by Carla Kelly
“Certainly,” he replied, sitting beside her. “I would do just about anything to hear you laugh. Now, the good news—Gunner Small is still on this side of the topsoil.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, closing her eyes in relief.
“No, it’s not funny,” he said, his arm around her. “There was nothing amusing about last night.”
“Must I go to Torquay?”
“Aye. I’m afraid for your safety. You were lucky last night.”
She couldn’t argue with that, even though the events seemed to lose their focus, cradled in the arms of a man she adored. “It’s better if Davey Dabney doesn’t feel obligated to watch over me.”
He went back to his clothespress, hunting for a neck cloth this time. When he found it, he held it out to her. She put it around his neck and tied it, then handed him his waistcoat from the chair.
“Can’t you take a few minutes to sleep?” she asked.
“No. Walk me downstairs.”
She did, not wanting to let him out of her sight because she did not know when she would see him again. He sensed her reluctance and sat with her on the bottom step.
“I’ll certify Matthew for release this morning. Take him with you. Nana wants to see him, and he can convalesce in Torquay. I already arranged for a post chaise for noon. You’ll be with Nana by nightfall.”
She clutched his hand as he started to rise. “You’ll come and see me soon?”
“How could I do otherwise?” He gently pried her fingers from his. “Captain Brackett is trying to arrange for two more surgeons. We’re far too busy, thanks to our Corsican friend.”
“Mrs. Ormes and Pierre are due back today,” she told him as she walked him to the door. “I know she will be happy to continue her work here, as long as you feel she is needed. And Pierre and Lillian, of course.”
He nodded. “I won’t say no.” He opened the front door, then closed it quickly, taking her in his arms and kissing her as she clung to him. “Dear, dear lady,” he crooned. “I’ll come as soon as I can.”
She was sitting on her bed later, staring at her open trunk, when Aunt Walters came upstairs with her freshly washed linen.
“Lady Taunton, things are looking up,” she said as she put it in the trunk. “Think what help you’ll be to Mrs. Worthy.”
The tears started then. “When will I see Philemon again, and him so busy?”
Aunt Walters hugged her. “My nephew won’t be a stranger at Torquay.”
Laura dried her eyes, grateful for a task as prosaic as packing. As a consequence, when Sir David Carew knocked on the door later and demanded to see her, she was calm and ready for anything.
It was a brief interview. Barely looking her in the eye, he railed at her over her dangerous course in trusting seamen who were little better than felons and not worthy of her attention, in the first place. As he blathered on, she thought of David Dabney, weak but determined, standing over Billy, and Matthew and the others watching out for her when she didn’t even realize it. These were no felons.
She had heard enough. She stood up, which had the felicitous result in stopping the flow of words. “Sir David, I am returning to Torquay to stay with my sister, Mrs. Captain Worthy.”
“Not to Taunton?”
“No. It was never a home to me, Sir David,” she said simply. “I prefer to be with my relatives.”
He looked at her, as if trying to decide what to say. “Lady Taunton, isn’t Mrs. Worthy the granddaughter of an innkeeper?”
There it is, she thought. The old hypocrite has probably been wondering how a baroness is related to someone as common as Nana Worthy. Since she was leaving, why keep him in the dark?
“Nana and I are the natural daughters of William Stokes, Viscount Ratliffe, late undersecretary of the Admiralty and now in a Spanish prison. I believe he is thought to be a hero. Nana and I are his bastards.”
Sir David stepped back as though she had shot him. “You?”
“Yes. When I wash and put on a good dress, it’s hard to tell, isn’t it?”
“Lady Taunton!”
“Don’t be shocked. It happens in the best of families.”
She thought he would leave then, but he had more to say. “This must explain Lt. Brittle’s odd attraction to you. Considering your origins now, and his, of course, it’s hardly surprising.”
She held her breath, far more concerned about mention of her surgical assistance last night that went beyond the bounds of any matron, than the aspersions he was throwing about. “Come, sir. I have surrendered my position at Stonehouse. What Lt. Brittle does is his business.”
