The Surgeon's Lady (13 page)

“As you wish.”

He scanned the room before he left, because he did not feel easy about this ward. The orderly had told him a few days ago how cheeky one of the seamen was to Laura. He wanted to certify that tar for duty immediately, but he had a nagging wound on his upper arm that would not heal. Philemon toyed with the idea again. As usual, his head trumped his heart; the sailor wasn’t ready for sea.

She sent him a note at three bells into the afternoon watch. He wanted it to contain some words of love, but it was the bald announcement that the patient had not survived the first bell. His heart went out to her as he read:

Why am I doing this to such an excellent female?
he asked himself later that evening as he walked to the room off the dead house, where he and Brackett performed autopsies. There lay his naked patient, dead of his wound or his surgeon. He nodded to the one orderly who cowered in a corner of the room, and sat on a stool beside the corpse, trying to understand why he drove Laura so hard, and why she let him.

I want her with me. I am so busy with duty that there is
no other way right now to accomplish my selfish desire to be with her,
he decided. He allowed himself to think that maybe, just maybe, she did what he wanted because she wanted to be with him, too. It was absurd, but made him almost cheerful as he contemplated the mortal remains of a young man dead too soon.

He looked at the toe tag. “Junius Craighead,” he murmured, dignifying the naked body with its grievous wound. “Able seaman. H.M.S.
Dauntless.
” He knew nothing more—not where Junius was born or raised, who his parents were, what his plans might have been, had Napoleon not decided to dominate the world.

He proceeded with the post mortem, teaching the orderly, who finally fled the scene, muttering something. Philemon wondered if he would be back in the morning.

That was when he turned around to see Laura Taunton standing there, her eyes wide and staring at Junius Craighead spread open wide. Philemon looked into her eyes and got off his stool, fearful she would faint. He noticed, instead, that she was chewing on the inside of her cheek, which she did often enough at the jetty.

He wanted to cover her eyes with his hands, but they were bloody, as usual. “Laura, you don’t need to see this. I was a fool to ask.”

She didn’t leave, but came closer gradually, until she was standing behind him, partly hidden and clutching the back of his trousers. Her fingers were warm against the fabric at his waist and he had no objection.

“Did…did…did you find what you were looking for?”

Her voice was so low he had to lean closer to hear her. “Aye. Take a look.”

She shook her head, then leaned her forehead against his back, which somehow touched him more than it aroused him. What happened then was one of the many things he appreciated about Laura Taunton. She slowly leaned around his arm and looked at the slimy scrap of cloth on the edge of the table.

“It’s part of his shirt, isn’t it?”

“Aye. His or someone else’s. The surgeon on the
Dauntless
was able to remove the ball, but probably hadn’t the time to probe a little deeper.”

She made a small sound of irritation.

“Laura, be easy on my colleagues. I know this scene, because I have been in battle, when the wounded are piling up in the companionway, and everyone needs help at once. That wasn’t his only problem and was likely not the fatal one. Come look.”

She could not bring herself to come closer, so he gestured with a bistoury. “See there? The ball nicked his large intestine. Even God Almighty cannot help a man whose body wastes pour into his abdominal cavity. Better go into battle on an empty stomach.”

Her face was close to his, so he rubbed his cheek against hers, which made her turn her face into his shirt with a sob. “How can you do this?” she asked.

“I do this because I love the human body.”

“It doesn’t scare you?”

He could barely hear her, but he knew what she was asking. He handed her his bistoury. “Go ahead. Have a care—it’s sharp. Just lift that portion of skin. This is how you learn.”

“Don’t touch that corpse, Lady Taunton!”

Laura gasped and dropped the bistoury. Philemon felt the hairs on his neck rise. He turned around to see Sir David Carew, his face mottled with anger. His administrator glared at them from the doorway, but did not come closer.

“I saw the orderly run out,” Sir David said, barely moving his lips. He pointed his finger. “Brittle, have you no sense? What is
she
doing in here?”

“Learning,” Philemon said. He gestured toward the corpse. “You can, too, but you must come closer.”

Sir David looked with utter distaste on Junius Craighead. “Never.”

“So this is your first post mortem, Sir David?” Philemon asked, before he thought.

He should never have said that, even if it was true. If ever a short man towered in anger, it was the admiral. Cursing his own arrogance, Philemon could hardly blame him.

