Praise for Carla Kelly, recipient of a Career Achievement Award from RT Book Reviews and winner of two RITA® Awards

‘A powerful and wonderfully perceptive author.’

—New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney

‘A wonderfully fresh and original voice …’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Kelly has the rare ability to create realistic

yet sympathetic characters that linger in the mind.

One of the most respected … Regency writers.’

—Library Journal

‘Carla Kelly is always a joy to read.’

—RT Book Reviews

‘Ms Kelly writes with a rich flavour that

adds great depth of emotion to all her

characterisations.’

—RT Book Reviews

About the Author

CARLA KELLY has been writing award-winning novels for years—stories set in the British Isles, Spain, and army garrisons during the Indian Wars. Her speciality in the Regency genre is writing about ordinary people, not just lords and ladies. Carla has worked as a university professor, a ranger in the National Park Service, and recently as a staff writer and columnist for a small daily newspaper in Valley City, North Dakota. Her husband is director of theatre at Valley City State University. She has five interesting children, a fondness for cowboy songs, and too many box elder beetles in the autumn.

Novels by the same author:

BEAU CRUSOE

CHRISTMAS PROMISE

(part of Regency Christmas Gifts anthology) MARRYING THE CAPTAIN

The Surgeon's
Lady
Carla Kelly

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedicated to the men of the Channel Fleet,

whose wooden walls kept the Corsican Tyrant

from England’s shores

Primum non nocere—First do no harm.

Credited to Galen, Roman physician,

and English physician Sir Thomas Sydenham

Chapter One

Taunton, June 28, 1809

For several months Lady Laura Taunton had avoided the desk in her sitting room because of two letters, one inside the other, she had not the heart to destroy. She had thrown them away one evening, but retrieved them before the maid did her early morning tidying. She shoved them back in the desk before continuing her restless slumber.

Suddenly, the letters mattered. She blamed her change of heart on her nearest neighbor, who had invited her to tea. Lady Chisholm probably had no idea of Laura’s feelings. She merely wanted to drink tea and share a happy event.

Laura had dressed with deliberate care for the tea. It was a year since death had released Sir James Taunton from the apoplexy that had turned him into a helpless infant, and made her his nurse for the previous three years. She would dress in gray this afternoon, signaling a departure from black, which she hoped fervently, if unrealistically, never to wear again.

She hadn’t missed James for a minute, but no need for the neighbors to know. A widower thirty years her senior, James had paid attention when her father, William Stokes, Lord Ratliffe, had shared her miniature around his circle of acquaintances and promised her to the highest bidder.

She had been eighteen then, a student at Miss Pym’s Female Academy in Bath, sent there by her father for an education, with no idea that he would demand so high a return on his investment.

“My dear wife was never able to give me an heir,” James had told her after their wedding. “Your duty is to give me an heir.”

During the first year of her removal to Taunton, a country seat near Bath, Laura had asked herself daily why she had not bolted from school at the mere idea of what her father had planned. During those nights when James Taunton heaved, gasped and thrust over her, she cursed her own weak character.

She did not become a mother, for all James’s attempts that consumed his energy and left her feeling no satisfaction beyond relief when he finished and left her room. When he suffered a stroke while out riding, his groom carried the baronet back to the house, practically dropping Sir James at her feet like a game bird. She hoped the staff saw her calm acceptance as well-bred courage, rather than gratitude.

Stung by her own faulty character, she had thrown herself into nursing her husband. By year two of his apoplexy, she could have challenged anyone to improve upon her delivery of competent care. She conducted herself with dignity when he died, and dressed in black. Beyond tea at Chisholm, that was her world.

That was a year ago. This afternoon, she had walked to Chisholm, happy not to be suffocating in black. Tea with Lady Chisholm usually demanded no more of her than to nod and interject the occasional short word. But this afternoon, Lady C had dealt her a blow. Sitting right next to her neighbor and holding her hand, was a slightly younger version of Lady Chisholm.

As Laura had hesitated, Lady Chisholm waved her closer. “Do forgive me, my dear. It’s just that …” She glanced at her sister and burst into tears. “This is my sister and it has been so long.”

It was simply said, but Laura felt her heart pound from the look the sisters exchanged. What have I done? Laura thought. Then: Can I change it?

Not wanting to startle her own servants when she returned to Taunton, Laura allowed the tears to slide down her face in silence. She had perfected this art through many a night in her late husband’s bed. By the time she reached the estate, hers alone now, she was in control again.

She had a moment of panic when she could not find the letters. She reminded herself that it had been three months since she had retrieved them, and dug deeper in her desk. She sighed when she unearthed them.

She held up the first one, the only one she had had the courage to read in March. Read this first! had been scrawled across the folded sheets in Miss Pym’s handwriting. Even after eight years and a supreme dislike of Pym, Laura had obeyed.

She read it again, knowing the news still had the power to shock her. She read again of Lord Ratliffe’s dealings with the Female Academy and his relationship to Pym, his illegitimate sister. Her breath came faster as she read again Pym’s news that she had two half sisters. You are too old now to remember Polly Brandon, she read again, but perhaps you recall Eleanor Massie. Eleanor was now Eleanor Worthy, wife of a captain in the Royal Navy, who had somehow managed Lord Ratliffe’s incarceration in a Spanish prison, as part of a botched hostage exchange. “Good riddance,” Laura said. The Worthys had gone to Bath because Lord Ratliffe had told the captain, probably to taunt him, Laura thought sourly, his wife was one of three illegitimate daughters educated by Miss Pym. Pym had written,

Eleanor has told Captain Worthy her whole history, and they are here to find her sisters—Polly Brandon, who still resides here, and you, Lady Taunton.

Laura put down the letter and stared at the ceiling, remembering her relief when she read Pym’s confession that Eleanor had not succumbed to a fate similar to the one Lord Ratliffe had proposed to her, but had fled Bath with nothing but the clothes on her back.

She had a place to go, Laura thought. I had nowhere and no one. Still, it couldn’t have been much rosier for Eleanor. She looked at Miss Pym’s letter again, with its concluding paragraph, urging her to read Eleanor’s accompanying letter.

That was the letter she had not opened, too humiliated by her own circumstances to think anyone, even a half sister, would ever want to contact someone who hadn’t her own strength of character. Why would she want to know me? This time, though, she took a deep breath and opened Eleanor Worthy’s letter.

Her eyes welled with tears. If Eleanor had begun it formally, Laura could have resisted, but she had not. Laura let out a shuddering breath. Oh, sister, the letter began. I want to meet you.

Laura was on her way to Plymouth by noon the next day. She didn’t write ahead, knowing that if she had to put pen to paper, her courage would fail her completely.

Laura arrived in Plymouth when farmers were leaving their fields and shopkeepers shuttering up for the night. Nana Worthy, that was how she signed her name, had included directions to the Mulberry, and the coachman got lost only once. She wished he had been lost another two or three times, because her misgivings had begun to flap overhead like seagulls.

There was the Mulberry, small and narrow, but well tended. The paint on the door and windows lookednewly fresh, and she had to smile at the pansies in their pots and ivy making its determined way up the walls. It must be the inn that won’t die, Laura thought, with amusement.

She told the coachman just to wait, and shook her head against an escort up the walk. There was nothing wrong with her legs, only her resolve. A small sign in the door’s glass said Please Come In, so she did, and understood within five minutes what made the Mulberry a fiber in Nana’s heart.

Though shabby, everything was neat as a pin. Nana, where are you? she thought, sniffing the air which was redolent of roast beef and gravy, something her French chef would rather die than serve. Her mouth watered.

A door down the corridor opened, and an older woman came out. She was small and thin, her expressive face full of sharp planes and angles, but Laura could not overlook her brown eyes. This must be Nana’s grandmother.

“Mrs. Massie?” she inquired. “I am …”

She didn’t even have to say. The innkeeper grasped her by both arms.

“I wondered if you would come,” she said simply. “Nana has nearly given up.”

The woman must have realized how presumptuously she was behaving, because she dropped her hands from Laura’s arms and stepped back to curtsy. Don’t stop, Laura wanted to say. No one has ever touched me kindly.

There was something in Mrs. Massie’s eyes that demanded equal frankness. “I hadn’t the courage to come,” Laura said. “I could not believe that Eleanor, Nana, would really want to meet me. Not after what I did.”

“She was nearly beside herself with excitement when she and the captain returned here from Bath in March,” Mrs. Massie said. “‘Sisters, Gran, imagine,’ she told me.”

Laura didn’t know how it happened, but the innkeeper had her by the hand and was leading her into a small sitting room off the corridor. “Where is Nana, please?”

She astonished herself by bursting into tears when Mrs. Massie told her the captain had settled Nana in Torquay, a half day’s drive east. She astonished herself further by leaning against Mrs. Massie until the woman was grasping her shoulder and murmuring, something like the crooning of parent to child.

Her whole story tumbled out, how her father had sold her to Sir James Taunton to pay his creditors; how her husband had tried to fix a child on her; how she had faithfully tended the old man through his final illness; how humiliated she was by what had happened. Through it all, Mrs. Massie held her close, offering her apron for Laura to dab her eyes.

“It is my shame to bear,” Laura said, when she could speak.

Laura stayed in the protecting circle of Mrs. Massie’s arms. “No shame. You didn’t have a Gran to run to, did you?” she said.

“No, I didn’t have a Gran.”

“You do, now.”

Laura slept soundly that night, burrowed deep in Nana’s bed, with its homely sag. The room was light when she woke up, but she contented herself with lying still, hands behind her head. She looked around the room, noted a shaving stand and mirror, and reminded herself that Nana had shared her small bed with a husband.

Well, Nana, you were spooned in with the captain, she thought. No wonder I am to be an aunt. Sir James had never been inclined to share her bed, content merely to use her and leave her. Laura doubted that her sister and the captain had separate bedchambers in their home in Torquay.

The Mulberry’s keepers waved her off from the front walk and Laura blew Gran a kiss before she settled back in the coach. She wished the road had followed the coastline, but there were glimpses of Devon’s lovely coast. A brisk wind blew, so the water sparkled and danced.

