Dangerous Waters (13 page)

“Indeed, and I'm very sorry.” Phoebe could see the faint sheen of moisture on his face. “But as you are here… Please,” she moved to the door leading to the passage and the companionway. “May we go to the saloon?” As he approached she explained quietly. “The gentlemen are all in their cabins. But they may not be asleep. And I would prefer that we are not overheard.”

He gestured for her to precede him. “You are being very mysterious, Miss Dymond. I must assume you have good reason.” He pulled the door closed behind him shutting off the only source of light. The sudden darkness and his proximity in the narrow passage made Phoebe's heart skip a beat. She took a quick breath but before she could speak the saloon door opened and she swung round as Burley appeared.

“Ah, Miss Dymond, Doctor. Good timing that is. I shall be topside for an hour or two so you'll have the saloon to yourselves. Having so much in common you won't be short of things to talk about.”

So much in common?
Bewildered, Phoebe glanced from the master to Jowan who cleared his throat.

“I believe Mr Burley is referring to Mr Matcham's accident.”

Burley continued to address Phoebe. “I know your uncle. He's a fine seaman. I wouldn't be so bold as to claim friendship but we've enjoyed a chat and a glass or two. And your aunt: now she was a remarkable woman. There's many in Falmouth would be long gone but for her.”

Phoebe nodded. “She was very special.”

“Well, looks to me like you're making your own mark.” With a smile Burley turned to the companionway and hauled himself up the stairs.

Phoebe hurried forward into the saloon, desperate to put physical distance between herself and the surgeon.

“Am I to close this door as well?” he enquired acidly.

“If you please.”

He shut it. “Considering the noise of wind and sea, not to mention the creaks and groans of the boat, an eavesdropper would be hard-pressed to catch anything less than a shout. Now, Miss Dymond, what is this secret you are so anxious to protect?”

Phoebe staggered across to the banquette. The violent pitching made it safer and more comfortable to sit rather than stand. Folding her hands in her lap she gripped her left thumb tightly and out of sight in her right fist.

“It is not my secret, Doctor Crossley, but yours.” The packet plummeted then rose. There was a brief, telling silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Soft, edged with warning, his voice stroked her taut nerves like a honed blade. But she heard the undertone of shock and that gave her the courage to continue.

Because of the weather noise and to be sure he heard her – for she knew she would not have the courage to repeat the claim – she kept her burning face tilted up so he could read her lips. But she could not look at him. Instead she fixed her gaze on the chimney pipe rising from the squat black stove to one side of where he stood.

“It is my belief that you are seasick and have been treating yourself with camphorated tincture of opium.” She moistened her lips and plunged on. “I truly admire your determination to remain at your post. And no doubt that is what led you to take such a risk. But I can offer you a remedy that will swiftly banish the headache and queasiness so you need no longer rely on a drug best reserved for life-threatening situations.”

The blood drummed in her ears. She could feel her heart beating fast and hard against her ribs. As the silence dragged so her apprehension grew. She shouldn't have spoken. She'd had no choice. But that she, with no medical qualifications, should make such an accusation against a physician and surgeon was shocking in the extreme. He would never forgive her.
She'd had no choice.

Unable any longer to bear the silence she parted dry lips with her tongue and looked directly at him. “I think you are angry and deeply offended. I beg you to believe that I wished only to help.”

He turned his head away, his features a taut unreadable mask.

Swallowing, Phoebe rose shakily to her feet flexing her hand to ease the ache from the pressure of her grip on her thumb. “Please…”
forgive
. No, she would not ask the impossible. “Please excuse me,” she whispered and started towards the door.

As she drew level his right hand lifted a few inches from his side. She stopped, poised to walk on if she had misread his intent. Side by side, a foot apart and facing opposite directions, they swayed with the pitching of the ship.

He cleared his throat but his voice remained low, the words emerging reluctantly. “I never expected – I was not prepared – I have never in my life felt so appallingly ill.”

Phoebe kept her gaze fixed on the scrubbed planks of the cabin sole. “I daresay it is small comfort but apparently Captain Nelson also is also a sufferer. If such a brave man can be so afflicted then it cannot be taken as a sign of weakness.”

