Dangerous Waters (28 page)

Phoebe moistened her lips. “And Rupert?”

Jowan's face grew still and cold. “Dead. And if his end was swift it was more than he deserved. At least he has been spared slow starvation or insanity.”

Shock widened Phoebe's eyes. She would never have expected such words from a man she knew to be a dedicated physician and surgeon.
But nor would she have expected the accusations he'd hurled at her yesterday afternoon.

Though Rupert's death released her from a commitment she had dreaded, it did not alter the situation between her and Jowan.She would never have his love. He must return to the ship and to Cornwall. For her there was no going back.

As her gaze fell once more on the straw mats and crumpled blanket, she wondered what cousin Amelia would say. She could hear her now, complaining to Uncle George.
Phoebe always was
difficult and headstrong. I cannot profess surprise that she has ended in such straits. She was never fit for proper society. Such wilful independence was bound to be her downfall. Well, she made her bed, now she must lie in it.

Burying her head in her arms Phoebe tried to block out her cousin's
I-told-you-so
voice and critical expression.

She had come to Jamaica to start a new life. And that's what she would do. She caught her breath, raising her head with a jerk. “My medicine chest – “

“It's here.” Jowan pushed aside the crumpled canvas to reveal the wooden box.

“Thank you,” Phoebe murmured. The violent lurch from fear to relief left her weak. Her wooden case embodied far more than the remedies it contained: it signified who she was and her value to the community. The realisation that despite the threat of imminent danger, despite his low opinion of her and of her motives, Jowan had remembered to pick it up and put it in the cart deepened her confusion and her pain. She turned away, compressing her lips to stop their betraying quiver.

Isaac glanced back. “Soon time you get out, massa. Better you and miss not seen in this old cart.”

“Where are we?” Jowan looked around.

“Down there is big square. Slaves coming from all over for Sunday market. I go sell calabash sugar.”

Looking forward Phoebe saw men and women of every shade heading in the same direction. They came on foot, on mules, in carts and leading heavily laden donkeys. Some walked alone, others in chattering groups. Barefoot men clad in rags plodded wearily, bent beneath the basket of produce on their backs. Giggling girls wearing gaudy dresses hobbled in heeled shoes they weren't used to and waved their arms so that the trinkets they wore glittered in the sunlight.

There were none of the wealthy residents' carriages drawn by gleaming horses that Phoebe had seen on her arrival. The hour was too early.

“What will you do then?” Jowan asked.

“Go back to Grove Hill.”

“But if it's been destroyed –” Jowan began.

Isaac shrugged. “I live there fifty year. Maybe others stay too.”

Quickly wiping her face with her fingers, from the corner of her eye Phoebe saw Jowan leaned forward.

“Miss Dymond?” His voice was quiet, concerned.

“The rain,” she said briefly. “I'm perfectly well.” She wasn't but that was not his concern. She straightened her jacket and made a vain attempt to brush the creases from her damp gown, acutely conscious of her dishevelment. Occasional drops of water still trickled down her neck. Finding her straw hat she shook off the water and put it on, tucking her wet hair up into the crown.

“Don't worry about Mrs Stirling,” he said grimly, startling her. It was as if he had somehow divined what she was thinking. “I'll deal with her. Quamin?”

“Massa?” The slave looked over his shoulder.

“You have earned your freedom. I'll have a paper drawn up – “

Quamin's eyes widened in horror. “What I do?”

“Nothing.” Jowan reassured. “I'm not angry with you. On the contrary, your loyalty and courage –”

“No, massa,” Quamin babbled. “What I
do
? This town got too many people, no work for all of them.”

“Well, perhaps you could go back with Isaac?”

Quamin shook his head. “I stay with you.”

“I appreciate the offer, but you can't. I'll be returning to Cornwall in a few days.”

“I go on ship,” Quamin nodded feverishly. “I work hard – “

“Perhaps,” Phoebe ventured, “Mrs Stirling would be able to find Quamin a position? She must know a great many people in Kingston. In the meantime he can earn his keep doing jobs for her and some errands for me.”

“Quamin?” Jowan said.

“No go with you?”

Jowan shook his head.

Quamin nodded. “Go with miss.”