Then they were in Torquay, where she could practically breathe in the magnificent sweep of Torbay, with its warships at anchor there, too, and tidy houses rising from the coastline in pastel terraces. As gulls wheeled and scolded overhead, she began to wonder why anyone would want to live inland.

When she reached Nana’s home, it was as Gran has described it: two and a half stories of sturdy stone with a pale blue wash and red roof. A captain could see that roof from the Channel, Laura thought. He could probably even keep it in his mind’s eye for months on the blockade.

The post chaise came to a stop on the neatly graveled driveway in front of the door. Not wasting a moment, Laura opened the door, put down the step and was knocking on the front door before the coachman barely set the brake. The door opened on a generously built woman rather than a butler, who asked her to state her business, in that soft burr of the Southwest Coast that Laura had detected in Gran’s speech.

“Lady Taunton from Taunton, here to visit my sister, Mrs. Worthy.”

“Well, well! Come this way,” the woman said. “Things are at sixes and sevens right now, what with the news, but …” She was silent then, which from the look on her face, must have been a difficult thing. “Mrs. Worthy can tell you everything.”

This is a bad time, Laura thought with dismay, as she entered the sitting room. There was Nana, obviously, sitting between another comfortable-looking woman and a man in uniform who, with his short brown hair and bright blue eyes she could see even from the doorway, must be related to the woman. They had the same air of comfort about them.

Laura knew she was not familiar with naval uniforms, but this one was different than most: plain, with no epaulets and only gilt buttons. The insignia on his upstanding collar was unusual, too, with its double row of gilt-embroidered chains.

“Lady Taunton,” the housekeeper announced.

The man in uniform stood up when he saw her and bowed, but Laura had eyes only for her sister, who looked as though she had been crying.

There was no denying she had come at a bad time. Her instinct should have propelled her backward, but not this time, and not in this room, not with her sister sitting there, her eyes widening. Laura stepped forward, her hands out.

“Nana,” was all she said.

Nana rose from the sofa as though pulled up by strings. In a gesture that looked automatic to Laura, she put her hand on her belly, almost as a gesture of reassurance.

“Laura?” she said, and there was no mistaking the strength in her voice, even behind the quaver.

Laura felt the world’s weight leave her shoulders. Thank God you have not called me Lady Taunton, she thought, as she crossed the room.

Nana met her halfway, throwing her arms around Laura. She pressed herself close until Laura could feel the softness of her belly. Nana was shorter than she, so she rested her head against Laura’s bosom. The most natural thing in the world was for Laura to kiss her hair, which she did, as she locked her arms around her sister.

“Oliver told me you would come. He said I had to be patient,” Nana murmured in that same lilting, West Country burr. “Laura.”

Laura remembered Pym’s determination to give Eleanor Massie a well-bred accent, and her pique at never quite erasing the burr from the pretty child’s voice.

Her words were for Nana only, so she whispered them. “Sister, it took me three months to work up the nerve. What a fool I was.”

Nana drew a shuddering breath, then held herself off to look at Laura, from her stylish bonnet, to her impeccable traveling dress to her elegant half boots, then back to Laura’s hair, the color of her own. She gave it a gentle tug.

“When we were at the academy, I used to think you were the most beautiful creature in the whole world,” Nana said. She laughed out loud, a delightful sound that traveled to every corner of Laura’s heart. “I should have known we were related!”

Laura couldn’t help laughing. “You’re still a scamp,” she said, taking her sister’s hand.

Just then Nana remembered the others in the room, the man still standing.

“Mrs. Brittle, Surgeon Brittle, this is my sister, Lady Taunton.”

Suddenly, it was too much. Laura felt Nana sag, but the man was quicker. In a moment he had seated Nana on the sofa, and stepped back so Laura could join her. He poured a glass of water and handed it to her sister.

“Drink that and lean back,” he told her. “Deep breath.” Nana obeyed him without question.

Laura looked from the man to his mother, which served to give Mrs. Brittle leave to speak.

“My son is a surgeon,” she said. “He’s newly arrived from Jamaica.”

That would explain the handsome tan. She wouldn’t have called him good-looking, but the mahogany of his complexion seemed determined to cover the defects of sharp nose, thin lips and hair so short she wondered at first if he was bald. On the other hand, if Lt. Brittle was not the most handsome man she had ever seen—even in his glory days, her late husband was worth a second look—the surgeon had magnificent shoulders, the kind commonly associated with road-mending crews. Laura was impressed and puzzled, in equal shares.

“They came in force to bring me bad news,” Nana said in her forthright way.

“No, merely it-could-be-worse news,” the lieutenant contradicted. “The good news is that Captain Worthy can swim.” Nana relaxed further under the calmness of his gaze.

Laura watched him, interested, as the sheer force of his personality seemed to steady them. Mrs. Brittle said he was a surgeon. For years, she had seen many a physician up close, but never had she observed a better example of bedside manner, and from a mere surgeon in the Royal Navy. So much for the day’s surprises.

“Swim?” Laura asked. “I am in the dark.”

Nana took her hand and started to speak, but couldn’t. She looked at Mrs. Brittle, who took up the narrative without a pause.

“My husband is the sailing master on the Tireless, Lady Taunton,” she said. “He sent us a message by way of a coastal ship. The Tireless was on the receiving end of a real donnybrook by Ferrol Station.” Her voice hardened. “It wasn’t a fair fight, but Captain Worthy never backs away. The Tireless limped into Plymouth Sound and sank last night.”

“My God!” Laura exclaimed, and felt her face go pale.

She barely sensed his fingers at her throat, but in a few seconds, the surgeon had removed her bonnet and was waving her with it. “Deep breaths,” she said, and he smiled.

“Oliver can swim,” Nana said, her voice dogged.

“Apparently even with a wounded man on his back,” Lt. Brittle added, returning the bonnet to Laura. “He insisted my father deliver the news to Torquay as soon as possible, so Mrs. Worthy wouldn’t hear it from someone else. That is why we are here.”

“The others? Your father?” Laura asked. “How are they?”

Mrs. Brittle reached across Nana and touched Laura’s hand. “You sound like a West Country lass yourself, to care about jack-tars.”

“I care,” she said softly.

“You’ll watch over your little sister?” the surgeon asked, his voice matching hers for calmness in a way that utterly beguiled her, she who had listened to too many physicians blather.

My little sister. “Aye. I’ll watch over my little sister.”

Chapter Two

After the Brittles left, Laura and Nana each burst into tears, then started to laugh, which only led to more tears and laughter.

“I could not believe you wanted to see me, so I did not open your letter until two days ago,” Laura confessed.

“Silly you.”

Nana placed Laura’s hand on her belly. Laura held her breath as she felt the tiny motion under her fingertips.

“The first time it happened, I thought it was my imagination,” Nana said. “It felt like a butterfly trapped on the other side of my shimmy.” She laughed. “Lt. Brittle said to give Baby Worthy a few months, and he, or she, will feel like a prisoner rattling a tin cup along the iron bars of the brig.”

“The lieutenant’s a common one,” Laura said before she thought.

“We’re all common, Laura,” was her sister’s quiet reply.

It was not a rebuke; even on their short close acquaintance, Laura didn’t think Nana had a rebuke in her entire body. Hers was a statement of fact; they were a common lot. Laura felt another layer of self-deceit slide away.

“Common we are.” She removed her hand. “I think you should lie down now.”

If Laura expected mutiny, she got none.

“I agree. The Brittles and I already had luncheon. I expect you haven’t, unless travel has suddenly become much more convenient.”

“You know it hasn’t,” Laura said with a laugh. “Direct me to your housekeeper, and I will …” She went to the window. “My stars, I forgot about the chaise.”

Nana was already settling herself on the sofa, her hand tucked against her belly. “Send them away, Laura.”

“I don’t want to inconvenience you …” Laura began.

“I’ll be more inconvenienced if you leave.” She gave Laura a look that was as calculating as it was a bluff. “Ladies in waiting are to be humored. Lt. Brittle told me so.”

“He did no such thing,” Laura teased. “He looks far too practical for that.”

“All the Brittles are practical,” Nana said, perfectly complacent to be found out and corrected. “Do you have pressing business in Taunton demanding your immediate attention?”

She said it so gently that Laura felt the tears start in her eyes again. Since Sir James’s death, there had been not one demand on her time. If she showed up next week in Taunton or never again, no one would really care, except the servants she supported.

“I have no business anywhere. I didn’t bring many clothes, though.”

Nana sighed when Laura covered her with a light throw. When she replied, her voice was already drowsy. “In the bookroom, Mrs. Trelease will show you, there are paper, pens and ink. Write a note to your staff, tell them to collect more clothing, and hand the note to Joey Trelease. He’s a scamp but he loves to post letters quayside. Heaven knows he’s posted enough of mine.”

Laura hesitated, and Nana narrowed her eyes. “I am she who commands.”

“You and who else?” Laura teased. It was the mildest of banter, but she almost shivered with the pleasure of sharing it with a sister.

Nana yawned. “If Oliver were here, you would snap to. He would say, ‘Lively, now, madam,’ and the earth would tremble.”

She began to cry, and there was no subterfuge anywhere, just the raw edge of a wife who has heard her man was in danger, even if safe now. Laura dropped to her knees by the sofa and put her cheek against her sister’s.

“Whatever my failings—don’t stop me, I have many—I am an excellent guest, and possibly even more of a tyrannical big sister than you ever imagined.”

Or than I ever imagined, Laura thought, as she shushed Nana, kissed her and sat on the floor by the

sofa until her little sister slept. When Nana was breathing evenly, Laura went outside, paid the coachman and dismissed him.

Luncheon was Cornish pasties so crisp and brown that she salivated as Mrs. Trelease served them. After a leisurely cup of tea in the breakfast room—windows open, seagulls noisy—Laura went upstairs to find her few dresses already on pegs in the dressing room and her brush and comb lined up on the bureau.

