brother, the Victorine, Enora, and nearly his own life.

  He glanced up at the lovely young woman sitting beside him. Her voice was already familiar—he had heard her reading to him—though this was the first time he could see her face clearly. Before now, she’d seemed a figment of his imaginings—his fevered imaginings, apparently.

  He’d thought he’d been dreaming. The Kittiwake’s cook had told him the local legend of a beautiful mermaid who’d lived in the estuary between the Atlantic and Padstow’s safe harbour. Centuries ago, a young man fell in love with her, but when she refused to marry him, he shot her in a jealous rage. In revenge for his vile act, the mermaid cursed the harbour by throwing sand into it, and ever since then, sailors had been dying on the sands of the Doom Bar.

  In a haze of confusion, Alex had seen the blurred image of a red-haired woman bending over him, her windblown hair falling around her face, her eyes like amber pools. He’d thought the legend of the mermaid had invaded his dreams.