Cherished Enemy

by Patricia Veryan

  She could hear Aunt Estelle explaining what had happened, and then the doctor’s fingers were exploring her head.

  “Lord,” he muttered, “how can anyone get through all this stuff? Can you turn your head at all, ma’am?”

  She moved as cautiously as possible, wondering in an annoyed way what he meant by “all this stuff.” Her hair? It had been referred to as “sweet swirls of gold,” or “silk spun from sunbeams,” and her unromantical brother had once told her in great amusement that his tutor said she had “the tresses of a golden goddess.” “All this stuff” was something new to her experience. And unwelcome. More unwelcome was the pain as Dr. Victor found the lump on her scalp. She gave an involuntary yelp.

  He said redundantly, “She’s taken a blow here, all right … Thank you, that’s very good, ma’am.” Water splashed, and then an icy pad was being placed under her aching head. She whispered her thanks.

  “Well, I’ll leave you now,” he said briskly. “You’ve only to—”

  “Leave us?” squawked Estelle. “You haven’t done anything. Not anything!”

  “I should not have done what I did. You’d have been better advised to find the ship’s doctor, or—”

  “La, sir, I tried. Heaven’s hard, I tried! I found no sign of a single wretched sailor! They’re all drunk as otters, like as not. I wonder we’re not at the bottom of the ocean.”

  “The Channel merely, ma’am,” he pointed out. “An you could not find a sailor is likely because they’re seasick, most of ’em.”

  “Then pray how would you have expected me to find a doctor? I can think of few things more useless than a seasick physician.”

  He growled irately, “Or one with a blasted great hole chewed in his ankle!”

  “Oh, Lud. I’d quite forgot Trifle gave you a little nip. Do you tend my poor niece, and I shall—”

  “I’ve tended her. She’s doing nicely, aren’t you, ma’am?”

  “No,” whispered Rosamond. “It hurts.”

  She scrinched her eyes open and saw his face again, drifting over her like something disembodied. As she’d noticed at the ball, he had a very stern mouth for such a young man, but the lips were nicely shaped. And white. She said repentantly, “I’m—very sorry if Trifle bit you, Doctor.”

  “Trifle, is it? Tripe, more like!” But the steely look in his eyes softened, and he went on in a less chill voice, “Never mind that. I think your head is not broke, ma’am, but ’twill doubtless feel like it. Just lie quietly and I’ll try if I can find—”

  “’Tis not … my head,” she interrupted. “My—side…”

  Mrs. Porchester gave a little moan of concern, investigated with care, and cried shrilly, “Heavens above! Only look here! Across her ribs, Doctor—she is all blood!”

  “Oh Lord,” muttered the doctor, retreating.

  Frightened, Rosamond started up. “What is it?”

  “Lie down,” he said, coming forward again. “I’ll—er, have a look. Ma’am, will you unfasten her—er, bodice thing.”

  Mrs. Porchester fumbled, then drew back. “I cannot without causing her more distress! I’ll get the scissors. Rosamond was sewing, and … Here they are.”

  “Yes. Well—go on, then.”

  “No, no. You are accustomed to such situations and will know better how to avoid hurting her.”

  He said gruffly, “I do not take female patients.” He saw the girl, who was remarkably pretty for such a hard-hearted wench, staring at him, and added quickly, “They fly into the boughs over the least little thing! Much prefer to deal with men!”

  The least little thing? Shocked and infuriated, Rosamond opened her eyes wide and demanded, “Do you mean to let me lie here and bleed to death because you dislike women, sir? I had thought any—”

  “No. Of course not. Do be quiet.” Gingerly, he began to cut through the side of her bodice, while she glared at him in speechless indignation.

  Estelle murmured, “Poor man, how cold you are, you’re shivering. Oh, dear—however did she do that? However did she do that?”

  “Must have fallen on something,” he said, trying not to let his eyes stray from the graze across the white skin. “Is a shallow scrape, but has bled rather a lot.” He bathed the wound with fingers of ice, and growled, “I shall need something for bandages, Mrs. Porchester.”

  “Yes. Oh dear—whatever can I use? A sheet, I suppose.”

  “No such thing. I’d not vouch for their cleanliness. Better—” He leaned over, muttering, then straightened, tearing ruthlessly. “This will do.”

