Laura answered for them both. “We would not miss it.”
The ancient custom of providing children with a large apple on Allhallows-eve is still observed. [They] would deem it a great misfortune to go to bed on Allan-night without the time-honored Allan apple to hide beneath their pillows.
—ROBERT HUNT, POPULAR ROMANCES OF THE WEST OF ENGLAND
Chapter 6
Sparks rose like darts of bright orange light against the darkening sky. The bonfire was an inviting beacon, drawing neighbors to Brea Cottage. Such a large blaze was a luxury. An extravagance. A sure sign of celebration. As people arrived, they added their contributions to the pile nearby: scrap boards, wreck timbers, and fallen branches to keep the fire roaring—and the party as well.
If the bonfire was the invitation, music was the warm welcome.
Jago sat playing his hurdy-gurdy. A neighboring farmer, Mr. Trenean, accompanied him on a flute while one of the man’s grown sons played a serpent and another kept time on a small drum.
People sat on rickety chairs dragged outside and a bench made from a plank suspended on two tree stumps. On the makeshift tables sat jack-o’-lanterns carved from large turnips, light from candle stubs within flickering from their ghoulish faces.
Miss Chegwin had made fish pie and rabbit pasties with leeks and turnips. At Uncle Matthew’s request, Wenna had contributed an apple cake as big as a barrel head, with a warm sweet glaze. Laura knew Uncle Matthew attended the party out of neighborliness but thought Mrs. Bray and Eseld attended mostly in hopes of seeing Treeve Kent.
There was bee wine, home-brewed ale, and cider sipped from a mismatched assortment of chipped teacups, jars, and tin tankards. It was a harvest dinner and Allan-night all rolled into one.
Bee wine tickling her tummy, Laura was keenly aware of Alex’s masculine shoulder against hers as they sat side by side on the bench, reminding her of the night she lay beside him in bed to ease his shivering. She leaned near his ear to be heard over the music. “Do you celebrate Allantide on Jersey, Mr. Lucas?”
“Not that I recall.”
Mr. Dyer and his family mingled with the crowd, and Newlyn came over from Fern Haven to join them. She remained near her parents, but Laura noticed the girl’s gaze linger with curious interest on Jago as he drew such sweet music from his instrument.
Uncle Matthew called, “How about a song, Miss Chegwin?”
“Hear, hear!” the others cheered.
Mary Chegwin set aside her cup and rose to oblige, her voice reedy but true. What she lacked in volume, she more than made up for in expression, her arms lifted and hands gesturing with the words.
“We tread upon the golden sand, when the waves are rolling in,
The porpoise he comes near to land, and to leap he doth begin,
Snorting to the fishy air: prepare, (I say) prepare,
Good housewives, keep your fires bright,
For your mates come home tonight.”
And everyone echoed, “For your mates come home tonight.”
The company clapped along as she sang the next verse. Soon an elderly couple rose and began dancing a jig, and a few younger people joined in.
Perran and Treeve Kent arrived on horseback, and Jago momentarily set aside his hurdy-gurdy to take their horses to the lean-to. Miss Chegwin had invited them as thanks for Perry’s recent help with their patient.
Eseld brightened at the Kent brothers’ arrival, as did Mrs. Bray.
The newcomers were quickly furnished with tankards and generous slices of fish pie. While they’d brought no wood, Treeve untied a jug of rum from his saddle and set it on the table with the other libations, the offering met with a chorus of approval.
“Will you sing for us, Treeve?” Eseld asked with limpid eyes. “You have such a marvelous voice.”
“I would have to drink a tankard or two before I’d agree to that,” he replied.
But a short while later, he walked over to the musicians and announced, “I will sing if Mr. Dyer will join me in ‘The Pirate’s Song.’”
This suggestion too was met with approval. Tankard in hand, Newlyn’s father came and stood beside Treeve, and the two sang:
“The ocean is mine, and I take what I can
Of the wealth that I find on the wave;
I spurn the control of dominion of man,
Mine’s the life of the free and the brave!
