Dangerous Waters (8 page)

“Your concern does you credit, sir.” The irony in his tone sent a dart of surprise though her. “Fortunately it is groundless. Miss Dymond's family recognised the potential risks and appointed a guardian to take care of her. I have the honour of being responsible for Miss Dymond's welfare until our arrival in Jamaica, and you may be sure I shall take that obligation very seriously.”

A flush darkened Matcham's complexion to crimson but he held the surgeon's gaze. “I am grateful to you for the information, doctor. But does not treatment of the sick and wounded command the majority of your time?”

Though the surgeon's mouth tilted upward at the corners Phoebe had never seen a smile so totally lacking in humour or goodwill. She sensed antagonism between the two men but had no idea of its cause. “You may rest easy, Mr Matcham. I am happy to report that so far everyone aboard is in good health.”

“D-do you have f-family in Jamaica, Miss Dymond?” Clewes's blurted enquiry was clearly an effort to dispel tension that was almost palpable.

“No, not exactly. Well, not yet.” Blushing, Phoebe shook her head. “Forgive me, Mr Clewes. I must sound very confused. It –”
It still feels unreal.
“The fact is I am travelling to Jamaica to be married. M – Mr Quintrell's father owns a plantation north east of Spanish Town.” She saw the two agents exchange a glance.

“I – er – know the area,” Clewes nodded.

“Perhaps you know the family?” Phoebe was hopeful. To learn more might make the future less daunting.

“Er, no. I don't, not personally.” He busied himself with his plate. “Though naturally we have heard –”

“Indeed, who has not?” Matcham murmured, earning himself an anguished glare from his companion.

“W-what my c-colleague means,” Clewes said quickly, “is th-that though we don't have any d-dealings with them, everyone t-tends to know everyone else.”

“If only by reputation,” Matcham added bitterly. He leaned forward. “And you are to marry Mr
Rupert
Quintrell?”

Phoebe nodded, struggling to keep her smile in place. Hadn't she just said so? What lay behind their questions and speaking looks? Did they know something she didn't?
Of course they did
. They were acquainted with many of the plantation owners and familiar with Jamaican society. They knew all kinds of things that she had yet to discover. They probably thought her ill equipped for plantation life. No doubt there was a great deal for her to learn. But William Quintrell believed her capable.

“Unfortunately, Mr Quintrell senior has been obliged to return to Cornwall due to ill health. My –”
betrothed, husband-to-be, intended, fiance
. Perhaps if she said the words aloud the situation would seem more real. “I understand m –” But how could she speak in such intimate terms of a man she had never met?
“Mr Rupert Quintrell runs the plantation now.”

“Not an easy task at the best of times,” Romulus Downey sighed, putting his knife and fork together on his empty plate.

Not understanding why he should say so, and about to tell him that the Quintrells had recently enlarged their productive acreage, Phoebe didn't get the chance.

“And without wishing to alarm you, my dear,” Downey continued, “I fear things are unlikely to improve.”

“How so?” Jowan asked from across the table.

“Surely it's obvious?” Downey spoke softly, sadly. “An economy dependent upon the enslavement of one race by another has sown the seeds of its own collapse and will reap a bitter harvest. The slaves exist in hopeless misery while their wealthy owners live in constant fear.”

“Oh, surely not.” Phoebe felt her face grow warm as they all looked at her. “Certainly Mr Quintrell gave no such impression. Indeed, he seemed very contented. He spoke with great pride and pleasure of all that he and his son have achieved.”

Downey turned to her, his expression kind. “Is that so? Then he is most fortunate. However, such peace of mind is rare.” He addressed the table at large. “Much that occurred during the revolution in France cannot be condoned. Yet who can blame the many with so little for resenting the few who had too much? What no one expected, yet surely should have seen as inevitable, was that when news of the revolution reached Saint Domingue, the slaves would rise in similar fashion against their French owners and masters.”

“Yes, but S-Saint Domingue is a F-French colony,” Clewes reminded. “J-Jamaica belongs to G-Great B-Britain.”

