Miss Chegwin, looking well rested and eager, came over to sit with their patient that morning, telling Laura to get some sleep or fresh air.
She gratefully acquiesced, dressed warmly, and with her basket in hand went for a walk, starting at Daymer Bay. As Laura strolled, she searched the sand, among the faded clumps of sea thrift, between the rocks, and in the rock pools. She saw nothing of interest.
Moving on, she returned to the wreck site.
On Greenaway Beach, there were still signs of the melee of the night before. Broken barrels and crates and shards of pottery littered the sand. An old man was leaning against an overturned cask, sleeping off his overindulgence.
She continued on, farther from the site.
At the far end of Greenaways, dark rocks bordered the beach, and here and there lay purple slate with faint green stripes. Against this lighter background, she spied an object like a small black animal or perhaps a wad of material. She drew nearer, bent and studied the object, and then gingerly picked it up. A black two-cornered hat. Nothing frightening, yet it filled her with an odd foreboding.
Silly creature, she remonstrated with herself. She had lived among superstitious people for too long.
Laura knew hats like these, being valuable and looking alike, often carried a man’s name embroidered within, especially among the military. She had found other cocked hats and chapeaux bras before. She looked inside the crown, and there was indeed a bit of embroidery: A. Carnell. The name meant nothing to her.
She put it in her basket. The salt water would do it no favors, but perhaps if she cleaned it quickly, it could be salvaged.
A. Carnell. One of the dead? Or the living?
When she returned to the house, she found Miss Chegwin hovering over the patient. The man moaned and turned his head one way, then the other.
Laura’s pulse quickened. “What is it? What’s happened?” She set aside her basket and untied her bonnet strings as she hurried forward.
Miss Chegwin laid a hand on his forehead. “He’s burning up with fever.”
From freezing cold to burning hot? That could not be good.
Fear gripped her. “Shall I fetch cool water and cloths?”
“Iss, thank’ee.”
“What do you think it is?” Laura asked. Please don’t let her say “putrid or malignant sore throat. . . .”
“Putrid throat, mayhap. Lord willing, not scarlet fever or typhus.”
Lord willing, indeed.
Hurrying to her task, Laura came back a few minutes later, basin and clean cloths in her arms.
The man continued to thrash.
Old nurse Chegwin spoke in gentle, cooing tones, trying to soothe him with words Laura didn’t understand. She was speaking in her first language, which few people still spoke.
Laura set the basin on the side table and dipped and wrung out the first cloth. “Why do you speak to him in Cornish? Do you think he doesn’t understand English?” She thought of Mrs. Bray’s fears that he might be a foreigner.
“I doubt he understands anything at this point. The words don’t matter, not in the state he’s in. It’s the reassuring tone that helps. Leastways, that’s what I’ve come to believe after sitting at sick beds all those years. Besides, it comes natural to me to speak the Kernewek. I can hear my own mamm speaking to me so when I were a wee girl.”
The man continued to moan and jerk his legs. Laura hoped he wouldn’t tear his stitches. She handed Miss Chegwin the cool cloth.
Mary laid it on his brow and then, with the second one Laura offered, began dabbing his cheeks, his neck, and the hairy vee of his chest visible in the open neckline of the nightshirt.
“Shh, my ’ansome . . .” the old woman hushed, and again began soothing him in her native tongue, Laura catching a few words but not many.
Eyes still closed, the man murmured a low reply.
Laura did not understand his response either.
Mary stilled, glancing over at her. “He answered me. In Kernewek! He understood me—I know he did.”
“What did he say?”
“Ill as he is, it were a bit garbled, but I believe he said, ‘Thank you, Granny.’” Her eyes brightened. “Don’t often hear young people speaking the old language anymore. Does my heart good. He must be Cornish.”
How unexpected. And the news should quell Mrs. Bray’s suspicions that he might be a foreigner.
When the patient’s fever continued to climb despite their ministrations, Miss Chegwin said, “Can’t believe I’m saying it, but I wish Dr. Dawe were here. Perhaps we ought to send for that young man again.”
