A shudder ran down her spine.
"How do you do it, Doctor? How do you know when to cut someone? Do you ever hesitate?"
He paused, and looked at her across the fire, then resumed caring for his tools.
"The human body is an amazing machine, Miss Farnham. I have seen people survive horrific injuries and diseases and in some cases live out a normal span of years. Whatever I can do to help someone survive, I do. Even if I must remove a limb to ensure that survival."
"My mother did not live out her normal span," Daphne said abruptly. She had not thought about her mother for days, but she knew even now, all these years later, her mother was a constant presence in her life.
"What happened to your mother?"
Daphne sighed. Pompom, sensing his mistress's mood, snuggled closer and licked her hand, and she patted his round belly.
"She died giving birth. The baby also."
He nodded, not offering sympathy or words of comfort.
"How old were you when that happened?"
"I was seven."
She remembered it so well. She was not allowed into the room, of course, but she hid outside the bedroom, in the hall, and watched the servants scurry back and forth. First her mother's abigail, then the midwife, and finally the man-midwife her father hired for the birth. The hours dragged on. While there were shrieks in the beginning, in the end there were only moans, and then silence.
Late that night, the servants came looking for her, and then her father came looking for her. He found her hiding behind the drapery, rocking back and forth and humming to herself, hoping that if she was a good girl her mama would call for her.
Her papa picked her up and held her tight and she'd felt his tears wetting the back of her neck. He carried her in to say goodbye to mama and to the little brother who would never grow to be a playmate for her. Her mother looked asleep, but pale, so very pale.
"Why do people die, Doctor?"
"Their hearts cease beating and they stop breathing," he said calmly. "If you are looking for a theological or philosophical answer, you will have to look elsewhere."
He set his saw aside and looked at her.
"I learned many, many years ago, Miss Farnham, death is one of the few things you can be sure of in this world. We are all dying, all of us, from the moment we first draw breath. I cannot beat the Grim Reaper, but there are days I can hold him at bay."
Daphne thought about this. It explained why the man was the way he was. Dealing every day with death and disease, if he became emotional or hysterical or swooned at the sight of blood, it would be difficult for him to do his job.
It was comfortable sitting here in the night air in front of the fire, with Dr. Murray. They were talking about serious things, the kind of conversation no one wanted to have with her. Who knew how long they would be here together? The more she knew about the doctor, the better she would be able to deal with him.
"It occurs to me, Dr. Murray, that you could probably call me 'Daphne,' instead of 'Miss Farnham,' considering the circumstances."
"Would you then want to call me Alexander, Miss Farnham?"
"Why would I want to call you-- Oh! That is your name."
"Your mind is unequalled," he said beneath his breath, but she heard him and smiled at his compliment.
"No, let us keep our relationship at a more formal level, Miss Farnham. We shall be rescued soon, and the less conjecture there is about us, the better. Too much informality would only feed gossip."
Daphne blinked at him. She knew people thought her naive, but this...
"Dr. Murray," she said gently, "I ran off with George Tyndale. There is no way people will put anything but the worst possible interpretation on our being stranded together here. I will have to work hard to regain a place in society, a place amongst people who love gossip. They have nothing of real substance to discuss, other than fashion, of course, so they spend their time tearing down peoples' reputations. They're not like you and me, doing important and useful things."
"It does not sound like a pleasant milieu, Miss Farnham. I am surprised you choose to dwell in that setting."
"For now, it is where I am comfortable, Dr. Murray. I am used to it."
He cocked his head to the side and looked at her.
"Where would you be more comfortable?"
"I like this," she said wistfully. She pulled up her knees and rested her head on them. "Not for the rest of my life, but I like being stranded here, away from people judging me and gossiping about me. Of course, I would also like to wear shoes and a proper hat, so I do hope we will be rescued."
"Did you just insult my handiwork, Miss Farnham? I believe that is a most excellent hat I made for you."
Daphne giggled.
"You are teasing me, Doctor. But I do like your hat. It is practical because it keeps the sun out of my eyes."
"Exactly. A hat should protect your head from the elements. It does not need fripperies to make it function properly."
"Those fripperies you dismiss make wearing the hat fun as well as functional. And there is nothing wrong with that," she said firmly.
"So you say," he said, but even in the firelight she saw the glint in his eye and the lessening of tension around his jaw that might be the most this man could conjure up in the way of a smile. It would do until he learned how to smile properly.
* * * *
Alexander was enjoying himself. And that was a problem. It was one thing to avoid intimacy with Miss Daphne Farnham when he thought her a china-headed fashion doll. It was much harder when he saw her as a person, a person capable of involving him in conversation he found pleasurable rather than burdensome.
And he could not banish that kiss from his mind. It reminded him of when he was sixteen and everything, every passing thought, seemed focused on women and sexual relations. Bread rising on the kitchen table made him think of intercourse. Of course, at that age it had all been hypothetical. Now it was worse. The craving carried with it an idea of just how marvelous it would be to have Miss Farnham beneath him, responding to his caresses as she'd responded to his kiss earlier.
