by Jody Hedlund
For the past few days while she’d been tending Miss Lawrence, he’d pushed aside her brusqueness, had told himself she was focused upon the sick woman and was simply too busy to acknowledge him.
He’d kept his distance as well, giving the women the privacy he thought they wanted. But now that Miss Lawrence was mending, Mercy had no reason to treat him as though he had the Black Plague, did she?
He leaned against the doorframe, unwilling to withdraw this time. “Have I offended you in some way, Miss Wilkins?”
She spun around, her eyes wide.
“I give you leave to speak freely.”
“Sir?” Something flashed in her pretty eyes. Was it fear?
“Please do not mince the truth.”
She glanced at Miss Lawrence. The gentlewoman’s eyes were closed, and she was breathing restfully—likely asleep. Even so, Mercy slipped past him outside the room.
As he moved away from the stateroom, the sun blazed above the ship, drying the main deck from the drenching it had received during the previous week’s gale. Only a few puddles remained, and soon he would be carefully rationing their water supply. As the ship’s surgeon, his responsibilities included not only caring for the ill but also rationing food, checking for food poisoning, and overseeing the burial of the dead at sea.
The heat soaked into his dark coat, reminding him to wear his lighter colors from hence forward. He’d prefer to go about in his shirt and waistcoat, discarding his coat altogether as the sailors did, but he had already defied convention oft enough and so continued to wear his coat when outside his stateroom, even in the tropical sun.
Rather than finding a spot of shade, Mercy walked to the starboard rail into the sunlight. She peered over the side as the ship sliced through the water. Though the Tynemouth might have once been an elegant ship with her sails flying proudly in the wind, she was now patched in many areas, her throbbing engines belching black coal smoke that trailed in her wake.
Toward the stern, two sailors were hauling up buckets of seawater, likely at the request of passengers who wished to attempt to launder their vomit-splattered clothing and bedding and then hang the linens to dry. Little did they realize that without fresh water for rinsing, their garments would become caked with salt and would likely give them saltwater boils. Most would have to give up on washing soon enough.
Other than the sailors drawing water, the deck was deserted. Joseph leaned against the rail next to Mercy and watched as the sun turned the spray of water droplets into diamonds.
“The sea can be a beauty when she wants to be, can she not?” Joseph asked.
“Aye, she can.” Mercy turned her attention to the horizon, an endless blue where the sky met the sea. “She’s rather like an infant, isn’t she? One day calm as can be, and the next throwing a tantrum.”
“Sometimes she changes her mood by the hour.”
The slight wind teased Mercy’s hair, pulling fair tendrils across her flushed cheeks. “I like her best when she’s quiet and content.”
“As do I.” His fingers twitched with the need to capture her flyaway strands, to test for himself their silkiness.
She inhaled deeply, as if the sea air contained the life-giving breath of God. Joseph supposed that compared to the thick air that choked London, the sunshine and the pure ocean air were exactly what her body needed. After all, she’d lost some of the pallor and gauntness from the first time he’d seen her at the dispensary. And now her face gave off a healthy glow.
“So, Miss Wilkins.” He shifted his hands behind his back and clasped them together. “Will you put me out of my misery and inform me of my misdeed? Then I may beg your forgiveness and all shall be well.”
She ducked her head.
He half expected her to peek at him coyly and tell him nothing was wrong, that there wasn’t anything to forgive since he was the perfect gentleman as always. He was accustomed to such flattery. Even those who disagreed with his decision to become a physician followed the unspoken rule of his class—to dress criticism in elegant, flowery attire.
He was unprepared when Mercy turned to face him directly, her expression earnest and devoid of any guile. “I’ll not be any man’s mistress.”
The words were so unexpected and blunt, he recoiled.
Though her eyes reflected the shame and embarrassment the words had cost her, she didn’t back down. And though he was tempted to turn away at the indecency of her statement, he held her gaze. He saw then what he’d noticed the previous days. Accusation.
“Devil take all!” A burst of self-loathing exploded within his breast. He stalked away several long paces before stopping. Did she think he’d singled her out to be his assistant because he wanted to form an illicit liaison with her? What in the name of heaven above had he done to give her such an impression? He’d been nothing but kind and compassionate to her plight and those of the other poor women.
How dare she sling so unfair an allegation at him?
He spun around with every intention of berating her, but at the picture she made with the sunshine spinning her hair into gold, the sea reflecting in her eyes deep and blue, and her lovely features so pure and unspoiled, his anger blew away, leaving guilt in its place.
Even at that moment, when he didn’t want to think about her loveliness, the breeze molded her gown to her body like a sculptor, leaving little to the imagination—pressing her skirt against long legs, as well as outlining her thin waist and curvy figure. There was no denying she was a beautiful woman in every sense of the word.
He hadn’t wanted to desire her, hadn’t wanted to admit to any attraction. But perhaps, against his best efforts, he’d desired her anyway. And perhaps against his best efforts to hide it, she’d noticed.
At his lengthening perusal, her chin rose a notch and the accusation in her eyes shouted louder.