“I agree.” Laura rose, wishing there were a faster way to summon him than walking to Roserrow. But Mrs. Bray and Eseld had gone shopping in Wadebridge, and her uncle had taken their only other horse on his rounds to the three churches in the parish.
Seeing her hesitate, Miss Chegwin said, “Take my donkey cart. Jago will harness it for you.”
Laura nodded. “Thank you.”
A short while later, Laura was again dressed for the brisk outdoors and on her way to Roserrow, about a mile and a half away, between Trebetherick and the church town of St. Minver.
The donkey was old and the cart rickety. She hoped they were traveling faster than she could have on foot.
After passing through Trebetherick, with its village shop and forge, Laura crossed a small bridge over a stream, then turned onto a sandy track, following it until the tall gables of Roserrow came into view. The two-and-a-half-story grey stone house was crowned with squat chimneys, while heavy columns braced its entry porch. Other than that, there was little ornamentation either in the architecture or grounds.
As she reached the drive, a groom came out to greet her, clearly looking down his long nose at her humble mode of transportation.
Treeve Kent, dressed in a well-cut riding coat, buckskin breeches, and tall leather boots, was just coming from the stables. His face brightened upon seeing her.
“Miss Callaway, what an unexpected pleasure.” He diverted his steps in her direction.
“Mr. Kent, is your brother at home? Our patient has taken a turn for the worse. A fever of some kind.”
“Horrors. Exactly the sort of thing Perry likes. Just don’t tell Mamma or she’ll forbid him to go. What kind of a doctor he’ll be if he refrains from visiting the truly sick, I don’t know, but Mamma would prefer it, sure he’ll bring home some foul disease like malignant sore throat.”
Laura shivered at the thought. She had lost her baby brother to that very malady.
He led her into the house and invited her to wait in the hall. “Sit here, if you like. This settle is about as comfortable as a pile of rocks. But then, you might like that, being something of a ruddy turnstone, pecking along the rocky shore for treasure.” He winked and strode away.
Laura had never been compared to a sea bird before and was not sure she liked it.
She sat on the hard settle and looked around the austere hall. Few pieces of art—statuary or paintings—were on display. Only a dozen stern-looking portraits of Kent ancestors.
A few minutes later, dark-haired Perran came trotting down the stairs, bag in hand and expression somber. “Miss Callaway, Treeve said something about our patient taking a turn?”
“I’m afraid so. He has come down with a fever. Miss Chegwin is with him now.”
“Then let us waste no time.”
He donned his greatcoat and followed her out to the stable yard. He took one look at the ancient donkey and even older cart and called to the groom, “Saddle Lightning and quickly.”
He turned to her. “You get started. I’ll ride separately, if you don’t mind. That way, I’ll arrive sooner and won’t have to walk back nor ask you to venture out again with that nag.”
“If you think taking the time to saddle another horse will be faster?”
“Undoubtedly.”
As they stood talking, a fine barouche arrived. Laura recognized the mineowner Mr. Roskilly and his daughter i
nside.
Treeve came out to greet them, all charm and warmth.
“Ah, Mr. Roskilly and Miss Roskilly, welcome to Roserrow.” He offered the thin, dark-haired woman a hand down. “Come in, come in. My parents are eager to greet you. Sadly, my brother will not be able to join us after all.”
But Treeve did not look the least bit sad, and neither did pretty Miss Roskilly.
Laura turned to climb into the cart. Perry belatedly realized he should have offered her a hand, and ended up awkwardly cupping her elbow. Laura sent the young man a reassuring smile and urged the old donkey into reluctant motion, down the drive and back onto the sandy track that led to Fern Haven.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Perry galloped up behind her on a black horse. She directed the donkey to the side and waved as he passed and rode on ahead, bag strapped to his saddle by leather cords.
Lightning indeed, Laura thought, impressed.
When she reached Brea Cottage, Jago was waiting for her and took charge of the cart and donkey. Laura thanked him and hurried up the rise and across the road to Fern Haven.
