Seeing François’s murderous look, fear overcame her anger.
“My letter is not in here. That means either you or Carnell have it, and I want it back.”
She didn’t have it, but she didn’t want him to go after Alex either. Seeing her waver, he jerked the reticule from her wrist, which went flying to the ground, its contents spilling out.
“Stop that!” Laura cried.
He knelt and pawed through the contents—a small comb, handkerchief, and a few hairpins—grumbling under his breath as he did so.
Footsteps crossed the street toward them. A man’s voice called, “Everything all right, miss?”
She turned and looked, relief filling her. Two militia officers crossed the street toward them, one short and one tall.
Before she could speak, LaRoche said, “Miss Callaway dropped her purse. I simply stopped to help her.”
She shook her head. “That is not true.”
The shorter officer speared LaRoche with a probing look. “Yer accent. Yer a Frenchie, if I don’t miss my guess.”
His voice sounded familiar. Were these the same officers who had come to the house looking for Alexander?
LaRoche lifted his chin. “I am here legally, as are many of my countrymen who fled France during the revolution.”
“Let us see yer passport.”
He extended both hands. “I’m a shipwreck victim. I have lost everything.”
The officers looked at her. “That true, Miss Callaway?”
Laura could not deny it. “Yes, from the Kittiwake.”
The shorter officer turned to his comrade. “You have that list from the Transport Office?”
His partner pulled a paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“What’d you say yer name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“François LaRoche,” Laura said helpfully.
The officer read from his list. “F. LaRoche. Dark hair, blue eyes. Thirty years of age. Scar on left cheek.”
His partner drew his gun.
“I have the right to be here,” François insisted. “Ask Philippe d’Auvergne. He’ll vouch for me. I work for him.”
“Don’t know him. Sounds like another frog to me.”
François scowled. “He’s a British officer stationed on Jersey.”
“Come with us, and we’ll investigate yer claim.”
François threw up his hands in protest. “What about Carnell? He is not here legally. He’s an escaped prisoner of war. Worse, a thief. You find Capitaine Carnell, and there will be a grand reward for you.”
“I don’t suppose you know where he is?” the tall officer asked.
“Non. But watch her house”—he jerked a thumb toward Laura—“and you are sure to find him.”
“I told you, he’s gone,” Laura said.
“Oh, he’ll be back. You saved his life, after all.”
“I may have helped, but I am not his keeper.”
François smirked, the expression emphasizing the scar on his cheek. “You underestimate your charms, mademoiselle.”
“We have been looking for him without success,” the tall officer admitted.
“I shall help you,” François said. “I know just what he looks like.”
“We shall see. For now, come with us.” Gesturing with the gun, the men led LaRoche away, to Laura’s relief, though she feared the militia would now redouble their efforts to find Alexander. She prayed she had not just doomed him to recapture . . . or death.
Half-buried in the loose sand of the east shore of the estuary stands the ancient church of St. Enodoc.
—BLACK’S GUIDE TO THE DUCHY OF CORNWALL, 1876
Chapter 16
Before returning to the ferry, Laura visited the antique and curiosity dealer in Padstow.
The proprietor’s face lit upon seeing her. “Ah, Miss Callaway. What have you brought in for me today?”
Laura reached into her glove, where she had hidden her treasure, then placed the gold salamander brooch on the counter.
A short while later, errand completed, Laura walked to the milliner’s and all but dragged Eseld from the displays of bonnets, ribbons, and lace. Together, they returned to the harbour to await the ferry.
They reached Black Rock as evening fell, and Uncle Matthew was waiting for them at the ferry landing. There was still no sign or message from Kayna Roskilly. Eseld was quite worried about her friend by this time and pleaded with Matthew to drive to their house.
He eventually relented and turned the horse toward Pentireglaze, though doing so would add a few miles to their journey.
“I do hope she hasn’t fallen ill or something,” Eseld said. “It isn’t like her to not keep her appointments without at least sending word.”
Laura could not blame Eseld for her concern, but she was even more concerned about Alexander. Would he still be at Miss Chegwin’s? She longed to confide in her uncle but thought it best to hold her tongue.
When they reached the Roskillys’ drive, a groom helped Eseld alight, and she hurried into the house while Laura and her uncle waited outside. Eseld returned a few minutes later with Dr. Kent.
“The family is upset,” Perry explained. “There has been a theft. The money raised at the charity ball is missing, as well as a pair of Kayna’s earrings.”
Uncle Matthew’s expression fell. “I am very sorry to hear it.”
“I know you are.” Eseld squeezed his hand. “I am going to stay with Kayna for a while. Her father has gone for the constable.”
Uncle Matthew nodded, eyes troubled. “Kind of you. I’d stay too, but Mrs. Bray is expecting me.”
“I will make sure Eseld gets home safely, sir,” the young man offered.
“Thank you, Perran.”
Offering his arm, Perry led Eseld into the house, and Laura and her uncle started back toward Fern Haven.
“I am sorry, Uncle Matthew,” Laura said. “I know you have your heart set on restoring St. Enodoc.”
