A crewman helped Laura and Alex into the boat, then rowed them ashore. When they reached the quay, Alex clambered up first, then reached down a hand to help Laura ascend. She felt strangely weak and in need of his strength.
Standing on solid stone at last, Laura should have felt steadier, but instead the earth continued to sway beneath her.
Alex placed a supporting hand under her elbow. “Are you all right? May take a few minutes to find your land legs again.”
She nodded, drawing in long draughts of cool, salty air, wishing away the dizziness, the mounting nausea. What was happening to her? For her vision narrowed, tunneling into blackness. She felt her legs give way and knew no more.
She had been entangled in the fog, not knowing where she was, all her bearings lost.
—S. BARING-GOULD, IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA
Chapter 20
Laura became aware of someone mopping her brow. Her vision returned in uneasy intervals, blurry at first, as though she peered through a thin layer of wax.
She glimpsed a wrinkled hand and heard a kind older voice. Miss Chegwin? Laura wondered.
Had she said the name aloud? For the voice gently hushed and soothed her. The woman spoke English but her accent was different. Not Cornish. French? Laura didn’t think so.
“Shh, there now. Drink this.” Warm, soothing liquid touched her lips, her throat, her stomach, and once more Laura slept.
She woke again with a spoon to her lips. “Come, Sara, you must eat something.”
Sara? That was her mother’s name. Why was this woman calling her Sara?
“Laura,” she murmured, or tried to.
“Right. Laura. Sorry.”
An unfamiliar male voice said something she could not make out.
The woman responded, “Is such a large dose necessary? Yes, yes, I know you’re the doctor, but . . .”
Later, Laura heard a voice she did recognize. Alexander, suggesting something.
“You’re right,” the elderly woman replied. “Fresh air will do her good.” Laura was conscious of being lifted and carried.
“Put me down,” she mumbled, embarrassed at her weakness.
She was settled gently onto a chaise longue. Warm sun shone on her skin and fresh sea air filled her lungs, yet her stupor remained. Her eyelids felt unnaturally heavy, as if weighted. What is wrong with me?
“Go about your business, sir,” the woman said. “I shall sit with her.”
Laura felt a mixture of relief, confusion, and dismay that Alexander was still with her. Was there not somewhere he needed to be, something important he needed to do? What was it? Her brain refused to conjure the answer.
Laura felt a squeeze to her hand, smelled a whiff of spicy shaving soap, and then he was gone.
She wasn’t sure of the name of her nurse but was vaguely aware she was sitting in someone’s small front garden, its stone walls protecting her from the wind. The sound of gulls told her the sea was nearby.
Time passed. Laura slept, stirred, slept some more, dreams and reality muddled together.
From beside her, the nurse said, “A cup of tea, I think. You rest here, and I shall return presently.” She stood and laid yet another blanket over her.
Laura heard soft padding footsteps and a door quietly opening and closing. She was left in solitary peace.
Then a different sound penetrated her mind. Not the door, but a creaking hinge. The garden gate?
Another set of footsteps approached, this time on paving stones.
Laura turned her head and, with effort, opened her eyelids. The blurriness had lessened, but the sunlight hurt her eyes. She closed them again, save for the narrowest slit. Through the haze and her lashes, she saw a feminine figure. A woman in a long green cape closed the garden gate behind her. She had a halo of red hair—the color faded by sunlight or age. Her profile and the small spectacles she wore seemed familiar.
The woman turned toward her, and Laura’s hand flew to her chest.
It was her mother, back from the dead.
Was she still dreaming? Yet she felt jolted awake. If her mother were alive, she would surely not have let all these years pass without sending word.
I must be hallucinating. She had heard that fevers could give people strange fancies. Just what had that doctor given her?
Or . . . another explanation seized her heart.
Had she died? Died and gone to heaven—and just as many predicted, her loved ones were there on that beautiful shore to meet her. At least . . . one loved one.
