Castaway Dreams Page 6

  "I have no doubt, Doctor, if I were to suggest such a thing Hattie would remind me she leads a busy enough life caring for my wardrobe, not leaving time or desire for additional exercise."

  He paused from the string he was undoing. It was above a corset that distracted from his task, the boning pulled tight at the bottom and reminding him her hips were scant inches from his own, and it would only take a sweep of his hand to bring that pert backside up against him. Her chemise of fine lawn edged over the top of the corset, one strap slipping down a rounded shoulder. The garment was nearly translucent, the fabric so soft that if he kissed her through it he would feel the warmth of her rosy skin against his lips.

  "What was that noise? Did you say something, Doctor?"

  "Nothing." But perhaps conversation would distract him. Even conversation with Miss Farnham.

  "You are concerned about your maid being overburdened with additional responsibilities?"

  "Of course, Dr. Murray. Poor Hattie has to work hard to see to it that I am properly turned out and fashionable. I do not want to make her life more difficult."

  The string he worked on unraveled from its knot. Slim as she was, she could wiggle out of her own clothes the rest of the way.

  And there was a mental image he could spend the entire night doing without.

  "I am finished, Miss Farnham. You can do the rest on your own."

  Miss Farnham turned, clutching her dress to her bosom. Alexander carefully kept his eyes on her face.

  "Thank you, Dr. Murray. You are a most useful person."

  "Indeed, I am, Miss Farnham. Since I will be busy tomorrow and you will be assisting me, I will bid you goodnight."

  "Of course, Doctor, I understand. I remember my grandfather would retire early after supper to rest."

  For one brief moment Alexander was tempted to haul the half-dressed chit into his arms and show her how far he was from being incapacitated by age or infirmity, but sanity imposed itself on him. He bowed and left her standing in the middle of her cabin looking like a pink package of temptation.

  Mr. Carr was standing outside the cabin, in time to catch a brief glimpse of Miss Farnham and hear her say, "Goodnight, Doctor. Thank you for undressing me."

  Alexander adjusted the cuffs on his shirt and turned to the smirking officer.

  "A word of advice, Mr. Carr: Miss Farnham is my responsibility, and it is a responsibility I do not take lightly. If you attempt anything that might damage her reputation, I will introduce you to some of the more dramatic methods I use to treat the pox. You will find the experience educational, but not enjoyable."

  The younger man paled and his eyes grew large.

  "I am always glad when I can clarify these medical procedures for my patients--or potential patients. Goodnight, Mr. Carr."

  Chapter 5

  "Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning..." Daphne looked at Dr. Murray. "Is that true, Doctor?"

  Dr. Murray looked up from where he was compounding something, a salve or an ointment. Daphne was not sure which, but it had a sharp smell in the small cabin, filling the air with the scent of mint.

  "Yes, Miss Farnham, oftentimes a red sky at sunrise means rough weather ahead."

  Daphne frowned down at the clean, but worn cloth strip she was rolling for bandages. The sea rocked this morning, the waves having an oily look to them as they swelled beneath the Magpie. She felt the tension in the crew as they worked at their tasks, all of them looking to the southeast where black clouds piled up in an ominous wall. The sky at sunrise had a sullen reddish cast and the air was oppressive and heavy. Yesterday sea birds followed them, but the skies were now empty of life, only high, scudding clouds moving as the wind picked up.

  Dr. Murray was already at work when she arrived, and his eyes skimmed over her neat braid and the muslin dress she wore. It was one of her favorites even though it was out of fashion, and she thought the doctor's braided ribbon a nice complement to the dusty rose stripes in her skirt. There was a rose flounce at the bottom, the higher hemline showing off her wonderful kid half-boots that laced behind, the ones she'd fallen in love with when she saw the design in the shoemaker's.

  "Why such a sad sigh, Miss Farnham?"

  "I love these shoes, Dr. Murray, and I fear when I return to London they will no longer be fashionable. Then I have to give some serious thought as to whether I should continue wearing them."

  Dr. Murray paused from his labor and looked at her.