He nodded again but said little, clearly distracted and disheartened by the setback.
She decided not to add to his woes by sharing what had happened in Padstow, nor what she had learned about their guest.
When they returned to Fern Haven, Laura helped her uncle with the horse, and then the two walked into the house together. He went into the parlour to speak to his wife, while Laura went upstairs. She planned to walk over to Miss Chegwin’s but first went up to her room for a small coin purse to give to Alexander. Seeing a man sitting in the passage outside her room, she jumped, then whispered, “What are you doing here?”
Alexander rose, a vulnerable smile on his lips. “Not the greeting I hoped for.”
“You shouldn’t be here. The militia are looking for you and will soon come here again. They’re questioning Monsieur LaRoche now.”
She told him about the encounter outside the custom house.
He stepped nearer, searching her face in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Shaken but well.”
“Good.” He pressed her hands, then his eyes hardened. “That man . . . he will be the death of me yet.”
Alexander took a deep breath and drew back his broad shoulders. “Any progress in finding a ship to take me across the Channel?”
“Not yet. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t you dare be sorry, ma chère. I should never have asked it of you.”
“I will try, but in the meantime, this should help.” She extended the money from the sale of the jeweled salamander. He’d been right; it was worth a good deal.
He shook his head. “No, Miss Callaway. I cannot accept it, but thank you.”
The sound of distant men’s voices came from outside. Laura looked out a dormer window and saw figures with lanterns approaching—two in uniform and a third man. LaRoche?
“Shh. They’re coming!” She pressed a finger to her lips, then turned him by the shoulder. “Go out the back again. Run. Hide. If you are captured, you will be sent back to priso
n or even shot.”
His mouth tightened. “I don’t like to run like a frightened rabbit searching for a burrow to hide in.”
“I know,” she said. “But remember, if you are caught, you won’t get home to your brother.”
He winced, then sighed. “So be it. For Alan and his family, I will go.”
He started toward the stairs, then turned back. “I have to tell you something before I leave.”
“What is i—”
He pressed his lips to hers, silencing her with his mouth.
For a moment she stilled in surprise, then kissed him back, wishing it were not a kiss good-bye.
He broke away and smiled into her eyes. “That is what I had to tell you.”
She managed a wobbly grin. “I am glad to hear it.” Quickly sobering, she all but pushed him toward the stairs. “Now go.”
He slipped quietly down them and out the back door as two militia officers and LaRoche came through the front gate.
Laura paused where she stood. Alexander saying the word burrow belatedly gave her an idea of where he might hide. Grabbing her cape and gloves, she hurried out after him, catching up with him in the back garden.
“What are you doing?” he hissed.
“Going with you. I know where you can hide, and you’ll need me to help you.”
She led the way up the track, past the abandoned drive.
“The ice cellar?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Too risky. My uncle and Eseld know about it. They might guess I would hide you there and tell the militia.”
They stayed in the shadows as much as possible, following a line of scrubby tamarisk bushes to the nearest dune. The wind gusted, stirring sand into their eyes as they went. Finally, the narrow track led them to St. Enodoc, the partially buried church.
Laura retrieved the rope from the sexton’s shed. Then they continued through the lych-gate into the churchyard. She scurried up the grassy mound and onto the roof, and Alexander followed.
“Are you sure about this?” he asked.
“Have you a better idea?”
“Just keep running?”
“Then how would I get word to you about a ship captain willing to take you across the Channel?”
“Good point. Very well. I’ll go down, but if they find me here it will be like shooting fish in a barrel.”
“The officers are not local men. Let’s hope they don’t know about the hatch in the roof. It’s the only way in.”
As she had seen done every year since arriving in Cornwall, she secured a noose of rope around a Cornish cross on the mound and pried opened the hatch.
Tossing down the other end of the rope, she said, “God be with you.”
“And with you, ma chère.” He pressed another firm kiss to her mouth, then lowered himself, sliding down the rope into the chancel, his feet hitting the paving stones between the altar and rood screen.
“If anyone comes searching, hide behind something,” she called down, then added, “I wish I had thought to bring you something to eat.”
“I’ll manage. I have been eating well lately.”
“I will bring you something as soon as I can. As soon as it’s safe.”
“Thank you, Miss Callaway.”
She pulled up the rope, shut and secured the hatch, and hurried off the roof. If they caught her up there, it would surely give away his hiding place.
Instead of returning the rope to the shed, she hid it in the shadows between a nearby tomb chest and the church wall. She didn’t want to give his pursuers the means to enter the church themselves if by chance one of them knew of the hatch. Hopefully the militia officers had not recruited the local parish constable to aid in their search.
Hearing footsteps coming fast, she darted through the lych-gate and crept along the hawthorn hedge. She prayed she could get far enough away that, if they found her, they would not automatically guess she had been at the church. She rounded the sexton’s shed, planning to stop and catch her breath, only to gasp in surprise. Two people stood there in the shadows, clutched in a fond embrace. By the dim twilight, she recognized Eseld and Perry.
