A Castaway in Cornwall

by Julie Klassen

  He caught her hand, and she drew in a breath of surprise. Did he mean to stop her, offended at her presumption in touching him? But he held her hand and met her eyes.

  “I think I owe you a great debt, Miss Callaway.”

  “Ha. You haven’t seen your hair yet.”

  “For so much more—for saving my life.”

  Self-conscious, she diverted his praise. “We all helped. Jago, Newlyn, Miss Chegwin . . .”

  “But it was you who saved me. Jago told me about the night of the wreck, the wrecker who wanted to kill me, and you insisting I be carried here for safekeeping.”

  His warm hand holding hers and his soulful eyes looking deep into her own disoriented Laura, and she felt as unsteady on her feet as he had recently seemed. “Anyone of conscience would have done the same.”

  “No, they would not.”

  “I . . . well, you’re welcome.”

  Footfalls sounded in the passage, and he released her hand. She took a step back, under the pretense of surveying her work.

  As the steps neared, both turned toward the door.

  Eseld came in, eyes widening at the vision before her. “Good heavens. Who are you and what have you done with my pirate?”

  Laura flushed. “Don’t be silly. He has only had a haircut and shave, as I believe you suggested.”

  “And a good suggestion it was,” Eseld breathed.

  Laura whisked the towel from his shoulders. “Eseld, this is Alexander Lucas. Mr. Lucas, my stepcousin, Miss Eseld Mably.”

  He rose gingerly, favoring his injured ankle. “A pleasure,” he murmured, then bowed.

  Laura’s stomach sank. Of course it was a pleasure. Eseld was the beauty, not her.

  Eseld looked similarly struck. “Alexander Lucas, hm? I like it.” She curtsied, then glanced up at Laura. “Did I not tell you he would be handsome under all those whiskers? And I was right. A straight aristocratic nose. And a very pleasant-looking mouth.”

  His thick brows went up at that, and Eseld had the decency to blush. Laura felt embarrassed too.

  He looked at Laura, a playful light in his eyes. “And do you agree with your cousin’s assessment?”

  “I . . .” She shrugged and looked away, ears burning.

  Eseld waved a dismissive hand. “Oh, Laura does not notice such things. She only has eyes for clever, learned men. And flotsam.”

  Again his brows rose, and a grin teased his mouth. “And presumably I am the latter?”

  Eseld laughed. “Very true. I had not thought of that. Laura has found another treasure on the beach. Her biggest find by far.”

  More footsteps approached, and this time Perry Kent appeared in the doorway. Laura was glad for the interruption.

  “Speaking of clever, learned men . . .” Eseld said.

  Perry looked from Eseld to Laura. “Thank you, I think. What have I missed?” Then his eyes landed on the man behind Laura, who now stood on his own two feet.

  “Ah, I see. This is a welcome sight.” He stepped forward, hand extended. “Perry Kent.”

  Alex shook his hand. “Alexander Lucas.”

  “Dr. Kent is a new physician,” Laura explained. “He helped treat your injuries and fever.”

  “Oh, I did very little,” Perry said modestly. “Laura and Miss Chegwin did the majority of the work.”

  “Even so, I thank you, sir,” Alexander said earnestly.

  “Perry. I am not ready for sir just yet.” He smiled, and Alexander returned the gesture.

  While he was there, Perry said he would examine the stitches and the patient’s other injuries, shooing Eseld from the room.

  “Why can Laura stay but not I? Are we not both ladies?”

  Laura took her arm and led her from the room. “Come, my dear, let us fetch tea and biscuits for the gentlemen.”

  “Do you think he is a gentleman?” Eseld whispered as Laura dragged her to the kitchen. “I was hoping for a pirate. So much more romantic!”

  Over the graves of drowned sailors were planted the figure-heads of wrecked vessels, and these in the mist might have been taken as the dead risen and mingling with the living . . .

  —S. BARING-GOULD, IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA

  Chapter 5

  Later that day, the local agent, Mr. Hicks, returned with Laura’s uncle.

  As they stepped into the guest room, Uncle Matthew explained, “I saw Mr. Hicks in Padstow and happened to mention our survivor had come to his senses. He is eager to talk with him.”

