The Surgeon's Lady (12 page)

When Nana was on an even keel again, Laura and Matthew returned to Plymouth to scour the shops for paper, pencils and primers. That day ended successfully, and not a moment too soon, because Matthew was looking the worse for wear, although he would never have admitted it.

“I’m afraid I wore him out,” she told Philemon that evening, after supper was over and he was in his workroom, making plasters. He had assigned her to scraping lint and gathering the soft fabric into bags.

“He’s young. He’ll recover. I think the others on B were envious he escaped.” Philemon mixed lead monoxide with
pork lard. “Hand me the olive oil behind you. Ta.” He added it slowly.

“What are you making?”

“Plasters. I’ll add water and stir until it’s white, then store it until I add medicine.” He shook his head. “Maybe it even does some good when I warm it and spread it on a wound.”

There was something in his voice. Laura touched his arm. “Who died?”

“Our blind and deaf friend.” His expression hardened. “He told me to tell you ‘thank’ee.’”

She swallowed, blinking back her tears. “How do you do this?” she asked, when she could speak.

“I must admit it’s not easy.” Without a word, he picked up her hand resting on his arm, kissing her palm and then her wrist.

She felt her breath coming faster. Tentative, she leaned forward and kissed his cheek right next to his ear, not sure she should, but knowing she must. Somehow, this was different from the peaceful night they had spent together, the one she seemed unable to erase from her mind. That kiss before she left for Taunton hadn’t been her imagination, either, but still, this was different.

“Laura,” he said. “Laura, help me,” and kissed her lips this time.

She was as little skilled in kissing as he was, but it didn’t matter. All she wanted to do was remove some of his burden of constant worry and decisions a lesser man would never make. If a kiss would help, she would do her best.

His arms went around her then, pulling her close as he continued to kiss her. His canvas apron was stiff against her,
but she could feel his body stirring underneath it, even as she knew hers stirred in ways that Sir James had never touched.

They both heard running steps on the stairs at the same time. “Lt. Brittle!” someone yelled. Philemon pulled away from her, quickly removed the pot from its small flame and left her without a backward glance, running up the stairs.

Her arms were empty. He might never have been there at all.

L
aura wanted more from Philemon Brittle, but events conspired to fill every hour the surgeon possessed. After a restless night, she woke to the clang of the jetty bell. Instantly alert, she hurried into her clothes, calling to Pierre to prepare more porridge than usual.

She ran to the jetty, almost dreading the sight of so many jolly boats. So many mother’s sons, she thought, as she plunged into the dockside chaos.

Philemon gestured to her with a bloody hand and she ran to his side, kneeling there. He nodded toward a canvas bag.

“It’s full of compresses. Sling that over your shoulder and follow Brian. He’ll tell you what to do.”

She grabbed the bag even as she asked, “Am I ready for this?”

“Beyond it, Laura. You’re one of my mates now.”

He had no idea how that terrified her, but he had already turned away. She found Brian Aitken, Philemon’s chief mate, by the water’s edge. Before today, she had only been able to understand one word in ten of his thick Scots
brogue. She discovered how quickly spurting blood could clear the intellect.

His face speckled with blood, Aitken hummed as he worked, probably to take his mind off what lay before him. He worked as efficiently as Philemon—probably had been trained by him—and she had no trouble keeping up. After an hour, she found some clean water and mopped the blood from his face. He surprised her by returning the favor. She had no idea she looked as ghoulish as he did.

At midmorning, when she had a second to look around, she noticed Amanda Peters, her former dresser, kneeling beside Captain Brackett. She waved to her, and Peters nodded, her hands too occupied to wave.
We’ve changed in a few weeks,
Laura thought.
I used to be terrified of her, and she used to fuss if my cap was set slightly askew. Imagine.

She imitated the more experienced matrons as they turned their bloody aprons around and tied them again, then hurried back to their own blocks as the work continued indoors: shaving heads to prevent spread of lice, washing the men, finding nightshirts and beds for them, then porridge for those who could eat. Mrs. Ormes and even the scullery maid—shy at first, then useful—came upstairs to feed the wounded.

By midnight, the butcher’s bill was tallied and Philemon, his eyes burning like coals in his head, gave her permission to go below. She collapsed on her bed without even removing her shoes or her bloody apron, then leaped up at dawn when the jetty bells clanged again.

So it went for a solid week, as battered ships of the Channel Fleet put in to Plymouth, discharged their wounded, revictualed, roamed the streets for unwary merchant
marine seamen to snag into service, and sailed again. She was relieved that Oliver Worthy and the
Tangier
had sailed to the United States, instead of to a weary continent in flames.

Her only respite came when she stole a moment to visit Davey Dabney’s classroom. He still wasn’t allowed to sit upright yet, but some enterprising orderly had padded a wheeled chair and reclined the back, so he could supervise the seamen able to sit at desks and write their alphabet.

