Castaway Dreams

by Darlene Marshall

  "Whales."

  He turned his head, and saw Miss Farnham looking out from under the canvas. Her hands were clasped across her stomach, and a slight smile hovered around her lips, deepening her dimples.

  "You see whales?"

  "In the clouds. See, that one up there?" She pointed. "It looks like a whale, don't you think?"

  He looked where she was pointing, over the edge of their toes. Her bare feet were alongside his, hers much daintier, the nails neat and smooth. Her foot had a delicate arch to it, and the toes looked...

  If Miss Farnham's toes were looking like something he would want to nibble on, he needed to be sure he caught more fish this afternoon.

  "It looks like a cloud. Which it is."

  She turned her head and looked at him.

  "Have you never lain in a meadow and imagined what clouds resemble, Dr. Murray?"

  "There is no time in my life for such foolishness."

  "Never? Not even when you were a boy?"

  He wanted to tell her that some children grow up working and being useful, fishing for supper, weeding the kitchen garden, snaring rabbits.

  But there had been summer afternoons when he'd stretched out on the heather, looking at the blue sky above him and imagining the shapes passing overhead were ships and castles, dragons and mounted knights casting shadows on the hill.

  "You have time now, Dr. Murray. What do you see in the clouds?"

  He squinted and tried to remember what it felt like to see shapes up in the sky, rather than indicators of rough weather or smooth sailing.

  "Sheep?"

  There was a soft giggle to his right. Odd, that noise did not set his teeth on edge as it used to. It must be that he was now accustomed to it. Rather like becoming accustomed to a corn, or a callus.

  "All clouds look like sheep, Doctor. Or sheep look like clouds. Surely you can do better than that."

  He turned his head and looked at her. She was watching him, and her eyes were soft and dreamy, the thick lashes shading them from the bright sunlight.

  Mere inches separated them, and all he would have to do is move his head slightly forward, maybe toss the dog over the side, angle his mouth over hers, and he would know if she tasted as luscious as she looked.

  Madness. He was sunstruck and delirious from being out on the water to be even thinking such a thing now, with this woman.

  Why the hell not? whispered a voice in his head. Do you truly believe you'll be rescued?

  "I see a ship," he said abruptly. "A ship, in the clouds. See there? That one on the right? It looks like a sloop."

  "What is a sloop? Did you serve on one?"

  Instead of following his urges, Alexander told Miss Farnham stories of the ships he'd served on over the years, ever since becoming a surgeon's mate.

  "So young to go to sea!"

  She watched him, her head propped up on her arm.

  "Was that your dream, in Scotland? To go to sea?"

  "You knew I was from Scotland?"

  "I can hear it every time you open your mouth, Dr. Murray. The way you roll your rrrrr's sounds...tasty."

  Tasty--a most inappropriate word. He stopped looking at her and watched the clouds.

  "My dream, Miss Farnham, was to become a physician."

  "Why didn't you? You are a very clever man, Dr. Murray. I am sure you could have read all the books they would give you to read."

  "It takes more than a good mind to be a physician, Miss Farnham. It takes money to pay for schooling."

  The scene in Janet Murray's neat kitchen was still fresh in his mind, his mother asking Fieldhouse for funds to send Alexander to Edinburgh.

  "Funds for the boy's maintenance do not include schooling him at that level, madame. He is old enough now that he can apprentice himself to a surgeon or an apothecary and learn a suitable trade."

  A bastard should not try to rise above his place in the world was the unspoken message.

  "What about now, Dr. Murray? The war is over. You could go to school now and become a physician if you wished, couldn't you?"

  "Aboard ship a surgeon also acts as a physician and an apothecary, through necessity. I physicked men and set their bones and dispensed drugs to them. It was my life for many years but now..." He let his eyes follow the fluffy shapes overhead, thinking that one looked like a dog chasing a ball. "Now I will set up a surgery on land."

  "You sound very sure we will make it to England."

  "Of course we will. It will just take longer than anticipated."

