Page 23 of A Castaway in Cornwall
She recalled how he had avoided her gaze before she left the room. Embarrassed to be seen crying, or hiding something? Laura had been surprised but touched to see a grown man weep.
He has just learned his friend died, she reminded herself.He is understandably upset. Don’t read too much into his evasiveness.
She had not seen a man cry since her aunt Anne passed away. She remembered how devastated Uncle Matthew had been when she died. He had not been himself for months afterward and had not rallied until he met the charming Lamorna Mably. The two had bonded quickly over their shared loss of spouses and their love of Cornwall. Mr. Lucas would recover in time as well.
Still feeling uneasy, Laura went to join her uncle, Mrs. Bray, and Eseld downstairs.
When she reached the hall, she heard laughter coming from the parlour. “Laura has no fear of strange men or fever,” Mrs.Bray was saying, “but remember how frightened she was at her first May Day festival?”
Eseld and Uncle Matthew chuckled.
Laura instantly felt awkward and left out, the butt of their jokes.
She knew all too well what they were referring to. She remembered with discomfort and embarrassment her first visit to Padstow during the annual Hobby Horse, or “Obby Oss,” festival on the first of May. Laura had gone expecting flowers and a Maypole and a friendly celebration of the coming of spring. She hadnotexpected the raucous crowd, the crude shouts of drunken men, the incessant drumming, and the terrifying face of the Obby Oss. She saw nothing of a horse in the costume. Tarred canvas stretched over a large hoop with a long black skirt formed the horse’s body like a big black pot lid. Its masked face was painted, supposedly, to resemble a horse. But to Laura, with its black, red, and white lines, it looked more like a dragon or a devil.
Most upsetting, the Oss tried to catch maidens as he danced through the narrow streets lined with onlookers. He lifted the bottom of his costume and cast it over young women’s heads, trapping them beneath the skirt. Eseld had warned Laura very sternly to avoid being caught. She’d said, “If you are caught and end up with black tar on your clothes, you will fall pregnant or be married by the end of the year.”
To a young innocent, this was terrifying in the extreme.
As Laura stood with Uncle Matthew, Mrs. Bray, and Eseld, the Oss came toward her, its mask menacing, the beady eyes focused on her with seemingly evil intent. Laura screamed and went running into Uncle Matthew’s arms and begged to be taken home. Around her some in the crowd had laughed while others scorned her foolishness. Mrs. Bray had shaken her head, disapproval twisting her thin lips. “Will she spoil the day for all of us?”
In the parlour now, the chuckles faded at the recollection. Laura waited a moment, then entered the room. Seeing the three of them sitting close together in warm companionship, Laura felt a stab of loneliness, as she often did.
“Our guest has awakened,” she said.
Hearing the survivor had come to his senses, Uncle Matthew and his wife went upstairs to meet him, Mrs. Bray insisting Eseld wait until she had first ascertained his character. The couple returned ten minutes later, satisfied and even impressed with their guest.
“Such excellent diction and well-bred manners,” Mrs. Bray exclaimed.
Uncle Matthew nodded. “I agree.”
“Did he say anything more about where he is from or where he was bound?” Laura asked.
“No. We have only just met him, after all, and did not wish to pry,” Mrs. Bray said.
Uncle Matthew looked at her, brows furrowed. “Why do you ask, my dear. Are you ... concerned about something?”
Laura hesitated, then replied more casually than she felt, “Not at all. Simply curious.”
The next morning, Newlyn met her in the passage.
“Letter for you, miss.” The young maid handed her the missive, postmarkedPenzance.
It took Laura a moment to recollect the significance of the town, but then it dawned on her. She had written to a man there with news of his wife’s death. She’d been able to identify her from a case of calling cards found in her reticule, still attached to her wrist after a cutter had been wrecked on the Doom Bar.
Laura almost dreaded opening the letter and seeing into the heart of a man in the painful depths of grief. She hoped he would not take out his angst on the messenger for announcing such unwelcome news.
She unfolded the page, steeling herself.
Dear Miss Callaway,
Thank you for tracking me down and taking the time to send news of Prudie Truscott’s death.
You wrote with trepidation, I know, hating to be the bearer of what you must have deemed news of the most grievous nature—a man losing his better half. His helpmeet. His true love.
But in this instance, your letter had the exact opposite effect of the one you no doubt dreaded.
I was relieved to read it, even happy.
