Page 20 of A Castaway in Cornwall
Laura turned back to the man and said, “This is Miss Mary Chegwin, our neighbor and an excellent nurse. She and I have been caring for you. Oh, and Dr. Kent, but he is not here right now.”
The man blinked but seemed to be struggling to make sense of the scene, of finding himself in a strange bed with two strange women looking down at him.
Miss Chegwin tried again. “Yer in Cornwall.Kernow.”
“Kernev?” He imperfectly echoed the Cornish word for the county.
Mary shook her head. “Kernow,” she repeated, emphasizing the final syllable.
He looked down, expression troubled. Did he not understand? Was he a foreigner after all?
Jago came in with more wood—wood foraged from shredded ship timbers, she guessed.
The man looked up at him in alarm. Did Jago’s size intimidate him, or was it something else? It might have been her imagination, but he seemed nervous.
“This is Jago,” Laura hurried to explain. “Our friend and neighbor. He lives with Miss Chegwin.”
“My adopted son, really,” Miss Chegwin added with a friendly smile. “Don’t let his size worry you. He wouldn’t hurt a midge. Well, maybe a midge, but not a person.”
Jago laid more wood on the fire and then quit the room. The man relaxed slightly, but still his eyes seemed distracted and distant. She could almost see his mind whirling behind them.
“You have nothing to fear from us,” Laura assured him. “We are friend, not foe. My uncle is the vicar here, and a good man.”
His Adam’s apple rose and fell as though with effort.
Seeing it spurred Laura into action. She poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the dressing chest and carried it to him. “You must be thirsty. Here.”
He slowly reached out for the glass and raised it to his lips.
“Don’t gulp it,” Miss Chegwin warned. “You’ll be sick.”
Drawn by the jingling tack of a horse and wagon outside, Miss Chegwin turned to look out the window.
“Pray excuse me. I’ve a load of seaweed bein’ delivered. So good for next year’s garden, I find.” She handed Laura the gruel. “I’ll be back dreckly. You can help him with this, I trust?”
“Of course. Take your time.”
After Mary left them, Laura set the bowl on the side table and asked, “Can you sit up a little, or I could help...?”
How would she help—put her hands under his arms and try to haul him up? She doubted she was strong enough to do so. A shame Jago had left.
Before she could try, he propped himself up on his elbows and pushed himself into a half-sitting position. His face seized into a grimace of pain. Alarmed, he tossed back the bedclothesand yanked up the nightshirt on one side as though a hot coal lodged there.
She saw ribs and firm flesh before averting her gaze. “Sorry, I forgot to warn you. You’ve got a nasty wound in your side. Miss Chegwin stitched it up per Dr. Kent’s instructions, but neither is an experienced surgeon, I’m afraid.”
He stared down at the stitches a moment longer, then slowly lowered the shirt.
She stepped closer and rearranged the pillows behind his head. “I don’t think it will hurt so much if you lie still.”
She waited until he had raised the bedclothes once more, then retrieved the bowl and sat on a chair beside the bed.
“You must be starving.” She dipped the spoon. “Shall I...?”
He reached out unsteady hands for the bowl and spoon, took them from her, and began shoveling in the watery gruel.
“Slow down. Remember what Miss Chegwin said. You don’t want to make yourself sick.” She added on a teasing note, “Our cook would not like to see herfinegruel wasted.”
He looked up at her, saw her wry grin, and returned it.