Before she went downstairs to find the book room, she walked quietly down the hall, past what must be Nana and the captain’s room. She saw the boat cloak thrown across the foot of the bed. I wonder if Nana wraps herself in it at night, she asked herself. What must it be like to love a man so often gone?

The next chamber was the future nursery. Already there was an armchair there with padded armrests, pulled close to the open window and the view of the bay. She went to the window, watching the ships swinging on their anchors. At this distance, the smaller boats darting to and from them looked like water bugs.

There was a cradle, too, one that looked old and well-used. Something told her, how, she did not know, that it must have come from the Brittles’ house, which must be the pale yellow one next door and a little lower down the hill.

As she stood there, she noticed Lt. Brittle standing on the side lawn, looking out to sea, hands in his pockets. He must have felt her scrutiny, because he turned slightly, then waved to her.

She waved back, knowing Miss Pym would be shocked at such brazen behavior, but not caring in the least. She couldn’t keep staring at him, so she looked out to sea again, content to watch the boats come and go. When she glanced at the side lawn again, he was walking inside his mother’s house, whistling. The sound made her smile.

Lt. Brittle came to the house again that night after dinner was long over, and Nana was starting to yawn in the middle of sentences. She looked up when the surgeon came into the room.

“Is there a cure for sleepiness?”

“Most certainly,” he told her. “In your case, give it about five months. Of course, then you’ll be tired because of two o’clock feedings. You’re a no-hoper.”

How is it he knows just the right tone to strike with my sister? Laura asked herself, as she listened to their delightful banter. I am in the presence of an artist.

It was a beguiling thought. Nana, who had been reclining on the sofa, tried to sit up, but the lieutenant shook his head and she stayed where she was. To Laura’s surprise, he sat on the floor right by her sister, tucking the throw a little higher on her shoulders against the cool evening breeze blowing in from the Channel.

His eyes on Nana’s face, he took a note from his uniform jacket and opened it. Laura noticed the suddenly alert look on Nana’s face. Nana took hold of the surgeon’s hand as he tried to unfold the note, stopping him.

“It’s all right, Nana, it’s all right,” he said, his voice soothing. “It came to me about an hour ago from Captain Worthy himself. Hey, now. He wanted you to know he’ll be here tomorrow, but he also wants you to be prepared.”

Laura found herself on the floor by the sofa, too, her arm around her sister in a protective gesture she never would have imagined herself capable of, only that morning in Plymouth.

“He sustained an injury to his ear,” the surgeon said. “Read it yourself.”

Nana snatched the letter from his hand, her eyes devouring the words. She took a deep breath when she finished. “Listen, Laura: ‘My love, I am not precisely symmetrical now, but I trust you will still adore me.’ Oh, Phil! What else did he write to you in the other note you are not showing me?”

“You know your man pretty well, don’t you?”

“Beyond degree. Confess.”

“It was a splinter.” The surgeon shook his head at Laura’s expression. “Not those aggravating ones you get under your fingernail. This is when pieces of the railing and masts go in all directions during bombardment.” He looked at Nana again. “From his description, I think he lost his earlobe and maybe part of that outer rim. Could be worse. If you want, I can look at it before I leave for Stonehouse tomorrow.”

“You know I want that,” Nana replied. She put her hand on the surgeon’s arm. “We’re lucky, aren’t we, Phil?”

“Unquestionably. My father said Captain Worthy knew the Tireless was going down, so he offloaded his most seriously wounded onto a passing water hoy headed to Plymouth and sent a message requesting aid. The rest of the wounded he put into the ship’s small boats and towed them behind the Tireless, so he would not have to get them out in the general confusion. He thought of everything. No wonder crews like to sail with Captain Worthy. So do you, eh, Nana?”

She burst into tears, great gulping sobs that tore at Laura’s heart. Laura cradled her sister, thinking about her own husband’s welcome death; how she had closed his eyes without a tear.

The surgeon let Nana have her cry, offering his handkerchief so she could blow her nose. He appeared to have all the time in the world. He took the note from Nana’s hand.

“You’ll see here he wants me to stay the night. He doesn’t know that your sister is here, but I’m still inclined to stay. The sofa in your book room will do.”

Nana shook her head. “I won’t hear of that. Laura, could you make up the bed in the room across the hall from you? I’m afraid this is Mrs. Trelease’s night out.”

“Of course I can, dearest,” she said.

On Nana’s instructions, Laura found the linen, happy to have something to do. Even though it was July, there was a chill on the room which she remedied with a small fire in the grate that the surgeon could extinguish, if he felt too warm. She shook out a bottom sheet.

When she lowered it onto the bed, Lt. Brittle was standing on the other side to straighten it. “I thought I’d leave her alone for a few minutes,” he said, as he tucked in his side of the bed, with even more razor-sharp corners than hers.

He noticed her glance and gestured for her to hand him the other sheet. “I’m a surgeon, Lady Taunton,” he said. “Nothing exalted like a physician. I’ve been known to give a good shave and haircut and empty slops. The air isn’t too rarefied around me.”

There was no mistaking his common touch. True, he was in uniform, but there wasn’t anything crisp about him. His hair was short, as short as men who wore wigs usually wore their own hair, but she doubted he owned a wig.

She found a light blanket while he pulled a case onto the pillow and fluffed it at the head of the bed. She held out the blanket and they settled it on the sheets together. When it was smoothed out, she looked at him and chose to say more.

“The air may not be rarefied, but you are a good surgeon.”

“Thank you,” he said simply.

“In fact, I wish you had been at my late husband’s bedside. I …” She stopped, her face warm.

He didn’t say anything, but the look of sympathy in his eyes made her brave enough to continue. “He suffered a stroke four years ago, and I nursed him through three years of …”

“Thirty-six-hour days?” he asked quietly.

“Precisely,” she said, relieved that he understood. “I listened to all manner of wisdom from his physicians, and …”

She couldn’t find the words to continue, but he seemed to know. “… and you wanted someone to give you concrete advice?”

“Precisely so again,” she said, and sat down. “I wanted to know how long he would live, but hadn’t the courage to ask so callous a question.”

“It’s not callous. I’d have answered it,” he told her. “Typical expectation might be eighteen months. Apparently you are a superior nurse, if he lasted three years.”

“He was my husband,” was all she said. “Why aren’t there more doctors like you?”

He sat down, too. “I don’t know what Nana has told you about us, but we Brittles are as common as marsh grass. I always knew I would be a healer of some sort. For a time, when I sailed as a loblolly boy, I pined for proper medical schooling. After that first battle at sea, I knew I could be more useful.”

She nodded. There was no denying he looked like the most capable man on the planet. He also was built like a road mender. She had never met anyone like him.

“Did all your education come at sea?”

“No. Surgeons require degrees. Captain Worthy paid tuition, room and board for three years at the University of Edinburgh.”

“He strikes again. Nana has been telling me all about her captain this afternoon.”

“Contrary to what she has said, he doesn’t really walk on water. After Scotland, I spent nearly two years as a ward-walker in London Hospital. I should have been another year there, but man proposes and Boney disposes, apparently. I passed my viva voce, got a license—two, in fact—and found myself back at sea, this time with Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. We all know how that came out.”

She shouldn’t have been sitting on a bed with him. He must have had the same thought, because they both got up at the same time. She wanted him to tell her more about his life at sea, but surely he had better things to do.

Laura looked around the room, then drew the draperies. “Is there anything else you might need?”

“No, you’ve thought of everything. I’m going to go next door and finish packing, but I’ll be back.”

“You mentioned Stonehouse.” Heavens, Laura, she told herself, let the man be. He’s trying to go home.

He seemed in no particular hurry. “I started my duties there last week after returning from Jamaica.”

He must have noticed the question on her face. “Stonehouse is a Royal Naval Hospital between Plymouth and Devonport. By the dockyards. I am one of the two staff surgeons to some eight hundred patients, depending on Boney.”

She couldn’t have heard him right. “So many! How can you possibly get away?”

“Not often,” he said as she walked him to the door. “I did insist on seeing me mum, however. After Jamaica, she was pining after my careworn visage.”

“Is there no Mrs. Brittle?”

“Not besides me mum,” he said cheerfully, as he walked down the stairs with her. “Any woman I’m to court will have to come to Stonehouse and empty slops.”

Laura laughed. “And probably wash smelly bandages.”

“Certainly.” He nodded to her. “Just leave the side door open. I’ll lock it when I come in, if you and Nana have already gone to bed.”

When she returned to the sitting room, Nana was awake and knitting by the window. She held up her work. “Soakers. Mrs. Brittle says I can never knit too many. Do you knit, sister?”

She did. They spent the evening knitting. Under Nana’s gentle questions, she was even able to talk about her marriage and Sir James Taunton.

“He wanted an heir, and reckoned his first wife had been at fault,” Laura said, her eyes on her knitting. “After a year of trying, he had a stroke and left me in peace.” She knew that was enough to tell Nana. “I … I do have a lovely estate in Taunton.”

Nana didn’t look convinced.

“It’s lovely,” Laura repeated. “If I never see it again, it wouldn’t be any loss to me. Life is amazingly dull when you want for nothing.”

Nana did smile at that. She leaned back and rested her hand on her abdomen. “Please don’t tell Oliver, but life moved faster at the Mulberry, when I was hauling water up and down stairs, placating our few lodgers, and sweeping hearths.”

“You’ll be busy soon enough.”

“So I will.” Nana leaned forward and took Laura’s hands in hers. “Oliver’s all right, isn’t he?”

If she hadn’t felt so confident in Lt. Brittle’s comments, Laura knew she could not have spoken. “I do believe he is, this captain of yours. You’re a goose, Nana! No wonder everyone loves you.”

Laura shared Nana’s bed that night, because Nana insisted she did not want to be alone. She saw that Nana was comfortable, touched by the way she matter-of-factly pulled the boat cloak over her side of the bed and tucked what would be Oliver’s pillow lengthwise to her. Laura smiled at that and got her own pillow from the other bedchamber.

She knew her sister was tired, but Nana had another question. “Laura, who raised you before you came to Miss Pym’s? I had Gran.”

