Her eyes flashed to his.
He looked away first and cleared his throat. “Were you left nothing when your parents died?”
“Nothing to speak of. Thankfully, there was sufficient balance in my school account to pay for that additional year of education in Truro. Our housekeeper brought a few of my belongings, mementos, and letters, but she sold the rest to pay the bills and closed up the house, planning to retire.”
“And your father’s medical practice?”
“He had a young partner who succeeded to it.”
“Did your aunt on Jersey lose her husband as well?”
Laura nodded. “Uncle Matthew wrote to my uncle, Major Hilgrove, via the garrison, but the letter was returned marked Deceased. Evidently, both my aunt and uncle died.”
“I see.”
Yet Laura’s thoughts were not on finances or arrangements but on her parents. Oh, Mamma! Papa! Why did you have to go? Why did you leave me all alone?
They had very willingly left Laura, their only remaining child, to go to her sister in far off Jersey. Laura had certainly felt cast aside then. She supposed she always would.
That conversation with her parents had broken her heart. They’d called her into the sitting room with a strange formality and shut the door behind her. Her mother, red-haired and bespectacled, had sat on the sofa, gripping a letter, while her father had stood, looking restless and ill at ease.
Her mother began, “Laura, we have something to tell you.” Then she turned to her husband and prompted, “My dear . . . ?”
Dr. Callaway cleared his throat. “Your mother and I are traveling to Jersey, one of the Channel Islands. Remember I pointed it out on the map?”
“Yes, Papa, I remember.” Since baby Charles had died, her father shifted more of his energies to Laura, educating her and sharing details of his day and his practice as never before.
Laura immediately assumed her parents would take her along. She was only twelve, after all. “I look forward to seeing it with you.”
With an apologetic glance, her father said gently, “I am afraid that is not the plan. This is not a holiday. You, my dear, are to go to school. You will like that. Such an intelligent girl and eager learner as you are.”
“I don’t want to go to school. I want to go with you.”
Her mother’s grip on the letter tightened. “Laura, it is for your own good. Don’t make a fuss. You are a young lady now, and it is time to act like one. I did not cry and throw a tantrum when my parents sent me to school.”
Laura felt wrongly accused. A tantrum? She wasn’t happy but had not even raised her voice—yet. She defended, “But your parents visited you on Sundays. I remember Grandmamma telling me. And you went home for Christmas. Your family was just up the road in Basingstoke, a mere thirty miles away, not hundreds of miles across the ocean.”
Mother glared through her small spectacles. “Jersey is only across the English Channel. Don’t exaggerate.”
“Why can I not go with you? I am sure travel would be highly educational. And when we get back, if you still want to send me away to school, I shan’t complain then. I promise.”
Her father sent Mamma a plaintive look. “My dear, if she does not want to go . . .”
Sara Callaway shook her head. “Don’t forget why we are going. There are risks. And I will need to focus on my sister, not worry about Laura’s health and safety.”
Laura frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“I have received a letter from your aunt Susan,” Mamma explained. “She is ill and needs our help.”
“I will gladly help,” Laura insisted, turning to her father. “You’ve always said I was a good helper to you, Papa. Is that not so?”
“Of course you are, my dear. But—”
“Don’t give in to her,” her mother snapped. “Somehow she always manages to wrap you around her little finger. Now, let us not quarrel about this, especially in front of Laura.” Her mother gestured toward the door. “Laura, please go to your room while your father and I discuss this further.”
Laura rose and stalked out. As she trudged up the stairs she heard her mother say, “I know you will miss her, but . . .”
The door shut, muffling their voices and leaving Laura to guess at the rest of the sentence. “I know you will miss her, but I won’t?” Or “I don’t want her underfoot? I want to focus on my sister.” Yes, her sister was more important to her than her daughter.
