Dangerous Waters (12 page)

Once more he took a breath as if to speak. But conditioned by experience of Falmouth's medical practitioners she knew an apology was unlikely. Nor was she willing to listen to excuses justifying his behaviour.

“Dr Crossley, you are the ship's surgeon. My skills, such as they are, pose no threat to your position or professional standing. The accident occurred when I was available to offer assistance and you were not. That is the sum of it. However, though I stand by the efficacy of my treatments, you would oblige me greatly by examining Mr Matcham's ankle so you may reassure yourself, and me, that I have done no harm.”

Jowan fought a maelstrom of emotions as he gazed at her. His first thought was that she looked magnificent. Despite her courteous tone there was no doubting the indignation betrayed by her rigid posture, the blaze in her eyes, a defiantly tilted chin, and cheeks flushed deep rose.

That she dared even suggest he might feel threatened had triggered a welling fury. But it had ebbed as swiftly as it had risen as he recognised the truth of her claim. He
did
feel threatened. But not for the reason she assumed. Her treatment of Matcham's injury was just an excuse. So she had bound up a twisted ankle. Any sensible woman could have done as much. Though few would have had arnica tincture available for a healing compress. What really unsettled him was his attraction to her. Perhaps if they had met under different circumstances… But they hadn't. He was a gentleman and must behave like one.

Yet the more he learned about her the harder that became. He bitterly resented the position into which he had been forced. Blaming her wasn't fair. He knew that. But she was the focus, the cause of a turmoil he had not expected and didn't know how to combat.

Weary of being targeted by mothers of marriageable daughters, and furious at his own family's attempts to push him into a marriage he did not want, he had joined the Packet Service to escape pressures that had become unbearable.

He had believed he would be free of female company for a few months. When he heard he had been appointed Miss Phoebe Dymond's escort and guardian he had wished her in hell. But now having met her, beginning to know her, he knew himself there.

She intrigued and attracted him as no other woman ever had. Being officially responsible for her safety offered him legitimate and unlimited opportunity to spend time in her company. But the inescapable fact of her being betrothed to another man meant this was a poisoned chalice. She was under his protection. How ironic that the person from whom she most needed protection was him.

“Doctor Crossley?” Phoebe's voice broke into his raging thoughts.

“Thank you, Miss Dymond.” The strain of his inner battle lent harshness to his voice. “I do not think I need your permission to examine an injured passenger.” Listening to her and Downey talk with such ease at the table had been both revelation and torment. There was so much more to her than he had imagined or her demure dress and reserved manner suggested. He had wanted to join in the conversation. But he was jealous of the rapport she and Downey shared. Besides, he had felt physically wretched. He still did. Forcing down even that small amount of food had drenched him with the cold sweat of nausea. Afraid of betraying weakness he had stayed silent.

“I will of course check Mr Matcham's ankle tomorrow,” he said. Seeing the colour deepen in her cheeks he cursed himself for a pompous idiot. Perspiration trickled down his sides and stuck his shirt to his back.

“I'm sure he'll appreciate the attention.” Her face was carefully expressionless. She had withdrawn like a snail into the protection of its shell. “If there's nothing else you wish to say to me, Doctor?”

There was so much. Biting his tongue to stop a flood of dangerous words reaching his lips he jerked his head in abrupt denial.

“Then you will excuse me.” She nodded coolly and walked out, her head high, her back radiating – what? He didn't know her well enough and she was too skilled at masking her emotions for him to guess. But whatever negative feelings she harboured towards him –he deserved them all.

As the door closed behind her he turned away cursing violently under his breath. As it re-opened he swung round, hope surging. It wasn't her. Why would it be?
What a fool.

The master strode in, pausing as he saw the saloon's occupant. His bushy brows lifted. “You looking for me, Doctor?”

“No, Mr Burley, thank you. I was just –” Jowan stopped. How could he explain his actions to the master?

“Miss Dymond all right, is she?”

Either Burley had seen her as he descended the stairs or he had passed her in the passage.

“Yes, she's –” Jowan's voice rasped and he cleared his throat. “She's fine. Apparently Mr Matcham took a fall and sprained his ankle. She went to his aid.”

“She did?” Burley's bushy brows climbed higher.

“She informs me she is experienced in the use of herbs to treat illness and injury. I will of course take a look at Matcham myself, just to reassure myself, and him.”

“Now I think of it Tierney did say something about her being useful should we run into any trouble. But to tell you the truth I wasn't taking much notice at the time. I had too much else to think about.”

“How would he have known?” Jowan strove to make his tone off-hand, as if he had little interest in the answer.