I sail where I like,
And never I strike
My flag to another, d’ye see;
O’er my billowy home
Unfetter’d I roam—
Death or Liberty, boys, for me!”
The crowd enthusiastically clapped along. Laura glanced over at Alexander to see how he would react to such a song and noticed his gaze linger on the singers with speculative interest.
The party continued for several hours. Families with children begged off earliest, followed by the residents of Fern Haven, Uncle Matthew claiming an early morning.
Together they walked up the rise, humming “The Pirate’s Song” tune as they went.
When the others dispersed to their rooms, Eseld darted first into her own bedchamber, then followed Laura into hers.
“Surprise!” Eseld exclaimed. She tried to suppress a grin, which only served to deepen the dimples in her cheeks. In her hands she held two large bright red apples.
“One for you and one for me. Happy Allantide.”
Every year it was the same. Laura smiled back. “Thank you, Eseld.”
“I know you’ve refused me before, but this year I insist you sleep with it under your pillow.”
“Under my pillow? Why not put a rock there instead!”
“What is some slight discomfort to the chance to dream of your future husband?”
“You know I don’t believe in such things. And I doubt Uncle Matthew would approve.”
“This is harmless fun, Laura. Don’t be a dry stick. Do you not want to see the man of your dreams in your dreams? Learn the identity of your future husband?”
“Not particularly.”
“Come, it will be diverting. You are too polite to refuse a gift. I bought it at the Allan market especially for you. You can’t say no.”
Laura accepted the apple. “Very well. I shall do it for you.”
Eseld’s smile flashed, and her eyes shone with excitement. “I will be back in the morning for steps two and three.”
A few minutes after Eseld left, Newlyn came in to help her undress, still humming a tune. Seeing the apple on Laura’s bedside table, the maid said, “You’ve one too, miss? So have I. Can’t wait to see who I dream of.”
“Have you done this before, Newlyn?”
“Oh, iss. Ever’ year since I were twelve.”
“And has it worked?”
“Not yet.” She grinned. “But I am that sure this will be the year!”
The girl left and Laura climbed under the bedclothes. She blew out her candle and lay in the dark. Moonlight shone on the Allan apple on her side table. She did not believe in such superstitions. Did she even want to dream of a man?
Unbidden, Mr. Lucas’s face appeared in her mind’s eye.
Oh, why not? After all, she had promised Eseld.
She slipped the apple under her pillow, which caused the feathers to bunch up around her face. Ah well, she thought. It was only for one night.
In the morning, Eseld threw open the door and all but ran into Laura’s room. Newlyn had not even been in to deliver warm water and fold back the shutters.
“Well?” Eseld asked, all eagerness.
Laura barely resisted the urge to pull the blankets over her head and go back to sleep. “What time is it?”
“Just gone eight.”
Laura groaned. She had thought to sleep in after their late night.
“Besides, it’s All Saints’ Day,” Eseld added. “And that means church.”
Laura groaned again, threw back the bedclothes, and sat up.
“Did you dream of him?” Ese
ld asked. “The man you are going to marry?”
Laura reflected. “Actually, I dreamed of several people. The Kents, Jago, you, even that horrid Tom Parsons. And if you tell me I’m to marry him, then I hope this is a poison apple.”
Eseld watched her closely. “And Mr. Lucas? Was he in your dream as well?”
Laura closed her eyes, remembering. She had dreamed of Tom Parsons leaning over the shipwrecked man again, to her horror and indignation, while others stood there unconcerned, Treeve and Eseld singing “The Pirate’s Song” and Perry waiting idly with his medical bag. As Parsons raised his cudgel, Laura tried to reach Mr. Lucas, but her legs were trapped in quicksand, and she could not move. At the memory, Laura shivered. “Yes. The dream was not a romantic one, but he was in it.”
“I knew it!”
“And you?” Laura asked. “Who did you dream of?”