  “Oh!” wailed Rosamond in feeble but heartfelt protest. “My new night-dress!”

  “Gad, what a tragedy!” he sneered. “Ma’am, can you prop her up? I must reach under here.”

  Rosamond had worked for weeks to make that nightdress, and could have wept. Papa had raised such a fuss about the blouse Clarissa Furlong had made, and when Clarissa’s charming brother, Sir Owen, had said with his pleasant smile that he was sure Miss Albritton was just as talented as his little sister, Papa had laughed and said the extent of Rosamond’s talent was to arrange flowers and sing prettily. Well aware that her father was proud of her, she had been stung nonetheless, and had vowed to show him she could sew as well as anyone. The nightdress had been so pretty, and so nearly finished, and now Robert The Arrogant had ruined it! Her anger sustained her while they lifted her carefully and the obnoxious misogynist worked with the impromptu bandage.

  “What on earth are you doing?” demanded Mrs. Estelle. “You can’t bandage over her bodice! We must have it off.”

  “Yes. Well, I mean to do so, if you’ll only give me time, ma’am. This is merely to—ah, hold the cut together.”

  Rosamond was beginning to feel rather sick. Aunt Estelle was removing her bodice and draping it demurely over her. Probably she should feel ashamed to lie in such a condition before this strange young doctor, but it was very clear that he regarded her as a most unattractive object. She peeped at him. How wide his eyes were. A most unusual grey, and there was a darker band around the iris, she noticed. He jerked his head away and covered her with the remains of the ravaged night-dress.

  Mrs. Porchester asked in an awed way, “Can you manage—under there?”

  “The whole thing,” he said breathlessly, “is to keep the—er, patient as comfortable as possible.” He gave a sudden rather loud laugh that brought Trifle prancing out from under the bunk again. “Cannot have the poor girl embarrassed, can we, ma’am?”

  “I feel sick,” warned Rosamond.

  “Put your mind on something else,” advised the doctor with alacrity.

  She did so, concentrating on his hands as he worked, and noting that besides being so icy cold, they were long hands and quite beautiful. She frowned and closed her eyes with resolution.

  3

  By dawn the storm had begun to disperse, but the sea was still running too high for the captain to dare bring the packet into port, so she stood off the Tidal Basin, riding it out, with three-quarters of her passengers and two-thirds of the crew incapacitated, and the ship’s surgeon, himself a victim, creeping weakly among the more seriously indisposed of the sufferers.

  Raging seas and high winds held no terrors for some, however, and Dr. Victor was at the rail very early, searching with narrowed eyes for the first sight of the chalk cliffs of Dover. The steady rain obscured those cliffs, but, as if he could see beyond it, he remained there, hour after hour, an ineffable sadness in his gaze.

  “Doctor…? Doctor Victor…?”

  The distant feminine voice, broke through nostalgia. He swore under his breath and made his way along the deck to the aft steps, which he ran down lightly and turned into the cold and almost empty lounge, his progress remarkably rapid in view of the rolling of the ship and the handicap of his slight limp.

  An amused male voice drawled, “Good morning, Doctor. You’re a much-sought man.”

  Victor stood very still for an instant, then swung around.

  Rol
and Fairleigh sat on one of the uncomfortable wooden benches, holding a newspaper, and watching him with a faint smile. He appeared to have made a full recovery, although he was still rather pale. He wore his clothes well, and his riding dress was impeccable, the black, beautifully tailored coat having the narrow revers now coming into fashion, and a fine sapphire winking among the tiny pleats of a snowy jabot. This morning, his hair was powdered and neatly tied back with a black riband. ‘Quite the dandy,’ thought Victor, but he knew another dandy whose lazy boredom concealed a keen and resourceful mind and whose sword had vanquished some of the most skilled duellists in England. He was very alert, therefore, as he sat beside Fairleigh and enquired, “Your pardon, sir?”

  “The ship’s surgeon came looking for you. Told me he’d heard there was another physician aboard and that he has a most interesting case that he suspects is something with a name a yard long, and he’d be grateful would you give him your diagnosis.”

  “Did he now. And where is this—er, case?”

  “Lord knows. I told him your name, so I fancy he’ll seek you out sooner or later. No rest for the dedicated physician, eh? I am glad to see you survived your—ah, abduction yesterday.”