“No, madam, it is not,” Sir David shot back. “He belongs to the Royal Navy.”
“And you are lucky to have him,” she replied, just as quickly. “His private life is his own, though. Even a warrant from the Navy Board can’t take that away.” She smiled, which only made Sir David turn redder than he already was. “We’re both quite common, probably as common as the seamen you are forced to endure.”
Sir David glowered at her, and she gazed back serenely, even though her insides churned.
“I see I have overstayed my welcome.”
What welcome? she thought. “I’m leaving, Sir David,” she reminded him gently. “Let me go in peace.”
Laura and Matthew arrived on Nana Worthy’s doorstep after dark, with a howling autumn wind to blow them up the front steps. Nana, visibly much more pregnant, was only two steps behind the housekeeper. She flung her arms open wide for Laura, then laughed as she stood sideways so they could embrace.
Cares don’t melt, Laura told herself as she reached for her sister. Do they? She kissed Nana, then indicated Matthew. “He will be useful, because Lt. Brittle told him he is the captain’s steward-to-be and on duty the moment he signed his release papers from Stonehouse. Yes, Nana, Matthew signed his own papers. He can write.”
Nana beamed at the powder monkey, who clutched his knit cap in his fist, eyes proud. “You will be an excellent steward, Matthew. I will show you how the captain likes his coffee. Come in, you two. I have been hungry for you both.”
Philemon was not prepared for the sadness that gutted him when he knew Laura would never ward walk with him again. Never before had he been less content in what most men would have considered an odious occupation, but one that ordinarily gave him deep satisfaction. He knew how much he wanted Laura Taunton. He also wanted no one to know, because it would ruffle his usually sanguine composure.
Or so he thought. Comfort came from an unexpected corner. A week after Laura’s departure, when October blew itself into November, he was sitting by Gunner Small, who was alert now and looking around for breakfast.
Captain Brackett wasn’t due on deck until hours later, but suddenly there he was, pulling up another stool and joining him beside the gunner’s bed. Brackett looked with interest at Small’s abdomen, no longer red and swollen, and pressed on it gently, as pleased as Philemon to see the drainage pale now and not full of infection.
“Gunner, you have more lives than a cat,” Brackett commented.
“Dunno about that, sir, but I’m fair hungry enough to eat one.”
Philemon handed Small’s chart to the orderly. “I’ve prescribed a moderate diet that does not include cat. Let’s see what your bowels will do in the next few days.” He turned to Brackett. “What’s the matter? Are you tired of sleep?”
The surgeons walked into the corridor and leaned their elbows on the railing, their typical consultation pose. Brackett just looked at him for a long moment. Philemon felt his heart sink.
“Owen, tell me Sir David isn’t on your case, too, about what happened?” he asked softly.
“No, that’s your purgatory. I hear he scraped you over like barnacles on knuckles for allowing Lady Taunton into a post mortem.”
Philemon winced. “He swore to put a letter so big in my file that not even the most nearsighted member of the Navy Board could overlook it.”
Brackett frowned.
“He’s a bastard, is little Davy.”
The surgeons contemplated the view of the stairwell again. Brackett spoke softer. “I hear Lady Taunton removed the detritus from Gunner Small. Just a rumor, mind.”
“She had the surest hand. He’s alive because of her. Not a word, though.”
More contemplation over the railing. Philemon couldn’t think of anything to say to his colleague that would begin to express his own misery, without reminding the newly widowed captain of his own loss.
“I’ve requested two more surgeons and four mates,” Brackett said. “Little Davy moaned about expenses, but he agreed. When the first one arrives, I’m putting you on leave for two weeks, but you’ll be lucky to get one. Marry that lady.”
Philemon glanced at his superior, then looked down the stairs again. “You’re the one needing leave.”
“I had mine, thanks to you, Phil,” was Brackett’s quiet reply. “You gave me two weeks to bury my wife and make arrangements for my son, when affairs here were at their busiest.”
“You take the leave,” Philemon urged.