Perry was already in the guest room, pouring some liquid between the man’s lips.
“What do you think ails him?” Laura asked, panting to catch her breath.
“Lung fever, I believe. His lungs certainly sound congested, which is no wonder after nearly drowning. I’ve bled him and given him fever powder and an expectorant. He’ll need rest and quiet. There’s little else I can do.”
“I will help Laura nurse him,” Miss Chegwin said. “Together we shall see him through. He’s a strong Cornish lad, after all.”
Perry’s dark brows rose. “Is he?”
“Miss Chegwin spoke Cornish to him,” Laura explained. “He seemed to understand, even replied in kind.”
“Interesting. Well, I wish there were more I could do. I’ll return tomorrow to see how he fares.”
“Thank you. I would appreciate that. We all would.”
He closed his bag and looked up at her with a tentative smile. His smooth skin and large dark eyes gave him a sweet boyish appearance. As Miss Chegwin had said, he was not nearly as handsome as his older brother. Seeing him look at her the way he was now, however, a girl could easily forget he even had a brother.
But then Laura realized he was not looking at her but past her. She turned and saw Eseld in the passage just beyond the door. She was the recipient of Perry’s admiring gaze.
Unfortunately, Eseld saw no one but Treeve.
After Perry left, Miss Chegwin murmured, “All he can do, perhaps, but not all I can do.”
The old nurse worked steadily. She alternated between building up the fire when chills racked his body and having Jago help her submerge the man in a cool slipper bath when the fever spiked once more.
“We called it winter fever in my day,” she said, “seeing as it seems to strike when the weather turns cold, the old and the very young most of all.”
To help relieve his congestion and labored breathing, Mary asked Newlyn to bring in pots of boiling water. She placed them near the bed and left another large kettle steaming over the room’s fire. But Wenna complained to Mrs. Bray about the maid’s usual work falling to her, so after that Laura and Miss Chegwin split the work between them.
In the hearth, Mary burned a combination of herbs harvested from hedgerows and her own garden: comfrey, peppermint, and eucalyptus.
Later, she spread a plaster of her own making over the man’s chest—aromatic and potent.
At Mary’s instruction, Laura made the man sip liquids as often as he’d take them—tea, water, broth, and elderberry syrup.
They tended the patient all that day and the next. Eventually, his breathing eased and both his fever and chills subsided.
“You’ve done it, Miss Chegwin,” Laura exclaimed. “His fever has broken. Now, do go home and get some sleep. You’ve worked yourself ragged, and we don’t want you falling ill as well. We need you.”
She patted Laura’s hand. “Feels good to be needed again.”
The woman did as Laura bid, adding, “But send for me if he worsens.”
“I shall.”
After Mary left, Laura sat at the man’s bedside, gently pressing a cup of water to his lips at regular intervals. She recalled doing the same for one of her father’s patients long ago. Mamma had been out somewhere that day when the summons came, and Laura had asked Papa if she might go along. He had hesitated, but soon gave in to her request, as he often did, and the two set out together. After he’d examined the elderly woman, he’d asked Laura to sit with the patient while Papa went to tell her husband the melancholy news—his wife was gravely ill and hadn’t long to live. Even with Laura’s small experience of sickness, she saw how much restless fever there was in the woman’s speech, and some instinct prompted her to tell a long story to distract the old dear, describing their recent visit to the seaside, her new frock for the trip, her baby brother’s antics—all in an easy flow of talk that proved very soothing to the patient, giving her something to think about beyond her immediate suffering.
The woman had liked her and asked Dr. Callaway if Laura could come again. Papa agreed, pride evident in his expression. After that, she had visited the woman daily, helping as much as she could, explaining the finer directions of her treatment and diet to the rotating nurses, and talking to the patient about everything and nothing until she passed peacefully in her sleep.
As Laura again leaned near to help the man sip from the cup, Mrs. Bray came in but remained near the door.
“How is he?” she asked. “I do hope you don’t catch something, Laura. Really, you should leave the nursing to Miss Chegwin.”
