Dangerous Waters (4 page)

An hour later, washed and dressed, she forced down a slice of bread and butter. Collecting her thick wool cloak from her bedroom she edged past the large trunk with leather straps and brass corners her uncle had brought down from the attic, and left the house.

Like Aunt Sarah, Lizzie Gendall had Romany blood. And like Aunt Sarah, Lizzie was a midwife and healer. Though Lizzie lived in Flushing and rarely left the village, the two women had been good friends for many years. When Phoebe had begun to learn the healing arts she had sometimes accompanied her aunt on visits across the river. Though initially unsettled by Lizzie's stony expression and taciturn manner, Phoebe had soon seen through to the kind heart beneath.

So, lost and desolate after Sarah's death it was to Lizzie that Phoebe fled. Sitting in the small kitchen as Lizzie moved between stove and table preparing salves and ointments, Phoebe had wept, rocking in her grief. When her tears were exhausted she had talked about life with her aunt, the funny moments, the successes, and the tragedies.

As always Lizzie had said little, merely glancing up occasionally, her brown eyes gentle. Phoebe had returned home, soothed, grateful for Lizzie's parting words, “Come when you've need.”

Though both were busy, every few weeks Phoebe would cross the river to spend an hour or two with Lizzie, and always left calmer and reassured.

Knowing she had could not abandon the women who had been expecting her to attend them during their confinements without trying to make alternative provision for their care, it was to Lizzie she went.

The tide was low, the ferry a sturdy craft sailed by a gnarled old man who took her pennies, touched his cap, and with one hand on the tiller, the other controlling the single sail, skilfully guided the boat across the gently rippling blue-green water. After twenty minutes, during which Phoebe stared fixedly at her lap, they reached the other side. The ferryman flung a mooring rope to a boy waiting on the weed-fringed stone steps of a quay and turned to offer Phoebe a helping hand.

She rose, shaky with relief, as always pushing to the back of her mind the prospect of having to make the same journey back again. Inside her gloves her fingers ached from clinging to the flat wooden plank on which she had been sitting. Leaving the quay, she passed the bow windows of milliner's shop where the Misses Polkinghorne displayed hats and bonnets in the latest fashions.

Packet and Naval officers thronged the cobbled street; many accompanied by elegantly dressed wives and daughters. Among them the men and women of the village went about their daily tasks. Passing the old Seven Stars tavern Phoebe turned up into High Street. The houses here were built on a bank overlooking the marshy creek that flowed down into the river at Fish Cross. Passing the Post Office to which the mail was brought from Falmouth she opened the gate leading up to a small cob cottage.

Before she reached the front door, it opened and Lizzie emerged wearing a long cloak of brown wool. Now threaded with silver her once-dark hair was, as always, covered by a silk handkerchief tied at the nape of her neck. Carrying her ancient leather bag, she was clearly on her way to see a patient.

Seeing Phoebe she stopped, her bright gaze sharp. “Trouble?”

Caught unawares by the succinct question, Phoebe hesitated, not sure how to answer.

Lizzie turned, opened her door again, and jerking her head to indicate Phoebe should follow, went back inside.

“I'm sorry,” Phoebe said as Lizzie closed the door then dropped her bag on the scrubbed table. “I won't keep you long.” And in a few sentences she explained the reason for her visit. As she fell silent, Lizzie regarded her without speaking. Phoebe had once been shown a collection of butterflies. Brightly coloured and beautifully patterned, each one was fastened to the mount by a long shiny pin. She now knew exactly how that felt.

“Sarah would be proud of you.”

Phoebe's throat tightened.

“I'll go if I'm asked,” Lizzie said.

Phoebe's tense shoulders drooped in relief and gratitude. “Thank you.”

After another hard stare Lizzie gave a curt nod. “It won't be like you think, girl. But you'll come to no harm.”

Back in Falmouth news of her impending departure provoked mixed responses. Some of her clients reacted with dismay and anger. Despite her youth and inexperience they had trusted her. Now she was repaying them by leaving just when they might need her at any time?

Phoebe tried to reassure them they would be in excellent hands with Lizzie Gendall. Those familiar with Lizzie's name and reputation wondered why they hadn't asked for her in the first place, apparently forgetting their attachment to Sarah. Some who had lost babies at birth or in the weeks after refused to be comforted, calling her selfish.

