Page 19 of A Castaway in Cornwall
She reached into the pool and drew out a flask of pewter or tarnished silver bearing a fine scrollwork design. Might be worth something. She gave it a little shake—empty—then placed it in her basket.
“What’ee find?”
Laura whirled, startled to find Tom Parsons looming above her. She’d not heard him over the wind and surf.
Uneasy at finding herself alone with the man, she chose a friendly approach. No use in angering him. “Just an empty pewter flask. You?”
He studied her expression, and she forced herself to look back. He finally broke eye contact, wincing into the morning sunlight.
“Nothing today, though I found plenty the night of the wreck before the agent and customs man came.”
“Well, all the best to you.” She turned to go, but his voice held her as forcefully as a hand on her arm.
“If’ee find something o’ value, like a lockbox or chest or somethin,’ you let old Tom know, won’t’ee?”
His eyes glinted, and she barely resisted the urge to step back. “If I find anything like that, I will certainly let the appropriate people know.”
She held his piercing gaze a moment longer, nodded, and then turned to go.
“I’ll be watchin’ee, up-country lass,” he called after her.
She felt his eyes searing holes through her back, through her soul, but she kept walking at a calm, steady pace away from him, even as she longed to run all the way home.
The gig, a six oared boat, is almost as traditional to Padstow as is the May Day ’Obby ’Oss ceremony. The gigs also acted as lifeboats to stricken vessels and also as salvers for the Doom Bar victims.
—BRIANFRENCH,WRECKS& RESCUESAROUNDPADSTOW’SDOOMBAR
Chapter 4
After her encounter with Tom Parsons on the beach, Laura returned to Fern Haven with a long exhale of relief. She took off her outdoor things and hung up her bonnet, then walked to the guest room to talk to Miss Chegwin.
She found the room empty, except for the man in bed, head propped on pillows.
She drew up short and gave a little gasp of surprise. “Oh!”
His eyes were open, and blue-green like the sea.
“Good morning,” she said.
He did not reply, but those striking eyes watched her with wary interest as she crossed the room.
“I am Laura Callaway,” she began. “And you are ... ?”
He did not respond.
She swallowed, excited and nervous at once. “Do you know where you are? I imagine it might all be a muddle. You are in a house near Trebetherick. It’s a small hamlet, so you probably have not heard of it. But larger Padstow is two miles from here, across the Camel Estuary.”
His brow puckered in confusion or deep thought.
Clasping damp hands together, she said, “I’m afraid your ship was wrecked. TheKittiwake? Perhaps your captain tried to navigate into the harbour to shelter from the storm. The ship may have struck Stepper Point or the Doom Bar, and then waves carried it onto the Greenaway Rocks. Does any of this sound familiar?”
Miss Chegwin came in, bowl of gruel in hand.
“Ah, yer back, Laura. Good. I went to ask Wenna for something more substantial now that our patient is awake. Has he spoken?”
“Not to me.”
“Nor me,” Mary said. “And I tried both English and Cornish.”
