“I . . . would rather not say.”
She shook her head. “You had better tell me everything, and it had better be true, or I will report you to the militia myself.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “I will tell you everything, I promise. But—”
A voice called from above. “Our Laura?” It was Jago, sounding concerned.
“We’re coming,” Laura called up the stairs. She turned back to Alex, held out her hand for the flask, and whispered, “I will hold on to it for now. We can look at the contents together, and then I will decide whether to restore it to you or to Monsieur LaRoche.”
His eyes glinted, and he pressed his lips together tightly. “Very well,” he acquiesced, though obviously not pleased.
Retrieving her lantern, she went up the stairs, thoughts whirling, Alexander close behind her. Had she relinquished the flask to him, would he have disappeared forever then and there?
Above them, the big man stood at the icehouse door, brows drawn low. “You all right? Saw Tom Parsons leaving.”
“Yes. All is well, thank you.”
“Good.” Jago looked from one to the other. “Alex, can you come to the cottage a minute? I need help restringing the hurdy-gurdy. My fingers are too big.”
“Very well.” Alexander turned back to Laura. “I will be in shortly, and we’ll talk more then.”
Laura nodded and returned to Fern Haven, entering the back door alone. As she passed through the kitchen, someone pounded on the front door, and Laura stiffened. Had François LaRoche come to call as he’d promised? She slipped the flask into her pelisse pocket, just in case.
Laura peeked into the entry hall just as Newlyn opened the front door to a tall, grey-haired, intense-looking man.
“Miss Callaway?” he asked sternly.
“No, sir,” Newlyn timidly replied. “I-I’ll see if she’s at home. If you will wait here . . . ?”
“Dash and blast, girl. Don’t fob us off. We’ve traveled more than fifty miles.”
The man was intimidating but not, thankfully, François LaRoche. Was he some authority come searching for Alexander?
Laura forced her feet to the door. “It’s all right, Newlyn. I’m here.”
The man’s bristly grey eyebrows dipped as low as storm clouds. “Laura Callaway?”
“That’s right, Mr. . . . ?”
The man lurched forward, arms spread wide, and grabbed hold of her, the folds of his cape enveloping her like bat’s wings.
Laura panicked. Did he mean to abduct her? Crush her to death? Grasped in his steely arms, she struggled to draw breath. Then she slowly realized he was shaking with emotion and . . . embracing her. Unease and uncertainty roiled within her. The man was a complete stranger. Should she call for help? Or pat his back and ask what the matter was?
A gentler voice from behind urged, “My dear, take care, or you will suffocate her. You must forgive my husband, Miss Callaway. He is overcome to meet you.”
The man released her and stepped back, pressing a handkerchief to his face.
The woman, still in the doorway, said, “We both are, truth be told.” Her eyes filled with tears. Green eyes, and somehow familiar.
Laura looked from one to the other. “Who are you?”
“Pray, forgive me,” the man said. “I am as surprised as you are by my outburst.” He bowed. “James Kirkpatrick.”
James Kirkpatrick. The name struck a chord. James Milton Kirkpatrick III—the young man who’d left a message in the bottle she’d found and sent on to his parents.
Relief flooded in. “Oh! Mr. and Mrs. Kirkpatrick. You must have received my letter.”
“We did. It was misdirected at first. But we received it several days ago and made plans to come to see you as soon as we could manage it.”
“I am glad. And so sorry for your loss.”
The older woman nodded. “A bitter loss indeed, or it would have been save for you.”
The back door slammed. Alexander bolted inside, face tense. “Are you all right? Newlyn said a big angry man had come for you.”
“I am perfectly well. Newlyn exaggerates.”
Mrs. Kirkpatrick laughed. “Oh, my dear. You must have frightened that poor maid half to death. Please forgive my husband. He does look scary when agitated.”
“I can’t help my face,” the man defended. “I was too overwrought to feign politeness.”
“Mr. Lucas, these are the parents of James Kirkpatrick,” Laura explained. “I told you I wrote to them about their son?”
