A Castaway in Cornwall

by Julie Klassen

  Pain creased his face. “Do you really think that?”

  Did she? Laura considered. He might not be who he claimed to be, but no, she did not think he posed any danger. At least . . . she hoped not.

  Laura decided to let the issue of names drop for the time being. “He asked if you had recovered from your mishap.”

  “How kind,” Alexander murmured, his tone acerbic.

  “He also said he will pay a call here to introduce himself. Perry and Miss Roskilly insisted he wait until he has more fully recovered, though he looked quite healthy to me.”

  Laura hesitated to bring up the ball but forced herself to do so. “In the meantime, Miss Roskilly has invited you to attend the subscription ball her parents are hosting to help raise funds for St. Enodoc. I told her you might not feel equal to it.”

  “Because of my ankle or LaRoche?”

  “I was not sure that with your injuries, you would wish to dance,” Laura replied. “Though Miss Roskilly is most adamant that you attend anyway. However, I won’t press you if you don’t want to go.”

  “LaRoche will be there?”

  “Yes, he promises to dance with all the belles femmes.”

  “Of course he does. And charm them all, no doubt.”

  Again the bitterness crept into Alexander’s tone. What was the real history between the two men? She guessed they had known one another long before boarding the Kittiwake.

  He said slowly, “If I attend, scenes may arise unpleasant to more than myself. Though I would endeavor to be on my best behavior.”

  “I understand.”

  He looked off into the distance, considering. “What would I wear? I don’t suppose you have evening clothes my size in that collection of yours?” He managed a small smile.

  “I’m afraid not, though Uncle Matthew is sure to have something suitable you could borrow for the occasion.”

  “Let me think about it. I will let you know in the morning.”

  “Very well.”

  When Laura left him, Alexander remained where he was, considering the situation from all angles. He did not like the idea of hiding from LaRoche as though he were afraid of him. He was not. Would LaRoche reveal his identity and where they had come from, considering the revelation would implicate him as well? Or would he produce the papers he counted on for impunity?

  If LaRoche accused him in front of the assembly, Alexander would have no choice but to flee. He could not risk anything that would keep him from his mission to return home and save his brother—if such a feat was possible.

  But better to face LaRoche like a man than to hide in Fern Haven like a capon in a cage, awaiting his fate. Better to meet him in a public place, where LaRoche would have to be civilized and watch his tongue if he didn’t want to risk arrest himself. That possibility might restrain him, although François had never been one to think before he spoke.

  Either way, Alexander decided he would go.

  He would appeal to his former friend to avoid a scene that would embarrass his generous hosts and endanger them both. But there was no guarantee François would listen.

  Alex folded the newspaper he’d been reading and thought back.

  He, Alan, and François had been mere children during their country’s revolution. With hostility toward the upper classes escalating, François began to resent Alexander and his wealthier family. As the two grew into manhood, they spent less and less time together. During the Peace of Amiens, Alexander studied in Cambridge for a few terms, then returned home and enlisted. François, meanwhile, became involved with a band of counterrevolutionaries who fought against the new regime. Many of those men lost their lives.

  Alan had always looked up to François, who was confident, daring, and charming, and once Alexander went to sea, Alan apparently followed in LaRoche’s footsteps.

  Alex recalled with regret the night he had last seen Alan.

  Returning home on leave, Alex had been heartsick and angry to learn of Alan’s clandestine activities—his involvement with the royalist counterrevolutionaries, rumored to be partially financed by the British government.

  One night he heard something and went downstairs to investigate, sword drawn, on guard against an intruder. Instead, the brother he had not seen in more than a year stood in the shadowy entry hall. Alan’s hair was long and his clothes coarse—hobnail shoes, knee-high leather gaiters, and a broad-brimmed hat. Rawboned and weary, he looked like a peasant, or at least like the Breton insurgent he was.