  He said this firmly, and with conviction, because that was what they both needed. He had survived other shipwrecks, they would survive this one. Both of them.

  "What of your dreams, Miss Farnham? Do you dream of hats and gloves and shoes?"

  There was silence, and when he turned his head, Daphne Farnham was looking up at the clouds.

  "No, Dr. Murray, hats and gloves and shoes are my life. They are not my dreams."

  He looked at her but she had lain back down, her eyes were closed and the dog was cradled beneath her arm. He followed her example and closed his eyes, and they must have napped, for when he awoke the sunlight was coming off the canvas from a lower angle and the dog was barking.

  "Look, Dr. Murray! A bird!"

  Alexander sat up and saw Miss Farnham pointing over the bow. He was still muzzy headed from sleep and thought she meant a cloud, but the dog jumped up and barked again and he heard the cry of a seagull.

  Seagulls meant land, and he moved so quickly the boat rocked dangerously, but he scanned the water looking for--

  "There! That smudge on the horizon! Is that land, Doctor?"

  Chapter 7

  "It is land, isn't it, Doctor?"

  Daphne felt like laughing and clapping her hands. She was right to believe Dr. Murray would find a way to save them. He was so learned, he knew everything! Except how to find shapes in clouds. And he probably did not know how to tie his neckcloth into a Mathematical, but right now that was not as important as making it to land.

  He was scanning the horizon, his hand over his eyes. A strong hand, she'd seen him bending the pins into hooks, a hand that was sure in its movements. A surgeon was like a carpenter or a cooper. He had to have capable hands and strong arms and shoulders for the work he did. The only other man she'd seen in his shirtsleeves was her late George. When she caught glimpses of his skin it had been the same pasty white as the fish pieces she'd eaten earlier, and instead of muscle there was...nothing. The idea of expending energy needed to build muscle would have made George shudder.

  "Fitting into my coat in the morning is exhausting enough," he'd once said to her as he picked a minuscule piece of lint off his sleeve. "Do you have any idea, my dear Daphne, how hard it is for my valet to wedge me into it for the perfect fit?"

  Daphne had sympathized since she was daily bullied by her dresser into a corset that would give her the shape gentlemen rhapsodized over. Truly, one had to suffer to be fashionable!

  Dr. Murray really did not understand these things, but that was all right, because he thought about other things. Maybe there were some women who would want to be marooned with a handsome and entertaining fellow like George, but right now there was no one she would rather be with than dear old Dr. Murray. He knew how to fish with a hair net and signal with mirrors and perch off the bow of the ship. George would never have known how to do that!

  Dr. Murray's face was shadowed by the growth of his beard, the hair glinting like a silvered fox's pelt in the sunlight dappling the water. It was a strong jaw beneath that stubble, and the column of his neck was as solid as the rest of him.

  Daphne swallowed, and reached for her water flask. It certainly was warm during this part of the day!

  Dr. Murray moved away from her toward the bow of their boat and she grabbed Pompom to keep the dog from following. He gazed out toward the dark line in the distance, following the seagull as it winged away from them.

  "I believe you are correct, Miss Farnham. That looks
like land."

  "How will we make it there?"

  He looked back at her and his eyes were glowing in the sunlight. He did not smile at her, but his face was lighter, less strained.

  "The current will carry us close enough that I can put the oars to use."

  Daphne sat up straight, clutching Pompom on her lap.

  "Are you sure?"

  He shrugged, then looked back at the horizon. Was it her imagination, or was the line larger now, darker, more clearly defined?

  "It is better to believe that will happen than to worry over what we cannot affect, Miss Farnham. In the meantime we still have needs aboard this boat."

  With renewed enthusiasm Daphne asked what she could do to help.

  "I will prepare a line for you, Miss Farnham. Two fishermen are better than one."

  Daphne left her hat off as the sun was lower and she did not want her vision obscured. Dr. Murray needed her help, and she was going to be there for him. He thought she was useful. Or at least someone who brought useful items to a shipwreck.