In the end, her parents had remained firm in their resolve to send Laura to school and travel to Jersey without her. A few days later, they drove to the girls’ seminary in a post chaise, her baggage stowed in the boot, and theirs as well. They would be traveling on to meet their ship after dropping her off. Laura sat stiffly throughout the journey, staring out the window, avoiding their gazes and answering only in the briefest syllables when necessary. When she glimpsed the sadness in her dear papa’s eyes, she was tempted to relent, but then the chaise turned into the drive of the school.
The grey stone edifice looked ancient and formidable, and a shaft of fear joined the bitterness in Laura’s heart. The building looked almost . . . gothic . . . like an abandoned abbey or haunted manor in one of the paperback novels from the circulating library. Her pulse beat like a death knell. This was a nightmare. If the door were answered by a hunchbacked giant or wart-nosed witch, she would not be surprised.
The matron who met them was neither of those things. She was in fact a pleasant-looking, plump woman of forty who led them on a tour of the boarding school, pointing out the play yard, classrooms, and dining parlour. They passed a group of pupils, who stared at her, but Laura stiffened her spine and lifted her nose, determined to remain sullen and silent. If her mother wanted her to act the part of a grown-up lady, then she would be as cold and aloof as she imagined a lady could be, punishing her parents the only way she knew how.
It was all over too quickly. She was shown to a room she would share with a few others girls, her trunk was delivered, and the matron left them to say their good-byes in private. Laura was torn, on the verge of crying and longing to beg them one last time to change their minds. But seeing the stony resolve on her mother’s face, she did neither of those things.
“I realize you are angry,” her mother said. “But I hope you will someday understand that I acted in your best interests, and forgive me.”
The moment hung there, Laura’s chance to forgive her mother. She said . . . nothing.
Her mother drew a deep breath. “Well, good-bye, Laura. I know you will make us proud.”
“Good-bye, my dear,” her father added. “We will be praying for you and thinking of you. And we will write to you when we are settled.”
Laura nodded, hands primly clasped, but she made no reply.
The moment the door closed behind her parents, however, she ran to the window and watched until the chaise departed, the scene blurred by her tears. She already regretted her silence—regretted the cool farewell, when she had longed to throw her arms around her father, and to feel her mother’s kiss one last time upon her brow.
A wine merchant from North Cornwall wrote repeatedly to the Board of Trade, pointing out how honest business men could not compete against smugglers. West Indian rum, he said, was available all over Cornwall at 5 shillings a gallon, whereas he had to sell it at 8 shillings and 6 pence.
—CAROLYN MARTIN, SMUGGLING RECIPES
Chapter 7
Laura remained restless that night and couldn’t seem to fall asleep, her mind filled with memories resurrected earlier that evening when talking to Mr. Lucas. Now that she had lifted the long-shut lid, everything she had locked away boiled to the surface in a stomach-churning stew of sweet, sour, and bitter morsels of her past. Her regrets lingered, as did her desire to travel to Jersey one day.
Some distant sound caught her ear—a door slamming? She climbed from bed and pulled a dressing gown around herself against the chill of the room, the fire having died. She went to the window and looked
out. Her room faced the sea, and between it and Fern Haven lay Miss Chegwin’s cottage.
Was it her door she’d heard? The night must be unusually calm.
A lantern burning low illuminated two figures in coats, hats, and mufflers. From the relative sizes of the two and the stooping shoulders of the smaller, she recognized them as Jago and Mary Chegwin.
Where were they going so late? It must be nearly midnight. Had Miss Chegwin been called to an ill person’s bedside? With Dr. Dawe absent, it seemed likely. Concern filled Laura. She hoped neither of the Penberthy children had taken a turn for the worse.
Laura dreaded going out in the cold but knew she would not sleep thinking someone might be suffering when she could help. She quickly pulled on several layers of warm clothing: wool stockings and petticoat, her thickest gown, pelisse, and half boots.
Hurrying quietly downstairs, she helped herself to her uncle’s heavy black greatcoat and a knitted cap. Eseld would be horrified at her ensemble, but she didn’t care. To Laura’s mind, staying warm trumped fashion any day, and certainly in the dead of night.