While Isaac held the mule team Quamin lowered the tailboard. Jumping down Jowan lifted out Phoebe's medicine box and her bag then held out his arms. Avoiding his gaze Phoebe put her hands in his, pulling free and moving away the instant she was on the ground.

With Jowan at her side carrying the two guns and her bag, and Quamin behind with her wooden chest, Phoebe kept her eyes lowered as they walked along the quiet streets. Each step was an effort. Despite her drugged sleep she was still tired and the night's jolting had made her aching muscles painfully stiff.

Ellin opened the door to Jowan's brisk knock. Her expression didn't alter, but Phoebe saw her eyes widen briefly. “What you – ?Mizz Stirling ain't – “

Using the guns to push the door wider, Jowan stood back to allow Phoebe to pass. “Tell Mrs Stirling I wish to speak to her. Then prepare some breakfast for Miss Dymond. Her room is not let?”

Ellin shook her head. “No, her trunk still up there. She frowned as Phoebe removed her hat and her hair tumbled down. “God sakes, what happened to you, miss?”

Phoebe gestured vaguely. It would take too much effort to explain. She didn't feel well. Beneath the wet clothes that were making her shiver her skin was burning.

On the upstairs landing a door slammed and Rose Stirling skimmed down the staircase in a full-skirted dress of pink silk, her hair covered by a white mobcap. ““Doctor Crossley, Miss Dymond, this is a surprise. I didn't expect – “

“Why didn't you tell us how things were at Grove Hill?” Jowan demanded.

“I don't know what you mean,“ Rose blustered.

“Mr Quintrell's illness? It was not sudden. So you cannot have been unaware.”

“Good heavens, if I believed all the rumours I hear – Anyway,” her chin rose. “It was Miss Dymond's decision to go. In fact she insisted on it. It wasn't my place to try and stop her. And if Mr Quintrell
is
ill, well, you are a doctor. And Miss Dymond is skilled with herbs. So why have you come back?”

Phoebe was aware of Jowan's swift glance. “He was beyond medical help,” he said tightly.

“What do you mean
was
?” Rose said. “He's not – ? He's
dead
?”

The floor started to heave beneath Phoebe's feet and the hall darkened. “I'm sorry,” she murmured. “But I –” She heard a clatter and thump as guns and bags dropped to the floor. Knowing she was about to fall she groped for something to hold onto. A strong arm encircled her waist.

“God sakes, miss!” Ellin's warm breath fanned her cheek. “You is all wet!” Relieved and bereft that it wasn't Jowan who was holding her Phoebe relaxed against Ellin's plump bosom.

“We were caught in a thunderstorm.” Jowan's voice seemed to be coming from a long way off. “Please ensure Miss Dymond has a bath and something to eat, then put her to bed. I must return to the ship but I'll be back later.”

“Now, miss, you come long-a me,” Ellin coaxed. “We soon have you feeling better.”

Phoebe made a huge effort. “Quamin –”

“Give him food as well,” Jowan ordered. “And somewhere to sleep. He's willing to work so if you want wood chopped or water drawn –” He pulled a small leather drawstring pouch from a pocket inside his breeches and shook out several coins. “Will this be sufficient?”

“That is most generous, doctor,” Rose gushed. “Miss Dymond will have every attention.”

Two hours later, freshly bathed, wearing a clean nightgown, her hair smelling of rosewater and loose about her shoulders, Phoebe was in bed in the little tower room. As Ellin's footsteps clattered down the wooden stairs Phoebe raised the cup of hot chocolate unsteadily to her lips.

Providence
would be ready to sail in a few days, and Jowan Crossley would leave
. If only –
No. She mustn't look back, only forward. When she left Cornwall she had cut all ties. Jowan had honoured his commitment to ensure she reached Jamaica safely. Though her circumstances had altered with Rupert Quintrell's death –
they had altered long before that. But he would never know –
her future was not his responsibility.

He would return to his career, to Cornwall, and to his family. She would stay here. Thanks to Aunt Sarah she could build a new life, a useful life, independent and self-contained.

She had not sought love. Everyone she had loved had been taken from her. She had vowed never to risk that pain again. But love had come upon her unexpectedly, filling the dark corners of her heart with radiance and warmth. It had imbued her with courage and strength. Through it she had learned and grown. And despite his accusations, his mistaken idea of her, she could not regret anything. Losing his company would be agony. What she had experienced with him could never be repeated and to settle for less was impossible.

