Dangerous Waters (22 page)

Phoebe's expression reflected her shock. “That's terrible.”

Shaking his head, Jowan followed her down.

A middle-aged creole woman in a grubby blue dress came panting up the main staircase, her eyes wide with anxiety.

“There you are. Mizz Stirling, she got to have a doctor. She's wore out and nearly mad with grievin'. She don't got no strength to bear this child.“

“That's enough, Jenny,” Rose scolded. “Calm down.” As Jowan closed the door to the little tower room Rose laid her hand on his arm and lowered her voice. “You're a doctor. I know they'd be willing to pay whatever – “

“I'm sorry. I'd help if I could.” He moved so she was forced to release him. “But I have no experience in such matters. However –” His gaze met Phoebe's.

“I have,” she said. “Perhaps you would introduce me, Mrs Stirling?” Without waiting for an answer she turned to the quivering Jenny and smiled. “Would you bring me the wooden case standing beside my trunk?”

“Yes, Miss.” Nodding feverishly, the slave bolted down the stairs once more.

“But you're so – Are you sure?” Rose Stirling's expression reflected astonishment and doubt.

“I can vouch for Miss Dymond,” Jowan said. “I've seen her work. She knows what she's doing.”

Still Rose hesitated. “If anything was to go wrong – “

“I'd trust her with my life,” Jowan said briskly. “Besides, unless you intend to leave Jenny to cope on her own, with all the risks that would entail, what choice do you have?” Walking past her he knocked on the door.

It was wrenched open. A dishevelled man in a crumpled shirt, mud-streaked pantaloons and scarred halfboots gazed wildly at them. A livid and swollen gash above one eye contrasted vividly with his pale haggard face, and exhaustion made him look much older than he probably was. His anxiety was evident as he seized Jowan's arm and pulled him inside.

“You are doctor? Please, you help. My wife, she has suffered too much. I fear for the child.” His English was fluent but heavily accented.

“My –” Jowan caught Phoebe's eye. “My colleague is a midwife.“ He returned his gaze to that of the distraught Frenchman. “Madame will be in excellent hands.”

The man's eyes widened briefly then he frowned. “She? She is only a girl.”

Recognising his own initial reaction Jowan felt a stab of shame, and wondered how many times Phoebe had faced similar doubts and prejudice before being permitted to get on with the job at which she excelled.

“Nevertheless, she possesses skills that I do not.” Taking the man's arm he steered him gently towards the door. “Sir, this is women's work. Mrs Stirling, will you escort the gentleman downstairs?”

“There's only the kitchen –” Rose began.

“Splendid. I'm sure Mr – ?

“Vicomte.” The man drew himself up, inclining his head with bitter irony. “I am the Vicomte de Saint-Michel-sur-Vienne.” A muscle jumped in his jaw, and his eyes as they met Jowan's were filled with burning anger and self-loathing. “My family are nobility since 1565, but I – I could not protect my land or save my children”

“Sir,” Jowan said quietly, “you have my deepest sympathy. But if even half of what we have heard about the situation on Saint Domingue is true, to have brought your wife and unborn child to safety is a remarkable achievement. Hold fast to that.” He turned to Rose. “Perhaps you'll take the vicomte downstairs and arrange for some tea or coffee? I will be down in a moment.”

As they left, Jenny arrived with Phoebe's case. “I stays with Madame,” she announced defiantly.

Jowan nodded. “Of course.” He looked across to the vicomtesse lying curled on her side on the double bed one fist pressed to her mouth the other gripping Phoebe's. She tensed and started to groan as another contraction took hold.

“Miss Dymond?” Jowan said. “I must return to the ship.” She whirled, unable to hide her shock or the brief flash of fear. Steeling himself he continued, “You do not need me here. And I should inform Mr Burley about … developments.”

Phoebe nodded jerkily. “Yes, of course. But –” She bit her lip.

“I'll come back tomorrow.”

Her relief was visible. She had been holding herself stiffly, braced against further trouble. Now he saw that brittle tension dissolve as she released a deep breath. “Thank you.”

She turned to Jenny. “Go down and ask Mrs Stirling for one jug of boiling water and one of cold, clean towels and an old clean sheet, also a small teapot, a cup and a spoon so I can make Madame an infusion that will help the contractions.”