  "Be a good boy, Pompom, and Mummy and the nice doctor will catch you some supper."

  She placed the dog in her valise, and he scratched around and grumbled as he tried to make himself a bed, finally throwing himself down with a heartfelt sigh.

  When she looked up, Dr. Murray was watching her.

  "Do you have indigestion, Doctor?"

  "When you address your animal as if he were a baby it makes my stomach hurt."

  "Oh. Would some of my ginger cure your pain?"

  "Miss Farnham, a massive infusion of rum would cure this pain, but unfortunately that is not an option."

  Poor Dr. Murray! Here he was doing so much to keep them alive and he was in pain. When they were on land she was going to make sure her father knew how much he had done for them. Papa would arrange a pension for the surgeon, and he could retire and rest after all his labors.

  He prepared a line for her and put one of the small, glimmering fish from the bucket at the end of the line. Daphne winced, but she understood they needed to eat and the little fish would soon be gone.

  "Make yourself comfortable in the bow, Miss Farnham. I will be here in the stern."

  Daphne made a cushion with her now-dry dress and set her valise next to her. Pompom poked his head out, realized there was no food or entertainment for him, and went back to sleep.

  "What do I do, Doctor? How will I catch a fish?"

  "You never fished, Miss Farnham?"

  Daphne giggled at the idea.

  "Oh, Doctor, I can just imagine what my governess would say if I came in browned from the sun and smelling of fish. And I had no proper clothing for fishing." She frowned. "What does one wear for fishing? A morning dress? A walking dress?"

  "One wears old clothes, Miss Farnham, clothing that can handle some soaking and contact with fish."

  "Right there I would be handicapped, Doctor. My maid always whisked my clothing away when it was worn, or past its season." She leaned closer to him. "Confidentially, I think she was selling the dresses as soon as she could."

  He turned his head from where he was tying his line and looked at her.

  "You did not mind your maid taking your clothes and selling them that way? One could say it was close to theft if you did not give them to her. People are transported for stealing a kerchief, much less a gown."

  Daphne blinked at him.

  "If Hattie did not sell my clothes, where would she find extra funds to support her mother and sister? Her sister was run over by a cart and has difficulty walking."

  "Couldn't you pay her a higher salary?"

  "My father would never agree to such a thing, and I could not simply give her money from my own purse. Hattie has her pride. It is the customary arrangement for women in her position to dispose of their mistresses' clothing when it is worn. This way she could sell it and earn more money."

  Dr. Murray watched her for a moment longer as if she were some exotic species he had never encountered before. And perhaps he never had. By his own acknowledgment he admitted he was not used to drawing rooms or society or what occurred in the homes of the gentry.

  The sun was much lower now, and it was cooler on the water without the rays beating down full on them. Daphne dropped her line over the side, maintaining a tight grip on it.

  "If you feel a tug on your line, Miss Farnham, do not yank on it. Let the fish grab the hook firmly before giving the line a steady pull."

  "Are you sure I can do this, Doctor?"

  "I am sure you are going to try, Miss Farnham."

  Daphne bit her lip, adjusted herself on the seat and watched her line. It floated in the water, nothing happening around it, but if Dr. Murray said she should fish, she was going to do her best.

  It soon became apparent fishing was a dreadful bore.

  "Do you think we will be at that island by tomorrow, Doctor? What kind of towns will there be? I wonder if I can buy some shoes? Shoes would be nice. Oooh, maybe it is a French island and they will have the latest fashion journals from Paris! Maybe a hat, too, somethi--"

  "Miss Farnham."

  "Yes?"

  "Cease chattering," Dr. Murray said mildly. "You will disturb the fish."

  He wasn't watching her as he said this, but concentrated on watching his line in the water. So he didn't see Daphne make a face at his back as she went back to being unutterably bored watching her line in the water.

  She feared she would nod off sitting there with her line in her hand, but her fishing companion said something beneath his breath and moved back to the bait bucket.