His brief gesture was dismissive. “That's as may be. But pride demanded I save face by denying the truth: that the ship's surgeon possesses the stomach of a baby.” His bitter self-mockery tugged at her heart. “The laudanum was a risk. I was fully aware of it. But without it –” he shook his head. “Believe me, Miss Dymond, when you feel as I did – still do – risk counts for nothing against the promise – the faintest hope – of respite.” He cleared his throat again. “I was unforgivably rude to you earlier. But you are having your revenge.” His bark of laughter was harsh.

Phoebe looked up. “Do you really think me so mean-spirited?”

Thrown against the table he braced himself with one hand and raised the other to rub his face. “No. Of course I don't. It is myself I am angry with, not you. It's just – As physicians we are trained in theories whose practical application by way of various drugs or procedures is supposed to rebalance the body and free it of disease. And though I have never truly believed we have all the answers, that I should find myself so helpless – The shock was profound and deeply unpleasant. Then to learn that you – and I intend no disrespect – possess knowledge that succeeds where mine has failed deals one's pride a severe blow.”

Phoebe risked another sidelong glance. Though his face was greenish-white and haggard the set of his shoulders was less rigid. “A rare experience,” she murmured, “but one I have no doubt you'll survive.”

He winced briefly then nodded, flicking her a weary grin. “Of course I will. And as a scientist I would be foolish indeed to reject an opportunity to widen my knowledge, or – “

“Or refuse to try a remedy that might work?”

“Except – Is there an alternative to peppermint? I loathe the stuff.” He shuddered, his throat working. “I don't think I could –”

“Yes, there is. If you will wait here I'll fetch some hot water.”

Returning a few moments later she found him sitting on the banquette, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. In the moment before he looked up she saw how his honey-gold hair curled thickly over his collar and how the brown superfine of his coat lay taut across unexpectedly broad shoulders. Tearing her gaze away she moved quickly to the table. Loosening the drawstring she removed the bottles from the kid purse and measured half a spoonful from each into the inch of hot water.

Handing him the cup she sat down at a discreet distance.

“What is it? Not that it matters,” he added, “as long as it works. I'm just interested.”

“Black horehound, meadowsweet and camomile steeped in brandy.”

While he took a mouthful of the draught, Phoebe remarked once more on the master's kindness in offering her use of the saloon.

“For there is so much more light in here. Reading and writing will be far easier.”

Draining the cup he held it between his hands.

“Were you in practise in Falmouth, Dr Crossley?” she enquired.

He shook his head. “No, in Plymouth. At the naval hospital.”

“I imagine it must be a very large establishment.”

“It is.”

“Have you ever had the opportunity to visit Flushing?” she enquired. “It is such a pretty village, and enjoys a particularly mild climate. No doubt that is why most of the packet captains and crews choose to live there.”

“I'm sure you're right.” His forehead puckered in a faint frown. “Miss Dymond, you are clearly adept, but why have you chosen this
particular
moment to demonstrate your gift for polite conversation?”

Recalling her own half-bemused half-irritated reaction when he had insisted on telling her that the packet was rigged as a brigantine and the injustice of four of the crew being called
idlers,
she suppressed a smile. “How are you feeling now, Dr Crossley?” She watched his expression change from uncertainty to wonder then amazed relief.

“Good God!” He looked up, tired eyes narrowing as he smiled. “I can't believe – For the first time in days – “

Phoebe rose and busied herself returning the bottles to her purse. Her mission accomplished she had no reason –
no right
 – to remain any longer. “I mustn't take any more of your time. I know how busy – “

“
You
mustn't take –” Jowan Crossley lurched to his feet. “Miss Dymond, I owe you more than thanks. I owe you not one but several apologies.”

“Then consider them made and accepted.” She continued edging towards the door. She had resented his short temper and taciturnity. But Jowan Crossley's smile posed a far greater danger to her peace of mind. “Even if you were aboard as a passenger – which you aren't – being pleasant and cheerful to other people is impossible when one is feeling ill.”

“You are more forgiving than I deserve.”

“Not at all,” she said politely and reached for the handle.

“Miss Dymond?”

It was the strain in his voice that made her look over her shoulder. “Dr Crossley?”

“I – I am reluctant to trespass further on your good nature, however –” a fleeting grimace twisted his features. “I have had little sleep for several days. No doubt you have a remedy that will help without risk of harm.” There was bitterness in his tone but she sensed his anger was aimed, not at her, but at the limitations of the medicines at his disposal.

“I do,” she said calmly. “I will prepare it when everyone has retired.”

“I'm very much obliged.”

Phoebe turned again to the door.

