Dangerous Waters (16 page)

“You have no reason to apologise, Mr Clewes.” She totally ignored the man mumbling next to him.

As Clewes began a strangled and convoluted explanation of which she heard only, “…history b-between them…b-bad b-blood…” Phoebe walked out.

Chapter Twelve

Showing Grigg how to prepare the compresses and leaving him sufficient lotion to make fresh ones during the night, she left the sickbay.Alone in the saloon she tried to write up her journal but the events of the morning were still too painfully vivid. She attempted to read but found it impossible to concentrate.

Though she loathed Matcham she could not deny there was a kernel of truth in his accusations. Despite the fact that most of her conversations with the surgeon sprang from strongly opposing views, when he was busy with his duties and out of her sight and hearing she felt both restless and oddly flat.

This was deeply unsettling. It wasn't as if she lacked alternative company. Romulus Downey was interesting and informative. She enjoyed his companionship and learned something new each time they met. And unlike the surgeon he was easy and comfortable to be with.

Jowan Crossley stirred emotions she had been unaware of. Intellect and conscience told her what she felt was wrong. But her heart refused to listen.

After tea Phoebe climbed the companionway seeking escape from her confused thoughts and an atmosphere in the mess so tense and claustrophobic she could not bear it a moment longer. She wanted peace and space and clean fresh air. She knew it was only her imagination playing tricks but the hot metallic stench of blood still lingered in her nostrils.

Burley was by the binnacle and came forward as she emerged.

“Miss Dymond,” he bowed. “I want to thank you for what you did this morning. There aren't many – “

“Please, Mr Burley,” Phoebe interrupted. “Think no more of it. I was glad to be of use.” With a nod and a smile she moved past him to the weather rail and a moment later heard him clatter down the brass stairs.

She watched the sun sink towards the ocean turning the streaks and puffs of cloud from gold to salmon pink then deep rose. The sky paled from a clear azure to the soft lilac grey of a pigeon's breast. Above her head, beyond the range of the sun's last rays, the clouds darkened to plum and purple.

The watch changed. Men moved about the ship. Side lamps were lit and sails trimmed. The sea had turned from rich burgundy through slate to black, except for the frills and streaks of white foam curling back from
Providence's
cutwater as she drove on into the deepening darkness.

Through the skylight Phoebe saw the glow of the mess lamps. Announcing his presence with a polite cough the mate offered to escort her down.

“That's kind of you, Mr Gilbert. But I prefer to remain up here a little longer. I'm not ready to sleep yet and have no interest in cards.”

“If you're sure, miss.”

“I am, thank you.”

Phoebe rested her forearms on the rail, soothed by the rhythmic
shush
of water against the hull. Then footsteps on the stairs made her stiffen.

“Ah, Miss D-Dymond,” Bernard Clewes said. “I th-thought I m-might have a s-smoke b-before retiring. I've n-never been one for s-snuff, you know. However, if you w-would find the s-smell offensive –” he left the sentence unfinished, forcing her to reply.

She didn't want to be drawn into conversation with him. Yet good manners demanded she respond. “Not at all, Mr Clewes. My uncle was used to enjoy the occasional cigarillo.” She heard the scratch of a match then inhaled the fragrance of burning tobacco. He came to the rail, careful to remain an arm's length from her.

“Miss D-Dymond, I d-don't wish to c-cause you further d-distress.” His worsening stutter betrayed obvious discomfort.” B-but I f-feel I m-must apol– “

“Please, Mr Clewes.” Phoebe had no desire to revisit the subject. It would resurrect too much she wasn't capable of dealing with right now. “I meant what I said at the time. You were not at fault, therefore no apology is necessary.”

“Indeed it is, though p-perhaps n-not from m-me. B-but if you will p-permit me, I'm s-sure I c-can – “

“Mr Clewes,” Phoebe was firm. “I would really much rather you didn't.” His intention might be worthy. But what if it was not his idea at all? What if Matcham had sent him to offer apologies and explanations intending to question him later about her response? To what purpose? What would he gain from such an exercise? Perhaps she was doing him an injustice. But though her experience of him was limited, the little she knew suggested it was exactly the kind of manipulation he would enjoy. Well, he must look elsewhere for his amusement.

