Castaway Dreams Page 4

  It also made her wonder who the woman was for whom he had performed this task in the past. A sister? A lover? She could almost imagine a younger version of the curmudgeonly surgeon, one whose face was unlined and less careworn.

  Almost. It was too difficult to imagine that man ever being carefree enough to enjoy brushing and braiding a woman's hair.

  She fluffed the pillow, smoothing it with her hand. It was simply proximity. The man had no address at all, and must have had his sense of humor surgically removed. George, for all his faults--and dying and abandoning her in Jamaica loomed large in her mind--at least made her laugh and feel she was special. He did not care if she was "useful," beyond her ability to bring thousands of pounds with her.

  Daphne shook her head, pushing back thoughts of George's betrayal. The younger son of a younger son, George had worried about how he would make his way in the world. No wonder eloping with Daphne seemed like the opportunity he'd waited for all his life.

  Daphne picked up the braided ribbons. It seemed simple enough. Once she saw something demonstrated for her, she remembered how to do it. But there had been no need in the past for someone to show her how to braid. There was a nanny, or a maidservant, or Mrs. Cowper to do it for her. That was their job. Hers was to look good when they finished. If Dr. Murray did not understand that was how the world--her world, the only world that mattered--worked, then it was simply too bad.

  Daphne looked around the tiny cabin. Practical garments--what exactly did that mean? Something drab and dull, no doubt, with nothing in the way of a ruffle or a bow to liven it up. She chewed on her lip as she thought. She'd start with shoes. Some of the many pairs Mrs. Cowper had brought from England when dispatched after her were lovely to look at, but would not be comfortable for long walks. Not practical.

  There! Now she had a goal, and she would show mean-spirited Dr. Murray that she knew how to fend for herself.

  At least until it was time to undress.

  * * * *

  Alexander re-wrapped Lowry's wrist, sprained in a fall the ship's carpenter took earlier in the week.

  "It is good for us to have a surgeon aboard, Doctor. You and the young lady are ideal passengers, cooperative and helpful."

  Alexander noticed the late unlamented Mrs. Cowper wasn't mentioned.

  "Miss Farnham is helpful?"

  "She needed a sandbox for that little pup of hers to use as a head. I built it for her, and while I told her she didn't have to pay me, she insisted on doing some mending for me if I wouldn't take her gold."

  "I am surprised the girl did not simply expect you to wait on her like her other servants."

  Lowry twisted and turned his hand, checking the range of its motion, and seemed satisfied when he could make a strong fist without difficulty. He had an off-center nose, the souvenir of some long ago tavern brawl--probably more than one--and intelligent eyes he now focused on Alexander.

  "There is nothing snobbish about Miss Farnham, Doctor. She's a high-spirited lass, no doubt about it, but she has a good heart. Once she finds a proper man, one who will give her a home and young ones, she'll settle down."

  "Ladies of Miss Farnham's class do not spend their days and evenings taking care of their homes and children, Mr. Lowry. They are too busy flitting from the dressmaker to the glovemaker and then off to the theater or some card party."

  Lowry stood, and shrugged his wiry arms back into his coat. The carpenter was a small man but his arms and back were roped with muscle from years of working to keep ships whole and afloat.

  "You are harsh, Dr. Murray. Give the young lady a chance and she may grow on you."

  "A fungus grows on you, Mr. Lowry."

  The older man chuckled, but he did not pursue the conversation, shaking the doctor's hand and returning to his duties.

  Alex cleaned up his tiny sick bay. He did not want to think about Miss Daphne Farnham as anything but an empty-headed fashion doll. A doll--or a patient--could be handled briskly and efficiently. But a young woman who did mending for an old carpenter, that made her all too human to him.

  It was going to be a long voyage.

