Castaway Dreams Page 10

  "Be ready, Miss Farnham. Whatever we've landed may be armed with sharp teeth. I need to take over at this point and you should slip back in the boat."

  "What can I do?"

  "I'll take the line, you hold my knife."

  He released her wrist, and one-handed opened his clasp knife and passed it to her, and Daphne held on to it with a firm grip. Pompom poked his head up to see what the excitement was, and with her free hand Daphne pushed him back into the bag and latched it--the pup would be safe in there for a few minutes, and not able to attack--or be attacked by--their supper.

  Dr. Murray concentrated, pulling it in, his hands steady, and she saw a flash of movement beneath the surface.

  "Now, Daphne!"

  He pulled the line straight up and a fish jerked at the end of it, thrashing and bobbing in the air. Dr. Murray tossed it into the boat and said, "The knife!"

  Daphne passed him the knife, handle first, and he did something to the fish that stopped it from thrashing. She swallowed, but she could not keep the pride from her voice.

  "My fish! What have I caught?"

  Dr. Murray picked it up and put it on the seat and studied it. The fish was about eighteen inches long, its body an iridescent blue-green on the upper part, the lower body silver. It had spots on its side, splashes of bronze that gave it a festive appearance.

  "I am no expert, but I would guess this is a member of the mackerel family."

  Daphne clapped her hands, and laughed.

  "I caught a mackerel! I don't know anyone who has ever done that!"

  "If you ever go fishing off of Cornwall you might catch another," the surgeon acknowledged. "Assuming when you return to Britain you wish to continue being a fisherwoman."

  "It is a useful skill," Daphne said, hugging herself with glee. "Because of my efforts we will not go hungry tonight."

  Dr. Murray looked at her and it was the strangest thing. He did not smile, she knew what a smile looked like, but nonetheless she knew he was smiling. At her.

  It made her stomach flutter in a way that had nothing to do with the idea of eating raw fish again.

  "Well done, Miss Farnham. Now you can tell fish stories at supper with the best of them."

  Daphne remembered when men dining with her father had told stories of the trout and salmon they'd fished for.

  "Wait, before you cut it." She took her hands and put them on each end of the fish, measuring it, then held her hands up to see how far apart they were.

  "I want to remember how big this mackerel is for the re-telling, Doctor."

  "I find that the size of the fish in question tends to expand over the telling, Miss Farnham."

  "I have no need to exaggerate," Daphne said loftily. "This is a noteworthy fish all on its own."

  There was a muffled noise from her valise and she remembered the third member of the crew and released her dog, who jumped over to sniff at the new item.

  "Keep the animal away and I will clean this for our supper."

  "I wish I knew how to do that."

  Dr. Murray looked up from where his knife was poised over the mackerel, his eyebrows raised.

  "You want to clean fish?"

  "It is my fish. I caught it. I should know how to clean and prepare it."

  "An admirable attitude, Miss Farnham. For now though it is better if I do it given our primitive facilities."

  Daphne was relieved, but meant what she said. While the idea of cleaning a smelly, slimy, cold dead fish did not appeal to her, she enjoyed learning new things and if she was ever shipwrecked again it might not be with someone as knowledgeable as Dr. Murray and then who would people look to for useful skills? Daphne Farnham, that's who!

  So she tucked her knees up beneath her chin and watched, humming to herself.

  "Musical accompaniment with dinner, Miss Farnham?"

  "I find that singing makes the time pass, Doctor. Not gloomy songs, but cheerful ones. Don't you know any songs? Isn't there some Scotsman named Brown, or Bowen who wrote some songs?"

  He stopped cleaning the fish and looked at her with an expression of deep pain.

  "Might you be referring to Rabbie Burns, the bard of Scotland?"

  Daphne thought about it for a moment.

  "That sounds right. He wrote a song about a red rose, and one about a hag." Her brow scrunched. "Though why someone would want to write a song about a hag is beyond me."

  Dr. Murray closed his eyes, then opened them and looked at her.