  "What happened?"

  "It took my bait, but not the hook."

  "You were hoodwinked by a fish?"

  "Do not sound so surprised, Miss Farnham. It has happened to wiser men."

  He re-baited his hook and returned to his seat, and silence reigned again. She looked to the horizon and the line looked darker, and longer. Perhaps there would be theaters at that island. Even if a play was in French she could still enjoy it, because after all, one did not go to the theater to watch a play, one went to the theater to be watched and commented upon. But who would escort her to the theater? The very idea of Dr. Murray in his rumpled coat and gray hairs escorting her made her giggle, a sound quickly stifled so she would not annoy him again, although why he thought her conversation would disturb anythi--

  "Eep!"

  Daphne grabbed her line and held on with both hands.

  "Doctor! Something is happening!"

  Dr. Murray rushed over and the rocking of the craft nearly caused Daphne to lose her grip, but she clung to her line and braced her feet against the side of the boat.

  "You've caught something."

  "What do I do?"

  "Do not panic and do not let go. Here, let me help."

  He seated himself behind her and put his arms around her, grabbing hold of her wrist with one hand to brace it, while the other hand moved in front of where she gripped the line and held on. Daphne immediately felt the reassurance of his strength added to hers and anchoring them.

  "You won't escape, fish!"

  "That's the spirit, Miss Farnham, show him you are more intelligent than he is," he said right next to her ear. "Now, let me help you play him in."

  Daphne concentrated, but when Dr. Murray shifted forward, his bristled cheek brushed against hers and she tried hard not to jump at the contact. The fish was important but she was vividly aware of the strong arms wrapped about her, his body pressed to hers. He was still in his shirtsleeves, and the thin layer of linen allowed her to feel the muscles of his chest against her back, her own body separated from his only by the material of her chemise and the night rail. His body was sun-warmed and his head blocked some of the light, shading her in the late afternoon.

  Neither of them smelled fresh at this point but rather than be offended, Daphne found Dr. Murray's scent oddly stimulating. It wasn't sweet like George's cologne, but smelled musky and male and she wanted to wiggle bac
k farther into his lap, much as Pompom enjoyed doing in hers.

  But there were fish to catch. Dr. Murray was speaking in low tones, his Scots burr more pronounced as he instructed her.

  "Follow my lead, Miss Farnham. When I begin to pull, exert pressure and pull back with me, but in a steady movement, not jerkily. Be prepared to play out the line if I tell you."

  "Wouldn't it be better for me to pass you the line?" Daphne whispered, not wanting to alert the canny fish to their plans.

  "Too much risk of losing him. This is your catch, Miss Farnham. You will bring him in."

  His matter-of-fact voice soothed her, and she sat up a bit straighter, basking in the confidence he displayed in her abilities. It also moved her a fraction away from his distracting torso and allowed her to concentrate.

  Dr. Murray's hand covered hers, his a much richer color, and she felt calluses and roughness from where he'd gripped saws and instruments and the tools of his trade over many years. The only other times she'd felt a man's hand in hers, the hand had been properly gloved or smoothly pampered and manicured, not the sinewy hand of someone who worked hard at his craft.

  His other hand was over her wrist.

  "Your pulse is racing, Miss Farnham."

  He played out some of the line as he said this, and Daphne felt the tug of the sea creature, unseen beneath the waves, but beginning to fight back against the humans.

  "It is so exciting!" Daphne said in a low voice. "I am catching a fish!"

  "Do not fry your fish before it is caught, Miss Farnham. We still must be patient, and calm."

  Daphne nodded once, but even as she followed his lead and began to pull on the line, she wondered what it would take for Dr. Murray to lose his composure and not be so calm and unruffled.

  "Now, Miss Farnham, we are going to bring this laddie closer."

  He began pulling on the line with a steady but gentle pressure and Daphne worked with him. The fish fought back but they held on, even though the line cut into Daphne's hands and she knew she would not be able to hold the sea creature without assistance.