  Laura noticed Alexander subtly stiffen.

  The agent stepped forward, hat in hand. “Howard Hicks, wreck agent for the Kittiwake.”

  When Alex remained silent, Laura said, “This is Alexander Lucas.”

  “Mr. Lucas. Well, I have written to the ship’s owners for an official list of the cargo and crew, but since yer awake, perhaps you could provide at least some of that information yerself.”

  “I am afraid not,” Alexander replied.

  “No? And why not?”

  “I was only a passenger. As I’ve told Miss Callaway, I was traveling with a friend, so I can certainly give you his name—Daniel Marchal—but not all the others.”

  Uncle Matthew spoke up. “I am sorry for your loss.”

  “Right, right. Tragic.” Hicks wrote in his notebook and then turned a page. “But surely ye met some of the officers or crew. Can ye at least confirm the captain’s name?”

  He nodded. “Frederick Smythe, I believe. And the mate was Peters—I didn’t hear his given name.”

  “We’ve traced the owners to Yarmouth. Is that the port ye departed from?”

  “Yes.”

  Hicks wrote it down. “And where were ye bound?”

  “Portreath. But heavy seas prevented us from entering that harbour, so we continued on, seeking safe haven. Unfortunately, the sea had other ideas.”

  “Not surprising,” Hicks replied. “Padstow is one of the few safe harbours on the North Cornwall coast. And what was yer business in Portreath?”

  Alexander hesitated. “How inquisitive you are. Do you always question mere passengers about their private business?”

  Careful, Mr. Lucas, Laura thought, knowing evasion would only make the agent more dogged. She gently nudged his arm.

  “Yer the sole survivor, Mr. Lucas,” Hicks said. “There is no one else to question.”

  Alexander glanced at her and changed tack. “Sadly true. Forgive me, Mr. Hicks, my loss is still fresh.”

  “Right. I understand.”

  “The captain planned to deliver his cargo there. I only intended . . . only hoped . . . to go home. We planned to secure passage the rest of the way from there.”

  “And where is home for ye? Not in Cornwall, I take it?”

  “No. I was hoping to reach Jersey. Do you know it?”

  Laura’s heart lurched at the word. Jersey . . .

  Hicks nodded. “An island near France.”

  Eyes glinting, Alexander said, “A British Crown dependency, don’t forget.”

  “Is that where yer from?”

  “I have lived in many places. I was educated at Cambridge and on the continent. I have traveled a great deal.”

  “Suppose that explains yer accent. Haven’t heard one exactly like it. Sounds a bit Frenchy to me.”

  “They still speak French on Jersey, you know,” Alexander replied. “As well as traditional Jèrriais. But I’ve lived in England for years, most recently in Huntingdonshire.”

  “Heard of it. Never been there.” Hicks consulted his notes. “And yer friend, Mr. . . . Marshall?”

  “He was also on his way home.”

  Hicks peered at him over the top of his notebook. “Risky to sail to Jersey while we’re at war with France.”

  “Well do I know it. Yet it was not the French who stopped us, but the sea. Or perhaps more accurately the Doom Bar and Greenaway Rocks.”

  “They’ve stopped many a ship before, I can tell ye. Can ye give me the names of any other men?”

&nb
sp; Alexander’s eyes flashed to Laura’s and then away again.

  “Miss Callaway showed me her descriptions of the victims. I saw the boy. A cheerful, hardworking lad, but the only name I heard him called was Ginger, on account of his hair. And the cook was a big man named Seymour. Beyond that, I can’t help you.”

  He did not, she noticed, mention the man he believed to be missing from her list.

  “Well,” Hicks said. “We’ll have the official list of passengers and crew soon enough.” The agent closed his notebook. “Thank you, Mr. Lucas.”

  Alexander nodded. “Mr. Hicks.”

  After the vicar and Mr. Hicks left, the agent’s words echoed through Alex’s mind, “We’ll have the official list of passengers and crew soon enough.”

  Dread pulsed through him at the thought.

  When the door closed behind them, he turned to Miss Callaway and confessed, “My friend and I won’t be on that list.”