  He finished writing his notes. As he stepped to the cabin door he paused, looking into his shaving mirror on the chest. It was no wonder everyone thought him a graybeard. Life at sea during wartime had tested him and weathered him as it weathered the ships he served on. Hair once a rich copper was now streaked with gray, just as the ship's brightwork dulled if not tended properly. His eyes were still a clear hazel, but the deep lines at their corners came as much from care and worry as from squinting into bright sunshine on the ocean. Janet Murray's red hair had also whitened at an early age so it did not surprise him to see his hair fade, but he had not considered how others viewed him. Normally this would not concern him, but he thought with the war over he might take a wife when he returned to Britain and settled his affairs.

  He knew what he needed. A woman who would be a good housekeeper. Someone who would be frugal and know how to live within the earnings of a surgeon who had some prize money but was by no means a rich man. He wanted her to be attractive, of course, but not so beautiful that she only cared about her looks.

  He wanted someone like Moira.

  Setting aside the mirror Alex turned and went to the chest that held his instruments. It was over two feet long, carved of fine cedar and lined in velvet. He lifted the lid and the tools of his trade gleamed in the light, oiled and polished. Sharpened. Ready to be called into action, so much a part of him they were an extension of his arm, a fixture in his hand as he wielded his lancet and his saw.

  Beautiful tools. He'd used them to save lives. He lifted the top tray. There, tucked into a tiny pocket at the bottom of the chest, he saw the outline of a miniature.

  It was the effort of a traveling limner, one with more enthusiasm than skill, but he had managed to capture something of his subject. Moira's gentle eyes, her long nose, the chestnut hair gleaming when the summer sunlight hit it.

  The artist had lightened her browned skin because he thought his subjects wanted to be seen as ladies, not Scottish farm girls.

  Moira surely laughed at that, her round cheeks with their sun-kissed rosiness as much a part of her as her soft burr when she sang while working, milking her father's cows, barefoot in the yard as she fed her chickens.

  Alexander told her he would return, first from his schooling, then from the sea. He would return and she would marry him, and they would live together and raise children and chickens. She had the miniature painted and gave it to him on his first visit after joining the navy, on one of the soft summer evenings when they lay out in the fields away from prying eyes.

  "My father wishes me wed, Alexander," she said in her gentle voice.

  Alexander stroked his hand through her hair, the hair he loved to brush and braid for her, and then she would weave chains of flowers to wear in it and insist he wear one, too, just to make him laugh.

  "I will speak with him, Moira, tomorrow. I have a little put aside now, and he'll listen to me."

  But when he arrived at the McDonald house the next day, Mrs. McDonald told him Moira was ill.

  "I am sure she will be able to visit with you tomorrow, Mr. Murray," Mrs. McDonald said, but the next day Moira was still abed, and Mrs. McDonald reluctantly allowed the young surgeon to see her with the girl's watchful mother standing in the room.

  "Moira?"

  Moira's face was near as pale as her bedding. She opened her drowsy eyes and gave Alexander a weak smile.

  "Good morning, Alex."

  Ignoring her mother's harrumph of disapproval, Alex sat on the bed beside Moira and took her wrist. Her skin was warm, her pulse rapid, and she winced when she shifted herself to accommodate him beside her.

  "Do you have pain, my dear?"

  Mrs. McDonald made a small movement behind him, but Alex ignored her to focus on Moira. Her eyelashes lowered, veiling her eyes.

  "I have a griping in my bowels, Alex," she whispered, embarrassed. "Ma
gave me a purge and I am sure it will be over soon."

  "Where is the pain, Moira?"

  She whispered again that it was down in her belly, gesturing with her hand at her right side. Alex did not frown, for he was already becoming better at keeping his emotions veiled from those he treated, but he was worried. He'd seen a case in Edinburgh where a man with a similar pain low in his side expired after fever set in.

  But that patient was an older man, and Moira was young and healthy. He patted her hand and said, "I will return tomorrow to check on you, my dear. In the meantime, do as your mother says, and you will be up and about in no time."

  But the next day Moira's pain was worse. She was still fevered so he bled her and promised to return to check on her. When he saw her again the pain was gone, and his heart rose, but it was a false comfort.

  Within a day the fever raged again through Moira's young body, alternating heat and chills and Alexander could only watch helplessly as she sank into delirium, then unconsciousness, and then finally slipped away from him forever.

