Dangerous Waters (21 page)

Leaving the steward to his lists she returned to the mess and picked up her medicine chest by the handle on the lid. As she headed for the passage and the companionway Matcham's door opened. Automatically she quickened her steps.

“Miss Dymond?” His voice was low-pitched, urgent.

Part of her wanted to keep moving, pretend she hadn't heard. But the voyage was over. Their paths would not cross again. It was possible he wished to apologise. She turned. “Mr Matcham?”

He leaned towards her, his expression intense. “You don't like me, Miss Dymond. Perhaps I have given you little cause. But I bear you no ill will. And others won't tell you so I must. Don't do it. Escape while you can. You don't know –” His gaze flickered sideways. Straightening he took a quick step away from her. After momentary shock his features hardened into a cynical mask. “Ah. I should have guessed.” He swept an exaggerated bow. “Your pardon, Miss Dymond.”

Totally bewildered she watched him retreat into his cabin and pull the door shut.

“Are you ready?”

She whirled round, clutching at the table as the world rocked. “You startled – I didn't hear –”

“I'm sorry,” Jowan was brusque. “It was not intentional. Are you ready?”

Moistening dry lips she nodded and started towards the companionway. The sedative had muffled her confusion and unhappiness. But the merchant's warning pricked like a thorn.
Escape.
From what? Matcham had spent much of the voyage drunk. And on the rare occasions he was coherent it had been obvious he was fighting demons of his own for which he blamed the Quintrells.

Yet just now he had sounded sober enough. But what had provoked his final remark, and the sudden change in his expression and manner? What had he meant? She slowed.

Jowan cupped her elbow, keeping her moving. The warm pressure of his palm made her melt inside. Acutely aware of him, of his physical proximity, she felt her face grow hot and dreaded its betrayal.

He cleared his throat. “Take no notice.” He was curt. “Matcham is not himself.”

Grateful for the dimness in the passage Phoebe kept walking. Not daring to look round she was unable to see his face.

“He's deeply unhappy,” she said, recognising the fact for the first time. The sound torn from Jowan's throat was so quickly stifled Phoebe did not know if it was laugh or groan. Nor could she ask.

Heat and bright sunshine spilled down the brass stairs. She hesitated, but the pressure on her elbow increased and she was forced to climb.

Sitting straight-backed in the stern of the launch with Jowan Crossley beside her, Phoebe gazed past the crewmen bending to their oars, past Matcham, Clews and Downey in the bow.

Her throat ached. She tried to swallow the hard lump that made breathing so difficult, moving hands clasped tightly in her lap so that the nails of one dug unseen into the palm of the other. Determined that no one, especially Jowan, should detect her brief loss of control she turned her head and gazed blindly at tear-blurred ships that shimmered in the brilliant sunlight.

Suddenly her mind was filled with a vivid image of Lizzie Gendall in the kitchen of her cottage in Flushing. Phoebe could hear Lizzie's voice as clearly as if she were sitting alongside.
It won't be like you think, girl. But you'll come to no harm.
Please God, let her be right.

Phoebe put her hand into the rough calloused paw. As she stepped onto the wooden jetty she swayed and would have fallen had the crewman's fingers not instantly tightened.

“All right, miss? I 'spect it feel a bit strange being on dry land again. But you'll soon get used to it.”

With a nod and a brave attempt at a smile she withdrew her hand and took a few steps forward. It wasn't just the sensation of having solid ground under her feet again. After weeks during which the ship had been so much a part of the boundless vistas of sea and sky, a small self-contained world within an infinitely larger one, the impact of so many people, such bright colours, the noise and squalor were overwhelming.

People shouted in a variety of languages and dialects, trying to make themselves heard above creaking wheels, jingling harness, clopping hooves and squealing dolly winches hauling cargo out of holds.

Catching her arm Jowan drew her out of the way as a file of black sweating men with satin-shiny skin grunted past. Some were pushing loaded barrows. Others, bowed under the weight of sacks, breathed in gasps, their faces contorted with strain. Their torn shirts and ragged knee-length trousers revealed limbs criss-crossed with scars. None wore shoes and Phoebe was surprised how pale the soles of their dusty feet were. All headed towards the warehouses at the rear of the wharves.

The humid air was already thick with the smell of sewage, rotting fruit, fried fish and burnt sugar. The hot feral stink of the sweating men caught the back of her throat. Despite the comforting blanket of the sedative she felt a flutter of fear. Instinctively she gripped Jowan's sleeve.