“Miss Wilkins,” he said, realizing he was only making matters worse, “I beg you to forgive me.” Even if he found her attractive—as any man would—he surely hadn’t meant to give her the impression he wanted her for his mistress. “Whatever I have done, whatever I have said, whatever my grievances, I assure you I have never given a single thought to—to ill-using you.”
She cocked her head slightly, seeming to study his face.
“Rest assured I never have and never would consider having a mistress.” Saying the word was enough to make him squirm. Although there were men of his station who indulged in such vices, his father had always been passionately devoted to his wife. He’d never hidden his deep love and adoration and had been openly affectionate with her. His father’s example in marriage, as in other areas of his life, was one Joseph aspired to emulate someday.
At twenty-five, there were those within his class, including his aunt Pen, who believed men of his age ought to be marrying and starting families. But he’d convinced himself he still had time before he needed to get serious about looking for a wife and settling down. Meanwhile, he had no plans to indulge his flesh with fleeting encounters with women. Such relationships might temporarily fulfill a man’s needs but almost always resulted in hurt and heartache.
“Again,” he said, “I beg your sincere apology if I have in any way insinuated such a relationship. It was not my intention at all.”
“What is your intention, sir?”
He couldn’t say exactly why he’d singled Mercy out from the other women. Surely it wasn’t simply because he found her physically appealing. Perhaps he’d been drawn to her because she was the only one with whom he had an acquaintance. And of course he liked her gentle and caring nature, along with her inner strength and independent spirit. Whatever the case, he had no plans—had never even considered—anything beyond a working relationship with her.
“I have no intentions toward you, Miss Wilkins,” he said, reassuring himself. “I had hoped to engage your help. That is all. But if I make you uncomfortable, and if you’d rather not be near me—”
“Oh no, sir,” she said, the accusation falling away. �
�I want to help. I don’t have the training like a proper nurse, but I can learn fast.”
“You do learn very quickly, Miss Wilkins. More important, you truly care about people, and trust me, they can sense it.”
“You care greatly about people too, sir.” She averted her eyes. “I could tell it the first time I met you. And I’m sorry for doubting you, sir. It’s just that when I overheard the talk about becoming your mistress, I didn’t know what to think.”
He should have known other passengers might gossip and twist his intentions into something lewd.
“I tried to put the suggestion out of my mind, sir, that I did. But it stayed there. . . .”
Slowly he made his way toward her, stopping several feet away. “I hope I can prove to you I am honorable in every way.” He wasn’t sure how he’d be able to do that, but the desire to do so was powerful.
She nodded, her focus still on the deck.
He wanted to look into her eyes where he was beginning to learn to read her thoughts and emotions. Did she still doubt him? He was tempted to reach out and tip up her chin so she would have to meet his gaze. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back again.
“Please know this, Miss Wilkins. I am most reservedly saving my affection for one woman only, the woman I plan to marry. When God brings that woman into my life, I pray I shall be found worthy of her love. That for having refrained from giving my love away to others, I might have an overflowing abundance to bestow upon her alone.”
Her long lashes lifted to reveal eyes full of wonder. “’Tis beautiful, sir. She’ll be lucky to have you.”
“I pray you are right.” Though he’d never put his marriage aspirations into such eloquent words before now, and had most certainly never spoken them so openly, he felt no shame in sharing with Mercy, rather only satisfaction.
“Thank ye for your kindness, sir. And now I must be asking for your pardon, for wrongly assuming things that weren’t to be. I should have known better—”
“Mercy,” he said, interrupting her, “there is no need for you to apologize.”
Her lips curved into one of her rare smiles. He wanted to commission a portrait of her at that moment, wished he’d gone with his inclination to purchase one of those new machines that took a likeness—the daguerreotype camera.
“You ought to smile more oft.”
She turned and peered out to sea, the smile turning wistful and nearly fading. “I suppose I’m sorely out of practice.”
He leaned both arms on the rail next to her. “Forgive me. You have likely not had much to smile about in recent weeks.”
“I haven’t had much to smile about in all my life, sir.”
His thoughts returned to Shoreditch, to the wretchedness of the place. He’d served at the dispensary with Dr. Bates enough to grasp the difficult life there for the poor. But the truth was, he’d never taken the time to get to know the people the way Bates had. He’d never bothered to see beyond their afflictions, hadn’t wanted to. Rather, he always looked ahead to leaving so that he wasn’t able or willing to truly look around him.
Even when Bates had needed him for the partnership, he’d refused to acknowledge just how desperate the situation there was. It had taken courage for his friend to humble himself and ask for help. And Joseph had probably done exactly what Bates had feared—he’d rejected him without even the slightest hesitation. The realization of his callous response to his older mentor brought a measure of shame.
And yet now, with this beautiful woman standing next to him, maybe he could begin to make up for what he’d missed. Maybe he could try to understand what life had been like for so many in London’s slums. What kind of abuse and pain had she known? What were her scars? And what had shaped her into this amazing woman?
“Would you tell me what your life was like?” he asked. “I’d like to understand.”
fourteen
Mercy could sense Dr. Colville’s eyes upon her. In fact, he’d watched her the entire time she told him about her siblings and parents, also her grandparents who’d long since died.