Matthew sat in front, ready to leap up and help, handing out paper and primers, and using his hand and elbow to maneuver Davey back to the ward when the hour-long lesson was done. By the end of the first week of class, the foretopman could manage an hour in the morning and another in the evening without exhausting himself. She knew Matthew was tired, too, but she saw the determination on his face.

She was standing in the doorway watching, one late afternoon, when Philemon came to stand beside her.

“Do you think Matthew will be fit to sail when Oliver returns?” she asked, not even looking over her shoulder. She knew who stood so close.

“I reckon he will. D’ye think he’ll be reading and writing by then?”

She nodded. “I wish he would go to Torquay.”

“I know you do. So does Nana. He’s still in the navy, Laura.”

“He’s not even twelve!”

“So was Oliver. So was I.”

“What has it got you but no sleep?” she fretted.

He put his hand on her head and gave it a little shake, then walked away. Stay with me, she wanted to ask, but
knew she would only be demanding what everyone in the block wanted: more of his time.

He turned back; maybe he could read her thoughts. “I never thanked you for all your help this week.”

“I’m only earning my twenty-five pounds a year.”

“Do you want to help some more?”

“You know I do.”

“After tomorrow’s ward walk, follow me to the second floor. I’ll teach you and my new orderlies how to change dressings. It’s not appealing, so we’ll do it before breakfast.”

Philemon could have flogged himself with such talk, especially when he yearned to tell her how much he loved her. He came so close yesterday, when she was leaning against the wall outside the washroom, chamber pot in hand and too tired to move. The absurdity of declaring himself over a piss pot was not lost on him and he laughed to think about it. He sobered soon enough. There was never going to be any better time, and he’d better come to an understanding about that.

Every second of his life belonged to the Royal Navy and the men in his care. He was not a physician; there had been no reciting of the Hippocratic Oath or gowning ceremony. A mere surgeon, he had bound himself to the same rigid code of ethics that demanded he be present when required, that he do no harm, and that he surrender everything he possessed for the care of the sick and wounded; even his life, if necessary.

Where did a wife fit in? He thought of poor Owen Brackett, back at work too soon with no time to grieve, and barely time to make arrangements for his sister to take his
son to her home in Gloucester. Like as not, this war would drag into another decade, and Brackett would never know his only child. They would meet awkwardly, if at all, and the tally of war would have a son and father on its list, as well as those dead in battle.

Philemon knew he didn’t want a life like that, one with no time to love his wife; to lie in bed with her on chilly mornings doing nothing but talking; to spend time with their children, teaching his sons to sail in Torbay and his daughters how to weave marsh grass into mats. Still, if Laura could love him, maybe even the smallest comforts would be worth all the deprivation.

He knew she liked him. She had raised no objection that wonderful evening he fell asleep in her bed or when he kissed her as she departed for Taunton. He had been so ready to kiss her more thoroughly in his workroom that night he was making plasters and she was scraping lint. Duty had called and he had dropped everything. Since then, they had barely seen each other.

I cannot court a woman in such circumstances,
he told himself that night as he dragged himself to his bedchamber. He was happy to be in his own bed, and not snatching sleep on an operating table, but dismayed that he shared it with no one. All he wanted to do was make love with Laura Taunton; to enjoy the pleasure of sweet release from all his care—he had more than most men—with her arms tight around him.

There was the matter of her unhappy marriage to aggravate the issue. True, she seemed willing enough for his hugs and touch, but what would happen if she were naked and lying under him? Would her courage fail her? Would
she assume that all men were the same, or would she understand that Sir James was only a violator?

Oliver Worthy had urged him to forge ahead, but his wife hadn’t been sold to pay creditors. Nana had never been alone, without any help from any source. Circumstance may have trod on Nana’s dignity, but it had not shredded her to the bone.

I need to talk to Laura,
he decided. He already knew he could talk to her about caring for wounded men’s bodily needs. He had seen her wiping men clean from defecation who were too weak or wounded to help themselves. Aitken had showed her how to administer enemas, and she had barely flinched when a poor gunny vomited on her when he saw his own wound for the first time.

That was different.
How can I tell her that I want to love her as a true husband loves his wife, and not remind her of misery with a husband who had used her meanly in his obsession for a child, and then used her harder as he died by degrees?
To put it simply, would such a woman want anything he, an always-exhausted surgeon in the Royal Navy, had to offer? He doubted it supremely.

She was at his elbow in the morning for the ward walk. Both he and his mates had come to rely on her excellent notes and her no-nonsense questions. When she didn’t understand something, Laura always asked, which often served to simplify things in his own mind.