  Victor smiled. “’Twas not near as critical as the lady supposed. Her niece had fallen and hurt herself. Nothing serious, fortunately.”

  “And fortunate you,” said Fairleigh with a man-to-man grin. “I’d be more than happy to pose as a physician so as to examine that one!”

  Victor looked at him thoughtfully, then shrugged.

  “Oho! Too scholarly to have time for the fair sex? Beware, friend! One thing that drives ’em wild is a man who ain’t driven wild by ’em!”

  “Quite an expert, are you?” said Victor, amused.

  Fairleigh essayed a small sitting-down bow. “My life’s work.”

  “And uncaught? Or—my apologies, perhaps you have got a wife?” And he thought, ‘Heaven help her!’

  “God forbid! I adore the lovely creatures, but there’s not one worth more than a week of my time.” The gleam faded from the dark eyes. “Well—I’ll admit I came close once,” he qualified. “But fortunately I—ah, escaped the shackles of matrimony. I’m surprised you’ve not been snared yourself. Paris surely is the city for affaires de coeur.”

  “Is a beautiful city, certainly. But I’ll own I prefer—home.”

  Fairleigh said idly, “If you’ve been gone from it for some time, Doctor, you’ll likely find home something changed.”

  “Pitt? Or the possibility of war with France?”

  “Those, certainly. But at the moment there’s a great hue and cry because of this treasure business.”

  Victor looked at him. Fairleigh smiled, and murmured, “You are aware we’ve lately had an Uprising in Scotland?”

  “I’m not so swallowed up by my studies as to be wholly divorced from the rest of the world, sir. However, I’ll have to own an unawareness of treasure. Captured booty?”

  “No, no. Actually, ’twas gathered by the Young Pretender.”

  The response was as swift, the voice as cold as a swordthrust. “You mean Charles Stuart?”

  Fairleigh’s dark eyes twinkled. “But of course. Do I offend? You admire the gentleman, perhaps?”

  Victor leaned back and said a rather clipped “I believe I admire no gentleman sufficiently to risk my head on his account, if that is what you mean. Pray continue. You spoke of treasure.”

  “A vast treasure, sir. It seems Prince Charles sent out a plea for aid, and his supporters responded grandly. Their donations were destined for shipment to France, where they would buy guns, supplies, and mercenaries to swell the Jacobite ranks. When news of it leaked out, it caused no little stir in England. Indeed, I marvel that you did not hear of ’t.”

  The young doctor drew a battered old pipe from his pocket and began to fill it from an equally worn tobacco pouch. “If ’twas as vast an amount as you claim,” he replied drily, “I marvel that Prince Charles and his Jacobites did not bring their rebellion to a successful conclusion.”

  “Rather,” sighed Fairleigh, “than suffering an ingominious defeat followed by wholesale slaughter, and the hunting down and summary execution of those unfortunates who survived the battle.” Beneath their thick, down-drooping lashes his shrewd black eyes watched the physician narrowly. Victor was busied with his tinder-box and appeared unmoved by this summation, and Fairleigh went on. “They were not able to transport the treasure to France, for our men-o’-war rove the east coast; our soldiers guard the northern passes.” He shrugged, moving his graceful white hands in a faintly French gesture. “Checkmate.”

  “So what became of the treasure?”

  “Alas, no one knows for sure. Rumour has it that some well-meaning fools, both Scots and English, have banded together in an attempt to restore it to the rightful owners. Many Jacobite sympathizers, and the families of men known to have fought for the Stuarts, have been dispossessed, you are aware? The poor creatures are quite literally starving. The return of a pretty bauble donated in better days to The Cause might now represent the price of a cottage or food and clothing. Riches to rags—eh, sir?”

  “You are—kindly disposed towards Jacobites, perchance…?”

  It was softly said, but Fairleigh hesitated, looking at the doctor from the corners of his eyes before answering as softly, “Such an admission could cost me my head, sir, but I’ll own I feel no animosity towards the poor devils. God knows, they’ve suffered enough.”

  Victor puffed on his pipe and watched Fairleigh’s handsome earnest face through the blue smoke. “You seem remarkably well informed about all this.”