“Just one more – I think it would be best if the – everyone remained ignorant of – of my indisposition.”

For an instant she could not believe what she had heard. Incensed, she whirled round. “I am astonished you should think such a request necessary. No less than you do I respect a patient's confidence. Nor is it my habit to gossip. Did you know me better you would certainly know that. It is to protect your privacy that I said I said I would prepare your sleeping draught
after
everyone had retired. However, if you imagine the crew unaware I'm afraid you are mistaken. Though of course it may not be generally known. But it was Mossop who alerted me. And he has been aware – yes, and concerned – these past four days.”

Breathing fast, her face on fire, she turned to leave. But in a couple of strides he was beside her, his palm against the door holding it closed.

“Once more I must crave your pardon, Miss Dymond.” Twin patches of colour burned high on his cheekbones in vivid contrast to the haggard pallor of the rest of his face. “I beg you will stay and take advantage of Mr Burley's offer. You will be undisturbed here. I shall return to the sick bay.” He made a jerky formal bow. “Your servant, ma'am.”

Chapter Ten

After he'd gone Phoebe leaned her forehead against the wood, listening to his footsteps and the slam of the mess door.
Undisturbed
. How little he knew. And would never know. In fact she must put an end to this foolishness at once. Instead she could take pride in knowing that because
she
had found the courage to face Jowan Crossley,
he
would never again be able to deny the effectiveness of herbal remedies.

Daylight faded to dusk. Phoebe heard the bosun's shrill whistle, running feet and rattling blocks as sails were shortened. The wind howled and shrieked like a soul in torment. The mess lamps were lit. Mossop brought in bread, cold meat and slices of cheese. Downey's cabin door remained firmly shut.

As the evening wore on the merchants played cards and drank brandy at the mess table. Horace Matcham tried to engage Phoebe in conversation. But sensing that to respond at all would make it more difficult to extricate herself should his manners dip with the level of the spirit in his glass, she excused herself and retreated into her cabin. Wedging herself against the bulkhead she opened her journal.

Instead of writing, she found herself reliving those minutes in the saloon with Jowan Crossley. Swiftly, deliberately, she turned her thoughts instead to Matcham's behaviour. Though his ankle was almost healed he had not yet made any effort to go up on deck. He clearly harboured a grudge against the Quintrells. But whether this sprang from a business matter or something more personal he had not said and she could not ask. To do so would invite gossip about men not here to defend themselves: men to whom she owed a duty of loyalty.

After trips down the passage and much slamming of doors the merchants eventually retired to bed. Within twenty minutes she could hear both of them snoring.

Creeping out into the mess Phoebe set her case carefully on the table. Hearing a groan she knocked softly on the door next to hers.

“Mr Downey? Would you like some more peppermint?”

“Would you be so kind, my dear?”

“I will bring it very shortly.”

Returning from the pantry where Mossop was slinging his hammock, she swiftly prepared the dose.

“Mr Downey?”

“Come in, my dear. Forgive me for not getting up, but – “

“You had much better stay where you are.”

He heaved himself up on one elbow, wincing as light from the mess lamp spilled over his bleary, unshaven features. Without his wig he looked strangely defenceless. What little hair he possessed was thin and white. Odd strands stuck out untidily from his skull.

Phoebe pretended not to notice. “As the fire is out there's no hot water,” she explained. “So I've mixed you a tincture instead of an infusion. But I promise you will find it just as effective.”

Whispering his thanks he drained the cup, gave it back, and with a soft moan subsided once more onto his pillow.

Bidding him a good night she backed out and closed the door just as Jowan came in from the fo'c'sle and glanced quickly round the mess.

“Is this a convenient time?“

Phoebe nodded, aware of her racing pulse. Horribly afraid her face was glowing like a beacon she turned to the table and swiftly mixed valerian and skullcap. “I should warn you it is not pleasant. I would recommend –”

“As long as it works.” He reached for the cup. “I don't care what it tastes like.”

As he took it his fingers brushed hers. The shock tingled up her arm and sent a flash of heat through her. But his attention was on the cup and its promise of sleep. Relieved at his preoccupation, Phoebe caught her lower lip between her teeth knowing what was to come as he swallowed a mouthful.

Immediately his face contorted and he gave a violent shudder. “God Almighty!” He glared at the cup, then at her.

Without a word, compressing her lips on a shaky breathless laugh that was as much a release of unbearable tension as genuine amusement, she held up a jar of honey. He thrust the cup forward for her to add a spoonful. But as the water was cool it took a few moments to mix. Burning under his gaze she jumped when he spoke.

