He tilted his head. “Are the people who reply to your letters always thankful? As Sophocles said, ‘No one loves the messenger who brings bad news.’”
“Good point. And you’re right. Not all have been thankful. I received one very angry letter.” She gave a dry chuckle. “Perhaps it is God’s way of keeping me humble.”
“Can you tell me what the letter said?”
“If you give me a moment, you can read it yourself.” She went upstairs to retrieve the letter from her desk and handed it to him upon her return. Laura stood at his shoulder as he read the words, though she remembered them all too well.
Miss Callaway,
I know you meant well in writing to inform us of Lt. John Hathaway’s death. John was my only son, and I loved him, despite his flaws. As long as he was alive, or believed to be alive, his sisters and I could go on living in Hathaway House, safe and provided for. My husband died last year. And since then his will has been held in probate court. The estate is entailed, and goes to our son, John, if living, and if deceased, to the next closest male heir, my husband’s nephew. But thanks to your confirmation of my son’s death, the wheels of probate are once again turning, and the will is soon to be executed. I am to have a small annuity, barely enough to live on, while my husband’s heir is to have the house and all the rest. This nephew demands that we leave, as we have no legal right to stay and he says he has no reason to go on housing and feeding us, insolent devil that he is!
What are my poor girls and I to do with a mere one hundred pounds a year to live on? If one of my daughters does not marry well soon, I fear it will be the workhouse for us, all thanks to you.
Think twice before you meddle again.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Eugenia Hathaway
The words were a blow to Laura’s stomach, just as they had been the first time she’d read them. She had wanted to do some good, not make anyone’s life worse.
“Do not feel bad. It was not your fault,” Mr. Lucas said. “Would the son not eventually have been declared dead?”
“Yes.”
He nodded. “The woman was upset and probably regrets writing such a mean-spirited letter.”
“I have tried to tell myself that, though sometimes I think I am fooling myself.” Laura drew a deep breath. “Well, it was the truth, and is not the truth supposed to set one free? Set free of a comfortable life in this instance . . .”
She glanced over at him, expecting to see a smile at her little joke, but instead found him looking distracted and ill at ease.
After a pause, he asked, “May I see the collection of items you have found?”
She set down her teacup. “I suppose so. If you are interested.”
“I am.”
When they finished eating, she retrieved the key from her desk drawer and returned wearing her full-length pelisse and gloves. “You’ll want to wear Uncle Matthew’s old brown coat again. Where we are going is not warm.”
Carrying a lantern, although daylight, she led him behind the house, out of the garden, and up a weedy remnant of drive that now led to nowhere. Here and there a few crumbled foundation stones showed through the brush, and there a toppled chimney.
“A fine house once stood here,” she explained. “A wealthy couple from Bath built it high on this hill overlooking the sea. In the summer, all is fair and lovely here. But in the winter, it can be brutally cold and windy. They said the fire was an accident, but I have always wondered.”
She pointed out several charred stones before continuing, “At all events, with the wind up here so strong, the fire consumed everything. Only one outbuilding survived. They did not rebuild but rather sold the property very cheaply to the Mably family and moved back to Somersetshire.”
Walking slowly to accommodate Alex’s limping gait, Laura led him toward a tall mound amid a line of tamarisk shrubs and a few stunted trees, which grew with a distinct lean, blown by the prevailing winds. From a distance, it might have appeared as if she were leading him to an ordinary earthen mound, but as they neared, a door built into the grassy bank became visible. The icehouse had been built into the earth for insulation, with rubble retaining walls and granite jambs on each side of the doorway, all but covered with encroaching plants. Its plain granite lintel was partially hidden by vines, hanging over it like a fringe of green hair. The sturdy plank door with strap hinges was bolted and locked. The padlock she had bought herself years ago with proceeds from one of her first sales.
“I wonder how long it took them to realize how impractical an icehouse was up here,” Laura said. “They probably paid a fortune to have ice carted in from Bodmin or someplace farther north.”
