The Surgeon’s Lady Page 18

  The seaman nodded. He looked around again, sitting on the other stool as though measuring himself in such a place. “How many years would it take?”

  “Two years, followed by written and oral examinations that one of my colleagues swore rendered him bald and sterile,” Philemon said. “You’re a man like me, with no proper background or gentility. This job requires neither, although you will have to prove yourself better than those of higher degree.”

  They both looked up to the sound of someone calling for Lt. Brittle. Philemon started for the stairs. “Think about it,” he said again. “Close the door when you leave.”

  Philemon was impatient to be away to Torquay. He longed to lie down with Laura, draw her close to him, and tell her of his day. She would offer advice; she would tell him what had happened in her world, during the time they were apart. Maybe they would make love, an activity that smacked so much of leisure time that he could barely imagine it.

  He wanted to pack his duffel to be ready to bolt when another surgeon arrived and Brackett gave him the high sign. He didn’t, out of lack of time and some superstition that if he did some supernatural event would change everything and leave him still at Stonehouse nursing a powerful heartache.

  Nights became harder than days. He suffered through a nightmare where Napoleon Bonaparte bricked up all exits from Block Four and trapped him in his notion and potion room. The walls started to move together, and he began to choke on magnesium sulphate, funneled down his throat by a gleeful Sir David Carew.

  Nothing so dramatic happened. After his morning ward walk, Brackett met him with the new surgeon, a well-seasoned man Philemon knew from Haslar Hospital in Portsmouth.

  “Walk Captain Bedwyn around, introduce him to your mates, and make yourself scarce,” Brackett said with a smile. “Come back here leg shackled.”

  Fair enough. Bedwyn was soon conversing with his mates, and Philemon left on a coasting vessel before noon. Other than being royally seasick and enduring the ribbing of others bound for Torquay, he arrived on his doorstep long after dark. He stood a long moment looking at the lights from the Worthy house next door, but he knew better than to slight his mother.

  She received him with a firm embrace, Cornish pasties and a tot of rum. After he ate and just before he started to yawn, she pushed him toward the side door.

  “Mama, it’s too late. Tomorrow.”

  “Now,” she insisted. “Lady Taunton spent most of this afternoon looking out the window.”

  That’s encouraging, he thought, as he crossed between the two houses, noting as he did so that there was a well-defined path now. Maybe I should gravel it while I’m here, he thought.

  There were lights on, so he didn’t hesitate to knock. Tired, but not too tired to kiss Laura Taunton within an inch of her life, he knocked again, then waited, listening for footsteps. Nothing. He leaned against the door and knocked again, trying to subdue the clammy feeling that started crawling out of his stomach.

  As he waited with growing alarm, he reminded himself that his mother had said she had seen Laura looking for him all afternoon. He touched the special license in his pocket, and her response of Yes! that she had sent only last week. He thought he heard footsteps, but the sound stopped, and he could not be sure. He debated another moment whether to try to open the door, then ignored his own cautions and did precisely that.

  The corridor was dark, with lights at the end by the staircase and the sitting room opposite. His eyes became accustomed to the gloom, and he could make out a table and chair in the hall, and there, next to the chair, gathered into a huddle, sat Laura Taunton, her face turned down into her updrawn knees.

  During his first year at the University of Edinburgh, one wag masquerading as a student—he didn’t last long—had the effrontery to ask the professor if anyone ever died of a broken heart. It is possible, he thought, as he stood there, his hand on the doorknob. It might be her heart. Maybe it’s mine, he thought. What do I do now?

  Then another thought yanked his hand from the knob as though it burned and sent him running to her, to kneel beside her and raise her face. “Tell me there is nothing wrong with Nana,” he demanded, wishing he didn’t sound so peremptory, but tensing himself to take the stairs three at a time if she nodded.

  She shook her head. “Nana’s fine,” Laura whispered, then lowered her head again. “It’s I,” she managed to gasp out before dissolving into wrenching tears that sent more terror through him than any epidemic or surgery gone wrong.

