A Castaway in Cornwall Read online

  Now he knew the woman was real and had a name, although he’d already forgotten the whole. Laura something.

  He ran a finger over the coins and another piece of memory returned. He’d used several coins to buy passage on a ship. And not only passage for himself, but for his closest friend. His heart began beating dully within him. Where was his friend now?

  He wanted to blurt out all his questions and demand answers, but he refrained. He must tread carefully. He had not reached his hoped-for destination but had instead been cast ashore in unfamiliar territory. The woman had tried to reassure him, saying she was friend not foe. But loyalties, he knew, could change. It took only one glance at his stitches and rope-burned wrists to prove that fact. He would not trust again so easily.

  After careful thought, he set the coins and watch on the side table. Then he took a deep breath and asked, “The other men?”

  The young woman’s expression remained somber. “I am sorry to tell you they all died in the wreck. You were the only survivor.”

  Waves of shock and grief washed over him, stronger than any gale. He felt a dozen vicious stab wounds, this time to his heart. No. God, no.

  “We buried them in the churchyard,” she went on gently. “Everything was done properly, rest assured.”

  She gazed at him, her golden brown eyes glimmering with compassion. “Were you . . . close to the others?”

  He nodded, no longer seeing her, but rather Daniel’s face. He murmured, more to the departed man than to her, “My friend, my good friend . . .”

  Then he looked at her again, an ember of hope flaring. “Are you certain?”

  She hesitated. “What did your friend look like?”

  He thought, then said, “Shorter than I am. Straight black hair. Dark eyes.”

  She winced apologetically. “That is a fairly general description. Give me a few minutes, and I shall bring in my list.”

  She soon returned and flipped through a bound journal until she reached a certain page and then began to read, “‘Man aged 40–45. Grey hair. Green eyes. Rotund. Still wearing apron.’ Perhaps the cook?” She glanced up at him for confirmation.

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  She continued, “‘Man aged 25–30. Black hair. Brown eyes. Strawberry birthmark on his left brow . . . ’”

  Alexander’s heart deflated and his face crumpled in grief. “Yes. He had such a mark.” Oh, Daniel. I am sorry, my friend.

  His eyes filled, and he turned his face away. Would she think less of him for weeping? At the moment, he did not care. He wiped his eyes with the napkin and held out his hands for the journal.

  She handed it over, and he read through the rest of the list himself.

  Initials T.O. inside his waistband and the collar of his shirt. Alex stilled, nerves prickling through him. Did she know what those initials meant?

  He read further.

  Boy aged 13–15. Red hair. Blue eyes. Freckles.

  “Oh no.” He groaned. “The boy too?” Dear God, why the boy? So young . . .

  He read on, recognizing descriptions of the captain and several others of the crew. There was one more description he’d expected to see. He turned the page, but nothing else was written.

  “This is all?” he asked.

  “Yes. We buried nine—eight men and a boy.”

  “There was at least one more.” He flipped back and read through the list again. “Did one man have a scar on his left cheek, like a shepherd’s crook?”

  He drew the shape on his own cheek.

  “No. I would have noticed and written it down.” She reached over and tapped the page.

  “Are you sure? He had long dark hair and fair eyes.”

  She paused to consider. “I suppose it’s possible I missed such a detail. Some of the bodies had been battered by the rocks, sorry to say. But I am . . . fairly certain.”

  Alexander muttered an epithet under his breath. “Then one man is not accounted for.”

  “Bodies don’t always come to shore immediately. He might wash up farther down the coast. And some never reappear at all.”

  Uneasiness filled him. He grimaced but said no more.

  She rose. “I know this has been difficult news, so I will leave you for a while. May I bring you anything before I go?”

  He shook his head but did not meet her eyes. There was only one thing he needed, but he feared it was lost forever.

  Laura left Alexander Lucas to grieve. She wished her uncle or Miss Chegwin had been there to deliver the somber news and comfort him afterward. Either of them would have done it more tactfully, she imagined. Her heart went out to the poor fellow.