  "Not a hag, Miss Farnham, a haggis. A haggis is a dish enjoyed by the people of Scotland."

  "Really? What is it?"

  Dr. Murray described, with loving detail, the inner workings of the mysterious haggis. Daphne looked at him, speechless for a long moment.

  "Dr. Murray, I would think raw fish a treat after that!"

  He just shook his head and went back to the fish.

  "Do you know the rose song?"

  "'My Love is like a Red, Red Rose'? Yes, I know it."

  "Will you sing it?"

  "No, I will not," he said shortly.

  Daphne tilted her head and rested it on her pulled up knees. She knew it was a most unladylike pose, but she was feeling cramped from being in the boat and it felt comfortable. And who would see her, except Dr. Murray, Pompom and the stray bird winging overhead.

  "Why not?"

  "It is a love song, Miss Farnham." He stopped cleaning the fish and looked at her. "There is a Rabbie Burns song I will sing for you, one more appropriate for--for our circumstances, you and I being who we are."

  He set aside the knife and looked at her, and started to sing. He had a pleasant voice, a baritone that did not hurt the ears. The song's lyrics were hard to understand in the Scots dialect, but she picked up on the repeating line, "For a'that."

  She looked at him when he was done. He gazed at her a moment longer, and then went back to cleaning her fish for her.

  "That's not a fun song," Daphne said in a low voice. She didn't know why it bothered her that he would not sing the rose song, but it did bother her. Maybe there was someone else he was willing to sing it to. Some girl who was clever. Or who knew already how to catch and clean a fish.

  She wasn't feeling very pretty right now. Maybe this other girl, the Scottish girl, was prettier than Daphne. For a time, Daphne had forgotten it was important to be pretty, she was so caught up in being useful.

  What did it matter? He was only Dr. Murray, not somebody important. Of course he was important now, here in this boat, but he would not be anybody in London. No one would bury Dr. Murray beneath invitations to the best dinner parties. No one would imitate his style of boots or repeat a witticism he made about another dinner guest.

  She did not care that maybe there was some young lady who'd heard him sing a song more pleasant than a ditty about men being men and laughing at their betters or something equally uninteresting and incomprehensible.

  "Now it is your turn, Miss Farnham."

  Daphne raised her head and looked at the fish guts on the bench, and swallowed.

  "No, not your turn to clean the fish, your turn to sing."

  He checked the offal for bones, then tossed the mess to the dog, who was thrilled with this treat.

  "And after you sing for your supper, we will enjoy this fine mackerel you caught."

  "Oh," Daphne said, scrunching her brow as she thought. She wasn't going to sing Dr. Murray a love song, not after he refused to sing one to her.

  "I know! I will sing you a song that I learned from one of the sailors on the Magpie."

  "Really? You intrigue me, Miss Farnham. Most of the ditties I've heard sailors sing aren't proper for young ladies to know."

  Daphne giggled at the thought of singing an improper song to Dr. Murray. Her good humor restored, she said, "Please pass me the water flask. I will not take much, but I must drink some before I sing."

  "I often find that drinking before I listen helps," Dr. Murray said, but did not take any of the water.

  Daphn
e smoothed down the fabric over her legs and thought for a moment.

  "Jacob was an American who signed on with the Magpie after the war, and he called this 'The Liberty Song.'" She hummed for a moment and then began to sing:

  "Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

  And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;

  No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim,

  Or stain with dishonor America's name."

  Daphne sang two verses and the chorus before she realized Dr. Murray was staring at her, and the only way to describe the expression on his face--there was no way to describe the expression on his face. She'd never seen anything quite like it before.

  "There are more verses," she said helpfully.

  "Miss Farnham!" He shook his head and started again. "Miss Farnham, that was the most treasonous piece of trash I have ever heard. Do you know what melody that is? Heart of Oak! Heart of Oak, Miss Farnham! I implore you, never, ever sing those lyrics around a navy man, for I could not answer for the consequences if you do."

