The Surgeon's Lady (17 page)

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

“I was trying not to wake you, Nana.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have three weeks,” she told him.

“You’re so certain?”

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

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

“Let me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She nodded, suddenly too shy to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

“When he returns, I’m going to order Oliver to shoot you dead,” Nana said. “I will laugh and scalp you like a Mohican.”

“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” he replied with a smile.

Laura took his watch in her hands and lay down beside Nana, hiding her smile.

“Rub her back, Laura,” Oliver said as he left the room.

Laura did, gratified to hear Nana’s even breathing in a few minutes. The peace lasted for ten minutes, then Nana grunted softly and relaxed as Laura reminded her to breathe slowly.

After an hour of dozing and waking, Nana sat up and asked Laura to help her walk. “Like only yesterday,” Nana said. “Down to the quay and back.”

Arms around each other, they paced the room.

“What do you think Oliver is doing right now?” Nana asked.

He’s sound asleep,
Laura thought, amused. “He’s thinking of you,” she said.

“No he’s not, silly. He’s asleep.”

They walked until Nana stopped and clutched her. “That was stronger,” she said when she could straighten up. “Let’s keep walking.”

They walked some more: Nana stopped more frequently now as Laura timed her contractions. When they were four minutes apart, Nana asked to lie down, and Laura helped her back into bed, where she lay on her side again, grunting softly.

When the contractions were three minutes apart, Laura kissed Nana’s forehead and went to her room, where Philemon slept in complete comfort, his hands relaxed and open. She looked at him, wondering how it would be to see his face on her pillow every morning for the rest of her life, at least, as often as Napoleon would permit. She barely touched his shoulder.

He grasped her hand before he opened his eyes. “Three minutes?”

“Yes. She’s straining more but not complaining. My sister is an angel.”

“She knows what she is doing and why,” he told her, tugging on her hand until she was sitting on her bed beside him. “Don’t worry, Laura. She’ll be fine.”

She gave him a thump. “Get up!”

Another hour passed, with the contractions not budging beyond three minutes. Philemon dozed in the chair, his stockinged feet propped on the bedside table. Mrs. Brittle came
over when the sun rose, bringing with her some ice in a glass. She gave a piece to Nana. “I’ve been setting out a pan each night, and this is the first morning it was cold enough.”

Nana rolled her eyes with the pleasure of it and smiled her thanks, just before the next contraction took hold. She chewed relentlessly through three more contractions, each one closer than the others. Laura patted Philemon awake.

It was as satisfactory a birth as he could ever remember, and more comfortable than most. Red-faced and pushing hard when the time came to bear down, Nana would never have appreciated the stories he could have told of delivering a baby on the gun deck during battle—where was it decreed that babies come at most inopportune times?—or tending to the harsh women in the Stonehouse laundry.

But here they were in a warm room, with early December battering the windows outside and reasonable people within, ready to do what he asked, as Nana labored and delivered.

The hardest moment came right before the birth, as Nana struggled then sobbed for Oliver to comfort her. Philemon had to look away for a moment, as tears came to his own eyes, followed by the deepest hatred of war he had ever felt. It was even stronger than the moment on the
Victory
when Admiral Nelson died. This moment in the Worthy bedchamber was more awful, because it showed him the implacable power of war to mock and harrow the innocent.

All eyes in the room were on Nana; only Laura left her perch on the bed and came to his side to put her hands on his head, kiss his cheek and pull him against her body. She wiped his face, and he looked deep into her eyes, which
showed complete understanding of his feelings. There was love, too, from the lady he adored, also a harrowed innocent.

Then came the matchless moment he knew he would never tire of. Protesting her dislodgment from a cozy nest into an uncertain world, Nana and Oliver Worthy’s daughter made her appearance.
I love this,
he thought, as he caught her slimy body expertly, cleared her mouth quickly, gave her toes a flick and flopped her on her mother’s belly.

Here’s to the ladies,
he thought, as Nana, weary no more, reached for her baby, crooning to it, trying to pull her close. He gently brushed her fingers aside with his scissors, tied a knot and handed the scissors to Laura, who cut the cord binding mother and daughter, who were already firmly bound in that way of mothers and offspring.

He finished his work below while the women in the room took charge. His mother wrapped the infant in a dry towel and handed her to Nana, who smiled her thanks. She gazed in utter rapture at her daughter, who stared back solemnly.

“We’re naming her Rachel, after my mother,” Nana told him. She looked at Laura then, her eyes filling with tears. “I want Oliver
here!
”

“So do we all, dearest,” Laura murmured, kissing her sister’s sweaty hair. “I’ll write him before the hour is out.”

Taking Oliver’s assignment again, Philemon held Nana and her child in his arms while the women changed the bedding, then tucked her in. A word to his mother passed on his next assignment. When he left the room, she was showing Nana how to coax the baby to her breast. He watched a moment, satisfied, then glanced at his timepiece: half past eleven, seven bells in the forenoon watch. The Royal Navy had another dependent.