  She recalled how he had avoided her gaze before she left the room. Embarrassed to be seen crying, or hiding something? Laura had been surprised but touched to see a grown man weep.

  He has just learned his friend died, she reminded herself. He is understandably upset. Don’t read too much into his evasiveness.

  She had not seen a man cry since her aunt Anne passed away. She remembered how devastated Uncle Matthew had been when she died. He had not been himself for months afterward and had not rallied until he met the charming Lamorna Mably. The two had bonded quickly over their shared loss of spouses and their love of Cornwall. Mr. Lucas would recover in time as well.

  Still feeling uneasy, Laura went to join her uncle, Mrs. Bray, and Eseld downstairs.

  When she reached the hall, she heard laughter coming from the parlour. “Laura has no fear of strange men or fever,” Mrs. Bray was saying, “but remember how frightened she was at her first May Day festival?”

  Eseld and Uncle Matthew chuckled.

  Laura instantly felt awkward and left out, the butt of their jokes.

  She knew all too well what they were referring to. She remembered with discomfort and embarrassment her first visit to Padstow during the annual Hobby Horse, or “Obby Oss,” festival on the first of May. Laura had gone expecting flowers and a Maypole and a friendly celebration of the coming of spring. She had not expected the raucous crowd, the crude shouts of drunken men, the incessant drumming, and the terrifying face of the Obby Oss. She saw nothing of a horse in the costume. Tarred canvas stretched over a large hoop with a long black skirt formed the horse’s body like a big black pot lid. Its masked face was painted, supposedly, to resemble a horse. But to Laura, with its black, red, and white lines, it looked more like a dragon or a devil.

  Most upsetting, the Oss tried to catch maidens as he danced through the narrow streets lined with onlookers. He lifted the bottom of his costume and cast it over young women’s heads, trapping them beneath the skirt. Eseld had warned Laura very sternly to avoid being caught. She’d said, “If you are caught and end up with black tar on your clothes, you will fall pregnant or be married by the end of the year.”

  To a young innocent, this was terrifying in the extreme.

  As Laura stood with Uncle Matthew, Mrs. Bray, and Eseld, the Oss came toward her, its mask menacing, the beady eyes focused on her with seemingly evil intent. Laura screamed and went running into Uncle Matthew’s arms and begged to be taken home. Around her some in the crowd had laughed while others scorned her foolishness. Mrs. Bray had shaken her head, disapproval twisting her thin lips. “Will she spoil the day for all of us?”

  In the parlour now, the chuckles faded at the recollection. Laura waited a moment, then entered the room. Seeing the three of them sitting close together in warm companionship, Laura felt a stab of loneliness, as she often did.

  “Our guest has awakened,” she said.

  Hearing the survivor had come to his senses, Uncle Matthew and his wife went upstairs to meet him, Mrs. Bray insisting Eseld wait until she had first ascertained his character. The couple returned ten minutes later, satisfied and even impressed with their guest.

  “Such excellent diction and well-bred manners,” Mrs. Bray exclaimed.

  Uncle Matthew nodded. “I agree.”

  “Did he say anything more about where he is from or where he was
bound?” Laura asked.

  “No. We have only just met him, after all, and did not wish to pry,” Mrs. Bray said.

  Uncle Matthew looked at her, brows furrowed. “Why do you ask, my dear. Are you . . . concerned about something?”

  Laura hesitated, then replied more casually than she felt, “Not at all. Simply curious.”

  The next morning, Newlyn met her in the passage.

  “Letter for you, miss.” The young maid handed her the missive, postmarked Penzance.

  It took Laura a moment to recollect the significance of the town, but then it dawned on her. She had written to a man there with news of his wife’s death. She’d been able to identify her from a case of calling cards found in her reticule, still attached to her wrist after a cutter had been wrecked on the Doom Bar.

  Laura almost dreaded opening the letter and seeing into the heart of a man in the painful depths of grief. She hoped he would not take out his angst on the messenger for announcing such unwelcome news.

  She unfolded the page, steeling herself.