“You’re looking cheerful, Mrs. T,” he commented. “I’m counting my blessings. Most ladies would want to thrash me after I had worked them like galley slaves.”

“I never was too wise, Lieutenant,” she said. “May you never be cursed to know the total boredom of nothing to do.”

It sounded almost heavenly to him, or would, if he
could spend such a year with Laura Taunton. Still, there she was, looking beautiful, even with her hair tucked under a cap.

“You’re wearing a new apron. One that fits,” he said.

“It does,” she agreed. “Captain Brackett told me yesterday that all the lads will feign illness to stay longer on my wards. I told him he was cheeky and he laughed. I don’t think he has done that in a while.”

“I doubt he has.”
Go ahead,
he told himself,
flirt a little.
“You’re a tonic for all of us.”

My, that was tame,
he thought, disgusted with himself.
Even my flirting is medical. I speak of tonic when I want to tell her like a schoolboy that I worship the ward she walks on. There I go again; I am hopeless.

His new orderlies were waiting in A Ward, looking appropriately anxious. He decided the Marine corporal in bed four seemed the best candidate to introduce his neophytes to the world of bandage changing. He had a nice soft tissue wound in his thigh, with a simple entry and exit and nothing hanging out. The man, half dozing in that way of the wounded, looked up in alarm to see such a delegation around his bed. “Hey, now,” he began, and tried to sit up.

“Corporal, as you were,” Philemon ordered. “You have sufficient rank to make me think you’re the best candidate to be my teaching tool. I wouldn’t ask just any patient.”

He glanced next at the other men in the ward. Those who were aware, were beginning to enjoy themselves. He glanced next at the ward’s orderly, who wheeled a small table to the bedside. The corporal’s wariness changed to something near panic.

“Corporal, I want to show these three how to change a bandage. Lie down and…”

The Marine looked from Laura to Philemon. “Beg pardon, sir, but she’ll see my…my…you know.”

“She might. Mrs. Taunton has been tending the wounded long enough not to be surprised, provided your…you know…isn’t anything amazing.”

One of the orderlies turned his bark of laughter into a cough sounding almost consumptive. “You’d best get that cough seen to, if you can find medical assistance,” Philemon joked, as he pulled back the sheet. He tucked it against the man’s other leg, shielding his privates. “There now. She doesn’t have to be amazed, after all, Corporal.” He looked at his students. “Do that whenever you can. We all like a little dignity, even those of us in George’s navy.”

Speaking quietly and working quickly, he took his students through the process of removing the bandage and compresses, cleaning the entry and exit wounds, and showing them how to use a syringe. “I don’t mind a little pus, but too much can be painful. This is healing well. It appears that nothing of importance was hit.”

“Course not, Doc. He’s a Marine. There’s nothing there,” someone from another bed observed. “Like ’is ’ead,” someone else contributed.

The patients all laughed, including the orderlies. Philemon looked at Laura out of the corner of his eye, as she struggled to maintain her composure. Even the Marine was smiling, relieved, perhaps, that nothing could be too bad if someone could joke about it.

He had them each clean the wounds and dress them as the Marine gritted his teeth and pretended he didn’t mind.
When it was Laura’s turn, she took a moment to wipe the perspiration from her patient’s face and thank him. He melted like butter, which made Philemon smile inside.

“That is how you teach?” Laura asked, when they moved on to another ward.

“What passes for it in the navy, I think. Are you disappointed?”

She surprised him. “Quite the contrary. I’m certain the navy doesn’t pay you enough.”

Gratified by her flattery, he progressed through two other cases, each more difficult, teaching and coaxing courage out of his patients. One man was unconscious and behind a screen, so he could tell them how important it was not to register any emotion when they removed the bandage.

“If he were conscious, he’d be watching your face, and not his wound. No one likes to look at a wound,” he assured them. “It’s your turn, Mrs. Taunton.”

She did as he gently directed, her concentration fierce, a frown between her fine eyebrows. She sniffed the used bandage, then set it aside. Her hands shook a bit as she pressed the syringe into the abdominal wound to draw out exudations, flinching when the unconscious man flinched. He wanted to finish for her, but that was no way to learn. After she bound the wound, she sat back, drained. It was all he could do not to touch her.

“He isn’t going to live long, is he?” she whispered.

He was squatting beside her, so she didn’t have to raise her voice. “No. He will probably be dead by the first watch.”

She rested her hand on the man’s neck. “Poor lad. He can’t be over eighteen.”

“Seventeen.” He looked at the little group around the
bed. “When he is gone, I will do a post mortem, which you may attend. I think there is something in the wound that his surgeon aboard ship was unable to retrieve, and I want to know what it was.” He stood up. “That is all we have time for today. Report to your usual stations.”

Laura stayed where she was. “May I sit here with him?”