Yet she was fortunate. Her knowledge and skills were desperately needed, especially among the refugees of whom there were many hundreds.

She would employ Quamin, if he would stay. During her visit to the apothecary she had seen that a woman out alone on Kingston's streets was considered open to any approach. It had been a salutary warning.

With little money to spare for cabs or carriages, Quamin's presence when she walked to her clients would provide protection. He could carry her medicine chest, or shopping. And later, if he showed interest, she might involve him in the preparation of roots and herbs.

Putting the empty cup on the floor she lay down. Life would go on. One day busy would follow another. Caring for people, treating their ills, healing their wounds, helping babies into the world and easing the pain of those leaving it: that was love of a kind. She would find contentment and be grateful for her memories. But like any recovery it would take time. And while the wound was still raw so too was the pain.

As her breathing slowed and her body relaxed, tears seeped between her closed eyelids.

Chapter Twenty Three

Back on the packet – after exchanging a brief greeting with the master as they passed on the gangplank – Jowan plunged into work. He went first to the sick bay. There he gave purges, blue pills and James's Powders, sewed up a gash, set a broken finger, and re-dressed wounds sustained during the fight with the privateer. He sat alone in the mess and swallowed the dinner Mossop put in front of him.

After checking the food stores he withdrew to the saloon to update the crew's medical records then make a list of drugs to be purchased. And that brought back memories of accompanying Phoebe to the apothecary. Everywhere he looked as he moved about the ship he was reminded of her.

Shedding his coat and rolling up his shirtsleeves he drew out a chair and opened his ledger. The ship was noisy with activity. On deck the sailmaker's gang repaired torn canvas. The carpenter and his mates hammered and sawed turning up new spars and replacing splintered planks. Wafting through the open stern windows the acrid reek of hot pitch was accompanied by the
clink
of caulking hammers as oakum was jammed between patched hull timbers.

Up aloft one rigging crew fastened new ratlines to the starboard shrouds of the mainmast while another replaced a damaged forestay. The walking wounded polished brasswork, applied linseed oil and turpentine to the rails, or spliced and whipped frayed ropes.

Resting an elbow on the polished wood, Jowan rubbed his forehead and tried to concentrate. But tension encircled his skull like an iron band. After a minute he flung down the pen, raking his hair with both hands.

While he was busy he was able give his full attention to the job in hand. But as soon as it was finished his thoughts returned to Phoebe. Her stricken face haunted him. Even as the accusing words left his lips he had been consumed with guilt and self-loathing.

But goddamn it he
loved
her.
And accusing her of marrying Quintrell in order to inherit Grove Hill – that was his idea of love?
The sweat of shame oozed from every pore. What he'd done was unforgivable.

The instant attraction that had so shaken him had swiftly developed into respect and admiration as he began to recognise the qualities that made her so different from other young women of his acquaintance. Not that she considered herself remarkable – except perhaps in her healing skills, and those she was always quick to attribute to her aunt's training.

Though her modesty, deflection of praise and desire to be of use indicated a proper upbringing, they were rooted in her character and personality.

But despite her reserve and quiet demeanour she possessed considerable spirit. And, as he knew to his cost, to be the target of her anger was an unsettling experience. Yet when she believed herself unobserved there was about her an air of wistfulness he found profoundly touching.

They had both resented his appointment as her guardian. Yet within twenty-four hours she had been constantly in his thoughts. He had managed to hide his increasing attachment to her by exercising the iron control he had developed to deal respectfully with his father and perfected throughout a demanding medical career.

But yesterday that control had cracked. The strain of knowing what he knew about Rupert Quintrell, and that she had no idea what manner of man her uncle had betrothed her to, had pushed him over the edge. The thought that she would choose to stay with a depraved, corrupt, rakehell unfit even to lick the soles of her shoes was beyond bearing.

So he had accused her of all that Quintrell claimed of women.
He had known instantly he was wrong, that he'd made a terrible mistake. The shock on her face –
the shattering distress -
- would stay with him forever.

What could he say that would ever be sufficient apology? Should he have told her what he'd learned of Quintrell's history? But how could he have burdened a young woman – even one as remarkable as she – with such information? It went against everything he had ever been taught about protecting women.