  He had no idea what to do, even though he had an inkling of her anguish. How can people be so cruel to their children? he asked himself as he sat beside her in the dark hall and gradually worked his arm around her shaking body. She tried to draw away, but he wouldn’t let her.

  “Don’t hold me so tight!” she exclaimed.

  He was barely touching her, but he released his slight grip, praying she wouldn’t bolt from the hall. She is going to take such a light touch, he told himself. I hope I am equal to it.

  To his immense relief, she did not move, but crouched, huddled inside herself, breathing as though she had been running hard. He knew she had to stop that.

  “Laura. Laura. Just let your breath in and out slowly,” he counseled, trying to sound more like a surgeon than a deeply concerned lover.

  She did as he said, slowing her breathing until it was almost normal again. He felt her begin to relax, then slowly release herself from her huddled position. Soon her feet were stretched out in front of her as she leaned against the wall. She let him take her hand, but he made no effort to grasp it tightly.

  After a long moment he asked, “What’s wrong?”

  She withdrew her hand from his, then put it back again. He didn’t think it was his imagination that she leaned toward him, even though they did not touch.

  “I had it in my head that you were coming today.”

  Her voice was so soft he had to lean closer. “You were right, obviously,” he said, his lips close to her ear.

  She flinched and moved back slightly, and he held his breath until she settled down again.

  “I knew the mail coach was due around five o’clock, but you did not come.” Her words ended in a sob. “I knew you had changed your mind. I just knew it! I told Nana she was wrong, and that no one would want to marry me, not a bastard. A used one, in the bargain.”

  He winced at her words, but knew he did not dare try to tell her she was wrong, or she shouldn’t feel that way, because she so heartbreakingly did. He took a deep breath of his own.

  “Captain Brackett found me a replacement. I had to show Captain Bedwyn around before I could leave. By then, the mail coach had gone, but I knew the coasting vessel would get me here.”

  “You came by water?” she asked. He could hear just the slightest bit of hope in her voice.

  “I did. Good thing you couldn’t see me. I haven’t vomited that much since my first post mortem! I had my sea legs, but not my sea stomach, obviously.”

  She didn’t laugh at his weak humor, but he thought a smile played around her lips. When he took her hand again, she did not object when he twined his fingers through hers. He wanted to talk to her, reason with her, but she was not being reasonable. He said nothing.

  She cleared her throat. “Philemon, I am not ready.”

  A capital knife slashed across his gut could not have felt worse. It was his turn to remind himself to breathe slowly. At least you did not call me Lieutenant, he thought.

  “I’m not certain anyone is,” he commented, keeping his voice light, even as he writhed inside. “I know that I love you, and that I don’t feel entirely comfortable when you are not around. I’m also starting to get preposterous ideas of a home and children, and mouthing sentences that start with, ‘When this war is over we are going to…’”

  “We?”

  “It’s never just me. It’s always we.”

  She made a small sound in her throat at that, and to his ineffable pleasure, rested her head on his should
er. “Nana tells me I am wearing a path in front of the window. Then I tell her that’s impossible because she has already worn the path.”

  He chuckled, feeling on firmer ground now that his dear one seemed to be relaxing. “Ten years from now, when you’re holding your breath over little boys in trees and scolding me when I track mud in the sitting room, you’ll wonder what the fuss was all about.”

  She turned toward him. “You’re certain of that.”

  I’m certain of nothing, he thought, but you’ll never hear it from me. “Positive.” He rubbed his cheek against hers briefly; she did not draw away. “What happened just now, Laura?”

  “I honestly don’t know,” she said, releasing his hand. “I heard you knock and came downstairs. The closer I got to the door, the more frightened I became. Finally, I couldn’t even stand up.”

  She let him put his arm around her this time. “I am asking you to trust me, Laura,” he said softly. “It’s a novel experience, because I doubt you’ve ever trusted a man in your entire life. Who can blame you?”

  She nodded. “Philemon, everything you say is reasonable and logical and I know it’s true. But…”

  “…when push comes to shove, it’s another matter.”