He stepped back sheepishly, clearing his throat, but Eseld seemed too transfixed to do more than smile softly up at him. The young doctor had told Uncle Matthew he would see Eseld home safely. He must have decided a leisurely moonlit walk would be more romantic than a brief carriage ride.
Perry opened his mouth to speak, but Laura shook her head and put a finger to her lips in warning.
Footsteps passed nearby and entered the churchyard.
“Let’s search the church,” a familiar masculine voice called.
The militia officers she’d met in Padstow, Laura guessed. Was François still with them? Her heart beat hard, and her palms perspired. She drew in shallow breaths, straining to hear, and caught the sounds of scraping footfalls and a muttered oath.
“Cursed sand is covering the door.”
And it would be difficult for them to see inside, Laura reassured herself, assuming Alex hadn’t done something foolish like find a flint and light a candle.
She whispered to the others, “The militia are searching for Alexander.”
Eseld’s mouth formed an O, and Perry stepped nearer to reply without being heard by the others. “Do you know where he is?”
Laura hesitated. Both he and Eseld could be trusted, she believed, but neither were known for discretion. She made do with a nod.
The closure of the hatch had echoed through the church, then faded away, followed by Laura’s retreating footsteps before silence descended. Alexander stood in the cool grey-blue silence of St. Enodoc until his eyes adjusted to the dim light. Then he looked around the chancel, nave, side chapel, and entry porch—buried by sand and unusable. He walked slowly down the central aisle, past the transept leading to the tower, his boots clapping against the smooth slate floor, past rows of wooden pews to a granite font toward the rear. The font and rood screen seemed particularly ancient.
Walking back toward the altar, he sat in the front pew and looked up at the angled ceiling, the black arms of the wrought-iron chandelier holding ghostly white candle stubs. Soft twilight filtered through the modest green-glazed windows—one three-light window above the altar and another in the adjoining side chapel.
In that quiet, reverent place, prayer seemed natural. “Please protect Laura, Father. Let no harm come to her because of me. And in your mercy, please help me get home in time to help Alan.”
Alex then sat back to rest in the sanctuary’s peace . . . but that peace was short-lived. Rapid footsteps approached—at least two or three people. The flash of torchlight flared through the glazed windows like a beacon.
“Let’s search the church,” a voice called.
Alexander’s pulse quickened. Remembering Laura’s warning, he tiptoed farther back and slipped into the entrance porch shrouded in sand. He stood still, straining to listen over his pounding heart. He heard the scraping of boots and a muttered epithet.
“Cursed sand is covering the door.”
“Is there another way in?”
Torchlight chased its way around the church, flashing on and off as it passed the high windows of the tower and transept. Alex dared a peek into the chancel. Ghoulish faces pressed to the glass, trying to see inside. He ducked back into the porch, behind the arched doorway, breathing hard. Could they see him? He doubted it, but better safe than sorry.
What should he do if the hatch opened and a searcher descended? Give himself up before violence might be done on either side? Hide in that ancient chest near the font? Try to escape out a high tower window? He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
Again he prayed, this time silently and more desperately. Have mercy, Father!
Did he believe God would hear him? Answer him? After all, God had not prevented his ship’s capture, his imprisonment, or the shipwreck. But He had spared his life. Alexander hoped that meant God had a purpose for his remaining days beyond recapture.
Your will be done, almighty God.
He heard an unexpected voice outside. A female voice but not Laura’s. The torches moved away from the windows, and darkness descended once more.
Alex closed his eyes in silent relief.
Laura was surprised to hear Kayna Roskilly’s voice. “I don’t think they use that church anymore, for obvious reasons.”
“And who are you, madam?” an officer asked.
“Miss Roskilly. My father is one of the owners of Pentireglaze mine.”
What is she doing here? Laura wondered. The Roskillys lived a few miles away, but surely she knew the vicar entered the church once a year—that there was a way in. Was Kayna helping them, helping Alex, for some reason?
Laura whispered to Eseld, “What are you three doing out here? Last I saw you, you were at Miss Roskilly’s house.”
“When the constable arrived, Perry drove Kayna and me to his house to avoid the unpleasantness,” Eseld whispered back. “She is staying the night with me, says she’ll feel safer there after the theft. Since Roserrow is only a mile or so from Fern Haven, we decided to walk back, and Perry offered to escort us.”
When had Eseld and Miss Roskilly become such bosom friends? Laura wondered. Clearly while she had been preoccupied with Alexander.
“How nice,” Laura murmured and found she meant it. She was glad Eseld had a good friend, and that Perry had earned the girl’s affection at last. She hoped Eseld would endeavor to deserve him.
In the distance, the same officer asked, “What are you doing out here alone, miss? Or are you not alone, but with a certain Frenchman?”
“Certainly not. I don’t trust Frenchmen. I am out for a stroll with two friends. They shall rejoin me any time, I’m sure.”
Laura whispered a plan, and a few moments later the three walked casually through the lych-gate. At Laura’s nod, they began chatting of nonsense and of the temperate evening, hoping to be heard and avoid any panicked gunshots. As she’d guessed, two officers and François LaRoche stood in the churchyard near Kayna Roskilly.
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 20