Hope flared. Was that maternal concern in the woman’s voice? But Laura guessed Mrs. Bray was more concerned about her passing on some infection to Eseld.
Defensiveness rose. “Mary can’t remain awake round the clock.”
“She must have done, when she worked for Dr. Dawe.”
“But she is over seventy now, remember.”
“Yes, well. I am as charitable as the next person, but I will want our guest room restored to us soon. There must be . . . institutions for shipwrecked souls like him.”
“None near here.”
“Very well. Just . . . do all you can to move him along.”
“I shall do everything in my power to help him recover, rest assured.”
Eseld’s bright, inquisitive face appeared in the doorway beside her mother. “What is going on?”
“Stay out, Eseld. I won’t have you falling ill.”
“Of course not, Mamm. But Laura here is perfectly expendable.” She winked.
“I did not say that.” Lamorna Bray lifted her chin. “It is her choice to risk her health. I am not her mother to command her. But I am yours, so take care.”
“Yes, Mamm. I’ll just stand here and keep Laura company for a time.”
“If you must, but be careful not to take a chill.”
When Mrs. Bray had gone, Eseld looked mischievously down the passage to be sure they were alone, then tiptoed into the room, closer to the bed, though not too close.
“How old is he, do you think?”
Laura shrugged. “I would guess thirty, or a bit more.”
“Too old for me, but just right for you.”
Laura huffed. “I am only two years older than you are.”
“In numbers, perhaps, but in other ways you are far older.”
Laura could not disagree.
Eseld pushed the candle lamp closer to the man. “Hard to see if he is handsome or not, covered in all those whiskers.” She tilted her head to one side as she studied him. “He has a good nose. Thin and straight. Aristocratic almost. And a very pleasant mouth. See how his lips are fuller at the center?”
Laura had noticed but did not admit it.
“He needs a shave and haircut,” Eseld added.
“Are you offering?”
“Me? Heavens no. I wouldn’t know how. A shame
your uncle hasn’t a valet.”
Laura used to cut Uncle Matthew’s hair after her aunt Anne, his first wife, died. So deep in grief he’d been, he had not cared a whit about his appearance or much of anything else. But since he’d remarried, his wife insisted he go to the barber in Black Rock.
“Well, this man will not be going to a barber for the foreseeable future,” Laura said.
“Is he very poorly?”
“If you had asked me yesterday, I would have been hard-pressed to hold out hope, but he seems much improved, thanks to Miss Chegwin and Perran Kent.”
“Did Perry help?”
“Absolutely.”
“Will he be a good doctor, do you think?”
“With experience, a very good doctor, I predict.”
“Then perhaps you should marry him, Laura. It would be perfect, your being a doctor’s daughter and all. That would leave Treeve for me. Perry isn’t as handsome, but he’s twice as clever, which is just as you like.”
Laura reared back her head in surprise but did not argue. She admired intelligence, that was true, but she was not immune to a handsome face.
Eseld looked around the room and took a deep breath. “Well, it certainly livens up the place, having a mysterious man living under our roof. Or would do, if he would hurry and come to his senses. Do you think he is married or single?”
“No way to know.”
“Yes, a pity men don’t wear rings. It would help a girl to know whom to flirt with and whom to ignore.”
Laura chuckled at that.
“Mamm is right about one thing,” Eseld went on. “He looks like a pirate with that dark beard and wild hair. Do you think he might be one, or at least a smuggler?”
“No, I do not. The wreck was a merchant ship from Yarmouth.”
“Perhaps he sneaked on board, killed all the crew, and then ran the ship onto the rocks to cover his crimes.”
“Heaven forbid.” Laura laughed. “What an awful imagination you have.”
“All right. If you don’t like that . . . perhaps he is no ordinary sailor or merchant . . . but a man in pursuit of the woman he loves.” Her lively eyes brightened with her tale. “He’d met her briefly once. She told him she was a sea captain’s daughter, but she disappeared before he could ask the name of her father’s ship or their home. And now he sails from port to port, just hoping to find her again.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 4