Seasons of War 2-Book Bundle. Cheryl Cooper
shot up in surrender. “Thank you, Mrs. Kettle. I’m up then.”
With a bang, Mrs. Kettle shut the gunport. She wheeled about and with her squinty eyes sized up Emily in her crumpled nightshirt.
“Well then, it’s wash day fer yer clothes as well. Gimme yer shirt and whatever’s underneath and that what Magpie made ya. I’ll ’ave ’em all back ’fore thee supper bell.”
“The supper bell? And what shall I wear in the meantime?”
Mrs. Kettle snorted. “A pair of thee doctor’s boots fer all I care.” She grabbed Emily’s jacket and trousers, which were hanging from a hook, ignoring Emily’s protests that her new clothes hardly needed cleaning at all, then trudged through the curtain, shouting over her plump shoulder, “Toss me what yer wearin’ now onto thee floor and ye can hide yerself under thee blankets for thee day.”
Out in the hospital room Emily heard Leander’s warm voice. “Being your usual solicitous self, are you, Mrs. Kettle?”
“I’m washin’ that woman’s clothes only on yer account, Doctor. If ya want me opinion, I would ’ave – ”
“As a matter of fact,” said Leander, elevating his tone, “I do not.”
With hands on her hips and a scowl between her eyes, Mrs. Kettle pounced upon Dr. Braden’s patients with a loud warning. “Ye lads keep yer trousers on whilst that woman’s walkin’ naked amongst ya.” Their heads bobbed obediently on their pillows. She waved a fat finger at Leander. “And you, Doctor – be sure to tie thee lads down in their beds while she’s ’avin’ her wash.”
“I assure you I have rope ready for just such a purpose.”
With a grunt, Mrs. Kettle bent over to scoop up Emily’s discarded clothes lying on the floor by the curtain. When she was done, she growled, “Fer all thee trouble that woman’s bin causin’, woulda bin plenty easier if we’d just pitched ’er overboard in Bermuda.”
Leander laid his slim, freckled hands on her shoulders and steered her gently towards the exit. “Mrs. Kettle, with bated breath we shall await your return at suppertime with our clean clothes.”
Sitting in her hammock with the blankets pulled up to her neck, Emily could hear not only the older woman’s cursing as she passed from the hospital into the galley, but the subsequent snickers from the men as well. Of them all, Osmund Brockley possessed the noisiest laughter, braying like a possessed animal, and when finally he had laughed himself dry, he asked of Leander, “May I take in her breakfast now, Doctor?”
“No,” came the terse reply.
Leander was soon standing before her curtain. “May I come through, Emily?”
“By all means, Doctor.”
Leander sidled in, his back to her, carrying a bundle of clothes.
“Good morning,” he said, holding the clothes up for her to see. “I managed to get these for you from the ship’s purser, Mr. Spooner. I’m afraid they won’t fit well, but they’ll do for Mondays.”
“I am quite decent, Doctor.”
There was a shy look of uncertainty on Leander’s face as he laid the new clothes by her feet and turned towards her.
“I was beginning to worry you would not speak to me again after finding me with Biscuit and his messmates.”
Leander quickly cleared his throat. “Yes, well.” He looked at her over his spectacles, his blue eyes meeting hers, and drew in breath. “But – do you not remember anything of last night?”
“Last night?” Emily angled her head. “What happened last night?”
Leander hesitated, uncertain how to proceed. “You – you had a nightmare.”
His words hung in the humid air of her little corner. Emily’s eyes shifted past him to stare absently at the closed gunport.
“Perhaps I – should not have reminded you …”
“No, I remember. And you gave me some water and laudanum.” She looked back at him. “If you are not careful, Doctor, you will surely waste your entire supply of laudanum on me. And here Mrs. Kettle thinks I am nothing more than an idler. Perhaps we should tell her that you perpetually have me in a drug-induced slumber.”
Leander moved closer still to the head of her hammock. “We will tell no one of it.”
The ship rolled and he raised his slender arms to steady himself on the boards above his head. He grew suddenly sombre. “After breakfast, Captain Moreland would like to have a word with you in his cabin.”
“Am I in trouble for yesterday?”
“I cannot be sure. He said little to me, only that he wished to see you.”
Emily sighed. “Do you suppose he will banish me to his gaol cell in the bowels of this ship with the ever-affable Mrs. Kettle as my protector?”
“If the captain seeks my counsel, I will recommend you stay where you are.”
“Comforting words; however, do not forget I am only a woman.”
Leander studied the floor.
Seeing his lips move silently, Emily asked, “What is that you say, Doctor?”
He dropped his arms at his sides. “Oh, I … I wondered whether you would be able to make the trip to Captain Moreland’s cabin with that ankle of yours.”
Emily smiled at him. “I cannot leave it here.”
He smiled back. “I will ask Gus to escort you there … and back.” Reaching out to pull the curtain aside, he whispered, “Will you require assistance with your new clothes?”
“As I have lost my underclothing to Mrs. Kettle’s laundry pile,” she whispered back, “I had better try this one on my own.”
2:00 p.m.
(Afternoon Watch, Four Bells)
THE CAPTAIN'S CABIN DOOR swung open, revealing Biscuit’s flaming orange head. Gus took off his hat. “Miss Emily is here. The captain is expecting her.”
Biscuit’s good eye gave Emily a thorough going over, moving from the top of Dr. Braden’s borrowed straw hat down to her bandage-wrapped ankle. She had on a pair of loose-fitting brown trousers, a checked shirt, and a polka-dotted red scarf tied at her neck. On her feet were her blue silk shoes. Biscuit chortled, and then muttered, “New slops, Mr. George?”
Gus peered up at Emily, a puzzled expression on his small face. With her eyes, she entreated that he ask no questions. From within the cabin came Captain Moreland’s insistent voice. “Thank you, Mr. Walby. I will call for you again later. Please come in, Emily. You may keep your hat on.”
While Biscuit stepped aside, Emily passed into the room, holding her breath against his sour stench. With an outstretched arm, the captain motioned her towards a red-velvet wing chair at the opposite end of the oak table from him. Fly Austen leaped up to help her settle in, placed her walking cane across her knees, and returned to his own chair on the captain’s left.
Glancing around the table, Emily found four pairs of keen eyes staring at her as if she were a curiosity at a local market. With the exception of the young officer with the bad complexion, the men all had warm smiles for her.
“You have already met Mr. Austen,” said the captain, “and I gather you made the acquaintance of our sailing master, Mr. Harding, in the hospital.”
“Yes, sir,” said Emily with a brief nod.
“But I do not believe you know our first lieutenant, Octavius Lindsay.”
Emily looked his way, feeling his dark eyes attaching themselves to her body like two black leeches. He had thin lips and greasy coal-coloured hair, and the aspect of a person who would not