I had no one, she thought. My mother, whoever she was, had no interest in me. “When I tell you, you’ll understand a little more about our dear father.”

Nana gave an unladylike snort. She giggled then. “Laura, I almost said something I’ve heard Oliver say when he didn’t know I was listening, but I would probably lose all credit with you.”

You could never do that, Laura thought. “As I was saying, when you so rudely interrupted—there you go again!—our dear father’s problems with money began with the fourth Viscount Ratliffe, who was as dissolute and spendthrift as our loving parent. Nana! Your manners!”

“Sorry,” came Nana’s meek reply in the dark, followed by a barely suppressed laugh, probably smothered in the folds of her darling’s boat cloak.

“Lord Ratliffe Number Four was hell-bent on a flaming career as London’s greatest ne’er-do-well when one of the Wesley brothers—John, I believe—took him on as a project, after John’s return from Georgia. Nana, are you awake?”

“Of course I am,” came the sleepy reply.

“I’ll move along. Dear Grandpapa renounced his evil ways, turned to Methodism, and set up his own illegitimate daughter—our beloved Pym—as the headmistress of a female academy. I spent my earliest years in a Wesley orphanage.”

Nana reached under Oliver’s pillow and took her sister’s hand. “Laura,” was all she said.

“If you don’t know any better, what is the harm?” Laura said. “You know the rest as well as I do. After Grandpa died, our father was forced by some curious honor we scarcely knew he possessed, to maintain Pym’s school and keep us in it. Of course, he found a way to make us pay, didn’t he? Nana, I’m so ashamed I did not have your courage.”

Nana pushed aside Oliver’s pillow and her voice was fierce. “Laura! Listen to me! You had no one to help you and nowhere to go.” She held Laura by the shoulders. “You have us now. You always will.” Her grip relaxed. “Heavens, you’ll think I’m ferocious.”

“You are, sister,” Laura said, drawing a shaky breath. “Did you terrify that French officer in Oliver’s prison?”

“Probably,” Nana said, her tone kindly again. “He deserved it, though, for getting between me and my love.”

And that is that, Laura thought, as her sister found Oliver’s pillow again and stretched it out.

She thought Nana slept, but then: “Laura, please say you’ll stay here. I need you.”

“I’ll stay.” I need you more, she thought, as her eyes closed.

Laura woke a few hours later, because she heard the bedchamber door open. She sat up, alert, to see the tall form of Lt. Brittle—what had Nana called him? Phil?—holding up a lantern similar to one she had used in James’s sick room, with its sides slatted to allow only a little light, enough to see a patient by.

He could see that she was sitting up in bed, but he didn’t pause at the door. He came closer in stockinged feet, to kneel by her.

“Is she all right?” he whispered.

“She’s fine,” Laura whispered back, leaning close to him, unwilling to wake Nana. “We’ve been catching up on our lives.”

“You’re a welcome distraction,” he said. “She needs you.” She could see him distinctly now in the subdued light. “I like to ward walk before I sleep. Good night, Lady Taunton.”

Laura nodded and lay down again, grateful for his reassuring presence, even if he did nothing more than shine a light and let her know he was there. To her unspeakable pleasure, he tugged the coverlet up higher and patted her shoulder, before he got to his feet and left the room as quietly as he had entered it.

She put her hand where he had touched her, closed her eyes and slept.

Chapter Three

Lt. Brittle left before breakfast. Laura thought she might have to bully her sister to sit still and eat, in her anticipation for the captain to arrive, but admonition was unnecessary. After the meal, Nana went to the kitchen to plan the week’s menus, while Laura went to the book room to write a letter to Taunton.

Writing the letter was a simple matter. Laura wondered what her butler and housekeeper would say when they learned she planned to stay in Torquay for the immediate future. She wanted to recommend holidays for them all, but knew that would be a shock to the system for her retainers, none of whom was younger than fifty.

She was sealing the letter when she heard the front door open, then firm steps in the front hall. He’s here, she thought. Nana will never hear him from the kitchen. She stood up, wondering whether to go to the kitchen or into the foyer to introduce herself. Shyness kept her from doing either, but it didn’t matter.

“Nana?”

Captain Worthy’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried, even though probably not far enough to reach the kitchen.

Laura hadn’t known her sister long. Certainly she had no reason to appreciate how close a bond between husband and wife could be. She opened the bookroom door just as Nana sped past her, arms open wide.

Their embrace was wordless, but the intensity of it made Laura catch her breath. She opened the door enough to see her sister caught in the arms of a tall man made even taller by the fore and aft hat he wore, which was cocked slightly to the side to accommodate a bandage around his head.

Before he kissed his wife, he removed his hat. Nana’s hands were gentle on his neck, careful not to touch his ear as he kissed her, kissed her again, and once more after that, until Nana ducked and asked him when he had last shaved.

That seemed a good note for Laura to open the door wider and meet her brother-in-law, except that she stood where she was, transfixed by what followed. Oliver dropped to his knees and rested the undamaged side of his head against Nana’s belly. With a sob, her little sister laid her hands on him like a benediction.

Laura softly closed the door as her heart pounded. All she could think of to do was thank the Almighty for tender mercies and count slowly to one hundred before opening the door again.

She found the Worthys in the sitting room, looking out the window at the bay, the captain standing behind Nana, his arms around his whole family. He appeared to be resting his chin on Nana’s head.

I still shouldn’t be here, Laura thought, embarrassed. She turned to go, but the captain looked around and smiled to see her. He let go of Nana and walked toward her. She thought he might bow, but he didn’t bother. Taking her by both arms, he kissed her forehead.

“Life’s too short to stand on much formality, sister,” he said. “Start by calling me Oliver.”

What could she do but agree? “I am Laura Taunton,” she replied, “and most heartily pleased to meet you.”

He was handsome in a seagoing way, with a myriad of wrinkles around his eyes that were probably caused by years of facing into wind and water. His lips were thin as a Scotsman’s and his nose full of character. Still, none of his features registered as much as his brown eyes, so warm and kind, probably only because he was in the presence of the person he held most dear in the world. On the quarterdeck, she did not doubt he was absolute monarch. At home, her sister ruled, even though she probably did not know it.

Laura took all this in, understanding her brother-in-law completely before she had said more than a sentence to him. How strange life was. In two days she had gone from having no family in the world, to the possession of a sister and a brother. Maybe there really was a God in Heaven.

Nana stood by Oliver now, making him sit down on the sofa, then putting a pillow behind his head.

“My love, would you humor me and let Philemon Brittle look at your ear?” Nana asked.

Laura knew her brother-in-law would refuse his wife nothing. In his world of war over which he had no control, any gesture of kindness to his wife must have felt like the greatest gift he could give. He nodded.

“I’ll get him,” Laura said.

She took the well-traveled path between the two houses. So his name is Philemon, and not merely Phil, she told herself. It has been a long time since I have read that particular book of the New Testament. I wonder if anyone reads it.

Lt. Brittle came to the door, his shirtsleeves rolled up. “Just helping me mum with the dishes,” he said. “Come in. Did I see a chaise pull up with Captain Worthy?”

“You did,” she said, walking with him to the kitchen, where Nora Brittle was up to her elbows in soapy water. “Good day, Mrs. Brittle. May I help?”

The surgeon handed his dish towel to her. “You finish. I’ll get my pocket instruments and some wadding.”

Laura took the plate Mrs. Brittle handed her, wondering when she had last dried a dish. In the last day, I have been hugged and cosseted, and cried over and touched, she thought, as her eyes prickled. People need me. If I am ever alone again, it will be my own fault and no one else’s.

“Are you feeling all right, Lady Taunton?” Mrs. Brittle asked quietly.

“Never better.”

After sitting Oliver Worthy in a straight chair, draping a towel around his neck and advising Nana to recline on the sofa out of view of the injury, Lt. Brittle took out a pair of long-nosed scissors from his packet of instruments, then handed the rest to Laura.

“I should ask—are you up for this?”

He seemed to expect no answer but yes, so she did not disappoint him. It wasn’t the place, not with Nana looking so anxious, but perhaps later she could tell him that she actually was curious.

Laura noticed that Nana was looking more distressed by the moment. In fact, she was getting ready to leave the sofa for a look of her own. Obviously, her husband felt unwilling to subject her to that kind of stress.

“Stay there, m’dear,” Oliver said. “I am in good hands, as you well know. Laura, you should ask the surgeon to tell you of the time he stitched a teat back on a cow’s udder.”

Well done, she thought, even as she laughed, and Nana relaxed on the sofa again. “You must tell me, Lieutenant.”

Brittle had finished unwinding the bandage. After folding the blood-dappled portion inward so Nana could not see it, the surgeon handed it to Laura. He snipped at the hair around Oliver’s ear.

“Oh, that cow. You would remind me, Captain. That was when I voyaged with you as surgeon’s assistant on the Chrysalis, wasn’t it? As I recall, you were a lieutenant, and determined to assure your captain that I could patch a cow’s teat.”

Laura asked. “On a ship?”

“It’s common enough,” Nana said. “You’d be amazed what some officers will take on board, as they prepare for a long voyage.”

“Pigs, cows, chickens … it’s a regular Noah’s ark,” Oliver said. “Due to my mismanagement, Captain Fitzgerald’s little Jersey sustained an undignified injury when a crew under my command swung her into the hold.”

“Nana, your husband promised me all kinds of perquisites if I would but take a needle and thread to the bovine,” Brittle said as he calmly snipped away.

“Did you succeed?” Laura asked, as the surgeon indicated Oliver’s mangled ear, which looked remarkably like liver.

“Succeed? Aye. Earned a prodigious kick to my ass, though.”

You are so composed, Laura thought, as Nana laughed. I can be, too, she told herself as she forced herself not to show any disgust at the sight before her. After the first inward quiver that evidence of raw mortality seemed to invite, she found herself more interested than squeamish.

“Hmm.”

Brittle stood by the captain, hands on hips, lips pursed.

“That is not edifying,” the captain said.