  “’Twould be hard to dwell in the Three Kingdoms today, Doctor, and be uninformed. Half the army and as many public-spirited citizens, one gathers, search for Jacobite couriers, and—”

  “Couriers?” interposed Victor, his brows lifting. “Of what?”

  “Your pardon, I keep forgetting you have been—ah, abroad. At all events, it seems the Jacobites are now anxious to tuck their treasure away in some safe spot, and to that end have sent instructions to those who now hold it so that—”

  “Have sent instructions? Is this treasure not in Scotland?”

  “Apparently not. If rumour speaks true, it lies somewhere in England.”

  Victor gave a sudden shout of laughter. “Ah, I have been properly hoaxed, I see! And deserve it for being so gullible.”

  “Mais non! There is no jest, I promise you! Is said that, having been unable to put the treasure aboard ship in Scotland, it was sent down to England safely enough, because such a move was completely unexpected. Once there, the Jacobites believed it would be easy to transport to France, while all the English gunboats concentrated on the Scottish coast.”

  “Daring, if true. What happened?”

  “Time ran out, I fancy. Anyway, that is how the story goes. What do you make of it?”

  “It all sounds very unlikely. But—you spoke of couriers?”

  “I did. There are five, I heard. Four sent out from Scotland with coded messages supposedly concerning the disposition of the treasure. And the fifth—God help him!—with a list of all those who contributed.”

  The doctor took the pipe from between his teeth and whistled softly. “Not a task I’d care to undertake. The poor devils must be hounded unmercifully. There are bounty hunters who think nought of tracking some exhausted fugitive and selling his head to the military. Can you picture what that kind of scum would do to get their hands on the cyphers you describe?”

  Mr. Fairleigh regarded him gravely but before he could answer, a succession of scrambling thuds, much panting, and an exuberant charge brought Dr. Victor leaping from his chair with a muttered curse, barely in time to forestall Trifle’s attempt to jump onto his lap.

  “So there you are,” cried Mrs. Porchester, following her disastrous puppy down the stairs with much billowing of silks and laces.

  Fairleigh stood, and both gentlemen bowed and welcomed her.

>   “I declare, this vessel is like a ghost ship,” she said, somewhat short of breath as she restored several long wisps of hair that had been blown over her face. “Occupied by ghosts—or so they appear, poor things! How very fortunate that we are not among the afflicted. ’Tis nice to see you looking better this morning, Mr. Fairleigh. Dr. Victor, my niece is much improved, but I wish you will come and change the dressing.”

  “I believe Miss Albritton would feel easier if you performed that small task,” he said quickly. “I fear I annoyed her when I ripped up her night-dress.”

  Mr. Fairleigh was engaged in swinging a gold-chased quizzing glass from the chain that hung about his neck, but at this he gave an audible gasp, the hand holding that elegant chain jerked convulsively, and he stared wide-eyed at the physician.

  Reddening, Victor added, “For bandages!”

  “Ahhh…” murmured Fairleigh, titillated.

  “You’re a saucy rascal, sir, I can see,” said Mrs. Porchester, with a marked lack of severity. “Now, come along, Doctor. If ’tis a matter of your fee…”

  Victor accompanied her into the cold wind, Trifle leaping along the deck before them. There were more people about now, uniformly pale and wan as they commiserated with one another upon the “frightful crossing” and gazed with hollow-eyed yearning at the distant cliffs. Victor offered his arm and shepherded his lady through.

  “There will be no fee, ma’am,” he said.

  “No fee?” She was surprised. “Are you always so obliging, sir? Or is it perhaps,” she added with a twinkle, “that my beautiful niece has captured another heart?”

  “Not at all,” he replied baldly. “The truth is, Mrs. Porchester, I rather think I may be acquainted with a member of your family. But—’tis probably foolishness on my part, as there are doubtless many families of the same name. My friend was called Charles and—”

  “Charles? Why, that is my nephew’s name,” she exclaimed, beaming at him. “Charles Albritton! Rosamond’s brother. Her brother!”

  “Never say so!” A grin illumined his rather serious countenance in a way Mrs. Estelle thought delightful and that she was later to tell her niece made him seem almost as handsome as that devastating Mr. Fairleigh. “I’ve not seen Albritton since I left to continue my studies in Paris,” Victor went on. “I trust he is well, ma’am? Has he been ordained as yet?”