“How dare you address me that way! I will have your license pulled if I ever see anyone besides a surgeon or a mate in this room! Lady Taunton, you have gone too far,” he concluded, taking Laura by the arm.

“Don’t touch me!” she said, and there was nothing timid in her voice. “I am not very brave yet, but you have no idea what I have learned in here.”

“And you can forget it all!” Sir David roared. He released her, only to shake his finger in her face, practically beside himself with fury. “I knew no good would come of this.” He looked at Philemon then, who was wiping his hands. “She is on notice as of right now, Lieutenant. If there is one more…one more!…untoward incident, she is sacked, and you will do it! And you, Lieutenant, you…By God, if we were not shorthanded, you would be back in a fever hospital!”

He slammed the door behind him. The room was deathly quiet. Philemon shook his head. “I’m sorry, Laura. So sorry. God, why did I
say
that?”

He was so embarrassed he didn’t even want to look at her, even though she stood so still, her arms around herself, shivering. He made himself look at her, and was startled by what he saw, even more than by Sir David’s sudden appearance. He had thought she was afraid, but he was wrong. She was ferociously angry.

S
tunned by her expression, Philemon washed his hands as fast as he could. Before they were even dry, he reached for her, not knowing what she would do. His heart fell when she stepped back, but she stopped with a visible effort, and willed herself calm before his eyes.

“I’ll be on the landing pier,” she said, and turned on her heel, closing the door more quietly than Sir David.

Unnerved, he sewed up Junius Craighead, carefully covering him with a sheet. In the morning, the dead house attendants would prepare him for burial. For one small moment, Philemon wanted to crawl under the sheet, too.

He didn’t think she would be at the jetty, but she was, dangling her feet off the pier and leaning against the piling, looking so alone. He sat down beside her, still numb.

It was a long time before she spoke. “I wanted to kill him,” she whispered finally. “I told myself when James died that no one would ever grab me like that again, or shake a finger in my face. It’s a good thing I dropped the
bistoury.” She turned to look at him. “What are you going to do with me?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Just this,” he said, putting his arm around her waist.

She sighed with relief, which soothed him as nothing else could have.

“I don’t get angry often,” she said, and it sounded apologetic. “Never, in fact. He should not have grabbed me.” She sobbed out loud. “No one should do that to a woman!”

The night was warm, but he felt himself go cold. She wasn’t speaking of Sir David. He kept his arm around her. “It’s almost pleasant here,” he said, after a long pause for both of them to collect themselves. “I’m surprised.”

She seemed to welcome the change of subject. “I thought if I came here tonight, I might not dread it so much when the jetty bell rings.”

She shivered, and he tightened his arm around her. At the same time, he realized it was all too much for her. She had enough to bear without tackling ward blocks full of wounded men, constant demands, no sleep, the dead and dying, endless war, and now an administrator who would be watching her every move.
You cannot possibly want a man who would further complicate your life,
he thought miserably.

“Laura, I think you should go to Torquay.” The words felt as if they were wrenched out of his stomach.

She shook her head vehemently, then turned to watch him. “Only if you do not want me around here anymore,” she said. “Only if you don’t really…”

She couldn’t say it. He could, though. “If I don’t really love you? Laura, that day will never come. I believe I’ve loved you since I saw you in Nana’s sitting room.”

“Even when I have more defects than any sane man would willingly shoulder?”

“Would a sane man live the life I’m living?” he asked, in turn. “Laura, you have every right to be furious with Sir David, with Sir James, with your father. It’s no crime to want to protect yourself.”

“Then why couldn’t I?”

It was the cry of the ages, and it clanged in his brain like a gong. What could he say? He had to try. “Women aren’t taught to fight back, not when people they know they should trust betray them. Or so I think.” He kissed her hair. “As for your defects, have you ever considered that maybe no one sees them but you?”

She looked at him in utter disbelief, and he could think of nothing to say. Gradually she relaxed against him. “I should trust you, shouldn’t I?” she asked at last. “I wish I did.”

Be light about this,
he told himself. “No woman wants to marry an idiot,” he said. “Did you
hear
what I said to Sir David? I…I asked him if he had ever seen a post mortem before! What an arrogant ass I am.”

She looked at him seriously. “You’re talking about marriage, after I have told you what a bad bargain I am?”

“I love you! And I’ve just told you what a jackass I am. I’m not exactly an answer to a woman’s prayers.”