“Perhaps not to you, sir,” Brittle replied. “Your surgeon on the Tireless is still Joseph Barnhart?”

“Yes,” Oliver said, sounding wary.

“He did a fine job. When it heals, you’ll look a little lopsided, but I promise you, you won’t frighten children. Not even your own.”

Captain Worthy gingerly touched what remained of his ear. “Just as long as I still terrify midshipmen.”

“You will, sir. Lady Taunton, observe how well it is granulating.” He pointed at the raw rim. “Barnhart threw some nice blanket stitches on the lobe, or what’s left of it.”

She looked closer, because he seemed to expect it. As she gazed at the injury to her brother-in-law’s ear, it suddenly occurred to her that a common surgeon with the preposterous name of Philemon Brittle was treating her as an equal. She thought how appalled Sir James Taunton would have been by her even being in the room, much less in Torquay visiting a sister as illegitimate as she was. The sheer audacity of it all made her smile.

“It is funny-looking,” Brittle said, which made the captain grin.

“I’m not laughing at your ear, Oliver,” Laura protested. “Lt. Brittle, I might tell you later what was amusing me.”

“Very well,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give me that same pad, please, and then the bandage. I’ll reuse it now, but you should replace it tomorrow with a length of gauze I will leave you.”

He seemed to take for granted she would tend Captain Worthy. “I will if Nana lets me,” Laura replied. “After all, this is her ear.”

Both Worthys laughed and exchanged glances that told Laura she was going to busy herself somewhere in the house that afternoon, far from their bedroom.

Lt. Brittle finished his work. “Take good care of him, Nana,” he said. “If he tries to leave the house in less than three days, you have my permission to shoot him.” He replaced the scissors and pocketed his instrument envelope. “Captain, when you return to Plymouth for your court martial, drop by Stonehouse. I’ll compound a salve for you. G’day now.”

She followed him into the hall. “Court martial? What do you mean?”

“Every captain who loses a ship goes through a court martial,” the surgeon explained, as she walked with him. “It’s routine, and from what my father said in his letter this morning—he’ll be here in a few days—the captain was as brave and coolheaded as anyone could wish. He will have another ship quite soon. My da said he already convinced the admiral of the port to keep his crew together and not disperse them to other warships in the harbor.”

It was afternoon now, and Mrs. Brittle had mentioned how her son had to be on his way immediately to Plymouth. Still, he seemed to slow down as he approached the door, giving her all his attention. He put his hand on the knob, but just held it there.

“What were you smiling about?”

“I had the distinct feeling that you were treating me as an equal. Sir, I know nothing about medicine.”

“I disagree,” he replied.

Still he stood there. She put out her hand, which would have astounded her proper butler, and shook the surgeon’s hand. “Thank you for that marvelous performance in there. Nana didn’t have any choice but to relax, did she?”

“No. Under ordinary circumstances, Mama tells me Nana is as tough and resourceful as a Cornish tin-pit pony,” he said, still holding her hand. “Let’s just say I like to handle expectant mothers gently.” He looked into the distance. “Something I learned at university, and most decidedly not at sea.”

“Where you physic cows and cut hair, on occasion?”

“Aye.”

She thought he would release her hand, but he tightened his grip instead and his eyes had gone deadly serious. “Nana knows better than any of us that one half inch to the right, and that splinter would have taken off her husband’s head.”

Laura could think of nothing to say to his candor, but she didn’t have to say anything. He stood even closer, his hand on hers, the sheer size of him reassuring her.

“We all fight Boney in our own way, even Nana.”

She nodded, absurdly wanting to burrow in close to him, because he seemed so sure of himself, so capable.

He released her hand and opened the door. “Now it’s time to kiss my mother adieu and return to the grind. Take a good look at the captain’s ear tomorrow, if you please. If there are red streaks or he is feverish, send Joey Trelease for Mr. Milton.” He hesitated, then plunged ahead. “When you get tired of being a widow, Lady Taunton, I can offer you gainful employment at Stonehouse. What a cheeky tar I am. Goodbye.”

She couldn’t have heard him correctly. After a moment to allow her high color to return to normal, she walked toward the sitting room. The Worthys were already at the top of the stairs. Nana leaned across the banister.

“Laura, Oliver declares he will not lie down and rest unless I am there,” she said.

Laura laughed and blew them both a kiss. You would not let him out of your sight, even if he wanted you to, which he does not, she thought. She went into the sitting room and was standing there, looking out the window a half hour later, as Lt. Brittle left his house, shouldered his sea duffel and started for the harbor.

“I suppose you will take the mail coach,” she said out loud, admiring the pleasant swing of his hips, something she had already noticed in Plymouth, while observing the seagoing fraternity. It must be the loose walk of the deepwater sailor, used to shifting balance on a heaving deck. Whatever it was, she watched him until he was only a small speck, heading down the hill. She doubted she would see him again.

Mrs. Brittle didn’t seem surprised when Laura knocked on the side door. “Come in, dearie,” she said. “I suppose you are a fifth wheel next door right now.”

“Decidedly so,” Laura agreed. “Have you something useful I can do?”

“I do. Phil told me to give you some gauze and wadding for Captain Worthy.”

She followed Mrs. Brittle upstairs to a small bedroom tucked under the eaves. “Watch your head,” the woman advised. “My boys can’t come home often, but I like to have their beds ready.”

She reached under the bed and pulled out a small chest, which contained rolled bandages, and a batt of lint. She set the items on the bed between them, and reached into the chest again, this time pulling out a well-worn case. She opened it, and Laura gasped to see several knives and a saw. Mrs. Brittle touched the dark-stained cloth band on the tourniquet, then closed it again.

“That’s the set Phil used on the Victory, where poor Lord Nelson, God rest his soul, was struck down. He has a much better set now, but he said he’d never part with this one. I don’t know how he does what he does.” She shuddered. “Through the years, I patched up four little Brittles for this and that, but I could never …”

Like mother, like son, Laura decided. Without any discernible urging on Mrs. Brittle’s part, she found herself telling the woman all about the last few years of her life, as she had tended her ailing husband without respite.

“I was grateful when he died,” she finished, “because I was so tired. It was a thankless task.”

Mrs. Brittle cleared his throat. “Forgive my plain speaking, but Nana has told me much about herself. Are you the eldest of Lord Ratliffe’s daughters?”

“As far as I know. Another thankless thing.” Laura replied, trying to keep the bitterness from her voice.

She thought she almost succeeded, except that Mrs. Brittle covered her hand with her own. “Not thankless at all, if you’ll pardon me, Lady Taunton. You have a younger sister who has fought her own dragons, and now there are two of you.”

“Does she need me?” Laura asked simply.

“Maybe you need her more,” Mr. Brittle replied, just as honest. “Nights can be long, though, when your man is at sea, and there’s war. She’ll be busy with a baby soon, and I’m next door to help.” She patted Laura’s hand and then released it.

“Are you telling me I could leave here?” Laura asked, remembering what Lt. Brittle had said before he left. Of course, she may have misunderstood him. Her ears weren’t entirely tuned to the soft speech of the West Country.

“Only if you don’t go too far.”

Nana came quietly into the sitting room when the afternoon shadows were starting to fall deep on the lawn. She sat down beside Laura and leaned her head on her shoulder.

“I trust you made him very comfortable,” Laura teased.

“That’s never hard,” Nana said, her cheeks rosy. “I asked him once if he thought I was a loose woman, since I enjoyed … him … so much. He just laughed and did it again.”

Laura couldn’t help smiling at her sister’s artless disclosure. “I suppose every moment is sweeter than the last, since he is not home so much.”

“It is. Sadder, too. I would like to give Boney a piece of my mind.”

“You and most of the women of the Channel Fleet.”

Dinner was eaten in the breakfast room. Laura doubted they ever used the more formal dining room. Oliver ate like a starving man, passing up nothing. He rolled his eyes when Nana patted his middle.

“Almost as big as yours, love,” he said, which earned him a sharp nudge.

It was a curious meal. Between the relaxed banter between the Worthys that Laura found herself envying, Oliver told of the fight off Ferrol Station, when he took on a French ship of the line and received a thrashing, even while sacrificing his frigate so two smaller ships bearing vital dispatches could escape.

“Nana, remember my time in dry dock last November?” he asked. “Well, I think my stern was still vulnerable. The whole rudder sheared off, and we limped here under judicious sail power.” He looked at Laura. “We’d be drowned without Dan Brittle, my sailing master.”

“Did you conn the helm?” Nana asked.

“Most of the time. I slept a little on deck, when I could.” He stood and rested his hands on his wife’s chair back as though the room was suddenly too small. “I trust my helmsmen, but I wanted this way to be my blame and not theirs, if we all drowned. I’m sorry, love, but that’s how it is. Hard to say what would have happened, if we hadn’t reached Drake’s Island before we sank.”

“That’s where the Tireless is?” Nana asked, holding his hand against her cheek now.

“Just off the island. I lost everything, Nana.” He sat down. “Not quite. I took off the log, charts, orders and dispatches, of course.” He reached into his uniform jacket. “And these. Couldn’t leave you behind.”

He unrolled two small sketches of Nana and anchored them to the table with a glass and a plate.

Nana dabbed at her eyes with a napkin. “Does the Admiralty know what a silly romantic you are?” she asked, her voice gruff.

“Hopefully not. That’s our secret.”

He rolled up the drawings, but left them on the table. “Fifty men are dead, Nana, and others are wounded.”

“Mr. Ramseur?” Nana asked. “He’s Oliver’s first mate, Laura.”

“Hale and hearty.”

He stirred in his chair and Laura thought he would get up again, to roam the room. “Nana, Matthew was injured badly in the fight.”

She gasped. “You didn’t tell me!”

“A splinter on the gun deck took off his arm.” He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to Nana. “He’s a powder monkey, Laura. He stayed with Nana at the Mulberry once. He’s eleven now.” He leaned closer to his wife and toyed with her hair. “He lost a lot of blood, Nana, and I won’t say I’m not worried.”