She drew out the key and unfastened the padlock. “Eseld thinks it a waste of time, so you are only the second person I’ve invited inside. Uncle Matthew being the first.”
“I am honored.”
“Please moderate your expectations. It’s not exactly Blackbeard’s treasure. Mrs. Bray says I should sell the lot of it, but I am still holding out hope of finding the rightful homes for some things.”
Laura pushed open the door, and musty cold air immediately met them, so well insulated was the place, partly above ground, partly subterranean. She raised her lantern high and led Mr. Lucas down the wooden stairs to its flagstone floor with granite roof above.
“Watch your step.”
She hung the lantern on a hook to illuminate the cavern-like space. Shelves were built around its circumference, and on those shelves were the things she had found on nearby beaches over the years.
She led him slowly around, giving him a tour of her inventory.
A tea cask. Several Spanish ducaton coins. A tortoiseshell fan. Belt buckles. A sugar bowl. Cloak button and chain. Candlesticks, candle holders, and snuffers. The decorative lid of a lady’s cosmetic jar. Lots of clay tobacco pipes. Brushes with bone handles. A carpenter’s rule. Medicine vials, sealed in a surgeon’s chest and in excellent condition. A hat case. Snuff boxes. A key. Glass beads. Several chipped china plates and cups, and the ubiquitous seashells.
She pointed to a large instrument that looked like a two-armed compass. “I am not sure what that is called.”
“An octant,” he supplied. “Used in navigation.”
Next they came to a leather shako cap with an eagle badge plate of the French 35th Infantry Regiment of the Line.
“It seems rather small to me,” she said.
Alexander nodded. “A drummer boy, perhaps.”
She picked up a brooch of gold or gilt in the shape of a salamander with small gem scales. “This is one of my favorites.”
He whistled. “Probably worth something too.”
She shrugged. “I suppose so, though profit is not my primary aim. I am most interested in things that might help me identify victims who would otherwise go unnamed and unknown.”
“That is kind of you,” he said.
Another modest shrug. “It was my uncle’s idea. He thought it would give me a project, a purpose of my own, and he was right.”
Laura did not usually go to the expense of posting items immediately, as there was always a risk the parcel would reach the wrong person, someone unrelated or uninterested. So Laura described the item in the initial letters she sent, sometimes including a sketch and offering to send the object if small, or inviting the person to come and collect larger things at their convenience. In the meantime, she kept the items in the abandoned icehouse for safekeeping.
Laura picked up a narrow, light green bottle. A medicine bottle, perhaps, without a label. Inside was a rolled piece of paper. “You might think a message in a bottle a rare, whimsical thing. But while at sea, they are a practical way of protecting one’s final words. More than one officer has written a plea for help or a farewell.”
She lifted the bottle. “This one truly touched my heart. I found it the night the Price was trapped on the Doom Bar. The first mate must have guessed his fate, for he spent precious minutes of his last hour writing a letter
and securing it in this bottle. Perhaps he meant to throw it into the sea but was washed overboard himself before he could do so.
“That night, I saw Tom Parsons bend over him and pull this from one of the man’s pockets and his watch from another. Thinking the bottle empty, Tom threw it down in disgust and went off to search his next victim.
“I hurried over and retrieved it. The bottle contained no rum or whatever Tom was hoping for, but I saw the white ghost of paper within. I tucked the bottle away, then looked closer at the man’s face, committing it to memory. He looked so peaceful, green eyes open and wearing a hint of a smile it seemed to me. So much so that I felt for a pulse just to be sure, but no, he was dead.
“I looked for anything else that might identify him but found nothing. So I closed his eyes and waited for my uncle to come and say a blessing over him.”
Seeing her listener was transfixed, Laura slid the paper from the bottle. “This is a copy I made for myself.” She read it aloud.
