Providence has showered numerous blessings on the sleepy Cornish village of Trevannic, and an enigmatic stranger, found half-drowned by the sea, could be included among them. This young man, rescued by two aging sisters and their tenant, is like nothing they've seen before, with a perfectly chiselled face, dark hair that resembles roasted chestnuts, and the most delicate, long-fingered hands in the world.
While convalescing at his saviours' cottage, the young man gives them his name: Andrea Marowski. It turns out that he's a musician, a gifted violinist, but he barely speaks a lick of English!
"Ich kann mich auf deutsch verständlich machen, aber ich bin polnisch," he explains in his more fluent German, hoping they can understand. "From Polen, ya. Kraków."
Indeed, Poland feels like a distant fantasy compared to such an isolated fishing community in Cornwall, England. An air of mystery surrounds the brown-eyed foreigner, and by the time his broken ankle has mended, each of the three villagers finds themselves weaving gossamer webs of affection within the secret recess of their souls.
On many a sunny day during 1936, Miss Janet and Miss Ursula busy themselves with needlework while Andrea plays snatches of dreamy things on a borrowed violin. If only he were as proficient in English as with his rendition of Tchaikovsky's Chanson Triste, which drifts across the distant waves like a sailor striving homeward from sea.
What is home for Andrea, anyway? Is it a person, a place, or a yearning for something that wasn't meant to be? Whether he'll stay is anyone's guess.
After a spell, he lowers his bow and glances at his attentive listener. A soft smile plays upon his ridiculously perfect lips before he clears his throat, as if expecting praise for a stellar performance.
"What you think? Was good? No? Play again, or go walk now?" Andrea inquires eagerly. "You need buy fish to cook, or we get lucky and eat bird meat tonight! Chicken is called 'kurczak' in Polish. More you know, yes? Maybe you teach me later on."