Dangerous Waters (9 page)

After an instant's vivid shock, his face closed. “I beg your pardon?”

Despite a shame so intense she could feel her chemise clinging to damp burning skin she would not apologise. Perhaps his intentions were good and honourable. But how could she be sure of that when people she had known for years – She closed her eyes. Then raising her head she half-turned towards the door.

“We should not be in here.”

“I thought,” he said quietly, meeting her fury with calm, “if you could bring yourself to look at the water from in here, perhaps even allow me to open one of the windows, you might find the prospect of going up on deck a little less – daunting.”

She wanted to run away and hide. And if he had responded with sarcasm or impatience or disdain she would have been able to justify doing so. But he hadn't so she couldn't.
Damn him.
Gripped by emotions terrifying in their strength and complexity she wrapped her arms tightly across her body as if this might keep it all inside and under control. Her mouth and throat were dust dry and it hurt when she swallowed.

She took a step forward, then another.
If he said a word –
But he didn't.
If she glimpsed the smallest hint of triumph –
But she didn't. He simply stood where he was, his eyes locked on hers. As she reached him he stepped aside so she could see the view he had blocked with his body.

“Oh,” Phoebe gasped. She gazed at the ship's wake spreading in a widening
vee
of sunlit foam that glittered like diamond-dusted lace on rolling swells of deep blue water.

Awestruck, she whispered, “It's beautiful,” and felt the hard tangled knot of grief inside her soften.

Chapter Six

“We will go just as far as the top stair.”

“Then I can come down again?”

“If that is what you wish.”

Sliding a trembling hand through Jowan Crossley's proffered arm she followed him, one reluctant foot after the other.

He glanced back at her. “The bosun tells me that
Providence
is a brigantine.”

Why was he telling her this, and why now? Did he not realise it was impossible for her to concentrate on what he was saying, let alone respond as good manners required?
Of course he did
. His conversation was a deliberate attempt to distract her. For though she could not give him her whole attention, nor could she focus exclusively on her terror.

She recognised the gambit as one she used herself to divert a sick or injured child. It felt strange to be on the receiving end. The very fact that he was even trying to win her confidence surprised her. Most of the doctors she knew were too busy or too impatient to bother with any except wealthy patients who kept a good table and a cellar to match.

But they were men in their middle years and older. Jowan Crossley was…
tall, fair, with wide shoulders and …
Flushing to the roots of her hair Phoebe reined in her unruly thoughts. The surgeon appeared to be just short of thirty. His comparative youth was likely to make him less set in his ways, more open to new ways of thinking. That was the reason –
the only reason
 – she had registered his appearance in such detail.

“Apparently that means she has square sails on her foremast and a fore-and-aft gaff sail on her main. She has a crew of twenty-two not counting the bosun, carpenter, sailmaker and gunner. Did you know those four are known as idlers?”

She strained to detect the smallest hint of impatience that would legitimise retreat, heard none, and was torn between gratitude for his tact and resentment of his gentle but relentless determination.
It's all for the best. I won't deny you might find things difficult to begin with. But you're not short of pluck, Phoebe. Once you're there you'll see it was the right move. Then you'll wonder why you ever had doubts.
That was what Uncle George had said. No doubt Jowan Crossley would use those very same words to justify his actions. Though she had to admit he had not said them yet.

“Personally,” he confided over his shoulder, “I think calling them idlers is most unfair, and surely inaccurate. They are not part of a watch working four hours on and four hours off. Instead they are at their duties from seven in the morning until five-thirty in the afternoon. That cannot be called idleness. Would you not agree, Miss Dymond?”

To try and counter the clamour going on in her head, Phoebe had kept her gaze fixed on the pattern of holes and curls in each brass tread. But at her name she automatically looked up. He had hefted his bag out onto the deck, stepped after it, and was waiting for her. For a moment the temptation to turn and run back down the stairs to the sanctuary of her cabin was almost overpowering. Cramped, stuffy, and dark, it still represented safety. As if reading her thoughts he leaned down, extending his hand.

“Two more steps that's all.” His voice was low-pitched, for her ears only. Should anyone be close by they would not be able to hear. “Already you've come this far.”

She shook her head, gripping the rail, frozen. Nausea churned in her stomach. “I can't.”

“You can. You're safe, I promise. Come.”