Had he described the events and influences that had moulded Quintrell's character, turning an indulged motherless boy into an utterly amoral man, he would certainly have given her a different picture from the one she had received from the sick man's father. But would it have changed anything? No doubt she would have found Quintrell's behaviour repellent. But because of the compassion that informed and enhanced her professional skills, and because it was only too clear that the slaves were wreaking their own revenge, she still might have felt bound to stay. He had not dared take that risk.

Quintrell was a stranger she had not even met. So surely she could feel no grief or sense of loss over his death. And she was free now. But even had he not made those dreadful accusations – He leaned on the table, covering his face with his hands as her voice echoed in his head.
If that is how you view my actions then we have nothing more to say to one another – ever.
She had been white to the lips and trembling like an aspen. But she'd held his gaze, her chin high, while then – as now – he burned with shame.

How could he even think of declaring himself with Quintrell perishing in such horrific circumstances, even though living would have condemned him to a far worse end? Even if – and God help him for thinking it – the man had deserved to die.

She could not remain in Jamaica, that much was clear. He would speak to Burley, ensure a cabin was kept for her. Perhaps during the voyage back to England she would allow him the opportunity to make amends.

A warning shout, a hoarse scream and the thud of a body hitting the deck jerked him out of his reverie. He was already halfway to the companionway when he heard the mate shouting for someone to fetch the doctor.

Her feet silent on the carpeted landing Phoebe stopped outside Rose's door. Taking a deep breath she lifted her chin and knocked twice. She heard movement then Rose opened it, her brows lifting.

“Yes, Miss Dymond?”

“I wondered if I might speak to you.” Seeing Rose's hesitation she added quickly, “if this is not a convenient time – “

“No, no,” Rose said, stepping back, “I was just doing my accounts. Come in.”

“Thank you.” Walking into the sunlit bedroom – the bed now concealed behind a folding screen of hand-painted silk – Rose used as her private sitting room, Phoebe saw a ledger lying on the open lid of a walnut bureau-cabinet.

“I won't keep you long.”

Pushing the mahogany armchair in which she had been sitting closer to the bureau, Rose indicated a small sofa upholstered in yellow damask. “How are you feeling now?” She clicked her tongue, her forehead puckered in sympathy. “It must have been dreadful for you. Dr Crossley told me – about the slaves,” she added as Phoebe stiffened warily. “He was right to bring you back at once.” She shuddered. “I've heard stories of entire families being massacred in their beds. But to have come all this way from England, and for nothing.” Shaking her head she sighed. Her expression reflected sadness and concern but beneath it Phoebe sensed heady relief and recalled Rose's fear of Rupert. “Poor William will have to be told. I only hope the shock will not prove too much for him.”

“No doubt he will be saddened by the news,” Phoebe said. “But hardly shocked. After all, it was not entirely unexpected.“

Shock slackened Rose's jaw but she made a quick recovery. “Why, Miss Dymond, what a strange thing to say. What can you mean?“

Recalling Rose's refusal to warn her, Phoebe strove to remain calm. “That long before he left for England Mr Quintrell knew well the danger his son was courting.”

“Danger – ?” Rose blustered.

“His treatment of his slaves, among other things.”

Rose shrugged. “You are a stranger here, Miss Dymond. You do not understand – “

Phoebe could take no more. The intense strain of the past few days coming on top of her emotional turmoil over Jowan Crossley erupted. Heat enveloped her. She could feel herself shaking and her heart hammered against her ribs. “You are right, Mrs Stirling, I don't understand. I don't understand the mentality of a wealthy man who would father a child on a thirteen-year-old slave. Nor do I understand that man's son seducing his own twelve-year-old half-sister in order to break the spirit of the child's mother – the mistress he and his father shared. So, it's true, men like William Quintrell and his son are beyond my understanding. And I would not wish it otherwise. If you have sympathy to spare, keep it for the child I delivered of a stillborn babe and could not save. She needs it far more than I.”

Rose's mouth hung open. Closing it with an audible
snap
she swallowed. Her face worked as she pressed her fingertips to her temples and Phoebe sensed her mind racing.
“William
 – ?” She shook her head. “No, you must be mistaken. Rupert perhaps – But William was
my –”
she covered her mouth with one hand.