  Dear Miss Callaway,

  Thank you for tracking me down and taking the time to send news of Prudie Truscott’s death.

  You wrote with trepidation, I know, hating to be the bearer of what you must have deemed news of the most grievous nature—a man losing his better half. His helpmeet. His true love.

  But in this instance, your letter had the exact opposite effect of the one you no doubt dreaded.

  I was relieved to read it, even happy.

  Before you judge me to be heartless, allow me to confide that Prudie left me for a smuggler more than two years ago. They met while he was here in Penzance, and he convinced her to sail away with him. She was sure great adventure and romance awaited her. She did not go off in secret, but brazenly announced her plan and asked for whatever remained of her modest dowry to help fund her expenses. She was not worried that the amount was small, certain her new lover would be able to provide for her richly from the spoils of his nefarious trade.

  At the time, I was hurt—my pride and my heart. But since then, I realized she had not loved me in years, if ever, for all of my misspent devotion. All the same, I would have gone on providing and caring for her had she stayed. But she did not.

  Since her departure, I have slowly formed a friendship with a neighbor, an upstanding widow of sterling character. A godly, church-going woman. Ruth Hodge has accepted my friendship and occasional companionship over a meal or friendly game of draughts, but no farther. I have fallen completely in love with her and wished I’d had the sense to marry her or someone like her years ago when I’d had my chance.

  As it was, Ruth would not have me. She was fond of me, I knew. Even loved me. But as long as I had a wife living, she would not consent to be mine. For my wife might return any day, she reasoned, beg forgiveness, and ask me to take her back, which according to Ruth, I would be obligated to do.

  So I have been trapped. We have been trapped in a torturous, yearning purgatory of Prudie’s making.

  Now, after receiving your letter, Prudie’s calling card, a lock of her auburn hair, and the clipped article from the West Briton newspaper, my dear Mrs. Hodge has at last agreed to become the new Mrs. Truscott. My genuine better half, helpmeet, and true love.

  I am the happiest of men, and it is thanks to you.

  I realize the chances are remote, but we invite you to our wedding breakfast on the third of the month, or to visit us should you ever be in our part of Cornwall. I will happily reward you for your kind offices, a reward I dare not include within for fear of theft, but yours for the asking at Quayside Cottage.

  My deepest gratitude,

  John Truscott

  Penzance, Cornwall

  Laura’s emotions swung from disbelief to amazement. Reading the final lines a second time, she blew out a breath of relief. Of all the responses she’d anticipated, she’d never expected this. She had written several letters during her years on the coast but had received few replies. This ranked as one of the most surprising.

  Her spirits buoyed by the letter, Laura walked into the guest room with a lighter heart and a smile on her face. She was pleased to find their guest sitting up and wide awake, a breakfast tray on his lap.

  “Good morning, Mr. Lucas,” Laura said. “How are you feeling today?”

  “Better, thank you.” He studied her. “What has you looking so happy this morning?”

  “I received a surprising letter—rather diverting, actually.”

  “Oh?” he said. “May I ask what about?”

  She began explaining the gist of the husband’s letter about his wayward wife, but seeing Mr. Lucas’s expression harden, she broke off. “Sorry. I should not speak lightly of another shipwreck victim when your loss is so new.”

  He stared at the wall. “I can relate to the man’s emotions, but I am afraid I don’t find the circumstances at all amusing.”

  Laura’s chest suddenly felt heavy. “Pray, forgive me.”

  “Not your fault. I asked.”

  Miss Chegwin came in and beamed at the pair of them.

  “Sitting up and talking! Now, that is what I like to see. That is what I call progress.”

  Laura was relieved at her arrival and the change in topic. “Mary Chegwin, this is Alexander Lucas.”

  “Well now. I suppose this means I shall have to stop calling you my ’ansome. How do’ee feel, Mr. Lucas?”

  “I hardly know.”

  “Well, the mind is sometimes the last to heal.”

  “He asked about the other men,” Laura said. “I told him of their fate.”

  Mary Chegwin’s face fell. “Did’ee? Ah.” She clucked. “Poor dear.”