  "Miss Farnham, I am going to pretend you just walked into the cabin and we did not have this conversation. It makes my brain hurt when you say things like that."

  "That is odd, Doctor. My brain never hurts."

  He looked about to remark on this, then stopped himself and gave his head a small shake, returning to his task.

  "What are you mixing, Doctor? It smells"--she thought for a moment--"pungent."

  "An ointment for sprains, Miss Farnham. That is one of the more common injuries the sailors suffer during storms. I am also making a salve for treating rheumatism."

  "Rheumatism?"

  "A sailor who spends his time in a cold and wet environment is prone to aches and diseases of the joints."

  Daphne grabbed a fresh strip of cloth, and paused. She'd never thought about the details of doctoring. What had these bandages been used for in the past? Had they wrapped broken ribs on a sailor falling off of one of those sticks that jutted out and held up the sails? Covered a nasty gash after an encounter with pirates? Who had the unpleasant task of washing out the bandages when they were unwrapped?

  She was about to ask Dr. Murray this when voices were heard outside the cabin. Daphne paused to listen, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation between the captain and the mate.

  "Barometer still dropping," she heard the captain say. "Our best option is to try to run before the storm."

  Daphne could not hear Mr. Carr's reply, and when she glanced at him she saw Dr. Murray also had stopped to listen to the conversation, but the two officers moved off.

  "It is going to be a bad storm, isn't it?"

  He looked down at the ointment, his fingers shiny in the shifting lamplight with the grease from his preparations. Then he looked her in the eye.

  "Yes, Miss Farnham, it will be a bad storm."

  Oddly enough, his stark words eased the tension from Daphne's shoulders. Dr. Murray may not like her very much, but his answers to her were always bluntly honest, if rudely phrased. He did not smile at her and tell her not to worry her pretty little head as the other gentlemen did.

  "What should I do to prepare for the storm, Doctor?"

  He still watched her, and his eyes changed. He didn't smile at her--she could not imagine that happening. Instead, his look was, if not approving, at least less censorious.

  "A very good question, Miss Farnham." He straightened up from his labors, wiped his hands on a cloth and then covered the bowl with it.

  "The Magpie is a sound ship, and the captain and crew are experienced. But if I were you, I would pack a valise. It should be a bag you yourself can carry. In it, only put those things that are absolutely necessary, or those things you would preserve at all costs."

  "One bag?" Daphne stared at him. "But...but it is impossible, Doctor. I could not pack everything necessary to me into one bag!"

  He cocked one of those accusatory eyebrows at her.

  "Impossible? That is too bad, Miss Farnham. Let me tell you what will happen if the worst occurs and we have to abandon the ship: you will grab the first thing at hand and cling to it. It might be a book, it might be a scarf, it might be one of those shoes you are wearing now that will soon be unfashionable and unwearable. It will not be those items most important to you, I can guarantee it."

  Daphne swallowed at this stark assessment.

  "You have been shipwrecked before?"

  "I have, Miss Farnham. I will be prepared. Whether or not you are prepared is your concern and entirely up to you."

  Daphne almost said, "You w
on't help me?" but she feared that other eyebrow would be brought into play at her expense. She was silent as she rolled the last of the bandages. When she turned back to him, Dr. Murray had a chest of instruments open, and was examining them.

  "Is that what you will take with you, Dr. Murray?"

  He held up a lancet, wiped it on his coat sleeve, then examined its edge in the light.

  "Yes, Miss Farnham. My chest is the most valuable item I own. If there is time to take any one thing with me, this is what I will take." He put the blade down and looked at her. "I want to say again abandoning ship is a last resort and I do not expect that to happen. It is always best to be prepared for the worst situation, though. If it happens, you are ready; if it does not happen, you can count yourself pleasantly surprised."

  As if to punctuate his words, the Magpie rolled as the seas grew heavier. Daphne heard rain falling now, and Mr. Carr yelling something about hatches. She grabbed hold of the table to steady herself.

  "If the captain orders us to abandon ship," Daphne said, her voice barely above a whisper, "Will you come for me, Dr. Murray?"

