A Castaway in Cornwall Read online

  Laura blushed, but her uncle said proudly, “Laura has shod many a poor youth in this parish. Finds them, restores them, and gives them to those in need.”

  Alexander bent to look at the shoes. Had he noticed they were not a perfect match? He tilted up his head and met her gaze. “I am in your debt.”

  A few minutes later, he limped into the dining parlour with the help of a walking stick lent to him by Miss Chegwin. Newlyn had added another place at the table, and Alexander joined them for the first time.

  Uncle Matthew pulled back his chair with a beaming smile. “You are very welcome, Mr. Lucas.”

  “Thank you.” He bowed to the ladies before taking his seat.

  Even Lamorna Bray smiled and said all that was proper, clearly as impressed with the change in his appearance as her daughter had been.

  Uncle Matthew asked the blessing, and the meal began.

  “My husband tells me you are from Jersey, Mr. Lucas?” Mrs. Bray asked.

  He nodded. “My grandparents moved there from England decades ago. It is a beautiful place. Have you ever been?”

  “Me? Never. But someone we know went there. . . .” Squinting upward, she searched her memory, then looked to her husband for help. “Who was it, Mr. Bray?”

  Laura’s heart pounded.

  With an apologetic glance at her, Uncle Matthew dipped his head and said gently, “Laura’s parents.”

  “Oh, I quite forgot.”

  Alexander looked at her, brows high in surprise and perhaps concern. She looked away, pushing a piece of mackerel around her plate.

  Noticing her discomfort, Eseld took up the conversation.

  “I remember looking for Jersey on a map once. In the English Channel, is it not? Much closer to France than England.”

  “True.” Mr. Lucas nodded. “Only twelve nautical miles.”

  “What sort of food do they eat there? Not mackerel and turnips, I trust.” Eseld wrinkled her nose at her barely touched plate.

  “We ate much seafood, as here. Fish and a great deal of crab, lobster, oysters, whelks, and the like, along with many fresh vegetables. Less mutton, perhaps. There were also traditional Jersey dishes like sweet cakes, bean crock, and pickled ormers.”

  “Ormers?” Eseld asked suspiciously.

  “A mollusk. Called abalone here, I believe. Most delicious.”

  This time Laura barely resisted wrinkling her nose. She liked fish but was not fond of snails and other mollusks.

  “You were traveling by merchantman, I understand,” Mrs. Bray said. “Are you a sailor or a merchant or . . . ?” She let the question dangle and waited expectantly.

  He hesitated, sipping from his glass and wiping his table napkin over his mouth before answering. “I am . . . a sailor, yes.”

  Laura remembered him mentioning being educated at Cambridge and on the continent, and he certainly sounded the part. Was he really a simple sailor?

  At his reply, Mrs. Bray’s interest dimmed, and she asked her husband to pass the sauce for the fish.

  Eseld spoke up again. “What will you do now, Mr. Lucas?”

  “Try to get home,” he replied, this time without hesitation.

  Mrs. Bray nodded and said coolly, “Good idea.”

  “But first he must fully recover,” her uncle interjected, giving the man a kind smile. “There’s no hurry.”

  As they finished the meal, Laura asked, “How about some fresh air, Mr. Lucas? Just out to the garden?”

  He smiled in apparent relief. “Thank you, yes.”

  “I will join you,” Eseld said, setting aside her table napkin.

  But her mother laid a hand over hers. “Eseld, my dear, there is a chill wind today; perhaps you had better remain indoors and rest.”

  Eseld’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, but she protested no further.

  Uncle Matthew insisted Alexander borrow one of his coats.

  “One of the older ones, please,” Mrs. Bray clarified.

  A few minutes later, Laura and Alexander walked outside and slowly around the garden, she in her pelisse and wool shawl, and he in Uncle Matthew’s dark brown coat. The garden was fading now but still lovely with its golden mums, dried hydrangeas, Michaelmas daisies, and the leaves of barberry shrubs turning red and bronze.

  “Shall we sit a moment?” She gestured to a garden bench sheltered by an arched, vine-clad arbor.