  The older woman studied her patient. “Know what’ll make’ee feel better? A good wash and shave. Maybe a haircut.” She lifted a tray upon which Laura saw scissors, a razor, and the like.

  Mr. Lucas reached up and rubbed his cheek, then tugged at the whiskers on his chin. “I’ve never gone so long without shaving. I must look uncivilized.”

  Laura removed the oval mirror from the wall and carried it to the bed.

  Regarding his reflection, he muttered, “Knew I should have seen a barber before I left. A fright indeed.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” Laura assured him. “But a shave and haircut will make you feel more like your old self. And perhaps a bath while we’re at it.”

  The plan agreed to, Laura built up the fire, Jago carried in the tub, and Newlyn helped them haul buckets and kettles of hot water to fill the bath.

  “We’ll replace yer bandages afterward,” Miss Chegwin said. “Don’t think a soak will harm’ee, but take care getting in and out. You’ve been on your back for days and are injured besides.”

  “I shall.” The man sat up with effort, stifling a groan.

  “Jago could stay and lend a hand, unless you prefer privacy.”

  Mr. Lucas glanced up at the tall young man with beefy shoulders, broad face, and coarse hair in disarray. Jago looked down, apparently anticipating being sent away.

  The patient stood, nightshirt not reaching his knees, the garment shorter on his taller frame than on her uncle. Swaying slightly, he reached out a hand to steady himself.

  “If you would be willing to lend a hand, Jago, I would be obliged to you.”

  Jago nodded, a rare smile on his face. Too few people used his name without derision.

  An hour later, they reassembled, bath emptied and taken away, their patient dressed in his own buff pantaloons and shirt, fresh from the laundry. They took the opportunity to change the bed linens as well.

  Mr. Lucas sat at the dressing table, a towel wrapped around his shoulders to catch the cuttings. He’d combed his freshly washed hair from his forehead with his fingers, and it remained there in thick glossy waves.

  Using the provided tools, including brush, shaving paste, and razor, he lathered up and began to shave himself. Laura was glad not to be asked to do so, sure her hand would nervously shake at perfo
rming the domestic service.

  He stroked downward on his cheeks, whisked the razor in the basin of water, then went upward on his neck, tilting his chin forward to tighten the skin. Each stroke revealed more of the face beneath—the clear skin, handsome features, the dimples she’d noticed earlier, and a cleft chin.

  “I have shaved myself for years,” he said, “but confess I have never cut my own hair.”

  “I can do it,” Miss Chegwin offered. “After all, who do’ee think cuts Jago’s hair?”

  They all turned to look at the big man, whose wiry hair stuck out at all angles. The patient coughed discreetly.

  “I could give it a go,” Laura said, coming to his rescue. “I used to cut my uncle’s hair before he remarried.”

  Alexander turned to her. “Thank you, Miss Callaway,” he replied before Mary could reiterate her offer.

  Laura picked up scissors and comb and stood behind him, his face visible in the dressing table mirror. Sunshine from the window shone on him, lighting his eyes to the color of a turquoise ring she once found. He met her gaze in the mirror, and she looked away first.

  She combed his hair, noticing how thick it was, how wavy. Many women would be envious of such tresses. Having straight, rather fine hair, Laura was somewhat covetous herself.

  Jago went out with the shaving water, and at some point, Mary slipped out as well. Laura barely noticed, focused on the task at hand, the feel of his hair through her fingers. She gently straightened rich brown locks between the first two fingers of her left hand, and snipped off the ends, which had begun to curl. Again and again, she selected a section and trimmed it, taking her time, enjoying the process, which was somehow far more pleasurable than cutting Uncle Matthew’s hair had been. She moved around to the front and snipped the fringe and sides, aware of how strange it felt to stand like this with him sitting, her bodice close to his head.

  She bent and brought her face closer instead. Just as dangerous, perhaps, for now she was looking him eye to eye.

  She noticed some lather that had strayed behind his ear and wiped it away, showing him a finger of lather as her justification for touching him. “You missed some.”