  A year later his mother was dead and Alexander never returned to Scotland. He looked down at the fragile porcelain portrait, all that was left of a vibrant young woman. That, and his memories of the scant hours when they'd held one another, and the dreams they'd shared, dreams that went with Moira into the grave.

  A young man believes love, and people, will last forever. He believes he can save the world, that his bright instruments can stave off the inevitable. Alexander no longer believed in either love or forever, but he was a practical man and thought a wife, and the comfort she would bring him might be worth the effort.

  He would look into it once this voyage was over.

  * * * *

  Being awakened in the middle of the night was nothing new for Alexander but when he opened his cabin door, he had an uneasy feeling of déjà vu. Miss Farnham stood there, again barefoot, looking over her shoulder.

  "Come in, Miss Farnham," he said, not bothering to add before the entire ship knows you are here. "What can I do for you?"

  She was pale, and he saw the pulse at her throat beating fast. She looked over her shoulder again at her closed cabin door, then back at him, her eyes wide as she stepped into his cabin.

  "I had a nightmare, Dr. Murray. I dreamed Mrs. Cowper was still with us, following in the ship's wake."

  He looked at her sharply. She barely spoke above a whisper, and twisted her wrapper in her hands.

  "I overheard the sailors talking, Doctor. People follow the ship after they are thrown into the ocean, trying to return."

  "Sailors are a superstitious lot, Miss Farnham. You must pay them no heed. I helped prepare Mrs. Cowper for burial, and I can assure you she is dead and has gone to her rest at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean."

  "I understand. That makes sense, Doctor, but my heart is racing." She put her hand on her bosom, maybe thinking he might not know where her heart was. "Is my heart going to stop as hers did?"

  Alexander knew he could dismiss her fears and tell her nothing would come of them, and he certainly knew her heart was not about to fail. So he did not fully understand why he stepped closer and rested his hand on her neck.

  At one level, the answer was obvious. He could see the beat, faster, yes, as her agitation sped her body's reactions to stress. Measuring her pulse was a perfectly logical thing to do. It had nothing to do with wanting to feel the silken skin of her throat, to experience the warmth of her, the fragrance of a clean woman.

  Her hair had come loose from its night braid, the curls framing her face, and he idly brushed a curl away from where it rested against his hand on her throat.

  "You are agitated, but you will not die, Miss Farnham. Were you reading your lurid novel before you fell asleep?"

  She looked puzzled for a moment.

  "Mrs. Radcliffe's book? Yes, but what does that signify?"

  "Reading novels can contribute to a disordered mind, Miss Farnham. You should stick to more edifying literature before sleep."

  "Oh," she mulled that over, then shook her head. "It is not my mind that is disordered, Dr. Murray, but my heart that is fast."

  She gestured, to make sure he understood the difference between her head and her heart.

  "Don't you want to listen to my chest? Dr. Drummond at home always puts his ear on my chest to listen to my heartbeat and reassure me it is strong."

  "Very well. If it will help you fall back to sleep."

  She followed his instructions when he told her to sit on his bunk.

  "Unfasten your garments please."

  Instead she clutched them tighter and looked at him wide-eyed.

  "I did not think you liked me, Dr. Murray!"

  He was dumbfounded for a moment, then the penny dropped.

  "Miss Farnham, this works best with only a thin barrier between your skin and my ear. Just do as I say so I can return to sleep. You only need to unfasten your nightdress partway."

  "Oh."

  She loosened her wrapper and shrugged it off her shoulders. Her nightdress was plain, which surprised him, but it was of fine linen and had a pink satin ribbon that she untied, leaving the neck to gape open. The outline of the form beneath tantalized him, but he forced himself to concentrate.

  He pulled out a thin and worn handkerchief from his sea chest and shook it open.

  "Lie down on my bunk, on your back."

  She followed his instructions, and he sat next to her. He eased the night garment open, exposing the upper mounds of breasts that he could say, with perfect accuracy, were some of the finest he'd ever seen. Lush and pink, rising and falling with her breathing, like rosy-tipped meringues. He draped the cloth over her, then bent his ear to her chest to listen, and learn, as he had done so many times in the past.