“Do you think the slaves care about the nationality of those who own them?” Downey said. “It is only because of fear that this revolution might spread to Jamaica that the cruel treatment of slaves is at last being addressed with new laws –”

“Oh yes. And I'm sure protecting the rights of slaves has made the British courts feel very virtuous,” Matcham interrupted impatiently. “But they don't have to apply them, or live with the results. Any owner will tell you that without the whip controlling the blacks would be impossible. You've got to have punishment. How else can you stop the sabotage and malingering?”

“Or p-produce the c-crops?” Clewes shrugged. “The d-demand for s-sugar, rum, t-tobacco, c-coffee and m-molasses increases every year. And though the
intention
might have been g-good, those l-laws have actually m-made m-matters worse.”

“It's true,” his colleague nodded. “While costs are continuing to climb, production is falling.”

Phoebe's head began to ache as she struggled to reconcile two very different pictures. The lavish – if mercifully brief – latteries at the beginning of the meal had been swept aside by topics both startling and brutal. She told herself that this was a compliment as it assumed both her interest and her understanding. And she
was
interested. After all, this was where she would be spending the rest of her life. But she hadn't realised the situation on the island was so volatile. Yet how could she have been expected to know such a thing? Mr Quintrell had said there wasn't any trouble. Surely he would never have encouraged her uncle to send her – nor Uncle George agreed – if there was real danger?

“Miss Dymond?”

The surgeon's voice made Phoebe start, especially as it came, not from where he had been sitting across the table, but above her right shoulder. She looked up, bewildered, and felt his hand cup her elbow. Almost without realising it she was rising to her feet, politely excusing herself as he propelled her out of the mess and through to the bottom of the companionway stairs.

Phoebe blinked in the bright light from the open hatch. The air was cool on her hot face and smelled fresh after the heat and food aromas in the mess. His palm, warm through the sleeve of her jacket, gently urged her towards the half spiral of brass stairs. She stiffened, wrenching her arm free as she pressed back against the bulkhead, swamped by visions of mounded heaving water, dark and threatening.

“No!” Inside her ribs her heart clenched in a painful spasm, then fluttered so she could hardly catch her breath. “No! I can't. I want to go back to my cabin.” She tried to turn, to run, to escape. But the surgeon was in front of her, gripping her upper arms.

“What's wrong, Miss Dymond?” His voice was quiet, concerned. “There's nothing to be afraid of.”

How dare he say that? What did he know?
Beneath her anger she yearned to believe him. But the longing was crushed as all her childhood nightmares rushed back, filling her head like webs and flapping black wings. She attempted to pull free, expecting him to release her. But he didn't.

“Tell me,” he coaxed in a gentle tone that reminded her of something. As she realised what it was a little of her rigidity seeped away. It was the same tone
she
used to fearful mothers in the throes of labour; the same tone
she
used to soothe a sick and fretful child to sleep.

When she used that tone it came from her heart. Did he really mean it? Or was he simply humouring her? A few weeks ago it would not have occurred to her to ask such a question: to doubt intentions or be wary of trusting. But much had happened since then.

She shook her bent head, suddenly overwhelmed by the strain of the past two weeks and unease stirred by the mealtime conversation.

“Miss Dymond, I am a physician as well as a surgeon. I give you my word that whatever you tell me will remain private between us. I may have medicine that could – “

She shook her head again, feeling it throb. “I thank you, sir. But should I require medicine I have my own.” The moment the words left her lips she wished them unsaid. She tensed, expecting from her past experience of physicians to be berated for her arrogance. But when he spoke his tone held more curiosity than condemnation.

“Indeed? Did you perhaps visit an apothecary in preparation for the voyage?”

“No. There was no need.” She raised her head. “I –” But before she could mention her work or Aunt Sarah her gaze met his. The wooden walls enclosing the tiny space shimmered and blurred.
She was falling.
She tensed: the sensation startlingly real. His smile faltered as his features blanked with shock. But an instant later it was back in place. Phoebe assumed her tired mind had been playing tricks. Releasing her he took a step back, fiddling with his coat cuff.