“Through her uncle,” Burley replied. “George Oakes is a senior captain. He's on the Lisbon run now. His wife was a healer and midwife. Well-known and well-liked by all accounts. Sad business.” Burley shook his head.

“Sad?” Jowan prompted.

“Killed, she was. Must be, oh, a couple of years ago now.” Burley pulled a face. “A horse pulling a timber wagon took fright in the main street and bolted. The wagon tipped over and Mrs Oakes was crushed under the load.” Jowan swallowed as Burley continued. “Died before they could get her out.” He sighed and shook his head. “I dunno, it always seem to be the best that's taken before their time.” he straightened. “You needn't worry. If Miss Dymond was taught by her aunt then she knows what she's doing.”

Jowan nodded without comment. A little more of the tantalising puzzle that was Phoebe Dymond had been revealed. Though it appeared her claim to some experience of diagnosis and treatment was proved, how could she compare her study of herbs to his intensive training in medicine and surgery? She couldn't. But nor had she. It was
he
who was contrasting the quality and worth of their
knowledge.
Why?
Why should this girl's ability challenge his vastly superior erudition and expertise? It didn't, couldn't. So why did he feel the need to guard his professional territory so jealously? What was wrong with him? He was tired to his soul. His brother's death, his parents' grief and the weight of their desires and expectations had left him exhausted. At least his work aboard had posed no problems so far. Which was just as well considering his dreadful queasiness.

Burley moved behind his desk. “Can't be easy for her. Being the only female aboard,” he added as Jowan gazed at him blankly.

“Oh, no, indeed.”

“Look, you're more likely to see her than I am. Next time you do, tell her she's welcome to come in here if she'd like a bit of privacy. I'm topside most of the time.”

“I'm sure she'll appreciate the offer.”

“Right.” Sitting down in his chair, Burley waved the surgeon to the banquette. “So, what we got? How many genuine sick and how many trying it on?”

Jowan sat. Thankful for an opportunity to steer his thoughts away from Phoebe Dymond he told the master his findings.

Chapter Nine

Phoebe sat alone in the mess, her journal open in front of her, one hand supporting her head while the other toyed with her pen. She had begun the journal to help pass the time by recording details of life on board a packet ship. But while she included information about the daily routine and all she had learned from her talks with Mr Downey, now she wrote to try and make sense of the chaos inside her.

It should have been easy. In theory all she had to do was focus on her destination: the end of a journey taking her from her old life to the new. But hard though she tried she could not maintain the necessary concentration. The thoughts and feelings invading her dreams as well as her waking hours were outside her previous experience. Willpower should have banished them. To discover hers wasn't strong enough suffused her with shame.

Instead of drawing comfort and security from the prospect of marriage and all its attendant benefits, she was growing more nervous as each day passed.

She had heard Jamaica described as a land of beautiful scenery. Its mild climate and fertile earth made it a major producer of wealth. The Quintrell plantation was one of many responsible for providing English homes with commodities once considered luxuries, now taken for granted and enjoyed without thought as to their origin.

She had never given much thought to how sugar was produced. She had read about slavery in editorials that quoted demands from one or two politicians for the trade in slaves to be abolished, and the roar of counter-arguments ridiculing such foolishness and warning of financial catastrophe – even economic collapse – should such demands be heeded. The facts, thundered the broadsheets, were self-evident. Slaves were merchandise just like the sugar, coffee, rum and cacao their labour produced. They were property to be bought and sold: the business governed by a system of laws designed to protect all concerned.

She had never been entirely comfortable with the concept of one man
owning
another. But her unease seemed totally out of step with general belief that the way things were was the way they should be: that white races – especially the English – were superior to all others, and that blacks were savages with strong backs but no souls.

Among her friends and acquaintances and even among her clients she occasionally heard a murmur of doubt that echoed her own. But this was drowned by louder voices declaring “they aren't like us,” and “there's nothing we can do, so best leave it to those who understand these things.”

As a woman and one who had not even attained her majority her opinion was of no interest. With no voice and no power she had, for peace of mind, diverted her attention from matters outside her control to those within it. But since listening to Romulus Downey all her doubts and all the unease so long repressed had resurfaced. Now, though deeply ashamed of her willingness to turn her back on such terrible injustice, she still did not see what she could do to change anything.

Regardless of what the merchants said it would be truly a miracle if the slave revolt on Saint Domingue did not spread to Jamaica. And if all that were not enough she had other far more personal reasons for feeling apprehensive.

