Page 41 of A Castaway in Cornwall
The matron who met them was neither of those things. She was in fact a pleasant-looking, plump woman of forty who led them on a tour of the boarding school, pointing out the play yard, classrooms, and dining parlour. They passed a group of pupils, who stared at her, but Laura stiffened her spine and lifted her nose, determined to remain sullen and silent. If her mother wanted her to act the part of a grown-up lady, then she would be as cold and aloof as she imagined a lady could be, punishing her parents the only way she knew how.
It was all over too quickly. She was shown to a room she would share with a few others girls, her trunk was delivered, and the matron left them to say their good-byes in private. Laura was torn, on the verge of crying and longing to beg them one last time to change their minds. But seeing the stony resolve on her mother’s face, she did neither of those things.
“I realize you are angry,” her mother said. “But I hope you will someday understand that I acted in your best interests, and forgive me.”
The moment hung there, Laura’s chance to forgive her mother. She said ... nothing.
Her mother drew a deep breath. “Well, good-bye, Laura. I know you will make us proud.”
“Good-bye, my dear,” her father added. “We will be praying for you and thinking of you. And we will write to you when we are settled.”
Laura nodded, hands primly clasped, but she made no reply.
The moment the door closed behind her parents, however, she ran to the window and watched until the chaise departed, the scene blurred by her tears. She already regretted her silence—regretted the cool farewell, when she had longed to throw her arms around her father, and to feel her mother’s kiss one last time upon her brow.
A wine merchant from North Cornwall wrote repeatedly to the Board of Trade, pointing out how honest business men could not compete against smugglers. West Indian rum, he said, was available all over Cornwall at 5 shillings a gallon, whereas he had to sell it at 8 shillings and 6 pence.
—CAROLYNMARTIN,SMUGGLINGRECIPES
Chapter 7
Laura remained restless that night and couldn’t seem to fall asleep, her mind filled with memories resurrected earlier that evening when talking to Mr. Lucas. Now that she had lifted the long-shut lid, everything she had locked away boiled to the surface in a stomach-churning stew of sweet, sour, and bitter morsels of her past. Her regrets lingered, as did her desire to travel to Jersey one day.
Some distant sound caught her ear—a door slamming? She climbed from bed and pulled a dressing gown around herself against the chill of the room, the fire having died. She went to the window and looked out. Her room faced the sea, and between it and Fern Haven lay Miss Chegwin’s cottage.
Was it her door she’d heard? The night must be unusually calm.
A lantern burning low illuminated two figures in coats, hats, and mufflers. From the relative sizes of the two and the stoopingshoulders of the smaller, she recognized them as Jago and Mary Chegwin.
Where were they going so late? It must be nearly midnight. Had Miss Chegwin been called to an ill person’s bedside? With Dr. Dawe absent, it seemed likely. Concern filled Laura. She hoped neither of the Penberthy children had taken a turn for the worse.
Laura dreaded going out in the cold but knew she would not sleep thinking someone might be suffering when she could help. She quickly pulled on several layers of warm clothing: wool stockings and petticoat, her thickest gown, pelisse, and half boots.
Hurrying quietly downstairs, she helped herself to her uncle’s heavy black greatcoat and a knitted cap. Eseld would be horrified at her ensemble, but she didn’t care. To Laura’s mind, staying warm trumped fashion any day, and certainly in the dead of night.
Forgoing a lamp of her own, Laura slipped from the house, hoping to catch up with her neighbors before they got too far away. She imagined she would find them in the small lean-to stable, but instead saw their shadowy forms in the donkey cart disappearing over the rise. They were heading not toward Porthilly and the ailing Penberthys but in the opposite direction, toward Polzeath. Laura was relieved but also curious.
She supposed she should have been frightened to be out alone at night, but she was not. She knew these paths as well as the corridors of Fern Haven, and moreover, Jago was within shouting distance, if need be. Yet she was reluctant to call out. The night was strangely still. The ever-present wind ... absent. Her voice, if she called, would be heard in neighboring cottages and might wake slumbering children. No, she would simply hurry her steps and catch up quietly. After all, the donkey was notoriously slow.
She followed the coast past Greenaways, over the cliff tops, and then down again to sea level as the path neared Polzeath Beach. In the distance, the large crescent of sand shone white by moonlight, and beyond it loomed the dark headland of Pentire Point.
Activity in the water drew her attention. Two ships were moored in the moonlit bay, and several smaller boats were clustered around them like eager bees to dark, bobbing blossoms. Meanwhile on shore, figures carried loads to waiting wagons, and soon Miss Chegwin’s donkey cart joined the line.
Shadowy figures carried what looked to be bales of tobacco or tea, wrapped in oilskin to make them as watertight as possible.
She crept closer, wishing again that the area had more trees. She saw ponies and donkeys with half-anker tubs strapped over their backs. Several “tubmen” were similarly burdened with one container on their chests and another on their backs. French brandy, most likely—a favorite currency of the smugglers.
As she had on that long-ago May Day, Laura again felt out of place, observing but not appreciating or participating in a Cornish custom.
Laura guessed Tom Parsons was the ringleader of this late-night haul, and she certainly did not want him to see her spying. With that threat in mind, she backtracked a few yards and ducked into the doorway of a decrepit fish-cleaning shed to continue watching without being seen—or implicated, should the revenue men descend.
At that moment, two men walked off the beach, deep in discussion, their low voices approaching Laura’s hiding place. She retreated deeper into the shed, breathing through her mouth to avoid gagging on the lingering stench.
As the footsteps neared, she heard the men talking, or rathernegotiating—how much per six-pound weight of tea, and half anker of brandy, and where to store it until all was sold.
She heard the wordRoserrowand stilled, holding her breath. Were the Kents involved, or was one of their outbuildings to be used without their knowledge? The men stopped walking, pausing near the shed to conclude their arrangements, and without the scrape of footfalls to muffle their conversation, Laura recognized both voices. Tom Parsons, as she had guessed. And the other... Treeve Kent.
She raised a hand to her mouth to cover a gasp, and her elbow struck a chain, sending it jangling against the rickety wall. Her heart jangled as well.
