Dangerous Waters (18 page)

Jowan blinked, taken aback.

Downey smiled. “Come now, Doctor. Surely you must have noticed?”

Noticed
what
? And how could he have missed it? Whenever he was in her company he was torn between wanting to study her every movement, and constant anxiety lest he betrayed an interest far beyond that suitable for a temporary guardian.

Like him she had learned to conceal her emotions. Her distant half-smile and lowered lashes gave little away. But he had learned to read her reactions in the tilt of her chin, the manner in which she clasped her hands, the shade of rose in her cheeks.
At least he thought he had.

He frowned at Downey. “She is always perfectly polite – “

“But of course she is. Would you expect otherwise? Courtesy is as natural to her as kindness. But with you and me she jokes and teases, and has even been known to lose her temper.”

Instantly Jowan saw what Downey meant. “She only speaks to Matcham when he addresses her directly or asks her a question,” he said slowly. Though he had noticed her reticence he had not understood its significance.

“And except for mealtimes, when she has no choice,” Downey said, “if Mr Matcham is in the mess she avoids it.”

“Still, thanks to Mr Burley she has use of the saloon. And,” Jowan added as jealousy pricked like an embedded thorn, “considering the hours you and she spend talking together on deck she cannot have much time left to fill.”

Downey beamed, blushing like a schoolboy. “I confess her interest in my work gives me enormous pleasure. The demands of my chosen life have limited my opportunities to enjoy female company. Meeting a young lady as intelligent and open-minded as Miss Dymond has been an unexpected delight.” His smile faded and he heaved a sigh. “However, the frequency and duration of our conversations has been remarked upon by Mr Matcham in a manner that appears jocular but which inevitably contains a sting in the tail.” He hesitated. “As has the interest in medical matters you and she share. But no doubt you were already aware of that.”

At Jowan's expression he pulled a wry face. “Oh. I see you were not.”

“Do you know if he has made any such comments to Miss Dymond?” Fury tightened Jowan's throat as he strove to keep his voice level.

Downey clasped his hands together. “I have not heard him do so but I think it more than likely. Quite apart from the fact of Miss Dymond being your ward, the professional relationship that has developed between you is bound to have increased Mr Matcham's sense of exclusion.”

Jowan turned away, unable to hide his rage at Matcham's behaviour towards Phoebe and guilt that he had been unaware of the unpleasantness to which the merchant had subjected her.
Why had she not told him?

“I make no excuses for him,” Downey said. “Even allowing for the man's obvious unhappiness I find it hard to comprehend his actions.”

Jowan paced the saloon, his brows drawn down. “Surely Miss Dymond's uncle must have made enquiries before agreeing to this marriage?”

Downey examined his nails then raised his eyes. “I understand Captain Oakes is preparing for his own re-marriage.”

“And was too distracted by his own concerns to give proper attention to his niece's future safety and happiness?” Jowan's fingers curled. He wanted to hit something.

Downey spread his hands. “Of whom could he enquire except the young man's father? And what father would want to speak badly of his son? Perhaps both Captain Oakes and Mr Quintrell were persuaded that once married the young man would put aside his rackety bachelor ways and adopt a more sober and responsible lifestyle.”

“Do you think it likely?”

Downey shook his head. “I am not the man to ask, doctor, having no experience in such matters. Though it is often said that dissolute young men fortunate enough to find strong sensible wives do abandon their wild ways and embrace respectability.”

“And that is to be Miss Dymond's role?” Jowan flared, tortured by the images conjured by Downey's explanation. “Not a loved and respected bride, but an animal tamer?” The instant the words were out he regretted them. They betrayed a depth of emotion he had no right to feel. “I beg your pardon, Mr Downey. I should not have spoken so.”

Downey waved the apology aside. “I understand your concern, Doctor.”
Did he? Jowan hoped not.
“And I would like to believe such transformations possible. Perhaps in England they are. But given the lack of moral leadership from the church and the majority of the plantocracy, plus the pervading atmosphere in the island of time running out, I would say Jamaica is as stable as a barrel of gunpowder. And the fuse is already burning.”

“What shall I do?” Jowan burst out, unable to contain his anger, anxiety, and frustration.

“There is nothing you
can
do.” Downey's plump features puckered in sympathy and concern. “Not about Matcham. But when duty demands your presence elsewhere, I shall offer my company to Miss Dymond. Between us we will shield her from any further unpleasantness.”

“I'm most grateful,” Jowan offered his hand, touched by the elderly scholar's offer.

