other, as if becoming aware of the tension in the room but not understanding it. “Well, I will leave you.” At the sound of Eseld’s laughter floating up the stairs, he bowed and quickly departed.
When they were alone, Alexander asked, “What is the man’s name?”
“François LaRoche. Says he’s a French émigré living here legally. Treeve wondered if you might be able to confirm the veracity of his claim.”
Alex laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “François and veracity do not belong in the same sentence.”
“You know him?”
“Yes. We . . . shared a cabin on the ship.”
“Do you want to go and see him?”
“Where is he?”
“At the Roskillys’ home, a few miles from here. Apparently he escaped in one of the Kittiwake’s lifeboats.”
Alexander nodded, a bitter twist to his lips. “He helped himself to one of the boats and cut the other loose to keep me from coming after him. Left the rest of us, even the boy, with no way to escape.”
Laura swallowed. “Why would you be . . . going after him?”
“Because we fought on the ship.” His hand moved to his injured side.
“Why?”
“It’s a long story. But he is a dangerous man, Miss Callaway. I don’t want you going anywhere near him.”
“I would not go alone. Treeve Kent has offered to escort us.”
“Mr. Kent shows an avid interest in your affairs.”
“Mr. Kent shows an avid interest in Miss Roskilly, not me.”
When Alex made no reply, she said, “I have no reason to fear Monsieur LaRoche, and he has no reason to be hostile toward me.”
“Does he not?” For a moment he held her gaze, eyes intense.
He looked almost fierce . . . almost like a different man. What is he hiding? Laura wondered.
Then Alexander sighed, and the gentleman she had come to know reappeared. “I hope you are right.”
Again Laura asked herself, Who is this man really? Were they safe harbouring him in Fern Haven?
She went down to her uncle’s study and found him bent over the desk, writing a letter. He looked up when she entered. “Yes, my dear?”
“I don’t want to disturb you.”
“Not at all.” He returned his quill to the inkpot. “I always have time for you.”
“Thank you. I was just wondering . . . now that you are more acquainted with Mr. Lucas, are you comfortable with him staying here?”
Uncle Matthew interlaced his fingers as he considered. “Yes, I am. He seems a good sort of man. Do you agree?”
Laura nodded in relief. “Yes.” It was what she thought as well, but she highly valued her uncle’s opinion. Hopefully, they were not both mistaken.
After Miss Callaway left him, Alexander lay thinking about François LaRoche.
As boys, François and Alexander had spent a great deal of time together. They were about the same age, while Alexander’s brother, Alan, was a year younger. Their families were from different social spheres—the LaRoches being rather poor—but as youths, they hadn’t cared about that. Alexander’s father was stern and strict, so as an adolescent chafing under rules and restrictions, he actually envied François, whose parents let him do as he liked. François stayed out late and stole apples and cider and pocket money. When they were young, Alex saw it as harmless fun. But unchecked, François’s recklessness only increased.
When Alexander’s mother died, François listened to him rail against God for the unfairness of life, then held him as he wept. In those days, they had been as close as brothers.
Other fragments of memory rattled through his mind like links of a chain. Him handing François a loaf of bread when his family was hungry. François too proud to accept. “We don’t need it,” he’d said, pushing it away. “Don’t give me charity.”
Alex replied by quoting one of many local proverbs, “Friends do not give, they share everything.” After that, François reluctantly accepted the bread and other food as well.
Later, when François offered him his first cigar, Alexander hesitated to try it, but with a sly grin, François challenged him, “Remember, friends share everything.”
Alex choked on the thing, and François laughed mercilessly, only to take a smug puff and launch into a coughing fit of his own. Soon they were both laughing.
When François’s father died and Alexander came upon the young man weeping, his own tears flowed as well, both for his bereaved friend and for his own dear mamma, who was never far from his mind.
Clearly embarrassed, François tried to hide his tears. Undeterred, Alexander sat beside him and laid a tentative hand on his arm, whispering, “I