She stared at his palm; at the long fingers slightly curled as he waited;
a hand that fought death.
She knew everything he had said was true. It
wouldn't
be good for her health to spend three months either in the mess or her cabin. Lack of sunlight and fresh air
would
make her ill. And how could she be of use to anyone else if she was weak and unwell herself? He was trying to make it as easy as he could. And for that she owed him: not just gratitude but effort.

“Remember,” he murmured. “You are not alone on this ship.”

Her head snapped up. Welling terror choked her as vivid images filled her head: a small child huddling, drenched and chilled in a corner of a storm-lashed deck. She struggled for control as he continued talking.

“You are in the company of men who know the sea, know their job, and want to reach Jamaica as quickly and safely as you do. All of us: the master, the mate, the crew, the other passengers, and me, value our lives just as much as you value yours. If we are not fearful, why should you be?”

Everything he said made perfect sense. Her brain knew it. But her body and her emotions –
Help me.
She did not know to whom she was pleading. Then she pictured her aunt's face. Heard the brisk “All right, my bird, steady now,” with which Sarah had strengthened and encouraged her in everything from her first attempts at decanting tinctures to coping with the tragic aftermath of a stillbirth.

Her heart crashing against her ribs, every muscle taut, she reached for his hand. As his fingers closed over hers, a moment's blissful relief –
you're not alone
 – was shattered by the jolt that tingled up her arm. She caught her breath. She was so anxious he should not see her confusion that she was hardly aware of stepping over the coaming and onto the deck.

Deeply disturbed by her physical response to his touch she swiftly pulled her hand free and used both to hold onto the edge of the hatch. He was a doctor, a professional man doing his professional duty, almost a stranger. And she was on her way to be married.

To avoid looking at him she turned her head and found her gaze climbing from the scrubbed deck to the vast expanse of water. Gilded with sunlight, the dancing surface rose and fell. It was the colour of sapphires under a cornflower sky dotted with puffs of cloud like cotton balls. Parted by the ship's bow, waves turned like earth beneath a plough blade and fell aside in a froth of foam to flatten and spread behind them. ““It's so…
big
,” she whispered. “And the ship…” she shuddered.

“Seems small?” He moved to her side. “True. But
Providence
is in her element. This is what she was built for, where she is meant to be. She is not
fighting
the sea or the wind. She's using both to take her where she wants to go.”

Phoebe moistened her lips. “But what if there's a storm?”

“Mossop tells me she's well-found and will take anything thrown at her.” He grinned. “And as Mossop has crossed this ocean at least a dozen times, who are we to doubt him?”

Relief brought a tremulous smile to her mouth. Suddenly self-conscious Phoebe looked away. “You have been very patient with me, Dr Crossley. But I have imposed long enough on both your time and your kindness.” Dipping her head she turned to start down the stairs.

“You will come top-side again tomorrow?”

For an instant she wondered if he might be seeking her company. Then recognising the vanity – and the impropriety
 –
of such a thought she blushed. What he sought was her assurance she would continue to get as much fresh air as possible. Despite being responsible for the welfare of twenty-eight men of the ship's company as well as the rest of the passengers, he had spent his valuable time helping her conquer a literally crippling fear. That alone meant to refuse would be unforgivable.

“Yes.” Head bent to hide her fiery colour she retreated down the stairs.

Watching her disappear, Jowan recalled his restless night and tried to make sense of turmoil that instead of diminishing was actually growing worse. He was her guardian, for God's sake. She was travelling to her wedding.

He had been furious when Burley, with a mumbled apology for it having slipped his mind, suddenly informed him of this additional responsibility. Tierney, the packet agent, must have known that chaperoning lone females was one of the surgeon's non-medical duties. Why hadn't
he
mentioned it? But even as the question formed Jowan guessed the answer. Tierney would waste neither time nor interest on anything that did not bring in money.

His irritation had grown during the hours that followed. As well as wanting to escape the demands of his grieving parents he had joined the packet service to get away from predatory females. His age, his professional standing, and the fact that he was not unpleasant to look at meant he had spent the past five years side-stepping increasing pressure to marry. After assuming he'd have a few months free of female company, the prospect of being required to spend a proportion of the voyage making conversation with a tongue-tied schoolgirl or a prune-faced spinster had filled him with frustration.

Glimpsing Phoebe Dymond as she climbed aboard he had wondered briefly at her downcast eyes and hurried dash from gunwale to companionway. Assuming sadness at leave-taking, or possible seasickness, and relieved that she was neither child nor crone, he had shrugged thoughts of her aside and returned to his work.