Nana blew her nose and gave her husband a defiant look that told Laura that she was not quite the biddable creature her usual deportment suggested. “I must go to Stonehouse at once. Oliver, he has no one!”

Oliver shook his head. “I’ll not have you and our baby jouncing over bad roads to tend him in a place that will frighten even you, oh fearless one.”

This is easily solved, Laura thought, watching the mutiny in her sister’s eyes and the equal firmness on her brother-in-law’s face.

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

Why did I say that? she asked herself immediately, even as Nana’s eyes lightened up and Oliver looked relieved. I want to help my sister, she assured herself. It has nothing to do with Lt. Brittle’s offer of employment. I can scarcely imagine being influenced by something so totty-headed. He must think I am truly bored.

She had occasion to think about that as she composed herself for sleep later. She climbed into bed with her usual feeling of gratitude, even after the past three years, to know that her late husband would never open her door again. It was dark and there was no one in sight to scold her for feeling that way. She could even allow herself a moment to consider Lt. Brittle’s startling offer.

Laura couldn’t help remembering how Lt. Brittle had tucked up her blanket last night, and patted her shoulder. It was her secret alone: next to Nana’s heartfelt embrace, that was the kindest touch she had ever felt in her life.

“I will visit a powder monkey and I will return to Torquay,” she said out loud to the plaster whorls in the ceiling. “I would have to be an idiot to even consider what Lt. Brittle is suggesting. No one is that bored.”

Chapter Four

Perhaps I will see Surgeon Brittle again, Laura thought, as she walked to the administration building. The Marine at the entrance to the complex had pointed it out as a good place to begin searching for one little boy.

Neat walkways, well-tended courtyard … She didn’t know what she had expected, but it hadn’t been this. She counted ten substantial buildings connected by covered walkways of Italianate style. That’s intelligent, she thought. Patients with contagion can be isolated in distinct buildings.

The administration building appeared to be a warren of small offices and cubicles, staffed by a flotilla of clerks. Other than a glance or two in her direction, none of the men she passed seemed interested in offering help, so she continued down the hallway to a large desk, where another clerk sat.

“Good afternoon. I am looking for Matthew Pollock, a powder monkey from the Tireless,” she said, determined not to feel intimidated by the way he looked at her over the rim of his spectacles.

“Are you a relative?” the man asked.

“No. I …”

“Then there are no visitors.”

The clerk turned his attention to the ledger in front of him, as though she had already vanished. When he looked up again and saw her still standing before him, he even appeared surprised.

“I can’t disappear like an apparition,” Laura told him. She set down her valise. “I still want to see Matthew Pollock.”

A door opened down the hall and a man came out, resplendent in blue, with gold bullion and lace on his sleeves and collar. The clerk stood up at once.

She didn’t know his rank, but his appearance indicated someone considerably more exalted than the clerk. She wanted to speak to him, but he surprised her by striding directly to her and standing too close for comfort.

“You’re a day late.” He sniffed the air. Laura resisted a powerful urge to slap his face. “You don’t smell of gin, at least. You were to report to the clerk in room 15. Are you illiterate, as well as tardy? Well?”

He was too close. She was a tall woman, but she stepped back, reminded too much of her own father and Sir James, with their shouting and demands. She wanted to turn and run down the corridor and out into the quadrangle. Not this time, Laura, she told herself. Not ever again. Putting her hands behind her back so he would not see them tremble, she stood her ground, not moving an inch.

“You have me confused with someone else.”

The clerk gasped. Obviously no one else had ever contradicted this exalted personage before. It’s high time someone did, she told herself, even as her stomach began to churn.

“I don’t make mistakes.” He bit off each word like a dog snapping a bone for the marrow.

“I never knew that the Lord Almighty wore a naval uniform,” she snapped back.

She heard a strangled sound from the clerk, but knew better than to take her eyes off the man intimidating her. Maybe this was what she had wanted to say to her own father. Maybe she had stored it up in her heart and mind, waiting for the opportunity.

“I’m sacking you before you even begin!” the officer roared, perhaps thinking he was on a quarterdeck of a most unfortunate ship and she was his lowliest powder monkey.

“You think I came here for employment?” She pitched her voice deliberately low, so he was forced to listen. “I wouldn’t work for you if I was starving, and I most certainly am not.” She unclenched her hands from behind her back and brought them around to her front, so she could fish in her reticule.

She yanked out a sheet of paper. “My brother-in-law, Captain Oliver Worthy of the Tireless, thought I might need this. I told him it wouldn’t be necessary, but he insisted. Obviously he knows you better than I do.”

With a loud exhalation of air, the officer stepped back, as though propelled by his own breath. With a thunderous look at his clerk, he grabbed the note and read it.

Laura jerked the strings of her reticule together, wishing they would make a loud noise like a thunderclap, instead of a harmless little whish. Maybe I am like my sister, tough as a Cornish tin-pit pony, she thought. Wasn’t that what Lt. Brittle said about Nana? Couldn’t I use a champion, about now?

No champion appeared, but none was necessary, not after Captain Worthy’s brief note apparently. As the officer’s complexion turned from red to a mottled gray, she felt her own composure returning. She didn’t know what Oliver had written, but she suspected the note involved Lady Taunton, rather than plain Mrs. Taunton.

“Lady Taunton, a mistake was made,” the officer had the grace to say. It wasn’t much of an apology, but couldn’t have been easy, not with his clerk right there. “We must be so careful here.”

“I understand completely,” she replied, in what she hoped was her kindest voice. Then she could not resist. “I imagine there are female spies who attempt to weasel their way into naval secrets by talking to powder monkeys. Wise of you to be so cautious.”

She assumed what her late husband used to call her “pudding face,” and smiled at the officer, who wasn’t quite certain if he had just been held up to ridicule. Pudding face, indeed. Even her late husband—he who only complained—would have been impressed with the bland face she presented to the stuffed shirt in epaulets harassing her now. “Sir, I wish to know whom I have been addressing.”

Reminded so gently of his dereliction, he bowed again. “Admiral Sir David Carew at your service,” he replied. “I am chief administrator and physician.”

She curtsied again, thinking that if he could make a better beginning, she could, too. “Sir David, can you kindly direct me to the office that knows where such a little powder monkey might be found? He serves … served … on the Tireless.”

The physician indicated a door back down the corridor. “Room 12, my lady,” he said. “Let me escort you there.”

“I needn’t take you from your work,” she said, not wishing his escort at all.

“It is of no consequence,” he assured her.

She had no choice. She did manage to catch the look that passed between the clerk and admiral; the admiral gave the poor man such a glower that Laura was almost certain that no word of what had just happened would ever leave the clerk’s lips. The poor clerk would probably be set adrift in a lifeboat on the Amazon River at the mercy of headhunters, Laura thought, as she reassumed her pudding face.

The clerks in room 12 appeared astonished to see their chief administrator, which made Laura suspect Sir David seldom did his own legwork. And why should he, she thought. He is the Lord Almighty, after all. She managed to turn her laugh into a cough.

Flip, flip went the pages in a ledger, while another clerk ruffled through a stack of cards in a small wooden box as though his life depended on it.

“He is a new arrival,” Laura offered, not wishing to have so many men in pain on her behalf, not with the admiral standing there, looking ready to pounce. “The Tireless sank in Plymouth Sound on Sunday night,” she added, remembering what Oliver had told them that morning over breakfast.

“Ah, yes,” one of the clerks said, and turned to another ledger. He ran a trembling finger down a column. “Ward Block Four, second floor, Ward B, ma’am.”

“Just point me in the right direction.”

Again, Sir David would have none of that. “I will take you there, Lady Taunton.”

In the corridor, she looked down to see her valise, which—perhaps not wanting to be abandoned in such a place—must have crawled after her or been deposited there by a clerk. She knew this was a dilemma for the admiral. If she were to pick it up, he would be forced to take it from her. And from the looks of him, he did not carry parcels and certainly not valises. She hoped he was not one to carry a grudge, either.

He stared at the valise as though someone had dumped out a chamber pot right at his feet. For the sake of his staff, Laura put him out of his misery.

“Let me leave it here, Sir David. I will fetch it when I leave.”

That way he only had to pick it up and set it inside, which seemed to suit him completely. In fact, he even smiled when he offered her his arm again, as though he had already forgotten that earlier scene, and assumed that she would, too.

You, sir, are a pompous fool, she thought as she smiled and took his arm. Apparently I am to suffer you gladly.

He did provide some useful information, once outdoors. “The buildings are numbered in clockwise fashion from this block,” he said, as they walked along the covered colonnade. “You’ll observe they are separate, which helps to keep down contagion and noxious odors.”

He stopped in front of Ward Block Four. “Lady Taunton, are you certain you wish to visit this ward? I can have what’s-his …”

“Matthew.”

“… brought to the administration building.”

“I would never require that,” she said, shocked at his eagerness to move an injured patient just so she could be accommodated. “I am completely comfortable with this.”

He tried again. “Madam, these are uncouth men.”

“They are injured men,” she replied, and decided on some plain speaking, since she was beginning to understand his degree of discomfort. “I am a widow, Sir David. I recently nursed my late husband through his final illness. I doubt anything in this—block, you call them?—will surprise me.”

He shook his head. “These are battle injuries, Lady Taunton. I cannot guarantee you will not be shocked.”

“I expect no guarantee, Sir David,” she said, trying to keep her voice serene. She took a deep breath, and wished she hadn’t. Under a strong odor of carbolic, it was hard to ignore corruption. Take a shallow breath now, she advised herself, but only one or two.

Heads popped out of rooms as they walked to the stairs, which made her wonder how often Sir David visited the wards.

Perhaps he read her thoughts. “Sick and hurt officers are housed in separate blocks,” he explained, as they mounted the steps. “That is where I am usually in attendance.”

She didn’t think powder monkeys often came to his attention. “Who takes care of these men?”

“My surgeons. I have two, and each has four assistants, as well as orderlies.”

He took her to the next floor and opened a door. “B Ward, Lady Taunton. Let us find, er …”

“Matthew,” she said patiently. You would remember if he was an officer, she thought.