Laura felt twin waves of emotion wash over her. Yes, she was relieved to find herself in paradise, especially considering her recent untruths. She remembered Uncle Matthew describing God as merciful, assuring her that her sins would be forgiven if she confessed them, and for that she was grateful.
Yet, she was sad too. She wasn’t ready to leave her world behind, to leave Alexander behind. He might blame himself for her illness, and he must not. It was not his fault. She had chosen this course and would choose it again.
The elderly nurse returned with the tea. She exclaimed, “Oh, you’re back!” Turning to Laura, she asked, “Sara—I mean, Laura—can you hear me?”
Shock pinned her tongue to the roof of her mouth, leaving her unable to speak.
The older woman directed her next comment to the apparition. “The fever elixir Dr. Braun gave her contains a great deal of laudanum. A dose meant for a soldier or sailor, not a petite young woman. It’s no wonder she’s out of her senses. I’m not going to give her any more. Don’t tell him when he comes back.”
She gently touched Laura’s arm and repeated, “Miss Callaway? Can you hear me?”
Laura slowly turned her head to get her first clear look at her nurse, a kindly looking woman of at least sixty, her fair hair streaked with silver.
The nurse smiled at Laura. “There is someone here most anxious to meet you.”
Would the vision still be there? Laura turned her head the other way. Yes, still there—with a face blessedly familiar.
Laura’s throat constricted and her eyes heated. She felt stunned, elated, and betrayed all at once.
“Mamma?”
The brown eyes looking back at her filled with tears. She slowly shook her head, the movement sending glistening streaks down fair cheeks. “No, my dear. Your aunt Susan.”
Laura blinked. “But you died too.”
“No, I did not. I should have. But your father was the best physician I ever knew. I don’t know why he succumbed to the illness I survived, but he did. Your mother as well. It was so unfair. I’ve felt terribly guilty all these years.”
Laura stared at her, taking in her words and her appearance, trying to make sense of both. She had not seen her aunt Susan in many years, but she didn’t remember her looking quite so identical to her mother, who had worn spectacles and been plumper than her thin sister. And had her aunt’s hair not been darker? Or had Laura’s memory of her mother faded so much over the years, that now her sister seemed her spit and image?
She murmured, “You look . . . different. Your hair . . . ?”
Her aunt nodded. “I hated having red hair when I was young, so my maid used to darken it with a boiled walnut solution. Foolish, I realize, especially now that I see how beautiful your hair is.”
“You never wore glasses before.”
“That’s age, my dear. My eyes are not what they once were.” She patted her plump abdomen with a self-conscious smile. “Nor the rest of me.”
Laura slowly shook her head. “You look so much like her.” Or so much as Laura remembered her, at any rate.
“I take that as a sincere compliment, though it’s not surprising. We were twins after all, and so close. Not a day goes by I don’t miss her.”
Laura’s heart ached. “Me too.”
Her aunt squeezed her hand, and a few more tears escaped.
“Will you show me where they are buried?” Laura asked.
“Certainly—when you are more fully recovered
. You are still quite weak.”
Laura turned to the older woman, who watched the reunion with misty eyes of her own. “Did you know my mother? Is that why you called me Sara?”
The nurse nodded. “Yes. I was at the harbour buying fish when you collapsed. You resemble her a great deal. I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
Laura smiled softly. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“Mrs. Tobin insisted your friend bring you here so she could care for you,” Aunt Susan explained. “She also devotedly nursed your mother throughout her illness.”
The woman’s chin trembled. “I only wish we could have saved her. Saved them both.”
Laura reached for her hand. “Thank you for trying.”
The wind picked up, and Mrs. Tobin insisted her patient move inside. So the women helped Laura to her feet and settled her in a snug parlour. Laura and her aunt sat near each other, Susan in a padded chair and Laura on the sofa. Mrs. Tobin discreetly left them to talk, only coming in to pour tea and offer sandwiches.
