Page 29 of A Castaway in Cornwall
He hesitated. “You are perfectly safe with me. That is all I can promise for now.”
Laura returned to her own room, needing to think. She had been jolted with surprise when Mr. Lucas mentioned Jersey. How often she thought of that place, dreamed of visiting that far-off island one day, though she had no idea how she would ever manage it. Years ago, when her parents informed her they were sailing to Jersey, she had begged to go along. Instead, they sent her away to school and traveled without her.
She had felt angry, betrayed, abandoned, and frightened in turns, and as it happened, she’d had every right to feel that way. For after they sailed for Jersey, she never saw either one of them ever again.
That afternoon Laura went with her uncle to the small hamlet of Porthilly to pay calls on a few ailing parishioners. She took a pot of soup to elderly Mr. Carlyon and Wenna’s prune-stewed rabbit to the Penberthy family with five children. The youngest two were sick with a fever. Laura hoped it was a teething fever or even croup and nothing more serious. Mrs. Penberthy, a miner’s widow, could not afford a doctor even had Dr. Dawe been available, but Laura promised to ask Miss Chegwin and Perran Kent what inexpensive remedies they would suggest.
After their visits, Uncle Matthew went to St. Michael’s for a meeting with the churchwardens. Since it was a beautiful autumn day, Laura said she would meet him back at the church in an hour’s time. In the meanwhile, she ambled from Porthilly Cove to the nearby village of Black Rock—often shortened to“Rock” in conversation—enjoying the views of larger Padstow across the estuary.
She found herself thinking of baby Charles, her only sibling. She had been so ecstatic when he was born, making her a big sister at last. At nearly nine years of age, she had all but given up hope of siblings and, she’d gathered, her parents had as well. How happy they had all been at his healthy birth. Laura had watched his growth and each new triumph—learning to smile, laugh, crawl, and walk—with nearly a maternal pride of her own.
Then came the week of his second birthday. Papa had been called away to attend an ailing patient.
The nursery maid had brought Charles down to his mother. “Seems too warm to me, Mrs. Callaway. And terrible fussy. Is the doctor at home?”
“No, he is out on a call.” Mamma laid a gentle hand on the toddler’s forehead. “He has been teething. Perhaps that is all it is.”
She went upstairs to the nursery with the boy, and Laura followed, wishing there were something she could do and offering to bring cool cloths to ease his fever.
“Yes, thank you, Laura.”
But as the hours passed, the symptoms worsened. Her baby brother’s little flushed face tightened into a grimace of pain. His breathing became labored, every inhale sounding raw and hoarse.
Fear began to shadow her mother’s expression, and agitation heated her eyes.
“Where did your father go? Do you remember?”
“Mr. Saunder’s, near the park.”
“Good. Let’s send Thomas with a note.”
Not wanting to lay down her beloved burden, her mother asked Laura to write the note for her.
A few minutes later, their manservant hurried off to deliver the message, and Laura returned to the nursery. There, she stood beside her mother’s chair and took her brother’s hand, so small, into hers. How warm and damp it was, far warmer than Laura’s own. When he cried, his whimpers were soon followed by dry coughs.
As darkness fell, her father returned from his patient’s sickbed tired and drawn. He hurried into the nursery, bag in hand, young partner at his heels. He examined the small dear body, and his expression turned grave. “His throat is swollen.”
His young partner suggested bloodletting, but Dr. Callaway did not believe in the procedure for one so young.
“Malignant sore throat, do you think?” the younger man asked.
“God, have mercy,” her mother wailed.
With a significant glance at Laura, he stoically replied, “Too early to tell.” But Laura saw the ghastly pallor of her father’s normally cheerful countenance as he sent her from the room to avoid infection.
Laura had sat on the floor in the corridor, close enough to hear her father’s commands and see his partner dart from the room to fetch whatever he asked for. Papa worked tirelessly to save Charles—coating his throat with spirits of sea salt and getting the boy to take small quantities of milk, boiled and allowed to cool. If only she had known to try such remedies earlier.
Hours later, he came out alone. From behind the closed nursery door came the muffled sobs of her mother.
He slumped next to Laura on the corridor floor—dark now. His raspy words escaped a strangled throat. “I am so sorry. I tried to save him but could not. I failed. Oh, my son!”
He pressed his hands to his face as though to hide his sorrow and his shame.
Tears streamed down Laura’s face as well. Poor Charles. Poor Mamma and Papa. Poor her to lose her only sibling. She laid her head on her father’s shoulder, and together they cried until there were no tears left.
Things with her parents had never been the same after that. Her father seemed to give her more attention, her mother less. Did she resent that Laura had survived instead of Charles? Was she suffering from a depression of spirits? Had she decided to distance herself to avoid the heartrending loss of another child, should something ever happen to her daughter? Laura was never certain. She had played all the scenarios and possible explanations through her mind over the years but had not come to a satisfactory conclusion.
Now, thinking again of the Penberthy children, Laura breathed a prayer,Please spare them, Lord, even as her heart doubted God would hear and answer.