“Matthew. I will locate the surgeon. As you can see, we are overcrowded. Let us blame Bonaparte.”

She looked around the spacious, well-lighted room with windows on both sides to let in the sea air. She counted twenty beds, each with an occupant, plus two cots. A thin woman with a permanent frown between her eyes was seated at a desk. Eyes popping out of her head, she rose when she saw the admiral, and smoothed down her stained apron.

“We’re looking for Matthew.”

“Pollock,” Laura said. “He’s eleven.”

“Go get the surgeon,” the admiral ordered. The woman scurried from the room.

Then Laura saw Matthew, the youngest one in the room, lying propped into a sitting position, on one of the two cots. He had looked up when he heard his name, hope in his eyes. When he did not recognize her, he looked away.

It was impossible to overlook the misery in the room. Men had limbs missing, and some were lying still, as if any movement was painful. Some had that inward expression she recognized from tending her dying husband.

She sat on a stool beside Matthew Pollock’s cot and touched his good arm. “Nana sent me,” she said. “She’s expecting a baby, and Captain Worthy didn’t want to tire her. I’m her sister, Mrs. Taunton.”

The boy looked at her and released a shaky breath, as though he had been holding it for days. He was small for his age, and she had to remind herself that he was a veteran of the Royal Navy. Oliver had said Matthew had been a powder monkey for three years, one of two little boys on the Tireless whose sole duty was to carry powder from the magazine to the gun deck.

He was pale, which was no surprise, considering the insult to his system. He didn’t look overfed, either, although there was an uneaten bowl of mush on the table by his cot. His eyes were a crystal blue that made her think what a handsome man he might become someday. The skin was stretched taut across his face, which seemed to throw his nose into prominence.

She could not overlook his empty sleeve, with its bloodstains. It was rolled back to expose the thick bandage that made the rest of his body seem much smaller.

“May I call you Matthew?”

He nodded.

“Speak up, lad, when you’re addressed,” the admiral ordered. “You don’t nod at ladies.”

“He’s but eleven, Sir David, and wounded,” Laura reminded the admiral.

She heard smothered laughter from one of the other beds, and knew she should not have spoken out of turn, not in front of this powerful man. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely. “I should not presume to know what is best for him.”

She knew it was on the tip of the admiral’s tongue to agree with her, but he refrained, perhaps remembering the fool he had made of himself earlier. He was saved from further comment by firm footsteps, and then a comfortable laugh.

“As I live and breathe, Lady Taunton. You’re a sight for sore eyes, and we have plenty of those here!”

Laura glanced at the admiral’s face, whose sudden relief had just as soon turned to outrage, and then at Lt. Brittle, who came into the room in front of the woman sent to fetch him.

“Lieutenant! I’ll have you remember your manners, too!” the admiral exclaimed in a loud voice, which caused two of the bed-bound men to moan and stir restlessly.

Brittle went to one of the men and touched his face, keeping his hand there until he was still again. He nodded at the other one and winked, which seemed to settle him down.

“Beg pardon, Sir David,” he said, his eyes on Laura now. “It happens I know Lady Taunton.” He bowed in her direction. “How are the Worthys?”

“I left Nana in complete charge of the captain,” she told him.

She couldn’t help but notice the interest this conversation created among the invalids. All these men must be from the Tireless, she thought. “I’ll have you know she is a worse tyrant than your captain,” she said, addressing the room. “He hasn’t a prayer of leaving that house until she says so.”

Several men laughed, and one cheered feebly. The admiral looked around, obviously out of his depth, not knowing if he should reprimand them all or leave well enough alone. He chose the latter, backing toward the door ever so slightly.

To Laura’s gratification, Lt. Brittle played his superior like a violin.

“I know Captain Worthy’s men are deeply grateful for your kindness in bringing his sister-in-law here, Sir David,” Brittle said. “We all know how busy you are. With your permission, I’ll see to Lady Taunton now, and make sure these tars behave.”

“You do that,” Sir David snapped, looking around the room again. He left without another word.

Some of the tension went with him. Brittle nodded to the silent woman standing by the desk and she sat down again. He perched on the edge of Matthew’s cot, one knee on the floor, careful not to overbalance it. “Matthew, you’re the luckiest tar in the room, as far as I can see, with a visit from a pretty lady.”

A series of emotions crossed the powder monkey’s face. His lips trembled and he closed his eyes, exhausted with pain. “I wanted to see Nana,” he whispered, and then began to cry—not loud tears, but the hopeless kind, the kind she was familiar with.

Laura wanted to touch his face. She glanced at the surgeon, and he nodded his approval. She touched Matthew’s face, cupping her hand against his hot cheek, and then moved closer to circle her other arm around his head. Matthew turned his face toward her arm, which told her that she could console him.

In another moment, she had changed places with the surgeon, who moved to the stool. Careful not to bump his arm, she gathered Matthew close and let him cry.

The moment passed quickly. She took the damp cloth Lt. Brittle held out and wiped Matthew’s face. “Maybe I can wash your hair tomorrow,” she told him, keeping her voice matter-of-fact. “I always feel better when my hair is clean.”

She didn’t know what to say then, but the surgeon took over. He ran a practiced hand over Matthew’s upper arm, feeling for swelling. His eyes on Matthew, he spoke to Laura.

“What a brave son of a gun Matthew is, Lady Taunton. I had to take him to my surgery yesterday morning and smooth away some of Barnhart’s work—bless the man, he was even working in the dark at one point, wasn’t he, Matthew? I never heard a peep out of Matthew. Captain Worthy only has brave seamen on the Tireless.”

He knew just what to say. Matthew’s eyes brightened as he mentally seemed to reach inside himself and draw up.

I know what they want, she thought. She spoke loud enough for the other Tireless crew members to hear. “He’s doing well. Lt. Brittle examined his ear yesterday in Torquay, and said that although he was no longer symmetrical, he could still keep all of you in line. He’s in good hands, Matthew, and you’re kind to ask. I’ll send him a letter tonight and make sure he knows how you all are doing.”

“He said he would visit us, mum,” said a man in the next bed.

“Then I know he will,” she answered. She looked back at Matthew, who was watching her face, maybe looking for some resemblance to his beloved Nana.

“We don’t look alike, except for our hair,” she told him.

“Your eyes are greener than the ocean,” Lt. Brittle said, almost to himself. His face reddened, but he did not lose his aplomb. “I am observant, Lady Taunton.” He returned his attention to Matthew. “D’ye have any questions for me, Matthew? Now’s the time to ask.”

She didn’t think he would speak. She knew these men were trained not to speak to a better unless spoken to, but the surgeon had asked.

“What can I do now?” the boy questioned.

“You can come with me to Torquay, when you are able,” Laura said.

Matthew frowned. “Mum, I’m in the navy.”

“So you are, Matthew,” Brittle said. “I’m not sure yet, but I do know this—you still have your elbow and two inches more of forearm. You can still rule the world if you have an elbow.”

“The gunners won’t want me now,” he reminded the surgeon.

“No, they won’t,” Brittle said frankly. “Give it some time and thought. When your arm heals, we can attach a device. Maybe a hook.” He rubbed the boy’s head. “You’ll be the terror of the fleet and Boney’s worst foe.”

He stood up then, looking around the ward. “Can I trust you seamen with this fine lady? I need to patch up a cook on the second floor who’s not half as sweet as you darlings.”

The men laughed. The surgeon nodded to Laura. “Stay as long as you like. Are you planning on spending the night at the Mulberry?”

“I think I will.”

“I’ll come back in an hour, and at least escort you to the main gate, Lady Taunton. I’d escort you all the way, but I’m on duty tonight.” He touched Matthew’s head again. “If you’re not too tired, tell her about some of the places you’ve been, Matthew.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

She moved to the stool the surgeon had vacated, watching him stop at one or two of the other beds to bend over and assess the patient, and then spend a moment with the woman at the desk. When he left the room, she turned back to Matthew.

“You’re in good hands, Matthew,” she said.

She knew he was in pain, but he seemed to relax and wriggle himself down into a more comfortable position.

She tugged his pillow down to help, and tucked the light blanket across his middle.

“I’m going to the Mulberry tonight,” she told him. “I’ll tell Gran, Sal and Pete to come visit you as soon as they can.”

Before he left, Lt. Brittle had whispered to her to get Matthew to drink more water. She picked up the cup, but he was looking over her shoulder, his eyes wide.

“Mum, do something!” he gasped.

Startled, she turned around to see what he was looking at and sucked in her breath, then leaped to her feet, spilling the water on the floor.

Sitting propped up with pillows, a seaman clawed at his throat, blood pouring down his nightshirt. The man in the next bed, the stump of his leg encased in a wire basket, reached for him. “Please, mum!” he begged.

Laura looked at the desk, but the woman was gone. My God, she thought, my God. There’s no one to help but me.

She could tell there was no time to scream and clutch her hair, or faint like a lady would—or should. She forced herself to dig down deep into a place in her heart and mind she hadn’t even known existed. A life depended on her and her alone. For the life of her she didn’t understand it, but her next thought propelled her into action: what would Lt. Brittle do?

Chapter Five

She ran to the patient’s bedside. Blood streamed from his neck and mouth and his eyes were wide with terror. Disregarding everyone in the room, Laura raised her dress, untied her petticoat and stepped out of it in practically one motion, then crammed the white muslin against his neck.

“Who can walk?” she shouted.

One seaman tried to pull himself into an upright position, then slumped to his pillow again, exhausted by that puny effort.

“I can walk, mum.”

She turned around to see Matthew, wobbly but upright, holding his injured arm with the good one, trying to keep it level.

He could barely stand, but she had no choice. “The surgeon said he was going to the second floor. Find him!”

I won’t watch him go, she thought. I won’t think about what he is doing to his own injury. I won’t think about anything except this poor man. He was breathing better, but barely, searching her eyes with his own. Her heart went out to him, someone she didn’t know, a man who would probably never, on a normal day, come into her sphere at all. But this was not a normal day. He was suffering and casting all his hopes on her.