  For a moment, Alexander watched him pawing through the postbox, pocketing the coins kept there to pay messengers who arrived at the door. He then said dryly, “Come to steal from your own family?”

  Alan turned to glare at him. “I need to buy food for our people, some who are severely wounded. Is it stealing to keep men from starving? To keep myself from starving?”

  “It is still wrong. LaRoche must have put you up to this.”

  “He has nothing to do with it. Not . . . anymore.”

  Their father emerged from the servants’ area, a burlap sack of apples in one hand, potatoes in the other.

  Indignation shook Alexander. “You are aiding him? Knowing the penalty?”

  Alan scowled. “Will you report your own father? Your own flesh and blood?”

  “You endanger your own family by coming here!” Alex shouted, then turned to his father. “Don’t you know the longer you support these brigands, the longer the bloodshed will last?”

  He gestured toward Alan. “They have degenerated into a band of vandals, thieves, and killers. Did the Vendée teach you nothing? The failed assassination attempts? The death of the Chouannerie leaders?”

  “We are not dead,” Alan insisted. “La petite Chouannerie lives on.”

  “For how long?” Alexander asked. “Until you are dead too?”

  Alan shook his head. “The Royalistes will prevail. But I agree the old methods are no longer effective. That is why I am considering a new course.”

  Fear tightened their father’s face. “What course?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “Because you are ashamed?” Alexander challenged.

  “Because my brother would report me to the usurper or at least his henchmen.”

  “Alan, what are you involving yourself in?” their father asked again.

  Wariness gripped Alexander’s gut. He had heard rumors of local men aiding les rosbifs. “Tell me you are not helping the British.”

  “I am not. But since when is our mother’s country the enemy?”

  Angered by this justification, Alexander thundered, “Alan!”

  His brother raised his hand. “I will do nothing she would disapprove of. Nothing my conscience would disapprove of. That should be enough for you.”

  “It’s not. You seem determined to destroy yourself and this family. And what of Léonie? What has she to say to all this?”

  Eyes hot with fury, Alan grabbed Alex’s lapel. “You leave her out of this. You had your chance with her and gave it up. Your right to say anything about her, about us, is gone too.”

  “Alan, let him go,” their father pleaded. “He is your brother. He loves you and is concerned for you. We both are.”

  Alan scoffed but released his hold. “Ha. He has chosen his allegiance, and I have chosen mine. He doesn’t love me. If he did, he would support me.”

  Alexander shook his head. “That is not how love works. It is not blind to faults, nor must it accept the wrongdoing of those dear to us.”

  “Nor do I accept your wrongdoing,” Alan retorted. “Off conquering foreign lands while our countrymen bleed and die and tear each other apart?”

  “You forget how bad things were under the monarchy you dream of restoring. You were too young. We both were. The nobles lived in luxury, the common man starved.”

  “And this regime is better? Executing all who speak against them, who resist their conscriptions and tyranny?”

  “My sons, please,” their father begged. “Do not figh
t. Alexander must return to duty soon, and . . .”

  “And I must rejoin my men before my brother has me arrested or shoots me himself.”

  “I would not shoot you.”

  “Ah. How generous.” Alan turned to their father. “Alors. Dernier adieu, mon père. I shall not trouble you again.”

  “Don’t say that,” his father urged, pressing the sacks of produce into his arms. “You are always welcome, Alan. This is your home.”

  “Not anymore.”

  His brother stalked out. When the door slammed behind him, his father turned on Alex. “Did you have to provoke him? Now I may never see him again!”

  “He has brought this on himself.”

  “How easy for you to sit in judgment of him. Are you so sure you are right? That the emperor is just and has our country’s best interest at heart? Or are you blinded by ambition and lust for power as well?”

  Alex gasped for breath, shocked and hurt as though his father had struck him. “Are you not the one who encouraged me to enlist?”

  “If I could have seen into the future—seen my homeland in tatters, my sons at each other’s throats . . .” He shook his head. “I would have kept silent.”