“To whoever finds this note,
The waves are beating the ship to splinters. We can’t last much longer. If you find this, it likely means I am gone. I hope you will do me a great favor and send this note to my parents to let them know.
It was a foolish and proud young man who left their home four years ago. And an older, wiser, more repentant man who writes these words now.
Father, if you read this, please know I forgive you. You asked me long ago to do so, and I said I never would. That was spiteful and cruel. I do forgive you, and I ask that you forgive me, for the harsh words and for leaving you without a chance to make amends or say good-bye.
I meant to come back this Christmas in hopes of a reconciliation. Would have, had God allowed. But please never doubt that I love you.
Mamma, I am sorry I was not a more attentive, kinder son. You deserved better. I love you too. Forgive me for not telling you in far too long.
May you both find peace in the fact that I have surrendered my soul to God, relying on Jesus’ mercy, which as you know I once scoffed at. I scoff no longer. To borrow words from another seafarer, I once was lost but now am found.
Yours forever,
James Milton Kirkpatrick III
Please deliver to:
Mr. and Mrs. James Milton Kirkpatrick
The Grange, Bableigh Road
Barnstaple, Devon, England.”
Laura paused, affected by the words all over again. “Barnstaple isn’t so very far from here. He was so close to home, yet he didn’t reach it.”
“Sounds like he did.”
She tilted her head to regard him. “Are you a man of faith, Mr. Lucas?”
“I am. Though imperfect and prone to wander. Especially at the moment.”
“Are not we all?” Laura said softly, then returned her focus to the paper. “I don’t usually send the original, in case it should not reach the intended recipient. But in this case, I had such specific direction that I posted the letter, enclosed in another sheet. I wrote a few lines explaining how I came upon it, my sorrow for their loss, and sent it on.”
“Have you received any reply?”
“No. I do hope they received it. I like to think it helped, and that his father forgave him. That they reconciled at last.”
“Yes, I hope so too.” Alexander nodded thoughtfully. “Fathers and sons. Sometimes close, sometimes so easy to let injured pride and disagreements splinter the relationship as surely as rocks and waves splinter ships.”
“You speak from experience?” Laura asked.
“I do, unfortunately. I too hope to reconcile with both my father and brother when I return home. Father’s health is not good, I’ve learned. And with the strain of . . . recent events . . . I hope I am in time.”
“So do I.”
Laura looked around at her collection once more. Had she shown him everything? She thought of her latest finds, still in the Fern Haven scullery. She had soaked the cocked hat in a bucket and set the flask on a shelf for later polishing.
Thinking of those items, and of the uniform coat Martyn had found, she asked, “Were any French officers on board the Kittiwake?”
He hesitated. “Why do you ask?”
“I found a chapeau bras after the ship foundered.”
“I . . . did not see anyone in uniform.”
She turned to the door. “Well, shall we go? I am due to help my uncle with his calls.”
He looked up, clearly distracted. “Hm? Oh yes. Thank you for showing me your treasures.”
The legendary “wrecker of Trevose,” Tom Parsons was also credited with luring ships onto the rocks by the use of “false lights.” But in truth all the wrecker had to do was wait for the gale to bring home the booty.
—BRIAN FRENCH, LOST OFF TREVOSE
Chapter 8
Returning to Fern Haven, Alexander and Miss Callaway parted, her to her uncle’s study and him to the guest room. There his thoughts churned, spurred on by the letter she had read to him—the young man’s hopes of a reconciliation with his family, which was now never to be.
Alexander too longed to reconcile with his estranged family, the father and brother he loved. He too desired to forgive and be forgiven for the harsh words and arguments. For leaving without making amends or saying good-bye.
Things had not always been turbulent between them. As boys, he and Alan had been good friends, tussling and teasing and roasting one another as brothers do, but looking out for each other as well.