She wanted to tell them that she too had been taken by surprise at the speed of events. But to do so would only invite questions and gossip. So she simply apologised for the lack of notice.

Fortunately others she called on had, after their initial shock, wished her happy, thanking her for her care in the past and for making arrangements regarding their future welfare. Time spent with them, recalling the arrival of much-loved offspring, or the miraculous properties of a linseed and mustard poultice, had made her feel less of a traitor. But having to see so many in so short a time meant that each evening she returned home exhausted.

Her next task was to decant the rest of the steeping herbs into bottles. While Mary worked her way through Phoebe's closet and chest of drawers – washing, ironing, brushing, pressing, checking hems and sewing on loose buttons – Phoebe spent several days restocking her medicine chest with tinctures, lotions, decoctions and ointments. Bags of dried herbs were packed with lengths of cheesecloth and muslin for poultices. Keeping busy ensured she had no time to think.

One afternoon towards the end of the week, with departure looming ever closer, Phoebe was busy in the kitchen when Mary returned from answering the front door bell.

“Mrs Bishop's here, Miss, asking for the Captain but he isn't back yet. I put her in the drawing room. If you got too much to do I can tell her you're out.”

Phoebe scanned the clutter: empty bowls, pans scraped clean of melted lard and beeswax, and the row of little pots in which comfrey, elder leaf, and arnica ointments were solidifying as they cooled. This was the final batch. “No. He shouldn't be long. I'll sit with her until he arrives.” As she spoke, Phoebe untied her apron, dropping it on the table, and rolled down her sleeves.

“Bring a tray of tea, shall I, Miss?”

Phoebe nodded, raising both hands to her hair to check that it was tidy. “Yes, as soon as you can, Mary.” As she left the kitchen, Phoebe wondered if the tea was such a good idea after all. She had jumped at the suggestion as a way of filling the time until her uncle's return. The potential problems of acting as hostess to her uncle's intended, who might very well consider
she
had a greater right to the role, hadn't occurred to her. But it was too late now. Besides, Carina Bishop didn't live here yet. Opening the drawing room door, Phoebe saw her uncle's wife-to-be standing beside the window.

Carina looked both elegant and fashionable in a short close-fitting long-sleeved jacket of bronze velvet worn over a round gown of spotted apricot muslin. A bronze velvet turban trimmed with gold braid and two feathers covered all but a strip of reddish-brown curls arranged above her forehead.

“Good afternoon, Mrs Bishop.”

Carina glanced round. “Phoebe! Isn't this the most wonderful view? The harbour is always so busy; the sky and water never the same two days in a row.”

A vivid memory of her recent trip across the harbour, of being far closer to the water and other boats than she had ever wanted to be again, made Phoebe's skin crawl. “Indeed,” she murmured with a shudder.

Turning from the window Carina fingered one of the heavy curtains. “Isn't it irritating how sunlight causes dark materials to fade? One is left with a most distressing striped effect that was never intended. Personally, I've always favoured paler shades. I find they lift the whole atmosphere of a room.”

Not sure if Carina was simply making an observation or criticising Sarah's colour choice and housekeeping skills Phoebe smiled politely and sat down.

Carina lowered herself gracefully into the chair opposite. “I thought Mr Quintrell a most interesting man, didn't you? And what a fund of stories! It's such a shame his health has forced him to leave a place he's so clearly attached to. Still, one must look on the bright side. His loss will be your gain.” Glancing down at the chair arm, she brushed her gloved fingers across the padded damask. “I've looked all over town for this shade and pattern, but none of the shops stocks it any longer. Do you know what would compliment a chair of this style quite beautifully? Peach velvet.” She flashed Phoebe a bright smile. “I know you are going to be very happy in Jamaica. It's such a wonderful opportunity. The climate sounds positively idyllic. At least
you
won't have to put up with our biting east winds any more.”

“No,” Phoebe agreed. “Jamaica has hurricanes.”

Carina looked momentarily startled. “Really? Well, I'm sure they must be extremely rare. And if one did occur no doubt your husband would take every care to ensure you came to no harm.”

Phoebe stared at her, wondering how any man – even one as well thought of as Rupert Quintrell – might be expected to defy nature at its most powerful and destructive.

