Dangerous Waters (15 page)

Denial sprang to Jowan's lips. How dare she assume the man would die? And how was it possible that she, a mere girl, should possess the means to defeat infection: a curse that had puzzled and worried medical men for centuries? But he as hesitated his own words returned to haunt him.
As a man of science how could he turn down an opportunity to try something that might work? What right had he to do so?

“You must realise it's very difficult for – someone in my position to – to – “

“Take a gypsy remedy on trust?” She offered with deceptive mildness.

“All right, yes.“

“So how many more people must suffer and die? Not because of what ails them, but because men of science –” her tone mirrored her derision, “- are too arrogant to accept that someone not of their elite, someone not even of their sex, might know what they do not. Such men place a high value on their pride if they think it worth another man's life.”

Her words stung like a whiplash. Anger burned, firing his skin, curling his nails into his palms. Everything in him rebelled against her accusation. How dare she challenge him? She had no training. She claimed success but could not explain the science. And though it did not occur to him to doubt her, there might be any number of reasons entirely unconnected with use of her lotion why infection had not developed.
But was he prepared to risk Jenkins's life to prove his point?

He had performed scores of amputations at Plymouth. Yet despite his speed and technique winning praise from senior surgeons he had still lost over half his patients to post-operative infection. The mortality rates for some of his colleagues were even higher. He had even begun to question the point of putting a man through the agony of having a limb cut off in order to save his life, only for him to die anyway from putrefaction.

As his rage cooled it lost power. “And if I use it and he dies?” He was not seeking a scapegoat. It would be his decision and therefore his responsibility. But he needed to know how she would react should the worst happen.

Phoebe's stormy gaze held his without flinching. “If he dies it will be from shock or loss of blood or some other cause.
Not
from infection.” Her conviction was absolute.

“All right.” He gave a brief nod. He hoped she understood that had he possessed an alternative he would have used it. Then he wondered why he should care what she thought. The question of why hospitals either did not know about these anti-infection measures or – if they did know, still refused to adopt them – was one to be explored some other time.

While Phoebe poured lotion into one of the bowls Jowan nodded to the two men and they stationed themselves on either side of the table. Slicing off the remnants of Jenkins's trousers he buckled a canvas tourniquet around the man's thigh, turning the brass screw to tighten the strap and cut off the blood flow. Phoebe moved one of the buckets so it stood beneath Jenkins's foot. Then with a hand whose steadiness inspired in him both relief and admiration, she carefully poured the diluted lotion over the terrible wound.

Selecting a knife and bone saw Jowan nodded to the two men who stepped close and took hold of their shipmate, glancing at each other then at the terrified face of the man on the table.

“Now,” Jowan said quietly.

He heard the soft hiss of Phoebe's in-drawn breath an instant before Jenkins's first shriek of agony. Knowing what to expect he was able to block out screams that pierced his eardrums and made his teeth and the bones of his skull vibrate. They seemed to go on forever. But he knew from experience they rarely lasted longer than the twenty or so seconds it took for most men to pass out from pain and shock.

Working fast, his movements practised and sure, Jowan cut and sawed. The mangled foot dropped into the bucket with a soft thud. Phoebe passed him the suture needle. By the time he had secured the skin flap she had prepared a cool compress.

While he bandaged the compress around the stump of Jenkins's lower leg Phoebe heard Jowan murmur to one of the seamen who picked up the bucket containing the severed foot and, with his face averted, carried it out.

“Mossop,” Jowan called over his shoulder. “Will you go and make sure Grigg has left a bunk free? Tell him we'll be bringing Jenkins through in just a minute.”

“Dear life,” the steward grunted. “That there sick bay'll be as packed as a pilchard barrel.”

He returned with Timmy loping along behind him. Jenkins was carried out. Timmy fetched a broom and had just begun to sweep up the blood-soaked sand when the bosun stuck his head round the fo'c'sle door.