Downey rose and clasped it. “You need not thank me.” He smiled. “It will be my pleasure and privilege.”

After Downey had gone Jowan threw himself down on the padded seat, stretched his arm along the back and gazed blindly out of the stern window. He was damned if he told her, and damned if he didn't.

If her uncle considered the arrangement suitable, then for an outsider to interfere was indefensible. But what if her uncle did not know the whole story?

Yet if he told her what he had learned about her betrothed what would he achieve? Would she believe him? If she did, she would have to face the terrible realisation that her uncle was either guilty of appalling naivety in accepting Rupert Quintrell as a suitable husband for her without making any enquiries. Or, anxious to secure his own future happiness, he had deliberately sacrificed hers.

And once you've done that to her,
Jowan demanded of
himself,
what
then?
Having shattered her dreams and destroyed her future
you
would be responsible for her. Do you want that?
Yes, by God, he did.
The immediacy and certainty of his response stunned him.

But would
she
want it? Was it likely? When he had just turned her world upside down? She had made no secret of her rage at his being appointed her guardian without her knowledge or permission. To present her with such information about her fiance now: to expect her to make a decision about her future now: it was out of the question.

She had to meet Rupert Quintrell. She had to see for herself what manner of man he was. Until then Jowan knew he had no choice. He must remain silent.

Chapter Fourteen

Following days of damp humid weather a morning of blue sky, hot sunshine and a stiff breeze promised ideal drying conditions. Phoebe noticed clouds massing low on the western horizon. But they were much too far away to be of concern.

After an hour's hard work she pegged her washing inside the hammock netting, rubbed a nourishing calendula and arnica cream into wrinkled reddened hands, and retired to a corner of the stern.

Sitting on the warm deck, dry now after its early scrubbing, she drew her legs up, tucked her feet beneath her skirts and opened her book. If Romulus Downey came topside she would enjoy his company. Meanwhile she was content to be alone.

Glancing forward she was surprised not to see the surgeon taking sick call at the mast. After the recent poor weather she would have expected him to take advantage of the sunshine. But perhaps none of the crew had reported ill or injured. Or maybe he was seeing them below deck. That would obviously be more convenient as he had his drugs, dressings and instruments to hand.

She caught herself.
The pattern of Jowan Crossley's working day was none of her business – unless and until he made it so.
She stared hard at the printed page, trying with an effort that bordered on desperation to turn her mind from areas too fraught with danger to explore.

A warning shout coupled with the shrill of the bosun's call jerked her back to full awareness. Starting up from a half-waking dream that had filled her with sweet warmth, shocked to feel the gentle half-smile curving her mouth, she looked swiftly round, hotly ashamed of this betrayal by both her mind and body.

“Best get below, miss,” the helmsman shouted. “Quick as you can. You'll get caught else.”

A low-pitched rumble was growing louder by the second. Scrambling to her feet and shaking the creases from her gown Phoebe glanced westward. She caught her breath. A thick purple-grey curtain was hurtling towards the ship. Falling from dense roiling clouds it met the sea in a line of churning white froth. The wind suddenly dropped away. Against the increasing roar and hiss of the approaching squall, Andy Gilbert bellowed a stream of orders and the bosun's whistle shrilled.

Half the watch was already racing up the ratlines to reef the square fore and topsails on the foremast. The rest pounded along the deck reaching for halyards to drop the huge gaff on the main. They were halfway through their task when the wind suddenly returned in a violent gust. Had the men been a few seconds slower it would have split the canvas or forced the packet over on her beam-ends.

Tearing her gaze from men clinging on as best they could while tying the reef-points, Phoebe tucked her book under her arm, turned to the hammock netting and snatched up the garments hanging inside. Bundling them together as a brilliant flash coincided with a deafening crack of thunder she hurried towards the companionway hatch. In an instant daylight turned to menacing gloom.

The wind shrieked through the rigging. Ropes thrummed under the strain. Thick cloud the colour of slate and gunmetal swallowed the topmasts and released a torrent of rain that drummed on the deck with a sound like rolling cannonballs. Phoebe flinched as another thunderclap cracked. It was so close and so loud,that she felt it through the soles of her feet. The sheer volume of water sheeting down made it impossible to see or breathe. The drops stung and bruised like pellets of lead shot.

She lurched blindly to the hatch, drenched to the skin before she could step over the coaming. At the bottom of the stairs she stood breathless and gasping as water trickled down her face and soaked into her sodden gown. Her heart raced, banging against her ribs from shock at the suddenness and ferocity of the storm.