“I beg you will not concern himself with what is, after all, a matter for your colleague's conscience, not yours. I really do not wish to discuss it further. Please excuse me.” Turning to go below she caught her breath on a soft gasp. Jowan Crossley was standing at the companionway hatch. Usually able to distinguish his footsteps among all the others she hadn't even heard his boots on the stairs.

“Forgive me, I have no wish to interrupt.“ His voice was icy.

“You're not,” Phoebe said. “Mr Clewes has just come up for a smoke, and I am on my way down.”

“Before you go I would appreciate a quick word.”

Glad the darkness hid the sudden rush of heat to her cheeks Phoebe took a quick breath as anxiety shivered down her spine. “It's not Jenkins?”

“No, he's as comfortable as can be expected.”

Her profound relief made her aware how much it mattered that her antiseptic lotion should not fail. “And the other patients?”

“It is on their account that I came looking for you.”

Not on his own account, not because he wanted her company, or to discuss the morning's events or indeed anything else. He was here on behalf of his patients. He could not have made himself plainer.

“For the healing process to begin they need sleep. But crowded conditions in the sick bay coupled with the constant noise from the deck and fo'c'sle –” his brief shrug made further explanation unnecessary. “I am reluctant to give laudanum because of its depressing effect on respiration.”

“You require a sleeping draught?“

“If you would be so kind.”

“Of course. For how many?“

“G-goodnight, Miss D-Dymond, D-Doctor C-Crossley.” Clewes bowed himself past them. No sooner had his head disappeared down the companionway than Phoebe felt her elbow grasped and she was hustled out of the wheelman's hearing.

“What were you thinking of?” Jowan grated. “Up here alone in the dark with – “

“Sir, you forget yourself.” Phoebe jerked her arm free, unnerved by the warmth of his hand through her sleeve and the treacherous
shocking
desire to lean, just for an instant, against his tall frame. “I neither sought nor welcomed his company. But after what happened in the mess –”

“What are you talking about?” His voice was sharp. “
What
happened?”

She realised she could not tell him about Matcham's snide allusions. Her face burned and she swallowed, trying to lubricate her dry throat. “The – the operation. It is not an experience one can easily banish. I wanted some fresh air before retiring. When we left Falmouth you were most insistent concerning its importance to my health. But perhaps you have forgotten.”

“I have an excellent memory.” His voice was grim. “Indeed, I could wish it was – Never mind.” He stood aside, gesturing for her to precede him down the stairs.

But Phoebe wasn't ready to go. There were things that needed to be said and this was too good an opportunity to waste. She turned to the rail.

“Doctor Crossley – “

“I am not deaf, Miss Dymond.”

“I wasn't shouting.”

“No, you were not. But have you noticed how sound seems to travel much further at night?”

It was a warning that whatever she was about to say might be heard by people other than himself. And his interruption reminded her once again of the need to be constantly on her guard. As if she didn't already spend every waking minute mindful of what she said and to whom she said it. Frustration flared into anger and her lowered voice vibrated with the strength of it.

“You praise my skills and show respect for my remedies yet still you act as if I were just out of the schoolroom and required your advice on how to behave. I – I find your manner suffocating.”

She had not known silence could be so
loud
.

“My concern for your welfare is offensive to you?”

Phoebe clasped her hands tightly. “I would not have phrased it in exactly those – But as you have – Yes,” she blurted finally.

“Then I must remind you that your safety and protection are my responsibility.”

His tone ignited a rage in Phoebe that caught her unawares. “And I can only repeat what I told you when I first came aboard. The arrangement was made without my knowledge or consent. Have I not demonstrated capabilities that are defined not by age but by learning and experience?”

“I agree that in some respects – very important respects – this is indeed the case. But the fact remains that your uncle made the arrangement with the best of intentions. And having accepted the responsibility I must honour it. Only when I hand you into the care –” his voice roughened and he cleared his throat. “Only when we reach Jamaica will my duty be discharged.”