“What you doing in here, boy? Dinner's all behind and Slush want you in the galley – “

“Hang on a minute,” Mossop charged in from his pantry. “What about all this?” He waved at the wet grit-strewn planks. “I can't be –”

“I'll see to it.” Phoebe put down a bowl of blood-soaked dressings on the bench and held out her hand. “Give me the broom, Timmy, and do as Mr Hosking says.”

Looking from Phoebe to the bosun Timmy shifted uncomfortably, shuffling his bare feet as he reluctantly passed it over. “Sorry, miss.”

“It's all right. Off you go.” As the boy vanished in the bosun's wake Phoebe resumed sweeping. “Mossop, could I have a jug of boiling water? I promised Mr Downey an infusion for his headache.”

“Make something for yourself while you're at it, miss,” he advised. “Done wonders you have. But – no offence – you're looking hagged. You won't have been expecting nothing like this.”

Phoebe's smile cost her huge effort. He would never know how truly he spoke. “No,” she agreed. “But my life lately has been full of surprises. I'll need another bucketful of hot water as well, to scrub the table.”

“I'll do that, miss.”

“Yes? And who will prepare dinner?” she enquired gently.

“Bleddy 'ell,” he muttered. “Beg pardon, miss. But tis never right you doing – “

“I promise I won't make a habit of it,” Phoebe assured him.

She had swept up the sand and was swabbing the table when Jowan returned. The furrow between his brows deepened as his gaze flicked from her face to the cloth she was wringing out. “Are the other men all right?” she asked to forestall him.

“Grigg coped well. Why are you doing the boy's job?”

“Because he's needed in the galley. And because,” she looked away for a moment. “Because I – It was –”
a horrible, wrenching experience and I can't bear to think about it, or about the things I said to you.
Inspiration struck. “I'm just waiting for Mossop to boil the kettle again. I've given Mr Downey an infusion for his headache. I thought – with your permission – I would prepare one for Jenkins. A combination of nettle and raspberry leaves to minimise any bleeding, and camomile with valerian and a little honey to relieve his anxiety and help him sleep.”

“Object? How could I?” Wearily, he rubbed his forehead. “The truth is – “His mouth quirked in a smile laced with irony. “Miss Dymond, I find the need to offer you yet another apology most unsettling.”

Bewildered, Phoebe twisted the cloth in her hands. “Apology? For what?”

“For more reasons than I care to think of, but in particular for doubting your fortitude. Yet this was a situation for which none of your previous experience – no matter how extensive – could have prepared you. And though you demonstrated remarkable pluck, I'm ashamed to have asked it of you. The strange thing is that once I had begun the operation I – I actually forgot you were –” he shook his head.

The silence stretched. Eventually Phoebe could wait no longer. “You forgot I was – what? There?”

He looked up, startled. “God,
no
. Your efficiency – You were certainly more useful an assistant than some of my previous –” He stopped himself. “No, the truth is I forgot you were a woman.”

“Ah.” Biting the inside of her cheek Phoebe nodded slowly.

“I hope you're not offended.” He sounded concerned. “I meant it as a compliment.”

She forced her lips into a smile and dipped her head in acknowledgement. But she could not meet his eyes. It did not feel like a tribute. It felt as if he saw her professional skills as something separate and distinct from her personality and her gender: as if her ability made her an honorary man.
Yet wasn't it wiser for both their sakes that he should see her so?

Of course it was. But that didn't stop it hurting.

In her cabin Phoebe inhaled the fragrance of the nourishing cream she had smoothed into her hands. Her hair was freshly brushed and she had braided it high on her crown. She was wearing a short jacket of rose pink velvet over her dotted white muslin in an effort to reflect colour into her pale cheeks. Her looking glass confirmed a neat and tidy reflection. Considering the events of the morning the tension around her eyes and mouth were unlikely to warrant remark.

Downey did not appear for dinner, remaining in his cabin. With the two merchants sitting opposite in their usual places, Jowan shared the bench with Phoebe. Despite the space between them she was acutely aware of him and kept her head bent and her eyes focused on her plate.

“Are you quite well, Miss Dymond?” Matcham's solicitous enquiry forced Phoebe to look up.

“Yes, thank you.”