  His gaze lingered on it. “We have one like this at home.”

  They sat quietly for a few moments, then he said, “I would like to visit my friend’s grave soon, if you could show me the way.”

  “Of course. Would tomorrow suit?”

  He nodded. “Thank you.”

  “I should warn you that there is no marker as of yet,” she added.

  “I understand.”

  “If the squire, Mr. Sandys, or the shipowners won’t cover the cost, my uncle will likely pay for one himself. He is generous that way.”

  “Kind of him.”

  “Yes, he is a good man. Can you walk, do you think? It’s about half a mile away. Or should I ask Uncle Matthew for the carriage?”

  “Walking would be good for me, I think. Need to regain my strength. With this stick from Miss Chegwin, I think I can manage.”

  “Very well. Tomorrow after breakfast, then.”

  She accompanied him back to his room. “Would you like to join us for church sometime? You would be welcome, though I should warn you that you would be stared at and whispered about as a great curiosity.”

  Laura well remembered this experience from her first service at the main parish church of St. Menefreda’s. The prickling awareness of being watched and found wanting: from her outmoded bonnet and frock to her red hair and her very person. She could still feel the embarrassment of glancing over and finding hard stares and smirks pointed in her direction. And she could still see a young Kayna Roskilly whispering about her to Miss Sandys behind a gloved hand.

  “Thank you for the invitation—and the warning,” Alexander said. “I don’t think I am ready for that just yet, but perhaps you might lend me a Bible so I can read on my own? If you or your uncle have an extra one, that is.”

  She smiled, pleased he would ask. “We do indeed.”

  Laura went back to her room and brought him the second Bible she had rescued from the sea—bound in leather and tied tightly with a cord. Very little salt water had gotten in, and she had been able to dry it without lasting damage beyond some minor warping. She had hoped to return it to the family whose marriages and deaths were recorded in the frontispiece, but had not as yet been able to find their direction. So for now, she was glad someone else should have the use of it.

  It reminded Laura of the first Bible she found, and one of the more positive results of her letter-writing efforts.

  After a shipwreck a few years ago, she’d found a leather-bound New Testament and Psalms in a young soldier’s knapsack, still strapped to his back. The owner’s name, several generations of his lineage, and even the name of the family estate were written inside. It had taken only one letter in that instance to reach the next of kin, or in this case, several next of kin.

  The patriarch of the family, the poor young man’s grandfather, had written back, full of all the sadness and grief one might expect, yet with heartfelt gratitude to her for writing to let them know his grandson had been given a Christian burial and that he’d kept the Bible with him. This man and his wife and daughter had traveled to the parish to speak with her. Laura and Uncle Matthew met the family at the inn where they were staying. She restored the treasured book to them, recounted the details of the wreck, and escorted them to the churchyard to show them where their loved one had been buried. Many tears were shed, but Laura was left with the satisfaction of knowing that she had helped them during their time of loss and grief.

  It had all been her uncle’s idea originally. Not long after they moved to Fern Haven, he’d found a name embroidered in a drowned man’s coat, and said, “I really ought to try to get wor
d to his family. I suppose I could track down the owners of the ship, and they in turn might send me the young man’s place of birth or next of kin. But sadly, I don’t have the time.”

  He was very busy with three churches to look after, so Laura had offered to write letters of inquiry on his behalf.

  Uncle Matthew readily agreed. “Life can be hard, and yours has not been easy. But I can honestly say that serving God and serving others has given me purpose and fills my soul when life is sometimes disappointing. I would love for you to find that same fulfillment.”

  At the time, Laura had brushed off his encouragement, saying, “Don’t make it sound too grand. I am only writing a few letters. Nothing may come of it.”

  Her words had been fairly accurate. Little had come of her early inquiries. But on that day when they parted company with the young man’s family, Laura said to her uncle, “You were right. It isn’t an easy or happy task, but it is worthwhile. Thank you for entrusting me with it.”

  He’d patted her hand. “I am glad to hear it, my dear. But don’t thank me. It would have gone undone if not for you. I thank God He is blessing your efforts.”