As Jenny disappeared again Jowan hesitated. He didn't want to leave but knew he could not – must not – stay. “May I – some antiseptic lotion? The vicomte's head wound appears to be infected.”

“Of course.” Phoebe's smile softened the taut planes of her face. The transformation was startling, and brought home to him the true scale of her anxiety. He had expected her to be nervous. It would have been strange if she were not, considering she had come ashore expecting to meet for the first time the man to whom she was betrothed. But this was something far deeper. She had hidden it well, but at great cost. She looked desperately tired. Yet suddenly she appeared less apprehensive. Perhaps that was because she had a job to do, something that would keep her fully occupied for several hours at least.

“Please take whatever you need. The bottles are labelled marigold and golden seal. I think there are two – “

“Found them,” Jowan said. “I'll borrow a blade if I may.” She nodded, her gaze fixed on the vicomtesse. “Jenny will return both to you as soon as I've finished.” He paused at the door. “Good night.” There was so much more he yearned to say, and clamped his jaws together to hold it back.

She looked up, her mouth soft and vulnerable as the corners lifted briefly. “Good night.”

Down in the kitchen, while Jenny shifted impatiently from foot to foot as one of Rose's maids gathered the items Phoebe had requested, Jowan swabbed, lanced, drained, then re-bathed the ugly wound on the vicomte's forehead.

“This will combat the infection and quicken the healing. But you'll be scarred.”

The vicomte glanced up, his voice hoarse, tortured. “You think I care?”

“What happened?” Jowan prompted quietly as he bandaged a soaked gauze pad in place. He recognised the signs. The vicomte needed to talk. Not because he wanted sympathy: any offered would be violently rejected. After all, only who had lived through it could possibly comprehend the horror he and his wife had experienced. But relating something of what had happened would relieve the pressure. For like so many who survived when others – comrades or family – had perished, the vicomte was crucified with guilt

“They burned the house. We got out just in time. They were armed with machetes. The ones they use to cut the cane. My daughter and her nurse were – I shot the one who – Then I found my son –” He swallowed audibly. “My wife knows they are dead, but that is all. I could not tell her – Never will I forget –” He passed a shaking hand across his face. “I had to leave them. There was no time to bury –” His voice cracked and he shook his head, fighting for control. “All our house slaves ran away, except for Jenny. And him,“ he indicated the stocky dark-skinned figure with bloodstained rags wrapped round his upper arm who had limped in carrying an armful of wood.

Jowan beckoned to the slave. “Let me see your arm.”

“It is not necessary.” The vicomte was dismissive. “They are used to such things and take little account of them.”

Jowan caught the flash of hatred in the creole's dark eyes as he placed the wood in the hearth then silently left. Why then, when he could have joined the rebels, had the slave risked his own life helping the family to escape?

“Madam Stirling says you are from a ship?” the vicomte said.

Jowan nodded. “The packet
Providence.
We arrived yesterday.”

“When will you return to England?”

“I'm not sure. The ship needs repairs and will remain here at least a week, possibly two.”

The vicomte nodded. “That is good, for Madame will be stronger. She has family in England. We must go to them. Your captain carries passengers, yes?”

Jowan nodded. “Yes, but I don't know if the cabins are already booked.”

“You will tell him of our need,” the vicomte commanded. “We cannot return to St Domingue, nor can we stay here.”

“Four berths will cost – “

“Four?” The vicomte frowned. “Why four?”

Though the vicomte's imperious manner grated, Jowan remembered what the man had been through and swallowed his irritation. “Surely you will take Jenny and – I don't know his name – will you not? Your wife will need continued care, and help with the child. And though the ship carries a steward, his duties do not allow him time to be anyone's personal valet.”

The vicomte's mouth tightened as he thought. “Jenny we will take,” he announced. “But not the other. He is strong. Someone will buy him.”

Jowan saw that as far as the Frenchman was concerned the slave was simply a piece of property that had served its purpose and would be too costly and inconvenient to keep. Masking his shock at the vicomte's attitude towards the man to whom he owed his freedom if not his life, Jowan turned and picked up a wad of gauze and the bowl of diluted lotion.

“More reason then for me to treat his wound. You would not wish to lose money on the deal.”

Clearly the vicomte had no ear for irony. He lifted one shoulder in a shrug both careless and dismissive. “As you wish. But for him I do not pay.”