Laura sipped her tea, the questions she longed to ask lodged in her throat. Instead, she asked, “Do you live nearby?”
“I live here with Mrs. Tobin,” Susan explained, “and have ever since my husband’s death. I have been here all the while.”
“Have you? I did not realize.”
“I was getting over a cold when you arrived a few days ago, so I kept my distance. You were out of your senses from the fever, and the laudanum only made it worse. I was afraid you would not recover and I wouldn’t have a chance to”—her voice hitched—“explain.”
Laura swallowed hard and asked, “Why did you never contact me?”
Pain pinched the older woman’s features. “I did try, my dear. Please remember that I was seriously ill at the time and barely survived. And when I did begin to recover physically, I was overwhelmed with grief—grief over the deaths of my husband, beloved sister, and your father as well. I was laid low in a deep melancholy for a long while, unable to rouse myself even from bed. I had no interest in living, almost wishing I had died with the others.
“Then I remembered you. My sister’s daughter. I wrote to your parents’ home address, but the house had been sold, and the new owners could provide no information about your whereabouts.
“I went through your mother’s letters and found the name of the girls’ seminary in one of them. I wrote to the school, and the matron wrote back with Mr. and Mrs. Bray’s direction in Oxford. But that letter was returned as undeliverable. Apparently, they had moved away.
“I also wrote to your father’s young partner and, through him, learned the name of your parents’ solicitor. He helped me track down an address for your aunt and uncle in Truro, but I never received a reply to that letter either. I began to think that perhaps you did not wish to be in contact with me. Or that the Brays did not wish it for some reason.”
Aunt Susan shook her head. “Had my husband lived, I might have been successful in discovering your whereabouts. But his connections to Britain, his access to official channels, died with him. And you must remember that France and England have been at war for years. It wasn’t exactly easy to convince anyone to spend time on what seemed to them a trivial domestic matter. I am ashamed to say I gave it up, figuring you were better off with your aunt Anne than with me, a guilty shell of a woman living in far-off Jersey.”
“Aunt Anne died in childbirth, not long after I went to live with them,” Laura said. “Uncle Matthew was a broken man as well. But eventually he rallied and married again. Through his second wife, he came into a living in the north of Cornwall.”
“Where?”
“St. Minver is the name of the parish. Near Padstow.”
“No wonder my letters went unanswered.”
Laura nodded. “Matthew Bray wrote to Uncle Hilgrove via the garrison, but the letter was returned, marked Deceased.”
Aunt Susan winced at the word. “Yes. I was convalescing here with Mrs. Tobin by then. Eventually, the new garrison commander moved into our former house. I was ill for so long, and my fate so uncertain, that I became a forgotten woman.”
“I am sorry.”
Susan rose and restlessly paced the room. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I should have tried harder, not given up. Will you forgive me?”
Laura looked up at her and saw not only her mother’s sister but also her mother herself, looking at her with pleading brown eyes so like her own, asking for forgiveness for leaving her. For losing her.
“Yes, of course I forgive you,” Laura said, thinking, I forgive you both.
Alexander walked through the Havre des Pas neighborhood, thinking about Laura. He knew he would soon have to leave her to go to France, and he was resolved to go alone. With his and his family’s futures so uncertain, he was in no position to do otherwise. But in the meantime, he prayed for her full recovery.
Here and there small streams ran across the street—water from the surrounding hills finding its way to the sea after recent rains. He made use of the planks left by helpful residents to cross over them without getting wet. The town had clearly grown in the years since he’d spent his summers there. Many new houses and streets had been built, while some of the old streets had been widened and the names changed from French to English. He reached a narrow street only eight feet wide he thought he remembered as Rue des Trois Pigeons, but the sign read Hill Street. He’d found the original street name amusing as a boy and did not think the change an improvement.
In the distance, above the rooftops, he glimpsed a castellated church tower he recognized, probably the very church his grandparents had attended. He decided to make his way to it and find his grandparents’ former home from there.