His gaze snaked to Jowan and back as he shook his head. “I think your family must surely be appalled if they knew what had been asked of you.”

From the corner of her eye Phoebe saw Jowan stiffen. As he shifted on the seat she spoke quickly. “You are under a misapprehension, Mr Matcham. Nothing was asked of me. I
offered
my help. As for my family, given the circumstances they would have been ashamed of me had I not done so.” She watched a dull flush climb Matcham's face and though she knew it was unworthy she could not deny the tiny glow of satisfaction. “I was glad to be of use. Fortunately the need is past, and – “

“Er, not quite, Miss Dymond.” Jowan Crossley cleared his throat as he pushed his plate aside. “I must ask a little more of your good nature.” As she turned to him he continued. “Grigg would be grateful for your advice regarding the compresses. Would you mind?”

Pleasure and self-consciousness flooded her face with warmth. She knew Matcham was watching and must have seen the response over which she had no control.

“Not at all. Shall I – ?” She set down her cutlery, about to rise.

”No, no.” He gestured for her to remain where she was. “There is no urgency. Please finish your dinner. After such a morning you need to rebuild your strength.”

“Miss D-Dymond, it is a m-marvel to m-me that you c-can eat at all after w-what you m-must have endured,” Clewes shuddered.

“I fear I lack sensibility,” Phoebe pulled a wry face.

“I c-cannot b-believe –” Clewes began but was cut short.

“If indeed that is so,” Jowan said glancing at her, “then Jenkins and I must both be grateful for it.” Rising, he nodded across the table. “Gentlemen. Your servant, Miss Dymond. Perhaps you will come to the sick bay when you are ready?”

As the door closed behind him Phoebe returned her attention to her plate. The surgeon was right. The experience had drained her. But now he'd gone she had no desire to stay for Horace Matcham had been steadily drinking throughout the meal.

“Miss Dymond? Have I offended you?”

It was as if he had divined her thoughts. Honesty battled with good manners. He was one of the most offensive men she had ever had the misfortune to meet. But to tell him so would fly in the face of every courtesy she had been taught. Yet if she denied his claim she was as good as giving him permission to continue. Her only hope lay in prevarication. But before she could ask him why he should think so he was speaking again.

“Because it seems to me that you go to great lengths to avoid my company. Are you avoiding me, Miss Dymond?”

“M-Matcham, n-no,” Bernard Clewes murmured.

Phoebe's throat tightened and she knew she would eat no more. Assuming an expression of cool politeness that masked seething anger she deliberately put her knife and fork together on her plate.

“I am astonished that you should ask such a question.”

“You haven't answered it,” he pointed out.

“I am under no obligation to do so.” Phoebe stood up.

“M-Matcham, p-please,” Clewes's tone sharpened with a mixture of warning and anxiety.

“You're happy enough to spend time with Mr Downey.” Though Matcham's words rang with accusation the undertone of jealousy took her by surprise. The truth in his statement forced her to respond.

“Indeed I am. Mr Downey is a gentleman of wide interests who has been kind enough to share with me some of his knowledge of Jamaica's religious customs. If you'll excuse me.” She moved along the bench seat.

“And what has the surgeon been teaching you? Is that equally interesting?” He slapped the heel of his hand against his forehead in exaggerated realisation. “How foolish of me. Indeed it must be. For you spend an astonishing amount of time together. What would Rupert Quintrell think about that I wonder?”

Phoebe could feel her face burning. Only a determination to deny him the satisfaction of seeing her upset enabled her to keep her expression under control. “As a
gentleman
,” she gave the word deliberate emphasis intending Horace Matcham to infer that he had forfeited all claim to such description, “I imagine that –” But before she could say more the merchant gave a bellow of coarse and bitter laughter.

“Rupert Quintrell a gentleman? Oh my poor innocent, you're fair and far out there – “

“T-that's
enough
,” Bernard Clewes broke in, seizing his colleague's arm and shaking it hard. “You g-go t-too f-far.” Crimson with embarrassment he turned to Phoebe. “I am m-most d-dreadfully s-sorry, Miss D-Dymond.”