He could not count on her rebuffing him if he made advances toward her. Her response earlier was all he could wish for in a woman he wanted to bed.
That was part of the problem. Miss Daphne Farnham, society beauty and toast of London, wanted him, Alexander Murray, a Scottish bastard with few social skills and a lifetime of gore and disease in his wake. He was not an idiot, he knew his looks were at best passable. He did not flatter himself he was the answer to a maiden's prayer, but he was only human. Being desired by a beautiful woman was making it hard to resist doing something stupid.
Miss Farnham was no shy retiring damsel, her response to his kiss proved she was a young woman of passion. He feared if her fiery nature came into contact with his dry-as-dust sensibilities it would cause a conflagration of epic proportions. A true disaster. Which is why he had to resist looking at her, and try not to think about the coming hours when they would adjourn to their little shack, and he would lie next to her voluptuous form, her skin in contact with his nearly naked body.
Alexander stood abruptly and said, "Your pardon, Miss Farnham, I will be back shortly."
He knew walking about in the dark was a good way to trip and break a leg, but logic was overridden by the need to put some distance between them, at least for a few more minutes.
Eventually, he had to return. Miss Farnham was sitting with her arms around her knees, humming to herself. She looked up at his approach and smiled at him as he sat across from her.
That was the thing. She smiled at him all the time. As if there was something about him worth smiling at, something that inspired in her feelings of warmth and...friendship? It could not possibly be anything stronger, not between the two of them. It was not just the difference in their status, it was that they were such different people. No doubt in a different place they would bore each other to tears. It was only here, now, without other distractions he w
as able to tolerate her. And vice versa.
He also had the proof of his own eyes that Miss Farnham smiled at strange men with little provocation. He'd seen it aboard the Magpie.
"Miss Farnham, why do you smile at me?"
The abrupt question wiped the smile from her face.
"Because I like you?" she asked tentatively, as if unsure of her own feelings or his reaction. Then she rallied and said, "Smiling is something people do, Dr. Murray. Some of us, anyway. I am not sure you know how to smile. Have you always been such a sobersides?"
"Yes."
She sniffed.
"Well! When I have a little boy, I will smile at him all the time, so that he does not grow up into a big grumpy stick!"
Alexander looked into the flames dancing in the firepit, and remembered a russet-haired woman who smiled even when worn down by the cares of the world and the upbringing of a fatherless boy.
"You do that, Miss Farnham. Little boys need to be smiled at. Especially the grumpy ones. They need smiles the most."
She propped her chin on her hand and studied him.
"Tell me about your family, Dr. Murray. I know you did not have a father, but did you have anyone else? Cousins?"
"No, there was just my mother and me," he said, still looking at the fire, and not the woman. "Mother had to leave home; her family did not want her living nearby."
"Oh. Surely you had friends?"
"Children are taught not to befriend boys who are bast--who do not have fathers." He was not inclined to say more, but the words kept flowing.
"I did have one close friend, Jamie Campbell."
"Where is he now?"
"He is dead, Miss Farnham, killed in an accident when he was ten years old."
"He fell from a tree, didn't he?"
He looked at her across the low burning fire. Her face was unusually grave and it struck him again that Miss Farnham saw things with an acuity he would not expect from her, an ability to see deep into a person. It was disturbing, especially when he had his neatly ordered view of her where she resided in the compartment labeled "widgeon."
"Yes. We were climbing after the last of the season's apples. Jamie stood on a branch that looked sturdy enough, but could not bear his weight. It snapped. He fell to the ground."
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to dredge up the memories.
"His organs were damaged, and he was bleeding internally. Bones poked--I sat there with him, paralyzed with fear, but there was no one near enough to run to for assistance."
"You could not save him."
"I know now no one could have saved him. But at the time, all I knew was how helpless I was, incapable of doing anything."
"Dr. Murray, this tragedy could just as easily have happened if your friend Jamie were climbing by himself, or with another boy, correct?"
He looked at her. Without her smiles, her face was the face of the grown woman she was, not that of a giggly girl. She was still every bit as beautiful but in a different fashion, the difference between Athena and Aphrodite.
"Yes, he could still have fallen and died."
"Then your being there accomplished something. You could not save him, but you were with him. He did not die alone."
Now it was her turn to look into the fire.
"When George was dying of his fever, he did not know me. He cried out for his mother, so I stayed with him, and held his hand, and allowed him to think his mother was with him at his last moments. The odd thing is, Dr. Murray, I know George's mother, and she is as frozen as one of Gunter's ices. I cannot imagine her interrupting one of her card games or dress fittings to stay with a dying man, even her son."
"You must have loved George Tyndale very much."
She was silent for such a long time, he was not sure she'd heard him.
"No. I did not love him, but I was fond of him. He was fun, and fashionable, and he made me laugh. I did not need to marry for money, and I thought George was what I wanted in a husband."
"Is that why you ran off with him to Jamaica?"
She was sitting with her arms clasped around her knees, her bare toes peeking out in the firelight.
"My papa..." she swallowed and tried to speak again. "Papa arranged a marriage for me, a marriage I did not want."