He recalled one small memory among so many fraternal moments. The two brothers swimming together during one of their seaside holidays. Younger Alan had been overwhelmed by the waves, and Alex had lifted him up, supporting him and helping him into shallower water. “I’ve got you.”
When his feet touched sand, Alan pulled from his grasp, glancing toward shore to make sure no one had seen. “I’m all right,” he insisted.
“Of course you are.” Alexander ruffled his hair, then splashed him. Alan splashed back, the danger soon forgotten.
The pretty girl from next door appeared on the beach in a bathing costume, dark hair in twin plaits.
“Come in,” Alexander called to her.
“No!” she called back. “Mamma said one of you was out here shouting like a baby. The water must be freezing.”
Alan sent him a pleading look.
“That was me,” Alexander lied, covering for him. “Just fooling around. The water is fine—see?”
He splashed at her, and Alan joined in. When the girl responded with a satisfying squeal, he and his brother shared a pair of smug grins.
“Thank you, Alexander.”
Alan had not thanked him for rescuing him from the waves . . . but from embarrassment before a girl? Yes.
Alex winked. “We brothers must stick together.”
If only that peaceful bond between them could have lasted.
Alexander paced back and forth across the modest chamber. He had been whiling away the days in Cornwall long enough. It was time to act, to find another ship and return home to help his brother, risky though the endeavor might be. But how could he, without any money and without that flask and the valuable paper it held?
After the Evensong service at St. Michael’s in Porthilly that evening, the congregants rose and began greeting neighbors and friends. Laura, as often happened, found herself alone. She was better acquainted with the people at St. Menefreda’s, but as Uncle Matthew served all the parish churches, his family accompanied him to all three on occasion as well.
A few awkward solitary minutes later, Eseld approached her, face beaming. “Have you heard the news? Another survivor has been found.”
Laura’s heart thumped hard. “From the Kittiwake? Are you certain?”
Eseld nodded. “Miss Roskilly just told me.”
“Where was he found?”
“Near Pentire Point—beyond the Rumps.”
“So far?”
Again Eseld nodded. “Come, there’s Kayna, no doubt retelling the stor
y to Treeve. She dearly loves an audience.”
She took Laura’s arm and pulled her through the crowd to join them. “Pardon us, but Laura would like to hear as well.”
“Good evening, Miss Callaway,” Kayna Roskilly said coolly, and continued her story. “As I was telling Mr. Kent, the man made his escape by strapping himself into one of the Kittiwake’s lifeboats.”
“Why are we only hearing of a second survivor now?” Laura asked.
“He landed in a secluded cove that was too steep to climb out of. Tom Parsons was out in his lugger and found him sleeping under the overturned boat. He brought him to our house.”
Tom Parsons? Laura was surprised the wrecker would help anyone.
Perhaps noticing her dubious expression, Kayna added, “Father gave Tom a generous reward, then fetched Perran Kent to have a look at the survivor. He declared the man bruised and thirsty but otherwise remarkably hale.”
Eseld looked around those gathered. “Where is Perry, by the way?”
“Fern Haven, I believe,” Treeve replied. “Said something about removing stitches.”
“What is the man’s name?” Laura asked.
“François LaRoche,” Miss Roskilly said, then held up an index finger. “Before you jump to conclusions, let me explain. Yes, he is French. But he is an émigré living here legally. You know how many aristocrats fled here to avoid the guillotine during the Terror in France. Even today, Britain harbours many French citizens guilty of nothing more than being titled or wealthy.”
“And which is he?” Eseld asked, all hopefulness.
Kayna fluttered her dark lashes. “Both, I imagine, though it would be unladylike to pry.” She and Eseld shared a smile.
Doubt creased Treeve’s face. “Has he any papers to verify his claim?”
Kayna shook her head. “Lost in the shipwreck, sadly, along with his other possessions.”
“How . . . inconvenient.” Treeve looked at Laura. “Perhaps your Mr. Lucas might vouch for him? Might they know one another? Have met on the ship?”
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