Page 135 of A Castaway in Cornwall
The dark drear days of November came along, and with them hurried mists and sweeping rains, wrapping the headlands in their mantle of grey, shutting out from the Padstow folk all sight of what lay beyond.
—GRATIANALONGWORTHKNOCKER,TREBETHERICK
Chapter 25
Winter passed in quiet domesticity. Together Alexander, his father, sister-in-law, and nephew celebrated Christmas and the New Year. His father seemed to rally since his return and even joined them at the table for a delicious Christmas dinner and indulged in a few sips ofManoir de Carnellcider, made from apples grown in their own orchard.
Alex had still not received another commission. Perhaps this was due to the blockades and the fact that the fighting focused on land versus sea. Or perhaps because they considered him compromised after his time in England and his relationships with Alan and François—two known spies. Whatever the reason, Alexander was not sorry. He felt he was where he was supposed to be. At his father’s side.
By February, his father’s rally lagged and his beleaguered heart began its slow final march, like the last labored ticks of an ancient clock. He died peacefully in his sleep the following month, Alexander holding his hand.
At the end of March, France’s allied enemies invaded and captured Paris, forcing Napoleon to abdicate.
Due to this news and Pierre Carnell’s death, the family’s Easter celebration was rather reserved, yet Alexander relished every word of the divine service, taking solace in the solemn yet joyous reminder that Christ had triumphed over death. Because of His resurrection, Alexander knew he would see his father again one day in heaven.
On a beautiful spring day near the end of April, Alexander walked around the kitchen gardens Betty tended so carefully, and then out to the orchard and small family vineyard beyond. The air was warm and carried the scent of apple blossoms, but Alexander was too distracted to appreciate it, striving to get his thoughts in order. Torn between keeping his word to his father and his feelings for Laura.
Was he obligated to marry his sister-in-law after their mourning periods ended? It would not be a hardship. Léonie was beautiful, and they had always liked and respected one another. Many marriages were forged on far flimsier foundations. And then there was Jean-Philippe. The little boy pulled on his heartstrings whenever he saw him. So young to be without a father. So innocent. So much like Alan.
He saw Léonie on a bench beneath a grape arbor, reminding him of the similar trellis-covered bench at Fern Haven. Was she too considering the future?
Alexander looked around theverger de pommiersbut saw no sign of its tender. “Where is old Jacques?” he asked.
“Laid low with the rheumatism, poor dear,” Léonie replied.
A younger man appeared among the blossoming trees. He walked with a decided limp yet looked to be no more than thirty. His hat, pulled low against the sun, shadowed his face. Alexander lifted his chin toward him. “And who is that?”
“His son, Jacques Marec. Do you not remember him?”
“Ah, of course. I thought he had enlisted in the infantry?”
“He had, but he came home to recover from his injuries and stayed to help his ailing papa. Your father offered him the place, and he accepted. He is very capable.”
“So the estate is in good hands, then?”
“I believe so.” She looked up at him. “That is not to say you are not welcome or needed. You are the new master now that your father has passed on.”
Alexander sat beside her, chewing his lip, considering. He wondered if he ought to visit the family lawyer in Quimper, or ask the man to come here.
“Alexander...” Léonie laid a hand on his sleeve. “I want to ask you something.”
He looked into her lovely face, her beseeching eyes. This was his old friend, his brother’s widow, and his beloved nephew’s mother. He knew whatever she asked of him, he could not, would not, refuse. He steeled himself. “Yes? What is it you want?”
She held his gaze intensely, warmly, intimately. “I want you to be happy. I know your marriage to Enora was not a happy one. I hope you will choose more wisely the next time.”
When he hesitated, she added, “I trust your Laura is a superior woman?”
“In every way, but—”
“Come. I know you love her. I saw your face when you read her letter. And whenever you speak of her, your features soften, and your eyes glow like sunlit honey.”
He looked away, self-conscious under her words, her scrutiny, hervérité.
“What holds you back?”
“How can it work?” He grimaced. “I am French—she is English. Our countries are enemies.”
“So? Your mother was English.”