She couldn’t help but smile, which pleased him more than if she had flung her arms around his neck and knocked him backward in the grass—which sounded good, too.

“Do you think he has seen a post mortem before?”

“I have no idea,” he replied, laughing. “Do you love me?”

“I would like to.”

He helped her to her feet. “Here we are, two sillies, sitting on the landing pier at two in the morning while that Marine guard over there probably wonders if we are spies! Give me a kiss, Laura.”

He didn’t know if she would, but she did, holding his face in her hands and touching his lips lightly with hers. She did it again. He was in heaven. He walked her back to Block Four, ready to see her to the kitchen, when he heard someone calling him.

“Sounds like duty,” he told her, slipping his hand from around her waist. “It’s just twenty steps to the kitchen.”

“I can get there by myself.”

He could see her hesitate, too shy to say anything. He kissed her cheek and ran to the orderly.

Except for the lights kept burning on each floor, Building Four was dark. Her mind on Philemon, she hurried to the kitchen and stepped back with a gasp when a man rose up from a crouch by the door.

She had nothing in her hands for self-defense, but stood her ground, drawing herself up as tall as she could. “Who are you?” she demanded, in her frostiest voice, even as her knees practically knocked together.

“Billy from CWard. I’m hungry,” he said, coming closer.

Her lips tight together, Laura looked closer, disturbed to see the man who had been so rude to her, and whom Philemon had chided, as well.

“Breakfast is at six bells, Billy. You can wait.”

“Aw, mum!”

“Go on.”

He came closer, but she refused to budge. The seaman
smiled, showing a jagged row of teeth. His breath was foul and she wondered why she had flinched at the sight of Junius Craighead. This living man was worse.

“Go back to bed, Billy, and I’ll overlook this.” She kept her voice low because she knew it would betray her in an undignified squeak if she talked louder. What she hadn’t expected was the intensity of it.

Apparently it impressed Billy. “I can’t make it up those stairs by meself,” he whined, defeated.

“Yes, you can,” she snapped. “You got here, didn’t you?”

They stared at each other; Billy blinked first. Clutching his scrofulous arm as though begging for sympathy, he mounted the steps easily enough, stopping once to give her a look that would have toppled her if she hadn’t been leaning on the doorknob.

Inside the kitchen, she went to the knife drawer and stood there a long moment, just looking at the blades before she closed the drawer.

She went to her room, where she tugged her armchair in front of the door and huddled on her bed, knees close to her chin, until she heard four bells, and Pierre and the scullery maid moving around in the kitchen. She allowed herself to close her eyes, even if it was only for thirty minutes. She wanted to think about what Philemon had said to her, but all she saw when her eyes closed was that man rising up from the dark, coming toward her.

She knew it was insane, but she felt that same bath of fear that covered her when Sir James opened her door and came to her bed, terrifying her with his demands, reminding her all over again how friendless she was. It was as if nothing had changed.

She’s as tired as I am,
Philemon told himself as he, Aitken and Laura finished their morning ward walk.
I hope my declaration of love is not the cause of her discomfort. No, she is just tired.

He decided he would tell himself that, even as she gave him a wan smile and shook her head when he suggested they adjourn to the kitchen for tea, a ritual that was fast becoming his favorite luxury of the day—he had so few.

“It will only take a moment,” he said, trying to cajole her. He moved closer and she backed away, sending a chill down his spine.

“No! I have said I do not want any tea now,” she declared. She put her hand to her head in a gesture of distraction. “It is nothing, Lieutenant. I think I will check on Davey’s classroom.”

He looked around. No one else stood in the corridor, but she had called him Lieutenant anyway. Something had changed in the three hours since he had kissed her and said good-night; what, he didn’t know. He hadn’t time to delve into the matter, but he knew enough about human nature to know when someone preferred to be left alone.

“Very well, Mrs. Taunton,” he said formally. “Let me know if you need anything.”

To his further unease, her eyes immediately filled with tears. She said nothing, but fled up the stairs, her face stark.
How do I read you?
he thought miserably.
I know how your body works, maybe better than you do, but I do not know how to reach your heart.

It was a disquieting thought, and he tried to drown it in work, which had never failed him before. It failed him
now. How many times had he asked Aitken to repeat himself that afternoon, when his mate was explaining a simple procedure? And when Aitken finally asked him what the matter was, he had no answer.

