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 story 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.