  If he lingered there with his cheek on her bosom longer than was clinically necessary, it was hardly his fault when her skin was so warm, and soft, and fragrant, and completely hairless, unlike so many of the other chests he'd listened to. To be honest, he did not need to put his ear on her bosom at all. She was already looking better since he'd distracted her from her thoughts about the specter of Mrs. Cowper following in their wake.

  However, if it brought her a measure of comfort, who was he to argue with her? So he listened to her strong, healthy heartbeat, pronounced her lungs clear, and helped her to her feet.

  She looked down at her bare toes as she refastened her garment and he folded up the handkerchief.

  "You must think me a silly ninny, Dr. Murray, to bother you this way."

  He did not seize the opportunity to agree with her that, yes, he absolutely thought her a silly novel-reading ninny.

  "You are not the first person to suffer a nightmare after a shocking event, Miss Farnham. You did the right thing in coming to me."

  "I do feel much better now. I believe I can go back to sleep," she said brightly. She moved to exit the cabin and had her hand on the latch when she turned and looked at him.

  "Thank you for not laughing at me, Dr. Murray."

  She gave him that smile that made him feel slightly disoriented. No doubt it was only that so few people he encountered in the course of a day's work had any reason to smile at him.

  After putting up his handkerchief and making a brief note in his journal regarding her visit, Alexander climbed back into his bunk. He couldn't say why he took his pillow, where her head had lain moments before, and brought it up to his nose.

  Lavender. A soothing scent, calming for the nerves.

  Which was, of course, the only reason why he fell asleep with his arms wrapped around his pillow.

  Chapter 4

  The sun was low in the sky, under clouds looking like anvils poised to fall on the horizon. Alexander heard a familiar "yip" as he was spotted by Miss Farnham's little dog, straining at its leash to reach him. Recalled to his duty at the sight of his charge deep in conversation with Mr. Carr, Alexander walked over to where the couple chatted at the starboard rail.

  "Oh,
Dr. Murray!" Miss Farnham chirped, waving her free hand in the air. "Mr. Carr was admiring my ribbon, and I told him you gave it to me."

  She wore a pale gold straw bonnet with an explosion of lavender roses and greenery, the braid snaking over her left shoulder, its end now tied off by the tri-colored braid Alexander used for his demonstration.

  Carr leaned forward to pick up the ribboned end of the braid where it rested on Miss Farnham's bosom. A noise sounding suspiciously like a growl welled up from Alexander's chest, startling the younger man so much he took a step back.

  It startled Alexander, too, who finished on a throat-clearing gesture.

  "No doubt Mr. Carr has duties to see to, Miss Farnham, and little time for admiring your attire."

  "Not at all, Dr. Murray," the mate said with a satisfied smile. He took Miss Farnham's hand gloved in rose-colored leather and placed it on his arm. "I am at liberty to stroll with Miss Farnham before supper."

  He, too, looked at the clouds on the horizon and frowned.

  "We may be in for a blow tonight or tomorrow, so it is good to take advantage of this opportunity while the weather is still fair."

  "Perhaps Dr. Murray would care to join us as we walk around the deck?"

  Carr looked dismayed, and Alexander was sure he had never met a young woman so ignorant of human behavior and motivations. She appeared completely oblivious to the mate's attempts to court her, but putting a spoke in the younger man's wheels was part of a chaperone's task. Alexander bowed in her direction and said, "I would be pleased to join you, Miss Farnham, and Mr. Carr."

  "Mr. Carr, do you truly think the weather will change? Are we in danger?"

  The deck was not wide enough for the three of them to easily walk abreast, so Alexander was to the rear and couldn't see their expressions. He knew he was not an expert sailor, but even he had been at sea long enough to recognize trouble signs. The thunderheads building to the southeast were like black boulders piling one atop the other. Remembering previous encounters with bad weather gave Alex an idea.

  "Miss Farnham."