Page 128 of A Castaway in Cornwall
“In other circumstances I might have asked you to accompany me to Brittany, but look how far you have brought me. To a French-speaking island only twelve nautical miles from the French coast.” He reached down and touched her shoulder. “You have done well, Laura. It is enough. Please remember, France is a dangerous place, especially for a British subject. We are still at war, and conflict continues between theRoyalistesand those who support Napoleon.”
“Including you?”
Alexander pressed his eyes closed. “It seemed so clear to me as an idealistic younger man. Change was needed. But neighbors turning against neighbors, and executions of anyone who dared question the new regime?” He shook his head. “I did not agree with that. When Napoleon crowned himself emperor, I was already gone to sea and was soon responsible for a ship full of men who deserved a strong leader. I did my best in a bad situation. But it has become an ugly war, both within and without. And I am no longer certain I am on theright side. I spoke privately with the admiral before he left the house, and he intimated the end of the war is in sight. I hope he is right. It is one of the reasons he has decided not to detain me—besides wanting his men freed, if there is any chance. Being a French officer, I will have more access to the prison than most.”
Confusing emotions swamped Laura’s soul. Alexander was leaving. Yes, she had wanted to see the lost man return home, but she was disappointed he said nothing about returning to Jersey. She had begun to hope for a future between them and had thought he did as well.
She’d presumed too much.
Her chest ached, and his dear face blurred through her tears. A face she might never see again.
“Laura, there is another war going on here.” He pressed a fist to his chest. “Our countries are at odds. Our desires...”
“I think our desires are very much aligned,” she said softly.
“This is something I must do. Alone.”
Pain lanced her heart, but she took a deep breath and stood. “Then I have something to give you.” She walked to her room on leaden legs, and returned a few moments later with the blue uniform coat with red cuffs. The coat she had purchased from Martyn. She held it out to him. “You will need this.”
He looked up at her in wonder. “Where did you get this?”
“Remember the ferryman’s son, who took us to Padstow? He found it after the shipwreck.”
He nodded. “I had it in my satchel during our escape. It must have been washed overboard.”
“Well, here it is. I sewed the epaulet back on. I thought you might like to return home in it.” She held it up like a valet might, and he turned and allowed her to help him slip into it.
“I should indeed. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
He turned again to face her. Her dear castaway transformed into a French officer. She reached out to smooth a few wrinkles, then let her hand drop to her side.
“It looks good on you. It looks ... right.” She smiled, but felt her lips tremble and turned away to hide her grief.
The following day, Laura stood on the esplanade, watching the ship that would carry Alexander away on the final leg of his journey home. She was dressed in her warmest clothing, along with shawl, muffler, and gloves, but still felt cold to the bone. Hot tears escaped her eyes and streaked down her chilled cheeks, as salty as the sea air, their warmth fleeting.
“Godspeed,” she whispered.
Beside her, Aunt Susan gripped her hand.
The sails were hoisted, and the ship moved out of the harbour and into open water. Captain Carnell was sailing away from Jersey, away from her, perhaps forever. She stood there, eyes fastened on the vessel as it grew smaller and smaller on the horizon. With each passing mile, a part of her heart, and her home, departed with him.
It’s no coincidence that Cornouaille sounds rather like Cornwall—it looks like it too. When 6th century Celts crossed the Channel from England to escape religious persecution, they found a rugged landscape strikingly similar to the Cornish countryside of their homeland.
—GILLIANTHORNTON
Chapter 23
Alexander returned to the Cornouaille region in the southwest corner of Brittany. He was struck by how much the rugged coastline reminded him of Cornwall. After leaving Mr. Gillan’s ship and the sea behind, Alex rode with a farmer inland for a time, then walked the rest of the way on foot.
As he neared his family’s estate on the outskirts of a country village, memories and nostalgia swept over him. A cool breeze caressed his face and brought the faint smell of apples. Old Jacques was likely busy in thecidrerie, making the last of the year’s cider.
Alex continued to the house. He had been gone for years. Did he let himself in or knock? He tried the door and found it locked. Little wonder in such uncertain times. Taking a deep breath, he rapped on the solid oak.
Then rapped again.
After another moment, slow footsteps approached. He heard the jingle of keys, then the door to his childhood home opened.
