Page 13 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Hurrying to her task, Laura came back a few minutes later, basin and clean cloths in her arms.
The man continued to thrash.
Old nurse Chegwin spoke in gentle, cooing tones, trying to soothe him with words Laura didn’t understand. She was speaking in her first language, which few people still spoke.
Laura set the basin on the side table and dipped and wrung out the first cloth. “Why do you speak to him in Cornish? Do you think he doesn’t understand English?” She thought of Mrs. Bray’s fears that he might be a foreigner.
“I doubt he understands anything at this point. The words don’t matter, not in the state he’s in. It’s the reassuring tone that helps. Leastways, that’s what I’ve come to believe after sitting at sick beds all those years. Besides, it comes natural to me to speak the Kernewek. I can hear my own mamm speaking to me so when I were a wee girl.”
The man continued to moan and jerk his legs. Laura hoped he wouldn’t tear his stitches. She handed Miss Chegwin the cool cloth.
Mary laid it on his brow and then, with the second one Laura offered, began dabbing his cheeks, his neck, and the hairy vee of his chest visible in the open neckline of the nightshirt.
“Shh, my ’ansome...” the old woman hushed, and again began soothing him in her native tongue, Laura catching a few words but not many.
Eyes still closed, the man murmured a low reply.
Laura did not understand his response either.
Mary stilled, glancing over at her. “He answered me. In Kernewek! He understood me—I know he did.”
“What did he say?”
“Ill as he is, it were a bit garbled, but I believe he said, ‘Thank you, Granny.’” Her eyes brightened. “Don’t often hear young people speaking the old language anymore. Does my heart good. He must be Cornish.”
How unexpected. And the news should quell Mrs. Bray’s suspicions that he might be a foreigner.
When the patient’s fever continued to climb despite their ministrations, Miss Chegwin said, “Can’t believe I’m saying it, but I wish Dr. Dawe were here. Perhaps we ought to send for that young man again.”
“I agree.” Laura rose, wishing there were a faster way to summon him than walking to Roserrow. But Mrs. Bray and Eseld had gone shopping in Wadebridge, and her uncle had taken their only other horse on his rounds to the three churches in the parish.
Seeing her hesitate, Miss Chegwin said, “Take my donkey cart. Jago will harness it for you.”
Laura nodded. “Thank you.”
A short while later, Laura was again dressed for the brisk outdoors and on her way to Roserrow, about a mile and a half away, between Trebetherick and the church town of St. Minver.
The donkey was old and the cart rickety. She hoped they were traveling faster than she could have on foot.
After passing through Trebetherick, with its village shop and forge, Laura crossed a small bridge over a stream, then turned onto a sandy track, following it until the tall gables of Roserrow came into view. The two-and-a-half-story grey stone house was crowned with squat chimneys, while heavy columns braced itsentry porch. Other than that, there was little ornamentation either in the architecture or grounds.
As she reached the drive, a groom came out to greet her, clearly looking down his long nose at her humble mode of transportation.
Treeve Kent, dressed in a well-cut riding coat, buckskin breeches, and tall leather boots, was just coming from the stables. His face brightened upon seeing her.
“Miss Callaway, what an unexpected pleasure.” He diverted his steps in her direction.
“Mr. Kent, is your brother at home? Our patient has taken a turn for the worse. A fever of some kind.”
“Horrors. Exactly the sort of thing Perry likes. Just don’t tell Mamma or she’ll forbid him to go. What kind of a doctor he’ll be if he refrains from visiting the truly sick, I don’t know, but Mamma would prefer it, sure he’ll bring home some foul disease like malignant sore throat.”
Laura shivered at the thought. She had lost her baby brother to that very malady.
He led her into the house and invited her to wait in the hall. “Sit here, if you like. This settle is about as comfortable as a pile of rocks. But then, you might like that, being something of a ruddy turnstone, pecking along the rocky shore for treasure.” He winked and strode away.
Laura had never been compared to a sea bird before and was not sure she liked it.
She sat on the hard settle and looked around the austere hall. Few pieces of art—statuary or paintings—were on display. Only a dozen stern-looking portraits of Kent ancestors.