Eseld shrugged. “To be honest, when I awoke I could not recall any dreams. So I shut my eyes and daydreamed instead. You know, when you’re still half asleep and tipsy-cake drowsy? I imagined Treeve and me riding white horses along the cliff tops, my hair floating in the wind, and him declaring his undying love.”
“You don’t ride, Eseld.”
“What does that signify? I have a vivid imagination.”
“You certainly do. Does a daydream count, do you think?”
“I hope so. But let’s find out. Come and stand next to me. Bring your apple.”
Laura grumbled into her dressing gown and slippers, retrieved the apple, and crossed the room to stand with her before the mirror. Eseld handed her a paring knife. “Careful to keep the paring in one long strip.”
Starting near the stems, they began peeling the apples. Around and around, all the way to the bottoms.
Eseld recited, “I pare this pippin round and round, my sweetheart’s name to be found.” She glanced over to survey Laura’s progress. “Good. I shall go first to show you how it’s done.”
Taking the long peel in one hand, she said, “I fling the unbroken paring free, my true love’s initial to see.” Then she tossed it over her left shoulder.
She whirled about, eagerly studying the peel, likely hoping to see a certain initial. The peel had spread out, with a small hook at the bottom and a loop at the top.
“I knew it—a t!” she exclaimed.
Laura studied the shape with a skeptical eye. “I see a p, Eseld. Definitely a p.”
“I disagree. Now quit stalling. Your turn.”
Laura held up her peel, murmured the words as best she remembered them, and tossed it over her shoulder. She turned and found the peel had landed in a tight coil. Her momentary disappointment gave way to amusement. “Seems about right, considering the muddle of my dream. I see an and symbol, perhaps, but nothing else.”
“Try again. That does not count.”
Laura picked up the peel and repeated the steps, flinging the peel with more vigor. This time, the peel spread out in a curvy line of almost cursive appearance.
“My goodness . . .” Eseld breathed. “You have two letters.”
“Have I?”
“Yes, see there? A lowercase e or perhaps an a, not quite closed, and there at the end, a c?”
“You do have an imagination.”
“It’s as plain as the nose on your face.”
Someone knocked on the open door. They glanced over and found Mr. Lucas standing in the open doorway, expression taut with concern.
“Pardon the intrusion, ladies, but I was alarmed by the distressing exclamations I heard coming from this room. Is anything amiss?”
Laura instantly flushed with embarrassment, but Eseld brightened.
“Mr. Lucas, you are just in time. Do settle a dispute for us.” She gestured to the floor. “What do you see?”
Remaining near the door, he looked down and his eyebrows rose. “Poor housekeeping?”
“Look closer. What initial does each peel form?”
He bent to look closer.
When he remained silent, Eseld tsked. “Don’t tell me you have less imagination than Laura has.”
He rallied. “I suppose that one looks like a p.”
Eseld shook her head. “No, it’s a t.”
“If you say so. And the other . . . perhaps e and c?” He straightened, looking from one to the other. “What does it mean?”
Eseld grinned. “It’s an Allantide tradition. It’s supposed to tell us the initial of the man we are going to marry.”
Laura’s face burned. “It’s foolishness obviously.”
He looked at her, a teasing light in his eyes. “Ah. I am learning so much about your traditions.”
“Your traditions?” Eseld asked. “Are you not British yourself?”
“I meant Cornish traditions, of course.”
Laura echoed vaguely, “Of course.” But an apple seed of doubt had been planted.
After dinner that evening, the family sat talking quietly in the parlour for a time. When the others retired, Laura and Mr. Lucas lingered in front of the fireplace.
“I noticed the family names in the Bible you lent me. Are the Smiths relatives of yours?”
“No. I don’t know who they are or where they come from. I wish I did. I found that Bible after a shipwreck. It is a passion of mine, trying to return lost possessions to their rightful homes. Unfortunately, Smith is a very common name, and I’ve yet to find that specific family, if any survive.”
