The Surgeon's Lady

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.