Like so many others, the promise of steady work in London had lured her family to moving there. They arrived not knowing just how dire living in the city would be, how much they’d struggle to survive from week to week, hoping each rent day they’d have enough to pay the landlord’s collector. The low wages left little for food, which they bought from the slum shops when and if they could afford it.
For a while, they’d been lucky enough to do piece work, getting supplies from a nearby match factory to make matchboxes. The small cardboard box pieces had to be glued together in a difficult and painstaking process. Eventually her mum and grandmother got fast enough that they could make over one thousand boxes in a day, which earned them enough to buy a loaf of bread.
Sometimes they had to work up to sixteen hours a day to reach their daily quota. When Patience and Mercy were old enough, they too helped with making the matchboxes. But then the match factory closed, hard times hit, and Twiggy and their grandmother weren’t able to find any more piece work.
With Granddad hurting his back and unable to do manual labor, her grandparents had been the first to move to the workhouse. They’d both died there within a year. Thankfully, Twiggy had found a position at the rag factory. Even with both her parents working, they still had trouble paying rent and having enough to buy food, especially with each new babe Twiggy birthed.
“It sounds as though you have loving parents,” Dr. Colville said.
Mercy hesitated. “Twiggy loves her babies. But beyond that, she never had enough energy to go around.”
“Not even for you?”
“Patience raised me and loved me more than Twiggy ever could.” Mercy’s chest ached at the thought of her sister. It had been nigh onto three weeks since she’d seen Patience, and every passing day made their parting all the harder.
“Then she’s to thank for your tender and compassionate heart?”
Mercy peeked sideways at him only to find herself mesmerized by his eyes. She’d only ever seen velvet before on the coats of the wealthier ladies among their group. Right now, Dr. Colville’s eyes were like dark brown velvet—soft, rich, and thick. And sincere . . .
“Aye, anything good in me is all because of Patience, that it is. She taught me to live aright. Whenever I felt sad, she helped me to see there’s always someone a mite worse off. She said that when we serve someone else, we’re too busy to think much on our own problems. Leastways, our problems don’t seem so big in comparison.”
“She sounds wise.”
“An old nun, Sister Agnes from St. Matthew’s, befriended Patience when she was just a wee girl. I don’t remember much about the nun save that she’d come visiting now and then, bringing bread or apples and teaching Patience stories from the Bible.”
“Then this nun is the one we should thank.”
“Aye,” Mercy said quietly, her thoughts traveling back to those many visits from the nun. In some ways, Sister Agnes had been like a grandmother to Patience, offering guidance and wisdom and love, which Patience had in turn given to Mercy.
Patience had always believed God never let their troubles go to waste, that He was always using them to bring about good, often in ways they couldn’t see. Mercy had tried to be like her sister, to have the same strong faith, to believe that God was with them in their afflictions. But she’d never been quite as strong as Patience.
Even so, she’d learned a great deal from both Sister Agnes and Patience about giving away love to others. “When we show kindness to someone, we never can know exactly how many lives that kindness may affect. And Lord knows how much kindness is needed where I come from.”
Dr. Colville shifted his attention to the ocean, his brow furrowing. The breeze from the moving ship lifted a stray lock of his hair.
Dashing. That was the word she’d overheard some of the fancy ladies use to describe the doctor. He was indeed dashing, but more than that, Mercy admired his strength of chara
cter. In the face of her accusation, he’d handled himself with grace and dignity, as kind to her as always.
Her cheeks warmed just thinking about the brazenness of her words. She shouldn’t have brought up the matter, should have realized Dr. Colville would never consider having a mistress. While she hadn’t known him long, he’d never given her cause to believe he was anything but genuine and honorable.
“Do you hear that?” Dr. Colville straightened and looked toward the foredeck, his body stiff and unmoving.
Mercy tried to listen above the splash of the waves. “I don’t hear anything, sir.”
“Exactly.” He moved to the middle of the deck. “The ship’s engines are no longer running.”
Mercy nodded. She too sensed a quietness to the ship that hadn’t been there previously.
Dr. Colville glanced to the sea. “And we’ve stopped moving.”
Mercy followed his line of vision, noting that the ship was no longer breaking through the water. The waves bumping against the hull were small, rocking the ship like a mother her babe.
The sailors at the bow were calling to one another, and Gully thundered down the deck in a hurry.
“Can you tell me what has happened?” Dr. Colville called.
“’T’aint good, my lord,” the old sailor replied gruffly. “The coal haulers and stokers be mutinying.”
Mutinying? Did that mean the workers were refusing to do their jobs?
“Guess they be thinking they’re better than the lot of us,” Gully grumbled as he lumbered past. “They been complaining ’bout too much work and not enough grub.”
“Of course, they picked the opportune time to stop working now that we’re in the doldrums,” Dr. Colville responded.
“Got that right.” Gully swung onto the forestay and started climbing the mast. “Without the engines and no wind to power the sails, we be stuck.”
Mercy didn’t quite know how to respond to the crisis. But thankfully Dr. Colville didn’t seem to expect her to say anything. Instead, he excused himself and strode away.