But like a burr she had clung. And twenty-four hours on from that first glimpse he was beginning to realise that his imagined alternatives would have been far less disturbing to his peace of mind.

Though he now knew her anxiety to be rooted in her fear of the sea, he sensed this was not the only reason behind a nervous tension so strong that at times her slender body seemed almost to vibrate.

His first impression of reserve, almost shyness, had proved accurate – in some respects. The fact that she required a guardian, not merely an escort, indicated she was not yet twenty-one. Yet her cool response to the presumptuous Matcham and her banter with Romulus Downey indicated considerable social skill.

Guiding her into the saloon so she might look at the sea through the stern window he had acted on impulse. Her spirited response had been a revelation. Surprise had been shouldered aside by curiosity. Usually he could tell within minutes if a young woman possessed enough intelligence and breadth of interest for him to want to know her better. Few did.

Though his exchanges with Phoebe Dymond had of necessity centred on her debilitating fear, something about her intrigued him. He knew his interest was edging beyond the purely professional, and was not at all wise, yet he found himself reliving their conversations.

At dinner she had been willing enough to tell them she was travelling to Jamaica to be married. But though her mouth had smiled, there had been more trepidation than pleasure in her tone. Looking back he was appalled at the pressure he had applied to get her up on deck. Medically he could justify it. But when she had spoken of losing both parents and being given to strangers he had found himself touched in a way he hadn't expected, especially as she had made it clear she was not seeking sympathy, nor would it be welcome.

Once more warning bells had jangled. Was he mad? Had he not left Cornwall to escape entanglement? In any case, if the fact of her being betrothed had not put her beyond his reach, his moral responsibility as her guardian certainly did. Yet in the hours since, he had not been able to get her out of his head.

Anger stirred as he recalled her hesitation when he had asked her to trust him. He'd been doing his best to help her, and she had looked at him with – not just uncertainty – but definite suspicion. Why should she not trust him? Then again, why should she? She didn't know him. Yet that fact alone should not automatically inspire doubt unless – Had she trusted someone only to have her trust betrayed? Who had hurt her, and why?
It was none of his business.

“Ready, sir?”

The bosun's voice jerking him back to the present reminded him of his duties. Angry with himself – for he should, and did, know better – he picked up his bag.

“Ready, Mr Hosking.” Shading his eyes, Jowan peered forward along the deck to the group of men shuffling into a rough line. “Where's Grigg?”

“Gone to fetch hot water and bandages, sir. There's a couple of gashes need stitching.”

Deliberately shutting Phoebe Dymond from his mind, Jowan strode briskly along the deck to take his first sick parade.

In the days that followed Phoebe began to adjust to shipboard life. The varying trills of the bosun's whistle, the clang of the watch bell every half-hour, the thud and
whoosh
of water buckets and the rhythmic scrape of the
bibles
 – prayerbook sized blocks of sandstone used to clean the deck each morning – quickly became familiar. Already she had become so used to the rattle of blocks and the crack of canvas as sails were raised and lowered that she barely noticed them.

The tilting floor and the boom and hiss of the sea against the ship's side were taking longer to get used to. But they no longer filled her with dread. In fact during mealtimes, if the conversation was interesting, she could forget about them for minutes at a time.

Keeping her word she had gone topside every day, waiting until the other passengers were up there so no one might see how slowly she climbed the stairs. Or how often she needed to stop. From the second day she set herself targets. To start with they were very small: to take one more step up the companionway before stopping; to spend an additional minute on deck – counted in seconds under her breath – before returning to the mess.

She began keeping a diary, noting her achievements and setbacks. After a week, re-reading what she had written, momentary pride was eclipsed by shame. It was time to try harder. From this morning each time she went up on deck she would take note of what skills the old hands were teaching the new men.

“Ah, Miss Dymond,” Romulus Downey greeted as she stepped over the coaming a few days later. “Come to take the air? You have timed it well. Mr Burley tells me we shall have rain before nightfall. Already the wind is picking up. Still, it will speed us on our way, will it not?”

Phoebe tried to ignore the flutter of panic beneath her breastbone. “Let us hope so, Mr Downey.” Keeping one hand on the hatch top she moved aside to allow him to go down. About to follow, she saw the familiar cluster of men waiting at the mainmast. It was past the usual time for sick call. As she wondered where the surgeon was she heard footsteps on the stairs. But they weren't his. Realisation that she was able to distinguish Jowan Crossley's footsteps from anyone else's made her cheeks suddenly hot.