“Ah, the message in the bottle.”
“Yes.” She turned to the older couple. “Mr. Lucas recently survived another shipwreck here on our coast.”
“Miss Callaway saved me,” Alexander added simply.
Laura clasped her hands. “I wish I could have saved your son, but he was already gone when I got to him. If it helps, he was not battered. He was whole and peaceful looking. He had such a pleasant expression. Almost a smile, as though he’d seen his Maker. He was lying on the beach, looking up at the heavens. And I thought, he’s already there. In heaven, I mean. I remember he had a handsome face, and eyes so green. Like yours, ma’am.”
At that, those green eyes again filled with tears.
The man nodded, voice tight. “That’s our Jamie. Always said he was too pretty for a lad.” He shook his head. “That’s not true. He was a beautiful boy, inside and out.”
“We read in the paper about the Price going down before we got your letter,” Mrs. Kirkpatrick continued. “We feared the worst. That our boy was gone, never knowing if he thought of us, or loved us, or . . .”
“Or if he was still angry with me and with God,” her husband finished.
The woman nodded. “You don’t know what receiving your letter meant to us both.”
“I almost didn’t believe it at first,” her husband said. “It looked like our Jamie’s handwriting, but we’d not seen it in so long. How I wanted to believe he forgave me in the end. And reconciled with his Maker. And thanks to you, I know he did.”
Laura smiled gently. “I am so glad.”
Then she asked Wenna for refreshments, and the four sat down and talked longer over tea and a plate of cold meat, bread, and cheeses. Laura decided not to tell them about Tom Parsons taking their son’s watch. No good could come of it, and it would only upset them.
Her uncle and Mrs. Bray joined them for tea, their curiosity piqued. Laura explained why they’d come, and both were suitably sympathetic.
Mr. Kirkpatrick gestured to Laura. “That’s quite a girl you have there. A treasure.”
“I agree wholeheartedly,” Uncle Matthew replied.
Mrs. Bray smiled at them, then turned to give Laura an appraising look, her expression softening. And she said nothing disparaging.
Later, Laura walked the couple to the churchyard and showed them the grave.
Before the Kirkpatricks departed, she fetched the bottle from the icehouse and gave it to them. “It isn’t much, but James did touch this, and had it in his pocket. You might like to keep it. Maybe put a few flowers in it to remember him by.”
Mrs. Kirkpatrick smiled. “A good notion, my dear. I shall.”
Again the couple thanked her and took their leave, planning to stay the night at an inn before beginning their journey north in the morning.
Laura returned to the Fern Haven parlour, weary but satisfied.
“I am proud of you, my dear,” her uncle said.
“Thank you.”
The tears came then, tears of loss and confusion and uncertainty. Uncle Matthew held her as he had not done since she was a young girl. He no doubt believed she cried for the bereaved parents alone. She didn’t explain that her emotions were far more complicated.
With the unexpected visit by the Kirkpatricks, the night had grown late, and Laura and Alexander had not had time to continue their conversation begun in the ice cellar. So the next morning, after she dressed and ate a small breakfast, Laura went to the guest roo
m. Alexander was not there.
Newlyn passed by with a laundry basket. She told Laura he’d gone out early, but she didn’t know where. Had he gone to Padstow’s harbour, hoping to find a shipmaster willing to take him to Jersey or wherever his home was?
Mrs. Bray called up the stairs, vexation evident in her tone. “Laura? Mr. Kent is here and wishes to speak with you. Alone.”
Surprise and foreboding flaring, Laura went downstairs. Treeve stood near the parlour hearth, a folded paper in his hand. When the door closed behind them, she glanced around the room. “Perry is not with you?”
“He has gone to visit some ailing miner’s children. I hope you are not disappointed it is only me?”
“No, I . . .” She clasped damp hands. Surely this was not a courting call.
His next words soon put those concerns to rest . . . while raising others.
