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,”