“Don't –”
leave me.
She caught herself just in time, and coughed to disguise the tremor in her voice. “Don't worry,” she amended quickly. “I'm – It's all just a bit new and strange.” She attempted a wry shrug.

“Come. This is not a place to linger.” Brusque and unsmiling, carrying her medicine chest in one hand, Jowan crooked his elbow. “Please take my arm, Miss Dymond.”

Longing to, she resisted. “It was only a moment's unsteadiness.“ She was no weak wilting female and she would not have him remember her so. “Really, I'm fine now.”

“I'm glad of it. But among such a jostling crowd we might easily become separated. This is not Falmouth, Miss Dymond,” he warned before she could speak. “You are a stranger here and at greater risk of harm.”

Colouring, for he was right, she bit her lip and linked her arm through his.
Miss Dymond. So formal. Yet on the ship he had called her Phoebe.
But this had usually occurred during an emergency when convention bowed to speed and efficiency. He probably hadn't even been aware of doing it.

But all that was over. He would take her to the address given her by William Quintrell. Then he would leave. And she would never see him again.

Chapter Seventeen

Jowan guided Phoebe across the large open space that separated the upper town with its more opulent buildings from the lower part where houses and shops close to the waterfront were smaller and shabbier.

Open carriages drawn by pairs of gleaming horses criss-crossed the square. Smartly dressed and obviously wealthy, the occupants were attended by black servants wearing liveries of green, blue, purple or crimson decorated with gold.

Jowan glanced round to ensure that the boy he'd hired to bring Phoebe's trunk aboard his barrow was following close behind then steered Phoebe into a busy street lined with town houses. Built of brick and timber each had a pillared porch and steps leading up to the front door.

There was as much bustle and noise here as there had been down on the waterfront. And though this was clearly a well-to-do part of town many of the people were travel-stained and visibly weary. Several carried travel bags or small bundles. Some moved purposefully and appeared to know where they were going. Others seemed bewildered. More than a few men were drunk.

The prevailing atmosphere was tense. Jowan had experienced something similar while training in London when the wounded returning from battle had poured into already crowded wards. Impossible demands on limited facilities had created conditions that were dangerously volatile. It looked as if the same thing was happening here.

At the next house a group of people were being turned away from the front door. Retreating with obvious reluctance they almost collided with the two servants who stood at the edge of the steps guarding bundles made from knotted blankets, apparently the only luggage. The middle-aged man and his son gesticulated as they pleaded in a mixture of French and broken English with someone inside. The man's wife, her face ugly with grief and exhaustion clung to her two weeping daughters.

Feeling Phoebe hesitate Jowan gently pushed her forward. “No, don't stop.”

“But surely – “

Forcing her on up the steps he brought his head close to hers. “What comfort can you offer? Do you think they will welcome or appreciate sympathy when what they obviously need is somewhere to stay?” He felt a pang of guilt as her cheeks flamed. But surely she saw he was right?

He tugged the bell pull, conscious of the father's bitter gaze. Perhaps the family had tried here earlier. He rapped hard with the knocker.

The door opened to reveal a short grizzle-haired negro wearing a black coat and breeches, white stockings and black shoes.

“You wastin yo' time. Mizz Stirling ain't got no room.” He started to close the door again but Jowan's arm shot out.

“This is Miss Dymond. Mrs Stirling is expecting her.”

The butler frowned. “She never said nothin' to me.”

“Perhaps you will fetch her?” Jowan hung onto his temper. “Miss Dymond has just arrived on the packet from England. She has a letter directing her to this address. She is to meet her –”
He couldn't make himself say the word. God, what a fool he was. As if not articulating it would change anything.
“To meet Mr Rupert Quintrell.“

The butler stepped back smartly.“Here, you c'mon in quick.”

As Phoebe entered, Jowan turned to drop some coins into the barrow boy's grubby hand. The beaming grin told him he had over-tipped. But the lad willingly helped him carry the trunk and Phoebe's medicine chest up the steps and over the threshold.

Jowan straightened. Glancing across at Phoebe he saw she had removed her hat and was holding it in front of her like a shield. It was trembling.
How could he leave her here?

