Page 25 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Mr. Lucas reached up and rubbed his cheek, then tugged at the whiskers on his chin. “I’ve never gone so long without shaving. I must look uncivilized.”
Laura removed the oval mirror from the wall and carried it to the bed.
Regarding his reflection, he muttered, “Knew I should have seen a barber before I left. A fright indeed.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Laura assured him. “But a shave and haircut will make you feel more like your old self. And perhaps a bath while we’re at it.”
The plan agreed to, Laura built up the fire, Jago carried in the tub, and Newlyn helped them haul buckets and kettles of hot water to fill the bath.
“We’ll replace yer bandages afterward,” Miss Chegwin said. “Don’t think a soak will harm’ee, but take care getting in and out. You’ve been on your back for days and are injured besides.”
“I shall.” The man sat up with effort, stifling a groan.
“Jago could stay and lend a hand, unless you prefer privacy.”
Mr. Lucas glanced up at the tall young man with beefy shoulders, broad face, and coarse hair in disarray. Jago looked down, apparently anticipating being sent away.
The patient stood, nightshirt not reaching his knees, the garment shorter on his taller frame than on her uncle. Swaying slightly, he reached out a hand to steady himself.
“If you would be willing to lend a hand, Jago, I would be obliged to you.”
Jago nodded, a rare smile on his face. Too few people used his name without derision.
An hour later, they reassembled, bath emptied and taken away, their patient dressed in his own buff pantaloons and shirt, fresh from the laundry. They took the opportunity to change the bed linens as well.
Mr. Lucas sat at the dressing table, a towel wrapped around his shoulders to catch the cuttings. He’d combed his freshly washed hair from his forehead with his fingers, and it remained there in thick glossy waves.
Using the provided tools, including brush, shaving paste, and razor, he lathered up and began to shave himself. Laura was glad not to be asked to do so, sure her hand would nervously shake at performing the domestic service.
He stroked downward on his cheeks, whisked the razor in the basin of water, then went upward on his neck, tilting his chin forward to tighten the skin. Each stroke revealed more of the face beneath—the clear skin, handsome features, the dimples she’d noticed earlier, and a cleft chin.
“I have shaved myself for years,” he said, “but confess I have never cut my own hair.”
“I can do it,” Miss Chegwin offered. “After all, who do’ee think cuts Jago’s hair?”
They all turned to look at the big man, whose wiry hair stuck out at all angles. The patient coughed discreetly.
“I could give it a go,” Laura said, coming to his rescue. “I used to cut my uncle’s hair before he remarried.”
Alexander turned to her. “Thank you, Miss Callaway,” he replied before Mary could reiterate her offer.
Laura picked up scissors and comb and stood behind him,his face visible in the dressing table mirror. Sunshine from the window shone on him, lighting his eyes to the color of a turquoise ring she once found. He met her gaze in the mirror, and she looked away first.
She combed his hair, noticing how thick it was, how wavy. Many women would be envious of such tresses. Having straight, rather fine hair, Laura was somewhat covetous herself.
Jago went out with the shaving water, and at some point, Mary slipped out as well. Laura barely noticed, focused on the task at hand, the feel of his hair through her fingers. She gently straightened rich brown locks between the first two fingers of her left hand, and snipped off the ends, which had begun to curl. Again and again, she selected a section and trimmed it, taking her time, enjoying the process, which was somehow far more pleasurable than cutting Uncle Matthew’s hair had been. She moved around to the front and snipped the fringe and sides, aware of how strange it felt to stand like this with him sitting, her bodice close to his head.
She bent and brought her face closer instead. Just as dangerous, perhaps, for now she was looking him eye to eye.
She noticed some lather that had strayed behind his ear and wiped it away, showing him a finger of lather as her justification for touching him. “You missed some.”
He caught her hand, and she drew in a breath of surprise. Did he mean to stop her, offended at her presumption in touching him? But he held her hand and met her eyes.
“I think I owe you a great debt, Miss Callaway.”
“Ha. You haven’t seen your hair yet.”
“For so much more—for saving my life.”