  He stopped what he was doing and looked at her, his own stance steady with the roll of the ship.

  "I will come for you, Miss Farnham."

  "Promise me!" Daphne gripped the table edge. She hated to hear the pleading note in her voice, but the idea of being forgotten in the turmoil of a sinking ship terrified her.

  "I promise I will come for you. You will not be alone, Miss Farnham."

  His hazel eyes were calm as they watched her, and his wide shoulders, the solidity of him standing there comforted her, and she took a deep breath.

  "Then I will be in my cabin, packing a valise."

  "Do not leave your cabin, Miss Farnham, so I know where you are."

  "Yes, Dr. Murray."

  Daphne turned to leave, but Dr. Murray's voice stopped her.

  "Wait a moment, Miss Farnham."

  He was looking through the jars in a chest, rummaging around until he reached deep inside and pulled out a tin about the size of a deck of cards.

  "Take this. You might need it."

  She looked down at the tin, then raised the lid. A fragrance of spices, strong and sharp, filled her nostrils.

  "It is candied ginger, Miss Farnham. Until now you have been a sturdy sailor, but in this weather even the most stable of travelers is tested. Eat a small piece about once an hour or two and it will help keep your stomach settled."

  "This is thoughtful of you, Doctor."

  "Nonsense. I simply do not want you expelling your supper onto my boots later on."

  Daphne swallowed, the image his words raised not helping her as the ship rolled again. She hurried to her cabin, sailors moving past her intent on their tasks, not stopping to exchange a word or a smile as they normally would.

  Inside her cabin Daphne closed the door and sat on her bunk. Pompom poked his head out from beneath the covers and whined, licking her hand.

  "You know something's amiss, don't you, boy?" Daphne whispered to him. She could hear the wind above her whistling and humming through the rigging of the ship, the rain pounding against the hatches fastened tight against the water.

  It was a stout ship, she told herself, one which had made the Atlantic crossing many times.

  But the rain and wind continued to pound the Magpie through the day and into the night, and the ship bucked like a wild horse as it rode the waves. No one brought Daphne her supper, and she did not miss it. She was not yet sick, but the constant rolling of the vessel tested her. Clammy sweat stood out on her brow and darkened her armpits, and she clenched her teeth and thought of calm meadows and sunny days. Pompom huddled next to her, his small body shaking. He'd made a mess earlier and she had cleaned it up and disposed of it in the covered pot, making sure the cupboard was latched so it would not come rolling out across the deck. On her other side sat her valise, close at hand and giving an odd sort of comfort. If they had to leave the ship, she would not be grabbing a shoe or a hairbrush in the confusion.

  Daphne must have dozed, because she awoke to a pounding at her cabin door. She made her way carefully, the deck rolling beneath her feet. When she opened the door, clinging to the frame, Dr. Murray stood there with a flask and a cloth-wrapped parcel.

  "You have not eaten, Miss Farnham." He pushed his way past her into the cabin and Daphne released her grip on the door frame just as another swell pitched beneath her feet.

  She lost her balance and fell against Dr. Murray, and he grabbed her, his stance widening to take their weight against the storm-tossed movement of the Magpie.

  Daphne knew she should move, she wanted to move, but it felt so safe standing there in his grasp, his strong arms wrapped around her, the flask in his hand hard against her shoulder blade.

  "Oh, Doctor, please do not mention food! I have been so very careful, but you will ruin it."

  Her head came up to his neck, and she saw the pulse beating there above his collar. Odd, she thought, his neck was firm and muscled, not at all slack and wattled as was usually the case with older men. His voice rumbled in her ear when he spoke, and he made no move to remove her from his embrace.

  "On the contrary, Miss Farnham, I know best in these cases. You must eat a small amount of biscuit--just nibble at it if you like--but it will help keep you steady. This is watered wine, and it, too, will help."