Clenching his teeth to hold back words he would only regret, Jowan made a brief bow and strode out into the sunny yard to find the wounded slave.

Chapter Eighteen

“It's coming too quick,” Jenny muttered, her brown shiny face creased with anxiety as she took the full cup from Phoebe.

Phoebe understood her concern. The contractions had been strong and frequent from the start. Yet when all was taken into account … “It's for the best,” she reassured. “Madame is already exhausted. The sooner she delivers the better.”

“What you say this is?” Jenny frowned at the steaming brown liquid.

“An infusion of raspberry leaves sweetened with honey.”

“What for you give it to her?” Jenny demanded.

“To strengthen and tone the womb and minimise the risk of bleeding,” Phoebe replied patiently. “Would you rather I -?”

“No,” Jenny said quickly. “She
my
lady.” Setting the cup carefully on the table beside the bed she slid an arm under her mistress's shoulders and gently propped her up, crooning and encouraging as she held the cup to pale lips. While the vicomtesse sipped, Phoebe continued her preparations.

After Jenny had bathed the perspiration from her mistress's face and neck with lavender water Phoebe asked her to help turn the vicomtesse onto her side.

“Oh,” she sighed as Phoebe began to massage her back. “Yes.” She lay quietly for a few moments. Then suddenly she shuddered, her face contorted and she gave a great tearing cry that convulsed her body.

“What you done?” Jenny's hands flew to her face. She rounded on Phoebe. “You hurt her.”

“The hurt was already there,” Phoebe said, steeling herself against the vicomtesse's dreadful anguish. “I am setting it free.” She had seen this same reaction among the pregnant wives of fishermen lost at sea; and women who, while carrying a child, had lost another through illness or accident. Aunt Sarah had warned her not to be deceived by the façade of stoic acceptance among such women. They carried on because they had no choice. With too much to do and too many responsibilities they had no time to mourn properly. But while grief remained trapped inside it wreaked havoc, sapping the strength and crippling the spirit.

”She must let the pain out or she may never recover. Nor will she be able to accept the new baby.”

Watching her mistress writhe as she sobbed her children's names over and over, Jenny's mouth trembled. She wrung her hands. “I never seen – all the time we was on the boat she was so quiet. Oh Miss, she look like she could die from grievin'.”

Phoebe touched the slave's arm. “She won't die, I promise you.”

After a while the sobs diminished and the contractions increased. Jenny gently wiped her mistress's tear-swollen eyes then helped Phoebe prepare the bed, removing the covers and making a large pad of newspapers wrapped in an old sheet. Then they eased the vicomtesse up on the pillows. Phoebe prepared a warm solution of golden seal and marigold.

“What that for?”

Phoebe noticed Jenny's tone had changed from suspicion to curiosity.

“It's an antiseptic. You've heard of childbed fever?” Phoebe asked over her shoulder as she gently pushed up the vicomtesse's nightgown.

Horror rounded Jenny's eyes and her hands flew to her mouth. “Oh, lord, she ain't – “

“No, no. And this will keep her well.” Phoebe cut in. “You must bathe her night and morning while she's lying-in.”

“But we ain't got – “

“I'll leave you some.” She turned to the vicomtesse who was watching her with pain-dulled eyes. “Not much longer now, ma'am. Your baby will soon be here.”

“It's a boy, Madame! You have a fine healthy son!” There was so much relief in Jenny's voice that Phoebe glanced up as she placed the baby between the vicomtesse's thighs. Totally drained by her final effort, the exhausted woman lay back against the pillows. Her closed eyes were sunk deep in purple sockets. Her face, ash pale, was beaded with perspiration. But the corners of her cracked lips lifted briefly.

“A son,” she murmured hoarsely. “Thank God.”

“Master will be kinder to Madame now he has a son to replace little Pierre,” Jenny whispered to Phoebe.

Tying and cutting the cord Phoebe handed the baby to Jenny to wash while she delivered the afterbirth.

“Listen to him,” Jenny beamed, as the shivery cries grew stronger. “Ain't that a fine set of lungs?”

After bathing the vicomtesse, helping her into a fresh nightgown and making her comfortable in the remade bed, Phoebe watched Jenny place the baby, now clean and wrapped in soft muslin in his mother's arms.

