Page 93 of A Castaway in Cornwall
With a final glance into the murky depths of the tomb-like church, Laura closed the hatch.“Let’s go.”
She returned the rope to the sexton’s shed. There she handed him the knapsack. Seeing his friend’s creation inside, Alex thanked her with enthusiasm—enthusiasm that quickly faded when she handed him the rest of his disguise.
He had already put on the old watch coat she’d tossed down earlier but now looked askance at the powdered wig. “You’re joking.”
She didn’t blame him. Mostly old men, judges, and barristers wore wigs. “I am not. The militia are looking for you. Not to mention François, if he managed to escape custody.”
“It’s not very dignified.”
Laura put on an old pair of spectacles, a mobcap, and a shawl around her shoulders. She turned to look at him over the top of the small frames. “We can trade disguises if you prefer.”
“Ha-ha.” He put on the wig, followed by a hat. “Where did you get all this?”
“From my collection and the poor box, and this black dress from Miss Chegwin.”
“Quelle folie!I can understand why I should disguise myself, but why you?”
“More people here know me than know you. And while they may be accustomed to seeing me wander the beaches alone most every day, seeing me with a man after midnight would certainly raise questions.”
“You should stay here, Laura. I’ll go alone.”
She hesitated to tell him just how far she planned to go. Swallowing, she said, “How will you know which door to knock at to fetch the ferryman’s son who’s agreed to take us across at such an hour? And how would you find the rendezvous point?”
“You could draw me a map.”
“It’s more than that. The militia are looking for a man of your description. They are not looking for an elderly couple making their way home after having a few too many at the Fourways Inn.”
One dark brow rose. “That’s to be the way of it, is it?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
“None as ... creative as yours, no.”
“Then let’s go.”
They avoided the road, and walked along the blustery seaside path, wind blowing sand in their faces. Laura tasted the salty tang of the sea on her lips. Glad for the protective shawl, she raised it over her face.
In the long, salt-stained coat and powdered wig, Alexander looked a bit strange, but still handsome and virile, like some aristocratic ancestor in the framed portraits at grand Prideaux Place, on the outskirts of Padstow.
“If we pass anyone,” she admonished, “you’ll have to affect an older person’s gait.”
He nodded his understanding.
Reaching Black Rock, Laura led the way to the ferryman’s cottage, where Martyn’s father was likely sleeping off one too many. For once, Laura almost hoped so. At her tentative knock, a sleepy Martyn came to the door. “Who are... ? Oh ... it be you, miss. Strange to see you like that. ’Bout gave up on you.”
“Sorry, everything took a bit longer than I expected.” She turned to Alexander. “And this is ... my friend.”
The boy nodded but didn’t look too close. For one so young, he’d already learned the sometimes cagey ways of the Cornish. A wise seafarer could look an excise man in the eye and say he couldn’t describe whomever it was they were looking for, be it for wrecking, smuggling, or anything else.
“And here’s the other you wanted.” He handed her a wadof something, and Laura stuffed it into her bag, then handed the youth another coin.
They made their way to the village quay, where the ferry was moored, and a few fishing boats besides. As Treeve had predicted, the tide was rising.
“All right if we take my uncle’s fishing boat instead?” Martyn asked. “Easier to row and will draw less notice this time o’ night.”
“Sounds like a wise plan.”
While the youth untied the mooring lines, Alexander gave Laura a hand in, then helped the lad push the boat over the sand and out into the water.
