Page 129 of A Castaway in Cornwall
An older woman stood there, narrow-eyed in suspicion. “Bonjour.Qu’est-ceque vous voulez?”
It was Betty—his mother’s English maid, who had stayed on with them after her death. Even after all these years living there, she still spoke French with a British accent.
Her gaze swept over his coat and face, then recognition bolted across her features. “Master Alexander. Saints be praised!”
“Good to see you too, Betty. Is my father at home?”
She shook her head, eyes filling with tears. “Oh, Master Alexander...”
His chest tightened, fearing he was too late. “Is he ... is he gone?”
Again she shook her head. “Not yet. But he is bad,très mal, indeed.”
She led the way to the snug morning room. “Your father uses this as his bedchamber now to avoid the stairs.”
The shutters were closed, although it was afternoon. Faint light shone through the transoms above, and a low fire burned in the grate.
In the shadows, Alexander made out a slumbering form propped up by pillows on a bed set up near the hearth.
Alexander approached slowly. “Papa?C’est moi.”
His father’s eyelids fluttered. “Alan?”
Shafts of hurt and hope stabbed him. Hurt that his father had not recognized his voice, and perhaps wished to see Alan more than him. But also hope that it meant his brother was still alive.
“No, Papa. Alexander.”
“Alexandre?” The man’s weary eyes opened and fixed on him.
Mamma had named him Alexander, with the English spelling, but his father still pronounced it as the FrenchAlexandre.
He held his breath. What would his reaction be? Would hisfather welcome him back or remain aloof because of the harsh words spoken in parting?
“My boy. My dear boy.” Pierre Carnell addressed him in French and held out shaky hands. “Forgive me. My mind wanders. I was dreaming of Alan, and when I heard your voice I thought it was him, foolish old man that I am.”
“Is Alan still alive?”
His father pressed his eyes closed and shook his head. “Non.”
Alexander’s stomach twisted. “When?”
If Alex had missed his opportunity to save his brother, or at least to reconcile with him, by a few days or weeks while he was lingering in Cornwall and Jersey he would never forgive himself.
“About ten months ago, though I did not hear the news until several weeks afterward.”
Alexander sat heavily in the nearest chair, winded. His brother had been dead for nearly a year. His heart beat dully within him at the news. He felt empty. Hopeless. Stupid. All his efforts to return—the escape, Daniel’s death, lies and deception—all in vain.God forgive me.
“I am sorry, Papa. I tried to get home to help him, but I failed.”
“It is not your fault. Nothing you could do,mon fils, except pray. Last I heard news of you, you were being held in a prisoner-of-war camp.”
He nodded. “I escaped. I should have done so sooner.”
“Then you risked your own life, which is more than I have done. Thank you for trying. I know you loved Alan, despite your differences, and he knew it too. Don’t blame yourself.”
“I shall try not to, but that will be difficult.” Alexander swallowed. “I am sorry too, Papa, for the tensions between us during my last leave. The arguments about Alan and politics. I know I spoke harshly, and I regret it. Please forgive me.”
“I do. I forgave you long ago. And I hope you forgive me. I know I did not respond well. My own loyalties torn. The struggle within my own soul played out in real life by my beloved sons. ... I fear God is not pleased with me.”