  After breakfast the next morning, Laura and Alexander set out together, dressed for the brisk weather, he with walking stick in hand and wearing the tall leather boots she’d given him.

  They strolled along a narrow sandy lane toward Daymer Bay. The heath flowers were mostly brown, but here and there dashes of purple remained, and the gorse was still in golden bloom among the fading ferns and reeds.

  Soon St. Enodoc came into view, at least those parts that were visible. Because it was set among the dunes stretching up from the estuary, sand had encroached on two sides of the chapel, covering the eastern gable, the low porch roof, and door. At this end, only the slate roof showed. Near the middle stood the squat, crooked spire the winds had twisted over the centuries.

  They entered through the lych-gate. At the far end of the churchyard, a mound covered in shaggy vegetation rose to nearly the top of the north transept windows. From there it was possible to lean near the glass and look inside the mostly buried structure.

  “This is the north chapel of the parish,” Laura explained. “There is also a south chapel in Porthilly. The main church is in the village of St. Minver.”

  Gesturing toward the sand-covered church, Laura went on, “Some people call it Sinkininny Church or Sinkin’ Neddy, for obvious reasons.”

  “Does your uncle still conduct services here?”

  She nodded. “He is required to at least once a year. We lower him down through the roof with a rope—see that hatch there? It covers the skylight made for that purpose. A few stalwart parishioners go down as well, while others gather on the mound to listen to the service.”

  “How strange,” he murmured.

  “Yes. He is trying to raise funds to uncover and restore the church, but it is slow going.” The Roskillys were hosting a subscription ball soon, which should help his cause.

  The lower graveyard was also submerged in sand, but on the higher ground, graves could be seen: Cornish crosses, tomb chests, and headstones.

  She led him to a particular section of the graveyard. “These will give you an idea of what the headstone for the crew of the Kittiwake may eventually look like.”

  Together they read a few inscriptions:

  SACRED

  to the memory of six men and a youth,

  names unknown, who were cast ashore

  from the wreck of the Brave I.

  October 21, 1810

  DEDICATED

  to the unknown dead of the SS Land Ho.

  November 8, 1811

  Remains brought and interred by volunteer labour.

  “Shipwreck victims used to be buried in mass graves near the shore,” Laura said. “Most have no markings at all, or perhaps only an anchor or figurehead. My uncle hated the practice. We were so relieved when the law changed, and we were allowed to bury people in the churchyard.”

  He nodded his agreement, expression thoughtful, even solemn.

  As they walked past the listing headstones and Cornish crosses, Laura pointed out a more recent grave of interest:

  HERE LIE DEPOSITED

  the Remains of the chief mate and thirteen seamen,

  a portion of the crew of the Price, which was wrecked

  at the entrance of Padstow Harbour.

  September 1813

  Finally, she led him to a large rectangle of recently disturbed earth near the lych-gate.

  “This is where your friend and the other men lie.”

  He nodded, staring at the spot. So humble. So wrong. She’d hoped viewing the other headstones and knowing this grave would be properly honored in time might ease the sting of seeing the unmarked patch of sandy dirt. But observing his expression, she doubted anything could ease his present pain.

  “I will give you a few minutes alone.”

  Again he nodded wordlessly, and Laura walked away to give him privacy to grieve. At the corner of the old church, she glanced over her shoulder and saw him lower himself to his knees and press a hand into the dirt.

  Seeing him touch that patch of bare ground, fresh grief at her own losses struck her anew. Bare . . . blank . . . that was what she saw in her mind’s eye when she tried to imagine her parents’ graves on Jersey. Had they even been given a proper burial? A headstone? With her aunt and uncle sick and dying as well, had there been anyone to pay for a memorial? Or had her parents too ended up in an unmarked grave somewhere? She didn’t know. She longed to go to Jersey herself and see their final resting place, to be assured that everything had been done properly. It wouldn’t fill the gaping hole their absence left in her life, but it would be some comfort.