  As the memory of that horrible night faded, Alexander sighed. He believed his brother’s devotion to the Royalistes was misguided but selfless. François, however, was loyal only to himself, to whichever group or side could benefit him the most.

  Alexander had told Laura he would be on his best behavior. He would also have to be on his guard.

  Long live the rose.

  —FRENCH FOLK SONG

  Chapter 11

  Uncle Matthew loaned Alex evening clothes, and Laura brought out a beaver hat from her collection, brushing it until it looked like new.

  She had planned to wear her best dress, a simple white gown with a bit of embroidery on the bodice, but Mrs. Bray protested.

  “Come, we can’t have you looking like a neglected orphan. Borrow one of Eseld’s gowns. Or one of mine.”

  Eseld’s frocks would likely be too short and Mrs. Bray’s too large. Laura said, “That’s all right. I don’t mind. The event is for charity, after all.”

  Eseld tipped her head to one side. “Actually, if you wore Mamm’s petticoat with the ruffles at the bottom under my green silk, and added a white ribbon at your waist and white gloves, you would look charming.”

  Laura agreed to at least try on the ensemble.

  Eseld was right. The girl might be silly in some ways, but she had a good eye for fashion. She even arranged Laura’s hair for her and added a string of paste pearls and a small green silk flower.

  “Perfect. You really are lovely, Laura.”

  The sincere compliment gave her more pleasure than any of Treeve’s flattery ever had. “Thank you, Eseld.”

  The gentlemen were waiting downstairs. Mr. Lucas looked up as she descended into the hall. The slow softening of his features, shining eyes, and parting of his lips seemed to echo Eseld’s praise.

  Uncle Matthew glanced at the man. Alexander said nothing, so he filled the gap, saying, “You look beautiful, my girl.”

  “Thank you. Eseld deserves the credit.”

  He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “I think you own the lion’s share.”

  When they arrived at the Roskillys’ fine house, a footman helped the ladies alight, while a groom took charge of their horses and carriage. In the entry hall, one of the churchwardens sat at a table accepting subscription fees and any additional donations. Uncle Matthew paid their dues, and Laura donated two guineas from recent sales of her collection. Then they followed the crowd into the drawing room. The event was well attended by local gentry and merchants as well as a magistrate, constable, and a few officers of the North Devon Militia who were stationed in Cornwall to assist revenue officers in the suppression of smuggling.

  Laura looked across the room and spied François LaRoche. Beside her Alexander stiffened, clearly also seeing the man over the heads of the assembled guests.

  “Pardon me a moment.”

  Alexander made his way through the crowd to the man, hands raised as though in entreaty or surrender.

  Laura followed more slowly and overheard part of their conversation.

  “Let us avoid an unpleasant scene for the sake of the ladies and the church, all right?”

  LaRoche hesitated, eyes glinting. “For the ladies, perhaps. I don’t care about the church. Or you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Miss Roskilly came and took LaRoche’s arm. “Come, monsieur. It is time to take our places.”

  He allowed the young woman to lead him away.

  Alexander returned to Laura’s side, still looking wary and uneasy.

  The evening began with a concert. The Roskillys had engaged a singer for the occasion who regularly performed in Bath and Exeter.

  She sang beautifully. The first half of her repertoire included a few songs in English and one in Italian.

  During the interval, François approached her, flashed his charming smile, and asked something of her. She nodded her agreement, and he touched his fingertips to his heart with a small bow of gratitude. Laura wondered what he had said. She doubted he’d been flirting with the singer, as the woman was probably a decade older than he was, but couldn’t be certain.

  When the singer returned to the front of the room to continue her program, she said, “I have received a special request. One among us is from France, as you may know. So for a few minutes at least, I hope you will set aside thoughts of war and enjoy a French folk song, ‘Vive La Rose.’”

  She began singing:

  “Mon ami me délaisse

  Ô gué, vive la rose

  Je ne sais pas pourquoi . . .”