Forgoing a lamp of her own, Laura slipped from the house, hoping to catch up with her neighbors before they got too far away. She imagined she would find them in the small lean-to stable, but instead saw their shadowy forms in the donkey cart disappearing over the rise. They were heading not toward Porthilly and the ailing Penberthys but in the opposite direction, toward Polzeath. Laura was relieved but also curious.
She supposed she should have been frightened to be out alone at night, but she was not. She knew these paths as well as the corridors of Fern Haven, and moreover, Jago was within shouting distance, if need be. Yet she was reluctant to call out. The night was strangely still. The ever-present wind . . . absent. Her voice, if she called, would be heard in neighboring cottages and might wake slumbering children. No, she would simply hurry her steps and catch up quietly. After all, the donkey was notoriously slow.
She followed the coast past Greenaways, over the cliff tops, and then down again to sea level as the path neared Polzeath Beach. In the distance, the large crescent of sand shone white by moonlight, and beyond it loomed the dark headland of Pentire Point.
Activity in the water drew her attention. Two ships were moored in the moonlit bay, and several smaller boats were clustered around them like eager bees to dark, bobbing blossoms. Meanwhile on shore, figures carried loads to waiting wagons, and soon Miss Chegwin’s donkey cart joined the line.
Shadowy figures carried what looked to be bales of tobacco or tea, wrapped in oilskin to make them as watertight as possible.
She crept closer, wishing again that the area had more trees. She saw ponies and donkeys with half-anker tubs strapped over their backs. Several “tubmen” were similarly burdened with one container on their chests and another on their backs. French brandy, most likely—a favorite currency of the smugglers.
As she had on that long-ago May Day, Laura again felt out of place, observing but not appreciating or participating in a Cornish custom.
Laura guessed Tom Parsons was the ringleader of this late-night haul, and she certainly did not want him to see her spying. With that threat in mind, she backtracked a few yards and ducked into the doorway of a decrepit fish-cleaning shed to continue watching without being seen—or implicated, should the revenue men descend.
At that moment, two men walked off the beach, deep in discussion, their low voices approaching Laura’s hiding place. She retreated deeper into the shed, breathing through her mouth to avoid gagging on the lingering stench.
As the footsteps neared, she heard the men talking, or rather negotiating—how much per six-pound weight of tea, and half anker of brandy, and where to store it until all was sold.
She heard the word Roserrow and stilled, holding her breath. Were the Kents involved, or was one of their outbuildings to be used without their knowledge? The men stopped walking, pausing near the shed to conclude their arrangements, and without the scrape of footfalls to muffle their conversation, Laura recognized both voices. Tom Parsons, as she had guessed. And the other . . . Treeve Kent.
She raised a hand to her mouth to cover a gasp, and her elbow struck a chain, sending it jangling against the rickety wall. Her heart jangled as well.
“What’s that?” Tom asked in a terse voice. “I’ll look behind the shed. You look inside.”
Footsteps approached the open doorway. Laura backed as far as she could into the shadows of the small, smelly shed.
Would he see her? Call for Tom?
She didn’t move, didn’t even breathe. By the moonlight outside, she could make out Treeve’s outline in the doorway. For a moment she glimpsed the whites of his eyes. It seemed he was looking directly at her.
Tom returned and asked, “Anything?”
“Just a cat,” Treeve said. “It ran off.”
“Good thing.”
The men walked away, and Laura slowly released a long breath.
She crept across the shed only to freeze in terror. A man in a hooded cape stood within the shed beside the door, stick raised over his head like a grim specter. Standing there, he would have been out of sight of Treeve, and had been invisible to her in the darkness, until now.
A scream caught in her throat, while her panicked heart drummed loudly in her ears.
The man slowly lowered the stick. “Shh . . .” he murmured. “It is me. Alexander.”
Laura released a second relieved breath in as many moments.
“What are you doing?” she hissed.
“Preparing to strike should either man try to hurt you or detain you.”