He watched as Nana tugged her sister down to the bed and whispered in her ear. Laura looked at him and nodded. Nana gave her a push, then turned her attention to the demands at her breast. The room was warm and smelled of birth. He could have stayed there all afternoon. Too bad most surgical duties were not as pleasant as this one.

Laura joined him at the door, and closed it after them. She took him in her arms, and he closed his eyes in satisfaction as the dear woman tended to his needs. How was it women did this?

“Nana ordered me to marry you tomorrow,” she said speaking into his neck. “She said I deserved to be as happy as she is.”

“You do,” he told her, kissing her.

“She told me to trust her. Everyone wants me to trust them.”

“When are you going to listen to us?” he chided gently.

“Now,” she said, her voice decisive. “I hear you have a special license.”

“It’s in my uniform inside pocket.”

“Do you know any vicars?”

He had to be sure. “Are you certain of what you are doing?”

“Of course I am not,” she replied honestly, “but it does not follow that I do not love you. I do. And you have already pledged to sustain me during moments when I do not.”

He swallowed several times, trying to speak. He would have thought his heart turned over, except that he knew such a phenomenon was medically impossible.

“Produce that license, Philemon. I believe it entitles us
to be married whenever and wherever we choose, and I choose the Worthys’ bedchamber tomorrow morning.”

His arms were around her then, gathering her as close as he could, but it was his turn to temporize. “Let’s give Nana another day and a good night’s sleep. If you send a timely letter to Bath, Polly will come, and I have a little sister in Portsmouth who will come, too.” He held her off to look at her face. “Do you need to send to Taunton for your late husband’s certificate of death?”

She blushed, which only made her more endearing, a thing he could not have thought possible. “No, actually. When Mrs. Ormes went back recently, I asked her to fetch it.”

“You’ve been making plans,” he said, in a voice soft with wonder. “Yes, I do know a vicar.” He opened the door. “Mama, is Mr. Matheson still holding forth at St. Mary’s Church, railing against sailors and other evils?”

“He is,” Mrs. Brittle said. “You know where he lives. Hush now!”

“Laura, write Gran,” Nana said, her voice drowsy and distant.

“You’re supposed to be asleep!” Laura said, not leaving his embrace. “Philemon, let me go so I can write some letters.”

“You’re the one who grabbed me,” he teased.

“And you’re the one who has to find that vicar who has such umbrage against the Royal Navy. Will he be amazed?”

“No, indeed,” Philemon said, stepping away from her and untying his apron. “He had high hopes I would not spend my entire life with a capital knife in one hand and a finger on someone’s pulse.”

Quickly, she raised her wrist to him, and he placed his lips on her pulse point. “A bit too rapid for my ease, Laura.”

“You two!” Mrs. Brittle scolded. “How are the Worthys to get any rest if we are all in such an uproar?”

“Look behind you, Mama,” Philemon said. “They’re asleep.” He returned his attention to Laura. “Will two days from now suit?”

“Yes. Let us make it at…at four bells in the forenoon watch. Is that right?”

“As rain, my love.”

It was a quiet wedding, each guest crowded into Nana’s bedroom a friendly face. The vicar’s homily was taken from the Book of Ruth, which made Philemon squeeze her hand tighter.

Laura was amazed at her own calm, which far exceeded that of her husband. When Nana started dabbing her eyes, she knew she did not dare look at Philemon, or she would cry, too. She kept her eyes on their hands, looking up finally to give her responses and look into deep blue eyes swimming with unshed tears. If there was a better place to be in all the world, Laura couldn’t imagine it.

He had told her the ring once belonged to his Grand mother Brittle, nothing more than a copper circle, such as an illiterate wife of a pig farmer in Yorkshire would wear. “When I have a minute in Plymouth, I’ll find something much better,” he had assured her. “Still, that was a good marriage and we could do worse.”

He warned her it would turn her finger green, as sure as the world. Looking at the ring now on her finger, she could hardly wait for that to happen. From this moment forward,
green would always be the color of love to her, and not the diamonds and rubies in her last ring. She couldn’t even remember where she had left that bauble.

There were hugs and kisses from all present, even Captain Brackett, who looked fine in his best uniform. He had brought her former dresser with him from Stonehouse. Laura couldn’t help but notice Amanda Peters darting glances at Brackett.
Well, well,
she thought.

Samantha Brittle Wyle greeted her as a sister, with her embrace taking in Laura and her brother, and the admonition not to be a stranger to Portsmouth. And there was Polly, eyes lively in her excitement.

After a professional look at Nana, Philemon shooed everyone downstairs to a wedding breakfast. “You’re looking a tad finely drawn,” he told Nana. “Let me guess—It’s been two days. Your milk is in and you’re wishing us to the devil.”