  "Oh!" Daphne put her hand over her mouth, her heart plummeting. "Why would Jacob teach me that song then, knowing I am an Englishwoman? Was he trying to make me look stupid?"

  Dr. Murray looked down at the bottom of the boat where befouled water lapped back and forth, then at her.

  "No, Miss Farnham. I'm sure he was only attempting to share with you something dear to his heart as a Yankee. They are a strange race, and he likely did not consider how it would appear."

  He must have seen something in her face, because he wiped off his knife and closed it. He clasped his hands together, his forearms on his knees and he leaned forward.

  "Who tells you that you are stupid, Miss Farnham?"

  Daphne didn't want to say anything. What good would it do? But Dr. Murray sat there, patiently waiting for her answer.

  She mumbled something.

  "I could not understand that, Miss Farnham."

  "People. I hear people say it is a good thing I am pretty and rich, because I am very stupid."

  He did not say anything, and Daphne raised her head.

  "You think it, too, don't you, Dr. Murray? Do not deny it."

  He looked away at the island, then back at her.

  "I have spent two days with you in this boat, Miss Farnham. You are not stupid. You are far too trusting, however. You seem to believe everything men tell you."

  "Why would they lie to me?" Daphne said in confusion.

  "Have you not been told that 'Men were deceivers ever'? That's from Shakespeare, Miss Farnham, I did not just make that up. When men tell you something, you should be a touch more hesitant to believe them."

  "What about you, Dr. Murray?"

  "I will not deceive you, Miss Farnham. In addition," he said, passing her a piece of fish, "you are a fast learner and are becoming a useful person. I know some extremely intelligent men who are totally useless."

  "Truly?"

  "Truly," he said firmly. "They think deep thoughts but cannot put those thoughts into action, or even write about them in a coherent fashion so others may learn from them. What good are they? Far better if they spent their time catching fish, or matching hats to ensembles."

  Daphne giggled, and took the fish from his warm fingers. She did not need help to eat it this time. Dr. Murray's eyes glowed almost golden in the afternoon light. He could be a very nice man when he set out to be pleasant.

  "You need a wife, Dr. Murray."

  He choked on the piece of fish he was eating and she passed him the water flask.

  "Are you volunteering for the position?"

  Daphne nearly choked on her own supper.

  "Oh no, I meant you need someone older, someone closer to your age."

  He looked at her for a moment and appeared about to comment, then stopped. He chewed a bit more fish and so did Daphne. The mackerel had a different taste from the little sardine-like fish. Less oily. Eating raw fish might catch on if she could figure out the best way to serve it, which probably would not be in a boat with a smelly wet dog.

  She picked up Pompom out of the bottom of the boat so he'd dry off, setting him atop the canvas. He perched there like a figurehead, staring out to sea, sometimes barking if a seagull flew by.

  "A wife. Odd you should mention that, Miss Farnham. I have been thinking it is time I married."

  "Truly?"

  "Indeed. The war is over, and I am returning to England. It seems like a reasonable thing to do."

  He ate some more fish, then looked at her.

  "Why do you think I need a wife, Miss Farnham?"

  "Oh." Daphne thought for a moment. The idea of Dr. Murray taking a wife had just popped out of her mouth, but now that she thought about it, she was not as excited by the idea. He deserved just the right kind of woman. Someone useful, but it wasn't all he needed.

  "If you had a wife, she would help you dress in the morning so you would look like a successful and prosperous man."

  "A good valet could do that for me."

  That was true. Daphne took another piece of mackerel and thought about it.

  "A wife would make your home comfortable for you, and entertain your friends and family, and pick out the right furnishings and wall coverings."

  "That sounds expensive," Dr. Murray mused. "Perhaps I am better off just renting rooms. And hiring a valet."

  "There are other things a wife could do for you, Doctor." Daphne said, exasperated. She thought he was brighter than this. But the man just sat there, sucking on a fish bone, and waiting for her to explain.

  "Don't you want children? And companionship? Your valet couldn't do that for you."

  He looked ready to argue the point, but instead nodded sagely.