  She eyed him steadily. “Why not?”

  “We were not registered passengers. The captain agreed to carry us unofficially, happy to earn extra money.”

  “I see. And why did you need to be unofficial?”

  “The shipowners have policies. No unauthorized passengers allowed. Only duly trained crew. But many a captain has agreed to help a fellow in need of last-minute transportation.”

  Her expression remained sober. “And why did you need last-minute transportation? You said you wanted to go home. Why the urgency? Especially knowing the risks?”

  He studied her face. Sometimes the pretty young woman seemed so generous and accepting. Other times, like now, she was far too inquisitive. “You have missed your calling, Miss Callaway. You ought to have been a wreck agent like Mr. Hicks. You are a natural.”

  Her golden brown eyes glinted. “Perhaps. But you, Mr. Lucas, are hiding something.”

  He decided there was no point in denying it. “Yes, I am. Someday, perhaps, I shall tell you all, but not yet. Not until I know I can trust you.”

  “And can I trust you?” she asked.

  He hesitated. “You are perfectly safe with me. That is all I can promise for now.”

  Laura returned to her own room, needing to think. She had been jolted with surprise when Mr. Lucas mentioned Jersey. How often she thought of that place, dreamed of visiting that far-off island one day, though she had no idea how she would ever manage it. Years ago, when her parents informed her they were sailing to Jersey, she had begged to go along. Instead, they sent her away to school and traveled without her.

  She had felt angry, betrayed, abandoned, and frightened in turns, and as it happened, she’d had every right to feel that way. For after they sailed for Jersey, she never saw either one of them ever again.

  That afternoon Laura went with her uncle to the small hamlet of Porthilly to pay calls on a few ailing parishioners. She took a pot of soup to elderly Mr. Carlyon and Wenna’s prune-stewed rabbit to the Penberthy family with five children. The youngest two were sick with a fever. Laura hoped it was a teething fever or even croup and nothing more serious. Mrs. Penberthy, a miner’s widow, could not afford a doctor even had Dr. Dawe been available, but Laura promised to ask Miss Chegwin and Perran Kent what inexpensive remedies they would suggest.

  After their visits, Uncle Matthew went to St. Michael’s for a meeting with the churchwardens. Since it was a beautiful autumn day, Laura said she would meet him back at the church in an hour’s time. In the meanwhile, she ambled from Porthilly Cove to the nearby village of Black Rock—often shortened to “Rock” in conversation—enjoying the views of larger Padstow across the estuary.

  She found herself thinking of baby Charles, her only sibling. She had been so ecstatic when he was born, making her a big sister at last. At nearly nine years of age, she had all but given up hope of siblings and, she’d gathered, her parents had as well. How happy they had all been at his healthy birth. Laura had watched his growth and each new triumph—learning to smile, laugh, crawl, and walk—with nearly a maternal pride of her own.

  Then came the week of his second birthday. Papa had been called away to attend an ailing patient.

  The nursery maid had brought Charles down to his mother. “Seems too warm to me, Mrs. Callaway. And terrible fussy. Is the doctor at home?”

  “No, he is out on a call.” Mamma laid a gentle hand on the toddler’s forehead. “He has been teething. Perhaps that is all it is.”

  She went upstairs to the nursery with the boy, and Laura followed, wishing there were something she could do and offering to bring cool cloths to ease his fever.

  “Yes, thank you, Laura.”

  But as the hours passed, the symptoms worsened. Her baby brother’s little flushed face tightened into a grimace of pain. His breathing became labored, every inhale sounding raw and hoarse.

  Fear began to shadow her mother’s expression, and agitation heated her eyes.

  “Where did your father go? Do you remember?”

  “Mr. Saunder’s, near the park.”

  “Good. Let’s send Thomas with a note.”

  Not wanting to lay down her beloved burden, her mother asked Laura to write the note for her.

  A few minutes later, their manservant hurried off to deliver the message, and Laura returned to the nursery. There, she stood beside her mother’s chair and took her brother’s hand, so small, into hers. How warm and damp it was, far warmer than Laura’s own. When he cried, his whimpers were soon followed by dry coughs.

