Page 57 of A Castaway in Cornwall
“And how can I trustyou?” She thought again of theT.O.she had seen in his friend’s clothing. Garments issued by the Transport Office carried this mark—garments issued to prisoners of war. “How do I know you are not the dangerous one?”
Pain creased his face. “Do you really think that?”
Did she? Laura considered. He might not be who he claimedto be, but no, she did not think he posed any danger. At least ... she hoped not.
Laura decided to let the issue of names drop for the time being. “He asked if you had recovered from your mishap.”
“How kind,” Alexander murmured, his tone acerbic.
“He also said he will pay a call here to introduce himself. Perry and Miss Roskilly insisted he wait until he has more fully recovered, though he looked quite healthy to me.”
Laura hesitated to bring up the ball but forced herself to do so. “In the meantime, Miss Roskilly has invited you to attend the subscription ball her parents are hosting to help raise funds for St. Enodoc. I told her you might not feel equal to it.”
“Because of my ankle or LaRoche?”
“I was not sure that with your injuries, you would wish to dance,” Laura replied. “Though Miss Roskilly is most adamant that you attend anyway. However, I won’t press you if you don’t want to go.”
“LaRoche will be there?”
“Yes, he promises to dance with all thebelles femmes.”
“Of course he does. And charm them all, no doubt.”
Again the bitterness crept into Alexander’s tone. What was the real history between the two men? She guessed they had known one another long before boarding theKittiwake.
He said slowly, “If I attend, scenes may arise unpleasant to more than myself. Though I would endeavor to be on my best behavior.”
“I understand.”
He looked off into the distance, considering. “What would I wear? I don’t suppose you have evening clothes my size in that collection of yours?” He managed a small smile.
“I’m afraid not, though Uncle Matthew is sure to have something suitable you could borrow for the occasion.”
“Let me think about it. I will let you know in the morning.”
“Very well.”
When Laura left him, Alexander remained where he was, considering the situation from all angles. He did not like the idea of hiding from LaRoche as though he were afraid of him. He was not. Would LaRoche reveal his identity and where they had come from, considering the revelation would implicatehimas well? Or would he produce the papers he counted on for impunity?
If LaRoche accused him in front of the assembly, Alexander would have no choice but to flee. He could not risk anything that would keep him from his mission to return home and save his brother—if such a feat was possible.
But better to face LaRoche like a man than to hide in Fern Haven like a capon in a cage, awaiting his fate. Better to meet him in a public place, where LaRoche would have to be civilized and watch his tongue if he didn’t want to risk arrest himself. That possibility might restrain him, although François had never been one to think before he spoke.
Either way, Alexander decided he would go.
He would appeal to his former friend to avoid a scene that would embarrass his generous hosts and endanger them both. But there was no guarantee François would listen.
Alex folded the newspaper he’d been reading and thought back.
He, Alan, and François had been mere children during their country’s revolution. With hostility toward the upper classes escalating, François began to resent Alexander and his wealthier family. As the two grew into manhood, they spent less and less time together. During the Peace of Amiens, Alexander studied in Cambridge for a few terms, then returned home and enlisted. François, meanwhile, became involved with a band of counterrevolutionarieswho fought against the new regime. Many of those men lost their lives.
Alan had always looked up to François, who was confident, daring, and charming, and once Alexander went to sea, Alan apparently followed in LaRoche’s footsteps.
Alex recalled with regret the night he had last seen Alan.
Returning home on leave, Alex had been heartsick and angry to learn of Alan’s clandestine activities—his involvement with the royalist counterrevolutionaries, rumored to be partially financed by the British government.
One night he heard something and went downstairs to investigate, sword drawn, on guard against an intruder. Instead, the brother he had not seen in more than a year stood in the shadowy entry hall. Alan’s hair was long and his clothes coarse—hobnail shoes, knee-high leather gaiters, and a broad-brimmed hat. Rawboned and weary, he looked like a peasant, or at least like the Breton insurgent he was.