  "You are correct, Miss Farnham. A valet could not supply me with children."

  "Or companionship."

  "I don't know about that. Perhaps he would be a good conversationalist. A chess player would be appreciated."

  "Not that kind of companionship, Dr. Murray. The kind of companionship that leads to children!" She peered at him in the soft light as twilight crept over the water. "Are you bamming me?"

  "Perhaps, just a wee bit, Miss Farnham."

  Daphne was thunderstruck. Dr. Murray was teasing her? That did not sound like him at all.

  "You may be onto something, Miss Farnham. I will consider what you say, though I admit I have not had good luck finding ladies to marry me."

  "Really?" Here was a side of the doctor she never expected. But then, it was hard for her to imagine the man courting someone. Who would want to marry a gentleman who never smiled?

  "Who were these ladies, Doctor?"

  "One was a young lady who rejected my proposal just a few months ago."

  "She must not be intelligent, to reject a proposal from you."

  "Your loyalty touches me, Miss Farnham. In actuality she was a bright young lady, but for some reason she preferred a pirate to a surgeon."

  "Oh. That makes sense."

  "It does?"

  "Certainly," Daphne said, tossing a piece of fish to Pompom, who caught it mid-air. "I imagine if she chose this pirate he did not just carry her off like booty. He offered the attractions of adventure and excitement, and I would also guess he presented a dashing appearance. She probably saw herself as Medora to his Conrad."

  "You have read Byron's Corsair?"

  Daphne giggled, covering her mouth with her hand.

  "My father doesn't know I did, for he would forbid it. The book was all the rage last year and all the fashionable people claimed to have read it. I did read it and found it to be lively in parts, not so much fun in other parts."

  "What else do you like to read?"

  "You think this a terrible waste of time, Doctor, but I enjoy reading novels. I know there is no value to them, but just think--for a few hours you are caught up in an adventure! You experience danger, and turmoil, and love, all from the safety of your own armchair. Do you ever read novels, Doctor?"<
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  "I read journals, Miss Farnham, and exchange letters with other surgeons about situations they encounter, or new treatments they are exploring. And I do enjoy good poetry on a long evening."

  "See there, we do have something in common," Daphne said. "We both like poetry. Who would have thought that?"

  "Who indeed?" the doctor murmured.

  The sun was sinking now, and Daphne looked out toward the line of land, but could no longer distinguish it from the surrounding water.

  "Do you think we will reach that land tomorrow, Doctor?"

  He tapped the water butt with his foot and frowned at the sound.

  "I hope so, Miss Farnham. We will deal with that tomorrow. For now, wash up and see to your animal, and we should rest."

  Daphne did as he instructed, and once again the doctor pulled her alongside him to share his warmth and help cushion her as she slept. She snuggled next to him, Pompom wedging himself into a little nest of his own making among their limbs.

  "This is nice," Daphne murmured as her eyes drifted shut. "Goodnight, Doctor."

  "Good night, Miss Farnham."

  His voice rumbled against her ear where it rested on his chest. She knew tomorrow could bring more problems and even disaster, but at this moment she felt safe and secure in the good doctor's arms, and that was enough for now.

  Chapter 8

  It was clear the next morning that land was in sight and the ocean was carrying them closer to it.

  Alexander studied it as well as he could without a spyglass or even a true knowledge of navigation. While the island promised safety, the issue would be arriving in one piece. Most of the islands in these waters were surrounded by coral reefs. Even with its shallow draft their boat risked being torn up, dashing them into the ocean.

  There was no sign of smoke rising over the trees indicating civilization. They might be looking at an undeveloped area, but the odds were just as strong the island was empty of inhabitants.

  No fish were caught that morning. Daphne Farnham shared her small allotment of water with the dog when she thought Alexander wasn't watching, but even so the animal appeared lethargic and whined at intervals. It grated on his nerves, but he couldn't pitch the animal over the side. That would make Miss Farnham hysterical. And they might yet need the dog for sustenance.