She watched his face as she pressed on his neck, praying she wasn’t doing him more injury. The room was silent, except for his labored breathing. She noticed then that he was glancing sideways, looking into her eyes, then glancing again.

“You’re trying to tell me something,” she said.

He nodded, then looked again. She glanced in that direction, toward the small table between the two beds. She saw a pasteboard box with the word styptic written on it in large letters. Next to the box was a gauze pad.

“Styptic. Styptic,” she muttered, then remembered white powder in a ceramic box by her husband’s shaving stand. She leaped up and grabbed the box with her slippery fingers, dumping it onto the gauze and turning back with it to place it over the opening in his neck where the blood still flowed.

He flinched when the caustic touched his skin, and his breathing slowed, which took her own breath away at first, until she realized he was calming down. She pressed gently on the gauze pad, relieved to see the blood was no longer pouring through her fingers.

She spoke to the others in the room without turning around. “If any one of you is near an open window, can you shout for help?”

Someone yelled “Fire!” which struck her as strange, until she realized that someone always comes when you yell fire.

The bleeding slowed. Laura sprinkled more styptic on the man’s neck. Probably only a minute or two had passed since the whole ordeal began, but she had never known time to suspend itself, as it did in that ward.

Then, blessed sound, someone came thundering up the steps. “Thank God,” she whispered.

Philemon Brittle couldn’t have come in the room fast enough to suit her. He was carrying Matthew, whom he deposited on his cot. With just a moment’s observation, he bumped her aside with his hip and sat in her place.

“Hand me that box,” he ordered, and she did, aware how bloody her hand was, and how it shook. Some of the powder spilled on the floor. “Get another pillow.”

Three pillows flew through the air in her direction. She caught them all and put two behind the seaman’s head at the surgeon’s command, until the man was sitting upright.

“Pull the nightshirt off his right shoulder. Gently now.”

Puzzled, she did as he asked, then noticed the bullet wound there, where blood was also oozing. She looked at Lt. Brittle, a question in her eyes.

“It’s the exit wound,” he said, his own voice more normal now. “Davey Dabney isn’t part of the Tireless crew. He was wounded in the battle off Basque Roads. Shot by a French sniper in the rigging of one of their ships.”

“That was April, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Aye.” He sprinkled more styptic on another gauze pad and handed it to her. “Put it against the exit wound and press. That’s right. You have a good touch, Lady T.” He wiped his hand on his apron. “You saved his life.”

She couldn’t help her tears. “I thought I did everything wrong.”

“No. You did everything right.”

Unbelieving, she gazed at the bloody bed, the patient pale almost to transparency now, and her own arms, red to the elbows. There was blood on the floor, too.

“Physicking is an untidy business, Lady Taunton,” he said, which sounded to Laura like the vastest understatement ever uttered. He gestured toward the box, bloody with his fingerprints and hers. “This is Davey’s third round of what we call secondary hemorrhage. I’ve been using persulphate of iron, which I think is better than iron perchloride. A little less caustic.”

She just stared at him dumbly, until he reached for her wrist with one hand and felt her pulse, while maintaining his other hand on the neck wound.

“I don’t want you to faint, Lady T, because I don’t have enough hands.”

She managed a laugh that sounded more like a shudder, to her ears. “If I feel faint, I promise to put my head down.”

He turned his full attention to his patient, who was breathing regularly now. He continued to talk to her, though, and maybe to the others in the room, the newcomers from the Tireless, who were silent and staring.

“David here was shot in the neck. The bullet tore through his trapezius muscle—this one here—and then broke his clavicle before it left. I think it nicked his carotid artery, and that’s our problem. It’s sloughing.”

How can this man possibly survive? she wanted to ask, but not then, not while the patient was listening. She sat where she was on the stool, mainly because she knew if she stood up, she would fall down. She leaned closer, so only the surgeon could hear.

“Did I do Matthew an injury by sending him to find you?”

“No. He’s young and healthy. I think he’s a hero.” He looked over his shoulder at the others in the room. “Maybe when we all feel more like it, we can give Matthew three cheers. You, too.”

The men chuckled, and the whole room seemed to relax. The patients tried to settle back again, except for the man in the next bed, the one with the remains of his leg in a basket. He looked at Laura and shrugged his shoulders, and she could see he had gotten trapped by his own blankets when he leaned out of bed to help the bleeding man.

Laura stood up slowly, swayed a little and took several deep breaths before she tried to move. Careful not to slip on the blood, she went to his bed. “What direction should I pull your leg to get you back under the blanket?” she asked. “That way? Put your arm around my neck and I’ll tug you up a little. Good.”

She started to turn back, but he tugged her skirt.

“Please miss, I need a piss pot.” His face was red with embarrassment.

“I think we all do,” she said, which made the patients laugh. “Where is it?”

“T’ledge, mum. There by the table.”

Laura picked up an earthenware urinal, avoiding everyone’s eyes as much as they were all avoiding hers, and brought it back to the amputee’s bed. Without comment, she lifted the blanket and slid it toward his hand. “Can you manage now?” she asked quietly.

“I’ll try, mum.” He tried, then leaned back in frustration.

“I can help.”

And she did, holding him in there until he finished. “My late husband was ill for three years, so don’t you mind this,” she said, keeping her tone light. “I don’t think any of you gentlemen can surprise me.”

Again there was the murmur of laughter from men too weak or hurt to do more. She removed the urinal and smoothed the blankets around the amputee.

“Well done, Lady T,” Lt. Brittle said. He nodded toward the door. “There’s a sluice hole in the washroom next door. While you’re in there, wash your hands and face.”

He spoke to the amputee in the next bed. “Tommy, what happened?”

The man thought a moment. “I was dozing, sir. I heard Davey start to gargle, like he did that time before. As soon as he started to spout, t’old bitch leaped up like a flea on a hot griddle and did a runner.”

“She better just keep running,” someone else said, the others murmuring their agreement.

Laura let her breath out slowly, and left the room. In the hall, she backed out of the way as two men in uniform ran up the stairs. They stopped in their tracks at the sight of her, so bloody. One of them tried to take her by the arm, but she shook her head.

“There is nothing wrong with me. It’s the patient in B Ward. Lt. Brittle is with him now.”

“Someone yelled ‘Fire,’“ he said.

“We were trying to get your attention. Excuse me now.”

She went into the washroom, relieved to be alone for a moment. She found the sluice hole and poured out the urinal’s contents, then poured water into it from the bucket nearby, swished it around and poured that out, too.

She turned to the row of basins and pitchers and rolled up her sleeves. She wouldn’t have noticed the crouching woman, if she hadn’t heard her try to smother a sob sound in her apron. Laura whirled around, her heart in her throat.

It was the woman who had sat at the desk, who stared at her with terrified eyes. Laura balled her slimy hands into fists, wanting to smack her. Instead, she turned back to the washbasin, where she took her time washing her hands and face, trying to decide what to do.

She dried her hands and face. She couldn’t leave the woman there, not after what she had done. At least there was no one in the other room with the strength to tear her apart and Lt. Brittle was too busy. Suddenly, she felt more sympathy than disgust.

“Do you have any children?”

Wary, the woman nodded, tucking herself into a tighter ball.

“Where’s your man?”

“Dead these three months at Basque Roads,” the woman whispered.

“If you lose your job, you will all starve,” Laura said. “Or end up in a workhouse, at the very least. I’m not certain that would be a blessing.”

The woman nodded, tears in her eyes again. She leaned her forehead into her knees and sobbed.

I’m a curious contradiction, Laura thought, as she went to the woman and tugged her to her feet. A few minutes ago I wanted to stuff her head down the sluice hole. Now I don’t. She grasped her by the back of her dress and gave her a shake, then pushed her into the hall and the ward next door, as the woman shrieked and tried to dig her heels into the floor.

Lt. Brittle was on his feet. “Good God, Laura!” he exclaimed, then was silent, disgust on his face, as he saw who it was making the noise. A low sound like a growl from several of the men made Laura’s blood run in chunks, and terrified the woman, who tried to make herself small under Laura’s armpit.

At a nod from the surgeon, one of the orderlies grabbed her. She stood there, head bowed, shoulders slumped, her hair in strings around her face.

“What can you possibly have to say for yourself?” Lt. Brittle asked, after a long silence.

“I was afraid,” she said at last.

“So was this lady,” the surgeon replied, his voice as quiet as hers. “She didn’t run, though. Maude, you’re sacked. Get out of here before the Marines come running and clap you in irons.”

The woman wrenched herself free of the orderly and dropped to her knees. “My children will starve!” she cried.

Laura took a deep breath and stepped deliberately in front of the bedraggled woman. “Don’t sack her.”

“You can’t possibly think she should stay on here,” Lt. Brittle said, looking more puzzled than irritated, which gave Laura the courage to continue.

“I certainly do not. She isn’t fit to watch kittens.” Laura gestured around her. “Does Stonehouse have a laundry? Put her there. Her man is dead at Basque Roads and she has children to feed. I will not have that on my conscience. I think you do not want that, either.”

She had him there, and she knew it, as sure as she knew there was no reason for anyone in B Ward to offer any hope. As she looked the surgeon in the eye, and he returned her gaze just as emphatically, she thought of what Sir David Carew would do, or even what her own father would have done, had he been there to pass judgment on frailty.

He was silent a long time. “I’m inclined to agree with you, Lady Taunton,” he said, then looked at the woman. “Maude, you should be horsewhipped and never employed at this hospital again.”

The woman said nothing, only hung her head lower.

Lt. Brittle turned to Davey Dabney, pale and watchful. “It’s your choice, Davey. No one in this room will fault you if you want her sacked.”

Maude began to cry, lowering herself even closer to the floor as her tears fell on wood slimy with the seaman’s blood. I can’t watch this, Laura thought, even as she stood there, her hands tightly clasped together. This is worse than anything I endured today.

“Send her to the laundry,” Davey said, his voice rough and barely audible above the woman’s sobs. “And my sheets better come back smooth like a baby’s bum or you’ll be out on yours.”

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