The vicomtesse looked up, holding Phoebe's gaze for a long moment. “Thank you.” Her voice was a cracked whisper.

Phoebe understood all that could not be spoken of. Smiling, she nodded and turned away, suddenly aware of her own tiredness.

There was a knock on the door.

“The vicomte sent me to see if there is any news,” Rose murmured when Jenny opened it. “He's wearing holes in my carpet with his pacing.”

“He has a fine son,” Phoebe said.

“And Madame?”

“She's well, but very tired.”

“He'll want to see them,” Rose said.

“Madame?” Phoebe enquired.

“Yes, let him come up.”

“Mrs Stirling,” Phoebe said as Rose turned to go. “May I have another cup of hot water?”

“More infusions?” Rose's brows lifted. “I declare, Miss Dymond, you could set up as an apothecary. What is it this time?”

“Camomile and honey,” Phoebe responded calmly, used to reactions that combined uncertainty, curiosity and a hint of envy. “It will help the vicomtesse relax and sleep.”

While Jenny carried all the debris down to the kitchen, Phoebe received the vicomte's thanks and an apology so stilted it was clearly a rare event.

“I was glad to be of use. Now I'm sure you would prefer to be alone.” Picking up her little wooden case she left the room, closing the door quietly.

Rose was waiting. “Well, what an afternoon! Thank goodness everything went well. The vicomte has his new son. His lady's life will be the better for it. And while you were busy, so was Ellin. Go on,” she ushered Phoebe up the wooden stairs to the tower room, following close behind.

The floor had been swept and washed, and the bed made up with fresh sheets. A nightstand had been carried up and placed next to Phoebe's trunk opposite the bed. On the top stood a large porcelain jug inside a basin with a matching soap dish alongside. Fresh towels were folded over the rail. Phoebe guessed that the small cupboard underneath would contain a chamber pot.

“Thank you,” she forced a smile, feeling drained and flat in spite of her relief that all had gone well.

“You are exhausted,” Rose observed. “Ellin unpacked your trunk and took your gowns and linen for the laundry slaves to wash. I told her to prepare a bath for you in my room. She's waiting there now.” As Phoebe hesitated, Rose beckoned her towards the stairs. “Come, just think how refreshed you will feel.”

Phoebe was tempted. “You are very kind.” Yet she hesitated. Why was Rose Stirling going to so much trouble?

“Not at all.” Rose was brisk. “Mr Quintrell insisted you were to receive every care and attention. And had he been here to see for himself the care you gave the vicomtesse, I'm sure he would be proud and delighted.” She smiled warmly. “Now, as soon as you have bathed you must eat.”

Hungry though she was Phoebe recoiled from the prospect of sitting down to dine with strangers. It rekindled too many unpleasant memories of Horace Matcham. “I don't think – “

“But after such a day,” Rose interjected smoothly, “I think you would prefer to be quiet this evening. So, if you wish, Ellin can bring a tray to your room.”

Relief and gratitude flooded over Phoebe. “Oh yes, please.”

Clean and cool, her hair washed and loose about her shoulders, wearing a clean nightgown, a loose wrap and slippers, Phoebe scuttled up to her tower. Ellin had insisted she leave her clothes, which would be returned washed and pressed along with the others.

Grateful to relinquish a task that had been such a struggle aboard the ship Phoebe promised herself never again to take having her laundry done for granted. And smiled wryly, acknowledging that as time passed she almost certainly would.

A few moments later Ellin arrived with the promised food. After she had gone, Phoebe sat on the bed with the tray on her knees and lifted the cloth to reveal a plate containing spiced chicken, fried plantains, blackeyed peas and rice, and a glass of guava and peach juice.

She ate ravenously, and when she had finished, took the tray down the steep stairs and put it outside the door to signal that she wanted no more visitors or conversation that evening.

Back in her tower she looked out of the window. It was impossible to pick out one ship among the many crowding the wharfs and jetties.
Jowan. Where was he? What was he doing?
Slamming a mental door on thoughts that shamed her she watched the sky change colour as the sun went down and was astonished how swiftly darkness fell. Stars appeared, like diamonds scattered across blue-black velvet.

Two months after leaving Falmouth she was in Kingston, Jamaica. Having imagined Rupert would be here to meet her, the fact that he wasn't had been a huge relief. Such a reaction was something to be deeply ashamed of. And indeed she was. But it was not enough to vanquish the hopeless yearning she felt for Jowan Crossley.