“How did you get here?”
“I followed you. I saw you leave the house alone at night and was worried about you.”
“Th-thank you,” she whispered.
“I stepped in here just before you did and was about to make my presence known when those two approached.” Alexander limped out of the shed and looked both ways. “The coast is clear.”
Walking stick in hand, he turned and offered her his other arm. “May I walk you home, Miss Callaway?”
She managed a tremulous smile. “Yes, please.”
They walked in silence for a while, but as they passed an abandoned quarry, a screech owl cried to its mate, and Laura jumped.
Alexander said soothingly, “Why don’t you tell me a favorite memory of your childhood while we walk?”
She glanced over at him in surprise, studying his profile by moonlight. Beyond him, the moon shone on the Atlantic below, and with that glimpse of shining water, a memory washed over her like a gentle wave.
“That’s easy,” Laura began. “Papa took us all to the seaside once. Weymouth.” In her mind’s eye, she saw the wide sandy bay, the elegant seafront terraces, the colorful umbrellas, bathing costumes, and bathing machines. She recalled the artists with easels and vendors selling cold drinks, confections, and ices.
“What a wonderful time we had,” she said. “My whole family all together. I can still see my brother, Charles, as a toddler, sitting on the shore, splashing his chubby feet in the water, giggling with glee. Papa carefree for once, having left his practice in his new partner’s hands. Mamma happy and relaxed. It was magical.”
Feeling self-conscious, she sent him a shy glance. “Your turn. What is your favorite memory?”
He tilted his head thoughtfully. “You will think me not very original, but mine is also a seaside memory. My family used to rent a house at . . . well, near the sea, and we all stayed there together, my grandparents, parents, me, and my brother, Alan. . . .
“I can still see my parents standing in the surf—her with her skirts tied up, him with his trousers rolled to his knees—holding hands and laughing like children or lovers. Papa wrapped his arms around Mamma’s ample waist and gave her a big kiss right there in front of God and for the whole world to see.”
Alexander inhaled, then released a long sigh. “They loved each other very much. It was incredibly hard on him when sh
e died. Hard on us all, but he misses her most of all.”
“How long ago did she die?” Laura asked softly.
“Sixteen . . . no, seventeen years now. How quickly time passes. I am ashamed to say I cannot recall the exact date, but my father could no doubt tell you to the hour.”
They reached Fern Haven, and he held the gate for her.
“Thank you,” Laura said. “And thank you again for coming to my aid.” In the shadows, she reached for his hand and squeezed his fingers.
“It was my pleasure,” he replied, stepping closer.
An unexpected urge to kiss him washed over Laura. She banished the startling impulse and quickly let herself into the house before she could act on it.
As Laura made her way downstairs for breakfast, she saw Mrs. Bray holding Uncle Matthew’s black greatcoat—the one Laura had worn the night before—at arm’s length. Nose wrinkled and face puckered, she marched into her husband’s study and asked, “Why does your best coat smell of rotting fish?”
Laura gave a guilty wince as the door closed behind them and tiptoed into the dining room.
She had taken one bite of toast when Mr. Lucas entered.
“Good morning, Miss Callaway,” he said, giving her a fond smile.
A strange warmth spread through her chest at the sight of him. Her rescuer of the night before was looking especially handsome with his hair combed back and a freshly shaven face.
“Good morning, Mr. Lucas.”
Displeasure flickered over his countenance, and his smile dimmed for some reason. Had she said or done something wrong? Have marmalade on her face or crumbs in her teeth? She quickly raised her table napkin and dabbed at her mouth, just in case.
After helping himself to a plate of eggs and kipper from the sideboard, he sat across from her and said, “I have been thinking about your pastime.”
“Oh?”
“Have you received other responses, besides the letter you recently described to me?”
She nodded. “A few. Some have thanked me for letting them know. A wife wrote that she had already seen news of the ship’s fate but appreciated the confirmation that her husband had been properly buried. And one family came here to retrieve their grandson’s Bible.”
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