“Such forbearance.”

Glancing up she saw that despite the ravages of exhaustion a wry smile lifted one corner of his mouth. She glimpsed the boy he had once been.

“I would not have been able to resist saying ‘I told you so.'”

With a shrug and a quick smile she hoped concealed her thrill of pleasure she removed the spoon. “Ah, but you have not had my training – in forbearance.” While he drank she turned away to replace the bottles and honey jar in her case. Removing one of the small brown bottles she offered it to him without looking up.

“It's the same mixture I gave you earlier. I've made up a blend of the three herbs. If you keep it with you no one need be aware. I would recommend one to two teaspoonfuls mixed with a little water taken three times a day. It may be that in a few days you find you no longer need it, in which case – “

“In which case I will return it.” She felt him take the bottle and saw it tucked into the pocket of his waistcoat. “You are very generous, Miss Dymond. And very kind.”

“As you were to me when I first came aboard,” Phoebe said quietly, checking that everything in her case was secure before she closed the lid and snapped the catches. She wanted so much to look up and knew she mustn't. He sounded so different. But that was because she had done him a kindness. Now they were even. And that was the end of it. “I'll just take the cups – “

“Allow me. It's the least I can do.”

“Goodnight, then,” she murmured. Quickly lifting her case over the fiddle rails that edged the table, she opened her cabin door, stepped inside, and pulled it closed behind her.

Later, lying in her bunk, she tried to rationalise her attraction to him. It was their profession, just as Mr Burley had said. That was what they had in common. Though their methods, training, and treatments were very different, their aims – to ease suffering – were identical.

Two days later Phoebe woke early and was immediately aware of the change. The wind had stopped howling and the ship's motion had eased. For the first time in days the deck angle was barely noticeable as the packet surged forward on a long rolling swell.

Craving escape from the confinement of shared mess and her cramped quarters she dressed and swiftly pinned up her hair. Wrapping herself in her cloak against the early-morning chill, she closed her door carefully despite the steady snores reverberating from three of the cabins, then slipped along the passage and climbed the brass stairs.

Stepping out onto the deck she inhaled deeply. The air was sweet and clean. She drew in as much as her lungs would hold. The cool freshness on her face was blissful: a stark contrast to the close stale atmosphere below.

With a nod to the wheelman who knuckled his forehead and murmured a greeting she crossed to the weather rail. Gripping it with both hands she looked towards the bow. The morning's work was well under way. Several seamen on hands and knees were holystoning the deck
.
Seawater hauled over the gunwale in canvas buckets sluiced loosened grime into the scuppers and out over the ship's side. Other crewmen worked the bilge pump, polished the brasswork and coiled down ropes before hanging them neatly on wooden pins. Up in the ratlines two men were greasing the areas of the foremast down which the yards were raised and lowered.

Resting her arms on the rail Phoebe breathed in the nutty fragrance of linseed oil rubbed into the wood to stop the salt water turning it black. Gazing out over the sea towards the east she watched the sky change colour from pearl through primrose to pale pink and gold. A fiery crescent appeared on the horizon. It climbed slowly, growing in size and splendour until the entire shimmering disc had risen out of a gilded ocean.

The sun rose every morning whether or not anyone was there to see it. It was all too easy to be distracted by the upsets and pressures of life and forget to look. But how much was missed. There was such beauty in the world. There was ugliness too. Yet even that was part of the cycle: darkness and light, good and evil, birth and death, joy and grief. Nothing lasted forever. Change was inevitable. But it was so hard to let go of a familiar past and trust in an unknown future.

“You're up early, Miss Dymond. Everything all right?”

Phoebe looked round to see the master emerging from the companionway. “Fine, thank you, Mr Burley,” she lied.

“Lovely morning, isn't it?”

“Truly beautiful.”

“With the north east trades behind us we should have a good fast run down to Madeira.” Touching the brim of his hat in salute he went to check the compass.

Phoebe looked from the drying deck to the sails, smiling as she recalled Mr Downey identifying each one for her. When she had marvelled that he should know, he had laughed and shrugged.

“I am a scholar, Miss Dymond. You might compare me to a sponge. Only instead of water I soak up knowledge. I am fascinated by facts.”