  She nodded again. “We could get married tomorrow, but what happens then?” She muttered something then that didn’t even sound like words, just a guttural sound of fear that was almost palpable. “I…I never knew when James was coming to my bed. He would open the door in the dark and stand over my bed, then jerk back the covers and tell me to raise my nightgown.” She turned her head into his shoulder. “I am so ashamed.” She started gasping for breath again.

  “Laura. Laura. Just breathe slowly,” he ordered.

  She did as he said, but less successfully this time, as the words spilled out of her. “It always hurt. Does it always hurt?”

  He felt himself on firmer ground now. “Laura, love never hurts, when done right. Never. Quite the opposite.”

  “That…that’s what Nana said. She blushed, but that’s what she said.”

  “Don’t doubt your little sister for a minute.”

  He knew what to do. He stood up and stretched. “Laura, I’m going to bed. Let me walk you upstairs and tuck you in. I’ll probably look in on Nana, then I’m going home. Think about this—when we’re married, we can keep the lights on. No surprises.”

  She let him pull her to her feet, even as her mood seemed to lighten. “You’re serious? Could you sleep that way?”

  “I could sleep in the middle of the High Street at noon with wagons trundling by,” he told her truthfully. “Oh, you know that.”

  His heart started pumping again when she laughed. She made no objection when he walked her upstairs, helped her out of her robe and tucked her in bed. Taking his chances, he patted her hip, and she obligingly moved away so he could sit down.

  “You need to know this, Laura. I thought Captain Bedwyn was a permanent addition to the staff, but he’s just locum tenens. Temporary. He’s between ships. I have to go back in four days. Let’s get married between now and then. You can follow me when you feel like it.”

  She considered his words. “You wouldn’t do anything to frighten me?”

  “I don’t have it in me to frighten you, dearest, but I am a man,” he told her, bluntly. “All I want is for you to trust me. Let me be the one man on earth that you trust.”

  She nodded. “I think I can do that.” She clutched his arm then. “But when I don’t think I can, will you still love me?”

  “Forever. Go to sleep now.” He kissed her forehead.

  He decided not to look in on Nana, reasoning that any woman as gravid as she was deserved a peaceful night’s sleep. He’d see her in the morning. He went downstairs as quietly as he could, going into the sitting room to rest a moment on the sofa and wonder what on earth he was doing.

  He must have slept, but only a little. When he woke up, the candle was not much lower and Nana sat in a chair beside the sofa, watching him with that kindly expression he was familiar with in the daughters of Lord Ratliffe. He smiled back, wondering at the quality of females bred of that bad man, and wondering if some quirk of fate could ever turn William Stokes less toxic and more like his offspring.

  “I was trying not to wake you, Nana.”

  “Who said I sleep, these days?” She laughed softly. “You’re an anatomist, tell me why babies seem to press so hard on a bladder at 2:00 a.m.”

  “It’s a warning of sleepless nights ahead,” he told her. “Wish I could give you more cheerful tidings.”

  He sat up and beckoned to her, and she came to his side, allowing him to put his arm around her shoulders. What a pretty thing she was, too, even with her belly so big. Her face was more plump, which he knew probably pleased Oliver, who had worried about her slimness.

  She frowned now. “I’ve done what I can for Laura,” she told him. “I even told her how your mother got me through my own cold feet at marrying Oliver.” Nana pushed on her belly. “If I press in here, the baby presses back here. It’s a game we play. Am I silly?”

  “Superbly so. I hope all women play this game.”

  She sighed. “I’ve told Laura how terrified I was of marrying Oliver—not because I didn’t love him, but because I couldn’t convince myself that I was worthy. Laura’s going through what I went through, but it’s harder for her. We know why.”

  “We do. I told her I only have four days here, so we must arrive at a decision.” He gave her shoulder another squeeze, then got to his feet, tugging her up, too. “It seems that all I am doing tonight is telling females to go to bed.”

  “I should be tired. I spent all day cleaning, and preparing and doing heaven knows what. Laura even told me to slow down.”

