Page 63 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Enora had been delayed inside by many aunts stopping to kiss her, so Alexander stepped outside alone.
There stood François, hand pressed to his face, weeping. Alexander’s heart sank. Guilt swamped him, and he could barely breathe. He was instantly taken back to the day Monsieur LaRoche died, and saw his old friend not as a man of twenty-something, but as a boy. Hurt, alone, grief-stricken.
“Fañch, I...”
François looked up, tears evaporating in a flash of fury.
Even so, Alexander tentatively approached him. He pressed a hand to his shoulder in camaraderie and comfort, as he had all those years ago.
François shoved it away. “Friends share everything—is that it?”
Alexander hesitated, then spoke over a thick lump in his throat. “You left. We thought you were not returning.”
“And you lost no time taking what was mine. Why am I surprised? One who serves the usurper would not scruple to take another man’s love.”
Alexander stood frozen with remorse, knowing he had deeply injured his old friend.
Enora stepped outside then, wearing the white lace cap of a Breton bride. Her bright smile fell away upon seeing the man at the bottom of the steps. “François...” she breathed, her face turning ashen, her eyes large and dark and ... desolate.
“Bonjour, Madame Carnell.” He spat out the surname as if it were spoiled meat, lip curled in contempt.
Tears instantly filled those dark eyes. “You left me, without a word. Without a promise. You loved theChouansmore than me.”
Seeing her tears, her pale trembling form, François changed tack, lifting his chin and feigning indifference. “I love no one—except myself. Now I wish you bothbonne chance. You shall need it.” He turned and strode away.
In his heart, Alexander bid his old friend a regretful Breton farewell.Ma digarez, breur kozh.
Beside him, Enora watched him go, her longing look directed not at her groom, but at the man she loved.
When Alex reached St. Minver, he left the horse at the livery and walked to the Fourways Inn. There he ordered a pint, usingone of his prized coins, hoping the purchase would loosen the publican’s tongue.
“Anything else, friend?” the aproned man asked, wiping the counter.
“Actually, I’m searching for a ship to take me across the Channel.”
The rag on the counter halted. The man looked up at him, friendly gaze evaporating, eyes narrowed. “Who are ye? Never saw’ee in here before.”
“One of the survivors of theKittiwake.”
“Ah. And why’d’ee think anyone here might be sailing so far? I serve fishermen here. Shipbuilders and farmers and the like. We don’t stray so far from home.”
True or not, Alexander knew there was no point in arguing.
“I see. Well, thank you anyway.”
He hid his disappointment behind a sip of ale.
Glancing around the taproom, he noticed Treeve Kent sitting at a table with three unlikely men. Seafarers, he guessed, by their beards, slouch hats or kerchiefs, salty language and saltier smell. One of them he recognized as the housemaid’s father, Mr. Dyer, whom he’d met at Miss Chegwin’s party. Poring over a map as they were, the men did not notice him.
Treeve Kent looked out of place there still dressed in evening attire: tailored coat, patterned waistcoat and cravat, his beaver hat sitting primly on the window ledge behind him. Even so, the young man seemed at his ease with the sailors and bought the men another round.
Alex decided he ought to become better acquainted with Treeve Kent at his next opportunity.
For centuries sailors on board doomed ships have sealed messages, along with notes to their loved ones, inside empty bottles and cast them overboard, in the vain hope that someday, someone, somewhere in the world would discover them.
—CAROLINEROCHFORD,FORGOTTENSONGSANDSTORIESOFTHESEA
Chapter 12