“No. Keeping busy helps.” Brackett started down the stairs. “No argument, Phil. Go home and come back a happier man. That’s an order.”
He had no desire to argue. That night he wrote a long letter to Laura, telling her of Gunner Small’s improvement, Davey Dabney’s continuing recuperation, and about others he knew she would want to hear of. He told her he loved her, and that he was coming to Torquay as soon as he could. Signing it All my love seemed inadequate, but he had never signed a letter that way before, so it took his breath away, all the same.
Laura read the letter over and over. Philemon had been right. As much as he missed her, he knew she was needed in Torquay, buoying up her little sister.
“Keep me busy,” Nana ordered her, and Laura did, walking with her down to the harbor, even though Nana was shy to be seen. Arm in arm and well-cloaked against the misty coolness of November on the Devon coast, the sisters walked and talked.
When she felt brave enough, Laura asked Nana about making love. “Maybe I am an idiot to ask these things,” she confessed, as they sat at quayside one sunny afternoon before beginning the climb up steep streets to the Worthy home. “I was married for years.”
“Not to anyone who cared about you,” Nana reminded her. She smiled and covered her mouth, shy for a moment. “As much as I miss the Mulberry Inn, I admit to enjoying my own home, where Oliver doesn’t have to shush me when I get excited about what we’re doing.” She turned her face into Laura’s shoulder. “Oh, sister, I love him so much. When I make him happy, he returns the favor. Did you never…”
“Not yet,” Laura whispered, her eyes on two children trailing after their mother. “Will I know when it happens?”
“Heavens, yes,” Nana said, her face rosy. “Don’t be afraid to enjoy every single second. Right now, our men are on loan to us from King George, but it won’t always be this way.” Her voice was wistful. “Oliver tells me…” She lowered her voice. “He says he can’t wait until peace is declared, and he can spend an entire day in bed with me, wearing nothing but a day-old beard! He is a rascal.”
“So are you,” Laura teased. She grew serious then. “I only hope I am not afraid, when the moment comes. Philemon says he is a patient man.”
Nana got to her feet. “I think you will be in excellent hands. And other parts, too. Don’t look at me like that!”
They walked slowly to the house, only to have Nana stop, put her hand to her mouth, and sob out loud. Oliver Worthy sat on the front porch, his long legs propped up on the railing.
“Thought I’d have to leave a memo with my regrets, tacked to the door,” he said, as Nana hurried toward him. He laughed and grabbed her, carefully lowering her to the bench beside him. Then he was kissing his wife as though it had been years instead of months, gathering her as close as he could. Laura hurried past them into the house, hardly able to contain her own delight to see a sister happy.
She was reading in the sitting room when the Worthys came inside, Nana’s face red with whisker burn and her arm around her husband’s waist. Oliver kissed Laura’s forehead.
“That’s from your surgeon.” He reached inside his uniform. “Here’s a letter.” He hefted it. “Not very heavy, but he said he wrote a longer one last week.”
“He did,” Laura said, shy suddenly. She took it, and glanced at the Worthys, who weren’t paying her the slightest attention. “I know I hear an ax murderer in the book room. Should I alert the Sea Fencibles?”
“By all means,” Nana murmured, her eyes on her husband.
Laura laughed and took her letter upstairs, reading the sparse note.
Captain Brackett has allowed me two weeks’ leave when another surgeon arrives. Still ready to be spliced?
That was all. She thought of all the reasons why it was a supremely stupid idea, but went to her desk and wrote “Yes,” then sealed it with a wafer. She gave it to Oliver in the morning when he came downstairs, his face a mask of pain.
“It’s back to Plymouth?” she asked, unsettled by his expression.
“Aye. Walk with me to the quay, Laura.”
She grabbed her cloak and turned to see Matthew ready, too, his eyes as serious as his captain’s. He had slung his seabag over his shoulder, anchoring it casually with the hook Philemon had commissioned. You’re so young, she thought, as the sight of his hook jolted her. And you belong to King George, too. This war must end.