He nodded his understanding. “Thank you again for loaning it to me.” With a glance at his feet he added, “And for the shoes and boots. I gather you found them washed ashore as well?”
“Yes.”
“Have you found anything else?”
“Many things. I have something of a collection.”
Interest brightened his eyes. “Really?”
Laura nodded, self-conscious under his gaze. “I hope you don’t think it wrong of me. If I found cargo meant for resale, I would not keep it. But personal items I hold on to for a year and a day per the old decree, in case the owner should come to reclaim them. After that I sometimes sell them to the antique and curiosity dealer in Padstow. I am loath to sell anything that might be important to someone’s next of kin, but I also want to contribute to my upkeep here.” She did not mention she was also saving money for a hoped-for journey.
“Do the Brays expect you to contribute?”
“My uncle does not. Mrs. Bray . . . Well, she makes it clear such offerings are welcome and her due. Another mouth to feed and all that.”
In the hearth, a log fell and sparks rose from the grate.
“May I ask how you came to live with them?”
“Certainly. It’s no secret. My parents left me at a girls’ school outside of Oxford when I was twelve, then sailed away to Jersey, never to return.”
His eyes widened. “That must have been . . . difficult.”
She fingered the trim of her sleeve before answering. “I begged to go with them, but they refused. I felt abandoned when they left me behind.”
“Why did they go to Jersey?”
“My mother’s sister lived there. It was difficult for Mamma when Aunt Susan married and moved far away. They had always been extraordinarily close, or so it seemed to me, never having a sister of my own. I did have a baby brother, but he died young.”
“I am sorry.”
“Thank you. When Mamma received a letter informing her that her sister was ill, she panicked and was determined to go and help her at any cost.”
Alexander leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I can understand that. The desire to help, to save a dear sibling.”
She paused, studying his expression. “Can you?”
“Yes, but we were speaking of you.”
She continued, “My mother insisted Father close up his practice and travel with her. He was a physician, you see.”
“Ah.” He smiled at the significance. “No doubt the reason you are an excellent nurse. What took your aunt and her husband to Jers
ey?”
“Uncle Hilgrove had been stationed there. In charge of one of the British garrisons, I believe, though I was rather young and may not remember the details correctly. Sadly, whatever disease my aunt suffered from claimed my parents as well. Instead of curing her, they apparently both died trying to save her life. Our old housekeeper came to the school to deliver the news in person.”
Laura would never forget the day the matron escorted Mrs. Rouncewell into her room at the girls’ seminary, a letter from a stranger—some clerk in Jersey—in her hand.
She went on, “After that, the matron reviewed my enrollment records and found that my parents had listed Father’s younger sister—Mrs. Anne Bray—as my next of kin after them. The matron wrote to the Brays, and they came to fetch me. Aunt Anne and her husband were preparing to move to Truro, where he had been offered a curacy. They took me with them. I had met Aunt Anne before and liked her, and I quickly became fond of Uncle Matthew as well. They were rather poor but happy, and very kind to me.
“Knowing education was important to my parents, they enrolled me in a girls’ school near them in Truro so they could visit me and I could go to them at holidays.”
Laura looked off into her memories and found Aunt Anne’s lovely, gentle face. “I have never seen two people happier than when my aunt announced she was with child. Sadly, their happiness was short-lived. She died in childbirth.” Laura sighed. “After that, I stayed home with my uncle. Truly, he was so low in spirits that I was afraid to leave him. But he eventually rallied. He met Lamorna Mably, a widow herself, and through her connections in this parish, he was offered the living here. We have resided in her home these last eight years.”
“Your home now too, surely.”
Laura shook her head. “Fern Haven has always seemed like her and Eseld’s home, not mine, being no blood relation to anyone under its roof.” She raised a palm. “I am not complaining. Mrs. Bray is tetchy but not cruel, and Uncle Matthew is good and loving to me, out of respect for his first wife’s memory, I suppose.”
“Or perhaps simply because you are lovable.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 9
