Page 44 of A Castaway in Cornwall
“I have tried to tell myself that, though sometimes I think I am fooling myself.” Laura drew a deep breath. “Well, it was the truth, and is not the truth supposed to set one free? Set free of a comfortable life in this instance...”
She glanced over at him, expecting to see a smile at her little joke, but instead found him looking distracted and ill at ease.
After a pause, he asked, “May I see the collection of items you have found?”
She set down her teacup. “I suppose so. If you are interested.”
“I am.”
When they finished eating, she retrieved the key from her desk drawer and returned wearing her full-length pelisse and gloves. “You’ll want to wear Uncle Matthew’s old brown coat again. Where we are going is not warm.”
Carrying a lantern, although daylight, she led him behind the house, out of the garden, and up a weedy remnant of drive that now led to nowhere. Here and there a few crumbled foundation stones showed through the brush, and there a toppled chimney.
“A fine house once stood here,” she explained. “A wealthy couple from Bath built it high on this hill overlooking the sea. In the summer, all is fair and lovely here. But in the winter, it can be brutally cold and windy. They said the fire was an accident, but I have always wondered.”
She pointed out several charred stones before continuing, “Atall events, with the wind up here so strong, the fire consumed everything. Only one outbuilding survived. They did not rebuild but rather sold the property very cheaply to the Mably family and moved back to Somersetshire.”
Walking slowly to accommodate Alex’s limping gait, Laura led him toward a tall mound amid a line of tamarisk shrubs and a few stunted trees, which grew with a distinct lean, blown by the prevailing winds. From a distance, it might have appeared as if she were leading him to an ordinary earthen mound, but as they neared, a door built into the grassy bank became visible. The icehouse had been built into the earth for insulation, with rubble retaining walls and granite jambs on each side of the doorway, all but covered with encroaching plants. Its plain granite lintel was partially hidden by vines, hanging over it like a fringe of green hair. The sturdy plank door with strap hinges was bolted and locked. The padlock she had bought herself years ago with proceeds from one of her first sales.
“I wonder how long it took them to realize how impractical an icehouse was up here,” Laura said. “They probably paid a fortune to have ice carted in from Bodmin or someplace farther north.”
She drew out the key and unfastened the padlock. “Eseld thinks it a waste of time, so you are only the second person I’ve invited inside. Uncle Matthew being the first.”
“I am honored.”
“Please moderate your expectations. It’s not exactly Blackbeard’s treasure. Mrs. Bray says I should sell the lot of it, but I am still holding out hope of finding the rightful homes for some things.”
Laura pushed open the door, and musty cold air immediately met them, so well insulated was the place, partly above ground, partly subterranean. She raised her lantern high andled Mr. Lucas down the wooden stairs to its flagstone floor with granite roof above.
“Watch your step.”
She hung the lantern on a hook to illuminate the cavern-like space. Shelves were built around its circumference, and on those shelves were the things she had found on nearby beaches over the years.
She led him slowly around, giving him a tour of her inventory.
A tea cask. Several Spanish ducaton coins. A tortoiseshell fan. Belt buckles. A sugar bowl. Cloak button and chain. Candlesticks, candle holders, and snuffers. The decorative lid of a lady’s cosmetic jar. Lots of clay tobacco pipes. Brushes with bone handles. A carpenter’s rule. Medicine vials, sealed in a surgeon’s chest and in excellent condition. A hat case. Snuff boxes. A key. Glass beads. Several chipped china plates and cups, and the ubiquitous seashells.
She pointed to a large instrument that looked like a two-armed compass. “I am not sure what that is called.”
“An octant,” he supplied. “Used in navigation.”
Next they came to a leather shako cap with an eagle badge plate of the French 35th Infantry Regiment of the Line.
“It seems rather small to me,” she said.
Alexander nodded. “A drummer boy, perhaps.”
She picked up a brooch of gold or gilt in the shape of a salamander with small gem scales. “This is one of my favorites.”
He whistled. “Probably worth something too.”
She shrugged. “I suppose so, though profit is not my primary aim. I am most interested in things that might help me identify victims who would otherwise go unnamed and unknown.”
“That is kind of you,” he said.
Another modest shrug. “It was my uncle’s idea. He thought it would give me a project, a purpose of my own, and he was right.”
Laura did not usually go to the expense of posting items immediately, as there was always a risk the parcel would reach the wrong person, someone unrelated or uninterested. So Laura described the item in the initial letters she sent, sometimes including a sketch and offering to send the object if small, or inviting the person to come and collect larger things at their convenience. In the meantime, she kept the items in the abandoned icehouse for safekeeping.