Phoebe could feel herself trembling. Her throat ached from the strain of keeping her voice low. “Is that how you see it? A duty?” These were questions she should not be asking. What was she seeking? Confirmation? Denial? And if she received either: what then? What would it achieve? She hated the injustice of a society whose rules permitted a man like Matcham to speak and act as he pleased yet denied her the right to express her contempt: rules that permitted her uncle to give this man, this stranger, the right to dictate
her
actions and behaviour. “A burden unsought and unwanted?”

She could not see his features in the darkness but his voice was harsh.

“You have left me in no doubt that you see it so, Miss Dymond.”

“And how do you see it?” Shaken by turbulent emotions she sensed were not what they seemed she clung to defiance. “The truth, Doctor. Surely I deserve that at least.” She heard him swallow.

“I see it exactly as you do, Miss Dymond, a burden unsought and unwanted. You want honesty? You shall have it. I was not consulted. I was informed. Though not until I was already on board. It was as much of a shock to me as it was to you. And you should know that it is not a situation I would have chosen.”

He looked away, his profile a hard-edged silhouette. “But we must live with what is, even if it is not how we might wish it to be.”

After a moment her anger drained away. His flat statement made too much sense to permit argument. Yet something in his tone jarred. Shivering from cold and reaction she tried to work out what it was.

“The sleeping draught, if you would be so kind?”

Guilt suffused her in a scalding flush. “Of course.” His quiet reminder was the least of many reasons that made her grateful for the darkness. “I'll fetch my case.”

Romulus Downey beamed. “Well done indeed, Miss Dymond. Mr Matcham's ankle is fully mended. Mr Jenkins is still with us and without any sign of infection. The men who suffered burns or were wounded by shrapnel and splinters are back on light duties. The two with fever are recovered and the cook's hand is healing. I am sure the surgeon must give thanks a dozen times a day for your presence on board”

Leaning on the rail beside him, Phoebe smiled but said nothing. It was her impression during recent weeks that Jowan Crossley wished her a million miles away. Yet the morning after their encounter on the night-shrouded deck he had declared his interest in the methods of preparing herbal remedies as well as in their applications. Wary at first, her suspicion had quickly dissolved in the face of questions that indicated a genuine interest also shared by Romulus Downey.

“Can we not change the subject?” Matcham complained one evening. “Which month this leaf should be picked, how long that root takes to dry, it's all so boring.”

Biting her tongue Phoebe dropped her gaze to the table. She knew what he was doing. If she reminded him how the arnica tincture had helped his ankle he would draw her into a conversation whose direction he would dictate.

He wanted to cause trouble and he had made her his target. She had no idea why this should be so. And instinct warned her not to ask. For that would play right into his hands, offering him an opportunity to repeat his insinuations linking her with the surgeon.

Yet the facts could not be simpler. She was travelling to Jamaica to be married. Because she was not yet of age, in accordance with custom and tradition the ship's surgeon had been appointed her guardian for the duration of the voyage. That was the extent of her relationship with Jowan Crossley. So why didn't she say so?
Because facts were not the same as truth. She would be lying. And Matcham would know she was lying. The truth, whatever that might be, was far more complicated.

“So what would you have us talk about?” Jowan enquired with deceptive mildness.

Phoebe glanced at him then across the table at the merchants. Clewes continued eating with no sign of his habitual anxiety. Matcham's mouth pursed in a satisfied smirk. Had neither of them recognised the implied warning? Anticipation flared in Matcham's eyes. Instantly Phoebe tensed, mentally bracing herself.

“Surely Miss Dymond must be longing to know something of Jamaican society? We can enlighten her, can't we, Clewes?” Without waiting for his colleague's response he switched his gaze to Phoebe. Kingston is a most lively place. For gentlemen's enjoyment there is racing and gambling. Meanwhile the ladies occupy themselves planning elaborate balls. And because there are three times as many men as women, even the least attractive female finds herself in great demand. You, Miss Dymond, will be danced off your feet. And when wine has been flowing and spirits are high, as they invariably are on such occasions, the evening turns into something of a scrimmage which is tremendous fun.” His eyes glittered.