“Perry and I visited the Wadebridge coffee house this morning—the best place to learn the latest news and war reports, you know. They bring in many newspapers from around the country, to serve the interests of their varied clientele. At all events, we saw a notice I thought you might find . . . interesting.”
“Oh?”
He handed a recent issue to her, then watched her face as she read.
Escaped from Norman Cross
Three French prisoners:
Capt. A. Carnell
D. Marchal
F. LaRoche
Dangerous. Also suspected of theft.
Reward for successful recapture.
Superintending Prison Agent, Capt. Wm Hanwell.
Huntingdonshire.
Dangerous? Did the insertion of the word refer to the name listed directly before it, or to all three men? The notice was not perfectly clear.
She thought again of the bicorn hat she’d found with A. Carnell embroidered within. She also thought of François LaRoche, staying with the Roskillys.
She looked up at Treeve. “You don’t think . . . ?”
“Think? Me? You know me better than that.” His chuckle sounded forced. “My brother, however, wondered if we ought to go to the authorities. I prefer to avoid authorities myself, so I talked him out of it.
“I did, however, go to Pentire House and confront Monsieur LaRoche with this, since we recognized his name. I’ve just come from there. LaRoche explained it away. He says he was an informant in that prisoner-of-war camp, actually working for the British among all the Frenchmen being held there. Said he followed two escaped prisoners here and plans to report their whereabouts to the authorities. He accuses your Mr. Lucas of being this Captain Carnell.”
Laura’s stomach knotted. “And did you believe his claims? First saying he is here legally, and now, what . . . a spy?”
“Mr. Roskilly certainly believed him. I must say he is very convincing, throwing out dates of battles and names of British commanders he has supposedly worked for.”
“If that is true, why would British authorities list his name with the escaped prisoners?”
“To maintain his disguise, he says. Apparently, the Frenchmen he sailed with believed him a fellow prisoner.”
“I don’t know . . .” Laura murmured. “I have my doubts about LaRoche.”
“I do as well.” He hesitated. “I did want to caution you, though. Because of your . . . houseguest.”
“Thank you, Treeve. And thank you for telling me in person instead of jumping to conclusions and going to the authorities.”
“Do you want me to do anything about it? Talk to him? Or to the constable?”
She shook her head. “Leave it to me.”
“As you wish.” Treeve pressed her hand and took his leave, only to be accosted by Eseld in the hall, peppering him with questions and flirtation.
Alone in the parlour, Laura had already jumped to her own conclusions. She thought back again to finding the initials T.O. in the clothing of the shipwreck victim with the strawberry birthmark. Alexander had no such markings in his garments, but if his friend, D. Marchal, was an escaped prisoner, that was very incriminating for Alexander as well.
What should she do? Confide in her uncle? He might insist Alexander leave immediately or even report him to the militia or local constable. And if the agent saw this notice, he might recall the name Daniel Marchal as being among the dead identified by the survivor, Alexander Lucas. Or was it Alexander Carnell?
Rule 5. Fighting, quarreling, or exciting the least disorder is strictly forbidden, under pain of a punishment proportionate to the offence.
—PAUL CHAMBERLAIN, THE NAPOLEONIC PRISON OF NORMAN CROSS
Chapter 13
Alexander had left Fern Haven early to take the ferry to Padstow before the tide went out, hoping to find Treeve Kent or a ship’s crew willing to take him home.
As the ferry crossed the estuary, he thought back to the night before. Miss Callaway had found a silver flask. It might not be the same flask, he cautioned himself. But found on a nearby beach shortly after the demise of the Kittiwake? It had to be. . . .
Slowed by injuries and discouraged by his circumstances, Alex’s urgency to pursue his plan had dimmed over recent days. He had allowed himself to be lulled into a stupor of inaction, telling himself even had he the means or connections to find another way home, it was unlikely his return would do any good. For he had lost the only evidence he knew of that might exonerate his brother and free him from prison and impending execution. He’d thought it had slipped from his grasp forever, consigned to Davy Jones’s locker, never to be seen again.
But now?