  Laura had studied French in school and on her own for a time afterward, but while she recognized many words, she struggled to understand the gist of the song.

  In the row ahead of her, Miss Roskilly leaned near Monsieur LaRoche and asked softly, “What does it mean?”

  “It is a song of, how do you say, unreturned love?”

  “Unrequited love?”

  “C’est ça.”

  As the singer continued, LaRoche quietly translated:

  “My friend is leaving me. I do not know why.

  He’s going to see another, who is richer than me.

  They say she is more beautiful; I do not disagree.

  Long live the rose.

  They say that she is sick. Perhaps she will die.

  If she dies . . . he will come back to me.

  But I won’t want him anymore.

  Long live the rose.”

  “Not a very cheery song,” Miss Roskilly observed. “Why did you request it?”

  “I thought Mr. Lucas would enjoy it.”

  Miss Roskilly glanced in his direction. “It does not appear that way.”

  Laura looked over as well, and was stunned to see tears in Alexander’s eyes and his jaw clenched.

  François smirked and crossed his arms. “Ah well.”

  It took all of Alexander’s self-possession not to leap across the seat back and knock François to the floor. How dare he request that song, knowing the words would stab his heart and his pride? Alex knew what the man was doing. Goading him with the knowledge that his love for Enora had not been returned. The gender of the lyrics might be reversed, but the meaning was perfectly clear.

  And then to give the knife a final twist, the woman sang, “‘They say that she is sick. Perhaps she will die.’” Enora had died, after bearing another man’s child. Long live the rose, indeed.

  Soon the concert ended, followed by hearty applause. Alexander did not join in.

  Laura leaned near and whispered, “Are you all right?”

  He forced a dishonest nod.

  “Did that song mean something to you? Monsieur LaRoche said he chose it for you.”

  “LaRoche enjoys baiting me.” He turned to her, his cold, bitter heart melting as he looked into Miss Ca
llaway’s face. “But I promised to be on my best behavior, remember?” He managed a small smile. Oh, but it was costing him.

  “You are being the perfect gentleman, and I appreciate it.” She touched his arm. “Miss Roskilly would as well, if she knew.”

  He relished the warm pressure of Laura’s hand on his sleeve. Too fleeting. “If you are pleased, that is enough for me.”

  The servants moved aside the chairs and rolled up the carpet for those who wished to dance. A hired musician sat down at the pianoforte and arranged sheets of music. Meanwhile, Treeve came over and stood beside Laura, asking how she had liked the music and if it measured up to her Town tastes. She assured him it had.

  Eagerly moving to the center of the room, Miss Roskilly called for a country dance, the Rakes of Rochester. Thinking of François LaRoche, Laura thought, A rake to be sure.

  She looked around but did not see the Frenchman anywhere. Miss Roskilly too seemed to search the room in vain. Laura wondered where he had disappeared to—he who had blustered that he would not miss his chance to dance with all the belles femmes. So where was he?

  Looking self-conscious, Miss Roskilly turned to find Treeve. Seeing him talking with Laura, she asked Perry to lead the dance with her instead.

  Perry agreed, all politeness, though he was clearly ill at ease with so many eyes upon them. He and Kayna stood facing one another at the top of the set, while other couples joined them, forming groups of six.

  Treeve, receiving a pointed nudge from Mrs. Bray, asked Eseld to dance. Eseld blushed and tried not to look as pleased as she clearly felt. Even Uncle Matthew participated, asking his wife to dance. Mrs. Bray accepted with a girlish smile.

  As Laura stood there awkward and alone, Alexander pushed himself off the wall, limped forward, and bowed to her. “May I have this dance?”

  “Yes, if you feel equal to it.”

  “To dance with you, Miss Callaway, I would endure far more than a sore ankle.”

  The musician played the introduction, and the dance began.

  The first man turned the second lady with one hand, then his partner with the other. Then the first lady performed the same sequence.