“What –” he cleared his throat. “Is there something on deck that you wish to avoid?”

Having expected him to follow up her comment by asking the source of her medicine Phoebe was taken unawares. “No.” He didn't press, or argue. He simply waited. The burden of silence and the pressure of her fear were too great and her words spilled out in a whisper. “The sea. I cannot – I'm afraid of the sea.”

“Why?”

She struggled to remain composed. It was so long ago. It shouldn't upset her now. “My mother – She died on a ship. We were returning from America.” She fell silent, overwhelmed by renewed feelings of loss: grief for the mother she could barely remember, and for her beloved Aunt Sarah.

“Were you with her?” He was tentative, as if feeling his way. She nodded. “And your father?”

“He had been killed several weeks earlier in the Battle of Yorktown.”

“He was with General Cornwallis?”

Phoebe nodded. “He was a captain. His death was the reason we were returning to England.” She clasped her hands. “I cannot picture my mother's face. But I still hear the sound of her weeping. It was a love-match, you see, and cost them both –” She pressed her lips together to stop the outpouring of things he had no right to know nor she to tell. “There were dreadful storms and she suffered terribly from seasickness. Then she developed a fever. Because she was already so weak –” Phoebe swallowed and shook her head. There was another silence. She felt like glass, thin as a bubble and full to the brim with unshed tears. A wrong move and she would shatter. Or they would spill.

“And how old were you?”

“Five.”

He nodded. He didn't say how sorry he was. He didn't say anything. She was deeply grateful. Yet it seemed wrong to thank him. How had he known she didn't want, couldn't have borne, the conventional expressions of sympathy? Then she remembered he was both physician and surgeon. He would have considerable experience of death and of dealing with the bereaved. If only when Aunt Sarah died
he
had been –

“What happened to you when the ship reached Falmouth? Where did you go?” His quiet question brought her out of her scattered thoughts. She swallowed painfully.

“I was told that just before she – my mother spoke to the captain. When the ship arrived in Falmouth he carried me to relations who took me in. I was very happy there.” Her voice wobbled and she coughed to disguise it. “My uncle and my two cousins are all packet men. They spend most of their lives at sea. My fear must have seemed very strange to them. But they were very kind.” She gestured helplessly. “I know my dread is foolish. I am no longer a child. But –” Glancing up the companionway she shook her head, and shuddered.

“Miss Dymond, will you trust me?”

Phoebe gazed at her shoes, embarrassed by her own hesitation. “I don't know you.” He was trying to be kind. But she was wary of trusting anyone now.

“That's true. But as a doctor I am bound by oath as well as by inclination to
preserve
life. You cannot spend the entire voyage down here. Your health would suffer. Look up. Do you see the blue sky? The sun is shining. It's a beautiful spring day. Come. No harm will befall you, I promise.”

As he held out his hand Phoebe could feel the familiar and dreaded stirring of panic.
She couldn't
. He had promised she would be safe.
She couldn't.
She shook her head.

“I – I can't.” She turned her face aside. He would release her now and, his patience exhausted, walk away. But he didn't.

“All right, not today.” Cupping her elbow once more he steered her away from the stairs and turned towards the door leading into the captain's day cabin.

“Where are we going?”

“One moment.” Knocking, he waited an instant then turned the handle. Stepping inside he drew her gently after him.

Light streamed in from small-paned windows above a wide padded seat that almost filled the stern wall of the cabin. There was a cabinet to one side and a bookcase on the other. In the middle of the cabin stood a table covered with books and papers on which rested some kind of nautical instrument and an inkstand. A few feet from her along the bulkhead was a small black stove, and on the far side of that another door.

He released her arm and stepped away. “Take a look,” he gestured toward the window.

She felt the blood drain from her face. Did he have any idea what he was asking?
Of course not. How could he?
Then anger as hot and bright as a flame scorched through her. “You have no right to do this.”