Laura nodded and brought forward a large basket. In it were a pair of boots and two men’s shoes that almost matched. She kept all the shoes and boots she found and distributed them to the poor and destitute as needed, and did he not qualify?
“I hope you don’t mind, but when you were sleeping, I measured your foot. They are not new, I’m afraid.”
“I don’t mind. I am grateful.”
“Shall we see if they fit?”
She set the shoes before him, and he wiggled in one foot, then the other, wincing on the injured side. “Excellent. You just happened to have these on hand?”
Laura blushed, but her uncle said proudly, “Laura has shod many a poor youth in this parish. Finds them, restores them, and gives them to those in need.”
Alexander bent to look at the shoes. Had he noticed they were not a perfect match? He tilted up his head and met her gaze. “I am in your debt.”
A few minutes later, he limped into the dining parlour with the help of a walking stick lent to him by Miss Chegwin. Newlyn had added another place at the table, and Alexander joined them for the first time.
Uncle Matthew pulled back his chair with a beaming smile. “You are very welcome, Mr. Lucas.”
“Thank you.” He bowed to the ladies before taking his seat.
Even Lamorna Bray smiled and said all that was proper, clearly as impressed with the change in his appearance as her daughter had been.
Uncle Matthew asked the blessing, and the meal began.
“My husband tells me you are from Jersey, Mr. Lucas?” Mrs. Bray asked.
He nodded. “My grandparents moved there from England decades ago. It is a beautiful place. Have you ever been?”
“Me? Never. But someone we know went there. . . .” Squinting upward, she searched her memory, then looked to her husband for help. “Who was it, Mr. Bray?”
Laura’s heart pounded.
With an apologetic glance at her, Uncle Matthew dipped his head and said gently, “Laura’s parents.”
“Oh, I quite forgot.”
Alexander looked at her, brows high in surprise and perhaps concern. She looked away, pushing a piece of mackerel around her plate.
Noticing her discomfort, Eseld took up the conversation.
“I remember looking for Jersey on a map once. In the English Channel, is it not? Much closer to France than England.”
“True.” Mr. Lucas nodded. “Only twelve nautical miles.”
“What sort of food do they eat there? Not mackerel and turnips, I trust.” Eseld wrinkled her nose at her barely touched plate.
“We ate much seafood, as here. Fish and a great deal of crab, lobster, oysters, whelks, and the like, along with many fresh vegetables. Less mutton, perhaps. There were also traditional Jersey dishes like sweet cakes, bean crock, and pickled ormers.”
“Ormers?” Eseld asked suspiciously.
“A mollusk. Called abalone here, I believe. Most delicious.”
This time Laura barely resisted wrinkling her nose. She liked fish but was not fond of snails and other mollusks.
“You were traveling by merchantman, I understand,” Mrs. Bray said. “Are you a sailor or a merchant or . . . ?” She let the question dangle and waited expectantly.
He hesitated, sipping from his glass and wiping his table napkin over his mouth before answering. “I am . . . a sailor, yes.”
Laura remembered him mentioning being educated at Cambridge and on the continent, and he certainly sounded the part. Was he really a simple sailor?
At his reply, Mrs. Bray’s interest dimmed, and she asked her husband to pass the sauce for the fish.
Eseld spoke up again. “What will you do now, Mr. Lucas?”
“Try to get home,” he replied, this time without hesitation.
Mrs. Bray nodded and said coolly, “Good idea.”
“But first he must fully recover,” her uncle interjected, giving the man a kind smile. “There’s no hurry.”
As they finished the meal, Laura asked, “How about some fresh air, Mr. Lucas? Just out to the garden?”
He smiled in apparent relief. “Thank you, yes.”
“I will join you,” Eseld said, setting aside her table napkin.
But her mother laid a hand over hers. “Eseld, my dear, there is a chill wind today; perhaps you had better remain indoors and rest.”
Eseld’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, but she protested no further.
Uncle Matthew insisted Alexander borrow one of his coats.
“One of the older ones, please,” Mrs. Bray clarified.
A few minutes later, Laura and Alexander walked outside and slowly around the garden, she in her pelisse and wool shawl, and he in Uncle Matthew’s dark brown coat. The garden was fading now but still lovely with its golden mums, dried hydrangeas, Michaelmas daisies, and the leaves of