She was making a lifetime commitment to a man of whom she knew nothing other than an image on a miniature and a proud father's praise. Surely these were sufficient reasons for the upheaval she was experiencing?

Of course they were. But the real source of her disquiet ran deeper and was far more unsettling. What she felt was wrong. Nor did it make sense. She wasn't even sure she liked Jowan Crossley. Certainly she found his superior manner – so typical of physicians – infuriating. That it should affect her at all only increased anger which courtesy required her to keep hidden. To let it show might lead him to think his opinions mattered. She would not allow him the satisfaction.

If she could accept that the deriding of herbal remedies by Falmouth doctors was due to ignorance, and that the only response to such a short-sighted attitude was to ignore it, why could she not treat him the same way? For the simple reason that he wasn't the same.

How did she know that? Because most of the Falmouth doctors – had she confessed to them her fear of the sea – would have mocked her foolishness. They would have – metaphorically if not physically – patted her on the head while declaring there was nothing to be afraid of. They had not lived her experiences, but being men they naturally knew best.

He hadn't done that. Instead he had made her face her terror and helped her overcome it. It was thanks to him that she could climb the companionway by herself and stand alone at the rail to marvel at the ocean's colour and movement changing with the strength and direction of the wind.

When she boarded the ship her fear had reduced her to the status of a patient. As a doctor dealing with her
condition
he had shown great kindness. He had also been sufficiently confident of his ability to resolve the situation to overcome her refusals.

Gently but implacably he had forced her to face what she was most afraid of. What if she had collapsed, or thrown a fit of hysterics? He must have known either was possible. That he had been prepared to take the risk and deal with the consequences suggested considerable strength of character in a man not yet of middle years whose decision to join the Packet Service surely indicated greater familiarity with treating men.

Her disappointment with him was her own fault. She had been so sure he was different. But his reaction to her treatment of Mr Matcham's ankle had shown he wasn't. Discovering that he shared the blinkered opinions and attitudes of his colleagues should have made it easy for her to rid her mind of him and think of other things.
So why couldn't she?

The door from the passage opened. She glanced up and immediately looked down again pretending to be intent on her journal as a wave of heat climbed her throat and burned her face. From the corner of her eye she saw him close the door behind him and stand with his back against it.

“Forgive me for interrupting you.”

Courtesy demanded she acknowledge him. Glad of the skylight's limitations she raised her head, hoping the dimness and shadows would disguise her heightened colour. “It's of no consequence.”
His interruption, or her forgiveness?
Let him make of it what he would. Setting down her pen she closed the journal, conscious of the ship's increasingly pronounced rise and dip.

“Mr Burley asked me to tell you that he is aware of the difficulties attendant upon a lady travelling alone, particularly the lack of privacy. As he spends much of his time topside the saloon is often empty. He says you are most welcome to use it whenever you wish for solitude.”

Touched by the master's thoughtfulness Phoebe felt an easing of the tension in her neck and shoulders as relief rippled through her. “How very kind of him.” That offer meant she would no longer have to retire early to her cabin in the evening. Or remain on deck in order to avoid Horace Matcham's scrutiny and remarks tainted with a suggestiveness or spite she found offensive yet to which she was reluctant to draw attention. “Thank you, Dr Crossley.”

Leaning back against the door, he swallowed. “I – er –”

She waited. Returning tension quickened her breathing and her heartbeat. Was he going to apologise? If he did, how should she respond? Telling him it didn't matter would be the polite thing to do. Then he would feel better, the incident would be behind them, and she would have lied. The fact was his criticism of her actions
had
mattered. It still did.

“Nothing. It's nothing. Excuse me.” With a curt nod, he headed towards the fo'c'sle.

Phoebe gazed after him, fighting an urge to hammer on the table with her fists out of sheer frustration: partly with him, but mostly with herself for her stupid hope that he might have made an effort and in doing so redeemed himself. She was a fool. Why should he care for her opinion?

The weather worsened during the afternoon. The merchants remained in their cabins. Mr Downey emerged briefly, wan and woeful.

“Miss Dymond, would you be so kind? Another of your peppermint infusions?” He sighed. “I confess I am not feeling at all the thing.”

Phoebe closed the book in which she had sought escape from the clamour of her thoughts. “I'm so sorry to hear it, Mr Downey. But don't worry you will soon be more comfortable. Sit down while I fetch the herb and some hot water.”

“I'll just –” he indicated the door to the passage and the WC.

“Of course. It will be ready when you return.”

“All I got is what I boiled up in the kettle, miss,” the steward warned as he handed her a cup and spoon. “There won't be no more for a bit. Not now the fire's out.” He tipped the kettle.