As she leaned forward the older woman's expression was earnest. “It would be most unusual if you were not a little apprehensive. But tormenting yourself with anxieties about things that may never happen is neither wise nor helpful, Phoebe.”

Don't patronise me,
Phoebe wanted to shout but good manners forbade it.

“You must think of it as a wonderful adventure,” Carina beamed.

Must I?
“Indeed,” Phoebe said through gritted teeth, feeling the acid burn of anger beneath her breastbone. That she constantly sought to boost her confidence with those self-same words was one thing. To have them issued to her as an instruction from the person responsible for her being ejected from the only home she knew was something else entirely. She swallowed, trying hard to smother the bright flare of anger. Blaming Carina Bishop wouldn't change anything.

“I'm sure you're right,” she added dutifully. She wished her uncle would hurry up so that she could leave them together and get on with all she still had to do. But her guest's attention was already elsewhere.

It wasn't until Phoebe saw Carina's nose wrinkle as her searching gaze paused on the rug in front of the fireplace that everything suddenly fell into place. Carina Bishop's comments about the curtains and upholstery had not been mere idle conversation. She had been intimating the changes she intended to make.
Why? Why tell me?

Everything would be different. All signs of Aunt Sarah would be removed.It would no longer be the house Phoebe had grown up in. How could her uncle allow such a thing? Yet how could he live here with someone else surrounded by constant reminders of the past? No that there was any possibility of his new wife allowing
that.
And who could blame her?

Phoebe fought her rioting emotions and struggled to make allowances. All three of them were moving on, starting a new life. But knowing that changes of every kind were a necessary part of this didn't make them any easier to bear. Carina need not have said anything. Was it nervousness that had prompted her remarks? Phoebe didn't think so. Yet what other reason could she have?

Just as Mary arrived with the tea, Phoebe heard the front door slam and her uncle's footsteps on the tiled floor of the hall.

“Bring another cup for the Captain, Mary.”

“Yes, Miss,” Mary made a brief curtsey and left, bobbing another as she passed her employer in the doorway.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” George Oakes beamed at Carina then turned to Phoebe. “I've just come from the packet office. Your cabin is booked aboard the brigantine
Providence.
And the packet's surgeon has kindly agreed to take responsibility for you during the voyage.”

Phoebe felt her eyes widen. It wasn't only the content of this announcement that suffused her with embarrassment. It was the fact that he had made it in front of someone else. Didt her feelings no longer count for anything? She ran the tip of her tongue across her lips. They felt paper-dry.

“Uncle George, I'm sure you meant it for the best. But really, it wasn't necessary. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. I certainly have no wish to be thrust into the care of some stranger like – like an unwanted parcel.”

“My dear Phoebe,” Carina began. “You must realise –”

“With respect, Mrs Bishop,” Phoebe said tightly, anger and mortification overriding her usual courtesy, “this is between my uncle and me.” Turning from Carina's gasped “Oh!” Phoebe faced him. “May I ask how this arrangement came about?”

“It's common practice.” His expression reflected bewilderment and deepening irritation. “The packet agent informs captains if any ladies are travelling without husband or female companion and have requested the protection of an escort. The reason this duty falls to the surgeon is that unless the ship sees action he has fewer demands on his time than do the ship's officers.”

“But I didn't make any such request,” Phoebe said. “I wasn't even asked – “

“And why should you be?” her uncle demanded. “You are not yet of age, Phoebe. I am still responsible for your safety and welfare. How could you imagine I would send you off on a voyage that will last many weeks without ensuring you have proper protection? Do you really think me so uncaring?”

Seeing the genuine hurt beneath his anger Phoebe ran to him and clasped his arm. “No, no, of course I don't.” Yet hard though she tried she could not suppress a strong twinge of resentment. When he returned to sea after her aunt's death he had suffered no qualms about leaving her alone except for the cook and the housemaid. Nor, apparently, had the potential risks of her going about Falmouth alone while continuing her work occurred to him. And yet why
should
he have been concerned? Falmouth was a small town and he was well known, as were the other packet captains and commanders. That familiarity was her protection. Most of the townspeople were employed in some connection with the packet service: either serving as crew aboard the ships, or in businesses that supplied their needs. These covered everything from repairs to revictualling.