  He gave her a professional look then. “Nana, old wives’ tales or not, that’s usually a sign that something is going to happen soon.”

  “I have three weeks,” she told him.

  “You’re so certain?”

  “Lt. Brittle, prepare for plain speaking. When a captain comes ashore as rarely as mine, with only one item on his agenda—don’t tell King George—you can pretty well pinpoint such things!”

  His arm around her shoulder, he walked her to the hall. When she was halfway up the stairs, she looked back at the sitting room. “Bother it,” she said. “I came down to extinguish that light.”

  “Let me.”

  He turned toward the sitting room, but turned back at a gasp from Nana. She stared down at the tread beneath her bare feet. In the quiet that followed, he could hear the sound of liquid dripping.

  “Oh my,” she said, then, “Phil, it’s a good thing you’re here.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  After so recently assuring his love that he would never surprise her, Philemon had no compunction about banging on Laura’s door. She was there in a moment, her face white, but opened the door wide when he gently pushed Nana into her arms.

  “Find a towel. I’ll get my pocket instruments next door. Laura, have Mrs. Trelease heat some water. I’ll wake up my mother. She’d snatch me bald if I didn’t let her in on this.”

  When he was whistling down the stairs, as cheerful as she had ever heard him, Laura looked at her little sister and started to laugh. “Nana, he’s in his element.”

  “Handy to have him so close. Sister, that towel, please.”

  By the time Philemon returned, Laura was dressed, the water heating downstairs and Nana comfortable in a dry nightgown. Laura had spread a thick towel under her, and taken out the other birthing supplies from the chest at the foot of the bed.

  Taking his time on the stairs, Philemon looked so calm she wanted to shake him and screech, This is my sister! He seemed to know what she was thinking. He pressed his forehead against hers. “I’ve done this many times, Laura. Steady as you go now.”

  He sat on Nana’s bed. “My dear, you have work to do. Shall we send Joey Trelease for Mr. Milton? I know he’s your accoucheur, and I’m not one to p
oach patients.”

  “Send him a note when the sun is up,” Nana said. “He’s not a young man, and he needs his sleep. Besides, Oliver told me he trusts you. Poach away.”

  “I’m flattered,” Philemon said, as imperturbable and conversational as though they discussed the weather. Laura felt herself under his spell again, as she had during those racking days at Stonehouse, when he seemed the only calm in a terrifying place. “Here is Mrs. Trelease with hot water. Come Laura, let us wash.”

  The housekeeper poured the water and stood back as the surgeon added enough cool water to the basin to suit him. He handed Laura his apron and she put it over his head and tied it behind, as she had done on several occasions. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his arms to the elbows. “The water is fine,” he said. “You’ll be assisting.”

  She gulped and joined him, their hands touching in the hot, soapy water.

  “We’ve done this before, haven’t we?” he commented.

  She nodded, suddenly too shy to speak.

  “Let’s do it again,” he told her. “You’re the best mate I ever had.”

  She looked at him, loving him with all her heart and realizing he had given her the greatest compliment possible. “You really mean that?” she asked.

  It was his turn to nod, then turn the moment into a laugh. “Besides, I still have trouble with Aitken’s brogue.” He ducked when she splashed him.

  He shared a towel with her, then went to Nana’s bed, where she still lay on her side. He knelt on the floor beside her. “Nana, my dear, it’s time to toss aside modesty with great abandon. Laura will help you onto your back. Raise your knees, then drop them open. I want to feel what’s going on inside, if I may. Will you let me?”

  She nodded. Laura helped her into position and Nana did as Philemon asked. He checked quickly, then covered her again. “You have some time,” he told Nana. He handed his watch to Laura. “You’ll probably want to throw a pitcher at my head, Nana, but I’m going to lie down in Laura’s bed. I’ve barely slept in two days. Laura is going to time your contractions, and keep you company, and walk you around the room, if you feel up to that. Laura, when they get to three minutes apart, wake me. Ladies, good night.”