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said, shocked and ashamed at her loss of control,
at her anger.
“I shouldn't have –”

With a bitter laugh Rose dabbed her eyes with a scrap of cambric. “What fools we women are.” She drew herself up. “Is that why you wanted to speak to me, Miss Dymond?”

“No.” Phoebe folded her hands. “I do not regret what I said, but it was not intended to cause you pain. I came to ask you if I may stay on here for a while. I will pay for my board and lodging,” she added quickly. “And Quamin's, for I shall need the protection of a manservant.”

“You're not returning to England?”

Aware of Rose's shrewd scrutiny Phoebe tried to keep her face expressionless as she shook her head. “As you said, I have come all this way. My skills are needed here, especially among the refugees. But it may be a while before I can find a place of my own so – “

“There's no hurry for that,” Rose said quickly. “Indeed, it will be very useful to have you here. I confess I have suffered a great deal lately with the headache. Now I come to think of it, the vicomte and his family have booked passage to England on the
Providence
packet. They will be gone in a few days. You can have that room. Being larger it will be more convenient,” she gestured with her open palm,” as both bedroom and private sitting room. Of course I would have to charge more. But we will come to an arrangement. I have many friends and acquaintances. You won't lack for work. And people like the vicomte are willing to pay whatever – “

“I don't plan to profit from others' misery, Mrs Stirling.”

“A noble sentiment I'm sure,” Rose was tart. “But it takes money to keep a roof over your head, clothes on your back and food on the table.”

The following day Phoebe was in the little tower room. The mid-afternoon air was moist and humid after an earlier shower. Wearing her lightest gown, her hair coiled high on her head, the windows open to catch any breeze, she was warm but not uncomfortably so.

The letter to her uncle had taken almost an hour. The difficulty of deciding what to include and what to omit had resulted in several false starts and the bed cover was littered with screwed up sheets of paper.

Eventually she had decided simply to relate the basic facts without going into unnecessary detail: Dr Crossley had escorted her to Grove Hill where they had found Rupert Quintrell terminally ill. She was now back in Kingston, residing with Mrs Stirling, and would remain here. Assuring him that she was in good health and spirits she finished by sending her best wishes.

She flexed her shoulders and arched her back, then bent to add her signature. Next she would write a note of condolence for William Quintrell and enclose with it the miniature of his son.

Placing the completed letter beside the miniature that lay on the white lace runner covering the lid of her trunk she dipped her pen. As she lifted it from the ink-bottle she heard voices outside the door at the bottom of the wooden stairs.

She held her breath, waiting, utterly still, hope battling dread. The voices stopped. At the knock her heart kicked so hard she gasped.

“Miss Dymond?”
Jowan's voice
.

Her first attempt to speak produced no sound. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes?”

“May I have a word?”

Laying down the pen she set her writing case on the trunk lid. “I'll come down.”

She heard the door close, his boots on the stairs, and leapt to her feet as his head appeared.

“I beg you will forgive this intrusion. But there are so many people downstairs –”

“I understand the Duclos family is leaving today, and another has arrived to take the room.”

Remaining on the top stair Jowan brushed his hair back, a gesture of nervousness rather than vanity.

“I must apologise for not returning yesterday as I said I would. There was an accident on board. Brennan fell from the rigging and was killed.”

“Oh, I'm so sorry.” Phoebe recalled the ableseaman. During the privateer's attack she had sewn up a gash in his skull. “Did he have family?”

“Fortunately not.” Restless, preoccupied, he shifted from foot to foot. “I'm delighted to see you so much recovered.”

“I'm very well, thank you.” There was another long pause.

“Phoebe – Miss Dymond,” the words were torn from him, low and intense. “I – I owe you a profound apology – the things I said – I cannot – “

“Please don't,” Phoebe said quickly, his acute discomfort reminding her too clearly of her own shame after her outburst to Rose. He flinched as if she had struck him.

Bracing herself, for surely now he would go, she waited, watching his gaze flick round the room then linger on the miniature. Even though it was all too late she could not bear it if once again he jumped to the wrong conclusion.

She moistened her lips. “You find me writing letters. I'm returning the miniature to Mr Quintrell. He might be glad to have it as a memento.”