The month passed in an odd way. He seldom bothered to glance at a calendar, but the air was crisper now, and he knew autumn was here. He was busy every minute and Laura Taunton was right there to help, not flinching from any misery he threw her way. He didn’t work her harder because he wished to increase her obvious turmoil, but simply because he needed her skills.

There was Napoleon, always Napoleon. Wellington’s steady march through Portugal and back into Spain meant more work for everyone, as simple as that. The sound of the jetty bell—a demand that could not be ignored—was becoming almost a daily occurrence. The sound reminded him how puny he was, how swept along he was by the fortunes of war. Whatever pride that had made him speak so arrogantly to Sir David was gone now.

Sir David Carew harassed him now with daily memos, urging more economy in his expenses on Block Four, even as he sent his loblolly boy around for free meals from Pierre’s kitchen. Philemon memoed back, reminding him that Lady Taunton was making up whatever difference there was to the budget, but the memos continued.

The administrator watched Laura all the time now, standing at his window overlooking the jetty as they worked to save lives. Philemon was forced to return her to mere hand-holding with the wounded at the wharf, to keep Sir David at bay. The ward block was a different matter;
the administrator stayed away, and he could use Laura to the extent of her growing skill. She never complained.

Between Laura Taunton’s distance, overwork and administrative tomfoolery, Philemon Brittle was an unhappy man. His mood only worsened with the disturbing case of Gunner Alex Small in D Ward.

“There’s something else in his abdomen,” Philemon said one morning, announcing the obvious to his staff, who had already reached the same conclusion days ago, he was sure. “I’ve probed until I fear to do harm.”

Aitken rewarded him with a wry smile of understanding. Laura continued sitting beside the gunner, who was conscious and watching her for any sign of anxiety. Philemon was pleased with the way she revealed nothing about her own feelings. He had trained her well; more likely, hard duty as Lady Taunton had trained her even better.

As he watched, she touched the gunner’s inflamed skin, feeling his swollen abdomen gently, watching his face for distress as she pressed and released as he had taught her, trying to divine the place of trouble.

“If we could see into your body, Gunner,” she said, addressing her patient as though he was the only man in existence.

“Aye, mum, you’d see lots of grog, hardtack and old machine parts, for all we know,” he joked.

Philemon found her in D Ward several times a day for the next week, as Gunner Small began to drift in and out of consciousness. Late one evening, when the ward was quiet in sleep, he risked a casual hand on her shoulder. She did not lean against him as he craved, but she did incline her head in his direction.

“You cannot probe again?” she whispered.

“I dare not. I cannot do him harm.” He crouched by her stool. “If he is even slightly conscious, his abdominal muscles tense up when I insert a probe. I might as well drill through a brick wall.”

“If he is unconscious?”

“It is too brief.” He held up his hand. “I could wish for longer fingers, because I can’t
feel
anything with the probes.”

“And you’re the best there is,” she said softly.

He shook his head, but would never have denied what her praise meant to his starving heart. “Ask any physician. I’m just a surgeon.”

“You’re far more,” she said, touched his knee and left the ward.

He sat by the gunner until he had collected himself, then left his list of instructions with the orderly, and trudged to his quarters. He stared at his bed a long time, debating whether to strip or take off his shoes; he decided to strip. He put himself between the sheets with a sigh, too tired to extinguish his lamp.

He woke to footsteps on the stairs, which didn’t surprise him overmuch. During these days of emergency, he left his front door unlocked, so his mates and orderlies could pound upstairs and shake him awake. He lay there listening, and realized it was Laura Taunton.

She came up the stairs quietly, but with no speed, almost as though she didn’t want to be doing what she was doing.
And what is that?
he asked himself, wishing he had at least put on his nightshirt.

His door was open, but she knocked on it.

“Come in, Laura,” he said, hoping his voice wouldn’t squeak like an adolescent.

She stood in the middle of his room, carefully clothed in her dark dress and neat apron, with her hair in its cap.

“Hold up your hand.”

Mystified, he did as she asked, sitting up and tucking his sheet carefully around his bare body. She came closer and put her hand against his.

“My fingers are longer than yours.”

“I’ve told you that,” he said, not moving his palm from hers. “I don’t have surgeon’s hands.” He chuckled, trying to break the tension building inside him. “Would you be disappointed in me if I said that your hands were the first thing I noticed about you?”