She looked at him, and there was confusion furrowing her smooth brow.
"I told Papa over and over again that I could not marry Lord Bernard, that he was too old, and his breath smelled rank, but Papa would not listen. I knew I could not be happy with this man, but Papa said he knew what was best for me, and it was for my own good. I would be a countess, and I needed someone to take care of me, and that was what mattered.
"When George suggested we run off together, it seemed like the best idea. And it was fun," she said wistfully, "Until he realized my father was not going to give us any money and we were stuck in Jamaica, and then George became ill. My father sent Mrs. Cowper after me and you know the rest, Dr. Murray."
"Miss Farnham, were you actually married to George Tyndale?"
"Why do you ask?"
"It seems a reasonable question, since everyone calls you 'Miss Farnham.'"
She cleared her throat, and clasped her hands tighter around her knees.
"George said the captain on the ship would marry us, and he had with him what he said was a special license. It looked impressive, full of Latin and flourishes, and I saw both our names on it, and I believed him.
"Do you know what, Dr. Murray? It turned out that it was not a special license at all. It was a ruse! George was in such a hurry to hustle me away before my father married me off he was willing to lie for me! He must have really, really wanted to marry me."
Alexander thought it more probably he really, really wanted access to Miss Farnham's fortune. But Tyndale was dead and unable to defend himself, and Miss Farnham had had enough of her illusions about the good nature of people quashed like a butterfly beneath a boot. He did not need to add to the list.
She continued, "And I know now George had no funds for a special license. Then the captain said he would not marry us, that it would not be a legal marriage. By then I was with George in the middle of the ocean. George told me we were as good as married and we would make it legal in Jamaica."
She sighed.
"You must think me a complete hussy, Dr. Murray."
Alexander opened his mouth, and closed it, and held back his first response.
"I think you are a young woman who feels emotions strongly, Miss Farnham. And you are trusting."
And naive and credulous and gullible...
"Yes, that is it, Dr. Murray. You know me so well. I like people! What is wrong with that?"
He did not need to interfere, but he felt compelled to say something. It was too easy to lead Daphne Farnham astray. Wave something bright and shiny in front of her, or tell her lies, and she would give you one of those heartfelt smiles and do whatever you asked.
"Miss Farnham, I suppose it is not a bad thing to like people. It has never appealed to me, so I cannot say for certain. However, it might keep you out of difficult situations if you learned how to be somewhat less trusting. Sadly, not everyone has your best interests at heart."
"I know that, Dr. Murray! I am not a complete ninny, you know."
There must have been something showing on his face--like utter disbelief--for she continued.
"No, really, I am not. But I worry..."
She looked around to make sure no one was listening, oblivious to the fact that they were on a deserted island. He took a drink while he waited to hear what worried her.
"I worry, Dr. Murray, that I have unnatural desires."
Alexander sprayed out his drink as he choked. Daphne Farnham pounded on his back until the wheezing subsided. She watched him anxiously.
"I shocked you. I was afraid that would happen, but I also thought..." She looked down at her hands, twisting together in her lap. "I thought since you are a surgeon I could talk to you. Remember on the boat when
you said my parts were no different from any other woman's? I thought since you knew all about women's parts, you could talk with me about this."
He wiped his face with his hand, trying to collect thoughts which had blown up like a Congreve rocket.
"Have you had a conversation like this with your physician?"
"Oh, heavens, no! Talk about this with Dr. Drummond? I could never!"
Alexander almost said, "Then why am I being blessed this way?" but after all, Miss Farnham trusted him. She was not the first person who had asked him to keep a confidence, though he was not yet sure her issue was a medical one or a moral one. But a surgeon heard all sorts of information in the course of his work and he could deal with this professionally. He hoped.
She couldn't know that all he knew about women were their parts, that the last woman he'd spent any real time with had died tragically, that since then his relations were only with women who wanted his silver, not his opinion?
"I worry I am not normal, Dr. Murray. You know how women say they do not like 'that part' of being married? I liked it. I liked it a lot! I liked it in the morning, I liked it late at night, I liked it in the afternoon, after luncheon." She frowned. "I did not like it during luncheon, that was messy."
Sweat broke out on Alexander's brow as he tried hard not to think about Miss Farnham on the luncheon table, her skirts tossed up and honey drizzled across a belly as delectable as Devonshire's finest cream.
"Do you think I am normal to have these strong feelings, Doctor?"
He cleared his throat, took a sip of water, and looked at her. She was gazing at him with anticipation, and he chose his words as carefully as he'd ever felt his way around a wound.
"Normal--" he started, then stopped. Did he have even the vaguest idea of what was normal, or was he going off half-cocked, without having evidence to back up his pronouncements? Hadn't he spent his entire life looking at symptoms and vital signs before making a diagnosis?
"Here is what I think," he said slowly, trying to sound like he knew what he was talking about. "You are a young healthy adult who was married. More or less. The amount--and types--of activity you engage in would depend on the abilities and desires of the two people involved, and based on what you told me, I cannot find anything abnormal in your behavior."
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