“This will be more than enough.” Taking both the cup and steaming jug Phoebe smiled her thanks. “Poor Mr Downey. The ship's motion is very unpleasant for him.”

Mossop shot her a knowing look. “He isn't the only one.”

Phoebe's brows rose. “Really? I thought Mr Clewes and Mr Matcham – “

“Not they,” Mossop interrupted. “Used to it, they are.”

“Then – ?”

“Maybe I should keep my trap shut. 'Tidn really my place to say. But he've been looking sick as a shag for days.” As Phoebe gazed at him blankly he hissed, “The surgeon, Miss. I'm surprised you haven't noticed. But I daresay you've had enough to think about. Still, it don't make no sense to me. You'd think with him being a doctor and all he'd have stuff he could take. But if he have, why do he still look so bad? Comes to something when the doctor do look worse than his patients.” He shrugged then grinned. “P'rhaps you should offer'n some of that there peppermint. Works a treat for Mr Downey, poor bug – poor soul,” he corrected hastily.

Phoebe smiled mechanically while her thoughts raced. She
had
noticed Jowan Crossley's pallor and the bruising shadows under his eyes. But she had assumed he was simply tired; assumed his absences at mealtimes were due to sickbay demands or that he was eating at his desk. Now as she recalled how he had picked at his food it was obvious he'd had no appetite. Her lingering anger softened briefly to sympathy.

But as she berated herself for not recognising what had been staring her in the face, her mind flew back over the sudden change in him to blank-eyed detachment shattered by flashes of irascibility. One might be tempted to think –
Surely not.
She caught her breath as she realised how Jowan Crossley, miserably nauseous, had kept himself on his feet and carrying out his duties.

She wanted to be mistaken but knew she wasn't. She recognised the signs now. Though depressingly familiar she saw them mostly in older people: usually women.

That
he
would resort to – Even now she found it hard to believe. As a physician he must have known the risk he was taking. Laudanum was highly addictive. Yet perhaps, responsible for the health and welfare of everyone on board, he had used it – not for escape – but simply to keep going.

“Thank you, Mossop.” Pouring hot water onto the dried herb she stirred in a spoonful of honey, her actions practised and without conscious thought. The idea of facing Jowan Crossley with what she now knew sent a wave of heat through her. Her skin prickled with perspiration that dampened the fine lawn of her chemise. It clung uncomfortably.

As Downey shuffled in white to the lips, clutching at the doors and bulkheads for support, she forced an encouraging smile. “Ah, Mr Downey. Would you be more comfortable back in your cabin? Then as soon as you have drunk the infusion you could try to sleep again.”

“My dear,” he murmured unhappily, “you have read my mind. I am poor company.”

Holding the cup carefully she followed him as he lurched past the table. The battle inside her raged on. She shouldn't interfere. She had no right. She was taking too much upon herself. Yet how could she simply ignore it? Knowledge conferred responsibility. If she were wrong she would apologise
. If she were wrong his reaction did not bear thinking about.
But no matter how much she might wish it otherwise, she knew she wasn't.

Taking the empty cup from Mr Downey as he sighed and reached for his wig to remove it before lying down, she tactfully withdrew. Closing the door quietly she returned to the pantry.

“Mossop, would you be kind enough to take a message to the doctor? He's probably busy, so please make it clear that there's no urgency. But I would appreciate a few moments of his time sometime during the afternoon.”

“Mr Downey not too good?”

“I think he's going to try and sleep some more.” Phoebe evaded the question with a brief smile. While the steward was away she collected several small bottles from her case and stowed them in a drawstring purse of fawn kid. Carrying it into the mess with her she opened her book once more.

The clatter of pans from the steward's cubbyhole added their din to the wind noise and the dull thuds vibrating through the hull as
Providence
crashed through short steep seas. When she realised she had read the same sentence three times without taking in a single word Phoebe gave up and closed her book.

Wishing she had not sent the message, wondering what she should say, which phrases would be least offensive, she heard the foc'sle door open. His face was the colour of cold ashes. A frown creased his forehead and twin grooves bracketed his mouth.

“You asked to see me, Miss Dymond? Are you unwell?” His manner made it plain no other reason would justify such a summons.

Phoebe rose to her feet bracing herself as the ship swooped down into a trough then slowly climbed the face of the next wave. “No, Dr Crossley. I am perfectly well, thank you. And I apologise for calling you away from your patients,” she added quickly. “But I need to speak to you.”

“Could it not wait?” Jowan snapped, gripping the edge of the table as he was thrown forward. “This is not a convenient time – “