Page 9 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Mary grinned at that but neither agreed with nor refuted the claim.
The young man straightened. “I have to go. My parents will be worried. But I shall return in the morning to see how he fares.”
Laura walked him to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Kent.”
“Perry, please. Mr. Kent is my father. You make me feel ancient.”
“After tonight, I should call you Dr. Kent.”
He looked up at her humbly from beneath a fall of dark hair. “Then you would be the first—other than in jest, at any rate.”
Laura smiled. “Very well. Dr. Kent. You deserve the title.”
“Thank you.” He looked back toward the patient. “Keep him warm, and if he survives the night, well, we’ll see.”
Miss Chegwin watched him go, and when the door closed behind him, she tsked and shook her head. “That lad is worth two of his brother, but sadly ain’t half as handsome.”
“There are more important things,” Laura replied.
“I agree but am surprised a young lady would. Well, you heard the doctor. Let’s keep this poor soul warm.”
Laura fetched a nightshirt from her uncle’s dressing chest, and with Jago’s help, the three of them managed to get it over his head, laced his hands through the sleeves, and worked it down over his body. Laura stepped back when Mary lowered the sheet, seeing only a flash of muscled, hairy legs before they were covered once again. Then Jago took his leave.
Mary shook her head. “Goodness, how he shivers. Where is that girl with the warming pan?”
They layered heavy wool blankets and a counterpane over the sheet. Even so, the man’s shivering mounted to tremors.
“We could warm the bed the old-fashioned way,” Laurasaid. “Did not servants once lie in their masters’ beds to warm them?”
“Oh, iss, it were the way of things. And only a few years back, a poor widow took in a half-dead sea captain after a wreck. She tried to revive him with brandy, and when that failed, warmed him in her own bed. Her country medicine worked. After he recovered, he credited her with saving his life and rewarded her handsomely. Twenty gold guineas! But you ought not do so, Miss Callaway. Yer a lady. And worse, damp through.”
Yes, the rain and surf had soddened her skirts. She was near to shivering herself.
Thankfully, Newlyn came in with a warming pan—a closed container that held heated stones, sand, or embers from the fire.
“Good, you’re here. Wrap this flannel around that and slide it under the bedclothes near his feet—but be careful not to scald him.”
Newlyn did so, and after a few minutes, the man’s tremors subsided.
Uncle Matthew and Mrs. Bray appeared in the doorway, still dressed in their coats and hats from their evening out. Eseld hovered in the background, trying to peek over their shoulders, but her mother shooed her away. “Go to your room, Eseld. This isn’t a sight for you.”
Eseld sighed dramatically but acquiesced.
“We learned of the wreck while at Roserrow and left as soon as we could,” her uncle said. “Wenna tells us you brought a survivor here.”
“Yes. I hope I did right.”
“Right?” Mrs. Bray echoed. “I am not happy to find a stranger installed in my home, without so much as a by-your-leave. Did you not think to ask us first?”
Laura was not surprised Mrs. Bray was reluctant to have astranger in her home. To be fair, the woman had welcomed her when she first married Matthew Bray, but that welcome had worn thin over the years, especially as Laura grew into womanhood and attracted the notice of Treeve Kent.
“You were away,” Laura defended. “And the man needed help immediately.”
Her uncle soothed, “It’s only right the poor soul should find shelter in a clergyman’s home.” When Uncle Matthew moved from Truro to North Cornwall to marry Lamorna Mably and become vicar of the local parish, the bishop allowed him to live in his new wife’s larger, brighter house instead of the damp old vicarage in St. Minver.
“We know nothing about him,” Mrs. Bray insisted. “He might carry some foreign disease or be a criminal.”
“Now, my dear, no need to jump to conclusions. I must leave to help with the dead, but this poor man poses no risk in his current state.”