Swaying with tiredness she climbed into bed and curled on her side. Images whirled through her weary brain: the vicomtesse's wrenching grief, Jenny's relief that the child was a boy, Rose Stirling's assertion that the vicomtesse's life would be easier because of it.

What was she to do?

Phoebe woke with a start.

“Good morning, miss,” Ellin held a cup of chocolate in one hand. A freshly ironed dress hung over her other arm.

“Oh, thank you.” Sitting up, Phoebe pushed her hair back and took the cup. “What time is it?”

“Nearly nine, miss. You were very tired. And no wonder.”

“How is the vicomtesse?”

“Jenny says Madame and the baby had a peaceful night. The baby is suckling. Madame is quiet, still very tired of course, but calm. You did a fine job, miss. There's hot water in the jug.” Nodding, Ellin took the empty cup. “You want me to come back and help you with – “

“No, no,” Phoebe said hastily. “Thank you, I can manage.” Twenty minutes later, washed, dressed, her hair brushed and twisted into a simple coil, Phoebe descended the two flights of stairs. Looking around, not sure which rooms were occupied or where she should go, she headed towards the back of the house.

Reaching a door, hearing voices, she hesitated, not wanting to interrupt. Then she heard Rose say Rupert's name.

Had he come? Was he here?
Phoebe froze,
uncertain whether to open the door or retreat to her tower.

“Oh, he's got a way with him, all right. He could charm snakes.”

Phoebe realised that Rose was talking not
to
him, but
about
him. She knew she ought not to stay. It was rude and ill mannered to eavesdrop on other people's conversations.
But if the conversation concerned the man to whom she was betrothed, surely she had a right to know what was being said?

“Especially,” Rose continued, “when he wants something he can't simply take. But he'd better get the ring on her finger before she finds out what he's really like. God alone knows what she'll make of him, or he of her for that matter. I wonder where William found her? She's not at all what I expected.”

“That man always did have the devil's own luck.” Shivering now despite the heat of the summer morning, Phoebe recognised Ellin's voice.“Anyway, there's no reason she should find out what he gets up to in the fields. And as he ain't been in town these past few months there ain't been no new scandals. But she'd be wise not to keep any young girls in the house. You going to warn her?”

“Me?” Rose gave a harsh laugh. “Do you think I'm a crazy woman? For ten years I ran William's house, warmed his bed, and double-checked his accounts. I watched Rupert go from bad to worse while his father refused to hear a word against him. Everyone said he was out of control. But William wouldn't have it. Just high spirits, he called it: a young man sowing his wild oats. Then that girl nearly died. Well, even he couldn't ignore that. But by then he was too afraid of Rupert to do anything. So he left the estate, his son, and me,” her tone was bitter, “and went back to England for his health.”

“You didn't do so bad,” Ellin reminded. “He made over this house to you and gave you shares in two trading ships.”

“I earned them. But I wouldn't keep them long if Rupert found out I'd spoken against him. And someone would tell him. He knows too many secrets. No, she'll have to take her chances, same as the rest of us.”

“She's only young,” Ellin began.

“She'll grow up fast,” Rose said. “Anyway, she's no fool. She'll soon realise certain things are best ignored.” She paused. “She's got a kind heart. Jenny's very taken with her and she guards Madame like a tigress.”

“A kind heart?” Ellin mocked. “You think that will tame him? Or stop him fouling his own doorstep?”

“No,” Rose sighed. “He'll go on doing exactly what he wants, just like he always has. But at least Phoebe Dymond won't fasten a thumbscrew to the hand of any slave girl Rupert's had his way with, then make her do needlework. I hear that's Dora Ballantyne's favourite revenge whenever her husband can't keep his breeches fastened.”

Phoebe pressed one hand to her mouth as her head swam. Normally she was able to deal calmly with situations that caused many of her sex to swoon. But shock at what she had overheard made her stomach heave. Swallowing repeatedly and steadying herself against the wall she backed away.

Desperate to escape before Rose or Ellin came out, before anyone else staying in the house should see her, she stumbled up the main staircase, clinging to the banister, her slippers blessedly silent on the carpet. Reaching the door to her room she was gasping for breath as she fumbled the latch.