If Laura Callaway had rescued the letter that could save Alan, he might be tempted to believe God had orchestrated their meeting.
How stunned he’d been to see the flask in the hand of Tom Parsons. Even if it was the same flask, however, would the paper still be inside and intact, or had the flask leaked and ruined the letter and his hopes with it?
He’d been tempted to demand its return then and there but worried Miss Callaway might refuse, because in all truth, it did not belong to him. Or she might hold fast to her “year and a day” principle, and he did not have that long to wait.
Reaching the harbour, he walked along the quay and soon found John Dyer, Newlyn’s father, in a substantial vessel at least forty-five feet long moored nearby.
“Impressive ship,” he called.
The man raised a hand in greeting. “Aye.”
He walked closer. “May I ask where you’re bound on your next journey?”
“Not sure. Guernsey, mayhap.”
Hope rose. “Would you be willing to take me across the Channel?”
The older man frowned. “Why? What’s yer business there?”
“I . . . simply wish to return home,” he replied. “To see my brother and ailing father.”
The man’s expression eased but still he shook his head. “Not up to me. You mistake the matter—this ain’t my ship. I just signed on because my fishing boat needs repairs. A decision like that would be up to the owner.”
“Who is he?”
Dyer hesitated. “Not my place to say.”
“Then would you ask him for me?”
He shrugged. “Very well. I’ll send a reply through Newlyn.”
“Thank you, Mr. Dyer. The sooner the better.”
Alex waved and walked away. He stopped to speak to two old salts bent over a newspaper. “Good day, gentlemen. . . .” He went on to describe his predicament and goal. In his urgency to secure passage, his voice wavered, and he heard the accent he tried so hard to curtail.
The men seemed to hear it as well, for they scowled and turned away, muttering the word foreigner under their breaths.
Determined not to give up, Alex continued down the quay, looking for another likely vessel. But he was distracted from his purpose by an unexpected sight: François talking with Tom Parsons, who was gesturing to a smaller sailboat in the harbour. François handed the smuggler something and the two shook hands.
Alexander’s suspicion was insta
ntly aroused. He hailed, “François!”
LaRoche walked toward him, leaving Parsons watching from behind.
When he neared, Alex lowered his voice. “What is your business with Tom Parsons?”
François began replying in French, but Alex forestalled him with a raised palm. “English. To be safe.”
“Very well. Just arranging transport to Jersey.” He glared at Alex. “I paid extra to guarantee Parsons would not carry you as well.”
Little chance of that, Alexander thought. In any case, he wondered where François had gotten the money. Or had he not lost his purse along with his papers?
Alex lifted his chin. “I will have my ring back now.”
“Too late.” The man stepped forward, toe-to-toe with Alex. “You should have claimed it the other night.”
“You know why I did not. I didn’t want to ruin the party and embarrass our hosts.”
“Très galant. But we both know the real reason. Too many witnesses, not to mention authorities who would love to capture an escaped Frenchman.”
“Two Frenchmen.”
LaRoche shrugged. “I would not be imprisoned for long. Thanks to you, I lost my papers. But it would only take one letter sent to Jersey and I would be freed. You, however, would be sent back, or worse.”
“If the paper you lost held so much power, why did you remain in Norman Cross so long?”
“The superintendent found me useful, and in turn my time there was quite profitable, not to mention diverting—that is, until you and Marchal left.”
Alex extended his hand. “My ring.”
LaRoche’s eyes glinted. “Better tuck that into your pocket, unless you want to draw back a bloody stump.”
François’s hand moved to his waist, where he kept a knife. Alex sprang and jumped him before he could pull it, knocking him to the ground. He sat on his chest, pinning his arms to the stone quay.
Some of the fishermen and workers who had been unloading a sloop gathered around, John Dyer among them. The men exclaimed among themselves, surprised to find two strangers fighting. Two survivors. Alex imagined it made it dashed difficult to know which man to cheer for.
“Alex?” Jago’s voice. The young man appeared among the others, eyes wide.
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