  "If you say so," Daphne said in a small voice, but she made no move to push herself away. The doctor smelled minty, of oil of wintergreen, like the salve he'd been compounding earlier. Only a shameless hussy would take advantage of this serious and practical man's proximity to huddle in his arms like Pompom, but it felt so good after a day of being tossed like a cork. She knew he would not let her fall, and that reassurance warmed her as much as did his body next to hers, the rough wool of his coat scratching beneath her cheek.

  And it occurred to her as she stood there that for some reason, Dr. Murray did not seem to be in a hurry to push her away and return to his physicking.

  But as the deck slipped again beneath her feet, Daphne released her hold on the doctor and lurched to her bunk. She took the food from him and he stood there and watched her as she unwrapped the biscuit, breaking off a small piece for herself, and another small piece for the creature whose black nose stuck out from beneath the covers, sniffing the air suspiciously.

  They both chewed in silence, and Daphne washed down her bite with a sip of the water, giving Pompom a taste from her cupped hand. To her surprise, she did feel better after consuming the food.

  "Your color is returning, Miss Farnham. I will check back on you later."

  "Dr. Murray."

  He paused, looking back at her over his shoulder.

  "Thank you. I know I am a trial sometimes...and not a very useful person...but I appreciate all you are doing for me."

  He did not say "You are welcome," or "Think nothing of it," or "Of course you are useful," or "It is my pleasure, Miss Farnham, to be of assistance to you" as Mr. Carr would have done. He only looked at her a moment longer and said, "Good night, Miss Farnham."

  When the door closed behind him Daphne removed her boots and lay down on her bunk, Pompom cuddled close. She did not think she'd sleep with the tossing of the Magpie, but she must have dozed again, for the next thing she knew she was hurled to the deck as the ship heeled sharply.

  The deck was wet. The lantern was still lit, and as she looked over at the door she saw water trickling in, and the ship stayed tilted and off center. She grabbed hold of the bunk and pulled herself to her feet, soothing a whimpering Pompom.

  As if in a dream Daphne sat on the bunk, holding her pup. She wanted to flee the cabin and find answers, but she was too afraid to move.

  And Dr. Murray promised he would come for her.

  She no sooner thought that than her door flew open. Dr. Murray stood there holding a dark cloth bundle, his surgical chest suspended from a strap that went across his shoulder over his heavy weather gear. At the s
ight of that worn wooden box, Daphne swallowed.

  "She's taking on water fast. Come with me," he said, turning to the passageway.

  "Wait!" Daphne grabbed her valise, stuffing some last-minute items into it and fastening it.

  "There is no time, we must leave now." He took the valise from her and grabbed her, shoving her arms into a heavy coat that smelled of tar and sweat. Ragged sleeves hung down past her wrists, and Dr. Murray rudely threw her valise back to her and grabbed her arm, pulling her along. The deck was tilted so severely that she would have lost her balance if not for his strong hand hauling her with him like so much baggage.

  Around them there was a strong odor of spirits and she saw sailors passed out, bottles rolling beside them.

  "Wha--"

  He barely gave them a glance.

  "They would rather die senseless than be aware when the sea takes them."

  Daphne was horror-struck and her feet wouldn't move. Dr. Murray rounded on her, his face grim, his voice low.

  "We will survive this, Daphne Farnham. Do not give up!"

  "Yes, Doctor," she whispered, and clutching her valise with one arm, she held onto the back of his coat with the other. She followed him past the lanterns swinging crazily in the listing ship, their light illuminating scenes from hell and the smell of smoke and saltwater and vomit strong in the air.

  He pushed her up the ladder, following so closely behind she knew if she slipped he would stop her from falling. As her head broke through she was struck with a blast of water, not the sea but the rain pounding sideways into them as the gale whipped it into a maelstrom. The force would have knocked her off her feet if not for the steady arm of the man by her side. Heads down, they inched their way to the rail where Mr. Carr was waiting for them, holding fast to a line. In the muted light of the black morning he was barely recognizable beneath his oilskins, but he grinned at Daphne.

  "Good to see you walking the decks, Miss Farnham."

  He had to shout to be heard above the wind and the rain, and his voice was hoarse from commanding the men all night.

  "Oh, poor Mr. Carr! You are soaked through!"