“People banging on the door day and night,” the butler grumbled as he closed the door. “Mizz Stirling got a kind heart. But this old house is just 'bout ready to burst. What Mastuh would say if he was alive –” He shook his head. “You wait while I go and – Ah, she coming.”

Emerging from the back of the house a woman hurried towards them. In her forties she was still handsome, and her elaborate hairstyle and high-waisted gown were modish if not quite the height of London fashion. As she bore down on them it occurred to Jowan that the only visible difference between her and many prominent Falmouth matrons was her complexion, for her skin was the colour of toffee.

“Julius, I thought I made it clear – “

“You did. And I ain't forgot. But these folks is from England. Mr William sent young missy with a letter. She come here for Mr Rupert.”

Jowan detected an odd inflection in the butler's announcement but dismissed it as simply the old man's way of speaking. The omission of any surname signalled that the Quintrells were well known in this house.

“Ah.” The woman's mouth widened in a bright smile as her gaze darted between them. “You're very welcome. I'm Rose Stirling.”

“My name is Crossley.” Jowan made a brief bow. “I'm physician and surgeon aboard the packet ship
Providence.
May I present my ward, Miss Phoebe Dymond?” Sensing Phoebe's quick glance before she shook Rose Stirling's proffered hand, Jowan kept his gaze on their hostess. No doubt Phoebe was incensed by his mode of introduction and would take him to task as soon as an opportunity arose. But right now, though he couldn't have said why and suspected he was being ridiculous, he was acutely conscious of her vulnerability. It would do no harm to make the point that she was not without friends or protection.

But for how long?
And who would watch out for her after the ship sailed?
He steeled himself. That was not his concern. Delivering her into Rupert Quintrell's care would bring his duty to an end. But that hadn't yet happened. And until it did, even should this occur within the hour, her welfare was his responsibility.

Rose brought her palms together over a voluptuous bosom. “Well, you're here at last. William – Mr Quintrell, that is – did write and tell me to expect someone. But that was before Christmas. You must forgive me. What with all that's happening I've been so busy I'm afraid it slipped my mind.”

Tension tightened Jowan's forehead as his mind raced. Phoebe had been introduced to William Quintrell when her uncle invited him to dinner. That dinner had taken place two months ago in April. So how could he have written before Christmas to book a room for her when they hadn't even met? The answer – shocking yet obvious – appalled him. It hadn't been specifically for Phoebe. Quintrell had determined to find a wife for his son. It was sheer chance that had thrown Phoebe into his path. Did she know this?
What difference did it make?
He wrenched his thoughts away before horror and dismay could betray him.

“Invasion,” Rose was saying. “There's no other word for it.” She sighed, shaking her head. “The town is full to overflowing. There's not a room to be had anywhere. Yet they still keep coming.”She shrugged, half-apologetic, half-defiant. “It's terrible. The stories I've heard. People forced off their land and out of their homes. Fleeing for their lives with little more than the clothes they were wearing. And they're the lucky ones. At least they got away. The others –” she shuddered.

“Mrs Stirling –” Jowan began, but Rose simply carried on, anxious to explain. “Anyway, you do see my problem, don't you?” She spread her hands, the bright smile flashing once more. “I didn't know when you'd be coming. You might not have come at all. And there was one of my best rooms standing empty. Well, it wasn't right. Not with so many in need. I've even given up my drawing room to a family of four. Mind you, that's only temporary. They're just waiting for a ship to –”

“Mrs Stirling,” Jowan interrupted, his tone edged. “Presumably Mr Quintrell had good reasons for arranging that Miss Dymond should stay here?”

“Well, of course he did. He knows – “

“Are you now saying you don't have a room for her?”

“Good heavens, no.” Her high-pitched laugh sounded strained. “Of course there's a room for her. It's just not the one – “

“Why don't you show us?”

Her brief shrug conveyed both resignation and defiance. “This way,” she called over her shoulder and started up the wide staircase.

As they climbed Jowan could hear muffled voices from rooms below and above them. Catching Phoebe's eye he raised his brows. He hoped the silent exchange might reassure her and perhaps ease the quivering tension he could feel as he cupped her elbow. But she did not respond. Her blank-faced pallor as she stared ahead pierced him like a blade.

At the far end of the wide landing Rose opened a door. She stood back, indicating the short flight of steep wooden stairs. “It's not exactly spacious. But you won't find anywhere else, not in Kingston. I could have let it a dozen times over. And got far more than William Quintrell paid me.”