It was a silent walk. When they arrived at the dock, Oliver sent Matthew ahead to the coasting vessel.
“I hope you told him yes,” he said, a smile playing around his lips now.
“I couldn’t do anything else,” she replied simply. “I love him.”
He tucked her letter inside his peacoat. “He’ll have this before noon. I’m off to Admiralty House then, and when I return, back to my station off Spain.” He looked up the hill toward his home. “Nana needs you more than ever.” His eyes filled with tears and he made no attempt to brush them away. “This is harder than anything I have ever done.”
“She’ll be fine, Oliver,” Laura said, her hand on his arm, “and you’ll return when you can.”
“It’s the deuce of a business.” He kissed her cheek and left her alone on the dock. When she walked back up the hill, Nana stood at the sitting room window, the palms of her hands pressed against the glass.
Philemon was changing a dressing when Oliver dropped the letter in his lap. Surprised, he looked up at the captain, who didn’t look inclined to move until he opened it. He left bloody fingerprints on the paper as he pried off the wafer.
“She’s a woman of few words,” he commented, holding it up for Oliver to see. “So we are to be brothers-in-law?”
“It would appear so.” Oliver clapped him on the shoulder. “The sooner the better, too. Since you’ve never done this, and I have, I recommend a special license.”
“That’s out of my league,” Philemon said.
“Not at all, considering that is my wedding present to you, brother. I have pounds sterling rolling around and up to no good, and the lenient ear of Lord Mulgrave, who knows how to grease matrimonial wheels for Channel men.”
“Is it legal if I am not there to sign the document?” Philemon asked.
“Philemon is spelled with one m or two?” Oliver grew serious immediately. “I’ll mail it to you from London, because when I return to Plymouth, I do not have time to come here or to Torquay.” He crouched beside Oliver’s stool then. “Brother, do me this favor. Be there when Nana has the baby. I know Mr. Milton is an excellent accoucheur, but I prefer you there. Please.”
“Consider it done if humanly possible,” Philemon said. He took a deep breath. “And my…my madam will assist. This is all provided you jab Boney wherever you can.”
“I always do. Goodbye, Philemon.”
Chapter Sixteen
Oliver was as good as his word. The special license arrived from London the same day the
Tangier sailed with a fair wind to Spain. Philemon had earlier signed the medical releases of Oliver’s men who were fit for sea, and felt a momentary pang. His father was on board, and his future brother-in-law. For just a moment, he wanted to sail with them. Then he remembered his own admonition.
“We all fight Boney the best way we know how,” he told Davey Dabney.
“My war’s over, isn’t it?” Davey asked him. “Don’t be afraid to tell me.”
“Yes, it is,” Philemon said frankly. “You no longer have the range of motion that a foretopman needs, even though I am delighted with how well you have healed.”
“I’m going to miss that view from a hundred and sixty feet up,” Davey said, his voice wistful. “What am I fit for now?”
“My notion and potion room,” Philemon said with a gesture.
“Good God, sir, I could kill someone down here!”
Philemon could not help his gallows laugh. “I manage to kill them on all floors, Davey, so don’t limit yourself.” He sighed and passed his hand in front of his eyes. “I wonder if we will ever know enough…” He let the thought resonate, then looked at the foretopman. “Davey, you can be trained to do this work.”
“No money, sir.”
“I can find it.” Philemon perched himself on a stool. “In fact, I am about to leave for Torquay to marry Mrs. Taunton. Before she left Stonehouse, she was wondering what she could do about your future.”
“She cares that much?” Davey said. “I…I was just returning the favor she showed me.”
“I am ever in your debt for that, too. Davey, Mrs. Taunton stands ready to pay your expenses to become an apothecary.”
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed, and it sounded almost reverent. He looked at the stoppered glass bottles with their murky contents and Latin labels. “You think I could learn all this?”
“I am certain of it. You are bright. You also have a facility for ciphering. The mere fact of your survival tells me of your determination. You could go to the University of Edinburgh and survive my old professors with more facility than I did, probably. Think about it, Davey.”