Phoebe tested her memory. The three triangular sails whose leading lower corners were attached to the bowsprit were the staysail, jib and jib headsail. On the foremast an additional square topsail, a royal, had been added above the course, topsail and topgallant. Each was smaller than the one below it but all were taut and full-bellied as they drove the ship forward. The boom of the huge gaff mainsail was swung out, scooping the breeze and directing it onto the square sails in front of it. Behind the packet sparkling white foam left an arrow-straight trail marking the vessel's speed and passage.

The subtle hues of sunrise had melted into a sky of light clear blue. Mossop opened the mess skylight releasing the smells of coffee and frying bacon. Phoebe's stomach growled. If a few weeks ago she had been told she would be aboard a ship, not paralysed by fear but looking forward to her breakfast, she would not have believed it. But so it was.

By the time she had hung up her cloak, tidied her hair and returned to the mess, Downey had emerged and was closing his cabin door. Thinner and pale but freshly shaved, wearing his bushy grey wig and a clean shirt and neckcloth beneath his black coat and breeches, he beamed at her.

“Good morning, Miss Dymond.”

“Good morning, Mr Downey. You look in much better heart. I trust you are recovered?”

“I'm relieved and delighted to say I am. After some food and fresh air I will be quite myself again.” He shuddered. “Though I have to confess it was a most distressing experience. After fearing I might die so awful did I feel, I began to wish death would come and relieve me of my suffering. But thanks to you, my dear, I am so much restored that after breakfast I plan to take a turn about the deck.”

“You will enjoy it. The sun is shining and the air is delicious.”

“Capital! Then I shall find a quiet spot and do some work on my new book.”

Phoebe faced tasks of her own that could no longer be put off. Carrying a bundle of washing, a cake of soap and bag of pegs in the large enamelled bowl Mossop had loaned her she followed him up the companionway to an area in the stern behind the wheelman.

“If you want more water take it from that one,” Mossop pointed to the cask lashed to the side of the companionway hatch. He poured the bucketful he had boiled for her into the bowl. “There'll be plenty more rain to fill'n up again.” He looked around. “Good bit of breeze. Dry nice and quick, it will.”

The thought of her underwear and nightdresses blowing like flags for all to see was not a comfortable one. But even had her trunk been big enough to accommodate them, she didn't possess a sufficient number of clothes to make a three-month voyage without the need to launder essentials. And after the gales and rain, today's warmth and sunshine offered ideal conditions.

Mossop leaned towards her. “If you peg it inside the hammock nettings,” he jerked his head, “no one will even know 'tis there.”

They would of course. But it might be less obvious. And with Horace Matcham still reluctant to risk his tender ankle by climbing the stairs she would be spared the discomfiting remarks he was almost certain to make.

As she soaked, rubbed, rinsed and wrung until her forearms ached Phoebe thought back to Mondays at home when Sally Endean came to do the laundry. Mary always had the fire under the copper lit by six. By nine the scullery was usually full of steam and the first load flapped on the line.

Phoebe realised suddenly how much she had taken for granted. After Aunt Sarah died she had taken over the housekeeping. She had discussed each week's menus with Mrs Lynas, regularly checked kitchen stores and the condition of the household linen, and ensured Uncle George always left sufficient money for her to settle the tradesmen's accounts each month. She had ordered salting, pickling and bottling according to the season. But it had been Mrs Lynas and Mary who carried out those orders and did the actual work.

Not that she had been idle. With patients to visit and herbs to be planted, tended, picked, dried, and transformed into a wide range of remedies there had always been more jobs to be done than time in which to do them.

Emptying the bowl she refilled it from the cask. Had she been wealthy a personal maid would have accompanied her to take care of her laundry. But had she been wealthy she would not be making this voyage at all. And that meant she would not have –

Recognising danger she tried to stop the thought before it completed. She wasn't quick enough.
She would not have met Jowan Crossley.
Would that have been better? Easier perhaps. Wiser and less stressful, certainly. But better? She couldn't answer that. Hauling her mind from a quicksand that might swallow her she directed her attention to the wet linen.

At least by sundown she would be able to remake her bunk with sheets that smelled of fresh air and sunshine. Her trunk would contain clean – if creased – chemises, nightgowns, and camisoles neatly folded around gauze sachets of dried lavender. And if right now her hands were red and the ends of her fingers resembled pale prunes, she had a nourishing hand cream made of almond oil and beeswax infused with comfrey and essential oils of lavender and geranium with which to treat them once the job was finished.