So why didn't you?
Jowan wondered. As he followed Phoebe up the narrow stairs he guessed it was profit not altruism that had motivated Rose Stirling to open her house to refugees. Given the desperate shortage of accommodation, had she returned William Quintrell's deposit to his son she would have been absolved from the agreement and could have let the room. The fact that she had not done so, and that Phoebe had somewhere to stay, should have filled Jowan with relief. Instead it increased his unease.

At the top of the stairs he stepped into a circular space about six feet across. The floor was dusty, the only item of furniture a narrow wooden bedstead. The rear half of the room was planked from floor to conical roof. At the front the planks reached hip height. But above that a semi-circle of windows allowed the afternoon sunshine to stream in.

“I'll send one of the maids up –” Rose began.

“This is impossible!” Jowan snapped. “I've seen larger closets. This isn't a proper bedroom – “

“It's a watchtower,” Phoebe said quietly over her shoulder then looked out of the windows once more. “Several of the houses have them.”

These were the first words she had uttered since entering the house. Crushing a surge of tenderness, he moved to her side. “What do you suppose they're for?”

Her brief sideways glance acknowledged both his kind intent and the patronising tone of the question. “I imagine the houses are owned by merchants who like to know the moment their vessels enter the harbour.”

“Sorry,” he mouthed.

“Exactly so, Miss Dymond,” Rose said, only the top half of her visible as she shrewdly remained on the stairs so as not to overcrowd the cramped space. “My late husband, God rest his dear soul, had it built. He was up here every morning and evening.”

“No doubt it was ideal for that purpose,” Jowan began. “But –”

“I like it.” Phoebe turned from the window. Jowan tried to read her expression as she looked around. “It reminds me of my cabin.” Her mouth quivered in a fleeting smile. “Though that had the luxury of a nightstand and a shelf. But this is wonderfully light.” She turned again, gesturing. “And I have a magnificent view.”

“It's never the same two days together,” Rose said. “Ships are coming and going all the time. No doubt you'll still be here when the packet sails so you'll be able to watch it leave.”

“Still here?” Jowan said sharply. “Why?”

“Well, I'll have to send word to Grove Hill to let Mr Rupert know she's arrived,” Rose said.

“He's not in Kingston?” Phoebe blurted.

Rose Stirling's brows arched in amusement. “Good heavens, no. What would he be doing here? We don't see him much at all now. Mind you, he's not the only one who's become a stranger. None of the resident owners like leaving their plantations. Not while there's this trouble – “

“The Maroons,” Jowan interrupted. “We heard.”

“Yes, well, by the time he's arranged for someone to come and collect Miss Dymond – “

“Surely – “Jowan fought rising anger. Rupert Quintrell's absence was not Rose Stirling's fault. “Surely, given the importance of the occasion, he'll come himself?”

Rose hesitated then flashed her bright smile again. “Yes, you're right. Of course he will.”

Jowan could see she didn't believe it. He glanced at Phoebe who was looking out of the window and saw her shoulders drop slightly. Was she very disappointed? Of course she was. She would surely have expected the man she was to marry to be here to meet her? Why wasn't he?

Fragments of what Downey had told him about the planter's lifestyle and behaviour whirled through Jowan's mind. He didn't know what to feel. Brief fierce joy at the realisation he had a few days longer with her was eclipsed by anxiety over how soon repairs to the ship would be completed. He must see Burley as soon as possible. He had to find out how long the work would take. He would also need to re-arrange his shipboard duties to allow time ashore. While on one hand the prospect of spending part of every day with her was an unexpected pleasure, on the other it would prolong and intensify the agony of their eventual parting. He only just had time to control his expression as Phoebe turned.

“Well, if I am to remain here for – for a while I think I should use the time to replenish my stock of herbs. Mrs Stirling, perhaps you can tell me where –”

She was interrupted by a wild cry that faded to a moan. On the landing below a door slammed and a female voice called, “Mizz Stirling? Where are you? We got to get a doctor. Mizz Stirling?”

“This really is –” Rose shook her head. “If I'd known she was so close to her time I would never have –”

“Is there a doctor nearby?” Phoebe asked.

Rose nodded. “But he won't come. None of them will.”

“Why ever not?”

As Rose's head withdrew her voice floated back to them. “The last one I could find to ask was English. He said he was already working eighteen hours a day and had neither the time nor the wish to treat people his country is at war with.”