Before he could, an aroma caught his nose. A delicious, familiar aroma. And on its scent, he was transported to the happy days of his childhood, when his grandmother would take him to the local pâtisserie for his choice of vraic buns or deep-fried twists of dough called mèrvelles.
He walked on. In his boyhood, the north side of King Street had looked out over green fields; now more houses and businesses filled the once-open space. He turned the corner, passed an ironmonger’s, a greengrocer’s, a hat shop, and a newsagent’s, and then—there it was. Egre Bakers & Confectioners. The bow windows gleamed, the displays of honey-brown bread loaves, cakes, and every good thing drew him to the familiar doors. He smelled warm yeasty bread, cardamom, and chocolat, and could almost feel his grandmother’s hand holding his.
He entered the establishment with a sense of stepping back in time. The man behind the counter greeted him and asked how he could help.
“I came here regularly as a boy. It’s one place that seems blessedly much the same.”
Alexander ended up buying several vraic buns dotted with raisins, and half a dozen golden-brown mèrvelles, still warm. He would share them with Laura and her aunt, he decided. If he resisted eating them all himself.
He then asked the man if he might direct him to Rue des Vignes.
“You mean Vine Street? Certainly . . .”
Following the man’s directions, Alex turned onto a lane of vine-covered houses. There he saw it, surrounded by other houses, when it had at one time enjoyed sprawling lawns on two sides.
It seemed smaller than he remembered. The wrought-iron gates less high. But he recognized it, even so.
He stood at that gate and selected a pastry from the bag, lifting it to his grandmother in a toast of sorts and then savoring every bite.
Eventually, he walked back to the harbour and relished the sight of all those ships moored there, recalling his first long-ago glimpse of the Victorine.
He noticed an older man in a tweed coat and slouch hat, watching him with friendly interest. When Alex looked over, the man asked, “Are you admiring the ships or daydreaming?”
“Both, actually. I especially admire that brig, there.”
The man’s broad shoulders straightened, and his chest seemed to expand. “You have a good eye, sir,
for that is my own ship.”
“Is it? You must be proud indeed.”
“I am. Just back from several weeks at sea.” The man nodded toward Alex’s parcel. “And I see you also have a good eye for bakeries.”
“Yes. In truth, I have been enjoying a little stroll into the past. My grandmother used to take me to Egre’s bakery. Here, help yourself.” He extended the grease-stained brown paper bag.
The bushy eyebrows rose. “That is prodigious generous of you. Ah, Jersey wonders. You must be a local lad, then?”
Alex shrugged. “I spent summers here as a boy. Take two. My eyes were bigger than my stomach.”
The older man patted his rounded abdomen. “That is not a problem for me, as you see.” He took a big bite. “Delicious.”
“I agree.”
The man chewed, then said, “Your accent . . . Do my ears mistake me, or do I recognize something of the French . . . perhaps Normandy?”
Alex reared back his head in surprise. “Close. Brittany. You have very skilled ears, sir, for although I have not been home in a few years, my honored father lives near Quimper.”
The man nodded. “I have been there. Beautiful country. Though Camaret-sur-Mer is my favorite.”
“Camaret-sur-Mer! We used to take holidays to the seashore there in my childhood. You have refined taste as well as hearing, I see.”
The man wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I have spent a great deal of time in France and learned to hear the differences. I’ve grown quite fond of the country. In fact, I had thought that when this blasted war is over, I might live there. But, well, Jersey has a . . . certain beauty . . . that keeps me here.”
Alexander watched the older man’s face and guessed, “And does this ‘certain beauty’ have a name?”
“Ah, you are too clever for me, my friend.”
“I came to Jersey with a beauty of my own.”
“Oh? Perhaps I know this lady. St. Helier is not such a big town. Bigger than it once was, yes, but still not such a metropolis that one does not know his neighbors.”
A Castaway in Cornwall Page 26