So much for her lovely drying day. Sagging against the bulkhead she began to giggle. Part astonishment and part relief to be out of the downpour, it released some of the tension that of late had become a constant and draining companion.

Hearing the door behind her open she straightened up and turned, expecting to see the master. Instead Jowan Crossleyemerged from the saloon, a frown darkening his features. He hesitated for an instant his expression so swiftly controlled she could not read the fleeting changes. As the master appeared behind him, Jowan moved aside to allow him to pass.

Burley's gaze flicked over Phoebe. “Got caught, did you?” He grinned. “Oh well, you aren't the first and you won't be the last. A squall do make its own rules.”

Shy under the surgeon's gaze Phoebe glanced down at her dress, pulled a wry face, and wiped the back of one hand across her wet forehead. “It was like standing under up upturned bucket.” She winced then shrugged at the long roll of thunder, raising her voice above the din. “Only louder.”

Burley nodded. Phoebe saw him dart a sideways glance at the surgeon who hadn't said a word but was still staring at her, a fact of which she was embarrassingly conscious. “'Tis violent all right. But it don't last long.” He cocked his head. “See? 'Tis passing over already.”

As he had to shout Phoebe assumed he was humouring her. But before she could accuse him of doing so the unrelenting barrage began to diminish. She glanced at the deckhead, astonished. And moments later, as if a spigot had been turned off, it ceased altogether.

With a smile and a nod to them both Burley climbed the brass stairs.

“You should –” Jowan began.

“I must –” Phoebe said simultaneously. Clutching the bundle of washing she felt the book's cover hard against her breast. “Excuse me.”

“Of course.” He gestured for her to go first.

Acutely aware of him, of her own dishevelled state, and of the blush that fired her skin from her scalp to her toes, she turned to the doorway. As she hurried through the mess Clewes exclaimed in concern. Though she didn't want to stop, courtesy demanded she make some response.

But even as she hesitated Jowan placed himself between her and Clewes, his body a shield as he opened her door.

“Go on in,” he murmured. “I'll make your excuses.”

Clutching bottle and glass, Matcham was slumped over the table mumbling incoherently. Phoebe was inside her cabin, the door shut, before he had raised his head.

As she dropped her bundle on the bunk she heard Jowan's brief explanation, his voice fading as he continued through the mess towards the sickbay.

By mid afternoon the sun had dried the deck and her washing, including her saturated dress. Having changed into a clean if slightly creased gown of lavender muslin with elbow-length sleeves, she stood at the stern quarter rail with Romulus Downey.

“According to Mr Burley,” he was saying, “we're approaching Antigua – “He broke off. “Did you hear that? It sounded like thunder.”

“Oh surely not another storm.” Phoebe scanned the sky warily. But it was a crisp clear blue. The only clouds were small puffs and streaks of pristine white. A warm breeze filled the packet's sails, tilting the deck as she cut through sparkling indigo water. The morning's tempest might never have happened. “Well if it is, at least it's a long way away. I'm sorry, what were you saying?”

Downey was watching the lookout at the top of the main mast and didn't answer. Phoebe wondered if he'd even heard her. She looked up to see what was holding his attention. Cupping hand to mouth the lookout yelled down to the mate. Before he had finished footsteps rang on the stairs and the master emerged, his bushy brows drawn together in concern.

“But how did he know – ?” she began.

“A seaman's sixth sense, my dear,” Downey murmured as they watched the lookout point over the starboard beam.

Snatching up a glass the master scanned a small area of the western horizon. Moments later orders were being rapped out and repeated. A new urgency imbued the piercing tones of the bosun's call, swiftly drowned by the thud of running feet as men poured out of the foc'sle and swarmed over the deck.

The helmsman spun the huge wheel. Within moments topgallants and skysails filled. The jib topsail was hauled up the stay and sheeted in. As
Providence
altered course and leapt forward with new urgency Phoebe and her companion exchanged a glance.

“It's not a thunderstorm,” she said, a statement not a question.

Downey shook his head. “I fear not.”

“What – ?”

“A ship of the French navy? A privateer?” He shrugged. “I hope we remain too distant to find out.”

As Burley turned to speak to the helmsman he caught sight of them. This time he didn't smile. “You'd best go below.”

Nodding, Downey cupped Phoebe's elbow. She went reluctantly. At lunchtime Matcham had been drunk and belligerent. Hoping he might have retired to his cabin to sleep it off her stomach tightened at the sound of his voice raised in slurred argument with his colleague.