  Glad for a few moments of solitude, Laura blinked away tears. As she walked through a neighboring field, she gathered a humble bouquet of feathery grasses, coneflowers, and harebells. Then she strolled slowly back to the church.

  After Miss Callaway left him, Alexander lowered himself to his knees before the grave, hardly able to believe that his dear friend lay lifeless beneath dirt and sand and regrets. He leaned forward and pressed a hand into the soil as if he could reach Daniel. Comfort Daniel. Comfort himself.

  I am so sorry, Daniel. Your poor wife! And poor little child, to be born into the world without a father.

  Daniel would have been an excellent father. Gentle, patient, and so good with his hands. The family’s home would have always been in excellent repair, and there would have been a new toy every Christmas.

  Alexander thought of the things Daniel had made during their time in Huntingdonshire—carved boxes and a model ship replicating the dear Victorine they had both served on and lost. And most precious of all, an intricate Noah’s ark with matched pairs of animals he had crafted for his child to come.

  I am so sorry, my friend, Alex thought again. And he wondered how he might get word to Daniel’s widow.

  If he managed to return home, he would go and see her and relay the news in person. But how likely was that to happen anytime soon? He had almost no money with which to buy passage on another ship. And even if he somehow made arrangements to get there, without the evidence he’d lost to the sea, what was the point? What good could he do Alan without it?

  He rose and wiped his hands. Was there another reason he was reluctant to go home? A reason with beguiling brown eyes and dark red hair? No, he told himself. He had learned his lesson where women were concerned. He had already risked his heart—and his life—more than enough.

  Then suddenly there she was. Without a word, she reappeared and handed him a simple bouquet of wildflowers. At the thoughtful gesture, his determination to remain aloof flagged.

  “Thank you,” he murmured. He knelt and placed it on the grave, whispering, “Good-bye, Daniel.”

  Then the two of them started back toward Fern Haven, Alexander leaning more heavily on the stick, though he tried to hide the strain.

  She paused on the seaside path, ostensi
bly to take in the view, though he guessed she’d stopped to let him rest. Her gaze lingered on the glittering waters of the estuary. The sun lit her fair skin to golden, and strands of dark red hair escaped their pins and danced in the wind around her face. He forced himself to turn from her profile to the distant rocks and waves. Reminded of something, he recited,

  “God moves in a mysterious way,

  His wonders to perform;

  He plants his footsteps in the sea,

  And rides upon the storm.”

  He looked over at her and saw her eyebrows lift in surprise. He explained, “You read that to me once.”

  “I am astonished you remember,” she said. “I doubted you heard me.”

  “I heard you, even before I saw you.” He held her gaze, longing to reach out and hold her hand.

  For a moment they stood looking at one another, but then a boat on the estuary rang its bell, dissolving the fragile moment.

  They continued on their way.

  “A rest, I think, when we return,” she said. “You’ve earned it.”

  As they neared Fern Haven, they heard music coming from Brea Cottage. He and Laura stopped to listen, and Miss Chegwin noticed them and urged them inside.

  “Jago is practicing his hurdy-gurdy for Allantide tomorrow.”

  Alex felt nostalgic as he watched the young man turn the crank of the wheel fiddle with one big hand, while the thick fingers of the other played the keys. His family’s orchard keeper had an instrument like it, and Alex had always enjoyed the music, created by a rosined wheel rubbing against the strings. The wheel functioned much like a violin bow, and the sound was similar as well.

  When Jago played the final notes with a flourish, Alex and Laura clapped, and Miss Chegwin beamed from her chair.

  “Well done, my friend,” Alex praised. “How did you learn to play?”

  “An old neighbor taught me.”

  Miss Chegwin nodded. “Poor Mr. Methyr. I nursed him through his many illnesses. He left that hurdy-gurdy to Jago in his will. Very kind of him.”

  Alex smiled from her to the young man and said, “He would be pleased to hear you play it. I know I am.”

  “Come back tomorrow night, and you’ll hear more,” Miss Chegwin promised. “It’s our annual Allantide party. I do hope’ee will join us.”