  As darkness fell, her father returned from his patient’s sickbed tired and drawn. He hurried into the nursery, bag in hand, young partner at his heels. He examined the small dear body, and his expression turned grave. “His throat is swollen.”

  His young partner suggested bloodletting, but Dr. Callaway did not believe in the procedure for one so young.

  “Malignant sore throat, do you think?” the younger man asked.

  “God, have mercy,” her mother wailed.

  With a significant glance at Laura, he stoically replied, “Too early to tell.” But Laura saw the ghastly pallor of her father’s normally cheerful countenance as he sent her from the room to avoid infection.

  Laura had sat on the floor in the corridor, close enough to hear her father’s commands and see his partner dart from the room to fetch whatever he asked for. Papa worked tirelessly to save Charles—coating his throat with spirits of sea salt and getting the boy to take small quantities of milk, boiled and allowed to cool. If only she had known to try such remedies earlier.

  Hours later, he came out alone. From behind the closed nursery door came the muffled sobs of her mother.

  He slumped next to Laura on the corridor floor—dark now. His raspy words escaped a strangled throat. “I am so sorry. I tried to save him but could not. I failed. Oh, my son!”

  He pressed his hands to his face as though to hide his sorrow and his shame.

  Tears streamed down Laura’s face as well. Poor Charles. Poor Mamma and Papa. Poor her to lose her only sibling. She laid her head on her father’s shoulder, and together they cried until there were no tears left.

  Things with her parents had never been the same after that. Her father seemed to give her more attention, her mother less. Did she resent that Laura had survived instead of Charles? Was she suffering from a depression of spirits? Had she decided to distance herself to avoid the heartrending loss of another child, should something ever happen to her daughter? Laura was never certain. She had played all the scenarios and possible explanations through her mind over the years but had not come to a satisfactory conclusion.

  Now, thinking again of the Penberthy children, Laura breathed a prayer, Please spare them, Lord, even as her heart doubted God would hear and answer.

  While Laura was out walking, she saw a youth she knew from church, the ferryman’s son, playing trap ball with a few other boys.

  As she walked closer, she saw that he was wearing a man’s coat that was too large for him. It was a blue uniform coat with red cuffs, one epau
let almost torn away, hanging by threads.

  He ran in her direction in pursuit of a ball, and when he neared, she asked, “Martyn, where did you get that coat?”

  The youth shrugged one shoulder, sending the tasseled epaulet swaying. “Where do’ee think? From the sea.”

  “The night of the wreck?”

  “No, miss. Day after. Over in Polzeath.”

  “I see.” Laura thought quickly. She was no expert, but she believed the coat he wore was that of a French officer. Navy, most likely. British naval officers also wore blue coats, but theirs had white collars and cuffs.

  “Well.” She summoned a smile for the boy. “I’d be careful wearing that coat. You might be taken for a French spy.”

  He grinned in reply.

  The lads called to Martyn, urging him to hurry back to the game, so he ran off, leaving Laura with more questions than answers.

  The following day, Laura attended a christening at St. Menefreda’s with the family and, afterward, rode home in the carriage for a quiet dinner at Fern Haven. Uncle Matthew and Laura spoke conspiratorially outside the stable before returning to the house. A short while later, they went to the guest room to invite Mr. Lucas to join them for the meal. Laura lingered in the threshold, awaiting his answer.

  “Thank you, sir.” Alexander shifted uneasily. “But I’m afraid I would be in stocking feet.”

  Uncle Matthew looked back at her, eyes twinkling. “Oh, Laura can help with that—can’t you, my girl?”

  Laura nodded and brought forward a large basket. In it were a pair of boots and two men’s shoes that almost matched. She kept all the shoes and boots she found and distributed them to the poor and destitute as needed, and did he not qualify?

  “I hope you don’t mind, but when you were sleeping, I measured your foot. They are not new, I’m afraid.”

  “I don’t mind. I am grateful.”

  “Shall we see if they fit?”

  She set the shoes before him, and he wiggled in one foot, then the other, wincing on the injured side. “Excellent. You just happened to have these on hand?”