Reaching the door into the mess she spoke over her shoulder. “I think I should warn Dr Crossley.”

“Please don't upset yourself, my dear,” Downey soothed. “
Providence
is a fast ship. And I'm sure Mr Burley will do everything in his power to avoid any – unpleasantness.“

“I'm not upset, Mr Downey,” Phoebe broke in gently. “And I have complete faith in Mr Burley's seamanship. But I think the doctor would appreciate being informed so he can make preparations, even if, as we both hope, the warning proves unnecessary.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you're right.”

Phoebe had already opened the door. Matcham and Clewes both turned to see who had come in. Ignoring Matcham's loud greeting she felt a leap of relief as Mossop emerged from his pantry.

“Doctor's in there, miss.” He pointed to the cabin next to Downey's that was being used as an additional sick bay.

She had quickly realised that Mossop too possessed a sixth sense for trouble. Whether he had felt the ship change course, recognised the urgency in the shouts and running feet, or whether he was simply trying to protect her from Matcham's drunken overtures, she was grateful.

“Thank you,” she smiled at him and tapped lightly on the door. At Jowan's “Come in” her heart gave a brief flutter. She entered, pulling the door closed behind her.

Sitting at the head end of the single bunk, his bag open in front of him, Jowan looked up from the ledger in which he'd been writing. In the flickering yellow light from the two lanterns his features appeared drawn, the skin tight across his cheekbones.

Phoebe moistened her lips. “I thought you'd want to know that there's a possibility –” On deck shouts and more running feet were followed by a grinding rumble. Instinctively she looked up, her skin tightening as she recognised the sound. The guns were being run out.

“A certainty I'd say.” His grim tone matched his expression as their eyes met. Shutting the ledger he slotted it behind the rail on the shelf above the bunk. “Will you tell Mossop to boil some water? I'll get Grigg to start preparing dressings and bandages.”

“Could you ask him to help move Mr Matcham into the saloon?” Phoebe blurted. “I don't think Mr Clewes will be able to manage alone.”

His face tightened and a muscle jumped in his jaw. On the verge of saying something, he thought better of it. “Yes, of course.”

“I expect Mossop will already have already sent Timmy for sand buckets.” She swallowed. “I'd like to help.”

“Thank you.” His nod was brief but immediate.

Her heart leapt with relief and a delight that was instantly swamped by guilt. Of course she didn't want anyone to be hurt. But if they were then her skills would be useful. And an opportunity to work alongside a qualified physician and surgeon, to be treated as an equal, how could she help but be thrilled at the prospect? It was something Aunt Sarah would not have imagined possible.

The fact that a trust had developed between herself and Jowan Crossley was undeniable. But was this sense of affinity purely professional? It ought to be,
had to be.
She had no right to anything else. Yet it was becoming increasingly difficult to separate her admiration for him as a doctor from her awareness of him as a man. How could she divide the two when each aspect was so much a part of the other? But she must.
She must.

“Perhaps some antiseptic lotion? And the poultices and compresses you used on Jenkins.” Jowan reached for his tray of instruments.

“I'll prepare them at once.” She left the cabin and returned to her own, glad to have something on which to concentrate, something that would keep her busy and leave no time for thoughts that were wrong and wicked and hopeless.

The next hour flew as preparations continued. Mossop came in from his pantry, glared at the sloping deck and clicked his tongue.

“Good job we got dinner over afore all this started. Tis some job to keep pans and kettles on the stove. And I daren't fill 'em more'n half way. That's how 'tis taking so long to fill the jugs you asked for.”

Seated on one of the benches Phoebe looked up from the bowl in which she was steeping squares of gauze in a hot infusion of marigold and goldenseal to make wound-healing compresses. “Don't worry, Mossop. We're doing really well. And if all these preparations turn out to be unnecessary,” she shrugged,” the rest of the water can be used for tea and the bandages put away for another time.”

Once everything was ready they could only wait. Their pursuer had been identified as a French privateer. And though the master had bent on every sail he could find and was coaxing the last ounce of speed from the packet, slowly but surely the Frenchman was gaining on them.

Phoebe went to her cabin and changed her lavender muslin for an older gown. As she emerged she noticed the mess door had been fastened back. She glanced along the passage and her skin erupted in goose pimples as she saw Andy Gilbert unlocking the armoury. Men formed a human chain passing cannonballs and bags of grapeshot to be stacked beside the guns. Then pikes, axes and muskets were handed up the companionway to be distributed among the crew.